Toby and I arrived in New York on Sunday evening. We stayed in State College for a few more days to unwind and relax a bit. Toby starts his job on Wednesday.

Yesterday, we spent the better part of the day running from one Brooklyn area to another Brooklyn looking at apartments. There were two times we had to hop on a train, go into Manhattan, hop onto another train and then go back into Brooklyn. For example, we saw a place in Cobble Hill and had to be somewhere in Bed Stuy an hour after that. Now, if said apartment had actually been in Cobble Hill like the ad said, this wouldn’t have been so hard. But it wasn’t really in Cobble Hill. It was closer to Red Hook. So our trains were limited. Basically, we had to go back into Manhattan in order to get to the JMZ. We went under the river on the F and then back over the river on the M. It was a busy day indeed.

With all that running around, you would have thought we’d have seen more than two apartments. Actually, we were scheduled to see three, but when we got off the train for the one in East Park Slope (East side of the park) we were quickly turned off by the fact that you basically exit the Subway through a liquor store. And not just any liquor store, but one where you received your daily meal through bullet-proof glass—an excellent way to welcome visitors. But we were still interested in seeing the place, up until we actually saw the building.

It’s 116 Ocean Avenue. We’re heading the wrong way.

Oh. Ok. So it’s in the direction of where the cops have that guy pulled over and they’re using a flashlight to alluminate the inside of his car?

Yes.

Oh. It’s 116? So it’s that place with the trash and the mattress out front?

It looks that way.

I don’t think so. Let’s just go eat.

We didn’t even look at that place. Even though the pictures show on Craigslist were incredible. I could not imagine living in another Dorchester House. I can’t live with that many people and therefore, roaches. Not ever again.

We did see a pretty great loft. But it’s in Bed Stuy and it’s not surrounded by the nicest “stuff”. Pawn shops, dollar stores, liquor stores, you know the type of area. We’ll see. That one is still one we’re interested in. But I think we’re still sold on Park Slope and/or Greenpoint.

Today, we have appointments with folks in Greenpoint and off the Grand street stop on the L Train in Brooklyn. I have a better feeling about today’s apartments then I did about yesterday’s.

And I’m sure I’ll keep you posted. From now on, I’m bringing a camera, too. Some of these places, after reading the ad, become downright amusing.

1900 for a two bedroom in Cobble Hill? And it has a fireplace and a backyard? Awesome! It’s above the amount we originally wanted to pay, but we’ll check it out.

The apartment ended up being filthy. And though we were warned about its filth ahead of time, it was still too filthy to overcome. Plus, the kitchen was horrible. And the “second” bedroom was more like a walk-in closet. And it was so not in Cobble Hill. While we’d hop on it for 1400, 1900 is laughable. From now on I’ll carry a camera to prove it all as true.

It’s 8 a.m. on Tuesday morning. At this point, I’m tempted to pay 2400 for one room on Christopher Street so I can spend my free time stalking Amy Sedaris.

Who couldn’t love a face like that?

I worked at Ye Old College Diner in State College, Pennsylvania for over 8 years. I was a waitress. Occasionally, I was a cashier, too. I loved working at The Diner. I met some amazing people. I learned how to play poker, smoke cigars, fight with unruly customers, and threaten intoxicated frat boys. I learned how to multi-task. And I learned about patience. Holy shit, did I learn a lot about patience.

The Diner was a bit insane at times. Couple late night dining with drunk college students and you are bound to come out with some interesting stories. I caught folks fornicating in the bathroom, in a booth, and in the basement. I watched a guy pass out in a plate of mac and cheese. I watched a girl pass out beneath a table. I watched hundreds of people puke. Oh, holy shit did I see my fair share of vomit.

There was so much vomiting that took place during a late shift at The Diner, we had the clean up protocol down to a science. Should someone vomit during the late shift, said clean-up required three things:

• 1). A sign at the podium that reads: “SHOULD YOU VOMIT, YOU WILL CLEAN IT UP OR YOU WILL PAY US 50 BUCKS TO CLEAN IT UP.”

• 2). Ivan The Dishwasher

• 3). One Aluminum Baseball Bat

The hard part was making sure that the perpetrator didn’t make a clean break for the door prior our getting a hold of Ivan the Dishwasher.

There were times a vomiting customer would become rude and refuse to clean it up. Either that, or he or she would refuse to pay the 50 Buck Vomit Clean-Up Fee and usually his or her friends would be forced to take care of it. And although Ivan The Dishwasher was perhaps the sweetest Vietnam vet around, he was unbelievably mean looking. (Imagine Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lector when he’s in that big cage right before he chews that guy’s face off.)

Ivan The Dishwasher ALWAYS wore a tight white undershirt, blue jeans (rolled up like a 50’s greaser) and black combat boots. He was about 55 at the time. And his weapon of choice (while on the clock) was an aluminum baseball bat.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He’d stand there in the middle of the restaurant holding the bat in one hand and smacking his other palm with the end of it.

Nine times out of ten, Vomiter or Vomiter’s Friend chose one of the two options. And usually (considering mom and dad were paying their bills for the duration of their college career), they opted for paying the money. Ivan The Dishwasher made a lot over the years cleaning up vomit. And while this may seem unfair, if I could have looked as scary as Ivan The Dishwasher holding an aluminum baseball bat, I’d have cleaned that stuff up in a second.

This was a regular occurrence. College students just don’t know when to say when, I suppose. I watched people throw up every color of the rainbow. I watched them throw up and keep eating. I watched them throw up in between cigarette puffs. I watched girlfriends hold back girlfriend’s hair. I watched people try and cover it up with a napkin beneath their feet. There was never a dull moment working late-night at the Diner.

So you might say that this past Friday after consuming a very rare piece of tuna for dinner at the Allen Street Grill, sharing a bottle of wine with TobyJoe and then heading to Zeno’s and having two more glasses of red wine, then later topping THAT off with three large pints of lemon water, two over-medium eggs and half a pancake at the Diner, you might say that when projectile vomiting began spewing from my face like a suddenly unkinked garden hose while STILL SITTING AT THE TABLE, that I was absolutely MORTIFIED. I might have even hated myself. And when I couldn’t hold it all back and it just kept coming and I made a MAD DASH for the bathroom-my hands wrapped up in my sweater sleeves as they covered my mouth pretending to have ANY POWER over this situation whatsoever-that I wanted to die. Right there. Just like that. I wanted to cease to exist. And you’d be right if you thought that I haven’t ever felt more totally moronic in all of the years I have been an adult. And never EVER in my entire life (well, not since I was 6 years old and puked during parachute day during gym class at Fairview Elementary) have I thrown up from anything other than too much booze. And this time, it wasn’t the booze. (I have consumed five glasses of red wine over the course of 6 hours before.) This time I was just sick. I was so sick, I just kept on vomiting. I vomited the entire way to the bathroom and miraculously managed to keep a lot of it confined to my sleeves and the inside of my face. By the time I got INTO the bathroom, the second batch was not stopping. I puked on my shoes, on the wall, on the toilet seat. I puked all over the place. I just kept on throwing up.

And just like that, after years of silently (and not so silently) judging vomiting Diner patrons for their crass animalistic behavior, I watched my smugness and any future in vomit-taunting go down the drain. Literally. And onto the walls and onto my shoes, through my sweater sleeves and onto the floor. I watched my body try and turn itself inside out.

I spent the next humiliating 10 minutes desperately trying to clean up the Diner’s bathroom. While Ivan The Dishwasher is long gone, the idea of being threatened with an aluminum baseball bat by some stranger was too much for my vomiting self to imagine. So I got down and began to clean. And It’s a good thing there is only one stall and the door locks. And it’s a good thing there are no windows because surely I would have escaped never to be seen again.

Like never. Ever.

And it’s a good thing I didn’t just tell the Internets about this.

It’s 6:39 p.m. on Thursday. We’re in Indianapolis. I find it hard to believe that yesterday we were in New Mexico. Retrospective thoughts such as this make this country seem small. But when you’re moving alone Route 40, along the northern chimney-like top of Texas and you’re taunted by horizon more distant and seemingly unattainable than any still ocean as it meets the sky. It’s enough to make you ant to remove the car keys, throw your hands up and give up.

But we didn’t.

We stayed in Needles the first night. If you hadn’t already noticed on your own, I’m here to tell you that California is really fucking big. We wanted to meet Arizona the first day (Monday), but just could not do it. So we stayed in Needles. The following day we were told that Needles is “known” for giving its visitors illnesses such as upper-respiratory infections from something they “make” or burn there. At a Denny’s outside our hotel room door where we were served frozen Boca Burgers, I half-assedly (if there were such an adjective) asked about the strange odor looming around Needles.

Hello. Where does Needles, Callifornia get its name?

Neetle Mowntin.

Oh! I see. So is that where the smell comes from we’re smelling outside? Needle Mountain?

Her head tilted and the skin around her eyes wrinkled. Her mouth moved to the side a bit.

Naw. Jus’ Neetle Mowtin.

Later, we found out about the illnesses. Not much I can say about that.

We drove to Flagstaff, next. There, we took a much worthwhile detour to see the Grand Canyon. I took pictures. But I have no way of downloading or uploading them just yet. The drive through the mountains of Flagstaff were/are just breath-taking.

After our detour, we drove to Albuquerque, New Mexico. New Mexico is bloody cold. But she sure is pretty. The right-hand side of New Mexico (for you edumacated fellers, that’d be the eastern side) was like driving through a foggy movie set. Visibility was next to nothing, which was a blessing in disguise, really. That way we had no idea how far we had to go. But I did think it’d be warmer there. And Texas? Forget about it. Texas wasn’t only cold, but it had weird laws and strange side roadways. It also has the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. (Apparently even bigger than the one on Interstate 70 in Illinois. But I’m not so sure about that. They looked exactly the same. Toby took pictures. The proof will be there.) Within five minutes of crossing the Texas state line we saw three cars pulled over by cops. Texas sorta scared me. I won’t lie.

We drove to Tulsa, Oklahoma from Albuquerque. I liked the little bit of Tulsa that I saw. But we saw very little. The folks were friendly and the food was comforting. We left there at 9 a.m. this morning.

And now here I sit.

I’ll write more once we are home and my laptop doesn’t have only 37% of it’s battery juice left. Depending on whether we meet up with someone like Gina or Missy along the way, we’ll be in State College tomorrow night.

Happy Tofurkey Day! Or, for you heathens and murderers, Happy Turkey Day!

It’s nearly 10 a.m. PST and TobyJoe and I are waiting for Door to Door to drop off two blue bins. I’m currently using someone else’s wireless connection to write this. At any point I could lose it all. But that’s o.k.

Today, we’re loading the blue bins. And tomorrow we set sail. After studying the weather a bit (which really means calling Bob who works for AccuWeather.) and discovering a snow storm is to (or has) hit Utah and Colorado, we have finally decided to go the southern route, i.e. Interstate 40. That’s our final answer. Should you wish to see the actual route, you can do so by clicking here If all goes well we’ll be in Flagstaff, Arizona tomorrow by 11 p.m. (I hope.)

It was brought to my attention yesterday that I seem less stressed out about this move then I had when we were moving to San Francisco from Washington, D.C. a little over six months ago. Then, I cried a lot. I whined a lot. I bitched and moaned and freaked out about this smallest things. I was banking on something going horribly wrong. I think because deep inside, I really wasn’t ready to do it.

This time, we’re heading home. We’re returning to the place we met and the place I never quite got out of my system. After two years of being away, we’re heading back to New York City.

That’s all I’m going to write for now. I plan on updating from the road, especially given the number of friendly open wireless connections there are out there in the world. But besides a few updates from the southwestern part of the United States, and maybe one or two from Tennessee and Pennsyltuckey, the next time I write I’ll be in New York City. I’ll be home.

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I began the above post on Sunday. It’s now Monday. I’m sitting in the rental van next to two, fully-packed Door to Door bins. I’m using yet another free wireless connection. My muscles feel like someone beat me severely sometime during the night. It’s a good thing all I have to do for the next five days is sit around and stay awake.

We’re leaving in about 15 minutes.

I hear there is snow in Flagstaff.

Goodbye, Sky Francisco. Goodbye.

About a month ago, I returned from a month-long trip to Washington, D.C. While I was there I worked at a local design firm doing work for the DNC. I had the most excellent time. I made money, got my yearly dose of the northeastern fall, and I caught up with the friends I have missed so dearly.

The place I was working is a smaller design firm. I’d guess about 9 people work there year round. During election time, that number jumps up into the 20s as the need to get work DONE! and get it done FAST! quadruples. Out of the 9 regulars, three of them are fabulous, highly entertaining gay men. You wouldn’t believe what comes out of their mouths. I am rarely ever shocked or embarrassed by words or stories. But this one fella has a way. He can make the entire room erupt in a huge groan and then go quiet.

It might not come as much of surprise to find that I was thoroughly entertained by this man. I did everything in my power to encourage him. Which wasn’t too hard considering one might hear the senior account executive say the words, “SHE WAS A CATHOLIC VIRGIN WHEN SHE WAS MARRIED. BUT ACCORDING TO HER GETTING FUCKED IN THE ASS OR HAVING ORAL SEX ISN’T LOSING ONE’S VIRGINITY.” One might say that encouragement came naturally.1

On my last day there, we were all standing around the production station when someone brought up self-felatio. The three gay men were absolutely certain and insistent that ALL men would give themselves oral pleasure if they were able. The straight man said no way. The other straight man didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there blushing and desperately trying to ignore us. Soung and I didn’t think this was the case. But the gay trio just kept on insisting.

“Call Toby. He’ll tell you ‘yes’. I’m sure of it. All men would give themselves falatio if they could. Call him.”

And so I placed a cross-country phone call to ask Toby if he’d blow himself.2

“Hey hon. If you could give yourself a blowjob, would you?”

“What?”

“Just wondering if you were able to give yourself oral pleasure, would you do it?”

“No, the hot part isn’t the blowjob itself, the hot part is having someone attached.”

“Ok. That’s what I thought. Thanks.”

“If the Democrats lose this election, I’ll now know why.”

We hung up and I gave them the news.

“He said ‘No.’ He said the hot part is having someone attached.”

The other straight guy agreed with this by nodding a lot. But Soung, didn’t like or understand this clarification.

“Having someone attached? Attached to what? What does that mean? Attached?”

I have known Soung for a long, long time. She’s one of the smarter individuals to hit my existence. I knew there was a reason she wasn’t getting this. I just wasn’t sure what she needed to know. Perhaps she was annoyed by the semantics. Perhaps she didn’t like the idea of using the verb “attached”. Either way, she didn’t like this answer.

One of the gay men grabbed a sharpie and began to illustrate. And this was born:

I folded the drawing of stick-figure falatio and put it in my pocket as a souvenir. It then flew across the United States with me where it finally ended up on our refrigerator as a gift to Toby.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been showing our apartment. Since we’re breaking our lease a bit early, we’re conducting open houses in order to fill it. On the first day a young lady from Iran showed up and we went about the place. I answered her questions and asked her about her husband and why they were moving from Washington, D.C. to San Francisco. We were in the dining room when she asked me about the light. As I’m illustrating to her that one side (the kitchen side) gets light in the morning, and the other side of the house (the bedroom side) gets it in the evenings, our eyes lock onto x-rated image of stick-figure love. But she was a polite girl from Iran, so she didn’t say anything about it. And so we moved along.

When she left, I decided to turn the image around. Which did a whole lot of good considering it was drawn using a sharpie and was therefore completely visible through the back. I showed the house to six other people that day, and not one person asked about our drawering.

About a week ago, Toby and I were here together. A young couple showed up to see the house. I was on the phone at the time so he had the honor of showing them around. The guy (I later learned) was a gay man who wasn’t “out” yet. The woman was a talkative creature, a tall, slender thing.

He took them into the bathroom and then the toilet room (yes, they are separate) and then into the bedroom. After that, it make sense to enter the kitchen. And so they did.

The couples’ eyes met the refrigerator. My stealth cover-up by flipping the drawing over did not help. They stared. Toby stared. Toby, then removed the drawing. He folded it up and put it on top of the fridge.

At this point Toby decided – knowing FULL WELL how the drawing came to be – to take the road less traveled.

“OH yeah, that. Sorry. A friend’s nephew – he’s seven – he drew that.”

(7?!! Wait, what?) To which she replies:

” That’s very precocious!”

After I was finished looking up that word, I thought what kind of 7 year old draws a picture like this? And why did Toby think this was better then, say, I don’t know, THE TRUTH? I’m sure her boyfriend knew a thing or two about blowjobs.

Would you have known how to draw such an image at age 7? I surely couldn’t, an pegasus or a unicorn, sure, but not this. But then again, I was a slow learner when it came to this sort of stuff. Though, I do remember some kid telling me at the bus stop one day that I should ask my mother what the word “BJ” meant.3

We never really grow up, do we?

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(1 Dear Mom, I couldn’t make this stuff up. I do realize I don’t need to share it with the rest of the world, though. And I almost didn’t. It was either this or I’d bitch and moan again about moving, packing, driving, and I’ve done that before and I’m sick of hearing myself complain.

2 Dear Mom, again, I am sorry. Toby and I don’t normally talk to one another like this. And if it weren’t such and absurd idea, I’d have had him blushing.

3 I don’t think I took his suggestion and ran with it.)

We’ve been doing some research and given the time of year and the daunting possibility of snow storms, we might go the southern route after all. We might use Interstate 40.

I found a pretty cool site which breaks down every major roadway. It details all the major cities along the way and other major intersecting roadways. Here is interestate 40.

I wish I knew what the weather was going to be like up north next week. I wish I knew more about hotels down south.

If anyone out there knows anything about the cities listed below (sites to see, places to stay, things to eat, things to avoid) please get in touch with me via email or kindly leave a comment.

• Flagstaff
• Albuquerque
• Amarillo
• Oklahoma
• Little Rock
• Memphis
• Nashville
• Knoxville

Any information will do. Nothing is too seemingly meaningless. We know nothing of that part of our great nation.

I can’t believe Peterson was found guilty of first degree murder.

I’m shocked by this.

My knee is better. I think. My lovely amazing husband got me a brace. While I wear it during the day, I can’t seem to keep it on while running. I realize that’s sort of dumb. But I can’t seem to get used to it.

I have received numerous email and some really great comments (I do not have jock itch.) about my knee and any itching or rashes that might develop and what to do with them should they develop. (I do not have jock itch.) And I thank each and every one of you for the information. (Have you looked for images of Jock Itch on google images? It is not a pleasant sight! Not pleasant at all. Up until Missy accused me of having such, I hadn’t ever really seen it before. Not pretty, folks.)

I am hoping that once my legs become stronger, this knee thing will subside. So I will work on using the elliptical walker a bit more and maybe the bike, too. Even tho it makes my toes go numb.

Thanks again for all the comments and email. Please feel free to tell me more. (Oh, and John, when is my first training session?)

(I do not have jock itch.)

Are hotels open on Thanksgiving? How about hotels in Wyoming or Illinois? Is Cracker Barrel open on Thanksgiving? Is it snowing up north? I suppose there are always the Chinese Buffets. For one must have mashed potatoes in November.

I feel a Friday haiku coming on.

A year ago today we were living in DC.

And two years ago today we were living in DC but I was sent to work in NYC for the weekend. We stayed at the Chelsea Hotel.

Good times.

In less then 10 days we’re packing it all up and hopping in a rental car. Go ahead and ask me how many boxes I have packed.

I am in denial. Easier, to look at the past.

(I am way late posting today.)

Last night, we went and saw the West coast tour of Beep Beep, TV on the Radio and The Faint. I saw this line up about a month ago in D.C. I had a great time that night and decided to go again with Mike and Dee this time.

Beep Beep is awful. I am trying to find something good to say about them, and I just can’t seem to do it. What surprises me the most is how a band (who can’t really hold a note to save their life, has little to no understanding of style or melody, originality or concept) gets to tour with bands like TV on the Radio or The Faint. I know musicians who take their music much more seriously and they’re not touring with The Faint. It’s perplexing. If I were a musician and I had witnessed what we witnessed last night, I’da been so annoyed. It’s kinda like those really awful trendy designer types who somehow manage to score really kick ass projects. I hate them, too. (Only not really, because that would make me lame.)

Anyway, Beep Beep blew. But TV on the Radio is and was downright awesome. They are so awesome that as they were playing I was TEXT MESSAGING the woman who introduced me to them. Two songs in and I’m writing, “THIS BAND IS FUCKING AWESOME. THANK YOU, SOUNG. THANK YOU.” Hit send. Done. (Seriously, TV on the Radio is so good, you should all get up from your computers right now and purchase something of theirs. I might have a little something something I can share with everyone. Because I’m nice like that. So if you want a song, kindly send me an email.)

They’re really good. They have the most original sound I have come across in years. Their originality almost made me forget about having just sat through Beep Beep. And they almost made me forget about the crowd. Which brings me to the real reason I am writing today.

D.C. is the adult swim when it comes to seeing bands play live. I have been spoiled, clearly. Sure, there are 23 year old girls on E from time to time, but I will take Pilsbury and Nosering over Fuck me, I’m 13 Lavigne. I could not believe my eyes. While some bands complain about the lack of dancing that goes on at a DC show, or the seemingly bored crowds (as most of the time, people just stand around and bob their heads), there is something to be said for not having the need for bouncers. There is something to be said for NOT having to sit through some show with someone’s foot or stinky ass in your face as they’re lifted over the crowd by a sea of idiots. There is something to be said for actually being able to watch the band.

Adult swim, indeed.

Last night, the crowd was overall very, very young. In the girls’ room I saw a girl no older than 11. She was covered in makeup and wore very little clothing. I have seen more cloth used in the washing of a window. I’m not used to this. Maybe DC doesn’t have teenagers. I guess that makes sense considering the public school system there sucks. But Virginia and Maryland have teenagers. There has to be more to it than that. Did Fugazi do it? Heh.

Nothing makes a 30+ year old girl feel like more of a loser than standing in a 25-person line to use the shitter at a rock show. All the while, I’m standing there thinking, “Michele, you should really be at home where you belong.” Girls were smoking in the stalls. It’s illegal to smoke in bars or clubs in California. So they were smoking in the stalls. Three and four of them at a time were going in there to light up. All the while my geriatric self is imagining horrible acts of retaliation, acts which would have me put in jail due to their age. (Peeing on 13 year old girls is illegal, right?)

But we had arrived early. And there was an upstairs. So we managed to score rock star seating. (Translation for “Rock star” seating is “Don’t touch me. I want to see the band” seating.) We were front and center, and up above the crowd. It was like watching them from our living room. Both Dee and I said this separately. We sat on a carpeted floor and watched TV on the Radio do their perfectly amazing thing. We watched The Faint put on a multimedia smorgasbord. Overall, it was great night.

I would like to end by saying that I know I’m a bit of a hypocrite. I was once a 13 year old girl at a rock show. I only hope that I didn’t annoy the living piss (quite literally) out of some 30+ year old while I was there. I would like to take this moment to publicly apologize: To all of those I may or may not have thoroughly annoyed while at a rock show, can you find it in your hearts to forgive me?

I’ve been jogging lately. I’m trying to get back into shape. When I say “back into shape” I basically mean I don’t want to be shaped like this:

Because look how big my hands are. Those are huge hands. And eggs are tasty to eat but I don’t ever want to look like one.

I tried the dieting thing. And while that was educational and I learned how to make some pretty bizarre shit using mushrooms, ricotta cheese, fake sugar products, fake butter products (which may or may not cause cancer), and anything egg-like, I was tired and cranky all the time. Plus, I could barely walk up the hills here due to the lack of carbs and therefore, energy. Have you seen the hills in San Francisco? Holy crap.

With a my waistband expanding to never seen before circumferences, I had to put an end it. But dieting made me angry. Putting oneself through deprivation JUST to get out of a little exercise is silly, in my opinion. Besides, last I heard, exercise was supposed to be good for you. Who woulda thunk?

So I started running. I’ve been running for three weeks now. I joined our local gym right when I got back from D.C. You might remember the gym I’m referring to. It’s the gym I joined back in May. The same gym where my first iPod took its last breath. (May she rest in peace.) The gym is about 200 feet from our apartment and it’s never crowded.

This time, I’ve been doing well. In just three short weeks, I have gone from panting like a fat dog and running a 45-HOUR mile, down to a 16-minute mile. Now, I am at a 13.5-minute mile. I run between 2.5 miles and 3.5 miles a day and I ride the bike for 7 (if time permits). While I realize this isn’t over-the-top or anything, I get my daily exercise and I feel pretty good about myself. (I feel even better after drinking all that wine and consuming all the left over candy we have from Halloween, too.) And I sweat like champ. Holy shit, do I sweat. My cheeks turn blood red. I look entirely unattractive. It’s amazing how ugly one looks on the road to trying to look good.

And wouldn’t you know, everything was going great up until George Bush won the election. I blame him entirely for my demise. On Wednesday, November 3rd, after my run, my knees began to throb. A few days later, they began to ache. Now, there are sharp pin-prick pains shooting up my shins all the way to the bottom of my knee caps. They feel like little jolts of electricity.

Most people probably wouldn’t continue to run. Because most people are smart. But not me, no way. I run to SPITE my knee. As a matter of fact, it’s sort of like I’m beating it each time I go to the gym. It’s like:

Take that, Bitch! And that, shithead! Yeah, suffer bitch!

And they take it. I run them into submission.

I realize this isn’t smart, but what the hell does a girl gotta do? Dieting didn’t work because I was a cranky bitch all the time. Yoga is great and all, but it’s not really cardio. So here I am, age 30, I finally get up off my lazy ass and start to actually work out every day and my body starts to fail me. The hell? I know that people walk because of knee problems, but I honestly ENJOY jogging.

I’m sitting here, writing this and I have an ice pack on each knee and Toby (who is home today) is calling me “Crip”. I have eaten two Advil and I just continue whining.

I hate this.

Many, many years ago, when I freshman in high school living in Raleigh, two friends of mine, Jon and Justin Jablonski, were driving out to a lake to have a few Bush Pounders after school with some friends. This was a regular occurrence down south. I can think of many times where a bunch of us were standing around a body of water, sipping beer, (or Mountain Dew), smoking cigarettes, lighting small fires, and throwing pebbles or sticks into said body of water. Occasionally, someone would make out with someone on a piece of cardboard or whatever other man-made material they could find. But usually we all just sat around and talked.

I partook on a few of these trips but not many. Usually, I would stay local (places attained by foot), and venture to “The Pit” to hang out, throw things, ride around on borrowed motorbikes, or watch Miles act like a total idiot. Miles was the neighborhood spaz. I have mentioned him here before.

The Pit was the place we went desperately seeking a teenage independence. (That was until we found the abandoned house up the street. But that’s a story for another day.) We didn’t do much I would consider “wrong” at The Pit. I know some of the neighborhood kids smoked weed out there from time to time. There was booze consumed at times, but usually it was an undrinkable smorgasbord of crap straight out of our parents’ liquor cabinet. For the most part, we just sat out there and talked and got to know our teenage displacement.

The high school kids with cars ventured out further. They ventured out to sandy, contorted tree-covered lake sides, equipped with a more booze and probably more pot, too. Jon had a car. He and Justin also had an older brother named Jim. Jim looked old enough to buy booze. Justin, the youngest of the three, was one of my first boyfriends. We went out a few times to play video games at the mall. We rode skateboards once or twice and talked about Pink Floyd. But mostly we gabbed on the telephone. (I talked on the phone a lot. I mean, a lot, lot. Today, for teens, I imagine that the internet is the new phone. At least back then we knew who we were actually talking to.)

Justin and I didn’t “go out” for long. Eventually, the distance of neighborhoods got in our way. We found people closer in proximity to fancy. But we did remain friends. When you’re in high school, a relationship can begin when homeroom is called, become boring by lunchtime, by 7th period you’ll find out your significant other is seeing someone else, and you’re totally over them by 8th. After school, you’re talking about the time you went out and asking if you can borrow Lynyrd Skynard’s Greatest Hits for the ride home.

I didn’t go to the lake that evening but I heard the plans being made between classes. I chose not to go. Due to a level-psychotic crush I had on Jason (the boy who lived across the street from me), I didn’t venture out past my neighborhood very often. (Ahhhh what young, obsessive love can do to help a young girl from spinning out of orbit and smashing into the wrong neighborhood.)

That evening, as we all prepared for our dinners or our TV shows, our homework or our evening walks, Jon left the lake to pick up Justin. As they were returning to the lake with his younger brother along a typical rural, windy southern road, he hit a vehicle head-on after veering over the center line. The other vehicle, driven by a friend of my brother’s named Julie, was crumpled up like a soda can. Jon and Justin died almost instantly. Julie, lived for a few days, even conscious during a few of them, until she too would pass away from a brain hemorrhage. Later, the autopsy would come back reporting no alcohol was in Jon’s blood. It was just a really bad evening.

The weeks that followed this horrible event were dark. You can probably imagine what we all went through. Kids were skipping school. Girls and boys alike were breaking into tears throughout the high school hallways. The flag was at half mast for weeks. People were feeling so selfish at the time, it was no wonder no one noticed Josh.

Josh was Jon’s best friend. That night at the lake, as Jon left to go pick up Justin, he asked Josh if he wanted to go along for the ride. Josh declined. He said he’d see Jon when he returned. Jon never came back. Neither did Justin. In retrospect, I can only imagine the turmoil Josh had been going through during the weeks that followed.

Two or so weeks following the crash that killed three of our classmates, Josh decided his fate. He went home one day, took the gun from his Dad’s room and sat on his bed. He put the pistol in his mouth and shot himself in the head. He died instantly. Later, his little brother came home to an empty house and found him. Our high school went into a deeper state of mourning.

I was reminded of this time today because of this news story. It had me thinking about Josh and the weeks which led up to his death. I always wondered what was going through his head and why no one caught on. I wondered why he never spoke to anyone and no one thought to ask.

I was 14 at the time. Prior that day, I never realized that life could come to an end so easily. I never realized that there was and is always the possibility of never seeing someone again. I never thought that anything could be so fragile, whether it be a body or a mind.

Since then, I have a sort of fascination and compassion for those who commit suicide. I think it’s an aftermath that comes from the thought that there was something you could have done to stop it. How is it that people decide they’re done with living? How does a mother of three curl up in the fetal position on a track of a speeding D.C. commuter train and wait, until it finally comes and takes her life? What happens in someone’s head to make this seem like their only way out? What can compel a person to hang themselves from a tree in a park and carve “I’m sorry” into a rock which lay beneath their feet? Who shoots themselves in their favorite armchair so that their son might find them? How does a 25 year old kid drive the entire way up to NYC from Georgia, climb an off-limit fence and STILL decide after all the distance and obstacle that he should still shoot himself in head?

I feel an absolute sadness and compassion for these individuals. And I hope Veal’s protest doesn’t become a trend.

(Edited to add: Holy shit, this post is morbid. I am so sorry for that. I’m not feeling at all morbid. I was just remembering. Oops.)

I am so sure that people will absolutely FREAK the hell out over this.

I am all for it. If the president of the United States can push his religious ideology on the entire country, this guy can do what he wants in his FREE cafeteria. (Thanks, Liz, for the linkage.)

By John Steinberg | RAW STORY COLUMNIST

This was the year you young voters were supposed to take control. The table was set. The power was in your hands � all you had to do was use it. You made a date with the real world � not an oxymoronic �reality� TV show, but the actual place where the future gets decided. And what did you do? You didn�t even show up.

Sure, in absolute numbers more of you voted than in 2000, but the percentage of eligible 18-24 voters who turned out stayed flat at 10 percent � which means millions of you decided you had something better to do than stand up and be counted.

I can�t imagine a scenario that puts you more at stake. You are the ones who are dying in the desert in Iraq (and in other places soon, but let�s not go there now). You are the ones who will be handed the keys to a trillion-dollar deficit. You are the ones who will be faced with the cost of paying for the retirement of the millions of baby boomers with a Social Security system that probably won�t be there for you. You are the ones who will inherit a permanently hostile world and an environment that is degrading in ways that will fully reveal themselves only after all hope of avoiding disaster has passed.

What the hell happened to you? You are the ones who prefer to get your news from Jon Stewart. You are supposed to be the savvy ones, the people who can�t be spun. Well, I guess that turned out to be a manifestation of the old salesman�s saying, �you can�t shit a shitter.� You spun us all. You registered in record numbers. You showed up at Michael Moore�s �Slacker Tour� by the thousands. You pretended to give damn. But it was all a ruse, wasn�t it?

And so the laugh is on us. You treated the whole thing as a game � another chance to confound expectations, and prove we don�t understand you at all. Mission accomplished, idiots. We had you completely wrong. We thought you cared about protecting your own asses. Turns out you are a generation of Kobe Bryants, proving that the world revolves around you by destroying it.

Us old farts obviously did something fundamentally wrong along the way. We created the mess we, and you, find ourselves in. We also created a padded, stimulation-rich environment where you were insulated from consequences. And we thereby sired a generation so ignorant and apathetic that it couldn�t be bothered to make a few scratches on a piece of paper, or play a video game that actually mattered. Instead you will be X-boxing in your staterooms as the Titanic slides beneath the waves.

Tonight, as I was looking at the map trying to figure out how we’re going to get back home again, Tucker decided to lay down on TOP of the northeastern part of our great nation. I hope you all were very warm.

This time, as we cross the Great Divide (what the hell is the Great Divide? It came to my head just now, but I am so not sure what it is.) I think we will take Route 80. I’m a bit worried about taking Route 80 given the time of year and all, but assuming all goes well, we’ll get to NYC sooner then if we took Route 70 and most definitely, Route 40.

To be honest, I would rather take Route 40 because it goes by the Grand Canyon. And I really want to see the Grand Canyon. But given we will have three felines in the van and it’s the Thanksgiving Holiday and all, I’m thinking we should go for the route pro-time instead.

I have a love for maps. I mean, sometimes, I stare at them for hours. I look at small towns in the middle the country and I think, “Who is there right now? I wonder what it looks like.”

So without further ado, here are the major (and not so major) cities we will be passing though along Route 80.

• Sacramento
• Reno
• Salt Lake City
• Cheyenne
• Lincoln
• Omaha
• Des Moines
• Davenport
• Chicago
• Toledo
• Cleveland
• Youngstown
• State College
• Wilkes-Barre
• New York City

(I realize some of these are not “major” cities. But we know people in some of them and we’re thinking we’ll swing on by, drop off our cats, and drink ourselves silly. Yes.)

Route 40 has its charm, too. Even tho, I am pretty sure we won’t go south, I’m having fun and it’s an ER commercial break so what the hell. Major cities along the southern route:

• Los Angeles
• Albuquerque
• Amarillo
• Oklahmoa City
• Little Rock
• Memphis
• Nashville
• Knoxville

At Knoxville, we’d get onto route 81. Basically, if you ignore the hundreds of little towns between Knoxville our next “relevant” city, Harrisburg is next. At Harrisburg, we’d head to State College, where we would drop off our fuzzy, fat felines. There, we would stay the night and eat well. We would then leave for New York City.

I realize there are a thousand most wonderful towns between San Francisco and New York City, but given my knack and fondness for freaking out over ridiculous details, it’s best if I look at the BIG BLACK DOTS and the dots where I know people.

As I finish my most pointless post, Tucker has decided to burrow himself beneath the map. That’s pretty cute. Don’t you think? I do. I find our cats to be adorable.

Toby took this as Tucker and I were finishing up.

That is all. Lay it on me. Or below me, whatever.

(I have been putting this one off. Yet another lengthy post where michele drones on for pages on end.)

Many of you know what I’m about to say. Actually, many of you (who leave comments or email me regularly) are people I either know well or have had a long online relationship with (and somehow, you manage to not despise me enough – Charlie, I’m talking to you – and leave forever). Many of you know what TobyJoe and I have been going through lately. Should you not, I am going to try my hardest to explain.

When I got back to San Francisco two weeks ago, I got off that plane with a very clear head. I was excited about returning here. I even missed this city I have often said is shrugging its mountainy shoulders meeting the hair-like fog. But it didn’t take long until I realized how unhappy Toby had become. I realized he wasn’t really enjoying his daily life any longer. I realized it was taking a lot out of him. I realized the only reason he was still getting up to go to work every day was for me, or us, rather.

The first hint was found on his hands. Toby has a nail-biting problem. He has for a long, long time. Behind my computer display right now, I can see him chewing on them while writing PHP. There are times where he does it when he’s thinking really hard. As Natalie Portman might say should she ever play an adorable quirky New Jersey girl in a movie written by Zack Braff, I have often thought,

You’re in it right now, aren’t you?

And usually he is.

This time, I realized he was moving away from his nails and eating his hands. His fingers were chewed to pieces. They were begging for help. I said the same thing he did for me three months ago.

This job is hurting you. It’s not working out. You should call it a quits.

He did.

San Francisco is expensive. I’m sure everyone knows that. With the both of us being out of work, it would be very hard for us to make enough money to pay our rent, our bills, and our taxes come April. Saving money might be impossible on top of all that. And while Toby is both needed and very good at what he does, I was just not sure we should try and stay here to make ends meet. He began looking elsewhere, i.e. back east.

But I don’t want you to think we gave up that quickly. I applied to numerous jobs here over the past few months. Since I left Gay.com (yes, I worked for Gay.com.) and haven’t heard word back from anyone (except for two teaching gigs which didn’t pan out for reasons too long to go into now.) I have been told that many design jobs get anywhere from 100 to 500 applicants a day. With those odds, I am no longer surprised that I am unemployed.

As I became increasingly more frustrated, Toby was being offered (good) jobs back east. We started talking. Staying here could mean financial worry. Moving is a pain in the ass. Plus, we weren’t (still not) sure we were ready to leave. We said we’d live here for a year. It has only been 6 months. That’s sad. I won’t deny this.

After a lot of talk, we decided to take one of the offers because choosing door number 2 and staying here to see where we end up had me worried. (I watched the Price is Right long enough to know that most contestants should have just stuck to the first one.) The risk just seemed too great, especially being this far away from family.

It’s now Wednesday night and I am feeling bittersweet as I am writing this. I am still not sure we’re making the right choice. Toby has offers from two places, one in D.C., and the other in NYC. While I have missed NYC since the day we decided to leave, I am also very aware that DC has been absolutely wonderful to us. DC really fit our needs. Sure, it got a bit boring at times, but who can dislike the land of Taxation without Representation? It’s impossible to not like DC should you spend some time there.

I think we have made our final decision. But that doesn’t mean it’s the right one or the one we feel absolutely certain about. But I’m trying not to live my life looking at possible regret all the time. I have done that all of my life and I have yet to regret one decision I have ever made.

On Monday, Toby called our landlord and told them about what was happening. They were surprisingly amazing about the whole situation. Given the impending holiday season, and after talking with them for a bit, we decided that sooner would be better, financially (for us and everyone involved). I called Door-to-Door movers. I got the same guy we worked with six months ago. I booked two blue bins. They are being dropped off on the 21st of this month. I called Avis. We have a one-way car rental on hold for that week as well.

Today, five people stopped by for our first “Open House” and one woman has already applied to take it over. Before we had the chance to even contemplate our decision, the ball was set in motion, smoothly, I might add. Now, there is no turning back.

Suddenly, San Francisco is being set behind me just as I was getting used to her.

Now, I know that many of you probably think,

Oh this is a dream come true for her! All she did was bitch and moan!

You’re right about that last part. I can’t and won’t try and take that back. But the first part isn’t true. I will be sad to see this place get smaller in my rear view mirror. I will miss her fog, the weird non-rainy yet rainy days, the neighborhood, and all its babies. I will miss the apartment most of all. It is lovely. I will miss the friends me made here. I’ll miss San Francisco wholeheartedly. (Maybe not all the crepe places, though.) And while I am guilty of using this Web site to rant and rave about how miserable I am, I am not miserable all the time. There is only a slice of life shown on a blog. And maybe I use this site and paint one ugly picture of the inside of my head.

I don’t wish to be remembered as the girl who hated San Francisco, but as the girl who talked a little bit too much about how lonely she was, how much trouble she had fitting in, and how hard it was to let go of her past.

On September 9th, 2002, a few days before we left NYC, (the post I linked to above), I wrote:

Friday turned out to be a day of therapy. I can’t say that I feel better about everything, but I can say I understand that I don’t understand and I may not for a long while. I may never. I do know that I love the people I love and that I can’t always plan for things to make sense or walk towards them and know what they will look like once I get there. And I’m not sure what the future holds for me or it or here or there. And I’m not sure I won’t be back.

Sometimes I personify this city. And lately, part of my turmoil is thinking that I may actually be turning my back on it, leaving it in a shelter for someone else to try and love. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out that I’m not as angry as I have been and that I can relax again.

By this time next month, we will have completed a full circle. I’m forcing myself to look at it this way.

Otherwise, my head might explode.

(Now, you can go ahead and compare us to pastries and croissants.)

I was kidding about the family speaking to me bit. Everyone, I hope, knows this. (Especially them. I hope.)

It’s 12:15 a.m. (Pacific time.) I have nothing to say. I am good at losing. I have started five posts and deleted all of them.

I feel a bit speechless.

I got nothing.

(bright side: my family will speak to me now.)

Last night, Toby and I went out for a lovely high-carb meal at our local Noe Valley italian restaurant. I love that place. I love their salads and their giant inside out pizza (aka stromboli.) And I love their ravioli. We filled up on pasta, salad, and garlic bread and then headed home to sit around and watch some television – and evening ritual. By ten, we were exhausted and fell asleep.

A long time ago, before we moved here, throughout most of the time I spent in D.C. and definitely the last half I spent in NYC, I was having most vivid and disturbing nightmares. They would haunt me for days. I have had these my entire life, really. But over the past several years, they got worse. I don’t usually post about them on here. Mainly because hearing about someone else’s nightmares or dreams is very boring. It’s true. (If someone has told you otherwise, they’re lying to you to get in your pants or be polite.) And until Doug Martsch figures out a way to make movies of our dreams, I figured it’s probably best to just keep them to myself. (Missy, that one’s for you.)

Another reason I don’t usually talk about them is they are downright upsetting. And once I start writing them down, even I start thinking, “Wow, michele, you are severely fucked up.” (Excuse the language. But it’s true.) And while that might be true, there is no need to share my fucked-upness with the rest of the world. I do that enough by keeping a daily blog.

Before Toby got home from work yesterday, I was talking to my little brother. Somehow we got on the subject of the latest Bin Laden tape and of course, today’s election. We exchanged information and ideas about future attacks on our nation. And then he sent me this link. I read that over. Our conversation continued and by that point I had worked myself up. But nothing a little pasta couldn’t cure. (I thought.)

Either I over ate on the carbs last night or all the reading, thinking, talking, and then thinking I did somehow got packed into my nighttime luggage. And I guess I carried them off to sleep with me. Because at around 3 a.m. I woke up within the most disturbing nightmare I have had in nearly a year. It was totally alarming. I woke up sweaty and absolutely terrified. And it gave me a headache.

What I find most interesting about all of this is the fact that I hadn’t realized that the nightmares were gone until I had this one last night.

Which begs the question, why does one have trouble recognizing peace while they’re experiencing it? Up until last night I hadn’t realized how quiet and peaceful my nights have been until they were taken. And I do hope they aren’t back for good.

Make Ashley Dance. clickety click. I am fond of the Mr. Roboto Button. I am.

Tomorrow, Toby and I are heading to Berkeley for an election party/BBQ. Kate is the host. Kate is from Washington, D.C. I used to work with her at Supon. She recently moved out here to go back to grad school studying architecture. Kate throws the best parties. I remember one time in D.C. during the olympics, we put on our own version in her back yard. Missy did some crazy back flip/round off/forward handspring type of thing. It was insane.

This is what her invitation (featured above) read:

Bring friends, something to drink and/or grill and we’ll provide the Cape Cods (vodka+cranberry) and the Heinz ketchup.

Should be fun. As long as we can watch John Stewart the entire time.