See, I wasn't kidding about the goats. This is what pure, unadulterated delight look like! Thanks, James.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Dear Seattle,
How did we get so off-track? It’s been two weeks, and there have been two incidents that have left me scratching my head.
When I first made my commitment to return, it was because you had so thoroughly wooed me.
To whit:
1. Arrived at SEA-TAC to have my car instantly upgraded, without provocation.
2. Found super swank-o hotel on hotwire.com for $89/night in the center of town looking at my beloved main library.
3. Went out to dinner at Lola and ended up being chatted up by handsome, smart, local rocker who promptly bought me dinner simply because I worked for Planned Parenthood.*
4. Decided to go see a play. Found one in the paper that sounded interesting: Strawberry Theatre Workshop’s “Accidental Death of an Anarchist. After learning from Brown Paper Tickets that the show was sold out, I called the theatre directly to see if it was worth a shot to come down and purchase a single ticket. The fellow on the phone said "sure, what’s your name, I’ll put you on the waiting list." When I arrived, I was on the comp (as in free) list. And the show was great, really great.
So after this amazing visit, I felt so very sure that you wanted me. Nay, I was certain that you had been wooing me full-time since the moment my plane touched down. And before you get all weather-related on me, let’s be clear: it was mid-October, just as it is now. It wasn’t lovely July or August, those months when you try to pass yourself off as San Diego or (god forbid) North Florida. Cause we both know, I left North Florida for you; I wasn’t mistaken about your weather offerings.
Which brings me to today. I don’t have a job, you know this. I have plenty of time on my hands, but no, none, nada money. So I’ve been trolling craigslist and freecycle for free/low cost items. I got a swell new microwave and a pair of stainless steel stools for the “breakfast bar” in my wee apartment. I even unloaded some maps & guidebooks; I know how to reciprocate. The other day I located a fine looking vintage couch with sexy mid-century modern lines that the owner (we’ll call him “Mike from Olympia”) was willing to let go of for $0.00. Yes, the upholstery was bad and potentially smelly, but I have no couch and my sister is about to come for an extended stay. The couch’s owner called this afternoon and said I was next on the list. Hoorah! The small issue of its being in Olympia was less problematic for me than it might have been for someone else since I have, as has been made clear, no job. Olympia is 90 minutes away in traffic. O.k., I thought, I’ll take it! After the phone call from the couch’s owner—in which we both agreed that craigslist users are notoriously flaky and inconsiderate but during which I promised that I was neither—we agreed that I would come pick it up after his appointment which was scheduled to end around 5pm. So I drove (burning precious fossil fuels all the way, dear reader) to Olympia, called him when I was about 15 miles out and then again when I didn’t hear back from him. When I called the second time, he said, “oh yeah I just gave it away.” What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?!!!
This maybe seems to be a bit of an overreaction, but I will now mention the earlier incident in order to make you see why this feels like the beginning of a trend I’d like to stop in its tracks.
Last week, when I got in my car to go for an interview, I found a note on my windshield (a windshield that has a big nasty crack in it. Do we need to talk about this, too? I have no idea where the fuck that came from!) The typed note read “Park in front of your own rental property! Your landlord has been notified!” Well, good fucking morning to you, too. It’s a public street. If this person has a disability that necessitates their own “handicapped spot” then they should talk to the powers that be. Or move to a god damned house with a private drive. And truly, would a “please” and a gentler hand with the exclamation points have hurt at all? Saints alive. Fucking hell. Good god.
So Seattle, what gives? Did I wait too long? When you wooed, was the offer of such goodness contingent on a speedy relocation? I tried, lord knows I tried. But it’s not easy. Have you tried moving your whole life across country at 35, with a 5X8 u-haul trailer pulling behind? No, I thought not. It took me a year. I had ends to tie up and a house to rent. I wanted to be here more than you could possibly imagine. It bears mentioning that I have been particularly vocal about my pure delight at your greatness and beauty in the 14 days since I’ve been here. Why just today, as I was patronizing one of your fine hair cutting establishments in Capitol Hill (no not Rudy’s, I wanted a grown-up hipster haircut, not a bargain basement one, silly) I was practically running at the mouth. I have lavished praise on your mountain views, your interesting independently owned coffee shops and Indian restaurants. And if I haven’t been clear, thank you thank you for your fine looking hipster grown up males. It has been a real feast for the eyes. (If you’re taking suggestions, I would like a few more African American ones, but you’ll get there, eventually.) I am a nice person. I recycle and compost and voted for Ralph Nader in ’00 in hopes of starting a more interesting dialogue. (Let’s be clear, I was voting in NY, where our friend Al Gore was a shoe-in. Mine was not a vote that could in any way, be blamed for the current mess. Whilst in Jesusville, FL, I voted for J.K. in ’04, thank you very much.)
Dogs and children, and for fucks sake—teenagers!!!- like me. Republicans and democrats alike think I’m swell and fine-smelling. And more that one reputable source will tell you that I give a world-class blow job. Are these really things you want to miss out on? Are you willing to sacrifice all of this promise? I am here looking to further my Arts Administration career, my acting career, and to find an excellent partner and hopefully get down to some baby making. So let’s put this little ugliness behind us and get down to the business of making a life together. I have nothing but faith in us. Please get on board and stop with the nonsense.
Love, Juniper
*If you have a problem with Planned Parenthood, I suggest you take heed of the following "Against abortion? Then don't have one." Alternately, try telling your kid that anal sex is still sex and they shouldn't have signed that ridiculous abstinence pledge card, you stupid fuck.
How did we get so off-track? It’s been two weeks, and there have been two incidents that have left me scratching my head.
When I first made my commitment to return, it was because you had so thoroughly wooed me.
To whit:
1. Arrived at SEA-TAC to have my car instantly upgraded, without provocation.
2. Found super swank-o hotel on hotwire.com for $89/night in the center of town looking at my beloved main library.
3. Went out to dinner at Lola and ended up being chatted up by handsome, smart, local rocker who promptly bought me dinner simply because I worked for Planned Parenthood.*
4. Decided to go see a play. Found one in the paper that sounded interesting: Strawberry Theatre Workshop’s “Accidental Death of an Anarchist. After learning from Brown Paper Tickets that the show was sold out, I called the theatre directly to see if it was worth a shot to come down and purchase a single ticket. The fellow on the phone said "sure, what’s your name, I’ll put you on the waiting list." When I arrived, I was on the comp (as in free) list. And the show was great, really great.
So after this amazing visit, I felt so very sure that you wanted me. Nay, I was certain that you had been wooing me full-time since the moment my plane touched down. And before you get all weather-related on me, let’s be clear: it was mid-October, just as it is now. It wasn’t lovely July or August, those months when you try to pass yourself off as San Diego or (god forbid) North Florida. Cause we both know, I left North Florida for you; I wasn’t mistaken about your weather offerings.
Which brings me to today. I don’t have a job, you know this. I have plenty of time on my hands, but no, none, nada money. So I’ve been trolling craigslist and freecycle for free/low cost items. I got a swell new microwave and a pair of stainless steel stools for the “breakfast bar” in my wee apartment. I even unloaded some maps & guidebooks; I know how to reciprocate. The other day I located a fine looking vintage couch with sexy mid-century modern lines that the owner (we’ll call him “Mike from Olympia”) was willing to let go of for $0.00. Yes, the upholstery was bad and potentially smelly, but I have no couch and my sister is about to come for an extended stay. The couch’s owner called this afternoon and said I was next on the list. Hoorah! The small issue of its being in Olympia was less problematic for me than it might have been for someone else since I have, as has been made clear, no job. Olympia is 90 minutes away in traffic. O.k., I thought, I’ll take it! After the phone call from the couch’s owner—in which we both agreed that craigslist users are notoriously flaky and inconsiderate but during which I promised that I was neither—we agreed that I would come pick it up after his appointment which was scheduled to end around 5pm. So I drove (burning precious fossil fuels all the way, dear reader) to Olympia, called him when I was about 15 miles out and then again when I didn’t hear back from him. When I called the second time, he said, “oh yeah I just gave it away.” What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?!!!
This maybe seems to be a bit of an overreaction, but I will now mention the earlier incident in order to make you see why this feels like the beginning of a trend I’d like to stop in its tracks.
Last week, when I got in my car to go for an interview, I found a note on my windshield (a windshield that has a big nasty crack in it. Do we need to talk about this, too? I have no idea where the fuck that came from!) The typed note read “Park in front of your own rental property! Your landlord has been notified!” Well, good fucking morning to you, too. It’s a public street. If this person has a disability that necessitates their own “handicapped spot” then they should talk to the powers that be. Or move to a god damned house with a private drive. And truly, would a “please” and a gentler hand with the exclamation points have hurt at all? Saints alive. Fucking hell. Good god.
So Seattle, what gives? Did I wait too long? When you wooed, was the offer of such goodness contingent on a speedy relocation? I tried, lord knows I tried. But it’s not easy. Have you tried moving your whole life across country at 35, with a 5X8 u-haul trailer pulling behind? No, I thought not. It took me a year. I had ends to tie up and a house to rent. I wanted to be here more than you could possibly imagine. It bears mentioning that I have been particularly vocal about my pure delight at your greatness and beauty in the 14 days since I’ve been here. Why just today, as I was patronizing one of your fine hair cutting establishments in Capitol Hill (no not Rudy’s, I wanted a grown-up hipster haircut, not a bargain basement one, silly) I was practically running at the mouth. I have lavished praise on your mountain views, your interesting independently owned coffee shops and Indian restaurants. And if I haven’t been clear, thank you thank you for your fine looking hipster grown up males. It has been a real feast for the eyes. (If you’re taking suggestions, I would like a few more African American ones, but you’ll get there, eventually.) I am a nice person. I recycle and compost and voted for Ralph Nader in ’00 in hopes of starting a more interesting dialogue. (Let’s be clear, I was voting in NY, where our friend Al Gore was a shoe-in. Mine was not a vote that could in any way, be blamed for the current mess. Whilst in Jesusville, FL, I voted for J.K. in ’04, thank you very much.)
Dogs and children, and for fucks sake—teenagers!!!- like me. Republicans and democrats alike think I’m swell and fine-smelling. And more that one reputable source will tell you that I give a world-class blow job. Are these really things you want to miss out on? Are you willing to sacrifice all of this promise? I am here looking to further my Arts Administration career, my acting career, and to find an excellent partner and hopefully get down to some baby making. So let’s put this little ugliness behind us and get down to the business of making a life together. I have nothing but faith in us. Please get on board and stop with the nonsense.
Love, Juniper
*If you have a problem with Planned Parenthood, I suggest you take heed of the following "Against abortion? Then don't have one." Alternately, try telling your kid that anal sex is still sex and they shouldn't have signed that ridiculous abstinence pledge card, you stupid fuck.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
I think I'm old. Not in my head where I'm a saucy, savvy, sexy, smoochy 26-ish. But in my body. I have this nerve pinchy feeling in my left ass-hip connector that is fucking awful. I went running today in an effort to clear my mind, get out of the house and stop feeling a little bit sorry for myself. "Ravenna" probably translates to :ravine in Spanish. Sucha smart girl.. Ran around it, I did. Not through it, dear liza, dear liza. 2.5 miles. Not bad after too many months of relative inactivity. Love that muscle memory.
It is hard hard hard to make this sort of a change at 35.
I'm really ready to meet my baby daddy. Really. Anytime now.
I had magnificent Indian take-out tonight. Wow, so good. Almost makes me forget the ass-hip issue. Red wine helps, although this particlar bottle is a little lame.
John Paul Johnson. A love that endures. Go figure.
Oh, the link for the day is to Jamison's blog. Althought if you're reading this, you're already reading hers. So here's a bonus: GOATS! Really, and truly, I like goats that much.
Sleep.
It is hard hard hard to make this sort of a change at 35.
I'm really ready to meet my baby daddy. Really. Anytime now.
I had magnificent Indian take-out tonight. Wow, so good. Almost makes me forget the ass-hip issue. Red wine helps, although this particlar bottle is a little lame.
John Paul Johnson. A love that endures. Go figure.
Oh, the link for the day is to Jamison's blog. Althought if you're reading this, you're already reading hers. So here's a bonus: GOATS! Really, and truly, I like goats that much.
Sleep.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Once upon a time a nice girl, living in the magical land of Brooklyn had a little bit of a *fall apart.* She decided to take a break, a sabbatical if you will. She put all of her possessions into a storage unit and drove her nice white Chevy Corsica to Georgia where she was certain to find some quiet and a nice pile of money with which to return to Brooklyn.
Once upon a time a nice girl, living in the (expansive, conservative, affordable, redneck-infested, welcoming, small-minded, tomato growing, lonely, career building, easy, friendly) town of Jacksonville Florida, decided it was time to go. When she says it was time to go, she meant it. That was 5 months ago. She is ready to start her grown up life.
Once upon a time a nice girl fell in love with a very young man who had successfully closed off his heart. Even to himself. This nice girl is doing her best to love him out loud while not walking around with an open wound of a heart. She has even met someone new. He is handsome like something out of a book. He is nice and smart and generous and married. But hold on, dear reader, reserve your judgement. While he does live with her, he is, in essence, separated and they live like "roommates." WTF??!! Indeed.
This is kind of a fucked up book.
super deluxe cool public art by & for the people.
Once upon a time a nice girl, living in the (expansive, conservative, affordable, redneck-infested, welcoming, small-minded, tomato growing, lonely, career building, easy, friendly) town of Jacksonville Florida, decided it was time to go. When she says it was time to go, she meant it. That was 5 months ago. She is ready to start her grown up life.
Once upon a time a nice girl fell in love with a very young man who had successfully closed off his heart. Even to himself. This nice girl is doing her best to love him out loud while not walking around with an open wound of a heart. She has even met someone new. He is handsome like something out of a book. He is nice and smart and generous and married. But hold on, dear reader, reserve your judgement. While he does live with her, he is, in essence, separated and they live like "roommates." WTF??!! Indeed.
This is kind of a fucked up book.
super deluxe cool public art by & for the people.
Friday, May 05, 2006
no real deep thoughts to offer at 12:18 on Friday night. I work too much.
There's some sort of brown-green sludge staining the back of my pants. Mmmm pretty girl.
The people with a lot of money gave me a nice big tip tonight. I don't know if we all got the same amount, but I sort of suspect I got more, since I weas in chef's whites & looked all important-like.
Seeing John at work is comforting and delightful and anxiety -provoking in equal parts. I get all silly and tongue tied in my mind, but act all cool and removed. What am I in 8th grade? Its not like its a new crush, not in the least. For the record, I would take all of my clothes off and run screaming through the streets if he asked me to. Yikes, that's fucked up.
I think I'll try to offer a new site everytime I post. No one will read this, so really who cares? Post #2: gastronomica
I ate an extraordinary oyster today. Tasted like the whole of the ocean.
There's some sort of brown-green sludge staining the back of my pants. Mmmm pretty girl.
The people with a lot of money gave me a nice big tip tonight. I don't know if we all got the same amount, but I sort of suspect I got more, since I weas in chef's whites & looked all important-like.
Seeing John at work is comforting and delightful and anxiety -provoking in equal parts. I get all silly and tongue tied in my mind, but act all cool and removed. What am I in 8th grade? Its not like its a new crush, not in the least. For the record, I would take all of my clothes off and run screaming through the streets if he asked me to. Yikes, that's fucked up.
I think I'll try to offer a new site everytime I post. No one will read this, so really who cares? Post #2: gastronomica
I ate an extraordinary oyster today. Tasted like the whole of the ocean.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Dear reader,
I have generally found blogs to be a little bit of narcissistic throat clearing. Do we need more people telling us about their dark place? How many interesting ways are there to elucidate our very particular take on life? Apparently thousands; perhaps millions. Sorry to say, here's #17004538.
My young friend Sean was encouraged by our office mates to start a blog that would document his journey out of college (UNF, represent!) and out into the big bad scary world of adult productivity in Atlanta. I've got my own journey to get started, so I thought it sounded like a fine idea.
This jouney, however, can't seem to get its footing, and if I can be any clearer than "I NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF JACKSONVILLE," please let me know. I've applied to and been rejected from graduate school (yes, I know, all my eggs in one cheese and beer basket, not so wise, grasshopper) and just this past week, was essentially turned down for a swell-sounding though grossly underpaid position in Seattle, my future home. And, as a little cherry on my sundae, I found a great sublet in NW Seattle with a GARDEN but then the woman changed her mind and pulled the offer. Um, excuse me, um universe, I'm really ready to get this show on the road. I'm a nice person. People think I'm funny. I recycle and compost and use my turn signal. What gives? I'd like a little help, here.
Its time to go read postsecret.
I have generally found blogs to be a little bit of narcissistic throat clearing. Do we need more people telling us about their dark place? How many interesting ways are there to elucidate our very particular take on life? Apparently thousands; perhaps millions. Sorry to say, here's #17004538.
My young friend Sean was encouraged by our office mates to start a blog that would document his journey out of college (UNF, represent!) and out into the big bad scary world of adult productivity in Atlanta. I've got my own journey to get started, so I thought it sounded like a fine idea.
This jouney, however, can't seem to get its footing, and if I can be any clearer than "I NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF JACKSONVILLE," please let me know. I've applied to and been rejected from graduate school (yes, I know, all my eggs in one cheese and beer basket, not so wise, grasshopper) and just this past week, was essentially turned down for a swell-sounding though grossly underpaid position in Seattle, my future home. And, as a little cherry on my sundae, I found a great sublet in NW Seattle with a GARDEN but then the woman changed her mind and pulled the offer. Um, excuse me, um universe, I'm really ready to get this show on the road. I'm a nice person. People think I'm funny. I recycle and compost and use my turn signal. What gives? I'd like a little help, here.
Its time to go read postsecret.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
