Yeah well

so there.

This Just In

AP, London, 12:47 GMT--ROWLING TAKES BOOK 7 IN A WHOLE NEW DIRECTION

Famed and pretty-haired Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling has revealed that she's tired of the whole Voldemort thing. "Really, I love this kid. I can't kill him off. And his friends? Well, what's life without your friends?"

The final book will be mostly about candy and sitting around by the fire with your cat(s).

"'[title deleted to protect the innocent]' will be something butterscotchy, or maybe a nice hot chocolatey drink," the lassie is currently claiming.

"Really, who doesn't love some chocolately delight?" she smiles, and stares off out the window.

"What will happen to Voldemort?" she says, repeating a green reporter's question while the others glare at him. "Oh, I don't know, maybe a retirement home or a clerk's job at Tesco. Any ideas?"

Children the world round reacted with befuddlement, then shrugs.

"I like butterscotch," said Southhampton tike Isobel Tannings. "I can live with this."

You may finally go about your Christmas business

"A Christmas Story" was FINALLY on AMC this weekend. It's taken forever, just going to show how our country is totally going to heckville in a handbasket, if I can't see "ACS" on cable till 9 days before the birth of our Lord.

(OK, so He was really born in April, and the Roman Catholics euhemerized the date from the pagans to say "LOOK! WE have a solstice holiday too! Hey, nice tree ..." Stop trying to ruin my fun.)

Maya has arrived!

8:03 pm last night, 6 pounds even, everybody doing well! W00t!!!

Teeny little girl
Long-awaited, goopy start
What a life to come!

Congrats and mucho mucho love to Chris and Audrey.

Waiting

waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting



with bated breath

The Man on the Street

If I'm walking to work at the appropriate time, I always pass the same man heading down the street. His face is slack and bespectacled; his eyes look worn, sad and empty. I could describe him further, but the things I would say have led me to wonder: How would I feel to be described in that way? To have my shape be the first thing people say to indicate who I am?

So I pass him and wonder where he's coming from and where he's going to. Today he was wearing a knit hat and jacket, which made me realize it had been a long time since I saw him last. He has the look of someone struggling through an unpleasant or meaningless life, who is only present enough anymore to drag himself through it every day. Like he's taking care of an ailing mother or wife who does nothing but Ask and Berate and Ask Some More. In fact, the sadness in his eyes seems to be more the echo of sadness, given way now to emptiness and distant memory.

I hope I'm wrong.

*snrrx*

Have you ever been so tired you feel like you've been sandwiched between two wet mattresses all day, covered in stretched-out gum, your innards drained of every iota of energy that ever might have existed inside you, like a Guinness factory after a visit by Colin Farrell?

And that's just from having a party last night. Imagine if I worked down at the docks.

Just don't spill your beer on my pants

Last week I was walking past a restaurant and heard "Southern Cross" playing. It made me think of songs that you just start singing and sit-dancing to when your friends are around, songs that make you lean toward your comrades when you sing them, songs that everyone knows the words to whether they actually liked the stuff or not. Usually they're songs you learned because your older brother and his friends were listening to them when you were a kid, or they came out when you first reeeeally liked a boy/girl in high school and that song just spoke to you, or when you were in college and had started drinking.

So I trolled friends to see what songs they thought fell into this category, and here are the results, for your jamming pleasure.

PAUL

• Roxanne
• Shout (from Animal House)
• You Spin Me Round Round

and personal favorites:

• Burning Down The House
• Don't You Forget About Me

KIRT:

• It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine).
  Don't ask me to remember all those words, though. I never did get all of that, so I just mumble along and occasionally shout out something like "LEONARD BERNSTEIN!"
• Psycho Killer by Talking Heads
• Rio or Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran.

and just because it's fun to sing cheesy songs...

• Open Arms or Oh Sherrie by Journey
• Photograph or Rock of Ages by Def Leppard

When you're drinking, a lot of bad music sounds great, so this could go
on forever. I'm having fun bouncing around Wikipedia, though. Remember
"Peek-a-Boo" by Siouxsie and the Banshees?

BLAKE

• Everybody Wants to Rule the World
• In the Air Tonight
• Black Water
• Born in the USA
• Sweet Home Alabama
• American Pie (but only the chorus, I can never remember the verses)

KEV (a karaoke king of Ozzieland!)

• Come On Eileen
• Bohemian Rhapsody
• Ke-San (If you are an Australian)
• Billy-Jean
• Shoop Shoop Diddy Wop Cumma Cumma Wang Dang
• Hotel California
• Summer of 69
• Living on a Prayer
• Cocaine
• Sweet Child of Mine
• You Shook Me All Night Long
• ABBA Waterloo, SOS, Rock Me, Dancing Queen, etc. etc.
• Twist and Shout
• Twistn. Shake it shake it shake shake it, Baby (the blues Brothers)
• Am I ever going to see your face again? (another Aussie classic)
• Sweet Home Alabama (if you come from there)
• Rock Lobster
• American Pie
• Jack and Diane
• Black Velvet
• We are the Champions
• 2 out of 3 aint bad
• Paradise by the Dashboard Lights
• New York New York
• I did it My Way
• Time Warp
• Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting
• Imagine
• Rebel Yell & White wedding
• Raw hide
• Proud Mary
• I'm a believer
• More than a feeling
• I was made for loving you, Baby.

CHRIS H
The Golden Girls theme song is the only song I sing while
drinking with friends.

Dana
The first time I ever got drunk, I sang that "Radio Ga-Ga" song
(can't remember the exact title). It was on MTV and I sang it at the
top of my lungs over and over again, annoying everyone at the party.

JEN M
Has anyone mentioned The Devil Went Down To Georgia?
Que Sera Sera? Or S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y Night by the Bay City Rollers?

KARLA
YMCA - Village People!

And to close the night out, Blake once again
The whole 'songs to drink by' email chain has been extremely enjoyable for me....bringing up loads of old and very funny memories.

There's another one...'Memory'

Snow

Gideon stopped and looked at the tree. She didn't know what had made her put the orange donkey at the top, but there it was. "The outdoor tree," her mother had called it. "Why was that?" asked Simon. Gideon looked at him while she brushed snow off her mittens. "Maybe because it's outside," she said. "Ah," he said, never noticing the look on her face. She wondered if his glasses would steam up if she kissed him.

So tie-tie

Probably no one (of the 5 regular readers) is even checking here anymore, but here I am, tired and busy, which is good stuff. Having a Christmas party this weekend. More than 20 people! W00t!

Tidbits of the past few weeks:

• Daniel Craig is hot stuff
• Dumbledore taught Transfiguration; does that mean he was an animagus?
• Old Navy fleece is crap
• In Florida, there was a crafte faire
• Otter is on Prozac
• The other cats are not
• Cornell alumni need to vote for trustees this spring
• I'm off to buy boughs and other Noelly things.
  

Sweetest girl.

This is Mercy, and I adore her. I go into Ithaca Grain and Pet Supply just to see her. They discovered recently that she has cancer in her jawbone, which can be pretty painful. She has still been acting really good, though, eating pretty well, visiting customers, talking, purring.

I saw her last Thursday, and went back in today just, of course, to see her. I couldn't find her, and worried a little, but she was still so good Thursday. When I had the chance to ask the woman working, though, she told me the sad news. "She passed Friday night," Sarah said, really sad herself.

Mercy was 18 and just a wonderful, sweet, quietly friendly cat. I am so glad and so lucky to have known her. As my friend Tom said when Chewie died, slightly amended here, "Thanks for sharing your life with me, little girl. I'll miss you."

Ergh.

I was woken up by the sounds of gunfire this morning.

No, I don't live in a bad area.

Just the deer do.

ODE TO JOY

OH the monkey joys
we have shared together, Boof
Miss your sunny smile!

But fear not, Buttum
Forever will we be one
Monkey, Donkey, PIE.

Happy muffins, FuzzyDave

That's RIGHT ...

I'd forgotten: Whilst the lovely Elly was staying with us last week, I came out one morning to find the CO detector pulled out of its wall socket and lying on the floor, which I thought was a really odd thing for a cat to do. How they ever got it out I have no idea. Maybe it was a joint effort. I still wonder if one of the humans did it in their sleep.

But the detector that was right next to the heater never went off. Too close to the floor? Possibly. Of course, I held it right over the vent in my bedroom the other day when I was worried, and nada.

They came and took the heater out of the wall this morning so they can fix it and replace it. How keen am I on having the same heater back again? Norman may become my very best friend.

I do have a fireplace, but I'm scareder than ever to have a fire in there. And Norman said he sure wouldn't trust it to be properly upkept after all this. One of my heaters could be an anomaly; two that are completely unconnected and unrelated to each other? That's something else. I have half a mind to go knocking on my neighbors' doors to warn them.

(The heaters are like those units in hotel rooms that have the ac/heat buttons and the knob for warmer/cooler. Totally self-contained.)

Gas Man (a la Jazz Man?)

The day I moved into this apartment, almost a year ago, I called the landlords about a smell I feared was natural gas. Mr. Landlord popped in and said he didn't smell anything, but that his sniffer ain't so great either. He didn't think there was a problem. I feared I was overreacting and carried on, still always worried.

Finally, last Thursday, I called NYSEG to ask if that sweet smell was OK. Their answer was along the lines of HOLD ON, SOMEONE WILL BE RIGHT OVER! I actually laughed. But around 7, Norman arrived.

And found a leak in the living room heater.

Well.

Now it turns out there was more to the problem than Norman found. Handyman T replaced the "whole heater" today. I walked in afterward and ... really really smelled gas. Handy T had checked everything thoroughly and not gotten any readings from his gas detector, so maybe it was something that happened during the changeout, but ...

See, the house next door to my parents' exploded a few years back. Yeah. Exploded. A guy was clearing bushes (hired to, not randomly roaming the neighborhood), and the roots must have been wrapped around a gas line everyone thought was shut off. The missus was home and somehow survived mostly unscathed, but the house was gone in like 5 minutes. Cracked our foundation and some walls, too, and made our siding look like crinkle-cut fries.

So you can follow the trail to my not being so comfortable with gas.

Now I won't turn it on until Norman comes back and smells the same things I smell and says it's OK. He is supposed to be here 7ish, which is now. I felt groggy till about noon this morning, so I am kinda concerned. The cats seem OK, but you never know.

NORMAN!!!

8:52 p.m.
Add carbon monoxide to the list.

That's right! Can I get a "radon!" from the house?

Gas is shut off to the heaters. So it's cold in here. Yes. Melissa offered their guest room, but packing up the cats is .... well it's something. So as long as we're safe here, and Norman ASSURED me we are (though he was pretty sure of that last Thursday too) ... space heaters? Well, the one time I plugged one in here, the wall outlet got hot. GOOD TIMES. Maybe I should rent that room ...

So I would like to make this funny but my hands are cold. What the landlords are going to do now I don't know. Norman recommended replacing the heaters. *Shite.*

SWEET DREAMS!!

TARGET KNOWS WHAT'S
GOOD FOR YOU

TARGET KNOWS ALL

Think they're so big.

Where do toasters get off telling me how I want my toast? NO, if I PUT IT BACK IN AGAIN, I WANT IT DARKER, you presumptuous little snit.

Getting all uppity since they got their cancel button and all.

(That said, the one I have now really rocks. Can't diss little red magic there.)

It's a Law

Whenever someone says, "You really need to get out more," you are obligated to laugh.

W00T!

Freedom fried birthday
Maybe this year you will meet
Mit Romney. Monkey!

Kitties! Kitties! Cats!
OH MY GOD THEY’RE EVERYWHERE
HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAWK!


... man.

HALLOWEEN!

(That's all I have time for right now.)

At Dusk

When Jericho came out the door, he turned west and started on. Every time he saw a child, he hopped. The children tucked their heads down a little and pretended they were trying not to smile, but they always did. The parents never saw, because they didn't know where to look. But the children did. Some turned to watch Jericho pass, and did a little hop of their own before turning their eyes to the rest of their afternoon.

It was late afternoon.

Jericho stopped at the edge and watched as the snow started to fall. Big, fat, slowly spinning flakes at the edge of the world. A blue world, blue and white, trees tall and dark against the gloaming. Jericho closed his eyes and breathed it in, smelled it all in. The wolf loped up beside him then and nuzzled his right hand. Jericho squatted down and ruffed the fur around his neck. The wolf kept silent and followed him the rest of the way to Tansy's.

Inside, there were wizards. Just two, but there they were, all wizarded out. Jericho raised a curious eyebrow as he passed them on the way to his seat. They watched back, wary. He suppressed a smile and settled in the corner, hood up, waiting.

She was made of water and bits of glass and was one-third dragon, and was on a long quest for a man in a kilt.

Season 3

Take what loving humans has done to Sharon, Sharon and Caprica Six, and then what loving Col. Tigh has Ellen doing. Different? Same? Discuss.

Harry Potter thoughts; maybe sorta spoilery if you've never read it or heard anything about it while you're living in your cave there in Tajikistan

I have started to wonder more about the whole Snape double-agent thing. I still believe he's on our side and all. But I worry about his getting caught. Listening to the audiobook for HBP--Chapter 2, Spinner's End--I wonder what will happen if a Death Eater ever asks him how the Order found out about what was going on at the Ministry when Harry went running off there. Or if they ask Harry. Unless Snape is already ready with a lie, I can see that fraction of a second when he is caught off guard, and I don't necessarily see him surviving it.

Then I also wonder about Voldemort's being a legilimens and how Snape could be so good at occlumency as to convince the most evil wizard ever that he is indeed on the guy's side.

Then I wonder what the hell accent Bellatrix and Narcissa are supposed to have.

For Chris: More bad poetry

The sky is full of tears this day
grey with sad thoughts
or its memories of home

From 'neath their white canopies
soupmongers and burritowallas ply
the panoply of the town's wares
I inside remaining, olives in hand
dreaming of home.


(I don't think that's the proper usage of "ply," but I liked it anyway.)

Dance of the Elements

Sun-drizzled water accents my world
dapple dripple trickle true
I reach down in reverence
touching the fall.
Finger to forehead:
Baptism.



*snork* no, no, not really! Well, sorta, but no.

Lo, this Amy Jo

A good friend is having a pituitary cyst removed Friday morning at 7:30. This amounts to brain surgery.

*praying*good thoughts*fingers crossed*hugging friends*etc.*

Who should play me in the movie

1. Helena Bonham-Carter
b. Natalie Portman
3. Beyonce
4. (insert name here)

No kidding!

This will shock you right out of your pants. I guarantee it. And by “guarantee” I mean “am not even remotely responsible for any actual manifestation of that sentence.”

I have decided to stop looking. For a guy. Right now. Yes I'm serious.

Who am I and what have I done with Cree? you ask. I do not blame you. Was she kidnapped by hobos? For this has all the markings of a hobo plot, you say.

I do not believe so, I reply. I cannot bring myself to believe that the hobos would be so insidious. And also I have not seen any around.

Primarily I have realized that I am evolving into the person I have always wanted to be (after 1. Hedda Gabler, 2. Tom Brokaw and 3. Steve), and I really want to just enjoy this Cree and her Amazing Dancing Bears of Life right now. Can you believe it? Seriously? But I am so happy! While I've spent the past year in a state of anxiousness about finding someone NOW, FINALLY, I realize it wasn't sitting just right.

It could be said that a soap dish brought home the epiphany (and not hobos, for they eschew soap, except at their thrice-a-year hootenannies)(unless it was the OTHER kind of hobos). The other day I looked at the moldy soap dish in my bathroom and thought, I am so happy I don’t have to worry about cleaning that soap dish right now, after all. And that kind of stopped me right there. I’m happy I don’t have to worry about some guy seeing a soap dish? Huh. How 'bout that.

So, yes, some events of late have brought on this turnabout, and it feels amazing, like I’ve finally Arrived and Stopped. No more wishing, wanting, watching the turn of every corner. I am changing, evolving, becoming; I believe I am done unfolding, and am now basking (or basketing) in the light of the warm sun. THIS is right. I have reached what is right. I am All I Want To Be and More, and it’s time right now to let that grow, to enjoy this person I have become.

This time, I choose for real. The message from the gods is clear, but it's not like I'm just giving in to them. I have reached the decision on my own, which is the way you always have to do it. I have other things to do. So many other things to do! My life is full and brimming and bright and new, and I am full of gratitude and ready to live it without the anxiousocity of wishing, wanting, looking for More. I feel like I’m on the best part of my favorite roller coaster. Bring me the boys you want me to meet, that’s fine; they can see how great I am and then wait. Now I feel no pressure. And I also feel like I am actually, finally part of the world, not just skirting its edges watching everyone else live for real. That is huge.

Here I am, world. I am 100% me. I am one sweet hot ticket. You can look, but you can’t touch.


Here’s a fun allegory for the past 6 months:

Cree goes up to the window of the prep kitchen where everyone else she knows has gotten their Amazing Wonderful Meal to Last a Lifetime (They Hope). She says, I’m ready for dinner, please. The kitchen gods say No.

What do you mean, “No”?

Uh-uh.

Um, guys? Little help here? I'm hungry.

Nope.

Everyone else has theirs!

NO!

COME ON! I know it's time!

OK, FINE. *shove plate into pass-through.* Here.

WOO --Wait. (Looks at plate of olives and dressing.) I love olives, but this ain’t enough. And I'm lactose intolerant. I can't eat bleu cheese. You know that.

*silence. Others around get their dinner. Cree taps foot.*

Guys, come on, seriously. I’m sick of waiting. I’ve had it. (Watches others come and go still.)

Come back later. Yours isn’t ready yet.

But why? Why does everyone else get theirs?

Gods shut the window.

Cree pounds on it. Hey! What do I have to do here?! I’M READY!!

Window bangs open. You’re so sure you know better? ENJOY. (Put out another plate.)

(Cree looks at it.) But this is just a pile of field greens. Which I also love, but—

There’s a tomato in there too.

You think you're funny, don't you.

Kitchen is closed for the night. Bye-bye, Cree. Take a number next time. (Window shuts again)

Cree stares at her plate and sets it back on the window ledge, tired.

Then she remembers a bunch of things she’s been wanting to do and goes to call Blake.

So I’m not giving up, like I did in Orlando. I’m not resigned. It’s not just signs, and it’s not compromise. It’s a choice, and it’s just really, really good. A lesson learned is one thing; your own personal realization and arrival is something else.

I'm at the jubilee, and I am singing.

(Special note to readers: CH and CR, you two are my guiding stars. When the day comes, I hope he is just like you. Or darned close.)

Were you aware

Colin Powell's middle name is Luther.

For some kitty bday fun

Chez le Chat Noir

REMINDER

Four kittens turn 6 tomorrow.

I am very very tired.

That is all.

Jiminy Crickets and Hobbits' Kazoos!

Saturday the kittens turn 6, y'all! They likes the little fake mice and balls that jingle, as well as Kitty Kaviar and dried whiting. Checks may be made out to Cash.

Episcopagatarian

That's me!

Conepatus mesoleucu

I had me a close encounter the other night.

First a little story from my teenagehood. In the family-room-type room at my parents' house, there's a door to the outside. These days there's a chair in front of it, but we used to have it open during the summer all the time, and we also used to have me up into the wee hours of the night when I was home from college, watching Letterman and MTV and what have you.

One night when I was down there by myself, around midnight, I heard someone say my name. I FLEW through the living room and up the stairs, my arms waving in the air over my head. Turns out it was my best friend, Ellen, and her friend Ben. My Dad nearly shot them, GOOD TIMES!, but in the end, we had a good ... no, no, only Ben laughed that night. Ellen apologized, and I tried to reattach my head to my body.

And now, back to modern times.

I like to sit by the open French doors -- sorry, Freedom doors -- in the dark sometimes doing a little yoga. Sometimes I go outside to do it. This night, I stayed inside.

I finished my yoga and was happily reclining in relaxation pose. I swear to all the gods, my gut told me to reach over with my right foot and shut the door. Well, no thank you, Gut, I'd like to sit up and look out at the night for a few minutes, says I. Why should I shut the door?

I sat up and looked out at the night.

I noticed this small white shape moving across the grass. It didn't fit the visual recognition pattern of any animal I could think of. Really, the closest I could come was an angelfish, its size and the way it was moving very gently and fluidly. It nuzzled its nuzzler through the grass, sniffing out who knows what. I was a little freaked out, seeing this thing out there that I coudn't identify. Badger? I wondered. But that wasn't it.

Then I had it, and I froze.

Skunk.

He was just beyond the concrete patio, so only about 8-10 feet away, and close enough, I was certain, to douse me if he got scared.

I still had a wee bit of doubt, since he had such a broad swath of white across his back and tail -- no stripes at all. Finally he waddled past the wall separating my yard area from my neighbor Stephen's, and out of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief and started to move.

Then he came back.

Not only did he come back, but he gradually made his way RIGHT UP TO THE DAMNED DOOR. "Dude, can't you SMELL ME??" I yelled silently. Isn't that a HALLMARK of A NOCTURNAL ANIMAL? Regardless, up to the door he came -- it's screen top to bottom, no metal paneling -- sniffing, I'm guessing, a chipmunk footpath, one or two feet from me. And then he lifted his tail.

I slammed the door shut, and he was off like a shot. If he'd had arms, they would have been waving over his head as he flew.

This is my new little terrified friend:











from http://www.lioncrusher.com/animal.asp?animal=213

and this is what I saw moving through the yard.





I felt really bad for scaring the cute little bugger, but just imagine if he had sprayed into the apartment. GLARGH. He would have gotten me, the bookcase, the carpet, the couch ... Otherwise, he was adorable! Good snuffling to you out there, little munkyskunk.

And then the monkey stole the glasses from off my head

Monkey strong bowels
Fuzzy Fuzzy Fuzzy D
Fancypants. Donkey.

<<<dave>>>

Bits and Pieces

1. Item A
I have a sci-fi-themed license plate--aka "tag" in Florida. Those nuts! Ha ha!

If it please the court
Today, as I headed straight through the intersection at Cayuga and Clinton, a guy in the car turning left beside me hollered "I LOVE LUKE!"

2. Also today, I had (among other things):
Salmon!
Chocolate!
Not together!
A banana!
Pear juice! (settles the stomach, dontcha know)
Honey O's! (Cheerios' organic bastard brother. Or maybe Cheerios are the bastard. You pick.)
And now I am about to partake of two flaxseed waffles. With syrup! AND SMART CHOICE!

Update
BALANCE! IT'S CALLED SMART BALANCE!

SOUP FOR ME!

Every Tuesday there's a farmer's market in the park almost across the street from us. Today I was feeling well enough to go soup-hunting, but not till after 2, and I didn't know how late the market went. But I knew it was my best chance for a healing-a-lactose-riven-belly soup.

Belly Soup! My favorite French children's cartoon character. "Oui oui, ma'am'selle, je voudrais du chocolat!"

As I headed across the wet, chilly park, I noticed that the soup people seemed to be breaking down souptown. I hurried. "Am I too late for soup?" I asked as I arrived at their souptable. A man dressed as a chef started telling me what they had left. I asked questions, having lactose belly and all. I didn't want a soup full of hurty things.

He described the zucchini and the tomato soup. I pondered. He suggested I take both.

But he meant TAKE both! He gave me soups for free! TWO SOUPS! FOR FREE!

(That just reminded me of two scoops of raisins in each box of Kellogg's Raisin Bran. "TWO SCOOPS!" And from there my '70s-commercial-addled brain moves to "Two great tastes in one candy bar -- Reese's -- Peanut Butter Cups! TWO SCOOPS!")

So a man dressed as a chef gave me two free soups today. I suspect they really wanted to get going and I was holding them up, but next week, I will buy many things from them, for they gave me soup-succor when I was in hurty town.

Thank you, nice soupman!
Love,
Cree

soup-succor: clearly the origin of the word "soupcon."

Ow. Ow. Ow.

Being on your own might be worst when you're sick. I'm sure I can argue differently myself at other times, but presently I am mildly ailing.

Fortunately I don't get sick often, beyond mild headaches, but yesterday I very very misguidedly thought I could handle sheep's milk cheese without a problem (for the uninitiated, I am lactose intolerant). I had some decent stomach cramps the rest of the night, lasting through today too. Yesterday I couldn't really have driven anywhere, evidenced by the fact that I could barely walk upright. Today I did go to Wegmans late in the afternoon, but only because I needed a few bland things and some ginger ale, and it's really not so bad anyway. Just like an iron hand is gripping my stomach, but not squeezing so much as it was last night. I can breathe better, at least. (I watched the Emmys and oh, it hurt to laugh.)

(Ginger ale, by the way, has no ginger in it. I know, it's very upsetting, but keep your panties unbunched at least till you hear the bourgeoisie taking to the streets. Their first words will be "BRING ME CANADIANS! BOTH DRY AND WET!")*

So my body really didn't want to be at Wegmans, and I was kinda hunched over my shopping cart, but fortunately I HAD a shopping cart, and I often hunch over them anyway. So if someone at Wegmans is paying attention to the way I shop, that alone wouldn't be a tip-off that anything was wrong.

Of course I'm at an age/stage when I don't talk to anyone on the phone regularly, either, so I would have had to call someone up and ask for help, had I needed it that bad. And I know Melissa or Jenny or Mary or Chris or Chris or Chris would have helped in a flash, but it's not the same as having someone in-house, onsite, who will automatically bring you crackers and something carbonated to help you burp. Feed the cats for you and give them fresh water and bury or scoop out the poo you can smell from the couch.

It's OK. I'm just sayin'. It woulda been nice to have someone get me a bagel. And I know Salem would have had he known how to get my money out. So appreciate your Other, there, watching TV right now or mowing the lawn or feeding the kids or pointedly not folding the laundry. And once in a while, milk it for all it's worth.


*Oblique Canada Dry reference. They makes the ginger ale, see.

Tea for Seven

Now it's time for tea
Dress the piggies in wee hats
Rooibos for them.

Is the painting done?
Sweet birthday gift that would be
Piggies want some CAKE!

Kitties claim the land.
Who knew you would find yourself
Back where you started?

Happy Happy, Melissa!

The higher, the fewer!

Don't need space-show stress
But aboard Galactica
Is there birthday cake?

Colonel Tigh will drink
Starbuck will win your money
Boomer? Well, which one?

Happy Kidney Stone, Nog of the Mountain

Milady Rogue-in-pants

August 19 was six years since Miss Girl showed me her pink and pregnant belly and I snatched her up and said "You're all mine, Girly Girl!" And just look at all the love she brought.

Chatty swirly girl
Black and white and sweet all o'er
Snuggle up with me.

The whole gang

$300 worth of pudding?!

I'm all yours, Buttum.

But back to men: It's more than just the num-nums.

It's their voice in your ear, low and deep and resonant. It's their smell--not cologne, but them, their skin, their sweat. It's the feel of their cheek, just shaved and smooth or stubble growing in. It's the way they look in jeans, in a white T-shirt, in shorts and hiking boots. It's the way they walk, the muscles in their arms, the span of their back and shoulders, the bend of their neck. Above all it's their darkness, the undefinable duskiness inside them that bespeaks Man, Man, Man.

That
is what I want.

Yes thank you, I will have a blackberry.

One person's "never did before" is another's "just haven't yet."

Euky

Soft snowy puppy
big brown eyes and happy soul
rub my earses, please

All the years we shared
Puppy kisses, joy and love.
We won't be the same.

But in the very very best way. We love you, Euky, and always will.

Tomorrow

"I have syrup, but you'll get my germs if you use it," she said.

"There are worse things," he replied.

"I'm putting that on my family crest," she said. "'There are worse things.' Right over the monkey with the blueberry pie."

HOW early?

Go, Mary! Swimmin'
Across Cayuga Lake
Really early. Psych!

On shore will we cheer
Jumping spinning and eating
You can when you're done.


http://www.womenswimmin.org/

Belated

Whirling dervish Deb
Dancing wild around the world
Stars light in her hair

Where will she land next?
Egg tempera lasts only
so long. Then she's gone.

Dancey year to you
Deb and Peanut, together
Smiling. Happy days!

Trent-deux

(emphasis on the Trent)

"I'll build that for you"
Gallant in Hawaiian shirt
What? I AM dressed up!

Dancing monkeys; cake;
No shopping for a month, plus
Beer -- there; GOOD birthday.

I know you are sad
Without me there. Celebrate
As if I were. BEER!

Let the games begin

I came upon two old photo albums in my room in Orchard Park today, so start preparing for Cree's Teenage Years: A Photo Odyssey, coming soon to a ninja monkey blog near you.

Know what I'm really good at?

Being alone.

Like it's a superpower.

POW! Watch her spend a whole weekend at home reading and watching Battlestar Galactica!

WHAM! Marvel at her complete inability to talk to cute guys she doesn't know! And even some she does!

THWIPP! See--wait, no, that's Spider-Man.

EA DAY!

"O, Albert," she said,
"'Tis such a fine thing to have
Mine own butler! W00t!"

A meal worthy of
Kings, queens, monkeys and Ealish
Hope Trent liked it too.

My wishes for you
Disney days and moonlit nights
30? Naught but joy.

And Happy Birthday to Harry too!

As you expected

Yeah, that's pretty much all gone in the crapper.

I can't help it if I'm one hot ticket

I can tell that I look good at a given time not just by the way some guys look at me, but by the way teenage boys and guys who are with their ladies look away from me.

I derive great enjoyment from this.

I'm getting in way better shape, my hair can again be described as long, and I feel pretty good about myself, mostly, these days. I even joined Match.com a few months ago, pretty much out of spite against someone who wasn't really spiteable anyway. Regardless, it turned out to be a big fat turd. The guys around here who join are just not even remotely my style or type. And to a certain degree, you need that. I'm not dating someone with a flattop and shaded glasses who wears tank tops and fishes and rides his four-wheeler on weekends but reads the same books as I do. And NO MOUSTACHES. Goatees and soul patches, oh yes, bring them on. Moustaches are just icky. (With the singular exception of my beloved BFC. The only place it works.)

I also am turned off when they address everything I said I am/am looking for instead of just talking a little or asking a question. If you TELL me you're funny, you're NOT FUNNY. If you're a great guy, you won't tell me you're a great guy. GET IT, SKIPPY?

So, big fat turd -- until a few days ago. I'd decided to cancel my subscription and was browsing during my last few days when I discovered -- NEW YORK CITY. This was outside my search radius, which I promptly changed to "entire state." This has differented things quite a bit. One super super hot guy even contacted me, someone I had already dismissed as out of my league. Former punk, current mountain-biking-snowboarding-skinny-dipping kind of guy. I'm CLEARLY his true love, despite my initial misgivings.

Baby goldfinches look just like
grown-up goldfinches except dirty

Of course, he hasn't written me back since I responded to his longish e-mail, but that will pass.

*egh*

He actually reminds me of the guy I gave my flower to, whom we'll refer to solely as Why in Hell Did I Ever Believe You, combined with a good college friend of mine, Brian Rothkopf, who deserves to have his full name mentioned. I'd love to run into Brian Rothkopf again. I hope the spirit of Brian Rothkopf drives this guy to at least become my dear and hot friend.

(Don't hold your breath. You'll just hurt yourself.)

I'm also in conversations with 3 other interesting-enough guys. How did this happen all at once? AND I've started frequenting the co-op again to see what I can see of Bob. Who has cut his hair. And is still really cute. And probably 25.

[thunderstorm/yoga break]

I'm back! Everything's OK again! Let go of your spouse's shirt!

Also the photo I have up of myself seems to influence things. Well, duh, you're saying. But I started with a really good one, switched to one that I thought was still good but was also kinda goofy, then moved on to a good-smile B&W. I won't post the title of my profile, just in case anyone searches for it, but not one guy yet has known what it refers to, which just saddens me, for Newsradio is one of the best shows ever. Not many of these guys seem to have the kind of appreciation for monkeys that I admire.

"When it's right, it'll happen," Chris R and Blake and whoever else will say. Hard to believe that I haven't already messed it all up for myself when I've been on my own for six oh my God it's been six years.

I'll keep you updated, if I'm interested enough to retell the tales. I guess I'd better get to working on the vet school now. Peace out, amigos, and don't forget to leave your card in the jar by the door.

And other things.

Tonight my friend, who is in a same-sex relationship, asked me if I might like women as well as men.

I shook my head and smiled sadly (it was a smiling-sadly kind of day). "I like the genitals," I replied.

Small

This monkey, see, he lost his pants.

Then he found them again. Huzzah! The end.

Monkey.

Can't dance, too wet to plow.

Maybe I'll leave them a snack.

Some days it feels like life has total control of you; other times, you get to switch it up.

I've had a lot of the former lately. Like I've just been life's bitch for a week and a half. But today, for some reason, I've got life by the ankles, and I'm swinging it around like a toddler at a picnic. You should hear it squeal! Life is filled with glee right now!

(You're welcome!)

(We all should swing on swings more often, don't you think? Every office should have a swingset. Slides as alternatives to the stairs for transport to the mezzanine.)

It might be because of the half-moon cookie I've eaten (actually two half half moons, so two quarter moons, but you do the math). But I really hope not. I'm also making squeaking noises as I eat cherries.

Your assignment: work the word "mezzanine" into some kind of work-related talk or e-mail Friday or whatever day tomorrow is for you. Let me know.

In other news, the monks have started construction. Wouldn't it be cool if it were really them doing it, too? Riding landmovers in their pretty maroon skirts? Maybe I'll sneak over during the night and make a giant mandala on their land.

Who's your messiah now, huh, Flanders? Who's your messiah now?

Thanks, life, for the squealing glee. I bow to the divine in you.

He's better than me anyway

I have been vigorously uninspired lately, so here's something from my dear friend Kirt instead. He and his wife, Kate, have three boys: Nick, Will, and Ezra.

Hey, just thought you guys might like to know that Kate and I are going to crank out one more kid! I don’t have an exact due date yet, but it looks like January.

Top 10 reasons:

• Thought we’d try out Catholicism, without the religion part
• That extra seat in the minivan was disturbing
• Still had a bunch of good names left
• Building a liberal army one little soldier at a time
• Ezra sick of being the smallest one in the family
• Missed that sweet smell of diapers in the morning
• Just curious whether we can make a girl
• Better odds that one kid will be a billionaire and take care of us in old age
• Ultrasound machines are wicked cool
• Two words: tax credit

Kirt

Were You Aware

"A big scary syringe is much scarier when it is wielded by a floating black orb." C Hawkins, Esq.

All My Eggs in One Well-Concealed Basket

When I was a freshman in college, I didn't get my period for six months. When I finally did again, I got it BAD. So the following summer I was in for a flight of tests and doctor visits. One trip was to get a sonogram of my babymakin' parts. Unfortunately this required having a very full bladder, which had me in tears at one point, till the dixie cup.

The techs who were doing the ultrasound were baffled by my Period of No Period. "Are you SURE you weren't pregnant?" they repeated, as if it were upsetting them. As if a virgin had never walked into their room o' TVs and shiny gadgets before and they couldn't understand the concept. Good gods, ladies, HOW SURE DO YOU WANT ME TO BE? I can guarantee you the second coming ain't coming through me.

Then they couldn't find my ovaries.

(I HID them!)

(The end result of all this? The cause was attributed to "the stress of going to college." Even though I wasn't actually stressed. See, bodies don't like change sometimes, even the good kind. Learn from my example, boys and girls. When you go to college, give your reproductive bits some extra-special attention. Buy them treats.)

I swear I saw a young MacGyver in the stairway this morning

What, you think MacGyver can't time-travel?

You'll want to bathe all day (and you, YOU probably need to)

I have to rave about this for a minute. It's like cookie dough for your body. But it's not sticky and it won't give you salmonella if you eat it raw. Though it might kill you in other ways.

LIKE WITH ITS AWESOMENESS

Maybe 1989?

Alas, she cried, at
break of day, where
shall we go from here?
Her companion glanced
at horizon gleaming;
she, picked up crossbow
and moved out of forest.
He followed, eyes
attached to her form.
Look, there's her mount,
her chestnut steed;
she leapt up and
rode away.
Hair streaming with eyes,
those eyes, such eyes,
oh eyes unrivalled,
he turned to his own
horse and moved to
lake, how to
save the prince?

May the Force Be With Your Monkey

You will not be surprised to learn that my parents (maybe just my Mom) would not let me ride most carnival rides, despite the Erie County Fair having the country’s second largest midway.

I could ride basic kiddie rides and the Tilt-A-Whirl and that was really it. At carnivals and the fair, that is. Rides that were permanently bolted down were OK. Except for Devil’s Hole at Fantasy Island. I don’t know what her deal was with that. Oh no, wait, more and more verboten rides are coming back to me now, Fantasy Island-style. But by the time I got to go to Crystal Beach and Darien Lake, I had complete ride control.

But back to the fair. The fair, the grand and wonderful fair, home of the best crappy food this side of someplace in Asia with great crappy food (or Texas), plus livestock, random country stars, 4-H-ers, and the magical possibility of a guy with no teeth giving you a stuffed panda bear for shooting water into a clown’s mouth. I’m betting that’s where JK Rowling got her idea for Dumbledore. Carnies*.

One year, however, there was – cue the seraphim choir -- a STAR WARS RIDE. We stumbled upon it, my parents and I. I am guessing it was after Empire came out, though it might have been as late in the game as Jedi. I dunno, it doesn’t feel like I was 14.

Either way, it won’t take me long to tell you about the ride, because it was the majorest piece of crap in all the history and lore of crappy craptastic crappiness. They had taken some other haunted house-type ride and thrown in, basically, Chewbacca, complete with flashing red eyes. I remember darkness, a few jerky twists of the car on its steel track (steel? Aluminum? Plutonium? Adamantium?), and some furry toothy beast leering at us [ibid], the lone travelers on this journey through the one place in the universe absolutely and completely bereft of the Force.

When it ended, I was stunned. I had never encountered anything in the Star Wars universe so very very very bad as this.

I’m pretty sure now that it was the inspiration for Revenge of the Sith.

*I am so kidding about Dumbledore and carnies. I luvs the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Come on, look! I KNOW THE WORD WIZENGAMOT!

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

6/21/06

written beneath a solstice darkening sky
under the fading light, with fireflies

My favorite episode of Super Friends was when Superman walked into the Hall of Justice with a giant orange (bigger than him; must’ve been a fruit-engianting bad-guy day) and answered something Wonder Woman had just said with: “Your wish is my command!”

(Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that was my “most hopeful Super Friends moment.” Really, there must’ve been better epsiodes.)

That was as close as they ever came to what I waited and waited and wished for: the hook-up – nay, the romance, the surface-nudging love that had to blossom between those two Saturday morning super-heroes.

Then there was Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm. Yes, the teenagers, but also the crawling babies. Later came Batman and Batgirl; Aquagirl and Aquaman (or maybe it was Tadpole); the Professor and Mary Ann; everyone in Archie comics (at least there I got some small satisfaction); Ned Nickerson and Nancy Drew, girl detective -- you name a show or story with lithe young males and females, and I was there, waiting and hoping. As young as age 3, I swear I yearned for romance more than anything, and it only got stronger as I grew.

The gods have a real sense of humor, let me tell you. Or maybe it’s irony.

So I searched and watched and waited and sifted through the trappings of a child’s daily media. I remember the first actual boy in my real life whom I liked and who kissed me, both: Michael Mahoney. He had brown eyes and brown hair in a bowl cut and very red lips. He kissed me on the cheek one day in kindergarten, surprising me since I knew he liked someone else (my good friend Nancy Coppola? Shut up, I was not a hussy; remember, he surprised me).

Unless Kevin Kelly kissed me first. He lived across the street. I know he gave me an engagement ring when I was 3. Saved up all his preschool money.

Sounds promising, no?

HA HA HA HA HAAA

Somewhere up there, they’re laughing their divine asses off.

And sometime around then, Brenda and Basil appeared.

I know the timing because I was in our old house, lying on the braided carpet in the family room reading the comics. 69 Candy Lane. How’s THAT for an address that’s not a themed whorehouse in lower Amsterdam?

(Is there a lower Amsterdam? It sounds good, don’t it? For the purposes of this treatise, let’s agree that there is.)

Oh yes, I remember that first panel of kissing I ever saw. I think it was even in the Courier-Express. I could swear it was a Saturday night. I stared at it, drank it in, couldn’t take my eyes off it. I was rapt. I swear I can still see it. I think I felt like I was getting this magical stolen moment. Somehow my parents did a good job of making me feel like it was wrong for me to see physical affection. I know I never wanted them to see how much my dolls made out.

This might be because whenever people were kissing on TV, my Dad acted like he thought it was awful, rolling his head around and squeezing his eyes shut and saying things like “Ew! Yuck! Ugh! Is it over yet?!”

Real funny, Dad. Ever notice that your wee daughter was the most impressionable waif ever to walk the earth? Couldn’t you hear the crushing, crippling shyness ticking away inside her little heart?

Imagine how things went after my Mom overheard, from the other end of the phone, my friend Julie and me discussing the correct name for breasts. I think it was breasts. I can’t recall saying, or hearing Julie say, anything like “vagina” or whatever might have passed for little kids’ words for it. Oh, HA HA HA, I called it a tinkly back then! HA HA HA HA HAAA

(I’d forgotten that. And of course it wasn’t the vajayjay I called a tinkly, but we all know that.)

Yes, anyway. That was fun, wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever told anybody that, at least not in about 15 years. So we were in Julie’s mom’s bedroom, and Mrs. Bement was on the phone with my Mom. Julie and I were talking about what you call whatever female body part. She was two years younger than me, so I must’ve been what, 7? Cos a 4-year-old wouldn’t be talking about that stuff, would she? Julie was saying that Tara, another neighbor friend, had said It’s called this, and I was vehemently saying No it’s called that.

Later my Mom told me she’d heard the conversation and that “We don’t talk about things like that.”

Well, there you go. There’s about 6 months’ worth of therapy right there.

I have never since used a euphemism to talk about women’s body parts. (Men’s, sure; who cares? Apparently my Mom didn’t!)

Boy, where I go with these things is never where I intend.

So back to the kissing. (Did you realize that’s where we were?) My Barbie dolls were made for nothing else, IMYO. I had a couple of Kens, but better still, down the road, were Shaun Cassidy/Joe Hardy (complete with code-reading electric guitar!) and--da-da-daaa!—my 12-inch Luke Skywalker (insert lightsabre joke of your choice here, gutterbrains). Wherever Luke is now (and that’s still in the house somewhere), he’s got pink kisses all over his face (the marker had always wiped off Ken, dammit), the telltale signs of a failed secretarial seduction.

He was hot. He was irresitible to lesser dolls. But he was always faithful to Barbie.

Luke was the best because (a) he was Luke Skywalker, (b) he was Luke Skywalker, (c) his arms were very bendy and could therefore really hold her Barbitude, and (d) he was Luke Skywalker.

They kissed a LOT.

I didn’t know how sex worked then (hell, do I now?), despite having learned about, er, seeing stars at about age 2 or 3, so there was none of that. Just lots and lots and lots of kissing, and groping, and then some more kissing, and then there was also all the kissing.

[But they were in love. For life. OH, I just remembered a whole big long Tarzan-type thing I had going for them. And the tinfoil dresses I made for Barbie. Wow, I tell ya. My imagination has been so wasted.]

Like I said, one hell of a sense of humor.

Listen, this is important.

For now it has been 6 years since I was even kissed. I can barely remember what it feels like. Seriously. I don’t even get to dream about real kissing, much less anything more – if I dream about it, I’m dreaming about imagining it. I don’t even get the good dream.

Again. With the humor. Funny, guys.

Except until, oddly enough, last night. It was a guy my brain invented. I thought him not the sort of look I liked. But something that made his face not particularly attractive to me also somehow made him a good kisser.

So here I sit on the solstice night, six long years dry, desperately needing to be kissed, no idea in hell how I ever will be again. (Also wondering a little why I put it that way: be kissed, not just KISS. What are Cree’s obvious issues with meeting men? Discuss.)

Not even sure how to want it, at the same time. Pretty sure my life has rewritten itself so that I never was kissed. Never gave one. Certainly no kisses were ever exchanged.

Would someone maybe just lend me her husband for a few minutes, at least, so I might just remember? Tested and approved and guaranteed not to rust? You wouldn’t mind, would you, Del? I bet Julia would hand Billy over quicker than you can say “stomach acid.” Oooo, how about Mick; he’s Irish!

Sigh.

Oh well.

At least I’m in New York on the solstice, and at least I get fireflies.

HI SCOTT AND DELMA

*waving*

It starts with ice cream

This is the perfect night to go out for ice cream.

And really, there's not much that's needed for that equation. It's warm and it was sunny all day and the world has continued spinning. It's summer in New York, and that's all that matters.

I'm lactose intolerant and ice cream gives me headaches, but I still want to go out for it. Soft serve somewhere out in the country. A chocolate/vanilla twist with chocolate jimmies. You get it, and I'll just come along for the ride.

When I was in high school there was an ice cream place right in the village where I lived. My friends and I would ride our bikes or walk down there often in the summertime. I had 3 friends in town, none of whom lived in my neighborhood. Pam and Amy would ride from their houses to mine. Ellen would have to get a ride. One time -- just one time -- we saw this super cute boy on a skateboard, with another girl and guy. Just the one time. We dubbed him Andrew Phineas, a combination of names we really liked and thought would suit our ideal cute boy. I'd still like to know where he came from and where he went.

I so miss the promise of those times. The promise of a life of love and fulfillment. When even everyone who was so different from each other was the same in this respect: We all had our whole lives ahead of us, marriage and jobs and ways that become set so so so far off, all of us part of this same pool of individuals to meet and choose from. Which I never realized at the time, of course, because you never do. You never realize that one day it will be gone, and you'll be looking around saying, Hey, wait, what happened?? Where did everybody go?

What would you tell your 16-year-old self right now if you could? What would you tell him or her to do differently, to savor now, to always remember? "Spend more time with Grandma"? "When you see Derek coming, run far and screaming in the other direction"? "Wait till you're 20"?

"Don't wait for anything!"?

End-of-Week Tribute

Raccoon, fork, coin spin
cookie jar, browns blanket, chair
(my chair, butt imprint!)

Chapter 23!
Ed rolls out the candy corn:
How to catch a cat

Leading through the night
All who seek his gentle lore
We heart you, Big C.

Were you aware

It's better with pie.

Where "it" = "everything."

Also, monkeys. For the dancing and the squealing. Additionally, monkeys like pie. They will eat your leftovers. If you are so crazy as to have leftovers.

Dos Mas

(Is that even correct Spanish?)

Two more birthday haiku:

1. For Jenny, of June 13

What? All-Staff Day? Now?
THAT'S my birthday fun this year?
Mushroom has weird parts.

2. For Erica, of June 14

Free at last! And now

I get cake in a new place

It's far, but so good.

My (Belated) Review of X-Men: The Last Stand

WHY IS IT

DARK OUT?

Happy Monkey Day, Monkey!

A birthday in time
right laid out for monkey rhyme
have some rhizome pie.

Bottoms up, Raj! And I do mean YOUR bottom.

Ah, Texas

A big shout-out to Matthew McConaughey for the lovely dream appearance last night. The invisibility was a nice touch, as was your roughing up of the leering concierge. A bientot!

The twentieth of nevah

Well this sure has been a day or two. (Oh, there's some philosophical thinking. Yes, you may borrow it; people will be so impressed. "Did you get that from 'The Daily Show'?" they'll ask as they touch you gently, hesitantly, and sigh just a little.) Humidity makes me fell like dung. Not crap, poop or the s-word; dung. My muscles ache and tense up and it's just a lot of ick. It's one of the things that made me so miserable in Florida. Here, it's been around 60 and humid as all get-out the past few days, so by last night I was just a physical wreck.

But my hair looked great!

I volunteered at this Cornell event, a glee club/chorus concert. The concert was cool, but by the end I just felt -- icky. And I guess it made me feel alone, seeing all those people together, families, old and lifelong friends, generations of Cornellians, people who had spent their lives together after meeting at Cornell. I left feeling like physical, emotional and mental offal.

(Maybe I can work "effluvium" in here somewhere.)

I went to bed almost right away, after doing as few of my general nightly things as I thought I could get away with.

This morning, still bleh. I cleaned the litter boxes, and Fathom was apparently peeing lots and in wee bits again. Otter had peed on the floor in the entryway. Add this to the dungness and having felt crappy the whole rest of the night, and I thought I might completely lose it. "I CAN'T DO THIS ALONE ANYMORE!!" I hollered to the gods, who I knew were listening, just ... smirking? Blake said it would be March. I don't know that I can make it to March. "They are just cards, after all," she pointed out. But my gut says It Will Be a While. I headed off to Collegetown Bagels and the Statler pretty unhappy, but resigned.

During my second Cornell volunteering stint, I decided I would take myself to lunch; even though I had planned to spend the rest of the day writing this big thing I have due this week, I couldn't face it. I needed to get away from Cornell, from work, from Plantations, for a bit.

It was a little after 2 when I left the Statler, and -- my stars, it was beautiful out. The humidity was GONE, washed away by cool winds, released by clearing skies into the stratosphere; there was actually blue to be seen. "You can relax. You can feel better now," I told my body, and by the time I got to my car, it did.

I went to the Boatyard Grill, had the Chilean sea bass, and went to Taughannock. I even had a wee bit of a headache starting, a needle in my skull, but I knew the only thing for it was cool wind and walking and falling water.

Is it just the weather, then? I never used to think it affected me, but damn, lately, I tell ya. I'm all right now. I'm good again. Haven't stumbled across the love of my life yet, but ... it's almost OK again.

... almost.

I don't have a guardian angel

I have a dragonfly

OH MY GOD WHAT'S BEHIND YOU???

*Psyche*

This Is What You Get With ...

13 pounds of PUT ME DOWN!!

... but it has not even remotely

affected my ability to rock out!!!

The Story of My Life

Once, when I was 8, I think, I was sitting at the dinner table with my parents. I'm an adopted only child, you need to know before we go on. And was very overprotected. Anyway, I'd had trouble sleeping the night before, maybe the previous several nights. So, this being 1977-'78 and such things being all over the mass media, my innocent little self, following up a statement on the sleep thing, said, "Maybe I need a tranquilizer."

OH MY GOD.

That's right, it was the day they had feared since bringing me home at 5 days old: APPARENTLY SOMEONE AT SCHOOL HAD OFFERED ME DRUGS.

Offered me, the most obedient little 8-year-old CATHOLIC-SCHOOL-GOING GIRL ever, drugs.

They stopped eating and looked at each other; I can hear forks clattering to their plates, but that might just be reconstruction on my part. "Where did you hear that??"

I looked down, embarrassed and guilty and confused. "I don't know," I mumbled. The rest of dinner is a blur.

Later, I was helping put dishes in the dishwasher. "Gilligan's Island," I said.

"What?" My Mom asked.

"I heard about it on Gilligan's Island."

The Professor adds more bamboo
to his meth lab

And that's the truth. Of course that's where I had heard about it. I'm sure they were expecting schoolmate Sally, corrupter of all things good and innocent, but nope; instead of a student at Our Lady of Mercy, the most nun-run school in existence and IN THE BASEMENT OF A CONVENT, it was syndicated afternoon TV.

I truly love that story. Take that, People Who Ruled My Life in Fear! WHERE ARE YOUR GRANDCHILDREN NOW, HUH?