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04.30.03 - 1:30pm
Yesterday, I was in the check-out line at my local Gristedes, when I saw a cute, yet schleppy-looking fellow in the next line. Dark-hair was a bit awry, collar buttoned to the top, he was wearing earphones and purchasing snackfood. My brain automatically said to itself, I am going to marry this fellow. The cashier was asking, "debit or credit." I became flummoxed -- blushingly realizing that I was already married, and had been out of the dating scene for nearly six years. I left the grocery store feeling both cold and hot. Like I was inside a pickle jar. Then my brain said, I bet my hair's all messed up. I tried to make out my reflection in the store windows, but couldn't. Once back in the apartment, I ran to the mirror to fix my hair. But all my brain could come up with was, Gosh, my face looks fat!.
During the course of the evening I knocked over two glasses filled with beverages. In the morning, as the clock radio went off, I dreamed about the news and woke up late. I kept burping in yoga class, and was stopped by security while sneaking into Fordham with Alison Adleman to buy a smoothie. Now I've found an unidentified bruise on my wrist. And I feel weirdly thirsty.
Now you can see why I am concerned.
Alison says it is all because of the impending new moon.
04.29.03 - 1:08pm
This dream is remarkable because, though I have been avoiding this couple for roughly three years, I have met them in my dreams at least three times in the past two months. It is also remarkable because I had feathered hair and was wearing a frilly collared paisley blouse for my appearance on the game show.
One last thing about dreams. I got this entry to my contest from the lovely Ms. Roeder, and I completely forgot to enter it. So the following entry wins first place in the category of Dreams Deb Forgot to Enter In the Contest:
Charming, witty, beer-drinking. These are just a few words which aptly describe our first contestant. She recently dreamed she was riding a passenger jet like a cartoon character sitting atop a rocket. She was trying to fly to Jamaica, but instead, went higher and higher, cold and alone, until she was above the earth. The dream ended with her tumbling in the thick dark envelope of space, knowing she was going to die. The first place award for the category of Dreams Which Most Remind Us of Our Own Mortality goes to Jenny Miller.
Our second contestant spent several nightmarish years in the US Navy, where he experienced the same non-quite-nightmarish reoccurring dream. Often, in sleep, he was hosting an enormous party in the infield of a seldom-used horseracing track in Berkeley. The partygoers were everyone he had ever know in his life. As they came in, he would greet them, ask how they had been, then send them to work looking for his keys, which he had misplaced somewhere in the grass. The first place award for Not-Quite-Symbolic And Not-Quiet-Nightmarish Reoccurring Dream goes to Brian Mack.
Our last contestant submitted no less than three dreams, all of which were incredibly dream-like. Debcentral's favorite of the three, and the "Judge's Choice" winner for "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" goes to the following contestant, who presently has a museum job very similar to the one I begin in two weeks. The "Judge's Choice" dream was also very similar to a dream I had had several months previous, only without the cameo appearance by Bob Brumfield in lady's undergarments. Debcentral's "Judge's Choice" of the "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" goes to SARAH LOFFMAN! Her dream is as follows:
04.25.03 - 1:30pm Because I am a fool for non-pornographic fan mail, I will leave the contest open until Monday, at which time I may be forced to enter a dream I had in college in which I discovered, much to my dismay, that I was pregnant . . . with a VELOCIRAPTOR BABY . . . IN MY LEG! Needless to say, I was much relieved to wake up and find I was not in fact pregnant with a velociraptor baby in my leg, but had simply gained 15 pounds in the past semester, so much so that none of my pants fit. Phew!
I want to send a shout out to all those yogis who read my site. I think I practice with about 3 or 4 yogis who seem fairly up-to-date on my blog life. I wonder if when I fall over and scream in pain, whether they are thinking, Well, she must be upset because her uncle will be transferred from prison soon and she will have to move.
Speaking of which . . . my father wrote me yesterday concerning my uncle's impending transfer from loony prison. He spoke with my uncle's attorney, who says she thinks it may be between a year and two years before my uncle is let loose. Though it could be sooner. Or later. No one really knows.
This is about where I was before in not knowing how much longer we would be living in my uncle's apartment. But we will most likely be there for another year to two years. Or more. Or less. In honor of this ambiguous news, I tried updating Uncle Ira's page a bit. I plan to post some more cards and pictures, as well as that famous poem he wrote, "Jessica", in which there reads the lines:
04.24.03 - 1:20pm
Can you identify the following quote?
Speaking of dreams, I am submitting a call for really weird dream stories. I suppose they don't have to be real, but they have to sound real-enough that they pull the wool over my eyes and I think they are real.
This is a contest, and I will post the first-place dream on my site (text version). I will also email the winning dreamer a really scary old picture of my uncle which I found in a box in the apartment.
Requirements for your dream:
04.23.03 - 1:30pm
Sincerely,
Sarah Museum-O'Person
I already feel blessed.
Thank you, Sarah. Thank you, Museum of Jewish Heritage. Thank you World!
04.22.03 - 9:36pm
Thank you, thank you.
I had a whole blog prepared, but then my boss was having one of those "stand over my employee's shoulder and eat in her ear" days. And then THIS! So it will all have to wait until tomorrow.
What I will tell you is that it is at the Museum of Jewish Heritage, and that I have no idea about their policy of blogging-while-working.
04.21.03 - 12:00pm
We received a phone call from someone identifying himself as Clark Kent and a friend of Ira's. This fellow, whose real name, we have discovered, is Merced, was recently transferred from ward 2 east (where my uncle is) to ward 3 east, and my uncle had given this man his contact information well in advance of either of their releases.
My uncle was annoyed that this fellow had called. "I told him to call once he was transferred to a civil , not another ward. Why "Clark Kent", I asked? My uncle said, "SUPERMAN! He loves comic books. He's a bit retarded.
I am happy this man has not yet been release, to drop by Ira's apartment, which is presently our apartment, to say hi in the way that criminally insane individuals say hi to their old jailbird buddies.
The logic behind giving people who may be released before him his contact information is baffling. And humorous. But only when it's not you who is slated to get a visit from a criminally insane individual who's been chucked out onto the streets.
04.18.03 - 1:35pm
A friend? my uncle? Through the years, Ira has been known to associate primarily with society's lowest common denominator. Most recently, he has been taken out of greater society to reside in a prison for the criminally insane for the past seven years. Last night, Mr. Kent left us another message.
I checked the caller ID, and saw that the message was actually coming from inside the institution. I listened closely, and heard him say again that he was a friend of my uncle's. Then he mumbled Ward 3 East. Hm. This is great. A criminally insane person is repeat-calling my home. At least I know he cannot come and get me.
I spoke to my grandmother that evening, and she said that she too had received a phone call. She had answered the phone, and the man on the other end said his name was Clark Kent, and that he was a friend of Ira Schwartz. "Yes," said my grandmother. "Ira asked me to call you." he told my grandmother. "And?" My grandmother is very no-nonsense. "And?" said the man. "I'm not sure. Ira just told me to call you, but he didn't tell me why."
So my Uncle has been giving out the numbers of his loved ones to fellow mental patients. I called up my uncle and asked him about it, and he insisted that he had never ever given out phone numbers to other patients. Then he yelled about something else for a while. Then he repeated that he had never given out his digits to fellow patients. Though, he had given them to people who were being transferred a the civil facility.
I got a call back from my uncle about 9:30pm. He repeated that he had never given out this phone number or that of his mother to any other mental patient. Except for some fellows currently living in his Ward. But never to anyone in Ward 3 East, and never to anyone named Clark Kent.
Then he insisted I call the police and report the incident. "Uncle Ira," I told him. "This man has only called me twice. He is not exactly harassing me. And besides, what can the police do? He's already in prison."
The slings and arrows of living in an apartment of an outrageously crazy person.
04.17.03 - 2:59pm
One apparently needs a lot of energy to be a religious person. I enjoy sleep far more than I enjoy serving god and being holy. While this may become more of a problem in the afterlife, it keeps my living days a little less complicated.
As we were leaving in the elevator last night, Brian’s aunt reveled that she had had a strange dream in which she was trying to choose a studio assistant. Her mother, who died about a month ago, was there, wanting to help in the decision-making. Bonnie turned to her mother and said, "Mom, you can’t help me with these kind of things anymore. You’re dead, remember."
It was a very odd and dreamlike dream. And reflecting on the nature of dreams, I had to turn away, because it made me think of Jenny’s recent dream of petting a penguin which felt like a dog, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Which I suppose could have been misconstrued as rude, crass, and unfeeling by someone in mourning.
Write me and tell me an embarrassing and inappropriate laughing story. If it’s really spiffy, I’ll post it. If it’s better than anything I could ever write, I will hide it away from the world, so as not to jeopardize my own potential fame.
04.16.03 - 2:59pm
I grew up a Reform Jew in Fort Lauderdale. We used a coloring book as a haggadah. Often, my family would take a moment to look at the funny pictures, point to a bunch of stuff on the seder plate, then sing the song about the pharaoh waking up with frogs in his bed and frogs on his head. Then we ate.
We would begin the evening around four in the afternoon, because the elderly relatives didn’t like to drive after dark. Our seder would end in enough time for the elderly relatives to get back to Boca before dusk.
Then my brother, sister, and I would sit around watching the Lance Link Secret Chimp marathon on Nickelodeon.
The Lance Link marathon may have only happened a couple of times. But I will hold the memory in my heart for an eternity.
04.15.03 - 3:50pm
I also updated my resume, which was embarrassingly incorrect.
I have been receiving an increasing amount of junk mail on my debcentral email account. There was a story on this very topic on WNYC this morning. They suggest that one should write out one’s email address in full. This apparently prevents the evil Spambots of the Planet Zipton from picking up the address and using it to send you advertisements for penis enlargements. An example of this would be:
A third option, which is utterly evil, would be to list the email address of someone you hate. For example, you might write:
04.14.03 - 12:10pm
We kept requesting water, and she kept ignoring us. Until finally she said, exasperated, “Look. I am very busy right now. I am not able to bring you water.” Then she disappeared entirely, and we had to ask another server for our water and the check.
Brian’s school chum Brad threw a party that same night. The party was held in honor of the 180th birthday of Russian playwright Alexander Ostrovsky. And guess who showed up sporting her sassy Batman underoos from Target? None other than ME!
I had the most wonderful time as I regaled fellow party-goers with stories of Uncle Ira. I’m not sure if I ever left the kitchen. I chatted with Richard and Carolyn and Kevin and some guy with really fun hair.
Finally, Brian shoved me mid-joke out the door, as it was after 1am, and we had to visit the real Uncle Ira at noon. Then we got lost looking for the subway. Then we got found by a gypsy cab, and were on our way home.
During our visit to the prison, Uncle Ira was decidedly less funny than my stories had painted him. He was especially talkative, and especially eat-a-tive. Which meant food was dripping and flying from has mouth at a rapid pace. This made us both angry and nauseated. The only good thing about the visit was that he told us the thalidomide story again.
04.13.03 - 8:55pm
Somehow, I felt myself drifting slowly forward with no possible way of extricating my shoulders or arms (having hands available to flail near my feet was no help at all), landing on my nose, because I decided the nose is less expensive than the teeth. I even had time to think of the woman who died from a nosebleed on Six Feet Under the night before.
So there was a crunch and someone asked "Are you hurt?" and I said, "I'm not sure." I stopped pinching my nostrils and blood starting gushing out, and I had to use that little towel you keep next to you for wiping up your sweat to hold my nose instead.
My yoga teacher tried to get me to lie down, but then realized that clearly wasn't the right thing to do, because it encouraged me to inhale my own blood. He set me up in his little private hideaway with a futon and an ice pack, and I wallowed in self-pity and blood for about an hour. I used his cell phone to call my doctor, who called back and recommended a nose doctor, who said he could see me at noon.
After the bleeding stopped and kind yogis stopped bringing me tea and carrot juice and Clif bars. The very nice teacher's assistant walked to my nearby apartment to get my wallet and cell phone, and my teacher lent me $100, because I realized I actually didn't have any cash in my wallet. He felt guilty for not being able to protect me from myself.
Went home, showered, put a bag of frozen corn on my face, and took my sorry nose to the doctor.
The nose doctor had a crooked nose. I took it in stride. Good hairdressers have awful hair, so why shouldn't good nose doctors have crooked noses?
He stared at me. He told me I had 2 options: get it 'reduced' ("Reduced?" I asked. "Set," he said.) right away or wait 3 days until the swelling went down. "Do it now," I said.
They put me in a dentist's chair and stuffed anesthetic-soaked cotton far, far up my nostrils and into my brain. After a lot of bloody cotton had gone in and out, he stuck a metal forceps into my nose and his two assistants grabbed my left shoulder (near my neck) and hand very suddenly and adeptly and I could feel something scraping around in the left side of my nose. "OK, that's it," said the doctor. "Sorry, we're going to have to tape your nose."
Aside from the fact that I managed to get some Vicodin out of him, that's the whole story. I haven't been back to yoga yet because it hurts my nose to bend over. The nose seems to be doing OK. Better than me, since I keep worrying about what it's going to look like when it comes out. My left eyelid is a little purple, and I can't cry because it's too painful, and I keep having nose-induced encounters on the street and adding them to my blog.
04.10.03 - 2:05pm
By the way, there is also a D version, in which you put your feet like "Charlie Chaplin" and stick your head down on top of them, bending the knees as much as needed in order to accomplish this. It's easiest to fall over in D, the head goes kinda behind the heels, pretty near the floor, but since your nose is already pretty close to the ground you probably won't break it.
hm.
I went to Maggie Estep's reading yesterday, and Eleanor and Megan came with me. Maggie's lastest work is a detective novel, and I love mysteries. It's funny. I often think I am a private investigator. Brian's nickname for this detective personae is "The Diminutive Pinky." I'm not actually sure why. But I will routinely run around our studio apartment trying to solve domestic mysteries. Like the mystery of the missing cheese. And the mystery of the dirty cup left on the floor by the couch. Brian has pointed out to me that we are the only two people in our one room apartment, so I don't need to say things like, "Given the clues at hand, I have deduced. . . " He says obviously it was either he or me. And if I didn't leave the cup on the floor, then there's only one other person who could have.
Obviously, he is so in love with me, he must act annoyed so as to hide his true feelings for me.
04.09.03 - 1:20pm
Out of our one big window
So it is really unpleasant out today. And I have gotten word that this tittibhasana thing is really much worse that I had thought. This was apparently no ordinary tittibhasana our Katie was attempting. This was tittibhasana C, which is not for the faint of heart or the attached of limb.
I'm feeling down about Uncle Ira's good news, and Uncle Ira seems not to be as gleeful as I'd have imagined. On the phone last night, he even revealed some lurid details concerning an event in a psychiatric hospital involving an adult thalidomide baby.
This revelation makes me hope that Uncle Ira will not receive new transfer information too often.
04.08.03 - 6:50pm
As far as healing goes, I think I may have posted this already, but I went to an ear, nose, and throat man after the incident. He looked up my nose with a funny little flashlight, said it would take between six months and a year to really settle down, then told me that after that time, I could ask him about a nose job. Then he billed me.
It has only been about six months, but I don't think I will ask him about a nose job. This is because I win big points in heaven for walking around with a double-broke nose. I can now make fun of whomever I want, be horrendously caddy and mean, and I will still go to heaven. Because I insist on keeping my original and rather ethnic nose.
Though if I fall on my face again, I may give up heaven. A girl can only stand so much.
Luckily, I am not looking for love in bars and night clubs. I am a married lady now, and so only need to seek love at the bottom of a bottle.
No. I am just kidding. I do not drink myself to love. I have a low tolerance and the stomach of an 80 year old. So I have to look for love in pizza.
No. I'm still kidding. I love Brian dearly. And he pretends to love me back, too. Even when I demand that he engage me in a push-up contest, then insist on being declared the All-Time Men's-Style Push-Up Cham'peen of Apt. 5N. Even then.
Now, that's dedication.
04.07.03 - 3:00pm
I guess I forgot that I live in New York City, Land of the Sleek Black Garments. I looked like a bridesmaid from the 1990s who got lost in time and space. I was very ashamed.
Four glasses of wine of helped to move me beyond my shame, but they also helped to give me a terrible headache this morning. But before I acquired this awful headache, the four glasses of wine help to embolden Brian and me to say hello to State Attorney General Elliot Spitzer, who somehow manages to radiate an air of a boy band superstar.
On Saturday, I spent much of the day with visiting grad school friend Taryn Roeder. We walked around for many hours, being caddy and looking for a bridal shower present for a friend of hers who makes a ridiculous amount of money as a lawyer, yet still lives with her parents. This was very fun.
In the evening, Taryn went off to spend time with an old friend, and I met up with Eleanor, who suggested we eat dinner at B&H Diary Restaurant. It was very cheap, and they had a very interesting-looking juicer. At 9:30, we decided to get our nails done, and low-and-behold, the nail place across the street was still open. The manicure was rather cheap, but the lady only gave me one coat of nail polish. In addition, I am actually very uncomfortable with people looking for long periods at my hands, as they look like they might be the hands of a large troll or a very old woman with terrible knuckles.
04.04.03 - 3:50pm
Good news: I can almost get into the dreaded kurmasana, or turtle pose. Or, at least I think I can almost get into it. I really have no proof, other than I feel tremendously uncomfortable and foolish as I try to stick my arms under my legs as I lean over in a way highty unnatural to my body.
I practice yoga with a body builder named Wini, who is very cool and has a yoga mat that magically never pills or sheds. She also tends to read my blog. The other morning, she came in with a scratch on her face. She had apparently tried to wake up her otherwise docile greyhound, and got a tooth in the cheekbone. To prove what a not vicious animal her dog is, she sent me a link to some pictures of Griffin, the dog. I am such a sucker for a cute doggy mug.
I have also been stewing in my own juices lately, as I have not yet finished filling out my tax return, and because my boss has been standing over me much of this week, thereby disallowing me to fulfill my destiny as a famous blog-writing superstar diva.
04.02.03 - 11:45am
Which is a problem for Brian. We have been living together for over three years, moving into smaller and smaller domiciles. We are now in a studio apartment.
Sometimes, I get that itch, and I've just got to sing.
Last night, I performed a classic rock medley, then I did my a capella rendition of John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme". This mainly consists of me chanting "A love supreme, a love supreme . . ." in my smokiest voice, then making my idea of saxophone noises.
This annoys Brian to no end. In some weird prenatal psychic mind switch, Brian was given a rather lovely singing voice, which he uses softly, and only on rare occasions. I, who was meant to have the lovely singing voice, was
given the dying chicken voice, a love for song, and a unique gift for fashioning the never-ending medley.
Brian has learned to adapt. For the most part, when I try to sing, he just turns up the volume of the TV or CD player. So I am forced to jump into his lap and sing in his ear. We love each other very much, and should probably be married for quite a long time. |
Taryn sent me this link to a blog by a fellow who was in our writing program. I was picked up again by the ashtanga yoga chat boards. thank you, yogabum, whoever you are. I sometimes think I should get on to the yoga message boards and chat it up. but then I fear someone will post how they saw me in class, sitting like a lump on my mat, burping to myself. so I remain silent. I am in a quandary, as my new job begins at 8:30 and ends at 5:30, and is nearly an hour commute from my place of residence. does anyone know of an all night ashtanga studio?
speaking a links, it's that time of the month again. . . here are some more odd google searches that have referred people to debcentral:
"subway commercial fraternity"
he has another one on wednesday. I have not seen him much in the past few weeks. and I will not see him at all this weekend, as I will be in boston hanging with close and personal friend Amy Fishman. I will be taking the chinatown express. which is now wickedly cheap due to the SARS scare. how sneaky I am! I was under the false assumption that at my new job, I would get a half day every friday. I just received word that I was making an "ass" out of "u" and "mption." apparently, the half-day only occurs in the winter months, during non-daylight savings time. harumph.
since we like her blog, and we think she's swell, we will link back. I really should leave this sidebar for persistent links. these commentaries may be getting old. and I haven't updated my news page in like 8 billion years. in the meantime, I will link once more to:
heck's kitchen let me know if I've left anyone out.
presently, if one searches for "deborah schwartz" on google, one may happen to come upon or ah! you ask yourself, could this be our "deborah schwartz"? well, uh, er, yes. but I was in college then. and I have since sworn off writing about such flowery things as "twilight" and "health food". these days, I stick mostly to writing about crazy people. I only write about that which I know.
I've been linked-to by past prof of Jenny Miller, George Williams apparently, if it hadn't been for mr. Williams, heck's kitchen would been just a gleam in the eye of a young fan of romance comics. evidence that good things are coming my way: I saw a small rat on the subway tracks yesterday morning I saw a squirrel in union square yesterday afternoon I saw one of those small crappy-looking birds flying around the subway platform this morning. I had a dream last night that the HR director of the museum of jewish heritage took me out for beer and tasty french fries covered in ketchup. hopefully, this will not be another toe surgery year. oh, and heck's kitchen has posted my rant against my soon-to-be-former employment situation. ain't she swell!
today I finally got B. Herman hooked up with blogger. I had been trying for some time, and he had been threatening for some time to move to a blogspot page, as he was sick of writing code. his blog is still in it's same old place, but my fabulous test page is here
these bouts were not, interestingly enough, preceded by feelings of nausea. in fact, in most cases, I was lying in bed when I was suddenly seized by the notion: I think I'm about to vomit. this gave me exactly enough time to run to the bathroom, which is about 4 steps from my bed, and be gross into the toilet. I wonder if it has anything to do with the new tooth-whiting formula I've been using. which, by the way, has not yet whitened my teeth. it is probably just a scam on the american people. on an up-note, I went to the Moroch family seder on Saturday. It was kind of fun. even if it was in New Jersey.
her stutters dull my senses and shatter my spirit.
I want to do somethin that matters more than talk.
how many more ways can you keep repeating it? a man full of much wisdom and red meat. who died yesterday at the age 72. and, oddly enough, of a severe head injury. Robert, oh how we will miss making fun of you. as it would be grotesquely rude to do so now, being as you just died and all. we will wait the prescribed 7 days of mourning before we begin ragging on your diet again. as if we were innocent of death and the world were sweet and new.
for security reasons, I cannot reveal the nature of the encouragement. but if you check the yesterday’s blog entry on a site that rhymes with Keck’s Hitchen, you may uncover the truth. for now, I will assume that you can’t handle the truth. also, zionide insinuates that I almost used a dirty word. last night: dinner with Seth at yuppie-haven Republic, dessert with Eleanor and her brother Mark, and the military alphabet with Brian Mack.
WHAT IS GOOD AND WHAT IS BAD. many of the nations top minds weigh in. Brian reveals his inner conflict. Bob illustrates the necessity for small chocolate liquor bottles. Sarah reflects on the responsibility of taxpayers and the importance of homemade tiki drinks. visit heck’s kitchen and let your voice be heard. in other news: my boss is a very noisy eater, which makes me want to vomit.
last year I read a total of three and a half books and wrote a total of nearly nothing. this year I am like a phoenix from the ashes. I have read at least six books and have written maybe five pages of words. I have also written countless “to do” and “grocery” lists. I may be the slowest reader in the world, but I actually finished Madam Bovary in less than three weeks. it was very sad, but had a good amount of sexy stuff too. ps: I mailed out our tax returns this morning.
my friend Andrea's friend Matt (who is my friend by the associative property) loves peeps. so I sent him a link to the peep research page. which I found on heck's kitchen Matt has threatened to post his own peep pictures. in the meantime, he has this awesome cow page. I just finished Maggie Estep's new book, Hex. it was a million times more enjoyable than doing my tax return. which is why I gave the job of our taxes over to my beloved I read a juicy detective novel while Brian scribbled numbers into little boxes.
some good blogs to check out:
oh. and one last thing
then besmirches her boss's good name. and sings the praises of Notorious I agree that Notorious is one fine specimen of a film. that's what you get when you combine: a saucy intrigue-filled plot, an exotic location an evil, yet charming German, and two beautiful people who can't cook a chicken. I saw an add on tv last night for cirque du soleil. it made me feel angry and nervous. why do clowns have such a strangle-hold on my subconscious. damn you, clowns and clown-like acrobats! damn you!
visit Katie's blog and find out how her nose is doing. visit heck's kitchen, and see if the mother of all heck is feeling any better. visit loshon hora, and ask Brian why he hasn't been updating his blog. come to Maggie Estep's reading tonight at the astor place barnes and noble. 7:30pm. I'll be there, so you can visit me as well.
especially because Jenny has published some stuff I said. Jenny and I have a brief discussion of ladies' wallets in the back pocket. and Sarah is funny too. also, check out the blog of another talented woman who broke her nose in yoga. See Katie's Blog for further nose news. a special thanks to the fine people of the ashtanga yoga ez boards. this just in: my crazy uncle, in whose apartment we are presently living, was just approved for transfer. Hm. I guess this means that uncle ira will probably want his apartment back. and we will have to move again. somehow, I don't feel up to calling him with congratulations.
so visit her website and write her a fan letter to make her feel better. tell her how funny and wonderful you think she is and how much you appreciate it that she updates her blog more often than me. and if you're feeling down, heck's kitchen links to a site with pictures of kittens in funny hats domesticated animals wearing people clothing is always funny--that is, except to the domesticated animal, who is probably trying to figure out what bad thing it did to deserve such awful punishment. domesticated animals with guilty looks are almost as funny as domesticated animal in people clothing
writer, yogi, and sometimes email correspondent Maggie Estep, will be reading from her new book Hex on wednesday, april 9th at 7:30 in the post-meridian. it will be at barnes & noble, 4 Astor Place, nyc. I will be there, several other yoga people are coming. And bums might be hanging around too, trying to use the b&n bathroom. so you should come as well. it might be fun.
this is debcentral.net, to which I refuse to link. it is maintained by a real estate broker in the midwest. she spells her name (Debby) with a "Y". I have decided that this site will heretofore be known as bizzaro debcentral. my parents have suggested I threaten to sue bizarro debcentral for misuse of the debcentral name. I don't know if I will sue, but if Bizarro Deb challenges me to a fight, I will fight her. and win! also, Brian has a new post.
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