Get out of my head

Baked escargot with caramelized onions on puff pastry

... or at least stop reading the same recipes that I have.

While trying to pass time til quitting time today at work, I suddenly remembered that it was a new month. That meant a new menu at Gregoire. I didn't go at all last month because nothing really called to me on the menu.

This month? Well, imagine my surprise to see "Grilled pork tenderloin medallions with quince chutney." Huh? So I read on. "Beef Bourguignon." Make that all the time. And there was this other dish but more about that later. But something did leap out at me. And then I needed stuff to go with it. So I decided to try the escargots since I've been thinking about them for some time. And of course, I had to get my usual order of potato puffs.


Roasted duck breast with grilled plums

I supplemented the food from Gregoire's with this. I already had the duck breast in the fridge to cook up tonight. If I hadn't, I would have been tempted to order the duck from Gregoire's. But not tonight.

Whenever I see recipes that call for grilling, I quickly turn the page. I don't have any outdoor space at my apartment to set up a grill. Well, I could be like some of my neighbors and set up a grill on the roof. That always kind of worries me though. It would be just my luck that I'd end up burning down the building. Or another neighbor sets up his grill by the back steps. It's just that I don't want to cook my food in such close proximity to the dumpster.

But I really wanted to try this recipe. So I headed over to one of my favorite stores to purchase a grill pan. (I really need to stay out of there because cupboard space has become almost non-existent. I guess I should pick up that cabinet from my aunt's house one of these days. I think the pan was a great investment. In fact, now I'm wondering why I didn't get one sooner.


Pumpkin bread pudding

This is what really got me to Gregoire's. Because it's going to rain tonight. So now I have all these yummy comfort foods. And plenty of good books to read. Not to mention hours of Fall TV saved up on the DVR. I think I'm set. Because I don't think I'm heading out tomorrow at all.

The person I wish I was

I don't discuss it much here but I watch a great deal of reality TV. Currently I am watching "From G's to Gents," "New York Goes to Hollywood," "BB10," "Brooke Knows Best," "Project Runway," "Shear Genius," "Date My Ex," "I Love Money," and "Flippin' Out." OK. So "Flippin' Out" ended this week but the reunion show was so hilarious, I know that I may have to watch it a few more times. Just to see Jeff with his business partner's daughter. "Bad baby." And "I Love Money"? I call it "Best of the Skanks." And into this the summer series of "The Closer," "Psych," "Monk," and "Mad Men"...

Long before I discovered reality TV though, I was into "Vanity Fair." I've had a subscription for too many years to count. And I usually read each issue from cover to cover. Over the last year I have not quite met this monthly goal. As part of the "taking care of me" plan, I decided that I needed to start this practice once more. And what a great issue to do this.

I started my reading during lunch today. I decided to save the article on Carla Bruni for later reading and instead read about the recent presidential election in Zimbabwe. As I read the article, I teared up a few times. How could people treat one another in that way? And how could the rest of the world stand by silently for so long while it happened? (OK. They are both "silly" questions. Both are a part of the history of the world unfortunately.)

My dad made a couple of trips to Zimbabwe during the mid-90s with the Chamber of Commerce. The items in the photos were my souvenirs from those trips. He and my stepmother told me tales of this wondrous land. And there were also the numerous photos my stepmother took. (My dad had several of them enlarged into posters and framed them.) I wanted to go and see it all for myself. And then things became unstable.

I didn't think about traveling to Zimbabwe anymore until I read the article. Because as I read the article, I became angry. My first thought was to hop on a plane to Harare and to help in the struggle for democracy -- since that seems to be what the people there want. If they wanted communism or some other form of government, I would feel just as passionately about it all.

And then I heard my mother's voice in my head. "You will go over there and open your mouth and then they will kill you." In younger days the words "they will kill you" were instead "you will get arrested." While my family views me as a rebel, I know in my heart that I am a long way from that point. My true self was not that afraid of being arrested. It was the reaction of my parents that scared me more. The same goes for the dying thing. When one has spent the good part of one's life trying to kill one's self off, the idea of dying in itself is not that frightening. The only part of it all that scares me now is dying before I've had a chance to do all the things that I want to accomplish. I am sure that one day I will find a cause and drop everything to rush off to be a part of it all. Because I know that this is a large part of who I am -- who I want to be.

In the meantime, I am trying to think of other things that I could do. My first thought was to write this post. Because I don't think that we hear enough in the U.S. about the living conditions of others outside of this country. Especially if it is a lesser developed country. No, that term doesn't seem completely right in describing Zimbabwe.

To stop all of these thoughts, I read the article on supermodels of the 90s when I got home. Next I'll finish the one on Carla Bruni. And maybe somewhere along the way I'll have a sudden epiphany about how I can stop feeling helpless in wanting to help those who seem to need so much.

Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

My old place in San Francisco had jasmine all around the front door. (The tree limbs are the magnolia tree.) Now it only exists in my mind. With a bunch of other stuff.

I had a long chat with Zombie Mom after yesterday's post. I said, "Now you understand why I feel fat now." She said that I was just too skinny back in the day and that I look healthy now. Many family members have said the same thing. For years they had been telling me that I needed to gain weight. OK. So maybe my doctor was saying the same thing as well when I was in high school. I'm now at the weight he thought that I should be. (I just checked my BMI on a NIH site. Apparently I am now at the low end of the range for normal. My weight up until about five years ago was always in the underweight range. I knew this though.) So I guess Zombie Mom and I are struggling with opposite body image issues, but in some ways they're similar. We are both now at weights that others consider to be "healthy" but when you've spent most of your life outside of that range, it's hard to see what everyone else does.

I also talked to Zombie Mom tonight. One thing stuck in my mind from that conversation -- storytelling. When we were in college, Emerald used to tell me that I was a wonderful storyteller. I think it started with a chair. In the photo featuring the red mini and black boots, there is a chair to the left of me. That chair was a rocking chair. And for many years, my mother would sit in that chair, I would climb onto her lap, and she would read fairytales to me. This started long before I myself could read. By the time that I could, I had memorized many of the stories. One night at a college party, I entertained people with the retelling of some of these fairytales. I simply could not believe that they had never read Hans Christian Andersen -- my absolute favorite. I also took a class in college in African literature. The professor was really into the oral tradition in the tribes of Africa. It's the same in the African American community. Over the years, I have sat and listened while my elders -- my great grandfather (whose parents were born into slavery), my great aunts and uncles, my grandmother, whoever -- told their stories. And they all got stored away in my memory. Many of those people have now passed but their stories haven't. Whenever I am with family, I share their stories. Somewhere along the way I became the keeper of my family's history. I have also been doing research since about age 13 to see what is true. Perhaps one day I will write it all down. I worry. I have no children of my own. Who will keep the stories when I am gone? (And yes, perhaps this could have been a post on its own but I decided to throw this into the general hodgepodge of this post.)

I went into Tuesday with mixed feelings. A lot of folks, including some relatives, forgot my birthday on Monday. I also work with people who are nice but don't do anything for birthdays. It was the most anti-climatic birthday I have ever had. If it had been a "big" one, I probably would have been depressed. Oh yeah. I'm already kind of depressed so I'm not sure how that would have worked out.

My dad shared too much information with my mom on Monday when she called him. Now she's screaming stuff like, "I want my money back." This would be the money that she contributed to their joint finances when they were married. Have I mentioned that they have been divorced for over 30 years? I shared with my father the joys of caller ID. "When I don't feel like talking to her, I just don't answer the phone." Remember? She knows nothing about boundaries. That means that everyone else in her life must establish them. He also said that she doesn't really listen to people. I pointed out that those were my exact words to her last summer -- right before I called her a "fucking bitch." Because sometimes she really can be one. We care about her but she could really benefit from some therapy. There's only so much the rest of us can do.

Saturday night I'm heading out with the girls. I hope this will make up for what has been a rather blah birthday season thus far. OK. I did get that fabulous Kate Spade bag last week but that's not enough. One of my friends backed out of the dinner thing because I wouldn't allow her to bring her boyfriend (?) along. I don't know what the guy is at this point except that he is her baby's daddy. And I can say that because (1) they are not married, and (2) when she found out she was pregnant, he disappeared from the scene. He just returned late last year because now he wants to be a father. The kid will be three later this summer. Oh, and my first time meeting him? Kind of came off as a pompous ass. So I figured that I would be selfish. It's my party as the saying goes, after all. Having a guy around on a girls' night? Totally messes with the dynamics. Especially if it's some guy you don't even like. So yeah. My friend apparently now only goes out when he can join her. I told my therapist on Tuesday it just seemed weird to me. "I don't want to be in a relationship if it means that I can't have an identity that is separate from the other person. It just doesn't seem healthy."


For years my grandmother has been sending me a check for my birthday as well as Christmas. For years I have not been cashing those checks. I mean, she lives on Social Security. Instead I have been shredding them. My mother finally shared this with my grandmother after this past Christmas. Tuesday morning I called my grandma to thank her for the card that she had sent. (I have told my mother that I have never once doubted in my life that my grandmother loves me.) She told me that I was to cash the check and to treat myself to something this time -- perhaps gas in my car. I laughed and told her that her check would not fill the tank of my car but it would buy me dinner. As the day wore on, I remembered how Monday's dinner was so uneventful. That made me think of the shrimp at Gregoire. So I got home and ordered two entrees -- the shrimp and the curried lamb chops -- as well as my usual potato puffs. Now I have dinner for two nights. When I went in to pick up my order, the cook said, "Hi." And that got me thinking. Now that folks can recognize me on the street, perhaps I should lay off saying stuff about guys who I may meet in everyday life who I find attractive.

OK. Brain empty. Now I'm set to watch some TV and to read some more Dexter. Although tomorrow night is such the better TV night. Because hello. Season finale of "Farmer Wants a Wife." Hmmmm. I need to check when "I Love Money" starts so that I can be sure to add it to my DVR schedule. Oh, but tonight is a new episode of "Flipping Out." Cool. A reality show about featuring a person who has issues with boundaries. But I'm not related to him.

The memory of gifts

This is one of the posts that I wrote this past weekend before the other stuff. I'm feeling better -- sort of -- so I thought that I would start off with this one.


Normally when I watch Dumb and Dumber, I catch up on my DVD viewing since there is no cable in the house. And the thought of watching nothing but network TV on a holiday weekend? Ick! But Friday night I was sucked in by a series on the local PBS station, "Becoming American: The Chinese Experience."

Throughout the series, I found myself thinking how POCs have so many experiences in common living in the United States. Not that theses were new thoughts for me.

One woman talked about her two close friends in school; one was black and the other white. It reminded me of my two closest friends from high school. We told people that we were sisters who had the same mother but different fathers. Do you know how many idiots actually believed us? And my sisters? I'm still friends with them today. One is the friend for whom I made the layette a couple of years ago. And we were all heartbroken when that baby was stillborn. But a few weeks ago she gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

And there was this one kind of bold woman and by what they said about her college graduation date, she's about my age. She talked about how the joy of being American is that you can decide who you want to be. She pointed out that others may not be happy with your choice and try to make you define yourself in another way but the decision is still yours. She also talked about going to Cal and how everyone lumps all of the Asians together but how they're not all the same. She pointed out to Bill Moyers that there were terms that white America might not know that were discussed within the Asian community -- FOBs, ABCs, Twinkies. And I thought to myself, "But I know these terms because I had friends in high school and college who used them.

Now we get to the why of the bracelet. It was a gift from a family friend when I was in high school. Often dinner at her house involved looking through her jewelry after the meal. And when you said, "This is pretty," you would be told, "It's yours." Or she'd come back from a trip to Hong Kong with a new piece of jewelry for you. When I moved into my apartment three years ago, I had to sort through things. I came across this bracelet that I hadn't worn in years. I had forgotten that I owned it. And while watching the show, I remembered my bracelet and the rest just flowed. Because it was about a lot more than jewelry.

This friend proudly proclaimed herself to be ABC. Unlike her parents. She was like having the cool older sister around. When she came to dinner at our house, she'd peruse Seventeen magazine with me while my mother cooked up soul food. At her house, she introduced me to cranberry juice. And showed me how to fold wonton wrappers to make potstickers. Sometimes we would go to Clement Street for dim sum where she would order everything in Cantonese. And then she would say, "Just taste it. I'll tell you what is later." The item that I remember the most was shark. After she told me what I had just eaten, I said, "You could have told me what it was. I still would have eaten it." When she got married, I got to attend my first Chinese wedding banquet. I told my mother that I simply had to marry someone Chinese because I wanted one of those banquets. (She later divorced this husband after she found out he was cheating on her, if I remember correctly.) Over the years she also gave me numerous books to read. In fact she is responsible for my love of the hard-boiled detective genre. Later when I was home from college one summer, she took me to dinner at the cafe at Chez Panisse. (My mother had been invited as well but my mother can be rather opinionated about food and refused to go.) I remember what a wondrous place it was. And every time I walk past the place I remember that evening.

In remembering this friend (I'm not sure what has become of her. My mother had one of her infamous arguments and this friend disappeared from our lives as so many of my mother's friends have over the years.), I remember how so many conversations in trying to close the cultural divide centered around food. And maybe that's why I go back to food so often here. It's often a comfortable common ground. Except for maybe that pineapple thing. Or maybe that is as well.

Oh, and today marks three years of this blog.

Trying to get back on track

First of all, I must say that those months of deep-cleaning, organizing, and purging have paid off. This weekend hit and I realized that things were a mess. But it took me almost time at all to set things straight. I think the longest amount of time was spent doing laundry. So I guess I'm starting to feel a little more under control.

And Sunday afternoon as I walked to Andronico's, I realized something. I used to walk a great deal more when I first moved into my apartment. Maybe it was the novelty of the neighborhood. Many days I drive to Andronico's on my way home from somewhere else. I used to drive home and then walk to Andronico's. So on Sunday, after leaving the laundromat, I drove home first and then later walked to the grocery store. And it made me feel a bit better.

When I lived in San Francisco, I had a Sunday routine. I would get up early and clean. The last part of the cleaning was the refrigerator. I would take stock of the staples that were low. Then I would look through cookbooks and magazines to decide if there was something in particular I wanted to cook for the week. I would then add the "missing" items to my shopping list and head out. After re-stocking the kitchen, I would go out to do laundry, if necessary. And then it was back home to cook. And to relax.

And why all of this? Because I've gained 5-10 pounds in the three years I have lived here. And most of it is around my midsection. So not attractive. I have always said that I had no issue with gaining weight if it was proportionate. But this hasn't been and I'm pissed. And I know that many women would be thrilled to be able to wear a size 4 but most of my wardrobe is actually size 2 with a few pieces that are smaller.

I have a small frame so that excess weight around the middle? Makes me look two to three months pregnant. Really. I worked with a woman who has a similar build and my stomach now looks the same as hers did when she was about three months pregnant.

And yes, I realize that now I am finally in the "normal" range of BMI. I've just gotten used to being underweight because I've been there for way too many years.

There's also some whole other stress as well. A few months ago, there was problems with my Thrive membership because of a missed payment from my job. As I was cleaning up over the weekend, I found yet another letter from Thrive saying that I was no longer a member. I need to call tomorrow morning to check my membership status. Because I might have to cancel my appointment for Tuesday. Which is such bullshit.

Thankfully I've done the therapy thing before. And so I also spent the weekend going over things in my head. I'm burnt because between work and family, my world seems to be filled with people who only know how to say, "I need." (When I go to get my hair done, my stylist always asks what I've heard from this one cousin of mine. My response is, "Apparently she has needed anything lately since that's the only time she ever calls." I realized this a few years ago and just stopped making the effort.) I expect it at work. But at the end of the day, I need something other than that.

Case in point is that my dad's older sister made a huge point of telling me at the end of this past week that I need to do something special for my dad for Father's Day this year. I explained to her that with the exception of last year when I was at Kate's wedding, I always do something special for my dad. My birthday usually falls about a week after Father's Day. I get a check in the mail and a promise of dinner for my birthday. And yeah, it kind of pisses me off. Especially when I hear tales of my dad and stepmother heading down to the Bay Area for my stepbrother's birthday to take him out to dinner. Then again my stepbrother doesn't have a lot of friends so if they didn't show up, he probably would spend his birthday alone. Unlike me. Because when my family has not come through, my friends have always been there.

This rediscovery (I've recognized this in the past. I just temporarily forgot.) has helped a great deal in my mental state. As a result, I have stopped talking to family as much as I had over the past few months. I was just starting to feel like they are sucking me dry. Every now and then they ask how I am but it feels like one of those pleasantries of conversation. And even if it isn't, I know them. To say that I feel like crap is me being selfish once more.

I got evidence of this over the weekend when my aunt asked me if I was coming to the family reunion this summer. Ummm. Nope. I explained to her that plane tickets are expensive and I only get so much vacation time a year. And this year I have decided to use my vacation time doing things that I want to do, not what someone else tells me that I should do. There is a part of me that is somewhat happy after spending time with my mom or my dad and his family. But during the whole experience, I am near miserable. And part of the reason why I want to hold back on my time is that my mother's mother turns 85 tomorrow. I haven't seen her in over three years. And spending time with my grandma and the rest of my mother's family is always a positive thing. Maybe I'll go there for Christmas this year.

And now for other things. Do any of you watch "CSI" -- the original one? What is up with that season finale? Because besides doing all of the above chores, I also did some reading and caught up on stuff on my DVR.

Oh, and there will be proof later in the week that I'm really crawling out of the hole.

Half-formed thoughts

I have flashes of thoughts that could possibly be posts but I just don't have the energy to flesh them out. It was a long week at work. Well, maybe the correct thing to say is that the week's commute has been extra hellatious. So here are my scattered thoughts.

1. I am still cracking up over the comment yesterday from Anonymous. Because all I can think is that if this person read this blog on a regular basis, s/he would know that there are other things going on here besides food. But that's not what keeps me laughing. Anyone who has ever met me knows why I'm laughing hysterically. Oh, and Anonymous? Next time don't comment from work.

2. It's probably a good thing that I haven't been going out as much as I used to. In the past, when things went out of whack in my world, I always knew the one thing over which I had control was my weight. I spoke to my aunt in Savannah this morning. She said, "You might finally be getting into that size 4/6 range?" When I told her that I never wanted to be a size 6, she asked a lot of questions. And I lied. Just like I lied to my dad in this past week when I said that I was perfectly fine. Because I know deep down inside that I'm not. I know that I have fallen into bad habits. I skip meals and occasionally I puke them back up. OK. That last part is most frequently unintentional. I have a low gag reflex due to years of actively making myself throw up. So I often accidentally make myself throw up -- think toothbrush. There is a part of me that also knows that if it was easy for me to gain weight, I would have gone to the other end of the spectrum years ago. And I know that I should probably go back to counseling. The thing is that Thrive only seems to have times available during working hours. And now that I've found the great job, I just don't know how to ask for the time to go to appointments. (And for those of you have seen me recently, don't worry. I have years of practice of covering up what I'm really going through. And years of practice of not trusting people completely.)

3. I am torn between what to do this weekend. Part of me wants to stick close to home and get a little partying in. But my dad is trying to lay down the guilt trip about my not going to Sacto last weekend. The thing is that this weekend is Mother's Day. And I have a psycho insecure mother who will be kind of pissed off with me if I spend the day with my stepmother. My mother told me, "You can go to Sacramento this weekend but just remind that woman that she is not your mother." Have I mentioned that my dad and my stepmother have been married for 22 years? Have I mentioned that my parents have been divorced for 34 years?

4. I was about to get into the whole thing of therapy in my early 20s there but decided to spare y'all. Bottom line is that at 30, when my mom threw a hissy fit because I cooked dinner for my dad for Father's Day and invited my stepmother to join us, I learned to start to set some boundaries. The result? My mother was ready to walk but after a few hours of tears, she came crawling back and stated that she would obey the rules. Occasionally I kick myself over this whole thing. Because she lied. She really wouldn't know a boundary if it smacked her over the head. They've always been kind of blurry for her. Since I recognize this, I try to be forgiving.

5. Sometimes I go through a "what if" scenario. Those of you with siblings never really understand the burden of being an only child. When mom or dad is going through something, there's no one else to whom you can pass the buck. It can be stressful at times. I think this is part of the reason why Marin and I became friends. We understand this because we have each had to live it. My "what if" scenario involves a husband and kids.

6. My father may be a little less delusional about my stepmother's condition. Last week she had to start wearing Depends. (And if I ever get to the point at which I have difficulty in getting from point A to point B on my own steam and I have to wear Depends? Well, I have one word for you -- euthanasia.) He was so freaked out over this that he wanted to admit her to the hospital once more. My father is generous only to a certain extent. Don't fuck with his routine. Because he loves his routine.

7. Speaking of routine, I am heavily into reality TV these days. I like to think of it as my weekly skank fix -- Flavor of Love, Beauty & the Geek, Farmer Wants a Wife.

8. And I've been busy to set up routine at work amidst all the craziness. Well, occasional craziness. And a lot of the craziness goes back to one of the guys. He's a widower who's not much younger than my parents. And kind of hot if you find white-haired men hot. He's completely old school. His computer skills go as far as reading email. He may occasionally forward them but I have yet to hear of him responding to one. But I was warned of this when I took the new position at work. He was a little worried at first but now I have become his personal OnStar. I kid you not. I get phone calls of, "I'm at such and such location and need to get to this place. How do I get there?" So I pull up Google Maps. And stay on the line until he has made the final turn. I also get phone calls for folks looking for him. He has a tendency to ignore voicemails. So I end up sorting things out. But that's OK with me because these are the kind of things that I'm good at. Just like I'm good at helping him to sort out the mountains of paper in his office. Really. Mountains. When I go in, I tell the receptionist that if I'm not out in a reasonable amount of time that she should send in a search party. But he knows what he's doing -- professionally (He brings in at least a third of the business, I have been told.) and on a interpersonal level. Because the Blarney runs deep in him. He will ask you to do something with that hint of a smile in his eye while he calls you "darling" and you feel compelled to help him.

9. I have been cracking up over Catheroo's post. I am trying to figure out where I could put a treadmill in my place.

10. What is up with Mariah Carey's marriage?

Lost in books

Thanks to Jill's recommendation, I recently finished reading Parable of the Sower. I enjoyed that book so much, I knew that I had to read the sequel, Parable of the Talents. A couple of pages into the book, I knew why Jill had recommended the two books to me.

I have also read that the Pox was caused by accidentally coinciding climatic, economic, and sociological crises. It would be more honest to say that the Pox was caused our own refusal to deal with obvious problems in those areas. We caused the problems: then we sat and watched as they grew into crises. I have heard people deny this, but I was born in 1970. I have seen enough to know that it is true. I have watched education become more a privilege of the rich the basic necessity that it must be if civilized society is to survive. I have watched as convenience, profit, and inertia excused greater and more dangerous environmental degradation. I have watched poverty, hunger, and disease become inevitable for more and more people.

Overall, the Pox has had the effect of an installment-plan World War III. In fact, there were several small, bloody shooting wars going on around the world during the Pox. These were stupid affairs -- wastes of life and treasure. They were fought, ostensibly, to defend against vicious foreign enemies. All too often, they were actually fought because inadequate leaders did not know what else to do. Such leaders knew that they could depend on fear, suspicion, hatred, need, and greed to arouse patriotic support for war.

Amid all this, somehow, the United States of America suffered a major nonmilitary defeat. It lost no important war, yet it did not survive the Pox. Perhaps it simply lost sight of what it once intended to be, then blundered aimlessly until it exhausted itself.

What is left of it now, what it has become, I do not know.

After reading that passage, I quickly flipped to the front of the book to check the copyright date. 1998. The Pox that the character describes officially occurs between the years of 2015 and 2030. Not really that far from now. Looking at events since the publication of the book, one cannot help but wonder if this is our path. And I guess that it did not help matters in my mind, when I chose to watch the season finale of Salt and Pepa's show on VH1. In the finale, they traveled to New Orleans. And showed the utter destruction that still exists there. Two and a half years later.

Speaking of the South. Family. My dad's older sister is still around and she has been a great help. She has set up systems and routines at my dad's house that will hopefully make things less stressful for him. Their big sticking point has been weekends. She has arranged for someone to be present at the house on weekends so that if my dad needs to get away and do something relaxing -- like play golf. She keeps telling him that this is necessary or else he will burn out quickly. She should know. She has many years of being a primary caregiver -- for her husband and my grandmother. That's why I knew that I wanted her to come out here to help out. Plus she's kind of bossy.

On a happier note (I just say this because things are still up in the air as to my stepmother's condition. She has lost some ground since getting out of rehabilitation.), things are going really well with my new position. And I've been doing things that I enjoy once more. Like going out. And reading.

Oh, and Nat, you can dismiss your Outlook reminder this month. I remembered since I now have enough of a routine once more that I do things like look at the calendar.

Test drive

I don't know about y'all but my possessions? Sometimes they speak to me. Like if I get a really pretty dress. Suddenly I'll hear a little voice saying, "You know what? We should go out somewhere."

OPH definitely has a voice. Let me explain some stuff first, though. My love of OPH started with getting my hair braided. (Oh, and OPH belongs on your head, not on your clothes. That's just way too dark for me. Like Holocaust kind of dark. And that's never cool in my book.) That first time, I thought, "Well hell. If I'm going to spend all this time (8 hours) and money, I may as well get some length as well." And then I discovered ponytails. I have always kept them in two lengths -- Everyday and Party Hair.

Everyday has been pretty happy recently. The same cannot be said about Party Hair. Party Hair has spent months sitting in a mesh bag. At first it was a gentle whisper. "Hey! You know what would be cool? If we went out for a night on the town." I ignored that whisper. And then Party Hair turned downright ugly. Screaming at me like a banshee. "Beyotch! I know you heard me! You're taking me out. Now!" It got so that not only did I worry that the cats would kill me in my sleep, but that Party Hair would do the same.

Then Mommy Zombie came up with an idea. A girls' night before she brings C2 home next weekend.

Saturday night we met up at Cesar -- and we both took our OPH out for an evening. There were food, drinks, and conversation. (Oh. And one of the points of conversation was a realization that she had made. Those food photos I post? I rarely eat all of that. At least not at one sitting. Hell. Because I like to taste and sample while I cook, I often plate stuff for the sake of a photo and then wrap it up in the fridge for later consumption. Mommy Zombie calls this one of the secrets of the skinny girls.) And the OPH basked in the whole thing.

Leaving Cesar, I walked with Mommy Zombie to the taxi stand in downtown. (Yes, there is one. Right next to the BART station.) On the way there, she asked how far my fave bar was. I told her a few blocks past the taxi stand. And then that other voice in my head spoke up -- my inner Holly. Well, she said, "Of course we can pop down there for a bit."

Now I'll admit that I was a bit nervous. The last time I was in the place was right before Christmas. And I don't have much memory of that evening. All I know is that I didn't have any cash and I had left my debit card at another bar. As far as I knew, I still owed money and they were pissed off at me. But they weren't. I ran into the former hostess with her boyfriend. After a hug, she said that she had just been asking where I've been. No one knew. Then my bartender came over and greeted me with a hug. I knew then that all was safe. The bad part was that he no longer could remember if I liked regular or diet Coke with my Myers. But at least he remembered that I like lots of lime. My inner Holly did not take this as a good sign.

So Mommy Zombie and I drank. And she taught me a really cool game -- "Live or Die." As folks walk past you say whether they should live or die based upon their look. One woman had been slated for death until I overheard her in the bathroom. She was speaking Portuguese. We could not hold her to American fashion ideals and so decided that this time she could live. But her outfit was still hideous.

You should have seen the bartender's shock when I closed out my tab after the second round. I explained that it had been a long day -- and it had. So Mommy Zombie and I headed back down the street. We didn't even have to go all the way to the cab stand when a cab driver called out his window to ask if we needed a cab.

And the photo? This used to be the boutique on my walk home. You know. The place with the cute dresses of which I would take photos on my way home. I guess I should be more surprised that they lasted this long. The clothes were cute but a bit overpriced in my opinion. The curse of having spent years working in fabric stores and of knowing how to sew.

But now I'm hearing new voices. The voices of all that other fantastic OPH I saw at the beauty supply store. They want me to liberate them. *sigh* What's a girl to do?

Survival

Some of y'all have been probably wondering why there hasn't been any food around here lately. That's because I've basically been doing survival eating. That means nothing too exciting. What's that you ask? Lots of refried beans with whatever is on hand. There was a couple of weeks of artichokes with hummus. (I'm telling you. Once you have tried the hummus, you will never want any other dip for your 'choke.) Tacos from the latino market near work. Fish and chips from the cafeteria near work. And I guess I'd better savor those now since it looks like the office will be moving sometime this year. But maybe more about that another time.

I do feel like I should say thanks to my peeps over at Poulet. They made it possible for an extremely hormonal me to get through this past weekend without cooking. I started off on Thursday evening. That night I picked up half of one of their wonderful rosemary-lemon-garlic chickens. And of course I needed side dishes. I was able to get the last of the roasted eggplant with string beans. Yes, I'm a regular eggplant junkie these days. Oh, and there were these divine roasted yams. Oops. Let me be truthful. The real reason I went on Thursday night was that I had called before leaving work.

"What desserts do you have today?"

"Raspberry cheesecake, carrot cupcakes..."

I know she said something after the cupcakes but I really didn't need to hear more. Because as much as I love the roasted eggplant, I love the carrot cake even more. And so yes, I went in to shop for a meal but it was really all centered around getting the cupcakes. Everything else was incidental. And the said thing is that once I ate the other stuff, I didn't have room for the cupcakes. Yes, I just used a plural. Because I bought two. I have learned from the error of my past ways.

Friday evening I felt like I had been run over by a truck or something like that. It took all my strength to force myself to eat. And once more, the cupcakes remained in the fridge.

Saturday rolled around and I realized that I would need to leave the house. Something about cat food and wanting to live. And there was the drycleaning as well. So the route was stop at the dry cleaners to drop off more stuff, over to the grocery store to get her royal uppityness her favorite food, back to the dry cleaners to pick up the stuff I had dropped off last week, and then on the way home... Yes, you guessed it. Another stop at Poulet. This time for a chicken salad sandwich. And then they had apple, walnut, and cream cheese strudel so of course I needed a piece of that. I was about to leave when I noticed the special was Buffalo chicken -- legs and wings. I asked for a combo. The sandwich got me through Saturday. The Buffalo chicken? Breakfast on Sunday. I kid you not.

And now? Back to survival eating once more. But what I really want to do is to go to Cesar. Emerald gave me a gift certificate for the place last year for my birthday. The thing is that it's too much money for just me. Because I am the kind of chick who will go to a restaurant alone if she really wants to go out for a meal. But Cesar has always been that place to which I go with others. And of course, Dumbest turned out to be just that around that time so there went the idea of an evening out with a boy. While I've gone on a few dates since then, none of them have seemed worthy of my gift certificate. And I'd ask Emerald to come along but she just gave birth a couple of weeks ago. So if any of y'all are feeling like a meal at Cesar, just let me know.

In the meantime, I'm just waiting for the right occasion so that I can use my new favorite word. I never thought that I would write these words but, "Thank you, Diddy."

It all leads somewhere

Over the last few weeks, I have spent a lot of time reading and watching TV. Oh yeah. And spending time with the cats. Oh, and plotting new craft stuff. Well, the craft stuff is an old idea. I just finally located the materials that clicked. Maybe it had something to do with that post in which Fluffycat mentioned doing the things you enjoyed when you were young. And sewing? I can lose myself completely when sewing. For up to 12 hours. And I mean lost in the way that I suddenly realized that I've let every cigarette that I've lit burn out in the ashtray. And hey, I'm hungry. Because somehow I've forgotten to eat.

But that's not the point of this post. This is one of those posts I had to let marinate in my mind because there was so much going on. And sometimes it's hard to find a starting point.

Maybe the weather hasn't been of much help recently. But we've had a week of sun now. I went to the dry cleaners Saturday to pick up the stuff I had dropped off last week and to drop off some more. The woman said, "You have a lot of skirts." And then she peeked around the counter to see what I was wearing. "Just like last week, you're not wearing a skirt. I don't understand." But I did. First it was cold and wet and I didn't want to wear a skirt for fear of freezing to death. Then I started to feel bloated and I just wanted to "hide" like I did in high school. Back then I lived in baggy pants and sweaters. Once a year I would wear a dress or a skirt. Seriously. Well, except when I had to do things with family.

But let's go back a day. Friday night I got home from work after taking 2400 mg of ibuprofen over a nine hour period and I was cranky and still in pain. After feeding the cats, I went to do what I always do -- put on a pair of pajama pants. But the first pair I put on were way too snug and what's the point of wearing pajama pants if they're uncomfortable? So I cursed the water retention and found another pair that were actually comfy. Then I curled up under the comforter with the remote control in hand. I was probably asleep by 8 since the combination of things makes me really sleepy.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a Tyra rerun. My first reaction was to turn away immediately but Mary J. Blige was on. And she was talking about the hell of hormones and periods. And I had to watch. She said that there's only one week out of the month that she's happy with her body -- or something along those lines. And I knew what she meant. Because there's only about one week each month during which I feel like I can reach into the closet and wear whatever I feel like wearing. And then they moved onto other topics so I changed the channel.

But I thought some more for the next 24 hours or so. I thought about how much I love the show "How to Look Good Naked." And about some of the stuff that I have been reading about women and body image over the last few weeks. (And in my mind, I don't think that a woman's size matters much as long as she's healthy. And I'm not so I've also taken up working out over the last few weeks. Because even though I'm still relatively small, I'm not in as good of shape as I was in the past.) I go through at least a five pound fluctuation of weight over the course of a month -- sometimes more. And as BWB has pointed out, that can be a change in a size for me. And I was left with the thought of, "No wonder women have such issues with body image. Our bodies go through all of these changes over which we have little control."

Sticking with it

I just can't escape the music thing. I got home last night and turned on the TV even though I knew that there was nothing but reruns on. And for some reason the TV was on VH1. And they were doing one of their countdowns -- Top 100 songs of the 90s. Squeee!

Unfortunately last night they did not show the top 20. They'll be running the series again tonight including the unseen top 20. And that's right. I set the DVR to record the whole thing. Because I'm weird like that. And mostly because I will probably sit around tonight with a pad of paper out. To write down the songs that I have "forgotten" and will now have to dig out to listen to once more.

And I wasn't going to do a video today but then I started trying to think of what was one of my all-time favorite songs of the 90s. And it was this one.



Because I still play it now and always will. Because how could you not feel happy listening to this song?

Why bother?

I'm starting to wonder why I bother to write the endless lists. Like my list for Saturday. OK. I did accomplish the majority of the list actually. It's just that things got changed up and the items that should have been then completed on Sunday are still waiting to be done.

Saturday was filled with numerous errands. I left home around 10 a.m. and returned around 3 p.m. The first stop, after checking on mom's house and then making the dreaded phone call, was to Sears. Because I needed more of the cute cabinets. Well, I was going to buy another quad unit and two of cubes with doors. But they only had one of the cubes with doors. And since it was about the same price as the two-cube unit I wanted anyway, I decided to get that instead. I'll find the other cube with door later.

And then I "wasted" time in the store when I ran into old family friends. These are people who went to church with my family when I was growing up. And even though I had my horrid "I'm running errands" look -- that may be why the husband hesitated when he saw me -- I did chat with them. We talked about where various family members are currently (Their daughter is two years older than I.) and how various family members are doing with their illnesses. The wife is a retired RN from Thrive! and is also a cancer survivor.

Next on the list was some grocery shopping -- a little more sane than going to the mall. And I don't know about you, but if there's a line at the grocery store, I will usually end up in a conversation with someone in line next to me. Like last week when I was in Andronico's and the older guy with the accent in line behind me started up a conversation. I kind of cut him off after he said, "You have a beautiful smile." So similar happened at Trader Joe's. Except it was an older woman and we were talking about kids and education. And then she asked where I went to school since I said that I had attended local schools. And then she asked my name and said, "Of course," when I answered. Because once she told me her name, I knew her instantly. She had been my English teacher my junior year of high school. And she's still teaching. And at Lucky, I discussed cheesecake recipes with the woman in line in front of me.


Once home, I made the above Beef Stroganoff. And another pot of cioppino. And was all set to rest and maybe do some cleaning when there was a knock at the door. The guys in the apartment behind me were having a party to celebrate the end of exams and were hand-delivering the invite.

Isn't this the cutest card ever?

So I took a power nap and headed on over the party. And got home around 4:00 a.m. Now you can see why Sunday was pretty shot. But I wouldn't have missed the party. Because no one parties like some engineering grad students. There were festive green and red Jell-O shots. And someone made a comment about, "There's always room for Jell-O." And there was a fridge full of beer -- really quite literally. And Belvedere and Jack. And there was music and engineers trying to dance. And then there was some beat boxing. Basically it had that kind of vibe if the guys at the Buy More threw a party. (Now if they had hopped into a car to drive to a field to bash some office machinery to the dulcet tones of rap music...) Oh, and the women there? Cute. Because as discussed elsewhere in the PRB, women with taste like their men kind of geeky.


Thankfully I had done all that cooking on Saturday because I only had the energy to make this on Sunday. My only splurge while shopping hungry on Saturday -- the mozzarella. Because who can really say no to cheese?

And I'm afraid of what could be in store for this week. Because on Monday, someone at work told me that I might want to wear loose pants all week...



And I guess I still haven't gotten over the music thing. So I leave you with another classic gem. In the meantime, I'm going to sit here at work and try to be pleasant to people while I'm waiting for the 800 mg of ibuprofen to kick in.

Why I don't do drugs

I awoke early on Sunday. I had organizing stuff to unpack. And a ton of TV to watch. Guess which won out? Yep, the TV. So there I was curled up with my blanket and pillow. And then Boris decided to use me as a pillow for his nap. Next thing I knew, I had missed the second half of "Chuck." This was after something like five hours of viewing. Don't worry. I finished the show later. But what was really disturbing was remembering the dream that I had while napping. Probably even stranger because I rarely remember dreaming.

Apparently there is a secret room in my apartment. And apparently I knew about the room when I moved in. I have just chosen to ignore it over the last couple of years. But I was hell-bent on getting organized so I opened the door. To discover a room that was at least 12 x 12. It looked a little rundown but not too much. As in, I would never sleep in the room but it looked like a perfectly good place to dump my extra stuff. And then I noticed the window. That turned out to be a sliding glass door. Leading to a covered balcony. And suddenly I had gardening space. I'm sure there's more but then I woke up.

I took it all as a hint and got up and got to work. Yep. All the bags from Bed Bath & Beyond and Target have been unpacked. And at least a couple of items from Bed Bath & Beyond will be going back tomorrow. Seems they didn't fit my kitchen cabinet. But the shelves that I picked up did and now I can once more find various cookware with ease. And I knew that 20 plastic shoeboxes would probably be just a start. It seems I need at least ten more. And there's more shopping to be done next weekend after I get my next paycheck.

Why all the insanity? It wasn't just the organization of my desk at work. It's also been seeing my neighbors' apartments. Seeing their apartments over the last couple of weeks has made me realize that I would have to do a lot of straightening up before I feel comfortable in inviting them into my apartment. And then there was the realization that I have lived here longer than any other place with the exception of my mother's house. And that my nomadic tendencies appear to have disappeared. Well, I still want to travel but now I get to return to a place that I truly consider to be home. After I finish organizing, I'll probably be looking at furniture next. I think it's really time to start putting down roots. Furniture that can travel in the back of my car just doesn't seem to say this.

Eleven hours

B&N are slowly adjusting to the idea of my working once more. Last night Natasha howled at the front door. She's normally not very vocal. I am guessing that she was demonstrating what she did while I was gone during the day. Because Natasha now gets up every morning when I do. This from a creature who would sleep until 9 a.m. or later when I was home all day. And tonight I double-parked while waiting for parking. Boris was already stationed in the window. I assume he said something to Natasha because she joined him shortly. Once I got a space, they quickly disappeared from the window so that they could greet me at the door. I still find the whole thing kind of strange.

So. Eleven hours. That's how many hours of unviewed shows were sitting on my DVR when I got home from work tonight. That would be at 6 p.m. because thankfully my commute is only one hour each way. Trust me. One hour is good. Years ago I had a commute of an hour and a half -- and that was only if there weren't any accidents or other mishaps on the road. My favorite mishap to this day is when a sewage truck dumped raw sewage on the freeway. Ewwww! By then, I was well aware of my alternate routes and so it only took me two hours to get to work.

And speaking of work. Yes, I am working as a temp. I like where I'm working. And more importantly, they seem to like me as well. The agency explained to me that this job had the potential of becoming a regular (Never use the word "permanent." Permanent implies a contract. And California is an at-will state.) position. After three days, I want to say, "Yes," but I think that I should give it some more time so that I can be sure. Of course, I am sure that even after some more time, I will have the same feeling.

Yesterday my mother asked me how I was sure that they liked me. I was told on my first day that the other temp had to go because she was a bit too "abrasive" at times. Apparently my valley girl voice isn't because my boss then stated that he didn't see that happening with me because already I sounded much more pleasant. Yesterday I think I discovered the definition of abrasive. I speak with the assistant for the president of the company on a daily basis. Yesterday she made it clear that she did not like the last temp. From what I've heard the woman acted in a way that was rather contrary. Tell her one thing and be assured that she would do the exact opposite. But I knew that I had already won folks over when the assistant asked me why I was temping. I explained to her that I was temping while looking for a regular position. She then said, "We have open positions here, including the job that you are doing currently. The other open position is as my assistant. I'm going to retire in three to four years. At that time, my assistant would take over my job. Do you have a resume? You should give it to me so that I can set up a meeting for you with the president." So yeah, I think they like me.

I wouldn't want that position though. The group for whom I work are pretty chill. Yes, they work hard but all that they expect from me is that I do what is required in a timely manner. So what if there is occasional downtime? Right now I have been spending it understanding the work and processes better. And trying to create systems so that we can all work more efficiently.

And so now I'm feeling OK because when I left tonight, they all said, "See you on Monday."

A little habit

I watch a great deal of TV. I have tried to live in denial of the fact but I do. I think it started when I was in high school. This is when I started sleeping four to six hours a night. Under the right conditions, the TV could lull me back to sleep.

I watch a lot of the network stuff. But I have this one secret pleasure. Sometimes I like to watch the History Channel. I like the stuff about groups of people. It started with a history of the Klan. I tried to turn away but I couldn't. This morning I was thrilled to find a program on the Hippies that will be followed by one on the Hell's Angels. The coolest part of the show on the Hippies was the end in which they discussed the movement's continuing effects on our world today. This included an interview with a guy who thought that it was important to get computers in the hands of the people in order to empower them -- or something like that. And another cool guy who wanted to get information into the hands of the people, or at least that's how they put it on the show. (By the way, I still miss the Whole Earth Access store.)

Sometimes I think to myself, "What strange viewing choices." But I've always been fascinated by what makes people tick. Perhaps it is not a mistake that I share my birthday with Alfred Kinsey. Whatever the reason, it is a welcome change from being sucked in by those movies on Lifetime. You know the ones.

You go back, Jack ...

Sometimes one has to experience a mistake a second time in order to understand fully that it is indeed a mistake. Such was the case yesterday.

Last night I had to pick my mom up from the airport. (Yes, we are speaking again.) After we arrived at the house, she asked about our sit-down with my dad. I told her that I think that he was waiting for her to return before scheduling it. Knowing my dad, he'll decide that since my mother and I are speaking again, the sit-down is unnecessary. Not. My mother also tried to talk me into spending the night at her house since it was late. It wouldn't have been so late if her flight had been on time but it was an hour late. I desperately wanted to get home though so I left. Besides I knew it was that magical hour during which there are actually parking choices in my neighborhood.

The drive home started off pretty well. I thought about some of the things I wanted to discuss with my mother when my father is present. Like how I have finally and truly embraced happiness. It took the mention of moving to make me realize it all. And the fact that come March I will have lived in this place for three years. That's a true record for me. Usually after a year in one place, I have wanted to move. But not now. Because after all these years, I have finally found a place that feels like home to me. I just can't imagine living anywhere else. It's a strange feeling since it's so foreign to me. And now knowing this has made me realize that I am truly happy.

And then I got that text message on the drive home. Retail Boy was in town. I sent him a message explaining that I was rather tired. So he called. Wanting to know what I had saved up on the DVR. And then I remembered that there had been the season finale of "Burn Notice." Suddenly I was wide awake. And I, like a fool, decided that it would be OK to have some company with whom I could watch TV. Just watch TV. Guess I should have made that clear.

He showed up shortly after I got home and proceeded to irritate the hell out of me. Like talking in an outside voice. Over me. He did most of the talking. Every time I tried to say something, he would try to interrupt in a much louder voice than mine. And I thought to myself, "What an ass." Every now and then he would make these stupid proclamations. I would correct him. He would respond with, "I knew that." And I thought to myself, "What an ass."

And did I get to see "Burn Notice?" Noooo. Because the ass wanted to see "Rock of Love." But the last episode was rather hilarious so I was willing to watch it again. And then he was at a loss as to why I noticed more in the show than he did. Perhaps I know how to listen while I'm talking. So maybe he should just shut the fuck up.

My favorite part of the evening was while he was watching Lacey's crazy ass dad, he kept saying, "I want to be a really good dad." OK. That part is kind of sane. Then he followed it up with, "Everyone keeps telling me I would be a really good dad." Didn't we have a conversation about "everyone" last summer? And this of course was after watching the end of Friday that made him say that the movie made him want to do drugs again. I guess he never caught that Robin Williams bit about parents who do drugs.

So he ended up getting his panties in a wad when I called him out over the talking over me shit. "I can't believe that you're saying that. I've been a perfect gentleman." Ummm. Gentlemen, in my book, do not try to interrupt you. "But I've listened to everything you said." Well, then act like it, you ass.

In the future if I say that I have answered his text or call, could someone please come along and slap me? Thank you.

When I get bored

It wasn't enough to just sit and watch "Mad Men" last night. Noooo. I needed more entertainment. Who would have known that Boris is so scared by bubbles floating over his head? And if one actually lands on him? I see many hours of entertainment in the days to come. And it's so cheap too.

And now I have just noticed that Blogger has added a button to upload video. Yep. Loads more fun in store.

Giving into pressure

Monday night I finally gave in and watched "The Closer." And then I fell asleep in the middle of the episode. Probably had something to do with the fact that I had not had my afternoon nap. Yesterday I remembered that I could watch the episode on demand.

And then I felt the need to watch episodes of "Matchmaker" that I had missed. And what the heck. There were four episodes of "The Two Coreys" available. Why didn't anyone twist my arm about that last one? If I had watched that first episode weeks ago, I would never have invited Grasshopper and her boyfriend to stay with me.

Meanwhile I am fighting other temptation. Namely this urge to call that boy. I know I haven't talked about him much on here but things basically ended back in June. Basically we are at different points in our lives right now. Or at least that's what we each perceived. That's what usually happens to me. Meet a perfectly good guy at the wrong time. It was pretty nice to have that person you could call if you were having an exceptionally great day -- or an exceptionally crappy one -- and who would listen. Even more so, on the exceptionally crappy days, not only did he listen but he could understand. Now that is truly a rarity. I had someone like that in my life years ago and kept on thinking that it wouldn't be possible again. Now I know that it is. I might just have to wait another eight or so years for it to happen again.

2007 has been a hard year for me. Family health issues. My own issues -- health and job. OK, and boys too. And it hasn't helped much in inspiring me to look for a job. The thought of heading out and putting on a happy face seems a bit overwhelming at times. And don't mention therapy at this point. My health benefits disappear at the end of this month. I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to continue to pay the basic expenses of life -- and health insurance is not included. Then again I will be going to visit the Bank of Dad later this week so who knows.

Oh, and last night I braised some pork with cumin and coriander. Sorry but no pictures. After cooking, I was talking to my neighbor in the hallway about how her cat had killed the mouse in her apartment. A random guy passed by. He could have been a visitor or a new tenant. Anywho. When he passed, he commented, "That smells great." Of course, I already knew that. If all else fails, I have the comfort of food ...


and of the cats.

All I have to do is hold out my arm and Natasha will come over to rub against it. Now if only I could get Natasha to expand her repertoire from killing flies to include killing spiders.

Obsessive behavior

This is one thing that I have come to look forward to each week. The sequence reminds me of Hitchcock. It took me a bit but then I realized that I was reminded of Vertigo, a film that has always had a special place in my heart for various reasons.

My ex-boyfriend told me that I had a special talent for spotting cinematic themes in visuals as well as music. When we saw City of Angels in the theater, I commented on the way out how certain camera shots reminded me of Rain Man while the score reminded me of The English Patient. Well and the use of shadows was also reminiscent of The English Patient as well. Just check out the opening sequence of the desert in The English Patient and compare it to the angels standing on rooftops in L.A. in City of Angels. I can't remember now what scene prompted my thoughts of Rain Man but it was something else that involved shadows. I had correctly recognized the cinematographer and the composer. And my ex was the one who had the Masters in film. Oh well. And so now I keep a special eye for both as I appreciate their work. And both usually work with Anthony Minghella. But enough about the stuff in my head. Check out this trailer for Vertigo.



And the music in "Mad Men"? Haunting. So much so that I spent time Saturday night trying to discover what the tune is. Actually, it didn't take that long as they are now listing the music from each episode on the official site. (And then once I knew the artist, I checked out other stuff. I realized that I've heard RJD2's "Ghostwriter" as well and love it. Apparently the track has been used for commercials for Wells Fargo and Saturn. Have I mentioned how much I love music on commercials? Reminds me. There was some other commercial I saw recently in which I really liked the music. Must figure that out. Of course, I've always been a fan of lo-fi or however you want to categorize him.) I'm thinking that I might just have to re-watch all of the episodes to date (I have them all saved on the DVR.) to see if there's some other stuff that's just as catchy. At least now I will no longer have to repeatedly replay the opening sequence on my TV.

Along the way I have read comments about the blatant sexism and racism in the show. Well, gee whiz. Guess what? Folks did behave in that manner back then. And the government said it was OK. To expect anything else from a period show is ridiculous in my opinion.

In the meantime, I will continue to look forward to each week's episode. Because even though I know that I could not have been a part of their world, there's a part of me that wishes I was. Maybe it's just because I miss being able to light up indoors at work. ;-)

Oh, and a last note. I just realized that the last line in "I Could Just Kill a Man" is "All I wanted was a Pepsi." Classic. A line from one of my other favorite songs. It explains so much. Well, it does if you know the other song. And if you don't, the only hint that I will give you is think of ED. It was the next band I thought of after Rage Against the Machine while cruising in my car Saturday morning. Because if you try to buttonhole down my taste in music, you just won't be able to do it. I just like good music. Because it makes me feel good. And if you have any doubt, read this review. Trust me. It really is a music review.

Standing up for myself

I had thought of posting yesterday but everything I thought of just sounded so full of wrath. Because I was annoyed. Yelling and slamming doors annoyed.

Grasshopper started the sofa surfing on Wednesday night. Well, actually I let her take the bedroom because the TV with the DVR is in the living room and I like to view into the wee hours of the night. Wednesday night her boyfriend helped her bring stuff in. He then used my computer to look for a job; he too is currently jobless. He started complaining about a hum. Turns out it was the CPU. And thus started my annoyance.

Yesterday morning he came back to take Grasshopper to work. He returned. I thought to use the computer once more. Nope. He sat down on the end of the futon in the living room and proceeded to go to sleep. And he snores. This was around 10 a.m., about the time I awake from my morning nap. (I get up at 6 a.m. to feed the cats every day. Then I usually watch a little TV and go back to sleep around 8 or so.) So around noon, I loudly asked, "Where did you park your car?" He grumbled something. I figured screw it. If you don't have a resident or visitor sticker in my neighborhood, then it's two hour parking. He got a ticket. Not my problem though because I'm not his mother. Heck. I'm not even his friend. He's the boyfriend of my friend.

And so the annoyance continued to build throughout the day. At one point I stepped outside to call Buzzgirl because I felt like throttling him. Oh, because I had moved from my end of the futon to check email at one point. When I turned back around, he had taken over the entire futon. Huh? What the fuck? So I didn't get my afternoon nap. And without that nap, I can be kind of cranky these days.

When Grasshopper returned, I was in my car once more. This was sometime between 7:30 p.m. and 8. And yes, the slacker was still asleep. When we walked in she asked me what was wrong. I told her to turn around. She woke him up and told him to move to the bedroom. But did he? Noooo. Instead, I hear from the kitchen, "You can't change the channel when it's recording?" Men are not allowed to touch the remote control in my home. Not at any time. That's part of what pissed me off about Retail Boy that time. Well, besides his begging for food. Finally around 8:30 he moved. And that's when I discovered that the DVR was not recording what I had wanted, "Big Brother 8." That was the point at which I completely lost it. I screamed something about how I would have had the opportunity to catch that mistake earlier if the futon had not been occupied for so damn long. And I happened to be on the phone with BWB at the time. So I grabbed my cigarettes and continued the conversation from the comfort of my car. I know. Sad. (Fortunately, Hilly reminded me that I could see the episode online. But still...)

When I finally returned, I explained to Grasshopper that I was highly annoyed and felt like my boundaries had been violated. I told her that I haven't had to live with another person in quite some time, especially one whom I barely know. I told her that it was imperative that in the day I have time that is completely mine -- no other people around. I told her that she was welcome to stay but I needed to have my space respected. She said she would talk to him. I hope to hell that she does.