calling all judy's

today at noon, my friend peter is going to once again be channeling judy garland. i say "channeling" because it's the closest description i can come up with. he doesn't look like judy, nor does he attempt to. somehow, he throws on a sparkly dress, some awful pumps, and a moppy black wig and becomes judy garland. it's freakish. this time, in addition to the sparkly dress and awful pumps, he'll be wearing some black lady pantyhose. apparently he went to the store to buy them, and when the salesgirl asked him what he needed and he replied "black pantyhose," she reached for some dark charcoal-brown old-black-lady hose. we're in baltimore. go figure.

what's best about today's performance is that it's the second time he's done drag at peabody. i have no doubt that this is the gayest event that peabody conservatory--and the legions of undergraduate instrumentalists required to attend--has ever seen. on second thought, there was the time that john shirley-quirk made out with steve rainbolt while bill sharp videotaped, but that's just never discussed.

pimps and ho's

thanks, towelroad.com, for pointing this out:

finally, frat boys and sorority girls are being objectified for charity!

click here.

emily and grams

a story from emily:

"so while my grandma was here, we were down in the hotel lobby having free wine hour and then we had to get ready for church, so we gathered all our stuff together and went up to our room. after church we got back to the hotel and took off our coats and stuff, and i see this black coat lying on the chair that i think is my gram's. my gram goes to hang it up and she's like, 'emily this isn't your coat', and i'm like, 'no, i thought it was your coat'. she looks at it and says 'IT'S A MAN'S COAT! A STRANGE MAN HAS BEEN IN OUR ROOM!' she then pulls these car keys out of the pocket and starts freaking out. so she calls the front desk, only to find that some poor man was frantically looking for his coat because we had accidentally picked it up out of the lobby during free wine hour. and we'd only had one glass each, swear to god."

find more of her at midwest princess.

thank you

another reason that alyson is one of the coolest straight girls i know...

from her blog, full o' the moxie:

"...except there is this whole added baggage of our country not allowing everyone to marry, if they so choose. so, to me, it makes that whole love-connection-family-marriage thing seem a little dirty. or not exactly what i want people to think of when they think of my decision to marry and create this family with max. because i am very happy that max is my family now. but, by entering into this sacred institution in this day and age, it makes me feel like i am just a part of the problem. so now that i wear a ring, it makes it all the more real. people ask about my husband. max no longer has name. is that the same for me when he talks to his friends? how is the wife? ack.

...but then, i wanted him to promise to be by my side forever, because without him my world would be in black and white. what a weird selfish thing marriage is. i am just glad he felt the same way. i just have to remember not to rest until everyone, regardless of what it is called, can choose to live in technicolor."

what's worse than finding a worm in your apple?

finding half a worm in your apple.

i'm all for shopping organically. there's a bit of romance, i think, in knowing that whatever fruit, vegetable, or legume you're eating wasn't sprayed down with d.d.t. moments before it was picked and shipped off to your local safeway.

speaking of my local safeway, i should be a little more honest about why i started shopping at whole foods. the safeway in canton is too far away. going to the other safeway--the one on 25th street, the one i've blogged about before--is too much of an emotional struggle. it consistently has but one register open, at which stands a line of people that reminds me of a line at macdonald's in 1980's communist russia. compounded with this superior customer service, 25th street safeway doesn't stock enough, say, boneless chicken breast or fresh basil, but you could buy enough mustard, collard, or kale greens to feed every correctional facility in baltimore for three days.

so, back to buying organically. i've convinced myself that by eating lots of organic fruits and vegetables, i'm going to somehow make up for years of smoking and drinking. my lungs might be black as the tar that chokes them, but my colon's going to be spotless! as i was biting into my big ol' organic gala apple this morning, i bit into what i sincerely believe was a WORM HOLE. there was no half-worm inside the bitten worm hole, but if i'd had a can of d.d.t. at my desk i would've sprayed the apple down myself.

masterfade

i've gone and done it. yesterday was the month anniversary of the breakup. after thirteen more anniversaries, we'll have been broken up longer than we dated. i nearly wished t. a happy anniversary, then caught myself.

so, i've gone and done it. in honor of this special occasion, i finally switched my "friendster" status to "single." it seems like such a petty and ridiculous thing to obsess over, but what would i spend my time on if i didn't partake in petty, ridiculous obsessions? i tend to read too far into these little things; the week after t. and i broke up i incessantly checked his profile to see if it had been changed to "single." my heart leapt each time the page loaded, and again when i saw that he was still "in a relationship."

at the end of the week, i asked him about it. "oh, i hadn't noticed, i guess. i don't use friendster that much."

so, here i sit, another quiet day at work, andrew bird's "masterfade" on repeat, once again overanalyzing a useless webpage.

you took my hand and led me down towards your cupidor parade;
and we let the kittens lick our hair
and drank our chalky lemonade...

and there's the green grass at six
and the soybeans at seven
the june bugs are eight
the weeds and thistles are eleven
zeroes make a smiley-face
when they come floating down from the heavens

you took my hand and led me down towards your papillion parade
and we let the kittens lick our hair
and drank our chalky lemonade
you squeezed my hand and told me softly that i shouldn't be afraid
and all the while your finger's resting gently on the masterfade

to start the day

from the desk of margaret hilary ryon, administrative assistant:

A lady walks into a Lexus dealership and browses around. Suddenly she spots the most perfect, beautiful car and walks over to inspect it. As she bends forward to feel the fine leather upholstery, an unexpected little burst of flatulence escapes her. Very embarrassed, she anxiously looks around to see if anyone has noticed and hopes a sales person doesn't pop up right now.

As she turns back, there standing next to her is a salesman. With a pleasant smile he greets her, "Good day, Madam. How may we help you today?"

Trying to maintain an air of sophistication and acting as though nothing had happened, she smiles back and asks, "Sir, what is the price of this lovely vehicle?"

Still smiling pleasantly, he replies, "Madam, I'm very sorry to say that if you farted just touching it, you are gonna shit when you hear the price."

from my kitchen to yours

as i was perusing sharing our best: recipes from the first baptist church of woodville ladies circle, a cookbook my coworker peg brought in for me, i ran across the following recipe:

Happiness Cake

1 cup good thoughts
1 cup consideration of others
2 cups sacrifices for others
1 cup good deeds
3 cups forgiveness
2 cups well beaten faults

Mix thoroughly and add tears of joy, sorrow, and sympathy. Fold in 4 cups prayer and faith to lighten all other ingredients and raise texture to great heights of character. Flour into daily life; bake with the heat of human kindness. Service with a smile any time, and it will satisfy the hunger of starving souls.

if i were going to bake a happiness cake, i'd have to add the following ingredients:

• 1 cup grey goose cosmopolitan
• 3 cups good sex
• 1 tsp. money that magically appeared in my bank account
• a pinch of brand-new slutty dolce bathing suit
• 1/2 cup ten hours of sleep

encounters of the zina kind

my coworker zina (you've read about her before) just came in and asked me what i did for easter. (see today's earlier post.)

she said, "well you gotta be careful around here when you ask people that. you gotta be all politically correct. i didn't think you was jewish, though, 'cause i seen you eatin' that ham sandwich. that's the way to tell, if they eatin' a ham sandwich you ok."

god bless my office.

whorenun

my father seems to have an endless supply of nun jokes...

A nun, badly needing to use the restroom, walked into a local Hooters. The place was hopping with music and loud conversation and every once in a while the lights would turn off. Each time the lights would go out, the place would erupt into cheers. However, when the revelers saw the nun, the room went dead silent.

She walked up to the bartender, and asked, "May I please use the restroom? The bartender replied, "OK, but I should warn you that there is a statue of a naked man in there wearing only a fig leaf."

"Well, in that case I'll just look the other way," said the nun. So, the bartender showed the nun to the back of the restaurant, and she went into the restroom.

After a few minutes, she came back out, and the whole place stopped just long enough to give the nun a loud round of applause. She went to the bartender and said, "Sir, I don't understand. Why did they applaud for me just because I went to the restroom?"

"Well, now they know you're one of us," said the bartender. Would you like a drink?"

"But, I still don't understand," said the puzzled nun.

"You see," laughed the bartender, "every time the fig leaf on the statue is lifted up, the lights go out. Now, how about that drink?"

there goes peter cottontail

a few minutes after getting to work today, both of my officemates asked me, "how was your easter?" and "what did you do for easter?" apparently i'm the only person on the planet besides my ex-boyfriend who didn't have any extravagant easter plans, because if i had a dime for every time i've heard "what are your easter plans?" (or a variation on this theme) i'd have at least $1.75. how do you get $1.75 when you're only counting dimes? i don't know; you're the mathematician, you figure it out. my guess is that it has something to do with the plummeting value of the dollar versus the euro. yet i digress.

so, even though i didn't have any "easter plans," the pressure to invent "easter plans" bore down on me like, oh, say, two big pieces of lumber that were nailed together to form a "t" shape. growing up, easter dinner consisted of brunch at the country club; my family was never really the kind that had all the kinfolk over for a big southern brunch on the lawn. we're a small, close-knit family of distrusting w.a.s.p.'s. we go to church on easter morning, go to the club for brunch, and go home happy. some people might not call this much of a family tradition, but i became inexplicably homesick for it. after i finished singing an easter service from which i derived no joy (by the end of holy week, every professional singer/church musician is ready to get up on the cross themselves; not to mention the fact that i'm not even christian), i walked home to my warm, dark apartment to find my ex-boyfriend asleep in bed, by which i mean asleep on the futon. suddenly the whole situation struck me as so sad. i make fun of all these people with their big easter dinners and families, yet i'm the one secretly crying in the bathroom in an apartment that i used to share with my boyfriend in a city that i don't understand.

after i pulled myself together terry and i went to lunch at don pablo's. i took a long nap. i went to a fancy dinner with george, tom, and tom's mom. she insisted on paying. i did so many out-of-the-ordinary things yesterday to make easter sunday feel special. in the end, it just felt like any other day.

birthday surprise

a funny conversation with the ol' ex-ball and chain:

Robert: i'm talking to dennis about my birthday present because he's claiming that he knows what you got me. but i'm refusing to let him tell me because he says it's great but it might be wrong, and then i'll be disappointed.

Terry: i haven't bought it yet

Terry: you won't be

Robert: well i just don't want him to tell me because what if he's like, "it's a pony!" and then on my birthday you get me like a stapler and you're like but we need a stapler!

Terry: hahaha

Terry: and then stapled to the stapler is a pony

Robert: i'm actually laughing

Terry: but you didn't see it at first

Robert: -continues laughing-

Terry: it is a shiny stapler though

Robert: good

dorothy zbornak vs. KFC

bea arthur's new role as poultry protector?
sofia would be so proud.

in tandem

ben and i are trying something today that strikes me as very velvet underground/warhol superstar-ian: we're writing 'blogs about the same thing at the same time. (find his at tony wears a tux.) he's apparently in some fancy boston coffeeshop with a large soy latte, listening to some kind of up-with-african-power-don't-eat-animals music; i'm sitting at my desk, not listening to any music. i can't listen to music while i'm blogging because i start concentrating on the music and writing sentences like "when i we done seen ship it the secret's in the potty boathouse." so, no music for me. on to today's topic: baby's first cigarette.

i was an avid non-smoker. i didn't just not smoke, i was one of those annoying know-it-all teenagers who hated to be around cigarette smoke and shot nasty glances at people who were participating in what would become one of my favorite vices. i can pinpoint exactly when smoking cigarettes stopped being something that i thought of as a filthy habit and became...if not glamorous then at least dangerous and exciting. i idolized a hip dyke named leah; she was several years older than my friends and i, was openly queer, had an openly queer brother, and smoked cigarettes as she talked to me in her laid-back way. i skipped seventh period so that i could go to her vintage store on south avenue, across the street from the dixie dog, and soak up lessons on being "alternative."

i can't blame my smoking on leah, though. i can't really blame it on anything. mandy (my best friend from high school who could be dead now, for all i know. that'll be another 'blog) and i bought a pack of camel red lights because we liked the packaging. actually, someone else bought them for us because we were underage. it wasn't a week, though, before we'd opened the pack of cigarettes we bought for show and taught ourselves how to smoke them. mandy had a fleeting experience smoking when she was 15; i never had. standing there next to my gold honda, on a hilltop in the oklahoma countryside, i learned how to inhale cigarette smoke. through the rest of high school, mandy and i fed each others' addictions. she was the perfect ruse--my parents hated her anyway, so when i told them that i smelled like cigarettes because she was smoking, they fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

i have lots of romantic memories involving smoking; intimiate conversations over cigarettes, feeling the high of caffeine and nicotine after smoking half a pack in the coffee shop; but this entry is only about my first cigarette. i look back on that moment with both fondness and regret: fondness for the memory of myself as a rebellious, young, excited teenager, and regret that the same memory is tainted by five years of addiction.

just writing this has made my lungs ache, not because of tar or damage, but with the desire to be filled once more with a poison that has killed so many before me.

siren

several people have asked me what i think of the new tori amos album, the beekeeper. none of these people knew me in early college, when i bought literally every tori amos release, including t-shirts, song books, and necklaces that said shit like "raspberry swirl." who could blame me? i fell in love with tori amos after she released boys for pele, which i still believe is the most perfectly-constructed pop album of the 90s. she's got some stiff competition from that decade--exile in guyville comes to mind--but i think boys clenches the title.

wait a second. does the fact that i'm talking about albums that came out upwards of a decade ago make me tragically unhip? although if being hip means listening to that trashy, alcoholic slut lindsay lohan (i know, pot calling the kettle black) i'd rather wear a pocket protector and glasses that are taped together.

the problem with tori amos nowadays is...well, i don't know what her problem is. i could name a lot of possibilities, all of which would make me sound like a heartless, hateful bitch. so, here we go!

• tori amos was married to her sound engineer, mark hawley, in the late 90's, which sapped her of any true breakup angst. her best work, in my opinion, was created in the wake of disaster. when you've got a hot husband who loves you and does nothing but work with you in your home studio and spread clotted cream all over your scones, angst just don't happen.
• ms. amos gave birth to her daughter, natashya (could we please be any more pretentious), which brought out her inner earth-mother. this pop-out-a-baby-become-enlightened problem has happened to some of the best angry bitch singers: liz phair released the absurdly lame whitechocolatespaceegg right after expunging a child from her womb, and some of sinead o'connor's most yawn-inducing songs are directed at her children.
• ms. amos, instead of being pissed off at christianity, has embraced all sorts of religious traditions, from native american folklore (see scarlet's walk) to eastern religions and everything in between. unfortunately, this has caused her to spout unintelligible references to some religious figure who was discovered in 1968 under an aztec pyramid. "Yaldaboath Saklas I’m calling you Samael!" i'm sorry, tori, what was that? i didn't quite understand you. is that sanskrit? jesus might have gotten it, but it flew right over my head.

so, the problem at hand, the beekeeper. tori hinted at the direction in which her music was headed with her first epic release, scarlet's walk. though certain songs were nothing but sarah mclaughlin-sounding pop radio filler, there were still several that one could point to and say, "that. that's tori amos." the beekeeper has lost those songs. any number of the cuts could be slopped onto adult contemporary radio without a problem; any of them, i mean, except the ones that are too shitty to even be considered adult contemporary. take "ireland," for instance:

driving in my saab
on my way to ireland
it's been a long time
a long time.

driving with my friends
on my way to ireland
it's been a long time
a long time.

i'm a hard-core enough tori amos fan that i still purchased the beekeeper. i listen to it, even. granted, i deleted "ireland" from my ipod so that i don't have to bother skipping it. i've heard it suggested that while she was making the beekeeper, tori was pressured by her label to make something more radio-friendly. nothing from boys for pele could really have been a hit single, and i think that's part of the reason that i like it so much. i refuse to admit, even now, that tori would bow to such pressure. i like to think that if tori's putting out such shitty music, it's because she wants to put out shitty music. and who knows: maybe mark will leave her or "tash" will be kidnapped, and we'll get our good ol’ tori back.

i'm a carrie

"While you were sleeping I peeked through the door to revel in your beauty. Spread out on the bed, an arm tucked behind your head, eyes resting under their lids to the soundtrack of relaxed breath. Blankets covering you from below while your chest stood out in proud glory. How my desire longed to lie down upon that well-formed stage. A graceful, grand, and handsome place for love." --tony wears a tux

this morning, as i was arguing with ben that i don't, in fact, include that many sordid details of my personal life in my 'blog, i read a few past entries of his, to see what he thinks are personal and sordid details. i stumbled across the above paragraph.

i'd wanted today's entry to be something about "bourgeois sluts." the best description of sex and the city i've ever heard is that it's really just "four manhattanite bourgeois sluts sitting around talking about getting laid." don't get me wrong; i love sex and the city, but this guy's totally right. i can't tie bourgeois sluts into today's entry, though, so my apologies for the tangent.

ben's 'blog made me think, what happens to that affection--the kind that you focus all on one person, the kind that's so intense that it aches a little--after you're forced to kill it? after you've been staring so intently in one direction for so long, where do you shift your gaze? it's a moment you can pick out, if you're paying attention. one morning you get up and the man whose "beauty you've reveled in" is just another man, sleeping fitfully, head between two pillows.

when the light that used to surround him has faded, to whom does it shift? to friends? to work or hobbies somehow? the author of the humiliating self-help book i'm reading would argue that you have to focus that light on yourself; to put that halo you've placed on someone else's head on your own. he suggests going on "dates with your inner boyfriend." don't hold your breath.

a new discovery

i don't listen to john mayer much, but i just heard these lyrics for the first time. they "stuck in my craw," as grace says.

I just remembered that time at the market
Snuck up behind me and jumped on my shopping cart
And rolled down aisle five
You looked behind you to smile back at me
Crashed into a rack full of magazines
They asked us if we could leave

I can’t remember what went wrong last september
Though I’m sure you’d remind me if you had to

Our love was comfortable and so broken in

I sleep with this new girl I’m still getting used to
My friends all approve,
Say she’s gonna be good for you
They throw me high fives
She says the Bible is all that she reads
And prefers that I not use profanity
Your mouth was so dirty

Life of the party and she swears that she’s artsy
But you could distinguish miles from coltrane

Our love was comfortable and so broken in
She’s perfect
So flawless
Or so they say

She thinks I can’t see the smile that she’s faking
And poses for pictures that aren’t being taken
I loved you
Grey sweatpants
No makeup
So perfect

Our love was comfortable and so broken in
She’s perfect
So flawless
I’m not impressed
I want you back

freedom isn't free

my father just sent me this link, with the message, "i thought you might like this, since you're from the old west. just kidding."

http://oldbluejacket.com/cowboys.htm

by the end of this lil' flash media presentation, i was literally stifling a scream with my hand.

dragged behind the wagon

i've made the conscious decision to stop smoking again. again. yes, again, i say. even though i've only been smoking for three and a half weeks, and after nearly a year on the wagon, i can already tell you what's going to happen. in this order:

1. i will start to get a little twitchy. i won't look like the lady who drives our shuttle every morning (i've named her Cracketta Johnson); it will be much subtler. i'm the only one who will be able to notice it. it's already started.
2. i will feel generally uncomfortable. this general feeling of dis-ease will be followed by itchy eyes, a dryness in my throat, and a stomach ache. it's usually at this point (i say usually because i've lived this day more times than i can count) that i break down and buy a pack of cigarettes.
3. i become bloated and irritable. oh, wait. this isn't a midol commercial. so, X the bloating. but i will be the most heinous bitch any of you could ever imagine. since i can already hear my beloved queen friends shouting, bitch, you already IS the most heinous bitch i could ever imagine. shoo'!, i'll get my response out of the way early: you have no idea what i'm capable of. the only people who've witnessed it firsthand are terry and amanda; they must be smart, because amanda's four hours away and terry has handily removed himself from the situation.

so, dear readers, there it is. in the time it took me to write this blog, i began feeling the effects of stage two; it's 9.08am. wish me luck.

it's high in protein

how could i let a day go by without a little bit of office-forward humor?

"Two priests are off to the showers late one night. They undress and step into the showers before they realize there is no soap. Father John says he has soap in his room and goes to get it, not bothering to dress. He grabs two bars of soap, one in each hand, and heads back to the showers. He is halfway down the hall when he sees three nuns heading his way. Having no place to hide, he stands against the wall and freezes like he's a statue. The nuns stop and comment on how life-like he looks. The first nun suddenly reaches out and pulls on his manhood. Startled, he drops a bar of soap. "Oh look" says the first nun, "it's a soap dispenser." To test her theory the second nun also pulls on his manhood ... sure enough he drops the second bar of soap. Now the third nun decides to have a go. She pulls once, then twice and three times but nothing happens. So she gives several more tugs, then yells, "Holy Mary, Mother of God--Hand Lotion, too!"

is everyone crazy in here, or is it me?

i have my first appointment with the person that ben so delicately describes as "the crazy doctor" today. i've been reluctant (get it? the reluctant receptionist!) to call him a therapist, or to say that i'm "going to therapy," getting around it by saying "counseling" and telling the receptionist at the therapist's office that i'd like to "make an appointment to talk to someone." what is it about the word therapy that conjures up images of vanna white or courtney cox bemoaning their sinking careers to an older-but-still-strangely-attractive woman in cateye glasses with a notepad? maybe it's because i've never understood why people who seem perfectly sane go to therapy once a week; how much staring at your own navel can you possibly do?

semantics aside, today i start therapy. this visit will mark the third time in my life i've seen a counselor. i mean therapist:

1. age: 9; reason for therapy: not able to sleep at night unless someone is in the room with me; real reason for therapy, found out a couple years after i came out to my parents: harboring the suspicion that i was a homosexual, my parents sent me to a therapist to see if anything could be done--or if, in fact, my overbearing mother and absent father had already ruined me. diagnosis: effeminate but salvageable.
   
2. age: 19; reason for therapy: after a year and a half of, for reasons unbeknownst to me, laying on the floors of dorms and practice rooms crying while wondering why i kept thinking about killing myself, when i went to a good school and had very little to worry about; diagnosis: depressed but sane.
   
3. age: 24 and 11/12ths; reason for therapy: a double-whammy that took the shape of diagnosis with a chronic illness (chron's disease) followed by a sudden, unexpected breakup. diagnosis: ?

on the verge of seeing another therapist, i'm reminded of something i often wonder. am i only going to therapy because i'm someone who is constantly self-aware? by this, i mean that i never really turn off my brain. i'm very cognizant of my emotions, and am perpetually self analyzing. when i was suffering from depression, i always thought, if i could just keep my brain from going like this, if i could just turn everything off for a while, if i didn't over think everything to this degree, i wouldn't be depressed. i'd be blindly happy. i still wonder, are stupid people happier? are people who are less driven happier? do i only have this quiet, gnawing sadness because i'm aware enough to analyze my feelings and the actions of others, or is it the other way around? which came first, the turkey you eat or the turkey like where people live? if you don't want to say the answer, you can just think it.

a poetic mind

from ben's blog:

"What remains is insecurity's echo. The reverberation of being abandoned. The gnawing need to be re-affirmed of your feelings. The whole reason I still sometimes feel like I am in a cage. This morning I thought about your power. "The ways a man could use it / or be destroyed by it..." I want to be spied on while I am sleeping. To be read about on-line. To be listened to on a mix tape. I want to be discovered and understood for who I want to be. Rockstars do things to get noticed. To be purchased and put on posters on walls. To be quoted and sung along with by large crowds. To be loved. Boy, I'm going to carry that weight a long time."

life ain't cheap

amanda and i discussing how we're getting to alyson's wedding in june:

Robbi607: airtran isn't any cheaper
OhhhTRA: they have a package for three nites stay at holiday w/ airfare for $285, which isn't awful
Robbi607: oh yeah, that's doable
OhhhTRA: but i'll have to make their wedding gift out of paper mache and plastic wrap
Robbi607: until you remember that we're trying to move to new york six months later
OhhhTRA: i know
Robbi607: maybe we can be on a conference call
OhhhTRA: but holiday inn is usually 130/nite
Robbi607: "boop...i'm here, robert in baltimore"
OhhhTRA: now you're talking
Robbi607: "boop...this is amanda in fairfield"
Robbi607: "boop, this is the rabbi; alyson and max are here with me"

i never took the LSAT.

a conversation with my sister:

ILovePonca: Audrey is knitting a scarf consisting of consecutive sold colored stripes. One end of the scarf will be fringed and the other unfringed. Starting at the fringed end, Audrey adds stripes to the scarf. Each stripe is either burgundy, cream, forest green, gold or navy. The resulting scarf satisfies the following specifications: If a forest green stripe is adjacent to a navy stripe any stripe that immediately follows that pair,and any stripe that immediately preceds that pair, must be gold.
ILovePonca: omg. i am not smart enough for this shit.
ILovePonca: it makes my brain hurt.
Robbi607: i was like, who is audrey and why is she such a KNITTING NAZI
ILovePonca: ha ha
ILovePonca: i don't even like knitting.

queen bitch

rapper/provacateur/musical genius lil' kim has just been convicted of perjury. since when can't a hardened, chanel-wearing, murdering, cursing bitch lie to a jury to protect her friends? kim herself has proclaimed that she'd rather go to jail than turn in a member of her "posse." it seems as if she might just get a chance to put her money where her mouth is. don't get me wrong--i adore lil' kim. i also adore the following clip from the AP story of the conviction, concerning kim's defense:

"The testimony was preposterous. It was insulting. It was insulting to your intelligence. It was insulting to the judicial process," Seibel told jurors. Seibel belittled the defense that the sunglasses-wearing Lil' Kim didn't notice two people she knew at the scene of the shootout. "You would have to believe they were magic sunglasses that only block out your friends who were shooting people," Seibel said.

if anyone's going to have magic sunglasses, it's lil' kim. hell, they might have actually been magic sunglasses. and you can bet they were chanel.

hateful, wrong, and brilliant.

you have to see this.

http://maddox.xmission.com/irule.html

skater boyfriend

from one of my favorite blogs, http://morethandonuts.blogpost.com:

"Don't even get me started on packing clothes. The clothes are worse because you just never know what you are really going to need. The one time I recall 'scaling' down my packing for a trip I ended up being totally full of regret. It was an all girls bachelorette weekend with my four best girlfriends from college. One of them was getting married and the weekend was full of cute outfits and accessories, lots of drinks, tea parties, walks on the beach, etc. For whatever reason I decided all I need to pack for the weekend was one pair of dumpy jeans, a plaid shirt and a blue hooded sweatshirt. Everytime I look at the photos from that weekend my eyes can't help but scan past the pretty faces of my stylish friends and focus on me wondering who invited their 7th grade skater boyfriend to the party."

dr. robbi

the day that i returned to work after the breakup (see nearly every post from the last week in february to the present) i got some possibly very good news: my boss offered me a promotion. i haven't blogged about it, because i've learned that looking forward to good things only leads to disappointment. yesterday, though, it became official. this week i start training as a research assistant. or, technically, an assistant research program coordinator.

never fear, i don't plan on abandoning the 'blog or even revamping it. somehow, "the reluctant assistant research program coordinator" just doesn't have the same ring to it. and can you imagine people trying to link to reluctantassistantresearchprogramcoordinator.blogspot.com? i don't think so.

i'm excited for the change for several reasons:

1. a minimal increase in money;
2. i'm no longer going to be a secretary;
3. not only do i get to deal with crazy, crazy people on the phone, i now get to meet them in real life and conduct asthma tests on their children;
4. i get to wear a lab coat enblazoned with the enscription "robert, research assistant."

i'm disproportionately excited for #4. i've never worn a lab coat in my life. i can't wait for how smart it's going to fool people into thinking i am! i wish that i could get the nametag to read "robert, m.m." i mean, everyone else around here tacks on all their degrees to their name, and i think it'd be an interesting conversation starter.

in spite of my complete lack of scientific or mathematical knowledge, i'm going to be someone who makes their living doing science. my mother got a good laugh out of that one. it's not like i'm curing cancer by teaching a 12 year old girl named laquisha how to breathe into a tube, but it's much closer to it than grinding my teeth at the utterly heinous "mt. vernon stable and saloon." if you don't know what the "mt. vernon stable and saloon" is, don't ask. and consider your ignorance a blessing.

so, girls, here on the verge of my 25th birthday, you may officially start to call me dr. robert. dr. laura and dr. phil get away with it, so why can't i?

for all those who claimed that their audition accompanist must have been wearing mittens... 

liza and judy and elton, oh my.

i worry that i'm too queeny. though, outwardly, i'm a 5 on the 1-10 queeniness scale, in my head i'm the gay lovechild of elton john and queer as folk's emmett. i could blame it on growing up as the only queer i knew in ponca city, oklahoma, or i could blame it on being called a fag before i even knew what it meant. i've been told that when second graders call each other faggots they're just mimicking what they hear other people say; even so, as an eight year old being prank called by amy, her last words to me before she hung up the phone were "that's ok; you're probably a faggot anyway." i knew enough to know that being a faggot was bad. when my mother asked me what she'd said to me i told her that i couldn't understand her. "so they just could've been speaking russian, for all you know. is that it?" "yes," i told her, even at nine years old knowing that when she heard that her effeminate son's peers were calling him a faggot she'd figure something out. i didn't know what a faggot was, but i had an idea; and i knew that the longer that i kept my being one a secret, the better.

it's been 17 years since that prank call, but i still think about it now and then. is it because of these early tauntings that i still try to avoid catching glimpses of myself in mirrors that are across the room, knowing that the reflection i see--that of a rail-thin, limp-wristed man--will be incongruous with how i envision myself?

in a gay society--baltimore and washington especially--that worships manliness, to the point that those who aren't butch act it and those who don't act it wish they could, where do i fit in? try as i may to eschew this self-hatred, arguing that "i don't act like a girl; i act like a faggot," a voice in the back of my head tells me, like it or not, you are a queen. even those who love you, or claim to for a time, wish that you could be more like an abercrombie model and less of a mincing fairy. i look for signs of this behind the eyes of those who say it doesn't matter to them, and can't keep from wondering if it has something to do with the reason that i'm once again learning how to be single.

this entry stems from the fact that my friend tom is having a college friend visit this weekend. "you guys are not going to get along," he told me. when i asked him why, his answer was, "well, sean has a really hard time dealing with queeny guys." as i launched into my spiel about internalized homophobia and how even the butchest of gay guys still wants cock, i silently started to dread meeting him, not wanting to face this battle again but knowing i'd have to.

latin lovers

from today's onion:

I'm going to move out of awards mode in just a second, but there's been a lot of talk about Mark Antony and J. Lo's Latino duet at the Grammys. People were saying that J. Lo sounded like a gut-shot crow or a '68 VW Beetle. First of all, someone should tell those people to bite their tongues! Second, I don't know which Grammys they were watching, but what I saw was a couple in love, singing a tender romantic ballad that transcended language, pitch, and key. Anyone who says otherwise is a racist. Kudos Mark and J, and gracias por su funcionamiento.

potentially and realistically

more office humor, courtesy of hilary's coworker margie:

"A young boy went up to his father and asked him, "Dad, what is the difference between potentially and realistically?" The father thought for a moment, then answered, "Go ask your mother if she would sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars. Then ask your sister if she would sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars, and then, ask your brother if he'd sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars. Come back and tell me what you learn from that."

So the boy went to his mother and asked, "Would you sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars?" The mother replied, "Of course I would! We could really use that money to fix up the house and send you kids to a great University!" The boy then went to his sisterand asked, "Would you sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars?" The girl replied, "Oh my God! I LOVE Brad Pitt. I would sleep with him in a heartbeat, are you nuts?!?!?!" The boy then went to his brother and asked, "Would you sleep with Brad Pitt for a million dollars?" "Of course," the brother replied. "Do you know how much a million bucks would buy?"

The boy pondered the answers for a few days, then went back to his dad. His father asked him, "Did you find out the difference between potentially and realistically?" The boy replied, "Yes... Potentially, you and I are sitting on Three Million Dollars. But realistically, we're living with two Sluts and a Queer."

both hands

adult life has made me a worrier. i don't worry about things like what if i get hit by a bus!? or how am i going to pay my car insurance this month!? instead, i trouble myself with impending events, most of which are months in the future. my neurosis du jour is figuring out where i'm going to live when the lease i've signed with terry is up. in august. that's right, i have four months to make plans, but still i lay in bed at night, mind racing underneath my eye mask. yes, i wear an eyemask, and no, it doesn't say "dream" like carrie bradshaw's.

there are the usual concerns, those that i've already bitched to people about:

• finding a decent apartment that offers a month-to-month lease
• separating all my shit from terry's shit, then buying new shit to replace the shit of terry's that i'd gotten accostomed to, re: nice cookwear
• what to do with my car now that, nearly a year and thousands of dollars later, it's been rebuilt after an unknown assailant destroyed it while it was parked
• along those same lines, how i will adjust to not having a garage spot and therefore not being able to go from my cushy apartment to my cushy garaged car to my cushy grocery store and back again

as i rolled around in bed last night (by myself; don't get too excited) i started thinking about the actual logistics of the move. i thought about terry and i having to get two gallons of white paint to undo all the work we'd done a year before, turning our apartment back into an empty shell, as if we'd never even been there. i'm writing our history, now, on the bedroom wall; and when we leave the landlord will come and paint over it all.

terry told me that his older brother, who doesn't even have a college degree, just put an offer down on a new house. i have two degrees and i'm trying to find a month-to-month lease while considering where in baltimore i can live that i'll be least likely to get mugged. something needs to change.

a conversation only two faggots could ever have

kel and i, a few minutes ago:

personalZEN: he's cute
personalZEN: i'd let him suck me off
personalZEN: but thats about it
Robbi607: whaaaat
Robbi607: "let him suck you off?"
Robbi607: "let him?"
personalZEN: yeah.. LET HIM
personalZEN: i'm sure he wants to.. (being a total bitch right now)
Robbi607: like it's such a privilege
personalZEN: uhh.. yeah
Robbi607: i mean i'm sure your dick is great and all
personalZEN: BIG privilege
Robbi607: but unless you're like a sub, cock hungry bottom oral whore...
Robbi607: for me...blowjobs are something i give to be nice
Robbi607: not because i love giving them
Robbi607: and if you said "i'm going to let you suck my cock," i'd look at you like you had a hole in your head
personalZEN: no you wouldn't
Robbi607: uh yeah
Robbi607: i would
personalZEN: you'd be down on your knees in a sec
personalZEN: i would
Robbi607: hahaha
Robbi607: you would...suck my dock or "let me" suck yours?
personalZEN: dock?
Robbi607: yes...what boats are moored to
personalZEN: ok.. i'm laughing so hard right now i've got tears
Robbi607: mission accomplished

thumb-twiddling

10:19am. i've been at work just over an hour, and already i've accomplished my tasks for the day. i've also looked at my usual time-killing webpages, namely: friendster, nin.com, sleater-kinney.com, thedent.com, and killrockstars.com. i've yet to visit andrewbird.net, but his site is never updated anyway. i've kept an eye on my sitemeter, and checked my bank balance thrice.

i have an hour and a half until i go to lunch, then two hours until i go to the gym, then an hour and a half until i get to go home. i don't know what i'm doing this weekend; it's just my second weekend of trying to plan something to keep myself busy that doesn't revolve around terry's plans and already i'm out of ideas. anyone?

dry, pt. 2

once again, someone has taken what i tried to write about and written about it better. another passage from dry by augusten burroughs:

"I stand by the door looking at the other guys who are themselves looking for other guys. The whole thing suddenly strikes me as beyond sad. All of this exposed loneliness. These raw nerves firing into the dark. I imagine the guy leaning against the pool table hooking up with the guy poking at the jukebox. They're both good-looking and aloof. Maybe later, they'll speak to each other. Then fuck. Then--and this is the part that interests me--fall asleep together. Naked, snoring men. Strangers with their arms around each other or their backs pressed together. The thought revolts and fascinates me. It reminds me of two puppies that just met, curling up together and sleeping, then drinking out of the same water bowl."

off the wagon

i'm smoking again. for those of you who read and believed my previous blog about quitting last saturday, my deepest apologies. i believed it too. i fear that cigarettes are what i always return to when everything else is falling apart. why it couldn't be a favorite sylvia plath poem or an old, dusty volume of some learned literature, i don't know. it's cigarettes.

along with a constant, nagging sadness which i'm able to push down most of the time, cigarettes are the only thing that have been with me since i was 17. they are my constant, these two. and if i'm not careful, either of them will kill me if given the chance.

all in the family

for those of us that wonder what happened to sally struthers, author augusten burroughs has an idea:

"well, somehow i felt that if i sent sally a donation, she would open the envelope herself and squeeze the cash into the hip pocket of her elastic-waist jeans. she would then treat herself at pizza hut, using my envelope to dab pepperoni grease from her chin. i imagined her maybe having garlic cheese bread on the side and a salad of iceberg lettuce topped with blue cheese dressing, bacos, and croutons. she would do her eating alone, eyes never leaving the table. her chin would tremble as she chewed and chewed and swallowed hard, against the threat of tears. after leaving her tray on the table for someone else to clean up, she would moan as she climbed into her 1981 cadillac fleetwood. it would be an effort to close the door. she would then place both hands at the top of the wheel, and pressing her forehead against the backs of her hands, begin sobbing right there in the parking lot. then, blinking back the tears, i see her starting the car, swiping her plump little pinkie beneath both eyes and driving away. maybe she drives down la cienega or pico, hunting for a taco bell drive-through window. paper sack in hand, she enters her apartment, which i picture to be on the second floor of an anonymous motel-style apartment building in west hollywood. here, she plays videotapes of all in the family. the ratty curtains are drawn and she's eating a burrito supreme while her lips move along with the dialogue on the show. shredded cheese falls out of the bottom of the burrito onto her bosom.
then i imagine her padding barefoot into the kitchen, leaving the taco bell wrappings on the sofa, and opening the fridge just to look. i imagine her grunting as she squats down in front of it. she opens the salad crisper drawer and finds two slices of oscar meyer olive loaf, drying out and curling at the edges, in the yellow, plastic package. i see her rolling them up together into a tube and placing them between her lips like a cigar, nibbling her way to the end while her eyes scan for more, more, more of something."

i can't relate to the food obsession; but if you replace food with marlboro ultra lights, that's me, right down to the head on the steering wheel.

you oughta know

i'm concerned. the little voice in my head that's been asking how could i let this happen? is now asking how could that mother fucker do this to me? hilary warned me that i'd be entering the "anger" phase of the breakup--how is she so much more down to earth about these things than i am?--and that it'd be a nightmare since terry and i are still living together, but i guess i hadn't expected it to come so quickly, and with such little warning.

it's here, though. i can feel it welling up inside me every time i think of this kevin person from ann arbor (trust me, you don't want to know); every time that terry goes about his little life, acting like nothing has happened. nothing, that is, except for him securing his freedom and his solitude, confident in his ability to start a new life in chicago, packing the life he had in baltimore into a cigar box and shoving it into the bottom drawer of his already-crowded desk or under his bed. the same bed, the psychotic in me fears, which he will share with kevin-of-ann-arbor after they both move to chicago. even as i sit here typing this, my hands nearly shaking (lack of nicotine?), i realize how crazy it sounds. it is crazy. right?

just like i had to validate my sadness, though, i'm going to validate my rage. i'm going to do my best not to take it out on terry (screaming) or on myself (cigarettes). the former will be easier than the latter. it's always been easier for me to hurt myself than to hurt others.

i better be careful, or this essay's going to turn into an alanis morrissette song.

will and grace

two days ago, while sitting in church reading my magazine and doing my best to ignore the grating voice of my minister, i came to a realization. misery had halted my ability to think with any clarity. all i could focus on was the fact that i'm no longer moving to chicago; that i'm faced with even more time in a city i despise; and that, though i have aspirations of moving to new york, the prospect of actually doing it by myself makes me want to pack up a u-haul and make a beeline to my parents' house in ponca city, oklahoma. (this sounds drastic, but i think about it all the time. every time i'm nearly run over by a hip-hop-blaring SUV, wait in line at the rite aid, or drive through east baltimore i consider throwing my hands up in defeat and heading back to oklahoma, where the people might be as trashy as a light blue puff-paint kitty on a cutoff sweatshirt in a trailer park but at least i understand them.)

i haven't, however, rented a u-haul. it was made abundantly clear to me this weekend that half of what used to be terry and robert has already moved on; it's going to be a while until i can say the same for myself, but i decided that the only way to start this process was to formulate a plan. the new magical mystery plan is to:

1. work at johns hopkins (where i've just been offered a promotion) for another year, and save as much money as is humanly possible while still managing to buy expensive clothes and eat expensive meals;
2. early next year start looking for a job somewhere like columbia, nyu, or mt. sinai;
3. strongarm, coerce, or trick amanda sidebottom into moving from her parents' house in fairfield, connecticut to new york city to be my roommate.

as soon as i'd formulated this plan, i knew what amanda's mother would say. barbara has been referring to us as "will and grace" since our freshman year in college. i wouldn't want to be anything like will--except for the part about him being loaded--and if amanda was grace-like we wouldn't be friends. when i proposed the move-in idea to amanda, she instantly had the same reaction i did. she told me, "god, what if i do start taking on some qualities like grace? like being jewish!?"

i was running some homemade soup through the food processor (see 'ina garten is a fag hag') when amanda called me yesterday: "i've just told my mom about us maybe moving to new york, and you're never going to believe what she said. 'WILL AND GRACE!'" i hear barbara cackling in the background, and am assured that least some things will never change.

amidst the darkness

terry: I was cleaning some tubes
terry: with plastic stuck in them
robert: sciency
terry: had to use chloroform
robert: ooh bring some home
robert: i'll knock out the cat
terry: stinky and messy and it takes a long time
terry: it's really toxic
terry: really
robert: well i'll give her a light dose
terry: incredibly
robert: a kittie sized dose
terry: hahaha
robert: 'why's the cat being so quiet?'
robert: 'uhh...uh...i don't know, maybe she's tired'
terry: i'll just give her some catnip
terry: that'll fix it
robert: oh good she's going to be a kitty version of judy garland
terry: got a fresh vial last night
robert: downers, uppers...

taking myself off the market

consider me unavailable. consider me out of print. consider me out of stock. a line from ani difranco's knuckle down stuck with me when i got the cd a month ago; i wrote about it in this very 'blog:

"i am high above the tree line
sitting cross-legged on the ground;
when all the forbidden fruit has fallen and rotted
that's when i'm gonna come down."

ironic, isn't it?

i went out with ricky in washington this weekend. i should say, i forced myself to go out in washington this weekend, because all i've wanted to do for a week is sit in my apartment. despite the support of my east coast (and chicago) family, and the fact that they've done nothing but listen to me bitch and moan for 8 days, i still find that all i'm interested in doing is nothing. with ricky's prompting, i reluctantly took the first step toward accepting my new status: single faggot.

i don't want to be back on the market; it's not that i can't accept this new reality, it's that i hate what being on the market means. being a yuppie fag means a string of bad first dates, a string of regrettable one-night stands, and re-adopting the hard bitch exterior one has to wear if he doesn't want to get eaten alive at the gay bar. i don't want any of this. i want going to bed with the same man every night and waking up with him the next morning, and arguing about lunch and who's going to take out the trash. i'm not someone who's cut out for perpetual dating, and even when i'm at my most doubtful or pensive in what we gay guys call a "ltr," the comfort and security is something that i never take for granted.

looking around the gay bar on friday night, i couldn't help but feel like an outsider. though i looked like any other person there--tight polo with the collar 'popped,' tight, expensive jeans, spikey hair, cute enough face--i just felt like i didn't belong. i stood there thinking, does anyone here besides me realize that there is more to life than this? am i the only one who feels like i'm wasting my time, getting drunker and drunker and making small talk with strangers? does the fact that i'm even thinking this make me old, or someone who is destined to sit by himself in his apartment, or start playing dungeons and dragons, only to develop an obsession with karaoke and eventually have the queer eye guys do the second-ever 'QUEER EYE FOR THE GAY GUY?'

when i was with terry i felt like i'd achieved a nice mix. i wasn't smug and married, nor was i a go-out-all-the-time bar slut. now i'm not quite sure into which category i fall, so i'm aiming for injured hermit.

jimminy cricket can shove it

standing on the balcony tonight i looked up at the stars--or what few stars you can see through the washout of the east coast's night sky. it reminded me of standing on that balcony with terry a couple of months ago, as we froze our asses off and watched what was left of a meteor shower. taking a cue from disney and romantic lore, i quickly closed my eyes and wished upon the second or third falling star i'd ever seen in my life. i never mentioned it (you know, your wish won't come true if you share it), but i wished that i'd be with terry forever. walt disney didn't know what he was talking about.

wrong, yet somehow so right.  

thanks, philip-morris!

predictably, i've been smoking again this week. if i'd really wanted to break the mold i would've gone through this breakup smoke- and alcohol-free. what is different, though, is that for the first time since i was 17 i actually feel guilty for smoking around people. suddenly, having quit smoking and become somewhat of an avid anti-smoker, i find myself thinking as i light up, why am i doing this? i no longer desire a form of slow suicide, no matter how bleak the horizon seems. it's nothing but justification of a dirty, long-kicked habit, but i've given myself a week of smoking, tomorrow being my quit-again deadline. it's my last pack, and i must admit that i'm strangely relieved.

this relief won't come from kicking off the shackles of addiction--i did that a year ago--but instead from not feeling judged by countless 20-something future health professionals. hopkins certainly doesn't make it easy for smokers; we either have to stand in a dirty, butt-ridden corral or between blue lines that read "smoke-free zone" on either side. if it wasn't bad enough that i'm blackening my own lungs, now i have to be reminded that every nonsmoker who walks by me thinks that i'm somehow blowing asbestos into their pearly, healthy ones.

when i was a blue-haired, dog collar-wearing teenager, i didn't seem to notice the glares shot in my direction. smoking was part of my invented, deviant persona, the one that i created to combat the limp-wristed dork with acne and tapered jeans who i wanted so desperately not to be. if i have to be an outsider, i thought, fine. i'll really be an outsider. now, nearly 25, that insecure faggot who sits second chair in his high school orchestra is still in there somewhere, along with the blue-haired queer who makes fun of the orchestra nerds; and finally neither of them wants to die.

mystery solved

finally, we know what goes into that mysterious product that vegeterians eat instead of meat:

Courtney: it's textured vegetable protein
Courtney: like the souls of carrots or something
Robert: not the soles, mind you, but their very ESSENCE, their souls
Courtney: yes. like carrots made deals with the devil
Robert: and when they die their souls go into fake beef
Courtney: they have no eyes like little orphan annie posters
Robert: that's horrifying but i like it
Courtney: and fake chicken--how they manage to flavor it is beyond me...i feel like someone is playing some cruel joke and it's actually meat
Robert: wouldnt' that be awful, yet great
Robert: and what if it's not even real beef
Courtney: i wouldn't be surprised.
Robert: what if it was like.....CAT or BABY
Courtney: it's aborted fetuses from third world countries
Robert: exactly. ground up and flavored like beef.
Robert: SO tender though
Courtney: or infanticide victims
Courtney: and so lean!

she's still my girl.

a tori fag from the old skool

"Glue
stuck to my shoes
does anyone know why you play with an orange rind
you say you packed my things
and divided what was mine
you’re off to the mountain top
I say her skinny legs could use sun
but now I’m wishing
for my best impression
of my best Angie Dickinson
but now I’ve got to worry
cause boy you still look pretty
when you’re putting the damage on

don’t make me scratch on you door
I never left you
for a Banjo
I only just turned around for a poodle
and a corvette
and my impression
of my best Angie Dickinson
but now I’ve got to worry
‘cause boy you still look pretty
when you’re putting the damage on

I’m trying not to move
it’s just your ghost
passing through
I said I’m trying not to move
it’s just your ghost passing through
it’s just your ghost
passing through
and now I’m quite sure
there’s a light in your platoon
I never seen a light move
like yours
can do to me
so now I’m wishing
for my best impression
of my best Angie Dickinson
but now I’ve got to worry
‘cause boy you still look pretty
to me
but I’ve got a place to go
I’ve got a ticket to your late show
and I’m worrying cause even still
you sure are pretty
when you’re putting the damage on
yes
when you’re putting the damage on
you’re just so pretty
when you’re putting the damage on"

i was 16 years old when i first heard this song. i thought, yeah, tori, you and me. we're so deep. i get it. let them have eddie vedder. we have pain and wrath and fire that they'll never even see. at that time the only relationships i'd ever had were, in this order, alexandra thompson (lasted: one month) and ginger skaggs (lasted: also one month). now, somehow, it's nine years later, and this is the song to which i always seem to return at times like this. i've avoided listening to it again; avoided the finality it inevitably makes me begin to face. last night, three days after the watershed, i finally listened.

seven years

it's an old wives tale that every seven years all of your body's cells are replaced. this isn't exactly true, because certain cells are never replaced. how many times have i been warned that what i'm doing is destroying my brain? at times like this, though, i think, what if my body was totally new in seven years?

seven years from now i'll be nearly 32 years old. seven years from now i'd planned to be living in either chicago or new york, most likely with an official domestic partner (-medler? medler-?), and most likely seriously considering an adoption. as much as i joked about having "baby fever" and wanting to adopt a chinese baby, there was some truth at the heart of it. now i'm faced with putting those dreams to bed and with the realization that my new body, the one i'll have finished growing in seven years, won't be where i'd hoped it would be.

if my cells were new in seven years, if my skin was completely new, would i have forgotten what terry's touch felt like? would my headful of new gray hairs still remind me of that first one that came in that i stubbornly refused to pull out, pushing back the frightening thought that as terry watched me age he would be less attracted to me, or will my new cells drown out the memory?

the cells that are never replaced, i'm afraid, are the ones that are really in control. the rest of me may change and grow and be made new, but the most important ones will always be the ones that i had when i was with him.

like the jews out of egypt

today, i think, i will end my self-imposed exile. since the moment on the godforsaken baltimore beltway when the life i saw spread before me shifted and i had to pull the car over, i've been splitting my time between hilary's and tom's houses, living out of three whole foods paper sacks, and periodically going home to fix food and change out my whole foods bags. i've avoided going to my apartment because it just doesn't seem like my apartment anymore. for some reason it feels like i'm on someone else's turf, with someone else's purring cat tucking herself under my arm. being at the apartment makes me evaluate even more than usual; i see our (or what used to be our) brown-striped walls and green bedroom and think, we did this. we did this together. we did this when we were starting our life together, and now things have to be reinvented.

today, i've decided, today i will try to begin that reinvention. i will pretend that the man who sleeps on the futon and eats the food i cook and does homework while i watch tv is my roommate. he's already transformed himself; maybe he did a while ago and i was too busy with work and cleaning and practicing and otherwise filling up every moment of the day to notice. for me the change taking a bit longer.

first of all

JHU hasn't just made us come to work today; it's concerned about our shoes:


TODAY: March 1, 2005
The university is open
The university will open on a normal schedule today. Conditions are generally good, but please drive and walk carefully and wear appropriate footwear.