the secret downside of a good deed: junk.

is it only my sickness that whenever i help anyone move, i end up coming home with bagfuls of junk? that stuff that guilt prevented to even regift is finally cast off, much to the relief of it's long suffering owner who is finally, through the pain of watching boxes of their belongings turn to mountains, emboldened enough to chuck it. or stuff that truly is great. it's just, you already have too much great stuff of your own.

all in all, after days of helping kathleen pack up her apartment, i was doing pretty well, being given wonderful and useful stuff like canola oil and sugar and taco shells. and then jade came across this monstrosity. apparently someone else does share my sickness.

and no, it's not even mug size. it's one of those weird tall mugs. and as for the extra inch of three dimensionality that the pig jumps from the body of the mug, i shake my head and have nothing to say. jade is mystified at my horror and keeps thrusting it in my face as though expecting me to coo and think it's cute. "it's a baby!"

of course, then i had to go home with three of these plates that my family will recognize as my grandma alice's classic everyday pattern...

i can't help it. i love them so.

just a tease

so the deal with me is that i have to lay down when i get tattooed. even if it's on my arm, because otherwise i will pass out. or, to be more lady-like, faint. i add the lady-like 'faint' in, to show my mother that despite the addition of a new kick-ass tattoo, i am still totally a lady. um, as much as i ever was....
a tough girl who must endure the not so tough insistance on bringing out the 'bed'.

you're not getting an unveiling yet because my tattoo isn't finished! but here is the boss and me, mugging like it is....
get back to me in a month and there will be more to see and hear...

let the birthday spoilage continue!

there is a unique and particular joy in sporting a layered mesh skirt that could only be described as stevie nix, that you dug out of a free pile of discarded 'art' in a sandy and abandoned hockey rink, with striped tights and boots, and knowing that tonight is the night that your boss, arguably the best tattoo artist you know of, will leave another mark on your arm.

thirty-five. really?

back in 1998 i went to vidal sassoon on 5th avenue and signed up to be a hair model. this was a lot less glamorous than it sounds. it didn't involve strolling down any catwalks, but importantly, it did involve getting a free haircut. i was a little bit nervous, but tried to be buddhist about it--lose my attachment to material things. it's just hair, right? it turns out my hairstylist student failed her test. she was so nervous and unsure that she took 3 and a half hours to give me a bob. but i have to say, up to that point, it was the best haircut of my life. even though i had to call in late to work, i strutted out onto fifth avenue shaking my silken bob like it was my personal catwalk.

so if that was the haircut i got when the students failed, what could possibly go wrong? i came back in 1999 for more. i was 23 years old. i was feeling edgy. i said short. really short. i was thinking chunky. raw. punk rock. yeah! but the catwalk delusion was over. when shown the mirror i couldn't even gasp. this haircut was so awfully boxy and boring that i couldn't even get worked up over it.

again, i went straight to work, but instead of oohs and ahs, i got puzzled looks and hesitation. wow. you look.....very.....mature. said the nice people. the men at work, ever the more honest, flat out told me i looked old. in the space of two days, the number 'thirty-five' was mentioned more than five times. two different people told me i looked like a thirty-five year old lesbian.

this haircut seemed to really have a unifying effect over peoples' opinions, as though everyone had discussed the bad haircut of kitty joe before dropping comments. the lesbian part didn't bother me. maybe edgy lesbian would have been cute. but THIRTY-FIVE?! as in 35?! how could a haircut age me a decade and a half? i was horrified, and forced to take drastic measures. well, not pull out the clippers kind of drastic. but the haircut was never seen again, so buried under clips, barrettes and headbands it became. and so i became twelve years old. and for the next five months it took to grow out, i could be heard mumbling around the house, ".....thirty-five!?"

so, um.....
tomorrow.....i'm turning thirty five.
and all i can think about is that haircut. and how old, how ancient, how lifetimes away thirty five seemed. and yes, it was a lifetime ago. and sure, i suppose i do feel a lot older, even in the frightening ways i imagined back then. but some part of me--perhaps denial, perhaps protest--quietly notices, that i sure haven't made much progress toward growing up, striped socks and all. and maybe i'm kind of happy about that.

a little ditty bout boots, tape and love.

somewhere between rochester and buffalo, the lower sole of my boot detached all the way back to the heel, leaving me limping and tripping over the railyard rocks. this did not provide me with a very smooth or incognito gait for trainhopping.

since our boxcar was detached from the freight in buffalo, we wandered out of the yard and over the freeway to investigate fixes. a roll of duct tape was purchased from the surprisingly inhabited wal mart behind the booming value city.


i was back in business--at least temporarily--and rocked the silver tape shoe all over cleveland.


and once i got home, my handy jade rigged up some glue and clamps, melting my heart. ah, the things that impress me.