Monday, October 30, 2006

A view inside my head

Not dwelling on the eye thing, but this afternoon, after a few days of relative peace, stuff started happening again with my eye. All the injection points have come back to haunt me with vivid bubble-like manifestations in my vision. They move as my eye moves, which brings on the waves of nausea like nobody's business. I've drawn a crude representation of what I see with the bubbles - some of them black spots, others colorless (which I've represented as white here):

I'm not sure what intensifies the sensation, but it mucks with me something fierce. Makes driving to work even more of a bitch than usual. (As if DC traffic wasn't bad enough.)

On another note - my upstairs neighbors have received a letter from the condo office based on my complaints about the Tourettes-like stream of obscenities screamed by Angry Indian Doctor when he's home. And is he ever pissed. Around 10 tonight, after the first blissfully quiet evening in months, he screamed "AAAAAAARRRRG! I DON'T WANT TO BE QUIET!" He ran out, slammed the door, raced to his car and drove away like a bat out of hell.

Too bad. Welcome to the world outside of medical school, doc. It's a world with other people in it.

I'm betting he's a surgeon-in-training. He has the arrogance for it.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Dreaming is Whacked, Dudes

I've had plenty of odd dreams in my day, like, say, the one where my dead father appeared to me on an English beach and presented me with my uncle, telling me "he just got here." (I didn't know at the time that my uncle had just actually died.)

Then, there was the one with the road trip in the VW microbus to the kingdom led by
Alfred E. Neumann in an emerald castle (where he had been overthrown by the evil queen Sharon Stone and her mad scientist beau, Arnold Schwarzenegger.) That's the same one where Roman centurians drank beer with Jesus (he was tied to a cross as he stood next to the town fountain - the Romans lifted the beer to his lips.) And disabled Vietnam vets siphoned the gas out of my VW. Aaaand my friends and I ended up at a radio supply store in Siberia (Radio Shakski?) looking for an antenna for one friend to attach to her Wilton cake mold radio to contact her husband in New York. The dream ended when my friend was kidnapped by an evil dentist (who looked like Thomas Dolby on a very, very bad day, indeed) and the building burned to the ground.

Interesting side note: that friend of mine had a dental appointment in Manhattan the next day, but it was cancelled due to a fire in the building. Go figure.

Lately, my mother has been appearing in my dreams, and she's been doing something unusual: talking. See, my mom hasn't spoken in my dreams since she died. Until now. And when she appears now, it's always in the form of a benevolent figure, helping me, watching me, playing board games with me. In one recent dream, I had a broken toe, but the doctor, in looking at the x-ray, was able to determine that I actually had some evil form of cancer. (How's that work, Mr. Science? Dunno, kids. Ask my subconscious mind!) Next thing I know, I'm waking up in recovery, some vital parts of me missing, but with my mom sitting at the foot the bed, looking younger than I remember, but smiling and asking me how I was doing.

When I woke from that dream, I thought of my mother, sitting day after day by my father's hospital bed as he died. She kept a notebook with her to write down any words he said. The last thing she had written down in the notebook was my name. I have always wondered if he regretted how mean he had been to me in his final years? My father had not been kind to me over that last handful of years. Though I was seventeen at the time, I still physically cringe when I think of how he scathingly laughed at me when he heard my high school boyfriend had come out of the closet. "What did you do to him to turn him gay?" was my father's comment. I've never forgotten it. I've also never had a boyfriend since. My relationships with men have been colored by self-doubt, a desire for approval, and a belief that guys who might want to date me somehow must have some deep flaw.


Let me review the guys who've wanted to date me.


Majorly, majorly flawed.

Trust your instincts, Luke!

Where was I? Oh yeah, dreams.

I slept horribly last night, thanks to the freaks upstairs, who decided that vacuuming and putting together furniture were appropriate activities to start at 10:45 p.m. When I went up to ask them to stop, please god stop, the chiquita says to me, "Oh, come on! It's Friday night. Get real." I hate these people. I really do. I'm considering putting a CD of bad Russian pop music in my old boombox and standing in front of their door tonight at midnight, holding it up and playing it a la John Cusack in "Say Anything"...

Last night's dream (which my friend the Austism Expert would tell me was simply a few seconds long) featured a move to Los Angeles.

It was, in truth an EPIC anxiety dream, just with a road trip twist.

Out of the blue, I accepted a job with a media company in L.A. called New Line of Horizon Cinema(hey, that's a lawsuit waiting to happen, new dream bosses!) I have no idea what my role was there, but I was excited that I was gonna be in L.A.

Problem? I hadn't told my current employers I was leaving. I just didn't show up one day. And suddenly, I was in Los Angeles, at my new office, but with no apparent duties. I just wandered around aimlessly. I kept thinking about my office back in DC, and how everyone probably thought I was dead. Worse, I'd left a pile of projects unfinished and unfathomable by anyone new. Great - they figured I was dead and incompetent!

Oy vey.

My new office had "togetherness" night once a week, organized by the boss and paid for by the company. There was even a communal room where everyone kept a pile of casual clothes to match whatever "togetherness" event was sprung on them. Tonight? Baseball! But I didn't want to go. I knew people in L.A. I wanted to see them all, but I'd forgotten to bring their phone numbers. (Of course.) I kept seeing the folks I knew in town, turning corners in the office building and then vanishing before I could get to them. I'd try to call their names, but was rendered mute with each attempt.

Classic anxiety crap. Textbook even.

Plus, I was still broke, just like in real life, yet I needed an apartment. So, I just drove around Los Angeles in an old van, unsure of how I'd get housing with no money and bad credit. Eventually, I came to the end of the road. Literally. The road ended and I was trapped between a couple of pickup trucks in grass along a small river, where a bunch of old Latino guys were fishing. No one spoke English, and I couldn't explain in Spanish that I needed out, and I had to get back to L.A. I pulled out my cell phone to call for help, and I figured I could call the Sasquatch or Javi to translate for me.

But my phone controls no longer made sense and my vision became so bad all I could see were blurs of light. I guessed on speed dial numbers, getting strangers over and over again. Eventually, though, I got the Sasquatch on the line. I was so relieved to hear his voice. But he was cold and aloof. I had left DC without telling him, either, and, miffed, he had moved on to new friends. I could hear him shrug over the phone. "Figure it out," he said. "I'm busy." (That is so not the Sasquatch.) And, of course, I'd left Javi's L.A. cell phone number back home...

The dream ended with me, penniless, homeless, and blind, sitting on top of my van in the tall grass, Los Angeles in the distant smog, my cell phone apparently useless, while happy old farts fished and chatted in animated Spanish.

My mother arrived, walking through the vibrant green blades. She smiled and spoke cheerfully: "See? I told you, you should have taken Spanish."

Thank you, wonders of the mind. You have to give me anxiety dreams with punchlines.

Wishing you random dreams with no anxiety at all,


Thursday, October 26, 2006

Well aged, like a pumpkin still on your porch in mid-November...

You know what I mean... a little desiccated, a little sad, but it had such promise until recently!

Okay, just kidding. But, seriously, I do need a facial like nobody's business. My skin could be used for sandpaper. If I win the lottery, I'm heading for my favorite little day spa.

Right after I cure cancer and achieve world peace, of course.

But I digress, as usual...

I've scanned in a few photos from the distant past. Back when I was a natural blonde.

I was born on the day after Halloween, 1965. Before seatbelts were mandatory. Before most people had color TVs. Before the moon landing. That's how I used to judge people's age: "Were you born before or after the moon landing?" Now, my point of determination is "Were you born before or after Star Wars?" (And I mean real Star Wars. 1977 Star Wars. Unedited to death by George Lucas 1977 Star Wars.)

Halloween 1966

So, since I will be even longer in the tooth next Wednesday, I offer you these images. Yeah, some of them are crooked. I just threw them in the scanner without taping them in place on the cardboard - I discovered that tape applied lightly to the backs of old photos still manages to tear them. Grrr.

Mom and me, Succasunna, New Jersey, 1965. (Yes, the name of the town is "Succasunna." Insert your own dirty joke here.)

No wonder I have had a lifelong Imelda Marcos-like fascination with shoes! (Except mine are all comfortable.)

Mom and me, Sandy Hook, New Jersey, 1966. Clearly this was before medical waste and needles became de rigeur for Jersey beaches...

My ability to sleep just about anywhere served me well during my years in the Soviet Union... This is in a car. Imagine driving around with your toddler on top of a cooler in a station wagon these days. We were tougher back then. Our playground equipment was built over cement.

If you have a kid or two (or five!) - or you are just a big kid at heart, I hope you have a very Happy Halloween, indeed. I'll be wearing my devil horns to work on Tuesday. There are some who have had to deal with me on some projects who probably think I wear them all year 'round...

Wait, wait, wait... it is Halloween after all. I can't leave you without something truly scary. Try this on for size: the horrors of junior high school amplified by the world's single worst haircut ever. I cannot believe anyone let me leave the house with this on my head. I'm warning you - this may scar you for life...





Here it comes...



You were warned.

Monday, October 23, 2006

I'm such a geek

I'm making an iTunes playlist to listen to on my drive to work. It's a mix of stuff from the 60s, 70s, 80s and today. Yes, that sounds like the overused tagline for a radio station, so sue me.

I've just put "Xanadu" in the mix. Yes, that Xanadu - the theme song to the movie that made me want to be coordinated enough to rollerskate and wear legwarmers and lots of Qiana. The same movie that combined Olivia Newton-John, ELO, Gene Kelly, and The Tubes. And roller skates.

Holy shit, someone must have been taking hits of acid when they came up with that.

And yet, I'm a terrible sucker for that soundtrack.

So, if you see some fat idiot singing along with Olivia Newton-John in her car at 8 in the morning on Wisconsin Avenue, that's me.

And I think it's time to add some Duran Duran to the mix.

God bless the iPod. Happy 5th birthday you little money-sucking "necessity" of the modern age.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Not Dead Yet!

But it was good to have a couple of days away from blogging. I haven't had much to talk about, other than my broken record litany of "broke/blind/broke/blind" and that gets awfully stale. (Oh, if my hair continues to fall out, I can add "bald" to the litany and make it a trifecta!)

In my time away from the Church of the Big Sky, I started drafting a more serious piece about my misgivings over a Hillary Clinton presidential candidacy, and I also pulled a few really old photos from my albums to share when I'm in scanning range tomorrow. In looking through my old photos, I recognized two things: 1)I haven't aged well; and 2)I have had some of the most hideous haircuts/styles in recorded history. This goes waaaay beyond the 80s uber-short hair, kids. I mean it. Sca-ry. (And since I don't want your eyes to melt like a Nazi in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" I'm not forcing those haircut photos on you, I promise.)

My birthday's coming up soon, and I'm feeling a bit melancholy about it. I'd hoped to have achieved more progress than I have at this point. This was supposed to be, to borrow a football term, a "building year" but instead, it's been thick with stumbling blocks and upheaval and brambles I haven't quite cleared. I am a walking disaster zone.

I need to find some momentum. I need a big kick in the pants. I need to become more focused on what I really want to do when I grow up.

And I need to spend some time at the ocean. I wish it wasn't quite so long a schlep to the shore from here. I just need some ocean time to clear my mind.

And a boyfriend.

I need one of those, too. (Dear god, do I ever!)

And a pony.

(Hey, I figured if I was getting into the realm of the impossible, might as well add the pony. A girl can dream, after all.)

Come to think of it, the pony's probably more realistic than the boyfriend at this point...

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Tough week. Brain full.

My eye isn't red anymore. My tooth is back in my mouth.

And I'm tired. Just tuckered, folks. Feeling a little overwhelmed.

So, I'm going to take a couple more days to recharge and breathe. And then, I'll be back.

See you soon!

Monday, October 16, 2006

You have got to be kidding!

So, I'm sitting here tonight, flossing my teeth, pondering the humiliation of filing for bankruptcy, but not neglecting my dental hygiene...

And what happens? One of my freakin' crowns pops off my left lower molar!! It actually made an audible POP. Good god.

Ka-ching! There's $250 I don't have. And an emergency call to the dentist in the a.m. And more time away from work. Time to send e-mail to my boss...

I think I'm just gonna go cry now. I have to wonder what ancient, angry god have I angered? There's some seriously bad ju-ju goin' on here.

Uh... should I finish flossing? Or just open a bottle of tequila and just crawl inside?

Somebody, please shoot me now!

Sigh... okay, I just can't leave you on this bizarrely bummerific note at the close of the weekend, so, without further ado, and for no other reason than I find them amusing, I give you... JACKALOPES!

Sleep well, kids. I guess it's off to the dentist with me tomorrow morning, asap...

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Better now. Really. (with added video goodness)

Okay, the eye is still sticky and hurts like hell, but at least the swelling has gone down considerably, and I no longer look like I have Pink Eye From Hell.

The Sasquatch shot this oh-so-fabulous video of me last night, in an echoing hallway next door to Philadelphia Mike's in Bethesda. (Where I had a cheesesteak with egg, mushroom and onion. Yum.)

With my hair pulled back, I kinda look like a bloated troll doll. And what's with the freaky puppet lock-jaw mouth movements? I think radio really is my future...

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Watch out, Paris Hilton!

Eye doc's office sez to wait a while longer and see if the symptoms fade. Of course, now I get to add "swollen eyelid" to the litany of interesting experiences of the day:

I guess now I can just sit back and wait for all those phone calls from all those hot guys who dig women with fabulous red, puffy eyes, right? Oh yeah, baby! Bring it on.

Now, here's a question for you. The Sasquatch says my eyes are brown. I've always been under the impression they are hazel, with a wider band of green surrounding brown. What do you say? Brown or hazel? (Note: while "red" may be a current color option, it's hopefully a fleeting one...)

When I'm feeling less funky, I'll tell you why Verizon is the Evil Dead and, believe it or not, Comcast is up for sainthood...

DJ Jazzy Puffy P-Liddy Merujo

Friday, October 13, 2006


I guess I'll be calling the retina guy tomorrow morning - if not sooner. The eye is getting progressively worse tonight. Dudes, this is freaking me out.

And the big black "puddle" floating in the back of my vision is making me seasick everytime I move my eye just a little bit.

Double-plus ungood.

One of these things just isn't the same...

Not to oog you out, but this shot felt, as I told the Sasquatch, "different." The fluid leaving the needle made a "puddle" in my eye with an unpleasant long "squiiiiiiik" sound to go with it. It also burned like a sonufabitch.

Within an hour, my eye had started to ooze funky gunk. Not pretty. Not cool.

Some of the things I'm supposed to watch for post-injection are: increased blurriness in vision (check), redness (check), discharge from the eye (check) and increased pain (feh, who can tell?!?)

I'm winnin' the jackpot tonight, eh? The flash actually makes the eye look less red than it is. Funny, huh? I actually have a camera that alievates red eye when I don't want it to! (And holy crap - my nose is HUGE!!! I mean, I knew I had a big nose, but DAMN! And why do my eyebrows look so strangely uneven. I swear to god, they were fine this morning.) Somebody remind me to put a brush through my hair before taking a picture. I'm not feeling good, sure, but I look like I've been sleeping off a bender somewhere...

I keep going back and looking at this photo. Could someone please call in Stacy and Clinton and Nick and Carmindy to save my ass?


Do they do house calls?

Eyeball Shot Today

Oof. Stress levels and nausea shot way up last night just thinking about the whole needle thang. Didn't help that I found a big piece of jagged broken plastic in my salad from the grocery store. If it isn't tainted spinach, it's jagged plastic, hmmm? Nothing says "Have a good evening!" like sharp garbage in your food. Mmmm. I called the grocery store to warn them, so they could pull the remaining salad, but I don't think the gent who answered really understood my issue. He just kept telling me it was "no problem... bring it in and we'll refund you." I really just wanted to help them stay out of "dead or injured customer" territory. Ah well!

So, I have to collect my syringe at the specialty pharmacy at lunchtime today. Each time, they draw the drug for me while I wait and give me the filled needles on ice. Huh. There's a holiday skating show you won't see Disney sponsoring this Christmas: Needles on Ice! (Not unless Disney's released a "Cinderella Meets a Smack-Addled Fairy Godmother" video at some point, and I really think I wouldn't have missed that one. Although I did read about the dirty video someone shot at EuroDisney with Minnie Mouse having simulated sex with other frolicking mascots. That sucker got ripped off YouTube pretty darn quick...)

I'll be freaked out and tired with my face painted orange around 2:45 today. Yippee! Many thanks to the Sasquatch for being my chauffeur. You rock, bubba.

On another - much more upbeat - note, happy belated birthday to my friend Keith, the Sole Inhabitant in Colorado, and happy birthday a day in advance to TMDR, who played a gig in Colorado last night, attended by, among other fine people, Keith the Sole Inhabitant.

It's a neat little flat earth we occupy, eh?

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Washingtonpithicus Spamarino

Last year, I signed up on just about every job hunting website out there. HotJobs, WashingtonJobs, Monster,, you name it. And, when my hunt was over, I closed out my accounts. I got hosed on one deal - I actually paid $100 to have a service forward my resume everywhere.

Bad idea.

All they did was share my resume and contact details with spammers and others who offered to, again, share my resume for a fee. What a load of donkey dung.

One of these bottomfeeder organizations continues to contact me. I've tried to unsub from their service so many times, it's ridiculous. And, yet again today, I got another message from them. It's always the same name at the bottom of the e-mails - a chick named Jessica who probably doesn't exist.

But the salutations get more and more interesting. They haven't gotten my name right once. Here is today's offering:

"Hi Country

Based on your background and experience, we believe that you may be interested in one or more positions recently posted by our corporate clients in Maryland..."

Hi Country?

What the hell?

That is the saddest spam I've received in ages. What strange boobery. If I didn't know it would keep me on their spamroll for years to come, I would definitely write back:


I'm desperately offended by your misspelling of my name. I wouldn't possibly accept a job with an organization that sloppy and unprofessional!


Continent P. Hemisphere, Esq.
(The "P" stands for "peeved.")

?Donde esta all the smart, witty spammers, eh? Still looking...

Monday, October 09, 2006

An Open Letter to Madonna

Dear Madonna,

I know you're busy these days, hanging on a cross and falling off horses and wrapping mystical red string around the world, but I wanted to bend your ear for a minute. I heard through the celebrity poop scoop grapevine that you're currently scouring Malawi for an orphan to adopt. While I know it's all the rage for celebrities to fly out to Africa and bring home a living, breathing souvenir, may I make an alternative suggestion?

Adopt me.

No, I'm serious, hon. I am currently without parents, broke and in need of some mothering, and I'd make a delightful addition to any family.

Here's the lowdown:

First off, I'm a fan, Madonna. Really. I liked "Truth or Dare." (Okay, I'm still trying to figure out why you hated Kevin "Neat" Costner so much - I mean, that was BEFORE "Waterworld" and the alleged creepy sexual hijinks in that spa in Scotland.) I even offered my services to the U.S. Embassy Moscow Cultural Section when you were going to take your (aborted) trip to Russia to premiere the movie back in the day. I wore the big bows in my hair and ridiculous sock/shoe combinations in the 80s because of you. Hell, I still feel bad about your break-up with Sean. I even paid to see "Shanghai Surprise." I think, quite possibly, you owe me.

Let's look at the advantages of adopting a 40-year-old woman... I'm potty trained already. There's one area that you simply won't have to worry about. I'm a big kid now! I also speak and write American English fairly well, so your nanny (or Guy or whoever) won't have to go through years of effort for me to master the lyrics to "Papa Don't Preach" or "Like a Prayer." (I guess a kid wouldn't have to read much to peruse "Sex" though...) My Internet savvy will easily translate to deliciously sycophantic blog entries raving about your Kabbalistic goodness and the brilliance of not only your current tour, but your children's books and your uncanny ability to stay up on a slippery stage cross in stacked heels.

After a year living in London, I can do a passably awful English accent, just like you! We're both lapsed Catholics, and we make questionable fashion choices on a regular basis. And hey - you're from the Midwest, I'm from the Midwest! We have so much in common already!

Look, I can't lie. I see this adoption deal as being mutually beneficial. I could give you love and loads of attention on a blog read by fives and tens of people daily. (Lord knows, you can't get that kind of publicity anywhere else!) And you don't even have to deal with me on a regular basis. Maybe a shout out once every few months... In exchange, all I ask is that all the moolah you'd be spending on high end Melrose Avenue baby boutique clothing and toys go to the fund to keep my computer and car after I file bankruptcy. My car is butt ugly, old and has 91,000 miles on it, but I love it, and it gets me to the coffee shop and work. And the computer? Oh hell, me without a computer will be bad. Just bad. Let's face it - my financial problems would be entirely wiped out by what you'd be spending on decorating a nursery, Mo baby. For real, sister.

Look, I already have red string in my sewing kit, so I can accessorize myself Kabbalah style the moment you give this deal the thumbs up. I'm in the book. You can call me any old time.

I hear that Guy isn't all that keen on you adopting a baby anyway. So, I may be your best option.

Now, if you're really in Malawi simply to pour your money into helping kids in crisis and communities affected by AIDS, famine, you name it, then good for you, Madge. Just reconsider your desire to have Kabbalah 4 Kids added to those little ones' curriculum, okay? Life is tough enough without having yet another religion pressed upon you in exchange for knowledge and food and a roof over your head.

But, just in case, I'll be waiting to hear from you.



Friday, October 06, 2006

Mexican Hairless

Two things before I turn in this evening. I'm saving the freaky thing for last, so feel free to skip ahead if you don't want to read my Blogger crankfest...

In an aborted attempt to access the beta version of Blogger a few weeks back, I accidentally deleted "Merujo's Kitchen" and, whaddya know? Some scumbag spambot loser has taken over the Merujo's Kitchen blogspot account. I am beyond appalled to see my moniker attached to something with nonsense text about "mexico indian casino new." Hey, blogcreep! You stink!

But if anyone wanted to see the old recipes from Merujo's Kitchen (that kinda went nowhere), I'd copied all the entries over to a Wordpress account. Just an archive at this point.

But dang, I'm really steamed about my name being connected to stupid placeholder crap. If the dude that squatted on the url actually had an e-mail addy, I'd smack him hard, simply for lacking any class.


And now for something completely different: my latest adventure in Things That Freak Me Out.

I'm trying to be calm about this.

I just got out of the shower. In said shower, while washing my hair, handfuls of my hair came out in my fingers. Holy shit! I don't mean a few strands. I mean, noticeable handfuls of long hair. Shower aborted, I wrap up in a towel, go to the computer, and hit Google hard.

Turns out one of the common side effects of my eyeball drug is... drumroll please... hair loss.

Hair loss.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

But, Merujo, you say, duh! It's a CANCER DRUG. This should not be a surprise.

And yet, it is.

And all I can say is, I'm not sure how many more surprises I can handle at this point.

My hair is just past shoulder length. Do I cut it? Do I just wait and see how many big hanks of it fall out before it becomes noticeable?

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Oh, and apparently, the wretched heartburn I've been having virtually every night is a common side effect too.

Is it too late for another glass of Australian red?


Wrapped in a towel and slightly numb,


One more down, who knows how many to go...

Went to the Eye Guy today. I have another shot next Friday. Friday the 13th. Whoo-hoo. Man, I hate those shots. Really do. After I pick it up at the "exotic pharmacy", I'll take a nice photo of the syringe on ice for y'all. It's so elegant, nestled in my fridge overnight next to the pears and carrots.

Drove home this afternoon in the pouring down rain with one eye dilated. I drove like an old lady in a big ol' Cadillac. Slow and bizarrely over-careful. I get a little freaked out driving in rain now. I'm a bit concerned about how I'll do once we get snow and ice. Then again, I may not have a car by then, bankruptcy and all. Then, it'll be me negotiating the slick hill from my building to the bus stop to get to the Metro. Yes, my life is all glamour, isn't it?

Angry Indian doctor upstairs is screaming at his girlfriend again, so I've abandoned the living room for the computer, a headset, iTunes, and a glass of chilled Yellow Tail shiraz-grenache. (Hooray for Australian wine!) I know, it's wrong to drink my red wine chilled, but it's the way I like it. I'm a total groundling, but it's making me happy tonight.

The neighbor's girlfriend locked herself out of the apartment, and he's pissed off that she didn't answer the phone when he called, and she didn't pick him up at the Metro. I guess a mile walk home in the rain turned him into the Hulk. "Don't get me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry..." I'd run into the girlfriend in the laundry room earlier, and I offered to drive her to the Metro, but she turned me down. She looked nervous and skittish. Usually, she's just standoffish and rude. I guess I got to see the other side tonight. If he keeps yelling, I will call the police. My tolerance for verbal abuse is virtually nil, and Angry Doc may get a surprise tonight.

Lord, let me win the lottery. I will buy a house on some acreage, play my 80s music really loud, and never listen to domestic abuse ever again.

Suddenly, it's quiet again. Just me and my nice glass of wine, served in one of my parent's old blue pressed glass goblets. Mom and Dad used them for orange juice. I think they were some sort of premium from the local Jewel grocery store. This is the first time I've ever used one of them. Until tonight, I've just opened the cabinet, looked at the glasses and thought, "Those are Mom's." Not mine to use.

It's not like they're valuable. Seriously, I think they were something like $.89 a piece with a $10 grocery purchase. It's just that they remind me of a home that no longer exists.

Well, tonight, it's a wine glass, and it's mine, in my half-assed, thin-walled, rented crackerbox. And, ya know what? Chilled Aussie red wine is tasty. Even served in a half-assed, thin-walled, rented crackerbox.

Now, what red wine goes best with tuna on whole wheat? I'll have to ponder this...

Monday, October 02, 2006

Pondering my creative money-making options...

It is with regret I write that personal financial disaster looms large on the horizon. Although, I have to say, if you're going to have to live on Ramen noodles (mmm, heavens, they're salt-a-riffic!) at age 40, might as well go all out:

"Well, you see... I had to live off of credit cards for months and months after being accused of being an axe murderer last year... and this year, karma has determined it would be a good time to go blind!"

Hey, seriously, if you've gotta go over the falls in a barrel, do it in style, no?

So, I'm working on creative ways to bring in more income. Since the walls in my apartment building are too thin to facilitate a second career as a phone sex operator, I'll have to work on quieter funding options. Yes, I'll have t-shirts and mousepads and trucker hats and thongs available shortly on CafePress, but after the 4.5 of you fine folks buy those, I'm likely SOL on that front! I am going through my extensive backlog of travel photographs (plus my late night neons and such) and I will be making actual photo postcards to sell, perhaps on or perhaps directly on this or another website. The postcards will have actual photos on the front and a real postcard back. I'll likely sell them in groupings, say "Neon Lights" and "Thailand" and "Mutha Russia" and "England" with mix sets, too.

Just recently, I purchased some beautiful postcards here at work - international shots by one of our great photographers and it started me thinking. No, I'm not a great photographer. Dear lord, no. But I just enjoyed sending postcards that weren't stale and crappy pieces of tourist stuff. I liked the thought of sending off a little art to someone. I've had the advantage of traveling to a good many funky places in the past twenty years, and I have some photos that really ring my bells. Maybe they'll appeal to some other folks, too. We shall see... I'm trying to find an old postcard rack somewhere so, if I can start selling stuff at local craft fairs, I have a decent display unit.

I'm also designing my own rubber stamps, so I can create my own line of handcrafted greeting cards - and possibly sell my stamps in a local craft store or two. I need to finish working on the stamp designs and clean them up. My world for a Wacom tablet!! Some of the designs I'm working on will appeal to the more rotund among us - zaftig mermaids and curvy angels and devils.

But I'm so damn tired lately, thanks to Mr. Eye. Very honestly, I understand why glaucoma patients get relief from medical marijuana. What I'm experiencing is likely just a fraction of their nausea and pain, and it's pretty miserable. But I'm going to keep my head up. Only way to go forward. I'm going to continue pondering creative ways to bring home the bacon (or at least, the hooves and snouts) and make this work.

One way or another, I will.

Right now, I have to figure out what to put on the back of the CafePress t-shirts. I'm considering:

"4.5 loyal readers can't be wrong!"

"Ask me about hookers with hand puppets!"

"Devilishly good" (will make sense with the front image)

"Riding the bullet train to Hell, one post at a time..."

"See you in Hell. All the best people will be there!"

"Random goodness since 2005."

"Just another weirdness magnet for peace"

I'm considering putting some of my photos on shirts, too, including the "Giant Foo" photo. I like that more and more. I could add "I'm with..." to the top of the Giant Foo image. Heh heh heh...

Suggestions gladly accepted.

Yours in determined feistiness,


Sunday, October 01, 2006

Please make them go away

I would like these people to go away. Right now.

Yeah, you know them. The roof dancers. And I want them to fall off. NOW.

It's really super that you can get a mortgage for under $1,698 a month, but what does dancing on your roof have to do with it? Are they "over the moon" about their low interest rates? Aren't they afraid of falling off that sloped, shingled roof? Do their new neighbors just totally hate them yet? (Lord knows, I do.)

"Honey, Mr. and Mrs. are up on the roof dancing again. Get me my .12 gauge."

Oh wait! Here they are again!

This time, it's a minimalist "Apple iPod"-ish ad. Hey! Young professionals with disposable income! Yeah, you! White guy who does weird "butt stick out" dance and girl with long beaded braids! You dig hip music and luv the Internet! We can help you buy a house! Whoo-hoo! Right now!!


Some ad campaigns must die. This is one of them. Stop dancing across my friggin' screen!


Wait. Looks like Mr. and Mrs. got a pet!

When the dancing baby arrives on the scene, somebody shoot me.