Double-O-Braindead

I've been lazing about all day, mostly because I have nothing else to do.  Partially because I can, and partially because I have to go back to the office tomorrow and I'm in mental protest.  The biggest thing I had done before 4pm was going to see Burn After Reading (Fantastic, by the way.  Highly recommended if you like profanity as much as I do.)

So about an hour ago, No Country For Old Men was over (I'm on a Coen Bro's mission, it seems.  And yes, I paid attention the whole way through this time!) and I thought maybe I should put in at least 15 minutes of work so my day didnt feel like a complete waste.  Trash goes out on Sunday nights, and my neighbors upstairs only drug their dumpster thing to the roadside.  (Even though I always take theirs out for them.  I'm so glad they're leaving.)

I must have left my brain on the couch.  On my way out to the trash cans, I did the ol' flick of the wrist which leads to my door handle being locked.  Its habit.  Not a bad habit, but an annoying one when you don't plan on getting in the car and driving away.  I trotted my happy self over to the garbage area, and plopped my kitchen trash inside, and proceeded to drag my can, and the two remaining cans for apartments 3 & 4 to the roadside.  Then the recycling buckets.  Someone put loose paper in the recycling buckets.  The recycling instructions clearly state that paper has to be bundled.  AND its raining, so after the truck comes tomorrow and does not take the paper, it'll be left in there, soggy and stuck to the bottom of the bucket like some sort of hobo paper-mache art project...  It's probably apartment 2.  I'll assume they never learned to read.  Neither one of them.

At this point, I'm slightly annoyed and have trashy wet hands, and the bleak remaining daylight is starting to cause a headache.  I scuttled like a cockroach across the gravel, ready to retire to my dimly-lit and neutral smelling home, wash my hands and plop back on the couch.  

Click.  ...Click click click click!  The sound of me turning my door handle and me realizing its locked, and that I am keyless, but thinking that added attempts will alter reality.  Clearly, I'm no clairvoyant or magician, and the door was definitely locked.  

Years of watching MacGyver and playing "The Worst Case Scenario Survival Game" flashed before my eyes.  Unfortunately, I didnt have any duct tape, or a potato, or a bright yellow cue card with multiple choice answers.  What I did have was two rained-upon flimsy plastic cafe' chairs I got for like $5 each, and a new pair of Sauconys on my feets.  Bad news:  I'm wearing a skirt.  More bad news?  In addition to that skirt, I'm wearing a hoodie.  And of course, my brand new Sauconys.  Thats it.  Thats it.  Ahem.  

I wondered if the people driving by would think I was trying to break into my own apartment and call the policia on me?  I'm praying for Bystander Syndrome and an unlocked window as I walk to check the lowest frame on my house.  SWEET merciful Baby Jesus, the window behind my TV was unlocked.  I hoisted the screen, the sill, and fumbled for the cord for the blinds to open them.  God forbit I muss the blinds.  OK, so the scene is set, now I just have to get in. Chair in place, I gingerly mount it.  It wobbles.  I regret having eaten the whole thing of Tabouleh last night, but damn was it good.  Left leg up-and-in, I nearly take out my sophisticated audio system that consists of a powerstrip and two hand-me-down speakers, but I make it!  Some man in an Astro Van probably got to see some things he normally has to pay for, but whatever.  I am maverick and accomplished!

I guess I felt so good about what I had just done, and was on an adrenaline high, that I exited through my front door and went outside, back to the window to close it and close the screen.  I didnt realize how idiotic that was until I had finished doing it, and then I felt extremely sorry for my own mental state.  

I couldn't help but laugh.  I am really ready to hit the couch at this point, so I chuckle and go in, I FINALLY get to wash my hands.  I turn and see that my air conditioning units need to come out.  It is late September, afterall.  I figure I'm already up, and already messy from hoisting myself through the window, I might as well get it over with.  First comes removing the 2x4's supporting the units, from the outside...  Three windows away from the one where I just put on that fantastic act of independent woman.  

Out I go.  Locking the door behind me.  Again.  

Thank heavens I was so much of an idiot and went outside to close my window after the first episode, otherwise I would have locked it.  

My stars!  The AC units are taken care of, and the trash is all set for pickup in the morning.  I am FINALLY back on the couch, and couldn't wait to tell you all about my absent-mindedness.  As if you needed more ammo. 

So, the moral of the story is:  Think twice about necessary cast members of your wardrobe when you get dressed in the morning.  Even if it is the weekend. 

I like my men how I like my coffee...

...Ground up and in the freezer.

That's not true, but the expression cracks me up. And I thought of it when I was walking back in from the parking garage after lunch, with a "Iced Venti Unsweetened Black Coffee" from Starbucks in my hand. Some guy asked why I don't use cream or sugar and I told him it's because I like my coffee to be as black and bitter as my soul. I laughed, but he didn't find it funny. I love Kennett Square people and their (non)senses of humor.

I'm feeling EXCESSIVELY needy lately. To the point where its annoying me, so I must be driving everyone else completely batty. Sorry about that.

Maybe its a product of yesterday being the Autumnal Equinox? I am sad to see summer go, and I don't really look forward to getting colds/the flu this winter, being stuck inside because of stupid snow, dark time coming at 4:30 p.m., layering my clothing, or paying higher car insurance rates just in case Beastie and I go flying off a cliff during an ice storm. My birthday* is in less than a month and I'm thismuchcloser to 30. Not that I care, but everyone else keeps bringing it up and its making the last few years of my 20's feel terminal.

I am compulsively hanging out with my people, and frantically trying to meet new people, which makes me appear like I have a hard time being alone. That's not to say my hanging out with you, if you've been one of my victims of the last week or so, isn't a sincere and genuine act; just that I look forward to being not alone more so than usual. The usual is: I adore and look forward to my Jojo time.

Its probably because last week, and this past weekend have been a whirlwind of activity, big work events, visitation from several dear friends, and general good-busy times. This, following of course, my week of solitude with the infection scare. (Ugh. It's still not all gone, but I'm getting there.)

Cool, so by writing this, I've effectively done a self-analysis and realized I'm not nuts, I'm just coming off a packed-schedule-high, and am having trouble re-adjusting. Buck up, Joj', you'll be fine in no time.


*I have a premonition that my birthday this year (as always) is going to be spectacular. My dearest friends take excellent care of me, and make me feel loved. They do their best to hide their plans, and make the events a surprise. With that said, they all suck at keeping secrets and I usually find out what’s going on.

Here’s what I know so far:

- Hot Chip on 10/5

- Frightened Rabbit on 10/17

- Fondue

- A “night club” (The last time I went dancing on my birthday, I broke bones.)

- Victory/Chelsy’s/Four Dogs

All this in just 3.5 short weeks!

Kate is Great

She does the best stuff to cheer me up when I'm all gloom and doom, observe:

The Soothing Sounds of Bonesaws

As you may or may not know/care, I am getting surgery on muh feets (reference, HERE).

I scheduled it for November 14th. The only other available dates were October 17th, or October 31st. One of those days is my birthday, the other is my brothers birthday, AND my favorite holiday. No way I'm missing that.

The guy who is doing the procedure is completely freaking awesome, nice, easy to talk to, and everyone says hes the BEST. He's the best in my mind because he's going to give me pretty feets, one toe at a time. I present to you, Dr. Kevin DiAngeles:

When I was in for my last consult, I asked Dr. D what I should expect for the actual procedure? Would they put me out completely? Would they just numb my foot? Here's how the conversation went:

Dr. D: "We'll heavily sedate you, and give you a local in your foot. We'll also fit you with an ankle tourniquet so you wont bleed heavily when we use the bone saw."

The Joj: "Huhscuse me?"

Dr. D: "...Yeah, you'll practically be asleep, but this kind of surgery doesn't require full anesthesia."

The Joj: "BONE SAW?"

Dr. D: "Thats how we cut bones. The whole procedure shouldnt take more than 90 minutes. Two hours, tops."

The Joj: "Will I be able to hear it? I have some anxiety issues, I think this might really push me over the edge if I can hear you sawing through my bones."

Dr. D: "Probably. But you'll be so sedated you wont really mind, I think. Anxiety usually isnt an issue."

The Joj: "Oh."

So, yeah. The deal is, Ima charge the heck out of my ipod and build a killer surgery-masking playlist. No Bonecutter Records jokes, please. I'm being totally serious. I don't necessarily need help or need new music, I just wanted to tell you because its absolutely f$#ing disgusting that I will get to hear my own bones being cut. I wonder if it sounds like a dentist's drill, or maybe more like a chainsaw. I wonder if I'll be able to smell the bone smoke.

:-\

I long for this kind of adoration

Necrophilia and psychosis, be damned.  This man truly loved his lady and I think its totally romantic:

When a beautiful young woman named Elena Hoyos died from tuberculosis in Florida in 1931, her life as a misused object of desire began. Her admirer, a local X-ray technician who called himself Count Carl von Cosel, paid for Hoyos to be embalmed and buried in a mausoleum above ground. Then, in 1933, the crafty Count stole Elena’s body and hid it in his home. During the next seven years, he worked to preserve her corpse, replacing her flesh as it decayed with hanger wires, molded wax, and plaster of Paris. He even slept beside Elena’s body in bed—that is, until her family discovered her there. In the ensuing media circus, more than 6,000 people filed through the funeral home to view Elena before she was put to rest. Her family buried her in an unmarked grave so that von Cosel couldn’t find her, but that didn’t stop his obsession. Von Cosel wrote about Elena for pulp fiction magazines and sold postcards of her likeness until he was found dead in his home in 1952. Near his body was a life-size wax dummy made to look just like Elena.

Read the full story on Count Carl Von Cosel, here: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Tanzler

I was seriously empathetic. Not that I'd sleep next to a corpse or want someone sleeping next to mine.  Right? 

PS - I think its insanely amusing that someone who referred to himself as "Count" lived in Zephyrhills.