Happy New Year Everybody-Happy Birthday Country Joe

My goal for the last day of '06 will likely not be met. In a fit of mania I decided to clean out my closets and throw away a bunch of shit and really organize my life. New years should not start in a mess. I did four loads of laundry, filled the dumpster with stuff there was no reason for me to continue letting fill my space. Even threw away a few pairs of shoes. All of my clothes are sorted and on hangers or in neat order in draws or on shelves. It was actually rather painful and difficult to get rid of a lot of things. But I did it. All of my blankets and sheets have been washed and neatly folded. Everything is in a brief and lovely state of grace.
In honor of that I went out and bought a 260 gig external hard drive. I used the $50 I won from Cousin Dave and put the rest on my credit card. After the $50 mail in rebate the thing will only cost $30. A good deal. If I actually use the fifty bones to pay off the credit card. Which I pledge to do. I re-located all of my music and videos onto that drive and I'm working on my goal of putting all of my CDs onto a hard drive and then uploaded to Wilson. If I don't sleep, leave the house, work or do anything but burn CDs to my computer I should be done by Presidents' Day. After I've got all the CDs into digital format I'm going to box up my music and put it somewhere where it won't take up so much shelf space.
I've got a bunch of stuff that I want to sell or pawn or somehow get out of my apartment. Electronics mostly, but also all my schoolbooks. I want to purge all signs of that big mistake fom my life. Selling the books will probably be the only music I ever make from the blasted degree.
Oh, yeah. I almost forgot, I'm also defragmenting my C: drive.

Since it's a big party night I'm participating accordingly. I've got the radio AND the TV on and I'm listening to Garrson Keillor's New Year's Eve from the Ryman event that I couldn't afford to attend. Like I need to see Garrison Keillor live for a fourth time. *Sulks*
Well, I guess I am seeing it. It's airing on NPT.
I'm not thirty. I'm a minimum of twenty-five years older than that.
I wonder when this bit with Garrison and Vince Gill and Chuck was recorded. It doesn't look like today, the roads aren't very wet (and today has been very wet) They're wearing jackets that are much too heavy for the mid-50s. And the streets are nearly empty, which I am sure is not the case tonight.
It's kind of weird to se stores where I've shopped and streets where I've wandered on Great Performances. Nothing really great ever happens in Akron, OH. We're surprised if anything happens at all.

New Year's Eve is such an amateur night and I don't play well with the kiddies. That and I refuse to drive drunk, spend a day's wages on a cab or spend a night out on the town not drinking watching all the drunk people.
I've got some boiled shrimp, a bottle of bourbon, saurkraut balls, my little dog and a bag of chocolates. If Garrison Keillor and friends stop amusing me I've got Several bits of Fry and Laurie, many Robert Sean Leonard movies, and NewsRadio to pass the time. Sure, it would be nice to be with friends right now, but I got a real bit of head and life clearing done today. I was in a state where it was either have a breakdown or clean up my head. It was the choice I needed to make.
I'm happy right now. I'm not thinking abou tomorrow or next week.

What else could I possibly need?

ETA: TXT Greetings

ME: Happy new year betch. Love kenz and Cope
MIK: Happy new year! love mik & jason. May 2007 bring Coupland the best of luck. Haaaa

Can you feel the love tonight?

You are not your body

My goal for the last day of 2006 is to write a series of 7 drabbles (one for every year since we had to learn to stop writing 19-- on our checks) based on randomly pulled quotes from Douglas Coupland novels. And, if I can manage it, a long story based on a Baxter Black poem.
I'm not sure if I can manage that last one, yet.
Not for lack of inspiration, understand.
But it's too late to write now.

Someday you will ache like I ache

There is a report to go with today. But I don't know how to describe it. I'll do my best.
My usual co-worker is on vacation this week. I'm doomed to work with someone that I cannot stand. She's ineffectual. I could sling a lot of insults her way, but the gist is that she is very bad at the necessary skills of the job. She refers to me as "the temp" or "the girl from Randstad." I have no name, no identity, nothing. But she's fine with letting me do the work. Deal with the public, pull the holds, answer the phones, etc. while she sat at the back desk and ignored the screaming children, fights, insults and other issues of public library life. I told her no fewer than thrice that I would take my lunch at three. That I take my lunch at three every Thursday. When the head of the branches came to relieve the Ineffectual One for lunch this exchange occured:
Branch Head(standing no greater than 3 feet away from me): When does she take her lunch?
Ineffectual One: I don't know. She hasn't said.
Me: Three. I said three.
BH: Well, I can't run the branch alone.
Me (under my breath): Funny, I did it. And I'm just a temp.
IO: I can't take my lunch until you're here. She should've gone earlier.
Me (carrying on the tradition of ignoring everyone else in the room and talking to the air): I'm going to lunch. Be back at 4.
BH and IO (Watch me pick up my stuff but say nothing. Talking to temps is below them.)

I ate my lunch in my truck. When I was done eating, I went for a walk. BH made the shelver stay and do the work even though her shift was over at three. Worthless twat. Not the shelver, she's a bystander.

That's not the interesting part. I don't know if I want to talk about the interesting part.

Suffice to say it made me want to hurt myself. Bad. If I hurt myself I probably won't try to hurt the person that I really want to harm. And I want to hurt her. I want to cut out her tongue and shove it down her throat until she gags on her own words. I want to beat her until there's nothing but a bloody pulp left. I want to cut off her air until she can't even beg for mercy. I want her physical pain to come close to what I'm feeling emotionally right now.

I'd never hurt anyone but myself. And then only enough to distract myself from the anger. I'm not suicidal. Don't call the cops or anything. I'm thinking a broken hand, a good swift punch to a wall. Then I can work, but I can't actually do any of the tasks I'm suppsed to.

Yes, it's that bad.

Overdose at Christmas-Give it up for Lent

Space was at such a premium an end table was held no fewer than four plates. Clusters of diners huddled around flat surfaces. Each group having its own conversation. The noise met in the center of the room, rose to the ceiling and dissipated.
After the food was cleared and the desserts brought out new alliances formed. Couples curled, long legs and arms around each other on chairs both overstuffed and straigh backed. Hands twisted in knots of unspoken bonds, shared drinks, whispered affection between two alone in the noise and shuffle.
In the basement smoke and words twined with the nonsensical random musical background.
The questions, "What are you going to do? Will you stay there? What's the pay like?" grew old fast. I drank and mixed the alcohol with deactivated charcoal in an attempt to avoid alcohol poisoning. That's perfectly healthy behavior. I knew enough to keep quiet after adding the third alcohol to the mix. Champagne, beer, rum, whisky, beer, champagne, beer, rum, whisky, beer.
No one runs his fingers down my spine and brushes my hair off the back of my neck. No one shares his drink or food with me. If I'm smoking mine are the only lips that touch the fag. Not that I suddenly want companionship. But I can see the appeal. The person connected to another soul is somehow immune to the most prying questions. As if waking up next to someone somehow legitamizes a person. I don't need another person to make real my life.
It was sometime around the fifth time I explained my pointless job and unintentional life that the stranglehold of misery caught me. A full house bursting with noise and bodies-I was alone. I couldn't have been more alone if I'd spent Christmas in Nashville. It couldn't have been that lonely. The pain was so intense I could barely speak. For the rest of the evening, even when I got $50 from a sucker's bet, I wanted nothing more than to disappear.
My life has no meaning. Not that I expect much. But if I stopped showing up for work, it wouldn't matter. Who would even notice? It's not like I'm well loved around there. Not that I'm lovable at all, mostly. I'm a mean bitch after all.
The next morning I stayed in bed as long as I could justify. Begging the fold out mattress to spontaneously fold and engulf me. Facing the drive to my cold, tiny, cluttered, empty life was more than I could handle.
Dad made a huge breakfast. Mik paraded through the house singing "It's My Birthday!" Mum packed leftover care packages. I loaded my presents into the back of the demon truck. Dad checked the vitals. I walked the dog. Mik and Jason packed the Jeep. Cope hoped into the truck and curled up on his bed.
I froze. Not from the cold and my lack of jacket. Getting in that truck and onto the highway meant accepting that I would continue living my pointless, worthless life.
Everyone hugged me and said goodbye. Mum pushed me to the truck. Dad turned away. Mik and Jason went inside to get the last of their things. I swallowed hard, got into the truck, plugged the FM transmitter into the headphone jack on my iPod and backed out of the driveway

Merry Christmas from the Family

Home in Ohio. Made the trip without much incident. Was so tired by the time I got to my cousin's I could barely see straight. But I got there and made the last 4 hour drive to be home in time to watch General Hospital.
Other than a brief semi-argument about my refusal to go out with the determined guy from the library everything is going according to plan. And I must take a moment to ask this question (not that anyone will answer of course, but ask I will).
If you'd been making yourself present at the workplace of a person on a near daily basis for a month. Had asked that person out on a minimum of 2 occasions and been turned down (politely). Would you have any thought other than SCORE! if that person were to say:
"I don't enjoy dating but I would not be opposed to spending time with you as a friend. You seem nice and interesting."
Because to me that sounds like: "I don't want to date you now, but in a few weeks or months or sometime I will realize the error of my ways and decide you are my true love."
It's cruel. And I don't want to date anyone. It's not fun. I would never belong to a club that would have me as a member and the sheer fact that a guy is attracted to me puts him right out of the running as someone I'm going to find attractive. There's obviously something seriously wrong with any guy that is attracted to me. I trust my judgement above all else. I have to, I'm all I've got on a minute to minute kind of immediate basis. I wouldn't shag me, that's for sure. Anyone that would want to has serious personality flaws. But how does one say that to ones parents? One doesn't. So I am doomed to that argument for the rest of my natural life. Or until I start adopting stray cats, thus destroying all hope of future couplehood for me.
And apparently I'm a "mean bitch." All because when me and the parents were at the Italian market picking up capicola and salami and aged parmasan cheese and almond nougat candies the guy in front of us in line was paying with multiple gift cards of indetermined amounts and laughing all the while I growled, "Does he actually think that's funny?"
It isn't. The busiest day of shopping at the only Italian market in one of the strongest Italian neighborhoods in NE Ohio and the dumbass is paying with gift cards, some of which only have $3 on them. There was a big ass line behind him. The store was full to the point that movement was barely possible. That kind of behavior is inappopriate. Don't you agree?
Amy Sedaris does, in her book "I Like You" she stated that (paraphrased) "In a deli, it's polite to announce how many items you are planning to purchase." Doesn't the same kind of politeness apply to the check out queue?
Right, but Mum said that I'm a mean bitch and that, if heard, a comment like that would not speed up the average person. Indeed, if someone said something like that about me I'd probably decide to pay my bill entirely in nickels.
That little moment of fun over we went to BJs Wholesale (where the front entry wall had school childrens' drawings with the title "Some Elementary Loves BJs" and I laughed and laughed. Every kind of wrong available, right there, that's it.
Dad bought me the aforementioned Amy Sedaris book because he felt like it. Good man, that Dad o' Mine. It's great and I'm hoping to make one of the recipes, probably one featuring alcohol. Maybe a nice rum punch. There's a lot of those.
Upon return home and the ingestion of many spiced and salty meats and cheeeses and breads and one adult beverage of the malted variety I found myself coming over all tired like. I must admit I'd also taken in a three hour time span 4 pain relievers, as I had cramps and felt like shit. (OTC, for the record, but recommended dose is every 6-8 I believe.) Deciding a quick nap was in order I curled up on one of the chairs and slept for 3 hours.
Now I have to go out tomorrow and shop. Sons of bitches.
That's where it all stands at the moment. Pretty much as expected, I'd say. The sister and her Jew will be along tomorrow in the afternoon sometime. We'll watch It's a Wonderful Life on DVD and switch to NBC to re-watch the last few minutes again. I'll cry like a little bitch.
On Christmas morning we'll get up too early and open presents and start drinking before 11. By 8 on Christmas night we'll all be spent and watching holiday programming and picking at leftover Christmas cookies.


Carve the Turkey
Turn the ball game on
Mix margaritas when the eggnog's gone
Send somebody to the Quickpak Store
We need some ice and an extension chord
A can of bean dip and some Diet Rites
A box of tampons, Marlboro Lights
Haleluja everybody say Cheese
Merry Christmas from the family

Eat it. Just eat it.

Just a thought I was having last night when I didn't have Internets at home. (That has got to stop-SRSLY)
I was thinking about food. The relevance of food. Why I eat certain things at certain times. Food is the most intense emotional/memory trigger. That or maybe smell-so imagine what the smell of food must do.
ANYWAY-I was thinking specifically about fish tacos. And how that would've been good for dinner last night. Better than that mediocre store bought pizza. But it was Wednesday, and we eat spaghetti or pizza on Wednesday. It is the way things are done.
Why? Because Wed. is spaghetti night at Dano's (the local back home). And pizza is like spaghetti, in that it is an Americanized version of an Italian food. Also, I think that Wednesday was Prince Spaghetti Night in those old commercials. **Googles and confirms**
And that's why I eat spaghetti (or pizza) on Wednesday.
Sunday is family dinner night. Daddy loves to cook a large meat based meal and some unhealthy thing for afters. Despite the fact that I live alone I still cook a large meat based meal and come up with something for dessert. Because it's tradition.
Sandwiches.
As a youth I had to pack my lunch. Probably because I wouldn't eat that crap the cafeteria served. My prefered sandwich meats were salami, ham and corned beef. Your traditional, healthy, spiced meats. Slathered with mustard and horseradish and related bitter condiments. Enter adulthood and the Sandwich Boom of the late 90s and I was living on a pretty steady diet of Italian Subs or Corned Beef Sandwiches and the occassional Club to mix it up. (The Hot Sandwich Boom did not really hit Akron, OH. Or maybe I missed that food trend.) Upon moving to Nashville I learned 2 things. There are no Italians in this damn city and thus Italian Subs are disgusting and feature complete crap meats. Possibly because, how do you screw up corned beef and mustard on bread? The Corned Beef based items are pretty good. I know I should eat chicken or turkey or lean meats with no dressing-but gag me. That stuff isn't good. My arteries are clogging more every day.
Finally, fish tacos. Last spring's first NDE dinner out with Mik. The Rosepepper. Sangria Wine and Fish Tacos (grilled-that girl and her healthiness). I equate them with being alive. And the sister. Plus, if I remember correctly, I think they're mentioned specifically in the song she wrote for me about Baxter. She also wrote a song about pies. We love food, my family.
Other connections:
Sangria Wine=Jerry Jeff Walker
Boo Berry Cereal=A childhood dream realized
BLT=The Only True American Sandwich (c Stephen T. Colbert)
Jack Daniels=BR549
Jamesons=Black 47
Rice Cakes=The Monkees (no idea why)

So, see. Food=Culture=Memories=Happiness upon ingestion

Sure, some of my regular readers are thinking this would be a good time to talk about my birthday. It certainly would, but I have immediate and angsty issues to go into.
First of all, close to home, the truck needs $700-ish worth of immediate repair. Further, I get to ride public transport while the truck's in the shop! And the buses stop running by work at 5 and I have to work until 7 tomorrow. That means that I get the distinct honor of walking half a mile to an even less attractive part of the neighborhood and waiting for an hour for the late bus. The trip will only take about an hour and a half and two transfers. I'm seriously considering calling off.
Do you like my brand new huge happy hat? I bought it just for the occasion.
Actually, you know what? I'm so depressed about this situation that I can't even joke about it.
Fuck.
That's it.
I'm fucked and really don't have the strength to deal with it right now.

In Yr Libraries Pwning Yr Holidays

For two months I've been happily planning my five day Pagan Tree Ritual Holiday vacation. I'd been told in Oct-fucking-tober that we were off Thursday to Tuesday. So I planned to either go home after work grab a couple winks and then get on the road ass crack of pre-dawn early or head out right after I get off work and drive all night. That way I'd get to spend as much of the 5 days with my family as possible. Doesn't that sound idyllic and heartwarming?
Rumours began to circulate-in the form of books being due the Sat. before XMas, that Holmesian sense of observation of mine at work-that maybe we were open. Weird, no? Yes. Word then came down that we were so open on Sat. For a few moments I feel into a deep depression filled with images of me spending the biggest family day of the year alone watching my House DVDs and whimpering quietly into a bottle of bourbon and eating General Tso's Chicken straight from the box. But I am a go getter. So I called and requested the day off. I don't work for the library after all, I'm a fucking temp. That means I don't have to give up my holiday for work. See how that works? They give me no promises and in return they get no loyalty.

But-there's an upside. Yeah! I know! I'm shocked too! The woman I talked to at the agency said that all the words coming about me are good-she was damned friendly to me if I do say so myself. Like we were old chums from the day. It gives me the feeling that I will eventually get work. This impression at this job has been good. For once. Since I keep my stupid mouth shut most of the time. It all boils down to caring a lot or not caring at all. In my world those two things look almost exactly alike. I'm fun that way.

You're a bum you're a punk-You're an auld slut on junk

The place is clean and ready for guests. This would be awesome were it not for the fact that I'm not going to get guests for 4 days. I have to keep my apt. looking decent until Thurs. This is a betch. I am a messy person. 4 days of neatness isn't in my nature. I've just finished making dinner. The place is now akimbo. And it smells of pork chops and cabbage. Now I'll never have a clean house again until the next time I clean. Sadly, this will probably have to be Tuesday. Oh, the horror.

I'm having a bitch of a time writing the requested "House and Wilson never speak to each other again" fic. They keep speaking to each other! It's kind of hard to write an alienation fic when the characters refuse to alienate. In fact, they keep wanting to conjugate. It's all very depressing. If I can't do it, I apologize sincerely. It's not like me to fail to rise to a challenge.

Coupland has on a purty sweater. It's pink. Cuz he's Puppy Pritty Hairs. It gets better-it says "Who's Your Doggy?" on the back. It's very, very ghey. Ha ha! My dog has teh ghey! He tried to hate it, but he's warm. So he can't betch, even if he wants to. Which I'm sure he does.

Today I ventured to the most ghetto corner of ghetto-dom....the laundromat! Doo doo DOOM! I had to dry my blankets and a trip to the ghettomat took half an hour and cost three dollars. It was financially logical, so I did that thing. If I'd tried to dry that stuff at home I'd still be doing laundry. For realz. Then I went to Big Lots and switched out the water boiler thing-y that didn't boil water and bought some cleaning products. If I was any more exciting I'd probably need a show on HBO to cover how awesome I am.

TVLand's Merry-thon is love.

Here's another picture of something that is love



and there would be another if I was clever enough to get my pics from phone to computer.

Dear Abby, Dear Abby

Dear People of Nashville:

I don't like you. You don't like me. Let's cut the chit chat. Find the damn movies you want. Don't come to the desk until you're done looking. I'm only going to willingly make one trip. Any trips after the first will be conducted begrudgingly at best. I have arguments about the cause of Lenny Bruce's downfall to conduct on Internet message boards and your neediness is keeping me from my posts.

If you can't spell Barbie or Dora you shouldn't be on a computer. If you can't pronounce computer, you shouldn't be on a computer. If you don't know how to use a mouse, you shouldn't fucking be on a computer.

No, I will not have a 'blessed day.' You can have all the 'blessed days' you want. My day isn't blessed. I'm above ground and I'm glad for that, but thanks anyway, I'm not going to shout hallelujah with you. I'm busy reading a particularly smutty piece of fanfiction and the only references to G-d I want are those exclaimed in fits of ecstasy by the characters in the story.

I realize we've removed the soap from the men's restroom. One bad apple has to ruin it for eveyrone. This does not mean that we do not want you using soap at home. I highly recommend use of soap, on a regular basis. In large quantities. It's not just for washing your mouth out anymore! Try it on your clothes and your body! You'll be amazed how many more people are willing to be in your general vicinity.

On a related note-it's called deodorant. Look into it.

Thing is, I've got nothing to lose. So, if you're going to be a raging bitch at me-guess what? I'm under no obligation to put up with it. So consider that the next time you want to laugh in my face-because I may not be as imposing as the women you're used to-but you don't know anger until you've met a MidWestern Italian-Irish Woman Scorned. Trust me on this one.

Please don't interrupt me when I'm watching House/Wilson videos on mute. I'm in my happy place and I don't want it sullied by your request for the key to the toilet. Just take the key and leave me alone.

In case there's still any question-I don't like you. I like money so I keep showing up but I'm not going to be your friend and I don't want to hear your life story or even, for that matter-what you think about the weather we're having. Leave me alone and I will continue to ignore you. This will keep the universe in balance.

Sincerely not yours
me