Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Mo's Quotes
“That’s a whole other story, a new ball game. That’s like, I don’t know, rubbing grapefruit on ya face.”
Call Me Prince
Ch-Ch-Ch-Change. A loathesome word. If change is the spice of life, I'll take mine mild. No? Not allowed? Well, ummm, you can... Kiss your tip goodbye! Clearly I am one for gambling. If I have a dollar in my pocket, it could theoretically change into two. Or zero. So why bother?
I've always wondered what my hesitation has been from leaping (pun intended) into a different scenario. It isn't as if I sit at home at night sighing in utter bliss from the joys that creep into every breathing moment of my days. And there are times- let's leave it at that- where I feel as if any sort of change would have to be a good one. And yet, no. And when you have someone else depending on you- be it a friend waiting for a ride or a baby waiting to be burped, or two psychotic dogs waiting for you to put your glass down so they can crawl further into your lap- your plans may change regardless of how superbly you may have planned to have a dog free lap that particular moment.
Blah blah change blah Couches.
I bought purple couches.
Anyone that knows me should know two very important pieces of information. In no particular order, I love my L-Shaped couch, and I can get claustraphic feeling in both confined spaces and with things around my neck or wrists. Dating profile set-up, or what? Come on! My couch I bought five years ago at a remnant store for The Door Store. I stayed on the NJ side of things, not surprisingly, and haven't actually been into one of them fancy New York City stores, but I hear them places are mighty nice. My couch and I had a moment when we met. I was simultaneously thinking, "You are coming home with me" and "Why am I in the back of this poorly lit warehouse?"
We made it out alive. Or I should say, I was alive. And when that bad boy came home, my dogs started filling with with germs and dirt to bring it to as much life as possible. My couch, let's call it Peet, provides ample seating, comfort from "the storm," and the only interjection of color in my entire living room: a muted olive-y moss. A short while into my love affair with Peet, Marley and Mojo had ravaged through all of the back cushions. It had long since passed the whole, let me re-fluff or pick the cusions back up. Their incessant sleeping and climbing and burrowing and burying somehow molded back cushions into stiff and lifeless flat puddles of material that eventually bothered me so much, I threw them out, two at a time, shoving them forecefully down my old apartment's garbage chute. Peet's naked frame screamed out for covering, much like my back screamed out when I plopped onto the bare couch. Twenty five pleather couch cushions lined up and removed every single day later, we come to present day.
When my dogs gave themselves Xylitol Poisoning and my 17 pound yorkie decided to go head to head with my 17 foot couch, and won. It's quasi-salvageable, but I found peet a new home. A home where it will never sit alone in silence and be taken for granted ever again. The pounding of the dogs paws will be replaced by the kneading of a couple of cats claws, and I like to think Peet could go for a little back rub.
In fast forward... I brought measurements to a store. I don't know how to apply measurements, eyeball anything, or do simple math. I cannot wrap my head around the difference between a triple football field sized showroom and my small apartment living room. I learn that an L-Shaped couch with attached back cushions is not an option. I have a brief and completely internal panic filled meltdown. I find a couch with attached back cushions. I decide if I am going to get rid of so much seating, I need two full sized couches. These couches don't look large. I pay for said couches. They come on Saturday. The ache of disappointment in not replacing my exact couch is palpable. The ache of realizing a change in couch options makes me feel anything at all is ten times worse. I measure. I'm not pleased. My whole living room is about to be eaten by two couches. And they are purple. I went in for a brown L-Shaped couch. I left with two straight purple couches. That more than do, do not fit. I've lost a lot more sleep than I have found in the past two days. And Mojo sleeps soundly.
I've always wondered what my hesitation has been from leaping (pun intended) into a different scenario. It isn't as if I sit at home at night sighing in utter bliss from the joys that creep into every breathing moment of my days. And there are times- let's leave it at that- where I feel as if any sort of change would have to be a good one. And yet, no. And when you have someone else depending on you- be it a friend waiting for a ride or a baby waiting to be burped, or two psychotic dogs waiting for you to put your glass down so they can crawl further into your lap- your plans may change regardless of how superbly you may have planned to have a dog free lap that particular moment.
Blah blah change blah Couches.
I bought purple couches.
Anyone that knows me should know two very important pieces of information. In no particular order, I love my L-Shaped couch, and I can get claustraphic feeling in both confined spaces and with things around my neck or wrists. Dating profile set-up, or what? Come on! My couch I bought five years ago at a remnant store for The Door Store. I stayed on the NJ side of things, not surprisingly, and haven't actually been into one of them fancy New York City stores, but I hear them places are mighty nice. My couch and I had a moment when we met. I was simultaneously thinking, "You are coming home with me" and "Why am I in the back of this poorly lit warehouse?"
We made it out alive. Or I should say, I was alive. And when that bad boy came home, my dogs started filling with with germs and dirt to bring it to as much life as possible. My couch, let's call it Peet, provides ample seating, comfort from "the storm," and the only interjection of color in my entire living room: a muted olive-y moss. A short while into my love affair with Peet, Marley and Mojo had ravaged through all of the back cushions. It had long since passed the whole, let me re-fluff or pick the cusions back up. Their incessant sleeping and climbing and burrowing and burying somehow molded back cushions into stiff and lifeless flat puddles of material that eventually bothered me so much, I threw them out, two at a time, shoving them forecefully down my old apartment's garbage chute. Peet's naked frame screamed out for covering, much like my back screamed out when I plopped onto the bare couch. Twenty five pleather couch cushions lined up and removed every single day later, we come to present day.
When my dogs gave themselves Xylitol Poisoning and my 17 pound yorkie decided to go head to head with my 17 foot couch, and won. It's quasi-salvageable, but I found peet a new home. A home where it will never sit alone in silence and be taken for granted ever again. The pounding of the dogs paws will be replaced by the kneading of a couple of cats claws, and I like to think Peet could go for a little back rub.
In fast forward... I brought measurements to a store. I don't know how to apply measurements, eyeball anything, or do simple math. I cannot wrap my head around the difference between a triple football field sized showroom and my small apartment living room. I learn that an L-Shaped couch with attached back cushions is not an option. I have a brief and completely internal panic filled meltdown. I find a couch with attached back cushions. I decide if I am going to get rid of so much seating, I need two full sized couches. These couches don't look large. I pay for said couches. They come on Saturday. The ache of disappointment in not replacing my exact couch is palpable. The ache of realizing a change in couch options makes me feel anything at all is ten times worse. I measure. I'm not pleased. My whole living room is about to be eaten by two couches. And they are purple. I went in for a brown L-Shaped couch. I left with two straight purple couches. That more than do, do not fit. I've lost a lot more sleep than I have found in the past two days. And Mojo sleeps soundly.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Year Of The Leap
2012. A Leap Year. A phrase I can't quite understand. Because you aren't leaping into March, you are hanging around in February for an extra 24 hours. If anything makes sense, it would be to call the three years before and after it Leap Years, as those are the years you are forced to leap into March.
And I don't quite grasp the potential affect of skipping this day. The way the Earth's axis will cease, calendars as we know it will dissintigrate and all human society will succumb to a slow and agonizing death. Is that about right? And when ancient civilizations were mastering sun dials, at what point was it decided that this one day needs to be added in for everything to make sense?
There has been so much talk about this day. The day that all grown men living in their parent's homes wishes was their birthday. The only day in the universe that the few and proud born on it never get too old to move out.
This day doesn't interject an extra weekend day into the normal seven day week, so it has no bearing on me whatsoever. If each day is a gift, then you are no more or less lucky than waking up each day anyway. Who knows? Maybe this will be a day for new year's resolutions remembered, or a day or complete selflessness, or the day to try things that normally would never cross your paths...
I hope it is what you want it to be. For me, it will be a Wednesday. Where I wake up early, go to work, work, and realize I am no closer to the coming weekend than I am to the prior weekend. But the highlight thought? Everyone born on February 29th never be too old to live at mom's house!
And I don't quite grasp the potential affect of skipping this day. The way the Earth's axis will cease, calendars as we know it will dissintigrate and all human society will succumb to a slow and agonizing death. Is that about right? And when ancient civilizations were mastering sun dials, at what point was it decided that this one day needs to be added in for everything to make sense?
There has been so much talk about this day. The day that all grown men living in their parent's homes wishes was their birthday. The only day in the universe that the few and proud born on it never get too old to move out.
This day doesn't interject an extra weekend day into the normal seven day week, so it has no bearing on me whatsoever. If each day is a gift, then you are no more or less lucky than waking up each day anyway. Who knows? Maybe this will be a day for new year's resolutions remembered, or a day or complete selflessness, or the day to try things that normally would never cross your paths...
I hope it is what you want it to be. For me, it will be a Wednesday. Where I wake up early, go to work, work, and realize I am no closer to the coming weekend than I am to the prior weekend. But the highlight thought? Everyone born on February 29th never be too old to live at mom's house!
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Mo's Quotes
“He speaks French. Is that a good thing? Does it matter? Will that hurt him? Ya know, really hurt?”
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Mo's Quotes
Intro:
I worked along side a man named Mo. it was short for something more professional sounding, less self-fulfilling, but irony was lost on him. As was any sense of appropriateness, gauging people's interest, knowing the correct distances to stand near someone, and how to turn down the creepy. He was nice. And older. But it wasn't a solo opinion that he leveraged what he hoped would by sympanthy for his age and appreciation of his openness to speak to everyone in ways that negatively affected others. For instance, he was caught eating other people's food in our shared break room's fridge. And when confronted? He was dumbfounded, almost affronted. We are talking maybe 60 years old, not 96 years old. Personally, on a scale between personal space and empathy, my personal space always wins. His greatest attribute? The words which seemingly spewed thoughltessly from him mouth. And since he was a salesperson, all onlookers knew his agenda clearer than the poor victims on the other line, and we still had no idea what anything meant.
Here's the first of many:
"Um, excuse me, are you in my time zone? MY time zone? Do you know what I am getting at?"
I worked along side a man named Mo. it was short for something more professional sounding, less self-fulfilling, but irony was lost on him. As was any sense of appropriateness, gauging people's interest, knowing the correct distances to stand near someone, and how to turn down the creepy. He was nice. And older. But it wasn't a solo opinion that he leveraged what he hoped would by sympanthy for his age and appreciation of his openness to speak to everyone in ways that negatively affected others. For instance, he was caught eating other people's food in our shared break room's fridge. And when confronted? He was dumbfounded, almost affronted. We are talking maybe 60 years old, not 96 years old. Personally, on a scale between personal space and empathy, my personal space always wins. His greatest attribute? The words which seemingly spewed thoughltessly from him mouth. And since he was a salesperson, all onlookers knew his agenda clearer than the poor victims on the other line, and we still had no idea what anything meant.
Here's the first of many:
"Um, excuse me, are you in my time zone? MY time zone? Do you know what I am getting at?"
Motion Sickness Begone
Have you ever been friends with someone, hung out with them time and time again and then woken up one day realizing you are inequivocably in love with their beauty which had previously somehow managed to elude your every sense? Well, that didn't exactly happen to me last night. Unless you are the kind of person who thinks characters on TV and in movies are real, and even moreso, are your friends. I mean, we can all agree that Tyler Durdan is real- but other than that, you may want to speak to someone about that.
I am referring to the enormously talented Ryan Gosling. Most of my friends have been swooning over him since he was cast as the lead in the unrealistically heartbreakingly romantic Murder By Numbers. Just kidding! put your knives away. The Notebook. I loved that movie, I of course recognized my old friend Ryan from that previous Sandra Bullock movie that I purchased on DVD long before I mastered the concept of quality vs. quantity. And let's not even mention OnDemand or, sigh, Netflix. I just couldn't jump on the "Ryan is the hottest thing on the universe" bandwagon even though his character was Prince Charming reincarnated. (That usually doesn't entirely do it for me anyway.)
I have seen Stay, Lars and the Real Girl, Blue Valentine, Fracture... and I have had a growing appreciation of his art. That separation of art and face ended last night. It ended about three seconds after the opening credits stopped playing in Drive. A movie where he says very little, ends up being a little bit of a bad guy- and those of you who have seen it may disagree by the "little" part, and I was hooked! That's just what I had to ramble off of my chest. You are welcome.
I am referring to the enormously talented Ryan Gosling. Most of my friends have been swooning over him since he was cast as the lead in the unrealistically heartbreakingly romantic Murder By Numbers. Just kidding! put your knives away. The Notebook. I loved that movie, I of course recognized my old friend Ryan from that previous Sandra Bullock movie that I purchased on DVD long before I mastered the concept of quality vs. quantity. And let's not even mention OnDemand or, sigh, Netflix. I just couldn't jump on the "Ryan is the hottest thing on the universe" bandwagon even though his character was Prince Charming reincarnated. (That usually doesn't entirely do it for me anyway.)
I have seen Stay, Lars and the Real Girl, Blue Valentine, Fracture... and I have had a growing appreciation of his art. That separation of art and face ended last night. It ended about three seconds after the opening credits stopped playing in Drive. A movie where he says very little, ends up being a little bit of a bad guy- and those of you who have seen it may disagree by the "little" part, and I was hooked! That's just what I had to ramble off of my chest. You are welcome.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Fur Is The New Down
On any given night, or actually about 91% of the time, give or take a few decimal points, if anyone asked to see my dogs sleeping habits, I would instruct them to go to their nearest blanket, shove a pillow under it, and gaze lovingly at their vet bills hard at work.
Cats don't sleep under covers. I would think because they know they are lethal at any given moment, they never fully let their guard down enough to be attacked, they... They could very well sleep under covers for all I know. The only thing I can be sure of is that if a cat were under my covers, I would probably see my dogs more often.
This still made my inpenetrable heart of steel warm a touch today.
Cats don't sleep under covers. I would think because they know they are lethal at any given moment, they never fully let their guard down enough to be attacked, they... They could very well sleep under covers for all I know. The only thing I can be sure of is that if a cat were under my covers, I would probably see my dogs more often.
This still made my inpenetrable heart of steel warm a touch today.
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Health Chronicles
2012 is now, what? Forty four days underway? I just want to know why it feels like a mere 10,000 days. I feel like it has been one disaster after another, and I am holding on to hope that all of the crap needs to get out of the way for all of the good to start. But if I make it to six months in before things change, we are talking about EPIC good in order for this year not to suck.
In an effort to not make you pour a glass and drown in my sorrows, I will avoid even mentioning my personal life. Or my professional life. Or my life. I will stick to the meidcal anomolies that have already plagued me and those around me.
My downstairs neighbors: severe three week lice infestation. My friend's one year old: emergency hospitalization for severe asthma and lung infection. My other friend's newborn: chest cold and difficulty breathing. My aunt: complete back pain, temporarily forced to use a walker to move at all- in her early 50's. And myself? A stomach virus that caused lower back pain, pulled stomach muscles and deydration that latched onto my cells and wouldn't let go. I have had a pinched nerve in the back of my left thigh for two weeks that ranges from dull and achy to air gasping with jolts through my calf. At the moment, my right eye is twitching, but I can only hope that it's from recalling the past 44 days. I had bronchitis that lasted for two weeks. It was no biggie. I just needed an at home steroidal nebulizer to open my screaming lungs enough to take a deep breath. The other details, I will take to my grave. What else...
Oh, right- I have determined that I am newly lactose intolerant. That's been a fun trial and eroor and error and error.... and error. Also, my body has sensed this new year coming and has decided to plague me with food sensitivities that I have never known. Any processed carb on the planet? Severe heartburn. Anything greasy at all? May as well be a large glass of milk. And, what I am struggling to determine at this very moment.... Was I bitten by bed bugs when I was in a Boston hotel two weeks ago?
Whjat started out as three hives that showed up on my hand while I was at my firends home with cats a couple of nights ago have not gone away. They are itchy. And the usual allergy concoction has not helped them subside. Anti-itch cream provides complete bliss for 14 seconds tops. And so I hit up my best friend and arch-nemesis, Google Images. And I am torn. My bites or hives or inflamed new hand additions don't look anything like bed bug bites that Google Images provided me. But let's be real: Google Images exists only to terrify me into leading a purely Amish existence. So, anyway, here I am taking a tentative sigh of relief, and then I click the tab for just information, not only images, and I come to find that bites are found on the hands, feet and face most commonly. And they show up 9 to 14 days after you are bitten. Precisely when I was at this hotel that fooled me with granite countertops. And they are found in groups of three. Some article mentioned that this represented breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Really? THEY can eat a three course meal off of the person who can't? So now I am panicked. In the mirror checking every bump on my face. There are two small bumps on my foot. Panic hives? Bug bites? I have no idea. The three on my hand are screaming at me right now. Another 44 days like this, and I will be screaming back.
In an effort to not make you pour a glass and drown in my sorrows, I will avoid even mentioning my personal life. Or my professional life. Or my life. I will stick to the meidcal anomolies that have already plagued me and those around me.
My downstairs neighbors: severe three week lice infestation. My friend's one year old: emergency hospitalization for severe asthma and lung infection. My other friend's newborn: chest cold and difficulty breathing. My aunt: complete back pain, temporarily forced to use a walker to move at all- in her early 50's. And myself? A stomach virus that caused lower back pain, pulled stomach muscles and deydration that latched onto my cells and wouldn't let go. I have had a pinched nerve in the back of my left thigh for two weeks that ranges from dull and achy to air gasping with jolts through my calf. At the moment, my right eye is twitching, but I can only hope that it's from recalling the past 44 days. I had bronchitis that lasted for two weeks. It was no biggie. I just needed an at home steroidal nebulizer to open my screaming lungs enough to take a deep breath. The other details, I will take to my grave. What else...
Oh, right- I have determined that I am newly lactose intolerant. That's been a fun trial and eroor and error and error.... and error. Also, my body has sensed this new year coming and has decided to plague me with food sensitivities that I have never known. Any processed carb on the planet? Severe heartburn. Anything greasy at all? May as well be a large glass of milk. And, what I am struggling to determine at this very moment.... Was I bitten by bed bugs when I was in a Boston hotel two weeks ago?
Whjat started out as three hives that showed up on my hand while I was at my firends home with cats a couple of nights ago have not gone away. They are itchy. And the usual allergy concoction has not helped them subside. Anti-itch cream provides complete bliss for 14 seconds tops. And so I hit up my best friend and arch-nemesis, Google Images. And I am torn. My bites or hives or inflamed new hand additions don't look anything like bed bug bites that Google Images provided me. But let's be real: Google Images exists only to terrify me into leading a purely Amish existence. So, anyway, here I am taking a tentative sigh of relief, and then I click the tab for just information, not only images, and I come to find that bites are found on the hands, feet and face most commonly. And they show up 9 to 14 days after you are bitten. Precisely when I was at this hotel that fooled me with granite countertops. And they are found in groups of three. Some article mentioned that this represented breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Really? THEY can eat a three course meal off of the person who can't? So now I am panicked. In the mirror checking every bump on my face. There are two small bumps on my foot. Panic hives? Bug bites? I have no idea. The three on my hand are screaming at me right now. Another 44 days like this, and I will be screaming back.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Snapshot
I took this shot using my stealth camera mode. I was able to capture this crisp and elegant shot in much more than ten attempts. But I couldn't NOT document this intriguing and entirely new to me napkin etiquette. Did this stranger mistake the utter lack of a tablecloth to be thick, long and opaque cloths to cover the table with? I wonder how interesting a night could be standing in the middle of a crowded restaurant, one that does have real tangible tablecloths, and then asking passersby to quickly lift the draping material. I don't have the energy to get into all of the things I could have imagined finding prior to seeing this man out in public. (AKA I am unwilling at this point and time to share with you the true, albeit occasional, depravity to my inner dialogue.) Now a new thing to ponder: What do people's napkins look like when the public cannot see them?
Two Quick Things
Things that I am hating at the moment....
1. People choosing off the beaten path music to be noticed. Or different.
2. People are act like they have their shit together.
Things that I am so thankful for....
1. Finding new music. Good new music. Music that has to be sought out by those far more dedicated than myself, and those so willing to share the fruits of their labor: An unaddressed YouTube link.
2. The hope that people can actually have their shit together.
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