LaurieWrites

Nor'Easter

I hope y'all had a good weekend, Internet. I was in New York again, taking care of some things, and also some stuff, most of it having to do with eating. It's just amazing how much it's possible to cram into 24 hours there, like, literally. Let's see if I can remember anything. (No photos yet - I've been the slacker where that's concerned lately.)

Went to Top of the Rock, which, despite a $17.50 cover charge to ride up a series of escalators entirely too close to throngs of people who may or may not be wearing an "I Heart NYC" article of clothing, is worth doing once. I'd like to see it at night, cause I like lights and stars. It would actually be the ultimate concrete campsite.

After descending from the top of...the Rock, right...ran into approximately 137,000 children high on a variety of sugar products and the experience of seeing "Go, Diego, Go" LIVE at Radio City Music Hall. They had taken to the streets, shouting in Spanish and clutching plastic sticks that lit up and Dora blow-up dolls. It was like Evita gone horribly wrong. I was just thankful it wasn't the Wiggles, and instead was a salute to the ever-more-buff Diego, seen here in his photography vest. (completely my extrapolation, you understand.)

Then I woke up, and I was at the Macy's flower show, which again involved throngs of people, this time wielding very tiny point and shoot cameras and stepping on my feet. This was problematic. Cool concept - just not enough room by any stretch, even though there were almost life-sized giraffes made out of plants. That pretty much rocked.

Prune is one of my favorite restaurants anywhere. It's not too crazy expensive. If you're looking for a cozy spot in New York where the food is guaranteed to be good, hit it. We had appetizers and drinks at the bar on Saturday night which turned out to be way filling and not as expensive as a full meal. The staff is great, too. So we went back for brunch today, because you know, when my blood sugar drops at all, there's hell to pay, so watch it. Actually it was raining so hard that we just didn't want to look around too much for a place to eat before we left town.

Because yes there was rain. Lots of rain, and that was just today. Yesterday was gorgeous, and then this morning all hell broke loose.

Hanging out at a fun and relaxing bar called The Room, which stopped being relaxing when this tool from North Carolina wearing an orange tie showed up, claiming he used to live in the neighborhood, and brought back his fiancee and a bunch of his clearly monied southern friends to act out on the eve of their engagement party. The fiancee was friendly and honestly so ridiculously attractive in a very Charlotte way that I really wanted to ask her why the hell she was marrying this guy. He stomped around the place demanding to talk with the one guy he knew who worked there, who probably lives in Daytona Beach now or some shit, and alternated insulting his girlfriend with ducking outside to set his beer bottle on parked cars and smoke cigarettes.

At one point the bartender walked over to drop off some beers this guy had drunkenly ordered although there was no one at the table, set them down, and said to his fiancee, "Sorry ma'am, but your fiance is officially retarded." "Hahaha, yeah, he's a piece of work, hahaha," she said, which reminded me that I shouldn't feel so bad for any adult who's willingly connecting him or herself with a person whose personality is seemingly abhorrent. Works for her, I guess.

At one point, I clearly began using the phrase "at one point" as my go-to for all manner of expression. Oops - self-editing break. Anyway, at ONE MOMENT IN TIME which I cannot clearly identify, the guy came in from ruining everyone's night out on the sidewalk to ask her if she wanted another drink (and to shout at her for referring to the bathroom as "the potty", which was possibly the most awkward exchange I've seen in awhile between two people who are allegedly having sex), and I was just. sitting. there. I mean, really. I didn't say anything, or even gesture. I perhaps smiled up at him, as one would at a person who was clearly crying for help in his particular manner. And he glared at me - this "man" who had not met me an hour prior, who we had allowed to take over half of our table, and barked, "I wasn't talking to YOU."

Oh really? Because usually you are, you know, in the whole 37 minutes I've been unfortunately aware of your existence, you just can't shut us up with all the conversing with each other about all the stuff we don't have in common and also how you suck.

"Oh, honey, I know," I said. "I'm just smiling. Isn't that what y'all do where y'all are from? Smile? A LOT?"

Do not mess with the PMS That Hasn't Had Enough Sleep Monster, Charlie. Or Chad. Or whatever name that starts with the same letters as "Chump." Because you know what she'll do when you do what you did next? Which was to turn around and STICK OUT YOUR UNATTRACTIVE, PUDGY "I HAD TO BECOME AN INVESTMENT BANKER TO GET A HOT GIRL TO MARRY ME" CRACKER ASS AND POINT AT IT in some gesture meant to suggest that I was supposed to...oh, I don't know, brand it with a hot iron, perhaps? What she, meaning I, will do, is to outwardly limit myself to saying, "Nice. Classy." and immediately cease to acknowledge your presence at all from that moment forward. But inwardly, with my strongest psychic powers, which have been known to work on the odd occasion, I will conjure up an image of a beautiful future for your future wife and her personal trainer that involves her growing tired of you in approximately 1.7 years, and ending up with said trainer making workout videos on Oahu.

God I hate assholes. I don't meet a single one among the natives when I'm in the city (really, I have remarkably good luck there, unlike in DC) and it takes a freaking North Carolina finance major to wreck my chi.

Second best quote of the weekend, aside from the bartender referenced above, belongs to Grainne Diver, the guitar player in the Screaming Orphans, a lovely and talented group of sisters who live in the city now after growing up in Ballyshannon, County Donegal. We were talking about finding apartments in New York and she said,

"There's the one next to ours, but I'm not so sure anyone'd want it, considering our neighbor died in there and no one found him for awhile. Oh, the smell! There I was sitting on the couch with my Sour Patch Kids watching reality television with no idea he's decaying on the other side of the wall!"

It shouldn't have been funny but it was.

The girls play at Tir na Nog near Penn Station on a regular basis, and it's a good time. We got to spend some time talking with them last night, and I learned that they're not only very talented but also a lot of fun and quite sweet as well. The obligatory Myspace page is here. And here's an interview with Angela, who plays fiddle and bass, on bassgirls.com. I can assure you the whole "no personality" thing is a lie. She was very sweet - either that or faking it mightily.

April 14

The Typepad featured post that just popped up when I logged in is I Love Nacho Cheese, which is just something I think should be pondered for a moment.  It is dedicated to everyone who, also, loves nacho cheese. Do you love it? Because if you do, a whole website was just dedicated to you. How does that feel? Pretty special, right?

My head is full of a stream of people who just passed through my life at a place called "The Room" in Greenwich Village. Englishmen with unfortunate hats and assholes from Charlotte, North Carolina are amok in the city tonight. Also good oysters, and improving weather.

We're staying at a hotel on the 53rd floor that has a crazily direct overview of Ground Zero. I'm trying not to think about all the life that still exists down there in tiny pieces and infinity, but I'm thinking about it, for sure.

Two Down

(This is a day late. Yesterday's intense bout of whatever illness that's currently kicking my ass prevented me from sitting upright long enough to press "SAVE". This whole "prolonged winter described as spring" thing, where the pollen collides with the dampness to breed viruses and sinus damage, can suck it.)

I started writing in this blog on April 10, 2005. It's crazy to think that I've been doing this for two years now. So much has happened in the span of 1335 days, 622 posts, plus 84 drafts (which remain drafts for obvious reasons indicated mostly by titles like "Why are all interesting men that I meet married?", "I am super-reactionary right now", and "Britney writes poetry, and..." This is proof that every random thought should not be broadcast.)

I started writing online because I was going crazy. Really, for real, absolutely crazy, as I recall. Two weeks or so prior to the blog's advent, I hung up the phone on a conversation that I honestly believe rearranged the molecules in my mind and body, it was that profound. I keep checking in with myself to see if that's overly dramatic, and I just can't say that it is, because it was pretty deep for me. Difficult truths were spoken, necessary revelations that truly did change the way I saw things, particularly through the lens of a relationship that I had allowed to become arguably much too important to my emotional well-being. The only tangible thing I've taken away from it is that I still sort of hate the telephone.

Not many moments in my life stick out like that, especially those that were in no way positive. I actually still have to reach for the positive where it's concerned, although it's easier now. I felt anger, organically for a change,  or at least I could express it where I didn't have the tools before. But it's no good to just be angry with no way to resolve it and nowhere much to put it, like staging a feisty revolution or stripping off eighteen rooms of hundred-year-old wallpaper. So for months I was miserable, and depressed, and spent most evenings like a girlier, more emo version of Archie Bunker, in a t-shirt and underwear, drinking wine and eating turkey pepperoni out of the bag, curled up in my Papasan chair (oh baby, I miss you, all cold and lonely in the storage place. It's been so long) and waiting for an e-mail that wasn't going to come, that I really didn't want anyway because I knew it would suck if it did. Needless to say, this is not useful behavior and I totally don't recommend it, if you have any control over it at all, which unfortunately I did not seem to. It was just the way it was for awhile. I feel so sorry for that poor little girl. I want to go back and hug me, and make me a nice dinner, and sit on the couch with me and pat my hand...maybe clean the dishes out of the sink too.

Isn't it crazy, the shit we do to ourselves? How we let our brains muck around on the same old tracks, letting our thoughts travel along the synapses to the same rest stops with unsatisfactory vending machines, instead, of, say, hanging a sharp right for Vegas and the all night buffet at the Bellagio? I wish I had more of a natural inclination to shake it up. I had an interesting idea today, about something that I'd never thought about before. And I thought how I should do that every day - force myself to think up something different, because the truth is that our brains tend to go along the same old paths all the time, and it takes effort to inspire ourselves with new and different ideas, to break the habits that hold us back and down.

(My essay class told me I write too many run-on sentences. I am so sorry. I should really cut it out.)

Anyway, what did I know? I thought I knew love at that point, and that because it fell apart that there was nothing left for me. Dramatic, yes? Nice. I got all caught up in pondering trust, and friendship, which took up too much time and made me watch too many bad VH1 shows in the interest of anesthetizing it. I didn't understand that there was a difference between something being profoundly difficult to deal with, and something being the end of the line. I was sort of a mess of feeling unloved and relinquished - abandonment issues and all, which are nothing to sneeze at and will land you in pickles like this, unfortunately.

And the thing you have to realize - or that I did, anyway - at times like that is that it absolutely IS about you. That's hard to take because who the hell wants to deal with that when it's so much more SATISFYING to think about how someone else has fucked up or made the wrong decision? I know I didn't. I had to work very hard, with the psychological equivalent of a John Deere, er...feller buncher, sure, to whack through the brush in my mind, which was very thick and had grown over even worse since I moved back home for a variety of reasons. It took a while to see my considerable role in it all, and how my choices had landed me on my clueless ass in the Papasan. And boy howdy had they.

I have no idea how I found Typepad on this journey of Big Tattoo Red and staring out my den window, but I did. (I can still see the view from that window so clearly. The one from my living room bay window, too.) Somehow the fog cleared for a minute on the lunatic fringes of my mind, and I decided to sign up for an account. I had to work through my early paralysis and worries that what I had to say was stupid and useless and pointless. I actually gave myself license to be, because I figured I'd be the only one reading it anyway. Therefore, my early posts are quite stupid. You can see them in the archives, if you want, but I don't think you do. I mean, "God bless the Lord God Bird?" That's just terrible. And also embarrassing, but it shouldn't be. I've said dumber things on a good day.

Those early posts also had stupid headers and random thoughts, because you see, I did not want to talk about what was really going on with me, at all. I didn't go to therapy, because I had been conditioned to believe that I was just too sensitive to handle what was going on, and I was sure a shrink would concur, and probably tell me that was the case. So instead, I cried in the bathroom at work a lot and played Bejeweled and Diner Dash on the Comcast games site, because I thought it was good to have a routine that didn't permit me to think, but still allowed me to eat and drink with one hand while stacking jewels or moving a fake waitress around with the other. I did talk quite a bit, until I got sick of my voice saying similar things with no resolution, mostly variations on a theme of "What is WRONG with ME???". MEMEMEMEME. Answer, a good bit of the time, at this point: Nothing a good spa vacation won't cure, actually. Then it was a little more complicated. My family got sick of it, and my friends did too. Who can blame them? Any topic gets boring, pretty much, after you perseverate over it a couple hundred times. There's just not a whole lot of new information to mull over after the first few, right?

I have a few friends who never, ever, acted like it was completely old news, although believe me, it was. I can never repay these people, except for that they can call me in the dead of night in a snowstorm and I will go pick them up wherever they are, and I will also always do other nice things for them, because it's because of them that I'm alive, really, in the smashing form that I currently am anyway. You know who you are, if you read this, and I've told them who they are, if they don't. (Cause some actually have kids and lives and are busy or don't, amazingly, hang out online much.) MAD LOVE. (Heehee.) 

I plan to switch this page over to Moveable Type, and had actually planned to do so in some grand, symbolic gesture by the time I hit the year-two mark. That plan changed when I met the girl from SixApart at Blogher Business, though, and she told me that a new version was going to launch in the summer that would make it a lot easier to transition. This means I'll be less likely to lose my photos, and in case you haven't noticed or are dropping in for the first time, I have a bunch of photos on here, in addition to the words. I don't want to lose them the way they are, so let's hope that doesn't happen.

The gifts I've gotten from keeping this site are considerable and continue to accumulate. Along with a strange little (relatively safe) place to dump what I'm thinking about from day to day, I've gotten my identity back as a person who puts words down in a more organized way than scribbling them on napkins and on the backs of receipts at red lights, which was all I was doing for awhile there. I can (try to) be funny or I can be ranty or I can be sad. I can share stupid videos or I can tell you that the war in Iraq that I'm afraid is going to rage on and consume the planet pisses me off and I hate the direction our beautiful country is headed on a daily basis but I'm unsure of how to best lend my efforts to fix it. I sometimes feel that I should write more about that, but the path my life is taking should make that more possible in other venues, so there is some comfort for me today in that knowledge.

I've also had the joy of joining a larger conversation, through the blogs I read and the place I write other than here.  This has required some risk, since for an outgoing person I'm relatikvely shy when it comes to assuming that anyone else would either want to read what I've written or invite me to their space to join the conversation. One thing that I do when I'm depressed is isolate myself, and crawling into my spare room for months didn't do wonders for my social skills. But when I came out of there I forced myself to reach out. In the process I've been inspired by some other fabulous writers who are publishing books
as well as blogs, and I think that's pretty awesome too. I've also received other wonderful offers that I only had the confidence to pursue because of all of this, and that I'm still pondering, so I can make the next chapter truly shine. In some way the blog - regardless of how I came to it - has given birth to that as well.

The best thing is that I am smiling as I type this, whereas I used to cry a lot, for reasons larger than any relationship or singular loss. I used to equate love and to some extent living with pain and loss, and in some ways I still do. I've managed to write my way out of a lot of things but the other growth and healing will have to come in time. I am still struggling with a wildly imperfect and stupidly impetuous heart - I'm one of the most difficult people I know at times, but I am doing better. It helps to have learned an awful lot. Some of what I've learned I still actively hate, and wish I hadn't had to learn at all, but I am also much farther along the road to acceptance than I've ever been, and also I like myself a whole hell of a lot more than I did two years ago. I am infinitely more hopeful, and I hope a lot more fun.

This is mostly because I didn't do what I imagined I'd do, which is to up and die inside and out. Some power greater than myself got me out of bed and out the door, way before I decided that antidepressants were a useful tool to get me over the occasional chemical humps that my brain presents me with even now. I still hate therapy and consider the fact that someone gave me a counseling degree proof positive that most of us are nuts ourselves. I don't rule it out, however, and if you're reading this and you're in therapy and it's working, EXCELLENT! My opinion on this is like a "Jackass" stunt - I learned it didn't work through personal experience, so you should do your own thing, except don't, like, jump into a burning car wearing a grass skirt, because that's NOT SMART. I just find my healing in art and music right now, and in pushing myself to try new things (mostly that scare me some), and traveling, because when I step out into a new landscape I just cannot be like I was when I left wherever I was. And usually that's a good thing.

In the past two years, I've gone to the Bahamas and eaten conch salad with my sister. I've gone to California for the first time and made new - and potentially lifelong - friends. I've gone to New England - and Boston, in many ways my favorite city ever - and found some peace. I've gone back to the Carolinas and reconnected with my family. I've gone to New Orleans, and Austin, and "home" to Dayton and to NYC.

I've learned how to kayak, and watched the Chilis up close. I've breathed and laughed and cried and done some pretty interesting and also crushingly mundane things.

I am incredibly lucky in many ways.

The symbols and proposed gifts for a second wedding anniversary are allegedly cotton and china. If I were to choose the same for a second BLOGiversary, I'd have to go with, oh...I don't know...probably free wireless and hazelnut coffee, because as far as fuel goes, that's mine.

Thank you for reading these words, for the first time or the latest. I always feel nervous when I hit "save", because it's ever a risk to put your words out into the world, knowing that people can't see your face or chat you up for real, and I am the queen of embellishment and self-editing in person - a vigorous talker who's just certain I can clarify or make what I write or say seem more clear if I just "tell you a little bit about it." So this is all an exercise in courage for me, and I'm constantly amazed that I've managed to keep it up for two whole journeys of the earth around the sun. For the bad stuff, mea culpa, and for the good stuff, ROCK ON.

Linkday

Check out the New York Times article on civility in cyberspace, that features Blogher, the awesome spot where I write sometimes. Also a nice picture of the three founders - Lisa Stone (you can find more insight into the piece in her post on the matter.), Jory des Jardins, and Elisa Camahort at the top of the piece.

Thanks to DCBlogs for the shoutout, and hi to everyone who's ended up here from there. I'm glad to provide you with support for your cell phone camera habits. Speaking of which, if I'd seen the awesome phone my cousin showed me yesterday before my old contract ran out, I would not have signed on for two years with the piece of crap I currently own. I hate this phone. It's just terrible. And rest assured that when it breaks, Verizon will only try to charge you FIFTY BUCKS to replace it, even under insurance. That just wasn't happening. 

A little late, but Peeps for Passover still deserves a look. Very (indeed, I just typed "vewy") funny. And for more of the Peepshow, check out the winners in the Washington Post contest. This is some heavy duty marshmallow art, guys.

This article about Joshua Bell clarifies why I won't mind getting out of DC when I finally do. You have to go to #7 in the photostream to see my favorite: the Peeps rendition of John Cusack's classic "In Your Eyes" boombox scene from "Say Anything." Pure retro genius.

Have you checked out Etsy yet if you like to buy pretty things? You should. This is my friend's storefront there - all the cool kids are doing it. As soon as I can figure out how to produce prints on a regular basis, this is likely where they're going.

I can haz cheezburger? I know, I know. I don't know why either.

Happy Easter

Hallelujah

Did I just hear a commercial that used a bastardized version of "Wham Rap?" As in, "DO. YOU. ENJOYWHATCHADO"???? Holy wow. That would be my first Easter unpresent, that's for sure. It might have been the Scissor Sisters? I'm going to stop thinking about that now, and also that I just submitted a writing contest entry wrong not once, but twice.

IDIOT. Whenever I rush things, I do them idiotically.

Now I'm watching this group called AFI perform on SNL, wherein a man with a vaguely 80's flip hairdo and wearing green eyeshadow is screaming like Bad Brains into his microphone that he was just caressing like he wanted to marry it a minute ago. Nonetheless his vocal quality isn't bad. I often find myself wondering what's happening to music. Everyone is just a little bit confused. I think the retro thing has gone so far that it's circling back around and no one knows what now is. Except for people who just solidly know who they are, like the Indigo Girls and Hem, and Bruce Springsteen. And Prince. I think I'm going to bed soon.

Today I woke up to blueness. I hate that. I don't understand it. It bothers me more now that it's not a daily condition so it's more noticeable. I was all cranky and stomping around with myself before I even woke up, I think, because I woke up tense and sore, in that post-weird-dream state of mind that tends to throw me off my game. I don't like my dreams, generally, in case I've never mentioned that before. I don't remember them coherently and generally they're in so many bits and pieces that I'm left wondering what the hell is wrong with my brain. And that's an essay question that I generally do not have time for on any given day.

In my defense there has been much stress in the old environment this past couple of weeks - all kinds of transition and worry surrounding me, and not just mine, either. I've been having to detach from many situations that I can't and shouldn't solve for other people, and where my input isn't necessarily helpful or - well - necessary. Then there was "Babel" last night, which I've complained about already, and also "Half Nelson", which was genius but not so uplifting, either. Ryan Gosling is a great actor, and little Shareeka Epps should have been nominated for an Academy Award before Abigail Breslin from Little Miss Sunshine. Big things from Miss Epps, I predict (and now I'm Yoda. What?)

It's also so cold outside. I mean, what is going ON? It snowed last night. And although Prince made a big deal once of saying that "sometimes it snows in April," he lives in Minneapolis, where it's pretty much cold all the time, so it might be less freakish than it is here. First you tell me the globe is warming and now it's snowing three weeks into the spring. The robins are running around all hysterical, I can tell. They're squawking at each other and moving in circles like crazed, freezing, robinesque (haha, too easy) chickens. I went outside to take a photo of some snow on my neighbor's bushes because I'm crazy like that, and interrupted a frenetic robin town meeting, wherein they were jumping from bush to sidewalk to tree, yelling their  chilly beaks off at each other, and certainly trying to get away from me. I imagined them saying in their little robin voices (don't even tell me they don't have voices) "What the HELL? What IS this? Why did we come back? This ain't SPRING, dude! This is hell, Maryland-style."

When I wake up all cranky like this I react poorly to any kind of human conversation, such as my mother reminding me that we're only missing two of the Wizard of Oz dolls from the current Happy Meal promotion and don't I want a cheeseburger? Huh? I was not nice about it, and when I took her to get her car and she wanted to "barter" for the Scarecrow instead of the extra Tin Man with the lady in the McDonald's drive-through who speaks limited English, I was definitely not nice about it in a very not-nice way that I then felt bad about but oh, HELP. I simply ascertained from the fact that the woman had chucked two Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the bag that there was no Scarecrow in the cards for us today, and didn't have the energy to debate it. The Turtles are the toy for BOY Happy Meals, now. Even McDonalds is playing the gender card.

"Tell her we're GIRLS," my mother said, not telling me why. To which I said, quite typically and not at all patiently or nicely or Holy Saturday-like, "No."

Don't I get points for self-awareness? I definitely know when I've drunk my bitchjuice (thanks, Mimi).

So now I've breathed out and made amends, and already navigated the " 'Are you going to church tomorrow" for Easter/"No I'm not going to be one of those "CE Catholics'" conversation with better than average diplomacy, keeping the karma train solidly on the right track, I hope.

On days like this it really does me good to focus on the magic, on the gifts that come along quite frequently when I'm not being stupid and blocked and failing to pay attention.  And that makes it a good time to tell the story that I referenced yesterday in this picture, a story that certainly transcends Happy Meals and Wham songs in commercials.

Yesterday I had lunch with two of my favorite people in the world, seriously. They challenge me to be a better person, even when and actually especially when I don't want to. They're far more religious than I am in a traditional sense, but can talk to me about God and Jesus in such a not-heavy-handed way that I can see the beauty even if I haven't worked that stuff out for myself after decades of instruction. And even when I don't talk to them specifically about it, they emanate goodness and commitment to the best causes and offer a friendship that sees my path and my possibilities often clearer than I can see if myself. They are the best of what a belief in heaven and a higher power can produce.

Audrey had just gotten back from Ghana, Africa, where she visited three schools to talk to the children about higher education. This was a vacation for her so she wasn't so sure about going to the one school she was originally asked to visit, but she's the sort who just wouldn't refuse that request. She is a beloved person in many circles both personal and professional, and I'm not at all surprised that her reach is extending globally.

She told the other people on her tour bus that she and her husband would be leaving them for the day to go to the school, and the awesome people on this bus were like, "Can't we go with you?" So a whole group went, and met the children and teachers in these impoverished schools. She told us that the children cried when she gave them yellow pencils, one for each kid, because normally two or three have to share one. She gave me goosebumps when she told me this and it's making me cry right now to remember it, as well as the fact that the people on her tour peeled off hundred dollar bills to hand to the principal on the spot, saying -

"Use this for uniforms."

"Use this for supplies."

American tourists, who likely don't have to worry about where their pencils are coming from, maybe seeing this kind of thing for the first time with their own eyes, gave generously. Audrey had brought enough supplies from home, including college t-shirts and hats, for the three schools, with some left over. She told us about how, as her trip to one school expanded to three in the area, she ended up in the middle of a music class, with the little children all around her, lifting their arms up and singing "Hallelujah". She was surrounded by children and music, she said, and it was beautiful. One of the men on her bus pointed out that he didn't know she was an educator, but at that moment it was clear that she was where she belonged. She also had another story about an adult student named Wisdom (!!!) that I can't really tell because I don't think I have the words to express it yet, and it's not really mine to share. Just know that somewhere in Ghana there is a guy probably wearing a t-shirt from a college in Baltimore, remembering a lovely woman who he called an angel from God, who he thanked for trusting him to carry money to exchange, because he's in a place where there isn't a lot of trust, especially with money.

Wow. Denise and I were just staring at each other in amazement, but not surprise. This is Audrey. She attracts beautiful things and brings joy and humor everywhere. Perhaps you know someone whose energy draws you in and makes you feel stronger and more inspired by association, who believes the best in people where you've long ago given up, and who ultimately holds you in his or her light, and makes you see goodness.  She is one of those very few people for me. I spotted her across the room at a meeting at work where we had to pick a FISH (Short for "FORCING INTIMACY SO HARD PS Oh holy hell") partner for the semester. I worked through my "shyness masked as  outgoing" personality to walk up to her and say "You need to be my partner," because I could not abide the prospect of hanging out with some of the other possibilities, and she seemed like a positive presence.

This was a good move. I should pick my boyfriends this way, as our relationship has lasted longer than any of those. She had Denise and me to the best dinner at her house the day after Christmas last year to celebrate our December birthdays, the best time I had all holiday season, embracing us with chicken casserole and bourbon slush and homemade PIE and presents all around.

Basically I would follow her to China, so her story yesterday was more than enough to get me through my fish and chips. Then, when we asked for the check, the waitress brought the folder that typically holds it, and said, "This was from the people over there against the wall. They wanted to pick up your check."

We didn't know who they were. "Did we even acknowledge them?" Denise said. I had to say, "Nope. Couldn't pick them out of a lineup." And I honestly couldn't. We were shocked and pleased, and talked about why they might have done it, and who they might be. Audrey said, "How in the world could we ever find them to thank them?" And I supposed that we really couldn't, and that this was one of those times you hear about but generally don't have happen to you when that's the point.

I picked up the folder after a few minutes, and the scrap of paper with "Happy Easter" on it fell out. Random. Kindness. Really nice random kindness, from someone celebrating a resurrection.

Cellphone camera retail therapy

I cannot handle "Babel" on any level. It is a horrible film. I hate it. I want it to stop and yet I have challenged myself to watch it all the way through. Why is the current cinematic canon so full of movies that just upset and upset and unnerve and upset? I guess it's a sign of the times.

Regardless, I hate you "Babel". So therefore I'm going to dump some pictures off of my cellphone, to keep my mind off of the poor, nice babysitter lady wandering in the desert.

The first few are from the worst grocery store on the planet, which I was in tonight. The thought of the place makes me extremely unhappy. For example: a drunk woman was on her phone behind me, complaining to SuperFresh customer service that they only had one regular line open, but four self-check lines.

"She SUPPOSED to have more lines open. This is inREXcusable. She is extremely rude. I called you before and I would like another line open."

She had called SuperFresh customer service before. The number was programmed in her phone. That was where the wrinkle in time truly opened up.

Everyone's splitting. Smart. 

I had no clue that Cheez Whiz was a food group, or a distinct grocery store aisle category.

Continuing my very favorite use of "z"  when really it's "s".

I saw this card in Hallmark the other day. I know that if I got fired, it would totally not make me feel better.

They still sell Mickey's in Texas. The fact that Mickey's is still sold at all is cause for great alarm.  Vile.

There's a nice story with this last one but I'll have to save it for later because I am tired. The short version is that that whole "random acts of kindness" thing really does have some merit, if you work it right.

All that junk

I don't spend a lot of time on YouTube. But this Alanis Morrisette cover of "My Humps" caught my attention.

The original is indeed an appallingly bad...song, for lack of another term. But this video does make an insightful visual statement about the genre that celebrates Fergie's (sorry) "lady lumps". Next up - an Alanis and Pink duet. Actually, probably not.

I think she mentioned him.

So I'm taking pictures of the cherry blossom tree when the guy on the pay phone goes nuts.

"Don't you DARE mention your psycho freaking ex to me! Fuck him! God bless his PSYCHO soul, but fuck him! And you too for mentioning him. Do you really think I give a fuck what goes on out there in Arkansas or South Dakota or wherever the hell he is? Do not EVEN mention that shit to me. Talk about whatever you want to talk about, but do not talk about your psycho ex to me. I do not want to hear about him. Do not do it! Fuck him!"

He hung up the receiver upside down.

March in motion

I spent most of March on the move. It was hard to go back to routine and I'm still adjusting. I much prefer the routine of no routine, actually. I'm better off when I'm conditioned to expect nothing, when I can just be surprised by whatever comes along. I've also found that you can occasionally still expect a paycheck when you do that. That's my ultimate goal. Besides, my sleep schedule is shot, so I really feel more offended than usual about having to get up at any particular time. But it must be this way for just a little while longer.

I haven't written about New York, yet, mostly because I hadn't gotten the pictures posted fully and I feel like a big slacker when I don't do that. Actually, I really haven't posted about Austin yet, either - not to the extent that I likely should.

The bottom line from that trip was that SXSW was largely worth the time and effort it took to attend. I learned a lot and it was interesting to be at a tech conference that wasn't all women. There were things about it that I didn't like. I hated that Tucker Max was a speaker. It was almost enough to make me never want to go back. I won't link to him, so Google him if you must. He's disgusting, and it offended me that he was presented as a success story, strictly because he gets traffic and makes money. There are so many successful WOMEN and other men who have gotten book deals from blogs. Why someone who spreads what amounts to hate speech? Why make him an example of success? It's these things that depress me about the world.

I also don't like events in convention centers at all. I think that convention centers signify everything wrong and bad about American generica - too big, too gray, too much shitty food. Plus it just takes too long to walk everywhere in them. It's all the walking down gray hallways, carrying great big bags over football fields of space, covered in bad carpeting. Blah. It bums me out. I liked having my laptop with me so I could connect with humanity whenever I got to whatever room I was going to. How's that for irony?

I love Austin, though. I love the experience of being there. It's very comfortable for me. I don't know how long I could stay and that's not really relevant to the storyline, anyway. It's just a good place to BE, for any particular period of time. Although I stayed with my beautiful friend and amazing artist Shobha,  and spent time tooling around with Lauren, I spent a fair amount of time tooling around the city on my own. Some highlights:

*The first night meetup with the ladies (and some guys, to be fair) from Blogher, at Freddie's, which has a great outdoor space.   
*Queso at Curras. And Magnolia Cafe. And Rio Grande. And another place I can't remember the name of. Just....loads of it, to the point that I said on the day I left, "If you punctured my arm I'd bleed cheese."  It's just so GOOD, the queso. Sweet Lord, if there's a heaven, let there be queso there.
*The first "Writing, Better" panel with the awesome Ethan Marcotte and Erin Kissane from A List Apart,
and the one with the people from mediabistro.com, salon.com (now that was really exciting), and The Onion. Those were worth the time and attention.
*The Yahoo/Flickr party at Light Bar, which I stumbled upon on my own, but I got some cool photos and replaced my Flickr buttons. It's the little things, I guess.
*Sitting up and talking with Shobha.
*Free wifi everywhere in the city of Austin - no log-ins. This is just reason enough for a web addict to keep coming back for more.
*Progress Coffee shop
*Shooting pictures by the railroad tracks
*Hanging out at the Spider House

*Getting my hair cut at Bird's Barber Shop by the very nice and friendly Fay, who really thought I should move there, and probably thinks that you should too. 

*Finding the Ironworks Barbecue place randomly and watching a monsoon outside as water poured in through the stovepipe.

*Warm, gorgeous, restorative air, for the first time in months.

That's a pretty good summary. It was a good trip. You can see the pictures here, in the Austin set on the right.  And if you've never been down there, take a trip. You'll probably like it.