Not A Dollarshort

Scenes from a Marriage.

Mena: Will you go downstairs and get me some milk?

Ben: No.

Mena: Come on, it's Valentine's Day.

Ben: Get your own f**king milk -- I just went downstairs and got you a piece of cake. For Valentine's Day.

I should note that he indeed went downstairs to get me a glass of milk to go with the piece of cake.

So what do we learn from this interaction?

1) It may not be candy and roses, but it's real love, nonetheless.

2) Cake? In the middle of the day? Time to cut back.

USA Rocks!

I've decided that one of the first improvements I'd like to make to the new apartment is re-wiring the doorbell to play the "My House" song as seen in numerous Olympic commercials.

I mean really, this ditty is so just absurdly psychotic and (in the context) jingoistic that I can't help but be disgusted and fascinated by it.

(A guest rings the door bell)

This is my house
You play by my rules
The first rule is
I never lose

In my house
You're just a guest
You might be good
But I'm the best

I don't care where you've been
or what you've done before
Cause it's a whole new game when you walked through my door

Believe me, just reading the lyrics does not do this song justice. Have a listen over (MP3) at NBC.com. Or, if you want some ass-kicking animations, try sitting through this.

I can't help but think that if the World was really a high school, that damn USA would be stealing Finland's homework and shoving Peru in its locker.

Yeah! Crown Molding!

So it's official -- the lease is signed and we're moving to the Outer Richmond in San Francisco on March first.

Yeah for us.

No, really. We're terribly excited. It's amazing how quickly this all came together. Part of the reason that we're actually going through with this is that we never came ourselves time to talk ourselves out of the situation.

The apartment is lovely. It's near The Legion of Honor, has a view of the ocean and meets all of our picky requirements. It's half the size of our current house, but has ten times the personality.

It has crown molding and hardwood floors, for goodness sake!

So now, I've got a thousand and one things to do. One of my first priorities is planning a garage sale. I'll be posting a list of the items we're selling -- sort of like an auction catalog (but not really). If you want something and live in the Bay Area, then make sure to check it out.

That is all.

Oh, give me land, lot's of land...

By two o'clock tomorrow, Pappy and I will know if we'll be packing up the hog and whiskey jug and moving to the big city.

In other words, we may be gittin' out of the sticks.

While the prospect of moving to San Francisco (from Sonoma County) is a bit frightening, I honestly will not miss the familiar sound of our neighbor's favorite leisure time activity.

The sound?

Clank. Clank. Clank. Vroom. Vroom.
Clank. Clank. Clank. Vroom. Vroom.
(ad infinitum)

It's the sound of our neighbor working on his pickup truck.

Petaluma is certainly not that bad. After all, I can almost guarantee that when we breed, they'll be born and raised in the former "Egg Basket of the World." But for now, while we're still young, we want to seem like we are, well, young.

So, if we do get this apartment, we'll be moving in on the first of March. And then, a couple days later, we're planning on hopping in the car and driving to Texas.

It's as easy as that.

Or, not really.

(Mom, stop reading)

Current scheduling constraints require us to drive -- without stopping -- for thirty-one hours straight. Ben's pumped and says we can do it.

I say this will probably be the ruin of me.

I figure that around hour twenty-four, I will have lost all feeling in my lower extremities and, after facing the Western Texas infinity desert, will have hurled myself out of our moving Honda civic.

I worry that no bad-ass, super mix CD will make this drive less torturous.

And really, is driving for thirty-one hours without substantial rest even possible?

Is it advisable?

Or, should I bite the "I'm afraid of flying and dying" bullet?

Update: Now, don't tell me I'm stubborn and don't listen to the opinions of others. Because, I do. Next task at hand: call doctor to get a mini-dosage of Valium.

Coloriffic.

It's coloring time again. And, this time, the coloring contest has its own page. That way, I'll be able to keep a better archive of past contests and their results.

The old comments have yet to be imported -- I'm going to save that for another time since I just wanted to get something up.

So, be sure to enter. The prize this time is great -- a $15 gift certificate to Amazon and a Mirror Project mug -- both courtesy of the sponsor, Heather and The Mirror Project.

Jinx.

We have an appointment tonight at seven to see an apartment in the City.

I can't tell you how much I want this place be the place. I've seen pictures of the apartment already and it's quite lovely -- it actually seems perfect for us.

It's a bit isolated from the rest of the city -- not a bad thing since I'm still rather scared of big city life. I want the friendly suburbs and the nice restaurants. Public transportation and a garage.

Something will be wrong. The house is probably too far from the DSL hub. Or maybe it's haunted. Or maybe there's a monkey living in the back bedroom and we have to let him have his space and cook his dinner.

Speaking of monkeys, there is just something so right with this picture.

And now, some patchouli talk.

Please send us the positive vibes we need to land this apartment. Let the landlord know that we are the best tenants -- we're clean and quiet and pay our rent on time.

And we'll even take good care of the monkey.

Open Book.

Don't we all have some sort of dream/nightmare repertoire?

You know, the dreams that have popped in and out of your mind for as long as you can remember.

That same house. That same situation. Those same people.

Everything seems so familiar when you awake, but you're never quite sure if you've actually had the dream before or if your mind is just playing another trick on you.

My two most frequently reoccurring ones are oddly associated with my living quarters.

There is the secret room dream. In this dream, I'll find a secret, or rather undiscovered, room to my house. In this room will reside a home theater, a small bowling alley, a new computer or a gourmet kitchen -- basically anything my subconscious is yearning for during that particular slumber adventure.

The room always makes me deliriously happy and I walk around the house like a fool shouting "Why did I never see this room before? This room is great! And it's been here the entire time!"

And then, as always, I'll wake up and for a second or two, still believe that the room exists.

Another nighttime favorite is the slightly more intense "my house is on fire" dream.

Most of the time, the fire or other natural disaster threatening my house is never visibly apparent. Rather, I just know that I have to vacate and must get my important belongings out of the house.

And usually, I'm given just one big black Hefty bag to do the job.

That's the sort of dream I had last night.

The only item I can recall saving from the burning fire last night?

A childhood favorite, the Dr. Seuss book, My Book About Me.

Analyze that one, all you Hop on Pop psychologists.

If you read dollarshort regularly, then its meaning should be fairly obvious. Or maybe, I really don't have a clue what it means and just think I do.

The wacky mind.

I did mention the pigeon, didn't I?

Yesterday was a pretty disappointing day.

We had made the drive to San Francisco to look at two rental properties - one in the frightfully quiet West of Twin Peaks area, the other, near Hugo and Irving.

Our first appointment -- the West of Twin Peaks property -- fell through when the owner decided not to show up.

This was probably for the best since my initial reaction when seeing the house was:

"This reminds me of Bela Lugosi's house in Plan 9 from Outer Space."

After waiting around for a half an hour, we headed to our next appointment where we encountered:

1. The constant barking of a rottweiler-sized dog in the shared unit.

2. A very scary black pigeon living in one of the rooms -- which, at first sight looked very much like a bat, hence my scream "Oh, my God, there's a bat living up there."

3. A kitchen literally the size of my arm-span, if that wide.

4. Did I mention the pigeon?

And yes, I'm usually very picky. But, yesterday morning -- before we left to go the The City -- I made sure to keep an open mind.

So now, I'm completely bummed since I see the process of finding somewhere to live in San Francisco to be a nightmarish process.

We don't need to be in the heart of the city -- we're very open to living in an isolated part -- say, Outer Sunset or, West of Twin Peaks.

We just want something that feels clean and safe.

Oh, and a garage, hardwood floors, washer/dryer and a location close to some sort of public transit.

Yeah, I know -- good luck. Damn us spoiled suburban kids with our champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

Or, as I like to say -- champagne tastes on a beer budget.

But not having to live with a pigeon doesn't seem to be too much to ask

Side Note: My day was somewhat brightened by the aquisition of State Quarter #15 -- Kentucky.

Don't tell Mama.

I know it's good and all to see that Liza Minelli is making a comeback after a very serious illness, but I have to wonder, is the irony of her situation completely lost on her?

Last week, while watching some sort of fluff entertainment news show, we caught a glimpse of some Liza! press conference. She was announcing her marriage (to producer David Gest), her European tour (which kicks-off in London) and her victory over illness and weight.

In a matter of seconds, I found myself shouting "Don't go to London, Liza!"

For those not versed in Judy Garland history, Garland died while living in England -- in the midst of her thousandth comeback and a new "marriage."

Does it not completely creep Minelli out that she's seemingly living her mother's life -- a life that, really, didn't end too well?

But really, who am I to judge? I own Judy Garland paper dolls and also suffer from a nasty romanticized prescription pill habit.

Well, not really.

But I do take my birth control pills each night with a dramatic flare.

And, I do have the paper dolls.