Tag Archives: Holiday

On Days When I Only Do 3 Things

17 Jan

Here’s the deal: Anyone who knows me,  knows that I multitask like a mutherfucker. 

 …Seriously. I could win awards. 

…And it’s only cuz: that’s how my brain works. I don’t know another option. I’d prob’ly sleep a hell of a lot better if I did. But it isn’t in me. 

…I am a person who needs ten things to happen at once,  because five is just wasting time. I honestly cannot remember a point of my life not being like this,  and I come by it honestly,  as my mother is exactly the same. 

…But with that,  I also have this artistic mind. So I want to mutli-task that,  too. 

…And I get really irritated (and/or feel like I’ve totally dropped the ball)  if I don’t deliver on that. 

Sunday, I did three things: drank two cups of coffee,  ate breakfast,  and saw a movie. That is all. My entire day was soaked up in three seperate things I didn’t even combine when I could, so obviously : I lost. 

…Lost “what, ” I dunno. But I didn’t do “the job of me. ”

…So that rolls into today both needing to overachieve (like you can make up on it or something), or at the very least,  self-dictate NOT to be the “waste” that yesterday was…(though it wasn’t really…and I know that in the reasonable part of my head, where I’m allowed breaks like everyone else.)

…What I’m saying is: with no rehearsals to go to, lines to learn or work,  or crap to be responsible for: I just had a lazy Sunday…which felt irresponsible and weird. And guilted me into caring much too much about going to work on a Bank Holiday. 

The end. 

~D

Gnome Goes Packing

23 Dec

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Listen, she’s an idiot, but I’ll be the first to admit, The Gnome has had a hell of a hard year. A surprise pregnancy, her van dieing, her apartment catching fire, and this week she’s been evicted…we assume from lack of rent payments. We know she’s signed up with some charities, and her boyfriend does have a job, making bread at a German bakery…but it doesn’t seem to be quite enough to struggle along with. Which made The WHS Pimp feel like a total asshole, when he had to let her go this week from lack of work.

…Hours have been cut to minimums, and since she was a seasonal hire to begin with, she exits the arena first…and will not be returning. Cecil will be invited back when the work need arises…because she can manage three times the output in half the time.

…Which means: no more stories of pink sparkle office letter openers, explanations about alphabetizing, or dumb blonde quotes of the day. Alas, the final office idiot has returned from wence they came… into the ether of screwed up orders, lost packages, no turning signals and other offenses that exasperate and offend you.

…And they can keep her there.

…Hopefully with a full-time position, where color matters more than content…and no one can accidentally die of a peanut allergy.

In Other News: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, felt like a joyride over the weekend, taking what looks like an escape route, directly through our fenced-in lot. It’s totalled on receiving and shipping ends, leaving behind deep tire grooves and a license plate, embedded into the metal gate wire. So they weren’t the smartest hooligans in town, but then with the office “idiot” post now wide open, apparently we seem to radiate equal opportunity employment replacement options.

In Other Other News: After spending the morning talking shop, looking at kid Santa pics and debating office holiday lunch options, I’m told “we’ve decided.” So, me and my snotty nose will now exit this update with a “Happy Holidays,” from us all…before we get too hammered on whiskey and beer chasers to complete full sentences.

Over and out,

-D

The One Where She Actually Goes Somewhere

6 Nov

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Listen.

This is kind of a big deal.

I just booked a flight.

…With money I don’t necessarily “have.”

…In that it “exists” but only in the literal sense.  It is actually like spoken for on behalf of bills and Christmas gifts and things.  But  talking to The BFF last night…after way too long of not, on account of schedules and general “life-getting-in-the-way” crap… I decided that I no longer cared.

…So this morning, I booked a nonstop flight to NOLA for a week in December.

…Because, as an adult, judging the need for wrapping paper, other-people gifts, and happy creditors…I choose “me” instead.

I am a selfish bastard. This is not new.   

What IS new is that I just sunk a lot of bucks (to me) to travel to the other part of the US, to be with my sister.  And ABOUT FUCKING TIME! 

…To ride a bicycle in 70 degree weather through the French Quarter, instead of wade through the rain, here. To sneak in all the secret night spot eateries and meet some four-star chef friends…to drink openly in the streets…tour all the theaters, see The BFF’s show.  To uphold our Christmas traditions of cookie-baking, five-course-meal-at-midnight-making, and drunken “White Christmas” sing-alongs.  

It isn’t really real yet…’cept only sorta.  It’s still that “hope” and “wish” and “intent” feel I’ve had for like two years now to actually DO the thing, instead of just TALK about it.  Only now, it’s actually happening.  I’ve got a mo-fo flight itinerary in my mailbox, yo!

I’M GOING TO NEW ORLEANS ON VACATION TO VISIT MY BESTIE! 

HOLY CRAP!  

…AND HURRAH!!

Peace, y’all.

~D
 
 

Drunken Wassalings & IKEA Breakdowns

18 Nov

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Today I crossed over into Christmas music at the office. 

…The WHS Pimp made fun of it, immediately, by asking what he ever did to me in life to deserve this. I said something along the lines of, “It’s supposed to make us all jolly and shit, so stop fighting my efforts and be joyful, dammit!”

…Course this was before my first cup of coffee. Were he to ask the same question now, I would have answered that totally differently. Like, without the exclamation mark.

…Not that he can ask me again right now anyway, as he is currently at the dental surgeon’s for pre-op extraction work. Which is gonna be super awesome just before Thanksgiving.

…I’m sure they can throw all the dinner fixins into the blender and make it slurpable for him, somehow. That is, if he is able to work his mouth and keep from drooling by then. It’s like half his face they are taking out…so I’m sure he’ll be shot and doped up pretty good through the whole holiday. And even if he isn’t, he’ll only have about three teeth to chew the food with anyway…so, might as well call it a day on that one.

…Which reminds me that I’ve put off MY dental surgery to take out my (yes still present) wisdom teeth…and I should schedule that sometime before bad things start happening and they have to take half my face out too. Luckily, I am busy being a Beaver right now, so can’t book it until later anyway. Even if I do feel guilty about putting it off again. And paranoid.

…Instead, I’m gonna think about something else. So I don’t start giving myself an anxiety attack…

Listen to this:

My friend Bubba and I used to pop in Christmas music the day after Halloween.

…We’d blare it, and sing it really loudly (even at stoplights), wherever we went. And it was awesome. Especially the Dean Martin songs. Cuz he always sounds three-fucking-sheets-to-the-wind. We two never COULD come to agreement on whether he actually WAS wasted all the time, or just “pretending” to be…but either way, slurring a Christmas song about Rudolph is somehow more hilarious than just about anything. You should try it sometime. Cuz, I gotta tell yuh, Those were the BEST sing-alongs, EVER.

…We made a game of trying to play up the wasted angle even more than he did. (Which is NOT an easy thing to do.) And yet surprisingly, never ONCE got pulled over on suspected D.U.I charges while hurling down the freeway, for reasons that I will never know.

In Other Happenings:

This weekend I spent far too much time in the black hole that is IKEA again.

…The first day, I bought nothing. But I came home, (like I always do from IKEA) with an overwhelming knowledge that all my stuff could look ten times better than it currently does, and WOULD, if I bought everything in IKEA.

…All of it.

Look: I realize it ain’t the highest quality. I get that it is almost as far from “Designer” anything, as you can get. But it is SO FUCKING ORGANIZED that it makes the OCD side of me want to marry it and have it’s compacted-muti-user-functionability-fold-away babies.

…Unfortunately for me…I got home at around 10 pm, from that trip…and INSTANTLY knew I needed to rearrange my entire living space immediately, while the ideas were still fresh in my brains.

…Which ended up with me sitting in the middle of the floor in the living room (the only open 2 foot surface in my entire house by that point) at 3 am, near to sobbing. Because I have a tiny, tiny apartment, and everything just fits, one way, and trying to relocate or change it up made the entire main room look like a bomb had gone off. I was totally exhausted, and frustrated, but there was NO WAY my OCD self would be able to just “go to sleep and work on it tomorrow,” and I knew this, becoming totally overwhelmed.

Coming up with an Emergency game-plan, I decided that ultimately, I might not be able to sleep with shit strewn all over every room, but for some reason…if I condensed and piled it all in the kitchen and closed the curtain t’ween it and the rest of the house…so I wouldn’t have to see it making nonsense out of every OTHER room…it would be okay.

I still don’t know why that addendum law “worked” for me, but it seemed to, so I did it, and got up the next day to sail off for IKEA again, and get the crap I needed to “fix” all the resulting problems I had made myself, the night before.

…This then resulted in spending something like four hours building things with fake tools, yesterday….trying to interpret the little pictures that no longer are accompanied with directions in any language at all. (Which I guess were always pointless, really…as none of the directions were ever in English to begin with. But, still…)

…A fifteen page booklet, with 350 screws, nuts, and thing-a-ma-gees, you’ve never seen before, splayed out across the entire living room…so you can put this simple bookcase together, takes a surprising amount of time, when literally done: stick-by-stick.

The result, (by 2 am THIS morning) was something I could ultimately view and not nut up about. A reorganization and reallocation of stuffs which had been in the same original floor plan since the day I moved in…six years ago.

…This morning, I checked on the front room, “just to be sure.”

…OCD people have to do things like that. “Check,” I mean. It’s like feng shui, on crack. If (for whatever thousand reasons) it doesn’t “fit right” in your brain when taking in the visual of a thing, then you HAVE to fix it. ESPECIALLY when it is the place you live. Otherwise it’s like an itch you can’t scratch that will eventually end up driving you fucking crazy.

…Considering, of course, that you haven’t driven yourself there all on your own…cuz you’ve only gotten five hours of sleep in two days, obsessing over it all, to begin with.

Either way: It is almost fully settled now. A few more swaps of book stacks are still ahead, but by and large…”home” feels like “home” again. A thing my bloodshot eyes are TOTALLY thankful for.

…Meanwhile, if you ever hear me so much as make slight hints at an IKEA trip again…anytime in the near future…I charge you with the full accountability to slap me as hard as you can, point a finger in my face and say: “NO!”

I can almost promise that I will listen.

…And, eventually, thank you for saving me.

~D

Pirate WiFi & Scriptopia

18 Sep

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I would first of all like to publicly thank the new neighbor in C1, who decided NOT to password protect their wireless signal.

…Those two days where I was kinda pissed from all the stomping around and nailing things at all hours, that they did?  I’m totally over it now.  And I’ll try my best not to watch weird circus porn (apparently it exists, you guys, and I just found out about it)…or steal too many torrent downloads while on their network. Because even through I am a Pirate, we still have “codes of honor” and  things. And the first one is that Pirates don’t “accidentally” crash other people’s systems while pirating from them. Because that’s just rude.  Although, it’s entirely possible that since my Android pad is really a “phone,” they don’t even know I’m ripping signal from them anyway…due to Ice Cream Sandwich being way more awesome and stealthy than a Windows platform.  Or whatever the hell Mac runs on. 

…Which basically makes me kind of a Pirate Ninja, really.

Tell me I didn’t just get cooler right now.  Go ahead. Tell me.

…So thanks, C1 for the free juice.  Maybe my hotspot will quit maxing out now, and I can watch Netflix streams until my eyes pop out.

Anything is possible, friends.

In Other News: It is time to start making out with m’script. The joy of highlighting (orange, thank you) has already commenced. I’ve done a couple skim-throughs, and tonight I start hashing it up with notes…till it roughly resembles a road map used by someone in a foreign country, who really really likes to make liner notes. Tomorrow: begins the memorizing.

…Fuck how I hate it so.

…It’s a Shakespeare, btw. “Twelfth Night.” I’ll be the saucy wench-cuz, Maria. (Of course.) And where that isn’t exactly a far stretch in character range for me, (no!) I haven’t done a Shakes in like eight or nine years now…so gettin’ back into the flow of things will give me something to push against and reach for.

Fun role and one of m’favorite shows in the cannon.

This, more than any of the others, really balances out into a true “ensemble” cast of complete, rounded characters. Everyone gets to play at all levels and have their day. And it’s one of the very few wherein the strong female central role doesn’t have to pay for her power, out the ass, sometime later.

(…Hello, Lady Mackers, and Kate and Gertrude et al…I’m talkin’ ’bout YOU.)

…Our leading lady is “M” (of “Agatha Christie In Spandex” fame), just in case you were wondering. So that’ll only be an effing hoot-and-a-half. Should get quite a few people’s butts in the seats, too.

I know mine would be, if it weren’t already busy on stage at the time.

…I can only imagine the kinda blogs I’ll get outta this one. A lot of the cast are old friends, but there is a large rush of new blood in the ranks as well. So we’ll have the freak-troops of olde, intermingling with first timers to infuse gobs of energy. Plus, it’ll be the first time I’ve set foot on that particular stage since last December…when I was doing that little singing, drinking, dancing, crying and dieing, ditty..throughout the Holiday season.

…So this’ll be a little different, then…pretty much all ’round.

I say thee, ye!

…And with that, I’m off to steal signals, search the webs, and scribble in study. Like the good little Pirate-Wench-Ninja, that I am.

Cheers!

~D

Austenian Thoughts, On A Holiday

15 Sep

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I feel like I should work extra hard on today’s blog, on account of just breezing through it yesterday.

…I’m gonna do the weekly blog challenge, write up.  The one where you have to write in the style of a favorite author.  Only I’m gonna take it one further and do it while still narrating in the essay form.  And I want it to be a ridiculous juxtaposition. So I’m gonna pick a wildly opposite writing influence and run with it. In short: What would SWAL sound like if Jane Austen was penning it?

It would sound like this:

***

I cannot help but wish I had not lost the funds once supporting the allowance of a servant.  This morning, it was I who was left to set the tea to steep and pick the eggs.  A bothersome business, when all which you desire is to rest, uncorseted between the bed linens…stretching upon occasion at your leisure.

After breakfast, a walk about the grounds, perhaps. The day is still crisp, yet the sun is out, winking through the clouds now and then.  A piece of blue sky is surly somewhere to be found.  It would do me well, I think, to chase it.  I have only this and tomorrow for the remainder of my Holiday.  A Holiday vastly having depleted of its time. 

…Were I a Gentleman, none of such limitations would stand before me.

Of no profession, I would occupy myself between travels abroad for great lengths of time.  Not merely for the sake of “travel,” mind you, rather for the purpose of experiencing the finer opportunities afforded to one who establishes themselves in pockets of friends, old acquaintance and new.  A fortnight here or there, in country seats outside our own…a sail across seas tossed lightly in a variety of climates.

To picnic beneath an ancient tree whose seed pods float every now and then to rest on the very same blanket which I too use.

…Or a Tuscan sun, shining brightly…it’s heat soaking up into the terracotta roofing tiles, and piazza stones in the square.  English Manor gardens, manicured neatly into designs brought forth perhaps one hundred years before this.  Seedlings which once grew, as that one fallen from the picnicing tree, rising now to this magnificence…offset by fusias and lavenders and great bouquets of rhododendrons, reaching outwards in every direction.

I should like to touch a Grecian stone, entertain a Spanish siesta…walk an Irish rock and peat path, once again.

…If I were of another sex, in another time, with means to accomplish these efforts as my sole earthbound duty, I should be most exquisitely content.

However, it does seem that I am not any one of such things.

I must face, as I have done…with the absence of servants and coming end of Holiday leisure…that soon I must needs return to daily occupation. Of serving others in the stead of their serving me.  I must face the dawn’s early hour, and chill of dew’d air, to travel outward, taking reins of my own small carriage which will draw me swiftly toward the lot I must bare in life. 

…Questions, ever questions, and tasks will be demanded of me, and I shall complete them as is my duty.  But I shall not draw even the slightest rise of contentment at their accomplishments.  For my life seems often anything but the showing of an artistic effort when once completed.  In that, at no time may one gesture with affection at a day’s work-end, as one would toward even the simplest of paintings upon a wall:

“This, I have accomplished,” I may, with satisfaction, proclaim.  “This I have made.”

…A substantial object which once was a mere blank canvas, and now breathes color and light and atmos throughout your day-to-day lives. 

Should I need to wake every morning, endure ice chills in winter, fingers stiff with cold, hours of wakeful unrest, worry over color mix, or stroke placement… and ration my evening’s candlelight due to price of wax thought far less precious than a stock in canvas…I should do so willingly.  If such were my occupation for life, even a Holiday would take less precedence.

…Such is not the way of things, however.

No brush or pen stroke supports the means of which I live at present, and for that, I must acquiesce to find my living elsewhere.

…So too must you yourself, I fear.

…It was for such purpose, in which a “Holiday” was thence first bourne, I think. To give us rest and peace…and to dream.  For dreams too, are of high importance.  To aspire, in our heart and minds, toward a time and place wherein this is all but a means to something finer

Some call it Heaven. 

Some, another word or world wholly separate from this.

For me, I call it: “What can be, should we but strive hard enough to attain it.”

…An ideal which aides to sooth the burn of your contemporary circumstances, whatever they may be.

“This too shall pass,” quoth words in a promise we are all too familiar with.

…If only such application could include all, but the passing of Holidays…

~D

Fingers, Feet & Fetish

5 Sep

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After a long day back at work, with month-end closings, and Holiday sells analysis and blah-blah-blah-blah…how about we get back to the basics? A few flashes into the rest of m’day, to carry with you:

Long walk looking at posh houses with Ma.  I think they have their lawns cut with hair clippers. They also all have mullioned windows breeding like ancient rabbits. If you wanna make a lot of money, you should move here and take up window washing.  It could be very lucrative. Or maybe I will.  Shut up. I told you nothing. It was my idea the whole time.  I have it in writing, so remember that.

…Eating warm falafel pieces with homemade tomatillo salsa, from The BFF’s oven.  This is my second dinner for the night, so I guess it’s good that I did all that walking before.  Chickpeas are yum, but I like their other name “Garbonzo beans” better.  I think cuz it sounds like Gonzo. Which is both my favorite kind of journalism and Muppet. A coincidence?  I think not.

…On a whim, we suddenly decide on the frozen yogurt bar.

She picks pistachio. (She’s wrong, but I love her anyway.)  I get the vanilla and caramel mix.  With marshmallows.  She saves hers.  I eat mine like it doesn’t matter how much shit I’ve already consumed for the day. 

…We sit at The BFF’s house…me: flipping through a 1930’s intelligence book on fingerprinting as The BFF picks at her feet.  She has monster calluses from Kickboxing.  I have monster interest in old paper and weird research fetishes.

Me: (from behind book.) “Did you know you can’t permanently destroy your fingerprints?  Even with burning and acid?”

The BFF: (frowning at her foot in closeup as she picks.) “Huh.”

Me: (still behind book.) “The ridges just grow back.  Six months later. Here, look…there are totally pictures.”

…I don’t even show her the page.  Why should she get to see all the good stuff just cuz I find it?  Even if it is her book. 

She grabs some scissors.

Me: (looking up at the flash of metal.) “Um, what the hell are you doing?”

The BFF:  “It’s just for the dead stuff.  It’s crazy…feel my calluses.  Feel ’em!  Feel ’em!”

…She waves her Flinstone feet in my face, which I refuse to touch on principle.  They are all gnarly on the bottoms like she has a third career in firewalking.  Which she might.  She does a shit-ton of things on a daily basis, and I can’t possibly be responsible with keeping up on ’em all.

…”I have nothing to blog about tomorrow,” I say, while returning to the book.

“You can always talk about me picking at my feet, while we listen to Tom Waits…”

(P.S. We are listening to Tom Waits. On vinyl.)

…”That’s just stupid,” I say, turning the page.  “Why in the hell would I write about that?”

The BFF shrugs and I start reading about this one guy.  It’s all about fingerprint ageing, following this one dude from twenty, through forty and into eighty.  They all look exactly the same.  “These fingerprints all look exactly the same,” the book says.

…And this gets me to thinking.  Mostly about how to get the skin cells on fingertips to replicate all over the body…cuz then we would never change in appearance or age.  Ever.  I consider making this research my new career for the good of all mankind.  Then I remember my first period Chemistry class in High School, and decide that if it’s up to me, mankind is basically just fucked.

…Unless you guys wanna get in on this. In which case, my fee-cut is a very reasonable 20%.

Me: (putting down the book.) “Doesn’t your Kickboxing class start in like five minutes?”

The BFF: “Twenty.”

…I sigh heavily as I lay there exhausted, from looking at pictures, and curing aging and rich people’s dirty windows.

“I need a nap,” I announce, as I heave myself from the couch.  “Call me later.”

…The BFF answers without looking up, with a sound that I know means, “sure/maybe/whatever,” as I walk out the door.

Once home, I put on “Alias” again. Because I can’t help myself.

Season two.  Near the end.  Don’t spoil it for me or I’ll have to kill you.

…I turn abruptly, and bang my fucking knee on the the same fucking edge of the fucking coffee table that I do every goddamn day.  The bruises have never healed since I first brought the fucker home, six years ago.  In the end, it’ll prob’ly be the thing that cripples me.

…I take it out on a pillow.  He takes it like a man. I plow into the couch, and press “play.”

As the last episode wrap-up begins, I look at my laptop in the corner there, and my brain begins to chant.

My Brain: “what-to-write, what-to-write, what-to-write…?”

I think of a finger, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, who solves crimes primarily via errant prints. Maybe it’s a children’s series.  Or something like Sponge Bob which applies to grown-ups with dependency issues.  This would double my viewership, easily.  Then I think of The BFF picking her feet to Tom Waits poetry.

I take the lesser of two evils and just fucking commit…like a Gonzo journalist should.

…Sometimes, it’s all you have.

…That, and a whole lot of expletives.

~D

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