When I was about seven years old, my mom and dad sat me down out of the blue one day and explained to me that, even though they loved me very very much, they didn't love each other anymore and so they wouldn't be living together anymore. 

I listened very intently, nodded a lot, cried a little. And ultimately asked if I could be excused because I wanted to go play with my next door neighbor Ibet.

My parents both remarried when I was about ten. My dad is still married (when last I checked). My mom, however, got a divorce a few years ago. They didn't sit me down or anything. The circumstances were rather different and I think it was more of a paperwork issue than any sort of drawn-out running gun battle.

Today I found out that my bosses are splitting. I found out smack in the middle of the day when one boss called and asked me if I could work tomorrow (it's my day off) because one of them wasn't going to be there anymore. 

And I don't think he meant him.

Most uncomfortably, it appears as though he told me of this abrupt staffing change before he told his wife. That was left to me when I had little choice but to explain to her why I looked like my cat had just been thrown off a precipice.

And I'm not really sure what I'm going to do. She was my Heathrow: Mark 2. She was the reason I had fun there. We could laugh at the crazies. Who's gonna laugh with me at the questionable fashion decisions that wander by our windows? 

So I'm feeling pretty lousy tonight. Stupid Halloween. Stupid marriage. It's a sham, the lot of it. 

It seems like every time I go in here to write something, it looks different. And why would I want to change the color of my text anyway? 

And yet it still insists that using the Ctrl key will do useful things like save and publish. I can't say I concur. 

I was going grocery shopping tonight with my mother (Sunday dinner and all). And was stopped in mid sentence when I noticed the cheese curds. She politely inquired if I got distracted by shiny things as well. To which I responded, "Mother, cheese is the new shiny."

You heard it here first. Although, cheese really can't be trumped by much of anything. It's cheese, for god's sake. Speaking of which, I am returning to the farmer's market next weekend to purchase a large quantity of cheese curds and beef jerky.

The last time I bought beef jerky there the woman who was helping me stuck one piece in a bag and tried to hand it to me (they normally sell by the pound). I shook my head no, but before I could tell her how much I wanted, she put one more smaller piece in the bag and tried to hand that to me. I shook my head no again, so she added another little piece and tried to hand that to me.

Three pieces. Apparently I don't look like much of a beef jerky eater.

So finally I told her I'd take as close to half a pound as she could muster. Realizing that maybe I wasn't some sort of beef jerky novice (whatever that is), she gave me a ton more than I asked and didn't charge me for it. 

Which was incredibly nice, but the only reason I didn't actually get more was because beef jerky doesn't last very long around me. If I had gotten a pound of the stuff it would be gone—easily—by day's end. 

Homemade beef jerky is the absolute best stuff in the world. Except good cheese. Cheese is still the new shiny.

I'm gonna go put that on a shirt.

So five years ago today, we lost one of the greats: Paul Wellstone, US Senator for Minnesota. He was killed along with his wife, daughter and several staffers when his plane went down near Eveleth, MN. There's nothing that can be said about him that someone hasn't already done a much better job. So I won't try. If you're reading this and curious who he is you can check out the Foundation created to carry on his (and Sheila's) work.

Paul Wellstone was a man who truly fought for what he believed in and made a real difference in so many lives. He truly cared about his constituents. And not just the ones who could vote. He was passionate and energetic and a force for change. We were lucky to have him for even a short time.

He is still very much talked about and missed even today. I had a dinner two nights ago with some clients and the topic came up. They were both at the memorial service and even now get a little teary-eyed just talking about it.

I will be spending my day (among other things) creating a title page for a client who goes to different schools and helps to share stories and wisdom of community elders through song. And this particular DVD is for the Wellstone School, fittingly enough.

Actually this client, who is a musician, worked with Paul through the years and even co-produced a play about his life not too long ago. The picture above is from his personal archives.

My site is currently 150% down down down.

Which is a perfect excuse not to work ("but gosh, I can't send email!").

Random Story: I'm attempting to come up with some new curse words. I was driving home tonight and was watching this car weave violently and haphazardly from lane to lane, nearly clipping a few cars. And I thought, "What a dickheel."

Which I don't think is actually a term that exists. And if it does, maybe it shouldn't as it makes even less sense than many curse words. But it's not bad. At least it causes a moment of reflection. Perhaps introspection.

Perhaps not.

So if anybody has any ideas for a decent sort of swear, let me know. I need some inspiration. Cursing is one of my favorite pasttimes and I've been neglecting it as of late. Fecking shite.

Randomer story: Last week I got a somewhat nasty letter from my landlord indicating that I had been late on paying rent for several months in a row lately. Which is so very very true. I am an expert at forgetting to drop it off. Anyway I sent him a check and a note apologizing for my tardiness.

I almost didn't send it, since I was afraid it would put me even more on his radar. But I was already on his radar and not in such a favorable light, yeah? So I sent it and then second and third and tenth guessed myself. But it was sent. And that was that.

Then I checked the mail yesterday and got another letter from him. And could only assume I was being evicted or my check was being returned to me on the grounds that I was a procrastinating idiot or something.

So I opened it with trepidation. I did however take note that most eviction notices do not arrive in A2 envelopes. With a handwritten address. Most eviction notices anyway.

Instead (much to my delight) it was a thank you note and a giftcard to a local coffee shop. Nice.

And. And. I got some money from taxes in the mail as well. This from a girl who generally avoids getting the mail on a regular basis because it's only bills and credit card offers.

So I had assumed that once we moved into our new building, the craziness would die down. No armed robber running around the block after robbing the corner store, no natural disasters and (sadly) no SWAT teaming swarming the building looking for a tenant.

But I assumed wrong.

I got into work today and as I was walking in the back door I noticed a huge tub of broken glass next to it. I paused for a moment and thought, "Well that can't be good." Because the front of our building is floor to ceiling windows. And I'm always a little nervous that a brick is going to get some ideas and hurl itself through one of them just for kicks.

I walked in apprehensively and looked at all the windows. Nothing broken. So far, so bien. After sitting down for a bit, my boss got done with what she was doing and grabbed me, pulling me into the adjacent business that I think we're supposed to be running (longish story). And as I walked in I found the origin of the glass: the entire front of the store was completely boarded up and there was glass everywhere not to mention that the door was now approximately five feet closer than it had been previously.

Apparently around 2:30 AM early Saturday morning a woman leaving the White Castle drive through kept driving through. Straight across the street and into the front of the building. I won't presume to say that she was drunk or anything, but she totally was.

One of my bosses was actually there when it happened. He said the story that the guy gave at the scene was a bit confusing. But apparently the guy's compatriot (the female driver) had immediately bailed out and gone running down the street, leaving him to explain the situation to the cops.

We got some of this information today from two fine folks who happened upon the building owner inspecting the damage and were apparently in White Castle when it all happened. Although it was a little hard to understand their story. They seemed to actually be a bit drinky as well. Which I have no real problem with, but it was a titch early.

So anyway. Now we have a drive through.

Well I'll be snookered.

I had to install a new browser this weekend, since my installing/uninstalling of various and sundry applications—which were totally totally absolutely 100% legal—appeared to have killed my ability to view Google pages.

Other sites, just fine, but no Google. I thought maybe the internet pixies were punishing me for usage of various and sundry applications which were totally totally absolutely 100% legal. So I grabbed some beta of Safari and now when I type up a new rantI get more bells and whistles in here. Which is fine, but I like manually typing my tags. Although I did notice there's now some disclaimer when posting video that makes you swear it is neither obscene nor infringing. Which is equivalent to a big flashing "bad touch!" sign just waiting to be violated.

Let's upload an image! It'll be fun!

Hm. Not so much fun as it didn't work. Oh well. Let's try it a different way.



Yeah, not liking this much. Maybe youse get an image, maybe youse don't. I ain't sayin'.

I had another birthday event tonight. Which ended with cake and ice cream. The cake imploded shortly before serving. Which, if you've never seen a cake implode before, is quite interesting. And the ice cream... hurt my teeth. Which I think is a sign that I'm dying.

At least that's what'll have to happen before I go to the dentist.

Ah, the after-birthday letdown.

I think that's why I hate them so (birthdays that is). There's all this build-up and then It's! Your! Day! And then the day after you go back to be nobody. Except you're a year older. Ain't that a gas.

I did have a nice birthday, if unexpected. I ended up working all day. On Wednesday, my Lady Boss said, "The word for the day: moving." And we did. Lock, stock, and that mysterious golf club that's always been under the front table. So I cleaned a bunch since everything was not yet working and the place needed a good clean.

Our reputation preceded us, and we got a bunch of residents and business owners wandering in to say hello and welcome. Which I know made the bosses feel good. We're popular.

Since I would have spent the day buying random things (underwear and perfume and makeup, prolly) I not only saved money by working, I made money. So it was all kinds of win.

And I finally got (among many other things) a new purse (oh, shut up. I like purses). I've had the same workhorse of a bag since college and although it looks pretty new (gotta love Coach bags that way) it also looks pretty workhorsey (Neigh). So I got a bag I've been eyeing for ages. It's made of seat belts. The car ones. For safety. Seat belts. It's kinda awesome. I'm kinda happy.

Now I get to spend the weekend working (except for when I go out and buying all sorts of random things like underwear and perfume and makeup, prolly). So go out there and have some fun for me. Deconstruct something if you're so inclined. Be it a movement, a theory, an outfit, or a nearby chair.

Because deconstruction is fun now.

I'm feeling thankful for the small things today.

I'm feeling thankful for the small things today.

Happy, Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. And to you.

Happy Birthday, baby, to me.

I don't know who looks stupider on The World's Most Smartingest Modelers—the models (they all come off as stupid but some are both stupid and oddly arrogant), the hosts, or me for suffering through it whilst trying to find the next airing of the Rock of Love Reunion.

Okay, it's on mute. Heavenly heavenly silence.

I'll do my nails instead. That'll kill less brain cells.

The construction continues unabated in front of our building. Strangely enough about ten times a day the whole lot of workers congregate in one of the many of trenches they've created, shuffle their feet, scratch their heads and point worriedly at various sections.

It's all a little disconcerting, really. I have no idea what can cause such consternation. But we do our best, my boss and I, to figure it out. Or at least have a good laugh. So we sit up front and narrate their conversations.

"What's that funny smell, Earl?" "Dunno." "Was that supposed to contain raw sewage?" "Sure wasn't, Bob." "Should we call someone about the glowing?" "It'll go away eventually." "Have we created a new life form. And who will be its mommy?"

Hopefully they'll be done soon and we can go back to narrating the conversations of the guys who stumble out of the liquor store and share a 40 or two across the street. They're more funner.

I've been going through my old rants and moving them to the new format. And I had completely forgotten about this ad from Channel 4 featuring a number of celebrities sharing their favorite curse words. It's worth reposting. Even if it means I have the pretty vacant Mischa Barton on my rant page.