Sunday, June 28, 2009
Its Sunday, the tea pot is steeping, and the sound of the rain mixes with XM Hipster or whatever I put on. Its acoustic, and save one unplugged version of 'Billie Jean' by Jason Mraz that I didn't hate, its a respite from the Michael Jackson speculation and tribute.
Himself is visiting his parents and aunt and is staying over so I have the house to myself. Just me, a cup of PG Tips, some quiet offbeat music, and the cat. I tried and failed to snazz up my cellphone by installing a CD that came with it when I bought it months ago. He'll figure it out when he comes home.
Its a peaceful day. Tomorrow work begins again; so far I know another journey to Ithaca is forthcoming, hopefully not in the Dodge Dakota 4 X 4 I've been driving for work that I only recently discovered has no registration sticker and anyway is only legal for two more days. Though after going forth in a vehicle with a bad power steering pump and another with a master cylinder that failed while I was driving downhill, mere matters of paperwork are, by comparison, quite inconsequential. Their attempts to kill me/strand me 300 miles from home seem to be de-escalating, so that's a good thing.
Madeline Peyroux was chopping in and out. I had to go investigate. Apparently sattelite radio cannot penetrate the density of an orange cat's furry behind if its parked on the receiver.
I was driving way up into the knobby shoulder of New York the other day, the customer insisted on a 10am appointment, which necessitated my leaving at 3:45am. I minded this less than you might imagine; I zipped through all the usual traffic pinches with ease and by 'rush hour' I was well away from any areas where sincere 'rushing' was happening. Somewhere near Ogdensburg, while I was daydreaming,listening to Quebecois radio, and imagining myself in a thoughtful (and subtitled) romantic comedy, the cars in front of me began slowing down. White trucks were parked on both sides and as they flashed by I saw two words in large green block letters.
Christmas in Killarney, did I CROSS THE BORDER????? Oh God, no. All I have is a Pennsylvania driver's license, no birth certificate, no 'enhanced' license, and when the smiling young man appeared in my window I was LISTENING TO FRENCH RADIO. I mashed the button, hoping for 95-point-whatever, the Big Pig, classic rock for the AMERICAN military base down yonder, but all I got is MORE FRENCH. Crap. Just as I was about to apologize, beg for mercy, explain I'd been on the road since 3:45, and stand back while the drug dogs went over the van, he did that two fingered pointing gesture thing cops do and said, "You can go ahead. You have a nice day, ma'am."
Oh. Ah. What? Okay.
And, oh. I'm still in New York. Apparently even though it flattened out and filled up with Frenchies and the odd Amish buggy, I was still in New York. Okay. I guess the border has, like, bigger signs anyway.
Not much else has been going on. I've been travelling a lot, thinking a lot, and feeling very much like something new is coming. Mostly I've been feeling peaceful, which is good, because I asked for that.
So enjoy your own Sunday. Here's a little music for ya. I like to imagine the You Tube comments on this are less idiotic, but I don't speak the language so I can't verify this. I don't see anything that looks like it was written by a French troll, though.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
I was driving home today, slurping the last inch of my cherry Icee and listening to my iPod. I'm sure that someday I'll find out that you aren't supposed to do THAT while you are driving in the State of New York, but given the number of college age girls driving around with a phone clapped to their ear who obviously never got a $50 ticket for it like I did, pbppphhhlt on the law. Mad apologies to the village of Dryden, NY, which was treated to the 'white lady in a minivan with headphones on and the windows down' version of this: (Its unedited....just so ya know)
Anyway, the music got me thinking about how I'd finish "In my dreams I am....". I've had a lot of fantasies. Most of them revolve around a degree of agility and grace I do not possess. One stands out. The quality isn't great but you get the idea.
Yep. I didn't just want to be on TV. I didn't just want to look as good as they do in those shorts.
In my dreams, I am a Fly Girl.
How about you?
Friday, June 12, 2009
First, I went to the post office right at the end of the day and had a chat with someone while she was taking the flag down. She balled it up and casually shoved it into a mail bin. When I threatened to write about this, Himself pooh-poohed it and I decided I was just hot and gritty and cranky.
Yesterday I drove past this place. I do so about once a week. (Hey, if you have five million kicking around, its for sale.) Its closed, and its right on Route 81. Just one of those uninteresting landmarks that tells me "You are bound for Syracuse and points north. Again. Stay awake. Stay awake! Change the station! The rest stop is coming up! Stop picking that!"
Yeah, I spend a lot of time by myself.
While I realize that property management is usually limited to basic security, cutting the grass, and generally keeping the place presentable, there is something else that needs done there. Feebly waving in front of this building are two flags. Really, 1 and 2/3 flags.
The American flag is shredded. Absolutely shredded and sad and defeated looking. Its Canadian brother is missing the non-flagpole side red field, giving it the disconcerting appearance of a Polish flag with a maple leaf on it. Someone needs to take them down and dispose of them respectfully.
So if there are any patriots in Tully, New York.....all you'd probably need is a flashlight. Just sayin'. I thought about emailing the realtor and making that request but every mental paragraph I composed sounded like it was written by a patriotic but peevish old lady with twenty cats and a house full of dolls.
Speaking of which.
Another blogger's post about irrational fears got me thinking about things that I wouldn't exactly classify as a 'fear', just an extreme discomfort bordering on paranoia, which everyone knows is way better and not nearly as crazy.
I hate dolls.
Once a week I survey a house that has That Room. The one with the shelves around three walls lined with dolls. These kind.
Usually they are staring vacantly from yellowing and dusty plastic boxes, but it doesn't minimize the sense that they are watching me. There are few things I've ever encountered in this world (ostensibly "occult" items included) that would make me feel better to heap up in a large pile, douse with fuel, and set ablaze. Though the mental image of a pile of creepy dolls slowly deforming in the heat will probably haunt me for weeks.
I've been a little stressed lately and haven't posted much, but I'm sure the next week will yield some pleasant rumination on the nature of humankind, what with the Laurel Festival about to land on us like a sumo wrestler. Once again I will engage in my favorite festival activity; parking in people who park in the firehouse lot right in front of the sign that says PARKING FOR FIRE/EMS ONLY. Hope you were planning on staying awhile, Jersey plates.
I think I need some aromatherapy.