OK, so I've been a bad blogger. It is so much like the journals I kept when I was younger. If nothing was actually happening in my life, I would pontificate on nothing at all for pages and hours. However when life got exciting three months would get reduced to two pages of outline/notes that I figured would get filled in later.

Today I may have overcome a significant phobia. Horror movies. I am nearly 28 and until the last year had successfully avoided anything even vaguely resembling a "scary movie". However C loves them and has repeatedly begged me to get over it. We have pinpointed the why and what of my fear. When I was about 4 or 5 I somehow watched Karen Black's Trilogy of Terror. In the house I grew up in there actually was a stone tribalesque warrior statue brandishing a spear. Fast forward 5 or 6 years and two of my cousins are holding me down on the couch trying to force me to watch Nightmare on Elm Street. All I recollect from this trauma is a guy (who I later found out was Johnny Depp) getting swallowed by his bed and it belching up blood. That was enough to make me break free and run upstairs screaming. Thus a psychotic aversion to horror was born. C has figured out that I am particularly adverse to any movie with a boogie man. So in a moment of weakness I agreed that the time to get over it had come and I agreed to watch Friday the 13th parts 1 through 3 in preparation for next week's midnight showing at Sunshine of part IV. Truth be told, I have been getting my feet wet over the last year by watching Carrie, Jaws and The Shining. All movies I would never have agreed to watch without C's prodding and all movies I even enjoyed. Last week when we went to the Museum of Natural History with my high school best friend and her amazing, adorable 3 year old son, she and C proposed watching the Jason movies at her house, a neutral territory. Guess what? It worked, I wasn't freaked out and even found them amusing in their ridiculousness. We took the bike up to the bronx, she made lunch on the grill and we had a great time.


Reasons to be cheerful, part 17. Instant Karma. Background info: The lines at the Peter Stuyvestant Post Office on 14th Street are legendary and obscene on a daily basis, the secret to a short wait is to be there at 8am, when they open or on Thursdays after 6pm (it's their official late day, but no one ever knows or remembers, so the place is usually nearly empty). Due to the length of the lines, the frequency that we mail stuff out and the war our shop has been waging with their staff (they want us to get a postage meter, we think it is too expensive), I have developed a system for whenever I end up being the person to bring the mail order to the post office. [HELLO, run-on-sentence!!] Basically, I come in, drop my bag on the line and proceed to weigh my packages at the scale. I go back and forth between wherever my spot is on the line and the scale area, so that if it takes me half an hour to weigh the packages, I've also spent that half hour moving the bag forward in the line. Dual time use. Clever, I know. Until today. An ASSHOLE joined the line behind me (or rather my bag) and when the line moved forward, he stepped around my bag. I then came over and with a smile, moved my bag ahead of him and explained. After I had moved the bag about three times, he made a fuss and told me that I was either on the line or off of it and some other shit. I started to argue with him and then decided it just wasn't worth it. He was an idiot and the line wasn't that long anyway. I was annoyed and had thought about saying "FINE, fuck you. I was here first, so I'll just keep my place on the line. I will NOT weigh and sort my packages. It will take the clerk 3 or 4 times as long to help me and you will just have to WAIT, asshole." But as I said I didn't. I'm sure part of his anxiety about me being served before him was because of the number of packages I had and he was worried about ME taking too much of his precious time. So I went back to the scale, weighed everything and joined the line. About 12 or 15 people had gotten on in the meantime. I waited. He was so inept and took SO long at the window, that I ended up being the next customer at the window he had used. As the clerk was finishing up with my stuff, he came back and put a stack of manila envelopes with one priority mail envelope on the bottom into her window. She actually said to him, "Did you put a stamp on the priority mailer?" He said yes and left the post office. She finished with me and flipped through his stuff. Guess what? He didn't put a stamp on it! I don't know if he was trying to get over, thinking they would just send it through, or if he honestly made a mistake. Two other postal employees had sort of gathered around her and they strated talking about him, how he had treated me on the line and the fact that his package would just have to go back to him. Heh heh heh. A tad ironic don't you think? Got interrupted by a call from Tibbie, who is currently in the hospital. Steam lost and WAAAAAY too much work time wasted.


This rant will be brief. After an all Aussie brunch at 8-Mile Creek E (our resident convict), her husband M, their visitor G, C and I headed over to Agent Provocateur at E's request. I was mildly interested. I own my share of gear, mostly vestigial from a life I am no longer living. Their stuff is beautiful, totally creative, however, they do not carry my size. I asked what size they go up to...36F. Basically Barbie only! GRRRRRRR!!!! Honestly if I had been told the basic 38C or D I might have not been offended (my 40DD, is not all that typical) but the fact that they are catering to bodies only possible with severe distortion, really annoyed me. Can a 36inch back even support that much boob?


My friend Snee recently had to give up her $20 tweezerman tweezers at JFK due to new security measures. As if TWEEZERS?!?!?! were a suitable weapon to hijack an airplane with! Well, here is where they all end up, in case you ever were wondering.


feeling voyueristic today. Check out Other People's Stories. Reminds me of the Moth's events. Growing up I never participated in the storytelling contests at school. They were very popular and kind of a big deal, my class always had a citywide finalist or winner. I may have dismissed it as a drama person thing, which I was not. I was a poet/goth/geek/whatever you call a teenager who wears all black all the time girl. That is not to say that I was quiet. I had much to say and there are hundreds of pages yellowing away in the closet at my mother's house to attest to that. I was not any more or less alienated than anyone else. I just didn't know it then.