I just got back from a very long walk, because my plans for the day were shot (I was going to run house errands, you know, buy up the SOMA stock in avocados, get a parking permit so we can stop getting fucking sixty five dollar parking tickets, [did you know that they make those tickets unrippable? Seriously unrippable. They’re some sort of paper/plastic devil blend that prohibits fucked over parkers of little red cars from ripping them up in a fit of righteous indignation. Insult upon injury, exact definition of.], pick up some laundry quarters, etc etc) and I wound up walking around my general ‘neighborhood’ for about two hours, aimlessly, sometimes slightly lost. My plans for the day were shot because my amazing boyfriend lives in the future and he dated the household expenses check he gave me 4/31/10, which I think is a good indication of what a forward thinker and evil genius he is. I can have money, I just can’t have money till the end of April. Foo. No avocado.

No parking permit either, although I did walk into the SFMTA when I suddenly happened to be passing it during one of my little slightly lost times. Hoo boy, that place is like an overstuffed barn where all the cows think they smell smoke oh my god there’s a FIRE! People literally wall to wall. Think the DMV, only the same space and the same amount of employees, and eighty billion more people needing god knows what fixed up or paid off. Jeeeezus. Fortunately I had no dollars and no vehicle registration on me anyhow, so all I needed to do was stand in line for my initial motives assessment (whatchoo want? Form? Hokay…), keep the dude behind me from just pushing in front of me, over and over and damn over (what? really? no, fuckface, I don’t know how you might think that would possibly work, but just NO), collect my permit application, and squirm back out the maze of tense, smelly, sardinelike persons between me and the door. Seriously, when I do go back to get that permit, I will be like nine tenths of everyone else there, and I will be drunk. At least tipsy. I cannot believe that kind of chaos.

Stealth pictures approach silently from behind and steal your eyeballs forever.

Hallway, down which the kitties galumph at least twenty times per day each, careening madly into the bedroom, sliding a bit, gathering their wits enough for a u-turn, galumphing madly back and skidding onto the living room rug. It’s pretty funny. It is also the place where I power slide in my socks. Not as funny.

Kitchen. Scene of much cookie baking. Cabinets so tall that I have to stand on chairs to get into some of them. Domain of the Darth Maul vs. Chewbacca eternal staredown.

Back porch with playa bike and wine bottles. (hopefully) coming soon: tulips!

This is my favorite window, because it is the only window that does not directly feature a neighboring building. It features instead the bus yard, which is very loud almost all the damn time, but is also very cool. When there enough busses gone from the yard you can see three palm trees in the distance. It’s the cats’ favorite window, also.

Strawberry clutter forever…seriously. Those wings belong to the angel of Icollectgorgeouslittlethingslikeabananacollectspeel.

Front sidewalk: work in progress. Stop raining, rain!

Window mural so far.


No downs.

Peroxide kewpie.

I’m not gonna say follow the yellow brick stairway to heaven or anything because that would be silly, but. Find blue sky. Smile.

Peace out, my iguanas. I’ma eat cookies to tone and strengthen the ol’ system for later doses of champagne.



March 25, 2010

Life is too short to have hair you hate. I am done trying to grow these fuckers out. Snipsnipsnipsnipsnip.

hellooooo, nurse

March 25, 2010

I just feel confused by my own existence again. This is irritating as hell to me, because I have been through this more times than a centipede could count on his feet, and it’s always the same old funk and the same old solution, same old vicious cycle that answers its own questions with nothing, forever.
The wispy veil of everyday dropped on me and now I’m incapable of doing anything other than look at myself. My routines can’t save me at a time like this, especially at a time exactly like this when my routines have been going for all of two weeks and are inconsequential in the extreme anyhow.
I am inconsequential in the extreme anyhow, myself. That is how it goes. That is what I find my peace in. No matter what I do, no matter what I don’t do, all in all I’m just another flash and burn, a brief little star in the vast sky of history. It’s only when I start to cave in on my own self importance, when I start to fuddle around in closed circles of self doubt and thwarted entitlement, that I start to lose my grip like this. I don’t need to anything. Straight up. Life goes: get born, die. Nothing in between could ever be as significant, and everything in between is nebulous as wishie fluff. That’s why my life only works when I’m wishie fluff myself. I get grounded and flattened in no time if I start freaking out about the way things should be or the way I thought they would be. For better or worse, and really what’s that measured by anyway, here I am and this is how it is. Laugh, Pagliacci.
I can’t believe I can putter tentatively over to my nintendo chair, tentatively open my laptop, tentatively put my index fingers on f and j, and then suddenly several paragraphs later I’m large and courageous and a firm believer in sunsets thicker than sorbet again. I honestly can’t believe that the only thing that really brings me peace in my life is the conviction that I don’t matter. But seriously, nothing sets me freer. The person I am meant to be, the sweetish fairy flibbityjibbet, the frequent cuddler of unwilling cats, the one girl marching parade…that person knows she’s here and knows that she’ll be gone. Could be gone at anytime. And therefore has no moment for anything other than exuberant life.
I don’t need no stinking badgers. I think I will go powerslide down the hallway in my socks, explode into my bedroom a’la Cosmo Kramer, put on a tube skirt I made out of a t-shirt, bake some everything oatmeal cookies, and yell at my neighbors to come help me paint the sidewalk.
Because those are the things that matter.

Sometimes you’re aware that you owe some people out there a blog, most notably yourself, (sorry everyone who needs me to write less than I need me to write, but I take precedence here), and you have too much real life and not enough real words, and so you just start in like this. Getting past that there first sentence is always the hardest, since anyone ever born in any century can formulate an excuse…the general hope attached to this writing method, I think, is that topics will flow naturally from ones fingers as soon as the physical tiptiptiptiptiptiptiptip process has started. In passing, has everyone heard the typewriter song? It’s called Typewriter, which makes it easy, and it’s by Bombay Talkie, and it is fucking awesome. Tiptiptiptiptiptiptiptip.

In sadder news, I finally bought batteries, so I can take fabulous pictures of my fabulous new California life, which is actually shaping up to be a gorgeous little thing, fancy that, and now I can’t find my camera. Really? Really. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: whoever is pulling the strings keeps blowing things off into neglected corners and counting on my overlooking them for whole weeks, probably for their own twisted string pulling amusement. Bastard.

Things I would take pictures of to share with you, had I not lost my camera due to circumstances certainly beyond my control:

1) the mural I’ve started on the wall of the next door building. The next door building is about four feet away from my building, and three of my windows open directly onto its lovely blank face. These windows are also pretty close to the only way you will ever see this part of this particular wall; you can kind of see it if you stand in front of it on the ground level and break your neck backwards looking up, but the long and technical short of it is that I’ve got a secret wall, and I am going to have me a secret mural museum. Three whole windows, and multiple offers of various ladders from the neighbors, who are fortunately excited about the whole mural painting process. Currently in order to paint I’ve duct taped a bunch of brushes to rulers and sticks, set up a little palette and brush stastion on the flower box, opened the window as high as it will go, and pushed my body to new and exciting limits leaning out the window to paint from afar, like a zen master catching flies with chopsticks. Kind of. The whole painting from an unprecedented distance with really long brushes has been super interesting and awesome. I like it. I love it. I want some more of it.

Okay, so that whole bit was written last night, at Brain Wash, which is this awesome coffee shop/laundromat/venue, while we were doing laundry, and my battery ran out and I couldn’t be bothered to move everything over to a seat with an outlet, I just waited for my laundry and then folded it and left without finishing my post. Now, of course, that it is three in the afternoon of the next day and I have found my camera, HA. Ha about everything. I have taken pictures of the beginnings of my secret mural, and as soon as I am less of a flibbittyjibbet I will upload them and you can see the awesome. Now, however, I am going to have more coffee and go show the neighbors my rad new jacket. Has many buttons. Yay me.

I just spent about two minutes trying to get a cat harness on Lucky, and it felt like a century went by and I was a mad scientist tasked with slaying the powerful and oppressive Zorg monsters so that Earth could continue to live in its comparative shroudings of peace. Of course the first problem is that I started out with a cat harness, and then I tried to put it on a cat. I’m pretty sure that any cat ever constructed, with the possible exception of Fluffy, who allows himself to be dressed in puffy jackets and photographed, would pitch a pissing moaning fit about some half cracked mad scientist trying to stuff them into an unintelligible latticework of red leash cord, so yeah, that would probably be the first ‘do not do that thing.’ And then, naturally, the second point of distress in the situation, Lucky. Lucky is a very bad cat, and she has had it up to here with me lately. It was I who crammed her into a tiny bright pink pet taxi with SKULL CLUB sharpied over the (cage) door, and it was I who also thought it would be a tolerable idea to try and cram Luna in after her. They fit just fine, like I knew they would, it was no big deal and everyone had her little spot to lay down in…all cats do anyway is lay down and lick themselves…they were pretty smooshed. They were mad. That is the first time I have ever had cats cuss at me, and it is not pretty. It sounds like a really pissed off something from the dark underworld broke through in one of those delicate crusty spots and is now glaring at you with its evil yellow eyes, and will rip your throat right out as soon as it is done with the glaring, which is in three seconds maybe. Cat cussing is scary. But anyhow, we had that first little showdown when I tried to let her out at the California airport to pee, and she tried to run away and when she didn’t try to run away she tried to maim me with claws or words. She also chewed my fingers a little bit. Desperation and the realization that I am the grownup here and I am the one who has to make this work out, (oh DAMN), spurred me to grab her by her demon growling face and shove her back into the pet taxi without actual regard for the placement of her limbs, which has made me feel like a slightly bad person ever since but you know what? It was the only way. The options that a cat sometimes gives you are pretty sparse. You have to haul in a good big breath of courage, and you have to do that thing. Life is rough sometimes.

Like this morning, when I tried to put Lucky in a cat harness, so that I could put her on the back porch and she could only run so far away. The harness has a bungie leash and everything, for extra exploration. (I just had this hilarious mental image of my cat testing that leash just a bit too far and flying backward by her little tummy like a fat furry rocket that was just launched out of a nerf slingshot by Seth Green. OH IT IS TO DIE. Ha.)

I was just trying to be nice to her, you know? Niceness is what prompted me to buy the fracking harness in the first place, because I knew that to be outside would bring her joy, even if she had to sit around looking slightly stupid in a bright red harness with a bungie leash. At least there would be the outside. Cats do not know how to count their blessings. Because of course, she scratched and hissed and howled and cussed and attempted to eat my fingers and the harness out of all existence. For some reason this just cracks me up like no other, so imagine for a moment if you will an as yet coffeeless girl sitting on the kitchen floor, dangerously close to bonking her head on the corner of the table, grasping a harness around a fat cat tummy with both hands, being rabbit kicked unmercifully and laughing so hard that a little bit of pee is eventually inevitable. I finally realized that sheer determination to do what was best for her, even against her considerable will, was not going to get that harness on, and I began to suspect that the tummy part of the harness might be a little too small for function anyhow. So I let her go, and I intend to consult the package directions like the dummy I am. I like that the directions have step by step illustrations of how you’re supposed to apply the harness, and that the cat looks pissed in every one of them. No one is lying, in these illustrations. During the application of the Come With Me Kitty Cat Harness your cat will not look like this:

Although you will probably wish it did.

I was just lying here, in my brand new queen sized bed under my newly and spectacularly patched magic quilt, reading Enter Jeeves and drinking Earl Grey from my favorite coffee cup, wearing pajama pants with x-wings on them, and I was distracted for a moment from the book by the utter richness and jewel tones of my life. And I thought to myself, ‘this is so absolutely perfect. If I was smoking cigarettes.’
Oi. Going on seven months now and I still long for cigarettes to the point where a little pine needle stuffed sachet with I PINE FOR YOU stitched on the front of it would maybe seem to be in order. Maybe I will make myself one, and see if I can exorcise the mental addiction a little bit. ‘Cause it really is all mental at this point. I continue to sniff cigarettes every so often just to see if they’re actually good or not, because this is a subject I waffle on constantly. One hundred percent of the time when I’ve craved a cigarette since I quit and I half guiltily half thrilled to my fingertips hunted a cigarette down, rolled it between my fingers for a moment and then inhaled slowly and luxuriously – it’s smelled damn awful to me. And I know this, all the time, with this one part of me. And then there’s the other part of me, the part that is always, always thinking, damn wouldn’t this be nicer if I had a cigarette…oh I wish I smoked I wish I smoked I wish I smoked…how can I not smoke while I wear this…and every so often it pushes me over this soft little precipice, and I go sniff a cigarette. And it smells really awful to me, and I go away mostly relieved and just this teeny, tiny, almost completely nonexistent bit disappointed. Bah. That’s okay, my will is good, yeaheeeahaheeeaheah. And I can always just go drink more coffee. Mm, coffee.
Here I am, alive. And it hasn’t always been so easy to be alive, not in my experience. Even in the worst of times though, I’ve craved peace and happiness; even when I believed in them about as much as I believe that Elvis is still in the building at the corner table with a cheeseburger and coke with a bendy straw. So although this morning I woke up and couldn’t pull myself out of bed for three extra hours simply because my dreams were still in Portland, although this morning I’m so squashingly alone that I could just throw up my nose and howl, despite those ridiculously sad and passionately melodramatic things, today I have decided to go out and love San Francisco.
I figure that with the many people before me who have loved San Francisco for moral support and an obscenely long third sentence for luck, I should be able to do it. Maybe if I can come up with another obscenely long sentence for luck by the end of this I can even do it within the next little while. As opposed to just having crinkly little sentences that do nothing to discourage a person from fucking it all and curling up in the Nintendo chair and playing Mario3 for the next five hours. Which, that right there is a little something that I love about my new life. Not about SF, perse, but about my new house and my new roommate: old ass Nintendo games on a forty two inch tv! BOOOYAH. BITCHES. Your fantastically armored oversized avatars with eight kabillion weapon options and deeply involved, precious personal stories still can’t hold a candle to a chiefly anonymous fat man with a huge mustache and a smile of eternal Italian cheeriness whose best defensive options are still to magically poof into a frog or a raccoon-bear. HD loves us better. Shake it like a polaroid picture.
{Lest this comment be taken personally by Mass Effect2 or any of its devotees that I love more than I can possibly say, let me hasten to explain that I bear no grudge of any sort against said Mass Effect2 and have even watched some very interesting segments of the game. It is nobody’s fault that Mario3 kicks its ass.}
Aw you guys, it was so sad. I finished writing that last bit and looked up out the window and was suddenly all like, ‘oh. I’m not talking to my friends anymore.’ I wish you were here.