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sore legs = a happy heart

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to go out and…do stuff.  Stuff for which I get dressed up, and socialize, and need a purse that isn’t my messenger bag.  Baby, baby…it’s a wild world.

Last night, I went to prom.  Yeah, that’s right.  Prom.

My friend Jim helped put together a grown up prom (at a gay bar.  Proceeds to benefit the Pittsburgh Literacy council.  How cool hipster is that?)  My friends Abby and Becky all got dressed together and drank and danced until the wee hours (for serious….we were there until about 2:30 am…I went to bed at the time I have to wake up on work days…IF I’ve hit snooze a couple times) and it was awesome.  Okay, so the only two guys who talked to me un-prompted by social grouping situation or prior platonic relationship were, I think gay (one told me how much I liked my dress, the other included his lack of knowledge of ‘hoo-haa’s’ in the conversation and really knew how to dance) but heck, it WAS at a gay bar.  What matters is, I got dressed up and went dancing with the girls and we were FABULOUS.

Now I’ve gotta go buy some salad stuff for the dinner party I’m going to tonight.


In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away— For the Snark *was* a Boojum, you see.

I feel like I should write a post about the recent events in my life, but I also feel like anyone who reads my blog (all two and a half of you) already knows.

Then again, I feel like in part, I write these journal entries for myself as much as anyone else.  Though they are open to the public, this is still a diary of sorts, and I occasionally comb over old entries and reminisce.  It is a place where important life moments should be recorded.

And heck, maybe there is a silent watcher out there, transfixed by my life.  And if there is, stop being creepy and speak up.

As recent blog posts will reflect, my life of late has been hectic.  My boyfriend of nine-and-a-half years ended our romantic relationship.  Though we remain friends, we no longer live together, and I have moved into my own apartment for the first time, with all the terrifying responsibilities that entails.  My poor little emergency car has given up the ghost for the second time, leaving me bumming rides, bussing or on foot until I am able to take ownership of the Prius.  Along with moving, I had been trying to get at least one piece ready for the art show in which I was invited to participate.  I have been given huge projects to do at work, things that were on tv and stuff even.

All this was put aside, however, when, last Tuesday I was informed that my dad, who had been declining fairly rapidly since early summer, had taken a turn for the worse in the night.  As quick as that, everything else was set aside as arrangements were made to try to get me out in time to tell him good-bye.  I explained the situation to my boss, I got a friend to feed my pets and I threw a couple changes of clothing into a backpack.  Around 9pm I was informed that my dad had passed away in his sleep (as an old family friend pointed out — quite unlike him), but that the arrangements were still on and I should spend the time with my family.  At 3am on Wednesday, I boarded a shuttle to the airport.

I feel like I should say ‘this was a horrible trip and I cried the whole time.’ I feel like it SHOULD have been and I should have.  The fact was, though the circumstances were sad, the trip was kind of wonderful.  I feel horrible for saying so, but it was — I certainly cried some, and was sad at times…but I got to spend days with my best friends and my mom.   It is almost as though my dad’s good-bye present to me was a chance to be around people I loved at a time in my life that was stressful and lonely, but I was unable to get home on my own.

If that was your intention, thank you daddy.  I’m sorry you weren’t able to stay long enough for me to see you, but I am sure you had somewhere more important to be.  I hope you are partying like a rock star, surrounded by hot chicks in skimpy outfits.  I love you.



Horrible rodent-born diseases


Yesterday I desperately needed to get out of the apartment.  My week had been full of working and my weekend, trying to get at least ONE piece done for an art show that I absolutely don’t have time for, but especially since my name is on a flier that is up at my…can you call it an alma mater if it is a trade school? …where teachers and younger classmates will see it, am valiantly struggling to complete.

By three in the afternoon on Saturday, after sitting on the sofa pretty much all the time for the past day and a half, I needed to get out.  The apartment was stuffy, and hideously messy, due to my busy weekends to date that have not afforded me the chance to figure out where everything goes,  I felt sloggy, and it was a beautiful day.  I walked down to Highland Park to get my blood moving and enjoy at least ONE day of my favorite season this year.

This fat squirrel must profit from regular feedings by park visitors, as along with being much less sleek and slender than your average squirrel, he was bold as brass, scuttling near my feet and looking at me expectantly.


New Smells…that’s weird

As of this past Saturday, I am living in my new apartment.   As suggested by the title, it smells..different.  Nothing like the Freeport house.

This post is very disorganized and not totally sensical and I just deleted a good portion of it, but that’s just a reflection of my mental state I guess.  Moving is always a time of disorder — you don’t know where anything is, you are making due with the clothes that aren’t in bags and eating ramen because it is easy, regularly using things out of boxes because you don’t have places for them yet, still learning where light switches are, and which way certain cupboards open, and doing your best to remember, if you wake up in the middle of the night to pee, that you are now in a loft bed about 6 feet off the ground, so you can’t just swing your legs over the side and walk.  Your normal routine is broken — not only can you not just go home and put your feet up, since there is still a ton to do, the places on your journey there are all different.  The places you might have stopped for groceries, for example, no longer make sense, so you have to map new routes with new grocery stores and gas stations. You have to get used to having house keys after living in the country, and care about tv volume when that hasn’t mattered for the years away from civilization.

And you get rid of stuff because you just don’t have room for it and don’t need it anyway.

The change that is going from living with another person to living alone for the first time in a very long time is an even greater one…there is no one with whom to share an idle thought, no one to ask for opinions or help, no one to cook for but one’s self.  There are certainly good sides as well — no one to eat the last of the left over fried rice, no one to make messes but one’s self, no one taking up any couch space but you or roll their eyes at your show choice or make you feel slovenly for your choice to stay in PJs all day.

But, regardless, my routine is broken.  I am a person of routines.  I am, honestly, excited about finding a new routine — there are so many interesting parts of my new world, from coffee shops to parks, and I want to see what they have in store.  I have a nook under my loft bed that contains a love seat, and will soon, I think, contain my drawing table.  And some lights.  I want to make use of it, to curl up and watch tv and draw and paint under my bed.  But first, I need to get order back into my life.  I need a closet that makes sense and to get the items cluttering my hallway to the trash and the basement.  I need to put away shirts that were used for wrapping breakables, and throw away the stack of empty flattened boxes.  Or recycle.  There is a place to recycle things not far away, I think.

And I need to get a spray bottle, because, apparently, the kitties think that a new apartment means that the ‘stay off the counter’ rules no longer apply.

And I need to get my day started.  It is full of stuff to do.

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