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February 26, 2003
Secret Message #6: That Thing in the Alien Cage
The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars,
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.
- Georgia Douglas Johnson (1886-1966)
It's all a-flutter, yes it is; I guess you could even say it's topsy turvy. Speaking of which, if (unlike dear Minnie) you haven't noticed it yet, I've added a topsy turvy graphical archives section to the site.
That aside, I bring up two other topics: H.E. and Art. Do I write too much about them? My apologies if I do, but the two of them are like... hmm... how do I explain this? Is there a mathematical equation I could use?
How about:
H.E. + Art = heart
Cheesy, I know. Forgive me. February has been weird to me, and I've gotten to the point where I wonder if readers can predict on which days I will post a new entry. There is, after all, a telltale way of knowing when I will publish. Still... if you can guess when I will post in March, I'll be very impressed.
It's strange, though. I've thought about stopping my use of the comments feature, but I haven't thought about stopping my weird little monthly schedules, which only shows you how truly compulsive I am. Does anyone care at all when I post?
Never mind. If you've read this far, you're here for the secret message and not my rambling. But then... you'd already know what that message is anyway, and no, there is no extra Easter Egg this month. There will be one next month, I promise... and even prizes in April—the month that is, and not me.
Which leads me to ask:
What would you like to see me give away as prizes?
Please bear in mind that I'm a poor girl, but otherwise anything goes.
Posted by April at 10:24 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 20, 2003
Bad [Children's Fantasy] From My Writing Past #4: Gregor the Griffin
In a land full of mystery, magic, and mist,
In a time oh so long, long ago,
There were creatures like unicorns, ogres and trolls.
There were creatures above and below.
Below, there were brownies and fairies and elves,
Tiny people with magic for might.
There were dwarves who worked mines in the deepest of caves.
There were zombies who walked through the night.
In the forest were nymphs who were souls of the trees,
Running naked like babes when they danced.
The trunks 'neath the leaves of the trees were their home,
And they served as the nymphs' underpants.
In the sky up above were the dragons and ghosts,
Nightmare steeds flying high through the air.
There were creatures of flight, and those of the night,
And balahas, too, which were rare.
Yes, all through the land and the sky were these creatures,
As strange and as grand as they seem.
They were all quite content, when there weren't any wars,
Famines, plagues, or a drought in their streams.
There was someone, however, who was sad as can be.
He was different in shape, size, and form;
For this he was taunted and daunted and teased,
Just because he was not like the norm.
His name, my dear children, was Gregor the Griffin,
A creature quite strange to the sight:
Tail and legs of a lion in back, and in front—
An eagle, with wings made for flight.
His ma was a lion, an eagle his pa,
So he looked kind of odd so to say,
And the nemean lions and 'manthian boars
All made fun of him e-ve-ry-day.
This made Gregor the Griffin as sad as a kitten
Cub lost in the woods without aid,
'Til Gregor the Griffin got mad as a spittin'
Hag cursin' with potions she's made.
For "Lookee you-hoo," they would say with a sneer.
"Ain't like us all who know who we are.
With those wings like your pa and a tail like your ma,
You're as mixed up as all those cen-taurs!"
Then Gregor the Griffin was always a-bitten
'Til he cried out "Ow!" or "Hey-you!"
He'd get down to fightin' and bitin' and clawin'
'Til all of the others cried, too.
So Gregor the Griffin was always a-tiffin'
With other young creatures his age.
He did quite a-lot-in of bitin' 'n' clawin'
As though fightin' was all the new rage.
To tell you the truth, he was sadder than sad
'Cause no matter the place he was at,
He was different as different; that's plain as can be,
'Less of course, you're as blind as a bat.
On the ground were the nemean lions, of course.
Strong and black, and all lions so pure.
Erymanthian boars were boars to the core—
Of their heritage, all was so sure.
And up in the sky were the dragons and eagles
And rocs, those immense birds of prey.
All had sisters and brothers, who looked like the others.
They had such fun whenever they played.
Those gnomes, and trolls, and yetis, oh my!
All were terrible, terribly so.
Yet they had their families; they fit in so nicely.
Did Gregor the Griffin? Oh, no!
His pa was an eagle; he kept to the sky.
He flew all around and around.
His ma was a lion who loved her son's father,
But always kept close to the ground.
So Gregor the Griffin was always a-snifflin'
'Cause nobody liked him too much.
He was part of one world and yet part of another,
Thus part of no world then as such.
And Gregor the Griffin set his mind to a-thinkin'
'Bout leavin' his strange cave-nest home.
Ma's friends didn't like him, and neither did Pa's,
So he thought he'd just go out and roam.
He discovered a place called Antlantis, and there
He met tritons—half fish and half man.
There were makaras, mermaids, and nagas, too.
Many lived half in sea, half on land.
Then Gregor the Griffin met Mick Manticore,
With a lion-like torso like his.
But Mick had big wings like a bat, and a tail
That was spiked, and a face just like this—GRRR!
He met Chickie the Chimera, who was stranger than Mick,
With forelegs and head like his ma.
He had Mick's bat-wings and a long serpent's tail,
And some hooves to add to his paws.
The hooves were like goats' hooves, but that isn't all;
There's something much odder than that.
Chuckie, how lucky, had a couple more heads,
Which is great if you like wearing hats.
So Gregor the Griffin, he learned a strange lesson:
There were others much stranger than he.
Like him they were outcast for not fitting in,
On land, in sky, or in sea.
So he made many friends with the creatures who felt
Oh, so lonely, as lonely can be,
The satyrs, the centaurs, and malataurs, too,
The zephyrs, and all the were-beasts.
And after much searchin', our dear little griffin,
He even found someone like him,
A beautiful young'un named Glenda the Griffin,
Who kissed him one day on a whim.
So don't you go thinkin' that Gregor the Griffin
Died a lonely old creature one day,
For Gregor the Griffin was soon quite a-smitten
With Glenda the Griffin in May.
The two happy griffins were wed, and the fixin's
Were handled by all their new friends,
And all of their children were griffins, of course,
So no one was lonely again.
[N.B.—Human Encyclopedia actually likes this piece a lot and is somewhat dismayed that I would post this online, so he would like for me to stress that this is copyrighted material. Yes, that's right. Copyright © 1996-2003 by April Garnett E. Martinez, but you already knew that. So... link to it if you like it, but don't copy it; H.E. is very large, has a lot of lawyer friends, and is super-duper-protective of me and my creative work. There. I hope that makes him happy. Don't piss him off, okay? Thanks.]
Posted by April at 10:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 19, 2003
Ideal Souvenirs
H.E. returned from a trip to Taiwan and brought me back some trinkets. When I showed them to my co-worker he asked, "What could you possibly get in Taiwan as a souvenir, when it seems like everything we have here is 'Made in Taiwan'?" Good question.
This led to the topic of souvenirs in general. What ideal things do you get for someone when you're on a trip somewhere? My co-worker will sometimes get a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt with the city's name on it. Me, I'll try to find something (anything) unique—preferrably with the city's name on it, too, of course. The only problem with stuff like that is that, except in the case of the shirts stating, "My [so-and-so] went to [anytown], and all I got was this lousy t-shirt," it seems somehow wrong for a person to wear something from a city they've never even visited—which became quite another topic for conversation between my co-worker and me (all to be discussed another day).
Is it necessary to have the city's name on the souvenir? Probably not. It's likely less commercial and more personal when the city's name isn't emblazoned all over the gift. My friend Janine once sent me a plastic bag of sand from a beach she visited, which was kind of neat. Still, having the city name somewhere on the souvenir would have helped with the remembering part of souvenir—which of course means to remember in French—because I can't for the life of me remember from what beach that sand originated. Also, it helps to have some kind of labeling involved, especially if you, let's say, collect sand from more than one place.
"This sand looks like that sand. Where did I get this again? And this? How do I know it isn't the other way around?" There goes my sand collecting career, I guess.
Speaking of collecting, I once had a boss that had a bookshelf full of snow globes, and anytime anyone went anywhere, they brought her back a snow globe with the city's name on it. I asked her, "Why snow globes?"
She shrugged and said, "I don't know. I don't particularly like snow globes, but someone brought me a couple of snow globes once, and when people saw them displayed, I guess they figured I liked snow globes and brought me even more of these things whenever they travelled."
My co-worker's friend had the same problem with Marilyn Monroe; he had one picture of Marilyn Monroe, and then everyone started getting him Marilyn Monroe this and Marilyn Monroe that, from all kinds places. He didn't have any strange obsession for Marilyn either; he just thought the first picture was hot.
Hm... I guess people don't really think about the souvenirs they get for their loved ones.
One of my high school friends, Samantha, was really smart about getting souvenirs for people. She even planned way in advance for them. For instance, when a bunch of us went to Oahu for a week in the summer, she took only one bag instead of the two that we were allowed. Then, while in Oahu, she bought another bag and filled it up with clothes, candy, and other items she bought at the street markets there. She also bought pineapples and other perishables and had them sent via post mail to her family. At the end of the trip she returned with a full inventory of gifts, while I had room enough for only a few souvenirs.
Smart woman. I'll be sure to do that next time around, but I still have to wonder... what sort of souvenirs do people really like to receive? Seriously. Myself, I'd like a music CD or a DVD movie from that country—preferrably one that is currently popular there and is, of course, native to the area. I guess I'd just like anything from that place's pop culture... you know, to get an idea of the local flavor. How about you?
It doesn't matter how well we know each other, how much I can afford, or whether or not I would actually get the souvenirs; anyone can answer the following question:
If I were to go on a trip right now, anywhere in the world, what sort of souvenir would you like for me to bring you?
Posted by April at 10:42 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 18, 2003
I Kissed This Guy and Lady Mondegreen
Come ride a train of thought with me for a while; this journey has a serendipitous end.
I don't check my referral logs as often as I think most webbers do; the only statistic that truly interests me is the number one search referral for any given month. Last month it was cat shit, and this month it's excuse me while I kiss this guy. Up until recently, it was hardly even on the radar, but as I write this, I hold the top spot on the Google search page for that particular phrase—with or without quotation marks.
I cannot explain this sudden interest in misheard Jimi Hendrix lyrics, nor can I explain why I rank so high for such a search. Not only do I not mention Jimi Hendrix or his song "Purple Haze" at all in the page to which Google links, but the content on that page is really mostly about an alien and an alien sky. I just don't get it. Surely, that's not what people are hoping to find.
So I decided to do a little research of my own, and I somehow stumbled onto this, a wonderful collection of even more misheard lyrics and verses—including "Round John Virgin" of "Silent Night" and the ever patriotic "I pledge a lesion to the flag, of the United States of America, and to the republic for Richard Stans, one naked individual, with liver tea and just this for all..."
I couldn't believe it. Emily Litella and I are not alone, and there's actually a name for the little flubs we make: mondegreen!
Granted, mondegreen hasn't yet been accepted into the dictionary, but it seems like every sesquipedalian already views the word as legitimate. How could they not? The etymology behind it is a lot more interesting than that behind most other words.
Well... interesting to me, anyway.
When the following words:
They hae slay the Earl of Murray
And laid him on the green
...somehow end up as:
They hae slay the Earl of Murray
And Lady Mondegreen
...then that's a person after my very own heart, indeed.
So, long live Lady Mondegreen!
[Excuse me while I kiss her, too.]
Posted by April at 09:09 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 14, 2003
Secret Admirer
At work today, one of the guys working in the warehouse did a very sweet thing. He brought pink carnations for all of the women in the company. There was no flourish, no explanation, just a smile and a simple presentation of the thoughtful gift. It brightened every woman's day, whether she already had a valentine or not.
One woman asked, "Who is this from?"
He answered simply, "From a secret admirer." And I guess from his point of view, that was all she needed to know. Whether or not it was true was beside the point.
The secret admirer is an enigmatic sort; his very nature boggles my mind. It seems as though he exists merely to love and not necessarily to be loved in return. Meanwhile, the object of his affection goes about life not knowing that he or his admiration of her exists. She could possibly, regularly feel lousy, unloved, beautiful to no one, and of little consequence to anyone at all. If he truly loved her, he would find some way to reassure her and to let her know that someone out there appreciates who she is...
...and so he does, anonymously.
I could never figure out the anonymously part of it. I suppose there could be any number of reasons behind it: fear of rejection, fear of ridicule, fear of losing the perfection of an unrequited love. Who knows what other secrets the heart of a secret admirer holds?
But I think every lonely soul should know if they have a secret admirer, even if they never find out who that secret admirer is. Just knowing is like a ray of sunshine, reassuring and warm, as though someone is saying, "I know you're out there, and I love you as you are."
How do I know this? I've had a secret admirer or two of my own, that's how, and it's only done me good.
High school was lonely for me, my self-esteem at an all-time low. I secretly admired boys who never even knew I existed, and I had never ever been on a date. One day, during a week in Oahu on some class trip, I was pulled aside by the nice Hawaiian guys who worked at the reception desk of the Laniloa Lodge, and they presented me with a single red rose and a white short-sleeved collared cotton shirt, the words "Kahuku Staff" emblazoned in red over the heart.
The gift was from a secret admirer, they told me, but they wouldn't reveal who that person was. It didn't matter anyway; just knowing that someone out there thought I was special was enough to lighten my heart. Feeling cherished, I in turn cherished the gifts given to me and spent the rest of that trip with a wistful smile on my face. To this day, I still have that shirt in my possession, and I would even have the rose, pressed and dried in a scrapbook somewhere, if I'd known how to do that properly.
I sometimes wonder if my secret admirer ever knew how much I appreciated that gesture or how much it meant to me. Or, if he didn't actually exist, I wonder if the guys at Laniloa Lodge ever grasped the effect of their generosity. I mean,... how do you thank someone who keeps his identity a secret? How do you tell him how much you appreciate the simple beauty of selfless, undemanding love that he added to your life?
How, indeed.
So... to all the secret admirers out there, on behalf of those you secretly admire, thank you.
Posted by April at 11:14 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 13, 2003
Life Lesson #3: What I Learned in a Long Distance Relationship
Posted by April at 07:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 12, 2003
Yanking Doodles #1: In the Margins of My Notebooks
Don't let my transcripts fool you; I was not that great a student. I was one of those who tuned the teacher out and doodled in the margins of my notebooks. It's a bad habit that's followed me out into the real world; whenever I'm in meetings at work, I find myself drawing little faces on my notepad.
Over the years, I've saved some of my doodles because someone convinced me that I should, and sometimes when I clean out my folders and files, I end up pasting the bits and pieces onto a single piece of paper. In the years I wrote compulsively to my friend Janine, I sent those single pieces of paper to her, pages and pages of doodles that I thought might amuse her.
Some of those pages found their way back to me when she returned some of my notebooks for my journal records. Well, while doing some unpacking over the weekend, I found a few of them and thought I should scan them and share.
Warning: they're not that good. After all, they're only doodles done during bored and furtive moments. I felt guilty about them for years until I visited the Dr. Seuss Collections in the library of my alma mater, UCSD. It turns out that he used to doodle in his math notebooks, too, which is kind of neat since he's one of my heroes.
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Posted by April at 09:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 11, 2003
Midriff Crisis
There is such a drawback to not having an ego. When I was younger and much more svelte, I could have easily worn all those midriff-showing fashions young girls are wearing today and have looked as though the clothes were made for me. Yes, I had the abs for it at the time, the muscular line down the middle, naturally developed after countless jumps and stunts, and it would have been the perfect look.
But damn it, I just didn't have the ego for it. I hid myself like some Afghan woman under Taliban rule, covering my flesh as though my life depended on it and constantly wearing pants and long sleeves to hide my limbs. The one time I wore a string bikini, it was in Hawaii amongst my high school peers, and I never felt so exposed in my entire life. I remember all those eyes, and I could swear they were made of laser beams that left red aiming dots all over my body, with missiles aimed in my direction. [Uh... ahem.]
Now that I'm older, I wonder why I went through so much trouble to hide myself. Someone much older and wiser tells me that I will never look as good as I do in the present, so I should dress to show off what I have.
"Are you out of your mind?!" is always my first response. Anything beyond jeans and a sweater is a little out of my comfort zone, and I am nowhere near as fit as I was as a teenager. I hide my hair in a braid, my eyes behind glasses, and my face with no makeup. Whatever "looks" I have is all in potential, with nothing shown.
"But watch," I'm told, "one day, your breasts will droop. Your face and neck will wrinkle, and you'll have to pose with your hand at your chin or with a scarf on your shoulders to hide the aging skin below your jaw, just like all those romance novelists on the back of their books. When that happens, you'll look back on these days and long for the looks that you have now, and you'll say, 'Wow, if I still looked like that, I'd wear this or that and wear my hair this way or that way,' just like you do now when you look back to the time you were 16 years old and just delicious."
So says that wise and learned voice during my little midriff crisis, when I lament over the lack of the line that used to run down my abdomen, and I hide that little lack with a small tug on the front of my shirt, self-conscious and ill at ease with myself.
The older, wiser voice stays silent for a moment while its owner slowly shakes a head of dyed, thinning hair, hands gently rubbing a soft, rounded belly hidden beneath a large, concealing shirt.
Hindsight is 20/20, and our eyes all start to fail at a certain age. Maybe by then, the lack of ego won't matter. Or maybe, it just doesn't matter how old we are, and we will always lack that ego.
Posted by April at 10:52 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 10, 2003
Dancing To a New Toon
So I think I've found an illustration style with which I can live for a while.
When I first started doing digital artwork, I experimented a lot with the monochromatic style in Paint Shop Pro or Photoshop, in which I would flood-fill a canvas with a single color and then dodge and burn the hell out of it. Then I dallied a bit in a quickie natural media style while fooling around in Painter, but I didn't really like the results much. Then I combined the two very different techniques and came up with a better style of illustration.
Meanwhile, I was getting paid to do black and white line art—toons for business newsletters, you know, that sort of thing. I was also doing simple vector art in Illustrator for some of my graphic design work, but really nothing to write home about, mostly stuff I never even bothered to put in an online gallery.
Then I moved on to 3D, Poser and Bryce specifically, and forgot all about drawing with the Wacom.
...until I went back to my roots, back to digital doodling in Photoshop. This time, I combined all the different styles I'd been developing—the toons, the vector paths, the 3D textures, the coloring, smudging and airbrushing, everything... and there you go, the style of Alien Barbecue.
...which led to other things—the topsy turvy images on this log and to this, Broch's new look. Go tell him how you like it, why don't you? The toon, I mean, not... well... I mean the toon, okay? ;-)
Posted by April at 09:10 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
February 07, 2003
The Endless Question: Selected Combinations and Corpses, Part I
I took a poetry course in college as one of my requirements in my writing major. In one class session, the TA had each of us write a question on one piece of paper and an answer on another piece of paper. Then, we were to pass our questions to the person on our left and our answers to the person on our right. Whatever question and answer combination we ended up with became our little impromptu "poem" of the day, and we each read our poems aloud for the rest of the class to hear.
If you ever get a chance to do something like that, take it. The results are often quite surprising. I actually kept a record of some of the poems from that class, and I decided to share some of them with you today:
What is too much love?
It is my child by my father.
What is the animal that lurks outside?
It is the hollow cloud of a colorless sky.
What is a tear?
It is the swelling colors of dawn.
What is dreaming of a lost lover?
It was Oliver, waking from his nap.
What is the sky?
It is the yellow-green hue of spring.
What is the purpose of society?
It is a screaming rain pounding its fists against the door.
What is antidisestablishmentarianism?
It is the Big Kahuna wave that has come to take you down.
What is a dog's bark?
It is a yellow bird in a black cage.
What is the direction of scattered thought?
Then yesterday is forgotten.
What is a man without language?
It is a man holding a balloon.
What is resonance?
It is a marble ladder extending beyond the clouds.
Posted by April at 11:48 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
February 06, 2003
I'm Standing, and I Can't Fall Down!
Human Encyclopedia swears that there's some kind of weird relationship between me and the physicality of the world. Out of Pure Luck, I seem to unerringly find every door jamb and street pole in existence, even with my eyes closed. Every time I bump into things, H.E. compares me to a pinball in a pinball machine. "You know, I just moved those door jambs, just so you'd bump into them." Ha ha. Very funny.
Well... tonight, H.E. and I were walking down the street to his truck, and sometime during the walk, H.E. thought to himself, "She's going to hit that road sign over there. It's the only obstruction on the sidewalk in this entire trip, but she'll hit it. I just know it."
And wouldn't you know it? Half a block later, right before we got to the guilty pole, I could have sworn we were being followed, and I turned and looked over my shoulder to see who was behind us, when wham! I hit the street pole.
H.E. laughed. "Now how did I know that was going to happen?" he asked, and I scowled.
H.E.'s right, though. I seem to have a strong attraction to things that trip me up or bang my shoulders.
The amazing thing is that I hardly ever fall or get hurt. I walk like a drunk, but I never seem to fall. I am as steady as a sturdy ship at sea, bobbing and weaving but never sinking. Speaking of which, H.E. once told me that a person could get seasick watching me stand or keep "still" with all my bobbing and weaving. H.E. suspects that if I were ever to set foot on a ship, I would actually be able to walk in a straight line for once.
Yeah. Well.
It's a theory I have yet to test, but in the meantime,... please stop moving all the door jambs!
Posted by April at 11:39 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
February 04, 2003
The Immovable Forces Me To Deal In Wheels
Growing up, I inhabited a tiny bedroom in which I rearranged the furniture every now and then to find some extra space. I got really good at moving heavy objects around—my twin bed, my chest of drawers, my dresser drawers with the mirror, my nightstand, etc. I would rearrange my books and magazines, my clothes, and my other stuff around them, and I would do it all by myself, cute little me with the scrawny arms and legs. I got buff in a girly way.
During this time, I developed a strong liking to the natural oak look with the smooth, rounded corners. I found myself dreaming of the ideal furniture, and the ideal furniture was heavy, sturdy, and a pain to move. Nevertheless, I set out to acquire said furniture someday.
When my family moved to a townhouse with bigger bedrooms, my furniture indeed became heavier and sturdier—real oak wood! I had a computer desk—with a return and a hutch—that was a bitch to move around even without the computer equipment on it. I had a twin waterbed with a real oak frame, and that, too, was a bitch to move around. I had a real oak bookshelf with a cupboard at the bottom, my favorite piece of furniture and still in my possession; it's a major pain in the ass to move, but I can do it on a carpeted surface.
When I moved out on my own into a two-bedroom apartment in Vista, I took the bookshelf with me. I also took a new queen-sized bed with a metal frame, my old chest of drawers, my old nightstand, and my mother's real oak bookshelf to accomodate even more books. Tables? Chairs? Couch? Goodness, no. That would have been asking for a hernia on top of everything.
Yeah, I was quite happy with my furniture. I remember feeling bad for a couple of my friends when I visited their apartment and saw that they used bricks and wooden boards for a makeshift bookshelf. They were non-apologetic and actually kind of proud of it. "It makes things easy to move!" they said, and I merely shook my head. I continued to prefer the heavy and sturdy real oak wood stuff.
During my time in Vista, when the company for which I was working decided not to renew the lease on the office space, I was given some money for furniture and told to work at home. That's how I acquired a really nice-looking $400 Sauder desk with a "natural wood" veneer; it was my first choice among those "assembly required" office furniture, and I assembled it with my own hands with love and pride. I would have preferred the real oak wood stuff, but it would have cost me more than the allowance I was given.
Still, although the beautiful Sauder desk was made mostly of particle board and not of oak, it was heavier than all of my other furniture and was also the most unwieldy. It actually broke apart during my last move, when some incompetent mover decided to beat on it to get it to fit into a smaller space between the boxes and other "stuff" in the moving truck. Since then, I've been working on a peeling fold-out table, longing for a new desk.
So, I set out to buy myself a desk and a file cabinet, and after having moved a couple of times now with the real oak wood stuff in tow and with broken furniture pieces in my wake, I've found that I've changed my standards; I got myself something inexpensive, light, easy to move, and with wheels. Wheels! I put it together last night, right after I bought it, and I couldn't be more pleased.
The old me might have scoffed at it for the fact that it doesn't look as heavy or as sturdy as a real oak piece of furniture, but the new me says, "It makes things easy to move!" And until I get settled permanently into a home that I own, that's very important to me. I want to be able to move this thing if it ever comes down to moving again, and if or when I ever do get myself some real quality oak wood stuff that's a bitch to move, I refuse to ever budge again. Come hell or high water, I will stay at that house or leave all the furniture behind. And that's that.
The mountain can simply come to me at that time, but until then, I have wheels. Woohoo!
Posted by April at 09:42 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
February 03, 2003
New Lease on Life
I have no computer, so I post this via ESP.
I have a new lease on life... or at least on a condo. Although I managed to rip another pair of jeans (apparently it's a price I pay), the move was smoother this time, and thanks to Dave, I now think of Ex-Lax when I think of smooth moves.
You think there's no snow in California? I don't have cable until Friday; I see plenty of snow on my television set, and it's beautiful!
I was inundated by mortgage spam over the weekend of my move—at least 10 of the exact same one, even. Uncanny. Simply uncanny. I also got one for penis enlargement, and you know... I simply don't know how to tie that one into my move. I really don't.
Well, wait a minute... if my carrying those big heavy boxes around can be considered "dick waving" then I guess I do.
We'll get back to the regular programming and e-mail responding as soon as I get my computer set up. In the meantime, send housewarming presents.
Update: Scary is finding out at work that the loud beeping sound you heard in the morning as you left for the office is the smoke detector from the unit above your new place... all this, after you had just spent a hard weekend moving all of your precious stuff there.
Posted by April at 09:21 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack