Category: etc.

~ The young dudes out by Target the other day with a sign that read Hobos Need Cheeseburgers.

You know, I appreciated the honesty. The truth in advertising here. They weren’t trying to pass themselves off as “Veterans” who “Need Help” or who “Will Work For Food.” No. No. They were what they were. Just a couple of grubby slackers who really wanted some cheeseburgers.

~ The man who stands on a particular busy corner every weekend with a sign reading Brunch Hungry.

This guy is a favorite of mine. The specificity of his need is both endearing and maddening to me. He is not hungry for breakfast or lunch or dinner. He does not want tapas or appetizers or hors d’oeuvres. He has no interest in a cuppa joe or high tea or cocktails.

No. He is Brunch Hungry, dammit.

Please deposit 24.95 in my can so that I may shuffle myself and my attendant muck off to the Hotel Del Coronado for champagne mimosas and flaky croissants and repeated trips to the omelette bar.

~ The man we saw many months ago who stood on a corner giddily waving a small sign in one hand, holding out his baseball cap in another. From a distance, we couldn’t see what the sign said, but whatever it was, the man was very happy about waving it. His face seemed like it could literally explode from the blazing joy that sign brought him. As we got closer, we saw it clearly.

The sign he waved with all his might was the front of a box of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran.

It seems that he urgently needed the whole world to know and share in his joy about the existence of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran! So we wondered: Was this an ad, like those dudes who twirl signs for condos that never sell? Did he want us to pour some Kellogg’s Raisin Bran into his outstretched cap? Was he some kind of Raisin Bran evangelist? Was he just high? What??

He waved at us, high on Raisin Bran, I guess, and we waved back. As we rounded the corner, I peeked over my shoulder at him one last time and saw the plain cardboard back of his sign:

“Will Work For Food!”

The sign was backwards and he was completely oblivious about it.

As I told MB what it said and we convulsed into laughter, I realized that I hoped he’d stay that way.

Leona Lewis singing “Summertime” two years ago on the show X-Factor, the UK’s replacement of “Pop Idol.” Stay tuned for the comments from the judges/mentors and a little, uhm, moment between Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne at the end of the clip. Haha.

I only know her song “Bleeding Love,” to be honest, but, damn, the girl can sing. I think it’s truly amazing. Chills.

(Fast forward to 1:45 if you want to just start the singing; the beginning is interview blah blah stuff.)

~ Five outdoor cafe tables from Boheme

~ 30-lb. canister of cocoa powder, inherited from The Beanhouse, but how much cocoa powder does a person need, I ask you? I know, Jayne. I should have sent it to you. Please still love me. Or like me. I don’t mean to presume. At least like me. Or tolerate me. Or pray for me because I am so damn annoying.

~ industrial trashcan with wheels — although I kind of wanted to climb in and roll down the hill in it because I saw Homer Simpson do this once and it worked out okay for him.

~ 20 plastic outdoor tables, dark green and ugly but neatly stacked

~ a few rolls of wrapping paper

~ a small rolling wire shelf thingy

~ jug of distilled white vinegar — I have no idea why I thought I needed a JUG of this.

~ container of powder for making the “Java Light Blended” drink — never liked those

~ HUGE ceramic plant urn weighing approx. 357.93 lbs., inherited from The Beanhouse

~ random wire hangers in closet, an homage to Joan Crawford

~ a red wooden stool with cushion that I kept meaning to refurbish but never did

~ various glass vases — I prefer weird random containers for flowers

~ 1 Vitamix blender base, broken

~ a bag of wheat flour — I was inexplicably interested in wheat flour for about five minutes.

~ a metal-topped desk-like thing used for counter at Boheme

~ a large and horribly ailing plant — oh, if only that Robin Williams could show up with a red ball on his nose and save its life!

~ an empty ornate painting frame — see note on “red wooden stool,” ahem

~ a much-debated, half-loved russet leather chair

~ an old humidifier — it needed so much and gave so little

~ a broken VCR — it ate my tape of Sense and Sensibility so if it hadn’t died I would have killed it anyway

~ various jugs of cleaning solutions and potions, also inherited from The Beanhouse and never used because they frightened me and I believed I would suffer the same fate as the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark if I ever even opened them and breathed their vapors.

~ a small group of plates and bowls from Pottery Barn — a gift which had bad associations for me.

~ an pinkish-red paint stain on the bedroom carpet, once half-hidden by the bed

~ nagging questions about why I was painting on the bed

~ a neighbor aptly named Sue — a name both noun and verb for this frankly despicable woman. Her real and perfect name.

~ an empty front door — we took the #2 because we are lowlife toothpickin’ felons

~ the lingering fear of ending up with a poltergeist because of that poor guy who had shot himself in our living room 5 years before our arrival — something that “Sue” had mentioned to me with great relish months after we moved in.

~ hopefully, the seeping shame and exhaustion of the last two years

~ Amen.

Good. LORD.

I hate Jersey Boy so much.

When I’m in slightly less chaos, I’ll explain further.

For now, please partake of these random moving week quotes, some me, some MB:

I moved this for you in the spirit of resentment.

I hate everything we own.

It’s like the doctor testing your reflexes with that hammer thingy and then a whole month later, your leg moves.

This motel room is like a gulag.

I look like ass.

Check out this weird strip of fabric across the end of the bed. It’s like some giant Commie Christmas present.

What is this show? What is this show?? Two whiny people having a yard sale. See this? This is why we don’t have cable.

Are you touching my computer with your penis?

I can’t live with this level of anger in my life.

He’s got a Nimrod beard. He looks retarded.

You need to save some pee!

Uhm, so yeah.

On that cheery note, I think I’ll go to bed now. Like third grade. Maybe I’ll find that one night’s sleep that erases an entire week.

Oh, and please do remember to save some pee.

So look. I called the Gas and Electric Company Friday to switch service to our new place. Uhm, who knew they required five days’ notice? I did not. So basically, I went catatonic after completing their 10-page online cross-examination, submitting blood, urine, and stool samples, doing retinal, bone density, and MRI scans and proving that I could accurately repeat the presidential oath of office, but no. No service for you on Monday. Sorry.

We now have, until Thursday, two places.

BUT: One place has power and no furniture; the other place has furniture and no power. I did this. Me. All by myself. And so now we’re supposed to choose? Like Sophie’s Choice? Power or furniture?

I cannot choose! I cannot choose!

I am an idiot. I am not informed about the basics of life. I guess everyone knows this 5-day thing? It’s a given? Like “Don’t mix reds with whites in laundry and don’t forget to give the gas and electric company 5 days’ notice when you need to switch service”?

So what are we doing, you ask? We are escaping both junkyards and going to the closest cheapest motel we can find to just forget about everything for one stupid night and have ourselves some reckless screaming foreclosure sex.

Take that, Sophie’s Choice and SDG&E.

Take THAT.

Our last night in our home of five years. Movers come tomorrow and we have to be out out by Thursday.

As in meet with Jersey Boy and give back our keys. Ugh. I vote that MB do that.

And I second the motion.

So the movers — tomorrow morning. We’ve been moving miscellaneous items into our new place for the last three weeks so all they’ll really have to do is move furniture.

And, frankly, there are things we’re just … leaving behind.

The place will be basically clean — I mean, I washed the tub earlier, wha?? — but there’s just stuff I don’t want, don’t want to move, and don’t have the energy to take to Goodwill. Normally, I’d be better about that, but I’m a little unmotivated at the moment. We’re not trashing anything; I’d never do that and don’t understand the people who do, but I just don’t have the heart to do more in terms of getting rid of things. I’ve bagged up some clothes to give away, but that’s that. So I suck. Whatevs. The bank has told us anything left behind is considered “forfeit” and they do … I don’t know … whatever they will with those things. I guess it’s just this: While I may no longer want these things, I just could not bring myself to get rid of them proactively. Everything already feels a little too proactive, you know?

So …..

It’s the last midnight
It’s the last wish
It’s the last midnight
Soon it will be boom-squish

Well, hopefully, not the boom-squish part, but I never have any confidence in movers.

It’s all a bit numbingly surreal and I mostly pray that I do not sob in front of total strangers tomorrow.

Gah. If that happens, I think I’ll be longing for the boom-squish.

Okay. So I’m watching a couple of these balls tonight because there ain’t nothing else on and we don’t have cable, blah blah, and Savonarola burned all our books. Wah.

So a few words about these balls, if I may?

~ Michelle Obama, may I tell you something? Okay. This is hard. Uhm ….. okay. My Beloved has been a camera man, video producer, worked in television, blah blah. So the fact that I even have this knowledge is his fault. Here goes: You are a black woman. You are wearing a stark white ball gown under bright lights on television. There are …. oh, how to say this? …. contrast issues. The white of your gown is just “too hot” under those lights. Literally, just now, when I watched you dance with your husband, your gown flashed, became a glowing blob without any detail. I am stunned that nobody bothered to tell you this. Your skin tone and your dress cannot be lit equally well here. The gown may be pretty, but it’s impossible to tell and it’s not the right choice for you — on camera. Anyone who’s ever been on camera learns this the very first time they’re on camera. I mean, look, I learned it from MB …. first time I was on camera … you know, when we met … at the glamorous local shopping channel. (Hahahaha. Ah, memories! So many stories to tell!)

Back to my point, Michelle Obama: Blazing white dress meets black skin and big hips and bright lights. Don’t do that again, ‘mkay, Michelle Obama? Please don’t ever wear a dress that makes me use so many b’s.

~ Now Barack Obama, may I tell you something? It really may be time to own your bi-racial heritage. I see you dancing there, hon. Methinks I spy the dreaded white man’s overbite. Sorry, Mr. President. S’true.

Hm. Whiteness seems to be an issue tonight, don’t it?

My crush on Lester Holt proceeds apace.

I want to write him a note with hearts on it and have Sheila pass it to him in the halls at 30 Rock.

I try to avoid too much discussion of politics on this blog. I’m no expert, first of all; second, I generally dislike the tone of blogs that exclusively discuss politics; and third, there’s nothing more annoying to me than a blogger suddenly abandoning the usual tone of posts to blog about politics. It’s jarring, isn’t it? Especially if you disagree with them politically. You end up thinking, “Well, I used to like her, but now I think she’s a boob and an idiot and I want her to shut up.”

Still, I’m going to momentarily be a boob and an idiot and make you wish I’d shut up.

I want to say a little something about our incoming president and our outgoing president and then I’ll be done, okay?

Something is bothering me and that’s this:

Why is it that neither of these men, George W. Bush and Barack Obama, is allowed to be human?

Why are they viewed with such ridiculous hyperbole?

George W. Bush is subhuman, a devil, a demon, the man who’s ruined the world, whatever. He’s made mistakes as our president, but he’s positively reviled for his mistakes. That bastard! How dare he screw up?? And because of his mistakes, it seems to me, he’s now deemed subhuman. And it’s not fair.

Barack Obama, by contrast, is superhuman, an angel, a savior, the man who will redeem the world. He doesn’t make mistakes, it seems, or won’t, or if he does, we will likely not hear of them. He’s “The One.” He’s superhuman. Also not fair.

These men are human, for God’s sake. Bush is not subhuman; Obama is not superhuman. Bush made mistakes; Obama will make mistakes. I abhor this black-and-white thinking. It degrades both men, actually, when neither of them is allowed to be human beings. It’s ridiculous and unfair. I actually heard the NBC Washington Bureau chief say yesterday (I’m paraphrasing), “People don’t know just how much of his presidency Bush spent working out.” Seriously, dude? Are you a moron? If that’s the case, why didn’t we hear about it long before this? I’m sure we would have. What a lame-ass parting shot. Bush — that lazy work-out devil.

Then today, on the radio, I heard a woman from Maryland say, “It doesn’t matter that Maryland is broke if Obama is president.” Really? Why does it suddenly not matter? Because our guardian angel is here? That’s insane, lady. It’s nonsensical.

Can we modulate our thinking towards these men? Is it possible at all?

I didn’t vote for Obama, but I wish him well. I do. I’m not one of those extreme positionalists who can’t do that. I hate the kind of thinking that wishes, even longs, for his failure. I’m selfish enough to realize that any Obama failure could negatively affect me. So I wish him well, but I do not expect perfection. I don’t deify him and, frankly, the people who are doing so are wearing me to a nub. I have a God already, thank you.

I wish Obama his humanity as much as I wish George W. Bush be allowed to own his again.

One last thing occurs to me:

Whatever one may think of Bush, it cannot be denied that we’ve been safe, SAFE, in the seven years since 9/11. This is a huge duh, I know. I’m not the first person to say this, but you know what? Last week, when I first heard a plane had crash-landed in the Hudson, I immediately thought terrorism. I did. That is my first thought now when something falls out of the sky. And I wonder, is it yours too? How many of us think terrorism when we first hear of things like this? That’s the legacy of 9/11 on the psyches of many — that question is always there, front and center, when events of this nature occur.

And you know something else? That has been my first thought in these situations ever since Halloween 1999 when my aunt and uncle were murdered on Egypt Air 990. I’m not saying this to say I’m special because of it. No. I say this to say my family and I were forced to become aware of the issue of terrorism somewhat before the rest of the country. And when terrorism hits your family, your tribe, you quickly became accustomed to ruminating, probably too much, on issues of personal safety. If we can thank Bush for nothing else, let’s thank him — seriously — that he was vigilant on the issue of our personal safety. Are we so quick to devalue that? Our very lives? Our survival? My elderly aunt and uncle were terrorized in the moments before their crashing deaths by a horrific, aerial roller coaster ride courtesy of a rogue Muslim pilot. On 9/11, people exploded in jet-fueled fireballs. People suffocated alone in darkness. People burned to death. People jumped from those buildings, soaring too long in that open air before death came up to meet them. People sat trapped in those buildings, frantically calling loved ones, when they felt the buildings start to cave and collapse, sweeping them into oblivion — a person, now part of the pile of rubble.

My God. My God.

Do we truly devalue our lives so much that we cannot thank this man for our safety — that those nightmarish fates have not been ours?

I hope not. I truly hope not.

That human being who was our president, George W. Bush, made our safe lives his priority and I do thank him for that.