Holly Northrop Blog

What can I say about a week that started with a grand wedding in Manhattan with a deluxe suite at the Waldorf=Astoria, and then ended up with a 4am visit to the Emergency Room of Columbia Memorial Hospital?

Talk about a slide.

Thursday, Martha came home from work early complaining of some serious stomach pain and body aches. By 3am, things had deteriorated so horribly that we went over to the hospital. Ok, here is where I will admit that I suck; she drove herself but, but, but, I DID DRIVE BACK.

I know, I'm horrible but if it's anything, I think I'm getting it. My glands are swollen and I feel like ass.

Once at the hospital they took a bunch of her blood, hooked her up to an IV and gave her three shots. Blood work came back with nothing out of the ordinary and after three hours, they sent us home. Friday sucked, Saturday pretty much sucked but by Sunday she was on the couch, surfing the web and waiting for me to make her breakfast, seeing how she hadn't eaten anything outside of Gatorade, toast and rice since Thursday night she was pretty hungry. I think she just might make it.

In the 'I can't stop laughing at you' department, the last man standing on Survivor Island: Voice Edition, quit last week and who could blame him. The Voice is such a sinking ship that I'm amazed he found a life raft. The department has now shrunk to one person who hasn't even been there a year. In two years, there have been fifteen people who have left the web department.

It's funny after the wedding last week and seeing a good chunk of everyone I used to work with, I realized just how horrible the last two years my life at the Voice were. I used to work with some truly awesome people. Somehow by the end, I had to deal with a know-it-all from Boston who really didn't know too much at all; a total (and I do mean total) jackass who was never really able to make it in New York but seems to be flourishing in Phoenix; and the final entry in the trifecta of shame, a backstabbing two-faced son-of-a-bitch.

Anyway the wedding and a weekend in Manhattan were both fantastic. It was Martha's birthday and we decided to live a little and get a room at the Waldorf for two nights. But alas, the Waldorf did not impress Miss Harvey. She started making a list almost immediately.

Right out of the gate the big screen LCD Samsung TV didn't work. Only one channel came in but at least it was golf. While waiting for the TV guy, we lost our minds, eating $14.00 cashews from the mini-bar and $8.00 mini sized Evian. After that, if I even went near the mini-bar, Martha yelled at me.

In room internet was not free but $10.00 a day. The Waldorf is part of the Hilton Honors Program, which is what The Hampton Inn in Winston-Salem is and where they have FREE in room internet.

We could get free internet in the lobby with all the other travelers hogging up all the plush seating and electrical outlets. This idea sucked and we only checked email once over a three-day period. Kind of freeing actually. We squirreled away around a corner and sat on an eighty-year-old marble step that leads up to the Grand Ballroom, right before we left on Monday morning.

We ordered room service only once and after $30.00 for a pot of coffee and a bakery basket for breakfast, that too went on Martha's list.

But the real unpleasant thing was that our air conditioner did not work. The first night there was rather stuffy. Upon leaving in the morning to run errands and walk around Manhattan, we stopped off at the concierge to ask if someone would look at it.

"Which room? The living room, one of the bedrooms?" he asked.

We just looked at him. Martha laughed and said. "THE ROOM. There's just one room."

We walked out of the hotel into the beautifully sunny, cool and breezy day of midtown and not even twenty feet from the doormen a homeless guy walks up to Martha and asks her for money.

"No, sorry." she said.
"Hey, I went to Kindergarten with you." he replied laughing.
I laughed too, because it was kind of funny. He then looked at me and we both laughed.
"That's just great." Martha said.

We ran errands, picked up film, stopped at Blick, had a little Mudd Truck coffee, and walked up to A.I Friedman, before returning to our stuffy hotel room.

"That's it; we are going to open the window." I sighed. It had the suicide locks on the sides so we could only pry it open the allotted seven inches. The fucking thing was so heavy and awkward that it took both of us pushing up while clamping down on the locks.

"Jesus Christ, the only way anyone could jump out that window is if they were anorexic." I mumbled.
"...and if you're anorexic you're not strong enough to open the window." replied Martha. We both busted out laughing as the breeze and sounds from Lexington Avenue filled the room.

The Waldorf is ridiculous in all the wrong places. Clusters of tourists, (some fat as fuck and some just rich as fuck), wandered around the roped off area of the Famed Sunday Brunch in the lobby. A brunch we only walked by, tickets were $100.00, but strolling by I did manage to see a tiered liquid chocolate fountain. Sliced fruit was displayed around it like a living fondue alter. There was an enormous leg of a lamb the size of my own leg, resting on a wooded slab, nicely lit by the heat lamp. Unidentifiable pastries, some sprinkled gold flecks, filled three large tables and there was something that I'm considering to be a wall of bread. Various bread products stacked in such a manner that when combined they formed a three foot high wall that separated the vegetables from the meats. So much food, so much of it was bagged and tossed out.

From the minute we got off the elevator on our low-level floor I was reminded of the Overlook Hotel; the hotel from The Shining. The long halls with rooms on either sides, the red carpets, the Deco interiors. Our room was three long hallways and two blind turns from the elevator. At every turn, I expect to see The Twins or a door ajar with some weird woman in the bathtub.

Before we went to the wedding, we had some time to kill so we took a ride up to the 18th floor to the Starlight Roof. The 18th is a maze of hallways and various size rooms. Some rather large for meetings and presentations and some smaller for well, smaller things. Let me tell you, the walls up on 18 are pillow-paneled with a pastel tan and mauve pattern.

When we were wondering around up there, we were alone. Totally alone. We walked into the Starlight Roof and my jaw hit the floor. This room is a Deco Dream and the view from the windows is breathtaking.

"We have to come back up here tonight after the wedding!" I said.

And we did. Somewhere after midnight, we rode the elevator back up to 18 and immediately walked over to the mirrored French doors of the Starlight Roof. The room was dark, the only light in the room came from lights of Manhattan through the floor to ceiling windows. The Manhattan skyline from inside Manhattan is stunning.

We shot a bunch of photos and after a few minutes, we walked out of the room and we were instantly twisted around. Things has changed since we had been up there in the daylight. A few doors to darkened rooms that had been closed were now open. The path back to the other set of elevators, the ones that go to our floor, was different, or at least looked different. Combine this with the fact that most of the lights were off, so if you looked over to the right or left, all you saw was darkness it started to get a little spooky. We knew we were the only one's up there and that made it worse.

This is when I started shit.

I stared talking about how spooky this whole place was, with its hundreds and hundreds of black and white photos from the 30's, 40', 50's and 60's lining the walls. The downright disturbing ones were the photos of the Starlight Roof taken around 1934 during certain galas, such as New Years Eve, society dinners, etc. All shot with a long exposure so some of the folks faces are blurred and some are looking right at the camera. When you stop and think about how everyone in the photo is now dead, well then in your head, the ghosts appear.

"Shut the fuck up." Martha said as she started to walk faster and faster away from me down a long twisted hallway.

"I'm telling you all I can see are those twins. Come play with us... forever and ever and ever."

"Holly, fucking stop it!"

I was doing the thing with the finger but she didn't look back at me. Honestly, I even scared myself.

I haven't been in to Manhattan for over a week to shoot and I'm starting to get a little wiggy about it. But, Sunday is Miss Harvey's birthday and it's a big one. We are going to a wedding on Saturday in Manhattan so she rented us a room for two nights at the Waldorf-Astoria®. Two nights and one whole day of nothing but Manhattan to shoot, you can bet I'm going bring more cameras then god intended. I'll probably even bring the Lubital, which hardly ever makes it in because it is so boxy and heavy.

For two days, we are so going to live a different life. Then it all comes to a crashing end with a 2:00pm dental appointment on Monday. This time, Martha will actually get to go to one of my dentists. Apparently I have a mouth full of cavities and I see nothing but a horror show headed my way and while I'm glad that she will be there, I know she's going to be pissed sitting in the waiting room with our luggage. The cool thing is instead of calling her from the dental chair and bursting into tears with horrible news, I can just walk out and drop the money bomb.

After that, we then get to ride the path, to the train, to the car, to the thruway to home. Awesome. Like I said, crashing end.

Big news around here is that we got Reverse Osmosis. Woo, hoo. But seriously, this will cut down enormously on the amount of plastic bottles this house brings home every week. We recycle, but you know, I lived in Jersey long enough to know that just because you put you shit out on the curb does not mean that it actually ends up in the right place. Besides plastic does not totally break down. It just gets smaller and smaller.

I remember when there was hardly any plastic in our lives.

Milk, juice, RC Cola, mayonnaise and Listerine® were all sold in glass. Toothpaste, TV Dinners, cream cheese, fancy cheese spreads, (including Velveeta®) were packaged in foil packets. Food was stored in foil, wax paper and meat was either cut or ground fresh and then wrapped in butcher paper. Lunchmeat was also cut fresh, wrapped in a wax paper and then in butcher paper.

Boy, you can really tell that I grew up in White Land or as I like to call it, Mayonnaise Land.

Almost everything was in a cardboard box of some kind and potato chips and pretzels could be bought in large tin drums.

Of course, this was way back in the day when you could smoke in grocery stores. I remember riding in the child seat, sitting next to the little red beanbag ashtray that my mom had with her everywhere she went. She carried an ashtray, isn't that the oddest thing? Anyway, when we were at Kroger's sometimes she would accidentally singe my leg when she bent over to pick something off the shelves. Whenever this happened, she would give me a small brown bag of M&M's to eat.

At the check out all of our crap was put in paper bags and then a bag boy would go out to the parking lot with us and load the bags into our excessively large trunk. When he was finished, mom would tip the kid and then slide into our gas-guzzling Thunderbird. We would then ride off into the sunset without wearing seatbelts.

Every mother had at least one piece of Tupperware in her kitchen but that was it. No one lived by plastic like they do now. Even at cookouts we used paper plates with real silverware. Hardly anything in the kitchen was plastic. I remember when my mom and dad bought a new dishwasher and mom tragically put a knife with a rubber handle in there; it melted stinking up the whole house and ruining the washer. It was winter, we had to open all the windows to air out the house, and my dad was so very, very pissed. Pissed at my mom, pissed at the usage of rubber and pissed that it was winter. It's a good memory as most of them are.

All along the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge there are signs bolted into the light posts that read; "Desperate? Life is worth living! Call Helpline." I noticed this last weekend when I was on my way to therapy. Fitting, I know, but what struck me as odd was that they are mostly posted in the center of the bridge. Now, the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge is long and tall, and if, lets just say if, you wanted to jump off the bridge I would think that any point along the bridge would work. Why make a trek of it when around 200 yards in is just as good of a location as dead center? Maybe that is the point, Dead Center but see no matter what you hit, anything over two stories is going to kill you. Thinking that you can just dive off a bridge, slip into the water and then drown is a mistake. No, no, it's hit the water and explode. Hell, I could swan dive from the top of my house if I wanted to. Not that I do, I'm just saying. Relax, it's the holiday's isn't everyone thinking about killing themselves?

Thursday, before the snow actually started in Hudson, Martha was all cross-eyed and hell-bent on going into work. She managed to make it there, but not before driving through the tip of the storm, causing her concern on her ability to drive home. After about an hour at work, longer then it took her to actually get there, she got back in the Prius (!) and drove directly into a blizzard. It took her three-hours to get home, which isn't bad considering the severity of the storm. She said there was an accident every half mile of so, and the Prius did 'not that bad' in the snow.

Once Martha was home what more could I ask for? A huge snowstorm to dump fourteen inches on us the day before my birthday seemed just perfect.

Jasmine bought me a really cool photo book and I'm so proud of her. It arrived a day early and everything. All in all my birthday was great. I baked my own birthday cake that was so good Martha had two pieces and then passed out with yellow frosting still on her lips.

A new Diane camera is in my life thanks to Martha and I've been shooting with it like crazy. I'm currently out of developer and fix so I have no idea how the little camera is performing, (to me it seems fine), or where the light leaks might be. My chemicals probably won't get here until after Christmas, which sucks and proves that sometimes I really should pay attention to this holiday.

Speaking of Christmas, I have yet to buy one fucking thing for anyone and I'm not really sure what to do about that. At this point in the game, it's almost too late to buy crap online unless I pay crazy shipping. So that means I'm actually going to have to drag my ass out of the house and go into the places that have Christmas music, or excuse me, 'Holiday' music playing. Martha and I decided not to get a tree again this year, because Zoë is such a monster and will not leave any kind of evergreen alone. She is such as suck ass cat that the only foliage I can have is cactus and she tries to eat that. Stupid thing. I've even seen her try and chew on the Christmas lights. Anyway, we are exchanging a few gifts and we do have the outside decorations up but inside, it could be anytime of the year.

Bucktooth Neighbor Wave
Our neighbor across the street is totally obsessed with outside chores. I know this because he is forever making noise and seeing how my studio and the living room face him, well... he bothers me.

In the summer, he was ceaselessly cutting the grass, weed whacking the trim, mulching the flowerbeds and watering. In the fall, he was constantly blowing leaves down the driveway and then into the front yard where he would blow them into a pile. He would then get the lawnmower out and mow it all up. Now, in the winter, I watched him snowplow, salt, shovel, and again snowplow all day Sunday. Every hour he was back outside making some kind of noise interrupting my enjoyment of the hours upon hours of Planet Earth in HDTV that I was engrossed in. That show ROCKS and it rocks real hard on the new TV.

Anyway, Martha and I started talking about what might be going on over there and here are the loose facts. He looks to be around our age. It is his parents' house and they still live there. He moved in around the time we bought our house. My guess was to help with his folks. The mother is almost unable to walk, yet refuses to use a walker. I've only seen her a handful of times and she has the smile of elderly dementia. The father shuffles out every now and then in his slippers to take out the recyclables. There is a sister, who looks to be within a year or two of the brother and she has a little yappy white dog. Cute as could be but it barks at everything, including the wind. The sister only comes around every few months to visit. At one point yesterday, we noticed a kid outside, chipping away at some ice. Not sure where he came from. The house is small, smaller then ours and all one floor, so when everyone is in town, (like now) it must be gaud awful. Mom, Dad, brother, sister, kid and dog. It explains why at one point I looked over and noticed that he was just standing in the driveway holding the shovel. Just standing there, not doing anything but not going inside either. It was 17 degrees outside and he was just standing there.

Oh for fuck's sake. My 45th birthday is this Friday. What the hell? Even Jasmine gave me a wide-eyed look a few months ago when she realized how old I was going to be. I am the youngest parent of all of her friends, except for Weber. Her mother is around my age. Well, it is some kind of milestone I suppose, but for the record, 45 is not the new 35. That is absurd and delusional. 45 is 45 and for some of us, 45 is the new 50.

Jasmine said I was ridiculous and Martha said that once she reached $1000 she gave up on the idea of getting me everything on the list. That's right, I'm talking about my

This is not even the whole thing; this is just stuff that I tag every now and then. I don't understand, doesn't everyone have a huge Wish List? I mean, that is why they call it a Wish List. It's not a shopping list like I make very week for the fricken grocery store. It is a 'if I had money and abundant free time this is what I might buy' list. I actually thought mine was rather small considering how long I've been shoving shit in there. I've always used it as a catch all for things I don't want to forget about. Things I simply must have, (new releases, photo supplies and balls out obsessions), I negotiate with Martha and then go buy them, or...er...I mean, do whatever she tells me to do. :)

Anyway, I thought this was a great resource. Martha was bitching the other day about how I am so hard to buy presents for and with not only Christmas to worry about there was also my birthday. I knew she and Jasmine were conspiring together over what to get me so I thought I'd just send this little list along to help out. Music, books and photography about covers it. I have enough jewelry and knickknacks to choke a horse. Clothing is always an issue, and best left up to just me, alone and cold in some unforgiving dressing room somewhere.

With all this chatter about Wish Lists, it only took Martha a week to get on board as she has made one for herself. Looks like it's not very long before she makes a page two.

The Other Shoe Hits the Floor
Ah yes, but all that laughter quickly ended when a certain letter arrived at the house. Yet again, this Christmas needs to be light but at least this year we know exactly why. Along with my shaky employment outlook, the city of Hudson is raising our tax bill. (They are calling it an adjustment; I am calling it an ass pounding.) For the first two months of next year, we will have to shell out an extra $300 a month (!) and then the rest of the year it goes down to something like $250 or so. I stopped paying attention at the $300 number. Anything other then $20 is too much. What the hell are we paying all this tax for? Jacuzzis and tiered landscaping with white picket fencing for everyone, yippy!

Martha spoke with the tax assessor and after a whole lot of number punching on his trusty calculator he came back with, 'Well you're right in line. The increase is correct."

How can this be? Nothing is selling up here, except large million dollar properties. And THAT, apparently is the problem. Taxes are based on property values and those values are all over the board. The house down the street went into auction in October but the house directly across the street from the auction house is listed for $239,500.

But then you have something like this with a list price of $299,000 but taxes are over $8000? But then this, cute little two-family home, which is what our house is considered to be, listed at $199,000 and taxes at $3,700.

Then almost all the stuff on Warren Street, the main street of Hudson, is listed either right at $1,000,000 or just under it. That's what's selling. The big, big ticket items.

If we were wealthy, and this house that we live in was our second home, you know some part-time, weekend thing, like this which is just down the street from us and cost roughly $340,000 dollars more then our house, then I suppose things like this wouldn't effect us. My Wish List would not be on Amazon it would be on Lonely Planet. In no particular order, Austria, Germany and of course, Prague.

Jasmine and her friend Weber rode for over thirteen hours on an overcrowded Greyhound bus across the state of Pennsylvania, through the bowels of Jersey and directly into NYC's Port Authority on Friday night. They arrived at the edge of Times Square after ten o'clock, hailed a cab and made it to Brooklyn by 11:00, where they were staying with a co-worker and friend of mine in his semi-roach invested (he tries relentlessly to deal but it's the whole building) one-bedroom apartment in the bad part of Brooklyn. You know that area where the trust funded yuppie pups are afraid to live in because it is more Bushwick instead of Williamsburg. It's the part of Brooklyn where his own neighbors call him "white boy" as a term of street endearment, with a slight hint of menace just for shits and giggles.

Saturday morning, Jazz and Weber got up early and headed out for their big day of NYC and the Siren Music Festival. This is one of the main reasons they came here. But first, they had to get on a bus to the subway, MTA is forever fucking with the subway over there and the L Train shuts down on the weekends, so you have to take a bus to the subway.

Once back in Manhattan, Jazz and Weber had lunch at the super model café;, where indeed the people are beyond beautiful. After a few more errands and a quick trip to Times Square and then a stop on Prince Street for a knock-off designer purse, they hopped on the good old F Train to Coney Island. In the five hours that they were at Coney Island, they saw some great music; (Detroit Cobras and M.I.A) from the comfort of the VIP area; road the Wonder Wheel; drank at the backstage open bar; and of course, got a little too much sun. They left before the New York Dolls came on and I completely understand this decision. If you end up staying at Siren to see the last band then you end up waiting for hours to get on a subway. Add that to the hour subway ride back to Manhattan and well, even Jasmine understands that is just too much to put up with.

Jazz and Weber, rode the train back to Union Square where they bought dinner at Whole Foods and ate in the park. After dinner, they jumped back on the L Train, rode that for five or six stops, got off the train and then got on a city bus with everyone else from the subway, and rode that for six or seven stops until finally, they were back at my friends apartment. She called me just before midnight to let me know she was safe. Jasmine had had a fifteen-hour day.

Sunday morning, she and Weber packed up their bags and were waiting for the subway bus by 7:30 am. She took the bus to the L Train, transferred to the E Train and got off at Penn Station where they boarded an Amtrak train for a two-hour train ride to Hudson.

To hang in Jasmines other world must seem like a visit to a foreign country to her friends in PA. This trip alone was the first time her friend Weber had ever been on a Greyhound bus; been to NYC without field trip supervision; been backstage at anything, let alone a massive rock festival or the first time she had ever been on an Amtrak train. Then there is the whole, hanging with Martha and me and all of our well-established middle-age lesbian lifestyle with talks of cats, yoga, the new Prius and chronic back pain.

Martha is having a few issues around letting go. I need to remind her that she managed to sell my Jeep Wrangler, a vehicle I actually really liked until it was stolen and left stripped and foul in an abandon lot in south Newark. Once they fixed it, it did look just like new, the thing just never felt right and the love was gone. Anyway, Martha managed to sell my car, without my signature and buy the Jeep Liberty. She went to work one day in my Jeep and came home with the Liberty. So now, she has to give it up and sometimes, Ms Harvey is only five.

After a long lesson in the Jeep ownership and the newly installed Satellite radio, all four of us went to the Diamond Street Diner for some lunch.

Lots of hugs and photos later there was a ceremonial passing of the keys to Jasmine that looked similar to a knighthood. We went for a test drive to the store for road munchies, then a lesson in gas fill up. Maps and directions, the 'do not drink and drive' talk, oil changes, gas prices, thoughts on keeping it clean and the wearing of seatbelts. I gave Jazz all of my cash and a small drug supply to be used in case of future mental breakdown, magazines, a book, Siren swag and a sleeping bag.

Stories upon stories unfolded and laughter was everywhere but then before I knew it we were driving to the Park-N-Ride for hugs and kisses. Jasmine got back in the Jeep and drove away while I hugged Martha telling her how proud I was of her for letting go of her Jeep.

"That was hard. I deserve a cookie." She said.

I miss Jasmine and four hours is not even close to being long enough time to spend with her. Yes, that was hard, I thought. Happy Birthday, Peanut.

Oh and yeah, one more thing, Jasmine Rai Northrop has a nose ring.

Ah yes, home. Back to my moldy basement and my weird little small town, where they say that the circus spends the winter. I'll believe that. Martha has had a chest cold now for about a week. Cough, cough, cough. Even the cats leave the room. She feels like total shit. Work has reached a new level of yuck and this Thursday is my forty-fourth birthday. Yep, yep. And there it is. If you want to do anything for me, buy a calendar. That's the best thing ever.

Jasmine's hamster died. Actually, I think we are all somewhat glad it finally happened. There was a moment over Thanksgiving that I thought I had killed Leroy. I know something happened to her (yes her, apparently there were some gender issues earlier on in this rodents life) and Jasmine said she never was quite right afterwards but at least it was a week and a half from the event so I could not be blamed directly for ruining Thanksgiving. Nope, not this year.

See, I wanted to hold her—the hamster. A simple request but Jasmine didn't let me know until almost the last second that she had not been picking her up for quite some time. She was old and moving slow and I thought a little love might be nice. I brought my face down to the bottom of the glass cage just as Jasmine was reaching towards her when I noticed that her eyes looked funny. I didn't think she could see anymore, it looked as though there were cataracts covering the eyes. Just when I figured out that Leroy might be a tad more out of it then any of us suspected, Jasmine touched her and she jumped a good seven inches straight up in the air, while turning around in mid-air she tried to bite her. It was all very Matrix like. When she landed on her wood shavings, she bounced once and then fell over on her side, coming to rest like the letter E. It looked like she was dead.

Jasmine ran over to the corner in the kitchen yelling, "Thanks a lot MOM!"

I just sat there staring at Leroy, waiting to see if she was going to move or if she was going to be dead on Thanksgiving, having it be all my fault, of course. My head was spinning with "oh fuck, oh fuck. Na, come on man not today, okay?" I look across the room at Martha, who by now was suddenly engaged in a magazine. After a few seconds Leroy's chest started moving up and down. Okay good, I thought at least she is still alive.

Leroy stayed in the dead hamster position for about an hour when suddenly we noticed that she was moving around in her cage, making her way towards the one corner she seems to favor.

I'm glad she lived past that event and even though Jazz said she was never really quite right after Thanksgiving, (honestly neither was I but for other reasons), she didn't die right in front of us. Instead, I think she had a heart attack, indirectly caused by me. Nice.

Good-bye Leroy, so sorry about all that, you had a great life. Um yeah.

Miss Jasmine's twenty-second birthday is this Thursday. Hard to believe in oh so many ways isn't it? Not sure what her plans are. I know she has friends driving over from Philly to spend the weekend with her so my guess is there will be just general debauchery instead of the extravagance she requested. She is however, excepting donations of no less than $1000.00 per gift giver. Drop her a line and say "Hey".

A DIFFERENT KIND OF HIVE
The new house is coming along and is presently waiting for us to move into it two-weeks from now. I am a little panicky. We have discover wasps living in the gutter right over the side door into the sunroom. This is a major in/out part of the house from the driveway. I'm a little freaked out by it all but Martha has promised me that she will have someone come take care of it before we move in. By the looks of all the massive cans of wasp and hornet bug spray that the Home Depot up there has on display, my guess is that we aren't the only ones being terrorized the second we walk out of our house. I'm already not a big fan of the great outdoors in the summertime and this is just a little much. Flooding, I think is what they call it. Further cracking my mind and making me unable to shut up about it, causing Martha to daydream about putting me down, is what it is doing.

WHEN PARENTS ATTACK
Martha has to go to North Carolina this weekend to deal with her Mom and Dad. Things are... well, not going along in a such a great way. Her mother is running the crazy train and dad is having a little bit of trouble now that he is home. The timing is interesting in that I will have to pack everything. No shit, we move on the 22nd so it has to be this weekend that all packing takes place. It will be a weekend of air-conditioning and overuse of the dishwasher. Oh well, give me enough boxes, tape and bubble wrap and I'll have it all ready to go. After all, I am a professional packer.

I LOVE THE TRAIN
I had a five-hour commute on Friday night that in all honesty struck me as more funny than exhausting. The real buzz-kill was New Jersey transit where I ended up sitting next to a yuppie fuck who farted every few minutes. This went on for over an hour on a train that went no faster then five-miles-an-hour due to train congestion. I could have run along side the tracks at a faster clip then the 5:21 train to Suffern. But the whole train thing started out badly.

I had managed to get to Hoboken via The Path in record time and even considered myself lucky at the quick Path snag. That 9th street station is a heat pit of hell and I didn't have to wait too long for a Hoboken train. In Hoboken, I walked into the train station at 5:10 to buy my ticket to Route 17 and I actually thought to myself how cool it was to be able to catch the earlier train. Just as I started to walk towards the ticket window, things started to twist around. I went to the window just as the announcer started screaming train times over the intercom system. I told the lady that I needed a ticket to Route 17 and I thought she said to me, "You're going to suffer." I just looked at her while she took my seven dollars and handed me a ticket that had no information on it except the words Hoboken and Cancel.

"How do I know what train or what track to go to?" I asked.

She pointed to the TV screen mounted on the wall to my left and said, "You are going to be on the train to suffer." I could barely hear her because of the intercom and the bulletproof glass that she was sitting behind had only one tiny little hole drilled in it for two-way communication.

Confused, I walked over to the TV and noticed a listing for the train to Suffern on track 12. If, in all of my six-years of essentially living in the fine state of New Jersey, had I actually paid any attention to anything around me, (other than Manhattan) I would have already known that there was a town named Suffern.

Feeling super stupid I boarded the train at track 12 and proceeded to sit there for over twenty minutes before the conductor announced the train was out of order and we all needed to mad dash it to track 16. So that is what we did, a whole train full of pissed off Friday night commuters ran to track 16, pushing and shoving each other all over the place and within minutes we were on our way. Things were rather speedy until Secaucus, and then it went to shit. Fart man got on and the train slowed way down. It took me two-hours to get to Martha in northern New Jersey and we still had another hour and a half to go. But honestly, once I got in the car with her, I was fine. I mean she and I are always racing to get home to each other. Once we were in the same place nothing else really mattered, until it got dark and we got off the wrong exit up in the Catskills and bugs the size of small mammals hit the windshield with alarming sounds, but whatever, we'll figure it out.

Jasmine's friend Patrick arrived on time Thursday night despite oversleeping and missing his first bus out of the tiny PA college town he was stuck in for the summer. He managed to bum a ride to the next town over, where he was able to make his connecting bus. There was panic and tension in the air via Jasmine's cell phone Thursday morning, but she remained the calm, levelheaded one. I know, go figure, right? I must say it was impressive to watch. She made me leave my own office because I was making her nervous. Funny, I never think about that. How could I make someone else nervous when the entire world makes me nervous and twitchy?

Patrick spent all of his money on the first day here. It was kind of like when Jasmine got to the beach last summer and rode the boogie board all day long. By dinner time, her legs were mush and she was sun burnt like a five-year old brat, which by the way, was also her mood. The next day, she had to stay inside and could barely walk because she had shin splints.

Ah, yes, memories.

Jasmine, being the most excellent tour guide and obsessive nutbag, took Patrick bong shopping in the West Village, apartment trinkets and fabric shopping in Chinatown, Sushi in the East Village and bright lights and a movie (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) in Time's Square, all in one day. She came home with nothing but still managed to spend all of her money. Patrick came home with a green glass bong as long as my arm.

Okay, here is how Jersey, New Jersey is. The Chart House is a real nice place. It is on a pier over the Hudson and has an amazing view of Manhattan. If you eat there, you will spend roughly, $50.00 per person. Now, I understand that it isn't Manhattan, but for that kind of money one would expect a little bit of dress up from the customers. The five of us looked like movie stars compared to the rest of the room. Or as Patrick said, "We look like we have money." This made me laugh and stuck in my head as something that I just might want to look like more often. Face it, looking rich works.

For me, a clear indication that things are not quite right is when I find myself in the top tier of ANYTHING. Like a well-manicured lawn with weeds every eight feet, Saturday fuck off clothes and casual dress peppered the dining room of The Chart House. Not only were some men not wearing jackets, they were not wearing ties either. I saw women with no makeup and scrunchies in their hair. Some folks didn't even look like they had washed from the days running around. Two of the worst fashion nightmares that night were completely ridiculous. I saw an overweight Jersey girl wearing (very short) silk basketball shorts and a matching colored tank top. And no, it was not a J-Lo thing. It was an "I'm a lazy slob" thing. However, it was the guy with a bright orange tee-shirt with the sleeves torn off that really had my eyeballs. Once the sun went down, I did not notice my fellow diners but for about 30 minutes there, it was a little difficult watching some of those Garden State hillbillies run around the room.

Okay, enough, I'm done. Dinner was fantastic and between Martha, Sheri and myself there are probably over a hundred photos of just Jasmine. That child has had a personal photographer all her life. The flash on Martha's camera kept blinding the staff whenever they walked by and when Jasmine pointed out the we were annoying the people around us, Martha blurted out, "I don't give a shit, if someone wants to pay my bill then I'll be happy to stop."

Present giving is always a gas and this year Martha and I bought Jasmine an iPod. Now, all summer Jazz had been convinced that she was getting one so, in an attempt to throw her off that trail, Martha bought her a Mrs. Potato head. It is roughly the same size box so we thought it might be fun to fuck with Jazz a little. But she had none of it. In fact, she didn't even flinch when she tore off the wrapping paper. She opened the box and proceeded to "assemble" Mrs. Potato head right there on the table. So Martha made the long trek out to the valet parked car to get the iPod (we weren't sure how all of the whole present thing was going to work) and Jasmine played with the potato pieces while her Lava Cake candle burned.

The iPod was a hit and so was all the Emily the Strange paraphernalia and Sephora gift card from Miss Simon. Sheri's gift to us was a big help out on the dinner. Thank God. Martha pointed out that we ALL benefit from the fact that Sheri doesn't have children, yet.

So there was 21. Five days of celebration should be enough for her to remember her 21st, hopefully.

SUNDAY DRIVERS SUCK LIKE US
Getting Patrick out of here was even more panic filled then his arrival. Less than fifteen minutes away from Newark Penn Station, Patrick announced from the back seat of the Jeep that he didn't have his bus ticket. Something about it still sitting on top of the stereo or some such crap. It was 12:50, his bus was to leave at 1:35, and we had already been in the car for twenty minutes. Upon hearing this, Martha pulled a fast run around the block and we got back on the 1 & 9 headed towards home, except it wasn't really the 1 & 9 because coming out of Newark is a very different thing then going into Newark. Instead of highway travel, we were jammed up in local road traffic and not real clear as to where we were going. All we knew is that we had to get back to the apartment and grab that ticket or we were fucked.

Fighting our way through Harrison, Kearny and all the nice little dead body drop-off sections of Jersey City, we finally came to a road we knew. Only then, did Martha's Grand Theft Auto abilities kick in. She opened it up and I helped navigate. From the backseat, Sheri screamed while text noveling notes of terror to someone on the outside. Jasmine and Patrick laughed, bickered and cried out in pain as we slammed over potholes.

We raced all the way through Jersey City, past the old apartment where we almost ran over a realtor standing in the middle of the street holding white balloons and an Open House sign. We flew past the stupid mall and all the families with strollers, rushed by Queen Latifah's recording studio and snapped, like the tip of a whip, around the corner to our apartment building. Martha stopped on a dime and Jazz jumped out of the Jeep and ran into the apartment building, hopped on an elevator and rode up to the eighteenth floor.

Three minutes later, she came running out with the bus ticket in hand and dove into the back seat. Martha hit the gas, whipped the car around the block, up to Grove Street and straight down Erie, past the old apartment and back on the 1 & 9. In seconds we were back over the toxic swamps of Jersey headed towards Newark, it was 1:15. Panic set in when it occurred to us that we just might not make it. If Patrick were to miss this bus, we would have had to drop Sheri off at Penn Station for her train at 2:00 and then immediately begin chasing the bus to the next stop in Stroudsburg, PA.

At 1:25 we went the wrong way past Newark Penn Station and had to drive three blocks out of the way to find the proper One Way street to go back down to it. At 1:30, we pulled into the entrance to The Hilton, which is directly across the street from the bus terminal. We all jumped out of the Jeep, threw Patrick's luggage on the ground, hugged him and then Jasmine walked him over to the bus area, put him in line and told him not to move until his bus came. All of us got back in the Jeep and drove around The Hilton entrance to look for parking so we could walk Sheri to her track. We found parking but upon realizing it was $10.00, we drove slowly around to the very same Hilton entrance and this time we let Sheri out of the Jeep, kissed her and said our goodbyes.

Leaving Penn Station, we went the wrong way towards the 1 & 9 and ended up at Newark Airport, but by that point, no one cared and once we saw the airport, we knew where we were and how to get home from there. At 1:45 Martha, Jasmine and I were riding over the big black 1 & 9 bridge headed towards home. The car was quiet, our land speeds had returned to normal and I slipped into a small coma.

I have now worked every weekend for the past four weeks and I guess you could say I am a little over it. Granted, three of those four were photography based, which is always better than just about anything on the planet. If I would have had to work on Siren again this weekend I would have slit my throat but being forced to joy walk all around Herald Square, (complete with street fair) on a Saturday afternoon was depressing in and of itself. At least I thought it was, but as I found out later, the true meaning of hopelessness lies somewhere between the 4th and 5th floors of Macy's department store. Yup, Jazz and I went there in search of Birthday Dinner Clothing. That was the deal I made with her for being photo bitch on Korea Town. Martha was sick, so Jazz was up, and if she could help me out, then I would let her drag me through Macy's, Urban Outfitters and whatever else she thought necessary. Oh yeah, I had to buy her lunch too but we all need to eat, right? Besides, when I buy lunch I ONLY by Sushi, so I win.

Anyway, clothes shopping in Manhattan, no matter what store, is like a bitch slap from Size 0. Man oh man, the twenty something floor where Jasmine's loser generation shops, is loaded with such head fucking horseshit and relentless pounding beats, music videos, and random bursts of glitter, that I felt like I was inside a drag queen's dressing room five minutes before show time.

Disco hippie sluts shuffled aimlessly about the isles while clacking on neon cell phones and screaming at each other various narratives of the word, no. "No! No Way! Oh My God No Way!" ...and so on. That was all they said to each other, over and over again. I thought that they were just fucking around so I watched them for a few minutes and they were really communicating with each other - somehow. At that very moment, I wished to Christ that I had had a stun gun on me.

Urban Outfitters wasn't much better except that Jasmine knocked over a headless mannequin that hit the floor with a really loud bang and I took a photo of a pair of yellow underwear.

But the real issue here is that Jasmine's Birthday Dinner has been causing us both a great deal of stress. Jasmine's dress up clothes are in storage and she has nothing to wear and I really don't either. Martha is all set because she has a real grown-up job and has real grown-up dress clothes, where as I can/do wear my 'Jesus Loves Me' T-Shirt, grey sweat pants and flip-flops to work. (Now there's a reason to keep I job, I'll tell ya.) I have a few things that are nice but honestly, they've seen too many funerals for me to want to drag them out on Jasmine's 21st. What's more, a little color might be nice, eh?

Saturday shopping was a bust so the problem was still very much alive on Sunday. I suggested we cancel or at least pick something scaled back seeing how a big expensive dinner is costing us more than just the dinner, which Martha is already starting to have chest pains over. Jasmine suggested Chilli's - can we just once, not be such hillbillies? Even if we make Jasmine's friend from college order only from the child's appetizer menu and drink nothing but table water, it is still going to be a crazy money dinner.

But you only turn 21 once, well, at least most of us do, and we should try and make this a swanky thing that Jasmine can then spend the rest of her life trying to obtain for herself, on her own. Right? Besides, it's not a five star place and it certainly isn't Manhattan. It could ALWAYS cost more, baby. It could always cost more.

So Sunday Martha, Jasmine and I spent four hours at a fucking mall in Jersey where Size 0 is routinely used for dusting rags. Martha got red Pumas (not dinner related) and Jasmine got a pair of black pumps that are going to pinch the shit out of her feet. Then, we went upstairs and completely lost our minds. Martha bought two pairs of pants and I got a pink and black poodle skirt with an enormous amount of silver sequence on it and a black sleeveless top. I look like I am ready to go to The Hop and I love it. Jasmine got a lovely black shawl, (yet another one) and a green sequenced camisole with a built in bra that is so strong I would swear the thing is bulletproof.

We then did a total Martha thing and had our eyes examined. Not our brains but our eyes. I haven't had one since I was 17 and guess what? I have perfect 20/20 vision, although it is time for me to start using reading glasses. The whole frame thing was fun, but just about everything makes me look like a cranky schoolmarm. The doctor dilated Martha's pupils and she looked like she was tripping her tits off. Turns out Martha has 20/400 vision and it is time for her to move on up to a progressive lens. The other word for that is a bifocal - for those of us who grew up in a harsher, less politically corrected era. By this point, Jasmine was cranky and sat in the waiting area of the eye doctor eating nachos and bugging whichever one of us wasn't in the exam room about new blue Puma frames for her glasses.

NEXT TIME, WISH FOR A BAG OF MONEY
Ah yes, but the week ahead. Let us see. Jasmine's birthday is Wednesday and a card from Grandma has already arrived. I have the ingredients ready for one of my insane chocolate cakes (with sprinkles). Patrick arrives sometime on Thursday via Greyhound and Miss Simon floats in on Friday. Shit, that reminds me, I need to buy Drano.

I also need to wrap the presents and clean this here shit fest of an apartment. This mostly involves sucking up massive amounts of cat hair. Jasmine found a five-foot wooden easel (about a $500 value) in the trash room on the way back from the grocery store Sunday night. This is a great building for trash-picking; these people are rich and lose interest easily. Backing up here a minute, Jasmine asked me a few months ago for one of three things for her birthday; a personal PlayStation, an iPod or an easel. So now, she has an easel that is currently being stored in our bedroom, 'cause why? Because we are out of room in the rest of the apartment and the last bastion of free space had been the hallowed master bedroom. Unused electronics, two coffee tables, various end tables, bookcases, and now a wished-for easel, fight for floor space with the rest of our lives in the two other rooms. Six more weeks of this, and we will probably bust out of the walls and into the adjoining units. We officially look like an apartment full of hoarders, yard sale crazies, eccentric folk artists, possible thieves or as I like to answer to any multiple choice query; all of the above.

Hot damn, it is The Siren Music Festival time again and every year I always tell myself that somehow, someway, it WILL be different. I will not work on it at home or make myself nuts with the pressure to get it done. Whatever, who cares? It is live and I did it in three days. The band pages are still to come because, ah, well, they haven't announced the bands yet, but at least the site resembles all that expensive marketing material that hits the streets on Monday. This year will probably be extremely huge and it is still a question as to whether I will go or not. Part of me hopes for a hurricane to hit the coast on the 16th just so the crowd will be thinner.

Last year, I sent Jasmine along alone and after the 90 minute travel time from our apartment to Coney Island she fought her way up to the backstage security only to be told that she couldn't enter the roped off area because she was under 21. Did not matter one bit that her name was on the list or that I work for The Voice. So this year she is all ramped up and could give a rats ass if I go or not because she will have turned 21 three-days prior to this free monster of a festival. I am no longer needed because she will be an ADULT, ta fucking da. Well, she still needs me around to sign my name on those student loans and various other things that are not in her field of vision at the current time.

But hey it's no time to be bitter because why, because I'm not going to let any of it bother me. Plain and simple. I have a new Xanax prescription and I cannot seem to stop listening to Johnny Cash. For the moment, life is tolerable.

THE WRONG END OF THE SADIST'S WHIP
Last week, last Friday to be exact, I had a test at St. Mary's Hospital that I swear to the good lord above if somebody ever does something like that to me again I am going to punch them in the nuts. I don't want to go into all the crazy little details, but there was about a two-hour period where I would have given away all my passwords, my social security number and bank card for a little relief. In addition, I would have gladly converted to ANY form of either organized or unorganized religion just to make it all stop. Fuckers, every last one of them, and the only reason I keep going back for more fun at that sadist lab called a hospital is because of Martha and Jasmine.

As you know, or could probably guess, I'm so sick of being sick that I just don't care, but they seem to, so what the hell. I'll chew a pill, find a happy place in my head and try not to lash out at strangers. But Friday was the limit to the amount of bodily discomfort I can put up with.

But last week was just one long continuous game of Wac-a-mole from the start. That's what usually happens when you leave town for a few days and go hang out with people who do nothing but hang out. Life starts to look a whole lot better from the warm brown paneled rec rooms of suburbia.

Suddenly, that fucked up pain in your belly starts to disappear and you are not so concerned about the risk of puking in public. You start daydreaming about crazy stuff like yard sales and backyard gardens, but none of that really matters because for the first time in almost half a year you are unexpectedly relaxed from a no-brainer visit with the folks. Who knew? Another odd thing is that for four-days in a row you were able to take a nap without the aid of a Valium because you forgot to pack the tension claw that usually grips your skull à la one of H.R. Giger's aliens and you could take it all down about a hundred notches all by your big, bad self.

Ah, but upon your return to the homeland the claw awaits you and you will be punished. All fun has a price and we never seem to have enough money.

I LOVE YOU BABY. ALWAYS AND NEVER
For Martha's birthday, along with taking her out to lunch, the folks that she works with gave her a gift card for Target. This could not be any better timing for us. Now, we loath Target, and in fact I used to work at one in Denver about a hundred years ago. (Jesus, talk about depressing. Shit, that could have turned way ugly for a whole bunch of folks if I had been thinking a little clearer.) At any rate, she and I resist Target because everything in the damn store is made in China or some other imprisoned country, for pennies on the shrinking American dollar. And honestly, I'm sick of supporting China's economy. But to actually BUY AMERICAN in this country is expensive and damn near next to impossible. American Apparel is nice and all but a little pricey, and the company has that whole Day-over 18 ad campaign that personally, kind of bothers me in a borderline pedophilia way.

Okay, besides all that nonsense, the point is this; money is too tight right now because of my teeth, the IRS, hotel rooms, gas prices, airport taxis and well, yes, our little TJ Maxx thing. But life keeps spinning out of control and Jasmine needs new clothes. Not just for fun either; she needs the massive makeover for her new job at The Stationary Store. She has to hide those crazy tats and put the butt crack way away. Basically we needed to make her look like the nice young republican that we all know she could have been had her father dug his hooks in a little deeper and I'd had been committed somewhere out west and unable to influence her through democratic witchery. Or so one version of the story goes.

So Sunday, Martha and Jasmine made the quick little drive over to Target, and three hours later she has two skirts, two tops, a pair of pants and a cute little sweater. Nice comfortable lesbian shoes had to be purchased at Payless, but those girls where so on it that they only left fifty cents on the gift card. Awesome shopping and they paid nothing for it except time at Target, which of course we all know is priceless. I stayed home and napped.

I have promised to take Martha to see the new Star Wars in the theater, and yes Jasmine has to come with me, that is the deal. We did not do that this weekend. I didn't promise to wait in any line and I don't think even Martha wants to do that. We did however see Sin City and I loved it. Too much fun and way over the top. Yeah, yeah Star Wars, but Sin City was so strange and absorbing I couldn't stop laughing.

Choosing to be part of the problem rather than part of the solution, Martha and I drove our gas guzzling SUV right through the heart of Pennsyltucky last Friday to pick up princess Jasmine at college and drag her pickled body back home to Jersey City. There is nothing like a road trip akin to that to make a person realize just how much FOX News has a chokehold on the spoon-fed minds of the middle class. Between the Bush/Cheney bumper stickers tastefully displayed on various shades of deep red Buick LeSabres and the 'Support Our Troops' magnetic yellow ribbons slapped on the ass of the basic Ford Taurus, it was hard for me to gauge which one bothered me more. It was easy to tell however which one drove Martha crazy. Every time a we came upon a Bush/Cheney sticker (and there were PLENTY of those, let me tell you) Martha make a 'Uch' sound and flipped into road rage mode as she would flick on the blinker, hit the gas and zoom around them. Those cars can only appear in the rearview mirror.

Ah yes, but Pennsyltucky is almost the same as I left it, a complex five years ago, only now, more of why I left is on display everywhere. One could not help but notice under the deep blue skies and shining sun, flags as big as my entire living room whipping around passionately in the wind as fat-as-fuck natives shuffle between Wal-Mart and Eat-N-Park, their eyes dilated from constant hording.

But back to the task at hand. We made good time getting to Jasmine's small college town and without much fan fair, thank god, we actually moved her out of her dorm and into a storage space under the four-hour allotted timeframe. We even met one of her hippie chick friends (Yes, I got a photo) who was in the process of moving to California. But really the big thing for Martha was the Friday night dinner where we could talk about the "New House Rules" for the summer. All very exciting for Martha but not so much for Jasmine, who tends to get frumpy whenever ANYTHING changes. Turning Jasmine on to closed caption instead of blasting the volume on the TV is going to be hard, but I think it's a good way for her to learn to read.

Traveling in true lesbian form, we needed to stop at the grocery store twice for just an overnight stay. Ah well, there is shit you need and then there is the shit you forget to bring. Besides, who knew our hotel room had a refrigerator? And sweet Jesus, where else could I stand in line at the Bi-Lo and listen to Aerosmith's Lick and Promise while waiting to purchase fat free half-n-half and crossword puzzles. Well, maybe in Ohio, which makes sense if you think about it because those borders do touch. This explains why while I was in line, singing along with Steven, I had a flashback to the summer of 1976 when I spent a few months sniffing glue with a small group of dope fiends that I met in summer school. We would go over to the hardware store next to the Harley shop and buy a big tube of white airplane glue, always making sure to get a brown bag at checkout so we have something to squeeze the goo into. Then, we would scurry off behind the condos on Montgomery Road where the woods was thick and dark. So thick that the sun hardly passed through the trees and the forest floor was covered in cool sweet moss. It was the summer of the Bicentennial and the Seven Year Locust and those crazy bugs were everywhere in the woods, clicking away all around us as we sniffed glue and fried our brains.

Funny what a song can do, eh? It's like one big smear of the bizarre. No wonder I have a tumor.

The drive home was enchanting for about thirty minutes in that I met a friend's mom in Milton, PA where we picked up a wall clock and a bread maker. Weirder small town photo stuff is really the driving force here but Milton was quaint without the usual past religious percussion vibe that most small towns in PA seem to carry. After that, it was around three hours of nothing but studying the black crows hanging out in the barren trees of the Pocono's all along the side of interstate 80, patiently waiting for the next road kill. I guess they view the highway as a 24/7 deli. Just sit and wait, any minute now something is going to try to cross the road. Why do they do it? Only the crows know.

THE WEEKS LIST
What weekend isn't complete without a little trip up the road for some barium and meat? I have to have yet another CT scan at 8:15 Monday morning so Sunday is berry flavored Barium Sulfate Suspension day and we need to go to the grocery store. The chores of life even on Mother's Day.

I spent $700 at the dentist last Thursday where I had to get nine (9) shots of some kind of crap I need to counteract the damage that the tumor and blood pressure medicine are doing to my teeth. My stomach has been killing me for about a week, I have no idea why, probably nerves, but fuck if not one thing would do the job and make it stop. I am actually thinking of drinking whisky just to see if that still works. It was only when I was at the dentist and I accidentally swallowed a big lump of topical novocaine that it eased up for a few hours. The cramping and nausea returned for the following two days but for those few hours it was great.

Big, big week here and only two days of it are going to be spent at work. Aside from the awesome CT scan with 1 mil cuts of my pesky adrenal gland, Martha and I are traveling to NC to visit her unbelievably old but totally inspiring parents. They are both 85 and an absolute joy to be around. I cannot wait to see them. The whole deal down there is so low key that the only big thing of every day is lunch. I'm going to read, nap and laugh my ass off because they are a riot. Actually, it's the three of them, Martha and her parents, that is where the laughter and the love is crazy fun.

Wednesday is Martha's 42nd birthday. She opened her brand new digital camera on Saturday night after we came home. A good chunk of Wednesday will be spent dealing with more doctor horseshit but I hope I can at least take her out for dinner or something.

I do think that Sheri had a good birthday despite the fact the both Martha and I had to work on Friday. Sheri and Keri went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the Diane Arbus exhibit, which we were all going to do on Saturday but honestly, I have had enough of weekend exhibits and should probably stay away from all that horseshit until I am not so god damn sensitive. Sheri and Keri also went on over to Nassau Street for Japanese massages and Martha and I rounded out their day with Sushi at home.

It is very nice to know that I can still make Sheri laugh her ass off with my tall tales and even after all these years she still lets me be my most boisterous self with almost little to no eye rolling.

On Saturday, Martha and Keri got a Sharon Stone Sphere era haircuts and Sheri bought four new tires at Pep Boys. I suppose there are worse birthday presents to buy yourself. Sheri and Keri got a flat tire outside of Baltimore on the way here. Seeing as this was the same tire that Martha and I followed to the beach last August when we first noticed that it was a little low, I am surprised it lasted this long. I am even more surprised that they drove on the spare for another three hours but what the hell do I know, I don't even drive.

Here is the difference between us and them. A flat tire would have flipped me out. I would have lost it and it would have been the most detailed, long-winded story of survival known to man if it would have happened to us. Sheri and Keri, not so much. Keri's shirt was dirty and Sheri was not fazed at all. I would be a raving lunatic, Sheri not one bit.

I did not leave the apartment from Friday night until Sunday afternoon around 12:30 when we all drove over to Pep Boys to pick up Sheri's car and say good-by in the parking lot and even though I slept almost all of Saturday away, quite a few of my inside activities were delightful.

I spent a wonderful few minutes ogling over this. The article on purses is great but the multimedia slide show is so much fun. I also enjoyed a quiet morning deep reading Keri's Davis Drug Guide for Nurses, studying up on all my medications, Martha's medications and medications I want to be on. Just like a candy list. To me, the thing reads like the Godiva Chocolate Guide that is complete with Live Assistance Mon-Fri: 10am-10:30pm EST; Sat-Sun: 10am-6pm EST. The Nurses Drug Book comes with a CD and has the 'Do not crush, break, or chew caution statements' for each drug. A vital thing for me to be in the know about.

The four of us hung out mostly in my teenage bedroom/office, telling stories, shooting Polaroids, 120 film and a few silly digital. I worked on a small number of things with this here site. Silly stuff like, reformatting the Journal section, designing a new Holga section and trying to write this weird little story about my 21st birthday. Martha bought me the most beautiful tulips when she was out and we all agree that her new haircut is the total shit. She does look great and all weekend I kept mistaking her for Sharon Stone.

On Sunday, I finally did my nails my favorite blood red, it was a wonderful girly weekend, and when it came time to go, Keri thought she was going to puke. Seriously, head between knees type of shit. I had to give her (diet) Sprite and pretzels. I take this as the highest form of complement. But the real fun thing was Sunday night a really, really bad Sharon Stone movie was on. So of course, Martha and I suffered through The Quick and The Dead, for the second time in our lives. We actually went to see that thing in the theater, if you can believe it. She claims to have no memory of it, oh but I do. Bad movie, very bad movie. But Sharon Stone was nice and why that didn't kill her career, I will never know.

STILL ON A DEAD LINE
I am so not looking forward to Tuesday. That is the day that I am having the yucky test. Also known as 'Catheter in My Groin Day', I think I can honestly say that I would rather be at work and Tuesday is deadline day. While I am not really sure what all they are planning on doing to me, Keri told me that I am going to have to keep my leg straight for 4-6 hours until the vein heals together. Otherwise, I might pop it open and well I guess it would be a blood fest. That is kind of scary. Not the blood part but the assumption that I'm going to be able to sit still for any length of time even if you decorate it with 'you might bust out a vein and bleed to death'. I have no attention span and forget simple shit that was told to me five minutes ago. They better just go ahead and tie that leg down. And oh yeah, I have a list of drugs that I want them to give me for this stupid test. I don't want to know a damn thing that is going on.

All girls should be so lucky. Flowers were coming out of my ass on my birthday and I loved it. I have two dozen gorgeous white roses at home that Martha gave me and are destined for the Christmas tree. There is also another dozen of elegant white roses at Miss Simon and the Fabulous Keri sent up from the swamps of DC. Those too, are intended for the tree. Three dozen white rose for the tree is going to look awesome. I haven't seen this much floral activity in the house since Jasmine worked at that fucked up flower shop.

At work, my friend Melissa sent me a sweet bouquet of orange tulips, pink and cream roses and a big white poof ball thing of flowers. They smell so good and it has completely changed the dynamic of the office space that I share with five geeky men. Even my boss stepped in and bought me a wild and crazy bag of tulips that are just busting out all over the place.

I must say I like having flowers everywhere I look. I remember when I first moved here the one thing that I immediately noticed was the fresh flowers that are on almost every corner. I told myself that from that moment on I was going to have flowers on my desk at work all the time. I did it for a while when I worked at Zefer but after a six-month bout of unemployment and the massive pay-cut of my current job, flowers are kind of an extra thing.

It is funny though, in less than a week, we go from two little half dead plants in the apartment to a huge evergreen and a bouquet of flowers in every room. It's kind of what is going to happen with people this weekend only in floral form. Jen from Pittsburgh is coming into town on Friday and then Jasmine comes home on Sunday. A person and a bouquet for every room of the apartment - so not like us at all.

BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME
Martha and I have been clanging around the house all by ourselves for the past four months and it sure has been nice and quiet. About two weeks ago, I noticed that Martha had started watching really stupid TV. Like Entertainment Tonight kind of stuff. Not all night but for about an hour or so, she would watch something about Hollywood stars and bling, bling with the volume a little louder than normal. My best guess as to what might be going on is that she was subliminally prepping herself for Jasmine's three-week holiday visit. I mentioned this to her during a commercial and we laughed but she did not change the channel.

The new plan for getting Jasmine out of the backwoods of Pennsylvania and back to a major metropolitan area where she can eat sushi and record shop is for her to take a bus with a friend to Jim Thorpe and Martha and I will pick her up on Sunday. (I cannot believe she met someone from Jim Thorpe.) A little day trip might be nice if it doesn't snow.

Miss Simon did a wonderful thing on her site for my birthday as did Ms. Harvey. Martha's ability to not only take photos but also post them on the Internet(s) has left me feeling weird about my image. I guess that is what all that bitching was about when I first started taking photos and posting them eh? Well, I will just have to get over it just like 'most' of my family has.

I have bought exactly two Christmas presents but I am way ahead in the wrapping paper game. Every year I spend at least sixty dollars on special papers, ribbons, and general crap that ends up either on the tree or halfway down my cat's throat. But his year I've got the dazzle but not the presents. This means (oh God) that I just might have to go the MALL this weekend.

SPEAKING CLEARLY IS NOT NECESSARY
I have been avoiding my doctors. Why? Well, because I can. I don't know I was supposed to call the one back on my birthday and I just could not. I wanted a break from all the mind numbing talkie talk. I need another scan and I am just a little sick of all of it.

Wednesday I got a bill in the mail, correction I got a statement the said "This is not a Bill" from Christ Hospital. The total for the radiation crap that I had done was TWELVE-THOUSAND dollars. Oxford, my insurance provider and name currently at the top of my Christmas shit list, is denying the claim because they said that I did not have pre-approval. Christ hospital would not have let me in the fucking door without a pre-approval form. They admitted me to the hospital, are you fucking kidding me people? I was a PATIENT. Oxford can suck it out of my ass. They sent the approval and now are saying they did not. This sent me into a hyperventilation fit, which in turn scared Martha and the cats. I am surprised that it has taken this long for the insurance bullshit to start. They waited until they had a really big bill to pull this bate and switch. A little old CT scan or even the MRI did not cost as much combined as that nuclear test. Any day now, I should get a piece of mail that says "Please Pay This Amount" on it.

Some of the best birthdays are the ones that I can't seem to remember that well. I was either too young or too fucked up but I do remember thinking at the time that these were great days regardless of whatever distorted reasoning's.

Over thirty, birthdays are a time of reflection but at a young forty-two, I already have entirely too much thinking going on in my life. Does everything have to be so dreadfully serious? One of the best birthdays that I ever had was my fifth and all that happened that year was my Aunt Virginia and Uncle Johnny came to town and we went out to dinner. But the little details from that day are what make it a great day.

It was 1967 and my Aunt had given me a mod-orange, yellow and brown dress. The sleeves were puffy and made of translucent chiffon. The hemline hit mid-thigh and I loved it. She gave me a pair of white go-go boots to complete the ensemble. I'm surprised I didn't pass out. Maybe I did, I can't remember but I do remember sticking my left foot in that boot and zipping up the zipper to my knee. You couldn't have smacked that smile of my face no matter what.

From that moment on, my Aunt Virginia was the best person in the world. Aunt Virginia and Uncle Johnny were not actually related to me. They were friends of my parents and soon after my fifth birthday I didn't' really see them too much. By the time we had moved to Ohio they were just a memory in the house. Most of my parents' personal friends fell out of flavor after a few years but the business, country club friends stayed around much longer. I think it is directly related to anyone who actually came to the house. Once inside folks didn't seem to eager to come back around.

For my birthdays mom would buy a Pepperidge Farm frozen 3-Layer Vanilla cake with white icing and write Happy Birthday on it. Sometimes, she would make red flowers or there might be candles. Mom had convinced herself that I was allergic to chocolate so she would only give me vanilla anything. Easter candy was either pure sugar balls or chocolate vanilla - a total joke with the use of the word chocolate. All store bought cakes, cookies, milk and any desert item was vanilla. Halloween, well almost all of it was thrown out. I didn't have my own freewill with chocolate until I was a teenager and by then I was into a whole other kind of candy. In fact, I'm not really a candy person. Oh now I can motor through a box of Godiva dark chocolate truffles just as well as the next crazy bitch but 'candy' has never interested me. But I do make a wicked double layer chocolate fudge cake.

But back to my fifth birthday. That night we all went to the country club for dinner. I wore my new dress and boots regardless of the arctic wind coming off of Lake Erie. The maitre d' sat us next to a table where identical twin girls were sitting with their parents. I was mesmerized. I had never seen twins outside of the Ed Sullivan show and I could not stop gawking at them. They had long blond hair and matching black velvet outfits. And they were about my age. This blew my mind. Mom and Dad bitched at me all through dinner to stop staring at them but I couldn't. Besides they didn't care, they kept giggling and waving at me. I had bright red hair and that was something they had never seen before other than Bozo the Clown and THAT was assuming they had a color TV at their house. Most people didn't in 1967. We had our own little Carney show and if all of the adults would have just backed the fuck up and let the natural weirdness of children take place it all would have been fine. Instead, my parent s bitched at me and their parents bitched at them. No one had a good time except the three of us.

LIFE IN A LETTER
Sunday morning I was digging around in my old photo albums, the whole memory kind not the arty farty o