The Mystery of the Unopened Door.

"So, why are you guys closed on Sundays?" I asked.

"Oh, um.. for religious reasons," said the girl behind the counter, and then laughed, "not mine!"

A customer behind me laughed at her candid afterthought.

There seemed to be a hidden, shared knowledge between this customer and the girl behind the counter. I smiled cautiously. Hmmm.

I was unaware that Christians didn't drink coffee on Sundays. In fact, being a former Christian-type (Catholic) myself, this is a fact that is, in fact, not a fact! What do Christians do after church? They go to the bakery. And get coffee cakes and hot cross buns and papers with comics sections. And why would one get a coffee cake if there wasn't any coffee?

I surmised there was more to this picture than met the eye, but I didn't pry as I didn't want to appear suspicious. I have all week to get to the bottom of this riddle. I pulled out my magnifying glass and fingerprint kit and got to work on the Mystery of the Unopened Door.

Meanwhile, as I was fumbling around for my mail-order Nancy Drew Mystery-Solving Kit, I dropped my phone and watched in horror as it fell, slow-motion, to the sidewalk and shattered. My phone!

As luck would have it, this disaster took place in front of the local Verizon store. (Truth: I was meaning to switch from T-Mobile anyhow, since Verizon is taking over the planet and jams my service in certain areas.) I coddled the pieces of my dead phone and carefully made my way into the store, where my new phone was found in about two seconds.

Here are my requirements for a new phone:
- Can I make phone calls?
- Can I accept phone calls?

And.. that's about it.

Isn't that what a phone is supposed to do? I mean, last time I checked, if you wanted to take pictures, you bought a nice camera. If you wanted to surf the web, you sat your ass down in front of a computer. And now these things have VIDEO? Oh christ. Can I just make a damn phone call?????

So, I walked out about 20 minutes later with a picture phone that also has video and web and texting and has bluetooth so I can communicate with aliens and a programmable launch pad for my robot army. Oh and it's pink!

:))))

Coffee talk.

I met someone a while ago who dished on the virtues of coffee strength, and more importantly, where one could find the rocket fuel. Coming back to Hoboken after my four-year hiatus has left me with little knowledge of the good stuff in town; store fronts appeared and disappeared as quickly as this winter's snow. So, four years later, aside from the shops that have been around for 50 years, there are many new things. There is now not one, but two Starbucks. There is not one, but two Kings. There are now what, FOUR Dunkin' Donuts? There were two when I left. Dunkin Donuts sucks ass. I don't know why people like this crap.

Coming back in from the suburbs, I'm thinking that Starbucks is still pretty much the standard for coffee; the Dunkin Donuts shitwater is reserved for amateurs and grandpas. Well. One day, as I'm waiting in line for the usual latté, a querulous gent in front of me orders an espresso, and "Please make sure it's strong this time, ok?" I'm thinking, how can espresso be weak? At Starbucks? Is this possible? Could it be? Was I all wrong thinking that my latté was sufficiently caffeinated? Hmmm. A flag went up that day, my friends.

A few days later, I'm having a conversation with this lovely gal, who informed me that the "real" stuff could be found at a place called Mola. I've seen Mola. I pass it almost every day on my long walks around town. It never occurred to me to actually step inside and try it out.

So, one fine day, I tried it out.

The deep mohogany colored liquid was as promised: rocket fuel. The froth, unlike Starbucks', had that perfect consistency of a thoughtfully-made latté: creamy and luxuriant, with swirls of brown gold, tempting my weak soul as it engaged my senses. Oh my dear, I have been schooled. Is it possible to fall in love with a smell? Yes. Yes, I think it is.

Mola. Mola Mola Mola Mola. Why can't you be open on Sundays!? Actually, next time I'm in there, I will ask this very question. It's a good question.

The problem with sperm donors.

Every day, I start the day off right. Breakfast of champions: coffee and TV. TV is delicious. Everyone should have some when they get the chance.

Usually, my morning TV jaunt includes a brief update from the Weather Channel, followed by breezing through the local stations, just to make sure A) I'm not caught in a blizzard of epic proportions (oh, how I wish!) and B) there aren't any crises going on that will inhibit my movements around town (I.e. the North Koreans bomb Brooklyn).

As I'm flipping through the locals today, something catches my eye:

"... women between 30 and 40..." (that's me!) "...are more often seeking and utilizing sperm donors..." (that's not me.)

And I started thinking about that. Ok. I get that Little Miss Thirty-Something hasn't found Mr. Right and still wants to stick her genes into the continuing saga of human life on Earth. I get that. I mean, that may be me someday, though I would sooner tap one of my cute friends for the little swimmers than resort to McSpermbank. (Yes, I'll have a #5...with a side of Harvard, and can you super-size that?) I mean, if you are going to go through all the fuss of getting yourself pregnant, you might as well have some fun, right? Willing friends, candles, a couple bottles of scotch... Done.

Not suprisingly, there are some issues I have with this sperm bank thing, aside from the obvious Nazi lebensborn matter... you know, where all the women get sperm from 6'5" Harvard-educated creative sports stars and create that super-race that Himmler tried so hard to get going back in the day.

Aside from that small ethical debate, I wonder, when the 6'5" blond-haired, blue-eyed super-talents start applying to college, what rights will they have on their applications?

For instance, Joseph Westminster, III applies to Harvard. His father is a Harvard man, as was his grandfather. When he applies to Harvard, he will see a little section called "Family," wherein he will list the fact that the paternal side of his family all happen to be Harvard alumni. This, with the prestige of his last name, almost guarantees him admission (as long as he's not a total fuck-up).

On the other hand, there's Joe "My mom's a perfectly respectable careerwoman" Smith. Joe Smith is the son of a woman who, yes, is a perfectly respectable career woman. Interestingly, he also happens to be the offspring of Joseph Westminster, Jr.

See, Joe Jr. went on a bender with his buddies to Tijuana many years ago and needed some beer money. Knowing his stock was in demand and might pay a little more, he stopped in at the local McSpermBank and made a deposit. He walked out with his beer money. And had a great time in Tijuana. If you ignore that little crab thing.

So Joe Smith applies to Harvard, and on that little section called "Family," he lists... what... "Unknown" as his father? He shares nearly the same genetic lineage as Joe, III and J-III's whole god-forsaken family, so it makes no sense to me that he will have no claim on the same education.

One other scenario, and one that bears noting, is that if Joe Westminster, Jr. and his lovely stay-at-home tennis wife decide to adopt a child, this child will also have claim to that precious "Family" section, even though this child has no genetic resemblance to the family, what-so-ever.

So now, one can make some interesting inferences. One is the implication that a child borne of a sperm bank does not have the same rights as one borne from, or even adopted into, a traditional family. Another is that the sperm bank child may have legal cause to justify a paternity suit, if only to secure an education that is equal to his genetic brethren. This will of course turn the entire industry on its ear, and perhaps make people like Joe, Jr. who are looking for some beer money think twice about the consequences of spewing his semen all over the place.

That is all.

In other news, I think there is a sewage situation in my building. The main hallway has been smelling like poo. I thought it might be because of the dogs, you know, with this dog poo epidemic and all. It's hard for dogs not to bring it home with them these days.

But this morning, the stench woke me out of what was a very enjoyable dream. It was beyond dog poo. Not that I am a raw sewage connoisseur or anything, but damn it was harsh. How am I supposed to have parties now, with this stink? Must call landlord.

Katie is ugly and Tom is an idiot.

Please tell me why people give a shit about Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise? I'm waiting in line at the store, slogging through the mountain of celebrity crap that one usually happens upon in such places, and all over the covers: Tom and Katie Say Any Day Now! I mean, really. Who cares? Show of hands.
Personally, I'm more interested in Katie's relationship with the herpes virus that's devouring her face. Now, that's entertainment. Sexy bitch!

In non-related news, I need a massage, STAT. I wonder if I can make this happen for less than.. what's the going rate now, like $50,000 an hour? Oooh. Someone's a grouchy-pants. I'd better get this taken care of before I sprout horns and my feet turn into cloven hooves.

Grrrr! Nothing specific.. well. Ok. Maybe it was the fact that I kept getting run over by baby carriages today. And NOT by the unruly three-year-olds. No, today it was the attack of the clueless moms.

Ok moms. I know you have a lot to deal with. What, with your three year-olds running around Starbucks and screaming and being all undisciplined and all. But can you at least please not run me down with your heavily-armoured 5-ton baby push carts? They kinda hurt when they nip my heels. Thanks.

Gratitude.

This past week has been really challenging. It's amazing how much emotion is trapped inside my skin. Some days I feel the tautness of it, my skin being stretched to capacity, close to bursting. Feeling overwhelmed.

I am attempting to focus on the positive aspects of my life. While sulking can be genuinely liberating at times, I do try to keep it to a minimum. No one likes a sad clown.

Actually, does anyone really like a happy clown? Aren't clowns just really stupid? People go to school and train for years to be clowns. This is just one of those things that is, and will remain, completely outside the perimeter of my interests. If I met a charming man, who is perfect in every way, and happens to be in clown school, he'd better be an awesome kisser. Because that would be the extent of our relationship. Yes, I would use a clown. For kissing. If he's really damn good!

Clowns aside, I'm feeling really jazzed about the decisions I've made recently. Second-guesses and angry phone conversations have ebbed; my brain is declouding. Is that even a word? Do I care? Well, there. I just made it one.

One thing I'm really happy about is my decision to move here. Even though I am fully aware that one can be happy or sad anywhere, I feel that this town magnifies everything I feel to an extraordinary degree. I can be as happy or as sad as I wish, and this town serves as the catalyst for doing so very easily. If I'm sad and want to be happy, all I need to do is walk outside, where I am suddenly a part of the bustle. If I want to be sad, I can sulk for as long as I wish in my little apartment.

For the most part, I choose to be happy, and so I am out almost every day, walking all over, burning away the soles of my shoes. During these walks, I invariably end up on Pier A, a once grown-over weedy lot that was turned into a delightful and expansive waterfront park-pier-thingy. It is here that I can sometimes smell the salt of the water, the crisp freshness of ocean-air. I watch boats cut through the hudson river with white foamy blades, and I am witness to one of the most spectacular man-made views on this planet: the NYC skyline.

Some days I stand here on the pier and gaze at the skyline, very aware of how freaking lucky I am to be alive, and living here. Just across from me: one of the greatest cities in the world. I'm right here, looking at it.

And that's just pretty dang cool.

Unbearable lightness of being random.

- I was mowed down on Washington Street by an out-of-control three-year-old pushing a Bugaboo. Please, parents. You need to tell your kids to STOP.

- Lots of suspicious couplings on the Pier today. That's all I'm saying.

- Beautiful London/Seattle weather. Mmmmm. Love it. I could walk around all day & night in this.

- I've discovered the new(ish) Shop-Rite. I felt like I was in a super-shopper carnival-land freakfest. I spent about an hour and a half inside, skipping down aisles, looking at everything, like I've never seen this stuff before, and bought only two things: In Touch magazine (for the crosswords! Please.) and a tub of french onion dip. Just the necessities!

- Saw The Brothers McMullen last night. How did I ever forget how much I love Ed Burns? Tall. Check. Fuzzy voice. Check. Sense of humor. Check. Smart. Check. Ambitious. Check. Looks great in sweaters. Check. Likes Guinness. Check. Sigh.

- There is a New Zealand invasion going on at Maxwell's. Last night, the Bats (pretty dang good, and not crowded!). Tonight, the Datsuns. I was telling my friend last night that we, as residents of this fine town (and appreciators and creators of music ourselves), should see ANY band that comes from New Zealand to play here. Unless, of course, they suck. I am sadly not going tonight. Not because the Datsuns suck (they kinda don't. at all.), but because I am in a self-imposed detox program.

- In related news, I look reeeeaaally tired. And I have a giant zit growing out of my chin. Acting 20 years younger than my actual age can only be sustained for so long. 20 years? Oh my goodness. I can't believe I just said that seriously.

- In more related news, and related to a previous post, I really need to be more careful of my person. Apparently, there is now the debate that women only go to bars for one reason, said debate having been spawned by the recent rape and murder of I____ St. G____. Why would a women go to a bar at night, alone? Oh for crying out loud. Are you kidding? To get raped and murdered, of course! Fucking bastards.

- In totally non-relatd news, I've been doing illustrations of babies for the past couple of weeks. The last and final one, finished today (thank the lord), was a really graphic one about how to properly hold your infant and guide its mouth to your nipple. Nice.

- I've been seeing cat shadows everywhere in my apartment. Like, I'll go in the shower, and for a split-second, think my cat has followed me in there. I don't even know the cat. I just see "my cat." Not Murphy. This is a different cat. Apparently, he's waiting for me at the pound.

24 hour party people.

I went to a party the other day. It was at a friend's place in the town I used to live. She is famous for her marathon parties that tend to peter out the following day. I was the first to leave, at 3AM. Bombed. Let's just say that I'm really not good at this whole Lent thing and leave it at that. I am officially going to go into hiberation until further notice.

I've discovered that asking people what they gave up for Lent is not only a great conversation starter, but also provokes interesting discussion among the less-than-faithful. Oh, it's a great time to be spiritual!

"So, what did you give up for Lent?"
"Hope."
"Lent."
"Caring."
"Sadness."
"Alcohol," he says right after downing a shot of Powers.
"Love."
"Making resolutions."
"My rock 'n' roll lifestyle." After which, she cackled hysterically and ran to the bathroom for more blow.

Only a few people actually answered this question seriously, not that I was expecting serious answers. But seeing how most people took this as a cue to express their crusty cynicism, I started to wonder, at what point do people become true cynics and embrace the massive futility of life? Admittedly, my own cynicism runs pretty shallow; I possess an unusual amount of naïveté for someone in my position. The bottom line, at least for me, is that I still believe in love. And I have no doubt that I will find it again. But my willingness to believe in this, my ever-hopeful heart, prevents me from being a completely embittered old hag, which I guess is a good thing.

So yesterday, during my usual long daily walk, I was walking down Washington Street in the downtown area and noticed a couple fighting. It was hard to miss: she was punching and kicking him (lamely, I might add), all the while screaming something at the top of her lungs in Spanish. The fella she was screaming at (and punching and kicking...) was being held back by his buddy. And what, if he wasn't, he'd punch her back? Who knows. Anyway, I'm watching her punch him repeatedly with her right arm, and noticing that she's got something in her left. Kick, punch, scream. What's she holding? A blanket? No, it's a baby. I can only imagine what she was screaming at him about. Wish I'd taken Spanish instead of German.

Live action porn.

Hellacopters played tonight at Bowery Ballroom. I just wanted to point that out. Because I didn't see them. I instead went to see some friends play at various places throughout the city. One of these places was a cute little tiki-type place, the kind that inspires thoughts of a redesigned apartment (cover walls in bamboo, hang tiki lights everywhere, have parties).

I'm at this place, which is very non-freaky. And yet, one of the weirdest, freakiest things I've ever experienced in my entire life happened at this very place. Tonight.

It all started innocently enough. I had to go to the ladies' room. And do what ladies do. So I opened the door.

The first thing I noticed was the heaviness of the air. The weight of fresh pot smoke. Everywhere. It billowed out of the room when I pulled on the door to let myself in.

The next thing I notice is a women on her knees. She is kneeling squarely in front of another woman, who is standing, and has her mouth on the standing woman's crotch.

Yes. You heard me.

Hello, are you there, Awkward? It's me, Lysa.

"Hey, what's up?" Says the girl getting the Mouth. She says it like she's sitting on a sofa and has been lounging all day long. Slightly tired. Obviously wasted.

"OH! Hi!" Awkward, stammering, and more awkward. "Wow, looks like someone's having fun around here," I say. I'm trying extremely hard to act like I see this all the time and it's no big deal. I attempt to slide past them to get to a stall. You know, because I had to use the ladies' room.

"Where you going?" says the Mouth. "Don't you like to watch?"

I'm thinking of a million witty things to say, among them: No, I gave up pussy for lent.

Funny, wasn't that actually a joke I made a couple of entries ago? That I'm giving up the chicks? This is just too damn funny. And weird.

I need some damn sleep. And no, I didn't take them up on the offer.

The land of broken toys.

There was something I'd written a long time ago, about the first time I moved here (this present time, dear reader, would be the third). There was something about the dating scene that seemed, well, unseemly.

This whole area is like the land of broken toys. (The land of Hobroken toys?) People have had their hearts shredded, their guts mutilated, people have died, people (um...) might be in the "multiple marriage" range. There are people who have never given so much of themselves to lose, and so will never know what it means to really love someone.

I am not the one to be asking this, but why can't two people who like each other just relax and enjoy each other's company? It seems so damn easy. On paper.

Take two people, add two and a half cups of heartbreak, one heaping tablespoon of failed marriage, mix well. Add insecurity and bake for about 2 hours with lots of beer. Makes no servings.

A fella told me the other night that "dating is war." I didn't realize that dating wasn't supposed to be enjoyable. To me, it was always an opportunity to experience new things, see movies in theaters, eat at interesting places, talk to/be with/look at someone who might make me a little nervous. But then, my personality happens to be condusive to this sort of thing. I genuinely like to meet new people. Of course, I'd have the occasional one-off, where I'd wish I was back home vacuuming my carpets. But, is this all a bad thing? Is it truly war? Kill the enemy? Yikes.

Nah. I won't believe it. And I don't think it's because I haven't been in the trenches for a while. Yes, I will now be utilizing the vast stores of war clichés to assist with my hypothesis. I think that people truly have the power to choose their battles, to decide if they are going to bite the bullet and surrender or otherwise. If you want war, you'll get war. If you want peace, you may have to work at it a little, and get the peacekeeping troops in there for the interim, but you'll find peace. And you don't even need an exit strategy.

None of this is bad, mind you. I know guys who are perfectly happy just drinking beer, having a laugh and hooking up. Look at George Clooney. He's a happy dude. Drinks beer and hooks up all the time. For me? Well, someone once told me that I was a "heart" person. And this is partly true. Heart people generally don't drink beer and randomly hook up all the time. Being in a totally new place now, I can't help wondering if I will finally find happiness in beer?

I am not an alcoholic. I am not an alcoholic. I am not an alcoholic. I am not.. what? Oh hi. Yes.

So the question is: what will make me happy? Hooking up? Reading books? Getting a cat? Finding a mate? Oh! Let's talk about mates for a second. People throw around the term "soul mate" like it's an infallible fact of life. This is just retarded. I mean, you can find people who you truly bond with on many many levels, but for the love of all that is holy, who decided to make it a terminal condition? I used to buy into all this crap. I really did. When I was really young and midly stupid. And then I got slaughtered. And then I had to regroup and rethink it all. Basically, what it boils down to is #1: the connection. It has to be there. Sexually, mentally, all of it. Secondly, and some would argue more important, would be the timing. Did you meet your mate at a suitable time? If the answer is "yes," congratulations. You're terminal. If not, thanks for playing, and find another disease down the road.

Totally unrelated:

Two things happened these past couple of days that make my life oh so much happier:

1. Rock star parking! I have a party to attend on Saturday, and I kind of don't want to go because this spot is just THAT good. How pathetic am I? I don't want to be social because I'll lose my parking spot? um... L-O-S-E-R.

2. My new boyfriend came in the mail today. Oh yeah.

Smack down on 7th street.

Stumble down drunk. Slip and fall down backwards. A giant Bugs Bunny lump grows out of my head. Birds flying, seeing stars. Am I awake? Am I ok? Am I bleeding?

I can't see for a moment, and I realize something very important, aside from the general rule to keep one's head away from brick staircases: as a gal living alone, I need to be more responsible about my person. I need to make sure my door is locked at night. Sometimes I forget. I need to make sure I'm not walking home so drunk that I fall and/or pass out and am by myself, where I could potentially be fodder for some random passing rapist. There are so many of them at 3AM, you know. At least that's what my mother would have me believe. The random dark figures, all of them rapists, wandering around in 20 degrees at 3AM, looking for a girl alone. Well, it's silly, but why should I take chances? This is a good question.

This past Saturday I was out and about for the Fake Patrick's Day festivities. I found that in general, if I stayed away from the bars that were clogged by gals in green t-shirts emblazoned with "KISS ME! I'M IRISH!" and flashing seizure-inducing green wristbands, and the fellas with the Dr. Seuss-type hats, I could actually hold an intelligent conversation. That is to say, I could have a conversation with more than two sentences in it.

The girls in the green t-shirts crack me up. I mean, here's Michelle Vizzinni. She's got really dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Nice italian-olive skin, the kind that tans really well and gets cat calls on the Point Pleasant boardwalk. The kind Irish people like me always wish we had. Well, here's Michelle Vizzinni. And she's wearing her green plastic bowler, and her "KISS ME" t-shirt (two sizes too tight, by the way), and her cloverleaf sticker on her cheek. And her friends are all wearing the same thing, more or less, and I'm thinking, wow. This is probably the only day of the year where Michelle Vizzinni wishes she looked a little more Irish. I mean, you can ask her if you want to.

"Michelle? Are you Irish?"
And her answer will be thus: "Today, I am!" As she sticks her chest out so you can read the lettering on her tits. And you KNOW that this particular t-shirt is going to be up around her neck later as her tanned italian-olive ankles are pinned against her ears. Because this is what it means to be Irish to Michelle Vizzinni. God bless her.

So. On this lovely day, I refrained from wearing any green or lights or hats or beads or what-have-you, because let's be honest, dear reader. I've got it built-in. This is the ONLY day where I actually appreciate my freckles. It's a nice conversation starter anyway. Well, I guess depending on how you like your conversations.

"So, where'd you get those freckles?"
"Um, the guy on 6th and Washington? He's got hats, too."
"Why do you have to be such a BITCH?"

So anyway, back to being a gal alone and how this all relates. I'm at one of my now so-called "regular" bars, one of three where I enjoy the company of bartenders/friends and good music. I'm sitting at the bar, having a chat with my pal Keith, and out of nowhere comes this guy in a plastic green bowler and cable-knit sweater. The rest happens in slow-motion.

He flashes a toothy smile at me. His eyes are twinkling. He's trying to hold my stare. I see some movement by my drink and turn my gaze to catch his hand squeezing some droplets into my beer and my water. I look back at him and he's already looking for his buddies, who are busy being drunk in the corner. My pal Keith is totally oblivious. That's how fast it happened. I am shocked. Somebody put something in my drink. (Yes, I'm quoting a Ramones song title.)

Because of the day it was, and given the jovial spirit in which the above droplets were delivered, I pretty much had it figured out that he was just being liberal with the green food coloring. There are some important things I'd like to point out:

1. I was drinking Guinness. For those of you who understand the ways of beer, Guinness has its own color, and you ain't changin' it, honey.

2. I had NO IDEA who this guy was. I'm sure it was funny with his buddies and all, but please, PLEASE, don't drop liquids into random girls' drinks at a bar.

3. Because of the viscocity of my brew, the green food coloring took on the appearance of a mold growth, which I marvelled at for a moment.

4. The speed in which the very astute bartender Rusty reacted to the dropping of the dye was extremely impressive. Before I could even utter the words "What the...," he'd already replaced my water and was in the process of getting a fresh beer ready.

Taking absolutely nothing for granted, I thanked Rusty for being so on top of it, laughed at Keith for being so out of it, and reminded myself that next time, it might not be green food dye.

I touch the lump on the back of my head. I really need to be more careful.

Souvenir

I woke up and had OMD's Souvenir revolving around my head. Odd. Literally had not heard this in years. So I followed Oscar Wilde's advice about temptation and just put it on. Suddenly I'm in a John Hughes film. Listening to OMD, dancing around my apartment and getting ready for the Prom, I mean, Hoboken St. Patrick's Day. I'm feeling really good, and kind of weird about having my very earliest beer in a bar of all time. 9AM? Really? I'm sure I'll be over it by 9:45.

Baby it's cold outside.

Whenever I hear about the single digit wind-chills, I get all excited. I am a total sucker for extreme weather; the kind you need "technical" clothing for. The kind in which going out in jeans and a t-shirt would probably kill you in an hour or two. I just love that.

So tonight, just got in from dinner, and it's cold! I wore what I thought was my warmest coat: a thick wool number, pretty standard winter fare. I foolishly thought this would be enough and snubbed my layers rule in favor of less bulk. I should point out that I NEVER disregard my layers rule. And I will never do so again. It's a good rule.

NO layers. Wool coat. The wind somehow unlocked the secret to wool fabric and stabbed me repeatedly all over. I was being tortured. And yet, every second of it was delicious.

I have to say that since I've moved here, I have been moved figuratively as well. I've been swimming in the pleasure of my own feelings. Even when what I'm feeling is depression, it's a palpable depression. A succulent depression that I can feel to my bones. My body and mind are "all systems go," and boy, am I ever! I love being alive, and I love all the things that remind me of this. The stabbing cold! The sudden, lonely aptitude for manual labor! Disappointments and delights!

When I feel happiness, I am really feeling it. I am quite literally walking around with a smile on my face. Colors seem more vibrant, the sun seems brighter, my hair comes out really good, and of course my coffee seems to be of the perfect strength (instead of the weak crap they seem to have been getting away with).

Likewise, with the sadness, my apartment sounds emptier. I wake up with the day pressing down on me. The air seems thicker, the echoes seem louder, my feet fall heavy on the wooden floors.

I delight in the misery. And the joy. And right now, I am feeling joy. I am warming up with a cup of hot cocoa, NOT the swiss miss crap. Please. I said hot cocoa, not hot corn syrup and partially hydrogenated soybean oils. I am sipping this and about to head back into my little mini-living room area, where I will sink into my sofa and give myself a warm cuddle in front of my faux-fireplace.

Right now, nothing is better than this. Oh wait. I guess if it were snowing...

Little date to church.

Part II

While I was out today, I noticed a little peculiar something that inspired vague thoughts of a long-ago life.

People walking around with black spots on their foreheads. It's lent. Time for giving up shit. And thinking about life. And corporal mortification. Sign me up!

I remember as a kid, I would give up things that really mattered. Other kids were giving up chocolate and ice cream. I would give up sadness. I mean, if you're going to give something up, why not kill two birds with one stone and make it mutually beneficial? God gets my sadness, I get to not have it for a while. Not bad.

That's not how it worked, apparently. I was told that I would need to give up something like chocolate.. something that I LIKED. Ok, I said, I'll give up the chicks. I think the only one I really amused with that was myself.

So, in honor of the lenten season and of the fond memories of the past, I will, once again, give up the chicks. No more chicks for me. I mean, I love titties like the next person, but it's going to have to wait a few weeks. In the meantime, God's gonna have some great fun, and I'll just have to enjoy my own titties for a while.

Amen!

The word 'titties' really makes me giggle.

The little truck that almost didn't.

So here in Hoboken, or Da Boke, as some refer to it, there is an infamously problematic parking situation. One side of the street is for the losers who either don't live here or haven't gotten the Permanent Parking Sticker yet. The other side of the street, labeled in green, is for the nobility of hoboken, the folks who've changed their addresses on their licenses and cars. The people who have claimed Hoboken as their Permanent Residence. And have The Sticker in their windows to prove it. These people can park on either side of the street. I of course, am of the former group.

Being of the former group, I spend countless hours in search of the Parking Spot. Said Parking Spot, ideally, would be mere hours after street cleaning, or at least a day, so I don't have to worry about moving my vehicle for at least six days. Sadly, yesterday, I found a Parking Spot with one day to spare. Tuesday: Park vehicle. Wedneday: move vehicle. Street cleaning: 2-3PM.

So I go out today with a friend for lunch, taking my sweet ass time, generally enjoying myself and the light conversation, and I make plans to leave and move my little truck at about 1:30. So I bid him farewell and take a leisurely stroll to my little truck, which was sitting happily in the shade of an old tree. Hello, little truck! I am happy.

I get in my little truck. I turn the key. It's not starting. I pump the gas. Still not starting. I wait. I try again. Not starting. It is now 1:40.

Desperately, I call my friend, who happens to be wise in the ways of vehicles and actually listens to me trying to start the truck via cell phone.

"Did you pump the gas?"
"Yes."
"Is the battery ok?"
"Yes."
"Try again."

No dice. Not starting. It's now 1:46.

"Are you out of gas?"
"What? Of course I'm not out of ga-- wait a minute."

I look at the gauge. Inexplicably, I've had 1/4 tank for a week. And I've been traveling. How did I not notice this before?

1:47

"I'm totally out of gas! My gas gauge is broken!"
"You're going to have to run over to that Sunoco and see if they'll help you out with a gas can. I'll come back and help you."
"That's really nice of you, but I'll be ok."
"Are you positive?"
No. "Yes."

I'm walking very briskly to the Sunoco. My hair is flying wildly in the wind. Wish I'd worn more layers. Wish I'd worn a hat. Wish I wasn't such a freaking doofus. I call another friend to tell her how funny/disastrous these days have been. She laughs. I laugh back. I get to the Sunoco. They give me two gallons. I lumber back to the truck with this dirty, smelly gas can, thinking that I will NEVER let the gas gauge go below 1/2 tank EVER again.

2:03

I'm back at the truck, fumbling with the gas can spout, and proceed to dump gas all over my gloves, the side of the truck, and the ground. The fumes are making me sick. My arms hurt from angling the gas can into the gas tank. Women passing by with their Bugaboos and babies make nasty faces at me. Like I'm blowing cigarette smoke in their face or something. And the sudden epidemic of dog doo-doo left on the sidewalks taunts me as I have to balance myself between two lumps of poo while I'm pouring.

2:08

I pause briefly to look back. The traffic patrol is walking down the street. A few blocks up, but I see them. The unmistakable blue-black leathery coat, the glint of a badge on the chest. Shit. The street cleaner is paused at the top, waiting for the signal. I am thinking that now would be a good time to start, little truck.

2:11

Two gallons later, I pump the gas. I turn the key. I watch the street cleaner grow closer in my rearview mirror. I watch a drug deal go down in front of me, and then.. success! I peel out and drive around for another half hour to find another Parking Spot. But not before I fill 'er up.

It's funny, but all these things I'm doing, as shitty as they are, make me feel a little less helpless. I can DO these things. I can get gas and spill it all over myself and assemble shelves and lift heavy boxes.

I still need a manicure pedicure though. All this independent crap is doing a number on my cuticles.