Holly Northrop Blog

After completely dropping out for eight days, I now have 11 messages on the answering machine, over 200 personal emails, 2 feet of postal mail and 300 work emails. This is just one weeks buildup of crap. Nothing of any real importance lives within these messages; this is the information overload that I have somehow grown accustomed to. No wonder I constantly feel drained at the end of any given day. I should just erase all of it and start over. Reboot.

But, for eight wonderful days I managed to stay as wasted as possible and take a zillion photos. Many, many, many photos of the beach, sand dunes, birds, deadwood, beach bungalows and of course, Martha and Sheri.

Apparently, it rained in New York the entire time I was gone. Martha and I drove out of our New Jersey parking garage and into a monsoon at 6:00am on October 8th. It rained hammers almost the entire way down I-95 and by 7:30am, I had to take a Xanix just to be able to sit in the passengers' seat without repeatedly slamming by head against the window. Four and a half hours later, when we arrived in DC it was still pouring as I packed up Sheri's beach stuff into the back of the Jeep. Somewhere around Richmond, Virginia, it stopped being so fucking torrential and just drizzled. By nightfall, the rains had moved north but the flooding was apparent. Martha and I had been in the car for 12 hours and we were just a little loopy. I became twisted around with the directions the last leg of the drive and couldn't find the beach house. But after a little bit of yelling and a couple of U-Turns we finally pulled into the driveway of our new, blue bungalow. Another problem came with the front door. The combination lock wasn't working and Martha, crazy-eyed and pumped full of adrenaline, combined with Sheri's determination, pushed open the door. I don't want to say they broke the door because technically they didn't. It still worked; we just couldn't lock it anymore. This speaks to just how small of a town we were in. We would go to the store and NOT LOCK THE FRONT DOOR.

Although we were isolated on a non-tourist beach town, Sheri had a shinny new PowerBook with wireless internet, so certain parts of life could move forward if one chose to move them. Martha was able to test drive a MAC and I think she is possibly sold. There are some things that she isn't too crazy about but who isn't? So Martha and Sheri were posting photos of beach stuff and running slideshows for all to enjoy at the end of each day. I think I checked email twice but became despondent almost the second I logged on. One time I actually felt nauseous while hold the laptop. The nightly news had the same effect and by mid-week, I stopped all attempts to stay informed.

But with an active internet connection online shopping took place. Martha bought me a LUBITEL Russian 6x6 camera. It is coming from the Russian Federation and will be here in roughly three-weeks. All it really is is a cheap Russian toy camera but it does look fun to play with. The shipping costs just as much as the camera for a grand total, in US Dollars, of $40 bucks.

One thing that I did at the beach house was I turned the half-bathroom into a darkroom. I've had this pinhole camera kit forever and I thought it might be fun to mess around with it in a low-to-no pressure situation. At home, I can't get any room totally dark without altering something, (hell, we can't even see the stars at night) but at the beach house it was so simple. So for several days I took pinholes, made paper negs and printed contact prints using a light bulb and my arm as an enlarger.

On the nature front, two different crabs bit me on my foot within five minutes of walking along the waterline, completely freaking me out. Those little fuckers hurt and they weren't the cute sand crabs either. These were the crab, crabs. It was then that I made the decision not to swim in the ocean and to wear flip-flops while walking on the sand. But I was able to frolic at will in a hot tub overlooking the ocean under the moonlight, so that more than made up for the lack of oceanic action.

Biggest lesson learned is no real surprise; laughter is the best sound and medicine in the world. Well, almost. Drugs are good too and the sound of our cats purring as they ram their heads into me is pretty fantastic.

Well this week my head is filled with nothing but the Vacation Beach Crazies. I don't see how I can possibly concentrate on one damn thing except the weather reports off the coast of North Carolina.

I fear that my Dylan problem is about to reach epic proportions. Undoubtedly, it will follow me to the beach in seeing as how we leave this Saturday and I see no end in sight. I am actually contemplating only bringing Dylan with me but that means that I would be subjecting Martha and Sheri to excruciatingly long car rides. But after watching No Direction Home forget it. I can't stop playing all the different versions of Visions of Johanna and Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues that I have. The soundtrack is so good that I'm almost unable to do anything else while I'm listening to it, except think about walking on the beach and getting lost in the rhythm of the ocean waves rolling up on the shore.

HIGHER EDUCATION
Jasmine called me last week for a variety of reasons but the big one, Monday morning right out of the gate, was that she'd lost her cell phone somewhere on the way to class and she was totally freaked out about it. I called Martha who, after bitching at me for about a minute, called At&T, cancelled Jasmine's phone and ordered a new, free upgrade. Six hours later Jazz called me from Patrick's phone to let me know that someone had found her phone. Even though it had been outside in the rain all day, it appeared to still work. "Too bad" I sighed, "Martha has already ordered you a new one. You should have it by Friday." I told her not to waste Patrick's minutes and only call me in an emergency. "Just go to a payphone and call my cell if there is a crisis." I said.

Four days later, she called me from Patrick's phone to ask if I knew how to fix a crack in a glass bong.

DAYDREAMING IN BROOKLYN
The differences between the Bronx and Boerum Hill are many but the real bottom line is that I can afford to live in the Bronx but Boerum Hill would require Martha and me to earn at least double a year more so we could both feel like yuppies and loath what we are feeling. Sure is nice to have money, eh? Ah yes, Boerum Hill, where the only tension in the air on a Sunday afternoon was when I got cranky after Martha walked into a shot.

As we floated down Atlantic Avenue shooting various snaps of Antique stores and gallery spaces, the talk turned to puppies and a better, gay friendly lifestyle. What the hell, we can dream. And we do. We even have names for the dog(s) we want to get. Little Bamboo for the Chihuahua and Fettuccini for a yet to be determined small dog.

A friend of ours is going to have to put down her 19-year-old cat soon and we were discussing how god-awful it is to do just that. The memory of Mona is very near and this Halloween it will be two years since we had to put her to sleep. Anyway, we started talking about how fucked up it would be to put down a dog, 'cause they are like a little person, and we started getting teary-eyed. Actual tears about putting to sleep a dog that we don't even have yet. As if having names already isn't wacky enough. God, we are pathetic.

We finished up the neighborhood shoot at a snotty French restaurant eating Eggs Benedict with a side of freedom fries, coffee and for desert; half a Xanax and some kind of sugar explosion involving pastry, ice-cream and a warm chocolate drizzle.

SCREW ON HEAD
While cleaning up my office the other day, I found some old lists that I made from when I was on blood pressure medicine. That shit used to make me forget just about everything, so I had to write down stuff that I wanted to do or stuff that I needed to do within the day. I still have the post-it note that Jazz stuck on the dial to the oven reminding me to "Please TURN ME OFF". While shuffling through tiny pieces of paper one list made me laugh.

-Bring Camera (I actually had to write this down?)
-Call Dr. Witt/pick up pre cert.
-Baby Oil
-Drano
-Nose Spray
-rethink the ovarian cancer thing (Nice, what the hell does THAT mean?)
-Blood Work

I have to admit, I've got nothing. Well, in theory, every week I have nothing and usually pull something out of my ass but this week I've really got nothing to blather on about. But then again, it isn't as though most or you stop by to read what my brain damaged head can spew out because I say it with an amazing amount of eloquence. No, I'm more like a car accident before the ambulance has arrived. A minor fender bender but traffic is all fucked up and you at least feel you deserve to have to look at the mess as you drive by, just because of the shear inconvenience of it all. No one is hurt but things are definitely twisted.

After a few side detours chasing new medical rabbits, it seems as though I will now be getting back to my tumor, where things move at the normal pace of cold molasses. I had a big brain twisting moment at the doctors' office last week when it was mistakenly interpreted that I was trying to get pregnant instead of the whole adrenal thing. I have a new doctor who has only seen me twice and apparently, I look like another patient of hers who is infertile, and now along with everything else, it appears that I am too.

My new doctor, (who I think looks like Susan Sarandon, and honestly, who doesn't want that in a gynecologist) momentarily became confused during our office visit and said to me;

"We have to take some sperm..."

...and then she looked over at Martha who was sitting on a tiny stool in the corner of the room and concluded her wicked diagnosis by declaring;

"...and it looks like you are going to have to provide the egg. We can fertilize it outside of the womb."

Noticing our confused and contorted faces, she kept going.

"Aren't you trying to get pregnant?" she asked.

All three of us looked at each other with overall horror on our faces before there was a massive snap of communal understanding and we all started speaking at the same time.

I yapped out one of my long sentence rambles, complete with hair flinging and arm waving; "What, no, wait ...um, let's review. I am a 42-year old woman and I have a rare adrenal tumor and we are here because of a pelvic MRI that looked a little funny and I had additional screwed-up tests last week, that YOU personally ordered and we are here to go over the results of those and an abnormal PAP test to see if I have CANCER and...um, I already have a 20-year old that we are trying to put through college and Jesus Christ I don't ever want to have another child - EVER. WE do not want to have children and frankly, on some days, we are not really that pleased with the one we do have. But what can you do? She failed Economics you know."

Martha squirmed around on the little stool, adjusted her pants and said; "I don't understand. When does sperm make anything better? My God, no, no, no we don't want children."

The doctor immediately apologized and now she knows exactly who I am, and while yes, I just happen to look like another patient of hers who is trying to get pregnant, that was no excuse and she was deeply sorry. I look just like someone else. I could say the same thing back at her; that she looks like Susan Sarandon (Martha disagrees) but I'm not acting like an idiot and fawning all over her asking for an autograph.

We all had a good laugh but the whole thing made me feeling strange and freaked out for unexplained reasons.

SMALL TALK
Jasmine seems to be settling in with her new job at the stationary store, also known as Breederville. I stopped by the other day just to check out the shop. It is pretty much a bridal type deal with cards and unique gifts. Jasmine is way deep in straight land but considering that she is boy crazy and unfortunately living with two mommies I suppose she can stomach all the demands of the typical Hoboken bride. I met the owner, playing the Mom role with little fan fare.

Afterwards, the owner told Jazz that she thought I was nice. Good to know I can still work the small talk. I think the key to me is short bits of structured insignificant chatter. None of this rambling gibberish and non-stop giggling that I tend to find myself caught up in. It always appears as though I am on drugs, and while yes, I am on prescription medication it isn't the good stuff. Folks usually walk away from a conversation with me totally convinced that I'm nuts, an amphetamine addict or both. Whenever I replay any first meeting with just about everyone I've ever met, I'm aghast that I have a job or friends. I think the only reason I have Martha is that she happened to think long ago and far away that all my rambling and giggling was kind of cute. These days, it pretty much drives her crazy but after thirteen and a half years and thousands of dollars in dental work, I am an investment that she simply is not willing to walk away from. Plus, she loves me, but I really don't know how that all happened. I think we were drunk and I'm pretty positive that I was on the good stuff.

BEACH DREAMS
Miss Simon and Miss Martha have taken matters into their own hands and have ordered us up a beach house on Top Sail Island. It isn't until the middle of October, but considering that all of us are isolation freaks and cool weather suits us just fine, October appears to work. It should still be warm during the day and the house has a fireplace for those chilly nights. I'll probably have to take the whole week off from work without pay because by then I'll have no days left at all. But I simply don't care. We will make it work and I am glad they went ahead and did it even though technically, right now Martha and I are cash poor. We made a vow to go somewhere every year because it is so important to actually get the fuck away from it all. Two very cool things about the house are that it is a WHOLE house, all four walls are ours and it has a hammock on one of the back porches. Is summer over yet?

I love the beach and I love spending time with my family. (No, I am not being a smart ass, nor am I drunk. I really do love Sheri, Keri, Martha and Jasmine.) I didn't like so much the four days in the car and then the final bitchiness that swept over three of us at the end but I suppose that was to be expected. Cannot shove all that crazy into one small space for too long without it ricocheting all around the car. Make no mistake we can be cranky and it isn't just me. The Hurricane thing was a gas to drive through but I am most found of the two hours we were stuck in the Tarboro, NC Wal-Mart waiting for the tornado(s) to blow the roof off that den of Satan. Every fifteen minutes one of us was in line buying something. Evil I say. Two sets of Pajamas, water, GasX, jewelry, shoes and other things that I cannot remember. All except Keri. She was back in the electronics section standing in front of the only TV out of 30 that was tuned into to weather, tornados, hurricane and general end of the earth stuff that was happening all around us. She bought nothing and I consider her the smartest.

I had quite the little routine at the beach. I woke up every morning and watched the sunrise over the ocean. Then I would make coffee, sit at the dinning room table, eat almonds and write. The only sound I could hear was the ocean and my crunching. Then around nine(ish) Keri, Martha, Sheri or Jasmine would slowly wake-up and fill the house with laughter, bullshit and pot smoke. It was fantastic. A few hours of that and I needed a nap. Everyone else hit the beach, Martha would put on her cowboy hat and I would sleep for two hours. Then from here on is where the day could go a few different ways. I could wake-up from my nap and go for a walk, shoot a billion photos, swim in the ocean or watch the Olympics. Dinner was late, the sunset walks on the beach were crazy beautiful and every night was movie night. It was awesome and I swear to God we are going to do it every year from now until I drop dead.

I shot around twelve rolls of film, around two-hundred Polaroids, one roll of 120 film that I put in the Folding Camera but only one-hundred digital. This was a film trip. Or I am still flipped out and seem to be more comfortable with the actually "thing" in my hand. Regardless, this is going to cost the big bucks.

Jasmine goes back to college this weekend and God knows she is so done with us. To quote Miss Simon on speaking to Jasmine's head space and my concern ..."Of course Jasmine is over us. She woke up over us."...And that is about the sum of it. She is over us, until of course, she misses us.

If you want to know where we rented the beach house, all you need to do is look at this map. Where the two storms "hook up" is about it. Well, that is about right, eh? Overall, it is fine and I am just happy to not be at work but seriously, really? Keri keeps sending me email to "think happy thoughts" and I always do. I always do.

I can't help but imagine that if all of us were going to the middle of the Nevada desert (like to Vegas) in August, with no water and magnifying glasses for a hats, there would be a freak snowstorm happening right there on the strip by that stupid New York-New York Casino. See Keri, these ARE happy thoughts because why?? Because I am laughing and EVERYTHING, in fact, is a photo-op.

Already something is not working right in our brand spanking new apartment but at least we can bitch about it and "technically" management will fix it. The air-conditioner in Jasmine's room/my office/vortex-of-angst is not working. It thumps like a crazy bunny's back legs and produces room temperature air. On a day that the room is eighty-five degrees, well that's not going to work now is it.

I started to mess around with a Google search within this here site. I have so much work I should do with this thing and that is "the plan" once I get back from the storms of vacation. I have new posts that need to be put up and I want to change some core things too. But all of that is for another time. For the next ten days, I am going to try to calm the fuck down and enjoy a little bit of this thing called living.

It all seems very fitting that Martha and I start the first vacation we have had together in over six years on a Friday the 13th, doesn't it? I think so. Fuck it, right? Jasmine was born on a Friday the 13th and well, that has been a good thing. No matter, Friday is all I can think about even if it is suppose to rain.

I had been debating with myself on whether or not I would be doing Photo of the Day while I am "on the beach" but after thinking about it for a solid minute... I say "no". I would rather take photos and nap then have to photo edit for just one week of my life. Besides almost everyone who actually READS me is going to be WITH me. It will be reminiscent of...reality. Cha.

The RNC is three weeks away. Good lord, Martha and I did not plan this very well did we? The Republicans come here when I get back and the hassle is going to suck any relaxation right out of me. Work is going to be a nightmare. The DNC wasn't bad but it also wasn't in our own backyard AND it wasn't the "enemy" (so to speak) stomping all around a city that cares more about state and local politics then what happens inside the beltway. Most of the residents of New York City have a tendency to hate whoever is running the nation anyway, but especially now. Now, the idea of blowing up our own bridges and telling the rest of the country to fuck off and go away is quite appealing.

Unpacking has been an ongoing and will continue to be an ongoing process. Miss Martha did manage to build a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet on Saturday night. It was some seriously advanced build-it-yourself shit and even I was a little worried. The directions were so intense that no beer was consumed until well after the last drawer was built. But it looks great, doesn't wobble and now finally we can separate all of the arty-farty crap in my filing cabinet from the important household papers. We had been using my old filing cabinet for all of our shit but we could never find anything. Or it took forever and tempers usually...um...flared, I think would be the word there. Now piece and harmony should come to us via the filing cabinet. That is the dream anyway. It is good to dream.

Unpacking the office space with Jasmine's crap still in boxes all around is another bone of contention. I understand her frumpiness about this situation. She can't unpack and refuses to be "into" this space 'cause she is moving into a dorm room (a single one mind you) in four weeks. So she is living out of a closet. Could be worse, could be way worse. We could be living in a van down by the river. When I tell her that, she rolls her piercing baby blues at me (that God and I gave her, thank you very much) and then walks away. Yeah, I'm thinking a week in a beach house cooped up with that shit just might make me eager for the political climate of a citywide Republican/National Guard take over in late August. If you are going to be cranky, be cranky about something "real" for fucks sake. Not that politics is real but it is more real than home decorating.

The new couch came and Boy-O-Boy is it RED. Not only is it red but it had cat hair on it the nanosecond it entered the apartment even though no cat had even eyeballed it yet. The cats, of course, ran for every one of their little nine lives when the intercom rang. (Yeah, I have an intercom - ridiculous and even I'm afraid of it.) Anyway, as the three of us continue to acclimate to this living as though we are members some monarchy (the white trash part of the bloodline that's for sure) I feel like we have murdered someone and have taken over their apartment. Okay, a little severe but this is going to take me little while to get used to. Every day I see the doorman I am compelled to show him my keys and I have my hand on my wallet just incase he wants to see ID. Hell, Martha still won't go near the windows 'cause she is afraid of heights and this living like Bob Newhart on the 18th floor has her a little flipped too. She is sticking to the center of the apartment building where the bathrooms, kitchen and her side of the bed are. Miss Jasmine naturally, is fine and thinks (correctly) that we are all nuts.

I am finding it harder and harder to go to work. With the beach thing a mere ten days away the only thing I seem to care about more and more is where exactly did I put my beach hat? I found the tent and I know where my books are. I have the laptop (for writing only, no working) but my glasses and hat is still in some box somewhere. That alone is giving me the inspiration to unpack. Speaking of, Martha said to me the other night that someone she works with moved over the weekend too and that they are all unpacked already. Whatever. Do they have a record collection, a massive home office or two computers with two separate workstations? How about a disgruntled and at times down right unbearably moody twenty-something hanging around in the shadows of their day? Well?

While the irony of a hurricane hitting the beach house that we have rented has always been lurking around the dark cynical corners of my mind, I managed to catch the tail end of some weather report the other night about one coming close to the Outer Banks. Then, there is the possibility of another one that is currently hanging out in Puerto Rico, slithering up the coast while we are actually there. Cool and oh yeah, what's that I always say? Everything is a photo-op.

Best not to dwell on it all, of course until we are there. Then we can flip out at random. I suppose it doesn't matter where we all end up right? Being evacuated from a "Nonrefundable regardless of what God throws at you." beach house or the "We are poor now and have no fucking money." Super-8 Motel, two-hundred miles inland, a vacation is still a bunch of days when you are not at work. Hmm, hurricane or work? Those are my only choices? How about a bullet to the head?

Sheri baby, make sure to bring the gun-just in case.

I am all out of whack this week. Not working on Monday combined with the insanely busy bullshit at work and well, I cannot seem to remember what the hell day it is.

Well it appears as though we might be going on vacation. After a ton of back and forth emails Martha, Sheri and Keri have chosen a beach house to rent. I was merely an observer by choice. I mean really, how many lesbians does it take to plan a vacation? The photos are amazing and now it is all I can think about. A week on a beach with not much else going on. I do not care if it is August and hurricane season. Just whatever. Hot rainy hurricane force winds sounds fine by me. Could be a photo opportunity!

I was interviewed in The Village Voice. Okay, yeah, I work there but it was an article about a proposed new law in New York City prohibiting photography in the Subways. No, I am not making it up. MTA said they want to ban photography, unless of course you: