In which I’m feeling aggravated.
My bank recently changed names from Central Valley Bank to Midwest One Bank.
In celebration of this, they’ve decided to charge my ‘free’ checking account $1.07 per month for the privilege of having a debit card.
Rat fuckers.
In which I do a whole lotta nothin’.
Friday we went out for a drink and were home by ten.
Saturday night we stayed in, although I discovered the next day that MissT had called me to see if I wanted to hang out. *sigh*
Sunday I slept in, then went to rehearsal. I’m still in love with the band, although it turns out we’re having a really hard time picking covers for our upcoming money-making gigs because we all have different tastes in music. GW likes 70’s guitar rock, I like Motown and funk, KO likes fusion and jazz, etc. Our list of possible covers to learn is totally schitz.
After rehearsal I dropped by to see Amazon Blonde and Truck. They were in their PJs nestled into the couch with both the TV and the stereo on. I played Truck’s acoustic guitar for awhile. Truck gave me a lecture about blogging about blogging about blogging, and Amazon Blonde said, “Yeah! What the fuck!” I love those folk.
I slept in again today, then got up and made beans and eggs and tortillas for breakfast. Mmm. As this is Bread’s fourth week home, I asked him if he was gonna get a job. He said he was working on it. When he asked why I was asking, I said, “Just ’cause we’re broke, that’s all.”
I need to go to the store for milk and bread and Tang and chocolate, but I’m really not feeling all that motivated. A nap sounds better. Way better. Although I’m so addicted to Tang I might end up going anyway.
In which I tell you a story.
Once upon a time, way back in the late 80’s when I was in junior college and majoring in voice, I was a stoner. I smoked pot all the time. I smoked it in the walk-in cooler at work at 7-Eleven, I smoked it at Dead shows, I smoked it in public parks and in friends’ living rooms and at parties. Sometimes I kept my bong on the shelf by my bed and smoked before even getting up, but usually I kept my bong in the ‘fridge.
My drug dealer was this guy out in Gresham. I can’t remember how I met him originally, but he was a few years older than me, and both myself and my highschool girlfriend D. had slept with him at one time or another. He wasn’t terribly good in bed, but we both gave him an A for enthusiasm. He had been the guitar player in the local band Quarterflash at one point, but carpel tunnel or something had ruined his hands before they ‘made it’. He had a bunch of gear set up in his bedroom – keyboards and guitars and sequencers.
He was incredibly anal. His house was completely spic and span all the time.
He grew dope up in his attic. I only saw the grow room once, early on, even though he offered to show it to me again later when he went totally hydroponic. He had an air exchange system that blew the pot-scented air out of the top of his house; you couldn’t smell anything on or near his property, but on certain days there was an area several hundred feet away in the middle of a nearby intersection that absolutely reeked of skunk.
In which you leave a comment, bitches.
In other news, it’s Delurking Week, so if you don’t comment I’ll – I’ll just – well, I’ll just fucking cry.
I know you’re here, I have tracking software you know!
In which I talk about an ex-boyfriend for a long time, as an illustration of the It Takes A Village concept (but as it applies to adults, not children).
In the mid- to late 90’s I was living off campus in a house on Kirkwood with Cat and M.P. when MLD moved in. He had this monster sex vibe – you could literally feel him walking in the front door down the hall before you could see him. He was only my height, maybe an inch shorter, but he vibed like a linebacker. (I’ve noticed that small/er men, least the ones who aren’t off on some Napoleon complex, often have really fantastic sex vibes. Mmm.) One thing led to another and eventually we were if not seeing each other then at least sleeping together. I think we told people we were “meditating together”; we’d go in my room at program time, meditate, then have great sex. (The man could totally eat pussy, let me tell you. I mean, OH MY GOD could he EVER. I’d tell you all about it except this really isn’t That Sort Of Blog.)
Anyway, I dropped out of MIU around this time because they’d finally pissed me off too much, and I ended up working full-time at Telegroup while I applied to the University of New Mexico.
The era at the Kirkwood house ended, and MLD and I ended up summering with T. & D. at this fucked up country house they were housesitting. (The house was huge and disgusting, and somehow three couples ended up there that summer, but the story of the house and all the strange shit that happened there – all three couples had identical fights over and over – is a whole ‘nother post.) When the summer was over, T. & D. loaded me and my shit into their truck and drove me to school in Albuquerque.
I’d asked MLD to come with me on several occasions. He was miserable in Iowa and had nothing else to do – not in school, no job, many of his friends and classmates had moved away – but he declined. And declined. And declined.
Okay, so, he’ll fuck me, but he doesn’t really like me enough to move three states away even though he clearly hates it here. Okay, fine. Story of my life. Whatever.
In which I can’t think of anything clever, so will bore you with a few mundane details just so you know I’m thinking of you.
My fingers still hurt from playing my guitar.
I’m not sure I’m in love with the idea of an always-home, unemployed husband. Ahem. (He just read this line and said, “Why?” I said, “Because you’re in my space.” He sort of chuckled and went out to do something butch with his chainsaw.)
I suck at writing lyrics, which is weird for a vocalist. Don’t you think?
Band practice last night devolved into a two-hour discussion – with pizza and beer – in PK’s living room. I had so much fun. I adore those people. We didn’t play much, but it was fun to hang out.
I’m sick of doing laundry. I do so much goddamned laundry you’d think there were six of us living here instead of two.
I believe I’ll go make a huge pot of chili now. Hope your day is fantastic.
In which I complain, and confess to having a mysterious rash. (No, no no no, not THERE. Christ, what’s wrong with you?)
The plastic zipper on my down-filled vest sucks. It catches on nothing and it always takes me multiple tries to get it unzipped. If the vest wasn’t so warm I wouldn’t put up with this shit.
It’s cold outside. I don’t dig it. If it were summer, I wouldn’t have to wear down vests in the first place, I’d be wearing a tank and a skirt and my Birks and it would be fantastic.
In other news, I have a weird rash on my palms. Both of them. It’s a bunch of tiny little subcutaneous blister-like dots. I have no idea what it is – I’ve never seen anything like this anywhere on my body. It started several days ago as an itchy patch at the base of my right thumb, then it went away, and yesterday afternoon it came back all over both palms and up my right pinkie finger. The sensation is a combination of burning tightness and itchiness.
As I’ve always got minor abrasions on my hands in the winter from handling firewood, I’m assuming it’s some relative of the ringworm/jock itch/athlete’s foot fungus, and that Lamasil or something similar will remove it… except I’ve had ringworm, and this isn’t ring-shaped. Then again, maybe I have lupus. Or herpes. Or Rocky Mountain spotted fever!
Or maybe I’m just dehydrated and a little bit toxic.
Update: Well, now it’s November 2008 and I see that this page gets a lot of hits. My rash went away by itself. I now believe it was the result of toxicity; I was under a lot of stress at the time and I’d been doing non-OTC drugs regularly.
In which wanting and needing are not the same thing.
I just walked over to the 2nd Street coffee shop, where I bought a latté and a piece of Bonnie’s strange-but-good veggie lasagna. (She makes the sauce spicier than is typical, and there’s always broccoli in it. Plus she makes odd cheese choices sometimes. But her lasagna rocks anyway.) There were three people in there with their laptops, enjoying the wi-fi. Bastards. I want a laptop! I want to surf the ‘net at the coffee shop on a sexy, sleek laptop!
But since Bread quit his job today, I don’t see a shiny new laptop in my near future.
In which my brother got a new drum kit.
This is one of the dozen images my brother emailed me of his new drum kit.
On the phone today he told me, “My new drum kit is so hot it’s going to have my kids. As soon as I find its vagina, that is.”
In other news, this will cheer you up. He’s so funky, the Purple One.
Yesterday was a long day.
I got home really late Tuesday night because rehearsal went so long, then I sat reading and unwinding for a bit before going to bed. I didn’t get enough sleep that night. Yesterday I worked until five, met Bread at the bar and had dinner with him at Torino’s, then went to rehearsal again. Didn’t get home until late but had to wake him up and ravish him because he’d made me promise I would at dinner, so I didn’t get to sleep last night until well past midnight.
Today I have rehearsal at seven and we’re running through the whole set twice, so I doubt I’ll be home before eleven. I am so sleeping in tomorrow! But then my house is a total mess and I still need to buy shoes for the gig, so I guess I’ll have to actually do something Friday rather than lounge on the couch watching TiVo’d episodes of Sex and the City re-runs as I’d like.
I’m really excited about the gig but right now I want a nap so badly I can barely keep my eyes open. I think I’ll buzz home at five and take a power nap before rehearsal, and show up with a sleepy voice rather than a sleepy head.