Mmm…

Oslo.  

Seems thieves were arrested in Oslo stealing two more Edvard Munch paintings, according to the NY Times.

This, of course, does not solve the theft of “The Scream” and “Madonna” last year, but hopefully it will lead to something.

Of course, those dumbass Norwegians stood around while the thieves stole the paintings from the Munch Museet, which simply baffles me.

Sadly, this tends to be a problem with Norway: As a socialist country, they expect someone else to do everything for them. They aren’t even allowed to hook up their own Internet.

I simply cannot imagine a similar theft in the states. Of course, that has its good and bad elements. But, overall, I do love Norway, “warts and all,” I’m just not sure I can live there. I want to, eventually I’m sure I will, but the self-determination and pure pull yourself up by the bootstraps mentality that thrives here in the U.S. makes it diffucult to be there.

Until, of course, they slap a fresh salmon and glass of aquavit in front of you!

Aftenposten reported today that the Norwegian economy is picking up in leaps and bounds. Considering the U.S. economy is chugging along… if you’re rich… maybe I need to get all Viking on my life.

‘Course, the pillaging I already do, although the raping I could do without!

I did a crazy thing today. Okay, maybe not so crazy, but to me a little bit, and it’s all because of Jon’s mom.

Now, Jon’s mom rocks, I mean, she freakin’ rawks in the bestest way, and this weekend, sipping martinis we had a nice chat about life, kids and dating. And, perhaps it was the lycheetinis, but I fessed up that I’d been thinking about it and it would be nice to have a boyfriend.

Now, you may think that’s nuts in itself: who doesn’t want a boyfriend, girlfriend or both? But, as those of you who know me know, I’m not exactly the best judge of character, and my past experiences have been less than successful. As have the boyfriends. Thus, the boyfriend-by-committee requirement was instated on my behalf by my former roommie, who, unfortunately, now lives back on the west coast. Thankfully, Darrell, Jon, my brother, my roommates and the dude who works at the coffee shop where I live my life have all agreed to form the requisite voting bloc.

That said, I’m still a bit gun shy. I mean, I’m f’ing 34 years old, and the fish in that sea are, for the most part, the kind that can be found in the wastewater pond next to the Springfield Nuclear Plant: freaks.

But, I’m a total, stupid and pointless optimist, sure that somewhere out there there’s a place…er…. boy for me. It’s just a matter of running into him, hopefully not literally. Thing is, I work for psychos who expect me to be in the office a minimum of 9 or 10 hours, I hang out with totally cool people in places where there aren’t a lot of choices (no, I will not date Veal Boy, Brown Boy or Girl Boy, Jon, no matter how many times you point them out to me!!! ;-)), and the other places I go—the gym, the store, hanging out with my friends—aren’t exactly the hottie hot spots.

So, what to do in this crazy modern world where we all live and work in bubbles? That’s where Jon’s mom comes in, with her advice that if she were my age, she’d go online. She also said she thought I was a catch, which is sweet, especially since she’s not my mom and therefore not umbilically bound to say so. So, on this other site that shall remain unnamed where a slightly anemic mirror version of this blog lives (all names have also been changed to protect… me) I listed myself as “looking,” whereas before I was just hanging out, checking out my friends’ profiles and having a grand old time.

Unfortunately, this opens up a whole host of problems, the least being that the last time I did that every “outtie” seemed to think we were destined to be together, if for the sole reason that I’m an “innie.”

“Hey babe, my only exercise is lifting fried food and beer to my mouth, I’m all for the war, my highest education was in juvie, and I’m only 45. Let’s fuck!”

Ew.

Not that education, age and matching interests are all that important, but when you get carded for alcohol, lottery tickets and cigs, have spent the bulk of your life in school because you like it, don’t believe in capital punishment and actually enjoy getting all sweaty outside the bedroom, it’s a recipe for disaster.

Plus, I’ve had some terrible experiences in the short time I was listed there, like the dude who met me for a drink and only brought $11. Now, I’m totally independent, I was unemployed and brought plenty of cash and will offer to pay for myself every time, but to not even bring enough for your two rounds? Lame.

And, I always feel compelled to respond, no matter how ridiculously obvious it is we’ve got nothing in common—otherwise I feel rude. But, it seems also that that’s de riguer for the online thing these days. I actually did once find someone really cool on there, or rather, they found me, someone really cool, interesting, and, at least on paper, seemingly an ideal candidate for at least hanging out with (when can you ever have enough of those?). Unfortunately, asshole stopped writing.

Okay, so maybe it’s me. I’m nuts, when I find people I can connect with I have a blast, let it all hang out, forget I don’t actually know them. But, then again, considering everyone else I email I know, it’s tough. And, yeah, let’s admit it here and for all to see: I’m neurotic. Fucking insane, probably—all you have to do is read the last few posts with the spontaneously combusting retinas and whinging about how much I hate working and wish I’d taken the job with Frank Kozik after all to know that I’m destined to be cat food in about 60 years.

But I refuse to believe that’s it. Goddamn it, we’re all crazy in our own ways, and if you’re not I don’t want you—friend, lover or otherwise. And, fortunately, I’m not ugly or deformed, nor do I have strange twitches or nasal sounds that emit at the most inopportune moments. But I am picky, and that’s where the problem lies.

My own mum says I’m too picky, but how can you not be? Again, first off I need to find someone the committee can agree on, but more importantly, someone I can agree on. And therein lies the catch: Where do you find the male version of yourself, someone who’s just been hanging out, doing your own thing, figuring out what you want to do when you grow up, going all the places you want to go, doing all the things you want to do, living life by your own rules and actually enjoying the ride when that other version is doing the same as you? Is that where this whole online thing comes in?

Does that mean the male version of me is doing the exact same thing? One can only hope…

So, vegging in front of the telly the other night, and this spot comes on for this show called “Craft Corner Deathmatch.”

Allegedly, a bunch of Martha wanna-be’s face off, glue gun to glue gun, and outdo each other, MacGuyver style, and get all badass crafty armed with, like, some pieces of felt and a bottle of Elmers. Or something to that effect.

Well, it’s the real deal, as the NY Times reported today, and it seems the pitch was a joke that stuck.

Interesting.

Likely I won’t be watching, however. Not my cuppa’ joe as my crafty arc topped out somewhere in second grade, when I got a prize for making a Santa ornament using, oohing and aahing please, cotton balls and some red paper. I know.. I know – snore. But, it was parochial school and they didn’t really put much emphasis on the arts… not like Jesus was running around making water into wine, raising the dead and making decoupage thank you cards for the frankincense and myrrh.

Besides, it seems the bulk of the TV talent is made up of hipsters from Williamsburg. We’ve got a few here in my ‘hood as well, hipsters that is, not Williamsburgs (although certain people like to pretend that’s where they are… ah. Yeah…), and I see them sitting in the anarchist meetings, knitting (black yarn, of course, synthetic) and sharing in their collective scarves.

Alas, my craft quotient is limited to being able to sew buttons back onto things. Although I like to think I’m more useful: I can use a level, drill and hammer. I can fix minor plumbing issues. I can even rewire a bit, twitch twitch…

What I’d really like to see is something more useful. Like, instead of having debates at election time, what about “Presidential Hopeful Deathmatch?” Seems we’d really get the candidates who believe in what they’re doing, and most of them would be more likely to stay in the corporate world, where, unless they’re female, they get a slap on the wrist and an offshore bank account.

What about waging war? “Congressional Declaration Deathmatch.”

Or the budget. “Pork Barrel Pound of Flesh.”

I’m beginning to think it’s a notion whose time has come. I mean, so many people are so dreadfully enamored with reality TV, why not take it all the way?

Gee, maybe I need to get into the TV business….

So I’m killing myself with good intentions. Or, at least expediting the death process….. Very slowly through waaay too many vitamins.

The weirdest thing has been happening for the past week or so. Last week—cold-death-snow-week—I didn’t think anything of it. I’d been wearing a black, fuzzy hat to keep my ears from falling off, and, sitting at work would notice little black fuzzies floating around in front of my eyes.

So, I essentially spent last week batting at little pieces of fuzz I was convinced had superglued themselves to my hair. Hey, it’s winter – static cling has a vice grip when it gets this dry. Little did I realize I’ve been spending the past few weeks acting a bit, well, schizo.

Add to that the fact that I keep seeing stars, all Bugs Bunny-like, floating around my head sometimes when I stand up.

Well, today, walking to work I realized the black fuzzies and stars are real, but they happen to be living inside my eyeballs, like predator only floaty and, well, annoying as fuck.

Alas, hypochondria kicked in somewhere between home and work and I was Googling before I even got any caffeine this morning. I found some info on taking too much vitamin A, before I came to the conclusion that my retinas are detaching, I don’t have health insurance for another two months, I’m going to be driving to NY this weekend and that’s when it will happen and they’ll just fall out of my eye sockets, rendering me blind and probably causing me to crash into a truckload of puppies or something, racking up the $500 deductible on my car, I’ll never be able to see again, people will pass me in the street and shake their heads, my clothes will never match again (uh, not like they do now… I know) and I’ll spend the rest of my days typing my magnum opus, but because I only paid attention halfway through typing class in high school it’ll look at bit like this:

eoitjd;,mvn;dhngklfjdhfl;’vms,cmf ;akljdf ds;afn pewirt -3 095 fdkmfg ds’ogfljds.

The only thing that will keep me going is the thought that someday, someone will decide that I was actually the next James Joyce all along and they’ll put a statue of me in some town square…

With my sweater buttoned wrong…

d’oh!

In the meantime, it’s a matter of trying to debate whether or not to be concerned about the fact that there are space aliens in my eyes. I’m a sort of masochistic hypochondriac in that I’ll decide I’ve got some horrible illness — the plague or leprosy or something — but I won’t actually do anything about it. Granted, at the moment I’m in a weird non-insurance transition time (oh lovely third world first world country where someone can lose everything they own over getting sick… don’t even get me started…), so the tendency is to pretend it’s not there… and there… and, damnit, there and there and there!

Is there an optomologist in the house?!!?!? 😉

So I read today that Japanese women would rather remain single. That on top of reading a few months back that a large percentage of Scottish men prefer the single life. It makes a lot of sense to me. Think about it, total autonomy. Want cereal and that take out from last week for dinner? Go for it. Want to channel surf for the next four hours? It’s all yours.

Problem is, it gets dull, not to mention the takeout gets funky and there’s no one there to take care of you when you’re doubled over driving the porcelain bus, swearing you’ll put dates of purchase on all your Thai noodles from now on.

Today, however, I am all about marriage, 100 percent enamored with the idea, but not because I wound up hung over, watching the white-dresses-and-babies channel (or whatever the hell that scary women’s network is) and, in my vodka-soaked state have been brainwashed to believe that married life is the holy grail. Nah.

Paris-Nice was on the telly and, fact is, I’ve got a way better reason: Darrell and Jon.

Going back to the Stoli-on-the-brain, I am fortunate enough to be friends with two of the coolest men going, who happen to have taken a trip, and vows, last year in my old stomping grounds – San Francisco. On top of that, they’ve been together for a decade (A DECADE! I don’t even remember what I was doing a decade ago… but that’s another story!), and last night they threw us all a blow out party at a fantastic gallery to celebrate.

Toasts were made to the strength and longevity of their union, tears were spilled, and today, despite a throbbing headache resulting from many, many such touching toasts, I gotta’ say it was pretty goddamned cool, and things like that tend to get you thinking: oh how sweet. How wonderful it could be, can be, must be. Oh, I gotta’ get me some of that…

That is, until you meet them for brunch and they’re bickering and make you sit in between them… reminding you that it’s real life, not a made for TV movie and it’s the good, bad and bitchy you get in one big ol’ pretty package. So you order a bloody mary, entertain the notion of entertaining the notion of not running in the opposite direction when someone of the opposite sex comes on to you….and in the meantime wonder what kind of leftovers you’ve got lurking in the back of the fridge…

And just love the fact that you’ve got such amazing friends…

it begins… 

What is your name? e.
What is your Starsign? Capricorn
Your favourite colour? Red
List your 3 favourite songs: Depends on the day.
List your 3 favourite films: See above.
Do you dream in colour or black and white? Bright, blaring painful color. Ow. No wonder I can be such an insomniac…. Granted, upon waking I’m greeted by a bright red room, so. Hm. Maybe I’m not crazy……
What did you dream last night? Something very disturbing that woke me up at 3 a.m. and had my heart racing. Although it was likely the fact that I had the heater turned up so high even my stuffed animals were sweating.
Who is your favourite male actor? Mmm. British. Tall. Charming. Veeery charming…at least on screen and who gives a fuck if it’s not real… I pay money for something that’s not real. Duh. Yes, I know from experience that in real life the charm turns to annoyance when they can’t seem to get beyond the twittering and flabbergasted blushing. Ugh.
Who is your favourite female actress? I don’t really have any.
What is your favourite ‘Take Away’ food? Oh. Indian. Yummy….but, then again, there’s nothing that can’t be solved with pizza, fries or a good Philly soft pretzel!
Bath or Shower? Oy. Shower. HATE baths. Remind me of when I used to get stuck in the cold bath when I was little and had a fever. Eurgh.
Salted popcorn or sweet? Salted.
What is your natural eye colour? Green.
What is your natural hair colour? Blonde.
When was the last time you cried? I bought an onion the other day. Does that count? Otherwise I’d have to say the first credit card statement post-holidays.
Which is your favourite flavour of crisps? Oooh. Sea salt and vinegar rawks, although plain old salty crunchy badness is goooood.
Name your favourite perfume/aftershave: J’Adore.
What was the last thing you watched on television? I just dragged my lazy ass from in front of Seven Years in Tibet.
What was the last book you read? Baker Towers
What is your biggest fear? Regret.
List your 3 favourite websites: NYTimes.com, Salon.com, HomeStarRunner.com
What is your lucky number? 13
Opera or Pantomime? Ow, god, neither.
Do you believe in fate? Completely, and it pisses me off.
Do you believe in reincarnation? Absolutely – that’s why cats and small dogs love me, I was probably once their mother … or a nice, red fire hydrant.
Who was the last person you kissed? Heh … I don’t kiss and tell.
What was the last thing you ate? Those bloody addictive café twists, the choco chip kind you get at Trader Joe’s. “only 60 calories. Blah blah blah.” Yeah…. Erm, times the whole box!
Do you like Marmite? Oh god no!!!
What magazine/newspaper do you regularly read? Many many many. Hordes. Gaggles. I get them e-mailed to me. I get them mailed to me. In a few years they’ll probably be sent to me via a chip in my neck. It’s obscene. I need to think less…
Would you rather be too hot or too cold? Too cold. Sweaters, socks and nekkid men can always solve that problem!
What do you think are your best and worst qualities? Best=Mildly entertaining, hopeful to the point of being stupid, a closet romantic, smart, can help you move furniture (or bodies…. I’m an all-around kind of chickie), completely and totally honest. Bad=Can be hyper and talk too much, short tempered at times, jump into things too fast sometimes, or not fast enough at others, easily annoyed by stupid people, completely and totally honest.
Who was your first love? First=true totally incompatible just-walk-away better luck next time love I met when I was 18 and said goodbye to for the last time two years ago…
When was the last time you blushed? Oh, I was probably buying underwear or tampons or something.
Roughly how many hours a week do you spend on the internet? 60-80, but that’s just when I’m on a computer and the internet is on… actively, about 8-10
Who is your best friend? Vulcanlouieluau
What was the last website you visited? http://mags25.blogspot.com/, where I cribbed this questionnaire!
Score your personality from 1-10, 10 being the highest: Today it’s about a six…. Yesterday it was more like nine. Some days are better than others, but I’m usually up for a raucous good time!

‘kay, so, my LiveStrong bracelet, which I have been wearing every day for sooooooo many months broke today. It is weak, and it broke.

Now I ask myself, “Self, what does this mean?”

And I ask myself because just yesterday I was speaking with Mark about how I do not know how long I should keep it on, or even contemplate taking it off.

Did it self-destruct over my uncertainty? Did I cause it to question it’s very reason for existence? Or, is it simply a chintzy piece of plastic made by some undernourished, hapless child laborer in China that wasn’t meant to last more than these eight or nine months???

This is shall continue to contemplate as I go ball myself up in flannel on the couch as I watch the snow fall outside…

to be continued….

or not…