Entries from January 2004 ↓

My apologies to those of you using Internet Explorer. You can’t see the sidebar links and I don’t know why.

I’ll get on it as soon as I’m back from my dinner and a movie date. In the meantime, get Mozilla or Firebird. You totally should have done that already, though.

Dear Smokey,

You, doggie dear, are the first pet I have any memory of. My sister got you as a gift for her 4th or 5th birthday, and she was maybe the cutest thing ever that day when she picked you up from your red-ribboned box. She also got a play tunnel that day, and I remember laughing and crawling down the tunnel after your furry grey bottom. Amy, ever the clever one, named you after the color of your coat.

Then you went and ate some poisonous berries and died. That was fucking weak. We should have taught you better.

Rest in Peace,
B

Dear Socks,

You were the neighbor’s dog, but I loved you like my own. You would sit in Mom’s flower bed and that would really piss her right off. Good going, there. Also, thanks for letting me ride you. I know my 3-year-old ass was really boney and I may have kicked your flank a time or two. What a shitty neighbor kid I was. I am also sorry about calling you Socks and Shoes instead of just Socks. I was a miserable brat who did not fully appreciate your humble good nature.

I’m sure you are also dead, so please rest in peace as well,
B

Dear That One Turtle,

My redneck family had no right buying you for my sister and I since all we had to keep you in was that fish tank with a rock in it. And a garden hose.

It’s sad you died so soon. But, to be honest, I got over it pretty quickly because you were boring beyond belief. You’d never let me touch your neck or anything.

You were my only turtle ever though. (Besides that one turtle from Dad’s pond that my uncle shot to bits with a rifle when he was drunk. Not my pet, but you can clearly see you were slightly better off than other turtles in my past.)

B

Dear That One Litter of Kittens,

You may have heard my sister and I tell our father we understood and were okay with his giving you guys away. But please know that when you left Amy and I cried for you like we’d lost six little, wriggly, tan-spotted pieces of our hearts.

Sorry we didn’t show it when it mattered,
B

Dear Spirit,

You were our family cat during a very fucked up period of my childhood. You saw some of the truly wack shit go down. Then, after a while you became my stepsister’s cat. I’m not sure how that happened. I think the apartment we moved to wouldn’t allow you. I’m sure you got fat and happy on second hand bong rip’s at the stepsister’s, so that isn’t so terribly bad. I’m sorry my Mom named you after Number 3 in the Holy Trinity. That’s some namesake to live up to.

You are also probably dead. Which sucks.
B

Beauregard,

My cousin Amanda showed up with you in her jacket, just a tiny puppy Bassett Hound whose ears were like elephants’. You were the most adorable puppy on the planet until you grew big and slobbery and stinky. Goddamn, you were stinky. You are one of the stinkiest breeds around, ya know.

Which is not a good enough excuse for neglecting you. Sure you were fed and watered. And had other puppies to play with. But no one walked you and you were never, ever allowed inside and well, you were just so stinky. And sad looking.

And then you died. Cancer. And I cried and cried because I was just a kid or I wouldn’t have let you stay out back so alone. I cried because I never got to know you.

With deepest regret,
B

Dear Mittens,

Mom declawed you which is totally fucked. You used to be such a hunter. Dead mice every day! You were the spritely cat of the house.

Now you just sit on the end of Mom’s big bed and sit. With your clawless feet pushed under your white patch. Makes me sad that you have aged so.

And what the fuck is up with the allegy assault? It never used to be this way. Now I go to Mom’s and within an hour my eyes are red and wet and itchy. Do you know it is impossible to scratch the roof of one’s mouth? They say people develop new allergies over time. Guess we’ve both changed a lot.

At least you have that awesome view of the bird feeder,
B

Dear Abby,

First things first. Sorry for closing you up in that drawer all day while we were at school. I’m not sure if it was Amy’s fault or mine, but that fact remains that you spent 8 hours in a dresser drawer. That had to have blown hard.

Also, that was the best thing ever when you came back to life. You disappeared for two whole days and my sister was wrecked. (Technically you are her cat, but we lived together for like, 7 years, and you watched me bathe a bunch. So you are partially mine, too.) Then our aunt called and said she’d seen you flattened on the highway. She could tell it was you from your distinctive, squirrel-like tail. My sister had to call in to work she was so destroyed. Mom and the stepdad went and scraped you up off the road and had a little serivce and burial for you in the yard. They say it’s important to see the body one last time in order to grieve properly. Everyone was a mess for the rest of the evenin until you showed up the next morning, pretty as you please, at the back door. Whining.

Thanks to your little prank–hiding in the neighbor’s garage for the weekend–everyone was incredibly torn up. How could you let us bury some random cat in the backyard?

At least that cat had a proper burial In fact, minus the tears, that was a pretty awesome stunt.

I guess you will always be my motherfucker, Abigail. Even if you’ve never loved anyone as much as that sister of mine.

You should try and deal with your attatchment issues, as well. Never has a cat been so needy. At least you rock that big, all-over cat afro.

Your Mom’s sister,
B

I found a job. But I don’t start until Monday.

I will be working in a restaurant. This time it’s small, privately owned, upper-scale-ish and in Nashville. I won’t be working nights at first, which will be a welcome respite from late night shifts like in the past. Once I am comfortable working lunch shifts I may be able to work overtime, some doubles, which will be the quickest way to get me back to good financially.

I needed to find work immediately and am glad I found something almost as soon as I began looking. I hope working days better allows me to budget my time writing, both for pleasure and for profit.

It pleases me to tell you that there are some exciting writing projects under way. Well, two is some, right? One of which makes me wriggly in my seat when I think about it. More details to come with time. Pinky swear.

P.S. How many of you would mind looking at a few ads until I get my first couple of paychecks? Desperate times mean desperate measures.

UPDATE: Google AdSense rejected my site because I curse too much. Stupid Motherf-ers.

Bad Santa - A snot-nosed fat kid kicks a midget elf in the balls. And it totally works. This brash Christmas film for adults is a long time coming, since National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is getting really fucking tired.

School of Rock - Joan Cusack can do no wrong. And while Jack Black tends to grate on my nerves, in this he’s totally perfect. This movie reminded me so much of Girl’s Rock Camp that I was stupid happy and laughing the whole way through. This movie is a total joy. (My only complaint is that the girls didn’t get to rock as hard as the boys . They were relegated to non-soloing bass player and back-up singers.)

28 Days Later… - The VCB and I saw this on our first date. When we left the theatre I noticed my date was quite spooked. It was adorable when he told me he was sorta creeped out–I just wanted to pick him up and put him in my pocket. And he was right. The silvery quality and quick, visceral editing of this modern day zombie movie made for a freightening trip.

Winged Migration - A rare and beautiful piece of art on screen. It’s absolutely lovely. Check it: YOU GET TO FLY LIKE A BIRD. They have this camera that soars amongst flocks of migrating birds capturing glaciers and meadows and whale-filled oceans at the same speed and from the same perspective as high-flying fowl. So neat.

The Secret Lives of Dentists - I could have done without so much Denis Leary but the rest was awesome. Campbell Scott and Hope Davis (whom I have loved since Next Stop Wonderland) portray wounded and realistic characters who love and hurt and drag you with them.

Old School - Four words: Will Ferrel. Tranquilizer gun.

The Eye - This Chinese thriller is sort of two movies in one. The last half of the film is a bit trite and simplistic and too happy-ending for my tastes. But the bad second half is completely overshadowed by the first, which is THE SCARIEST FUCKING THING EVER. Men were screaming out loud in the theatre.

Willard - I was, seriously, the only person in the entire theatre for the 5:30 afternoon screening. And I shit you not, I my legs didn’t touch the floor for the duration of that brilliant movie. Crispin Glover owns all.

A Mighty Wind - Christopher Guest’s previous films all had me in stitches. This time he charmed me silly. (And, naturally, there was laughing.)

And the Really Shitty One:
Cremaster 3 - This pretentious, steaming pile of shit masquerading as experimental art/filmmaking almost makes me think Matthew Barney is fucking joking or something. He’s all: “Hey, ya’ll, watch this dude fill up an elevator with cement and then I’ll have some cars demolition each other to smoke and bits, but then! A lady cuts potatoes with her shoes!!” I found myself couting the number of lights in the aisle of the theatre before the “latte-friendly” intermission even, so I talked the VCB out of staying for the second half. Maybe some goat paints his shoes with mustard in the bit we didn’t stay for–I’ll never know. (That, actually, would rule.)

Darryl came in late because he worked late. He’s had the same job for 26 years, works second shift at the phone company. He made good money but was tied to his desk all day. He had to raise his hand if he wanted to take a piss. He talked to no one there because no one talked to him. He carried a strip of velvet in his pants pocket; he took it out sometimes and rubbbed it between the thumb and third finger of his right hand.

He ordered Long Island Teas mixed in frozen pint glasses. He drank them quickly and through a straw. Otherwise his frosted glass propped up his stubbly chin while he waited.

Always waited. Always waited for one of us to speak with him first. His eyelids and hairline and brow were eager for attention as you refilled the ice or turned his way to ring up a check. He always sat just behind the register where it was hard to hear him and difficult to reach his glass. He wanted to be seen. He would use the bathroom many times and whenever he wanted.

He only came in once every couple of weeks, but every time he did all he talked about was Karrin Allyson. Some jazz vocalist whom he absolutely adored. He would nod and rub his papery hands together when he whispered her name. Always whispering. Always requiring you to lean into him. Every time he came in I promised to find some of Karrin’s stuff, maybe on the internet. He really seemed to want me to. And every time I promptly forgot.

I asked Darryl what he did for Christmas just before January came. He told me that he did nothing again, just had some tacos and listened to Karrin. Immediately I recalled that his account of Thanksgiving was much the same. Except he had Burger King and watched some videos. I spotted that his icy glass was empty and was thankful for an easy way to slip out of a response. I wished I’d remembered he had no friends or family, I would have invited him over for dinner. Except I wouldn’t have. Because he stared right into your mouth when you spoke, his lips parted, his tongue visible and quivering and snake-like. He was always folding his papery hands.

One night at about 11, just before the managers locked up the front doors Darryl slipped in. He marched straight in and spoke without waiting. He shouted out my name. I turned and saw him in the lobby, hidden under a black slicker, his face wet from the onslaught of rain that fell just outside the doors. He held up a clear plastic baggie dotted with droplets of water. Inside it were two concert tickets. Karrin Allyson’s name was printed boldly in a squareish font on each.

“Did you listen to any of her songs yet?,” he spoke again. Again without waiting. My eyes fell to my broom as I shook my head no.

He slowly removed one ticket from the bag, wrapped it in the scrap of velvet. And when he handed it to me he held my hand in his for a few seconds. It felt nothing at all like paper. Then smiled and turned and dissolved into the storm.

We stopped chilling pint glasses a few months later.

Now I can’t get enough Karrin Allyson.

How to be totally mortified in front of your boyfriend’s entire family:

1) When his sister asks if you also got Poochie as a kid, tell her no, you got fat as a late teen, not as a child. Immediately realize she is not talking about extra weight, but a toy dog from the 80s.

2) Try your best to disappear into couch.

Best Album of 2003: Give Up. Yes, the Postal Service. I can’t help myself. It’s so overwhelmingly good. Nothing else makes me cry and bop my head at the same time. The runner-up is totally The Love Below from Outkast. I admit I have barely heard any of Speakerboxxx since I can’t stop listening to the genius pink CD on the bottom. The Love Below is whip-smart, intricate and best of all funny as hell.

Best Rap Single: Da Club, by 50 Cent. This is song instantly gives me a happy. It’s infectious. Almost as infectious as Hey Ya!. Almost.

Most Romantic Google Search: “he should be careful with her insides because they are tender”

Best Diet Journal on the Web: Mine! [/shameless pimping]

Best Response to Asshole Ex-Boyfriend: When my sister’s ex-boyfriend phoned her place, Amy’s roommate Emily answered. The boyfriend, who recently called Amy a whore, asked where she was. Emily responded, “Oh, she’s in the back getting a train run on her. We were having a bit of trouble paying rent this month.”

Best “Best of 2003″ in a Blog: The Dooce. Just wait til you get to the part about the cheeseburger.

Best Movie of 2003: Lost in Translation. Hands fucking down. Nearly perfect in every way. Rarely has a movie left me so shaken for so long after I left the theatre. I wanted to see it again right away but knew my poor heart couldn’t take it. That movie hit me in a special spot.

Most Liberating Day: Knowing that I’d never, ever have to “walk in” a Bloomin’ Onion ever again. Ever.

Best Day of the Whole Year: “The center lane does not exist.”

I am currently working on a year in review piece for 2003. Those come standard with each weblog these days.

In the meantime I’ve started a new project. It’s a diet journal. [No laughing.] I started a pretty stringent diet today and thought if I wrote about it online I might have more success. But rather than bore you with how much fiber I’ve had or how often I pee or what I wouldn’t do for a Klondike bar here, I put it over here.

Come see what I put in me.

(No comments open here. Ya’ll should go stir some shit up at the new place.)