Puzzles

Another year older, but not wiser. That man confuses the crap outta me.

The question is mirrored back: Why don't you read it in reverse, girlie? With the birthday behind me and the new calendar year before me, it is more than time to shake the confusion and bewilderment. It happens now or not at all.

Yawn Baby, Yawn!

I'm not the kid I used to be.
I got a kid. I'm 33, baby!

Credit The Pretenders for tag above. No, I have not withheld info or love children. Basically, I'm whooped. There's this Christmas thing that has shimmied up my leg and I'm just less than on it -- again. Nonetheless, for the first time ever a tree of pine stands in my apartment. This party is the reason for the fatigue. It also explains the tree. It also explains why I am absolutely and totally broke -- perhaps for the next three months.

A girl drops her head in shame. This is not the way to enter a new year. Am I showing a greater sense of financial management? Am I demonstrating a keener understanding of investing for my future? Do I have a pot to piss in?

Dang.

But yes, I did say party. A self-pitying author is having a get-together this very Saturday night to toast the blessings of the past year and welcome those yet to come. She celebrates her arrival to this very apartment that was an emergency escape pad a year ago. It's also a holiday party -- c'mon, it can't be avoided.

Parties are nice to attend. While I've done events for years, throwing a party in my home is a different kettle of fish. Stressful to say the least. No words other than stress. The positive side is that the apartment is looking better the closer we get to "the day."

fatigue -- time to crash.

Coda: Ike Turner

Ike Turner, dead.

Not a beloved man by the pop music masses due to the pain, anguish and ass-beatings inflicted upon a former spouse who will go unnamed. Nonetheless, a gifted musician and producer. Ike was conceptual, genre-bending, and just epic. Sure, he wasn't a nice guy, but there is a price for brilliance.

As much as I love Credence, Fogerty, and the unnamed spouse, it is without question Ike's contribution to the legendary "Proud Mary" that will forever have a spot on my mental audio track. His deeply rounded baritone delivery on the intro and throughout the work were richer than Georgia red clay. Earth, baby -- pure Earth! Ike's delivery packages the essence of the Negro spiritual seeking salvation by hook or crook. Brilliantly, he then uses the power of the spouses electric kick to fire up something far removed from the era of spirituals -- along with powerhouse horns, guitar, percussion and back-up singers. The stage show choreography never hurt, either.

Yup, it was Ike on "Proud Mary" who comforted me during a weird transition in a chaotic work environment.

Left a good job in the city
Workin' for the man, ev'ry night and day.

My intrpretation of his contribution is a bit comic, complex and political. The power of the "workin' for the man" line was at once, taunting as well as cathartic. It was a wake up call to professional strain that I felt could be overcome and forgotten. The lyrics only offer one aspect to comprehending the impact of these few lines. In the Ike and spouse version it was both the delivery and intensity.

The world changes so much within such a short window. While this writer is less than forty,I am old enough to have "Negro" as a racial identifier on my birth certificate. Knowing the Earth as only a Negro can, I related to the power summoned by Ike. Even the song's reference to "rolling on the river" offers a quick tie to Hughes' "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."

Again, I nod to Fogerty and the work of Credence -- they make me smile, bob head and shake a foot. But alas, Ike cold-cocked their work as they never could.

In spite of his less than noble behavior, Ike Turner must be lauded on his musical contributions, creative discipline, and commitment to artistry -- regardless of the ocassional absurdity found within it.

Vive Ike!

No Sleep in Brooklyn

Shifting slowly from being unconscious to groggy and fogged, I was hesitant to open my eyes. I was thankful for feeling tired, as if I could drift back to sleep. No luck.

After a bit of Googling, I found that one of the side-effects of my wheat/gluten-free diet is insomnia. Averaging three hours of sleep per night over the past week is taking its toll. Fighting an allergy flare-up that could be a cold really requires the body to fight off the goo. Without the ability to sleep aside from downing a horse-pill like Benadryl, the body is weakening. Sure, I managed to hustle a run the other day, but the fatigue is something I feel and see in my eyes.

Reading the gluten-free and celiac blogs, it seems this ailment is one frequently kept hush-hush by most of the dietary activists but common. Those affected seem to medicate with sleep meds as well as drowsy-formula antihistamines. I did read a few listings detailing foods that enable sleep: almonds, banana, warm milk, wine. Perhaps I'll stock a few bananas for these 3 a.m. disturbances.

Nonetheless, I'm curious why the insomnia is kicking now. I've avoided the wheat for five months or so. The gluten adherence is still being understood, so perhaps there was the slow-adopter factor that helped. Still, I was averaging four to five hours at that point. Catching a six hour snooze sounds so delicious.

Brush Your Breath

Catching the screening of Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom was certainly not the chore I projected. Since being hipped about this film in grad school, it's been on my must-see list. While it is extreme on many levels, I found it brilliantly executed. I'm considering reading the actual Marquis de Sade text to determine who should receive credit for framing the film as a horrific political satire. As filthy and debauched as he was, de Sade is not celebrated for being a gifted satirist.

The settings of the two works are different: Sade wrote of libertines during the court of Louis XIV and Pasolini places his film with Italian Fascists with libertine ways during WWII. Regardless of the period, this story masterfully captures the degree to which absolute power can be corrupted, depraved and indifferent. As we near the final year of the Bush administration (Abu Grahib, anyone? Do I hear Guantanomo?), I felt this extreme satire was far ahead of its time.

The wit is biting and purposely over-the-top. While awkward jokes that aren't funny are inserted into the story, ones that are just mean-spirited do force occasional chuckles. As violent and disturbing as the film becomes, using the term "black comedy" seems ill-placed. Nonetheless, the undertone humor was constructed in characters not necessarily the lines. A Dietrich-like "narrator," Signora Castelli, offers debauched episodes, including her molestation as a child. It's not the what, but the how that gives a mixed tickle -- part of the brilliance of the work. Additionally, having the libertines indiscriminately molest their captors serves as an amazing parallel to the exploitation of poor and indigent peoples throughout the world who are pawns and/or slaves within conflicts or as in this work, for the amusement and comfort of others.

Without question, a memorable film that will lead to my brushing the teeth tonight. Ick!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Weather change -- first winter storm of the season. Since spending Thanksgiving in Chicago in a house of sneezing and coughing children and adults, I've feared my plummet into feeling miserable. While I haven't quite reached the worst, waking at 2:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning with an insane thirst and clogged head is less than good.

My failure to buy groceries has returned to bite me. My water jug yielded a final glass before resting with the recyclables. The orange juice bought prior to the trip to Chicago AND that last work-related journey to the Jersey shore seems to have expired a few days ago. Noting that my last attempt to drink expired juice offered a day in the bathroom, the still sealed container was left in the closed fridge. At 2:45 a.m. on an icy cold night (26 degrees F/wind chill of 17 F), strolling to either bodega one block away is not going to happen.

Two cups of tea later, the laptop is now a resource for an alert and drippy gal. From my perspective, this might be a cold. More than likely, this is a sinus flare-up -- explaining the wooziness that I experience when lifting head from pillow. In effect, too much juice in the head. Ears have been gooey. Eyes have been red and scratchy. Nose trickles. However, no body aches -- just woozy.

The clock now reads 4:12 a.m. With this energy, it makes sense to engage in the housework avoided yesterday. These chores were most likely skipped due to the wooziness, tendency to grab something to drink, and just getting distracted between nose blows, racing to the bathroom, and general wooziness.

Drugs on board: Cingulair, Zyrtec-D, Sudafed. Ungh, I hate this time of year. If I respond like I did last night, drifting to sleep will occur just shy of 7 a.m. Lucky I'm not working. Lucky there are no parties affected by my nocturnal activities. Lucky the sinuses aren't infected (yet).

Noting the list of things to do from yesterday including grocery shopping, will I be able to complete these tasks? In addition to the sudden plummet in temperature this week, Sunday promises rain and snow. That type of combo fails to account for the condition that makes it all the more interesting -- ice. Shuffling in the conditions with the grocery buggy and umbrella with tissue to nose seems like work.

Aighhhhhh! Yikes, I have a ticket to a movie this afternoon: Passolini's Salo at Walter Reade - Lincoln Ctr. Shuffling seems to be happening, early. Dang...it's always a chore to get uptown. Now I've got to do it in "weather" and sick. [insert pout here] Noting the extremes of this once banned film, I doubt that I'll recover tonight's lost sleep during the screening.

Alien-Nation

What happened to the culture built around television viewing? Sure, I've abstained from the set for three years now -- dabbling only at gatherings with friends and family. However, when I'm within these circles I'm puzzled about the zeal drawing viewers to screens. Talk of the HD, the new Golden Age of Cable, the reality programming boom either yields nods or jaw-drops. The top-rated Dancing with the Stars baffles me as a theory! However, taking-in 20 minutes of this swill on a 52-inch HD screen was enough to leave irreparable psychological damage. The unblended blush and excessive false lashes were far too distracting to notice the dancing -- especially with the ballroom takes on tunes from the 80s -- Lord, help us all!

Today's programming, thanks to the success of Survivor, American Idol, and this damn Dancing crap, may actually have more interesting roots. In this era of hostility towards immigration, we have appropriated some of the most obnoxious programs of Europe and Asia from the 80s. Back in the day, it was not unusual for some program to culminate clips from a variety of international programs and ads with the underlying theme of "how weird are these guys?" Bizarre game shows from Germany and Japan encouraged contestants into compromising and debasing situations for little to no gain. Goofy culturally specific music-oriented programs enabled the young and old to bond. Ha -- and here we are! What the hell?!?!?

Truth be told, many of the European and Asian producers have come to the much more accessible American market promising low-cost hits that will hit a critical audience across the generations, incomes, and regions. And, were they wrong?

Part of my exit from the regular TV vieiwing was built upon what I was willing to pay per hour versus quality. There was no way I could own a television without cable. Based upon my meager wages, cable is an obscene luxury -- especially, with my limited viewing time. Economically speaking, my supporting such schlock could not be justified. But folks are doing it -- gladly!!! by the boatload!!! for years (Survivor, Fear Factor, Deal or No Deal, blah-blah-blah)!!!

However, my belief in paying for quality is continuing to blossom. Sure, HBO has been the big dog for years. Nonetheless, program such as Mad Men on AMC(?!?!) or Dexter on Showtime are giving viewers an interesting twist and smirk. But, is it worth the ticket price, considering all the other "utilities" (electric, water, phone, cell, internet, transportation/insurance/gas, etc)?

One might wonder, where does such a passioned rant come in a woman who hasn't had her own TV in years. Sadly, I once said proudly, "It's what I know."

Wish Not, Want Not

For starters, I never said I wasn't an asshole.

When the dysfunctional couple that I passed at Borough Hall entered my bus, I was relieved that this woman/girl/she-person had stopped crying. Not more than 20 minutes earlier, the couple sat on a bench near the door that leads to the Kings County Clerk's office. The male, easily 10 years her senior, sat to her left trying to console her -- but providing her some space. She was not only leaking the tears, she was bawling! No hands to face. She sat somewhat round-shouldered weeping unashamedly.

My guess was that something went horribly wrong in court. Is someone doing time? Did someone get over? Was she issued a fine that she didn't expect?

A few minutes later while I'm waiting for my bus, the same couple strolls past. She's still crying. I thought I heard him say to her, "Why would someone want to..." The rest just wasn't in earshot.

Again, as big-hearted as I can be, I never said I wasn't an asshole. The sight of this woman/girl/she-person crying uncontrollably over a sustained period of time bothered me. In fact, it reached the point of forcing me to sigh and roll my eyes like an eighth grader.

Eventually, the B38 came along and I boarded. Within two stops, the couple boards the bus -- welcome back to the beginning of this entry. Interestingly enough, upon boarding, the woman/girl-she-person was not crying at all. No tears running down face. No redness of face, nose or eyes. Nonetheless, within 30 seconds of taking her seat (the elderly/disabled seats up front) the wailing returns. All those entering after her either see or hear her. Some study her. Others scout for seats with a face a bit too determined on such an empty bus.

I'm sure most of those studies or scouts felt like me: what's her problem, she's just looking for attention, her head is really going to hurt whenever she stops.

One woman who boarded shortly after the crier was an interesting character herself. She initially sat directly across from the couple. She struck me as a cross of trouble-maker and faux-care giver. After asking the male-half of the couple "what is wrong with the child" he eventually said that she was in love.

I got this story off the bus. Strangely enough, trouble-maker, the couple and myself all exited at the same stop -- easily 20 minutes after the crier entered. I have no idea which direction the couple went, but I got the scoop from the trouble-maker herself on her way to visit her mother in the nearby nursing home.

Pain comes in many wrappers. Perhaps love does as well.

Apathy Eats the Soul

Fine, my Saturday night finds me at home. Having just watched a Fassbinder classic Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, I have to remark on the irony of referencing the photo in the last post. I find the resemblance of El Hedi ben Salem, who played the title character, with Lionel Richie uncanny. Sure, Salem has a bit more facial hair and a bit more muscularity -- but something about the eyes, cheekbones, facial shape and coloring that's just punching my "match" button.

Hopefully, I'll pop Ali and my last Netflix screening in the mail on Tuesday (long Labor Day Wknd). In viewing Hotel Rwanda last night, I was extremely moved by the story itself as well as with all the performances. During the Rwandan genocide that serves as the film's backdrop, I was a Youth Director/Sunday School teacher in Nashville. Perhaps six years or more older than the kids I was leading, I could not help but impress the fact that the faith being developed within our forum would be applicable to the real world. Most of them had no idea of the hundreds of thousands slaughtered within a period of a few weeks. Many victims were their age and younger -- innocents. Even when your reach is limited to an area in peril, remaining conscious, open and out-spoken places one's faith in action.

The memory knocked on the door of my own growing sense of apathy. Yup, I got bills to pay, so little volunteering for me these days. The political activism of my youth seems vacant in the clamor leading to the 2008 elections. Choosing no party affiliation to register myself as a voter still seems right, but I wish a candidate filled me with fire. Like a little bit of most of the Dem candidates. However, a desire to attend any of their local events is always fueled by the wrong reasons -- dudes. Hence, scratching the option.

What about a sense of purpose? What about the many wrongs domestically and internationally? Won't any of these motivate a once politically earnest kid to take a stand? Chances don't look good -- shucks, I still have problems executing chores on the weekend let alone changing the world.

Netflix, did you really need to summon such self-reflection?

Have More Than One Story

After a few laughs with a friend when reflecting upon the perils of my dating life, I found a need to uplift a few notable incidents. Should I share the story of the German who lavished a girl with praise, albeit exposing underlying desires to kill her? Should I share the story of the brilliant tech/finance exec with the drug problem who robbed me? Should I share the tale of the former model who lied so deliberately, that he offered a false name/identity (modeling was true, though)?

Still easily upset from a break-up, I both despise and study pop music. On the walk to work, a tune that wafted though the suburban business district was the Lionel Richie dusty "Penny Lover." Sappy, yes. But the phrase that yanked me and took up far too much head space was:

When a man's in love
he's only got one story.

Girl, don't I know how that go! But when one IS NOT in love -- ha, the story can go in a zillion directions. Options keep a mind sane, akin to milk -- which does a body good. Let's muse further on the bad dates where I emerged unscathed -- in theory.

There was the little man who I engaged in a mercy date -- go out with the new guy. So you're sick, keep your word. Bad move. For this act, I was repaid with the classic line I will only offer for pay or very close friends.

There was the guy who not only deflowered a girl, but soon informed her that she would make a super grandmother.

In all honesty, considering that I've been trotting about with "one story," I've healed considerably since the spring. I recall walking the same downtown district in April and hearing a speaker piping a dusty tune from Neil Sedaca -- the 70s version of "Breaking Up is Hard To Do." If the reader does not know this tune, just insert a sigh here. The irony factor was in high, because my later trip to the grocery store led me to be ker-thunked by Sedaca's "Laughter In the Rain." Sappy, yes. But lush, romantic, and....sappy. Cue tears, Kleenex and sense of loss.

Fortunately, zombie factors have taken over most of the woe. All the anecdotes provided prior to The Heartbreak were all easy to spring from. To reference Lionel, "When a [girl's] in love, [she's] only got one story." This "one" is the positive, the beauty, the possibility, the perspective that is under-appreciated by the other -- hence, the "walk on by" that the recipient hopes to prevent.

Ugh...somebody cue Issac Hayes' version of "Walk on By!" Now that tune has all the dusky mental funk I can appreciate. What a well constructed remake -- totally different composition, really.

But, to grab hold of myself for a moment, I'm so all about the jazz of late. Using the trusty online resourse Pandora, I've been diving in a hybrid of avant guard jazz of the classic sort (Sun Ra Arkestra, McCoy Tyner, Archie Shepp), new jacks of the same stripe (Vijay Iyer, Don Byron, Lafayette Gilchrist) as well as some FONN-KEE Afro-Jazz cats such as Mulatu Astatke. Perhaps it's the lack of words and the authenticity of the grooves that is just what the body needs. Oh, let's not forget the quirky lyrics and grooves from ye ol' Steely Dan.

"Walk, Walk!"

Ramblings of the Fatigued and Righteous

Any reader of this post may know the condition I've experienced since 2PM today: eye-buzz. This condition occurs when one's gaze has been held for too long at the computer monitor. Oy!!! After crawling out the office at sunset (no lunch break either), it was like I was looking through cheesecloth.

After a bite on the go and a shower upon arrival, I oddly plunged back to my ol' pal, ye trusty Mac. No explanation. Burnt, yes. Tired, yes. However, without TV or liquor to dull the senses, Net surfing is the only way to find the ebb. "Books!," someone quips. Unfortunately, my true nature only reaffirms itself when fried: Books is fer train ridin'.

Seemed a bit disappointed with the choices, though. Not too many interesting breaking pieces in the NY Times. The U.S. Open won't excite me unless I've heard one of the Williams sisters has won or there's a super juicy shot of James Blake (yeah, he gets a wink from this one). Can't say that hearing of the Dow's most recent 2% plunge causes me to bat either weary eye. Yeah, I've got money riding on such turns, but if I can't touch the money until I'm 80 -- why freakin' fret?

One headline that warmed my heart was that the Taliban will release 19 of the South Korean missionaries that have been held for about a month. God loves the faithful...the simple too. How this group -- mostly women, found themselves in Afghanistan to do the Lord's work -- only God knows. But yes, it is a blessing to see that mercy is going to be granted (most likely conditional and with a bizarre flourish) Noting that the church's leader was executed weeks ago, having some form of spectacle that will provide a sense of shock will be a tough act to beat. Even as low-down and contemptible as the Taliban reputation and ambition, publicly executing foreign women (most likely viewed as naive and duped) on a religious mission may even be beneath them.

A few years back, one of the most graphic images of this war was seared into my imagination. Beheadings were a bit en vogue amongst Taliban and terrorist-level thugs like Zarqawi around 2003/2004. One of the earliest kidnappings that led to a public decapitation was that of a South Korean contract worker in his late 20s/early 30s. This man was first seen for millions of viewers throughout the world via a video that the terrorist sent to Al Jazeera. This video featured a thin Korean man facing a camera begging, pleading for life. He is panic-stricken, prancing in fear and pain before an audience the world over. This was a palpable pain. I prayed for him. Prayed mercy might find him. Prayed that a successful escape might happen. That Hollywood wasn't the only reservoir for a heroic rescue.

Being a news junkie, I had one of my radio's headphone's tucked within my ear when the report played the "remains" of this hostage had been found. I soon heard that a video tape had been released of the execution. Having taken this stranger into my heart and prayers, his death....murder, proved too much. I left work. I returned home and could not shake the terrified prance and plea in a language that I did not speak, but knew. When sharing my regret and disgust with others, it was as if I was the only one who saw this story.

Unfortunately, I'm too lazy to reference the chronology: was this before or after Nicholas Berg? Certainly it was post Daniel Pearl. Nonetheless, this life was also taken. Barely a whisper. Perhaps the sense of disgust led to the exodus of the South Korean missionaries. Maybe it led to some self-proclaimed leader to helm a church of righteousness. Perhaps it fueled something, anywhere.

Nurtured Animals

While it is not the classic way of closing the summer, I was eager to return from my weekend with family in CT to clean the apartment. Tomorrow my unit will be visited by the exterminator and hopefully (prayerfully) the vermin will have no further desire to gnaw into my territory. After a bit of sweeping and dusting whipped me into an asthmatic frenzy, I took a bit of a stroll. What a beautiful night! A full(ish) moon above, a light breeze, temps in the high 70s. What could be sweeter?

It would be sweet to no longer have the rodent paranoia. Most of last week I slept for three hours due to disruption and anxiety. In fact, not only did I frequently think I saw something that I didn't -- I thought I saw the 50 foot inflatable rat that unions stick out buildings with anti-union activity...in the apartment. Yeah, I needed a few days out the unit.

Let the record note, this author slept heartily in Stamford. In fact, she snagged a solid 12 hours in bed (not to be confused with sleeping) last night. Even with the occasional interruptions, I was able to recover through a sense of commitment.

Cat Call
On my stroll earlier, I was jarred by the sight of a dead cat within the gutter of a well-traveled street. It rests in front of a blue NYPD car, a specialty unit that I can't recall is denoted on the vehicle. Don't know if the kitty had slept in a spot used for parallel parking or if it was struck crossing the street or if it had been kicked by a mean-spirited pedestrian taking the sidewalk. Anything is possible.

Nonetheless, there is something spooky about seeing a dead cat. Perhaps it's the role that dead cats and such have with my family, but there's always that myth of nine lives that leaves the dead cat that much more of a unnecessary state.

Label this section folklore: my mother encouraged my imagination by weaving aspects of the mystical into fact. An example of this is a belief that having a pet or nurtured animal unexpectedly die around your home is a sign of death. During a surgery my mother had when I was very young, she stopped breathing on the operating table. Of course, she was revived. Folklore has it, our kitty died the same day -- poisoned, thanks to those evil neighbors.

Nurtured animal? Yes, there are pets and then there are exceptions. My mother's mother was ill for many years prior to her death. At some point, she befriended an opossum that crawled to her windowsill. She is said to have fed and held chats with it. While my Grandma was known to be a character, Doctor Dolittle she wasn't. One morning the 'possum was found dead on the front porch of the house. Inside, Grandma had died of a massive heart-attack.

All this from the cat. Prior to the move to NYC, an author now typing this piece mourned the decaying carcass of yet another opossum -- so different and so close from me during a very dark period. Our connection was via a car in traffic and 'possum's position as roadkill on the interstate ramp. Every afternoon for months my eyes found this corpse. Not quite excited or on a journey, we both were gambling nonetheless on the there-and-back mechanics. The chi of 'possum was one I considered: Who did he serve? What were his goals? What did he leave behind? Who will mourn -- if anyone or thing?

This 'possum wasn't a conscious connection to Grandma. Rather, it was the result of a life in transition relating to the vulnerability of anyone -- or thing.

A Less than Noble Return

It is quarter to midnight on a Monday night. My throat is sore after screaming at the discovery of a dying mouse in the middle of my loft-like apartment. Mouse or no, I found myself paralyzed with fear -- screams, shrieks and body clutching is all I could afford.

The discovery came when I was on the phone with a friend, just having stepped in the apartment from a full day including a stop at the gym. Subsequently, my friend was stuck with the rarely offered damsel-in-distress side that I've been trained to conceal. My friend, a guy, felt this was a plum moment to mention that this is the sort of moment why women need boyfriends/husbands. Sexism aside, I am grateful that I can call on a friend at 10:30 PM to scramble to my aid to smash ailing vermin.

Prior to his arrival, I dialed my landlord with much screaming and such. During the discussion I found myself apologizing saying, "I'm trying to be a grown-up." The next call was to my Dad. All three men instructed me to grab a broom and smash it. EWWWWWWW! I could barely walk around the thing to see if the car honking outside was my buddy let alone hustle to the kitchen and destroy this freakin' weasel.

How do folks see films such as Ratatouille in towns such as NYC? There's nothing cute about the idea of a vermin anywhere near my food, let alone the gifted hands preparing my meal. EWWWWWWWW!

Ha -- how's that for a return to the Idle Chatter?!?!?! While I have attempted making posts in the last 11 months, Blogger had an update that prevented me to toss up thoughts and musings. I was truly surprised to see that I could make it through the gates tonight.

Changes since last post: MANY! When Idle Chatter started, this girl was a few months into unemployment after a long-anticipated corporate redundancy (aka downsizing). A job was finally snagged in November (seven months on the sidelines). While the commute is humbling (1hr 20 mins one way to Long Island), I can roll with it. It's a marketing role with a healthcare consulting group. Yeah, whatever.

Another change: a move. I moved to this mouse afflicted apartment in December after black mold surrounded my former bedroom, a duplex. The mold outbreak started about the same time I started my job. My scramble from the unit was rough noting that I was sick, arrived back in Brooklyn after dark and was just starting a new job -- only 2 weeks employed.

Let the record also note that I was jilted. My heart was busted-up rather coldly. Break-ups are a bitch. Wish I could say more on this -- I suppose I'm still mourning the rift, even though it's been more than six months.

After the mold evacuation, I continued to suffer bad allergy attacks along with asthma, infections and itching. Eventually, I found that I have a few new allergies to food that have changed everything. Once determining that I was allergic to wheat and to eggs, I became leery of much and changed the diet. Not only did I drop weight, the itching stopped, the lungs got stronger, and my facial puffiness is nearly non-existent.

Another change, a loss -- death of my grandfather. He was 84 and had been swallowed under due to medication and folks telling him to settle down. He settled down all right -- it freakin' killed him. He was his own guy and so determined. So what that his world was primarily local -- his family yearned for more due to what he could share. I'm a beneficiary of this gift. I don't know what Grandpa would've said to help me cope with the mouse thing, but I know he would've smooshed the booger with his boot -- no doubt.

An hour into writing this post and selecting out a few nasty pics to accompany it, I'm a bit too wired to settle down. The BBC is chirping out the news of the sub-prime market and the impact it's had on financial markets globally. Silly me, I missed the opportunity to buy a major piece of property without any money or assets. Eh, I've never been much of a gambler.

Speaking of gambling -- I've taken one spin out the area this summer. I helped my family with a garage sale in Las Vegas. Long story, but it was very hot. I'm certainly not a casino gal and have no interest in what Vegas offers. I'm not into bling, flashing lights, smoke-entrapped buildings with no windows -- masking the passage of time, and more than I care to recall. It's just not for me. Even with all the allergies, I like outdoor get-aways: beaches, boating, hiking, cruises, blah-blah-blah.

Uh-oh...I think that's my sandman getting in gear. It's really about time. I've got the broom nearby just in case, though.