So, I’m at the beach with my family.  It’s great.  The house is great.  The weather has been great (given the tropical storm that took an unexpected turn away from this particular stretch of coast…thank you, up above), the food has all been great, we’ve all been laughing and rocking on the porch and swimming off the dock on the canal and flying kites on the beach…general Good Quality Family Time.  My 16 year old cousin finished two weeks of summer school in three days so he could be here to hang out with me, which is touching and cute.  We’ve been close since he was a baby…we’ve always loved each other fiercely, and end up spending all of our time together, when we’re in close physical proximity.  

Last night, Big J and I (he’s Big J because he’s 6′8″ and he’s still growing!) went down to the arcade three blocks away and played video games for a while.  This led to a walk on the beach, which in turn led to Deep Conversation full of Honesty and The Hard Truth.  The hard truth I learned about my beloved cousin Big J?  He’s a fucking crack dealer.  

When I saw him six months ago, he told me stories of the pot he smoked, the booze he drank, and the girls he bagged.  He’s a star athlete at a reputable high school, so I wasn’t terribly surprised by this news.  Six months ago, I gave him the obligatory talking-to, detailing all the ways he could ruin his future with an unwanted pregnancy or a possession charge.  Little did I know…

Now, his parents are A) idiots, and B) turn a blind eye because he’s a 16 year old star athlete…that whole Boys Will Be Boys thing.  I think it’s irresponsible parenting, sure, but what the hell do I know about raising a teenaged boy?  What I do know is that he talks to me, he tells me the things he doesn’t/won’t/can’t tell other adults, and while I am horrified and a little heart-broken, I don’t want to shut those lines of communication down.  When he told me he sold crack (to all the ‘black folk in the projects’), I sternly, tactfully, lovingly (as lovingly as one can get when detailing the horrors of crack) lectured him for an hour about why Crack Is Bad.  He listened, I think.  He seemed even to gain a new perspective on how crack really effects society, but I don’t know if that’s just me being optimistic about getting through to someone I love unconditionally, someone that I know looks up to me, listens to me, respects me.  

But how to tell a handsome, charming, strong 16 year old that their lucrative job as a crack salesman is nothing but trouble?  He’s 16, after all, and he thinks he’s invincible, and far more clever than the police.  I remember the feeling well.  I felt old last night, as I almost let the words slip out, “You’re young, you aren’t bulletproof, you don’t know because you can’t.  You know, the whole spiel about real world experience and the wisdom that only age can grant you, yadda yadda yadda.  

Instead, I told him how a crackhead would kill him and not think twice.  How crack destroys every life it touches.  How the money he makes is dirty, because it’s feeding someone’s addiction, and that someone will do anything for more crack, that that someone has a family, too, and how crack robs families of their loved ones.  I told him how crackheads have violated my life, and I told him how I’ve lost friends to crack; they’ve not died, no, far worse…they kept living, unrecognizable shells of the people I loved.  I told him how crack is an effective tool for keeping a mostly poor, uneducated sector of the population poor and uneducated, creating a virtual slave race of people, ensnared in the trap that is public housing, perpetuating violence and desperation with every rock he sells.  

I don’t know if I got through to him; he listened, for sure, which is something.  He seemed shocked to think of crack in all those different ways, instead of just a quick high and a quick buck.  He swore he never used, only sold, which is a bitter comfort to me.   I told him he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t go to prison, wouldn’t die in those projects he ambles through with his pockets full of rocks, all legs and elbows and his big, open, goofy smile.  He promised me those things wouldn’t happen, but I know things he can’t, because I’ve seen it time and again, a Crackhead Will Do Anything.  

I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this information?  If I tell anyone else in the family, it will result in an immediate lock-down for him, which would likely result in him hating/resenting me, and never telling me anything again, which would, in turn, make me unable to provide some voice of reason as an Adult Who Loves Him That’s Not A Parent.  I love him enough that I’m comfortable with him hating me, if it would mean he was safe and out of harms way (he doesn’t seem to comprehend at all the extremely dangerous position he’s putting himself in, as a white boy catering to the projects) but it seems like he could benefit more from having someone he can talk to, that he trusts and respects, to support and encourage healthier, worth-while endeavors.  He’s a very gifted boy, he just hasn’t found his place yet.  And what 16 year old has?  

In the end, I told him that I loved him, but I really want him to stop, because he’s better than that.  He got a bit choked up, and I realized then that he’s probably in this situation because he doesn’t hear that much.  He’s an amazing basketball player, but that’s all his parents have focused on.  They allow him to do poorly in academics because they think he can’t do better.  His older sister, pleasant and pretty as she is, has stolen all the attention for his whole life, and I am beginning to doubt that his parents have told him enough (ever?) that he is bright and talented and has the potential to do anything he sets his mind to.  They talk about the NBA incessantly, and have had him in sports camps in every spare moment of his whole life, but I think they never talk to him like he’s smart.  They tell him to calm down, be quiet, sit still, sit up straight, comb his hair, take out the trash, mow the lawn…but I’ve never seen either of his parents once engage him in conversation that didn’t directly relate to his sports or his misbehavior.  They are doing him an injustice, and they are missing out on a truly interesting, funny, and sweet boy who has a lot to say about the world, if only given the chance.  

Once again, I’m gonna have to blame the parents.  No, they aren’t selling the crack, but I do think he’s slipped under their radar, and they seem too lazy to care a whole lot.  I care, and I think that the three times I see him each year are Familial High Points for both of us, which is something I value and don’t want to lose, not by alienating him by turning him, and not to a stranger with a habit and a gun.  What do I do?  Advice, please.  I’m at a loss.

My face feels clogged full of whatever it is that makes dust:  ash from before we stopped smoking in the house, dirt, skin cells, whatever.  I think I have a pound and a half stored in my sinuses alone.  I realize now, in the act of packing this house that I’ve lived in the longest since I left my parents homes, what a terrible housekeeper I really must be.  I like things to be clean, I can live with clutter, and I can’t stand food trash or crusty toilets. How then, did I allow this much dust to accumulate in all the corners and crevices of my home?  Blech.  It’s shameful how much dust I was hoarding in my bedroom.  I can’t believe I escaped without some archaic miner’s lung disease.  Things looked good on the surface, but I see now that that doesn’t mean I can neglect underneath.  For three whole years.  Lesson learned,  I think.  A really good metaphor for life is hidden in here somewhere, I’m sure of it.  

Maybe I’ve never mentioned this before, but I really and truly despise the physical act of moving.  Nothing about it is fun.  Aside from that whole Inevitable Change thing, and how much fun it is to rearrange in a clean, new space…it fucking blows.  I hate how my fingers always end up scraped and raw from the tape-dispenser-teeth-cutter thing.  I hate how I get lost for hours reminiscing over books or pictures I haven’t seen in years, when forward progress is the only things that really matters in the moment.  I hate how my hands get so dirty I look like I’ve been gardening for three days without washing my hands.  I hate how sweaty I get, I hate lugging boxes up or down stairs, I hate dusting furniture, I hate waiting for the Salvation Army to come get the stuff I refuse to carry up or down a stair ever again, I hate security deposits, I hate finding someone with a truck to burden, and I hate, most of all, how, 12 years ago, I moved at the beginning of August.  Forever after, I have been relegated to moving on August 1st, the grossest, stickiest, most heinous heat of the year.  I am actually very happy that I’m subletting until November 1st;  the cycle may finally be broken, praise Jeebus.  

My first sublet, for the month of August, is in Jackson Heights, Queens.  Apparently, it is a heavily hispanic neighborhood, which I am really looking forward to, because it bothers me every day that I am not fluent in Spanish.  I keep saying I want an Immersion Experience.  It’s not the Peace Corps (not yet!  t-minus two years and counting!), but it can’t hurt to be surrounded by the language every day.  Also, the two women I will be living with are Ukranian and Croatian, respectively.  I’m ’bout to have a cultural adventure, y’all.  While part of me is quite nervous about moving into an apartment I’ve never seen (except in pictures), cohabitating with two people I’ve never met (except via email), the larger part of me is thrilled with the idea of completely new experiences, every single time I walk out the door.  I want to feel like I have brand new eyes, just like the baby in the Averett Brothers song, At The Beach. 

I can’t wait to discover the delicious ethnic restaurants around every corner.  I have dreams of Sunday mornings in the flower market.  When I imagine chasing a flaming soccer ball down the street, laughing and running with FireBall, I get a little misty, not because I’m leaving, but because I’m going.  And not a minute too soon, either.  Turning 30 in New York will somehow feel better than turning 30 here.  Less than a month, folks.  I have started to pay closer attention to commercials advertising wrinkle cream; my age anxiety is gnawing at me on a ridiculous subconscious level.  Is this normal?  It is, right?  Right?

Currently, I am sitting in a hotel room in Orlando, Florida.  My parents and my little brother are sleeping not five feet away from me, and in my usual style, I can’t sleep before 2 a.m.  Boo.  My dad had his 65th birthday today, and to commemorate such a Big One, we hopped in a rental car, and came to Disney World.  Disney has always been a secret desire of my stepmother’s (she has always loved Cinderella, since she was a girl) but I have a secret notion that this trip was really formulated for me and Little Man to make some good memories before I move away to my new life in the Big City.  We needed some quality time together, and we certainly got it.  He had never ridden a roller coaster before; in fact, he swore he hated them and couldn’t ride them, but dontcha know…watching his big sister ride Space Mountain all by her lonesome got to him, and he agreed at last to try it, and he loved it.  We had a great time.  We rode every ride in both the Magic Kingdom and Epcot.  We even managed to get my dad and stepmom on a couple.  It has been a really great time, aside from the fact that my broken ankle certainly isn’t getting any better by ignoring the fact that is, indeed, broken.  I have to go to the doctor’s this week.  Like, immediately, upon my arrival back home.  

And speaking of home, I returned from my one week stint at summer stock on the beach (the puppets actually worked!! It’s some kind of miracle that I actually figured out the mechanics correctly to rig twelve puppets to one point, so that one operator could make all twelve move, just by pulling on one, tiny, itty bitty piece of monofilament.  It’s one of my biggest artistic accomplishments to date.  I’m feeling quite proud of myself!), only to find that my house had been ransacked by burglars.  The fuckers had been unable to gain entry through either the front door or the back, although they left plenty of evidence of their attempts, so they splintered and busted a window on the front side of my house, right into my living room, and then propped it open so that they could really take their time.  The house was empty for a week, so who knows how much time they spent perusing all of our belongings, but it was quite clear that they had gone through everything, and I do mean everything.  My bed even looked like someone may have slept in it. How gross is that???  The sheets were all wonky and the bed had been pushed out from the wall, and the contents of my beside table were strewn everywhere and all my drawers had been opened and rifled through…some crackhead touched every piece of clothing I own.  My jewelry box had been pilfered, but the idiots stole only the junk jewelry, leaving the three actually-valuable pieces exactly where they lay.  Idiots.  I’m glad they’re idiots, but still.  They got away with all of my SLR cameras (I had three), all of our electronics, most of my good DVDs and Playstation games, a couple of D’s turntables, a both of our change jars.  I discovered all of this when I arrived home, alone, at 2 o’clock in the morning.  I was terribly shaken up by the ordeal.  D won’t be in the house at any point for the rest of our lease, and I can’t bring myself to stay there alone, ever again, anymore…which is a great shame, because I really loved that house, and it’s the only place that’s really and truly felt like My Home since I moved out of my parents house.  We made it three whole years with only minor incidents, and two weeks before we vacate forever…this.  

I am so so terribly tired of not feeling safe in my own home.  I am sick of being too poor to afford housing in a neighbor where I won’t have to worry about finding crackheads on my front porch when I come home late at night (it’s happened plenty of times).  I am just devastated that I haven’t had one single house in the last eight years that hasn’t been a target for a break-in.  All I want is a warm, safe place to lay my head at night, cook some good meals, and do some good work.  That doesn’t seem like so much to ask.  Apparently, it is.  Most of all, I am cracking under the strain of feeling like someone is always watching me.  I’ve had the feeling of constant surveillance for about a year now, due, I think, to the fact that some hobo has taken up residence in the a tangle of bushes on the backside of our parking lot.  I had the nice police officer trek up into the bushes at 3:30 in the morning to check it out, but he said he didn’t find anything.  I think he was looking in the wrong place.  And for the second time in my life, I had to offer up a vibrator to a forensics team as a ’smooth object that I could definitively say I hadn’t moved myself’.  Do you have any idea how horrifying that is? Pair that with the fact that I made the decision to offer up D’s glass bong as another ’smooth object…’ and it makes for One Traumatic Early Morning In My Life.  The cops, at least, had a sense of humor about both objects.  The fingerprinted the bong, and bypassed the vibrator.  I didn’t get a possession ticket, so the night could have gone worse than it did, I suppose.  

In an attempt to find a silver lining in this horrible situation, I have decided that perhaps this is the perfect thing to detach me from my beloved home, my beloved roommate, my beloved state…a kick in the ass, angled north.  I will no longer have a hard time walking away from that house.  I am ready to leave it, now.  It has been a good house, a perfect space for the work that needed to be done in the three years that I lived there, and now I will say goodbye to the Crackhead Surveillance, and my most perfect kitchen.  I will miss the house, for sure, but I will not miss laying awake at night, wondering, What Was That Noise?

The good news is: FireBall found me an apartment to sublet for the month of August, conveniently located just blocks from her own, new abode.  Sometimes I think she’s too good to be true, like I will squeeze my eyes shut tight, and she will blink out of existence, just a figment of my imagination, formulated by my brain under the Extreme Duress of graduation and the end of a two year relationship.  Lucky me…she’s real, and she’s not going anywhere.  Except maybe back to South America, at some point.  The sublet is pretty perfect, if it pans out the way I think it will (it’s not set in stone, but the tone of the emails and phone messages from the woman whose looking to sublet is distinctly positive), I will be afforded the time to find something more permanent, without really stretching my bank account.  $400 for the month, utilities included.  I mean, does that even exist in a good neighborhood in Queens?  The answer is yes, yes it does, and my kind, resourceful, ingenious Not-Girlfriend has located it for me.  I think it’s adorable how much she misses me, and the lengths she will apparently go to, in order to make this transition as quick and as smooth as possible.  I could sing her praises all day long, but I’d rather just kiss her upon arrival in Queens. 

Queens makes me think of one thing (okay, well, one other thing) and that thing is Coming To America.  Remember?  Before Eddie Murphy sold his soul to childrens movies and stopped being funny?  Just let your soouuuuuuuuul glow…

Yesterday was a funny day…I woke up with a r a g i n g hangover, due to a dinner with my temporary roommate (departing tomorrow forever) and our teacher and his partner.  We ate fresh summer salad and grilled corn in their beautiful backyard garden, and lord did we drink some wine.  Phew.  It hurt.  So I get to work, can hardly see straight I’m so hungover, but I slogged through til lunch, I just had to sew for four hours straight, which feels good anyway.  I ran to the bank at lunch, and stopped by chik fil a for some of their delicious nuggets, and although I know better, I tried to eat the nuggets fast, in my car, on the way back to school.  

If there’s one thing I can’t do anymore, it’s eat fast.  I know this.  The result from eating too fast is immediate vomit.  Soooo, I pull in the parking lot, followed by the entire carpentry crew returning from their lunch as well, and I just barely have enough time to pull in, put my car in park and throw myself out of the car before I’m spraying barely-digested nuggets all over the staff parking lot.  In front of people.  Explosively.  Luckily, they all had the good sense to leave me alone, and let me vomit in peace.  

So that was lunch.  My day until two o’clock was pretty atrocious.  Then, I get a phone call from the production manager.  Apparently, he was unaware that I was the only one who could do rigging for these shadow puppets, making my presence a necessity.  They hadn’t anticipated that I’d be traveling to the beach, not at all.  He’s super disorganized…  So the deal he struck with me was an extra 1K of salary for what amounts to one extra day of work.  Plus, travel and a per diem for food.  Plus they ran out of the shitty housing they normally put students in, so they are going to put me up in the luxury condos that they reserve for the designers and the production manager…private room, private pool, private beach access, my own shower.  I am still giggling at that turn of events. 

Shortly after that bit of good news, my stepmother called me to tell me that they had cancelled the beach trip that we were going to go on, for my dad’s birthday next weekend. I was disappointed…until she told me they wanted to take me and Little Man to Disney World!!  I might be 30 years old, but I can still appreciate finally getting the trip I always wanted when I was little.  Plus, it will be The Most Fun with my ten year old brother.  He’s convinced roller coasters suck because he’s never had anyone to ride them with him. I have three days to show him the ways.  I can’t wait.  Literally, can’t wait.  

I had an incredibly cute conversation with FireBall yesterday.  She is the most excited anyone’s ever been to meet my parents, when they help me move up to the Big City.  I’ve never had a woman actually be genuinely excited to meet my parents.  No arm twisting, no preparation speeches, just giddy excitement to get to know my roots.  I love it.  Her.  Maybe.  I think.  It’s happy, any which way.

Friday was fantastic…it marked my last day in the paint shop at school, ever, and although I feel tied to that place and will miss it, I’m ready to move on.  Friday night, Anchors, Matty and I went to try and see Get Smart.  Steve Carrell is funny and I can tolerate Anne Hathaway, mostly.  Get Smart was sold out, and the next closest movie time was for Kung Fu Panda.  Now, I love Jack Black.  However, I never would have spent the movie and seen that movie if I weren’t already at the theater.  I am glad for this happy accident.  Kung Fu Panda kinda rocked.  The three of us were the only group without children in the theater, that was interesting, but we all laughed our faces off (spurred on by a three year old in the row in front of us, who would laugh whenever we did, which just made me laugh harder).  I approve of Kung Fu Panda.  I might even go so far as to say I recommend it.  

Saturday, I woke up, had lunch with Anchors and my roommate, and then started the tedious process of packing the studio.  I officially want to Poke My Eyes Out.  I hate moving, the physical act.  It fucking sucks.  It’s hot and sweaty and dusty and nostalgic and I’m tired of it already when I’ve hardly begun.  Soooo, to make things better, a group of us went down the hill to the bar at about 7:30, and by 11:00, we were at the titty bar up the road from school.  I, myself, had never been to a strip club before.  How did I make it to almost-30 without going to a strip club?  Friends, you may have failed me.  Better late than never, though…better late than never.  I was pleasantly surprised that there was nary a fake boob in sight, and the woman who was the headliner for the evening was the plumpest of the bunch.  There were only a handful of skinny girls, and the rest were just…normal.  A few would have even been considered overweight from a medical stand point, but mostly, they were all hot.  Except for the headliner.  She liked Anchors, though.  Didn’t even want her money after she rubbed her head in her crotch… Giggety giggety.  

Today, I woke up with a bit of a hangover, and promptly engaged in the best cure known to man: lazy river tubing!!  It was pretty perfect.  We were running late, as usual, and the people running the shuttles were not happy with us, and then it looked like it would storm, but we had perfect timing, in the end.  The rain didn’t start until ten minutes after we’d gotten out of the river, and we arrived just in time to catch the shuttle back to our cars.  Idyllic, really.  I love tubing more than most things in this world.  Really, I do.  

Tonight, I’m having dinner with a few friends, and then I’m finishing up work on all the puppets for the Pied Piper.  These past few weeks, ever since graduation really, I can’t shake the feeling that my life is charmed, that I am so lucky to get to do what I do, with the people I do it with, and that I ought to give thanks each and every day that somehow, this life is working out in a most spectacular, unconventional, magicalmystical way.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.  

Is this what happiness feels like?  Boundless gratitude for simply existing?  

Oh, and Amanda…that old post, your memories through someone else’s words, I didn’t ever imagine you’d read those words.  I hope you know I meant you no ill will.  Quite the opposite, in fact…

One month and five days until I depart this state, my Home for thirty years.  I don’t know where I’m going to live, or how much I’m going to make in a month to know what an affordable apartment might be, realistically.  I would hate it if my only requirement for a place to live was, Cheapest I Can Find.  That’s no good.    Neither is eviction due to non-payment, granted, but I’m not ready to shed every last scrap of civility I’ve acquired such a taste for, living in my 1100 sq. ft. house that costs me $362 a month.  Not including utilities.  I’m guessing I’ll never pay that little, ever ever again.  

If only anything was certain…a place to live, a job that lasts longer than three weeks, my purpose in life…any of those would be great, thanks.  

Items within a one foot radius of me: naked lady ashtray/lighter, one stylish sample packet of kimono rose hand and body lotion, a 32 oz. glass of water, rolling papers, Water Goddess roll-on essential oil, a drafting pencil, another lighter, a deck of tarot cards, and the silver tinsel I thought I would put on a present I sent through the mail (it wouldn’t fit the packing).  I think this is as clear an indicator as one could hope for that It’s Time To Clean.  

I’m on a too-short lunch break, but it’s been a few days, and plenty of things have happened that deserve mention.  

The Wedding Weekend was really pretty perfect.  My roommate (D) and his girlfriend (L) and I all piled into D’s incredibly hot classic BMW and raced to the mountains on Friday after work.  It was late-ish when we arrived in Town, so we caught a quick dinner and called his friends, my friends, and eventually, we all wound up in the same place, round about 1 a.m.  It was pretty excellent.  I got to see The Minister and The DJ, who I hadn’t seen in exactly a year.  They both seem happy, and they both looked fabulous.  The Minister and I got sucked into a lengthy, philosophical discussion, as we are prone to doing, and come to find out, that is precisely what my mind been craving.  So, thanks.  D and his friends and I migrated back to the Outpost and stayed up until about 4, sitting on D’s dad’s amazing porch (it’s on the historic trolley tours…the tour guides lie and say O’Henry lived there), laughing and carrying on.  

Saturday morning, we got up, had a late breakfast on the front porch, and then L and I ran to have pedicures (awesome!) before the wedding.  We got to the wedding only a minute before the ceremony was supposed to start, but it was pouring rain (outdoor wedding) so they held the ceremony for an hour and a half, and opened up the bar.  Without serving food.  Poor planning on their part, clearly.  The white wine was really good.  I drank my fair share.  I met the groom’s aunt Jo while sneaking off to smoke cigarettes…she was friggin’ hysterical, and my wedding-stranger BFF.  As there was no wedding planner, FireBall ran around facilitating for the whole day.  It’s understandable, everyone wants her attention, everywhere she goes, so I was not surprised, or ever phased…and she looked incredible in formal wear.  Me and D and L had an amazing time…drinking, dancing, chatting, laughing, going on adventures and missions to sober up…it was more fun than three humans should be allowed at 5 pm on the streets of Small Town Appalachia.  

After the bride and groom left, the wedding party and my party migrated to an Irish pub.  FireBall came out of nowhere and jumped in the backseat of D’s car with me, as I was in the middle of a ‘costume change’, from dress to jeans.  I haven’t talked to her face in weeks, and the first time we have a real encounter, I’m half-naked in the backseat.  We had a good laugh over that.  Proceed to the bar, where we spend the next very short hour and change pressed as close to one another as humanly possible (we still haven’t kissed, even…she’s telling me she’s scared of feelings but what difference does that fear make when The Feelings are clearly present and accounted for?)  The award for most precious moment of the evening:  one, sweet instance where FB simply leaned forward a few inches and pressed her face into my chest, and held it there still and quiet, our breathing in sync, my arm around her waist, my face pressed in her hair, and I could smell the Third World on her then, in the clean, sweet, spicy way that’s unique to her.  She lifted her head when the drinks came, and I told her I missed her.  She told me she loved me.  We ate L’s french fries in silence, trying to sober up, our knees and thighs and elbows and arms pressed so close it almost hurt.  

When we said goodbye a few minutes after that, D and L stood a few feet away, trying, respectfully, to fade away.  She hugged me once, took two steps back and looked in my face, and then hugged me again, longer and tighter, before quickly retreating inside the bar as I walked slowly to catch up with my friends on the sidewalk ahead.  It was sad to say goodbye, but knowing I’ll see her soon, I was left with a feeling of elation as we drove home that night.  I like her so much.  Our thought processes are so similar, our methods and our madness so closely related that I come away from every interaction feeling like I Get It/She Gets It.  

The next morning, our last in Town, D’s dad made us delicious pancakes with fresh-from-his-garden blackberries, and sent us on our merry way, tired, hungover, and all of us grinning in the glare of the sun.  Pretty perfect, excepting the fact that we couldn’t find a roof to fly our trick kites.  

I have been shaking my head all week long in disbelief that somehow, I have managed to receive a salary from This State in exchange for making puppets.  I mean, I still paint for half of the day, but there are ten puppets that have to be made for this show, and I’m the only one who has any experience with puppet fabrication.  Seriously, I can’t believe it.  If you had asked me, a week before I graduated college, what the Dream Job was for me, I would have said:  Either making and painting puppets or restoration/conservation.  Mind you, I’m not making much money off this job but it’s decent, really decent, and technically speaking, it is my Dream Job.  The length is also perfect; three weeks, start to finish.  Short and sweet.  And effing hotter than hell.  

I spent three hours this afternoon, sitting in the cool(er) classroom as Awkward 1 and 2 sweated in the Death Rays coming from the skylights, designing and drafting a trio of two foot tall rats with their arms around each other’s shoulders, doing a Rockette-ish kick-line.  Thankfully, they’re shadow puppets, so I only have to worry about two dimensions, but the mechanics still elude me a bit.  I don’t really know what I’m doing…I’m freeballin’, as they say in the vernacular.  And Home State is footing the bill.  Suckahs!  

Them: 3,756,511.

Me: 2.  

It’s really more of a moral victory, I suppose.  

Does anyone remember the SNL sketch with Anna Gasteyer and Mollye Shannon as NPR anchors, with their guest, Alec Baldwin, promoting his Shweaty Chocolate Balls?  Highlights from that sketch kept running through my head earlier today, when I was both sweating my figurative balls off, and craving chocolate.  

Being back to work feels really good.  Better than I expected, truthfully.  Even under the trying circumstances (temps in the mid 90’s by 9:30 in the effing morning, paired with the two most socially awkward people I could ever work with), it feels good to work hard and sweat a lot and work out my Painting Muscles.  Every time I take a break from scenic painting, a month in this instance, I forget that when I do return, I will have a week of stiff joints and sore muscles until I re-acclimate to the unique workout scenic painting provides.  My forearms burn.  My thighs are talkin’ to me.  My lower back is tight.  But it feels good, as if the aches are an Undeniable Indicator that I’ve been productive.  Gah, they brainwashed me good.  Must.  Produce.  Must.  Paint.  Must.  Eat. Brains.  

T-minus two days til FireBall is back in the state.  Her best friends are getting married this weekend, and myself and my roommate and his girlfriend are trekking west a couple of hours to spend a couple days making merry.  It’s hard to believe it’s only been two weeks since I’ve seen her…it feels much longer.  She is having a difficult time right now with the transition from Here to There, and she already has beef with the month of June to begin with, so my desire to be near her, to make her smile and laugh, to have some good times and talks…it only intensifies more every day.  We are hovering in a strange limbo, still, this bizarre territory that makes me think things like, I didn’t even talk to my last girlfriend this much when we were dating, or, If I were to meet someone right now I would have to change my relationship with FireBall because it’s too involved for there to be room for three of us.  Oh well.  We’ll see what happens when we’re back in the same city. 

On an unrelated note, I saw on Perez today that the Republican State Convention in Texas passed out buttons as souvenirs.  Said buttons read:  If Obama wins, will we still call it the White House?  This makes me want to punch someone in the lip.  I hope they don’t get away with that racist bullshit, but it is Texas…

The thought that, in six weeks, I will be moving to New York City, makes me want to vomit just a little bit.  Just a little.  It’s good, it’s exciting, I’ll have work, I’ll have an apartment, but…it’s NYC.  I still can’t wrap my head around living there.  I never saw it for myself.  I still have a hard time seeing it for myself.  I suppose I’ll achieve clarity in those regards when I find the best neighborhood bar, a favorite restaurant, and when I’m paying utility bills to New York State.  Still…so crazy to me.  

I’m a little scared, not gonna lie.  No, wait.  Scratch that.  A Lot Scared.   

…starts this week.  I am SO excited.  I re-watched the last four episodes of season 3 (if you don’t know about it, check out watchtvsitcoms.com) to get myself back up to speed and fully prepared for what’s about to happen.  

I won’t be terribly surprised if they end up moving to Pittsburgh, but I feel like that’s a little too obvious, given that Shane is going crazy and won’t stop talking about Pittsburgh.  I’m not sure how they are going to handle The Move…that cuts out the characters of Conrad, Haylia, Venetta, Celia, Doug, etc etc.  It would become a show just about the Botwin family if they were to move cross country, and while I would still watch, the true charm of this show lies in the brilliant ensemble they have assembled.  

This Monday, the day after tomorrow, 10 pm, Showtime.  Looks like The Botwins are heading south of the border.