A Site of Beef by Ann-S-Thesia
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10/29/2000 - 11/04/2000
11/05/2000 - 11/11/2000
11/12/2000 - 11/18/2000
11/19/2000 - 11/25/2000
11/26/2000 - 12/02/2000
12/03/2000 - 12/09/2000
12/10/2000 - 12/16/2000
12/17/2000 - 12/23/2000
12/24/2000 - 12/30/2000
12/31/2000 - 01/06/2001
01/07/2001 - 01/13/2001
01/14/2001 - 01/20/2001
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01/28/2001 - 02/03/2001
02/04/2001 - 02/10/2001
02/11/2001 - 02/17/2001
02/18/2001 - 02/24/2001
02/25/2001 - 03/03/2001
03/04/2001 - 03/10/2001
03/11/2001 - 03/17/2001
03/18/2001 - 03/24/2001
03/25/2001 - 03/31/2001
04/01/2001 - 04/07/2001
04/08/2001 - 04/14/2001
04/15/2001 - 04/21/2001
04/22/2001 - 04/28/2001
04/29/2001 - 05/05/2001
05/06/2001 - 05/12/2001
05/13/2001 - 05/19/2001
05/20/2001 - 05/26/2001
05/27/2001 - 06/02/2001
06/03/2001 - 06/09/2001
06/10/2001 - 06/16/2001
06/17/2001 - 06/23/2001
06/24/2001 - 06/30/2001
07/01/2001 - 07/07/2001
07/08/2001 - 07/14/2001
07/15/2001 - 07/21/2001
07/22/2001 - 07/28/2001
07/29/2001 - 08/04/2001
08/05/2001 - 08/11/2001
08/12/2001 - 08/18/2001
08/19/2001 - 08/25/2001
08/26/2001 - 09/01/2001
09/02/2001 - 09/08/2001
09/09/2001 - 09/15/2001
09/16/2001 - 09/22/2001
09/23/2001 - 09/29/2001
09/30/2001 - 10/06/2001
10/14/2001 - 10/20/2001
10/21/2001 - 10/27/2001
10/28/2001 - 11/03/2001
11/04/2001 - 11/10/2001
11/11/2001 - 11/17/2001
11/18/2001 - 11/24/2001
11/25/2001 - 12/01/2001
12/02/2001 - 12/08/2001
12/09/2001 - 12/15/2001
12/16/2001 - 12/22/2001
Saturday, February 10, 2001
Oh, I just remember more of my dream. But it needs a little background first.
Last night Stan came home earlier than expected. He never did help Tim with Crazy Mary, as her roommate, who originally didn't have transportation, came to Tim's with Mary in tow in Mary's car. Mary has a car and drives. Are you scared? I am. So they didn't need Stan to drive them to the hospital. Instead, Tim, roommate and Mary went down to State Street...the plan was to wear Mary down so they could get her without a fight to the hospital. She was in a manic state. She wanted to buy cigarettes. She doesn't smoke. It must have been weird. Stan didn't follow them to State Street, he came home. Instead of going out for a fish fry, Stan and I ended up eating macaronni and cheese. Tim in essence had been abducted by the aliens inside Mary's head and spent the rest of the night with her and her roommate following her around State Street while she was on her manic high going to various college clubs to trying to find places to hear loud bands. She wanted to hear loud noise. Tim was not having fun. He could not get roommate alone to talk to her to plot a plan of action, because if Mary was left alone, she would disappear. When he got chances he would sneak off to call us to let us know what was going on and keep us informed whether we would need to come rescue him. Tim told us that Crazy Mary told him about Stan, "Oh, I like him, he has a baby face." I asked Stan what Mary looked like...I wanted to get a good picture of this entire event. "She was just average looking, kind of plump." Men are so descriptive.
So for my dream, I guess I "invented" a Crazy Mary, but she wasn't average nor plump. She was quite pretty. And she was adjusting her hair in a braided, tied hairstyle. Her fingers moved really quickly...I've never seen fingers move so fast. She could tie her hair in various braids and styles in the back without even looking in the mirror. Odd.
My dream was quite long and drawn out, but the only thing I can remember was trying to get back to my parent's house in Fort Collins from being left somewhere on the north-east side (This is a reoccurring dream). I was somewhere around Edwards Street/Peterson sort of where Stan and I used to live and there's all these houses with chain link fences and dogs. The gates are open on the fences, and the dogs look sort of vicious. I can't seem to get out of the area to go around them, so I end up walking through someone's yard and some dogs start running after me. I wake up.
Friday, February 09, 2001
And on that note I'd like to add..
Just because I don't use Greymatter doesn't mean I'm lacking in it.
Nightline just pissed me off. They did a spot on high school kids downloading first run movies off the internet for free. Actually, that's not the part that pissed me off. See, these kids were supposedly the "geeks" and they were all going to a special geek school for the computer talented somewhere in New Jersey. The part that pissed me off was the way Nightline referred to them as "the smart kids" and how "the smart kids" will continue to be able to get these things for free because they know the code and everything, implying that those kids who weren't "the geeks" weren't "smart." Huh-uh. Not being a computer geek does not make one not smart. It just makes one not a computer geek.
I'd like to see one of those computer geeks write a screenplay for one of those movies they watch for free. Not that there's anything wrong with not being able to come up with a creative story...it's just that there are different sorts of intelligences, and just because the intelligence-trend-of-the-day happens to lie in the computer and technical field, shouldn't discount other forms of intelligence that are not as celebrated in this time. In fact, from what I've seen online, I would classify most teens as borderline mentally retarded when it comes to writing skills. Notice I didn't say "all teens," so don't send me a nasty gram about it. I've seen some very good writing by young people too--it's just that it's extremely rare. But who cares anyway...certainly not the school systems that overemphasize getting classrooms online and training everyone to be the next Bill Gates while deemphasizing reading, writing, music and art.
Whoah, now this is weird. Tim just called and said his crazy friend I shall call "Mary" (whom I've never met, fortunately, I guess) is outside in shorts and underwear or something. It's snowing and very very cold. I guess her roommate called Tim for help, and they want to commit her. Stan's off to help them. I didn't join in the excitement because Crazy Mary might have to ride in the Eagle (Aerostar Van is still out of service), in which case there would not be room for five people, Stan the chauffeur, Tim the good friend, roommate the roommate, and Crazy Mary...Yeah, I'm the most expendable out of all of them.
Well. This should be interesting.
What a weird day. We were planning on going to pick up some art from a gallery outside of Madison today. Cancelled that because the weather was horrible especially for driving on Highway 12, a known killer highway. Then tonight we were planning on going with Tim to Friday Night Fish Fry at Wonder's Pub. Tim wanted to cancel because of the weather, but we talked him into it anyway because the weather's not that bad for just driving around locally, plus we have 4-wheel drive. But now I don't know what will happen, what with Tim's Crazy Friend.
Too bad The Van isn't working. I've never seen a group of friends talk a crazy person into committing herself before. I guess I missed my chance.
Insanity has always fascinated me from a distance. When I was a teenager, I wanted to go insane, because I felt it would be a way to escape my life at that time. I was fascinated by the movie and book, "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden," in fact when we studied that book in American Identity, I was the only one in class who liked that book the best out of our other reading curriculum. Try as hard as I could, I never did go insane. I never did get rockstargods to come down from other galaxies and alternative universes and make me their spacequeen. Nope. Didn't happen. Who can explain why? People with less bizarre upbringings kill themselves, fly off the handle at slightest things, go postal, do mass quantities of drugs, kill their parents, you name it, it's happened. Why didn't I? Did I know that my parents actually loved me despite the fact I felt so ostracized from my peers? Or did I just come with a head that was screwed on too tightly and despite all attempts to dislodge and lose it, I failed.
When I was about 30 I got depressed. It was a combination of things, the UW grad art school disappointment, experiencing parents visiting you from 1000 miles away after not seeing them for 2 years and being bothered by the same things that bothered me about them when I was a kid, and, although I didn't realize it at the time, hanging around the wrong types of (yuppie) people who demeaned me for not wanting to be like them (yuppies). I cried easily. I thought a lot about suicide. So I decided to seek help. For all of you that have HMOs through your health care system, you know that you can't just automatically see a psychiatrist. You have to go through a screening process, first seeing a MSW, or Master of Social Work. A few sessions with this guy and I realized:
1.) He was not a licensed professional, he was a caring nurturer, like Stuart Smalley
OK, so maybe the mental health industry serves a purpose for people who REALLY NEED IT like Tim's friend, Crazy Mary. But for people like me, who probably just needed to put on The Dead Kennedys, Crass, Pistols, etc. and smash some stuff, it serves only one of two purposes:
5th or 6th grade. I suck at ALL sport. No one wants me on their team in PE. Ya know what? I don't want to be on their team either. I want to be drawing in art class. Tracy, a girl in my class, is good at sports. All the guys want her on their team. "Tracy, you're a BOY!" they tell her as a compliment.
Flash forward almost 3 decades.
I have no interest in raising a family or being a mother. I suck at housekeeping and cooking. I'd rather paint and create images and ideas. Some women are good at domestic things. They're "all woman." All the guys want them as their wives.
God, I hate it when men like women because they're either "all woman" or "just like the guys." I am so glad that my best male friends (I am qualifying this, deadbeat houseguest) appreciate me and my talents for things that aren't in any way gender specific or gender dominant. To the rest of you guys, well, you know what to do with yourselves.
Allrighty...changes around here:
Added "Search Me!!!" at the bottom of the blog.
Changed the number of current posts from three to five, since the feedback (thank you!) that was given was more in favor of raising it. Got the largest number of requests to have five posts.
Wow, what an intense dream. It woke me up with a start about 5 am. Not wanting the possibility of forgetting it by the time I got to my computer later in the morning, I jotted it down on an old envelope in the bathroom as to not wake Stan or the dogs:
I was talking on the phone to Chris who runs a gallery up in Mishicot that features some of my mid-sized paintings. He was calling to arrange a date to deliver/pick up or something, but he was feeding a baby while he was talking to me on the phone, (Chris is not married nor has kids) and he had to pay attention to the kid more than he could to me on the phone. There was this emptiness on the phone, like he had left it, and I was going, "Chris? Are you there?" I didn't know whether to hang up or call back or what was going on. Then I looked out the front window, which was sort of like a cross between looking out our front window and looking out of the front window that was at my grandmother's house in Racine. The house, in fact, was a combo of those two, plus my parent's house in Fort Collins. There was a bus that pulled up to the bus stop out front, and my mom gets out of it. I'm still on the phone, so I yell out the front window, "I'm on the phone, I can't come to the door right now." (Which must mean I was at my parent's house because they have a phone with a chord in the living room...if it were at my house and I was downstairs, I'd be on a portable phone...oh well, it's a dream) I didn't know what to do, but I think I eventually hang up on Chris. I was surprised to see my mom there, and asked her why she was there. She told me that she and Dad had to break up because he was getting abusive (emotionally, mentally, yes, what's new...he always was, but physically? No, that didn't make sense) and that some social service agency told her that she had no choice but to leave. She said that he was going through some weird emotional times and that he had planned on going to live with some cousin of his, but that never panned out, and that she, mom, was not allowed in any part of the house except the front porch way where they keep the plants (there is/was no place like that in my parent's house, or any of the houses mentioned above. I told her that I wish she would have contacted me about this sooner because I wasn't expecting her. She said she tried, but it's hard to get ahold of me. I told her that I can't afford a 2nd phone line for my modem, and that she should know that. (typical argument we would probably have) Then the house really turns into my parent's house and the phone rings. I answer it because it's still "my" house in the dream (whatever!). There's a woman on it with a thick European accent, and I realize it's my great aunt Ruza from the Czech Republic, (IRL, I'll have to ask my mom if she's still alive...my goodness, she must be near 100) my mom's aunt. IRL I have never met her or spoken to her as she does not speak English and the only form of communication between my mom and her is via letters (my mom can read and speak Czech), but she spoke English well on the phone. I told her I was honored to finally speak to her. I then ask her if she is calling for my mom (evidentally my mom had contacted her or something), I call my mom for her to talk to her, and then I wake up.
Thursday, February 08, 2001
OK, so the physically handicapped man I mentioned in my post below does not need diapers changed. But he does need to be toileted either by his live-in, or when he's not around, by Tim, and when Tim's not working there, by someone else from the agency (Tim loves it when a pencil pusher from the top-heavy administrative end of things has to chip in and do it because they're so low on help). This guy, who I shall call "Joe" works as a pre-school helper or something. He has the NERVE to tell Tim, who helps care for him after all, toileting him, cleaning his house, cooking for him, etc., that HIS (Joe's) job is more important than Tim's! Can you believe that? I guess he didn't think it through too carefully, what Tim's job actually is. What a snot. Tim will be so glad when he doesn't have to listen to his mental abuse anymore.
Tim got a job he was hoping for with the School District, working as a Teacher's Aide with mentally handicapped high school students at West High. He seemed very happy about it and will get him out of working with 'The Crack Whore" as he calls her, at his present job. Also will get him out of his occasional CNA overnight position changing the diapers of a very obnoxious and demanding wheelchair bound man. The only bad thing is that we won't be able to take a vacation together ever again for a very long time...not that we took lots of vacations together, but we did once in 1996 when we went to Colorado. It was much fun. See, Tim will now have summers off, and Stan cannot get summers off because all the old timers where he works arrange their "prioritized" schedules so that the newer employees are relegated to taking their vacation time in the off seasons. Oh, sure, Stan will be able to get a day or two off here and there in the summer, but to go to Colorado you really need a large chunk of time. Maybe Stan can get a short segment of time off...and we don't have to go to Colorado, we could take that journey down the Mississippi like we've been talking about forever...
I don't think I could work with mentally handicapped kids. Heck, I don't even think I could work with kids. If I had to choose a segment of minor-aged society to work with, I'd choose the gifted and talented from underprivileged households. Actually, I'd like to work with those kind of kids...I think I could relate. Most gifted and talented programs are sort of geared toward the privileged, so the underprivileged would feel so very left out, but I don't know if there's a program for that. But I prefer working alone as a freelancer anyway. I don't have to use my voice, and I hate using my voice (my voicebox...I should say...I use my "voice" plenty, just not my literal vocal chords.). One day I hope that humans evolve so that they can "speak" with their minds without having to use their throat. Of source we'd have to evolve several different minds so that one could remain quite when we're thinking things we don't want others to hear!
Last year someone contacted me from East High wondering if I'd consider being an "artist in residence"....I'd come in just for a class period and talk to the students about being an artist. I'd get paid a $50 stipend. I refused politely. I'm sorry, it's just not worth "going back to high school" again. And East High in Madison reminds me too much, architecturally and age-wise, of the old Fort Collins High where I went to school. East's architecture is a little more fin-de-ciecle (sp?) decadent whereas Ft. Collins' was more Federalist/Classical, but still. Same era. Maybe if I was 5'9", large-boned, 180 pounds, short grey hair, I'd feel different. But I still get high-school aged kids staring at me like I'm one of them. Petite stature, long hair and refusal to dress conservatively and "old" does that to one, I guess.
Oh swell. Number One again on the Pervert's Search List. This time for brady panty shots. Will they never learn that Eyeblog does not provide 100% of their sicko viewing pleasure?
Wednesday, February 07, 2001
OK, now's your chance to tell me if I should keep the current blog post content to three or if I should reduce it down to even one or two, or raise it higher. Take my poll (located in left sidebar).
I feel like crap today. My little excursion last night of walking across the vast, cold desert of mall parking lots on top of the similar excurision of being stranded downtown on Sunday has taken its toll. I feel a sore throat coming on. I chill extremely easily from the cold and am very susceptible to sore throats, something I've managed to keep at bay since I stopped working at my former chilling job (which is why I stopped working there). So I get up this morning to take care of some quick business...package up a CD to send out, check my email, and wouldn't you know it, on a day that I should do nothing more than go back to bed and rest, I find this [sarcasm] nice little extremely professional and sensitively worded [/sarcasm] cease and desist letter in my inbox:
Oh give me a ******* break. Do people have nothing better to do with their time than to search for their name in search engines? Even when I've contacted people who had copied my site's graphics and used them on their site it's because someone else brought it to my attention, not because I went out searching for it on my own.
Uh huh...well so far it's been the majority decision at various message boards that my little "anniemation" which is nothing more than a fun little interactive thing to click on at my fine art site is NOT in competition with her web design services. The purpose of my gallery name/subdirectory title is just for fun, not to make money. How can she claim I'm infringing on her trademark? Other people have used an example such as this: Sports Drink Company, Gatorade, decides to come out with a new fruity, slightly sparkling soft drink appealing to females called "Anniemation." What would she have on them? Nothing.
I wonder if she is also aware of this site and what she is planning on doing about it.
And why doesn't she change her site to "Janetmation," after all, I'm the Annie.
And why don't multi billionaires just go buy up all possible name combinations so that NO ONE would be able to use them. That's what it's coming to.
Her claim is frivolous, and it sheds a bad light on REAL trademark cases such as the Digital Divas vs. Microsoft where there was a true confusion of services.
Stan and I seem to be having pretty good luck amidst bad luck. Monday after he got off work, he bought a new battery for the van to replace the one we had to jump on Sunday. Apparently, the one from Sunday was completely unjuiced. So to charge up the new battery, we decided to go take a ride in the country last night after he got off work. I'd had a pretty stressful day with my printer acting up and making demonic printer noises, so I just wanted to relax in the van with the country night passing by. We headed over to the icky part of the East Side of Madison, i.e., the Easte Towne Malle (sorry for the extra added faux Olde English E's, I think there's only one after "Town"...but I added them for effect as you can probably tell how much I absolutely ADORE malls) to pick up a couple sub sandwiches from Big Mike's Super Subs drive through on the way. In the parking lot where Big Mike's was, we noticed that the turn signal had quit working. And after we picked up our order, the car died. Again. Stan managed to pull it into a parking stall. We tried to call Tim from a pay phone to see if his roommate, Matt could pick us up, but no one was home. And there's really no one else in town we feel comfortable enough calling for a favor like that. We had less than two bucks in cash. I didn't bring my purse...didn't think I'd need it. I also wasn't really "dressed." I was wearing old black leggings, Converse All Stars, red socks and a maroon top. Definitely "stay at home and be comfortable and work on the computer" or "go out for a ride but not step out of the car" type attire. I was not wearing make-up. No jewelry, no watch. I was wearing glasses, not my contacts. Nail polish was all chipped and mostly missing. I was not presentable. I was self-conscious about my unpresentableness. But we had to. We had no choice. We had to find a cash machine to get money in case we needed to take a bus or cab. So we headed over....to...
(insert scary climactic horrorshow music here)
Aaaaaaagh!!!!! I spend my life avoiding malls at all cost. In all seriousness, the last time I set foot in a mall before tonight was...I kid you not...over 4 years ago. My watch battery died and the only place I knew of that could remove it (it's a tricky thing that cannot be done at home and needs a special tool to do it) was in the mall. Fortunately, the last time my watch battery died I was able to find a nice little clock shop on the west side that fixed it for me, avoiding the dreaded M word. Price was a little more expensive, but worth every penny of mall avoidance.
Did I tell you I hate malls? Funny, I didn't hate them when I was 16. And ironically, I still dream about them. But my dreams are more about getting lost in them, getting lost amongst the maze of architecture and trees of mannequins and hedgerows of clothing. My dreams are not about the people in the malls. And it's the people that hang out in malls which makes me detest them so.
Stan got cash out of the cash machine at the mall just in case we needed to take a bus or a cab home. All along he was explaining to me about how he suspects the alternator has gone bad and drained the battery, and that we wouldn't be able to jump it this time and other mechanical stuff. We went into a Sears and headed toward the automotive area and decided to buy another new battery. Yes, we could've gotten home a lot cheaper for cab fare than for a new battery, but the new battery would not go to waste, as it would be a backup. Stan had plans for it, even if it wasn't able to start the car this time. But it did. We were very very cold (Stan didn't even wear his leather jacket...just wore a lightweight silk one!) but we made it home without public transportation this time. Wow, were we lucky again.
Did I tell you that one of the reasons I hate malls is that there are no sidewalks, and to get from one "mini-mall" area, where Big Mike's parking lot was, over to the "main mall" you have to walk over all these snow drifts and in the street because everything is designed for people in cars. Did I tell you I hate malls?
As we headed back toward our stalled car, battery in hand, I told Stan I felt dirty because we bought something at Sears. Oh, sure the man who waited on us was a nice enough chap. No problems with him. But I still felt sleazy. I'll buy stuff at low-end stores like Target or Shopko, but those are different. Mall anchor stores have a dirty quality...I can't explain it, other than to say that I felt like I was thrust back some 15 years in time...back into The Foothills Fashion Mall in Fort Collins in the 1980s. Ew. A parallel to when you go visit your parents and sleep in your old bedroom you're instantly a teenager again. But this is different. You're instantly a CONSOOOOMER again. With mall people staring at you. It was groady, like gag me with a spoon like ohmygod I'm suuuuuure.
Tuesday, February 06, 2001
I'm also a Bassett Hound. Not bad. When I was a kid I wanted a Bassett. And Stan and I would've gotten a Bassett at one of our rentals beause the woman next door had pups, that is if our evil landlords would've let us have pets.
Tiger Woods???!? I took EMode's *all new* Celebrity Dream Date match-up quiz, and it chose Tiger Woods for me. I'm a bit confused. I am not a fan of sports and I think golf courses are a blight on our environment and bad for our resources. We'd have nothing in common. Personally, out of the list, I'd probably get along best with Mike Myers. Although I wouldn't say no to Sting or John Cusak either. But Tiger Woods? (scratching head). Well, at least they improved it. Last time I took the test they chose Richard Simmons for me. How insulting!
Actually, Stan and I think that golf should become an urban game and adapt it to an urban enviornment like an abandonned lot in the middle of the city. We think it would be quite challenging that way as the ball finds itself crammed into concrete cracks and ratholes.
Dream: I remember watching TV or something and there was a guy on it who looked sort of like Dave Vanian (The Damned) and Kyle MacLachlan (Twin Peaks). Not sure who it was. He was taking his shirt off in front of a woman. Kinda nice. Then I remember I had to get to a class at the university. It was the afternoon and the sun was sort of low in the sky. I was driving a weird little go-cart type thing and I was in really heavy traffic. I was on First Street taking a left onto East Washington. I was in a huge pile-up of cars and was wondering how I could get over in the right-hand lane so I could make it towards the UW. I finally end up driving over the median and going back home so I could take a different route. I do eventually end up where I'm supposed to, and it was very bizarre...I remember my mom was there, and maybe even Stan's mom too, and we were eating some dinner. It was a jumble of images, and I sort of am confused what was going on. Maybe I'll sort it out later.
Monday, February 05, 2001
I am currently experiencing a rolling blogger out, which is why this post is so looooong.
So I'm wondering when these dot.coms become abandonned, will the property become condemned? Will they be "Don't.coms?" I've always thought of the WWW like the Wild Wild West. Will it become like a ghost town now that this is sort of "After the Goldrush?" And what DID Neil Young mean by that song anyway? ;-P
"After the Goldrush." "Don't.com." Quote me.
And on a similar but related train of thought...I was recalling back in graduate school how certain people thought they were "more entitled" than others. I knew some people who were fortunate enough to get Teaching Assistantships, something that only about 10-20% of the graduate art students were able to get. According to one professor, and he may have been lying about this I don't know, as he did prove himself to be a bold faced liar later in Stan's career, the students who showed the most creativity in their work were not given TAs, they were given Research Assistantships, and the more average students were given TAs to groom them for the "those who can't, teach" profession. But because there were no research assistantships to be given in art in the 1990s, those of us who were not "teach-worthy" were given nothing except for perhaps the odd small scholarship if we were lucky enough, which I was. I'm not really bitter about it, as I realize now as I grow older I would've really hated teaching. I like doing, not talking about doing. Actually, I do like writing about doing, but that doesn't involve strained vocal chords, and my fingers are quite dextrous so keyboarding does not pain me the way straining my voice (which is very susceptible to sore throats) does. Perhaps I would have felt differently if I got a TA...perhaps not. Instead, I worked about 20 hours a week while I was in school, and 35-40 hours per week in the summer, doing desktop publishing for my employer. An acquaintance at the time lucked into a TA job in 1991 and hung onto it for dear life until she graduated in 1994. She felt she was "entitled" to her job. See, she couldn't do what I was doing, work in the community. She bitched and moaned about her year in the working world after she got her BA before she went to grad school. She b&m'd about having to slave away for $10/hour...something I was certainly not even close to making at the time at my job. And I had worked in the community (both here in Madison and back in Fort Collins) for five years before I went back to school. But she couldn't take it. She was better than that. She had to have her TA job, and if she couldn't keep her TA job, she couldn't continue in graduate school, because, unlike me who supported myself with a job in the community and a rather large student loan debt, she couldn't take out student loans. No, she already took out $10,000 in student loans and she didn't want to take out anymore because they'd be a pain to pay back, so she had to have her TA. When someone complains about $10,000 in student loans, I just want to dope slap them. "Oh, but you and Stan have a house...we have to rent." OK, yes, we do have a house, and honestly, part of my student loans went to the downpayment and because our house appreciated in value and we got raises at our jobs in the community and we refinanced, our mortgage also absorbed my loan debt, thankfully (my student loan interest is now a tax write off for 28 years, not just the 5 or so that the gov started giving out last year!). But what was stopping her and her husband from getting a house? They didn't even live in Madison...I'm sure they could have even found something cheaper where they lived. And it wasn't like they were thinking of leaving the state. "Yes, but we wouldn't be able to find anything nice for what we could afford." Say wha? She and her husband made more than Stan and I, but they couldn't afford something "nice?" What a backhanded way of saying "But your house is fine for you, but it wouldn't work for us, because it's not nice ENOUGH. The roof leaks. It has crappy old WW2 siding on it. It needs some major renovation. WE are too good for something like that. WE are too good to have to work a job in the community. WE must have out Teaching Assistantship, or else WE cannot attend grad school anymore." It got sooooo tedius.
You know, I'm so glad I left that scene behind.
I am not looking forward to later this week. I am having to put myself in a situation where I could become extremely bitchy in self-defense of more little back-handed compliments in another art-related setting. I just have to get it over with, maybe even close a chapter of my life. Good riddance.
Stan and I will be having our 13th wedding anniversary on the 12th. Tim was going to celebrate V-Day the 14th with a lover in a nice hotel suite with a jacuzzi, but they broke up this weekend. So we decided to invite him to celebrate with us instead (he's sworn off dating forever again), split the difference, and go out for sushi on the 13th. Fits well with the 13th anniversary, plus we won't have to deal with crowds on the 14th. It's been FOREVER since we went out for sushi, and it's been almost 5 years since we went out for it with Tim (that happened in Boulder!). I will consume mass quanitities of sea urchin.
Dammit...it's a Monday, and naturally, I wake up to something effed up. Something was screwed up with this server in the morning. Looks OK now. Tired of this.
Last night I dreamed that I was in a wheel chair and Stan and possibly Tim went with me to a movie or something...(lecture?) in a theatre. When I wanted to leave and the lights came on, I couldn't see. It was like I was blind and Stan and Tim were walking too fast for me to keep up with them. I had to resort to yelling to them so that they could find me.
Sunday, February 04, 2001
Conversation held with Stan as he was working in Bryce tonight. I think it's only understandable by other Brycers:
Me, looking at his monitor: "That's interesting."
Kind of a weird day...not a day from hell per se, but close. Days from Hell are usually only relegated to working days, not playing days, so at least I was with friends and not slaving over a difficult client's job while my computer is breaking down.
Stan and I went with Tim to Gay Brunch at The Shamrock. It seemed unusually crowded today. When Felicia came to our table...um...how do I say this....he? she?...not really sure of the correct gender specific pronoun to refer to Felicia...told us that it'll be a while because a huge group of people came in the back. We were crammed in a little table by the front right under the blaring TV. It was cold. My feet were freezing. Coffee seemed forever to come. I got so hungry, I started to eat the mini fruit jelly condiment packets on the table. I don't think we even got our food until about 1:45. It seemed to take forever to get our check. In the mean time, the people in the back room were clearing out and people started plugging the jukebox and playing bad music, and...how can I put this delicately...they all seemed to be...heterosexual. Yes, I know, I am referring to my own kind here, but darn if lots of heterosexuals (present company not included, of course) in a gay bar don't give gays a bad name! They were loud, obnoxious, young sports bar types (but not college students) and it seemed like they came in from out of town for a sightseeing visit to the metropolitain city of Madison to get a peek at the drag queens or something (there are no drag queens on a Sunday morning). The blaring TV and jukebox was bad enough, but then someone plugged the jukebox and played a (excuse me while I hold back the urge to regurge) Ricky Martin song. (Disclaimer: The only reason I even knew the song was a Ricky Martin song was because I had the unfortunate privilege of seeing him on SNL the other month. I usually do not make it my business of knowing bad [IMHO] contemporary pop music). Warning: In case you ever come to Madison and decide to have Gay Brunch at the Shamrock on Sunday morning, IT IS USUALLY NOT LIKE THIS! The Ricky Martin song put me over the edge. I started cussing, and it must have been pretty loud because people at the bar turned around to stare at me. I'm surprised my little voice could be heard over the basketball game on TV and the jukebox. Stan had decided to go up to the counter and stand in line to pay for the food a few minutes before, but I couldn't wait for him. I had to leave. I could not bear it any longer. So I left Tim at the table and went outside to wait for them. Then I realized...I'm standing outside alone...a female...on West Main Street which is essentially Bar Row, outside the Shamrock...which is next to "The Rising Sun Bathhouse." Yup. I moved along, walked around outside, made it look like I was waiting for someone, looked at my watch, looked up and down the street with an important and serious expression, and practiced responding, "Piss off you stinkin' bastard" to invisible Johns in my best Cockney accent. I was wearing blue jeans and sensible shoes, and my reversible leopard spot coat had even been turned inside out to only show the leopard spot as the trim, but damn if that didn't stop Goober and Gomer from gawking at me from the entrance of the Rising Sun. Yeesh. Well, it was early Sunday afternoon, I mean really...what ARE they expecting to find on a Sunday afternoon? Finally Stan and Tim emerged from The Shamrock and we headed back to the van, none too soon as I had to pee but didn't want to wait in line at The Shamrock to get a key to use the women's room (which is kept locked so that drag queens won't use it...whatever that reasoning is). But ooops...battery dead. Yup... battery very very dead. I had an intuitive streak that we should have taken The Eagle and not The Van today, but nooooo. Stan needs to listen to his oracle girl more. But fortune had smiled on us because when we walked up Capitol Square, we were able to catch a bus immediately that went down the isthmus in the general vicinity of our house. We only had to walk a few blocks. We warmed up, got the Eagle, and went back to jump-start The Van. It could have been a lot worse. It could've been a lot colder and snowing a lot more heavily. We could've had to wait 50 minutes for a bus. I could've actually been propositioned by Goober and Gomer and not just stared at. And the Shamrock could've been playing Brittany Spears instead of Ricky Martin.
Back in the old days of the late 80s and early 90s, I did the taxes. 1040EZ and 1040A forms were just a matter of math. Even 1040 forms with just a Schedule A were relatively easy since all we really had to write off was mortgage interest and property taxes. But after I went freelance and had to fill out the very confusing Schedule C, I just lost it. I could no longer deal with taxes. Back when I was a grade school and high school student, I always found equations easier than the story problems. I actually liked math classes better than literature classes, even though I never continued in math. I could think abstractly, but had a hard time putting the abstract into the framework of the concrete. Complex taxes is not just doing the math. It's trying to comprehend the baffling tax laws and language. That's when I left the taxes to Stan, who through a long history of philosophy and rhetoric courses, has acquired a prediliction toward legalese. Heck, as a freelancer I had to keep track of all my earnings and expenditures throughout the entire year...let Stan figure out the rest for the tax season. I give him my figures for my write offs and earnings, he puts them into the framework of the taxes.
This year, Stan figured out that we owe the federal government $6.66. We thought that was awfully funny, and took it as a sign that yes, indeedy, the IRS is EVIL. Yesterday I checked over Stan's math and found a rounding-up discrepancy of a penny, knocking our balance due back to $6.65. We were relieved because what if a figure like $6.66 was a trigger figure? Like bells and whistles would go off and our form would be flagged as being in contempt of the law or something? You never know what they're looking for. But $6.65 sounds much safer to me.
Had to pay several hundred dollars to the state last year, and this year we'll be getting several hundred back. The state is so hard to predict and plan for. They change their forms so much every year. This year they had a budget surplus, so they're redistributing it back to tax payers in the form of higher refunds. Not that I'm scoffing at a refund (it'll pay a monthly installment for one of Stan's student loans), but I think that this is just a feel-good thing implemented by Tommy T when he thought he'd be running for a fifth term. I think their budget surplus should be used to fix the roads or lower the fees to state parks. Just watch, they'll be taking it back from us in a few years, I'll bet.
I don't remember much of the visuals of my dream last night, but I do remember the feelings and emotions it left me with. I recall my dad was in it and he was acting like a jerk, being controlling, yet nitpicking. I think I was rebelling and yelling at him as usual.
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