. . . and I am your otter-pop girl. |
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Sunday, September 22, 2002 Oh kittens, I fear this was my last weekend in the water. My sister and I spent two sunny days at the inlet, getting pummeled by the waves. On Saturday I got so tossed that other surfers asked if I was okay. Today made the back pain (from arching and paddling) and muscle exhaustion worth it, despite the jellyfish: I caught a beautiful wave and stayed on long enough to walk up the board a bit. In surfing you know it's good when you turn around, paddle out and pray for another even though you can barely lift your arms.
Anyhoot, in other updates, el scoot broke! Last Thursday I was riding down Market and it suddenly stopped working. I used my super-muscle to pull it onto the sidewalk and called the new Vespa store in Manayunk (who are so completely cool and helpful) where it has since been towed and fixed. The culprit: non-synthetic oil. Fie on you, oil, and your oily realness!
Tuesday, September 17, 2002 "The romance of letter writing . . . in a postcard!": My olde co-workers will be happy to know that I've incorporated the Beagle into my lifting regiment. Tonight we did chest and triceps. I happily report that my boy sweats like a pig. He thinks he looks like a swamp monster on the treadmill. Nice imagery, no? So I don't have much time to find the kook on this crazy internet but this URL came to me on a postcard the other day: an ex-corporate guy turned artiste who is way into baby chicks, dice and chains. I'm not quite sure why these pictures crack me up, but they do.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002 Everyone! Under their desk immediately!: Yesterday they tested the fire alarm at work. It was somewhat discomfiting, hearing a loudspeaker voice mention this test and potential for evacuation, considering the date. And then the alarm went off, and I realized the real reason for the public service announcement. The alarm sounds like a flock of fucking seagulls attacking hapless beachgoers. Or perhaps two angry pterodactyls making love. It reminded me of how appropriate it is that I call my boss the Condor, as her eagle eye and screeching demeanor often cause hysteria as well. It made me want to dive into the nearest phonebooth. Instead, I sat in my cubicle clutching my stomach, bent over my keyboard laughing. I hope one day the fire alarm gets tested while the Condor hovers over me. It will give me a reason to run away from her.
Anyway, this is much different from the mind-numbing alarm at my last employment, where weary students would emerge from the bowels of their study carrels screaming and holding their ears, looking dazed, pale and unwashed.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002 If you are as bored as I, read this for less excitement: Sometimes you watch a movie and wonder how you could have wasted your time. Generally when I feel this happening I turn off the television. Tonight, however, I watched "My Life as a House" until the dying end and actually cried because it was so awful. Then, Beagle and I watched the "edited scenes" part of the dvd to see what didn't make it.
In other less exciting happenings . . . this morning on my ride to work, a pickup truck pulled in next to me. Two Pennsylvania rednecks gave me the fish eye and some lip, I think. They sounded like hill-billy versions of the teacher from Charlie Brown; instead of "womp womp" all I heard was a twangy "gig ga giga" with phrases like "little missy" and "gotta getchu" thrown in.
Monday, September 9, 2002 Mundacity and nepotism, okay not really: With all of the rank media coverage being given to September 11th, I implore you to watch something educational. It's called Twin Towers: a History and should be on your local PBS station. Anyway, my sister was the associate producer on it and really worked her arse off.
While looking for some excitement in my life, I often find myself stranded in front of the Behr paint chips at the Home Depot on Columbus.
Monday, September 2, 2002 "Your brain, it's important": I have led a sheltered life, I know. It took 26 years but finally on Friday night I got to watch while some kids we were hanging with snorted cocaine. I was of course, crudely fascinated, and badgered the kid next to me about how he felt. He only displayed the regulation jitters when we discussed how weird it is to inhale something so corrosive so close to your brain. In other cell-killing events, I bought bridesmaids dresses today. They're pink-y. Tuesday, August 27, 2002 Smutty, the lost dwarf: Today I found an old post-it phone message. Last year, my sister called my old workplace, and left a message with secretary V. about my "cat" named "Tommy". She told the very sweet 60-something adminstrative assistant that it was just the veterinarian calling, Tommy was doing okay, we removed the stent and gave him 10cc's of glucose, his paw is shaved but he'll be fine. I still have no idea why my sister did this and almost fell over when V. delivered the message. Evil sister. As an aside, I think I'm the only librarian alive who is crazy allergic to cats, even ones with mangled paws. Monday, August 26, 2002 "Unleaded, cash, fill it": the only thought I have in my head right now is how nice it is to buy gas in New Jersey. You don't have to get out of your car, the gas man does it all for you. Why gas, why now? I think it's the fumes. Tonight I spent a bit of time in the backyard spray painting a dozen or so parts to this Ikea cabinet we bought. It looks like a locker, and only came in kelly green. It has been transformed: shiney beaver brown with pink doors. Now if I can put it together and not have any extra screws, I'll know my brain isn't permanently damaged from getting "crafty". Friday, August 23, 2002 "Why can't I get my life together?" cried Melvil Dewey.
As a master of library science, I have to give bigtime props to BookLend which was created by this guy named Mark Anderson. He'll lend you, free of charge, anything from his somewhat limited book collection. That includes postage, kiddo. So get on over and start reading. Or if you are lazy bibliophile, sign up for Netflix and watch it on DVD. Many thanks to pillowfort for bringing this to our collective attention. My hamster says he is sorry things didn't work out with L.D.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002 "What up 8pu$$?" Today I went to the Ritz Carlton for a meeting, where I pocketed a teeny jar of raspberry preserves amidst the jeering of my workmates. What was the best thing you ever pilfered? Monday, August 19, 2002 Warning: may bore to death Some weekends things just seem to come together. And this one was the best of my summer. It started on Thursday evening. I left work an hour early and hit the NJTP with Beagle, where we wound up at H's place in Brooklyn. Ate at Soma, quite tasty. Then we hightailed it over to Southpaw in Park Slope, where I happily sipped my whiskey waiting for Ted Leo/Rx to play. The show blew us away and we left deliriously slap happy. The most unexpected part of the band line-up were the 3-girls-and-a-boy rockers called Palomar whose hip-hip pop-punky harmonization left me so la la la. Will you go to see them? I think that you should. On Friday morning Beagle and I woke up, mangled our way out of NYC and went straight down the shore, where we nursed semi-hangovers. B got burned, mistakenly thinking the beach umbrella would protect him, and I surfed with the 12-year olds during low tide. Later that afternoon, we hit the road again, back to Philly to pick up Rich (a.k.a Trout) at the airport, braving the X Games traffic. Yay! Rich helped Beagle pack up our Chicago life and we miss playing Scrabble with him a lot. We took him to the Standard Tap, where he recounted recent exploits and other things we've missed. Then to Low, our fave dive and finally some Midnite Pretzels, a hungry-drunk tradition. More on that later. The one downside of Happy Weekend came on Saturday morning. I woke up to make some blueberry muffins, cracked the egg, which came out all bloody red, quite nasty, and ruined the batter. No one wants to think about preemie chickens while buttering their muffin. Idea disbanded. Since this is getting too long, I'll finish with Saturday night: delicious sushi and yes, I succumbed, Blue Crush, which reminded me of last summer's spider-infested surf camp and how I long to be more aquatic.
Tuesday, August 13, 2002 "Don't press that button. It's the turbo-boost." This week I can be happy at work: the boss is on vacation and I have off on Friday. Yips to that. And so I extend an invitation to all NY-pitas: Ted Leo is playing on Thursday evening at southpaw in Brooklyn. I feel a kinship with places named for lefties. Beagle and I will both be in attendance, as this is his last hurrah before law school starts on Monday. Please come and share beers with us. Just in time for some kook, I found this link while searching for mosaic making, my new obsession. Didn't you always want to learn how to make homemade baby wipes? Or how to cross a stream safely? Speaking of. . . can you believe what is happening in Prague?
In other news, I went out with an old boyfriend this weekend and came to the clarifying realisation that the reason we no longer date (it's been over 5 years) may have something to do with the fact that "ex" often translates to "bad" or, seemingly, "not good for you." When I got home, I made a list of adjectives detailing his character: arrogant, self-absorbed, conceited, intellectual snob, insensitive, egotistical. . . are most of those synonyms? And does that ring a bell for any of you that know me?
Thursday, August 8, 2002 Deep woods off: I can't bear to watch this, but I will happily share. Tuesday, August 6, 2002 How many marshmallows? How much lemonade? Tonight we went to the Standard Tap, located up in Northern Liberties. Loved the bar, which is dark and not too smoky, and the neighborhood, which is like Wicker Park back in the day (way before I ever knew it, but I can at least pretend). A big hoot to Rich, who will get to see this and more in no time at all. Monday, July 29, 2002 Yay for me: Saturday night started out pretty crappy until my favorite hotpants rock star called. But first, some background. I've been sick all week, sinus troubles and a gritty sore throat/cough combo. Not interesting, I realize, but contextual. I bailed on Megh and my sister for the Ted Leo/Rx show, opting out of the smokey bar scene for something more medicating. Four episodes of Six Feet Under later, I was still sick, now depressed, and yet strangely comforted by the dysfunctionality of HBO's own Addams family. In the meantime my sister saddled up to Ted Leo at the show, called me, handed him the phone. So somewhere in between shots of Robitussin and Bushmills, I find myself chatting with TL. Only I don't believe that it's really him. Isn't that nice? I ask him to name the bands he's been in. He starts by saying, "well in 1986 . . . " and goes through a sizable list. Strains of the riff from The Monkees "I'm a Believer" play in the background and I start laughing, which of course induces some hacking and suddenly we're talking about sinus infections and antibiotics. Oh, sweet irony. In all a jolly nice conversation but enough of my reveling. If you haven't done so yet, go buy his album. It will make me feel better.
Thursday, July 25, 2002 Regarding my organs: So I noticed that my overnite guests had some fun with Mr. Seymour Organs, described below. His intestines were stuck to his head, and his brains found a new home near the sphincter. Okay, there is no sphincter. But now I can't get that word out of my head. Which reminds me. When I'm at work, things are usually in overdrive, and I find that the only way I can calm myself is to repeatedly write inane things on scraps of paper. So now my cubicle is slowly becoming decorated with cursive amalgamations of random words. I would show you but that it might be too weird (or you could look at 3/26/01 for an example). Hoot. Monday, July 22, 2002 Playing my organs: Right before I left Chicago, Reech gave me a wall-hanging of sorts. It is entitled "See my Organs" and contains numerous 3D organs velcro-ed onto a fuzzy yet sexless figure. It's great fun to rip off the little kidneys and throw them at unsuspecting people. Well, I finally hung it in our guest room and am happy to report that our overnight visitors slept without any reported nightmares. Another hoot, hoot. Friday, July 19, 2002 Girl in a hoodie: Philly is such a good scooter town. It doesn't scare me the way Chicago did. Or at least I don't feel like I'm going to be mowed down by some angry midwesterner here. But the real reason for this is that Philly has much smaller streets, and many of them are one way. Some of them are so teeny, it's like they were made for the scoot. My favorite this week: Delancey. Hoot for the last couple monthes entries here
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