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Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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This Is A Test

As I have been lost in music (and wine.. and nachos.. and let's face it, episodes of Reba on Lifetime) lately, I'm working out how to post songs I'm digging or various bits of whatever.. Since the theme for this blog, "Just A Junk Drawer Dream", is based on my favorite Marah song (The Surge's band) I figured the first song I would post would be Phantom Eyes. In usual Monica digression, the import of the song was chronicled here and here.. Did you click? I know, it's a lot of clicking today. But if you did, that's right, ALL syrup baby. Not the sardonic asshole Monica you've grown to know and - er... love? This isn't the original version you're about to hear.. but a version played for me at a live Marah show. Yeah, I know. You TOTALLY care. But this blog is for me - a record of my life since getting married and moving to NYC so it's goin' up. Suck it up voyeurs! If I can figure out all this high-techery, that is. Here goes nothin'.

Just click on the speaker if you wanna have a listen. (Except for you Mom.. Who is still using the piece of shit computer I gave you a million years ago and choosing to buy creepy raffia dolls and fake fruit for the kitchen instead of just buying the goddamn computer speakers already and actually listening to shit.) Right. So, enjoy!

What Will Be, Will Be

August 3, 2003

Today marks ten months since I met Andy. What a crazy yet productive year it's been. I'm sitting atop a mountain in Millcreek Canyon. I believe I'm in the Alexander Basin with, of course, my trusty sidekick, Max. He is getting so big. He turned four months yesterday. He's forty pounds and growing.

Andy has totally come clean with me. He isn't certain I'm the girl for him because he isn't sure we share the same interests... So he says. Such as camping, hiking etc.. He was afraid we'd get married and I'd want to stay home and watch T.V. all the time and he is the ultimate Mountain Man. I can't say I blame him.

For some reason I fancy myself some sort of sporty, outdoorsy chick. That is so not the case, as I have found out. The last couple months have been a real eye opener. I have been so afraid of being poor, like my Mom, or relying on some guy to take care of me that I have spent the first half of my twenties focusing on earning a living. Since I am farther along in my career than most my age I have considered myself well rounded - and I'm not. I haven't persued any hobbies or personal interests at all. I've slept and worked and that's all. No wonder Andy lost interest.

So I'm turning over a new leaf. For myself. Not Andy. Fuck him for now. He's been entirely too critical of me lately. I am going to become the person I've always wanted to be and I'm going to do it on my own.

Andy is going to New Zealand for one month. He leaves tomorrow. He's testing ski bindings for Black Diamond. I'm relieved he's going. I am so tired of thinking about him. What will be, will be. Max says hello.


Cocksucker Rhymes With Motherfucker And Other Tales

Yesterday I was minding my business, happily doing laundry at the laundromat, in an inexplicably good mood, when something happened to rocket that good mood to great!

The laundromat is crowded on Sundays. Everyone who suffered through Saturday hangovers decides to get productive after sleeping in on Sunday. I include myself in that generalization, of course. I think I drank most of the crap wine from the year 2004 at The Surge's friday night gig.. but that's a story you've heard before.

You can enter/exit the laundromat through a set of doors in either the back or the front of the building. Each set of doors opens onto a different block. I was in the midst of lovingly pressing two dryer sheets onto my favorite red sheets, was just about to bid adieu to my friends The Sheets and close the door when a man carrying a gym bag loaded with God knows what, probably automatic weapons, entered the laundromat from the back.

"HEY COCKSUCKERS! SMELLS LIKE FIRE IN HERE. HEY COCKSUCKERS! IF THERE WAS A FIRE IN HERE YOU WOULD ALL DIE." He said this congenially if a bit forcefully, as one is wont to do when calling a group of strange folks cocksuckers. He strode purposefully through the length of the laundromat issuing his rally cry. Awesome! I thought to myself and slammed shut the dryer door. I immediately set to following the fellow, again - as one is wont to do for strictly entertainment purposes on a slow Sunday.

"GOOD LUCK COCKSUCKERS!" He said as he banged out the front door. God love him, he turned in the direction of my home, so as he was already going my way I continued a good pace behind to watch my own personal documentary unfold.

Our man was in his mid thirties. Not a bad looking fellow. Typical Brooklyn-born-and-raised features. Brown hair, bit of a beard sprinkled across his pale face, red sweatshirt, black sweatpants and gym shoes. Like he just finished working out and decided to trot through the laundromat and call us all cocksuckers for good measure?
"HEY MOTHERFUCKERS!" He shouted as he strolled importantly down the sidewalk. Of course nobody looked. "BUNCH OF COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKERS!" He continued. Hey, that rhymed, I thought to myself. Cocksucker/Motherfucker. I filed that information away for future use and continued to observe our man.

Tourrettes? Nah. This dude is in complete control of his faculties. If anyone passes him directly on the sidewalk he courteously stops shouting until they've walked by and then he kicks in again with his mantra. Retarded maybe? Doesn't appear to be but one never can tell as many men here in the city are just a saliva string away from retardation.

Dude crossed the street so, of course, I crossed the street. Sunday in Williamsburg is the perfect time to follow someone if one doesn't want to be spotted. The sidewalks are more crowded than Salt Lake City during Mormon General Conference.
"MOTHERFUCKER! GODDMAN MOTHERFUCKER! GRAB IT BY THE NECK!" He continued in a disturbingly conversational, non-crazy tone.

Two little kids, a boy and a girl, both about five years old were walking hand in hand down the sidewalk in front of him. Our fella ruffles the little boys hair in what I believe he thought was an affectionate manner.
"Ouch!" Shouted the little guy.. Unfortunately, at this moment our fella zigged back across the street and I continued home. But that shit was better than Zoloft.. Cheered me considerable. Good show, my man.

I was immediately brought down though when I attempted to fold my fitted sheets. I hate folding fitted sheets. There is something so innately unsatisfactory in the process. I like smooth sheets, hard corners. Those fitted bastards, they're a handful. That's how susceptible I am, though. Guy shouting COCKSUCKER in a crowd = happy me. Folding fitted sheets = where's the wine?

Speaking of wine... Last night sevenish - The Surge is making his signature dish (stir fry) for, like, the ninth time this week as I watched America's Funniest Home Videos. What is it about watching idiots hurt themselves that is so enjoyable?
"Baby, let's pretend like we're on a date tonight." I called to my beloved.
"Whaddya mean?" He replied over the pop and sizzle of chicken in Peanut Oil.
"Like, you ask me polite questions about myself and act interested and I'll sit here awkwardly, commenting on the books and CD's on your shelf."

He didn't reply right away but unbeknownst to me he had really taken my date idea to heart and was preparing himself. A short while later, during a particularly hilarious montage of men passing out on their wedding day The Surge inquires whether I'd like more red wine.
"Sure." I said, never taking my eyes off the television. God forbid I miss Grandma accidentally setting her hair on fire at Debra Sue's wedding after standing way closer to the church candelabra than is generally advisable. I held my wine glass aloft so The Surge could fill 'er back up. That's when.... HE DUMPED DAMN NEAR A FULL BOTTLE OF RED WINE ALL OVER ME, MY CLOTHES, OUR COUCH AND VERY NEARLY THE KEYBOARD ON WHICH I'M TYPING.
"What the????" I gasped. That's when I noticed my husband standing in front of me, mouth agape, clutching an empty wine bottle, his manhood hanging forlornly out of his button-fly jeans.
"Um?" I inquired.
"It was a joke" He spluttered while running for a towel. "What do we use to clean that up?"
"I don't know!" I shouted. "It's RED WINE! Everyone knows red wine stains! Didn't you see Can't By Me Love"?
"Hot water?"
"That doesn't sound right!"
"Cold water?"
"I don't know! Maybe Club Soda? They always seem to use that in the movies."
"Yeah, let me just get the Club Soda we keep in our stock room."

We ended up using ice cubes and the Shout that was left on the counter from my earlier trip to the laundromat. Surprisingly, it worked quite well.

"So can I ask why you dumped wine on me with your penis hanging out of your pants?" I calmly inquired when the whole mess was cleaned?
"I was playing date night, like you said. I thought it would be funny to politely offer you wine and when I came to pour it you would be staring directly at my.. well - you know."
"Fantastic idea!" I agreed. "But your execution could use a little work."
"I was just so excited to see your reaction I was looking at you and not your wine glass. I missed."
"Yeah, you missed all right."

A Taste Of Chinatown

Click here for photos.

Pas de Deux

Bad mood but actin' all smiles... hiding the pain.. all the pain of everyone on this subway car. Add it up. Add up the collective pain of all these strangers on the L train and it would fill the East River that we are rumbling under. We walk around, going about our business, all of us hiding something. Some kind of hurt that's bleeding on the inside. A contusion. Somebody just lost their job. Someone was raped last night. Sombody's mother just died. Someone's relationship is disintegrating like a sand castle at high tide. Somebody is half-heartedly contemplating killing themselves. Maybe whole-heartedly. Maybe it's the exhausted woman sitting next to me. Face like a rotting peach, frazzled hair, slight tremor in the arm that touches mine as we roar through darkness. The guy across from me. 400 pounds, easy. Maybe it's him. Tired of being a prisoner of his body. At least 40, no wedding ring. His eyes are already dead. Yet here we all are. Going somewhere. Reading the paper, listening to Ipods, staring into space. Maintaining. Practicing the Urban Eye Slide. Are you lookin' at me? I'm not looking at you. Well, yes, yes I am. But on the sly. I look away when you look at me then you look away when I look at you. Pas de deux. Good job everyone. Me included. Way to keep up pretenses.