The Noir Muse

2008-01-07T20:01:00.000-05:00

The new Noir Muse blog is up and running. Finally.

www.NoirMuse.com

A thousand thanks to the Programming Brawler.

Good night.

2007-03-20T23:50:00.000-04:00

Good night all. This blog is dead. I killed it. It was found beaten to death with a fire extinguisher and the details are still coming in now.

I think it's time to start over fresh in a new home. I'll let you know when it's up and ready - the programming brawler has already set up the domain and I am actively preparing the design.

In the meantime, I can only announce that my hair looks so kick-ass in a beehive, it's not even funny. I mean, serious - it's really cool.

Til' I have the new space ready, folks...

--NM

Summers at Bells

2007-03-07T17:04:00.000-05:00

Reading the blog of my former English professor feels just a little bit shameful.

She used to mark our creative writing in pencil in the margins - suggestions more than critical comments. She's amazing really. Not only is she a twice published author, but she's bicycled across Russia, owns a country farm that she runs with her husband, has a masters degree in high math as well as English, sports a black belt in marshal arts, lays tile, teaches at the university... Is there anything she can't do?

I invited her to my wedding, not thinking that she would really show up. But she did, just long enough to congratulate me and hand me a package. It was a 1950s book called "Bride In the Kitchen". Inside she wrote, "You're beautiful - but can you cook?" And there was also a picture of me. It was photograph that her husband had snapped when I ran in to them at Bells Brewery some summers earlier. It looked like he processed the film himself.

There's a little part of me that would love to post witty comments on her blog. The other 75% of me doesn't want her to see what I've done.

I'd rather live in Russia on brown bread and vodka...

2007-03-01T22:41:00.000-05:00

Programming Brawler: (shells almonds and hands them to NM to eat) Look at this! Two little almonds were inside. What do you think that means?

Noir Muse: (Takes the two almonds) It's a "double" which means that whoever eats it can make a wish and it will come true. (eats both almonds like a evil, selfish squirrel.)

Programming Brawler: So....what did you wish for?

Noir Muse: Mmmmmm. A pint of vodka. (Looks over at the empty liquor cabinet, disappointedly)

Programming Brawler: Oh. I would have wished for us to be together forever in bliss...but whatever.

Commuting On A Good Day

2007-01-31T12:52:00.000-05:00

If there ever was a beautiful example of the organic back and forth swish-swishing movement of the metropolitan currents, it would be the dance of the commuters within the arteries of the Detroit highway system.

Never before speaking to or knowing one another’s tendencies, we race along (on the good days) weaving among one another passing and rearranging our alignment with a minimum of signals: the Hand Wave, the Blinker, and the F-You, Buddy.

One fellow commuter, inching his way into a lane in front of me and not knowing if there was room hesitated for a moment. In turn I flashed my Brights as if to say, “I see you there. I know that you want in, and there is indeed room, my fellow.” He understood my signal and gave me a Double Fist Pump (A gesture which shows more appreciation than the simple Hand Wave. Think of it as a Hand Wave plus two.)

Then, at 7:45 am, some of us break off from the group and turn East onto the exit for I96, waaaaaay up there, where you can look down onto the hoods of the cars below. Just as we snake along the turn, the sun hits my eyes and I see the silhouettes of the drivers ahead. Two cars in front of me, the driver slaps the visor down. With perfect timing, the driver ahead slaps hers and I slap mine too. If I peeked in the rear-view, I would see only the blinding sun, but I know that the following cars slapped their visor down as well.

We travel on…

Ten Things I'll Never Do...Again

2007-01-01T20:24:00.000-05:00

Last night as I was celebrating someone asked me if I had a resolution. Of course I relayed my usual answer - "smile more and cry less". However, just today I was inspired by someone else's list of "ten things I'll never do" so here's mine with a twist.

Ten things I'll never do...again.

1. Beat myself up for not writing enough, reading enough, doing enough, living enough or loving enough.

2. Involve myself with low calorie diets.

3. Let some foul person cut in front of me in line just because they are bold and I’m aghast and afraid of confrontation.

4. Get a degree.

5. Count on someone else to save or do something for me – we’re all out here on our own, sucker.

6. Own a TV.

7. Eat a doggie treat.

8. Believe in god or any benevolent, all knowing being that gives two shakes about what happens to me or anyone else.

9. Snort garlic powder. (Ouch!)

10. Waste time trying to figure out what other people think.

Winter Driving Issues at the Office

2006-12-01T12:34:00.000-05:00

Winter has begun as of last night here in the Motor City with icy rain, some snow, cold winds, and so forth. The beautiful and trendy Intern and I had an interesting conversation in the warmth of the office regarding her recent speeding ticket…

Noir: Please take this to the post office and pick up some stamps while you’re there?

Intern: Ok.

Noir: And be very careful while you’re out there driving, alright?

Intern: Alright. (tossing her long black hair over her shoulder dismissively)

Noir: I’m serious. Be very careful, ok? By the way, what happened with that last ticket you got?

Intern: Ohhhhh yeah! I forgot to tell you about it! So, like, I got the speeding ticket and instead of actually taking my license away they only leeeeeeengthened my probation period. And I had to pay a hundred an’ eighty dollars, you know. Like, how am I going to buy Christmas presents now? Anyways. So I’m ok. Which reminds me, I gotta call while I’m driving to the post office* and pay for that over the phone.

Noir: Um, no. Call while you’re in the parking lot, ok? Not while you’re driving.

Intern: Ok.

Noir: Promise me that you won’t call while you’re driving in the car.

Intern: (Laughing) I promise. **

* She actually said this.
** This is probably a total lie.

An Open Letter

2006-11-20T21:15:00.000-05:00

To that guy in the nice suit standing behind me at the Espresso Royal Cafe cream and sugar station – either crowd in next to me and fix your damn coffee or be patient. I seriously don’t mind if your elbow touches mine while you reach for the cream pitcher. I do mind that you are too close and breathing down my neck while tapping your foot.

Also, to the guy sitting to my left at the public speaking seminar. Quit touching/rubbing my shoulders and telling me I’m doing a great job. The discomfort I feel due to your invasion into my personal space far exceeds any discomfort I would feel talking in front of a crowd. In fact – don’t even think about touching me again... and you know what? Don’t talk to me either, you creep.

Guess what! While you mull over your weighty decision for choosing a basket or a cart, please please, stand aside from the automatic doors, lady. My potato chips and champagne are calling my name and begging that I liberate them from the grocer as soon as possible - and you're thwarting me.

Halloween 2006

2006-11-02T14:57:00.001-05:00

I promised myself that I wouldn't drink too much this year.

It's not the first time I've lied to myself.

It was a beautiful night with beautiful people. Everyone was there: The Yooper, The Vikings, The Naughty Nurse and Satin herself. The two Frankenstein Monsters looked upon one another with awkward and haughty competitiveness that is usually known only to the two women who wear the same dress to a party.

The one thing I remember hearing all night; "Another Cigarette girl?! How many are you?" It was a legitimate question. We covered more ground apart than we did together.

The only possible answer is: "Three. I'm the Hostess Cigarette girl – would you like a Twinkie? A Snow Ball? Have you had your Ding Dong today?"
My partners in crime did a great job circling the room hocking boxes of candy cigarettes. I watched them smile, shake the hip, laugh, wink, and finally - press a bubble gum cigar into a hand.

I wasn’t so successful. No one would admit that they would ever lay a finger on a Hostess Snack Cake. However - I set my tray down to get another drink and two Snow Balls were gone.

My skills came in later when the voting for best costume came around. As I helped distribute slips of paper to the guests, I spoke softly before relinquishing the pencil; "Vote 'Cigarette Girl.' Got it?"

We won second place, received a Big Boy Bobble Head Trophy and shed tears of joy.

Clydesdale Queen

2006-10-23T08:17:00.000-04:00

I’m thinking about running in a local 5k race this Novemeber known as the “Turkey Trot” for runners and walkers.

There are several categories to place as a winner: one for youngsters, one for the older people, and a third category known as the “Clydesdales”. This aptly named category is for heavyweight runners over a certain poundage. I’m not that far off from being able to compete in the Clydesdale category – pretty damn close actually. I was thinking about entering under that category (who would know? They aren’t going to make us weigh-in) – but I had to ask myself, what would I do if I actually placed?

I’d have to go up to the podium to accept the Clydesdale trophy, raise it above my head triumphantly and declare:

Hey world! Look at me! I’m Queen of the Fatties!

Cardio Girl and the Baby Dragons

2006-09-22T22:45:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, the Dragon Academy has not been on my itinerary for several days due to my schedule, but when I showed up for class today, I happened to be early. I put my Mr-N-Approved hand wraps on and stopped to watch the Baby Dragon class that was still in session. The five-year-old Baby Dragons were having their tae-kwon-do class and the instructor, a 25 year old pink cheeked fella with curly black hair, was herding the little ones quite well.

The Baby Dragons were a spastic swarm of bodies in white cotton pajama robes - a blur of arms and legs rotating, kicking, punching. Heads whipping back and forth. Squatting, jumping, running round and round in circles. Wild sounds emerging from their lips. It looked like a pure, unadulterated sugar high to the eighth power.

The pink cheeked fella commanded them to “line up” and the mass of five year old energy made its way slowly into a line. Each child scrambled, pushed and switched with one another for his or her correct place. When finally they were standing at attention, the pink cheeked fella announced: "Today we’re going to learn about (name of thing I didn’t recognize). Can anyone tell me how old it is?"

One girl stood with arms tense and straight at her sides. If she were a cartoon character, the bolts of lightening emerging from her fists would levitate her several feet from the floor. She leaned forward at the waist and rose up on her toes to get her face as close to the instructor as possible to shout: “A million years old!”

The pink cheeked fella told her, “No.”

A boy, hardly waiting for a pause, shouted his own answer, “Eight billion years!” His feet danced a little riverdance and his elbows flapped up and down. When the pink cheeked fella told him "no", he spun around 360 degrees in a blurry flourish of disappointment.

Meanwhile, Mr. N snuck up behind me and whispered, “Watch out for those! They very strong. Bwahahaha!”

* * *

The Academy is a large open gymnasium floored completely with mats. Around the walls Mr. N keeps the pads, mitts and other sparing equipment neatly stacked, ready for use at any moment. The only thing that ever separates the kickboxing class from the Baby Dragon class is a large blue mat propped precariously on its end as a wall. When I walked in, class had started and the other women and I knocked out the combinations on punching bags.

Left hook, right straight, round kick. (repeat, repeat, repeat)
Three hooks, two knees. (repeat, repeat, repeat)
Left cross, right straight, left hook, right straight, round kick. (repeat, repeat, repeat)

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blue mat wall falling in toward us with a wwooOOOSH of air. The pinked cheeked fella walked toward us in two long strides and reprimanded the Baby Dragon who knocked it over: “Joey! How would you like it if the Cardio Girls pushed the wall in on you??”

* * *

I am Cardio Girl. Of course, during the day I pose as a mere marketing consultant assistant – but at 5:30 pm on Tuesday and Thursdays (and 6:15 on Monday and Wednesdays) I emerge from the changing room in my spandex cape, sweat pants and stumpy pony tail. My entourage of Baby Dragons swarm like a cloud of chaos around me and I stride upon the matted floor - chest puffed, sweat dripping from my nose.

No invisible jet for me! No magic lasso! I fight the good fight with my noble powers of the one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two punch. Take that fatty! 30 girly pushups and 90 crunches! Three more times!

The Intern II

2006-08-20T14:32:00.000-04:00

At eighteen Intern is the poster child for a pre-university student. She's an unpredictable, irrational adolescent who was granted the troubling adult power and influence of operating a motor vehicle. She's like a beautiful young squirrel...a squirrel with an a-bomb in its cheek.

Intern: (after returning from an errand to the office store) Oh my god! I am so mad! Some lady almost drove into me on the road. She was going so sloooow so I got in front of her and had to stop fast at the light and she started screaming at me, like, "Learn to drive!" and I was like "You learn to drive!" and then she went around me so I drove right up to her bumper, right? Anyways she pulled over and was writing down my license plate number and I told her she was crazy. GOD! Like it's totally, totally her fault – right?

::on and on it goes::

During the height of Motor City's summer season (also known as "Orange Cone" season, or "Road Construction" season), Intern arrived at the office with her new car – a spankin' red Toyota Celica.

Intern: Hi. (waits expectantly for my attention)

Noir: Oh...hello there, Intern. How are you?

Intern: Ohmygod! Ohmygodohmygod!! (squealing in a sudden burst of energy and clapping her hands) I got it! I finally got my car! Come and see! You have to come outside right now!

Noir: I thought your license was suspended.

Intern: Oh, it's only kind-of suspended.

::The squealing continues all the way outside::

Intern: See? Isn't it beautiful?? I mean I'm totally in love with it. My dad said I couldn't have it and I said that I was going to get it anyway, you know? Because it's my money so I can buy whatever car I want to, right?? And I was like, I love it so I want it. And he was like, "it's too low to the ground and it's gonna' scrape.' And I was like, Dad! I told him they design it to look like it's gonna' scrape but it wont scrape. Why would they make it scrape?? Anyways.

Noir: It's lovely.

Intern: And see, it even has leather seats! (squeal and prance around)

::I open the passenger door and can't help but notice the collapsible road construction sign forced into the hatchback::

Noir: Um...what's that?

Intern: UH! Never mind that sign in the back seat there. It’s NOTHING. It’s my friends...thing. I’m going to bring it to her after work.

She's stolen her first road sign, folks. Now I know that despite my reservations, she's truly ready to start college.

Cheap Hand Wraps

2006-07-27T12:18:00.000-04:00

I couldn't help but be sad when I came home after kickboxing class.

The small compact Asian instructor, Mr. N, reprimanded me before class even started because I forgot and parked in the wrong lot. "Why you park there? I told you when you come in - I tell everyone - don't park there." I'm not sure what the problem is, but I'm guessing his neighbor gives him hell if the students encroach on the wrong side of the parking area.

Then the handwraps I brought were the wrong type and Mr. N found them offensive. "Ooooooooooooh! Cheap-o hand wraps, eh? Why don't you get the ones I told you? Too cheap?" he asked. I tried to explain that the Programming Brawler lent me his; that I thought they were all the same. However, Mr. N continued to suggest that I was simply too cheap and insolent to buy the correct equipment.

Also, at the end of the class, Mr. N reached up and took me by the elbow and moved close to chide me: "The way you stand up is very bad on knee joints. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Don't do it that way again - unless you one of those women who want to be weak in the knees. Bwahahaha!"

Why didn’t he go for broke and point out all the areas where I fail?
• Don't you floss? Why? You want your teeth to fall out?? You must floss every day! Every day!
• Those shoes you wear – too hard on the feet. Those pumps will break your feet. Very bad.
• You think about the past too much. Why you thinking about that stupid thing you said in 4th grade?? No one cares!
• Why you always checking email? You need focus. What's wrong with you? Stop checking email every five seconds. Bwahahaha!

I was sulking about the apartment when I got home, and the Programming Brawler asked what happened. I told him about the parking, the handwraps and that I just found out that the way I stand up is all wrong.

PB – my 6'4" husband said, "What a jerk! I should go pick a fight with him." And then after some contemplation he continued. "And I would too...if I weren't so sure he would totally kick my ass."

Sidelong Glances

2006-05-27T09:47:00.000-04:00

You are reading the blog of the Member of the Quarter!

I was surprised as you are when I found out.

I tried to think back to what I could have done to win this achievement and all I can think of are failures. And then, of course, I remembered my crowning failure. My moment of total mortification. The exact time I proved to everyone I wanted to impress that I was a complete loser.

You see, every Monday our chapter has a softball game with another local group in the league – usually a local bar or small business – and I come to cheer in the stands with everyone else who isn’t on the team.

Side note: I didn’t join the softball team, primarily because I’m afraid of The Ball. It doesn’t matter if it’s a baseball or a Ping-Pong ball – if it comes within a radius of three feet of my body I cover my head and cower.

Anyways – I walked from home to the diamond (three miles) and took a moment to go to the bathroom when I got there. Now – the facilities at the softball diamond are just as or slightly less disgusting as an outhouse. It’s one of the concrete and cinderblock buildings you find at parks and beaches. However, desperate times call for desperate measures and I went in. There was a questionable puddle of water on the floor so large that standing in it was inevitable. I ended up sort of launching myself from the stall door to get toward the sink (no mirror, of course) and I spent no extra time there because I was desperate to leave.

I went to the game, cheered and had a lovely time.

I went home and made my humiliating discovery. My zipper had been down the entire time. The entire time. So distracted with the puddle of water in the concrete restroom was I, that zipping up my pants completely left my mind.

Now it was clear why my friends and acquaintances were giving me those sidelong glances.

The programming brawler assured me that no one noticed. He insisted that my jacket covered my indecency (but I had the jacket open). He tried to say that with my arms at my sides you can’t even tell the zipper was undone. So I went to the full length mirror and struck a natural pose – fists in pockets. And yes, there it was, a Gaping Hole.

The only thing saving me from hanging myself from total humiliation was that, as some sort of miracle, I had opted to don undies that evening.

So there you are – Member of the Quarter.

Sleepiness as a catalyst for nerd jokes

2006-05-13T17:09:00.000-04:00

Whew. It’s been a while and I apologize.

Work has been heavy in the extreme and, of course, I did submit to the press secretary position. In addition I’ve started a kickboxing class (thanks Echo), so my days activities have been flowing over the rim with precious little time to tend to the blog.

But today is Saturday and I’m having a Black Russian, listening to something bluesy/jazzy on the radio and I have focus. Focus.

There are two people I work with who have different names but happen to share the same initials: “MC”. They are both in sales and additionally they share a lot of projects. As it happened, last week I was up very early in the morning putting together a status report with initials to indicate who is responsible for each project, as is my post. And I discovered that at one in the morning, assigning a project to “MC²” is absolutely hilarious.

Intern Pushes My Buttons (Part I)

2006-04-15T12:54:00.000-04:00

I have no problem turning my head away if someone wants to make a personal call or check email or come in late sometimes. However, I swear our seventeen year old intern is testing me with her flagrant texting, myspacing, emailing and phone calls. It’s a constant flow communication of no substance whatsoever.

Her phone calls go something like this: “Hello. What? Yeah. Dude. No. No! I said ‘No’. Dude. Yeah? What. Bye.” That, followed by frenzied myspace activity while simultaneously text messageing someone on her Razr phone.

And I’m not talking about on one occasion. Not just once in a while. This is frequent and daily blatant messing around and it’s pissing me off.

Anyway. Supervisor asked me to say something to Intern about the barefaced misuse of company time – an unsavory chore for anyone. Plus, it was doubly irritating because I wanted to make my own cell phone call to my sister – something I couldn’t do directly after telling Intern we want her to work during work hours.

It went like this:

Noir: Intern, can I talk to you for a minute?

Intern: (Looks up from myspace and slowly, suspiciously, closes her Razr phone in the middle of a text message) Kaaaay?

Noir: Please come and sit next to me at my desk so we can talk.

Intern: (Pulling up a chair and swiveling nervously back and forth) Hi...

Noir: We need to talk about focus. I see that you are text messaging people quite a bit and making personal phone calls. This is not appropriate.

Intern: (Suddenly suffering from diarrhea of the mouth) Yeah sorry it’s just that my mom called and said that my sister was looking for her sweater that she just got last week at this super sale at the mall and she said I took it and I didn’t take it but I was telling her that I thought it was in the laundry but, you know, it wasn’t so but I tried to tell her that I didn't even know where it was because I didn't even take it! I tried to tell her that I was at work and she wasn’t listening so anyways.

Noir: ...right... (inhale, exhale) What I’m saying is that this is not appropriate. What are we going do about it?

Intern: (verbal diarrhea continues to spew) Well, yeah, I guess it might be a good idea if I left my phone in my car ‘cause you know that’s what I did twice last week, I mean I did it on accident and someone tried to call me like seven times, and I told all my friends over and over that they can’t call me at work, but the keep calling me anyways! I’m so mad! So, you know if I just keep it in my car I won’t use it so much and that would be, like, totally, totally ok with me.

Noir: Alright, let’s try that. Now, I see that you are on the internet a lot and I don’t think it has anything to do with work.

Intern: Sorry...

Noir: (Lowering voice and leaning forward as if to share a secret) You know...doing personal things on company time is ‘kinda like stealing. (solemn nod to my own point)

Intern: (sad voice) Sorry...

Noir: (Straightening up ‘cause secret sharing is over) Ok. Well, let’s just think about work and think about focus. Keep your computer use to work functions only. Intern, in my opinion you have a lot of talent (total lie) and with just a little more effort you have the potential to do really well in whichever career you choose (total lie).

Intern: Really?

Noir: Absolutely. (total lie) Top of class.

Intern: Wow! You know what? That’s just what my teacher said last week too! And I was like, 'WOW' because I’m always late for her class but it was only because I sleep in so late sometimes and then when I get to school it’s really hard to find a parking spot, you know? So I have to park ‘kinda far away and then I end up walking and I even got this blister on my foot to prove it. Did I show you that enormous blister? Anyways I’m late for her class, like three times a week, and SHE said I have a lot of talent, which I guess I do! And that she thought I could be really good if only I got there on time more often and did my homework. That’s SO cool!

Noir: I’m sure that’s the case...alright now, let’s get some work done. Do you have something to work on? (knowing full well that she does)

Intern: Yep!

These are the people I work with. God help me I don’t strangle someone.

So much for Detroit...

2006-04-09T19:30:00.000-04:00

Detroit Sold For Scrap

Voicemail

2006-04-02T22:55:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, one of the best things I can do to cheer myself up is listen to the voicemail messages I’ve saved. I started saving them when a good friend left a song on my voicemail, it was Marilyn Monroe's I wanna be loved by you. I saved it to listen to again later and I just decided I was going to keep it. I've started collecting the best ones:

(a crazy acquaintance called during a fight with her crazy significant other)
Hi Carrie, it’s Kathy. I worked all day today and I gotta work again tonight. I could really use a friend right now. Just a minute ago Lloyd poured a bottle of banana liquor over my head. Lloyd, come here and tell Carrie what you did. Lloyd?! Lloyd!.......Don’t “yes” me! ::click::

(this from the programming brawler – said in a bewildered relieved tone. I’ve forgotten what it’s in reference to)
Hi...this is Chad...and...ah...I’m OK!

(my best friend left me this dream sequence)
Hey! I had a dream last night that you skipped work and came to see me and you had your hair done in a 50’s bouffant beehive. Ok, talk to you later!

Now I have a new one. It’s kinda long, but that is my mother’s way. She always starts her messages with “Hi Carrie, it’s me.” It’s like her signature opening; meaningless in itself, but always recognizable.

Hi Carrie, it's me. I just wanted to update you: I'm so proud of myself for this minor thing...but for me it's ...good.

Remember I told you I was going to take a kayak lesson and then the next weekend was the kayak vendor demo? And remember how last week the kayak lesson was canceled because it was so windy and the weather wasn't good for beginners?

Today was the vendor demo. I went to it and I went out on the kayak even though I didn't have a lesson. (sheepish laugh)

I just got brave and I did it. They gave me a quick paddle lesson. I went out and did it! I tried it and I like it and I'm going to get going on this thing!

(now sounding embarrassed) Ok ... so I'm proud of myself because I was kinda afraid to try it .... without a lesson first. (sheepish laugh)

Ok. Good bye. Call me when you get a chance. I love you. Ok. Bye.

My mom is so cute. CUTE.

Hitting the sauce...again.

2006-03-22T22:50:00.000-05:00

I don't know what about the changing seasons wrecks me, but whatever it is, it's an asshole. Perhaps it's something about the quality of light that punches me right in the kisser - sending me to curse myself, hide under the furniture and/or weep over radio ads.

Do I sound over-sensitive here?

Today I lost a little bit of copy (10 minutes, tops) to an unscheduled computer failure and I spent the next 30 minutes in the bathroom vacillating between blubbering tears and rage.

Tonight I'm just going to listen to my neighbor, the musician, through the wall and have a glass (or three) of red wine.

Please wish me the best of luck that I don't spill any on myself, 'cause it's that kind of day, folks.

Paczki

2006-02-28T08:50:00.000-05:00

So much for dieting; today is Paczki day - a holiday. For dinner tonight: Doughnuts and wine.

Because drunk dialing is so passé.

2006-02-18T19:43:00.000-05:00

I just got back from the most lonely place in the world. I hate the laundry mat.
I hate having my two pairs of undies exposed for everyone there to see. And there is always some kid running or crying for *no reason* with nothing to loose. Just sitting there watching the laundry go 'round and 'round makes me want to scream out like I have turrets or something.
"motherfuckersonofabitchdamnshitpisscraptwat."
Like that.

A lack of something.

2006-02-14T10:01:00.000-05:00

Are not crane operators born of the most insecure men of the world?

The contrived life of a would-be starlet of the Midwest.

2006-02-05T18:05:00.000-05:00

Today was the last day of the Claudel/Rodin exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts. I went to the last showing on the last day of the exhibit. Fascinating.

I was a little worried about going downtown today of all days, but it really wasn't too bad. I was expecting throngs of drunk partygoers and sports fans massing in the streets of Detroit, but no. It was probably too cold for that kind of behavior. Traffic was surprisingly light and even parking was easy to find.

After the exhibit, my friend N and I sat in the atrium and sipped coffee. We discussed the fine sculptures and how we should make it a point to do more cultural events together. We laughed and chatted about how we should do things that make us feel sophisticated. Before we left, she plucked a flower from an arrangement on the table and placed it in her hair.

N is a woman of uncommon beauty; a head turner who oozes sexuality. She really is misplaced here in the decaying city of Detroit and I can't help but think she would be most appropriate in some other place ... a complex place, a cultivated place.

I can't help but think I would like to go with her.

Cold brew

2006-01-30T00:33:00.000-05:00

For the past few weeks I've been trying to compose a post about the belly dancing class my neighbor convinced me to take with her. Each attempt to write about this class has ended up lewd, indecent and vulgar. Basically as tasteless as the dance itself.

Not that I'm a stranger to coarse things such as that.

Tonight I desperately want a drink, but I promised myself I wouldn't. I've committed to only imbibe on Fridays, Saturdays, Birthdays, Holidays and Vacation days. Sounds like a lot of days, doesn’t it? But at 5:45 PM in the middle of the week, it's a hard promise to keep. Hell - tonight it's only Sunday and it’s hard.

I live only 20 paces from the train tracks - the tracks that run from Detroit to Chicago - and I've grown so used to the sounds that I hardly hear the noise anymore. In lieu of a drink, I retire to my narrow bed in my narrow bedroom of my tiny loft apartment above the health food store. My tiny apartment - located in an antiquated building with red brick walls and steel beams - gets little sunlight but still has a fair view. If I crane my neck I can look beyond the iron bedposts and see the train as it passes, eight times a day five days a week.

If you listen very carefully past the vulgar horn blasts, past the monotonous chugging clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety, past all the sounds you normally associate with the tracks, you can just hear the sound of steel scraping steel - a delicate sound of a finger tracing the top of a wine glass.

I miss it.

It's the real deal.

2006-01-11T14:46:00.000-05:00

I've figured out my New Years Resolution!

This year I am going to choreograph a belly dance routine to Dick Dale's Misirlou

I raise my fist in resolution: I will do it.

Yet another hat picture.

2006-01-02T22:16:00.000-05:00

I've been posting too many pictures of myself lately, but here's another! My very kind neighbor gave me an antique hat (very early 50's) to add to my exponentially growing collection.

I wore it to the New Years block party and it worked like a charm.

N, you have been promoted to "Best Friend" status for this.

Annual Noir Christmas Letter

2005-12-26T10:11:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends, Relations and Acquaintances,

Well, we’re about to wrap up another year and what a year it was!

After six long years of living in sin, the Programming Brawler asked me to marry him and we actually went through with it. It was the most elaborate and fantastic expenditure of money I’ve ever personally experienced. If you’re getting this letter, you most likely were there and had an enjoyable, debaucherous time. And those of you who RSVP’d you would be there but didn’t show…well, you missed a pretty good party. To everyone who’s been askin’ me for the last six years “When you gettin’ married?” - the questions regarding grandchildren can now commence.

This, darlings, has been a year of firsts. I’ve just noticed my very first wiry silver hair. It’s growing straight up out of the middle of my bangs like an upturned middle finger greeting me every morning. I’m sure it’s the first of many.

Furthermore, I’ve had an additional first encounter with inevitable geriatric problems. Incontinence. No, not me, but my cat Mortimer has recently started showing his disfavor by sprinkling on top of clothing items that have been discarded onto the floor. He likes a tidy apartment, you see.

The Programming Brawler has abandoned the self employment dream and got himself a corporate job at a national bookstore chain that shall remain unnamed. It’s his first corporate job ever - in which he uses his computer talents to jockey the help desk in an underground silo. He spends his days behind a small desk, speaking on the phone to distant, desperate bookstore clerks who are tearing their hair out over check-out register computers that won’t cooperate.

On another note I’ve failed to give up potato chips, loose any weight, or decrease my drinking habit. In fact, I’m drinking a coffee with amoretto as I type this. And, mmmmmm, it’s good!

Unfortunately, I will not be enclosing the yearly photo with Santa. My sister and I went to the Ritzy Mall for our annual visit, but to our dismay, Santa was booked and was not taking anymore appointments. So, in place of that, here is a picture of me in my newest addition to my secret vice – hats. Thanks Great Aunt Delphine.

All the best always, darlings
XXOOXXOO

Noir Muse

Side Note

2005-12-08T17:40:00.000-05:00

I was made today.

It's times like these when I wonder if I'm not really cut out for the business. Part of my job involves "secret shopping" aka lying through teeth. I phoned about 20 business yesterday and told them a complete lie. Today, one person called me back - and called me out. It's upsetting. I hate lying to people and I'm so bad at it.

I feel compelled to do something bad. Something like go to the Burger King and order a "veggie meat" sandwich. And fries. Grotesque.

Public Notice:
To all the businesses I called yesterday - so sorry if you spent any time following up on the line I fed you. If it means anything to you, those that took the time to figure me out – you’re an above average company and we’d probably love to do your marketing. You’ve got a good staff who’s serious ‘bout gettin’ the business. Merry Christmas or whatever.

Maybe it’s time for me to think about gettin’ some honest work. That, or the winter is beginning to suffocate me again.

Amuse me.

2005-12-08T09:54:00.000-05:00

Email from me to my best girl:

Sorry I couldn't chat with you last night; my internet connection at home can be so spotty. Ask Jesus to give me a wireless internet connection for Christmas, will you? Then I can throw out the desk lamp/colander, k?

Reply from my best girl to me:

Jesus was born on Christmas...Santa gives out the gifts.
Click these images to help you tell between them:

This is Jesus

And here is Santa

Yowza! She is so awesome.

Housekeeping

2005-11-30T22:48:00.000-05:00

Well, it's time to say farewell. Two blogs in the recommended reading list have sadly retired.

After lending beautifully poetic and well thought conversations over frosty beers, Trite Remarks has stood up, stretched his legs and meandered off to do other, probably more stimulating, projects.

And after what's seemed like far to many weeks of silence, our darling Bombshell got her coat out of check and blew us an air kiss goodbye.

Cheers to you both! And I'll boldly speak for everyone at our swank affair ('cause this is my blarg, anyway) when I say, all the best with your new endeavors, folks. You'll be dearly missed.

Now, having said that, and hopefully it doesn’t seem rude, I'll introduce two new kids who walked into the speakeasy:

Kristy, hailing from She Just Walks Around With It. Can I just introduce her as amusing? Ok, I don’t know anything about this knitting business, but she likes the martinis and the champagne and - let me just ask you - who could possibly relate to that?

And please meet The Assimilated Negro from none other than The Assimilated Negro. Mr. TAN lives in NY and partakes in that dastardly marketing business everyone loves to hate. What else? He's a musician, an artist, and did I mention negro? I could go on, but he is quite prolific when describing himself - I'll let him do the job for me.

Enjoy!

A Noir approved She Walks sample

A Noir approved TAN sample

Passion

2005-11-24T21:01:00.000-05:00

I had a lunch meeting with a charming young man yesterday. He was a salesman, and thus, a good conversationalist. It was a pleasant enough afternoon but I became aware of a certain deficit on my part.

He’s from California but moved to Michigan in the course of his career and recently married a beautiful blonde bombshell. He surfs in the summer and greatly misses the ocean. He is a snowboarder and finds the hills of Michigan anticlimactic. He climbs mountains. He mountain bikes. He loves to cook all kinds of ethnic foods.

And then he asked me what I did.

And I fumbled.

This evening, I started to think about what I do.

What do I do? I’m a master of indulgences. I wash down my vitamins with black coffee. I drink after work, and it’s not as straight forward as one might think. Champagne goes with a bag of potato chips while red wine goes with a loaf of bread. Martinis go along all by themselves. It takes standards and taste, you see.

What do I do? I sample cheeses and I eat only real butter. (Never Margarine? He asks, and I retort, Never!) I eat pesto and artichokes and lime/chili cashews. Crackers with bruchetta, crackers with tepanod, crackers with artichoke antipasto. If I’m alone and desperate, I’ll make my own sweet potato hash browns.

What do I do? I sling my arm over the chair back, sip my wine and complain that the Programming Brawler doesn’t do the vacuuming frequently enough. I purchase Japanese and French magazines to look at the pictures while I lay in the bathtub. I masturbate while swaddled in a fluffy down comforter. I read low-brow pulp novels.

But I don’t write poetry. That’s one excess even I can’t swallow.

These things passed through my mind but I rejected them, unacceptable as they are to modern business etiquette.

What do you do?

This is a question that must be answered immediately and without contemplation. It’s something a person should know in their bones. It should be answered passionately, decisively and with total commitment. Because I have no business and socially acceptable passion, I’ll simply have to make one up.

He: …and that’s why you need at least 3 different surfboards depending on weather conditions. So, enough about me, what do you do?

Me: I’m a Midwestern vocal actor. Sure, I do this advertising thing to pay the bills but my true love lies in my voice.

He: Midwestern…vocals?

Me: It sounds like a oxymoron, doesn’t it? Ha-ha. You may not realize this, but among voicemail system voice actors, I’m sort of a rockstar. Do you hear my Midwestern brogue?

He: Huh?

Me: (leaning forward with enthusiasm) Of course you don’t. That’s the whole point. Can you imagine calling in to check your visa balance and navigating a voicemail system with a southern accent? Laughable! Scottish? Aussie? Ha! Never.

He: (leaning back in the booth, looking stunned or confused) Uh-huh…

Me: Listen to this, (closing my eyes, lifting my face slightly), Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line for the next available representative.

See? Clear. Enunciated. Ordinary. Soothing.

He: So, you do voicemail systems?

Me: Yep. But I try not to limit myself. I’ve done commercial voiceovers and dubbing for TV and movies. Waterhouse approached me with an audio book last year, but I turned it down. Do you realize how time consuming an audio book is?

He: You must travel quite a bit.

Me: Are you kidding?! I just have to go to the sound booth downtown. It’s all digital now.

He: Whoa. You are so cool.

And that, folks, is why anyone worth their salt should know their own passion.

Mad Scientist Antenna

2005-11-20T20:44:00.000-05:00

I came home this week to the Programming Brawler prancing back and forth across our little apartment in the type of excitement reserved for mad scientists on the verge of their next biggest discovery. His hair had the wild look of many hours of absent minded self-tousling.

Take a look at this! He said, grabbing a device on his desk and making some minute adjustments – pointing it this way and that. It's a parabolic antenna made from a colander, my desk lamp and a USB wireless dongle. We have internet at the house now!

Dongle? I asked. Are you making this up?

Yeah, I thought it was a weird word too when I first heard it.

(The Programming Brawler loves it when I blog about him - I just can't help it though)

Annual Halloween Costume Party 2005

2005-10-30T20:13:00.000-05:00

On the return home from the ruckus Halloween party this weekend, I reflected upon my behavior, which was, in a word, juvenile. I try to be dignified and proper in my daily life and perhaps when I'm given an opportunity to let loose a little I end up acting inappropriately.

Bollywood Starlet (that's me!)

In the moment, biting Holly Golightly's ear seemed like a very good idea.
Uppon reflection, even choking a rubber chicken is an unacceptable pun.
Once more, how old is too old to be snorting a Pixy Stick on a dare?

Swedish Chef - a la muppets (the programming brawler)

Does this mean I'll never grow up?

A bit of Spine.

2005-10-27T09:02:00.000-04:00

One of the first things I noticed about her is that she wasn’t wearing a coat.

On my way back to my apartment from a long stroll, I saw them walking towards me on the street. She; perhaps 20, ponytail, no coat and a very large silver purse. He; perhaps 25, black leather coat, oversized black pants.

As we approached one another, I could see she was crying. It wasn’t an injured cry, nor tears of frustration nor anger. She was sobbing with what sounded distinctly like desperation and despair. Her boyfriend (pimp? drug dealer?) held her hand with both of his; one hand on her wrist, the other on the tips of her fingers and yanked her along the sidewalk. She twisted her hand back and forth trying, it seemed, to wrest herself away from his grip.

I asked aloud to her, “Are you alright?”

She sobbed again and looked at her feet. He growled, “She’s fine.” and yanked her along. I turned to watch them continue and he led her into an alley.

The next time I saw her, a few minutes later, she was alone, walking quickly back the way she came, still whimpering a little bit, looking wild-eyed. As she walked by, I asked her, quietly this time, “Do you need help?”

“No. I don’t need the police. Not the police.”

She didn’t even slow down.

I watched her walk away and told the dispatch, who I already had on the line, that "She says she doesn’t want the police." They said they would send someone anyhow. I gave them a description.

As I walked home I saw them both one last time, driving away together in a little red car.

***

Later.

The programming brawler and I were seated at one of the best seats in the house – a small table for two, to right of the fireplace.

He; hunched over the table with his crazy professor hair, tweed jacket and a large mug of dark beer. Myself; stretched back in my chair, black suit, french twist and a martini.

I looked at him and asked; “How does one acquire Spine? Is it something one is born with…or is Spine developed or squashed over time.”

He looked thoughtful.

***
This is what I wish would happen next:

I’m driving down the road towards my apartment from work. I see her on the corner next to McDonalds, across from the motel. Her ears are pink and she still has no coat. I stop next to her, roll the passenger window down and lean towards her. I ask, “Did everything work out ok for you last week?”

She looks left and right before approaching my little car. She shakes her head no.

I ask, “Can I phone someone for you?”

She says, “Will you take me to State and Third? I can walk home from there, my mom is so worried.”

I nod, lean over further and unlock the door. I pull the latch and give it a push. She gets in. Diana Krall serenades us with a low Besame Mucho. I hand her my leather gloves. With a little hesitation, she slowly pulls them on. We drive to State and Third in silence.

Cold Turkey

2005-10-24T22:18:00.000-04:00

I neglected to stop for a coffee this morning. There is no coffee at the office, as everyone else prefers tea or is allergic to caffeine. I thought I could simply buck-up and do without for once. Over the course of the day, I experienced the most hideous and extreme symptoms of withdrawal I ever imagined.

8 AM: I'm a little sleepy. What is this sensation? Hunger? Thirst? Hummm... It's not entirely evident.

9:30 AM: My boss and coworkers begin to look like Muppets - I have no empathy for their minor inconveniences and their soul-less eyes mock me. I check my top desk drawer for ephedra, I'm out.

10 AM: I've slumped to nearly eye level with my desk top and my tongue has split into a forked serpent tongue. The big boss - standing across from my desk - wants me to determine why the copy machine won't accept copy paper. I look up from under my eyelids and hiss.

11:30 AM: The headache has begun. I've thrown two temper tantrums so far and have come dangerously close to beaning a coworker with my Swingline.

12:15 PM: My headache is unbearable. I'm curled under my desk, fists pressed to my temples, teeth grinding. I feel a distinct fraternal bond with recovered heroin addicts.

3 PM: Co-workers have finally come to the conclusion that it's better to leave wounded animals to themselves to recover or die alone. This, in itself, is a small relief.

5:30 PM: The programming brawler comes to retrieve me, wraps me in a thick towel to immobilize my claws and spiny tail. Being trained in emergency situations he knows to drive to the nearest gas station. He purchases a coffee and moistens a sponge to dab on my lips. I attempt to bite his fingers.

I’m currently succumbing to a redeye at the local internet café and feeling much better, thank you.

The Best Pickup Line Ever: National Marketing Convention 2005

2005-10-10T20:06:00.000-04:00

We all know the following pickup line rule of thumb: Tell the pretty girls they’re intelligent; tell the smart girls they’re beautiful… but what do you tell those girls who make a living writing pickup lines for products?

Tell the girls in marketing that they look like stock photography.

Perhaps a nap is in order.

2005-09-30T08:05:00.000-04:00

You know a girl is too long without rest when while typing direction to the designer she inadvertently writes “Crop Circles” instead of “Crop Marks” and thinks it’s remarkably funny. And then even considers leaving it in the direction.

And then she silently whispers “Crap Circles” to herself, smiles manically and wipes the corner of her eye with the back of her pinky finger.

And then, with a high pitched whinny of a person desperately holding in laughter, mouths the words “Crap Marks” to herself only.

Oooooh, yeah. I’m hilarious.

Life lessons.

2005-09-25T16:51:00.000-04:00

The programming brawler and I went to a terrible little diner recently. The service was horrible. The food was over-described in the menu yet mediocre. Every surface seemed just a bit sticky. Also, the food was overpriced. We were in a bit of a hurry and they didn’t have any line. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, explains quite a bit.

My fella had to leave early for an appointment and I was left in the grimy booth by myself. The waitress was neglecting me. The patrons were sparse. There was no music for ambiance. Because it was so quiet, I was able to eavesdrop on a conversation two booths down where a father was advising his son about life.

The boy was probably 8 or so. His father spoke to him in low tones instructing him on how to politely decline when a stranger offers him candy. Counseling him to dodge an adults request to enter a strange home. Advising him to never, ever play doctor with anybody.

“So, you never take your clothes off, right?” Father asked, “What will you do if someone is asking you to remove something you’re wearing?

“I’ll yell ‘NO!’, the boy dutifully responded.

“What if you and Mom are going into someone’s house and they ask you to take your shoes off?” Father asked.

“I’ll take my shoes off, but not my socks.” The boy said.

“Very good. And what if it’s a hot day and your friends are taking off their shirts?” The father asked.

“Yeah, I’d take off my shirt.” Said the boy.

“What about your pants?” Father asked.

The boy pulled long noodles of spaghetti up into the air above his plate. “Nope, I wouldn’t take off my pants.” He said in a bored, distant voice.

“That’s right. You never take off your pants, not even for friends as a dare, not even if an adult tells you to, unless Mom and I are there. And you don’t play ‘doctor’ with anyone, right?...” The father said, and continued in a lower voice.

I could only think to myself that ‘never’ is a very long time to abstain from playing doctor, and that being a parent must be very frightening and difficult. By the time a kid rejects all parenting (age 17 perhaps?) they are probably ready to play doctor with somebody.

God, I’m glad I don’t have any kids.

Noir: Ok, to recap: you never take food from a stranger – right?

Programmer Junior: No. Never. Unless it’s organic and thoroughly washed.

Noir: That’s right, only if it’s organic. Now as far as your clothes, what do you do?

Programmer Junior: I only wear blues, reds and dark colors that go with my skin tone. I don’t wear yellow or orange because it makes me look sallow.

Noir: Yes, very good. What about green?

Programmer Junior: Green is ok if it’s a blue-green, not a yellow-green.

Noir: Correct. Do you remember what we talked about regarding fabric choices?

Programmer Junior: Um…Wool, cotton and silk are good. Polyester is bad.

Noir: Um-hum. And if it’s a polyester blend remember to always ask your mom or your dad if it’s ok first. Now, do you remember the rule of four?

Programmer Junior: Brush my hair, brush my teeth, wash my face and wash my pits.

Noir: Good job. These are the most important life lessons I can teach you my son. You may not understand them all right now, but if you follow my advice, when you are 17 and have your own car, you’ll thank me.

Guest blogging

2005-09-14T14:36:00.000-04:00

I post so much here on my own blog that I've asked if I can gust post on another guy's blog too. I've got so much material that it's coming out of my ears!

So if you've missed me you can amuse yourself over at Straight White Guy just for today.

Squirrels

2005-08-30T11:25:00.000-04:00

Everytime I go outside the squirrels suddenly look up and whisper something into their little hands.

God I hate those things.

Trials of the Tramp

2005-08-20T14:11:00.000-04:00

I am long out of vodka, and the only liquor in the freezer is that sissy Captain Morgan. I don't care for him, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

We are to have dinner this evening in my mother-in-law's perfect garden. My contribution? Stuffed mushrooms. I don't really make "dishes" as much as I make hor'dourves.

She is the epitome of royal ladyship. Her slightly upturned nose is just the right size. Her blonde hair is flawlessly cut and her green eyes are wide, clear and lovely. She never skips her makeup in the mornings. I've never seen her slouch.

Her home is an ideal magazine spread - and she does it all herself. She recovers her own furniture. She makes her own window treatments. She faux paints her walls to look like expensive wallpaper. Unlike mine, her home is always immaculate.

She is always generous and kind. I've never heard her have a rude or harsh word for anybody. She goes to great lengths to make sure everyone is comfortable. Everyone who knows her ends up adoring her; it's inevitable. She reeks of unconditional love.

She is influential, beautiful, kind, talented and intelligent. She possesses a seemingly unending well of energy. She is a fountain of goodwill. She is perfect.

I don't know if she was ever disappointed that her only child got hitched to someone like myself. Someone dark and sometimes brooding with black hair and harlot red lipstick. I sleep in on Saturdays. I don't organize my pans by size or frequency of use. My favorite dinner consists of a lonesome fireplace, a bottle of champagne and a bag of potato chips. I almost never wear underwear.

When I see her tonight for dinner, and she cooks delicious food grown from her garden and fresh fish caught by her barrel-chested husband -

- and when I arrive with scarlet and Captain Morgan on my lips...

- and when I hand her my feeble, mushroom contribution...

She will smile. She will offer me a drink. She will hug me with transparent adoration ... and tell me she likes my lipstick.

Forks for unusual uses.

2005-08-07T19:00:00.000-04:00

Noir: Darling, we got ourselves a new radio for our wedding -
Programming Brawler: Yep.
Noir: We got the radio to replace the old one - the one with the wire hanger for the antenna.
Programming Brawler: Uh-huh...
Noir: We threw out the one that looked like a flop house shit-box, right?
Programming Brawler: Yeah...
Noir: So....you put a fork on the new radio antenna?
Programming Brawler: It helps the reception!

Razor sharp elbows

2005-07-27T21:05:00.000-04:00

So you're telling me that most girls don't give their fella a sharp jab in the ribs when he's snoring too loud?

God, I must be a cruel bitch to live with.

Wedding - Final Post

2005-07-19T18:55:00.000-04:00

I just got the pictures from my photographer. Woot.

My mother and my sister.

My reluctant flower girl. (She was suffering from pink eye and stage fright, poor thing.)

We had to take advantage of the lone cop car. Down with the man.

The band was great.

Love this crotch-grabbing photo.

This was taken just before I douced myself with my own martini.

After the festive celebration, I looked over the guest book:

When your mother attacks...

2005-07-15T23:05:00.000-04:00

I went to college just like you, Mother.
The same college as you. At your own suggestion.

I got the same degree you did, business administration.

Each job I chose was a reflection of your influence.
Each job was a building block for a future career.

And I sit with you, now - I with my education and career under way...
You with your MBA and certificate in project management...
I sit next to your tiny body in Florida, on your faded couch, and we watch the animal channel together and you tell me:

"I always imagined you working in the zoo..."

The Practice of Being Ordinary

2005-07-10T01:58:00.000-04:00

About eight years ago, when I worked between classes as the lab supervisor at the university, an officemate handed me an essay on “The Practice of Being Ordinary.”

He told me he thought I would like it.

It's embarrassing to think about what happened next - I became fiercely upset at the suggestion that I could possibly be ordinary. I remember thinking something like: “I am the LAST thing from ordinary! I AM special goddamn it!”

(I was 18 at the time, so kill me.)

I happened to give it another chance about a year later. Now it's in my files under “Opportunity”

Ahhh, the precious moment when a no-one-special meanders into life and unintentionally makes an impression.

The Practice of Being Ordinary

This exercise is simply about noting how often we feel special, different or somehow set apart from those around us. It is an exercise that you can practice frequently as you go through your normal daily activities.

Several times a day, wherever you are, take a moment to examine your relationship to the people around you. Whether you are driving down the road, sitting in a meeting, in line at the supermarket, or with a group of friends, notice how you see yourself in relation to everyone else. Do you feel special, somehow different from everyone else? In what way? Do you feel more intelligent, more complex, harder to understand? Are you more introspective, more sensitive, somehow deeper than everyone else in line at the bank? Perhaps you feel more wounded, more insightful, or maybe you feel that you have more (or less) potential than everyone else.

Notice how often, and in which particular ways, you feel qualitatively set apart from your fellow humans. What feelings arise as you notice your “specialness?” How does it feel in your body? What are your impulses? Does it make you want to hide or go away? Or does it make you want intimacy or to somehow make contact?

Once you have examined the sensation of being “special,” take a moment to imagine the possibility that you may, in fact, be quite ordinary; that you are, in fact, nobody special. Imagine saying to that person next to you, “I am just like you. We are exactly the same. There is nothing special about me that sets me apart from you. I am as ordinary as they come.”

How easy (or difficult) is this to say? Where do you get caught? Ask yourself this question: What would I have to give up in order to be order to be ordinary, to be just like everyone else? Which unique or sacred gift, which special wound or talent do I use to prevent myself from truthfully admitting that I am not really special at all?

Watch yourself experiment with feeling ordinary. Notice the resistance, the discomfort, the fear, or uncertainty that arises. As you imagine being ordinary, nobody special, what possibilities arise? If you were, in fact, nobody special, what would you do today? If you were released from the burden and responsibility of being exceptionally unique, and could simply be an ordinary human being, how would you feel free to act? What normal, unexceptional activities would you enjoy today?

Allow yourself to play with the freedom that comes from being ordinary and nobody special. The pressure is off. You can relax. Nothing special is expected of you. Nobody is watching. Why should they? You are just an ordinary child of the earth. Perfectly unexceptional, perfect just as you are.
-- Wayne Muller

My Yankee Pig Dog

2005-06-09T11:24:00.000-04:00

I just got an email from my friend Mike, the one currently in Vietnam. Apparently life on the other side of the globe is going per usual.
Is this the first time he's mistaken a good girl for a prostitute? No.
Is this the first time he's gone to work in a rude mood and sporting a bloody nose? Nope.
Is this the first time he could have avoided a confrontation with a bit of levelheadedness and deep breathing? No. No. No.

If you are interested in living vicariously through one of the good fellas, read on darlings.

Guys,

Well, its about 4:30 pm here. I'm due in at about 6 pm. Let me tell you about my last 24 hours. Those who know me well will no doubt find this amusing and very Mike-like.

The girl from last night.
It was cold and rainy night. Kind of miserable. I just got my own place at this hotel that's pretty cheap. {The fast girl who paid for their escape to Vietnam} and I separated amicably a day before.

A girl I had met for drinks a few days before spotted me walking and I was able to coax her into going back to my hotel after a nice romantic drive around the city. Her English is marginal at best but as we all know 90% of human communication is body language. We ended up back at my place for a good shag. We had a good romp though sadly she made the mistake of saying in broken English "Mike, I love you". Which immediately turned me off. You see here in Vietnam there are 2 kinds of girls. Hookers and good girls.

Good girls take months to shag if you can at all, hookers of various kinds do it for money, entertainment, ect. Anyway, after a good shag she asked me for some cash for gas for her moto bike. I thought this was her nice way of asking for her 200000 Dong (13 USD). So I told her I didn't have much and asked if 150000 dong was ok for tonight. She immediately got this really hurt look and started to sob. So I thought...fuck maybe she really needs the 200000 dong. So I say sorry and give her 200000. Now she goes hysterical. "I'M NOT MONEY GIRL, WHAAHAAAH!!!" and throws the 200000 Dong at me. Apparently she wasn't a hooker but really liked me and needed 100000 Dong for gas. The bike was her mothers and she didn't want to give it back with no gas. I was told all this by the hotel guy the next day. Anyway I felt like a real jackass....

The beat down by the lake.
Today I awoke in a shit mood. Given the events of last night it was understandable. So I go for a nice walk by the lake. Now you must understand that if you are white you will be constantly asked to buy things from people selling various shit all fucking day. It gets old fast. There were 3 guys and the littlest guy (maybe 5'8 and 110 lbs) says "Hey man, where you going." I ignore him and move on, he runs up "Where you from!"

Me: From my momma, now fuck off, eh.
Him: Where you going now?
Me: To your mamma's house, now fuck off, eh.

So I keep walking and I hear him talking to his friends saying, "fuck you, fuck you man, fuck you"

At this point my dear friends I just snapped. I turned around and came right up on him and picked him up by his shirt and tossed him about 5 steps back.

"Watch your mouth you little fuck." At this point he rights himself and starts towards me quickly. I don't even think about it and just react. I drill this little bastard about 4 times in the nose and mouth. Down he goes. Now his two big friends jump in from the sidelines.

For the next 30 seconds I'm treading water just to stay on my feet. I end up with a bloody nose and the police came. They asked everyone what happened and if anyone wants to file charges. Nobody does and we all go home. Now I have to go to work.

Today was a good example of when keeping it real goes wrong. I will console myself with chocolate ice cream and a couple girls after work. Things are alright here but I'm looking forward to making enough to go back to the Philippines. There is a branch of my current school in the Philippines and maybe in a few months I can transfer. Hope to hear from you guys soon. I miss ya.

Yankee pig dog,
Mike

Just a few photos.

2005-06-08T19:04:00.000-04:00

I've found another internet cafe but this time we are in NYC. I've never been to the city before and I think I'm in love. (I am so easily charmed.) This is such an interesting place! I'm sure New York City is going to have to be a post all of it's own.

But for now...

The photos are slowly filtering in from the family. I don't have many just at the moment, but I have one and I am way too thrilled to keep it to myself.

This is a pretty good photo of us at the ceremony site. Cute hat, huh?

I looked longer for the perfect shoes than I did for the dress. Oh, I love these shoes.

I will add additional photos of some of the folowing soon.
1. My reluctant flower girl (I hope the experience wasn't too tramatic for her.)
2. The swing band.
3. My favorite lushes getting sloshed.
3. My tight laced guests getting sloshed.
4. Me getting sloshed.

ect, ect, ect.

Wireless internet discovered!

2005-06-02T20:32:00.000-04:00

Hello all! Just a side-note, I've been drinking leftover red wedding wine and my id is conducting this guest post. Sorry for the long delay...I've been preoccupied.

We're in the Pocono Mountains and we've just now found internet access. For the last few days I've thought to myself "If I were a hard-core blogger, I would have given hour-by-hour (or at least day-by-day) accounts of The Wedding." But I'm not and I didn't.

Here is the overview:

Because there were numerous thunderstorm forecasts, I had consoled myself that a rainy wedding day would be very "noir" and thus, not too bad. However, my aunt, a nun, offered to be in charge of the weather. I agreed and it turned out to be a perfectly beautiful day; sunny with puffy white clouds.

The ceremony was lovely, the reception was awesome. The swing band was worth every penny even after I paid for an extra two hours overtime.

The cake was grand, the catering was two hours late but divine none-the-less, the wine was plentiful and anyone who didn't attend missed out on a hell of a party. That's all I'm going to say about that, buster.

Afterwards we took off to a semi-swank hotel bar to meet up with the youths for drinks. I had 1.75 dirty martinis. Lost part of a martini on my dress due to drunkenness and a surprise guest. You lying sack of shit. Not that it matters - dirty martinis don't really leave much of a stain.

Anyway, we stayed in the semi-swank hotel and the next morning I realized I didn't bring any luggage for us. Normally this wouldn't be a problem.

So...he put on his tux and I my wedding dress and we shlepped ourselves, (hung over and stinky) out to a nearby clothier. I felt like such a fool standing in line for the fitting room with my wedding dress on. Imagine.

It was a bitchen' party. I'll post some pictures soon on the wedding site. Until then you'll just have to keep your pants on and wait.

The Good Luck Boys

2005-05-22T12:09:00.000-04:00

Welp, I'm getting hitched in 6 days.

The Fella took off for ole' Kalamazoo yesterday for what I hope was a bitchen' bachelor party. I hope there was at least one naked girl there, but probably not. It's entirely possible that they ruined one another on the chess board all evening with 40s and Doritos, but probably not.

The most likely scenario is that they opened the house to the entire neighborhood, brought in a keg and played music real, real loud. He prefers tequila and so it's likely there was a bottle of that around. Striper? I don't know if the boys had enough money for a stripper. There is a lesbian who hangs around quite a bit - she might get naked for them.

Good luck boys.

***

I miss my Mikes. I won't see any of them for quite a while if ever again...

One of my Mikes is in Hawaii, dark and distant. Miss you sometimes. We haven't talked in a while; the worst part is that it's not like I don't know why.

Another Mike's wife is having open heart surgery this Friday. He himself is treating his prostate cancer successfully. I won't have a chance to share in a bottle of whisky with them until they both recover.

The third Mike, living his last days in the east. I miss you very much. I understand he purchased a college degree and moved from the Philippines to Korea where he taught English, wore $1000 suits and incited bar brawls. Last I heard he walked out on his teaching contract (what does he care about the consequences, he's dying of cancer) to explore Vietnam.

Good luck boys.

***

I've been reading an epic blog recently The Gimp Report It's of an emergency firefighter who, while fighting an arson blaze in Kentucky, was smashed to near death by a tree - leaving him paraplegic. Of course reading it makes any notion of sadness I've ever experienced seem rather trite.

Good luck, good luck.

Time to put the coffee away for a while.

2005-05-17T17:32:00.000-04:00

I am going to be so freaking thrilled when this wedding is over.

I feel like I could strangle someone at any moment. Not that I wasn't high strung before I started planning this event, but I am a coordinator - I organize events for a living. I promised myself that those screechy bitches who whine and complain about how much work it is to organize a wedding were weak and I would never, ever be like them. But here I am being all screechy and bitchy!

I can hardly stand myself.

Coco Chanel

2005-05-09T00:54:00.000-04:00

My tiny, spendthrift mother flew from Florida to Michigan to hide in my living room. It was my shower this weekend, you see, and she wanted to surprise me. I walked into the living room and there she was – just standing there smiling. I know, everyone thinks their mother is beautiful, but my mother is truly gorgeous. It took me a second to recognize her, because my face recognition software went haywire for a moment while my mouth gaped and I processed what was happening. She loved it.

The shower was what it was. I’ve never liked going to those type of parties and this time I couldn’t even leave early.

Did we play games? Yes.
Did we eat snacks on prim paper plates? Yes.
Did every one "Ooooh!" while they watched the bride-to-be open each one of her presents? Yes.

"Ooooh, a mixer!"
"Ooooh, a spice rack!"
And I did open a package that contained an aged nighty with a note on it that read:
"Here is one I have had 30 years or so and have worn twice. Hope you have fun with it!" Nope, it wasn’t a gag gift.

My mother gave me a bottle of Chanel.
Now, I know the rule. It isn’t appropriate to use any of the wedding gifts before the wedding - in the case something happens and the event is cancelled all the gifts are to be returned unused. I have followed this rule to the letter despite the all the fine and tempting gifts that arrived. Not so with the Chanel.

I've never had such a precious little bottle of liquid before in my life and I have to make concessions for using it already.

I really think that if I cancelled the wedding my mother would tell me to keep the perfume. I am sure she would say. "Keep the bottle darling, it’s yours and you deserve it."

On the other hand - if I do cancel the wedding, no doubt the nighty will be kindly returned to it's rightful owner.

Goodnight

2005-05-04T11:09:00.000-04:00

At night we sleep so soundly.
Face to face, our limbs entangled.
My head on your arm - your hand on my back.
Together in unconscious embrace.

or

I spoon you.
With my face pressed to the back of your neck.
My hand on your heart - my cold feet on your calves.
I protect you from yourself, your self-depreciation, your self-reluctance.

or

You cradle me.
Your arm encircling my chest - your knees behind my knees.
You protect me from the shadows of who I was, my anxiety, my despair.

or

We face away.
Backs firmly pressed against the other - a posture of challenge.
A united front against the entire world.

Sigh. The crisis is over.

2005-04-27T09:03:00.000-04:00

Luckily my roomie saved me. She took me out to the pool, managed to pry my coffee away and gave me a Miller High Life instead.

She is such a cute, size four curly blonde - we are the youngest people here at the training. Intense and sharp and creative and driven; she must have noticed my bleary eyes and white knuckles. Last night we giggled and made joke headlines until 3 am our time.

She. Is. Hilarious.

This week featuring: The Paranoid Wreck.

2005-04-26T14:06:00.000-04:00

I am in Texas for marketing training. I feel so awful and I don't know what to do. My stomach hurts and I am feeling very paranoid. PARANOID!

The wedding!
The house!
My job: I suck!
My mother!
Money!
My job: I am going to be replaced!
My job: Politics!
My job: Everyone hates me!
The wedding!
The house!
My job!

I just want to cry. I miss you. I miss you so much. I hate being here in Texas and I hate everything and I am trying to remember to breathe and that's the only thing that I could do to sleep last night.

I miss you Boy, please write me so I know you think about me now and then when I’m away. I miss you.

Diet soda test strip.

2005-04-15T00:02:00.000-04:00

I wish someone would just sit down and invent a diet soda test strip.

I don't usually drink soda, but when I do I can't be wasting precious calories on a non-alcoholic drink. I have to save every available calorie for something worthwhile.

Like champagne and brie.

Here's the problem - when I'm served a soda, unless I open it myself, how do I know it's a diet? How do I know the waitress isn't maliciously tricking me into sucking down several hundred calories?

I need a discrete test strip, not totally unlike a pregnancy test, that would help me determine that what I am drinking is in fact calorie free. Just remove the plastic cap, completely moisten the absorbent tip and wait five minutes.

Two lines means you've got a diet soda
One line means you don't!

Oedipussy

2005-04-09T20:17:00.000-04:00

It's a night alone again. The Boy is out working an overnight and I am here by myself.

I am here alone drinking my champagne and listening to morose Irish music. It's fitting somehow; those jolly jigs of death, depravity and despair.

I am Irish myself. German, Dutch and Native American too. The reactions I get from people who are curious of my nationality differ depending on location. My Native heritage is usually met with misplaced awe here in the Midwest, and with mild distain in Texas. Conversely, Michigan is flush with old Dutch families - generations of fruit farmers and small town dwellers. To reveal that one is Dutch here in Michigan is approximate to revealing that one breathes oxygen.

"It's true; I breathe oxygen!"

As common as my family may be, we will always have an unverified ace in the pocket - The Gentlemen Jim Jeffries. Handsome, no? Supposedly, I am a direct descendant of this boxer, a.k.a. "The Great White Hope," heavyweight champion of the world. (who, by the way, was beaten soundly while trying to establish supremacy over an emerging black boxer of the times, jack johnson.)

If it's actually true, is my adoration of the Programming Brawler some sick Freudian Oedipus complex? I choose not to examine it too deeply.

Never you mind Noir, just enjoy the music.

The wedding site

2005-04-08T11:59:00.000-04:00

Oooh! Our wedding web page is launched! I am so thrilled.

It’s so sweet it’s makin’ my teeth hurt.

Now if only we could finish up all those other websites we promised people...

Hell hath no fury like a bride scorned

2005-04-05T14:58:00.000-04:00

I made a special trip to Kalamazoo this weekend to meet with a habitually delinquent caterer who wants a website in exchange for providing the food for my wedding. He hasn't sent any of the information he promised me, is unavailable by email and often won't answer his cell phone. He's the cutest 50 something, gay caterer you'd ever meet - but he is giving me hypertension!

If you have a business in the wedding industry it is imperative that the bride trusts that you are going to come through on the big day.

He also insists on being called "Chef Christopher" which irritates me just a bit.

Noir: (calling from a busy restaurant where we were supposed to meet) Hello? Is this Chef Christopher?

Man 1: Ah no...this is Terry. (the boyfriend)

Noir: Ahhh...I see then. This is Noir. Is Chef Christopher available? ...We were supposed to meet at one. (ten minutes ago)

Man 1: Oh no. He's sleeping right now - we went to a huge birthday party last night and...just a sec. (background noise is audible through the phone - 'Chriiistopher ... Chriiistopher ... It's Noir on the phone ... She said you were going to meet her at one?)

Man 2: (audible in the background) Oh FUCK!

Man 1: (to Noir) He's freaking out right now...

Noir: (silence)

(a scrambling noise of a cell phone trading hands is audable) - Noir is very aware of restaurant patrons shooting "drop dead" glances to the cell phone user who is ruining their dining pleasure.

Noir: (silence)

Man 2: This is Chef Christopher, I am so sorry.

Noir: Did you get mixed up with the time change, Chef Christopher? (giving her best shot at kindness)

Man 2: Well...yes, a little bit... Oh my god... I am so sorry.

Noir: (meticulously pushing the tines of the fork down through the tablecloth) So, what do we do? Can you still meet with me?

Man 2: ...Yes! Yes, I can. What time can you meet?

Noir: (Rolls eyes) What about if you tell me when you can meet. (voice is tense but is trying to sound sweet.)

Man 2: What about 5PM? (voice almost pleading) Oh, I am so sorry.

Noir: Five it is. I will see you then.

To be continued…

A not so subtle threat.

2005-03-31T01:05:00.000-05:00

This evening when I pulled back the covers on my bed I found a single claw cover - pulled from Feral's paw - waiting for me. It was clearly on my side of the bed.

A revenge notice?

Signs of spring.

2005-03-26T20:25:00.000-05:00

Spring is breaking here in the Midwest, and I took some time today to search out one of the signs of the end of the long winter.

I went in search of The First Skateboarders Of Spring.

Skateboarders - those tough motherfuckers - are a sure sign that spring is around the corner. Like the crocus, they often appear even before the snow is melted and seem to thrive in harsh conditions.

I started my search in the suburb of Royal Oak, which is known for it's youth and vibrancy. I once met a man on a train who recommended Tom's Oyster Bar for a good meal in the area and since I had an hour or so to kill, I sought it out. I found the bar and ordered the crawfish bisque and a black and tan. I never thought to put crawfish in a bisque, but there you go. It was very good. The waitress didn't know where I should go to find the First Skateboarders Of Spring and additionally seemed entirely uninterested in my quest. Nonetheless, I pressed on.

I started walking and looked for the empty lots and waxed curbs that usually indicate Skateboarding activities and came upon a threatening group of five punks. They were friendly and would have made a great photo, with their mile high mohawks, leather, plaid and chains. However, I wasn't looking for punks. I was looking for the elusive and timid First Skateboarders Of Spring.

Near a promising alley, I was approached by a bum in a dirty snowsuit and a white cane. Normally I don't supply money for bums, but he asked nicely and I had already had my beer - why shouldn't he have his? He asked to walk with me, but I told him no, unless he knew where the Skateboarders were. He didn't.

It was approaching dusk when I came to a public park with a large concrete fountain. I listened for the telltale CLACK CLACK sound of skateboarders but all was quiet. There was no wax on the curb, however, there was a "No Skateboarding" sign. A sign such as this is a clear indication of a Skateboarding Watering Hole so I sat on a bench and waited.

It wasn't long before I saw a small group of three Skateboarders defiantly carrying their boards not 25 feet away. I immediately got up and followed them to the concrete steps of a government building.

I pushed my chocolate brown fedora down over my eyes and lifted my chin to peer at them from the bottom of the concrete steps. I raised my hand open-palmed in a non-threatening gesture and said "Hello there! May I take your photo?"

They stopped and looked at me. "What?"

"I'm looking for the First Skateboarders Of Spring. Do you mind if I take your photo?" I asked.

"Um. Sure. Whatever." The one who seemed to be the leader said. "Do you want us to smile...or what."

(often skateboarders will hiss and feign apathy and distain as defense mechanisms, but do not be deterred! in my experience, just under the surface you will find a wholly sensitive and enjoyable group of people.)

I raised my camera, "How about if you...look intimidating." They laughed. They spoke of the mild weather and of looking for a good place to Skate. After I took their picture, I thanked them for their cooperation and asked if I could follow them to the fountain.

"I guess so. But we pretty much suck...so...don't expect a whole lot." (cynicism and modesty – additional natural defenses.)

At the fountain I sat at a distance and took a few photos, but it was getting too dark for pictures and I knew I was unwelcome as Skateboarders are often a solitary people. I thanked them again and walked back to my car deeply satisfied that spring is on its way.

The First Skateboarders Of Spring

All I need - a violet and a fedora.

2005-03-24T16:22:00.000-05:00

There have been way too many things going on.

Sometimes it seems like it's all I can do to go check my favorite blarghs, think about posting a comment, and go back to work without responding. (I could be so clever if I just had the time!)

The winter is breaking up and I think that's sunshine on the windowpane. Could it be? Yes, I think it is actually sunshine. When the violets blossom I will know that I have just barely survived another Michigan winter.

I miss my people in Kalamazoo. I miss my coffee house. I miss my pub (which has since been remodeled into a trendy dance club - damn kids.) I miss my job on the fourth floor of the Haymarket building. I miss the Little Theatre and their independent films. I miss the little hill in Bronson Park.

But here I am; in a tame suburb of Detroit. With no loft. And the only thing that made me grin today is the 57 year old print salesman who wears a fedora and wool trench coat. He shares my sense of humor you see. And he has an appreciation for style.

***

Bring me a violet, darling, and a vodka martini with vermuth soaked olives and I shall be happy.

I'm not a drama queen, but...

2005-03-11T22:57:00.000-05:00

I’m not a drama queen, but deep down there is woman who is moaning, crying and screaming get out.

I have an image in my mind what must be the best stress relieving activity known on this rotten earth. I would like to stand in front of the kitchen sink with a vase full of at least a dozen beautiful, red, long stem roses. And one by one grind their heads off in the garbage disposal.

But I’m not a spurned lover. Instead I have to make do with what I have, namely, the office shredder.

It’s been a harried week, lemme tell ya. The bookkeeping beat me up for two days straight. It beat me up last week too. It takes up so much of my mental bandwidth when I try to mess with it and it just puts me on the verge of tears. My mind isn't bent in that direction - I am good at advertising and I suck at bookkeeping.

Unfortunately it's been a particular clusterfuck the last few weeks because of invoicing errors. Verifying details, splitting costs, weeks ending, activity code, job location, blah blah blah.

Could anything be more dull? Infuriating? Maddening?

Anyway...the office shredder. When I was researching shredders, I found models that would actually chew up cds and stacks of papers. I didn't get that one, but my little gutless wonder does just fine for what I need it for:

Abercrombie and Fitch postcard - die, you skinny bitches!
Visa Gold Credit application - back from whence you came, devil spawn!
Phone message from the annoying insurance lady - I got your dental plan right here!
Invoice #5213 - confetti for you, buddy.

Sometimes it's just the little things that make me feel better.

Sir Hopkins sends his regrets

2005-03-01T11:21:00.000-05:00

My first rsvp:

If you came to my reception, Anthony, I'd get you any kind of scotch you wanted.

A Day In The Life of Chad

2005-02-27T03:00:00.000-05:00

Preface: Both Carrie and my parents are gone this weekend. I have had three full days of complete solitude, except of course when I left the house. This was as little as possible. Friday I left the house to go to Ypsilanti city hall and on the way back I got Chinese food. Other than that I have stayed home and have been loving it.

00:01: I am watching Stargate SG-1 never have seen it before, but I can see why people like the show. However I will not bother to download the seasons.

03:05: I brush my teeth and go to bed. I get my mothers annoying fluffy bichon Raggy and have her come to bed with me, she is a very uhhmmm sensitive (worthless) dog and will get very depressed if she is alone for too long.

10:00: I receive a call from Carrie she needed some information and at the same time one of my customers called and left a voice mail. I decided to sleep a little more.

10:45: I respond to Arthur and say I will be over shortly. I get out of bed shit shower and shave.

11:30: I arrive at Arthurs and determine what the problem is. I had changed his SBC user password and I turns out I needed to change the password on his DSL modem, non-billable but it was nice anyway. Arthur and I inevitably talk about politics among other things. I greatly appreciate this because my friend that I usually talk to about these things is now in Korea, so its now expensive to talk to him. He invites me to go to Pandyas sons birthday. Pandya is a the proprietor of an Indian restaurant called Sitar it is kind of a greasy spoon and every time I go over there is hardly anyone eating. He is a very nice man his English is good but because of my hearing problems I find him a little hard to understand. Anyway Pandyas son is a member (head?) of the CDC (Contagious Disease Center?) this man is a double MD and a Medical Lawyer and a rather good conversationalist. Its funny Pandya is a very unassuming gentleman but all his children that I have met are MDs.

This brings me to think about the complete failure of our education system; or rather our attitudes toward it. Arthur told me that by 5th grade Indian students know their multiplication tables up to 20 thats 400 number combinations easy really. I think this is awesome, also they consider math to be a vital skill like we consider swimming. Well maybe more important than that.
Our country has been the innovation center of the world for the past century. We will not be able to continue this with the armies of Psychology and English* majors that we pump out every year. I believe firmly in the importance of liberal arts but it is increasingly causing a brain drain in our country. Additionally I find many of these Liberal Arts majors to be appallingly incompetent in critical thinking. The only reason we can continue with our prominence in science and engineering is because of all the talented immigrants we get. We have a fundamental flaw in our attitudes toward education. We accept and coddle failure in education. We make almost all children march at the pace of the slowest; some of whom are very slow.

One thing the pundits and the governments (George Bush) will never say is. I country continues to grow year after year. It's not baby's but immigrants. Many of which are legal aliens who pay taxes. Could they perhaps pay for social security in to the future? Probably but they need to have the whole country fund corporations and mutual funds through the stock market so they won't mention that.

13:00: I return home and begin cleaning the house, I play Battlefield 1942 and between rounds I do some work in this many the kitchen gets done just before I need to leave.

15:10: I arrive at Sitar, where I met Pandyas family very nice people.

18:00: I arrive at Java Hutt. I have two jobs, my own company where I manage to make about $4/hr and a part time job at a coffee shop where I make about $9/hr. I enjoy my second job about as much as my first. I get to watch people. Interestingly the last coffee shop that I worked at most people actually drank coffee. Here however the dominant drink is Strawberry Smoothies and Hot Chocolate. I find this bizarre. This is Birmingham Michigan, where the average house goes for about 300 grand. The children are spoiled and get good allowance they tip very shitty. Why is there a inverse relationship between the amount of money one grows up with to the amount they feel the should tip? I blame it on the baby boomers. Who as a generation suck at parenting! Being a late Generation Xer I have no respect for the previous generation, because they fucked so much up I just hope that mine can do a little better than those fools however I dont have a lot of hope. (Fool is one of carries favorite words)

0:00: Still working at the cafeé and just hoping the night will end with no more mishaps. Tonight is an awful night everything I touched turned to shit. I could not remember a damn thing and I slipped and dropped things all night.

In closing I would like to comment a little further on education. Having been and currently am being educated I feel I have some in the trenches wisdom about it. I think that No Child Left Behind is a good starting point. After about 40 years of banging its head against that wall the education system or rather the governments will realize that all children are not created equal, intellectually. I am not a fan of eugenics but damn it there are stupid people in the world and I do not believe that its all environment. The greatest frustration I had during my public school years was the slow pace of things. There are others who are smart and dont mind the slow pace because it allows them to do very little. I have a solution that provided all works out (yah right!) I will use on my children. Perhaps also there should be a little more social dumping on parents. Here in Michigan there is a state sponsored media campaign to scare "dead beat dads" into paying. Would it be helpful to make parents feel like assholes if they don't care about their children's education and emotional well-being? Perhaps it would work does anyone think so?

Pretty boring day?

There are many people who think there are too many people in the world. However they usually think their one of the people who should live.

* And Theology, Philosophy, Anthropology, History, Fine Arts basically all the liberal arts which any competent autodidact. can learn on their own. For all those who went to college to become writers, I think that most do not have the discipline necessary to actually write.

Note

2005-02-26T00:40:00.000-05:00

Noir-Note to self,

The next time you go to Florida to visit your mother, don't drink her wine like it's going out of style. If you must, then please refrain from making those dreadful drunken emails and wake up the next morning in that hideous half drunk/half hung over state that is so very becoming.

When she takes you to her favorite restaurant, Sushi Blues, remember to order the lobster bisque. Get the spicy tuna and forget about the seaweed salad (Which was a fine salad, but it was served in a cheeky martini glass which you found awkward to eat from.)

Go ahead and make your way to the tiny dance floor and dance there with your tiny mother. Fall in love with the elderly blues singer with the drips of perspiration on the side of his face. Remember however, that just because he winked at you doesn’t mean that he will even remember your face in three hours. After all, you initiated the wink and thus it was merely reciprocal. Go ahead and smile at the Cuban drummer with the leather bowler hat. Burn that image of him into your mind, the image of him sitting hunched on the bench after the show smoking that enormous cigar all by himself.

After the set is over, turn slowly and face the crowd, standing now, and close your eyes and pretend for a moment that the roar of applause is actually for you. Then put your head down and your fists deep into your pockets. Go back to your table because your Cuban coffee is waiting.

A place where there is no darkness.

2005-02-23T20:50:00.000-05:00

This weekend I'm the lucky girl who is going to visit her mother in Florida. (Thanks mom, for moving to a warm area of the country)

The programming brawler will be submiting a guest post in my place on Saturday.

Enjoy!

WinBook hell in the Midwest.

2005-02-22T14:26:00.000-05:00

Oh my god. These help desk losers make me want to choke. I just got Mr. Big Bosses laptop back today from the repair center in California. I was under the mistaken impression they were going to repair it – but no. Nine days after I shipped it to them it’s still a piece of crap.

Note to self: Never ever buy WinBook. The support sucks.

I asked the programming brawler to call them and find out why it’s still not working. They told him they weren’t sure what the problem was and to ship it back for repair. The boy is a true softie and just said ok.

I was so pissed off about it. How am I supposed to tell Mr. Big Boss that his computer is going to be shipped back across the country when we just got it back? There has got to be something they could do. What I wanted was for them to find me a local place who would lend me a computer for the time being.

I call the repair center and use the Brooklyn “Don’t mess with me” persona:

“Yeah. Hello? Whom I talkn’ to here, eh? So I got this computer back from yous guys and it’s still not workin. I wanna know what I got to do to get a computer that works. I just sent it to you nine days ago, and I just got it back and the tech guy is tellin’ me it’s not workin. You know what I’m talking about? You know how much it’s costin’ me to send it to you?

“What? No, I don’t know any thing about this safe mode what you’re talking about. All’s I know is I got a computer here, and he’s telln’ me that I gotta’ send it to you again. And I gotta tell my boss that hes not getting his computer and you know what? You know who’s gonna get chewed out? Yeah. Me buddy.”

And so on. For an hour. Normally Midwesterners are swiftly cowed into submission when someone takes an aggressive stance and uses clipped vowels. Apparently the computer techs on the west coast are not similarly affected.

Well, I got them to pay for the shipping anyway.

What about a Ryder?

2005-02-19T00:34:00.000-05:00

Part of my job includes booking travel plans for Mr. Big Boss who travels 5 days a week to all parts of the country. This week he went from Detroit to Chicago to Florida. Next week he will be in Texas. Because he spends so much time away from home, Mrs. Big Boss decided to leave on Thursday to Florida so they could spend the weekend together.

Normally this wouldn't be a problem.

Unfortunately, things got a little mixed up with the bookings. She booked a flight, I made reservations at the hotel. I got the return air flight, she investigated golf courses in the area. No one got the car rental.

Normally this wouldn't be a problem.

Getting a car at the last minute isn't usually difficult, but when I started calling around, everyplace I asked said no - they are all reserved. It was bizarre. Nothing was available; not a Suburban, not a Hummer, not a limo. I started to panic, to not have a car would be completely unacceptable. I called dealerships, small rental businesses - every place I could think of, but they were sold out.

It seems it is the Daytona 500 this weekend. The reason every car was spoken for was that the hordes of people who flew to Tampa drove to Daytona to save money and snapped up every rental in the city. The situation was making my palms sweat. The three of us looked at each other and contemplated our state of affairs.

Someone said, "Maybe we could get a u-haul."

A giggle then silence.

I got on the phone and called Tampa U-haul and explained my situation to the fella at the desk. They reserved the last pickup truck in the lot.

Well … there will be plenty of room for golf clubs in the back.

Shameless Plug

2005-02-15T17:14:00.000-05:00

We just launched our first "client" web site: www.BakeShopWeddingCakes.com

Not a bad deal for a ridiculously delicious cake and truffles for everyone at the wedding. I feel sort of like a magician - I thought of a way to bring myself a cake, and it happened.

Mmmmm. Cake. I can hardly wait.

Downtown Detroit

2005-02-13T20:01:00.000-05:00

These are some pictures of buildings in downtown Detroit.

Boarded windows.

Apartments I think.

I met this guy, Aez, while snapping pictures. He was quite friendly - and a sharp dresser as you can see. He was very nice and seemed interested in what I was doing, but then again, everyone wants to talk to the girl with the camera. Check out the raised concrete "people mover" trolley track behind him.

Detail of a building.

Abandoned noir hotel on the outskirts.

A skyline picture.

A lot of these buildings are partially destroyed on the street level. Someone has taken a baseball bat to the store front windows - leaving fist size circles with broken glass spider webbing to the corners. Most of the entrances have been fenced off and there are snow drifts building up on the bricked in doors. Of course there is the obligatory graffiti too.

I took pictures of the above but after reviewing them they seemed less than interesting and mostly depressing, so I'm not posting them.

Michigan Central Station

2005-02-13T19:56:00.000-05:00

This building is impossible to miss on your way into the city - it's huge, and dark and all alone, not obscured by the tall buildings and casinos in the downtown area. Since I wasn't going anyplace in particular, I drove in the general direction until I came upon it. I'm sure it's the old Michigan Central Railroad Station. God, it must have been beautiful once.

I happened to find this photo on the internet of the station taken in the 1930s.

My Loft

2005-02-13T18:58:00.000-05:00

Ok. This is my loft. I love it and I want it. I raise my fist in resolution - You will be mine.

Oh, and I've tried desperately not to mention that it was my birthday this weekend, but I am an abject failure.

Lofts and Ephedra

2005-02-09T09:13:00.000-05:00

Whenever I go back to my old town, someone always asks me where I've been living. I respond that I live in Detroit. Inevitably, there is always at least one who will raise a contorted hand gesture in a mock gang symbol and ask "D-town? Dawg? Are you tough?"

To answer "Detroit" is simple. To answer "Detroit" is to the point. I am not posing as hard inner city youth when I say I'm from Detroit. It would be more accurate to say "I live in a tame suburb of Detroit" or "I am from a South Eastern Michigan town near Detroit."

Is it wrong to prefer concentrated word groups rather than elaborate descriptions of my location?

I may soon be able to raise my own contorted hand gesture in reply as I just looked at a beautiful loft in downtown Detroit yesterday. The lofts made out of converted abandoned buildings are just the thing. I can't do them justice here, but I will take a photo tour this weekend and post some pictures. The apartments are so fantastic - stained concrete floors, industrial windows, exposed brick and ducts. Truly a dream residence.

Also - I went to old town for a visit and before returning I went to fill up the tank at a truly backwater burg gas station. Amazingly, they hadn't gotten the memo that all the trucker's ephedra pills were supposed to be sent back to the manufacturer. I purchased all four boxes for a mere $5 a piece. HA! If only those fools knew what an ephedra pill would go for on eBay baby! I've hit gold. Yahoo!

Pearl fortified hairball remedy

2005-02-01T13:51:00.000-05:00

Wouldn’t it be just a better place here on earth if someone would sit down and invent a feline vitamin (hell, it could be a fortified cat food, eye dropper supplement, or flavored kitty treat) that would cause Mortimer’s stomach to produce a pearl excretion around irritants in his intestines?

So I could joyously wake up every morning knowing that there was a small pile of hairball pearls waiting for me next to my bed?

Would that be so hard?

Wedding contest entry

2005-01-26T02:11:00.000-05:00

I don't really mind being on mailing lists. I'm in marketing myself, it's part of my trade.

Lately I've been entering so many wedding contests I simply have to be on every wedding mailing list in South East Michigan. I am about to enter another. This is a essay contest and one lucky couple is going to win the opportunity to get married in the local mall. (Not the ritzy mall - the other one...) The casual reader might question why I would enter such a contest, as I have a baker and rentals lined up for trades. Well, the "exciting" part of this contest is the lump of money the sponsors are going to fork over for ancillary products and services. If I win I will have to endure a circus wedding in the center court of the other mall - but I will also be able to afford a couple of nice wedding bands, luggage, a spa day and a tux for the fella. Hell, I can always have the real wedding as planned - this will just be the rehearsal.

Bring on the junk mail - I'll use it to stoke my fireplace.

Hello? Is this thing on?

2005-01-23T18:36:00.000-05:00

Hello. This report coming to you from deep within a vodka martini and pamprin induced state.

A quick update for my own posterity:

1. We now have a rental company securely on the line for the wedding. For one webpage and hosting we get the works - linens, tables, chairs, chargers, goblets and everything else. The catering and flowers are on deck for a website trade. We had a planning meeting today, hence the vodka. This is really becoming the white wedding I've never imagined. I feel more or less ambivalent about the plan for the enormous party that is taking shape - it's the ridiculous amount of effort required that I regret.

2. The evil twins have forgiven me for the rubber claw covers. Not to say, however, they have learned to appreciate blunt talons. I've been reapplying one claw per evening on average. They chew them off you see, I hear them working their claws at night. I hear them ripping at them with their teeth. Unsettling.

3. {deleted}

4. Last night I had the most delicious meal of my life. Forgive me, I've never had a five course meal before. First: Hummus dollop and toast chip. Second: Mushroom bric with almond butter sauce. Third: Emily's Salad. Fourth: Squash Ravioli, polenta, and some other type sauce. Desert: Delish date tartlet. The server brought one tiny roll between every course - we lavishly spread house churned butter on them. My wine glass never went dry and I'm not sure who refilled it. The adorable, pink cheeked busboy made me feel like a dirty old lady. All the busboys were 17 years old and thin enough to look good in pleated pants. Yummy. And as a bonus, truffles with the check. Happy 50th anniversary Art and Joyce. Wow, what a milestone.

5. Darling Dori, sorry I missed your 26th birthday party. God, are we getting old or what?

6. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – a comment. Moving. Balled over it for too long – the characters were a little too close for comfort. The effect was something reminiscent of looking into the eyes in the mirror while drunk. Or tripping. Just a little too much.

7. Mother, are you enjoying the Florida weather? The Midwestern clouds have dumped a foot of snow on our metro area. I’m looking forward to seeing you next month.

8. You know sometimes I get so flushed, it’s interesting. Do your palms ever itch?

9. Fortune for today: One white chicklet. Three green, two yellow, two pink, one orange.

10. Now to put my Christmas gift to good use. Twin Peaks the series, vodka martini, and a hot fire.

Mysterious sound

2005-01-19T01:02:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, in the course of my job, I made a phone call to a website registrar office. The woman I was talking to seemed like a very normal person. Her voice was like any other, her breathing sounded normal and casual. There was no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

She was telling me where to look on my screen, and as I was listening I heard a faint mechanical “VEEP-VEEP” noise coming from the phone. It was so strange that I didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Hello?” she asked to see if I was still there.
“Yes...” I said and tried to recover, “Um. The hyperlinks, yes I see them.”
“Ok, scroll down further and you will see (VEEEEEP…VEEP-VEEP) the log-in box.”
“Ah...ah-ha. Ok.” And while I pretended to follow her through the steps, I was actually listening for clues to what this robot noise might be.

At first I thought it was possibly her mechanical arms that she was using to type – but I had to conclude that this wasn’t the case. I listened very intensely and heard the clicking of keystrokes which sounded very much like my own human-arm clicking.

Then I thought it could be a state-of-the-art desk chair – one that rises out of the floor and automatically adjusts the arm height and lumbar support for ultimate ergonomic comfort. Something that would make constant, minute adjustments as one shifted in the seat. But hey, this is a domain name company – not Star Treck. I eliminated this theory.

It just boggles me. What kind of high-tech mechanical instrument could make a “VEEP” noise at the godforsaken help desk anyway? I was tempted to ask at the very source, but it really isn’t any of my business. I was worried that it was some kind of personal assistive device which would prove me rude to ask about. So instead I’m just relating it on a public journal.

Any ideas?

A 25¢ fortune

2005-01-17T21:18:00.000-05:00

I am not a religious person. If someone asks, I tell them I am an atheist to watch them squirm – most people squirm here in the Midwest at the thought of a godless person. (To make themselves feel more at ease, individuals have told me that I wasn’t an atheist, but more likely an agnostic. This is untrue, agnostics are the worst cowards.)

I’m not religious but I am unfalteringly superstitious. I throw pennies in fountains and salt over my shoulder. I have a horseshoe and I read my future in chicklets.

How might one read the future from a handful of colorful gum?

Red denotes love
Pink is for romance (sex)
Orange is wellbeing
Yellow is happiness
Green indicates money
White is the most important because it is the comparison color

If the number of any one color is greater than the number of white chicklets, you can expect an increase in that area. If the number is less than the number of white, expect a decrease. Equal numbers of color and white chicklets indicates no change.

For instance, my fortune:

One pink and one green. I'm not going to get a raise or get laid.
Happiness is uncharacteristically high, and apparently I am loved.

The Fiancé:

Just one red and one pink. I guess I am pretty mad at him. Happiness and cash flow are stagnant. But whoa, look at the wellbeing in that future!

Gracias por el HTML, Papí

2005-01-09T13:46:00.000-05:00

Yay! I have a recommended reading list for the blogs I check all the time. I have a slight compulsion for checking blogs - it's embarrassing to admit.

I wanted to change the HTML on my template to make it a slightly less cookie-cutter but I don't know what I am doing. I know about as much HTML as I know Spanish and in both cases this consists of tiny scraps I remember from high school and bits absorbed from popular culture.

Hello
My name is
One more beer please.
Hey Daddy!
How do you say....?
Let's go!
Library
Desk
Book
Pencil

Thus, making structural changes to a webpage depends mostly on luck and the trial-and-error method...much like trying to find a bathroom in a foreign country. After mucking with the template and getting very frustrated I went to the in-house authority on the subject. Enter stage right: The Programming Brawler. He was more than happy to give me the correct HTML tags and help me find where to place them in the template. How kind! After which he began to review some of my recent posts. He found my New Years Eve post mildly amusing:

Noir: Darling, do you think I'm a tart?
Fella: (Apathetic affirmative grunting) Um-hum.
Noir: (Shocked exclamation) You do? Does it upset you? Are you angry with me?
Fella: Nah, I don't care. It might give me a reason to pick a fight with someone.

Another way to make your cat HATE you.

2005-01-06T23:24:00.000-05:00

I did a little experiment tonight, and wow - my cats are pissed!

I ordered these little rubber lee-press-on-claws for the evil twins in an attempt to curb the constant destruction and shredding that is so prevalent in my home.

The directions clearly indicate that trimming and super gluing rubber covers to your cats claws should be a simple task. Uh huh. The directions actually say: "Soft Paws Application is Simple!" and there is a happily smiling cat having it's claws trimmed in the illustration.

Just an FYI, in real life it doesn’t work like that.

Handsome Mr. Pitt

2005-01-04T16:54:00.000-05:00

The boy told me that at the New Years party he attended, he chatted with someone who claimed to have met Brad Pitt’s father. According to the story, Mr. Pitt Senior raised a wealthy family with his shipping business, Pitt trucking, and the father is even more handsome than his son. The tail goes, Brad could have had an easy time following in the family business but was allowed to go to Hollywood to become an actor.

I don’t believe it. I mean, come on…handsomer than Brad Pitt? Pishaw.

New Years in less than 350 words

2005-01-03T01:38:00.000-05:00

Wonderful. Wonderful. I had a wonderful time. I love New Years. Below is the order of events as I remember. Time is estimated.

7:00 The host and hostess look divine

7:30 Champaign, watercress sandwiches and shrimp cocktail are consumed

8:00 We read aloud from America (the book) by John Stuart

8:15 Our sides ache

8:30 I switch to vodka and demonstrate how to make a “Dirty Martini”

9:00 Where are all the other guests?

9:30 Oh, there they are.

10:00 Libations are consumed

10:30 One, two, three rounds of improv

11:00 I tell an unfamiliar Dave that he is “dangerous” – more vodka

11:30 I try on someone else’s knee high leather moccasins. I make others try them on too.

12:00 Streamers fly, toasts are raised, Auld Lang Syne is sung. Kissing, kissing, much kissing. The boy calls me, and we share a romantic moment. My memory gets a little fuzzy after this.

12:30 I dance to Frank Sinatra – more vodka

1:00 My shoes are off, I’m cuddling with the hostess on the couch and a fella I’ve never met before is rubbing my feet. The fella’s wife stops by to kiss the hostess (I get kissed too). Somehow I am not uncomfortable in the least.

1:30 An embarrassing incident occurs involving the kitchen sink

2:00 I knock my martini glass over the rail – I recover it undamaged. More vodka.

2:30 A game of “Spin the bottle” is begun. I kiss the black haired girl, and bite the lip of that other fella. Somehow I am not uncomfortable in the least.

3:00 Kind partygoers begin to exit, additional kissing

3:30 Dave turns out to be dangerous indeed. He kisses the hostess, kisses me and leaves. Somehow I am not uncomfortable in the least.

4:00 I put on the sleeping mask and go to bed, satisfied with yet another magical New Years. The one day of the year I can drink, dance and get away with kissing everyone in the room.

New Years Resolutions 2005

2004-12-31T13:46:00.000-05:00

New Years is my absolute favorite holiday - closely followed by Valentines. I've never had the intestinal fortitude it takes to reinvent myself, but I've always kinda wanted to and the New Year allows 24 hours for this fantasy. This time of year I find myself thinking about all the idealistic changes I certainly could make... and then I toss it for an achievable list of reinvention.

I after making an achievable list, I scrap it for doing whatever I happened to be doing anyhow. On second thought, that isn't really a resolution, is it? No.

"Resolutions"

~~Loose 15 pounds~~ Continue to wholly enjoy Champaign and brie from top to bottom with every atom of myself
~~Go to a venue and tango holes in my shoes~~ Take a tango class
~~Have a wild love affair with a dark and dangerous somebody~~ Get married
~~Learn everything there is to know about advertising~~ Ask more questions
~~Read 12 of the Classics~~ Read less trash and more substance
Laugh more & cry less

Canada

2004-12-28T19:50:00.000-05:00

The boy and I went to Canada yesterday, at my request. I am desperate. For speed.

To reiterate from a previous post, the only real problem with ephedra is that it works. Being a broken woman, I have no intention to describe the nefarious and collaborative deeds of the pharmaceutical industry. Deep down I am a conspiracy theorist, but grinding ones teeth and flapping ones jaws in frustration never did anything to change anything. So I don't waste my time.

The drive over the bridge to Canada was beautiful. It was late so everything was dark, except for millions of city lights on both sides of the channel, lights reflecting off the water and the stars in the sky. It was a perfectly clear night last night and because of this there was no snow accumulation today. Every northerner knows that when there is no cloud cover to act like a blanket on the sky, it is far too cold to snow.

On the other side of the bridge we encountered a lovely customs agent. She was sitting in her booth alone, her booted feet resting on her desk. She was someone's end all fantasy - long blonde hair, thin and in uniform. She had a bit of a French-Canadian accent and she interrogated us with staccato statements instead of questions.

"What's your nationality."
"Why did you come here."
"How long are you staying."
"Are you carrying any alcohol or cigarettes."

We answered truthfully; we are Americans, we came here to shop and we would stay only a few hours, we bought the obligatory liter of vodka at the duty free shop before we crossed the bridge. She asked if it was one liter between the two of us - or one liter each. We assured her it was only one between the two of us. She narrowed her blue eyes before she released us. We didn't even flinch.

The health food store we were looking for was difficult to find. We searched up and down Ouellette and Tecumseah roads (named after something French and a Native American leader respectively) Eventually we did find it, but because Canada banned ephedra too we went home empty handed.

In the back of my spice cupboard, I found a small amount of dried ephedra from the days when I worked in a health food store myself. A time when ephedra was legal and available for college students, middle class mothers and bodybuilders. I don't remember my original intention for buying bulk ephedra, but whoa, I am so glad I did. I'll make my own damn ephedra extract. Duty free liquor is the perfect ingredient for making the moonshine equivalent of diet pills.

Annual Noir Christmas Letter

2004-12-23T01:26:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends, Relations and Acquaintances,

Merry Christmas Darlings! I just wanted to give you an update on our little family. We’ve been having a great year.

Mortimer is on a roll, thirty-eight days in a row he has vomited on the carpet every morning. Just before I wake up, he jumps off my pillow to run to the carpet (never the hard wood floor) and skillfully hacks up a hairball. Talk about dedication!

The evil kittens Willow and Feral are hard at work clawing up every piece of furniture I own. Even after trimming their claws, they have managed to destroy a two chair backs, the couch cushion and several bar stools. Currently, they are diligently working over my bedspread. With luck, they will shred every soft object in my home to a mound of thread by next year.

The Fiancé is still self-employed as the local computer guy and provoked at least two fist fights this year. It’s the bizarre combination of computer geek and brawler that continues to ever intrigue me.

February was an exciting time for me – within the same week, I was laid off for the first time ever, turned 25 and crashed my car. You know what they say about events happening in threes…well it doesn’t apply to me. I also went to court for driving under an expired license. (My Friday crash brought to light the fact that I hadn’t renewed my license from my birthday that Wednesday. Why hadn’t I renewed my license? Probably because I was in bed and drunk from being laid off on Monday that same week.)

Despite my best efforts for a second job, this dratted economy continues to keep us on the thin side monetarily. I didn’t want that Starbucks shift anyhow, or that Bed Bath and Beyond clerk position. Or that Barns and Nobles job. Linens And Things can kiss it and Pier 1 can go to hell…skinny bitches.

Well darlings, here’s to a fabulous 2005. XXOXOXX

Love and Kisses,

Noir Muse

Brie Abuse

2004-12-20T01:10:00.000-05:00

Tonight I witnessed a partygoer mining the cheese from inside the wedge of brie - avoiding the rind. I am appalled. What are we, heathens?

A Surreal Face

2004-12-15T11:07:00.000-05:00

I just got back from the chamber holiday party. The party was held at a member's home; clearly a wealthy member as the house was enormous with elaborate decoration. It was impressive. Or possibly oppressive. If a house could be threatening, this was a good example. Beautiful in a way, but who would have the time to keep it up? My god, it's mind boggling.

I found the liquor shortly and poured myself some champagne and pushed through the masses of ties and lapels. Business people are so stuffy. There were plenty of great foods available, but I stayed strictly with my diet of brie and truffles. Nine beautiful 17 year old girls with perfect skin and matching blue dresses sang a cappella Christmas carols. More or less it was the usual business party. People trading business cards and stuffing their faces. I wanted desperately to find the smokers, who were probably having a riot on one of the back porches. I sometimes miss that tight knit community were everyone has a dirty little social habit in common.

Then I saw a surreal, familiar face. He wasn't who I thought he was, he couldn't be - the guy I know is in Florida or Grand Rapids or Kalamazoo, never in the Detroit suburbs. The guy I know wouldn't be at a chamber party for christ's sake, he's a writer. I circled the fella in question out of curiosity. He was the right height, black hair, glasses. He had the same stance, gestures, style of being. Everything was checking out. I passed by to say hello and noticed that his name tag said "Journalist". It was a bizarre moment.

I am annoyed to mention that I didn't introduce myself. Annoyed with myself. Annoyed because he was probably an interesting person, and I didn't even try to speak with him. What would I say?

"Hi there. You wouldn't believe it, but I once knew someone who looked just like you. Seriously. (Long uncomfortable pause) So...you're a journalist - that's like, so cool. I have a weakness for writers."

Spelunking

2004-12-09T23:12:00.000-05:00

The area between the heart of Detroit and the expansive suburbs is the urban decay. It’s a tragically fascinating situation. It looks like the ruins of a great civilization that has been repopulated with squatters and the oblivious descendants of a once powerful society.

Imagine, (or not) ghettos of dilapidated homes just falling apart, concrete lots, graffiti, broken glass, barbed wire and titty bars. Literally across the street - a magnificent building, 12 stories or so of beautiful architecture. It was once an upstanding bank or hotel but now sits there hunched down, eerily quiet. The first two stories are completely boarded up and the building is abandoned. There are many ruins like this in Detroit. Theatres, hotels and office buildings stand completely vacant with their entries bricked in and windows destroyed. They remain too expensive to renovate and too costly to demolish.

I understand there are urban spelunkers in the area who break in to poke around these dilapidated buildings. What a fascinating hobby, no? Though, at this age, it would be too much adrenaline for my taste.

Once, when I was in college and showing off for a boy, I agreed to sneak into a building closed for spring break. (Infatuation will make you do these things) He and I came in through an unlocked door in the auditorium, climbed out a window and onto the roof to survey the campus, and let ourselves in through the attic. We made our way to the basement where we imagined janitors secretly smoking cigarettes on the sagging orange couch. We tried all the doors. The unlocked dusty storage room we found had a desk pushed up against the wall.

It was empty except for a few paperclips which we shaped into hearts and kept as mementos.

Irony

2004-12-02T01:21:00.000-05:00

Isn't it ironic that I've never had a flu shot before this year, the year of the flu shot shortage?

Thank you University of Michigan influenza vaccine study for my flu shot vaccination. When mall Santa’s, tellers, and public service workers can't even possibly get one, while seniors wait in lines for them - here I am walking around inoculated for the first time in my life. And they're paying me $100. More if I get sick. Wahoo!

At least I think I got a flu shot, it could have been the placebo.

Matriarch Pie

2004-11-27T23:36:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was nice. I ate a lot. Drank more. Red wine, white wine, beer, vodka, eggnog, cheap champagne...

However, as I read in a young fellas blog just recently, only kids and losers talk about their drinking habits:

If someone is overly showy and proud about his love for drinking or his great drinking escapades, then is it likely that he is a new drinker and is a loser. Our fathers are the most hardcore seasoned drinkers. They don't ever bother to talk about drinking.

A person can't really argue with the subtle truth to this. But, I digress.

I was surprised by the low level of commitment that was expected of me this holiday. “Just bring a desert” they said. So I brought a buttermilk pecan pie. It’s sort of a custard – butter, eggs, sugar, pecans and buttermilk. Totally delicious – despite the blasphemous frozen crust.

This year was different from other years. This year the honor of holding Thanksgiving exchanged hands from the Fiancé’s Mother to Auntie Velvet. This is because the Fiancé’s mother is going to inherit the honor of hosting Christmas which was long held by her own mother. Auntie Velvet usually holds the less prestigious ‘Christmas Eve party’ which will eventually be thrust into my hands as the newest female member of the family.

Despite only having to contribute a pie, I know it isn’t long before I am expected to take part in hosting a holiday celebration of my own. The highest honor a woman of this family can receive is to host Christmas day. It requires weeks of planning, cooking and decorating. In addition, she must put up numerous family members for days for traveling to attend the celebration.

The second place holiday is Thanksgiving. This also requires much planning and cooking, although the decorating is somewhat less intense and the hostess can assign food items for the guests to bring.

Third place, Christmas eve, is sort of a grooming holiday. Christmas eve is the pre-Christmas bash for in-laws who are going to other homes for Christmas day. This is the holiday where the hostess begins to accumulate Christmas decorations, and becomes the expert at serving Hors d'oeuvres and light dinner. A few presents are opened and there are many libations.

Because I am not married into this family yet, there is still no expectation for me as an adult. No one will hand me the Christmas eve baton until at least next year and even then I may not be deemed ready to start on the long track to the position of Matriarch. Frankly I'm relieved. I don’t mind enjoying the benefits of being the kid well into my 20’s.

Just hand over the wine to this loser and I'll supply the buttermilk pie any day of the week.

Puttin' on the Ritz

2004-11-25T01:24:00.000-05:00

This morning when I came to work The Big Boss and her Partner in ~~crime~~ Business announced that the three of us were playing hokey and going shopping at the ritziest mall in the Detroit area. I was then handed an envelope with my Christmas bonus inside. Cash.

I can't really say no to that, now can I.

I never feel totally comfortable in Madison Avenue stores. I really have no business being in those establishments and the attention the clerks lavish upon me makes me wonder if I look suspicious.

For example, I was in Neiman Marcus enjoying the exquisite tactile experience of petting a pair of bizarre fur boots. While I was vaguely wondering “if I walked through the snow and these boots got wet, would they smell like dogs?” yet another clerk hustled up to me to ask if I was finding everything. It makes me paranoid that I look like a thief and don’t realize it.

I also tried on a gorgeous fox trimmed coat that made me look entirely like a silver screen movie star. Truly, I looked like a million dollars. However, there’s nothing like the skinny clerks at Sakes to make you want to swear off brie and crème brûlée forever.

(Like that’s ever going to happen)

Tip #48

2004-11-23T07:59:00.000-05:00

If one happens to find a sticky spot of dried mead on the floor, Perrier is actually a pretty good way to remove it.

Just another hapenen' tip from your gourmet beverage girl.

This is not a eulogy.

2004-11-21T08:22:00.000-05:00

I should follow up here and mention something about my friend who was recently diagnosed with lymphatic cancer before I put this subject neatly away.

He is of the live fast and die young variety and true to form, today he has taken a plane to the Philippines to live out the rest of his time. There he will eat strange foods, drink copious amounts of alcohol, fight in the streets and love many women.

It's unlikely I will hear from him again.

Much love always Mike. You will be dearly missed.

Drink of choice: Sapphire and tonic
Trademark fight solicitation phrase: "Ahhhh...My sweet prince."
Choice in women: Dark and fast

wtf

2004-11-18T21:59:00.000-05:00

my friend has has lymphatic cancer. only 12 to 18 months left. he is only 25 for god's sakes. what the hell? it makes no sense to me. so young.

god damn, what the hell is going on that a 25 year old kid gets cancer? what is going on in our environment? what is going on? he was going to be in our wedding. now we have his most sacred objects because he isn't going to be around. i am drunk and confused.

i feel so sick.

Cake and mead - update

2004-11-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

Just an update on the latest pleasures:

The cake lady adores the trade idea. I'm going to survey her customers this week, do the research and finally put together her website. Wow, her cakes are good. She is an awesome designer when it comes to the display but the best part is that her cakes don't taste like a sugar cube. Dig it: chocolate layer cake soaked in kahlua with ganache filling and delicious swiss meringue buttercream frosting. It's the ideal combonation of flavors, moist chocolate, coffee and cream. Yeah. Now wipe the drool off your keyboard.

We racked the mead last night. Siphoned off the delicious top layer, leaving the spent yeast yuck at the bottom. It is perfectly clear and has the beautiful gold color of chardonnay. We poured a glass of each (mead and commercial chardonnay) and we couldn't tell the difference just looking at it. It could be a little drier for my taste, but it's still aging. It's got a sparkly effervescence to it, and you can certainly taste the hint of grapefruit we added. It really is scrumptious.

Garden work

2004-11-12T21:06:00.000-05:00

Last weekend my fella and I worked in his mother's garden preparing it for winter.

She has the most beautiful garden. I don't think I have the sort of command of the English language required to describe it. Here is a taste. Stone steps. Dry riverbed. Herbs. Ornamental grasses. Flowers. Bird houses. Vines. Fruit trees. If fairies existed, this is where they would build their metropolis.

The temperature was mild and I helped to clean up here and there. She would point with a rake and tell me which plants to cut back, which to pull out. I started to understand her methods. Depleted tomatoes and vegetables are composted. Woody stemmed plants are cut back in anticipation of the new growth in the spring. Leafy, viney plants remain because over the winter they make good dirt. She says "dirt" rather than the term "soil" because she's not a stuffy lady. "Dirt" she says and crinkles her nose, indicating that it's stinky and organic - and therefore good for her purposes.

The knees of my pants were wet from kneeling in the lawn. My hair was whipped and knotted from the wind. The air was clear and mild, and towards the end the owl made it's self known. I found myself at peace.

Here again

2004-11-12T09:46:00.000-05:00

It’s been a while and, as cl puts it, I think I’ll blame it on the depressing election.

The election was depressing, but I also found it cathartic in a way. There was all the build up; the debates, the forwards, the yard signs, the bumper stickers. It’s enough to give anyone hypertension. Honestly, there is a part of me who is glad it’s over. All that's left to do now is bend over and watch the retarded cowboy mess with our lives for four more years.

I recall the same feeling of catharsis when the troops moved into Iraq.

For weeks before we attacked them, I listened to NPR all day, checked the BBC religiously, debated with some friends and family members. I went downtown to chat up the protesters. I was upset. I felt we were wrong. I felt like there was ultimately, very little I could do. And as our troops held there on the border of Iraq, I think the nation's stress level peeked. And then - Bush finally gave the command (from so far away) the knot in my stomach loosened. God help me, it loosened.

It’s really amazing when we step back and look at the situation. We are a fundamentalist Christian country at war with a fundamentalist Islamic country. And we’re supposed to be freeing these people? What the fuck?

Tell me please, Mr. President, how many more times durring this administration will I have to endure catharsis.

Life and longing

2004-11-02T23:00:00.000-05:00

Tired, so tired. I haven't worked like this since I was in college.

When I was in high school, I couldn't wait to ditch my idiot classmates and get on with college. Surely in college people would be open minded, interesting - educated. But no, I met bruisers, greeks and stuffed shirts in training.

Yes, there were those golden few individuals that I fell in love with. The spontaneous, the original, the literary...but I knew for sure that when I finished college and got out of the business school, things would be different.

When I wormed my way into my first job at the ad agency I was absolutely thrilled. Finally! Creatives, designers, directors and even writers. ::swoon:: People who would be open minded, interesting and educated! But again, no. Again I didn't fit in.

(perhaps due to the fact that the people in high school were the same type of people in college and were the exactly the same type of people in businesses, eh?)

Where are those great lots of people who know what they're talking about and care about something? Am I in the wrong country? The wrong walk of life?

No, It's probably my fault that I find the masses nauseating. There is about 3% of the population I enjoy, but obviously this isn't the case for everybody. Is there some sort of training manual out there someone would be kind enough to recommend? Something that could tell me how to play nice with others. Something that would show me how to discover the pleasures of talking to colleagues. Something by Dale Carnegie perhaps?

Or maybe I should just fuckit and work until I die like everyone else.

Time

2004-10-31T21:21:00.000-05:00

The weekend was good, but I am so glad to be home and not have any traveling plans for the next few weeks. I need to retreat and relax.

I need to spend a little time alone, without the boy - so I am sending him to Kalamazoo for a few days next week.

Off you go, darling! No I insist. Yes, stay with your pals and enjoy yourself. Yes, take the credit card and don't forget to drink lots of water before you go to sleep or you'll have a hangover. I love you too...ok buh-bye.

I need the quiet hum of the refrigerator and a small crackling fire to warm my toes. Only my toes. By myself. Alone. Time to putter in my apartment, to eat my hor' dourves meals and read and sleep in the middle of the bed.

A night without anime squawking in the background would be nice too.