I was up REALLY late last night pounding out the last few bits and pieces of my latest freelance gig. The site launched! All concerned are happy. There are some small follow-up things to deal with but it's done! And now I can finally sleep... or can I?
Last night I was doing the whole Photoshop, Javascript, HTML thang into the wee hours of the morning. I was bleary eyed and exhausted and every part of me hurt. My body was screaming for my bed. But I kept pushing myself hoping to get as much done so as not to prolong the work for yet another day.
Despite my fatigue, I persisted. I was loopy and out of it but that wasn't nearly enough to make me quit for the night. I felt like nothing could keep me from finishing my work once and for all. I was on a mission.
And then I heard a noise. And it sounded like it was coming from my pokey wee kitchen but I wasn't quite sure. I listened for a few more minutes and then decided that it was the rattle of my upstairs neighbor's A/C. Its churning and gurgling sounds often echo throughout the alley that connects our windows and seep into my kitchen.
And then I heard it again. It was most definitely not an air conditioner. I couldn't quite place my finger on it though. It sounded... metallic almost but it was hard to tell. With what little faculties I had left at that hour, I was able to localize the sound to the general stove area. Mind you, I didn't get up to investigate. I sat, feet up, on my swivel desk chair which is a good 30 feet or so from my kitchen and squinted in that direction, only half wanting to locate the noise.
I was delirious and it hurt to think so I did my best to focus on my work so that I could finish up and finally go to bed.
I heard the rattle once again and that was it for me. Mission aborted! I was in the midst of uploading files to a live site but I didn't care. I abandoned that shit so fast. I yanked off my glasses and sprinted up the ladder into my loft bed and pulled the covers over my head. I then summoned the nerve to poke my head between my chenille throw pillows and look down towards the kitchen to see if anything beastly had emerged from the shadows.
The coast was clear, as far as I could tell, so I lay there debating and plotting my next move. It was so tempting to just stay up there with my clothes and makeup still on but visions of plaque and pimples danced in my head. Leave it to me to be concerned with such matters in the midst of a crisis. Oh and it WAS a crisis, believe me.
You know, I don't recommend exhausting yourself to the point of late-night dementia but I will say this... it did give me some balls. I descended the ladder and ran into the bathroom for a quick pee, brush and foaming face wash combo. I slipped into my pajamas, turned off the lights and raced back to the other side of the apartment, up the ladder back into bed. I did this all in my bare feet and without any weapons!! That's a first for me.
I listened carefully for a bit but didn't hear the noise again. Somehow I managed to convince myself that it was all in my imagination and drift off to sleep.
I woke up this morning and went about my usual routine. I was getting ready to leave for work when I realized I didn't have my glasses. I had misplaced them during last night's melee and had to search the apartment for them. I snuck a quick and hesitant peek in the direction of the kitchen... and noticed something on the floor.
The light was off and I'm blind so I couldn't quite make out what it was. So I backed out of the kitchen and for reasons that I can't fully explain, I decided to get my flash light instead of just turning on the fucking light switch. Perhaps the item would seem less threatening in a small follow-spot as opposed to a glaring 100 watt overhead bulb.
I fixed the flash light on the circular object and made a quick ID. I now had the answer to the metallic rattling noise...
It was the peel-off lid to a Dannon La Creme yogurt (vanilla, if you're feeling nosy).
Now, I'm not one to just pull the lids off of yogurt and "fire them at my backside" as my Scottish mum would say. I keep a very clean apartment anyway but I'm particularly anal about the removal of things of the dairy persuasion. I have my issues with this line of products. I eat yogurt because I have to, not because I like it. I realize it's rather fatty but Dannon La Creme is the only kind that doesn't make me gag. I've tried other brands but they taste like ass, in my opinion.
But I'm not here to discuss my fussy diet. My point is that my distrust of dairy ensures that I dispose of all collateral materials in a timely and responsible fashion. In other words, I put that lid in the garbage tout de suite. I know I did.
So, much to my horror, I surmised that SOMETHING crawled into my garbage in the wee hours of the morning... and crawled back out with the lid on its... uh, can I say person? The aluminum foil was making the metallic pinging noise as the thing, whatever it was, worked diligently to remove it from my trash.
Now, you all know that I don't dig the bugs (see here, here and here). It's no secret that I hate them and kill them in a spectacularly brutal fashion whenever possible. They terrify me but I get the job done when needed. I don't welcome them into my home but I'm seriously hoping that it was a bug who paid me a visit last night. Because, if it was a mouse... well, I can't even imagine.
So, dear readers, please help set my mind at ease. My question is this: If a mouse crawled into the can, wouldn't it have made more noise than the somewhat gentle rustling I heard? 'Cause the noise I heard was noticeable but not crazy loud. If a mouse was fishing around in the plastic bag that lines the garbage, it would have made a distinct racket, no? A bug, on the other hand, is lighter on its gross, numerous feet and could be a little less noisy as it explored my refuse, yes? Please tell me it was a bug. Please.
The next question is if it was a, you know, roach... can they pick up big things like foil yogurt lids and transport them? I know ants possess the ability but does it extend to their inner-city cousins as well?
Even though I don't want to entertain the thought that there is something four-legged with a tail in my midst, I'm totally getting a trap on my way home. Please don't lecture me unless you plan on coming to my apartment in person to trap and remove the fucking thing yourself. If you want to keep it as a pet or set it free in some field, be my guest. I, on the other hand, am going to (indirectly) snap its motherfucking neck... and then cry and beg someone to dispose of it.
It's official: I'm never sleeping again.
June 22, 2005
June 19, 2005
eavesdropping
Once again, I'm busy launching a website so I ain't got time to keep this here blog current. The next week will be rather hairy but I'll do my best to regularly entertain and assail you with my tasteless humor and observations. I make no guarantees though.
Before I depart, I will share with you the transcripts of a message accidentally left on my answering machine. I don't know what it is about my land line but I'm constantly getting wrong numbers and weird messages. I cannot believe how many people ignore my personal greeting and proceed to leave lengthy tomes for people who are decidedly NOT ME. Sometimes the messages are in Spanish. Sometimes I'm treated to someone else's medical history when the receptionist from a certain doctor's office leaves very detailed messages about test results and billing issues... that are NOT mine. Privacy schmivacy!
Another time I got a message that was positively filthy dirty. The man wanted to forcefully stick something of his somewhere in my vagina's vicinity or something to that effect. At first I gasped but then I considered calling him back.
Yesterday's message was rather unique. From what I can gather, a convict phoned a friend and the friend used his three-way-calling to dial the con's mother but they accidentally got a hold of my answering machine instead. Most of it was hard to decipher but here's what I could make out:
And then, sadly, my machine cut off and that fascinating glimpse into someone else's personal business and bladder function was over. Sigh... I have so many unanswered questions though! Did 3-Way make good on his promise to call The Con's mother? Is The Con going to get an unlimited calling plan? Is Chi Chi a person or is The Con referring to the restaurant chain? Why didn't 3-Way say a proper goodbye to The Con before taking a vocal and vicious whiz? Questions, questions, questions!
Oh man, I SO hope they call back.
Before I depart, I will share with you the transcripts of a message accidentally left on my answering machine. I don't know what it is about my land line but I'm constantly getting wrong numbers and weird messages. I cannot believe how many people ignore my personal greeting and proceed to leave lengthy tomes for people who are decidedly NOT ME. Sometimes the messages are in Spanish. Sometimes I'm treated to someone else's medical history when the receptionist from a certain doctor's office leaves very detailed messages about test results and billing issues... that are NOT mine. Privacy schmivacy!
Another time I got a message that was positively filthy dirty. The man wanted to forcefully stick something of his somewhere in my vagina's vicinity or something to that effect. At first I gasped but then I considered calling him back.
Yesterday's message was rather unique. From what I can gather, a convict phoned a friend and the friend used his three-way-calling to dial the con's mother but they accidentally got a hold of my answering machine instead. Most of it was hard to decipher but here's what I could make out:
The Con: Yo, what's that the answering machine?Then I heard the distinct sound of urination. I think 3-Way dropped the call with The Con to go hit the head. From the sounds of the Sling Blade-like grunting, 3-Way was having himself a rather satisfying pee.
3-Way Caller: I think so.
The Con: Call my mother, right, tell her if she gonna do that to four people or whatevah, and tell somebody's gonna drop that. I ain't got no more calls after this. You know what I'm sayin'?
3-Way: A'ight. A'ight. I'm gonna get your Mom on the cell phone.
The Con: A'ight. Tell her I said if she's still going to do that to get in touch with me and do that. You a'ight though?
3-Way: Yeah, I'm breathing. I'm breathing.
The Con: Ha ha.
3-Way: ::garbled garbled garbled::
The Con: I've been trying forever but that shit is fucked up. ::garbled garbled garbled:: I'm going to find Chi Chi and go back--
::sound of microphone feedback::
3-Way: Mmm... hmm... hmmm
And then, sadly, my machine cut off and that fascinating glimpse into someone else's personal business and bladder function was over. Sigh... I have so many unanswered questions though! Did 3-Way make good on his promise to call The Con's mother? Is The Con going to get an unlimited calling plan? Is Chi Chi a person or is The Con referring to the restaurant chain? Why didn't 3-Way say a proper goodbye to The Con before taking a vocal and vicious whiz? Questions, questions, questions!
Oh man, I SO hope they call back.
June 16, 2005
i'll stick with the clam dip, thanks
Last night I dreamt that I was halfway through a Jimmy Dean sausage when I suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, what am I doing? I don't eat meat!" and then I spit it out with a loud and dramatic "Patooey!"
Now, I'm not usually very good at dream analysis but I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that this was some sort of subconscious exploration of my sexuality, no?
Let's break it down, shall we?
For a good portion of my life, I tried eating the sausage, if you will, and then realized I didn't quite care for the taste. So by spitting out the Jimmy Dean in my dream, I was solidifying my rejection of bangers and, specifically, the men they are attached to.
The timing of this dream makes sense because just this week I briefly considered jumping back over the fence to play with the boys after my recent futile attempts to score me some girly ass.
The dream also serves a dual purpose: It reinforces my true Sapphic desires plus gives a wee nod to my adherence to a mostly meat-free diet. I don't consider myself a true vegetarian because I eat fish... which is quite fitting given all the seafood-type euphemisms for what we lezzies do with one another between the sheets... and at bars/clubs with lax policies concerning how many women can go into a onesie bathroom at the same time.
So, in closing, I'm pleased with my ability to analyze this dream because I'm usually quite dense when it comes to symbolism, allegory and all that other stuff that doesn't slap retards like me right in the face. Hell, I'm feeling so encouraged I might even take a crack at decoding some tough poetry or performance art while I'm on this roll. Or, you know, maybe just read The Onion. Whichever.
Now, I'm not usually very good at dream analysis but I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that this was some sort of subconscious exploration of my sexuality, no?
Let's break it down, shall we?
For a good portion of my life, I tried eating the sausage, if you will, and then realized I didn't quite care for the taste. So by spitting out the Jimmy Dean in my dream, I was solidifying my rejection of bangers and, specifically, the men they are attached to.
The timing of this dream makes sense because just this week I briefly considered jumping back over the fence to play with the boys after my recent futile attempts to score me some girly ass.
The dream also serves a dual purpose: It reinforces my true Sapphic desires plus gives a wee nod to my adherence to a mostly meat-free diet. I don't consider myself a true vegetarian because I eat fish... which is quite fitting given all the seafood-type euphemisms for what we lezzies do with one another between the sheets... and at bars/clubs with lax policies concerning how many women can go into a onesie bathroom at the same time.
So, in closing, I'm pleased with my ability to analyze this dream because I'm usually quite dense when it comes to symbolism, allegory and all that other stuff that doesn't slap retards like me right in the face. Hell, I'm feeling so encouraged I might even take a crack at decoding some tough poetry or performance art while I'm on this roll. Or, you know, maybe just read The Onion. Whichever.
June 10, 2005
juiced
I've been out of sorts the past few days. Sometimes it hurts to think. Sometimes I have no patience. Sometimes I overreact to the most ridiculous, benign things. I've been on the 'roids, you see. And I've got the PMS. In other words, I have been an absolute beast. As my Scottish mum would say, I've been walking around with a face tripping me. That's a more charming way of saying I look pissed all the time. I would even go so far as to say that I have a deranged, murderous look about me this week.
But I only need to pop two more of these bad boys and then I'm done! I'm starting to feel better. I'm still pissy and tired but not nearly as bad as before. The first round of blood tests showed nothing abnormal but I will need to get my skin poked and prodded by an allergist to see what exactly inflated my appendages to NBA regulation size. The mystery continues...
Dude, I don't know how people take oral steroids regularly. As an asthmatic, I have to inhale steroids daily to keep my lungs and passageways open but the side effects are nothing compared to those that accompany the pill form. Say, what's the word on Jerry Lewis? I know he's twice the man he used to be size-wise but do we know if he's become a chronic raving lunatic as a result of his daily pill popping? If his reaction is anything like mine, that professor is as insufferable as he is nutty. In fact, I bet Jerry Lewis is a real dick... through no fault of his own, of course. It's the meds, man. The meds.
But if there's one upside to my altered personality, it's the rather aggressive response I had to a bug in my Tiny Wee Studio this week. The minute I saw it scuttle across the floor, I went into instant attack mode. Normally, I stand on a chair or my coffee table and panic while I try to summon the courage to kill the bastard. I'm quite proud of my swift response this time around.
If my past battles with bugs have taught me anything, it's that less is more when it comes to Raid. You don't need to saturate the thing to kill it. A quick spray and some patience will do the trick. So after two economical blasts, I waited for the bug to kick off and die. But! Instead of scurrying into a corner, he tried seeking refuge in my laundry basket of clean clothes... much to my horror! Um, you DO NOT fuck with my clean clothes or, however indirectly, my carefully hoarded stash of laundry quarters for you will be spittin' Chicklets if you do.
I knew the spray would eventually take effect but the idea of that little turd getting all comfy in the crotch of my clean undies cut short my plan to be patient. So I got myself some tongs from the kitchen, climbed up on the coffee table, assumed a squat position and emptied out the laundry basket onto the floor. I methodically sifted through the contents with the tongs in one hand and Raid in the other. Much to my dismay, there was no bug to be found.
That made me uneasy. I am the quintessential Doubting Thomas -- I NEED to see the body to believe. So I put on my sandals and maintained a safe distance from dark corners and other hiding places and went about locating the perp with a flashlight. I credit the 'roids with giving me the courage to go on this little Stand By Me-type excursion while wearing nothing more than a t-shirt, underwear and open-toed slides. I normally suit up in thick-soled shoes/sneakers and more sensible leg attire but my new-found aggression dictated that I make like a Minuteman and do battle as is. While red, lacy little-boy-short undies are cute, in retrospect, I hardly struck an intimidating pose. Cute maybe but not certainly not intimidating. Perhaps that's why the bug opted to burrow into to my clean skivvies. Maybe he liked the pair I was donning and was looking for something similar to bring back to the nest for the missus.
So I searched for a good 20 minutes before I finally found the bastard belly up and twitching near my dresser. Cue the 'roid rage! I began YELLING at the bug while teasing him with intermittent blasts of bright light and Raid. "Tell your friends, motherfucker!" ::squirt squirt:: "Tell your friends!" ::agitated waving of flashlight::
Of course, there was no way the bug could go back home and warn its brethren to forever steer clear of the curly-haired psycho's apartment but torturing that little shit until his last gasp made me feel powerful and invincible. It felt like a symbolic slaying or something. Of course when I recovered from my murderous rage, I felt a bit sheepish as I recalled my reading the riot act to a double-bagged lifeless insect. But the thrill of the kill and the hope that other bugs witnessed and learned from the carnage quickly made the embarrassment fade away.
Mmm... blood lust.
But I only need to pop two more of these bad boys and then I'm done! I'm starting to feel better. I'm still pissy and tired but not nearly as bad as before. The first round of blood tests showed nothing abnormal but I will need to get my skin poked and prodded by an allergist to see what exactly inflated my appendages to NBA regulation size. The mystery continues...
Dude, I don't know how people take oral steroids regularly. As an asthmatic, I have to inhale steroids daily to keep my lungs and passageways open but the side effects are nothing compared to those that accompany the pill form. Say, what's the word on Jerry Lewis? I know he's twice the man he used to be size-wise but do we know if he's become a chronic raving lunatic as a result of his daily pill popping? If his reaction is anything like mine, that professor is as insufferable as he is nutty. In fact, I bet Jerry Lewis is a real dick... through no fault of his own, of course. It's the meds, man. The meds.
But if there's one upside to my altered personality, it's the rather aggressive response I had to a bug in my Tiny Wee Studio this week. The minute I saw it scuttle across the floor, I went into instant attack mode. Normally, I stand on a chair or my coffee table and panic while I try to summon the courage to kill the bastard. I'm quite proud of my swift response this time around.
If my past battles with bugs have taught me anything, it's that less is more when it comes to Raid. You don't need to saturate the thing to kill it. A quick spray and some patience will do the trick. So after two economical blasts, I waited for the bug to kick off and die. But! Instead of scurrying into a corner, he tried seeking refuge in my laundry basket of clean clothes... much to my horror! Um, you DO NOT fuck with my clean clothes or, however indirectly, my carefully hoarded stash of laundry quarters for you will be spittin' Chicklets if you do.
I knew the spray would eventually take effect but the idea of that little turd getting all comfy in the crotch of my clean undies cut short my plan to be patient. So I got myself some tongs from the kitchen, climbed up on the coffee table, assumed a squat position and emptied out the laundry basket onto the floor. I methodically sifted through the contents with the tongs in one hand and Raid in the other. Much to my dismay, there was no bug to be found.
That made me uneasy. I am the quintessential Doubting Thomas -- I NEED to see the body to believe. So I put on my sandals and maintained a safe distance from dark corners and other hiding places and went about locating the perp with a flashlight. I credit the 'roids with giving me the courage to go on this little Stand By Me-type excursion while wearing nothing more than a t-shirt, underwear and open-toed slides. I normally suit up in thick-soled shoes/sneakers and more sensible leg attire but my new-found aggression dictated that I make like a Minuteman and do battle as is. While red, lacy little-boy-short undies are cute, in retrospect, I hardly struck an intimidating pose. Cute maybe but not certainly not intimidating. Perhaps that's why the bug opted to burrow into to my clean skivvies. Maybe he liked the pair I was donning and was looking for something similar to bring back to the nest for the missus.
So I searched for a good 20 minutes before I finally found the bastard belly up and twitching near my dresser. Cue the 'roid rage! I began YELLING at the bug while teasing him with intermittent blasts of bright light and Raid. "Tell your friends, motherfucker!" ::squirt squirt:: "Tell your friends!" ::agitated waving of flashlight::
Of course, there was no way the bug could go back home and warn its brethren to forever steer clear of the curly-haired psycho's apartment but torturing that little shit until his last gasp made me feel powerful and invincible. It felt like a symbolic slaying or something. Of course when I recovered from my murderous rage, I felt a bit sheepish as I recalled my reading the riot act to a double-bagged lifeless insect. But the thrill of the kill and the hope that other bugs witnessed and learned from the carnage quickly made the embarrassment fade away.
Mmm... blood lust.
June 02, 2005
resurrection
My love,
I saw a flicker of recognition and then you went blank. Cold... dead. I was stunned. And then forlorn and choking back tears. My future looked bleak. My life didn't seem worth living without you. The longing was too much to bear. The ache eclipsed all else. I stayed frozen, not wanting to move because standing up would propel the moment forward. If I stayed still, perhaps so would time and I wouldn't have to face the harsh reality of starting over without you. How would I cope?
I stared at you for a long time hoping to will you back. But you remained motionless and unresponsive. My attempts at resuscitation thus far were futile and I thought about giving up. My heart felt like a cinder block in my chest. I blinked quickly to stifle the tears that were just raring to flow freely.
All seemed lost but there was one last bastion of hope that I hadn't exhausted. So with a quickened pulse and my heart thundering at an unhealthy rate, I keyed in the address to a website that I knew could provide the remedy to your dire state.
My hands trembled as I navigated towards the support page and made the appropriate selections from the dropdown menus. I impatiently but dutifully sat through a Quicktime demo offering first aid suggestions for your seemingly lifeless body. I squirmed and fidgeted while my fingers itched to adminster the proper treatment.
My Tiny Wee Studio was quickly converted into a fast-paced O.R. as I barked orders to myself. Hold switch off? Check! Charger plugged in? Check! Cable connected to the computer? Check! What's this? Reboot you? You mean I can do that?!?!
With renewed hope and vigor, I held down your Menu and Select buttons simultaneously. (Please don't think me fresh but it had to be done.) But... nothing happened. I was just about to emit an anguished and impassioned plea to St. Jude when the notion struck to connect you to the charger once more for good measure.
I snapped the cord in place and there it was! A glorious sight to behold! Your Apple icon! And then the main menu! And my carefully and lovingly edited playlists! You were no longer flatlining, my beloved blue mini iPod! You came roaring back to life! Your vitals were once again normal! "Side" by Travis bellowed from your ear buds!!! I wanted to pee, puke and bawl in that moment but instead I found the energy and inspiration to rejoice in a more appropriate fashion. Okay, so maybe there was a little bit o' tinkle and a tear or two here and there but there was nary a trace of spew, that I can assure you.
Um, I'm sorry about the sloppy wet one I planted on you after you awoke. I'm sure that was quite the jarring wake-up call. Oh, and the caressing was meant to be a loving gesture, not the creepy fondling it turned out to be. So I'm sorry if that weirded you out. Hey, hows about we make a little pact? I promise not to get all freaky with you again if you promise not to slip in and out of any more scary comas. Deal?
All of my love,
Curly
I saw a flicker of recognition and then you went blank. Cold... dead. I was stunned. And then forlorn and choking back tears. My future looked bleak. My life didn't seem worth living without you. The longing was too much to bear. The ache eclipsed all else. I stayed frozen, not wanting to move because standing up would propel the moment forward. If I stayed still, perhaps so would time and I wouldn't have to face the harsh reality of starting over without you. How would I cope?
I stared at you for a long time hoping to will you back. But you remained motionless and unresponsive. My attempts at resuscitation thus far were futile and I thought about giving up. My heart felt like a cinder block in my chest. I blinked quickly to stifle the tears that were just raring to flow freely.
All seemed lost but there was one last bastion of hope that I hadn't exhausted. So with a quickened pulse and my heart thundering at an unhealthy rate, I keyed in the address to a website that I knew could provide the remedy to your dire state.
My hands trembled as I navigated towards the support page and made the appropriate selections from the dropdown menus. I impatiently but dutifully sat through a Quicktime demo offering first aid suggestions for your seemingly lifeless body. I squirmed and fidgeted while my fingers itched to adminster the proper treatment.
My Tiny Wee Studio was quickly converted into a fast-paced O.R. as I barked orders to myself. Hold switch off? Check! Charger plugged in? Check! Cable connected to the computer? Check! What's this? Reboot you? You mean I can do that?!?!
With renewed hope and vigor, I held down your Menu and Select buttons simultaneously. (Please don't think me fresh but it had to be done.) But... nothing happened. I was just about to emit an anguished and impassioned plea to St. Jude when the notion struck to connect you to the charger once more for good measure.
I snapped the cord in place and there it was! A glorious sight to behold! Your Apple icon! And then the main menu! And my carefully and lovingly edited playlists! You were no longer flatlining, my beloved blue mini iPod! You came roaring back to life! Your vitals were once again normal! "Side" by Travis bellowed from your ear buds!!! I wanted to pee, puke and bawl in that moment but instead I found the energy and inspiration to rejoice in a more appropriate fashion. Okay, so maybe there was a little bit o' tinkle and a tear or two here and there but there was nary a trace of spew, that I can assure you.
Um, I'm sorry about the sloppy wet one I planted on you after you awoke. I'm sure that was quite the jarring wake-up call. Oh, and the caressing was meant to be a loving gesture, not the creepy fondling it turned out to be. So I'm sorry if that weirded you out. Hey, hows about we make a little pact? I promise not to get all freaky with you again if you promise not to slip in and out of any more scary comas. Deal?
All of my love,
Curly
June 01, 2005
just asking...
Is it just me or does Mark Felt look like the love child if Frank McCourt and Kirk Douglas mated?
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