Mouse. with a little, puny Heart Of Darkness.

baltimore is officially famous for four, count 'em, 4 attributes. not to say that these particular noteworthy characteristics are only present in 'the city that reads', i'm confident they abound anywhere there's Old School housing. here comes the part where i list them, for the three two of you that are interested:
1) Very Poorly Sealed Windows.
2) copious amounts of Lead Paint.
3) a beautifully extensive Mold Collection. it never stops growing.
4) Pushy Mice.

when i first moved into this apartment the pup exclaimed, 'lead paint? did we just move to willa wonka's factory for dogs? I Can Lick The Walls All Day Long. And Eat The Flakes That Constantly Flake To The Floor In Flaky Goodness.' frankly, i was cool with that. with neurological damage on one hand, and a hyper dog brutally forcing my attention on the other, i'll pick the brain damage every single time. and it was summer, so i didn't notice the Very Poorly Sealed Windows until, you know, later. and me an' the Space Heater From Heaven have been doubleteaming those Windows for two winters and counting. plus i'm not allergic to mold, so the mold and i co-exist in typical 'circle of life' fashion.

but the mice. i can't deal with the mice. i experienced a highly traumatic Mouse incident in college that i may choose to divulge at a later date. so when the typical browish-black cylinders of love started appearing all over my kitchen counters, i decided to live and let live, with absolutely no Sticky Traps invoked. but it just had to go for the jugular- my clean dishes. my open disdain for the Washing Of The Dishes is widely known and thoroughly documented, and when i saw trails of Mouse shit underneath my dish drain that was full of clean dishes, i knew this Mouse was in no way related to the genial mice i had encountered previously. when i commenced the Washing Of The Dishes, the same dishes i had previously washed, i knew this Mouse was going down. not in a way that would result in one of us not-living, but in a way that would reaffirm that the counters belonged only to me, dirty dishes, and stray bits of garlic skin. so one night shortly after the initial appearance of the poo, i heard a rustling in my oven. i quickly ran over and flung it open, revealing the white outstretched stomach of a little, puny Mouse. this scared the shit out of me, for though i knew that the rustling very likely was caused by a Mouse, i didn't actually put two and two together (my inexcusable inabilities in the Mathematical Arena are featured in the DSM-IV, in most household encyclopedias, and are the subject of many a blog post). i immediately shut the oven door so that the Mouse would not touch me or otherwise give me that crawly feeling in my skin, and i shouted, 'I Hate You, Mouse!,' backing up this declaration with a swift kick to the oven door, so that in case the Mouse was doubting, the Mouse would know i was for real.

the Mouse seems to have understood. but the damage has been done. every morning, even before i pee, and some mornings i really have to pee, i check under my dish drain. stupid Mouse.

no one needs this many stars. really.

hygenic observation.

when you've lost track as to when your last Bathing Experience occurred, it's time to give the section of your brain in which memories are stored the precious gift of a new Bathing Experience. even if you would describe yourself as 'not stinking.' because what qualifies as 'not stinking' to you is not necessarily universally held. no one needs diatribes on the coldness that hits your body as soon as the Bathing Experience has ended but before the Drying Experience has a chance to commence, and how it's winter-time and therefore easier to go a long time 'not stinking.' i'm sure it's all very interesting, but please have the courtesy to deliver this lecture from within the Bathing Experience. it'll sound better over the soothing background of splashing water.


this is definitely not a Note To Self. nope. not at all.

the hallowed place in which my clothes go to 'get clean.'

that would be mold on the floor. and all the walls. mmm.

coffee anyone?

i got breakfast this morning from a very small...mini mart? snack shop? coffee house?...no one really knows. i ordered a cup of coffee in hopes of achieving that nirvana of Balanced Hyperactivity, and the lady said 'hold on, i'll make a new pot for you.' this made me uncomfortable because: a) i knew i only wanted one cup, b) it seemed that no one within the entire city limits of baltimore city would be coming into this particular establishment for the rest of the day, much less ordering coffee, and c) i have been drinking cold and un-fresh coffee for most of my coffee drinking years, and i have come to expect that when i fork over that $1.35, it's going to be old and Not So Tasty. i didn't want an entire pot wasted because i ordered a single cup. the lady probably wanted to make a new pot because the coffee i would be choosing from if she didn't was guaranteed to be Not So Tasty, but i was cool with that. really. i thought about sharing all this information with the well-intentioned lady, but i didn't really feel like it would be appropriate. i envisioned an extremely awkward and confusing conversation happening, which i wasn't really prepared to deal with before i had some coffee.

so, if any of you want some coffee, there's a fresh pot ready for you at a...bagel shop? convenience store?...about a block from my house.

the best christmas decorations i've ever seen.

there really is a string of lights there. swear. on the bottom branches.

why can't democracy now be 8-hours long?

i'm in that really annoying phase where i hate all my music. no matter how many times i flip through my shiny pirated cd collection, i can't find anything that doesn't immediately cause prolonged lapses into the patented Disgusted Face. this means that i have resorted to listening to npr, because the music radio stations in baltimore tend to fall into one of two categories: oldies but Definitely Not goodies, and We Will Maintain A Maximum Of Five Songs In Rotation At All Times. folks, diane rehm is going to drive me certifiably crazy. today's program was entirely about florence nightingale. i'm not trying to hate on flo, but there is No Reason to talk about her for a whole hour. if it was five minutes, i would be with them the whole way, but c'mon, do we really care whether or not her nanny was too strict with her? i'm going to take a stand and say, 'no. no we don't.' i'm fully aware and sympathetic to the fact that thanks to our current economic conditions, the only people that can afford to financially support npr are on average about 3 times my age; and regardless, i would take issue with the argument that npr is routinely interesting to that demographic. are they really doing an extended interview with the guy that does the voice of spongebob? oh yes, yes they are.

someone, please, send me some new music.

a very Professional and In-Focus sampler of the 'celebration in lights.'

This is what democracy looks like.

in which my abundant queerness overwhelms all involved.

i recently made a reservation to stay in a Lady's home in williamsburg, va, because i wanted to spend christmas having a Raging Party, complete with tricorn hats, fifes, drums, and the newport news 'celebration in lights.' that's when they convert a local park into a christmas lights extravaganza that the entire neighborhood of hampden in baltimore pays tithes to and worships as its superior in all things christmas-y and involving lights and mobile christmas decor. since there are no hostels to speak of in this colonial mecca, it was necessary and cheapest to stay in this Lady's home which is not quite a bed and breakfast, being that there is no breakfast. the conversation roughly went as follows, but to be read correctly a slightly elderly female southern accent must be inserted to represent the Lady:

me: i need a reservation for 2 people for 3 nights.
Lady: okay, well, who will you be traveling with, dear?
me: uh, a...friend. a girl. another girl.
Lady: 2 girls! oh, that's great. so i have 2 rooms available, one downstairs with 2 double beds, and one upstairs with 1 queen bed. which would you prefer?
me: ...
Lady: hello?
me: uh, yes, can we have the queen room please?
Lady: are you sure?
me: uhm, yes.
Lady: okay, i have a reservation for 2 girls to take the room with 1 queen size bed.
me: great.
Lady: i look forward to meeting you 2 girls.
me: me too. meeting you, that is. right.

and the rest of the conversation concerned money and boring things. but having lived in williamsburg for 18 years i know that there are roughly 2 types of people that happen to inhabit this outlet paradise: 1)those who hate queers but wouldn't know them if 2 women walked in with Pronounced Mullets, Plaid-like Clothing, Numerous Rainbow Memorabilia, Harmonizing 'Closer to Fine'; 2)those who hate queers, know one when they see one, and adjust their Southern Hospitality accordingly. me, i'm banking on the elderly woman falling into the oblivious category, but i dunno, i blatantly picked the bed-sharing situation. i'm gonna sport the Long-Haired and Consequently-Very-Heterosexual-Looking Wig, just to be safe. i don't want to miss out on that famous Hospitality.

fear the relentless wrath of my domesticity.

just for the record, this wasn't all my fault. there wasn't a spatula. i swear. it's the taste that counts. Tasty.

overachiever #2.

my sister made like 5,000 of these for all her closest friends: jars with cookie ingredients, complete with a handwritten recipe and your very own cookie cutter.






i'm impressed. and thankful i didn't get stuck with the overachiever gene. mediocre is the new black, folks.

overachiever.

today as i was eating breakfast, a woman jogged by with 2 hands on a stroller, two identical medium-sized dogs flanking her. i too ventured outside earlier today, very briefly, and this is because it is Several Layers weather, and i was not wearing Several Layers. i worry for that child, i wanted to follow the woman and slip a note into the side pocket of the kid's coat, 'your worth is not measured in how many extracurricular activities you participate in. turn a deaf ear to her lectures. she's projecting.'





but the woman was outside. in Several Layers weather. kid's on her own.

i'm going to start keeping a 'coffee log.'

one thing i never seem to be able to negiotiate with my body, is, is, reaching the point of coffee consumption where i am hyper and the thoughts are coming so beautifully fast, but where i don't get shaky and where acid doesn't audibly gnaw my insides. i mean, we've talked, we've peer-mediated, but every time i express a desire for that tantalizing beverage either i find it difficult to form complete thoughts, let alone coherent sentences in my sleepy, itchy-eye state, or i pace around, peeing every ten minutes, getting dizzy if i look as if i may at some point in the future try to stand up quickly. it's happened before, on rare occasions, where it is the blissful caffeine high without the speed-like side effects. i will find a way, dammit. i will conduct a series of highly Scientific and Professional experiments, complete with consent forms and independent variables. i'll be right back with the results of that. right back, i swear. as soon as my hands stop shaking.

rock. steady.

stop staring at me.

don't look at me all panting and pathetic and 'do something, i'm helpless' because you're sooo hot when you've been systematically readjusting your body with the sun's movements so that you're laying right in the sunniest, warmest, spot All Morning. not that i don't respect your attempt to store the sun in your body for later when you're back in the apartment with it's own, built in, constantly running coldness factory called the Worst-Sealed Windows In Existence, but, straight up, it doesn't work like that. i could detail the reasons that it doesn't, but your attention span is small, and the issue at hand is that we both know if i give you water you'll slurp every last drop of it up because of your proven inability to self-regulate and you'll have to pee in like 15 minutes and today is a Work day. you're preventing my Work. see all this Working?

the dreaded fluffy and it's sidekick puff.

just so we're all on the same page.

there's no Private Joking going on. Private Joking is really not cool. it is not cool to publish something for multiple persons but have content that only a few of those persons are supposed to understand.

so no Private Joking. the sense of humor contained herein is arbitrary, and consequently not Very Funny, but it is not Private. read, glance, scan, leaf-through with great confidence and pride, and if something's not funny, it's not because you Don't Get It, it's because there's nothing to get, and it's just not Very Funny.

that which bobbleth shall never be overcometh.

poo. seriously.

twice a week i take this little pug dog and neruda to a track near the pug dog's house, and i watch them run around and try to break the necks off of empty water bottles (those evil deadly predators!) and walk, uneventfully, round and round the track. except for today when i see that both of them are very interested in something, and at first i'm like 'i guess they found some water over there on the field.' but then neruda starts wagging his tail, and i know he would never consider mere water worthy of a tail wag. so, there must have been some really, really good poo over there because i didn't know my dog to ever eat poo, and i'd never seen the pug dog try to eat poo, but they were both really into this poo. NEITHER NUTRITIOUS NOR DELICIOUS, boys.

ow.

i hate it when you cut your hand, no, just a scratch, really, thanks for asking, and you keep recutting the bastard on every handrail, edge-of-countertop, and carboard box within a 10 block radius. i mean, the initial bloodletting wasn't so bad, and, let's face it, kind of healing and rejuvenating, but c'mon, there's a shallow pool of blood settling into the concave surface of my \| key. i really need that key. i use it a lot, and there's no reason for it not to be dry and silver-colored.