A world of fragments.

Cont.

2008-10-14T14:23:00.000-05:00

I've been compulsively flossing my teeth in an effort to impress my well-adjusted dental hygienist. I've been reading up on American colonialism, discovering that my husband's lineage involves alot of falling into sizeable bodies of water. Note to self: keep floaties on future children (even if adopted) at all times. I've been disturbed/delighted at my shocking resemblance to Sarah Palin. I've co-performed a wedding ceremony. I've learned to replace the spark plugs on my car, only to become too exhausted to change the defective plug wires myself. Thus, my dad has had two simultaneously crying daughters with a 20 some-odd year age difference. I've been helping children make paintings of trees, mountain puppets, and clay restaurants. I've found that planing lumber with my husband is romantic, but this might be misunderstood. We switched sides in our bed to optimize body contact.

I've chain-smoked and quit. Wrote poems about winter's insanity and have been haunted by my grandfather at the grocery store. Made amends with my mother and my false insecurity....kind of. I've run through strangers' lawns and back again. Built muscles and softened them. Helped a man learn MacBeth in German. A girl learn French through Japanese. Met the Southern stereotype that I've been so worried about. I've stopped screaming and hitting. Got a compliment about my smile. I've gone sledding, apple picking, and rock skipping. Bought kitten-heeled shoes. Earned a 1967 Chevy Impala...maybe. I've been called patient, which made me happier than expected. I've found success at stacking firewood through occasional failure.

That's what I remember. I'll try harder to chronicle what comes next.

For lovers.

2007-04-26T19:14:00.000-05:00

I have plenty of reasons for why it could affect me so much.

My step-sister's former classmate on the cover of Time magazine. A haunting worry that I [somehow] belong in Virginia. The horror of it all. The tragedy of a kid who managed to have it all wrong.

I'm usually not into this sort of thing. When I do, I usually get hyper-defensive. I start worrying that people just think that people from Va. are gun-toting crazies. That people think that video games will slowly kill us all. Worst of all, that there's no place for grief. So, folks harbor it carefully with no discussion.

I cried about it. Once. And it instantly felt like it was the most selfish thing I could have done.

But I'll get over it.

I cry alot.

Gee golly.

2007-03-07T10:20:00.000-05:00

I was going to write about the sexiness
of Mexican racing.

But, I got all silly and nostalgic and ending up reading old e-mails. Specifically, ones to a fellow I never kissed who would later go on to say he hated the word "debauchery." Ah well. Point being: I totally forgot about this girl, even though I remember the sweet smells and aching bones of that spring.

19.Feb.03
I secretly adore the Portland Public Library. The
long walk past parking garages and City Hall. The
businessmen in baseball hats and emo kids ready for
the war against collective heartbreak. The smell of
old books works better than a cup of hazelnut, as I
discovered that I have managed to sit at the
computer center used primarily by the
German-speaking, Somalian communities of Portland
[all of the language configurations are out of
whack, right down to the date being spit out in
pixalated French, and the Google search in Spanish].
And yes, your e-mails make me happy. Make me blush
in public, even though nobody is really looking
[except for the information desk lady, who keep
glancing at her timer]. Your job sounds utterly
fascinating, although I easily recognize/empathize
with your struggles. How does one make math and
science...ahem...fun? I guess it all depends on
levels of interaction with the material being
taught. Kids love to push the buttons, whether they
be literal or figurative in nature.
And I worry about the prospect of being President,
although power is definitely a worthy thing to wrap
a fetish around. I think I'd be better off being the
eccentric old lady with pink flamingos in her yard,
who changes her surrounding community one word of
wisdom at a time. But I stll have a couple of years
until that happens.
Farewell, for the retail slut hour creeps quickly.
- Dianna

11.May.03
I'm mystified with the idea that it's
Sunday. Yes...Dianna has been partaking in much
whiskey and walks along the Eastern Promenade, but,
fear not, for I'm in the good company of
Goddardites. Anywho....blah... I haven't written in
awhile, but do not worry with the concept that this
letter is in conjunction with booze. Aphex Twin is
playing...so lovely. Life has been quietly
wonderful. My semester is going well, if one
considers that I have changed my big scheme fous and
decided to formally embrace my love of writing.
Yah-hoo! I may even work on a book this summer,
while volunteering at the Boston Chinatown
Neighborhood Center (ESL work...blissful). Strange
things reveal themselves as the snow melts and the
trees begin to wave with budding greetings. I don't
think I've even e-mailed you since the beginning of
the war. Needless to say, my opinion can be
precisely assumed with my passive, war-hating
demeanor. I could elaborate at a latter time, with
charming eloquence to boot. Oh....gracious...it IS
Mother's Day. I'll call Mum from work this morning.
Hmmm.....what else? Portland is truly wonderful, in
a quietly charming way. I can't quite bear to leave
it, which contradicts my wandering tendencies.
Regardless, I have hyper-optimistic plans to pay off
my credit card deby and travel to Europe in the fall
(more of a holiday than anything else). Ergh...I
volunteered briefly with the Boston CyberArts
festival. It was swell enough, but I was more
intrigued by the weekly commute to Jamaica Plains
(via bus...then a hop on the T). I adored eating
fried rice and watching 24-hour coverage of the war
with the owner of a rather decent joint that served
Vanilla Coke. The gig, itself though, was passive
and a terrible bore. It would have been nice to meet
up with Bill Viola again though. His films drive me
deliciously mad. The boys are fighting. I may be
impaled with an elbow at any point. Yes, it is
endearing. Perhaps even sincerely nice. I hope
things are well with you. I haven't been some evil
ice princess godess of death...I do have a tendency
to contemplate the world of N while chain smoking
at intersections and listening to college radio. I
fear I could write for eons. It could prove to be a
bore. Ugh...the boys are looking for the BB gun
that's safely hidden in my car's glove compartment.
Chuck will never think to look over my shoulder
though. My lightly tanned, well scrubbed flesh is
protected for now. Right....writing for eons.
Anyhow....seriously...I hope thigns are well.
Perhaps my upcoming once-again commutes to the fair
city of Boston will lead me to stumble upon you for
a brunch of chocolate and my surrealistic French.
Enjoy the sunshine....it warms the creative soul. -
Dianna (^_^)

The last note I received came a week before I got drunk enough to confess to the boy-who-would-be-my-husband that I liked him. A week after having my heart stung lightly by a Viking. A month or so after a crush left me for the entire country of Spain. Now, I lament to my friends about not remembering the life of a single girl...a wild-eyed, heartbroken romantic...

Apparently, it was devastating.

Crafty.

2006-12-13T10:41:00.000-05:00

When I was 16, I got pissed off at Martha Stewart for making Rice Crispie Treats. I thought Oprah was far more hardcore.

Times change. Oprah has ruined literary marketing forever. Dare I say, she's the Chairman Mao of daytime television.

Also, her magazine is a bore. Trust me, even coin collecting mags are more compelling.

She did tell me about Egyptian cotton sheets. Ah well.

Meanwhile, Martha Stewart has started to rock it. Maybe she always has. She's a cunning rogue. She doesn't care about you. She doesn't care about her staff. She barely cares about her guests (but she's so impressed that Kanye
West is into design).

She kind of doesn't even care about crafting. Or geography.

...

It's hard to say what she cares about.

And that's what makes her the most dangerous of all.

It's true.

2006-11-22T09:11:00.000-05:00

My pesky husband described my skill at playing Red Steel in the following manner:

"...when she had trouble aiming in the beginning she would just run up to someone shooting her and blow them the fuck away..."

What can I say? I'm flirty.

Things.

2006-11-19T07:54:00.000-05:00

Best non-racing thing of note: Wii

M, E, and I had to go to Houlton to pick one up at the Wal-Mart midnight sale. Despite the dizzying glare of artificial lighting and the disorienting layout, I managed to race a fat kid for a reserve ticket. Since I was wearing my jacket with the #11 applique on the back, it sort of resembled the last race at Martinsville: I just didn't feel like wrecking that poor kid.

We did what most people do in Houlton: eat large sandwiches, play Big Buck Hunter at the Big Stop, and sing some of the words to "Then He Kissed Me" (Lesley Gore rendition).

I bowled twice. I will play hours of Zelda later this week. It will be awesome.

Other non-racing thing of note: The Rebellion Jardiniere kit at French Touche.

I'm not really sure why I would want to lead a garden rebellion.

...

Oh wait, I remember now.

Best while-not-racing thing of note: Contender Press Conference

I like catching drivers when their defenses are down, and, at times, press conferences can hold gems of charming behavior.

Such as Jr. and DH looking openly bored during the whole thing. I would've been content with being able to see the two of them stare into the rafters, seek out shiny things, and make come hither glances at lady reporters...

...but then it got better.

I admit, I zoned out when Jimmie Johnson was talking about Talledega (maybe he wasn't even talking about Talledega). Thus, I was pleasantly surprised to hear Jr. and DH exhange some sort of whisper-discussion mirroring a conversation between junior high girls about this VNSFW (or most homes, I guess) video:

Again, it could have stopped here and still be plenty awesome, except for three key points: a) Denny's carefree ease at being able to make the press giggle at his Virginian...er...charm b) Jr.'s use of the term "camcordin'", which is almost faux Southern, c) the mutual agreement between Jr. and DH that this would be something that Jimmie Johnson could appreciate...knowing that Jr. fans kind of want him shot.

Camcordin':

Well-executed.

Thinking of Jr. and DH as total BFF is also a perk. Dare I say, it's quietly one of the best things to happen to racing. After watching their mini-battle during the Busch race last night, along with Denny's declaration to the press that his "potential as a race car driver is not nearly at its peak yet", I'd say things are going to be fun to watch.

I have to blink alot as is, since my eyes dry out with excitement. Is that weird?

Non-racing things I will do after the season is over:

1. Learn to properly roast chickens.
2. Read non-racing books, such as 'Thirteen Moons' by Charles Frazier.
3. Learn to properly ventilate a home.
4. Knit mittens.
5. Take walks with my husband in the woods.
6. Celebrate holidays.
7. Write Denny Hamlin fan fiction inspired by the "Young Indiana Jones" television series, where Denny gets to engage in lots of drinking and fist fights with Ernest Hemingway.
8. Cry. A little.

OMG

2006-11-07T18:50:00.000-05:00

I really love Carrie Underwood. Her latest song is wicked catchy PLUS she carries a baseball bat around in the video. Awesome. Someone once said that we looked alike, but I think this is a stretch. With a former surname like 'Brooks', I spent much of my youth daydreaming about the prospect of having wealthy country star kinfolk. This type of experience can apply here as well. In short, I would french braid Carrie's hair under an oak tree.

I was incredibly happy to hear of the poor loser spectacle that was Faith Hill.

See also:

In the immortal words of Tony Stewart: Dood.

I'm pretty sure Loretta Lynn would lay a serious smack down for this type of behavior.

See also:

Serious. Smack. Down.

Ce n'est pas un apology.

2006-11-03T16:05:00.000-05:00

I might start writing more. I've been distracted by nothing in particular, just lazily pondering fanatic behavior. What I thought would be a temporary interest in NASCAR still persists. Thankfully, I've learned all that Google and the Speed channel have to offer about Denny Hamlin. To save you the labor, I've come up with this useful synopsis:

1. His full name is James Dennis Alan Hamlin, Jr. I think J.D.A. Hamlin is a perfectly handsome name, but it doesn't invoke memories of cherry pie and free refills.
2. He has a one-eyed spotter. This is neither perverse nor an endangered species.
3. This is his biggest fan. She could beat me up, and I'm okay with this.
4. He's been set on fire by Tony Stewart. I'm not sure how to work this into fan fiction, but...
5. 19 stitches, no pills, 2nd place finish. Well-played.
6. He sneaks glances at Wendy Venturini's "boobies" when he thinks she isn't paying attention.
7. Amateur critics (i.e., teenagers on Yahoo! Answers) are quick to express a certain dislike for his face and/or his voice. Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Andrew Johnson's face. Ah, well.
8. His rear-tire changer's son is really good at flag football.
9. "Hamlin is sort of a Southern version of Napoleon Dynamite, sans the ultra-curly hair and goofy 1980s glasses." - ESPN
10. In relation to #4, he referred to Tony Stewart as a "chicken". I can't even contemplate calling the woman I buy yarn from a chicken, let alone someone who sets people on fire. Mmmm....chicken.

Bonus: Jesus.

There. Now, I think I can finally learn how to properly prepare salt cod. Or play guitar. Or ask for a doctor in Korean.

Trampoline joys.

2006-08-10T09:36:00.000-05:00

Being married is an underrated comfort that brings feelings of superhero powers and endless opportunities. I enjoy being a Mrs., as I feel closer to my mythological predecessor. Now comes my house in the woods, as I continue my role as lady of beasts.

In other news, I wonder if the concept of reincarnation breaks the hearts of parents. In addition, I realize that my childhood fascination with post-apocolyptic societies might have been a yearning for a close-knit community.

I've perfected creme sauces and gravies, gradually attempting to grow fatter. I work dizzying shifts and usually forget the date. I want to go on a trans-atlantic sailing trip winter 2008, smoking cloves and wearing vintage fur coats. I'm woo'd by Denny's emerging facial hair and Michael's hot pink hot pants. I'm considering a fianancial planner to plan my retirement in the French countryside, where I'll tease my bangs and drink too many mojitos.

It's kind of stupid...y'know?

2006-06-07T12:15:00.000-05:00

It's kind of stupid that whenever I see a moose, I immediately think, "Fuck...someone lost their horse," y'know?
It's kind of stupid that if I wake up before 9:15 a.m., I feel ready for a nap by 1:15 p.m., y'know?

Um.

That's all I have so far, but I'll expand upon this later.

Why NASCAR?

2006-06-06T14:08:00.000-05:00

Or...Why Di-Di Generally Enjoys Sports That Are Not Really Sports (i.e., High Stakes Poker, Spelling Bees) In Order To Utilize Her Impressive Temper To Defend Them Alot and Stuff.

It deals mostly with the social currency factor. Although 'Åmerican Idol' and 'Lost' have a similar appeal, they're exhausting and their shelf life is questionable. Quite a few NASCAR fans are generally bad ass and/or good storytellers and/or good at fixing cars and/or impressive drinkers. Thus, knowing as much as possible about the sport gets me far in life. Or at least the local Elks Lodge. So far.

On a similar note, it helps avoid awkward silences with my family members.

Such as:

"So....yeah."

"Hmm. Yep."

"So how about that comeback from Jimmie Johnson at Dover last week?"

"Yeah...geez....seriously."

Also, vintage NASCAR races (see also: ESPN Classic) are hot. As in hawt.

Super-classy:

Besides, you get to take 4 hours (give or take a rain delay), sit, yell, and drink beer. If anyone challenges your actions, you can spit and curse about, "This is the ONE time when I get to take time out for my own damn self, and if you can't...."

You get the picture.

Plus, you can make up your own super team. Take DITSA for example.

Di-Di's Imaginary Team of Speedy Awesomeness:

1. Tony Stewart (because he looks like Napoleon, has a monkey, and gets crazy eye. And he seems a little skeezy. I like skeezy.)
2. Dale Earnhardt, Jr. (because legacies are nice, Budweiser goes well with sitting and yelling, and he looks a little like Clint Eastwood in 'For a Few Dollars More'. A little.)
3. Denny Hamlin (because he...a-hem...ain't skurred and he looks like Robert E. Lee. Okay, not at all. Oh well.)
4. Kyle Petty (because he's an effing Petty! andhehelpschildren.)
5. Mark Martin (because he's feisty)
6. Greg Biffle (I enjoy his Subway commercials. You gotta problem with that?!)

The team changes, based upon a very unscientific set of standards. Plus, there's always the Death List, also based on completely irrational notions of justice.

Right now, it's Kasey Kahne. I won't get into it. He'll get off of it eventually. With pain. And redemption.

Who knows why.

2006-06-05T11:04:00.000-05:00

It's days like this that make my head swell and spin. I seek coffee over beer. Daydreams unfurl like carpets of ferns.

It's strange how a mall job makes me feel alright. A wedding keeps me grounded. Building a nest makes me humble.

June has a way of doing this. Catching me off guard. Feeding me bug bites and lime-flavored water. I'm smitten.

I should be more unsure. Hold myself next to standards and fear changes.

I do. A little. Sometimes, sure.

By the numbers.

2006-05-24T10:20:00.000-05:00

I have an interview for a position with AMHC tomorrow. They asked me to provide five years of employment history (including any periods of unemployment).

They gave me 1 page to do this, with 5 segments.
Tomorrow, I will give them 3 pages, with 16 segments.
Of these 16 segments, only 4 represent periods of unemployment.
I've worked for 10 different employers in the past 5 years. 11 total.

I've attended 10 schools (from kindergarten to completion of B.A.).
In my life, I've lived in 9 states...roughly.
I've spent the night in 17 states...roughly.
3 countries outside of the U.S.

I've been around for 24 years...roughly.
293 months is closer.
8,925 days might be more precise.
771,161,458 seconds to be exact.
Although, now...it's not as exact.
Oh well.

I've kissed 12 people passionately on the mouth...roughly.
'Roughly' still referring to an estimated figure.
I'm usually quite kind about it, really.
That's all I'll say about that.

Here's a story about chasing hobos.

:)

2006-05-19T16:42:00.000-05:00

OK Computer.

Also, I got a job at the mall-o-rific book store. I also have a job interview to become a government clerk. I supplement these prospects by weed-wacking for Matt's grammy and grampy.

I need to learn cribbage and bridge.

Since I've been gone, I've become obsessed with NASCAR. If you stick with me, I'll explain how obsessed and NASCAR can go together for a whimsical 24-year old gal like myself.

Denny Hamlin and his awesomeness can serve as starters.

Tony Stewart's monkey ("Mojo") can be be the palate cleanser.

:(

2006-05-01T08:58:00.000-05:00

Computer go boom=bad logic board.

So our (Matt & I) troubleshooting smarts tell us anyhow. We might be wrong. And that's okay.

There's enough money to get it all fixed, but it's sunny out. Soooo...we're going to wait awhile.

If you own/ed an iMac G5 and had a curious incident where unplugging your printer's power cord made your computer fall into a heavy coma...please elaborate. Possible power surge has already been suggested, but, alas, the monster dare not wake from its heavy sleep. If you give us a solution that works, we might consider spending $900 on you instead of a logic board. And hugs. And delicious cookies. And Matt will juggle axes.

Think about it. I'll be around. Daily, rather than constantly.

Hmm-Haw.

2006-04-28T12:07:00.000-05:00

I'm kind of amazed at how many of my friends work/have worked with autistic children. I'm secretly terrified of it, mostly because I'm afraid of doing something inadvertently traumatic. Yes, it's surprising that I'm even able to leave the house with this sort of mindset.

In addition, I'm swirling through a bizarre manic period of wonderfullness. This week, I've made 8 dozen cookies, applied for 6 jobs, and cleaned infinite piles of laundry. I've talked to strangers about seagulls. I don't think I'm getting an ulcer. I've gotten over my fear of the post-office guy (not the one with the prison tattoos...the other one) and finally sent out wedding invitations.

Strangely enough, I'm pretty sure that I have fewer phobias than most people. Maybe.

I've openly confessed that I believe that my dead brother stopped by as a sparrow on his birthday last week. This also means that I finally confessed to Matt's parents that I even have a dead brother. And that I have adopted my own sense of reincarnation. Hence, that's how an insecure cat embodies a former sadistic Soviet dictator. And how the golden retriever captured Houdini's soul. Although, this means that Houdini was...well...a little lacking in common sense...and can't walk up stairs.

Maybe it's all the flax I've been eating lately.

I saw 'Match Point' last night, since I follow Woody Allen on any of his journeys. Except 'Bananas'. Fuck that. I did like 'Match Point' though, because it played a mean game of tug o' war with any preconceptions I had about it. Hooray! Tonight, it's probably 'Good Night, and Good Luck'.

Sometimes, I think that if George Clooney was to hug me, I would just cry alot. I wouldn't even try to make out with him. Jeez. I bet he would laugh and stroke my hair, mostly because of the hippie tea tree shampoo I use. George Clooney would like that.

"Ha-ha. Mmm...is that balm mint?"

"Fuck yeah it is, George Clooney!"

I'm thinking about making an asymmetrical necklace.

Posie.

2006-04-28T10:29:00.000-05:00

Thank you, ilisu.

Find your own pose!

This makes me happy, although I prefer to be on the receiving end of the seatbelt. In fact, I also cross my arms like that and tuck a foot behind my opposite knee. Hmm...close enough.

Stream of....er....awesomeness.

2006-04-25T09:03:00.000-05:00

I'm really concerned about the resurgence of leggings. Not tights. LEGGINGS. It only now struck me as concerning. The thing is, I was so damn happy when leg warmers were popular (i.e., readily available). I am now thankful for rural living.

Sorry.

Currently in the midst of conducting research on Maine folktales for Dr. T. In the process, I've become fascinated by peg legs. In turn, I'm seriously considering starting a short story collection filled with contemporary tall tales of my own creation, based on the idea of shifting internal/emotional scars/struggles/pains into more external/active representations.

For instance, when I attempt to explain that darker hours of my 24-year journey, the common response is, "Oh god, I had no idea." Yet, if I had a peg leg or a long scar on my right cheek, it would become a quiet declaration of, "Look, I've gone through some serious shit." Some folks attempt this by getting a tattoo, and, look, I think that's awesome...but it's also showing that there's quite a bit we're missing...in that primal/collective sense.

Because, sometimes, I'm not interested in a drug-induced, self-driven "trip". Rather, I want to buy that blue and yellow monster truck on Rt. 1 and that mega-set from "The Knife Show", take on a kitty sidekick, and find a chest of booty.

For serious.

Que Sera Blah.

2006-04-21T14:37:00.000-05:00

Whatever, dude. I'm so tired of bitching about a job. I'm off to pursue better interests in the meantime.

Like selling psych-rock LPs for my future father-in-law. Like getting back into my foodie-ism, fueled by the prospect of farmers' markets and dreamy visions of drinking snake's blood with Anthony Bourdain.

Swoon.

Like getting into gardening. Like at least thinking as a writer again. Like getting in touch with friends and at least talking about big adventures. Like just generally getting back to the shit I really care about and letting go of pesky insecurities.

Or at least faking it.

Thanks, Shmuley Botech. You really are America's rabbi.

And I'm going to try to stay away from television...for the most part. Sudoku helps. It makes me feel like 'Little Man Tate' inside.

And, hell, if I get a gig cleaning hotel rooms or tending to the local crisis helpline, then I'll just take it as a bonus.

And I'm not leaving the County. Fuckers. My Southern can is here to stay, unfettered by chronic unemployment and a growing sense of ennui.

What would Serge Gainsbourg do?

Fly Safe.

2006-04-12T08:49:00.000-05:00

My dad's not big on unions.

But I am.

And as I sit here today, waiting to hear back on a radio station job, my dad is considering early retirement from a job he used to love.

Here's the deal:

- Do you like flying?
- Do you conduct whimsical daydreams of bargaining tables?
- Do you have the hots for Barack Obama (D-IL)?

The FAA is trying to present the [false] idea that air traffic controllers (ATC) are getting paid too much, thus putting the system in crisis. In addition, the FAA is neglecting to address the impending staffing crisis that is about to occur (possibly more quickly) due to an increase of retirees over new hires. While attempting to act as/switch to a private entity (albeit, a poorly executed one), little care is taken to address the fact that this is a PUBLIC AGENCY. Let's face it: not many kids (or many current employees) are going to look forward to a government job with poor pay and an identity crisis.

So then what? Well, I've never been fond of scare tactics, but...do the math:

fewer controllers+more planes=terrorism might not be our biggest transportation concern.

Also, labor rights have been gradually wearing away, with union membership steadily falling. So be it, but there needs to be a means to insure that workers (ALL workers) can take on a proper wage in safe working conditions. In turn, workers on their off time (i.e., customers/consumers/patrons) will also feel the benefits.

Check out fairfaa.com for more info on the current crisis.

If you feel inclined, contact your local representative here or by your preferred means (egging his/her house is strongly discouraged, but holding up your sweet stereo and pumping "In Your Eyes" is always welcomed).

Hell, do it for my dad (he needed a healthy salary to pay for my braces), do it for my little sister....

...do it for Billy Bob Thorton in 'Pushing Tin'. Dammit.

Ultimatum.

2006-04-05T09:44:00.000-05:00

Here's the deal:

If I don't hear back from one of the 9 jobs I've applied for by this Friday, I'm going to apply to become a farm apprentice.

If I don't hear back by NEXT Friday, I'm going to accept any farm apprentice jobs offered to me.

It feels like running away to join the circus, but that's exactly what I need.

I want to make goat cheese. Learn to build a boat. Drink a bottle of my own wine. Learn about heirloom produce.

Plus, I want some solid biceps for my Richard-Petty-as-pirate tattoo. It'll look amazing during my Jeopardy! appearance.

Otherwise, I'm going to have to make a list of television programs featuring an episode that includes the acquisition of U2 tickets.

You've been put on notice.

Bring it.

2006-03-29T10:02:00.000-05:00

So, I didn't get The Awesomest Job in the Universe Ever in the History of Always. I was a finalist. God and I are on speaking terms, but it's his sorry luck that he didn't get his present.

It doesn't matter though, because I'm pretty sure I rawked the Jeopardy! Online Test last night.

I'm so sure (i.e., bored and unemployed) that I've given myself a head start on addressing a few issues.

Like: What do I wear? At what monetary amount should I feel obligated to give some of my winnings to family members? Is a Prius a sound investment? Are my Jeopardy! chit-chat stories going to be too inappropriate? How do I keep from swearing on national television? Can I say 'frig'? Does Alex Trebek still smell of residual moustache wax?

Also, I may need to make up an occupation for myself. I'm considering "World Adventurer" or "Edith Piaf".

Thankfully, I've already determined my Final Jeopardy decoy-answer should I a) really not know the answer or b) have so much cash that I can say 'Fuck it.' I can't share it with you now. But, trust me, it's going to be the funniest damn thing in the history of game shows. Har!

Then they'll realize why I need to be a member of that wretched Clue Crew.

Dear God.

2006-03-10T10:26:00.000-05:00

I really would like this job.

Not just any job. THIS job. Because it rawks. Hardcore.

I know you can help me out here.

In return, I'll buy this and have it shipped to you.

Which, to me, seems fair.

I thank you, in advance, for your time and consideration toward this matter.

Luv,
Di

P.S. - No, seriously.

P.S.S. - Please.

Do the running man.

2006-03-06T10:43:00.000-05:00

I'm excited.

Although, I also may be lining myself up for utter failure on all sides. Eh. Oh well.

Over the weekend, I saw Governor Baldacci and other Democratic Mainers. This is because I'm on the Aroostook County Commission. This is because I raised my hand when they asked who wanted to be on it. Now, I get to shake alot of hands, and quietly wonder if Gov. Baldacci would laugh if I told him that, in blog-world, I turned him into a ball of tin foil. I think so. He's sort of the Albert Markovski of the political realm.

I really have no idea what I'm doing there. I may switch over to the Frontier Heritage Society instead.

I also saw sled dogs. And the crazy Quebecois mushers that love them. I've determined that rooting for the Quebecois in most sports is a pretty fine idea.

This morning, I was set to apply as a cook at a local potato processing plant. I was dizzy with visions of grandeur. Yet, I soon received a call from the ACAP for a community outreach position. I have an interview on Thursday. If successful, I get to teach teenagers not to have babies. Effing sweet.

I'm also going to craft up some wedding invites this week. And maybe teach myself to make good bread. I don't actually know if idle hands are the devil's plaything, but I know that being bored will eventually leave one writing Food Network fan fiction.

Personal experience.

Watch this, please:

So long as he's a Southerner and thinks like you.

2006-02-28T11:20:00.000-05:00

Weddings are hard.

I'm sure marriage is too, but I know I can manage. Remaining vigilantly aversive to consumer debt, merging numerous family factions (even within my own clan), and deciding on an appropriate hair style is difficult.

It doesn't help that weddings are so...ugh...weighty. Simply being a bride exerts a certain superiority that I'm not comfortable with. There's so much competition. I don't like the idea of 'snagging' a man, as if they're small animals harvested for their pelts. I don't like the idea of making people worry about registry gifts. I don't like the idea of spending $5000 on ugly/boring dresses so I can say, "I'm able to spend $5000 on an ugly/boring dress, doesn't that make me...."

What? Special? Pretty? Fertile?

All I want is to hang out with my friends and family. Eat good food. Sing some songs. Dance a paso-doble. Wear some sweet wooden wedding rings. No power trips. No 'higher than thou's. No freak outs.

NOTE: CN once asked me where I find my pictures. The simple answer is good ol' Google Image search. The long answer often involves the Library of Congress image archives; I'm especially fond of their current Bound For Glory online exhibit. State universities often have impressive online collections as well, such as Virginia Tech's Imagebase. Propaganda cards from WWI are always a good browse as well. The above wedding images were found at the Lafayette Negative Archive (I hope my non-commercial use of them works out okay).

Take the cannoli.

2006-02-27T12:22:00.001-05:00

Food Network Superstar Mario Batali...

...plus Simpsons cult favorite Comic Book Guy...

... equals Italian Food Guy.

Please give me a job. Preferably with fringe benefits and no dress code. A provided uniform would be nice though. Thank you.

Saturday Night Triple Feature Picture Show

2006-02-25T22:54:00.000-05:00

Amazing Super Mario Opera:

Fantastic Super Princess Peach:

Uber-violent Super Kill Bill:

I &hearts Super Mario by-products.

Raucous. Caucus. Streptococcus.

2006-02-23T11:43:00.000-05:00

Howard Dean and John Baldacci stopped by today. "It's time for caucus! Hooray!" they declared.

I kindly informed Mr. Dean that he had the wrong Brooks family member, since I was lacking a pick-up truck with a Confederate flag affixed to it. Yet, it would be ill-advised for him to seek out said family members.

"They don't like Yankees."

"Or doctors."

Mr. Dean started crying big-weepy tears. So I played some Audioslave for him. He rawked out hardcore-like. In his moment of vulnerability, I distracted him with a ball of tin foil.

Mr. Baldacci said the Party needed a strong democratic force like myself. I told him that Voltairine de Cleyre didn't like adjectives. He looked confused.

"Dude, 'democratic' is kind of an adjective."

I said I needed a recipe for pasta carbonara. Then we started debating whether or not Mr. Dean's Dr. Dynasaur program was referring to Triceratops (my choice) or Compsognathus (his super lame-ass choice). We agreed to disagree. Then, we shit-talked about Sen. Susan Collins visiting Antarctica with dreamboat John McCain.

Me: "Show-off."

Mr. B: "Mega-Bitch-O-Tron."

Me: ...

Me: "Didn't you get to visit Cuba?"

Mr. B: Um.........No.

Me: Worst. Seriously.

Then I turned him into a ball of tin-foil with my mystical unicorn horn.

NOTE: The above fable inspired by a real-live phone recording-bot that interrupted my cup of coffee making.

Girl Historian.

2006-02-21T13:20:00.000-05:00

Last night, I talked to my late grandfather's nephew. He lives in Lynchburg, Virginia on the "family farm".

I didn't know about him. Or the "family farm".

Yesterday, I found my family tree online. I was homesick. Things happen.

My great-great-great-uncle died during the Civil War at the age of 26. I had a great-great-aunt named Queen Victoria. My great-grandfather had 18 children. 15 survived.

I'm invited to the next family reunion, whenever that is.

I feel like Margot Tenenbaum. Only not adopted. I'm secretly terrified of my kinfolk, but simultaneously eager to hop a train to Altavista.

I want to show them that I can properly use a hatchet. I want to show off my Yankee fiance. I want to sing songs from the Carter Family. I want to gain 20 pounds from biscuits with sausage gravy and smoke harsh cigarettes. I want to stick my life between the pages of a Bible. I want to crochet a granny-square afghan.

Yet, this does feel a little like that episode of 'Saved By the Bell'.

Tee-Vee.

2006-02-20T12:46:00.000-05:00

I'm listening to W praise the prospects that alternative energy holds.

This means I have 120 channels in my room now. This is a dangerous thing.

Last week, I was crippled by the "Now what?" The only solution for this syndrome is a combination of ice cream, time travel, and irrational irritability. My time traveling destination was split between 1997 (VIA VHS copies of 'Friends') and 1984 (VIA the Summer Olympic Women's Gymnastic competition).

If needed, you can simulate the experience below.

Now I TiVO every episode of 'Murphy Brown' while I wait for Bushie-poo to say 'composting toilet.' Preferably, "composting toilets pave the path toward economic prosperity and national security, along with the protection of family values."

He hasn't said it yet. But he will.

Dr. T, Medicine Man will be visiting The County soon to study Northern Maine dialects. This makes me feel less unemployed, since I can now justify my compulsive reading of Mark Abley's 'Spoken Here' by referring to it as "research". I will be his assistant. I will carry a pocket-sized notepad. I will make sure my hair smells nice.

I now have an answer to the "Now What?" Just in case, I have plans to conduct mass mailings to the Commander in Chief regarding the virtues of compost toilets. This is the backup plan. No pun intended.

Parallelism.

2006-02-15T14:13:00.000-05:00

At times I worry about my parallel twin. Like a phantom limb, her life struggles to remain active. Conscious. She is the product of a crucial decision. The type of decision that can make one a criminal, a mother, a billionaire, or a corpse.

She was born when I walked out of the recruitment office.

She lost her virginity in Turkey. Got over her fear of guns swiftly, but with a nasty vomiting incident. Still prefers knives. Smokes a pack a day, but hides it well. She's quiet. Never cries. Excels at crossword puzzles. Has broken two ribs. She's 24. There's a diary hidden VIA a false bottom of a suitcase. It's a reference, should she forget a day. She doesn't. Rather, she quickly remarks where she was on 9/11 ("...drinking coffee in my apartment in Kansas City....") and has an elaborately woven memory of her 21st birthday. Her last name is different than mine.

She lies about 6 years of her life.

Yet, we're similar in a number of ways. These common factors keep us united. Her soul grazes mine. She asks for my hand.

Every time, I walk away.

She's crafty.

2006-02-10T10:00:00.000-05:00

Throw rug, completed:

Rawk Candy Mountain earrings, completed:

Blues the Cat (her brother's name is Rhythm, because Matt's parents are adorable) likes the rug.

She lamented to me about her inability to enter into the crafting world, due to her lack of thumbs. We speak kittyish. Because I don't get enough sunlight and may be coming down with the crazies. Or scurvy.

Neither Rhythm nor Blues is the feline reincarnation of Joseph Stalin.

That would be Badu (I think it's supposed to be more of an onomatopoeia thing, but I enjoy Erykah's musical style too much.).

Don't worry, I'm heading down state to socialize with people and complete Phase II toward getting a real job this weekend.

Until then, I'm going to listen to more French garage punk, make more earrings inspired by Titanic, and eat a Lean Cuisine pizza. Probably all at the same time.

Life goal #794: completed.

2006-02-09T09:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, in paper form, I was quite seriously asked the following question:

"Have you ever knowingly engaged in any acts or activities designed to overthrow the United States Government by force?"

Answer: No

Unless by "force", you mean "dancing." In which case, I apologize.

I'm pretty sure that's the most I can tell you about this experience. So I'll leave it at that. Forever.

[NOTE: To the United States Federal employee conducting my background check and who subsequently found this writing (well-played!): The above post is likely protected under the Constitution. Besides, nearly everyone knows that you ask this question, which is how being asked it became life goal #794 when I read about it in my American History college course (I got an 'A' in it, because I'm an asset to my country. ... Alright, a high 'B'. You got me. Asset doesn't start with 'B' though, does it?). The displayed pictures of Mata Hari are meant to convey my passion for history. In addition, they provide wedding dress ideas. Please don't make a blushing bride-to-be cry.]

I went to college for three reasons.

2006-02-08T09:39:00.000-05:00

1) I love massive ~~debt~~ drinking.
2) To write lengthy essays about robots.
3) To express sympathy for the title character of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler.

Suddenly, it all comes together to form a wondrous epiphany.

Speak of the devil.

2006-02-07T14:17:00.000-05:00

"I do things by instinct and I've had this instinct about music ever since I was a kid in West Virginia."

Excuse to embed video like the cool kids are doing.

2006-02-07T10:26:00.000-05:00

On our summer-road-trip-travaganza, Matt and I had big plans to hit West Virginia.

Why? Mostly because they have apple butter and banjos. Plus, a wee Di once lived in the town of Hurricane ("Hurruh-kun", not "Hurry-cane") with my toddler-years best friend named Reber.

Mom said, "When you come back down from those mountains, your car'll be falling apart."

Dad said, "It's a pain in the ass gettin' up in there."

He suggested taking I-81 instead, a Virginian pathway frequented by truckers, and stopping at the Luray Caverns, a place that stirred up boyhood memories of awesomeness and wonder.

Wonder, indeed!

They also have an antique auto museum (free admisson!!):

And a maze (The answer to the riddle is "A-maze-ing movies"! Har!):

Yet, as much as I wish I was being sarcastic, Luray Caverns rawks. Seriously. They have beer at the Stalactite Cafe and ViewMasters in the gift shop. Everyone who visits is a bit of a dork, from awkward pre-pubescent boys and girls giving gleaming (see also: orthodontic treatment) grins in front of the Stalacpipe Organ...

...to twenty-something lovebirds using cheat tactics in a garden maze and conversing about constructing a 3-D display from handy objects around the home.

Case of the Monkey Days.

2006-02-06T10:56:00.000-05:00

Snowy/rainy. Only goal of the day is to successfully make it to town and purchase a can of creamed corn. Rest of the time: knitting, listening to DJ Shadow, and inevitably reading something.

Over the weekend, I found myself in the woods with a hatchet in one hand, a tree in the other...decked out in Matt's "vintage" (i.e., from when he was ten-years old) Greenpeace (i.e., warm) hoodie and self-crafted chandelier earrings...asking the fatal question of one's quarter-life crisis:

"Do you think I'm boring?"

Winter makes me insecure.

Reading is awesome.

2006-02-05T10:40:00.000-05:00

Librarian, yesterday: "I'm sure glad to see young people who like to read."
Us, yesterday, thinking: "We're sure glad that the library likes to sell books from the basement for 25 cents each."

Such as:

You can learn more about Sterling and color pictures of raccoons here.

Lost. Not the show. The generation.

2006-02-04T11:56:00.000-05:00

I finished 'The Sun Also Rises'. It's due back to the library today, but I probably would have finished it even without the deadline. I confess that the only Hemingway read prior was 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro'.

Expressed opinions have varied, from a 19-year old Portuguese snowboarding Jehovah's Witness telling me that 'Farewell to Arms' was the only book I needed to read to less specfic remarks of Hemingway being "y'know...a real dick."

All I know is that some sort of emotional internal combustion propelled me through Ernie's look at gender identity, classism, post-war nativism, absinthe, hard-boiled eggs, wine skins, bankruptcy, and attraction. While it could be said that our generation won't have its "Great War", it's hard to ignore the significance the Iraq "war" has had in destroying the spirit, creating disillusion, and driving "leaders" to vomit remarks calling for nationalism...Social Darwinism gone awry...again.

That might be reading into it all a bit much. Who knows.

And as I admire how remarkably attractive young Hemingway was, I realize a backup plan if I should face a brutal loss on Jeopardy!

P.S. - Reading too much from the 1920s has placed a monocle and top hat on my diction.

That rug really tied the room together, did it not?

2006-02-03T13:52:00.000-05:00

It's highly recommended in freezing climates to take part in some sort of craft to maintain sanity. Since I've already mastered past winter hobbies (i.e., self-destructive drinking, video installation art, etc.) and since I enjoy Northern Maine's low crime rate, I've taken to knitting rugs. Well....a rug.

This deserves the mentioning of Marden's Surplus, where you can get fat quarters for 59 cents each and a copy of The Basque History of the World for $7. Yet, the origin of such items is often mysterious, hinted upon only by the slight smell of smoke or a whiff of flood damage. I guess I expect my goods to have a rough and tumble life.

By the way, thanks to all the warm wishes and welcomes I've received in such a short span of time! Y'all=Best.

Thank you, now stop being so damned adorable.

2006-02-02T18:52:00.000-05:00

You had a song featured in an animated film about cute and honorable cats that walk and talk. Your hands are too small for a guitar. You sing like you talk. Your albums and singles are only available as incredibly pricey imports, and, yet, I still contemplate buying everysingleoneofthem.

You enjoy layering your clothing. Me too!!!

Di+Ayano Tsuji=BFF

Yeah.

2006-02-02T16:49:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile, but not too much has changed.

I'm engaged. I'm certified. I'm living the life of an elderly lumberjack, and I feel fine. I live with the feline reincarnation of Joseph Stalin. I'm shooting for jobs that I'm overqualified for. I invoke the Quebecois. My greatest goal is to get on Jeopardy! Soon. So as to maintain momentum.

I'm feeling like a child star, as long as by "meth" you mean "apricot juice".