Holly Northrop Blog

The Hudson Artswalk is the 10th -13th this weekend. Come up or down or all around if you can. I have five pieces in the main gallery and three pieces at the CCCA Gallery space for the Hang Dog Show. Martha has four pieces in the main gallery also. Here's how queer we are. We volunteered this year but the stipulation is that we have to sit together. Lesbians.

I'm in another show in Texas. I wish I could see that one. It's a life after death themed show and I have three pieces hanging down there. One is The Cross at Ground Zero, another is of a grave I shot at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn and the other one, check this out, is of my dead mother in her casket. Yep, I went there. It's a great shot, so there. This holiday season is the five-year mark of her death and somehow it seemed fitting. The fact that I'm writing this on the exact day that my father died nine years ago is even weirder.

But anyway...moving on.

I never say this but it would be nice to sell something. Probably not the print of my dead mother but still there are other things that are not so disturbing, sort of. But it's not really a selling kind of time is it? We are all hording our money. Hell, I've turned into my grandma Schneider. Every day I tell Martha to withdrawal everything, bring it home, we will hide it all over the house and bury it in canning jars in the yard. Fuck them. Fuck the bankers of the world. The banking industry has NEVER been good to me.

I have all these projects that I'm trying to work on but doctors appointments and a general case of the head crazies have been prohibiting me from focusing on them. I want to make my yearly calendar, and oh, by the way they are no longer free to friends this year. Sorry but times are fucked and I am unemployed. If you want to do something helpful and you still have a job, buy my calendar.

I'm also trying to gather prints for a book, two books really. One would be a large photo book of my work and the other would be a smaller portfolio type book. I so need to update my design portfolio website and blah, blah, blah. I'm the busiest unemployed person I've ever known.

For about the past year, our sunporch has been slowing crumbling back into the earth. Now, when someone mentions that they have a sunporch it implies that they have a wonderful space with sundrenched-whitewashed floors and gentle breezes of lavender scented happiness that floats through pale yellow window sheers. Fluffy white pillows cover an inviting whicker-seating collection and beautiful dark green palms create pockets of cool shade.

The reality of our sunporch is much, much different.

To begin with, we use it as the main way in and out way of the house. More like a mudroom. The door is fucked up from when I had to push the screen in to unlock the door when we locked ourselves out. The weather stripping is coming off the bottom so when you open the door there are strands of rubber hanging off the door. Kind of like a rubber tire that has exploded on the highway.

The floor had hideous, and I do mean hideous, wall-to-wall teal colored indoor-outdoor carpeting. The previous owners even covered the red brick steps with it. The carpet was filthy, seeing how I had never cleaned it; not once in two years. Because there was a feeding station in there, the whole room smelled of warm cat food, regardless if the windows were open or not.

But the windows are cool, kind of an old 50's slat type. Each window has about fifteen slats of glass that open outward, but tilt down, so that even in a thunderstorm, it never rains in.

Oh but the water has been traveling through there in other ways. Ways I didn't even know about until we had the floor ripped up. Apparently, there has been a small stream running through it to the back of the house for about ten years. The good news is that under all that carpet and rotten plywood, there was an actual cement floor. It does have a rather large crack in it, but with a new layer of cement, some paint and new baseboard all that we will have to deal with is repainting the walls.

It's not like we actually have any money to do this shit. But we have to. The floor in front of the door was falling in because the water was rotting it out. Another winter and one frozen ice ball would have made it impossible to open the door. That would have been fun to come home to some cold dark night.

We had to get the tree in the backyard trimmed otherwise when the ice comes, and you know it will, some of the large droopy branches would most certainly have snapped and demolished the garage. Again, an interesting thing to either, come home to, wake up to, or watch happen.

We had to get new gutters because we barely made it through last winter. The three-foot long ice daggers that hung twenty feet above the front door last year, would have killed someone this year. And my god, what a fucked up thing to come home to, wake up to, or watch happen.

Something is wrong with my hands.. It's the only explanation for the recent rash of droppings I've been experiencing. In addition to dropping the Horizon camera a few weeks back, I dropped the Russian Kiev in front of the owner. Thank god it only fell about five inches, but it was directly in front of her and landed on her desk. It had the lens cap on and everything was ok, but it is moments like that when I really hate myself.

Then Saturday, while trying to buy a small bushel of tomatoes from a local vendor I dropped a tomato on the ground. Then when the kid handed me back my change I dropped that on the ground.

"It's like what my football coach says to me, 'I've seen better hands on a clock.'" He laughed at me.

Ha ha, funny kid.

And I dropped my iPod while I was on the treadmill. The damn thing shot out behind me and hit the wall. It's fine because it has no moving parts. Kind of like my brain.

Speaking of brain drain, I have been summoned for Jury Duty. This makes the third time in my life that this has happened and all three times have been when I was unemployed.

The first time was in DC of all places. The trial was about a visitation violation and the rights of the father to enforce a previous court order for the wife to allow him to see his kids. Not so funny timing seeing how that was when I was in the middle of dealing with my own visitation issues with Jazz's father.

The second time was in Jersey City. That really should be all I have to say about it. Jury Duty in Jersey City was mindless for three days on end. The first two days I sat on a hard wooden bench in an airless room with roughly 200 of my fellow citizens. It sucked and as a race, we suck. The third and final day I was pulled into a jury pool and for several hours feared that I might actually make it into a trial but they managed to pick enough people before it got down to me.

This time, I'm not so sure. It's Hudson and there are only about 5,000 of us. I'm guessing they need just about everyone they pick. My only hope is that there is a light caseload or that things are real simple. What do you figure; most of the cases around here are either a domestic, drugs or robbery. Why go to trial on any of that? Just fess up to your retardation and pray you get a good judge. Upstate is the land of penitentiaries, no one has time for stupid shit. If you hit someone, sold crap to someone or stole from someone, just fucking admit it and let the rest of us move on with our lives.

Now, if it's something more then that, well, I walk a fine line between harsh language and kill the fucker mentality.

I'm real simple; if you hit your girlfriend/wife/mother of your child, you are guilty and should go to jail and your girlfriend/wife/mother of your child, should receive a new identity and job training.

If you abuse an animal, I fucking totally hate you. You are guilty and you should die.

If you are a republican and commit some kind of white-collar fraud, you are guilty and should go to a regular jail and you should have to work in the regular jail while all of your assets are liquidated and you FOREVER will have some kind of wage attachment.

If you sold drugs, I am extremely flexible as to the circumstances surrounding that.

Growing pot? Please, why are we here?

Meth? Stop it, stop it, stop it. Drug treatment for the rest of your life. Because you are going to need it.

If you are a woman and get busted selling drugs for your jackass boyfriend/husband/baby's father, then you should not only testify against him but also receive drug counseling, job training and some kind of therapy.

If you just so happen to kill your boyfriend/husband/baby's father because he beats the shit out of you on a pretty consistent basis, then fuck him. You get a walk, job training and some kind of major therapy.

I guess my real point here is that I have an open bias against men. Whatever. I am not just bias against men because of my sexual preference but because of the percentage of horrible things they are responsible for. Oh sure woman do shit but in much smaller numbers and it is almost always personal and quiet. They usually use posion, tend to kill what they love, hardly ever start wars or destroy employees trust and 401K accounts because of greed.

Should be a good time.

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.

Big fun news: I was accepted into two (2) shows last week. One is up here in Hudson at the Limner Gallery for a show titled 'Art Biologic'. The opening is May 3rd, 4-6pm and the show runs to May 24th. I have one piece in the show that is a little different then I usually hang. Come on up to Hudson if you want to see some art. It's First Saturdays' and all the galleries will be open late.

The other one is in Johnson City, Texas for a show titled 'Urban Ambience: Scenes from the City' at the Watson Studio Gallery. The opening is April 19 and runs until May 24. I have two pieces in this show (#42 & 43). So if you are in Texas...

And then finally I am in a current show in Jersey titled: 'Is it possible to make a photograph of New Jersey regardless of where you are in the world?' (Great Idea) Link is here but know that it is a rather large .PDF and takes a few minutes to fully load. All the photos are awesome and my piece is on page 19.

Busy, as a beaver, yes I am. I am submitting to three more shows, and well, we will see how that all goes. A while back Martha joked, but half-seriously, that I should get an intern. As truly funny as that is, she's kind of right.

Some friends of ours just had their first baby. Well, probably their only but anyway, they are brand new parents and congratulations to them. Welcome to the rest of your life.

Speaking of forks in the road, (or is it in the head?), Jasmine comes home for a quick weekend visit. She's going to play Photo Bitch for me on Saturday while I shoot a dear friend of mine and his fiancée in various locations in Manhattan. Should be fun and exhausting at the same time, hence the need for Photo Bitch. Jasmine is bringing a friend, (Weber) so the Photo Bitch has an assistant.

I get to use Martha's new camera. It is a digital world after all but I'll still shoot a few moody black and white holgas because that's just the way I am: moody black and white. Oh and the new printer came and man it is beautiful. Just simply stunning. Thanks babe.

When you buy a house, it never stops. The siding people have to come back to finish up the shit they should have done in the first place. There are holes and some of the siding trim is popping off. Needless to say we are not happy and I think if one more thing goes wrong, Martha is going to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau.

The floor in the sunroom is buckling. Not sure why or what the fuck is going on but I can't wait to find out. If we don't fix it, pretty soon we won't be able to open the door.

Our taxes went up again. This makes the umpteenth time they have raised them and so far, our tax bill has tripled since we moved here two years ago. We are going to have to file a grievance, (that should be fun) but how in hells bells can it be normal to pay $8,000 a year in taxes?

And you know it you love it, the wasps are back. The bug guy will be notified. Those bugs are straight from hell and for whatever reason they love our house. I did however find some sick comfort in watching them build a massive hive in our neighbor's attic. They work with military precision. Martha said we should send them over to Iraq. While I shouldn't have watched it, (the hive is about thirty feet from our kitchen window) I couldn't look away. It was like the live National Geo channel.

And while I'm thinking of nasty wasps; worrying about speaking badly of a former employer is not such a problem when that employer is doing just a fine job all by himself. I'm just so very, very glad that I no longer work for them. It would be too embarrassing to say, 'Oh yes I work for this racist, good-old-white-boy Arizonian jackass, who while excepting and award, had no problem using the "N-word" in front of a room full of Professional Journalists.' Reporters who report, and did report and in some cases even video taped the whole nasty event. This is the same ignorant jerk who just one week prior to shooting his fat mouth off received an Civil Libertarians award from the ACLU.

Wow, and wow. Old news, seeing how it happened last Thursday. It has already circled the blog world about a zillion times, but the whole thing just makes me sad. I have a real problem when a former employer drops the "N-word" on camera and gives a snarky apology as an afterthought.

The siding people are still in our lives and with only being able to work one to two days a week due to weather, it's anyone's guess as to when they'll finish up. We start week three this week, and I'm kind of getting used to having them around.

Last Thursday at the end of the day, the foreman and I were standing on the sidewalk looking at the front of the house when I commented on how great it looks, how it was really coming along.

He turned to me and said, "Yeah, you know all day people have been driving by real slow, checking it out. One guy even drove by then turned around so he could look at it again."

I looked at him and laughed, "Dude. People have been doing that since the first day you were here and ripped the shit out of it, making it look like a baked potato."

Ah yes, but we're not finished yet. The other night the winds were so high that more shit flew off the house and landed in our neighbor's yard. Nice, real nice.

Three weeks ago, the only restaurant that Martha and ever go to closed for a three-week holiday. As the weeks pasted by, Wasabi's lights were dark and Martha and I were lost. Every Friday night, we go to Wasabi and have a little bit of sushi and laughter. It's our thing and now our thing was on vacation.

Two weeks ago we thought we might try another restaurant, but all we ended up doing was driving around, giving up and then going home. Pathetic, we know, but we didn't want over priced Italian food, which in Hudson there are three of those places. The Mexican place is always crowded and included in your overpriced meal is unusually snotty service. The last time we were there they sat us next to a table full of children under five with the kitchen door at my back. After the hostess tossed menus at us we looked at each other and decided to go. We just walked out.

The diner closes at 8:00, strange for a diner, but not for this town. Hudson is more of a daylight kind of thing. There are several places to eat and have coffee when the sun is in the sky but at night, not much moves around out there except for deer, cats and an occasional crack dealer over on State Street.

But Valentines day brought along total happiness. Not only was Wasabi open but I got a t-shirt from The Elephant Sanctuary and my Polaroid film from Austria finally came.

I bought Martha the translated from German version of Arthur Schopenhauer's The World As Will and Representation, In Two Volumes: Vol. I. It's so intense and so very, very dark that just looking at the cover brings me fear, loathing and a heavy sense of nothingness. But hey, that's what she wanted. Nothing says love like deep dark German philosophy.

But back to happy thoughts. The super big thing that happened is that Martha had HDTV installed in the bedroom. Ha! This all started when months ago she bought the big TV for the living room and had HDTV hooked up in there. Suddenly, I was out there all the time making her watch stuff like Arcade Fire on Austin City Limits. But now, I can go in the bedroom, leaving her free to watch all The Family Guy she can handle.

We went to the mall on Saturday and I think I've figured out the best way for me to stomach that shit is to go straight there from therapy. If I spend an hour, digging deep into the crazy cracks of my brain, then go directly to a mall, it is several hours before I even realize that we are nothing but a society of consumer zombies and start cursing at the air. So with all that brain down time, we were able to get shit done.

We spent an hour in the Verizon store buying new cell phones and I did not freak out about it. Our cell phones have been an issue for months. We've been paying $89.00 a month for roughly ten minutes of cell phone usage. AT&T was totally ripping us off and because we were not on a contract anymore, they could not give a shit about us. Every weekend I would back out of the mall idea, but not this time. This time Martha just drove there and so the whole Verizon marathon was a breeze. Well, sort of. Nothing is really ever a breeze but let us just say I did not add to the situation, as I have been known to do.

After the Verizon thing, when I normally would have demanded we leave, instead we walked down the mall way to the overcrowded Apple store to check out iPods for Jasmine. Super long muddy Jasmine story made short; her roommate had a party with a bunch of people that Jasmine did not know. She left the apartment to drive a friend home and when she returned, the people were gone as was her iPod.

Jasmine told me this several months ago and she begged me not to tell Martha, which I agreed to because, well she fucked up and I see no need to underscore certain things in Martha's eyes. It was Martha's idea to buy her that iPod for her 21st birthday so I felt it would hurt her feelings to know that it was stolen.

Because my child is so very horrible at keeping a secret that is told to her, (she can't even keep her own secrets) while she was on the phone with Martha she got all blonde and let it slip that she no longer had an iPod.

"So, I was thinking, when I get my tax rebate can I use that to buy an iPod?"

Martha was like; "...wait what, hold on. What happened to your iPod." And so on...

This is the exact same way that I found out Jasmine was still working at Staples after she told me she quit— like we agreed that she would do so she could FOCUS ON SCHOOL. A few weeks went by and forgetting all about the little fib, she told me one Saturday night she was tired from working. A few weeks went by and forgetting all about the little fib, she told me one Saturday night she was tired from working.

[Insert a long heavy sigh here.]

Martha, being the nice one of the two of us, wants to buy her a new iPod for her 24th birthday. I don't want to buy her anything until I see a diploma.

The big news around here last week, (aside that the upstairs toilet is now fixed and I got a new hand mixer), was that I finally managed to deal with my photo room. I still haven't filed negatives in over a year but at least I've cleaned the room out and made stacks of negatives to file. Big difference. I did manage to file all of my prints and either throw out all the used X-Acto blades or put the clean ones far away from my wrists. (Oh I'm kidding.) Now I just need to, put on some music, sit down and file for a day.

I also threw out a shit load of trash. Not garbage, but stuff I've been dragging around with me for decades and Christ did that feel good. Emotionally draining but good nonetheless. I wouldn't say that I am a hoarder but I do hang on the weird shit. Some of it is so strange that I can't even remember why I kept it in the first place.

I did however find some cool things amongst the troubling wreckage of my mind. I finally hung up an old Breeders poster over my computer and I hung a really cool thing that a friend from work made me. The Voice as an old school rolodex that has been in the building for decades, in fact I think it is almost as old as the archives library. The rolodex is renowned and some would even say that it is just as famous as the names and numbers inside it. The rolodex sits in the photo department and every now and then, it is fun to spin the wheel around and see who you will get.

My friend pulled a few cards out and made an 11 x 17 Xerox for me. On it is John Water's Maryland phone number, Andy Warhol, Arthur Miller, Robert Mapplethorpe and Abbie Hoffman's old phone numbers and addresses. There is Anne Leibowitz's Manhattan studio number and even the address for Los Alamos. Jessie Jackson's card has various numbers and I also have Tim Russart's DC address and number. Plus, all of Hustler Magazine's Ohio/LA contacts and numbers. It's awesome and I hung it in the darkroom.

The fall leaves up here are ridiculously beautiful. Martha and I went shooting last weekend and the stuff I got was just gorgeous. It finally feels like Halloween. I think this will be the last weekend for color shooting before I get in my moody black and white mode. Speaking of moody black and white, the opening for the Hudson in Black & White show is this Saturday at Time Space Limited. It starts at 5:00 and I have eleven pieces in it; the most I've shown outside of our house in quite awhile. Last Friday, Karen and I ran the order and it really is a great looking show. Plus the folks over there are nice so it's not so draining to be there. I actually felt good. Shocking I know.

We will Win the Lottery the Day Before the World Ends
Sunday morning Martha started freaking out about money. Money is always an issue, no matter what is going on, but lately things have been a little extreme. It seems like everything costs more. Food, gas, heating, the car payment, the cost of Feline Greenies, it was enough to make her flip out before 8:30 Sunday morning. Not a good thing, I tell you. There is nothing I hate more then having the 'Money Talk', let alone having it before I've even finished my first cup of coffee. I look at it like this; she and I have always been behind some kind of money eight ball. The names of the problems change, (except for Jasmine, that one always stays the same) but the issues are still identical. Instead of credit card dept, we now have insurance dept, which I think is a better tradeoff but it still costs a shit load of money to have life and long-term care insurance. I'd rather be paying for that instead of a Macy's credit card, right?

Anyway, I think I'm going to start playing Mega Millions twice a week instead of just on Tuesdays. It can't hurt, well the extra dollar and all but still.

The show in Hudson for the ArtsWalk 2007 was a pretty big hit. Of course I obsessed about my placement, (there was unusual window glare and you could hardly see my stuff) but once the sun went down things looked much better. But you know, the curator in me would never have hung the photography in that space. Almost all of the work was framed in glass and there were too many windows in the area. I would have put paintings or other non-reflective work in there and hung all the glass-covered stuff in the makeshift darkened spaces. I cannot help myself this is just the way I think. It wasn't just my work that was having a bad glare day.

Martha and I loitered near my stuff, watching folks check out the work. Martha had work hanging too but because I'm am a selfish bitch we stayed near my stuff. It's an odd feeling watching someone stare at something I made. Probably something I'll never get used to. All that time that I used to gallery sit when we would have the summer shows at the 220 Gallery in Chelsea, I would sit there for hours on end watching folks walk around the room with their pocketbook dogs in tow, sometimes pausing at a photo of mine; it is a weird sensation. You almost want to hear what they are thinking but then they might open their mouths and want to know where the subway was or which street was better to grab a cab, 7th or 8th? Any illusion of appreciation vanishing as each word is released from their lips.

But that's how they roll in Chelsea, up here in Hudson I heard the most delightful remark about my work. "Now, these are quite wonderful, aren't they? They have a ghost quality to them." Perfect.

Anyway, it is fantastic to be showing again and I am so very proud of Martha's work. She got a great spot and her pieces worked well with the other artists around her. In more showy news, I've thrown my hat in the ring for some added nervous punishment by participating in a group show at TSL. It is a Black & White show of Hudson somewhere around the last week in October. I've also started work on the 2008 calendar that I would like to have ready to go and for sale within the next two weeks.

With all this fun stuff comes the realization that next week I will be back at work. Fucking hell. Back to the worst, time sucking, emotionally draining and vapid relationship of my life. What more can I say?

I will be trying something new this week in regards to the pain management assault on my back spasms. Two things actually, Acupuncture and Psychiatry. Sounds like a term paper doesn't it? Tuesday, for the first time in my life (that I am aware of) I'll have needles shoved into various pressure points on my body. Then a big, big day on Thursday, I have a meet and great with a Psychiatrist. Exciting stuff there. He's going to evaluate me. I guess I better hold off on the general use of profanity and suicide jokes. I could spend the whole time talking about how the ring that Martha and I had resized in a brand new setting is just like the one Jenna Bush has on her little finger, except hers is three times the size of mine. Would it be wrong to take a Xanax before I go see him or should I just let him see the show all raw and end of day jumpy? Something to ponder. I guess it depends on what kind of soul sucking day I've had.

Martha and I actually went out to a movie. Hard to believe I know, but we did it. Saturday night (date night), we went to see 3:10 to Yuma. I love a good western and Christian Bale and Russell Crow, please; I will pretty much watch anything that has Christian Bale in it. He totally won me over with The Machinist and his super disturbing portrayal of Patrick Bateman that carried American Psycho. Russell Crow, well sometimes, I just can't seem to get on board with the grandness of his choices but 3:10 to Yuma was fun. At one point during the movie the owner of the theater came over to us to see what the little orange light was that was resting between Martha and I in the drink holder. I had to explain that it was a TENS unit and not a Handycam® Camcorder.

I have just one week left on my fantastic month off and just what have I accomplished? Well, in-between getting the shit beat out of me at physical therapy and Novocain injections in my mouth, (I wish someone would just stick a big needle of Novocain in my back) I have managed to get a great deal of personal work done. The biggest part of the battle with submitting work to galleries, grants and what ever else I stumble upon is sitting down and pulling the work. Depression and self-doubt lurk around every corner and if I'm not in the right headspace, or more likely, something or someone has gotten into my head, well then forget it. Pulling work becomes nightmarish.

I think I'm going to go spend a day at ICP. I've only been there once for a special exhibit but I've never had the time to loiter around the permanent collections. Now is the time to go look at stuff that no one who actually lives here can get near. All those places are usually jammed packed with tourists and strollers but if I go early enough it might not be as soul crushing. I've noticed that Monday-Thursday before 12:30 pm things in Manhattan are a little easier to do. Friday, forget it the whole day is fucked.

Congratulations are in order to someone who I used to work with at the Voice and now has managed to snag a really sweet job at NPR. Impressive and great timing. NPR has always been in DC, (fucking kill me, no.) but they have sent a small group over the Mason-Dixon Line into good old Yankee town, Manhattan.

I had two dental appointments last week, one on Monday that cost $350 dollars and then one on Friday that cost $300 dollars. Kind of like bookends. The week before I had one dental visit that cost $2200 so within that span of ten days I have spent $2800 dollars on my teeth. Martha is not amused, although she did say that the one tooth (my right fang) looked a lot better.

The colossal Sharp TV is to be delivered this week and honestly, I am a little afraid of it. Our living room is not that big and this thing is going to be a monster. My concern is that I will not be able to get far enough away from it to enjoy anything. That sitting on my couch will be like sitting to close in a movie theater and to be able to enjoy anything I'll have to stand in the driveway and look in through the window.

There was a murder in Hudson! Just down the street from our house back in the woods by the train tracks. It made the news, well the local news up here. Super weird seeing how there has been like one (1) murder in Hudson in past seven years. Channel 10 said that it happened between 6-9 Sunday morning. Martha saw all the police cars while walking back from yoga. Creepy.

First off, this thing has to be the craziest thing I have seen on the internets in quite some time. Praise glory be to the meticulously passionate artist.

Our new stove still does not work. This deal of the decade has yet to do anything other then sit, extended out into my kitchen, for over a month now. All I can do with it is dust it. The repairman has been here twice and replaced three circuit boards and a sensor. Now he has ordered one more part and if that isn't it then he's going to have to pull all the wires out to see if there is a crossed connection. Of all the times of year to not have a stove, this is the best I suppose but I am becoming a little annoyed with microwaving water for my calm-me-down mint tea.

On the plus side we now have a fantastic new front door, complete with super cool screen door. On the day of the install, there was a massive thunderstorm with sideways rain and hail that blew threw the house minutes after the workman set the door in its frame. Nothing was holding it in, it was just sitting there when all hell broke loose. It rained so hard that our garage flooded. I have never seen the garage flood, the basement yes, of fucking course, but not the garage. This storm was so powerful that the basement didn't flood at all, it all ran off and on down the hill. It was crazy.

But now we have a brand new and ultra cat fascinating front door. The screen door is full length and for now we have the double-paned glass in there, so when the door is opened, it looks like the whole world is out there. The first few days the cats were afraid to go near it because it looked like they could just walk outside. I watched one of the neighborhood cats that I feed (the one we gave free healthcare to, who we have also named Big Grey Fatty) walk right up our front steps and bonk his nose on the glass. He was just going to walk in the house. Now, he sits out there on the stoop while Zoë sits in front of him behind the glass, doing this super disturbing little Meow Dance in front of him. It is kind of like her Crazy Sock Dance but way weirder.

I have found the perfect space in Hudson to renovate into a public gallery/live work space and I only need 100k to make the deal happen. Anybody, anybody? 40-50k down and 40-50k to repair. The place is on Warren Street in one of the best locations possible and is damn close to exactly what I have been looking for. Which is why I shouldn't look in the first place because I just might find it and then what? Built in 1872 and a whopping thirty-four years older then our 1906 house, it is twelve-feet wide and it needs a new everything. Heat, electrical, plumbing, oh and let us just say a new roof. How seriously interested was I? I went into the clay basement, that is how serious. I love dreams like these. Of course, dreams like these are one of the things that make Martha totally nuts, (that and living in a cat town) but she is the one who wanted to see it.

In all honesty, stuff like the little twelve-foot house makes me crazy too but only because it slams home the certainty that money does make everything happen. Without a bucket load of cash, you just end up driving up and down the thruway every damn day for hours on end in an SUV with no air-conditioning, stuck behind an opened-top, semi-trailer truck full of NYC dumpster trash, dreaming about things you cannot afford. But I suppose with a place like my little twelve-foot wide dream, in the midst of a total gut renovation, a broken stove and the realization that your ten-year-old calico is starting to totally loose her shit is the least of all worries.

New Staff Member
For the very first time in my life, I had a professional massage. I have always had issues around people I do not know touching me but after what happened at the Pain Management Center last Tuesday, I had run out of options. Tuesday's appointment at the PMC turned into a total shitfest. I arrived with chronic pain in my back and unable to even sit on the exam table. Obviously, the shots were making things worse; my back was now totally locked up and would not stop with the spasms. This had been going on for over ten days. I had already been seeing my chiropractor every other day for over a week and a half. I remember walking over to the PMC thinking that this was great, they could see and feel what was going on and most likely do something to fix me. At least this is what I thought.

Instead, what happened was a joke. They did nothing. I stood there and cried and the nurse practitioner just stood there and looked at me. While standing in front of an enormous poster for OxyContin, she said that the shots were supposed to have the opposite effect and that there really isn't anything else they could do for me. There is no alternative treatment for that kind of pain.

What, you mean "real pain"? I could not even get a muscle relaxant out of this bitch even though my back would not stop spazzing and I had tears, (real tears people) running down my cheeks. She told me to go get a deep tissue massage and to buy a Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator (TENS) machine.

Now mind you I have two blown disks, a pinched nerve and Osteoarthritis in my neck. I have x-rays and a CT scan that show these things and she wouldn't even give me an aspirin. So having no choice other then to start over with another doctor, and plan an extended drive up to Canada, Martha made an appointment for both of us at Bodhi in Hudson. I have to say that it was pretty awesome. Martha went first, because deep down I am just a pussy, and after thirty minutes, she came out looking all sleepy and relaxed. So I took the plunge, got half-naked and got rubbed. At first I was a little weirded out, whenever anyone who is about to do anything to me, tells me to take a few deeps breaths and relax, well, that tends to have the opposite effect with me. I stiffen up and become hyper alert. What can I say, I am a damaged soul. Anyway, after a few minutes, I did manage to let it go and things went much better. So now, not only do we have a chiropractor on our payroll we have added a masseuse.

I'm not sure what the official snow total for Hudson was but in our driveway there was easily two-feet of it. Martha wouldn't let me shovel because of my neck and what happened the last time. The only problem was that she had left her snow boots at work and my feet are about two and a half sizes smaller then hers are. So with her feet wrapped in extra large freezer bags she punched through to the garage to get the shovel and then made a single shoveled line to the walkway. It was then that a nice neighbor named Jack took pity on us and with his massive snow blower saved the day. Without that happening, it would have taken Martha all weekend to dig us out. Her back would be broken.

Yep, this is crazy stuff. I've haven't seen so much snow since I lived in Meadville. I think it snowed more in Meadville because of the proximity to Lake Erie but also why I might think that it snowed more was because I was never more then four-feet tall when we lived there. If it snowed a foot well, twelve inches was a big deal back then.

I do remember the neighborhood kids sledding down the back nine of the Hailwood Golf Club that we lived next to. Right at the edge of the green was the woods, and if you got up enough speed, you could fly across the creek at the bottom. Some kids didn't make it across and they would get wet and have to go home. Only once did that happen to me. I got a shitload of creek water down my snow pants. It was cold and gross. Because I was a pussy little redheaded five-year-old, I cried all the way home. I was also the same child that would make so many snow angles in my back yard that from the dining room window the yard looked like Escher's Angels and Devils drawing.

I guess you could say my head is currently in a strange place. My dreams have been running on these three themes:

1. Being laid off and becoming embarrassed about it. (The embarrassment part has me puzzled.)
2. The roof leaking in the kitchen. (It's not but I guess I think it's going to, or this is a bigger thing having to do with water)
3. My dead parents. Now Glamour Magazine says:
A dream of your mother signifies happiness in love or personal affairs, and a dream of your father forecasts progress in business, professional or career matters.

But the folks over at Dream Moods have a totally different spin on the dead parent thing.
To see and talk with your dead father in your dream, signifies that you are about to enter into an unlucky transaction or rotten deal. Thoroughly think through your decisions before entering into them. To see your dead mother in your dream, signifies your wretched and mean-hearted nature towards others around you.

Nice.

So in keeping with my wretched and mean-hearted nature I made one of my fantastic chocolate cakes for Jack, the neighbor who shoveled us out. We tried to give it to him on Saturday. Martha and I put our winter coats on, slid into our shoes and walked next door with a big ole cake on a plate. Martha rang the bell, knocked on the door and... nothing. We went back home, ate dinner then put our winter coats on again, slid into our shoes and went back over. The lights were on so Martha rang that bell, knocked on the door. After a few minutes and very, very slowly, an elderly man pries open the front door but can't seem to unlock the storm windowed screen door. Martha and I stand there watching him fuck around with the small lock until finally, Martha gets his attention and tells him its okay, nevermind. But he can't really hear us through the door.

Is Jack here?
What?
Does a Jack live here?
Yes. He's my nephew.
He was nice enough to plow our driveway and Holly baked him a cake.
Who? What? Oh? Well, he's sleeping. You're going to have to come back tomorrow.

If he could just open the door, I could have given him the cake but that kind of deduction and the whole logistics of it all was impossible.

The next day right before we left to try to deliver it a third time Martha says, "Here me now, if they aren't home, we're coming back here and I'm having a big piece of cake. Okay? Okay."

They were home and they now have the cake.

Maybe He's Caught in the Legend
I have to admit that the whole Van Halen, R.E.M and Patti Smith thing is what had me hooked. Sad to say I spent my Saturday night watching the VH1 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 2007 ceremony. Grandmaster Flash, R.E.M, The Ronettes, Patti Smith and Van Halen.

As far as Van Halen goes, I was always on the David side of that crazy train. Didn't matter one bit what a jackass David Lee Roth was, Sammy Hagar was and is a tool. I saw Van Halen in the summer of 1979, when Runnin' with the Devil was everywhere but this was one of my favorite songs and this lead in to You Really Got Me, (I was already a total Kinks nut to begin with) could be heard coming from my bedroom from half a mile away. No wonder my mother was just out of her mind with me. The only reason she never killed me in my sleep was because I was an insomniac and she was older. She was out by 10:30 on nights where I would go the distance and watch the sunrise.

Just a few short but jam pack years later, I was living in Denver, pregnant with Jasmine and totally nuts about REM. Pretty Persuasion; Talk about the Passion; Sitting Still and Perfect Circle.

Oh but Chronic Town was the total shit, 1,000,000; Stumble; Wolves, Lower; Gardening at Night and Carnival of Sorts, (Boxcars) which I actually think I put on a tape for someone just a few years ago, or I wanted to because I remember it being a really good fit. R.E.M was huge in my world but so was Camper Van Beethoven, X and Husker du. The Cramps and Sonic Youth rounded out tapes with Patti Smith on one side and Nova Mob on the other. And in thinking about this further, I was totally into Hot for Teacher at the same time that I could not stop listening to Little America.

So as REM took to the stage and Stipe started yakking, which always makes my eyes roll. I laughed to myself because years ago, he never made a lick of sense seeing how he was a mumbler, now he speaks clearly but he seems like such a big drag. As I tuned him out, I started thinking about what a huge disappointment they became after about four albums in.

The last time I saw them was at the Coliseum at Richfield in Cleveland. My best friend and I had waited out all night in the freezing cold so we could be one of the first in line to buy tickets. (What can I say, no one had a credit card and life was a little more fucked up then it is now.) By the time the show came around, it was warmer outside and I'd already heard the new album, (Green) and I only liked one song on it. Turn You Inside Out. That was it. That night the Coliseum was packed and the police were everywhere. I couldn't understand it. I wasn't allowed to move from my seat and no one was smoking ANYTHING. The show was horrible but the band looked totally into it. R.E.M. started to play Perfect Circle and I thought I was going to vomit. After thirty minutes, we left and drove back to Pittsburgh.

As I lay in bed the other night, watching them sing Begin the Begin, I started to feel a little better. Sounded good and I always did like that particular song and dammed if I'm not still totally swayed by that fuckers voice. But then they did Gardening at Night and not just phoning it either. The whole thing actually made me sit up, put the bowl down and listen. I haven't seen it done that nicely in decades. The whole performance made my eyes well up. Sad but true, good music does that to me sometimes. Sometimes, it makes me cry. Of course, I was already weepy from when Patti Smith was on talking about her dead husband, Fred. (Boy, is she really starting to look like Joey Romone or what?) She is sixty for god sake and she is still something to see. Strong woman. Even Jasmine is so moved by her. I can't wait for the new covers album. I saw her do Jimi Hendrix's Are you Experienced? at BAM last year and I about lost my shit right there in the 25th row. But as you can see, it doesn't take much for me to act like I'm fourteen.

Wednesday morning when I first arrived at work and loaded up my browser to check on some email and general nonsense; you know, what has blown up now and what note worthy person has died now, when the very first thing I saw was this article. I busted out laughing and read the whole thing right then. I hit a total and complete perfect 10 on this. Probably not the best thing in the world to hit a 10 on but at least I achieved perfection. Also, Number 9 is an N/A seeing how no one at work is succeeding at anything. Whoops, I will take that back. A few folks are not only succeeding but out-and-out excelling at driving the paper straight into the ground but I would hardly say I am jealous. Well, maybe a little, such obliteration is awe-inspiring if nothing else.

I heard a reggae version of a Bread song four days ago and I can't get the damn thing out of my head. No matter what I listen to. It's driving me nuts. Aside from time, how does one remove a Bread song from the brain? Maybe this can shake it out. I can't seem to stop listening to it. It's has to be all that fuzzed out, heavy and I mean heavy bottom end. So much fun to walk around New York City in this bitter fucking cold weather with something like a mash up between Justin Timberlake and Muse slamming around in old brain.

One night last week as we drove up to the dark part of our street where we live, we noticed that there was a massive crate sitting in our yard. It was like, "Oh my god what the hell is that? What the fuck did you order?" Then upon a few reflective seconds, we realized that it was the new roof shingles and all the supplies for a brand new roof. Cool. But oh shit, that means we have a huge chunk of change that we now have to come up with. No we are not that stupid it's just that things move a little different up here and half the fucking battle was getting on a roofers schedule. We started this whole process in September, (the month that all bullshit starts) and we are just now getting a new roof. Well, not just yet. Should be this week. Right now, the new roof is sitting in our front yard.

I'm not even bothered by the cold snap that has engulfed our area. Seven degrees seems like a perfect time to rip the forty-year-old shingles off a hundred and six year old house and slap down new ones. This house is so old and improperly insulated that I bet if I were to stand across the street at night wearing night goggles with heat seeking sensors that our house would glow a good eight feet out from the walls. It would probably be so bright that it would scar my retinas. I'm surprised all the woodland creatures aren't nesting up against the foundation. If I were a possum, that's where I'd be.

The warmest part of the house is the second floor but once they rip the top off, I suppose that won't be the case. Regardless, the whole process is supposed to take three days, and of those three days, I will be at work every single one of them. Only the cats will be here. And you know, to them it will literally sound like the sky is falling. We're going to come home to some stressed out felines. Oh Zoë, hang in there.

Coming up with the money is going to be funny. Not fun, but funny, odd you know, amusing. We were going to borrow half of the cost from Jazz but she's almost out of grandma money. That's right, I'm thirty-five thousand dollars in the hole for her student loan debt and not only is she not going to graduate on time but she has to go a whole extra year. Grandma's money will be gone by September, (of course) and I'll probably have to apply for another student loan for her fifth fall semester because we will have reached the 10k cap on my dad's trust for the year. At this stage in my little mini rant, I would so like to point out here that her father, my ex-husband, has not paid one dime for college. His dead parents have but not him.

Ahhhhhh. Okay, I'm done. We'll get a new roof and we'll just charge it. Whatever.

Super Boring but Important
Last weekend Martha had an insurance guy come over to the house to talk Term Life Insurance for me. We have a few things in place but almost all of those are in the unlikely event of something happening to Martha before something happens to me. The good money bet is on me but you never know. So this is why we thought we might do a little term on me. You know, estimate out how long we think I might live. What do you think, maybe to seventy ish? It's a good guess. Seventy-five is pushing it and well, eighty is out of the question. Yes, yes it's all very morbid and strange, but the REALITY is that I have maybe twenty good years, (the emphasis on good), left before it becomes an interesting game of Last Dances.

If I die before Martha, what the fuck is she supposed to do? And Jasmine, she'll NEVER be able to get any personal kind of insurance so really, I'm up. All I need to do is pass a drug test. Yep, that's right. So next Saturday morning at 8 am a nurse is coming to the house to take blood and urine. Fantastic and wish me luck, a half a million dollars should make things a little easier for Martha to deal with, right? Of course neither one of them would have to put up with my bullshit once I'm dead so it seems like win-win. It's the least I can do. Shut the fuck up and have someone give them a bucket of cash.

My favorite show to hate is back for its fourth season, The L Word has returned with all of its zany lesbian tête-à-tête and wacky hairstyles.

Just the sentence "Bette is on the run from authorities" that was taken from the episode synopsis makes me giddy like a schoolgirl and revs up my snark-o-meter. And then there is this: "After binging on drugs and alcohol, Shane spirals out of control as she takes off in Cherie's Jaguar and crashes it on the Santa Ana Freeway." Again there are only two things that are fun about this show, Rosanna Arquette (the person), and Shane (the character).

Jenny, who should be forced to live in a box with her own writing being read back to her on a continuous stereophonic loop played at half-speed, sees this thing again. The only interesting part of all that behavior was that it set the bar on just how stupid this show was going to get right out of the gate in the first season. Marina was only in the first season (smart girl) and she aggressively pursued Jenny to the point of embarrassment - I was embarrassed for my TV. But then again this is also the only show that can make Jane Lynch look like a bad actor, completely misuse the talents of Kelly Lynch and pull out an awkward performance from Sandra Bernhard. Cybill Shepherd is on board this season but I really don't have much hope for that either. The only guest actress that has ever appeared on The L Word and remained completely unaffected by the script was Holland Taylor. She rocks but her character is the mother of quite possibly the dumbest rich girl I've ever seen on TV.

The fact that Showtime canceled Huff but this shit lives on, is truly amazing. At least Huff only had one annoying main character. The L Word has twelve. My only hope and I really do mean this, I hope to fuck that the writing does not suck this year. Really, I don't want the Emmy stuff, (not really a worry here) or the difficult but fascinating plot lines —which they have tried and have failed miserably at, I just want this show to NOT SUCK for one whole season. Okay, okay, maybe that is too hard. How about not sucking for one whole episode?

Update: I just finished the season opener, never mind, this show is totally hopeless, although I couldn't stop laughing. Who throws moldy food on the kitchen floor and then rolls around in it? Or what supposedly well informed, hip and happening fifty-year-old pregnant woman ends up at a Right to Life clinic for an abortion instead of Planned Parenthood? Who has an all-out, coked-out bender for days-on-end but only in the bright light of the (supposed) Cali sun? Who goes to a liquor store, hell bent on destruction and buys mini-bar sized bottles of liquor and beer?

What's Your Name, What's Your Number?
The American Community Survey, a division of The U.S. Census Bureau had been after us for weeks now to fill out their survey. First, they sent the questioner, which we filled out, then Martha carried it around in her purse for a few weeks before thinking to herself, "fuck it", and then shredded it. After the deadline passed, the Survey people started calling, which, we all too easily ignored seeing how we never, ever just answer the phone. Then finally, while we were at work on Friday and Jazz was home alone, they rang the doorbell. The only reason Jasmine opened the door was because she thought it was a mail delivery. Instead, there stood an elderly woman with a computer, sounding all-official and wanting to come inside and ask her a bunch of questions. Jasmine only let her in to the entryway because it was raining and she was elderly. Jasmine refused to give her our names, phone numbers and just about any other fleck of information that might identify us no matter how much paperwork or even laminated badges this woman showed her.

Nicely done Peanut, although I would have never let her in the house because I would have never answered the door in the first place but I am much further along in my neurosis then you. But remember before you open that door, give the space the once over, you never know what might be on the coffee table just sitting there waiting to be noticed by the wrong people.

After a few moments of Stone Wall Jasmine, the woman gave up and left her name and number asking if we could please call her, which we did, but she was out in the neighborhood hounding down other paranoid freaks in the broad daylight of an unnaturally warm Saturday afternoon. Finally, late Saturday night she called back and Martha had a nice little statistical chat around commute times and annual salary.

Jasmine ending up staying two extra days last week, not because she loves us and wants to spend time with us but more because no one could pick her up at the airport until Saturday. Why she didn't have this all planned out before the eleventh hour I'll never know.

The house is disgusting and I have zero time to deal with it. Between work, a total nightmare, and my own photography that I am trying to pull together for two different submissions, my commute time and then the general nausea that rolls over me like a blanket, I can't get near the filth.

What is up with the snow? We have NONE. It is the oddest thing. Almost like we moved to North Carolina instead of 30 miles south of Albany. It was so warm Saturday that there was a wasp on my side door. A fucking wasp. Do you know how crazy that makes me to think that the wasps are all ready out and about? WTF? I've been a little afraid of the winters up here and it still could get nutty but this is too much. A few more days of warm temperatures and we'll have to cut our grass.

It's the end of the world.

Oh September, why deviate when we have such a good thing going on?

We need a new roof. Now when Martha and I bought the house we knew the roof was old. Like 30 years old. Then we just found out via some chalk writing down in the basement that a new roof was put on our house in 1964. Okay, well I had been hoping to ride out the winter, sock away a few bucks and then in the spring get a new roof.

The house has other plans.

We have a leak and from the looks of it is has been going on undetected for quiet some time. So now we get a new roof. Whatever right? I work for the house so the house can work for me. I'm just glad it did not start dripping in my studio.

We seem to be playing a great deal of the "What the fuck is that?" game lately. I am actually thinking about having a side site dedicated to weird bug of the day because at least once a day either Martha or I see something on or in the garage, or near the sunroom door that is completely unidentifiable to either one of us. It isn't as though we have a degree in Entomology but some of these things I don't even know what their closest domestic cousin might be.

So to date the biggest freak out horror fest that we have seen happened around 4:30 Saturday afternoon. We had spent the day running around Kingston spending money we don't have on things like rugs and a new mattress pad. The sole reason we went to Kingston was to stop in a Lowes and set up a time to have a contractor come out to look at the roof. After a hundred dollars at Target and another hundred at Bed Bath & Beyond, we finally dealt with the general indifference to women of the Lowes staff and set something up.

We get home, drag all our shit inside the house and after about an hour we both settled down enough that Martha starts dozing off on the couch. I'm kind of tired but not really, so I get up thinking that I might go upstairs and write. I stop in the kitchen to grab some water to look out at the backyard with the pretty sunbeams drifting through the trees when I notice an exceptionally large number of gnats flying around. Like a lot. So I stood there, over the sink trying to focus my eyes a little better when I notice that in addition to the gnats I see this other larger bugs flying from what appears to be up out of the ground. There were quite a few of them taking off into the sky. So I move closer to the window to try to figure out where they are coming from when my eyes refocus on the bush that is directly in front of the open kitchen window. The bush, which is about the size of my entire body, is alive with insects. Millions, and I do mean millions, of bugs are crawling all over the bush. They look like flying ants but they also look like termites. What ever they were, they were technically a swarm hatching out of the bush and flying into the sky.

I have never seen anything like it in my life. Well, maybe on one of the Discovery channels specials on the bugs of the Amazon or something but not within a few feet of my head.

I jerked back from the sink and stood in the middle of the kitchen for a few minutes, not quite sure just what the hell to do. This swarm of bugs isn't inside the house, as far as I can tell, and they do seem to by flying away from the home. The bush they are hatching out of has been dying and well, I guess I now know why. If they are termites, I do live in a wood house on the edge of the woods...

I go into the living room and there is Martha all puffy cheeked and asleep on the couch. I touch her leg to wake her up while saying; "Baby, there is something crazy happening in the backyard." She gives me the 'you're the crazy thing in the backyard' look and says; "What are you talking about?"

"Get up you gotta come see this." I say as I point her towards the kitchen.

She shuffles half asleep up to the kitchen window, pauses for a few seconds while the magnitude of what she is seeing sinks in and then...

"Oh my god. What the fuck is that? EW! What the hell, Holly? Oh my god!"

"I don't know what it is. I don't know what they are." I said while scratching my arms and legs. My physic is totally taking a hit on this shit.

"That's it, I'm calling Orkin." Martha announces as she marches off to the living room looking for her cell phone.

She called Orkin in Albany because the local office was closed, Homeland Dan (our lawn guy) and then the cell phone number of the local Orkin guy who came around here about a week ago to talk about the spider problem.

Homeland Dan said he'd be by in the morning to cut the grass and remove the bushes. He also told us that we need to relax and that we will get through this.

I figure we just need to "get through" the first year and then maybe we'll lighten up a little. That is what it was like when we first moved to New York. The first year was tricky but then things chilled out, or rather we became numb to the insanity of NYC. Now we just need to get numb to natures insanity.

I spent the majority of last week working on a 911 package for work. The Voice is doing a piece that I can honestly say I am proud of. Been a few months since I've felt like that.

But what all that meant was that I spent three solid days either looking at photos of the Twin Towers falling or I was down at Ground Zero with my camera, shooting everything from tourists to the actual pit, via the Path train. Instead of walking through the space like when I used to commute through there, I had to linger around the edges of the fence and shoot photos. All around me was a massive photo exhibit (complete with minute-by-minute timeline) that folks were driven to with the customary display of astonishment or boredom on their faces. Ground Zero is a fucked up tourist destination. Aside from the obvious reason that it is a fucked up tourist spot, there is no food or water, no bathrooms or even a place to sit down unless you want to sit right on the sidewalk. There are no trees and the whole area is void of any life except of course for the commuters, tourists and Port Authority workers. But I did notice a bunch of rag weed growing over in the southwest corner of the pit, so life is returning I suppose.

The WTC site is full of life, but lifeless.

Prior to my being down there for two days straight, I had been holdup in my little town in the woods for six solid days. I had very little human interaction outside of the sushi place and the chick at CVS. Thankfully, because I've lived here for so long, I know how to shove hysterical emotion deep down inside me, only to have it come out at odd and inappropriate times of course, but that's my problem and I've learned to deal with it. I had a job to do and there was no time to flip-out with a bunch of untamed emotions.

They say that what happened on 9.11.01 was the largest man-made disaster ever. Except for the Ice Age, I'm thinking that every disaster is man-made considering how we manage this planet. Just about everything the goes wrong is our fault.

Like most folks who were in New York City five years ago, I chose not to go into work on Monday. I was in Manhattan on the one-year anniversary of the whole thing and that was about as fucked up as anything can get. All the stores weren't just closed, they all had flags or signs of remembrance hanging in their windows. The only thing that was open besides The Voice, was Ground Zero. I was also in the city two years ago when the fucking Republicans had their convention here and used New York City as a political backdrop, while behind the scenes the city was in lockdown. Step off the sidewalk and you just might be arrested.

This year I just don't want to play. I'm good thanks and I don't want to think about it any more.

NATURE OR NURTURE?
Martha had the windshield replaced and it cost a little under $300. About half of what I thought it was going to be. It was beautiful but after an hour and a half drive in the country on a Friday night, it is now covered with bugs and looks like every other windshield around here.

Saturday, Lily went to the vet and it turns out she has fleas. So that means Zoë has fleas. So we are currently undergoing 'flea treatment'. Fantastic. We had an Orkin guy come out on Saturday to look at the spider problem that, honestly I have never, ever seen anything like in my life. Thursday morning Martha and I woke up and noticed that everything and I mean EVERY THING in the town of Hudson was COVERED in spider webs. There were webs all over the bushes, trees and fences. The stop sign at the end of Union Street and 3rd was covered in a web that was bigger than my upper torso. I am NOT KIDDING. Even the power lines, you know where the birds sit, were incased with web work. The spiders had a busy night that's for damn sure.

No we didn't have spiders in the house, which is all I really care about but even I was a little shocked. Martha was totally horrified. We live in spider town.

So we thought the Orkin guy might have an idea or two as to WTF is up with the spiders, plus we wanted him to check out a wasp thing we got going on. He said the spider phenomenon is actually a good thing and that they come out in droves after a long rain. Spiders keep the bugs down, blah, blah, blah. By the time he got to our house most of the webs in the whole town were gone so it was kind of hard to stress the complete coverage we had but he is a local and has seen it all before. We were more of show to him than anything going on in the woods.

While he was at the house, a green garden snake slithered across the path to my front door and appeared to slip down a hole into our basement. So we made the Orkin guy go in the basement. He doesn't think the snake went in but he did find a salamander down there. And again, we heard how now salamanders are a good thing and they keep the bugs down with that whole food chain thing. So my question is this; will the snake eat the salamander? Where do the cats fit into this? They suck you know. Our pets are broken and have no idea how to actually kill even the simplest bug so just what do you think is going to happen if a garden snake crawls upstairs and sticks it's tongue out at them. I'll tell you what would happen, Lily would run to the highest point in the house never to be seen again and Zoë would shit herself. That is what she does when she is terrified. She poo's.

Over a week ago, Martha noticed a "thing" on Zoë's neck. A little pea-sized area of scabbing that upon closer inspection, (always a pleasure with this cat) looked strange. Not just a normal claw mark or scratch. We made the unpleasant decision to take her to the vet. The last time we took this cat to the vet, she had a seizure. That was two years ago. I figured that the only time Zoë was ever going to go back to a vet was when it was "time", if you get my drift.

But apparently I was wrong. Martha found a local veterinarian and made an appointment. Now the word local has a slightly different definition up here. In Columbia County, fifteen-minutes away IS local. I understand this and it makes sense. Fifteen-minutes along a backcountry road is nothing. The word local to me means that I should be able to walk to it. Not so. There is no vet in Hudson and so what? What's the big deal with fifteen-minutes in the car? Well, nothing unless you have a frantic cat pacing around counterclockwise behind your head and meowing with every breath it takes.

Zoë is totally crazy and never, was it more apparent then when she was in our Jeep. She meowed the whole way there, the entire time at the vet's office and then, the whole way back. Her meow is somewhat high pitched, and sounds similar to a whinny baby (i.e. Jasmine when she had colic). All I wanted to do was throw Zoë from the car and never look back.

But alas that is not what happened. After the longest fifteen-minutes of my life, we found the vet's office and parked the Jeep. We waited in the exam room for another small eternity while I kept spraying my hands with Feliway and then rubbing Zoë down. This would calm her down for roughly one to two-minutes at a time. During those precious minutes of silence, the air would lighten up and Martha and I were able to have quick slices of conversation. I even made a joke about how seeing how we were already there, maybe we just might want to go-ahead and put her down. I know, I know, not that funny but Jasmine would have laughed with me. Martha however, just glared at me. Humor, it's a funny thing.

So the long and the short of it is, Zoë probably had allergies. The vet gave her two shots of cortisone and charged us just under a hundred dollars. (Nice) With a wait and see diagnosis on our plates we got back in the car and headed home. For fifteen-minutes, I held my left hand twisted behind my back, shoved into the cage rubbing on Zoë's face whenever she would pace near me. It was kind of like being arrested. Chewing gum like a lunatic and bitching that I wanted a fucking cigarette, I counted down the minutes on the digital clock until we finally pulled