grimiko

Snow Day

2012-01-20T19:22:00.005-06:00

Icy, Minty

2012-01-12T14:11:00.002-06:00

icy
minty
saucers, spoons
menus
puddles
random lull
weird momentary public silence
window seat
winter boots
snow soaked bags of groceries
pre-washed baby spinach in a plastic box
yoplait
radishes
q-tips
other people shoveling in the distance
branches on trees that are rock-candy
a neighborhood that is a gingerbread town
wet woolen, church bazaar mittens
tiny paw prints
walking in the door
rag rugs
coat hooks
the heat coming on
orange peels
warm
dry

Workflow

2012-01-08T15:03:00.000-06:00

Whenever my phone rings I remember that it's still on a one-beep setting. I need to change it back but I keep putting it off. It turns out that changing things like the settings on my phone interrupts my workflow. It breaks down as follows:

1. My phone rings.
2. I remember that it's still on one-beep setting.
3. I stop everything.
4. I go search for my phone.
5. I change the settings on my phone.
6. I go back to my desk.
7. I get into several well meaning yet unnecessary conversations along the way.
8. I sit down.
9. I attempt to get back into previous mode of workflow.
10. I stare blankly at my computer.
11. I think about the concept of one's 'body of work'.
12. I think about the meaning of the word legacy.
13. I think about the sunshine.
14. I think about getting up and leaving the building. About never coming back.
15. I go get a cookie.

So, as you can see, it is for very good reason that things such as changing the one-beep setting on my phone (which was employed specifically to be less disruptive months ago but is no longer necessary) have yet to be addressed. Because such interrupts my fairly gullible, easily confused, much too fickle yet somehow lovable workflow. I could write about it all day long. I won't. But I could (just a little warning that things could start to go that way at any time).

Really Liking Today

2011-12-30T10:44:00.000-06:00

It's winter. It's practically January and it's so mild outside. It's just perfectly rainy and gray. It's not even necessary to wear a heavy winter coat. This is my favorite kind of winter day. The trees are bare and dark against a pale white sky and the traffic sounds so pretty if not ever so slightly expectant after it has rained. I really love the way the traffic sounds after it has rained. I'm conditioned by this sound to both relax and focus and actually be wherever I am in the world instead of stuck in some loop inside my brain. Don't get me wrong, I like dry weather, too. And I like snow. I even kind of miss the snow right now. As well, the way snow alters the sound of the traffic. But it's different. The snow-traffic sound seems more fraught. Maybe even a little bit dramatic. It emphasizes how slow and defensively people are driving. This, though inspiring, is way less relaxing than rain-traffic sounds and more like a reminder to get back indoors. Not that it won't snow soon. It will--until then, there's today.

Religious Experience

2011-12-21T11:17:00.001-06:00

Today, now officially three days before Christmas Eve, is awesome. The day each year when I suddenly decide that I like Christmas. But--where did all the time go? There's so much to do! There's the frosting of the cookies. The wrapping of the gifts. The making of the antipasto. As well, there's the arranging of miniature pickles on a plate. The forcing radishes to look like roses. The stuffing olives with bleu cheese. The replicating a 1/4" scale Westminster Abbey out of Wheat Thins. Then, the moment of silence happens. It's just a lull but I find that I've come to rely on this one silent moment each year to renew and make 'blank' my life and brain. Then, on the day itself, there is the Doing Of Nothing. This state of being interrupted only occasionally by the experience of The Eating Of The Christmas Cookies (made lovingly by my mom) of which there are several varieties: There are the cut-out frosted cookies which are crisp, decorative and not-too-sweet. There are the chocolate layer cookies that cannot be explained other than to say that there are never enough of them (which I believe is by design). And, incredibly, there are the Russian tea cakes which melt in your mouth, transport you to a better place, solve all of your problems and somehow make you accept your own mortality--even if only briefly. Oh, and there are the pretzels dipped in chocolate for which I have no opinion.

Nothing Happened

2011-12-11T12:30:00.001-06:00

Wednesday 3 am
You wake up confused by all the coughing. Then you realize that it's you that is coughing. How long have I been coughing? You cough and cough even though your lungs are clear--and that's the thing--your lungs are just not getting that there is no reason to be coughing like this. You're disoriented, exhausted and covered in sweat. For a moment you wonder if this is actually your death-day.

4 am
You manage your way in semi-darkness to the bathroom to find the cough syrup. A small herd of concerned kittens has collected around you and are all meowing. You answer their questions but they seem unconvinced. Your boyfriend, who is already downstairs getting you tea, has, thankfully, not yet caught this cold.

Thursday
Work goes okay until about 3 pm where, while in the middle of a sentence, you lose your voice. Completely. You try to clear your throat but it's no use. This is funny for about twenty minutes. Finally, you just go home. You have no voice.

Friday
You stay on the couch all day with your laptop, a glass of hot tea and your phone. You text people. All people--even your mom. After all, you can't talk. And you find that this simplifies many things.

Saturday
Your voice starts coming back. Somewhere between 40% and 60%. Though you no longer have any other symptoms, you decide to make soup and remain in pajamas all day. You wrap a blanket around yourself. You 'can't talk', you rasp, you 'have no voice'.

Sunday
To your utter dismay your voice is back 100%. It's actually an improvement on your old voice. You've never felt better in your life. Still, you keep checking your glands and clearing your throat only to find that you aren't in any pain. You are well. Healthy. Your voice is clear as a bell. No matter, you think, one more day of bed rest and pure silence can't hurt anything.

Monday
You can't believe the text you have jokingly composed to your boss while waiting for the coffee to brew: You are 'so sorry' but you 'might need another day or so'--you stop yourself right there--what am I doing? You deliberate. You take out the 'or so'. You press 'send'. You regret it instantly.

Tuesday
You return to work and begin talking to people again--just like that--though considerably less than before. You're even a few minutes early. It's as though nothing happened.

Roman Sat Uncomfortably

2011-12-04T20:01:00.001-06:00

Roman sat uncomfortably in the old red leather banquette with the worn arm rests. He was waiting in the designated waiting area that was really just a narrow hallway between two offices. The walls there had been painted an umber-yellow and there was a window with a too-small sheer curtain above where Roman sat. Sometimes he could hear their voices beyond the door but not what they were saying. Why, Roman wondered. Why must I always be waiting for her? He looked up and noticed a potted plant balanced precariously on the window sill above his head. The plant was dead.

I must forgive Gus.

Those had been his father's dying words: I must forgive Gus. You must forgive me and I must forgive myself.

How, Roman wondered, did the old man manage all of that in the last few hours of his life? How was that even possible? But that was exactly what Roman's father had done. As though forgiveness were so simple, Roman thought. As though the alternative were somehow--!

Roman?

Yes?

Thanks for waiting. Please, come in.

I Want Soup

2011-11-20T12:12:00.001-06:00

I want soup. Soup or chili. With bread from the oven and with little pats of butter wrapped in gold foil. Or stew. I almost forgot about stew. Stew would be great on a day like today. Wait. Stop everything. Three words: Grilled Cheese Sandwich. On pretzel bread. That would be great. Or cake. I could just have cake. There's stuffed cabbage. That would be fine. Or pot roast. It doesn't matter.

The Phone Drawer

2011-11-15T11:04:00.001-06:00

It turns out I saved all of my old cell phones. I didn't set out to do this. It just happened. So, now, every time I open the drawer that happens to contain my old cell phones I feel weird about the whole thing. As well, nearly every single time I open that drawer I imagine the cell phones finally on a shelf in an antique store somewhere. Left over crummy plastic artifacts. But, you know, why not? I ran across several unopened cans of soup at one of my favorite antique stores recently. They were only fifty years old and very reasonably priced. No, these cell phones, though functionally dead, haven't even begun their real journeys, yet. They don't even know what they're in for. They're just resting, now. Gathering strength. Being protected from dust, direct sunlight and the threat of landfills so that they can one day fulfill their real, penultimate purpose (their ultimate purpose being something beyond my imagination though fuel seems likely). I almost envy them, these cell phones. Almost.

Having a Taco

2011-11-14T12:27:00.001-06:00

I think this is as good a place as any to mention that I am eating a taco and that it is very good. It was brought home yesterday as leftovers. This was unbeknownst to me. I just found it all wrapped up in foil in the refrigerator. I am eating it cold because, after weighing the options of microwaving versus baking the taco in the oven, it seemed simplest to just eat the taco cold. Besides, microwaving tends to change the consistency of things like tortillas in a bad way. And baking seems extreme considering the waste of energy and time involved in getting the oven to the correct temperature for just one taco. The third, rarely spoken of but valid option of buying a toaster oven to reheat the taco, too, seemed a bit much. So I took the chance of eating it cold. Of course I could have let the taco become room temperature but that would have taken forever. So, I just went with the cold-variety taco. And it's good. Even though it's cold. So I can only imagine how good it was while still hot. But that was yesterday. Like I said, I didn't know about this taco until today.

Happy Trees

2011-10-26T17:11:00.000-05:00

This Morning, 7:20 am

2011-09-20T21:23:00.000-05:00

Sun

2011-08-28T17:53:00.003-05:00

Self Portrait

2011-08-16T17:16:00.003-05:00

Today in Mills Park

2011-08-14T14:05:00.002-05:00

Last Wednesday

2011-08-14T13:52:00.003-05:00

Found!

2011-08-09T14:55:00.003-05:00

Floor

The Bathroom

2011-07-30T22:41:00.003-05:00

A Wayward Peppercorn

2011-07-23T12:16:00.142-05:00

There was no time to find my tools* so, using just my index finger and the kind of quick thinking and ingenuity human beings find themselves capable of while under intense pressure, I moved the out of place peppercorn back into what was deemed 'that awkward blank space'. That is, with nerves of steel, love and an unflinching eye for the composition of things like peppercorns, I was able to place a single green wayward peppercorn rightfully back amongst its peppercorn-neighbors, once and for all.

That was Thursday. It was now Friday and the peppercorns were camera-ready. Looking as though they had been casually, hurriedly, perhaps even accidentally strewn across a cutting board, the peppercorns added a welcome nod to reality in what otherwise appeared to be a pristine, state-of-the-art kitchen (but what was really a hot, muggy, dusty studio). No, I don't think I could have been any happier. I mean, if someone has to style the peppercorns--and you know, somebody does have to and, let's face it, I have that down--why shouldn't it be me?

Of course, I still don't know how long this project is expected to last. I'm afraid to ask anyone for fear that pinning down such information will somehow put a crack in this latest of employment related magic spells. Thus, it is wisely and rationally that I've decided to ignore the issue of deadlines altogether and instead simply keep showing up. I'll simply keep showing up and they'll simply keep paying me. It's so reasonable I can't believe I never thought of it before.

I already miss it, though. This job. I miss it and I even envy the situation as though I'm somewhat outside my own body and all the glamor of peppercorn staging were actually happening to someone else. It's as though my brain has found a new hack wherein I circumvent the terrible experience of being laid off by jumping directly to the part where I'm standing in the unemployment line:

I really miss this, my new job!

Seriously. I really do.

*paperclip

Retrospective

2011-07-13T00:31:00.034-05:00

I was fourteen years old when I found my Mom's high school sweater sets packed away in a a zip up storage box in the linen closet. These were cashmere sweater sets from the late 1950's in unmistakeable mid century color ways as pale cream with dark gray flowers, navy blue with a pale blue collar, pink, charcoal gray, chestnut, pale gold, winter white, ruby red and pea green. I'm told they came already named things like The Judy, The Jenny and The Miss Marie. The ruby red set had the distinction of being short sleeved. The tags on these sweaters said Peck & Peck and Marshall Fields. These were just the high school sweaters, mind you. Not the college ones, which I don't think I ever saw more than very briefly but imagine were even better. My Mom's old clothes are still, to this day, better quality than anything I have ever owned. As well, the sweater sets all had corresponding skirts and blouses. The ruby red set with short sleeves, for instance, had a gray wool pencil skirt with a fine gauge red plaid--the gray being more blue and less brown, perfect with the more blue and less orange of the ruby red sweater set. She would then choose from either red or gray accessories that were all dyed to match. From there she'd decide which jewelry--circle pin or pearls--it all depended on whether or not she was going to wear a neck scarf that day and, if so, which one. I should mention that I didn't inherited the matching skirts or accessories that went with the incredible sweaters. Such were long gone by the time anyone thought I'd actually want any of my Mom's old clothing.

That's not how I wore the sweaters in 1982, anyway. I wasn't going for a costume-y re-creation of the late 1950's so much as I was mixing the sweaters randomly, some might even say haphazardly, with what was otherwise pure, authentic 100% punk rock, post-apocalyptic gear. Punk being a sensibility I'd picked at some point during Lutheran grade school, as well via such unlikely media as Saturday morning cartoons, studying Vogue Magazine (literally reading every word and remarking upon it later in my diary), late night television, various commercials and actual music. Actually, the closest thing to a punk rocker in the suburbs of Chicago did attend my high school. His name was Ron. He must have decided over winter break to become punk, because previously he dressed unremarkably. After winter break, though, you couldn't ignore Ron. But, the thing was, he was just the one punk rocker. It's not like he had other punks to hang out with. Stoners still ruled and even hippies were still hanging on by a thread off in the periphery. You might say that Ron, the one and only real punk rocker of my high school, the one and only punk rocker in Chicago, had an awful lot on his shoulders. And, so much to get across in so little time. So, starting with what I referred to as my mini--but was really a knee-length corduroy A-line skirt my Mom had sewn for me while I was in the eighth grade--combined with a borrowed Devo T-shirt (the Devo T-shirt being absolutely key for this to work) and what was by then one of my many, many vintage sweaters--I managed not to be Punk nor even New Wave so much as simply vintage. And if you removed the sweater from this equation, not even that. I remember later adding little white tennis shoes that I'd bought at the drug store, rolled up jeans, and maybe a kerchief at my neck (also from the drug store, and something that all the public school girls seemed to do) and electric blue mascara (that smelled of chemicals so badly that I had a headache for that entire semester). I managed to look terrible. Really terrible in amazing sweaters. In what was the most current method of looking terrible in any sweaters. At least I was current. Or retro. It was one of those.

Of course, all of this was okay with me. I was a freshman in high school. I didn't want my 'Mom's 1950's', anyway. I explained this to her one day while she was doing the dishes: I didn't want perfection and happiness. I wanted the 1950's of crushed dreams and dashed hopes! I wanted Los Angeles, 1957. I wanted the 1950's of crime, intrigue and film noir. Of a young Brooklyn housewife circa 1959--Not in poodle skirts, saddle shoes and charm bracelets--but rather straight skirts, kitten heels, drinking martinis and holding smoking guns! I wanted diamond cocktail rings, hand bags worn at the elbow without irony, to emulate--via vintage fashion--women of a 'bygone era'. The ones that carried white enamel gold flecked cigarette boxes in their satin lined evening clutches and drank scotch-neat without apology during daylight hours (high up in offices that whirred with fans and clicked with typewriters--with miles of metal blinds and the sound blinds make when someone knocks into them accidentally). I wanted the cold war era girl--tough, mysterious, troubled, probably wearing a chiffon scarf--as seen on TV from 1957 to about 1962. The woman with the sweater sets, yes, but also the big wool camel coat, the high black pumps, the bangs, the umbrella--you know who I mean, she's unmistakable--maybe she's a housewife, but then again, maybe she's a Russian spy--!? My Mom shook her head. No, she'd never heard of such a woman. Not ever.

Automobiles

2011-06-26T12:31:00.010-05:00

Saturday

2011-06-11T16:11:00.020-05:00

Oscar sat in the kitchen window watching his Aunt cook breakfast. With his long arms out-stretched in a yawn, the window panes situated just so and the morning sun behind him, an oddly convincing crucifix shaped shadow fell on the narrow space on the floor between him and where his Aunt stood at the stove. He laughed at how unplanned it was. He knew better, though, than to point this sort of thing out to his Aunt, who at that moment was searching for something in a dark cabinet. She mouthed something incredulously to herself regarding her missing spices. Oscar leaned forward adjusting his shadow into various poses, inadvertently half-mooning the alley in the process. A truck honked its horn. The clanking sounds of the kitchen reached a crescendo: It was time to eat. The odor of sausage, onions and peppers mixed with the cloy of dryer sheets and a near-by bucket of hot water and Pine Sol punctuated the cramped, clean quarters. Oscars' Aunt put the bread and the milk on the table and shook her head at her laughing nephew, "Could you please put a shirt on?".

A Used Wire Whisk

2011-03-08T22:04:00.009-06:00

We walked around a cramped resale shop for about half an hour. All the proceeds go to a no-kill shelter and I did notice a few kittens roaming around. I could tell that they felt right at home and couldn't shake the notion that this resale shop was "starring" these kittens today. It made sense in my head at the time.

They were cute, too. All mewing and found sleeping in displays of Easter baskets or beneath the hoods of old Hi-Fi consoles. It was hard to resist the pull of the kittens. This is why Tom is the one who goes to this shop and not me, normally. It was Tom, in fact, who had gotten our coffee maker there last summer. A really old, very office-y coffee maker that reminds me of a station wagon for some reason.

This time around, however, with me in tow, we found only a wire whisk. And it's ironic because our wire whisk had actually broken down very recently. It was the last thing in the world I expected to happen. I mean, how many wire whisks does a person go though in a life time? It turns out that if it rusts, at least one.

Still, I put it back. Back in the bin with hundreds of cantaloupe scoops that nobody ever wanted. Then we stopped at the little grocery store down the street. I looked and looked but couldn't find any sliced turkey in the refrigerated section. So we had them slice some turkey for us at the deli counter, instead.

And there you have it.

Love Is All Around

2010-12-30T19:24:00.038-06:00

I wake to the sound of something weird happening. Again, I don't think, wow, maybe it's an earthquake, because I never wake up thinking that maybe it's an earthquake. And I say again, because this very thing happened, here, in Chicago, just a couple years ago - and the whole thing was lost on me that time, too. And, really, when did we start regularly having earthquakes in Chicago--because it's becoming a thing.

No. I think that my neighbors are very rude with all of their noise at the crack of dawn. And that my cats, who are certainly party to this noise (as they are milling around inconsolably mewing - as though something were amiss) are spoiled rotten, and, when you get right down to it, do not give a damn about me or my sleep.

That it's all about the cat chow and the petting of them and the cooing at them. The never ending gifts of toys and me sneaking them pieces of cheese and liverwurst. And never the other way around.

I think a lot of things that puts blame on my cats and other people "out there". And, seriously, I'm so tired of all of the people "out there". That is, people I both don't know very well but also live quite near-by. Then, a few hours later I am informed that there was an earthquake. Again.

Will I ever learn to enjoy these earthquakes we now have in Chicago as they are happening? In real-time? And, probably more importantly, will I ever see that people around me are not that bad? I feel so righteous in my hatred in such times, too. I am right. They are wrong. It feels good at least to have identified all parties involved as being right or wrong. With me being right.

Lesson learned. You'd think. But not seven and one quarter hours later I hear my (admittedly) overflowing bin of recycling making a lot of racket in the wind. This, the recycling that hasn't quite made it to the recycling receptacle. No problem. Except that the thing has gotten full to the point where - on this sort of unusually warm, windy, earthquake-y late December day - a few (beer) cans are now rolling around the concrete landing of what is my back stoop, where the bin of recycling is situated.

Not the prettiest sound in the world, I agree. And certainly not acceptable in these parts. No, the hollow, sad beer can rolling around sound, NOT okay, especially right in the middle of the holidays. And, honestly, it took me nearly an hour to realize that I was the culprit. Suffice it to day that I'm certainly not invited to be part of their book clubs, now.

Then, I hear a someone putting these very cans (my cans) from my back stoop into a bag - to dispose of them "properly" once and for all, because someone had to do it. I could imagine all the calls back and forth. The snide, bitchy jokes. I even felt okay with it - at least they have someone to laugh at - why not me? And, really, what do I care? They have nothing else.

Then I see it. Really see it. Squarely, for the first time. Oh, how they have had to "deal" with me. It must have been the biggest pain, dealing with me. And then, of course, I become incredulous. Crazy bitches. You can't just come over here and "help" me, like that. My god.
So, I go through the gamut of snark. Then, suddenly tough as nails, I go outside to confront this helpful person. And her army, Oh, yeah? You're going to help me? Okay: Help me to my face, then, lady, lets go.

This is that part where it would be so funny and explained so many things if it had just been my mother, who lives thirty feet away, who was doing this. But it was actually a cat scrounging around this bin, the putting everything into a plastic bag sound - an actual plastic bag in the bin that this cat was dealing with in her search for food. So, I gave her some food. That's when I realized that this cat was actually a wolf or a raccoon or something. That's when I went back inside.

White Elephant, Real Elephant: It's Your Call

2010-12-22T10:36:00.033-06:00

So, I started using a Mac laptop recently. It was a Christmas gift from my sister-in-law from last year. Actually, it was a white elephant, and I was as surprised as anyone when I unwrapped it. What with the refrigerator magnets, oven mitts and non-operative metal wind up toys that everyone else seemed to be receiving that night, I was sure that what was in this rather extremely bubble wrapped parcel, was probably a cast iron skillet. This due to the heft, size and shape of the thing.

And the bubble wrap, which was certainly a ruse, didn't deter my notions. And, believe me, I was thrilled at the prospect of receiving a cast iron skillet. I even hoped that it was still seasoned. The idea seemed more practical than icky. Making it a sort of an on-going pan with function that, despite all it's travels via FedEx, was somehow still in progress. Why, I could use it as early as the very next morning.

Though, the idea that it might be a piece of slate for arranging my (certainly) diverse array of cheeses on - you know, like in the magazines - wasn't out of the question, and was sort of in-the-air that night as people speculated out loud what might be going on with each other's gifts. Being that this Christmas party was comprised of eight or ten adults and one teenager - the unwrapping of the gifts went quietly, save for some nearly whispered narration from the sidelines.

Yes. It made sense that it might be a slate cheese tray.

It's the way other people with other lives like to arrange their cheeses on nice pieces slate on those wine, cheese and money filled afternoons that sometimes happen. Usually without warning. On Tuesdays or Wednesdays. Around 3 pm. And though you are supposed to be at work, you find yourself being pulled away, jumping in to a cab and scooting off to some unlikely address.

And it's something you "just can't get out of" and, for some reason, everybody understands. Even your boss. And, when you get there, the music, people and cheese seem to already be in progress, as though this little gathering has been going on forever.

And you realize just how many people out there don't need to be at work in the middle of the day. That is, that there are many people who exist purely to enjoy themselves. Because all of those people are this party, and they are all having cheese.

Oh, hello! Try this wine!

Subtle over-notes of wild mushrooms, amirite?

Yup. No.. wait, wait. I'm getting.. rotting wood? Subtle.. compost heap?

Oh my god, exactly!

Everyone is standing casually around a table where, if you bother to look, there is, amongst other things, a big shard of slate with an array of cheese arranged upon it. And as cheeses go, it's a thoughtful selection.

There's a hard cheese. A runny cheese. An angry cheese. A terrible cheese. A moldy diamond encrusted cheese. Why, there's even a cheese that requires it's own votive warming apparatus to keep it just-so.

It's all there. Cheeses arranged with love and an unflinching eye for composition. And the afternoon light, somewhat diffuse on this overcast day, has never looked better around any tray of cheese.

Any crumbles that have fallen away from the dryer varietals - now even lovelier for their very varied-ness. Such crumbling speaking volumes about cheese.

As well, the foil wrap from the just recently opened champagne (that lies with it's faithful wire-cage and wayward cork companions), that is just in the foreground of this crumbly cheese platter idle, only attests to the fact that this little wine and cheese celebration is actually happening - in case anyone wasn't totally convinced.

We're really great, aren't we? I mean as people.

Yeah, we are -- have you tried this?

No, what is it?

It's champagne jelly!

That's freaking genius.

I'm telling you..

Wires. Foils. Crumbles. Lipstick marks on crystal glasses. The aftermath of our consumption. Proof that we once consumed.

Bring me opera. Bring me a headache accompanied by deep dark stringed instrumentals. Bring me the full ashtray with the crushed out Dunhills stained with Yves St. Laurent rouge feu.

Bring me my coat. So that I can hop in a checkered cab and be transported back home where there are warm perfect baths, blankets and tins of chocolate cookies.

Where I can sit high atop my bed as I dial up steaks and tossed salad from Ruths Chris and watch never ending movies on command.

Home - to every super shiny thing. Then bring me shopping tomorrow where I can get new, bigger cell phones to replace the old, smaller ones - and smaller computers, the size of cell phones, and special holders for everything else I already have.

Oh, and maybe an irregular piece of slate.

.............

Having switched to coffee, I opened my gift. It was a backpack.
A really heavy backpack.

I loved it!

But, no. There was more. I was encouraged to look further. So, I unzipped the backpack and felt the unmistakably cold smooth surface of a mac laptop. My sister-in-law's old laptop.

My laptop.

I turned it on. A graphic of a simply shaped white apple against a pale gray background appeared for a moment. As short, understated animations go, it was strangely compelling. I felt relaxed. Reassured. And this alone was enough for me.

Even days later, it felt right. So clean and compact. This without opening it or so much as turning on the power. From there I progressed to playing chess on it. Sometimes I merely watched the computer play against itself. And that's where things pretty much stayed for the following eleven months. I have no idea why.

I should mention that I realized even then - in that crazy moment of opening my gift and all the subsequent yelling and clinking of glasses and iphones suddenly being pointed at me - that I can never top this gift. So, yesterday, after some deliberation, I packed up the several odd, out-scale components of the 1999 Dell computer I had been using all my life, and sent it all to my sister-in-law.

The box containing the monitor alone, which was as big as a Volks Wagon, would certainly make her curious. Maybe even a little worried. But that's the point of Christmas. Especially when a white elephant rule has been put into effect.

I, too, wanted to wrap everything up in bubble wrap. When it became clear that I hadn't enough, I switched to using old tarps, remnants of fabric, unfinished knitting projects and, finally, some bacon. You know, just to throw her off.

I should also mention that, for her convenience, I didn't remove any files or downloads I had accrued on that computer over the years. I think that that is actually the real the gift, right there. Not just the machine, but the ghost in the machine. I get chills just typing it.

And - and this is the part of the story when so many twists and turns and layers of mysteries all come to a conclusion even I never imagined: the arrival of these boxes will explain the cleverly cryptic text I sent her yesterday as I was leaving UPS. That was my password. Imagine her ah-ha moment when she realizes this.

Yep. It's going to be so great.

Ding

2010-11-12T12:30:00.014-06:00

This whole thing would have been okay if it had all worked out neatly like a television plot:

The getting of the design job with me leaving the waitressing job meant that all the time I spent in school, all the time I had been sleep deprived (and all the added, unnecessary drama I'd welcomed into my life at the time) had paid off.

Ding, Character A Makes Good:

The getting of the better apartment was, then, symbolic of moving forward, even if it was literally only steps away from where I had been. The losing of the design job and moving here would then be okay, too. If I then (despite it being office work that I never wanted to do) grown (surrounded by designers doing what I wanted to do) and had left this house and gotten a well deserved raise and learned, at least, that I was quite flexible, here in this most unforgivingly inflexible world.

It would have been even more neat and tidy if, while here (the last place I ever wanted to be) I had finally quit smoking forever. Had finally lost the weight I gained while attempting to quit smoking forever. And had learned how to be a human being.

In all, I've broken even. I'm am exactly where I was last summer. I did finally learn how to make an omelet in less than three minutes, though. And a chicken stock that actually tastes like chicken. And I acquired quite a few computer skills. Right now, the house smells like something is cooking. Tom is in the kitchen and the smell of onions and peppers is distracting. Yes, something is cooking. But what?

In the next episode I want a tidy change that allows for the fact that I want to work, that I work hard, and that I adjust to adversity--not right away, not without a fight, not without making a fool out of myself--but ultimately.

I want a good job. One where I make a salary that reflects the work I've actually done. In real time. Not anymore jobs that say things like,"We can't pay you properly right now, but we love you, and a pay increase is definitely on the table". Followed by, "We have to let go of 60% of the employees this morning, but we love you. We'll definitely write you a nice letter of recommendation."

Because, I am in my forties. I really am. It wasn't just a dream. And, more than that, I'm somewhat educated. And, when you look at all of it it on paper, I've already paid my dues.

So, if life is at all like tv is, then things must change at this juncture, here on this my silly little tv show.

It could go one of two ways, of course. I'm aware of this. And, as formula-schtick, it's far more entertaining to see me wind up on the street. Who doesn't want to see Character A lose her mind and maybe all of her teeth? Who doesn't want to see her turn into a monster, maybe even a swamp monster--for added effect?

It sure is more fun to hate Character A than to identify with her. I cite Gossip Girl.

Just watch all the head-bands finally go flying. They fall one by one. Just as crowns fall one by one. But then the fallen pull themselves back up, mostly behind the scenes. And, look out, here she comes. Again. And, just like that, she's back. Even though she died two seasons ago. Even though she got life in jail. She's back. And she's, she's ...much nicer this time.

Resume

2010-11-05T11:39:00.051-05:00

I waitressed at the same night club for eleven years, once.

It was just the once. But it was long enough to notice a definite time-warp that seemed to occur within the boundaries of that job - be they the physical boundaries of building itself, or involving something less tangible.

No one who worked there ever left the night club. Even the few that tried to leave came right back. Sometimes days later. Sometimes years later. After a disappointing stint at an accounting firm, or low-security prison, say.

It didn't matter. Such employees were always brought right back into the fold like nothing had happened. And really, nothing had.

There were weird things. Like how no one got any older or changed.

And there was a ghost. Specifically, a ghost that hung around the northeast corner of the room, better known as Section 6 & 7.

People spoke quite a lot of this ghost when I first started working there. It was always in one of those phony, louder than normal conversations - the ones where you know without a doubt that what is being shouted a mite too pointedly in your direction is actually for your ears.

My even louder, mock response being:

A ghost? Oh my, maybe I should QUIT?

Of course, I wasn't worried. This ghost was pretty great.

For one thing, he was industrious. He might do things for you like clear your tables or put money around for you to find accidentally. This especially when a customer had failed to leave you a tip.

Or, he might straighten out your chairs and leave chocolates kisses hidden here and there, just to be playful. One time it was a Monte Christo sandwich. I had really wanted a Reuben, but being that that would have been too messy, the ghost came up with an alternative.

A Monte Christo? That's genius!

We were friends, the ghost and me. Not that the ghost didn't have his drawbacks. He did make it a bit cooler in Section 6 & 7. And there was a constant blowing wind because of the ghost that never could be resolved (as it's source could never be located). Which was bad for ones carefully placed cocktail napkins. The hard and fast rules pertaining to cocktail napkins having been clearly outlined in the waitressing handbook.

Yes. I had signed the paper stating that I understood the cocktail napkin policy. And, yes, they whisked that document away before I could ask any of my many follow up questions. So the loss of controll over the cocktail napkins in my section did present a bit of a problem.

Yet, there was no doubt in my mind that it was in spite of himself that the ghost created this kind of havok. I simply asked the customers to hold down their cocktail napkins at all times in exactly the place where I had originally positioned them. And wouldn't you know it, nobody minded!

The ghost more than made up for all of this with money and candy, of course.

Obviously, I took the job.

It was like an agreement had been made, that, for whatever reason, I could only remember bits and pieces of the negotiations.

It was something about how - as long as you worked there you would make lots of money, never age and enjoy the benefits of a helpful ghost but, you could never, ever, leave. Not under any circumstances.

They said,

It's up to you. Go ahead and think it through for a few moments.

Then, seeing the look on my face,

Would you like something - a crab salad served in half an avocado, perhaps? Because we could simply bring you a vodka? It's no problem.

And, finally, as I sat there chewing on my pencil,

Okay. We'll be right over here. You take your time.

So, my rent being due, I signed the contract:

I will hereby spend the rest of my extended adolescence here (bla, bla, bla)

Great! Here is your name badge, your five-inch-platform heels, your waitress handbook, your complimentary box of altoids--!

But that happy moment of knowing I was again employed, that is to say, safe money-wise, was immediately (upon punching-in, that first day) replaced with a relentless, never ending dread of losing that job.

And it never let up. Even as years passed, even as they promoted me to head waitress and put me in charge of the VIP room, I worried.

Even as they told me I was the only person in the world whom they trusted and handed me the keys, I worried.

So, the fact that I walked away from that position (as opposed to being torn away, screaming) astounded quite a few. All those forever-young faces looking at me incredulously as I left.

You can't leave!

The above issued plainly, as a statement of fact.

And it was true. No one could leave.

[reprise]

I got a design job.

I was overjoyed. All I really wanted in the whole world was to work during the day. And have a weekend at the end of my work week, each and every week. I imagined sweater sets and lunches all packed up in Tupperware.

The normality of such a job meant as much to me as the design element did. And, apparently, much more than even the money element did. I did not get right away, that, with a salary there would be no more incredible, life altering tips that could change everything, just like that.

I got thrown into the job. Literally thrown into a still sticky douglas fir, a few birds nests still intact. It was very heady, very fragrant, very prickly time.

My arms, cut to shreds, were not bleeding only for the sap that had dried over all of the wounds. And I learned that skin covered in sap mixed with blood held things like lint and debris. Even pairs of scissors.

And such sap did not wash off.

I smelled of pine trees. All the time. Understandably, this was mistaken for gin & tonic more than once. And, it's true that when people have decided that you have been drinking, almost everything you do or say in protest will support the notion that you are drunk.

Within a week, however, I found my way out of the maze of branches and, having added pale colors and candles and soft glitter, I created both a tree and mantle in a set that whispered, Christmastime:

A few bells rang barely audibly in the distance, their clarity undeterred by time. No, there would be a goose that year. And all the trimmings. Even if we had to spend our birthday-dollars...

Yeah.

I was all in.

But then it was spring.

Then fall, again.

Then it was the next year. Then the year after that. Then it was the election. Then, one night, out of nowhere, Tom made beef stroganoff.

Then, the following weekend, I went on and on about how much I loved my job.

And I think that that might have been my undoing.

Because the very next day, a Monday, the lay-offs began.

Despite the economy, I didn't see it coming. Maybe I felt safe because I was at the bottom, salary-wise. Maybe it was that this simply couldn't be happening to me.

Whatever it was, I learned I was wrong about the inner workings of life. And that my little eleven years as a trusted, valued waitress did not translate into the real world.

I cried into my sleeve for thirty-five minutes during the entire lay-off meeting (even as every part of me did not want to cry) and, of course, there was not a kleenex to be found anywhere.

To this day I wonder how my boss could sit there and not run out to grab me a paper towel or something.

I made no noise as I cried, mind you. It was tears running out of one's eyes independent of one's intentions. And without the slightest grimace.

I said my goodbyes.

I was sad not only for the job loss, but the people-loss. We were friends. We had gotten each other out of jams and had, on a daily basis, made useless, ugly merchandise look good employing every trick imaginable.

We laughed. We played jokes on each other. We came to each other's family funerals and Easter parties.

And now some of us were suddenly being scattered into a cold January world.

A place without design! A place without paychecks!

Three of us that were laid off that day.

Other, totally non-layed off people cried as we three came back to the design office, stunned and sort of automatically emptying our desks into boxes - boxes kept on hand just for such situations. Like so many terrible things, these boxes stood by, stoically, awaiting duty:

The worst will happen. Be ready. Buy boxes.

One of the other designers who had been layed-off insisted I take with me one of her faux-abstract paintings she'd mocked up for the studio. I had used this painting in nearly every one of my shots. It had that quality of never looking the same twice yet expressing something authentically modern with as little effort as possible. And it never struck me as a mock-up. It looked real.

So I left. With all of the contents of my desk (really just many cans of soup) and this huge painting. Not that it was hers to give me, exactly (even if she had painted it) but, just that no one was going to argue about the things we were now taking out of the building with us, seeing as our lives were going down in flames right there, right then - before their very eyes.

Actually, I have two such items from that job. The painting and a very long, beautiful pink scarf. I got the scarf when were were giving away part of our prop clothes to charity. Even though it was understood that the employees could take whatever they wanted, I never felt good about taking that scarf.

It was because I had been in charge of preparing the clothes for charity that I had first access to the give-away clothes. And, seeing that this was a scarf, I knew very well that I wasn't making any real room by removing it. So, it's reasonable to assume that this scarf wasn't what my boss was had in mind when he asked me to make room in our clothes storage.

Maybe as an item, it was too small and too nice to give away, let alone let employees take home.

Maybe it was bad karma that I then simply kept it for myself.

So, it isn't strange, I guess, that I never got around to wearing it.

Until now, that is. I wore the pink scarf last week for the first time ever. I have no idea why.

I wore it to my job. The job I found after nearly a year of being unemployed. The job I've had for the past ten months.

The job where, not ten minutes after I walked in the door on Friday, I was complimented on this, my wonderful, long pink scarf. And then (in practically the very same breath) layed-off.

Layed-off.

In the nicest possible way.

A Million Shinning Microcosm Worlds

2010-10-28T19:44:00.137-05:00

I was thrilled.

I had been hand chosen by my supervisor to purchase an emergency travel pass for someone at work.

The address they gave me was a far away, albeit official location for such transactions. Never mind that such things can be bought anywhere. Certainly anywhere within fifty feet of the building where I work. Not to mention, online.

They had handed me the Big, Official location.

All due to googling, no doubt.

I thought to say something. In fact, I started to say the very thing I thought to say (even as I grabbed my coat, my scarf, my bag, my umbrella) the words still sort of spilling out of my mouth even as I got onto the elevator.

I don't think they caught any of this, though.

And so I proceeded to the far away location. Not in a cab but on foot.

This might take hours!

Did I mention how much I love to walk around semi-aimlessly and get paid for it? Even if it was cold out today, and I was dressed not for winter so much as for whatever it was last week, which was pretty great weather-wise, I was okay. Except at the bridge.
It was pretty bad at the bridge.

No matter.

I made my way to the Headquarters. Of this Particular Place. And great things happened along the way.

For one thing, the sky was just right today.

And I was alarmed by the way neighborhood of my destination had changed. How different it looked at ground level than, say, from the windows of the west bound train.

How brand-new it all appeared. Re-paved. Spotless. As though that entire ward had been put through a dish-washing cycle.

I mean, wasn't I here just a few weeks ago when the combination stench of arson and shrimp baskets was the stuff of local poetry? Where the entirety of it's cracked windows provided a weirdly pleasing multi-faceted, diamond-y effect?

As one skated by, seamlessly via bullet proof train.

Was it the ghetto?

Thermos of reassuring peppermint tea in hand.

Or was it diamonds?

Neither.

But none of that mattered anymore.

And that's the thing. Now it smelled not like burning buildings and lack of hope so much as crisp one hundred dollar bills. And a little bit like Mrs. Meyers laundry detergent.

True.

I don't have a dish-washer anymore.

That the break from all other activity that washing the dishes currently imposes upon my life, despite the colossal waste of water and feeling that I could just as well be painting and re-painting the same wall over and over again, is one that I've come to terms with. That is to say, utilize in the name of "me-time."

You know, for thinking, worrying, plotting - it could be anything.

I should further mention that the wind at the bridge was not simply bad, today, but flash-freezing bad. As well as veritable hair-do assassination bad (not to be confused with character assassination bad, though there was some of that in there, too).

But did I care?

I mean, some of the Christmas lights that were going up were actually lit. Which created a subtle air of anticipation. A sparkly pre-Halloween, yet, not-exactly-Christmas feeling that I can't quite put my finger on.

Is it raining?

Is it snowing?

Is it day?

Is it night?

Is it raindrops on the windshield?

Raindrops on the windshield reflecting a million shinning, up-side-down microcosm worlds? As seen from in here, the snug interior of this cashmere colored car?

As we oh-so quietly wait for what's next?

And what did those raindrops reflect? Was it something better? Because it seemed like it was something better.

Or is it just another slow, dark day at the photo studio with Miles Davis and oh-so many unruly bath towels to style?

Or is it pumpkins and detectives, again?

All dried blood and alleyways?

All mangled fingers and ubiquitous gifts of money?

Because, as gray as it was today, such lights were better for the contrast.

it's morning. It's dusk.

It's dissonant! It's mildly confusing!

Furthermore, after all of my epic online searches, it was without fanfare that I simply happened upon a mom-and-pop grocery store, here, in the Loop.

Such was the nature of my travels, today.

Just thirty blocks away from work, Bernstein's couldn't be more convenient. And this grocery store had not just a salad bar, but a sandwich bar, as well.

I dropped everything.

This was unprecedented and required all of my focus. I needed to decide.

It was tough, but in the end it was (simply) two thick slices of toasted, whole wheat Italian garlic bread prepared with an herb-infused, homemade mayonnaise, two different kinds of mustard, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, and cold, rare sliced roast beef --with a mere finial of imported Greek olives placed stylishly on top.

And then, out of sheer panic, some smoked turkey.

And it was spectacular.

Of course, I could have gone any number of ways. But the above seemed rational if not just as a sandwich. And, seeing as I was a new-comer at Bernstein's, and rightly sensed that I was being eyed as an interloper (that reckless, last minute smoked turkey being the culprit) I thought it best to play down my sandwich choices for the time being.

It was then that I quite casually, in keeping with my guise of blending in at the grocery store, took a bottle of Joy off the shelf and placed it in my basket. You know, for later. For figuring things out.

Goodnight, Loop

2010-10-23T09:52:00.063-05:00

It was late. I couldn't leave work until I'd finished something so that my boss could travel this week. And the big important meeting, which had gone on all day, was still in progress.

This all-day meeting had gone, as one might imagine, through several phases:

At 8 am it was coffee. With people all-business-like and just bathed. Smelling of focus, determination and something pleasantly synthetic -- was it dryer sheets? Listerine?

At noon it was sandwiches, with people folding up their sleeves, tossing off their shoes and earrings and getting comfortably serious.

But, by 2 pm, people began running in and out of the room with panic on their faces (needing things, PDFs, better pens, for me to text them at certain junctures just so they could leave the room).

At 4 pm there was a lull. Which was punctuated by yelling about twenty minutes later. Where the mood of the meeting pretty much remained until about
7 pm (when, finally, someone laughed, and, then, everybody laughed). At which point drinks and Chinese take-out arrived immediately to the conference room, literally, out of thin air.

And, just like that, the whole place became littered by a million boxes and bottles.

Then, finally, at 8 pm, some people filed out.

Personal calls were made.

And, I guess everything was going to be okay.

Except for me.

Me, at my desk the entire time. Going through the well documented stages of crisis. Imagining, at times, simply abandoning my job and being so happy not to worry about these flight itineraries anymore (a convoluted, headache-inducing travel plan that took several people to three cities in two days, then briefly back here, then off, again, to two other cities).

When I finished my work and left the building (the meeting still going on, though by then securely in it's "wrapping-up" phase), it was late. I was exhausted. But I was happily surprised to walk out into balmy weather. It was warmer than it had been that morning. And this was October.

And, the Loop, as busy as it normally was, was weirdly empty after business hours.

It was nighttime.

I looked up and noticed something spooky quietly unfolding above the University situated at Jackson and State. At eye level, looking east, this intersection is a bookstore, a bus stop, the mouth of the subway, a man with a microphone talking about Our Inevitable Damnation, cars, and people -- with some el tracks tucked behind everything else.

But, by now, it was deserted. And the eerie cloud-thing going on in the upper right corner of my field of vision couldn't be ignored.

Weirdly unfolding clouds, lit by some yet unidentified light, were doing arabesques in an otherwise ink-black night sky.

I thought these clouds might be lit by a spot light or an up-light, but it turned out to be moonlight. The moon in the Loop, normally being an afterthought of a pale speck in the sky (if one notices it), was currently the biggest moon I'd ever seen.

I mean terrifyingly big. The way the moon is idealized in travel photographs of places along the equator.

And then, if this could be any more dramatic, there, a-top the eighteen or twenty stories of the university, amid the moon and the continually disappearing and reappearing veils of clouds, I saw a turret.

How did I ever miss such a detail on this building, before?

It was the northwestern-most facing turret of the building, that, in all it's century old green-copper-conical architectural relentless-ness, stood against this, most creepiest of scenes.
So, an unsettling spectacle of absinthe colored clouds was gathering and re-gathering under a huge October moon, with an old batty turret in the foreground. And, here, I hadn't smoked anything.

I half expected Sherlock Holmes to sweep in
all a-sparkle, brimming with literary magic, merely to inquire if wouldn't join him on an adventure that could only be embarked upon through the Wonders of Reading.

(with him only ever looking at me through that big, psychologically distancing magnifying glass of his).

No. I went home.

At long last. On the west-bound train. Watching as this particular scene shrank away while the moon, itself, remained constant.

And life was, once again, just so.

I Never Promised You Cookies or a Rose Garden or Anything

2010-10-20T20:16:00.043-05:00

Imagine that you want to make cookies for someone. You bake them and wait for them to cool on a special cooling rack. Yes, you've thought that far ahead. Things like cooling racks are now a part of your paltry kitchen vernacular.

You're not a baker. And waiting for the cookies to cool falls somewhere between okay-boring and a full on crisis of your super-ego.

But then the fun part finally starts, and it's better than you could have ever imagined. And was probably the whole reason you made the cookies in the first place.

And it turns out that you really like decorating cookies.

Preparing the icing does require every bowl in the house. But that's okay. Mixing up hundreds of gooey-paints to frost one's cookies with just might be the best thing in the whole world.

Besides, you want the colors to be just so. It's a whole cookie-situation that you see so clearly in your mind. And, if you're honest, it's a whole cookie-situation that got you out of bed this morning. Perhaps every morning.

No. It's going so be so very funny. These cookies. And delicious. Of course, that, too.

So you do this in the spirit of: Fun and Happy Cookie Project. Like something out of Martha Stewart minus the perfection or like something your friend Beatrice would do, minus the expertise.

Beatrice, who bakes the kind of cookies that bring tears to peoples's eyes, that reviews are writen about, that are really tables of cookie at big events and weddings.

This will be more fun and less an operation than that. Because Bea, she's got a chef's hat, yes -- but rather than being puffy or cloud-like, it's one of those starched-high numbers (forbidding like an ivory tower or a religious principle that one must adopt for reasons that we won't go into here).

These aren't those cookies. These are lay-man's cookies.

Still, no matter how forgiving a stance you take, about twenty-four hours later, after the icing has set and you've slept and let your mind wander onto other things (and have paid some bills) you decide with fresh eyes that your cookies smack of outsider art.

They're insane.

How did this happen?

How could you have not noticed this before? Was it all the other things going on in your head? Was it the stress? The wine? That fistful of barbiturates rinsed down with a tumbler of vodka?

Actually, unfit. That's the word: The whole batch, all smiling sadly up at you from their stupid plate, are unfit as cookies.

But you need to send them out in the mail. Where, you imagine they will inevitably arrive as cookie-rubble, anyway. Do you have time to start all over again?

Wait --can't we walk away and think about this for a bit?

And on and on late into the night. Then, it's finally decided: you will make the cookies all over again this weekend. Applying all of the principles recently learned during the original (unfit) cookie making. Because we learned quite a lot during in the interim, didn't we?

And because, damn it, we care. About things like cookies. And so everything is better again. Just like that. Except for one thing: This is not the first time one has made and re-made such cookies. Let's be brutally honest, right now.

And it's not just cookies. It's everything.

So, now you might imagine one's whole life going like this. With nothing ever okay or ever simply passable. To the point that even (and perhaps especially) one's handwriting, which, yes, was bad to begin with, but became, later (unfairly) worse - after a few fingers were finally broken (in the most hateful of ways).

So that, ultimately, one only email others. Even when others are situated less than three feet away. Even when speaking to them is clearly an option, because even that might betray your bad handwriting.

So that swirly practice pages of:

aaaaabbbbbbccccccdddddeeeeffffgggghhhhiiiii

might be found one day by one's boyfriend (quite by accident) while one's boyfriend goes looking for a scrap of paper. And then, predictably, all hell breaks loose:

Why do I keep finding these alphabets all over the house?!

as well as:

What the hell is up with you?

Meanwhile, numbers?

I have no problem with numbers.

I have no idea why.

phone numbers

2010-09-17T20:48:00.035-05:00

What happens when you realize that you can't remember a phone number that you had for thirteen years?

You remember the prefix and those first three numbers and even the next two - and possibly the third. It's that last digit. It's either 1 or 2, but something nags at you that it might be 3. Really, it's probably just 1 or 2. But you aren't sure.

And that's the thing.

Then you remember how at some point the phone company did something strange. And how you started getting messages from people saying, "um, thanks for telling me your new number, asshole.."

And how that was ten years ago. Somewhat mid-way in the overall history of that phone number. That phone number that had suddenly changed without your knowledge. Back then.

I mean, when exactly was it that your number changed by just one digit? Because there is no record of this.

Was it a Thursday? A Tuesday? Had you on a skirt? Was it pants? Was it overcast? Because I think it was. I recall, for some reason, (in the very reaches of my mind) a leaf. This one leaf. Just one leaf fallen on the ground.

So, I ask (almost forensically), was it Autumn?

Because everything in my being says it was. Of course, no one really knows for sure. And all the court documents suggest that no one knows for sure. And I'm all out of ideas.

But, no matter what, one thing was for sure: the very last digit of your phone number was, without provocation, without any prior notice, changed by the phone company. For no reason whatsoever.

But, still, you got on with your life (as evidenced by many things, not the least of which is this blog post). Fact: The last digit of your phone number was (at some point) changed by the phone company. About ten years ago. For no reason whatsoever. And you never found out why. But you are, at this juncture, more concerned with what you might have been doing or wearing at the time more than anything else.

Which is not only okay, but completley predictable.

Do carry on.

No, really, do - do carry on.

No matter what.

Pay-Cuts, Paper-Cuts & The Tiniest of Violins

2010-09-14T20:25:00.050-05:00

We get inspired.

We take out some paper and scissors and sit at the big glass table with all of our supplies and rip fabric into pieces and paint a piece of paper blue. We start downloading funny things to cut up into a tiny, secret, joke-related confetti to sprinkle onto this, our multi-media thing.

And it's working.

But then we walk away. We work for a while. We become all business like. We wear the other clothes. We say the other things. Those things we say only in business. And then, at four o-clock, at the big important meeting, they tell us about our 15% pay cut. And we had expected cupcakes.

Hours pass.

I come back home. On the train: And everyone, I mean everyone is wearing braids. We get home. We drink. We listen to the old music of yore. And, finally, we add the black grease crayon.

Finally.

To, this, the old blue and fabric thing. And It means something. No, we don't stop. Not until it's finished. And, at one point, we do get all righteous about it. We recall it like it was yesterday: The holding things up to mirrors just so that we could see them again. All the swearing. All the tears. All the money. All the vodka. All the cheetos. All the heavy scarves worn during summer months.

So, we started acting like this other person.

Add more black-grease wrought iron swirlything.

And more ink! Add more soap! Just simply breathe on it. It's what we do. We think of sky writing. Of people we've known. Of screens and faces and email and actual conversations: I told her a story this morning that made her keel over in painful laughter = I win.

(thinks)

You know, this dress is a clown's dress if you think about it.

I went home. Really home, that day.

I made a multi-media collage. And ate a wrap sandwich that did not stay wrapped and learned a couple of things: It's the ingredients that must, no matter what, be flat and skinny. It will not roll up otherwise.

Also: toothpicks. Toothpicks hold things together.

Seriously.

And make them the kind with the colorful flourish of plastic fantastic-ness on the decorative end.

Always.

a roasted chicken with a side of acorn squash

2010-09-04T11:11:00.036-05:00

It was 36 hours that I ate like a modern-day Paleolithic human being before it began to mess with me.

The problem is that, unlike my hunter-gatherer counterparts, I already know about things like legumes, dairy, grain, and nightshade.

About things like bread and cheese.

About things like staying put and going nowhere and the magic of microwave pop-corn.

And I mean it literally when I say that I love bread.

I will admit that I didn't know how much bread meant to me until these one and a half days.

I knew where grain, dairy and legumes fit in my life, yes. But I had no idea what such meant to me in the scheme of things.

Then, quite innocently, Tom made a pizza.

This while I made myself some broccoli with steak.
I used crushed white, black and red pepper as an impromptu dry rub and there were herbs involved. And lemon. And love.

And I had zero problems.

But then twenty minutes past, and the whole world began to smell like cheese. Several kinds of cheese melting as though from high atop a fiery mountain, then sliding down some crazy, food related volcano somewhere right beneath my nose.

All of these cheeses melting at different rates per their wildly varying (yet genius as a mixture) types. Such variables as (for instance) how long the cheese had been aged, its softness, its dryness, or its mildness vs. its sharpness - all now coming into play.

I just kept getting up and walking into the kitchen then wondering why I was there.

And then the baking of the crust made itself known. And smelled as though I had been removed to that ancient bakery that exists (no matter what) in my heart of hearts. That ancestral oven. You know the one. Brick. Rock. Clay. It doesn't matter. Bread was baking. Alongside the stew. Alongside the meat. Alongside the mash.

And, as a wholesome entity, that every-thing's-going-to-be-okay aroma, it can't be broken down. Not, at least, for this Post-Paleolithic person.

No, I was home.

The home situated deep in the snow-drifted Steppes of my mind. Bread (pizza) was baking in the oven. Right here. Right now.

Bread.

BREAD!

Bread being the staff of life. Bread being the very reason we are so weak and fat. Bread being everything good and bad all rolled into one (the history of it being first a wonderful story about feeding the starving masses, then, not an hour later, about epidemic obesity in America).

It's the hearth. The kitchen. Where the old stories were told. It's the little stone villa with wine and song and the music of a stringed instrument going late into the night somewhere deep in a snow hushed hamlet, where, somehow, a light still burns (where, somehow, a loaf of bread still bakes) despite these cold, unforgiving centuries.

Yes, the harsh weather came blowing in. Yes, they worried about so many things. But was there not laughter? Was there not a sense of the ridiculous? Was there not love?

And, even if there was no money left, and all the crops had died, was there not still a little bit of bread?

This baking bread was, after all, what people who held down the home force were surrounded by all day long.

And it smelled so good.

It was a sign to those who ventured out that they were again, back home.

I cite the modern-day Pilsbury commercial: Everyone has their eyes on the oven. Something magical is occurring. It's hearts, home, full tummies.

No bread was the bosom of existence. The thing that kept people sane and returning. The goal was to venture out, yes, but to then get back home. Not to be sheltered, not to be safe, not to procreate, but to eat bread.

(if not a nest of angel hair pasta, a side of basmati rice or one perfectly roasted ear of corn)

Even, and perhaps especially, when those that had ventured out had been away at sea for years.

Why else would a loaf of bread and a fish (cooked simply in a pan with lemon and butter and a few sprigs of dill) be ubiquitous as a coming together? One that, though elementary (just add wine), can take on near religious properties for the bread and fish eater?

loaves and fish

This the part of my Lutheran schooling that always sounded so delectably savory.

So, was it a pizza (of all things) in all of its bread-y, cheese-y, nightshade-y goodness, that turned my world upside down last night?

Oh, yes. It was.

my inbox is empty

2010-08-27T20:08:00.034-05:00

So, I got to the bottom of my inbox.

I had been working on this for weeks. Even though my job is designed so that a person will never get to the bottom of their inbox, I just had to do it.

You understand. I wanted to to show them. I mean really show them. I was going to do what no other person in my current position had ever done: I was going to get to the bottom of my inbox.

I even put together a folder for my supervisor:

Things Ignored for Three Months by Victoria

This folder contained what other assistants might have hid or secretly shred. I even said, I don't want to become the crazy secretary that starts hiding files!

This to the uproarious laughter of my supervisor. She laughed a little too hard at that, actually.

So, I handed her the file which contained those things which kept sifting to the bottom of my inbox over the last three months.

I said: help.

And, though no one ever did help me, I believe it was this act alone that began to turn things around for me. Because, at 3:00 pm on Wednesday I got to the bottom of my inbox.

That's when I saw a stray staple in the upper left corner of my now empty inbox. Mangled, with one of its tines broken off, it was clear that it couldn't be saved.

I placed it quietly into the recycling bin, and said a few words:

You know, you'll probably come back as a another staple. But maybe as a steel girder! There's no telling what's in store for you.

Really. Just no telling.

It was then that I took the paper weight that had always been there (atop the precarious stack) and polished it on my sleeve as though it were an apple or a diamond or something.

I then (as I'm sure you can imagine) put the paper weight back into the in box. Right there, in the very center. It made a glass-on-wood clunking sound that I don't think anyone in the office had ever heard before, because a few curious heads did pop up over their screens and look in my direction when I did this:

Just what is she trying to imply with all of that clunking over there?

And, then, just like that, everything improved.

I became more professional in my bearing.

I sat up straight and heard every bone in my vertebrae click audibly back into place as though a finger had gone skating across a keyboard.

pliiink!

I was a cog.

A hard metal cog with a hairdo that could now not only stand the test of time but maybe even humidity.

The very next day I wore red.

Then, the day after that, I completely ignored the doughnuts. Not as an exercise in discipline, mind you, but because I simply didn't register things like doughnuts anymore.

No, now I went for little cut up vegetables and fresh fruit. I mean all the way down six flights of spider-y stairs and out the crumbling entrance of this ancient building (pieces of chandeliers and plaster falling on me every step of the way) past security (by then, fast asleep) down the street, into a cab and directly to the farmer's market three towns over.

Waving my fist full of petty cash like a money pom-pom the entire way (because, as you may have heard, my inbox was finally empty).

I'll take one peck of apples for the office, please!

Yes. I was immune to all distractions, now.

Because I had gotten to the bottom of my inbox.

And at a juncture when others in my position (we'll call them Person X) had either given up or gotten fired. This usually preceded by weeks of nonsensical office chitter-chatter on the part of Person X, that then gives way to Person X's utter, sullen silence (nobody wants to talk to Person X) that leaves Person X with no recourse but to constantly surf for shoes on Zappos (the resultant spike in shoe deliveries for Person X a well known red flag signaling the end of employment for Person X).

But that wasn't going to be me.

Me? I ran the place.

Forget that. I was the place. I was the whole place.

I turned around (during what I sensed was a lull in the big important meeting) put down my watering can, and (without so much as thinking about it) presented a forty-five minute dissertation on curtain walls and steel case windows that, though it was shocking and uncalled for, brought down the house.
And when I say that there wasn't a dry eye in the conference room that morning, I mean that they were all crying.

For joy, people, sheer joy.

It wasn't ten minutes later that everyone gathered around my desk (some still nibbling on their organic, locally grown apples) to watch amazed as I clicked on the buy now button and purchased New York.

Yes, I do mean the city.

some of them wearing sweaters

2010-08-12T19:52:00.018-05:00

I get all ready. I shower, I dress, I do my hair. I put on SPF. I make myself toast and maybe some yogurt.

I have a vitamin.

I play with my cats for a few minutes. I bring my sleeping boyfriend some coffee in a purely symbolic gesture meant to convey my love. Though he'll never be up in time to drink it while it's still warm. Still, these are the things I do every morning.

Then I walk out the door. Into the unrelenting heat.

And within three blocks everything is ruined. All of my makeup. All of my SPF. My hair. My clothes.

I get to the train station.

I am completley disgusting.

People, some of them wearing sweaters (in 70 % humidity with a heat index of 115) look at me as though maybe they should call an ambulance or something.

Sweat is running down me like rain.

I want to ask, Why are all of you wearing sweaters?!

And also,

Why aren't any of you sweating?

But, of course, I never do.

I get on the refrigerator-level cold train and all of my sweat dries back onto my skin. Ten minutes all told. This is the first such drying of the day. We'll call it Phase One.

The relief of the train puts me nearly into a coma, but I wake just in time to catch my stop.

Again, I hike to my office building. It's only six blocks, but in this heat it means I will sweat all over again (though this time less profusely). Phase Two is different only because there is no deodorant left on my person to maintain things as before.

I get inside my office building. A blast of cold air that continues even via the elevator dries Phase Two before I'm at my desk. Not that I'm not damp and sticky. I am. Phases One and Two are making themselves known to me. I smell not homeless, but something akin to the modern day hippy (willingly dirty, the modern day hippy wants to smell bad).

So, even as I pretend that all of this is okay, and place it safely somewhere under an imaginary umbrella of hippy-leanings (that might be understood by the people I work with: might), I still quietly rue the fact that I ate garlic every single meal last week.

My plan (the whole time) is to finally get to the ladies room to do what I can at a public sink with pump-soap to clean my face and possibly my torso and reapply my deodorant. But when I walk into the office there is some emergency already in progress or the phone is ringing (and it's someone telling me that flights for five people are needed to somewhere in the next hour).

So, I never get to the ladies room.

Instead I work and when I look up it's a quarter to twelve and I have to run something down to some nearby office. Because messegering might be too slow.

And when I return, full-on Phase Three has been established. It too, dries, but this time there is a salt residue left on my skin. Sweat rings and deodorant marks on one's clothing is one thing; salt rings on my black chemise, quite another. This, I'm afraid, is the lowest. Much lower than lint. Possibly only a couple levels higher than smelling like whiskey.

It's the damned humanness of it all!

Why do I have to be so fricking human all of the time?

So, concerned by the salt (but only a little bit thirsty), I drink copious amounts of water. And, though I mean the entire time to bathe in the ladies room, I, again, never get there.

For that matter, I don't need to get there. You see, I no longer need to pee due to all the sweating (and I'm sure this isn't good).

And on and on it goes.

No. I smell terrible. Still, someone tells me that the guy who shreds all of our files in going to be at the office in an hour. Could I please move twenty boxes down from the shelf for him?

Yes. So Phase Four, though happening within the heat-neutral conditions of the office itself, doesn't change anything in this dynamic.

I leave work for the day. Phases Five and Six happen without fanfare.

I get home, turn on the shower, sit down on my bed for a minute to wait for the water pressure to finally build (stupid water pressure) and fall immediately into a deep sleep.

Hours later my boyfriend gets home, turns off the shower, and tucks me in with a kiss.

I sleep. Six phases of sweat stuck to my skin.

The end.

Roman Grimiko: "I was never very good with money.."

2010-07-31T14:08:00.066-05:00

It was about ten in the morning.

Roman Grimiko, sweaty and uncombed, waited for his son and daughter to arrive.

He prayed and talked to himself as he loosely scrambled eggs with some butter in a hot pan.

your mother and I will always be okay

For a second he considered making hash, but mindlessly ate the eggs while thinking of things to do with them.

Still he peered into the fridge:

Carrots. Milk. A bean soup from yesterday.

Cold, rare sliced beef.

A small cube of cheese floating unappealingly in its brine.

Mustard. Pickles.

An apricot nectar in a can.

It was all so beautiful.

Can you ever forgive me

Roman had lost his check book over four months ago.

He only realized it was missing this morning. He telephoned the bank (finally, at their repeated request) and wasn't actually certain until that moment which bank it was that he and his wife kept their life savings.

It was bad. Their money was gone. Close to a quarter of a million dollars.

That's close to a quarter of a million things they did and didn't do since 1963 in order to save that money.

Money that no one ever touched, except to pay the few bills they still had.

Roman's checkbook, covered in a cracked, dark red leather case, had always been in the middlemost desk drawer for as long as he could remember.

The checkbook had, in fact, been the only thing in that desk drawer, save for a pen, for well over forty years.

It was a bic pen.

A bic pen that had been obviously chewed on one end.

A bic pen that now rolled freely around the middlemost drawer, happy at last.

Roman remembered right then the pass-code written (for his convenience in his own longhand) on the flap of paper situated right above the checks themselves.

How he could see that checkbook now. So clearly in his mind. He could almost summon it back into the drawer, where it belonged:

back, back, back you go

It was late last winter that the Grimikos needed a new dryer. Of course, this requred a check.

Stan's Used Furniture & Appliances

Of course. It all made sense, now.

The bank had continually asked him to address his over drafts via hundreds of voicemail messages.

Messages he never checked. That is, until today.

Because Roman Grimiko never uses the telephone.

So now he waits. For his son and daughter to arrive.

They would be calm, he thought.

They would laugh. They would remedy this with their computers in five seconds and think he was silly.

Yes. It would be great!

Only, he had to tell them what had happened first.

And the thought paralyzed him.

lord, god, нет никакой возможности избежать реальность!

He poured some cold apricot nectar halfway into a glass, then added an equal amount of vodka. He noticed how the vodka rested on top of the nectar as though it were impermeable.

How, then, the vodka tore through the nectar in a slow, terrible way.

It reminded Roman of egg whites and blood. Of blood separating into several other liquids upon death.

He drank it down.

Right then, keys rattled in the kitchen door and Roman's eldest daughter, Nat, was suddenly in the kitchen sifting through a pile of mail.

A combination citrus and cigarette scent trailed around her. She was noisy even though she didn't say a word.

It was her gum popping; her many bracelets, her cell phone - her continuous clinking and trinkling. Her suntan without any sun; her laugh without any smile.

Roman noticed a huge gold ornament swinging on a narrow chain from her handbag. An ornament that certainly meant something.

Dad, it's so fricking hot in here. Can we please turn on the AC?

Hello, my darling. Is it hot?

Um. Yeah. It's gotta be 90 degrees in here.

I'm sorry, pumpkin (kiss on the forehead), you know mommy doesn't care too much about the heat. I'll close everything up. Do you want some tea?

No.

Okay. I'll get the upstairs windows. Will you check the parlor?

Yeah, so, what's going on?

What.

Why "must we talk" before mom gets home?

Let's wait for Alex, shall we?

Al 's at work. Didn't you get his message?

(pause)

Natasha?

Yeah.

Did you bring it with you, your computer?

No. Why?

(and less than a minute later)

Daddy. What's going on?

utter nonsense

2010-07-21T19:56:00.028-05:00

Once, long ago, when I heard the sound of the rain coming down through the gutters, it sounded to me like bubbly water trickling across wonderful blue rocks.

You know, those blue rocks that are found in sea-side caves during certain tides?

The blue of the rock being dependant upon the presence of water?

The water definitely being sea water?

The sea water definitely being salty?

Ring a bell?

This, usually while waking up. My head fairly close to the window at the old, old, apartment. The window in question being quite close to the metal gutters. The watery, trinkle-y sound happening whenever it rained.

What I saw in my mind was so very stock footage 2002:

Zen: Four Rocks Arranged In A Non-Threatening Square

Sometimes, in the present day, as I make my way to the office, I'm refreshed by what feels like rain.

We all feel it. Especially if we are walking close to the sides of the buildings where a narrow band of shade gives one the illusion of a reprieve from the heat.

Of course, it's just water dripping down from millions of air conditioners from millions of floors above our heads.

Now, this is not technically weather.

And, the fact that such rain drops (any rain drops) hurtling down at us from miles above doen't kill us is curious, but I never bother to wonder about this.

Nor do I ever bother to wonder whether or not it is actually spit.

Yet, I do imagine such spitters as laughing at us from the safety of their ivory towers, where spitting down upon us is the only conclusion.

They do it because they can. They do it because they have to. They do it with mock regret, music blasting and probably martinis.

It's like these knotted up wads of money that I keep finding in the street. It's broad daylight but no one else ever notices this money but me.

I usually wait until I'm miles away in a taxi cab before I check to see how much money it really is.

I unfurl the found money one crinkly piece at a time.

sleep

2010-07-09T18:57:00.024-05:00

I woke up feeling like I had slept for the first time in months.

I'm certain, according to my own made up unscientific notions, that outer regions of my brain do not get any rest until the middle-most portion has gotten it's rest, first.

Such unscientific notions are the very backbone of this operation, gentle reader. Try to keep up?

Imagine a blot of dark ink that travels outward toward the edges of the paper.

This is rest.

For me. For my brain.

It starts in the middle of my brain and works its way out. And there is no skipping ahead to the outer reaches under any circumstances.

Unfortunately, the outer reaches of my brain is where all of the really important, day-by-day functions are located (in my brain, I have no idea about your brain - nor anything whatsoever about real brains).

So, somehow I woke up this morning having gotten 100% rest. For every part of my brain. And, though my dreams were quickly forgotten, the feeling of being 100% rested will never be forgotten.

My Whole Life Became ..Better.

Breakfast?

No, thanks. In fact, this bagel and cream cheese can go right out the window.

Coffee?

Maybe for fun. Maybe in Spain. But certainly not right now.

Wash my face?

Why ever would I wash my face in light of such restful sleep?

Money?

No. I can finally throw all of these ridiculous (for that matter, terribly decorated) pieces of paper right down the toilet.

As it should be!

That's what I always say.

No. Sleep is my only currency now..

friendly

2010-07-05T10:36:00.026-05:00

We had arranged it so that we would have time to mill around our old neighborhood for an hour or so before the picnic.

This picnic was located in what was once practically our back yard. So, everything was weird.

Not bad weird. Just weird.

It seems that all I need is to be tired, or to have had a couple of drinks, or be deep in thought - to find myself walking home, to my old apartment, rather than to the train to this my mom's coach house.

Jesus, this town.

It's the lady who sells books from her stoop.

It's the mean hippies at the old building who, for whatever reason it's still so damned awkward to be around - that you'd think we had had an actual feud (but we never really did).

It's things like the enormous double sided Mickey Mouse face that sat on someone's porch for ten years.

It's the corn cobs forever discarded in the gutters.

It's the rusted bike skeletons chained everywhere.

It's Wigs & Plus and how that they never bothered to make it grammatically correct.

As we made our way down the Milwaukee Blvd,
I saw that certain businesses were not only still going, but had expanded into more than one business - sometimes right next door to each other.

I felt bad that Lenny & Me was open on the Fourth. Still, I was only too happy to show Tom the very whys and hows of Lenny & Me.

It felt like he and I had done this before, but in truth, we never had.

Tom found a sort of semi-circle 1960's Rob and Laura Petrie cocktail bar that he wanted. And a couple of old typewriters.

A typewriter. What would that be like at this point?

A toy typewriter I had had when I was little popped up in my mind. It was blue plastic.

It actually worked.

I would do anything for that typewriter right now.

Wouldn't it be funny to write a book that won a Pulitzer Prize and then to admit that the whole thing had been written on a toy typewriter?

So, Tom & Me were at Lenny & Me.

How much had I bought at Lenny & Me? How much had I sold? How much of what I sold there had been bought there in the first place?

So many skirts, so many typewriters, so little time.

So, we bought a raffle ticket to support art in schools, locally.

The prize? A typewriter.

I should mention that it was so hot yesterday that all of my carefully applied-in-layers deodorant immediately slid off upon stepping out of the house.

So, I smelled, as Sylvia Plath might say, friendly for the rest of the day.

Later, after the picnic, when we got back home and hunkered down in the air conditioned happiness that is our living room, I started the process of finally watching District 9.

I'd been afraid of District 9 for so long that I still can't believe I fell asleep before the movie started.

But I did.

One Fourth of July, when I was seven, we had a huge party. We probably did every year after that, but this one was the first of what I will call the suburban series of such parties.

My dad grilled steaks, shishkabob and bratwurst (which he had lovingly marinaded in beer for over 24 hours beforehand).

My mom made salads, deserts and drinks for everyone.

It was fun.

At some point all the kids piled into our non-air conditioned, but somewhat shady den to watch The Yellow Submarine on channel 7.

I swear that we did this with the same sense of tradition as we did opening Christmas presents or hunting Easter eggs.

The Yellow Submarine somehow got all mixed up with The Fourth of July when I was growing up.

It just made sense.

The whole Yellow Submarine /Fourth of July association was further confused by me at that age with Screaming Yellow Zonkers, which was a popcorn + toffee snack that came in a box.

It, too, was very popular at the time.

As for my confusion (all those yellows) I think it had a great deal to with the very Peter Max-ness of both things (which nobody bothered to explain to me, but was, none the less, very much on my mind).

What was this Peter Max?

Why was it different?

What did Monty Python, The Beatles, Screaming Yellow Zonkers and the 7-Up sign (not to mention a few of my mom's scarves) all have in common?

I wasn't sure.

But something was definitely going on, there.

I was seven.

It was The Fourth of July.

And it was on that day, for some incredible reason, that Mr. Kahnwal decided he was bored (or was it that he was especially fun and clever?) and wanted to go see Jaws.

Just like that.

I mean it. We were right in the middle of eating potato salad, waving off bees and continually changing records when and Mr. Kahnwal suddenly, indugently decided that Jaws it is.

Independant of anything his wife or anyone else thought.

My mom said that we could go with Mr. Kahnwal (though, in all truth, he was going with or without us) and this, too, was wildly unprecedented.

So, we went to see Jaws.

It was something fun and happy all rolled up in something fun and happy.

I cite the Tootsie Pop as the closest of principles to this turn of events.

I should add that, when we got out of the theater, it was just in time to go see the fireworks.

Such was the perfect timing and candy-with-in-a-candy nature of that day.

Yesterday?

No. Yesterday was nothing like that.

Nothing remotely like that..

my dad is bigger than your dad, infinity

2010-07-03T16:25:00.034-05:00

How something as innocent as a post about living in one's freezer could become something about (even if only for a few minutes) living in the gutter - or one's own death, is frankly, beyond me.

Furthermore, how this could be purely be a product of my own machinations is, though not completely surprising, shocking, none the less.

To put it plainly, people have been let go from this organization.

Rest assured, it was in the most ugly and abrupt of ways possible. So that the humiliation never be forgotten (as with any successful lay-off, the goal being utter, crippling humiliation - along with job loss, so that the person learns never to trust themselves ever again; that building something is silly; that paychecks are merely fleeting, etc, etc).

They were given pink-slips. Not merely pink, but perfectly pink. We took weeks to pick out just the right shade of pink for our pink-slips.

Meetings were had. The kind with bagels, omelet stations, and, at one point, an oh-so-quiet yet classically entertaining mime.

The kind of meetings where the finest of coffees is catered in (this a result of a polite, nearly whispered request over the phone that is then confirmed over and over to the point of tears via email) in one of those silver-urns-and-white-cloths deals that is dead serious and includes, somehow, miraculously, a cocoa station (the cocoa station that nobody wants to admit that they want). The kind of cocoa station that provides a real-life whipped-cream maker who wears a big puffy chefs hat and does nothing but makes whipped-cream all day long. And is happily at the disposal of any cocoa wanter, if only one would come forward (yet none ever does).

The kind of meeting where everyone is suddenly dressed for recognition: heels, cuff links, shaven and/or naturally unfair-life-bald heads (it doesn't matter) buffed to mirror like shines, nails neatly shaped and now the color of egg-plant, and all wayward threads and lint banished with utter contempt to elsewhere (an unidentified place), with hems absolutely straight, and buttons on so tight that they themselves threaten to save the planet (wholly independent of anything this meeting is meant to address).

And with brainstorming sessions that are nothing, if not hatefully, transparently self-promoting.

The kind where everyone gets at least a few poorly rehearsed words in. Even (and maybe especially) the guy on the speaker phone who (though in Japan, though on vacation) goes on and on more than anyone else.

So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, everyone applauds and cheers.

So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, a wheel-cart of cocktails is finally rolled in.

No. I never saw happier people in business.

No, I never did.

Oh, and they're scented, too. Did I tell you that part? The pink-slips are scented.

Ever so subtly like garbage.

The kind that rots in the Chicago sun over the scope of a long irregular summer holiday weekends, such as this one.

Where one's ill-timed garbage might lie in state over the course of more than two (2) days.

It's an ugly stench, to be sure. But, being as we are a corrupt city to begin with, this stench, my friend, is nothing.

That's, nothin', for those who speak only the native language.

That's nothin', jaggoff.

or:

Have another beef samich and shudup, once, jag!

As well:

My dad is bigger than yer dad.

End of story.

And that is the end of almost every story, here in Chicago. Hate to say it.

The thing is, my dad was probably bigger than almost of all of your dads.

And whatever he may have lacked in height or weight (laughs) he more than made up for in sheer, outright incredible meanness.

I promise you, this.

I dreamt about my dead-dad for the first time since he died, the other day.

(alliterative)

I'd been waiting for this.

It had been 3.5 years and nothin'.

What was he doin'?

He was building me a ceiling fixture to hold not only my wine glasses, but also my pots and pans. And there was some overhead lighting affixed to it as well.

It was my dad being all like my dad.

And he was pretty big in this dream, too.

So, there.

[infinity]

The Sixth Floor

2010-05-06T09:00:00.000-05:00

I waited as Oscar whisked two eggs in a small yellow bowl that had once been his mother's.

The bowl, which had traveled with Oscar everywhere over the years, featured a 1960's motif of roosters and farm houses in red relief.

He poured the batter of loosely whisked eggs and a dash of cold cream into a hot pan.

Less than two minutes later, in one motion, he both folded and plated my omelet.

I took a bite.

The cheese, an aged domestic white cheddar (though Oscar never revealed as much) had somehow melted, despite being a hard cheese. And the white pepper, which Oscar used liberally, surprised me, as only white pepper can.

Then, my black rye toast arrived. Kosher with glossy crust, it would be more accurate to say that my black rye bread arrived as it hadn't been toasted so much as it was still warm from the oven, having just been baked. This was one of those really thick slices of black rye bread. The kind you only read about in magazines. And, though the bread had already been buttered for me, the marmalade--homemade, exquisitely tart and served lovingly in an antique aperitif glass--was all my own doing.

I ate my breakfast and chatted with Oscar, the owner of Oscar's Magic Kitchen & Property Taxes, with the kind of contentment other people find only in hard drugs or pulling off perfect revenges. I wiped my mouth on my hand loomed 100% hemp napkin and paid my bill: $1.80.

Oscar, I don't know how you do it..

It was then, with all the reluctance in the world, that I stepped back out into the gray, wet streets, my thin coat pulled around me. On the way I smoked what was left of my cigar. I was now well over an hour late for work.

I turned a corner, then another corner, then darted on tip-toes down a back alleyway (strewn with yesterday's bloody sausage factory output), then, lumbered (about fifteen blocks) cop-like, with heavy, hard boiled steps--through an especially tough neighborhood, then, adopting a more casual attitude, I glided, as though on skates, into the building where I worked.

Good morning!

The doorman, Mr. Hendricks, shook his head at me, You are very late, Ms. Victoria!

I was out of breath: Mr. Hendricks, if you please, may I get an elevator?

To?

The sixth floor?

The sixth floor (pause) the SIXTH floor?

He nodded as he said it, as though to determine he had heard me correctly. He scratched his head.

I suppose you want the sixth floor "right now", Ms. Victoria. Would that be accurate?

I would. I mean, only if..

Okay, then! Let's see..

And with that Mr. Hendricks very deliberately began paging through a document that sat before him on his podium. He licked the tip of his pencil, checked off a couple of things, then picked up his phone and placed a call. He looked straight at me with contempt as it rang forever. He then spoke barely audibly in another language to the other party. There was a big, seemingly empty pause.

Finally Mr. Hendricks slammed down the phone, and, without ever looking at me again, shouted, James! Take her to the sixth floor, "right away" will you, please?

I stepped onto the car. It, wallpapered in green voided velvet, plus one huge oval gold-leafed mirror--hanging at such an extreme angle as to threaten to fall off it's one precarious nail at any moment--plus two ashtrays, plus one spittoon, was probably the slowest method of getting anywhere in the world. But I couldn't take the stairs that morning, as they were still, presently, cordoned off by several layers of police tape.

I got onto the elevator. One door closed over another. Then another over that. And finally some apparatus was engaged by James via a crank wheel. And we were off, as they say, to the second floor.

All of the doors re-opened.

Three well outfitted people stepped hesitantly onto the car. One of them couldn't be bothered with getting all the way onto the car, for they were deeply into a conversation on their mobile. Someone finally yelled at them to get onto the car. At which point they all laughed hysterically.

I couldn't help but notice that they smelled strongly of whiskey.

Then, O! Is this car going UP?

At which point James promptly brought them back down to the lobby.

We resumed my trip, which was, this time, promised to go straight to the sixth floor, no matter what.

Wheels turned.

We traveled slowly.

We laughed. We spoke wistfully of our families.

Sixth floor!

I stepped up out of the car which had landed somewhat between floors, this time. James, being over worked, more than a little passive-aggressive and very, very high did this to people all day.

I walked as quietly down the corridor as I could. Like a ballerina or a super-spy. I noted, like always, that it smelled of soy sauce in that hallway. This naturally led to thoughts of all the other hallways in my life: There was the one that had smelled like White Castle, the one that had smelled like apples (or was it chamomile tea?)

I saw, at the very end, past all the other (mostly dark) offices, what was my office I approached my office. I stood at the door. I opened the door. I stepped very quietly in.

Then I saw it. A birthday with pie and fresh whipped cream was already in progress. The unmistakable smell of burnt birthday candles hung in the air, and, what with everyone crowded over by the long work table where most food related things occurred, it was clear that I hadn't been missed.

The fact that it was happening so early meant that there would be more than one birthday, that day. Yes. It was going to be one of those cake days where nothing got done.

And here's me, having already eaten.

Roman Grimiko

2009-10-20T12:40:00.063-05:00

Roman Grimiko awakes incredulous that he has lived to see another day. An offending bit of sunlight falls across his face:

Christ. You've got to be fucking kidding me..

Roman's wife, a petite woman of about sixty, who is usually up well before the sun, has left a small breakfast for him on his night table. The plate is covered with several cloth napkins in a purely symbolic gesture meant to retain the heat.

There on the plate is his usual plain omelet, pickled beets and a slice of toast cut diagonally twice (into four pieces), already buttered, with a dab of grape jelly on each portion.

It's an old joke between the Grimikos, the toast. The fight they had when they first married regarding the proper way to slice toast. How Roman has regretted this joke ever since.

And, there's a cup of black coffee (now ice cold) and a juice glass filled half way with dark wine.

His wife, of course, is at church and will be for the rest of the day.

This breakfast was a loving and mostly useless gesture on the part of Mrs. Grimiko, who knew Roman would not wake up in time for it to be still edible.

Roman, appreciating his wife's thoughtfulness, takes the juice glass of wine and downs it. Then makes his way downstairs to refill it.

Later, he gets dressed and walks through the wet, leaf strewn neighborhood with his malfunctioning umbrella for his bath.This is possibly the happiest part of Roman's day. There his oldest friends will either be bathing or taking saunas. And, afterward, there is always chess and discourse.

shit..

Roman remembers that his eldest daughter will be at the house around three. The thought makes him more nervous than happy. His daughter always has something to say about the business that never quite fits in with his perception of things. At some point, however, they will cook together, and that will change the dynamic a bit in his favor.

He laughs darkly at this. It's a good laugh. Yes, of course. He will ply his daughter with food:

dumplings for the dumpling..

Roman likes to prepare everything for coming the week on Sunday. It's his way of getting out of church. And it works. It turns out that Roman is the superior cook in the family. And this arrangement, which has been in place for over forty years, seems to make everyone happy.

So far he has two small chickens stuffed with sweet onions and paprika roasting in the oven, a pot of goulash slowly simmering on the front burrner, while beef stock brews on the back.

He has half a dozen peppers stuffed with sausage and rice baking in a shallow dish, while a bread pudding with raisins and apples bakes along side it.

His wife will then heat things as the week unfolds, mostly taking credit for all of the cooking.

Yes. It's on Sunday, there in the kitchen, that Roman is at his best. As he explains opera to his daughter, occasionally throwing scraps of sausage to whatever injured kitten he is currently tending to, Roman cooks and dreams of one less day.

It's Sunday. And this is Roman Grimiko at his best..

pizza

2009-10-19T16:45:00.051-05:00

I tore the pizza from its box in a manner that betrayed not only my hunger, but my utter disregard for removing pizzas from their boxes nicely. I'm always surprised by what little actually stands between me and any given frozen pizza.

It's just a box and some plastic. And it seems like it should be more. That there should be some literature. Or maybe a pamphlet telling me the history of this pizza. Or maybe a prize or some temporary tattoos.

I threw the pizza into the oven. Loudly. Crashingly. And, when I did, the temperature was set so high (in the interest of time) that there were a few (albeit small, totally manageable) flames that leapt out at me.

But I didn't care.

This was progress. I was absolutely famished. And while it baked I could, in the meantime, soothe myself with the fact that this was much faster than ordering in. Or, for that matter, making pizza from scratch.

So, I had some wine and cheese in the interim (without taking note of any spectacular sunset that might be happening at the moment, nor waxing any other wine and cheese specific bullshit about how great I am, or how great you are, or how great life is).

I knew two things:

1. This, my supposed new oven (was anything in this house really mine? Was anything in this house really new?), has a thermometer permanently affixed to its interior for a reason: this oven gets hotter than any other oven in the world.

2. Though I could eat almost anything frozen, I would refrain from doing so this time. I would wait. Even if it meant eating god damned wine and cheese without acknowledging sunsets all god damned day.
And so it began.

As I checked continually for progress, I saw that the edges of this pizza were melting. And the pepperoni, though not my favorite ingredient, was crisping up quite nicely.

And, if it matters, I could actually hear the sizzle of the cheese that had dropped down into the fire (a second fire was, at this juncture, burning independently of that which came more evenly from the boiler).

The pizza was almost done.

Then I got the bright idea to add some water to the fire to really smoke this pizza (imagine the flavor). It was then that the first thoughts about how this pizza might actually kill me began popping up in my mind.

Yeah, I hear those sirens, too..

The whole house was on fire. No matter, it was from this inferno that an unprecedented culinary detail emerged:

The sauce, which at the parameter had caramelized to a practically candied condition, was sweet, delicately spiced and otherwise still velvety at the epicenter. And, aside from what had happened at the edges, the four cheeses maintained their integrity. In fact, at that point, with the pizza and most of the neighborhood ablaze, I felt that (though clearly still too hot to eat) it was only a matter of minutes before the pizza had rested and properly redistributed it's juices.

No. I was all in.

lather, rinse, repeat

2009-10-18T16:53:00.018-05:00

1. This blog is like someone I got stuck working with who always laughs at her own jokes, makes fake phone calls when she's bored (mostly on her hairbrush; mostly to her mom) and brags compulsively as a form of malice.

It's the constant bragging that really irks me. It seems to set in motion a now well worn routine of "their constant bragging" versus "my attempt to deflect their constant bragging".

This involves two opposing actions:

a. not to seem jealous = because I'm not
b. not to seem like I care = because I don't

It's a delicate balance. And, no matter the subject of their bragging, it's the idea that they want me to be jealous that distracts me from my original goal (that is, to dispel any notion that I am at all swept away by any of their self promoting ideas). This alone tends to bungle the operation (theirs and mine).

And it shows.

It breaks down as follows:

a. I'm not jealous
b. and I don't care
c. I might appear jealous by virtue of not caring
d. thus: I must pretend to care
e. without sounding jealous
f. even though I'm not jealous
g. and I don't care

And on and on.

And this is just between my blog and me. It gets worse with actual people.

2. After years of developing my recipe, I've finally learned how to make the perfect meatloaf.

And, guess what, it tastes just like the McCormick meatloaf packet.

McCormick packet = $3.00
My meatloaf recipe = $600.00

So, McCormick wins (again).

4. Each year I take note of the first leaf that falls in Autumn. It's funny how this always happens when I'm around.

I never pick up this leaf. I don't want to disturb the ecosystem. Of course, this was not always the case. Thus every single fall leaf collected by me (in both the tri-state area and Ireland) has since been returned to their rightful locales.

This took eighteen months and cost millions of dollars but it was so worth it.

Next mission: seashells

village idiot

2009-07-31T13:54:00.168-05:00

So everything is ok, again. I guess.

I did admit to this woman that I barely know (at her card shop today) that I'm now almost constantly nauseous due to moving here. But that was only after she came right out and said how constantly horrified she had been since she moved here.

It turns out she, too, lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood for many years before moving to this particular suburb.

I thought today that, yes, I'm conflicted and, no, I didn't choose to be here, but better to start actively enjoying the architectural history and nice people of this town - because I'm going to be here for a while.

And, because, even if it all does go on within the private confines of my mind, I can't continue being this much of an asshole.

So, I decided to embrace the whole thing.

It's a brand new positive attitude that I made up in my head to overwrite the guilt I had for absolutely hating moving here - when, quite simply, I should be grateful I have such a nice place to live. That is, any place to live.

Did I mention that I lived here a long time ago?

I did. But I've forgotten almost everything.

Like, Euclid. It's a street. But, as recently as this morning, I couldn't tell you where Euclid was.

Sometimes my boyfriend will ask me where "such and such" is located, and I realize that I could walk him anywhere to anything - I've just forgotten the names of all of the streets.

What bothered me most was not being able to locate my dad's office building.

I knew I was in the general vicinity, but, whole new structures had been built to blend timelessly with what were the original structures. So, while everything looked right, it felt askew.

And I had no proof as to how it once was.

I kept asking myself why I hadn't taken more pictures while I lived here - why no one had.

I felt certain, however, that I was close to my dad's office. Very close. That it was probably that building right there.

But there was no way of knowing.

When I later asked my mom the exact address of my dad's office she laughed like I was being silly.

The truth is, I never knew the exact address of my dad's office. I guess I simply felt my way there by instinct in the past. I've always sensed that it was probably on Marion Street. Maybe Westgate. But nothing more specific than that.

Today, though, with the exact address in my hand, I was able to locate my dad's office.

I see now why it was so difficult to find.

Because my dad's office is just a glass door with a street number on it.

And, if you bother to notice, it's a gray staircase.

But, that's not how I remember it. What I remember is the office itself.

Up on the second level, the office was three or four state-of-the-art rooms of work space designed and built by my dad.

With three or four people who worked and laughed there all day.

And sometimes I'd get dropped off there and get to play with architectural tools at one of the big drawing boards all day.

I remember getting to keep the change after picking up take-out cups of coffee from the restaurant down around the corner. The same restaurant where we often picked up lunch.

I usually ordered either the tuna or the cheese sandwich with chips, a pickle and a coke (which, like the coffee, came in me-generation orange and yellow swooshed take-out cups).

Upon returning to the office, one was always confronted by the chemical scent, that, although you had forgotten about it - or had adjusted to it, had always been there (as it came continuously from the rendering pens, no matter how tightly capped).

And, there was the ubiquitous rubber chicken, that, for some reason, featured prominently in what seemed like every joke made between my dad and his associates, in those days.

No.

None of that would have been evident from street level.

Not even back then.

So, I don't know what exactly I thought the exterior of that building would indicate about my dad's one time presence in that building, today.

Maybe a shadow or a smudge. Maybe an outline left from his logo - or his ego.

Of course, there was nothing to that effect.

And certainly nothing that plainly stated:

John The Architect Of 1972 Once Had An Office Here

I stood there for a second, anyway.

Taking it in. The glass door. The street number. The stairs.

But only for a second. I began to feel weird just for standing there.

There was, nearby, a mom sitting on the bench tending to her baby in a stroller, who simply stared at me.

And then, a woman with many bags bouldered out of the T-shirt store and almost tripped over me.

Because, of course, she hadn't expected me, as no one ever stands anywhere.

And then, a man and his small daughter, both wearing helmets, walked by with their bikes looking 100% mentally healthy.

And there I was.

Possibly lost. Dressed in an outfit that I now wear everyday, because I can't find any of my other clothes.

A getup that would be fine save for the addition (and incredible contrast) of what are definitely the biggest, whitest gym shoes ever (long story).

That's me.

The village idiot. Looking 100% the part.

clear a space

2009-06-29T13:58:00.055-05:00

I need to pay my bills.

I keep rearranging them into new, more attractive stacks.

But I can't open them.

There's something about parting with what's left of my money that I'm against.

Something about that doesn't sit well with me.

There are now two of me. One who pays the bills on time, and one who, no matter what, can't allow the bank account to sink below a certain point.

Even as it gets horrendously down to the wire, I notice I am talking myself into accepting this new state of "not paying bills".

It's ok, I think, I'm broke. There's nothing I can do. And, I don't have any problems, only the perception of problems.

There's even been a few, "in a couple of years we will all laugh about this" - interjected, here and there.

All desperate little platitudes that even I don't buy.

I've caught myself doing things to throw off worrying for a while. Like taking Excederin PM as early as 7pm - or establishing breaks from "all thinking".

But, it doesn't work.

Even while asleep, there is a strange new brand of bad dream to contend with = my subconscious is not ok with any of this.

And, I'll admit, even while I was working, doing my bills made me anxious.

I had to first clear a space.

This was an excuse. A time waster that made sense and was seemingly neither "bad" nor "crazy".

While I did this - I would add some super-sane domestic treat (wrapped up in a task) - like making coffee.

Yes. I needed to make some coffee, but first I needed to wash the pot.

I would do this by hand - because it's always much better that way.

This very naturally led to washing all of the dishes.

Which led to cleaning the entire kitchen. Sweeping, mopping - possibly, laundry.

By the time I finished, making coffee was out of the question.

It was now late afternoon. No. What I needed now was a salad.

This required washing and chopping vegetables.

But first, I needed to select some music. Which (in and of itself) required that I first put away all of my wayward discs.

And this had to be done with care.

And sometimes required windex - as discs, as well as their cases, can become dusty - even in just a few days.

So, I would put my discs away (in a semi-alphabetical order that made sense to me, but bothered me for not being purely alphabetical) and when I was done, I would find some music that might put a better spin on my bill paying.

But first - I would eat.

And whenever I was done eating, I would run out (just for a few minutes) as, by then, I certainly needed something from the store, like aspirin or vodka.

So that, once I had returned, I could clear a space (on the table) so as to do my bills.

This meant folding, possibly filing - and otherwise putting things away.

And then, and only then, in a quasi-calm state that was meant to suggest (to me - nobody else was there) that none of this was making me the least bit anxious, I could begin doing my bills.

At this point I always liked to imagine myself as this "woman doing her bills".

Routine. No flashing lights. No sirens.

It didn't matter that I really was a woman doing her bills - it felt otherwise.

Yes.

I need to pay my bills.

Right now.

Today.

But first, I need to clear a space.

how does this work?

2009-06-24T12:44:00.031-05:00

No one said, one day when you grow up you are going lose your dream job and all your money and your dignity and whatever certainty you had in yourself and, then, finally, when you're invited to live at your mom's house, it's going to be suddenly (for no good reason) upgraded to an invitation to live in the coach house, instead.

The couch house, instead.

That's a whole house.

With two floors. A staircase. My god. I was excited about the hallway when I moved into this apartment. I'm still excited about the hallway (it's a really long hallway with doorways, a light fixture, and it's own echo).

But this.

This means all kinds of happy things.

This means I don't have to put all of my furniture into storage.

This means privacy.

This means a basement.

A basement. Just think of it. A dark, damp place downstairs where I can do the laundry as slowly as I like.

Where I'll be able to think.

Where I'll be able to stow my mops and brooms and everything I hate.

It's so good.

So why do I feel bad?

Because I haven't earned this. Because I never wanted a house.

Because I can't enjoy anything until I find a job.

And, you know, I will. The second I've moved to a suburb that I never wanted to live in - and into a house that I don't deserve.

I will.

through a lens, reluctantly

2009-06-22T10:14:00.018-05:00

At some point this morning I'm going to put something into a box, and, with that, the moving process will begin.

I've been looking at this box for close to two hours, now.

Though, I've been thinking about this box for months.

This box.

This box - both proverbial and real.

I wonder what was the last thing that I took out of this box when I moved here?

Or, what was the first thing that I put into it - when I moved away.

Though, let's be honest, some of those things never quite made it out of their boxes - that last time.

Could this blog have been more about things going in and out of boxes?

So, in a genius maneuver, meant to support avoiding putting anything in to that box - I started taking photos.

I know that the photos - those of whole rooms, with people in them (living life) have, already been taken.

That ship has sailed.

That is, the real photos of my home were taken well before any knowledge that we were moving ever crossed any one's minds.

I don't like staging things.

Whenever I've done that, in the past, I've noticed that all I was left with - was the memory of me staging something.

That, and whatever desperation that went behind bothering to "stage" something.

(not whatever beautiful or ugly thing I was attempting to re-capture)

This is why so many of my photos have been since excised.

I've instead documented only the odd, small, here-and-there domestic "accident" that somehow made this place home.

Up close and out of context.

No bullshit. No lies.

I photographed a small corner of a bookshelf with its few remaining books, naturally askew.

The one leaf of the one particular plant with its one patch of the neighboring building's brick in the background.

The millions and millions of rolled up floor plans.

That stack of various soaps that always hid on the edge of the bath tub.

All of them out of their wrappers; all of them slowly becoming one soap, once more.

(because all soap really does originate from one place, after all)

Just things that I looked at without realizing that I'd been looking.

It's ok.

It really is.

I'm just stalling.

sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

2009-06-18T22:50:00.123-05:00

I was a waitress.

I was sitting on the sink in the ladies room, smoking, crying, mascara running down my face - when another girl who worked there walked in.

She knew why I was crying.

She had witnessed it.

I had been treated in a sub-human way.

my god

She smiled, washed her hands and said to me, "..sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands, you know?"

It was a more touchy-feely time, the nineties (to be sure).

We all were a lot younger back then, too.

And glittery. We wore quite a lot of glitter (in those days).

We were mostly still learning about life (while making incredible amounts of money) all of us thinking it would still be even better, later (somehow).

Though, it still stands today.

What she said.

It does feel really good to just wash your hands, sometimes.

Then this girl dried her hands and told me to "buck up".

Buck up, princess.

That's what she said.

We all said it, at one time or another.

princess

That is what we called each other. All of the time. It was code, though.

Don't be fooled.

princess

Both an endearment and an insult. And meant wholly to keep each other in line.

That is, you never wanted to be called "princess", but if you were, it was probably with love.

Conversely, you never called any known enemies "princess", because then you were "dead".

Such was the anthropological inner workings of that particular nightclub.

buck up + count your money = remember why you are here (princess)

Ok?

Yep. And for some reason this is all I remember about that girl.

sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

And, you know, I really love to wash my hands.

Not in any crazy compulsive way.

Though, just a minute ago, I did wash my hands (just for the joy of it) and it seemed to change the whole course that my day was taking.

First the cool water (that I let become warm).

(that's how it starts)

Then the soap itself.

Today: a mild, lovely soap.

The lather: generous.

The scent: just so.

Neither astringent nor drying.

Just clean.

Perfectly clean.

And, as I rinse the soap off of my hands, there is (in the end) no residue left on my skin.

Nor anything "stripping" (nor ruining) of my ph balance.

That is, no regrets.

The drying (a whole process in and of itself) went very well: the towel had just been laundered and was still slightly warm from the dryer.

I then employed my hand cream.

This, too, went very well.

I give it an eight (the hand washing - the whole thing).

It wasn't bad.

I then walked back out of the bathroom and went on with my day.

And, isn't that the point?

Of course, I thought of her.

I always do.

While washing my hands.

The girl from twelve years ago.

(or was it fifteen?)

Don't you think of her, too, when you wash your hands?

If not, I promise you will after reading this post. For the rest of your life, you will.

It's my gift to you.

No. No problem; I mean, you're welcome.

And, here, I'm writing about it now (so ironic).

It's the circle of life, you might say. In real time. Right here. At frankenmonsterblog.

I think of her every time I wash my hands.

And now, so shall you.

This is no fault of her own.

It just turned out that way.

So, here we are.

Now I wonder just what thing I said that is now continually assigned to "me"?

I hope it's not, "get out of my face, jaggoff.."

(though it probably is)

Whatever.

(buck up, princess)

the sun on my cereal box also rises

2009-06-04T14:58:00.078-05:00

There is something I can't understand.

Like a background noise that is always there but I never bother to identify.

Certain things.

Like this valley I always return to in my mind.

There is a memory in there, somewhere.

I've found myself actually searching my mind.

That valley. Yes.

Where again was that valley?

It would only slowly come to the surface. With me comparing actual vistas to this memory (still unidentified by me at the time) and honestly wondering and marveling about the very mysteries of life.

This was not only an authentic valley, but was ideal as a valley.

And not just for its lovely, rolling green terrain.

No. It was other things, too. Little things.

Like the light.

Was it just me, or wasn't it obvious that the sun had just come up in this valley?

The way the air feels at that time of day. The dew. The sound of birds only emphasizing the odd, early quiet.

The smell of yesterday's rain now washed out by sunlight.

The sun glinting on things in the distance - here and there.

Everything growing.

The sky - yellow and pale, maybe a bit redder at the horizon.

The horizon being quite hilly from where we stand.

It really draws a person into this "valley" (wherever this valley is).

I mean it - it makes me dizzy. The depth, the distance. That weightless feeling. The height versus the sheer expanse.

It's almost like I could fly right into this valley (though, that would be frightening and completely against my will).

Did I mention that the trees in the distance were in silhouette?

It's all right there.

All of it.

On a can of peas.

(if not box of frozen spinach)

Ok. If it's fake, if it has anything to do with advertising, if it's been around since before I was born then:

your commercial is definitely working on me

For example, her.

You know her. The lady on the can of tomato paste?

She with the black hair and the basket of tomatoes.

She never did say very much. She just smiles and laughs.

The landscape on this can is quite lovely, too.

The sky is incredibly blue and crystal clear.

There are no clouds in sight.

What time is it (on this can of tomato paste)?

Late afternoon.

About three-o-clock. Not quite time for a glass of wine.

The tomatoes still needed to be picked, though, and the sauce (o-mi-o-my) hadn't even been started!

but that's ok, everything is ok

Because she, mostly unrivaled by Mona Lisa, has this (mostly unrivaled) tomato paste.

Here, in either Italy or South America (the can doesn't really say).

To be clear, I'm three years old, sitting in a shopping cart in a grocery store in Chicago. And I'm holding a small can of tomato paste.

It is out of sheer boredom and a precocious ability to entertain myself (that will prove useful for the rest of my life) that I'm absolutely mesmerized by this image of a happy woman with dark hair and eyes (that looks just like my mom) to the point of "study".

I ascertain that her smile is genuine.

Yes.

She likes her life.

Her work.

Herself.

She likes her red dress.

And me. She likes me.

And, so, this will be the tomato paste that I use for the rest of my life.

Yes.

It's decided.

recurring dream

2009-05-17T09:01:00.013-05:00

I have a recurring dream.

It takes place when I'm about four or five years old.

My mom and my older brother are there, too.

We're walking through a carnival.

It's night time. The place feels abandoned. Some garbage is blowing around.

And it's cold. We're wearing our winter coats.

At first glance it's a colorful place. But only because it's supposed to be.

Upon scrutiny, I see that the whole thing is rusting at the edges, that the paint is peeling and that everything is eroded by time.

And it seems that we are the only ones there.

It always starts with us walking through a gate with a turnstile.

As many times as I've had this dream, and as obvious a metaphor as it is, I can't put my finger on it.
The Wiz is the closest visual reference I can think of - but, even that is way off.

It's not a spooky dream. It's not a nightmare.

There are couple of alternate endings:

One is where I get on an elevated train.

But, before I get on the train, I notice that it's falling apart. It's extremely rickety and seems to run right into the sunset.

It's built higher up than any actual train. There seems to be nothing else on the landscape, save for this train.

The landscape is a wasteland.

The train is a cross between el train and roller coaster.

I always get onto this train. It either goes to a really bad part of town - or stops suddenly. Mid-air, as the track simply ends.

Not that we fall off, or anything. It just ends. Ride over.

Sometimes there is a steep, three or four stories high, single flight of metal stairs that I have to climb down to get off the platform.

This, in itself, is a recurring theme in my dreams.

I'm always climbing down the sides of buildings on little, rusted out fire escapes or small metal ladders.

The other ending is that I wind up at this apartment (that has been featured in many of my dreams) that I have never been to in real life.

This apartment has whole rooms that I never use. This apartment is disturbingly big.

And those rooms (that I never use) are filled with someone else's extensive, dusty collection of glass items (and it looks like the prop aisle at my old job - except that I had this dream before I ever worked there).

The kitchen is small and the window looks out onto water.

But not Lake Michigan, or the river. It's the Atlantic.

Though I've never seen the Atlantic (except while in Ireland).

This is definitely the Atlantic, as seen stateside.

This dream always leads into one of two other dreams.

(but I can't get into that or I'll be doing this all day)

I should mention that, just last night, there was a documentary on tv about old amusement parks.

Some of them date back to the early 1900's.

Somehow, whole elements of my dream were addressed in this documentary.

Fact: I've never been to Coney Island.

Or, for that matter, Riverview - Chicago's equivalent..

Mostly because Riverview closed in 1967. The year I was born.

But I've heard people talk about it. One thing I always hear is how run down and crime ridden it became in it's final years of operation.

So, can anyone clear this up for me?

convenience store

2009-05-11T14:15:00.035-05:00

Wait. This liquor store.

What again is the problem with this liquor store?

It always hits me when I walk in. But, by then, it's too late.

It was about two years ago that I got a call from the credit card people informing that there had been strange activity on my card.

At the time, I hadn't used the card in close to a year.

But, then, there was this barbecue we had to go to (all of a sudden) and, just as we were about to step onto the train, we realized: we forgot the beer.

So we stopped at the aforementioned liquor store.

And I used my credit card.

I remember that we then left the liquor store and went directly to the barbecue.

Hours passed.

There were a few mosquitoes. But that was ok.

It was the fact that the guest of honor's husband was a rocket scientist that seemed to bring everyone together.

This went on for about an hour:

Seriously, he's an actual rocket scientist - isn't that so funny?

There were some problems with the neighbors, though.

They kept coming into the yard and demanding parts of the pig that was being roasted.

I thought they were kidding.

The roasting of a whole pig. I don't get it. I never have.

This has nothing to do with vegetarianism.

I do like baked apples, though (so there's that).

In all honesty, I didn't think that anything odd was going on.

I thought the party throwers knew the pig-enthusiasts.

I really did.

It was funny.

Like tv.

Yeah.

Everything was about what one would expect.

But then the sun went down.

And that's when things took a turn for the worst.

This barbecue, which took place in a neighborhood that seems like a good idea when the sun is shining, but becomes filled with crazy people and gun shots right around 8pm - wasn't worth it.

The fun.

The hilarity.

It was about at 8pm that it felt like time to say goodnight to our host.

And, about ten minutes later, we were home.

finally

I turned on all of the lights and the stove and AC and the tv and threw away all kinds of recycling (just put it right into the incinerator) and made hundreds of phone calls.

I was just so happy to be home.

Truly.

I had never been so relieved to see an eastbound Division Street bus as I was that night.

There might have been one other time. But that one was going west.

It was about eight years ago.

I was worried about being late for work and had been working with a teacher's assistant on something that completely confused me.

Somehow, I had forgotten that I worked that night, and (checking several times) realized that didn't have enough cash to take a cab (which in all fairness would have probably taken just as long as the bus).

But that was "work-related" bus happiness.

Not really the same thing (bus-wise).

So, at any rate, we got home ok.

From the barbecue. That night. Almost two years ago.

Hungry, we went right into the kitchen to make grilled chicken salads with beats, ginger, cilantro, and the merest whisper of homemade sesame dressing.

As well, left-over tacos, cold spaghetti and half a bag of potato smiles.

Then, at some point, our friend came over (to make a series of crank calls) and, seeing as she brought over a magnum of vodka, we drank vodka.

And, I remember that I slept well.

Yes.

Then, the next day was a Sunday. So I had lots to do before the work week started all over again.

Mondays: they're either good or they're bad.

And, seeing as Mondays set the tone for the whole week - the things I do on Sunday can be very important.

Especially as, depending on where they fall within a month, certain Mondays can effect an entire
month - if not season.

I always think of this.

So, I had to iron a particular skirt again. As this skirt always required several ironings.

No matter. I simply got on with my day.

And that's all I remember about that day.

Then, if you can believe it, it was Monday (really Monday).

And that's when I got the call.

The credit card people. They said that there had been strange activity on my card.

There was a four hundred dollar charge for something that, if I heard the person correctly, was either an escort or one very expensive phone call (to that effect).

The liquor store!

Clearly.

They were the last place I had used that card (in a very long time). And this activity happened within hours of that beer purchase.

I got to say, as armchair forensic specialists go, I am up there.

Of course, the credit card people cleared up the whole thing for me.

And, for the most part, I put the whole episode out of my mind.

Still, I didn't go to that liquor store for a very long time.

And when I finally did, I noticed that I always used cash (for some reason).

I didn't think about it too carefully - it was just the way I rolled.

It was dormant in my mind.

I knew to use cash - but didn't concentrate on "why".

Sometimes we buy beer there.

Yes.

But they also have a very nice selection of wine and cat food.

As well, doritos, aspirin and tampax.

It just so happens that they are open late and are quite convenient.

So I shopped there. Just today.

And that's when it hit me.

Like my life flashing before my eyes.

and I remembered everything..

like clock work

2009-05-06T11:12:00.005-05:00

At precisely 11:11 (each day, sometimes twice a day) I think of a high school friend who announced whenever it was 11:11 that 11:11 was her favorite time.

This went on for years.

And, if it happens to be 8:22, my mom will say, hi dad.

Because 822 was the address of the two-flat where some member (or combination of members) of my family lived for a million years.

Only, now I do it, too. I say, hi grandpa.

I don't know when this started or how I got involved.

Furthermore, if it's 11:19, or if it's November 19th, I think of my grandmother and my brother because - just because.

You get what I'm saying.

That makes six potential instances (each day) where I think of these people or things.

In summary, if you want to be remembered make certain to announce your favorite time to people. Really drive it home. Tell them over and over.

Tell them. Then tell them again. Even though they heard you the first time.

Because, I haven't seen this person in years - and I think of her at least once a day.

Each day.