10 on Tuesday

10 Best Things That Happened to You This Year

1. MOVED OUT OF MANCHESTER. I actually could just leave that and be done. Best. Decision. Ever.
2. Went to Japan with Nickolas. Absolutely fucking amazing.
3. Reconnected with Dani and her family.
4. Faced the music financially and finally started paying that piper.
5. Got my own apartment finally.
6. Had a redneck hillbilly mechanic break my SIRIUS antennae, fought with Radioshack and got a new antennae and a new camera.
7. Arlo.
8. Got over my fear of flying (for now).
9. Got some help to start feeling normal.
10. Saw Wilco TWICE.

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Is it Easter yet?

I’m told that this is a common feeling this year, but I don’t feel very Christmas-y. There’s no snow. I have no tree, which is not entirely the problem since I haven’t had a tree in three years. I have a little itty bitty tree on my TV that can stay there until the Fourth of July for all I care–I hardly notice it. And other than the obnoxious lights on the doublewide up the road, I don’t think I would know it was Christmas except for this sudden, palatable urge the strikes me every so often.

Presents?

It is true. I have little to no money for presents this year. It bums me out a little because, unfortunately, I know that sometimes people expect gifts. I just don’t have the cash. I’m baking loaves of yummy bread to give away with jars of homemade peach jam. I’m buying into the materialistic side of the holiday because I’ve never done this before–made my own gifts. Why do I feel like it’s a cop out?

In the days of my youth…scratch that. When I was young and stupid, I would have blown half my rent and the rest of my bill money on extravagant gifts for my friends and family. And I would buy for everybody. I would buy for people who weren’t close friends. I would just, y’know, pick something up. Did it make them like me any better? I can honestly say, for all the random Christmas shoppery in my past, I doubt I can count one person who I last-minute-guilt-gifted as a near and dear.

I know that this is silly, materialistic and pointless talk. Christmas is, of course, about family and friends and reflection. For me, it means going to Christmas Eve services with my family and playing hangman with my sister and laughing about how my brother sings the hymns. We are an embarrassing lot, us Children. We snicker and make faces and roll our eyes and our grandmother just smiles and offers us stale gum from the bottom of her purse. After the services, we duck out and go up to my grandmother’s house, where there’s a cache of food and the Christmas Story to watch and younger cousins to laugh at.

It’s the same every year.

But this year, it’s like all the spirit and fun just got sucked out. Seattle has, begrudgingly, gotten all of our snow. I dislike winter, but I dislike it even more when the convenient white cover is stripped away, allowing us to see and smell the rotting world around us. Usually, the snow takes away the smell of composting leaves but without it, the world smells putrid. I’m not asking for a lot of snow. Just enough to make things pretty. And smell better.

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on the roadshow, the most annoying antiques are the people

Oh, PBS. Can it be true? Is the endless nuclear winter of fundraising finally dawning into a education-filled spring?

They’re playing ‘Antiques Roadshow’. I almost cried. I watch it and say “It’s just a box! Are you nuts!” I’ve missed the normal programming. I’ve been flipping around. I should be reading before I slip into early Alzheimer’s. However, I do enjoy when people find out that a bunch of kids in China made their mahogany sideboard that their dear old grandma had told them came over on the Mayflower when in actuality she bought it at Ames, and that they might as well chop it up and sell it for firewood. I know, it’s a sadisic pleasure. There’s a ‘Will and Grace’ about that. The teapot episode. I also hate when they say “Are you sure?” to the snooty appraisers, like they’re on Candid Camera and not a respectable show like ‘Antiques Roadshow’.

I’ve been trying to decide where I should go next year. I think somewhere in Asia again. Possibly Vietnam. Any thoughts?

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adventures in alcohol

The instructions were clear.

“We only have fifteen minutes. Think about what you want. We don’t have time for you to be dancing around with a weird bottle of something-or-other.”

Yet, while I was collecting an armful of midget-sized bottles of voka which I ultimately put back, Nick was perusing the near-empty shelves of what I have dubbed “the Weird Stuff”. Plumb wine, saki, other odd things. I didn’t know what I felt like. Yet there he was, dancing around with a bottle of Kijafa, cherry wine from Denmark. He also had a bottle of Reisling and something else. I grabbed a bottle of six dollar champagne and made him choose between his armful of booze.

The Kijafa went well with the champagne, I guess. It was a little too sweet with the champagne, especially since the champagne warm. I went searching this morning to find the real way to drink Kijafa. The one way I found was to mix it with your favorite soda. Mmmmm…like an old skool cherry coke. I waited until it was socially acceptable to have some (it’s only like 15% alcohol, anyway) and had some with some Diet Coke. Kijafa is a deep, dark cherry red. Blended with the Coke, it created a syrupy, ruby black. It’s yummy. If you’re looking for something weird to add to your collection, I can recommend it.

I just sobbed through the second half of ‘Tsunami: the AfTermath;’. There are points that you just stop watching and try to imagine what YOU would do if your entire family was swept away. It just rips your heart out.

I made four loaves of bread today. I’m nuts.

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why that kid who wrote ‘eragon’ is full of shit and other ramblings

This celebrates my return to blogger. Hello.

The thing that I dislike, really, the only thing (except for my child-abusing WT neighbors), about my apartment is the glaring absence of a washing machine and dryer. At this point, I would settle for a washer, a la The Second Marlborough Apartment. I’d string a clothesline out my window and recreate an Irish ghetto in New York in the 20’s. At The Second Marlborough Apartment, we’d jam about three loads of clothes into our finicky, loud washing machine. We’d drizzle in the cheapest laundry detergent I could find, the kind that basically just foams a bit and takes a stab at the chicken grease smell on my roommate’s clothes, before giving up and getting sucked away into the nether regions of the town’s water supply. We’d drape our clothes over a meager clothesline on our closed-in porch, letting them dry in the frigid New Hampshire winter, caking with cigarette ashes and cat hair. When they were dry, you had to roll them with a lint brush for an hour or possibly wash them again. Or be lazy and just throw them on the floor until next week.

That said, it provided us with the luxury of being able to do our laundry without having to traipse down the stairs and into Keene.

I’m at the point where I’m going to haul my clothes down to the little river down the road and beat my laundry against a rock.

The third, less glamorous option is to bring my laundry to the car and make the half an hour drive up to my parents’ house and do my laundry in exchange for some hard labor and only a mild dose of parental guilt and Patriots football. This is what I usually do. I see my dog, talk to my parents, watch a few mind-numbing hours of football (or worse, GOLF), do my mom’s ironing and clean the bathrooms. Sometimes I stay for supper. Sometimes I brave the barrage of parental guilt and say that I’m not staying for supper. Other times, like today, I make the phone call and say I’m not coming at all.

I just don’t feel like it, ok?

My finger hurts. My mother thinks I broke it and that I should go to the hospital. I am typing this right now with my middle finger and my pointer finger on my right hand. My father said I sprained it and laughed when I told him how I, cat sitting for a coworker, slipped on a puddle of cat piss and landed on the porcelain sink with my pinky finger and right shoulder, uttering loud obscenities into an empty house. This also comes after administering third degree burns to my right hand while making bread earlier this week.

I may just amputate my right hand and teach myself to type with my right foot.

However, I don’t feel like making the drive today. I’m listening to NPR and reading and making bread and making my apartment messy. I just want to sit in my POANG, read some Sedaris, and listen to the useless, near-maniacal ramblings of the ridiculous woman on ‘the Delicious Dish’…otherwise known as ‘the Splendid Table’. Whilst listening, I must constantly remind myself that Lynne Rossetto Kasper is not Molly Shannon swooning over Alec Baldwin’s Schwetty Balls or tripping her toes off on wild mushrooms with Sean Hayes. It’s not SUPPOSED to be funny, Jen.

Luckily, it is slightly, accidentally funny. No one gets that excited talking about kugle. C’mon. She describes a cranberry sorbet in the voice most people reserve to relay a hot night of freaky sex. Maybe she’s drunk. Maybe I should be drunk. Maybe I should get drunk, call in, and get her all hot and bothered over German Roasted Nuts.

I’m in a weird mood this afternoon. I’ve got a champagne headache from last night and I have very little remorse that the bottle and way too many glasses are still hanging out on my coffee table, along with my cereal bowl from this morning. I’m losing the battle with the dirty dishes. I did a whole sinkful (which is not that impressive once I tell you I have a bar sink) this morning and have more to do. Blah. This is boring.

Maybe I’ll turn of the radio and tune into the Endless Drama that is My WT next door neighbors.

By the way, that kid who wrote ‘Eragon’ is full of shit. People like that make me nervous.

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27 going on 42

Currently trying the drown out the blaring mix of Usher-Shakira )and a vomit-inducing mix of the other crap that I had to move 2 1/2 hours to get away from and makes me want to fire bomb the American Music Awards) with ‘As It Happens’ on NHPR.

I’m totally not winning.

So I’m going to drink myself deaf.

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Yar but no but

Ugh. Hello, Internet. It’s Wednesday. Which means it’s almost Friday, in a weird sort of way.

I’m not feeling so great. The universe seems to be teetering on the edge of something. Maybe it’s real winter. Maybe it’s the holidays. Maybe it’s 2007, breathing down our necks.

My apartment is currently in a state of semi-controlled chaos. There are weeks where I go through a “I don’t give a shit” mode. I do dishes ocassionally, throw clothes all over the place, wake up at 8:30AM. I think I’m starting to hibernate. I hate that it goes dark so early. I hate that it’s cold in the morning. I do not like winter. I like those days in the fall when a sweater is all you need and the sun is shining.

I’m watching ‘Funny Farm’ right now because effing PBS has finally driven me crazy. No more “Engelbert: Amazing”. No more “Johnny Mathis: Wonderful, Wonderful”. For the love of Pete, no more “Doo Wop”! Where’s Nova? Where’s American Experience? I’m so afraid they’ve slipped into a fundraising blackhole, where Suzie Orman, Dr. Wayne Dyer and Rick Steves rule over Sesame Street, the Land of Make Believe and the Sahara with black magic and sound financial advice. I HATE fundraising season.

I want a fireplace. It’s more interesting to stare into then my TV set at the moment.

PS: Rest in peace, Mr. Peter Doyle.

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