It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood



"A neighborly day for a beauty..." (Wait, are those the words, or just my own residual childhood interpretation?)
Well if those are the words, then this guy:
http://www.vitalijkuprij.com
is the beauty in my neighborhood!
Luckily for me, a Euro-artist always finds its way into my life. Be it a male ballerina or a hair-stylist extraordinaire, I can always find fun with these fellows.
Add world renowned concert pianist/ rock n' roll mo-fo to the list baby! And believe me, this man has all the machismo it takes to to carry the title of professional (word that sounds a lot like penis.)
He's no Mr. Rogers... and thank God!

The Squirrel Whisperer

8 a.m. rolled around this morning and I heard what I thought to be someone in the kitchen of my new apartment.
I was expecting my landlady... but not that early.
So I stumble into the kitchen, barely awake, hair akimbo, pajama bottoms still partially jammed into my rear - that's how awake I am.
But upon entering the kitchen, I realize there is no one there.... or was there?
There, just above the window valence, was a squirrel - A SQUIRREL - attempting to hide. Unfortunately for the squirrel, its big poofy-ass tail wouldn't get tucked down far enough - you know like when I child hides its front half, but its ass-end is hanging out.
We make eye contact.
It lays its round little ears back, much like a dog who has just shit on the rug. My ears don't lay back, but I imagine my face looked like the human version of this squirrel's.
Gasping, I duck back around the corner into the hall way.
What am I going to do?!
While formulating a plan, I use the conveniently mirrored switch plate to spy on the swishy, glassy-eyed critter.
I pick up and put on the clothing Quack had on last night, you know, to make sure none of my skin was exposed to the clawing and nibbling the squirrel was bound to afflict on me.
Using a flattened cardboard box as a shield, I approach the kitchen - again using the switch plate.
I finally muster up the courage to walk by the animal, grab some cheese out of the refrigerator, and open up the back door- which is only a foot behind him.
He hasn't moved since I first spotted him (about 15 mins. now) and I see how he got in.
There is a fan, which used to be used to ventilate the kitchen in the old days, that lead to the backyard. That freakin' thing had to be like a circus Welinda to get up to the fan. I can just imagine him springing from a branch, grabbing onto one of the ribbons of a near-by wreath, gaining momentum by swinging, and then, with a somersault, springing vertically into this little shoot - like a effing pinball.
So now the backdoor is open, the fan flap is fully open, and I have created a little trail of cheese leading to its freedom.
I can hear its furry friends click-clicking to it.
But it won't budge.
I am in the back yard, waiting for the damn thing to get the picture, and making sure no other squirrels get a bright idea, when I meet my neighbor for the first time.
She seems like a no-nonsense house mom, who armed with a broom, comes to what I think will be my rescue.
Man was I wrong.
Before I know it, she's swatting at this thing and the once petrified creature is now leaping around the kitchen.
"It's down! It's down!" She screams.
"Ahhhhh" I scream.
Of course the animal doesn't want to be shooed out the wide open door, it wants to go down into the basement.
The dark basement with a million hiding opportunities.
The neighbor chases the squirrel into the basement - broom in hand - and starts poking around.
She does this for a while, then abruptly says, "I have to drive my kid to band now. Good luck."
WTF.
I go upstairs and barricade the basement steps with boxes that we have, thankfully, not unpacked yet.
I open up the cellar door to the basement and try, once again, the trail o' cheese, leading out the door.
I am just about to loose my mind waiting for this freakin' squirrel to reveal itself when my self-described "nutty" landlady comes over.
She tells me some bizarro story about how she had a pet squirrel back in the day, who she would call to and it would eat food from her hand and sit on her shoulder.
She boldly enters the basement click-click-clickin' her tongue in that chattery way that squirrels have.
"Um. Were you raised in the woods?" I ask.
"Ha." she laughs. "No, they just like me because I'm nuts," she puns again.
She tells me to just hold still, so I press myself against the wall, clutching my fists in front of my face with bated breath.
"Click, Click, Clickity, CLICK, CLICK!" she says, prodding gently in corners and rafters with a broom.
After maybe five minutes, would you believe the frickin' squirrel came out from behind the bar(yes, there is bar in our basement!!) in response to the crazy clicking.
She ushered it towards the open cellar door and it was almost out, when it took a frantic detour into a crawl space just to the right of the door.
At this point the landlady and decide to let it be, because the door between the cellar and house was closed, and she said, "It's just scared. When it's ready it will let itself out."
So there may or may not be a squirrel chillin in my cellar. But that's good enough for me because I can avoid that place at all costs... that is until a circuit breaks, and then I will have to face the squirrel again - but this time, in the dark.

Helen: Part II

Remember Helen? The downstairs neighbor at my apartment...
Well, I have been spending my Saturday's with her of late, talking about the "good old days" which according to her are my present days, painting the nails of her gnarled fingers, combating the stink of what I think is halitosis, or dead skin, or time. That's a funny thing about chillin' with the old folks, if they're YOUR old person, then it's just their smell. But if they're not yours, they're just stinky.
So, despite the smell thing. I was beginning to settle in to our routine: Sat. in the a.m., I bring coffee and nail polish, she talks, and talks for hours.
I think we were developing a bit of a friendship, though I think we were also just kind of lonely. This bond, whatever it was, was making me anxious about telling her that Quack and I were moving(which we just did, but more on that later).
Quack and I decided we would tell her together, about a week before the big move.
But before we had the chance to wallow in our guilt ridden abandonment of the Dutch sage, she moved on us.
And not in the "BIG move to the sky" kind of way, but in the "I don't think I'm digging this place and I want to go somewhere else," kind of way. Truthfully, the same reasons we wanted to move.
The circumstances that led up to this move included some back surgery on her part, and then a realization that the assisted living digs were a lot more fun than the empty apartment.
Who needs a neighbor to come and paint your nails when there is an on-site nail tech who specializes in gently manicuring curled fingers, right?
So I really got off the hook, because as it stood, I was locked into a routine of polishing and removing, polishing and removing. I was also going to be bringing the parents down to beet Helen during their Thanksgiving trip to PA.
But as it stands now, I imagine her feeding the fish and singing with the birds in the pet section of the new place all the while playing cards with her friends between group outings to the Wal-Mart.
This is certainly a lot more to look forward to than a visit from a semi stranger/ neighbor who offered little but some nail polish to pick at through the rest of the week.
When her family came to pack up her belongings, they asked if their was anything we wanted, because it was all going to the Goodwill.
We picked out a set of dishes that she must've gotten 50 years ago but can be purchased at Pier One today for hundreds of bucks. They are so heavy and probably can't be used in the microwave (who knows what they're made of?)
But they are a wonderful daily memory of her. Helen, my first friend in PA.

Wary wary BIG sad!



It pains me so to write this, but the set of sweet Swede friends I made last year (Rock and Roll Mom and the Little Blonde One) have disappeared from my life.
Right now, as I write this, my right eye is scrunched up, my brow is furrowed my chest is tight and my nostrils are flared in pain.
Because by proclaiming it, I am finalising it. They moved out of my house and moved out of my life.

The goodbye at the airport was so sincere, so Hallmark, so "For the second time, would the person with the car parked in the drop-off zone move you effing car."
I bawled, they bawled, we bawled, knowing that as shitty and cold as the winter had been, we had made a special home and friendship inside those Central Hillside neighborhood walls.
"I'll see you in Sweden on thirtieth birthday," I said to R.A.R.M.
"Can Seerah sleep in my bed?" said L.B.O.
"Yes darling I will, and I will also be there for your graduation," I said.

I must be delusional.

Because after a few emails that went something like, ("We're home,and sick, and tired but happy)R.A.R.M. severed all communication (and this from a woman who spent six month attached at the hip to her laptop, keeping in touch with her Swedish peeps.)

I sent little emails: "Hi! Miss you!"
inquisitive emails: "Is every thing OK?"
enticing emails: "Do I owe you money?"
nostalgic emails: "Remember this time (insert picture here)"
Nothing, Nada, Zip, Zilch, Intet (that's Swedish for nothing - at least according to an online dictionary.)

I am so sad about this and have made some pretty crazy attempts at contacting them... none of which include making a phone call b/c I don't have her number.
I guess I will just have to bank it in the "friendship flings" category and pretend that it was a lovely dream.

The measure of Eman

O.K. Let's get real here....
It's been way WAY WAY to long since I last posted. For that, I am sorry.
So, since my last post, I've started belly dancing again. But in a ballsy twist (oh, ouch... ballsy twist) I have signed up a the class with one of my co-workers.
What better way to get to know people in the office than to shake your ass with them, right?
That's how I've made all my friends in that past anyhow.
So tonight, was class number two and I am very impressed with the way my co-worker, Ms. Biz, is workin' it.
She's all: hip- POP- hip- POP! Would you believe she did all this with a yard-stick on her head?!
This class is a little different than the last style of belly dance I took. It's more folksy, hence the yard-stick.
Wait, what? Yard-stick does not equal folksy.
The yard-stick is supposed to be a stand-in for a cane - or LATER ON, swords.(Notice the emphasis on LATER ON!)
But no, as I was waiting my turn for the yard stick (hip- POP -hip - POP)
one of the instructer's batty assistants approaches me with a sword she brought from home.
Before I know what's going on she's balancing the damn thing on my head!!!
Now granted, it is not sharpened, but it is metal, with a big-ass handle and pointy tip.
I could've easily turned, or ducked, or simply have said "no thanks," but really, what kind of story would that have made?
She's got me walking forward towards her - coaxing me along saying "don't worry, I'll catch it if it slips."
Out of the corner of my eye I see the gold handle, and I all I can think about is a set of brass knuckles aimed opportunistically at my right temple.
"Now turn in a circle," she says.
As I turn, I learn once the thing starts to spin, peek you eyes in the opposite direction, (ONLY YOUR EYES, NOT YOUR HEAD) and the sword will re-balance. Sweet.
Admittedly, this sword thing was fun.
But I have to say, with this whole belly dancing thing, there is a line that must be drawn by us white gals.
As my old instructor (Eman from Jordan)used to say: "Now zeez next move, you will not be able to do very goot. Because you do not have zee Arab blood in your body. Only zee Arab people really know zeez move."
I think she probably would've said that about the sword situation.
A sword on your head, a jewel in you belly button and some grown-out stringy Caucasian hair does not make you legitimate in the art of "zee belly dance".
I dance to move differently, to hear different beats and to learn a little something about the world beyond me. In no way do I want, or think it's possible, for me to somehow inherit this culture.
I don't think the sword lady embraces this concept very well.
The yard-stick however, I guess I could get down with that. It seems, somehow, fitting.

Please Advise
I went from having a LDR (long dista... oh, if you didn't get it you don't need to know) with one person to having an LDR with all my persons.
So, I need to know opinions on keeping the names, numbers, addresses, blood-types, social-security numbers and fetishes of all my people, electronically or old school?
That said, please email me your current contact info (and any other bits about yourself that you think I ought to know). But only if you are a personal friend and already have my e-dress. No sickos that are out there prowling around on my blog and want me to know their fetishes.

Let me flop in peace

I was the sole reporter in the newsroom over the holiday weekend.
This means that anything that strikes the community I cover, is my story. This creates lots of potential for big stories to fall in my lap. For example, perhaps a cop will hit a child in his car, maybe a feud between brothers will end with gunfire or cops will raid a poultry farm and find lots of pot and illegal immigrants.
Oh wait, those are the things that happen when I'm off.
When I'm on... this is what happens.

(sound of fax machine)

(sound of crickets)

(sound of old-ass T.V. projecting 12 million hours of Phillies baseball)

(sound of my phone NOT ringing)

Needless to say, but as the funny qualifier goes, I will say it anyway,
I WAS GOING CRAZY!

Super compulsive crazy - pick you cuticles and nose until it's all bleeding crazy, surf your bookmarked Web pages until your brain is microwaved crazy, alphabetize post-it notes crazy.

You get the idea....

However, I did find a little peace in the whole experience.
I was able to eat my floppy yogurt without anyone watching.
You know those yogurts that come in a tube? They are mostly marketed towards children, who don't yet have the perverse mind of adults, and have no idea what sick images a long flacid tube with creamy stuff spurting out the top conjures.
The thing is ...I actually prefer to eat my yogurt this way. It requires no spoon and solves the problem of scraping the last bits out of the bottom of a plastic cup that just bulks up your brown bag, often times causing the seams to tear.
But I am just humiliated when I am eating the damn things.
It all started when Look Left brought some leftovers from his kid's lunches to work.
I don't think he had any funny feelings about the floppy yogurt until I, in my seemingly homophobic insecurities, pointed out how weird it looked when he was eating them.
I'd laugh at him and avoid making eye contact, because they really do make me squirm! But the pay off, the satisfaction of getting my much needed calcium in one swift squeeze of the....oh f*cking forget it! I can't even defend them without perversion.
I bought them because they were on sale at the store, and I guess I was... curious.
I started putting them in my lunches, and Quacks, but I think he refuses to eat them at work. He tells me the yogurt makes his stomach hurt, but I think he too, is afraid of the image of the floppy yogurt.
The compulsion to eat the floppy yogurt in the back room, where people keep their lunches, not eat their lunches, was overwhelming. I never did, but always wanted to.
Instead, I just tell whomever is around at lunch time, not to look at me while I'm eating it.
Speaking of lunch time, my nearest neighbor is not at his desk right now! I must spring at the opportunity to eat the flop without shame.

Christmas in July and August and September and....

By no fault of my own (unless you count choosing this newsroom as my place of employment) my co-workers have exposed me to CHRISTMAS SONGS ALL WEEK LONG!!
Look Left came into the newsroom bright-eyed on Monday singing, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of The Year." In his mind, the most wonderful time of the year is when the rugrat goes back to school and Daddy Daycare turns back into Daddy Day Shift. I don't blame him. I can imagine as much as one loves their offspring, there are only so many bike rides and Lego sessions a person can take.
None the less, this song has been in my head, "broken record style" for the last day or so.
The worst part is that I don't really know the song, so I'm all: "It's the most wonderful time of the year. They'll be hot dogs for grilling and everyone telling you be of good cheer. It's the most wonderful time of the year."
Now I know, that there is nothing yule-tide about grilling wieners (these are clearly the wrong lyrics), but there is also nothing yule-tide about August.
Just when I thought the effects might be wearing off, Speakerbox, in the sports department, starts whistling "Frosty the Snowman" and "Jingle Bells".
What the Hell?
Now, I have to say that one of my favorite qualities in a person is that they have a good whistle - I learned this from my great granny - and this fella has a great whistle. Perfectly on tune with little trills and turns; the kind of whistle that makes you want to be a dog owner.
But it's all about the selection, damn it.
I suppose this Christmas compulsion could be linked to this man's inability to have an interior monologue. Hell, for all I know, my subconscious is singing "Silver Bells" right now.
And with that, "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, It's Christmas time in the city."
Hope you enjoy the contagion, bee-otches!

O Mennonite of mine

I have found a workout buddy to meet me at the gym... and while there is a good chance my sports bra will be showing at some point (accidentally of course) my new gym friend will be discreetly covering the crown of her head with a little lace cap.
I met her at a yogalates class this weekend and was instantly impressed with her confidence. Not to mention her ability to avoid piercing the top of her head with the hairpins securing her cap while executing some bizarro inverted pose.
She kept her socks on during the workout. It may have been that she, A. was cold, or B. had ugly feet, but I like to think that she is so devoted to her chaste lifestyle that she did not want to expose her tootsies to the wily eyes of the world.
She told me that she grew up in a darling community called "Honeybrook" where there are more horse and buggies than there are cars.
Now, I know you're wondering: "Flee, how the hell do you expect to carry on with this woman? What the hell are you going to talk about, you uncensored maniac?"
Well, we'll just have to see. I hope to keep it laced up and maybe learn a thing or two about the subtler things in life, while maybe I can electrify her with a few expletives every now and then. You know, be the "bad friend" for once, instead of the "good girl."
If it all falls apart, I can just hit the tred by myself again - my bra straps showing and a messy pony tail being the only thing on the crown of my head - knowing that I was too bad-ass to be reckoned with!

Cari-who? Coffee
The cozy MN coffee shop is totally non-existent in the town I work in. What was once a Jitter's (or Coffee Zone or Caribou or Daily Grind, or any other cutesier coffee name) run, is now a Argento's run.
Argento's, my friends, is a place that advertises, in neon, its strombollis and grinders. Its deli counter culture makes me long for those comfy couches the color and consistency of a Carmel Frap.... and also, at times, containing some carmel frap.
Alternately, this place has very stiff plastic booths and the only thing on the menu that might resemble a creamy coffee drink is the cheese-wiz that is pumped onto the "steaks." The Philly Cheese Steaks that is. You want yours wiz-wit or wiz-wit out?
This post was instigated by my dinner break tonight. I sat and ate salad with chicken that belonged in a bucket and croutons that resembled left over pizza crust. I pulled a book from my purse and began to read a bit. There was a family with a whole herd of children waiting to take home two big-ass pizzas for $10. The kids were racing laps around my center booth, and only stopped once so that one of the kids could look sadly at me and ask his father, "Daddy, is she okay?"
I peeked up over the edge of my book and smiled, but my coffee shop behavior clearly translated as sad and weird.
There is an interesting crew of old retired men that meet at Argento's for their daily dose of banter. Should you go in on your lunch break to try and catch up on a few chapters, you will certainly be drawn in to their conversation, if only by eavesdropping.
It looks like I'm going to have to find some coffee-to-go, and sit in a park somewhere if I really want to find some comfort on my breaks.
A good coffee-to-go option here, so far, is from a bizarro gas station called Wawa... which I may or may not have talked about before.
It is kind of like the Target of the gas station world. You go for one thing, gas, and unless you pay at the pump, you are surely leaving with a whole slew of things you didn't intent to purchase.
For example, fresh brewed coffee in house, dark, vanilla, hazelnut, or Irish cream. With corresponding creams, might I add. A milk shake machine, which allows you to stir one up fresh, a sandwich counter, with more steaks and grinders, a fresh hot pretzel section, a refrigerated section containing fresh fruit bowls , hummus wraps, and veggie trays, not to mention your run-of-the-mill snacks, like cokes and sunflower seeds.
But in order to get to this place you have to jump onto the highway.
As for now... I will probably still stop into Argento's out of desperation. But I need to find out what a grinder is, just to be sure I'm not hanging out in a place of unsavoryness.

Layin' it on

Clearly I didn't use enough sarcasm in my last post. I don't have a muddy mountain bike, camping gear, or Golden Retriever to load and unload from my broke-ass Subaru. Damn computer, sucking the true meaning out of my words.

Why Subi-roo? Why?
My car is making it clear that it has had enough. There is a constant smell of burnyness, the check engine light winks at me every now and again, and the brakes are growling like the king of the Outback.
I think the cross-country road trip is what sealed the deal.
If you know me, you know about my love affair with my car. It is such a humble, fun vehicle. The kind of car that is more a vessel for public radio than anything else. So it is much to my chagrin that it is starting to show its age, er mileage, @ 125,000 (+). Eeek!
The brake thing just started. It went from just fine, to holy shit!, in about 5 miles. The pads are now just a fine layer of dust around my hub-caps and the routers, well, they sound like they resemble a Lay's potato chip, and not the Frisbee they were at their inception.
So I am looking right now for a reliable mechanic in PA. Not an easy task, anywhere really.
My fella keeps insisting that he has buddies that can take care of the job, but I'm afraid that if I wait any longer, I'm going to have to ask those same buddies for a ride to work b/c my car is Ka-Put.
Oh, and to top it all off, the very reason I love the car, the hatch-back, has rusted shut or just plain old rattled itself broken b/c I cannot open it to load and unload my mud splattered mountain bike, camping gear and Golden Retriever.
GRRRRR!

A Portrait of Helen

The woman that lives in the lower unit of our apartment is an 89-year-old woman. Her name is Helen and if she stops you on your way out, just plan on being late.
Today, she did just that, and because it was a beautiful day, I sat with her on the front porch for a bit.
Well, a bit turned into a half an hour and that half an hour made me late for work.
The first time Helen made me late was when I was in PA interviewing for my current job. I was literally on my way out the door to the interview (already running a little later than I planned.) I ended up being an hour late for the interview (thank goodness for the car accident that gave my tardiness legitimacy.)
The weather today was wonderful, and in my jollity I gave her a little squeeze and a cheek kiss. But despite the day's sweet air, the smell of 89-year-old skin, under 25-year-old clothes stuck to me. It wasn't especially foul, but she smelled sad — the way T.V. dinners smell sad.
Helen has been on bed rest this summer because she has an inflamed spine, and they can't do surgery on it until it's healed. I could tell you more, she certainly did, but I'll spare you the full diagnosis until I'm the 89-year-old.
Anyhow, she started reminiscing about how she used to be "a real go-getter." These are her words.
She used to pick up her girlfriends in her car (four of which, including her ability to drive, she has lost this year.)
She ached about how she couldn't sit up long enough for her hairdresser to put a permanent in her hair. Just before she said this, I was actually admiring her hair. In my mind, it looked lovely loose, like plumes of white smoke rising from her head.
I told her it was a nice laid-back summer style and that the color was shining.
It was getting to be "that time," and I started to make a move towards my car. I half sat, half hovered, over the edge of the chair, trying to go.
Her glassy gray eyes begged at me from behind glasses that were starting to be swallowed by the wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Much like trees that are growing near fences often times just incorporate the fence right into their plight.
Without actually saying it, she said: "Please don't go yet. I am so lonely and scared that I am ignoring your attempts to leave."
I had no other option but to stand up and walk backwards, still talking, towards my car. I promised her that I would stop in, instead of just waiting for her to be on the porch.
As I drove away, I gave the horn of my car a little beep, so as not to startle the fragile one, and I waved at her. I spritzed on some perfume and popped some strong mint gum in my mouth to distract my senses. I couldn't help but think that maybe that was the last conversation she was going to have — and not just with me but with anyone.
When I got home from work, Helen's blinds were drawn, and when I left the next morning, they were open. These, the subtle signs of what's left of her comings and goings, are reminders to me (another self-proclaimed "go getter,") of my own vulnerability.

Pretty Little Things

There is this place (across the from work) called Jean's. I can see her store front from my desk.
Much like Dani's of Duluth, Jean's of Pottstown switches up her window display bi-weekly (well maybe not just like Dani's — Lord knows that broad changes her displays like she changes her pony tail wigs.)
So, I've really been wanting to go in and snoop around on my lunch break.
Wait… did I mention this place is called Jean's Lingerie?
And may I reiterate that I can see it from my desk? And if I can, that means my boss can, and so can every body else in the newsroom!
I will give you a taste of today's window, just so you can get a taste of this boutique. The theme of this display is "pink" with subtle tones of "thigh and nipple exposure." Now don't get me wrong, the candy striper costume is pretty tasteful — and by tasteful I mean I can't see the mannequin's non-existent boobs — which is more than you can say for Dani… I've seen a couple of unfinished products looking pretty lewd in her window.
So today, just around 3 p.m., a giant delivery truck pulled in front of Jean's, blocking the view of the store from the newsroom.
I jumped up like there was some breaking news and made a beeline for the store. I walked past the truck, and in turn, past Jean's. Ithen made a sharp U-turn around the front bumper of the truck putting me face to face with the candy striper.
In the shadowy safety of the truck, I slipped in.
Hello! I have found the only store that caters to granny-boobs and whores alike!
There was an entire section of nippleless and crotchless garments, tucked in next to some flesh colored bras made of stiff Wal-Mart looking lace.
And what's more, Jean offers her selection in sizes XS to 6X. Whoa Momma… it is amazing how a sexy nighty can quickly become something that resembles a pup-tent.
As I was peeking around, Jean herself, with her 65-year-old shelf-like bosome, asked me if I needed any help.
Me: "I just stopped by. I'm new to the area."
Jean: "Well, we do custom fittings. By the way, your shoes are so cute. What size do you wear? Because I have a whole closet full of heels that I can't wear any more. I try to wear them to church, but they make my back hurt."
Me (internally): "Hey lady, you go to church? Also, you might consider the link between your torpedoes and your back pain. And what exactly are you planning on custom fitting me for?"
Me (external): "Oh gosh… I wear size 8."
Jean: "Oh shoot, I wear 9."
On to the costume section…she's got all the classics, French maid (complete with feather duster/tickler), police officer (complete with handcuffs), the infamous candy striper, and the leather-clad dominatrixs.
And last butt (he, he ) not least, the tummy tucking, booty lifting, thigh slimming, meat packing under garments. The kind of things that make you look all, "Oo, La la," when your evening gown in is on, and all "Braulhagphlaug" once you unleash yourself from it later in the night.
Needless to say, I had no idea what I was getting into when I walked in, and will have to return once I am more aware of what my specific needs are.
And for all of you who are still wondering… the truck was gone when I reemerged. What choice did I have but to walk out with my head held high, as if to say, "Damn right I was chillin' with Jean."
I'll tell you what choice I had, I ducked hard to the right as I exited, protecting my identity with some heinously large sunglasses, and pretended to be going to the bank next door.
I will not be the new girl who goes to the smut shop on her lunch break.

I'm Making Friends!

Okay, they're work friends... and I got to know them during a work mixer, but they are quasi-friends none the less.
What a sad ass situation when your social life is reduced to hanging our with the people you are paid sit next to.
Well, whatever. They are not as great as the "missed ones" but they are a good start none the less.

The Silver Lining

I went home this weekend (one month to the day of moving) for my Mom and Dad's 25th wedding anniversary.
The trip was fast and furious (about 48 hours from door to door) but well worth it.
I could write about how much they mean to me, and how good it was to see everyone, but instead I'm just going to list some "snap shot" memories of the party, which I hope will illustrate what I'm trying to get at anyway.

Slow dancing with my G-pa Levell, under the stars, to Willie Nelson's version of "Stardust." We were both singing...
Funny thing about that, G-pa kinda looks like ol' Willie right now, minus the braids, of course. He's got a vagabond hippy thing going on right now, with a necklace of colored wooden beads and a handkerchief bandanna wrapped around his fore heard. I started my relationship with Willie thanks to G-pa.... I was 13, we were road tripping from CO to TX, and every time the wheels started rolling (even after bathroom breaks) he would play on the road again.
I effing hated it.
So that moment, at peace with G-pa and Willie, was perfect.

Watching Mom and Dad re-enact their wedding "get-away" picture in a golf cart with "bride" and "groom" baseball caps. I believe in the original they were in a Model-T, wearing their finest. This time around, mom was wrapped in a white plastic tablecloth, and dad was wearing a sweaty lake shirt. Beautiful! Thank God the light was glistening just right through the trees...

Watching my little cousin Alice, who is as fresh and sweet as a new bag of marshmallows, bopping about in the way 8-year-olds do. She was so witty and smart and sarcastic. We came up with an idea called "cake in lake" in which you eat cake for breakfast, with your hands, and then just jump in the lake to wash up.
Her and I tubed together, which I haven't done in a long time, and I totally screamed way more than she did.
"If you want them to stop, make a motion like you're cutting your head off with your hand," she said.
Oh man!
Later, she and I shared a futon, even though for all intensive purposes we were just getting to know each other again. We made good bed-fellows b/c I like to kick the covers off, and she likes to steal them.Come morning, she was curled into the nook of my torso like a kitten I'd raised from birth.
And to think I was afraid she wouldn't remember me!

I saw my Granny. She told me some pretty gripping stories about her life growing up. She got on a train when she was 17 (from a little town in WY) set for NYC, where she was going to meet her long, lost father... and other such sagas. Not sure how much of it is real, and how much of it is just an exaggerated memory, but none the less... it was great to have "story time" with her again.

I smoked a cigar with my uncles, which was pretty great. I warned them I would probably end up wasting most of it, after the green wave of nausea set in... they were ok with it. We kicked back with those tiny brown Cubans, which reminded me of caterpillars, and exhaled into the night. I was gleefully barfy after 10 minutes of it!

That's a lot to pack into one weekend, and I am certainly feeling the effects of it as I sit here almost nodding off at the computer.
I probably won't be going home again for a while, but those few hours we worth more than their weight in gold.... or should I say silver.

THINGS WE ALMOST PUBLISHED:


This lovely image was taken by a photo intern at a paper I once worked at. It made it all the way to the second-to-last step before our pervy graphics guy pointed it out.
Speaking of pointing it out.... YIKES!

Special Brew and Salty Bits

There are two foods I'm not totally crazy about: sweetened tea and pretzels.
Here, both are a religion.
A religion where entire shrine-like-aisles are set up at the grocery store and people have the same kind of brand loylety that they have for their team.
So I figure, an entire state can't be all wrong, right? Scratch that, Arkansas is indeed, all wrong, right JP?
Anyways, Berks County, the one in which I reside, is the pretzel capital of the world, or something...
There are entire dough-bending factories, where they even bag up their salty bits and sell them for cheap-o. There are other industries in this area where people sell their salty bits for cheap-o, but that's a whole different blog entry.
The hunt for my perfect pretzel has led me to some pretty skankey, sour, lip-sticking snacks (you know how when you bite a pretzel, the part touching your lips, sticks... yeah, I don't dig that.) But, there are some alterna-ingredients, like oat bran and honey wheat, that I really like.
So I got that going for me...
Now for the sweet tea. For those who don't know the the kind of sweet I'm referring to, this shit is sweet like rock candy is sweet.
I've bought a couple of single servings, which by the way can also be bought by the gallon, and have thrown away all of them.
That is until I found the sweetened Oolong tea from Topher's crazy handy-man at work.
Yes, Topher has this cookey janitor-like guy, who is apparently not only compulsively into this tea, but is also into "Radioing" - which I think entails trying to pick up obscure radio stations.(Does anyone know anything about this?)
I've never met the guy, but I have this picture in my head of a man, emptying waste baskets with a tin-foil antenna-hat and a Oolong drip.
So the story goes, this guy makes a special trip to Philly's China Town once a year to buy 25,000 tea bags of this stuff (ok, that may be an exaggeration, but it is in the thousands.)
So Topher, being the friendly, inquisitive guy he is, notes this guy's interest in the tea, and asks him about it.
Next day, there's a frakin' gallon of it on Topher's desk. It's pre-sweetened, from home, in a obviously re-re-re-recycled lemonade Jug.
You can understand my initial suspicion. I'm thinking, maybe this guy likes his tea so much because it's a good way to keep ingesting his crack all day long. Needless to say, the jug went untouched for quite a few days.
But for some reason, I tried it.
DAMN! Now, I can't stop thinking about when I can get some more!
The thing is, the gallon is almost gone, and I can't keep putting in orders to the cookey janitor for tea, right?
I know what you're thinking, just make your own, but I doubt it would be the same.
Besides, where am I going to get the crack

Checking it out

Ok, this is it. I am getting back into this thing even if it means coming down to the Reading Public Library and hanging out with the residentially challenged.
I suppose the library is as good a place as any in describing the subtle differences between MN and PA.
So I come downtown, a bit of a drive, and navigate my way to the Main Reading Public Library.
This library is in a giant stone building, with big front steps, pillars and a stone awning etched with "LIBRARY"
"Ok, good, I'm in the right place.... I've got the stone sign to prove it."
Things are a little trim on the "social" side of life these days, and I am walking up the stairs to this place like I'm walking into Pizza Luce or something.
"Oh the fun to be had inside! Who knows what little gems I will find to take home and call my "friends" - the books not the homeless folks.
So bop up to the counter, all "Ms. Merry MN" (this is what they call me at work by the way) and ask about a library card.
Now it was (STRESS THE WORD WAS) my impression that a library card is a God given right. Or at least one of the constitutional amendments or something (Though Shalt Have A Library Card!) Well someone amended that amendment to read (EXCEPT in PA).
This lady did not care how cute and friendly I thought I was. I did not have proof of a current address (and no my fitness club card would not work) so I would just have to come back another time.
Now you have to understand that at this point, going to the library and coming home with whatever I found was, like, my entire day's plan.
I'm looking around, thinking, "that guy over there told you he lived in a cardboard box on Cherry St. and you gave him a card. That guy over there wrote down his residence as a 1975 Pontiac and you gave him one too."
What gives?
Well anyway, after routing around in my purse for a pay stub or something for about five minutes ( a trick I use to stall until the person gives me what I want), I came up empty handed. Into those empty hands, she put a postcard, which I addressed to myself to prove my place in PA.
She can tell I'm disappointed, angry even.
So I did what all good Minnesotans do, I smiled, said "thanks for your help," with sincerity and defeat and walked away. At this, the librarian gasped a little at my kindness (which most of the gruff east coaster's do) and probably felt like a total BE-OTCH for not giving me the damn card.
Kill 'em with kindness, that's what I always say...
I got that card in the mail today and immediately headed down to the libes to check out a life... even though it's not a social one quite yet. But, for now, I am content to curl up on my my honey's couch and settle in.

Countin' Flowers on the Wall

I have been living the solo life for the past week. Every last one of my roomies (who kept this blog interesting) have moved out. The Swedes to Sweden, Blondie to New Zealand and the Boy back home.
In that time I have learned some funny things I do when no one is looking:
1. I am a closet slob - when the roomies were around, I was "that roommate." You know the one you pickup for because otherwise they would get pissy. But I just recently did the dishes for the first time and all of my "stuff" is sitting around. Some earrings here, a pair of stripped off socks there. The place looks way shittier than when a 6-year-old and two other adults were living there!

2. I talk to myself - a lot. Well it's not to myself exactly... it's to the T.V. and the toilet and the fridge etc....

me: "Ooooo.... I just love Taylor Hicks. He's so endearing!"
T.V.:

me: " Whoa! You're cold!"
toilet:

me: "Damn... there is nothing to eat in here. Guess I'll just have to eat a green bean and cottage cheese sandwich."
fridge: "Are you crazy? Don't eat that crap! Order Erbs& Gerbs!"

3. I like to go to the bathroom with the door open - because if you keep it open and then open the door to Blondie's now vacant room, you have a lake view - from. the. pot. SWEET!!

4. Even though no one is home - I still shut my door when I'm sleeping. You know, to prevent the robbers from finding me.

5. I don't like to sit on my couch alone - it feels too big and empty. Instead I curl up in the chair meant for one butt, so it leaves nothing to be desired.

6. I go to bed earlier - out of boredom I suppose.

7. I wake up earlier - because there is no one in the shower to wait for and thus no excuse to hit the snooze button for the , I don't know... 10th, 11th time.

8. I have developed window/door lock O.C.D - I'm not especially afraid of being there alone. But I guess what keeps the fright at bay is making doubley, tripley, quadrupley sure that the hatches are battened.

In other business.... I am having a garage sale. Well I guess I don't have a garage... so it's more of a yard sale. As I began packing I realized I own way too many knick-knacks that I can't bear to tote around.
Most thing are just pretty little ditties that people will be compelled to buy while they are out and about. It helps that I am located especially close to the bus stop and park. I'm planning on using the same strategy they use in stores where they set up pretty little things by the register while you wait in line. In fact, I suppose that is how I ended up with most of this shit.

So come buy my stuff!! You know you like my taste .... (wink, wink)
Saturday morning at my place (Call for my address if you don't know.)