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Evoking 1960’s Iconography

Ann Margaret

Astoria, Queens

May 2010

“Is it too much?” she asks as she poses with an unlit cigarette.

Seriously Humbled

spider in the bathtubjpgPhotograph by Grendl on Flickr

The other morning the bedroom light bulb burned out. Normally I would just let Mike fix it whenever he got home, except I was working from home and it was so gloomy and gray that the bedroom was too dark to work in.  I tried turning on the snake light, but that didn’t help. I turned on the salt lamp, but it was still too dark.  So I climbed up on top of the refrigerator to reach the cabinet where we keep the light bulbs, then I climbed up on our bed and stood on my tiptoes to reach the light fixture and I was really impressed with myself, you know? I was thinking about how I used to be this mousy little twit and now I’m this tough chick who lives in Harlem and rides the subway and changes her own light bulbs.  I turned the little fake brass knob thingy to release the glass dome fixture-cover-thing, and right when I got the knob thing off, something fell out of the fixture and brushed past my face.  I blinked and sputtered and believing the fallen debris to be dust, resolved to immediately wash the fixture cover. I bent down to set the cover on the bed and that was when I realized that the thing that had fallen from the ceiling and brushed my face was a dead spider.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t completely lose my shit.  The worst part was that I knew the spider was dead, I knew I didn’t need to be freaking out, but I couldn’t help it.  I didn’t scream, not like a horror movie scream, it was more like a growl.  A roar.  I roared and jumped around in circles and clawed at my face and laughed, because I knew I was being ridiculous.  The dogs started howling and barking, I’m guessing because my roaring and wild flailing was pretty alarming.  I knew I was acting like a maniac, but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that there were hundreds of spiders caught in my hair that would soon be walking all over my face, so I ripped off my clothes and jumped in the shower. I stood under the water, hot as I could stand it, laughing, shaking, sobbing and repeating over and over again, “I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok.”

This is why whenever people tell me about how much they want to learn to fly a plane, or go sky diving, or climb Mount Everest, I just smile and tell them to have a good time.  As far as I’m concerned, being touched by a dead spider is a survival experience.

A Serious Weekend

On our way to wonder at William Kentridge.

*love in an elevator*

*how to commute*

*how to commute*

Ladies Home Journal

*a perfect table in a perfect dining room for a perfect party*

birdling

*from the devil's gaping maw*

washing windows

*then the one on the left waved at me and I died from embarrassment*

*all photos courtesy of my Verizon Wireless Satan Owns My Soul BlackBerry

Click it

You’ll want to click this.  Be prepared for the subsequent heart explosion.

Attention Burglars

Burglar

Not sure if this is a joke or not, and I can’t remember what neighborhood I was wandering the day I took this photo, but I had to take it because it caused one of those moments when my head snapped backwards because really?  Is that really a storefront message to burglars?  And will they really give the burglars a reward for returning the stolen iPods?  Isn’t that like rewarding a dog after it rips off one of your limbs?

Then there’s that cryptic warning:  Danger!  Hollow sidewalk!  You can steal our iPods and we’ll give you a reward for it, but be careful of those pesky old sidewalks!

Blog Lite

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*she dreams in a ray of sunshine*

Valentine has taken over my writing spot for the week.  She’s keeping it warm for me.  My J-O-B has a lot of stuff going on and no one is more sorry than I am over the fact that posting this week will be very light.  Last night I was so tired that I fell asleep across the laundry pile I was supposed to be folding.  It was only eight o’clock.  The next three days will be equally long and exhausting, so forgive me if you don’t hear anything from me until Friday.

One day, maybe, in a land where dreams come true, I can spend all of my time curled in my blue chair, the morning sun warm on my back, while I write and write and write.  But until blogging pays the bills, it’s off through the rain and cold I go.

xo

Dirty Water Dog

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Dirty Water Dog (noun) *dir*ti* *wa*tur* *dog*
1.  hot dog, typically sold in New York City, boiled in the same water for days, considered a delicacy by many New Yorkers;
2. Theo in the bath.