Quodlibets

"Nobody uses three locks!"

So says our new landlord, when we inform her that we don't have a key for the deadbolt.  Personally, I'd like to use three locks, so this could be the beginning of an ugly war over three locks, and whether or not we can get the key for the existing lock, or get a new lock.  I won't say that we rented the new place because it had three locks on the door, but I know that I did notice those three locks and think, "That's nice, we'll be nice and safe inside." 

But now, because S didn't stress to our landlord that we want three locks, she thinks we're fine and dandy with two--two flimsy locks.  I want a goddamn deadbolt.

That's not the only thing I'm freaking out about, right now.  Apparently, the water in our new building will be shut off (SHUT. OFF.) the day of our move.  Convenient, eh?  When I scheduled the move with the building engineer, he said nothing about water being off.  But now, until 4 pm, we can't PEE in our apartment.  That's right, we can't pee.  We can't pee, and we can't wash our hands, and we're going to be DIRTY.  Does this suck?  Yeah, kinda.  Will the move still happen?  Yes. 

I wish I could be calmer about all this, but as we all know, I'm not a calm sort of person.  Though I think I'm doing well on the outside.  On the inside, I'm a mess.  Which is now sort of on the outside because I'm typing this.

Will update key situation later.

Allergy Update

I'm not allergic to shellfish!  That's right, NOT ALLERGIC!  Who knows what the hives were the last time I ate shrimp--maybe psychosomatic?  But I am NOT allergic, according to the allergist, which means that I spent a good half-hour car ride to work thinking of the things I can now try:
-lobster bisque
-crab cakes
-crab rangoon
-crab legs
-crab dip
-lobster tail
-clam chowder (both kinds)
-scallops, in any form
-fish dishes with shellfish in the sauce
-the pasta dish that my dad had at Valentino restaurant in Vegas (no, dammit, I think it's too late for that)
-lobster ravioli

And so on and so forth.  Can you tell I'm excited?  I feel like I've been missing out, all these years.  (I told my doctor that one of the reasons I wanted to know definitively was that my picky boyfriend really liked crab rangoon, and if he would eat it, it must be awesome.  I will bet you any money that is the first item on that list up there that I eat.) 

I am, however, and this is bad news, allergic to cats.  I grew up with a cat, and never felt bad, so it was a surprise.  But my "cat hive" was almost as big as my "ragweed hive" which was so bad it spread all the way up my arm.  I'm VERY allergic to ragweed.  The doctor told me to get a HEPA filter for my bedroom, so I don't suffer as much, and gave me eyedrops and nose-spray for the worst of it, which comes in the fall.  I hope it works.

I have to run now, for a work meeting, but you can bet I'll let the world know if I like or dislike crab rangoon and all those other things I can now eat.  Yay!  Yum!

Where the boobs can't get any bigger

Apologies to those who love Vegas, because I know you're out there, but I can't understand what you love about it.  I found it the fakest, least-pleasing place I've ever vacationed at.  To me, there's nothing enchanting about a "fake" Paris that purports to harken to the real one.  If I want Paris, I'm going to Paris.  Caesar's Palace was cloying for the same reasons--it's not as if the Roman ruins in the actual Rome are gleaming white; no sort of clever decoration or paint technique can equal the actual wear and tear of time on ancient buildings.  It's fake, I know it's fake, and I don't understand why I would like this fakeness. 

This may seem like some sort of disgusting elitism, simply because there are plenty of people who can afford Vegas but not Paris, or Rome.  But Vegas is so crass that I feel like people would be better off never seeing Paris (in France) than thinking that the Vegas hotel is some sort of substitute for the real thing.  It's just patently not.  The whole thing--the glitz, the falseness, the superficiality--left me slightly uneasy.  Vegas is about playing pretend, and I guess some people love to do it.  I just find it difficult, and trying.  I don't want to pretend that we don't need to worry about conservation (Vegas could get rid of HALF its lightbulbs and it would still light up the desert) or what a bad thing drinking and gambling to excess are.  I don't want to pretend that the greed manifested EVERYWHERE in Vegas isn't ugly, because it is.  I've never been to an airport that was more of an advertisement than the one in Vegas, and I've never felt so crushingly defeated upon arrival at an airport (though, in the interests of full disclosure, we arrived LATE/EARLY at McCarran, at 3:30 am our time, 1:30 Vegas time, and didn't actually get into bed at the Bellagio until 3, Vegas time.). 

People, when I said these things to them this weekend, were quick to point out the good things about Vegas--the shows, the food--but those "good" things are SO damn expensive.  If I have enough money to pay for a nice room, shows, and good, expensive food, I might as well stretch that money to take me to New York, or San Francisco, or London, Paris, Rome, Barcelona, etc.  I can't imagine giving up the real deal for a few days in fake paradise.  It seems like an awful trade-off to me.

And you know, I don't like to drink (though I somehow ended up VERY drunk at my dad's wedding), and I really don't find gambling fun, so I'm not necessarily the ideal Vegas person.  Some of my relations stayed up until 5, 6, 7 in the morning a few nights, and that to me seems like the dumbest and most un-fun thing ever.  I'd feel like shit if I did that even once.  Maybe this seems curmudgeonly, or old-ladyish, but oh well.  I like my vacations to take place during the daylight hours, I guess. 

Maybe it seems like I didn't like any of the vacation, and that's not true.  I really did eat amazing meals in Vegas.  The wedding dinner was delicious, and leaves every other wedding dinner I've ever had lacking greatly.  (Though, with only 44 guests, it's slightly easier to make very good food.  You know, as opposed to those gigantic, 150-person extravaganzas.)  The hotels all have their moments of beauty, where instead of seeming fake, they just seem lovely.  The room was outstanding; the customer service is incredible.  My spa services, on Sunday morning, were perfection.  Simply the best spa experiences I've ever enjoyed.  (Though I suspect that part of the reason for this is the cost of them; I've never before stayed in such an expensive hotel [okay, once before, and it was just as amazing, in New York City.  The Alex.  Amazing.], or gone to such an upscale spa.  I suspect I could say those things about anywhere you spend those big chunks of money.)  We saw a show--Ray Romano--and he was funny.  I suspect that I would ADORE the new Cirque show, Beatles LOVE, and I will admit that I'm considering going back, just to see it.

So yes.  Individual experiences were nice.  But Vegas, collectively, is disturbing and I feel guilty spending any more money there.  I might, but I'm doing it with the awareness that I don't feel any sort of passion for the place, and there will be a sense of squandered travel if I do go back.  (Damn Beatles LOVE!  Making me want to come see it.)

Anyway, I'm hungover, tired and starting to stress mightily about the move, so I'm going to go lay listlessly on the couch and drink gallons of water.  But yeah, that's Vegas.  I'm glad to be home.

From Fat Girl

When you are fat, you are fat every day.  But you do not feel fat every day.  You look fat, and everyone who looks at you sees a fat girl.  And yet you are surprised that everyone sees you as fat.  Every time you feel pretty, the spell is broken, either you see yourself in a mirror or some boy screams "Pig Face" or a pretty girl looks at you and then looks away and you see sadness in her eyes or you see disgust and dismay.

I felt this quote.  From the beginning, to the end.

Rip me away from this thing. Now.

Err, I've suddenly become addicted to zefrank's The Show.  For those of you who don't know, I can't really explain it, except to say that some guy makes a three-minute video every day, posts in on the internets, and expects you to watch.

And you find yourself very much meeting that expectation, because it's sort of impossible not to watch, now that you've watched one.  I feel like I should buy something from him, because I've been relentlessly entertained by him since, oh, nine am or so.

There's really no reason on Earth he should be so amusing.  He's not that funny; I haven't laughed out loud once.  But I just really like listening to him.  Maybe he's secretly planting subliminal messages in these things, that 1) tell you to watch him every single minute you can and 2) buy things from him immediately.  I mean, aren't those t-shirts kinda fun?

AHHHHHH.  Must. Stop.

Wha???

This morning, on my way to work, I noticed a new billboard.  It was red, with big white lettering in the upper left-hand corner.  It said this:  My boogers itch.

Am I missing something?  Because I don't get it.

The accessory all the nerds want

You can't truly understand what this is until you go to the website selling it. 

It's far more nerdy than you can possibly imagine.  It'd be a great gag gift, in that you wouldn't actually wear this thing anywhere, but would stick it on a shelf, and when fellow Star Wars nerds came to your abode, you could show it to them in a fit of pride.

And then put it on the shelf, hidden maybe? so that when normal persons came to your house, they wouldn't have a chance to see just how nerdy you are.

For the Beatles fans

Via Marginal Revolution, a blog entry about the monetary value of the Beatles/Macca.

I haven't really talked about the Beatles lately, but I've been on a kick, precipitated by my reading of Bob Spitz's The Beatles.  It's a comprehensive history of the Beatles, and I really enjoyed it.  I even learned some things I didn't know, and that's pretty amazing, when you consider the fact that I've voraciously read every single Beatles book I could get my hands on since I was a teenager.  My iPod actually has Beatles tunes on it again, and I've been devoting some head time to figuring out why I cling to the Beatles.

I will say, furthermore, that I realized while reading Spitz's book that I've never really been in the practice of listening to Beatles' songs in context, by which I mean: I don't consider all the other album releases in 1967 when evaluating the greatness of Sgt. Peppers or whatnot.  I've got a basic music timeline in my head that spans from the early sixties to now, and I'm usually able to figure out where bands belong, what songs are contemporaries, and so on.  Interestingly, the Beatles exist in a time warp in my head, and don't live on that general music timeline.  They have a timeline all their own.  Possibly this is because I believe that the Beatles might just be the most important musical group ever, or I possibly believe that because I've sequestered them in my head.  Either way, it was somewhat of a shock to read Spitz, because he's constantly making comparisons, pointing out which contemporaneous groups were doing.  I forget, essentially, that Jimi Hendrix and the Beatles were making music at the same time.  (You can discount the Stones in all of this mumbo-jumbo, because I'm always aware of what the Stones are doing relative to the Beatles [historically, anyway], and I'm always, always sure that the Beatles are five million times better and more important.  It's a form of Beatle-mania induced prejudice, and I've sadly made no inroads to curing myself of it.  Down with Mick!)  Regardless, I've also never thought that the Beatles were (sort-of) still a group when Woodstock went down, which is stunningly stupid of me, and also proof of how separate those two timelines are in my head.  I can't decide if I like the Beatles less or more for finally putting the two timelines together, and knowing where the Beatles fit, but I suspect that eventually, I'll say something like, "Fuck it, the Beatles are the best EVER."  Blind love is like that.

In which I blather on about my life

I feel like after June 21st, nothing will ever be the same.  Starting that day, I'm maniacally busy right up through the move, after which nothing will really be the same.  I'm keep telling myself that if I can just make it to July 12, everything will calm down and revert to normal, but the truth is, that's not true.  Things aren't reverting to normal.  What will follow July 12th is probably months of adjustment to a new type of living, as well as very shaky work circumstances for S.  Things seem pretty fucked up right now, just because of how much is unsure.  I mean, he might not have a job.  That's pretty damn fucked up, with the expenses we'll have.

I'm trying to remain calm, because I know he's working his butt off trying to make sure he does have some sort of job, but it's still really hard to sit back and let it go.  I want this move to work, for so many reasons, and if he can't find a job, this move won't work.  We'll be stuck, screwed, in trouble--however you feel like phrasing it.  So I'm passably calm right now, but no guarantees that I'll be okay on July 5th.  And thereafter.

And things seem to be happening so quickly that I can't regain my feet after the ground shifts before it shifts again.  I'm being melodramatic, but I feel like I'm going to be on my ass for a good long while.  In fact, I feel so consumed with this stuff, all of it, that I can barely pay attention to national news and issues and politics and that pisses me off.  Don't expect any sort of heavy blogging here for a little while, unless something miraculously good or bad happens.  I might just whine and bitch and moan for two weeks, and wouldn't you be mad then?  I'll be insufferable. 

Or maybe I won't find much time to blog (as happened this weekend, when busyness just sorta took over), and you'll miss me so bad that when we finally do get our internets hooked up in the new apartment, you'll be dying to hear from me.  But I highly doubt that, and anyway, I could always blog from work, as I am right at this moment.  If I'm silent, it's more likely because I've just written out all the bitching and moaning I can stand, and I'll make the humane decision and spare you all the experience. 
Keep your fingers crossed for S, though, will ya?  We need him to have an income. 

Madge

She's a diva, no doubt about it.  Last night, the concert was supposed to start at 7:30.  Madonna came on at 8:50.  It was slightly ridiculous.  Okay, it was very ridiculous.  But I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the crowd mostly forgave her, because the show is that good.  I'm not saying the music was that good, but just the sheer spectacle.  Plus, in all honesty, it's pretty damn fun to watch Madonna cavort around stage in her little outfits and big dance boots.  She's hot, okay?  For a 47 year-old, she's got it.  I mean, she is sexier than you think, and more gorgeous than you think.  She was hard to look away from.  I'm incredibly glad I went, simply so I can say that I saw her.  Worth every penny (that my dad and his fiancee spent...thanks guys!).

The crowd was very interesting.  Lots and lots of gay men (ooooodles of them; it made me want a gay boyfriend something fierce), and obviously, straight women.  There were straight men at the show, but they were mostly attached at the hand to some Madonna-loving woman.  I don't think that we saw any groups of straight men just hanging out together at the Madonna concert.  I could be wrong, but I doubt it.  And the age range!  There were women who were probably in their teens and twenties when Madonna was big in the 80's dancing like mad when Madge did "Like a Virgin".  The woman in front of us, wearing the ugliest printed capris I've ever seen before (green and purple?  with big black abstract flowers?  UGLY, lady.), was clearly of that ilk.  She seemed to most come alive when Madonna did the old songs, and anyway, she couldn't dance.  Or the woman in the row with us, who pushed her way out in the middle of the show, saying, "Sorry, sorry, my kids are on the phone."  She was also drinking a lot, and later in the show said to me and Bee (my cousin), "If you guys want to move into our seats, we won't be crawling over you so much."  Because her and her seatmate left to get beer so often, and Bee and I were on the end of the road.  Like hell I'm giving up my seats so that you can drink more!

It actually was the strangest experience I've ever had a concert.  Because of the crowd.  I don't think I can adequately express how surreal it was, but I'll try.  I think that the crowd was riled up because of the wait, and that led to lots of unhappy situations.  Now, I also think that because of the long wait many of the people in the crowd didn't feel inclined to get up and dance.  I sure didn't.  Bee and I were at the end of the second row in section 202.  That, for all those unfamiliar with the United Center, is the first balcony.  In the section next to us, at the end of the first row closest to us, a group of four individuals were standing up.  Because of the stage position, and the sight-lines, they effectively blocked a whole group of people (Bee and I marginally being part of that group) from seeing the show.  This angered already angry people.  The women behind Bee and I were older, and drunk off their asses.  They smelled like a brewery when they walked in.  They were also sort of rough-looking--when talking about them to Bee, I said that they were "broads".  And no word could better describe them.  Anyway, their drunkeness combined with the inconsiderate jerks in the first row created a volatile situation.  They SCREAMED during EVERY single song for those people to "SIT THE FUCK DOWN, ASSHOLES." or "MOTHERFUCKERS, SIT DOWN."  It was loud and unpleasant, and they were angry.

The couple behind the standers was also angry, and they approached the ushers, who TWICE approached the standers and asked them to sit.  They did not.  Then the male person in the couple SCREAMED at the standers (not sure what he was saying) because the female person in the couple left.  Walked out in a huff.  (She eventually came back.)  THEN, and this is where it gets good, one of the old broads behind Bee and I threw an ENTIRE cup of beer at the back of the stander closest to us.  I mean, LAUNCHED a beer right at him.  Oh baby, was he soaked.  And angry.  Of course, now they seem to be standing just to make a point:  "We bought these tickets and goddamnit we can stand if we want to."  Plus, the one guy is wet all down his back with beer.  Not pleasant to sit in beer pants. 

Honestly, I'm not quite sure how the situation was diffused.  Eventually, the standers sat and the broads behind us shut up.  Though Bee said that once when she used the washroom, when she came back in, one of them was sleeping.  Not surprising.  The ladies did duck out before the end of the show, possibly because they were so drunk, but I'd not be surprised if it was more about avoiding security after the show.  What a bunch of fucknuts, all of them.

And this was not even the only occurrence of said behavior.  Down the row from us (closer to where M and her daughter JJ were sitting), one man was escorted out of the concert by security, never to return, presumably for the same sort of sitting person angst--he harassed a girl in the first row who insisted on standing, and threw something at her.  This is according to M, because Bee and I barely registered that disturbance, so great was the one going on near us. 

Part of the problem, of course, was that EVERYONE besides us was smashed.  There was a long wait for the show, people were bored, and so they plunked down $7 a drink and got drunker than drunk.  Like I said, I've never had such an experience at concert, and never want to repeat it.  (Bee did have some beer dumped down her back by the drunk broad behind her.  They were so repellent.  At one point, one of them tapped me with her inexact, drunk hands and said, "I hope I didn't spill on you." and all I could think was, "I hope you're not driving home."  But Bee said that she heard them say that they had driven in from Wisconsin to see the show.  Which is scary.  They were INSANELY past the point of being able to drive.)

Anyway, I never need to see Madonna again.  I'm glad I went, and I'm glad it's over.