household crises

There is no coffee. There has been no coffee for a week. My uncle just passed on his brilliant, fabulous, well-cared for and high quality dual espresso-machine coffee-maker. I must justify its presence as the monster takes over entire chunks of counter space that doesn't really exist. I must make espresso shots.

I can not.

So instead, I am drinking iced coffee that is probably over a week old that I liberated from my workplace I added sugar. The fridge freaked out and froze all our milk and soymilk solid. So in order to make it tastier [i.e. hide the scum-flavor] I added hot cocoa mix. Nestle's. with miniature marshmallows.

There are miniature marshmallows in my iced coffee. This does not make me happy.

Fame in my Future...

I knew he used to live in these apartments. Common legend of the building holds that he lived upstairs, in 3 or maybe 7. I actually used to work with his cousin, Dina Fogle, and she was the one that tipped me off that Jared's "walk to Subway" had merely been out his front door. It had made me laugh a lot.

Then, yesterday, a postcard came in the mail from some putt-putt place in town. It was addressed to
"Current Resident or Jared Fogle"
blank blank blank Apt #1
blank blank blank etc.
JARED FOGLE LIVED IN APARTMENT NUMBER ONE! He lived HERE, showered in our shower, cooked on the stove, stained our carpet of doom. HE MIGHT EVEN HAVE HAD SEX IN MY BEDROOM eweewewewewwew. yuck. k. no more of that.

I'd like to note that the only Subway product I've bought is a soda. I don't keep it around the house, but every now and again, I want it. These days they've started to melt cheese all over that classic bread; resisting has been difficult. The worst part of the set-up is that the building laundry room in the basement smells like Subway concentrate, Eau de Subway. Maybe that's why I can't eat anything from there. Or maybe it's the fat and glossy roaches and mice they thoughtfully leak to my apartment when I leave the door open to catch a better breeze.

What do you do when the cure is worse than the disease?

"Some nights, the only thing I can do is read my Bible," she said. "I look in there to find answers. They're hard to find."

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/12/health/12diabetes.html?th&emc=th

This is one of the most tragic things I've read yet today.

Siren Song

I feel increasing the siren call of the Middle East. From day to day, news article to news article, where exactly I would go changes, but after years of study of the region and its culture, history, economics and politics, it has become an almost insistent need. After reading the past few days on BBC and NYTimes about the worsening [moreso than usual] situation in Palestine, it is the Holy Land that calls me.

Regardless of my suspicions of a Jewish ancestry, I feel that I would have to devote my efforts either in Israel through human rights organizations, or in Palestine itself. On the ground is a place for the young, without families and obligations and ties to a structured life in American society. The twenties and into the thirties is a time for dedication to greater struggles than those of earning one's daily bread, buying a house, and building a family.

I do not deny that these are eventually essentials in some sense. Rather, I feel no pressing need for them now. I hear instead the need of those facing severe repression of their basic human rights [as defined by the UN charter]. My background thusly predisposes me to be most useful and knowledgable within the Middle East and most specifically in former French and Belgian colonies. Lebanon, Syria, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria...but still also Israel. Although I am interested in programs offered at Indiana University, part of me wants to go to Tel Aviv or Istanbul or another cosmopolitan capital for a Masters program.

The current plan is to spend the summer beginning studies of the complexities of the Arabic language. It's a place to start, to be taking action, to become prepared. Ca ira, et dans les mois et les annees qui procede, je agirai. Mais jamais sans etre le mieux preparer que possible.

[It will go on, and in the months in years before me, I will take action. But never without being the most prepared possible.]

Bathtime for Kitties 3.0

So, kitty the first, the illustrious Sir Oliver Skitten, loved to play in the crawl space under our duplex, take dustbaths on our gravel driveway, and hang out in the neighboring trailer park. As a cat who was half-white [CFA would say, dipped in whipping cream] all over her belly and legs/paws, this was not conducive to cleanliness. Don't get me wrong, she, as any proper cat dedicat 25% of her day to washing. [Cats dedicate 50% of their time to sleeping, and the remaining 25% to eating, playing, attacking ankles, active mischief making, and begging for some of your dinner. ] Therefore, my room mate at the time declared that she would be bathed. [First he had to insist that I google it, because I had claimed that cats had no need of baths, something I recalled reading in Cat Fancy, oh, 8 years ago. ]

After he proved me wrong, he dove into the bath with a struggling, scratching, angry cat. After she repaired her dignity, we found that she wasn't cream, she was indeed white. Her hair was glossy and all that horrible loose hair went down the drain. It was brilliance. The best part, however, was that since he was so forcible in the bathing of her, that she was positively docile once I started bathing her, several baths later.

Kitty the second, the cuddly Sir Almadeus Tigger the Second, is also indoor-outdoor and once rolled in our sidewalk chalk art. There was much confusion, then hilarity, when he walked in one night, with his face, cheeks and ears bright pink and his hips aquamarine blue. He was not thrilled by the bath experience, but tolerated it with the good faith of a child of an empty-nester [his previous mom].

Kitty the third, the adorable lapcat Olivia, is indoor-indoor, but has a long-haired [single layer] coat. I'd never bathed a long-haired cat before, but as she weighs in at 4lbs, 4oz, I was able to fill the bathroom sink and dunk her protesting, wiggling self in. Although she struggled the whole way, she didn't bite, and didn't scratch. She's such a dear. As a cat who had been residing at the shelter until Monday, she probably needed the GUNK cleared off of her.

The catch: Afterwords, I set her dripping wet self on my lap and enveloped her in a towel, attempting to remove the most of water. Cats do not tolerate this part well, as they prefer to wash themselves to straighten out their coats and air dry [In the winter, we tried the hairblow dryer, set to 'cool'. Let's just call that a spectacular failure.]. So I soaked through one pair of jeans. Then later, still damp, lover Olivia settled into my lap yet again to finish washing and to take her noon to four nap.

Now my second pair of jeans is unpleasantly damp. I will have to change yet again. I seem doomed to do my laundry. BUT THE BOYCOTT WILL NOT END UNTIL I HAVE NO CLOTHES LEFT. Le Mai's mum once noted that she could easily not do laundry for a month and a half, as the posessor of an expansive wardrobe. After moving and attempting to manage my sea of clothing, I have decided to attempt this, partly from laziness, and partly from fear of our zombie-infested, eau-de-Subway reeking laundry room. Also, $1.50 for wash/dry. It's not the quarters I protest, it's the fact that I pay rent, and that ought to be enough. I've been out of underwear for about two weeks. I still have tanktops, which will be the mitigating factor. In the summertime, one can't repeat-wear the tanktop. My habit of layering two tanktops is also not precisely good. I don't believe I've done laundry for about 3.5 weeks [I last did it the morning after crashing in the nest, a Sunday sometime ago.] but will have to calculate the details later.

Bathtime for Kitties 3.0

So, kitty the first, the illustrious Sir Oliver Skitten, loved to play in the crawl space under our duplex, take dustbaths on our gravel driveway, and hang out in the neighboring trailer park. As a cat who was half-white [CFA would say, dipped in whipping cream] all over her belly and legs/paws, this was not conducive to cleanliness. Don't get me wrong, she, as any proper cat dedicat 25% of her day to washing. [Cats dedicate 50% of their time to sleeping, and the remaining 25% to eating, playing, attacking ankles, active mischief making, and begging for some of your dinner. ] Therefore, my room mate at the time declared that she would be bathed. [First he had to insist that I google it, because I had claimed that cats had no need of baths, something I recalled reading in Cat Fancy, oh, 8 years ago. ]

After he proved me wrong, he dove into the bath with a struggling, scratching, angry cat. After she repaired her dignity, we found that she wasn't cream, she was indeed white. Her hair was glossy and all that horrible loose hair went down the drain. It was brilliance. The best part, however, was that since he was so forcible in the bathing of her, that she was positively docile once I started bathing her, several baths later.

Kitty the second, the cuddly Sir Almadeus Tigger the Second, is also indoor-outdoor and once rolled in our sidewalk chalk art. There was much confusion, then hilarity, when he walked in one night, with his face, cheeks and ears bright pink and his hips aquamarine blue. He was not thrilled by the bath experience, but tolerated it with the good faith of a child of an empty-nester [his previous mom].

Kitty the third, the adorable lapcat Olivia, is indoor-indoor, but has a long-haired [single layer] coat. I'd never bathed a long-haired cat before, but as she weighs in at 4lbs, 4oz, I was able to fill the bathroom sink and dunk her protesting, wiggling self in. Although she struggled the whole way, she didn't bite, and didn't scratch. She's such a dear. As a cat who had been residing at the shelter until Monday, she probably needed the GUNK cleared off of her.

The catch: Afterwords, I set her dripping wet self on my lap and enveloped her in a towel, attempting to remove the most of water. Cats do not tolerate this part well, as they prefer to wash themselves to straighten out their coats and air dry [In the winter, we tried the hairblow dryer, set to 'cool'. Let's just call that a spectacular failure.]. So I soaked through one pair of jeans. Then later, still damp, lover Olivia settled into my lap yet again to finish washing and to take her noon to four nap.

Now my second pair of jeans is unpleasantly damp. I will have to change yet again. I seem doomed to do my laundry. BUT THE BOYCOTT WILL NOT END UNTIL I HAVE NO CLOTHES LEFT. Le Mai's mum once noted that she could easily not do laundry for a month and a half, as the posessor of an expansive wardrobe. After moving and attempting to manage my sea of clothing, I have decided to attempt this, partly from laziness, and partly from fear of our zombie-infested, eau-de-Subway reeking laundry room. Also, $1.50 for wash/dry. It's not the quarters I protest, it's the fact that I pay rent, and that ought to be enough. I've been out of underwear for about two weeks. I still have tanktops, which will be the mitigating factor. In the summertime, one can't repeat-wear the tanktop. My habit of layering two tanktops is also not precisely good. I don't believe I've done laundry for about 3.5 weeks [I last did it the morning after crashing in the nest, a Sunday sometime ago.] but will have to calculate the details later.

because hysterical laughter in suburban places like Panera is always entertaining.

M: Then I looked at the 110-pound drunken body sprawled underneath me on my bed, and said, "No, no, can't do this."

L: I wouldn't have minded.

M: It's like shooting fish in a barrel.

L: [doubled over laughing]Little naked girl fish! Swimming like mermaids in a barrel!

M: [Aims imaginary shotgun]

L: And you're Elmer Fudd. [re-dissolves into giggles]

business hours

[over pizza and soda at the 401-1 ]

K: How late is Mad Mushroom open?
J: Threeish. Fourish.
N: Until you're not high anymore.

Sunday and No Alcohol in Sight

J. I think we're going to swing by a store on the way home -- what do you want to drink?

K. But we still have the two bottles of vodka from the pickles-vodka-rye-toast-with-butter night? And a teensy bit of gin? And the Bass bottle of beer Jesse left us?

J. Hrm.

N., in the background. MrrumSundaysunday!

J. [voice dull] It's Sunday.

K. [just started to get thirsty for some Upland Wheat]. oh. damn.

This is how J. and I ended up eating:
gnocchi with shredded Pere Jacques [Belgian Trappist Monk cheese] on top, smothered in a redwine garlic olive oil creamy sauce with broccoli bits, cherry tomatoes, israeli cracked black olives, and avocado chunks.

and drinking:
Cold Budweiser, courtesy of gentleman friends's fridge.

Classy dames, yes, yes we are. There are a quarter bottles of red lying about, but what with the heat, we suspect they've past their point of consumption sober or not in foods. These things do happen.

She look'd in the mirror -- the girl looking back at her was not herself

Whenever my hair is chopped off, or drastically changed color, I'm used to feeling, for just a few days, as though the creature in the mirror is not me. This effect can also be achieved by Clinique makeup counters [utilized for prom and other fancy dances back in the day] wherein there is something sylvan and strange looking back at me. Over the weekend though, when I joined a carpool to Indianapolis to check out the new venue Club Therapy as well as the renowned DJ Q-Burn [something something DJ speak], I slipped into the bathroom.

Not only did Lainy and I have positive shock'd faces from the fact that it was CLEAN and WELL LIT and had a NICE MIRROR; but for the first time, the face in the mirror was so out of context [in this gaudy apartment complex]. Here I am, in a Superman t-shirt, too much eyeliner, as a brunette, wearing a long skirt. I look as in place as any one else [surrounded by a curious melange of sorority girl-fashion, hipster-girl fashion, and i-hate-conformity-fashion]. I resemble myself, as much as ever. Exboyfriends and former coworkers or class mates would have known me.
Except that they wouldn't have -- the Lina I am, or was:

the consummate bookworm trapped in libraries for solace,
the church-every-sunday-tuesday-wednesday-saturday girl,
the 4.0-highschoolstudent,
the full-ride-scholarship collegestudent,
the feminist, the anti-war activist,
the stick-shift-pick-up-truck-driving, power-tool operating daughter,
the family avant-garde chef,
the academic with vices, the lucky strikes smoker, the organic-hippie-all-natural foods eater,
the advocate for foreign language education improvement in American schools,
the defender of gay rights and panelist for the GBTLQ group on campus,
the smart Girl Friday in the office,
the cargo-pants-wearing, leatherman-carrying, hair-in-funky-scarves theater technician crawling in the rafters,
an american co-ed studying abroad in France,
a fak'd French girl in Italia,
purple hair, orange hair, platinum hair, blue streaked hair, raspberry hair, golden brown hair, deep brunette hair, dirty blonde hair...

These things all define me in contradictory ways, and although I'm at peace with both my sheltered, uncultured, seriously religious past, and that I've made my peace between academia and culinaria and gay.v.straight, in spite of all the functioning and shaping and working and shifting to better *become*.

Still, to be at Club Therapy, all new and glossy and chic, full of self-defined *cool* people, hanging on the right boy's arm, introduced to all the important people, swapping stories with old friends, dancing with the beautiful people, to be a part of what, to me, looks like cinema, is surreal. Life at times resembles the movies in ways I never imagined it could while growing up surround by small-town-white-suburbia.

I said to my friends the following morning -- going up to Indianapolis is like going to a dream. I'm only ever there between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m., which is curious enough for the diurnal, matinal person I tend to be when left to my own devices. It doesn't really exist as a city, it merely exists as shopping malls and suburbia-tastic giant houses and strip malls and chain restaurants and 465, looping around nothing at all. When I'm actually in the city, I don't believe that it is real.

I'm going to lie down, close my eyes, and pretend that when I wake up, everything will feel like it did before, and the world will be more stable and this constant spinning will slow such that I may find my balance.