Holly Northrop Blog

Somehow, I managed to catch a small cold, no big deal under normal conditions but I started feeling sick while standing in front of the conveyor belt over in baggage claim at the Charlotte North Carolina Airport. My throat started to feel raw and I began loosing the ability to swallow without wincing. Add into the mix that I had just started my period, (sorry but it is needed to give the full weight of the situation) and it was 95° in the shade down there. Saying I felt a little under the weather is an understatement.

We flew down Thursday from Albany on an airplane with two crying babies. It was like dueling banjos, one trying to outdo the other for over two hours. This was the moment where Martha discovered the happiness that a good iPod can bring. But what made it even more super fun was that we were in the very last row, the last two seats next to the toilet.

Before leaving, Martha made a snarky remark about how I'm high maintenance when we travel to visit her mom.
"Do you stay in the same hotel?" I asked.
"Yes"
"Do you get a king size bed?"
"Yes, but I don't have to have coffee and yogurt brought up to me from downstairs and I don't buy water to have in the refrigerator or go to CVS and spend money on crap that we could have brought."
"But these are all things you like." I argued.
"But I don't do it when you're not with me. I get up and just go. I don't need water and I grab a coffee when I go out the door."
"What car did you rent the last time you were there?" I asked.
"I don't remember."
"You said you liked it."
"Right, but we can't get that because I put mom's walker in the backseat."
"So I'm high maintenance because I need a seat in the car?"

You Ever Seen so Many Damn Trees?
"What ever happened to blueberry?" I said while digging around in the ice bowl of various yogurt flavors unable to find anything other than peach. Martha and I were both downstairs at the hotel getting our own coffee and yogurt to bring back up to the room.
"What ever happened to laughter?" Martha added.
"Oh I know what happened to laughter." I muttered.

And so we were off to see Gen. But before we arrive at her apartment we stopped at CVS to buy Cëpacol Throat stuff, Sudafed Cold medicine, Hershey's Kisses and water. After taking the extra long way, we arrived at Gen's apartment, Martha opened the door and there she was, sitting upright on the couch sleeping.

We hug, visit, and laugh for about an hour. Gen told this story about how one night, just a few weeks ago, she was sleeping in bed and she heard scratches on her door. She though it was "that damn cat" that lives on her floor. After a few minutes, the door opened and a man walked into her bedroom.

Martha and I looked at each other and pressed Gen for more information.

"Oh my God Mom, what did you do?" Martha asked.
"I told him to get the hell out of here." She said.
"And what did he say?"
"Well, he said he didn't know where to go. He was lost you see and I told him to go away. He's new see, lives down the hall."
"How did he get in?"
"He had a key."
"What!"
"He had a key and you know I was thinking about that. With all these doors, how many different types' keys could they possibly make?"
"A lot, mom, a lot."

Once I got the gist of the story, I got up and walked down the hall to the Director of Care to relay this little story. She freaked out and promised she would look at all the men's keys who live on Gen's floor. Maybe a maintenance man left a key in a room and a resident picked it up by accident or something like that. But there is no new resident on her floor. The newest gentleman to arrive has been there for several months and he's not a wanderer. She has several women who wander but not men. Sometimes the women, with the short hair look like men and maybe Gen was confused. Was her thought. I just kind of look at her and she promised to look into it.

When I get back to the room, Martha tells me that they might have figured out what happened. Gen said that when the cleaning people come sometimes after they leave the door is unlocked and the wandering man just walked in without keys.

The Land of The Dead
It is so hot in North Carolina that there are hardly any bugs. Seriously. I noticed this last summer too. The grass is brown and the trees look funny. I remember as little as six years ago when we would go visit Martha's parents at their home, the ground was lush, the trees were bright green and everything was dewy. There were so many wasps flying around that I would wait until my desire for a cigarette outweighed my fear of wasps before I would go out to the carport to smoke.

But not now, I can run all around outside in #70 sun block (so I don't just burst into flames) and there is not a bug in the air. It's weird and surely a sign of the end. I saw one wasp in the three days we were there and it was trying to get into the Golden Coral restaurant where all the food there is that down home, all-you-can-eat buffet style.

I'm Paying You to Tell Me What to Do
Gen was reading the paper when she put it down turned to me and asked, "Do you and Martha do drugs?"
I looked up from my book and just stared at her, waiting to see where this was going.
"You know, what do they call them...um...um...pop...pop poppies. Yes, poppies. Do you kids do poppies?"

I paused for a minute trying to figure out what the hell is in her head. Poppers maybe, but where would she even hear about poppers. I took a hard look at her and then I realized that she is looking at the world news section of the paper.

"Are you talking about the Afghanistan poppies?" I asked.
"Yes, they said that the crop is even larger then last years. You don't mess around with that do you?"
"No Gen, we don't mess around with that."
"Well, that's good."

I heard the "that baby is cross-eyed" story twice. But only heard the block story once. The block story is fun in a weird way. It goes like this.

"When Martha was little she used to treat people so damn funny. She'd want Frank to read her a story so she would go get her book and throw it at him and then climb up on his lap. Her sister used to build these buildings out of blocks and Martha would come along and knock them all down and then run over to her sister and hug her."

It Seems So Long Between Visits
Because conversation between Martha and I usually turns to what our leaving plans are soon after we arrive, we decided that we wanted to fly out of Charlotte instead of Greensboro. Charlotte goes straight to Albany but Greensboro is a connection flight nightmare through Philly. She forgot her computer so in a weird way is was nice to be totally unplugged but we did need a computer to deal with the airlines.

So we stopped at the local library. It was almost 100° outside so Gen and I waited in the car while Martha ran inside to the bizarre world of small town local library politics. She just wanted to use the computer real quick but didn't have a library card. So they gave her a temporary library card but she had to wait until her number was called. There was a row of computers that were not in use, but she still had to wait for her number. This went back and forth for about fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, I'm in the backseat of the air-conditioned car with Gen in the passenger seat and every minute or so, she's reaching for the keys to turn the car off while saying, "Its so damn hot out, come on Martha, what the hell are you doing?" Then I'd have to say, 'Gen, don't turn the car off. No, don't turn the car off."
"Well, what the hell is she doing?" she'd complain.
"She had to use the internet. She'll be right out."
"Oh for heaven's sake" and then reach for the keys again.
"Gen, please don't turn the car off."

I'm Sorry I Ordered This
"You know, everyone here could stand to lose between 20 and 200 pounds." I muttered to Martha as we sat around the country table of the Golden Corral® restaurant.
"Boy this Golden Coral isn't anything like the one on Stratford." Gen said while chewing on a Brussels sprout after having just asked us what it was that she was eating.
"No." Martha replied.
"What's the difference?" I asked Martha.
"I have no idea." She whispered to me as she got up to get desert.
A few minutes later, she arrived back at the table.
"I just saw a cockroach," Martha said to me as she plopped her plate of cake on the table.
"Where?" I asked as I tried to swallow a mouthful of cottage cheese.
"Up there", pointing to the 'biggest and best buffet' spread of cakes, cookies, pies, ice-cream machine and nut toppings.
"Up?" I asked with raised eyebrows, while scanning the counter top from our table, then quickly checking to make sure my purse is still on the back of my chair and not on the floor.
"Yep, up."
"Oh."
"I'm not surprised." She shrugged.
"How big?" I asked.
"Little", she put her thumb and forefinger together to about half an inch.
"Oh that's not bad."

Scattergories: More Categories for Extended Play
"What's that white stuff that they put on cakes?"
"Icing?"
"No."
"Cream cheese?"
"No."
"Whip cream?"
"No."
"Coconut?"
"Coconut! Yes, that's it. I'll eat lemon cake with coconut if they have it."

It's Hell to Get Old
"I don't' want to get old, like all those old people at the home. It's just sick. We are living too long." Martha said the night before we left, our visiting with Gen over for now.
"Yeah, but what are you going to do? Murder/Suicide thing, what when we are like 70? No wait we get to drink and smoke again if we live to 70. So 75?" I offered up.
"Yes."
"Who kills who?" I asked.
"Either way." Martha laughed.
"I'll do it, I can commit suicide you can't. I'll shoot you in the head." We both laugh.
I grab a pen and my little black writing book.
"You can't write that. Murder/Suicide is frowned upon."
"Not with my readership."

Jasmine has asked me to burn all my Joy Division for her. She swears she's not depressed, that she just likes the music and I do believe her but part of me did pause when she asked me. It's one thing when I decide to 'go there' but it's a whole other can of worms if your child 'goes there'.

"Mom, I also listen to Tool, but that doesn't make me want to go out and kill myself."
Although she was making a point I never got past the "I listen to Tool" part of that sentence. Tool makes many people want to go out and kill themselves.

She's coming home for her birthday and I can't wait to see her. She's driving and the cost of gas alone is going to be as much as a night at the Waldorf.

Can I just say that the West Fourth Street subway station is a total pit of shit? I hate when I have to use it and will walk the extra blocks just to avoid the damn place. Every time I'm down there I feel like I'm either going to be mugged or shoved in front of a train. It's one of the few stations in Manhattan that makes me feel that way. Even the station in the South Bronx didn't make me as uncomfortable as West Fourth Street.

I don't know why but that station just creeps me out, the vibe is all wrong. It's super spooky when you're all dressed for an interview, (or a job on Wall Street), you become a target for bullshit. I've seen it with other people and I've seen it with me. Dress like any other scourge of the earth and no one looks twice, but slap and pair of dress shoes and a Fossil Red Leather Business Tote on your ass and well, here they come.

Again with the dental visits, another Wednesday, another filling. I am seeing these people on such a weekly basis that I'm starting to know their lives, you know how their weekend was, etc. I could be an employee, except there is no way I could stick my hands in another person's mouth. I can barely tolerate the sight of my own horrible teeth let alone the fucked up crap of someone else's nightmare.

Funny, my dad was always trying to get me to go to dental school. That's all he used to say to me all through high school. "You know Holly, those dental hygienists make damn good money."

He'd always say that after he'd had a dental visit, which if I recall was with about the same frequency that I have. I get my shitty teeth from his Irish/German side of the family tree. Come to think of it, I get a lot of shitty things from that side of the family. Interesting how he never thought I could actually be a dentist but that I just might be smart enough to handle teeth cleaning.

Speaking of stupid, for two days last week, I periodically watched two guys from National Grid dig a hole in our front yard.

Union Street is undergoing a MAJOR construction project, in fact all of Hudson is but now they have started on our street. They are replacing all of the gas lines, the main one and the one that feeds into each and every house. So the drilling, tarring jack hammering, and general jackassiery should be a good time for all of us. It wouldn't suck so much if everything wasn't in the front of the house. My studio, the living room and the bedroom all have direct viewing of the construction. The only place I can hide out in is either the kitchen or Martha's office.

They have marked up the road in front of each house with colorful orange, blue and white spray-paint. It looks like HTML markup. I do notice that our house seems to have quite a few more notes then either one of our neighbors. Not sure what that means but I'm sure it sucks. It's been my experience that anything that has more code around it or special notations is most likely problematic.

The first day of the project is when they started digging the hole. They were looking for the main gas line. They found our pipe with out any real trouble. It's only about two feet down and right in front of our driveway, but the main line was a mystery, wrapped in a enigma that was stuffed inside a Triple Whopper^TM with Cheese. The magnet that they use to find pipe indicated that the main line was in our yard, so they started digging. Digging, digging and digging. End of day one: nothing so they covered the hole up put a bunch of orange cones with yellow tape around it and went home.

Day two. They dug out the hole that they had just filled fifteen hours before and then they dug further. By now, this hole had interested a neighbor, he came over to stand there, and watch Darrel and Darrel dig a hole.

He stood there for over thirty minutes, looking down at the hole. Amazing. I don't get it, I don't understand what part of the brain wants' to watch someone dig a hole. This is such a man thing. Is this the same thing as when we watch each other put makeup on? Just stupid brain shit, kind of like the power save on the computer.

They finally found the main line three feet over and under the road instead of in our yard. So they filled up the hole, and dug a new one, out in the road.

Saturday morning I woke up at 7am to the sound of aluminum ladders being extended and the general clanking that aluminum can cause. The weather has been so nice here that for over a week we've had the windows open and I'd like to keep it that way. Air conditioners cost money and seeing how I'm unemployed and the entire country is in some form of biblical disaster, (flood, fire and food are all attacking us), I figure the less I can crank up the air the better.

After a few clanking moments, I hear a weird noise coming from across the street. I look out and see a man standing by the neighbor's big tree in the front yard. He has the ladder and is looking up at the tree.

Ok whatever, the neighbors are having something done to their house, painted, shutter stuff, whatever, don't care I move on, pissed that I'm awake so early on a Saturday. But this weird noise keeps drifting over. I think it's either a treed cat or one of those crazy squirrels. I figure whatever it is, it's some kind of animal that is caught in the tree and because the workers are right there, it's freaked out. I know a woodpecker lives there but I wasn't sure they make a growl-moan sound.

Finally I figure it out. One of the workers is a mute. He's not deaf because there isn't any signing going on, just loud moaning sounds after everything the other guy tells him to do, which like normal conversation is every few seconds. He sounds like Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein.

"We don't have enough errands to be away from that all day." I said to Martha.
"Well, we're just going to have to take the long way." She said.

Sunday was rough. I have no idea why but it was rough from almost the get go. Sunday was flea day. I hate the day when we give the girls flea treatments. We never had to do it until we moved up here and I just hate it. Zoe always acts like we've stuck a piece of tape to the back of her neck, staring up at the ceiling then flipping her head from left to right in a vein attempt to lick the back of her head. She looks like she is hearing voices. She can do this for hours and she makes me nuts. She drives me crazy, which drives Martha crazy and before too long, one of us (me) is sleeping on the couch with a little prescription overdose. I hate flea day.

In the middle of talking to Martha about how fucked up my head was (and chewing gum) my temporary crown fell out. Like right in front of her. I wish I could say that this was the first time she has ever seen this but alas I have had many a temporary crowns in my mouth and she is way over the shock of seeing something fall off my body. Sixteen years is a lifetime.

Well, I made it through the first of four dental appointments on Wednesday. I have a standing Wednesday afternoon reservation through the month of June. While walking around midtown shooting and killing time before my appointment, I started taking Xanax because of nerves and back pain.

By the time I was inside the building and around other people I realized that I just might have taken a little to much. I know this because while sitting in the waiting room all I wanted to do was go drink and have a cigarette.

But it's good for me to calm down at the dentist, otherwise it's just hell on everyone involved.

In this batch of unemployment, I have managed to become addicted to Law and Order. In over the twelve years that the show has been on air, I have never once watched it. Oh no, but now, since I've become part of the national statistic number of "The Unemployed" that show is so on. It's on because it's always on. They run hours and hours of it, all shows I've never seen before. It's fucking ridiculous and driving Martha crazy. I can't help it, I find an odd comfort in it consistency, and that "always on" feeling. It seems as though I am finally ready for the Orwellian Present.

I had an interview last Friday the 13th, with nice normal people who were so unlike the lovable lunatic fringe that I used to work with that I could not stop smiling at everyone. An odd site I'm sure.

With this job the not so lovable lunatic fringe is on the outside of the building seeing how the company is located in the World Financial Center, World Financial Center 1 to be exact, which by the way has the same damn elevator look and feel as the Twin Towers used to have. The main lobby has a stunning, jarring, disturbing, (pick one), view of the pit.

Once inside the building the offices themselves face Jersey, directly across from our old apartment. If I get the job, this image should only bother me at least once everyday when I think about how I could have been at work in under ten minutes, as compared to the over two-hour commute that would lie ahead of me on any given day.

Rough shit, I tell you, but like I said, really nice people.

Been having trouble sleeping for about a month or so and I'm not sure why. That whole counting sheep thing has never really worked for me. I fixate on too much on the details. How many sheep? Are they in a field? What color are they, brown or white? Are they shaved? Do they look like sheep, whose faces are super creepy and kind of demonic/human looking, or do they look like the sheep in the Serta Commercial? Is there a fence and if so what color is the fence? White picket or barbwire? Is there grass or dirt and are there other animals around?

It goes on and on and before I know it, I'm more awake then I was before.

Now, what sometimes works for me is rather odd indeed.

I imagine that I'm in a dark space, not so much a room as a void. No ceiling, walls or floor, just darkness all around me and I am suspended from a rope that is tied to my head. The rope leads up to nothing, kind of like one of the cages in Time Bandits.

My body dangles and all my muscles relax, my head is held steady, not so much as choking, but more like a block thing. I imagine that gravity is stretching out my spine.

Sometimes if my back is really killing me, I'll imagine hanging upside down, pulling my spine out the other way, just for a different take on the whole thing.

So just like that, it is 100° with 97% humidity. Ok, sure that should make shooting all day in Manhattan all the more fabulous. I think some of the summer days will be spent looking at art rather than attempting to make it. MOMA here I come.

I remember a few years ago when Jazz and I went to Siren. It was early in the day and I wanted to be in the crowd for a few bands before going backstage. With not a cloud in the sky, we stood on the black pavement watching The Kills when about halfway through their set, I got silly sun sick. Despite being lathered up in #45 sun block, fully hydrated and with plenty of personal space all around me, I got dizzy. Like rolling eyes, dizzy. Jazz got all authoritative and pushy and we were out of there in a matter of seconds. Then rest of the day she kept shoving me into the shade.

What was my point? Oh yeah, summer and I just don't get along. Not even like a bad relationship, that would imply that at one time we liked each other. I just spend as much time as I can in my air-conditioned pod praying for the temperature to go back into the 80-degree range. I only go out at dusk, and pretty much piss and moan the entire time. It's great.

More work on Martha's office last weekend in what is now the longest running makeover in history but once it's finished it will be nice and functional. The bookcases are built, mini blinds are hung and now the shredding, filing and general organization begins. Considering that this is all shit that we should have either done before we moved in here or taken care of years ago, three weeks in, isn't that bad.

The sunroom however, looks like storage shed. Unfortunately, a storage shed that is the first thing you see when you walk in the door. There are two large tables, a bookcase; Martha's old desk; our old coffee table; a bench; the bottom half of the china cabinet; two small glass end tables; a kite and a wind sock; and of course Martha's exercise bike, all shoved in there for all the world to see.

I look like I have some mental defect, outside of the one that we are all aware of. Some kind of fucked up hoarding thing that has now upped itself a notch to include large furniture.

Last Wednesday was a big day for a bunch of reasons. At 7:30 in the morning, Martha had to drive my pathetic non-driving ass twenty minutes north to Chatham in order for me to pick up the print for the CCCA Landscape show. Already in a slightly miserable mood after informing work that she would be late, driving AWAY from work was not something she wanted to do at all. The print was supposed to be ready to go by 8:00. We arrive at 8:00 and the guy isn't there. For twenty minutes, he isn't there and Martha is now no longer talking to me, preferring to wait in car and stare at a brick wall while listening to a forty-five year old speech by JFK on NPR.

Finally, the framer arrives and guess what? He's not finished.

"I need about another twenty minutes", he said to me. F.U.C.K. I think in my head as I walked to the car. Needless to say, Martha was not pleased to hear this.

After another twenty minutes, he was finished. We dropped the print off at the house and then proceeded on our merry way down the thruway.

All told we were running over an hour late. There was a last minute push to make it to the Suffern station by 10:45 otherwise I would be stuck there for almost an hour until the local train moseyed on down the tracks.

As we got off the highway and rounded the bend, Martha sort of slid through the stop sign instead of coming to a complete stop. Just as she did this and sure as shit, there was a cop.

His lights went on and we pulled over. Sitting there on the side of the road with the flashing blue and red lights behind us, the 10:45 train to Hoboken passed by us. I waved at it and giggled; Martha just glared at me.

The cop got out of his gas guzzling SUV and walked toward us. Martha looked over at me and said, "Do not say ANYTHING."

Martha rolled down the window.

"I stopped you because of the stop sign back there."
Martha said nothing and handed off her license and registration. The cop noticed that she had a Fraternal Order of Police Newark, NJ card in her wallet.
"Do you want to hand me that now?"
"Do you want it?"
"Well, you want me to have it before I start writing the ticket."
She handed him the card.
"Do you know where you got this?" He said turning it over in his hands.
"Ah well, we do charity work for them."
"Do you remember the name of the person down there?"
Martha pauses...she can't remember, "No"

He walked away.

After a few minutes of us fumbling with the card and bitching at each other in hushed tones, she turned it over, and there on the back was the name.

The cop came back.

"I have one question for you. What are you ladies doing down here from Hudson?"
"I work at Sharp."
Having no real purpose for being anywhere, I just smiled.
"Oh you make the drive? So do I, well from Kingston but I'm down here everyday. I know it looks like you are in the middle of nowhere but you need to stop at the stop signs."

He handed Martha back her license and registration and check it out, he let us go WITHOUT a TICKET.

Holy shit. I marked that day down on the calendar just like I did when Martha remembered where the AAA batteries were at. That stuff just does not happen every day.

More funny weird stuff: Ever since Frank died, I've been ordering books every few months for Martha's mom. Gen used to be a big reader and by all appearances she still is, she sometimes just can't remember what she's read. But who cares, it makes her happy to get books and I love books so, there.

We always ask her what she would like, and together we usually go over the New York Times Best Seller's list and pick a few. There are some glitches; she keeps asking for A Thousand Splendid Suns, even though she's read it more than once and The Kite Runner keeps coming up also. But we push through that and move on.

Here's the thing, her book requests are fucking up my Amazon.com personalized recommendations. Not that I usually use them (my wish list is a more accurate gauge) but I'm starting to get pushed some seriously strange stuff and this last request has really screwed with the algorithm.

Gen went to the doctor a few weeks ago and while there, she struck up a conversation with one of the nurses. As she put it, "She took a liking to me."

Anyway, they starting chatting about reading, both agreeing that they were avid readers, the nurse recommended that Gen read Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers.

Ok, well Winston-Salem is a Christian town in a Christian state in the Christian south. North Carolina is more of the New Testament South and Francine Rivers is a Christian writer, who specializes in Christian Fiction and Christian Romance.

So know I'm being pushed the entire Francine Rivers collection.

From Amazon's review of Redeeming Love:
"In this splendid retelling of the biblical story of Hosea, bestselling author Francine Rivers pens a heartbreaking romance between a prostitute and the upright and kind farmer who marries her; the story also functions as a reminder of God's unconditional love for his people. Redeeming Love opens with the Gold Rush of 1850 and its rough-and-tumble atmosphere of greed and desire. Angel, who was sold into prostitution as a child, has learned to distrust all men, who see her only as a way to satisfy their lust. When the virtuous and spiritual-minded Michael Hosea is told by God to marry this "soiled dove," he obeys, despite his misgivings. As Angel learns to love him, she begins to hope again but is soon overwhelmed by fear and returns to her old life. Rivers shines in her ability to weave together spiritual themes and sexual tension in a well-told story, a talent that has propelled her into the spotlight as one of the most popular novelists in the genre of Christian fiction. This is one of her best."

Of course the main character is a whore. I would expect nothing less.

Aren't spiritual themes and sexual tension the problem with just about every organized religion on the planet? And some would argue, combined, they are one of the fundamental causes of mental illnesses.

Anyway, so all this Francine stuff is meshed in there with things like: Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga; William Eggleston's 5x7; A bunch of Dali prints; most of the God stuff from Dylan like Saved; some good old S&M Satanic stuff from Lydia Lunch; some Handsome Family and then every third or fourth item is a Francis book like the The Last Sin Eater.

Or even better: One Night With the King (2006) DVD. One Night With The King is a 'sweeping epic about Hadassah the young Jewish girl who becomes the Biblical Esther Queen of Persia.'

And one quick look at the overall reviews for One night with the King:

"... Lush production but inaccurate telling of the biblical story"

"... If you're looking for biblical accuracy, you'll be disappointed.

And OMG my personal fav: "... as a girl, I have to say, some of the outfits are quite cute, and I'd love to wear them."

Awesome.

Because of a miscommunication between Martha and I we have two copies of 7th Heaven (The Women's Murder Club) by James Patterson. She got the book from work and I ended up ordering it for Gen. I've looked at it and I'm not sure I can read it. I couldn't even keep my mind from wandering when I was reading the back of the book jacket. So we have an extra copy here at the house, email me if you want it and it's so yours.

More work this weekend on Martha's room and I think I'm going to die. Her 3000-pound desk arrived and it took us all of Saturday and well into Saturday night to build most of it, taxing all of my problem solving and geometrical relationships skills. We stopped working only because our backs were broken, I was unable to hold things with either one of my hands and I could no longer think straight.

The house is still a misfortunate mess but her space already has a real good vibe and once it is finally finished, (we still have to build the bookcases and then go through everything, file it and organize the whole mess), it will be a great office. Unlike the fucking disaster, it was before. I wanted to take before and after photos but no one needs to see the before. However, here is the almost done photo and another of Miss M at her new desk.

The outside of our house is turning into crazy cute, which after the cold dead winter look combined with the whole foil thing, we are very happy to at least look normal. It's just the inside that has problems.

Sunday we had to drive a framed print down to Connecticut for a show I'm going to be in at the Ridgefield Guild of Artists. While the whole thing was not so much fun due to back pain and general stiffness that both of us were suffering from. I felt extra bad about making Martha burn a weekend day in the car but we did it. Drove all the way down to Ridgefield, dropped off the print but then we got a little lost when we drove off the Taconic to look at a golf course. Not just any golf course but the James Baird Gold Course, which was built in 1948, apparently an historic landmark of golf course lore.

We then drove around some weird little back roads until we finally came upon civilization and spotted a Dunkin Donuts where just like that, all was made better with coffee and a muffin.

Wednesday I have to pick up another print for a Landscape show up here in Hudson and I just found out that I'm going to be published in Lightleaks.

More home projects on the horizon include a new floor for the sunroom. I had wanted to just rip up the nasty carpet that was in there but right before the last snowstorm in February, I noticed that the floor was buckling in front of the door. So now we have to replace the floor but we can save a shitload of money if I do the demo. Now that is going to be fucking painful. I am scared for my back, shoulders and the general whole body area.

Speaking of pain, I get to go to the dentist every Wednesday for the entire month of June. I've also moved my therapy to Wednesday night, so um, Wednesdays are going to be full. I will either be having a filling filled, a mold made or a crown put in, and not all on one tooth. This a la carte presentation spans several teeth on all four corners of my mouth.

Then after fucking with my mouth, I get to ride the train to Martha and then another hour to therapy where for another hour I'll probably talk about my teeth and all the nuttiness the entire thing is causing me. You know loss of control, pain and that nasty persecution thing that is on an endless loop in my dizzy brain.

The whole thing is a total drag in that I'll have to break up my day of shooting to go to the dentist, not just once but for four weeks in a row. How the hell is that going to work. Start placing your bets now as to what week you think I'm going to crack.

After $2,700 and a week and a half later, Jasmine finally has the Jeep back and not a day too soon seeing how she moved Saturday and Sunday. Her living situation has always been a little screwy but this one was down right stupid. Now she's in another place until August, when by all accounts she is supposed to graduate. She's not going to walk though, she'll just have the diploma sent here, where upon opening it, Martha and I will drop to our knees and weep.