the BIG apple

New York is for movers and shakers. Luckily, I'm all about movin and shakin. Generally I do most of my movin and shakin on the dance floor...not hustlin fake prada bags in Chinatown. The city is a sensory overload in the best possible way. The best food. Art. Music. Style. Accents. A million accents. A million smells. A hundred new faces to study and life stories to imagine on every subway ride.

I will say however that I wasn't impressed with that giant tree in Rockefeller center. They should've just left it growing in the forest with all the snow bunnies, squirrels and other beautiful tree friends.

My mom always told me that whenever someone was a butthole to me I should imagine them as a baby (I guess because it's hard to get pissed at a baby). Instead, I usually just imagine them naked. There are lots of naked people working for US Airways. Everyone is stark ass naked at the US Airways lost luggage call center. They are naked and furry and look like the cavemen from the Geico commercials. Unfortunately, these luggage call center workers are not as intelligent as cavemen. I would like to do an undercover expose story on the happenings at these lost luggage centers. I'd apply for a job. I would then show up for my interview completely shit faced wearing Zubaz admitting to them that I'd only completed the 4th grade. Upon my hiring I'd recite the "missed connections" postings from Craigslist into the phone and fire off my electronic whoopie cushion in response to callers looking for their bags... just waiting to see how many months it took me to get fired. My guess: I could make it a full year.

big big disappointment

I took a little walk down memory lane the other day. Feeling that holiday nostalgia bull shit creeping up on me. It turns out I blew it. Last year I vowed that I would never again spend another grey cold winter here in this desolate-used-to-have-corn-and-sunshine land of the Hoosier. BUT. Here I am. Pissed. Cold. Bored. ReAlly busy. But, somehow still bored.

Thank the good Lord I'm going to New York City this Friday. I'd also like to thank the good Lord for a few other things:

-Jim Beam
-Bon Iver
-Half Priced Books

Peace be with you. Amen.

Word o' the day

1. Salsa F@*ked

This phenomenon occurs when dining at a Mexican restaurant with a large group and the salsa is not distributed evenly throughout the table. The areas of the table that do not have ample amounts of salsa are "salsa f*$ked."
Jeff, all of the salsa is at the other end of the table, yo.

I subscribe to far too many word of the day websites. The plan is to expand my vocab and try to use the word(s) o' the day in at least one sentence. Sadly, I had not planned to eat Mexican food today. But, maybe I'll just walk into a Mexican restaurant-- survey the scene-- and then walk up to the random stranger who appears to be the most salsa f*&ked to alert them of their status and then assist them in obtaining their own dish of salsa. Maybe, MAYBE, even hook them up with some queso. I would have good snack karma for weeks.

Consumerism weekend from HE double hockey sticks

Costco. Yes. Of course young 25 year old vegetarian woman needs a 75 pack of beef franks. Tell me. Tell me why I walked around for nearly 20 minutes toting a monstrous pack of tube socks. Why I still tried to cling to them as I sampled the variety of snacks being dished out by elderly women. Tell me why the giant vat of hummus had a sell by date of Dec 25... what the hell is in that stuff? Tell me why the words "Who do I know that might like fleece pants for Christmas" actually went through my mind as 2,000 pairs of them towered before me. How bizarre would it be if I gave all my friends fleece pants covered in candy canes...and then explained that they were buy 8 get 2 free. Why why why was I at Costco alone on a Saturday when I should have been drunk or naked or something else equally awesome? Tell me why when I asked the guy working for AT&T if they had iphones his reply was "No, but I know some good dirty jokes." WTF.

The mall was next. Oh, yes, the mall. So many ladies have humpbacks at the mall. A 54 year old Quasimodo wearing Crocs lurked around every corner. I wanted to walk up to hundreds of middle aged Yankee candle customers and yoga instruct them into good posture. "No, no, draw your shoulder blades together behind your back, lengthen your neck...oh, and get some new jeans, your fupa is out of control."

It's official. Online shopping is the only way to roll.

children on leashes

Brace yourself for a hot topic. Children on leashes. We've all seen them at the mall...at target... on that SNL skit with the "hyper-hypo". This offends the sensibilities of many-- the sight of a child on a leash. My younger sister had to be restrained with this stretchy and highly controversial cord as a child. We were a mischeif causing lot of Morgans. My sister Allison... she didn't walk, she cartwheeled. We (yes, I helped) once knocked over a huge display of applesauce at a Safeway grocery store. I feel like Safeway is ghetto... but maybe in the late 80's/early 90's it was normal. Either way, we broke a buttload of applesauce jars.

My sister was really into hiding in the middle of clothing racks. She was like a ninja. One minute she was holding my hand (I wasn't supposed to let go) the next she had scaled a wall of shelves. My mom got the leash. The saint that she is... she endured the scornful stares of the anti-discipline crunchy granola moms. She picked Allison up off her bum when she tried to dart off and the cord yanked her back. She threatened to put me on one too if I didn't chill out. Imagine if we had been allowed to have sugar.

donating blood.

I am an upstanding citizen. I intend to donate my very own blood to some desperate colorless person who is bleeding to death. Last time they rejected my blood. Not the best feeling to be sitting there... after a blood test-- which scans for AIDS-- and told that the results were bad. Seriously. Start by saying "Good news is, you don't have AIDS..." then segway into the part about how I have low iron and should eat a steak. Can you drink alcohol the night before you donate? Hmmm. Would the person who is fortuitously gifted with some Erin running through their veins also luck upon a free buzz? Like that Seinfeld episode when Jerry gets some Kramer in him... Giddy-up.

fridays are for hummus wrap lovers.

stop what you are doing. grab your car keys or your bike or your roller blades... or if you are a tremendous dork hop on your Segway. go to the Abbey and get a chai latte. NOW. do this. order a hummus wrap. next, exit the Abbey after procuring the wrap and frothy warm chai and hop back on your bike. look ridiculous as you try to ride and balance a scalding hot beverage. ride until you find a sunny spot on the sidewalk. then just sit. sit and let the flavor explosions rock your body. sit in the sun on the sidewalk. not on a bench or alongside a building, sit right smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. be downtown. make people feel awkward. make erotic sounds as you eat and sip your beverage. talk to your tea. don't move when people try to use the sidewalk. not even if it's a baby carriage or wheelchair. just sit there and make love to the hummus. do this and all will be revealed. today i've reached samadhi. enlightenment. thank you sidewalk. thank you abbey. thank you sunshine.

Good morning, internet. I'm home.

This here internet sure is fancy. I just got an email directly from Barack Obama. He wrote it himself and addressed it to me specifically. Then, you won't believe this, his WIFE wrote me one too. Just me. They must have talked about me all night. Saying "That Erin Morgan, she really has some pull in that newly swinging state, Indiana. We should both send her a personal email."

Come on guys. Do you think I'm F-ing retarded. I'm already voting for Barack. You don't have to insult me with the faux personal emails like amazon.com does... As if I would really vote Palin into office and watch her club baby seals on her free weekends. I've noticed new signs lately that just say "SARAH!!" I imagine people putting them in their yards thinking "cool! my name is Sarah too! She has cool eye glasses." Then, on their way to grab dinner for the fam at McDonalds, they scoot over to the Greenwood Park Mall and buy a cheap ass rhinestone "S" necklace from Claire's.

That Claire's place is a panic attack waiting to happen. Last time I went in there looking for halloween costume accessories I was nearly prosecuted for shoplifting because all sorts of crap got caught and hung on my sweater as I tried to squeeze through a Hannah Montana wig display. Sweating profusely, my senses drowned by the sound of The PussyCat Dolls... fight or flight kicks in... I drop everything and run.

super duper glue

I like glue. I've never huffed it, but I bet I'd like that too. I like glue because it's magical and it makes me feel like a fancy wizard. Gorilla Glue is rad. My Gorilla Glue was taken away after a gluing incident over a year ago, and I just recently found where it was hidden!! Sucka! Not too long ago I bought this awesome mirror at Audrey's Place (amazing thrift store in east 10th street HOOD) and then broke it the next day. Fooey. This calls for glue. Lots of sweet sweet magical glue. On this gluing occasion I opted for straight up super glue (this was before I found my gorilla goodness). I glued my fingers together. It hurt like a mo-fo ripping my fingers apart. It was then that I thought "this feels a lot like waxing". Luckily, before I touched the glue to my eyebrow region my cat, Mr. Meow Meow Head, talked me out of it. Shew. This is not meant to be a cry for help... but someone might want to call that show Intervention. They will probably be disappointed to find that I'm not injecting glue into my eyeballs or between my toes. But, I'm thinking a hillarious parity show of Intervention would be suitable. Anyone have a video camera? I have some ideas.

napoleon

work is for jerks. i just took a majestic stance for a few moments in front of the fan with my foot on a chair. felt a whole lot like napoleon and a little bit like erin in a music video.

napoleon
croissants
berets
thank you france.

Signing off.

Today is the last day of boredom. That is right. I'll be moving from a profession (if you want to call it that) where my mind is loud due to unrest and under stimulation... to a place where my mind is quiet and content. Maybe I'll start a blog about my yoga journey and everything will be clean and white. I'll use a white font on a white background and you will just have to feel what I'm trying to say.

I'll track you down. Don't you worry.

Pollen Count.

My oh my. The pollen count must be high. I sound like a dude. Which I usually enjoy because I can bellow the phrase "I make Koolaid for my family!" and sing soul music-- possibly sounding soulful. Usually I just sound really white and boring... but with a sinus infection I sound awesome-- like I'm from the Bronx or maybe Alabama. I gotta figure out how to attach sound bites to this thing. Just give me a call if you want to hear my Mr. Koolaid bit.

So. In other news. I went to the Indy 500. It was lots of fun. Pre-race I met Keith. Keith and his roommate Jim roasted a pig which they purchased whole in Greenwood. Unfortunately, According to Keith: "That son of a bitch weren't gonna fit in our roaster so we had that sucker's head chopped off and then had im' quartered. Roasted that there hog for damn near 15 hours." Jim then proceeded to try to feed me a piece of this swine with his fingers. Jim had dirty finger nails. I dodged that piece of pork the way a person would dodge a kiss at then end of a bad first date. From there it was just the usual- moonshine, PBR and turkey sandwiches. Long live the greatest spectacle in racing!

Best day gets better... POO FRIENDS STRIKE AGAIN!!!

I can't believe I'm this lucky. BUT I am. Where do I begin... we all remember the Poo Friends right? First I just heard them pooing and chatting about kitties, then came the visual confirmation of their existence and identities... NOW they have been spotted again-- but, it seems only one poo friend is on the permanent poo schedule- while the other 2 wait in rotation. It seems the wiry winston smoking hillybilly lady is the staple dumper and she has a number of poo friends. (Not only is this gal popular, but she eats diet high in fiber.)

One thing never changes- the topic of conversation. This lady, we'll call her Tammy, loves talkin bout her kitty Whitey. Tammy's boyfriend thinks its HILARIOUS when (after he's had a few MGD's) he throws Whitey in a bucket of water then points at the cat, referring to it as "Wet P*ssy". Tammy states: "Everyone just loves laughin at Whitey sittin there all wet, my boyfriend wants to turn it into a poster or a t-shirt."

Hillbillies are the bestest. Look for handcrafted posters and t-shirts from Tammy & CO. in Fall of 08'.

I wonder if they feed the kitty Church's fried chicken before or after they attempt to drown it?

ZOinKs.

So, how have you all been? I realize this is an "anonymous" forum for communication so I won't actually get any responses. Some may even call this self expression. I'm about to express myself now: I'll tell you what I've been. I've been broke. I have $5 in my wallet and I'm too scared to look at my bank account. My guess: I've got less than $20 in there.

Holy crap. Anyone ever use Pandora radio? Well... basically this website streams music for free- you select an artist and they then play music of a similar genre. Well-- this morning I selected M.I.A-- then a group called Peaches just played. I double dog dare you to look up Peaches. This Peaches chick is clearly the horniest gal on the planet. Right as my boss walked through my office the Peaches hit "F*%k the Pain Away" comes through the speakers. The lyrics cannot be repeated. I might get fired. Damn you Peaches. And Pandora?!?! WTF were you thinking.

HEyA check out this short film... its cool yo.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zdj9vMH4BfQ

free advice

A bit of free advice-

"orange spice black tea" tastes like one of those burps after you swallow a vitamin and it gets stuck in your throat.

First friday is going to be fun. Be advised.

Gas Ex dated expiration 3/05 isn't at all effective.

wearing a sweater from a thrift store before washing it will most likely result in a rash.

your quality of life will improve by 300% if you implement "wearing a wig" into your daily regiment.

using the word pussy in mixed company will result in awkwardness. (sorry for making you feel awkward just now.)

they sell those orange push pops with fred flinstone on them at the CVS downtown. yums.

you cannot cut through a desk made of fake wood with scissors. but you can severely damage it. whoops. another failed workplace experiment.

If you aren't cool enough to pull off a wink when sober...do not try to wink in a photo while drinking. you will look like you are in pain. exhibit A:

i hope that at some point a portion of this free advice will save you from unnecessary embarrassment, rashes etc.

My Kin.

I had some kin come to town this weekend. This here is my cousin Tina... her interests include tweety bird tattoos, shopping and elbowing folks at Aldis, smoking P-funks and chugging Mad Dog 20/20. One of her favorite expressions is "keep it real girl!" and sometimes (well lots of times) she finds herself boozed up and booty dancing in front of her 3 small children. Her children cuss profusely. Good hanging with ya Big-T.

Eau de Toilette

This morning I flushed an entire bottle of the dazzlingly fresh fragrance Dolce Gabbana Light Blue down my toilet. I really don't know what else to say. Somehow I happened to be flushing the toilet and hurriedly trying to spray on my perfume before I left the house... and kerplunk. Then I stood paralyzed and dramatically screamed NO! NO! as I watched the bottle get sucked away in slow motion. Goodbye $60. Farewell clean uplifting (saucy and seductive) scent. Maybe I will plunge the toilet later and the perfume will emerge from that hole... it may shoot out as though being reborn from the womb of that porcelain biatch. I hate that stupid toilet.

R.I.P. My friend. My concealer of body oder. Your scent will live on in my scarf.

January 2008-April 17, 2008

HOt cross BUns

Not too long ago I had a conversation with my sister Allison. It went something like this:

Allison: "Have you ever eaten a hot cross bun?"
My response: "Is that a real type of bun... or just a nursery rhyme song?"
Allison: "The other day at Panera bread I saw a sign for hot cross buns in the bakery-- then I high fived the cashier and said GIVE ME A hot cross bun!"

Without discussion we immediately begin crafting different versions of the little ditty we all know and love-
Hot cross buns. Hot cross buns. Oh what fun. All on my tongue. Hot cross buns. Not like other buns cuz there's a cross and they're hot...- stick up 2 thumbs.. for HOT CROSS BUNS.

My mom was mortified because we were doing this loudly inside of PF Changs (yay for lettuce wraps)... so, basically I just wrote this blog because I found myself bored in my office and singing the "Hot cross Buns" song and I wanted to get it stuck in someone elses head. Thanks for playing. (I prefer the alternate lyrics below-- thank you Wikipedia)

Some competition for the muffin man.

Music
'Hot Cross Buns' is also the name of a children's song based on the hawking of bakers selling their products.
There are two versions of the tune. The simple version is played with the sequence A, G,F whilst the original more musical version uses the notes A, A,D, where the second A is one octave lower than the first.
(The "ha'" is pronounced "hay", and refers to a half penny coin no longer in circulation.)
Hot cross buns,
Hot cross buns,
one ha' penny,
two ha' penny,
hot cross buns.
If you have no daughters,
give them to your sons,
one ha' penny,
two ha' penny,
Hot Cross Buns
Alternative lyrics are:
Hot cross buns,
One a penny buns,
One a penny,
Two a penny,
Hot cross buns.
Fresh, sweet buns,
Come and buy my buns,
One a penny,
Two a penny,
Fresh, sweet buns.
Nice, light buns,
Buy my currant buns,
Come and try them,
Then you'll buy them,
Nice, light buns.
Hot, sweet buns,
Good for everyone,
All your daughters,
All your sons,
All love buns.
Hot cross buns,
Hot cross buns,
Everybody loves hot cross buns.

Mortichi.

Firstly, I want to say that blogging is very strenuous and has caused me to spill lentil soup ALL over my desk and jeans...and people actually have the balls to ask why I haven't been blogging lately. This stuff isn't childsplay. People could get hurt. I'm looking out for each and every one of my 6 blog readers.

Okay, so, back to today's topic. MORTICHI. I ask all of you to now focus on the flutter of images that enter your mind when you hear a name like Mortichi.

I'll give you some examples of the things I see inside my brain when I hear that glorious name.

Creepy Amish dude.

Amazing hawk from Royal Tenenbaums.

For some reason I see wizards.
(If you are bored google "wizard pics" for a good laugh.)

Now finally, the reason I am writing this. Imagine me riding an awesome bike named Mortichi... getting the visual??? Do you see me popping mad wheelies and reaching mind boggling speeds? What I'm attempting to do folks is embody all of the images I've just presented to you into one amazing feat of bikery. (I realize this is not a word.) What I want is for the people of Indianapolis to see me whizz by on Mortichi and immediately a rush of images - creepy Amish dudes, hawks, wizards... all visit their brain and make them excited about bikes. I'm going to start a biking revolution.

Oh, and p.s. The lentil soup that I spilled has now dried on my chair and it looks like I crapped my chair.
MORTICHI shall reign forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Poo Friend's Identity... REVEALED!

Hold onto your hats folks... I think I've made one of the most groundbreaking discoveries of my my budding journalism career. As I reported in an earlier story regarding the "work place poo" I came in contact with some truly inspiring defecators. They were hillbillies. They were ladies. They were Poo Friends.

Well, for one moment today God opened the grey skies above and shined a bright light into my Friday. A face to face run in with the Poo Friends! I shit you not! (No pun intended.)

As I exit the lavatory I hear the ding of the elevator. I pause to take a sip of water at the drinking fountain and immediately my ears are filled with the sweet sweet sound of hillbilly lady banter! YES! I was a deer in headlights. What do I do? DO I go back in the bathroom to listen? Do I run for my camera? I froze, then turned to look. They were practically skipping down the hall arm in arm... so happy to have found each other in the 2nd floor bathroom. Partners in poo. The Cousin Larry and Balki Bartogomus of dookie.

The next observation left me truly paralyzed... wait a second... one hillbilly lady is African American?? I've never encountered a hillbilly of color! This cannot be for real. The other lady looked totally hillbilly- permed hair, rail thin from smoking cartons of Winstons, tapered leg jeans... but this other lady, this other lady did not fit the hillbilly mold. What we have here is relationship that defies all odds.

Wait a minute... this explains the Church's Fried Chicken.

I heart stereotypes.

Dreams in black and white.

So I’ve been having this reoccurring dream for years now. Had it again last night. It’s so strange… but I always love remembering it (mainly because my Grandma is a main character). It is in black and white. Like some old WWII propaganda film. There is even that film reel clicking sound in the background throughout the entire dream. But, I don’t view the dream as s though I am viewing a movie in my mind… I view it from my perspective. As though I am living life in black and white with a gentle humming click sound following me.

So, the dream begins with me looking off the 2nd story balcony of my parent’s house after I hear the sound of airplane propellers. I look out to see a slew of Japanese soldiers marching up my driveway, flags a flying,– heaps of old school single propeller planes flying just feet above the surrounding horse pastures and soybean fields. This is quite a scene.

My Grandma is eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. “Holy shit Grandma, the Japs are here!” (sorry to be derogatory, I am a huge fan of all people and things Asian—this is a period piece). Grandma: “How in the hell did they find me?” ( I like to pretend she was at one time some kind of saucy secret agent.)

I spring into action. I begin sending out Morse code on the telegraph (YES, we have a telegraph, we are in black and white, Duh) … click click click click “SOS you assholes.. the Japs have come for my Grandma!”

Grandma hops onto my back. And, trust me, any lady who sits around eating peanut butter out of the jar dwarfs me in size. I turn into a minotaur or something. We hear frantic Japanese speech from downstairs. “Shit, Granny I left the garage door open.” Grandma: “I’ll Granny you!” ( I have no idea what that means but she always said it.)

I have to scold her for hanging onto the peanut butter “For God’s sake, just drop the effing jar of peanut butter and hold on, I’ll get you some more at the Village Pantry!” She throws the jar of peanut butter onto the floor and it turns magically into a fog machine. The PERFECT disguise for our getaway. I leap off the back balcony, Granny in tow, and POOF we disappear.

The End.

p.s. As much as the expression “Japs” may have offended you, it really offended spell check.
p.p.s. If you can provide any assistance in interpreting my dream please offer it up in heaping helpings.

Pathetic scene.

So, for those of you who aren't aware, I am an awesome driver and caretaker of automobiles. Did you know that you can actually use up all your AAA visits? Well, FYI, you can. I've achieved the unachievable folks. You are allotted 4 a year... and by March 3, 2008 I had used my maximum for the YEAR. This does not present a positive outlook for 08.



I haven't been feeling very "bloggy" lately. I tried eating cookies (usually a quick fix for any problem). No success. I tried doing jumping jacks. NAda. Read some inspirational quotes online. (This actually negated any positive effect the cookies may have lent me and left me quite uninspired due to level of poor judgement displayed on this website -- what does "Happiness is like peeing your pants, everyone can see it, but only you can feel the warmth" have to do with inspiration? I'm upset with myself for even repeating that uselessness...) I went to the bathroom hoping to run into the hillbilly ladies. No dice. I miss those ladies. I looked to the Hoff.



Still nothing. It seems I've used up all my Hoff inspiration tokens. Speaking of tokens... I'd like to go play ski-ball if anyone is interested? Air hockey? Virtual reality skateboarding? Dance Dance Revolution?

Kitties. Fried Chicken. Poo Friends.

I work in this building downtown. It’s shiny. From the outside it looks like a massive phallic mirror (I assume this was an attempt at looking modern. That, or the designers were narcissists). Inside, it holds a number of lavatories… and an even greater number of dysfunctional poo poo-ers. As a fellow blogger colleague of mine has referenced in a number of his blogs—there are some rather comical scenes to be observed in the restroom.

Firstly, I’ll preface by bringing up a subject we all struggle with: the work place poo. (stop blushing. It’s healthy and enjoyable to drop the kids off at the pool at least once a day.) So, in facing the potential dilemmas associated with the work place poo we all strategize. We scour for a hidden bathroom. We plan for low traffic hours. We dawdle around at the drinking fountain until we are certain the coast is clear. Well, friends, today I’ve encountered an entirely new strategy: The Poo Friend.

I’m overjoyed that the first Poo Friends I ran into just happened to be hillbilly ladies. I couldn’t have asked for a better first experience. So I enter the bathroom to find 2 hillbilly ladies pooing together and talking about how they both love to feed Church’s Fried Chicken to their cats. This is not a joke. I can only assume they work in the building and plan their poo breaks together.

I would hear one lady start to do some tooting, then the other lady would start fiddling with the toilet paper dispenser to cause audible distraction. They had definitely come to an understanding at some point--- this was a team effort. Maybe once at a previous work place poo experience--- before they were Poo Friends--- they both made some embarrassing sounds--- both walked out heads hung low--- made eye contact in the mirror--- and EUREKA! Poo Friends! I imagine they have some code. Maybe some toe tapping. Maybe when it’s poo time one friend walks by the other friend’s cubicle eating a chocolate candy bar. It’s hard to say.

I’m not sure when or where they decided it was a good idea to feed their kitties Church’s fried chicken (or name a pet “Whitey” for that matter, I think I smell a Klan revival over the pungent scent of poo)…

You know how they say that 90% (or whatever) of important business deals are made on the golf course? Well, 95% of hillbilly lady’s pet care decisions are made on the 2nd floor shitter.

A day at the zoo.

Gerald: "This zoo is amazing. They've procured an owl, an elephant, a lion AND a turtle. Truly remarkable."


Rebecca: "Bullocks! The lion has me cornered. I'm toast."
Bill: "Quick, Rebecca, throw your iphone to Gerald so it doesn't get eaten along with your body!"

My new toy.

The battlefield.







A Bad Case of the Mondays


"He is threatening to jump because they are taking away our water coolers and the status of the implementation of the new process has gone to poo!"


Bill: "Quick! Someone call security!"

Rebecca:"I'm trying to call the security office, but the chick who answers the phone said to call back later because she is busy eating popcicles and blogging."

Playing hookie.

It's a tempting thing, playing hookie. I love the ghosttown feeling of streets and businesses mid "workday", it's precisely like the feeling of a college campus over Christmas or spring break. It's nice. People seem happier to see you-- to see other signs of life. Like there is some hidden understanding as to why neither person is at work. As though you make eye contact and get this immediate rush of common thoughts... a disdain for uncomfortable business clothes, a passion for solo matinee flicks. More up for a chat or a free early afternoon beer. Back in my server days I spent loads of time wandering around Broadripple during the day or shuffling aimlessly around Target, Value World, Luna, etc... and I drank way to much coffee. As though the coffee would somehow propell me into actually trying to do something with my life. My internal dialogue: "COFFEE, coffee, more coffee, after this cup maybe I'll feel awake enough to get on monster.com and find a new job! Drink it black, it will travel to your brain faster..." Instead I would just get really hyper and clean my apartment or go running or have a solo dance party. This is another bonus to being home alone all day: dance parties. I do love a good dance party.

Today should've been a dance party day. I feel the urge to boogie.

Total eclipse of the heart.

Funny song... I had hoped it would come on the radio last night as I drove home sans moonlight-- due to the lunar eclipse. A solar eclipse would be way more apocolyptic and awesome. Apparently this eclipse has had a dramatic effect on my horoscope-- it seems the moon is drawing on my center of creativity and desire to organize my life?? You will notice that after reading each horoscope for each sign that they essentially say the exact same thing--- just different placement and usage of words/phrases such as; "cosmic alignment" and "inner tigress".

I remember being a part of my middle school newspaper and adamantly opposing a proposal from creepy wickka chick to create a horoscope section. This had me totally fired up-- I stood and stated something along the lines of "my MOMMY and that guy from the 700 Club says that horoscopes are the devil's work and that stuff is a bunch of fooey." VETO. In your face black dog collar girl. You can't get away with that kind of nonsense in God-fearing-drive-your-tractor-to-school-day-havin-country. booyah. Score 1 for Jesus.

It's ironic because it is this sort of "better than thou" attitude that drives many away from Christianity, from organized religion. Sometimes it takes a bit of travel and reading-- maybe hop the pond or head to the big city-- to open your eyes to the closeminded hypocrisy in which many were raised. The dogma and "tisk tisking"... not the best way to show love.

I guess I've decided it's best to sarcastically degrade things on the internet... instead of literally pointing my finger in someones face. dunno. Maybe I should refer to my horoscope for guidance on this matter.

mind the gap

Please mind the very tiny gap between 2 blogs posted today... I just found a stack of old notes and doodles on my desk and found a few things inspirational. Both simple... but both useful for self reflection.

A proud man is always looking down on things and people; and of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you. (C.S. Lewis--- Mere Chrisitianity snippet)

Love= wanting what's best for the other person. Lust= wanting what's best for yourself.

The love vs. lust thing may sound trite--- but I think the L-bomb gets tossed around a bit casually from time to time. Words can seem to fall from our mouths like clothes from our bodies at the end of a long day. Words are all too powerful. Always a struggle to mean what you say and say what you mean.

Peace.

Bold Statements.

Brace yourself. I'm about to make 2 bold statements. Maybe I'm big on making bold statements and rarely following through... but these 2 statements, these 2 are life or death.

Statement 1: I will not spend next winter in Indiana.

Statement 2: I will use my passport again before it expires in 2010.

(Maybe you cannot tell, but the above statements are in bold font. Bold font means no bullshit. It's common knowledge that bold font is meant to be taken seriously.)

That is all.

more fun with words.

it's pretending you aren't what you are... but you is.
it's tripping when you are walking past judgemental "cool" folk.
it's spilling a red slushie all over your crotch.
it's looking at the word crotch and wondering where it came from.
it's the way my health teacher pronounced "puberty".
it's picking food out of your teeth with a reconfigured paper clip.
it's getting busted picking a wedgie.
it's having a dad who thought atomic wedgies were hillarious.
it's an uninvited staring contest with a stranger.

it's bitting someone when they needed a kiss.

it's being told "you're the kinda girl that made cavemen draw on walls". (that's a good line for all you young bachelors out there). That was said to me long ago, and I still remember it.

it's the little stuff that keeps things comical, makes life tolerable.

I took a mini-road trip this weekend. Sometimes there isn't anything better than driving alone with some good tunes and coffee. I love the crap they sell in truck stops. Those weird little spoons. T-shirts labled INDIANA in front of a picturesque mountian scene. Then there is the truck stop/adult superstore combo. So practical. Every road trip needs a blow up doll and fuzzy handcuffs.

It’s nice to reminisce about good old times… it’s good to tell funny stories—stories that are fresh and new to old friends who you don’t see too often. Everyone has their stories—their good stories that make people laugh each time… stories that morph each time they’re told with artistic license.

It’s nice to miss and be missed sometimes. I’ll tell you something I realized I don’t miss: Goldschlagger (sp?). Hadn’t missed that a bit. Barfaroni.

Friday.

Once upon a time a girl met this guy. Then the guy went all crazy and made the girl cry. Then with those tears, she pushed and she pulled. She stopped going out until her life became dull. Then she remembered booze and how much fun it can be... so she drank and she drank, and she peed and she peed.

More drunk dial calls, therapeutic shopping in malls--- until, until, she was broke as balls. She was broke as balls.

And then a bright light, Friday is here! Friday means payday, good times and good cheer. Money means happiness, isn't that true? It makes everything so pretty and shiny and new. It pays for things that love just can't buy, like binge eating, accessories and shots on the fly.

Gotta spend money to make money, isn't that right? $40,000 in college to snag a job which steals your life. It makes perfect sense. "THEY" say it's true. They've fooled us and them. They've fooled me and you.

The end. I must go spend my money now.

Valentines Day.

So. Valentines Day. The day for people who forget to tell their lover they love them EVERY other day of the year--- and, in some attempt at redemption, buy their lover carnations from a van on the side of the interstate and a corny card. Awesome holiday.

My Valentines day usually includes a bit of drinking... I'm lucky that I am a female and therefore am not responsible for buying gifts or making silly arrangements on this "big" day. I'm not one to buy into the typical male/female roles (nor do I buy into these consumer/Hallmark driven holidays) ... unless these stereotypical roles work to my advantage. Hehehe. We are a conniving lot, we ladies. We know when to use our sexuality to our advantage, when to file complaint that we are being taken advantage of based on our sexuality... I see why so many men claim they "can't figure us out". I'd like to believe I'm different from the typical gal, but lately I'm not so sure.

Today my boss treated himself to an entire bag of Reeses peanut butter cups. When I say bag, I mean he scarfed a bag the size of those you buy to hand out to an entire neighborhood full of kids. Polished it in under 15 minutes. It was like watching a trainwreck, but I couldn't look away out of sheer astonishment. He should be snoring within the hour. Happy Valentines day Phil.

Is it seriously this cold.

Monday Feb. 11...

I mean, seriously. You know when you step outside and it is so cold that you immediately feel the snot in your nose freezing? Ya, well, I'm fed up with it. Completely sick of walking into a building with tears streaming down my face gasping for air. Why don't I live in California? Or Capri? Or maybe the cold would be tolerable if I had something nice to look at... maybe snow capped mountains? Penguins and polar bears? Throw me a bone here. Somebody. Please. My nips can only stay hard for so long before they become exhausted and fall off.



How come the weekend can't be 5 days and the week 2 days? That would be way more awesome.



I went to the Eiteljorg museum yesterday (for those of you who aren't familiar, the museum focuses on Western American and American Indian art). The building is architecturally stunning. Ansel Adams was my main draw for visiting the museum, though I found much of the other photography more interesting. Don't get me wrong, Adam's photos were beautiful- he is legendary- but they were all much smaller than I imagined.

I found my mind stirred by much of the other work. The photos which depicted the "Americanizing" of American Indian people. The destruction our society has brought to the earth. I found myself reminded of America's selfish greedy nature. Of our desire to conquer, divide and steal. I'm reminded that sometimes we "Americans" are a bunch of assholes. I feel like sometimes american doesn't deserve to be capitalized. And then, I go to the gas station and I get really pissed.

I also thought a bundle about inspiriation. About where it comes from... about whether creativity exhists inately in all humans or whether it is learned or passed from person to person. Think about this-- what led cavemen to draw on walls or native people to make jewlery or paint their skin? Were they instinctively inspired by nature-- were they attempting to express themselves, or were they just doing what the guy before them did? It's incomprehensible for me to think about the first time a person on earth sang or decided to paint a picture. The very first song! How did they know to do it? Was that first song one of sadness or praise? Why did others think the sound was beautiful? Why does music and art still grip so many in such a profound way?


I'm starting to spin out... yes, I know... don't worry I'm not sitting here stroking magical crystals or anything as I think about these things. But, really, humans are so much more alike than they are different. We all feel love and sadness-- we all laugh and cry and sing in the same way. Beauty is beauty is beauty. Though our opinions of what is beautiful may vary, we all see it in the world. Each and every human.

Writing about writing about words.

Isn't it strange the way we over analyze things. In school a professor would ask me to write about a piece of writing which was a review of a piece of writing ... which the professor would review and grade using words. Essentially the prof would write about my writing which was written about a piece of writing about writing.

Silly, right... we do this often in life.

I actually spent some time yesterday writing events down in my calendar book that had already happened. Dumb stuff, stuff I had already done, like- "Yoga class 5:30" or "Gyno appointment 12:00". Oh, and this is embarrasing, I wrote down all the presidential primaries-- "Super Tuesday" and such, after they had already happened...Backwards, yes... I'm convinced I wrote these things down so that when I happened to have my calendar out around someone they would think I had been busy and attentive. They might think I was organized. A functional member of society. Most people who know me would see right through my ploy. Same with the To-do lists. I find them crumpled in jacket pockets... torn to bits in the washing machine.

I tell you what.

My Grandma always said that. She also used the expression "You're being windy"... which meant that I was being fecicious or silly. One of a kind, that lady. My Grandma was the shiznit, as the young kids would say. She loved chocolate and playing records and laughing and scratching backs. She had big boobs that she used to catch the spaghetti noodles that fell out of her mouth as she ate. Her shelf.

She caught me smoking a cig on my balcony when I was 16. I locked the bathroom door and took a shower for 45 minutes trying to avoid the talk she intended to give me. The talk where she took the turban from her head.. the turban that covered the chemo induced baldness. The chemo that was battling the lung cancer. The lung cancer that was friends with the cigs. The cigs which stole all her oxygen. The oxygen which God decided we need to call people windy and scratch their backs.

Say no to cigs kids.

Sanity in Music

Oh boy. It's back. That feeling in my body. It's that same feeling I get when I'm driving to the airport. The feeling in your gut that you get when you see those signs for the airport exit... when you know you are about to say good bye to someone you really love. Really love. And you know all to well what it's like to miss the person you are about to say goodbye to. It's a mix between nausea and butterflies and mania.

Where am I going?

I titled this sanity in music, but lately it feels like music might nudge over into the insane category. I was driving. I was listening. My mind racing. Too many images. Too much. I almost went there. Not there as in I was suicidal or something. There as in that sublayer of my brain. The part I only get glimpses of when I remember my dreams. The part I feel like I'm on the verge of tapping into. The part that holds my creativity and my destiny and my ticket out of Indiana. The part that is COMPLETELY out of control.

It's an underground well of confidence and origional thought. It wants to explode from me like Old Faithful. It needs some yoga.

More old journals... same fresh feelings...

Chicago. I actually started writing this mess nearly 2 months ago. Write a novel in November. I never really planned on a novel. I expected a blog-ish journaly mess… and that is what I have. WHoo hoo. Well, now it’s December 31st and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I’ve just returned from Chicago and a visit with my beautiful soul mate friends Kristin and Kim. I ache to live near them. Spending time with them is beyond wonderful. It makes me realize the depth of loneliness and why some people choose to spend so much time secluded. I think that maybe for some people it is harder to see treasured people and say goodbye again than it is just to avoid seeing them all together. I get it. I think that is part of depression. As I mope about for the next few days I will force myself to remember how much I’m loved and how much my love means to those lovely beings.

I love Chicago. I had this movie moment as I hugged my beloved friends goodbye—massive wet snowflakes floating in the air—crying like a loon. There was so much noise in the street but the snow and tears made it feel silent. I buzzed through the streets- crying in my cab- a teary blur of snow, lights and skyscrapers. Then I sat. Well really I stood on the sidewalk waiting for my bus. Bus stops and airports are no place for a sad soul. Watching all those couples reuniting, sharing their trip snacks and magazines… saying goodbyes. Families holding hands. Men and women walking closely to keep warm… the man with his hand on the woman’s lower back to guide her along. Keep her safe.

I had a panic attack on that sidewalk.


I’m back to biting my nails. I had stopped long enough to grow them out and have womanly looking hands. But, now I feel like a girl and in accordance with this feeling, my hands shall resemble the hands of someone more pre-pubescent.

Can you feel the love?

So, I've been toiling with some quandries-- some trivial little questions... you know, about the meaning of life and love and the existence of God. Nothing big.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, I'm wondering where all my sparkly optimism has gone... wondering when I became such a cynic.

My Mother, lil' Sissy and I went to see the theatrical production of Doubt last weekend. ( Side note, when my father was asked if he would like to accompany us he stated "I doubt it." Funny guy, my dad.)

The general premise- for those of you who aren't familiar with it: an incredibly strict and old fashioned nun suspects a likeable forward thinking priest of having an inappropriate relationship with a young African American boy. There are a variety of factors to influence the situation-- the young boy is allegedly gay-- and, honestly, what priest ISN'T diddling young boys these days.

The play was purposely left open ended-- you are left coming to your own conclusions on the priest's guilt... I immediatley decided this priest was DEFINITELY (without a doubt) playing secret touching games with the kid, while my mother (the saint that she is) claimed he was innocent.

Okay, so, do I see the bad before the good? Has life dealt me enough bad hands that I automatically assume the worst in everyone? And then I realized--- I enter a relationship with a person under the assumption that this person will screw me over. He will screw me hard. When his phone rings it is DEFINITELY his ex girlfriend... who is probably much prettier and more interesting than I... I may not bring it up until I've had 6 vodka tonics, but I KNOW this is true. There is no doubt in my mind.

But, (and this is the kicker) I've realized that doubt IS in my mind. It's all that's in my mind. I doubt myself. I doubt my worth. I doubt I'm enough to keep someone happy and faithful. I doubt I am any good at writing.

I want to have faith. I want to have faith in myself and in love and in a higher power. I want to believe in love-- that kind of love that you read about..... The love where you and another human become one living thing... when your other half dies you follow them into the dark. Baby makin kind of love. I want to believe in that kind of love just like I want to believe that there is a heavenly being that wipes away all of the bad shit I've done and let's me have wings when I die. The problem is that you can't really see love or see God. You can certainly feel it. People express love- people sing and hump like rabbits showing each other how much love they have.

I'm an American. If I can't touch it, own it, buy it... welp it ain't mine. It ain't real.

God exhists in nature. When you stand in a forest or with your feet in the ocean, or in some indescribably beautiful Cathedral in Italy... you can feel God. Maybe it's God, maybe it's Buddha or Krishna or L. Ron Hubbard. It's something. Something cosmic. Maybe it's the collective remnant energy of all the people who have loved that spot for thousands of years.. All the people who stood before that altar or on that giant rock on the beach and felt overwhelming love for what they saw.

This wasn't an accident. It's all too beautiful.

SO, really, I think what I'm saying is that God is love. Love is God. No doubt.

Fun with words...

Favorite things to do with words : tell funny stories, cuss loudly, write a limerick, tell a secret, express anger (or joy or sadness...), make a manly man feel intellectually inferior, sing songs....

Can you imagine the level of frustration you would feel if you had a fully functioning brain, but couldn't express yourself using language. I wanted to see this movie The Diving Bell and Butterfly, it is a French film about this fancy magazine executive guy who has a stroke and is left with no functional means of communication. The only thing he has left is ONE of his eyes... he writes an entire book using code to blink words and letters... an entire book's worth of blinks. Fascinating. Sorry I missed it during it's brief stay at the theater.

Plus, I love love love listening to people speak French (and Italian for that matter). It sounds like buttery sweet sex rolling off the tongue. Mmmmm.

Future Problem Solvers

So, I figure that if I am going to have a blog, a blog which is an open forum for public humiliation... I might as well admit that I was the leader of my Future Problem Solvers group back in grade school.
We humbly referred to ourselves as FPS, and we took on broad scheming issues like (and I remember the process of trying to solve this one vividly) "How to get power lines to Antarctica". As a fifth grader this was a daunting task-- a carnival for the imagination. We began to dream of how we could involve dolphins or penguins... how we could travel with sleds and packs of dogs... use spaceships and submarines. We were there. I imagined myself in a fur hooded parka as I sat in my 5th grade classroom. My fellow FPSers and I wrote feverishly-- we brainstormed-- we crafted a plan. Nothing was impossible. This was at a time in my life when I thought I could be an astronaut or the first woman president.

It seems Hillary has beaten me to the summit on that one.

Where has all my sparkly optimism gone? I'm still convinced I will be a part of a rescue mission that involves me catching a ride on a dolphin... but when did I stop believing I could be president or a rocket scientist?

Playing Pretend.

Pretend land is where I live.

I pretend things don't bother me. I pretend I'm on a diet. I pretend like I understand my statistics class. I pretend I'm confident. I pretend that having sex with myself is as good as the real thing. I pretend to be artistic. I pretend I'm not interested in bullshit Hollywood pop culture. I pretend I'm okay with living in Indianapolis. I pretend my Mimi is in better health than she is. I pretend I have ankles. I pretend I'm interested in the stories my boss tells me. I pretend my Dad doesn't make me uncomfortable. I pretend to be knowledgeable about sports. I pretend everything is "ok". Sometimes I pretend I'm British. Mostly, I pretend I'm not myself.

Tengo un nuevo gato.

My parents gave me a kitty to ward off the ghosts in my haunted apartment. His name is Meow Meow Head Maximillus Morgan. He is furry and does cute kitty things with his paws. I like him. I've never claimed to be a "cat person" but being that I am on my path toward becoming that single lady that spends all her time at the library, mumbling to herself and hiding under loose draping clothes... I figured I ought to bring things full circle and foster an intense relationship with a cat. Don't start worrying about me until I start wearing oversized moo-moo style t-shirts with kitties on them or hanging kitty calendars in my office. I'm going to be okay.

meow.

I knew this guy...

Journal Entry... dated about 2 months back......before Christmas. Before a lot.

Today I’m feeling what I believe to be anxiety. If anxiety is that thing that makes me feel like my clothes are choking me and I am standing outside of my body looking at myself and all the other feckless rubes wandering aimlessly around this planet—overly sensitized to the trivial nature of most things—worried that none of what I do will ever matter… if that characterizes anxiety then anxiety is what I have. Anxiety is supposed to be a bad thing. A thing that requires medication. I believe that without it nothing would ever change. People would walk around numbed and contented with the status quo. I am NOT okay with the current situation, my life. My life tastes of stagnant water.

THIS is not about to head into a detailed account of all my “Daddy issues”, failed relationships, blame placing etcetera… okay, well no promises… it might… we, my beloved friends, are about to dive into my imagination. My subconscious and on rare occasions a state of heightened consciousness (these moments of increased self awareness are treasured). I think the point of living is to be able to achieve this state of amplified awareness in every moment of your life. Ultimately, the goal is to be awakened to the beauty of love, the power and awe of nature and the uniqueness of each human struggle. Awakened every day, in every interaction, in every word spoken. Aware of the footprints you leave during your “walk” about this planet.
The man (side note: I’m at a weird stage in my life where I find it hard to refer to myself as a woman, though I know I am a woman… a woman in my early stages of womanhood—the early definitive stages—clearly confused and easily thrown off course) The person I’m currently involved with sees things in people. Strange things. He talks to homeless people on the street. He hugs them. He shakes their hands. These people make ME take a few steps back. They make ME feel dirty. That pisses me off.

He is wonderfully different. He is like adding one of those little packets of Crystal Light to my glass of stagnant water… he adds color and flavor. Crystal Light insinuates that HE is low calorie, safe, etc. We shall refer to him as hot cocoa powder instead. But, you add the cocoa to milk and the idea of stagnant milk is way disgusting. And, cocoa makes him sound like he is of African American descent, which he is not. Okay, I’m done with beverage metaphors. Not that black is bad. I’m no racist. It’s just that he is white and I don’t want to mislead anyone into thinking I’m carrying on a saucy affair with an exotic cocoa skinned man when I am really just dating a whitey.

I’m scared. Sometimes I want to be sure that my life is colorful without the help of another person. I want to be certain that I’m not using a man to light my room. They cast such a lovely light though…

When he touches things he uses his fingers in such a delicate way. He uses the pads of skin on the tips of his fingers in the same way a cat uses whiskers. It’s as though the colors and textures of objects are amplified by his touch. It’s beautiful to watch him do just about anything.

Transitions

Transitions. Life is about transitions. For example, before you head into work in the morning there are a series of transitions to be made.
Phase 1. A "checklist" if you will. 1) Appropriate volume fade out of rocking tune you drove in listening to. 2) Make sure fly is zipped. 3) Check for boogies (come on people, both EYES and NOSE, I'm so over seeing your eye boogies). It's a go. Now for the walk into the building. This is your opportunity to mentally prepare yourself for a mentally unstimulated day on the job. The building is with in vision range. Anxiety sets it... do I abort? ShiT. No, no, no... it's cool. Just go in. Make a smooth transition into the office. Be charming and cheerful. Be "yourself". Eye contact with smokers = half grin/head nod combo. You're in. It wreaks of fax, pleated front dockers and quarterly figures. MMMmmm... now for that black piss they call coffee in the cafeteria. Wonderful. There are 6 people in line ahead of me. Aren't these people at all embarrassed to order ONLY bacon? "Um yes, I'd like 5 pieces of bacon and 2 hard boiled eggs." I'm sorry, but I can actually hear the plaque coagulating in your arteries. I choke back vomit as I accidentally imagine a humpbacked middle aged black woman naked. I should have aborted this mission earlier during phase 1 of my transition. The woman ahead of me is one of those super organized people. She has a holster for her antibacterial hand elixir on the outside of her purse. She has the exact amount of change counted and in her hand (tax included, she's done this before folks). She has her own special cup that she fills with ice and soda. Her bangs are immaculate. Lots of lipstick. Finally, eye contact with the counter girl. I like her because she despises fucking with these people too. We understand each other, and as such my coffee is free of charge. Merci. I'd go for creamer, but there are always these really disgusting little chunks of dried up crusty dairy product on the edge of the spout. No thanks. ( Quick side note: do you realize that we drink a liquid that is produced by a cow's mammary gland? A mammary gland is essentially a glorified sweat gland. Whose idea was this?)

Being that I am currently at work, I think if I continue writing about this and then reflect upon it... there is a good chance the abortion of my job will come to fruition. And, I'm not sure I'm down with abortion. It only gets worse. Maybe later.