Get on the bus, get on the bus, everybody everybody

fishface jas
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

T minus 48 hours. The Trip Home lurks just around the corner. Today, I go shopping so my mother can't tell me that I need to take better care of my clothes. And also so she won't take me shopping. Why do I suddenly regress to an 11-yr-old when we go shopping? I actually blush in embarrassment when my mother suggests I look at bras. Shouldn't I be over that kind of thing?

By the way, I talked to jLiz yesterday and she confirmed my mother's craziness. I've been reporting this story to friends for weeks, and it's not that I think they doubt me, but it's nice to have proof.

jLiz, Alec and the Norster stayed with my parents on their way through NY State at the beginning of their big cross-country move. jLiz actually gets a kick out of my parents (as do most people), but she was surprised by the unmitigated CRAZINESS of the following statement by my mother. HAHEM:

"I just wish Jo would get pregnant so she'd have to move home and I could take care of her."

Okay, so my mother said this to me. That's pretty crazy and it explains several neuroses. BUT SHE ALSO TOLD MY FRIEND!

Scary scary woman.

On the other hand, unprotected pre-marital sex, here I come!


(Good pun, JoBiv.)

Great title for a blog... go look!

P.S. - The photo comes from two summers ago. We took the lil preschool peeps on a field trip to the Swan Boats by way of a very small bus. They loved it. Jas, above, was rahther annoyed to have to sit in a booster seat, but was pleased that I sat next to her. She saw the bus ride as the perfect time to practice her fish face. I agreed.

Lucretia McEvil

Lucretia McEvil
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

Everybody, meet Lucretia. Lucretia, this is everybody.

Now that we're past the formalities, let's play a little tune.

Hmm. It seems I haven't practiced in, oh, three months, and I'm a bit rusty.

This photo, by the way, comes from the old apartment, 56 Queensberry St, G3. G for Ground floor. Ground floor = basement. Basement = infested hovel. But really, we liked to call it Home. That's the couchbed, by the way. Is it a bed? Is it a couch? No, it's a couchbed!

I decided to show off Lucretia today because I am feeling the strain of my non-expression lately. That is, I haven't been singing. For those of you who are unacquainted with the full power of JoBivness, you should know that I love singing jazz and blues, and some soul. For those of you who know me very well, you are probably one of the people who have looked at my sad little face and said, "but are you SINGING, JoBiv?"

This includes Susan Bloom, the Children's Lit program director. Wait... I think she may have already retired. She still has her old office, though, which is where she told me two days ago, "You should really get on the ball with that." Yes, Susan, you're right.

So if anyone has a bar mitzvah, a luau, a coronation ceremony, or any other festivity coming up, I'm renting myself out. I'll bring Ms. McEvil, if you can find someone to play her.

Click subject line for beautiful writing and artful... art.

I know, I know, certain death awaits me.

Check my friend Jim's blog. He's new at this, yet surprisingly bold.

So I called my Dad with good news. After making the shameful phone call to ask for money so I can pay my frickin' Brookline MA rent, and my mother agreeing to float me the cash 'til I get my Planes money, I called to let Dad know that the Financial Faeries had bestowed a gift on JoBiv. I FINALLY got reimbursed for my unused vacation time from my Parent Liaison job at the preschool! Whoopee! (Who, you wonder, doesn't take her paid vacation? Why, that's me! JoBiv! What would I do with it? Go home? You haven't been paying attention.)

I got the checks in the mail yesterday. CheckS. Plural. Nice, eh? I had spoken to MeeraLove earlier in the day, saying "Sure we can get together, but not at a cafe, because I can't afford the leftover coffee grounds," and then later I got to say, "Meera, DAHLING, let's saunter down Newbury in pointy bitch shoes (f'real, click on that -- I'm related to that person, somehow), and fear interaction with the peasants."

We didn't do that, though. We deposited my checks, bought dalmas and concord grapes from Trader Joe's, and spat grape seeds at squirrels whilst chatting about Life In General.

All this is to say, I called home. Nice of me. I said, "Dad, don't bother sending that check because I've got me some Moh-nay."

And he said, "It's already sent. Keep it."

And I said, "Umm... I donwanna."

And he said, "Well too bad, because I'm not takin' it back. Why aren't you coming October 2nd?"

Huh?

And I said, "Because then I'd be there too long." Whoops.

"What do you mean, too long?

"I mean, that would be a long time to be in Victor with all of you poor people chauffering me around. It's not fair to YOU." Good save.

"Oh. Well, Tom [recall former Marine brother, 32, lives in Cleveland, likes beer] and Sara [girlfriend whom I like because she is creepily similar to me] are coming that weekend. They got their weekends mixed up."

Right. So I have to change MY plans because the FRICKIN' MARINE can't plan a trip to the bathroom, much less to his hometown.

But I changed my plans because my Dad named a date for the Great Drive Back to Boston. Columbus Day. Everyone jot that down. Also, because my Uncle John from Hawaii will be in town that weekend of the 2nd, and I'd shore like to see'm. That was an awkward part of the phone conversation because my Dad was in the kitchen while my Aunt Mary (freak, remember?) was makin' cookies, and I would never, EVOR, change my plans around in an effort to run into her. No sir. It just may have been conspicuous that I've seen my Uncle John much more recently than I've seen her, but what can she do to me?

Hmm. I suddenly have this image of Aunt Mary as the witch in Snow White, dripping cyanide on a luscious, red apple...

laugh today.

Sarah and I have a favorite audio clip from Home Movies. Do partake.

HOOOBOY this is a fun site! As aforementioned in Sus's comment on a previous post.

Here's a sample of what Jive can do to my last post:

Dat's DannySmacks in blue, and Chripps in yellow, so cut me some slack, Jack. And da damn Bean, who be de only reason de camera flashes in Victo' NY. And red wine in dangerous vicinity t'honky carpet. Man!

And I already showed you Giraffes? Giraffes! but it deserves a second mention.

Done and... done. Time to relax!

cowgirl
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

Lemme just grab my hat...
Good news, people! No more JoBiv whine-a-thons about planes! I finished That Damn Project! Hooo boy, I hope I get PAID for it!

In other news, Miss Sarah scored a job! Well done, dear! You beat me. :/

In other, other news, my Dad is stalking me. He's cute, in his way, but the stalking thing has got to stop. My parents, having no jobs (runs in the family) and vivid imaginations (hmm... perhaps this, too), imagine the Grisly Death of Jo Mary whenever they call and I don't call back right away. And I mean within ten minutes. Suddenly there's another message on my machine, all quavery-voiced and pitiful: "Jo Mary, please give us a call, honey, and let us know how you're doin'. We haven't heard from you in a while..."

Nice that they're concerned, yes. But, I'm a busy girl who hates the phone. Why WOULD I call immediately? By the third message I get a little frantic, but then my Dad resorts to email. The following subject line greeted me today. HAhem: "CALL HOME PLEASE!!!! I don't hear from you returning my calls, I cry."

No message. Just the subject line.

From this message we (and by we I am including the police whom I may invite to take a look at this stalking problem) can assume a few things.

1. English is my father's second language and he never told me.

2. The affection for CAPS FOR EMPHASIS runs in the family as well.

3. The man needs uppers.

You may be relieved to hear that I did call my parents today. Aunt Mary is visiting, with her grandson, Quinn. They're both freaks, but that's another story for another day. So my Mom answers, cheerily considering the Mary/Quinn invasion, and we chat for a while. Then she decides to switch phones so she can talk and smoke on the porch at the same time. Classy. She asks my Dad to hang up the phone once she's out on the porch (yeah, you'd think she'd use a cordless, but we really do have an old-fashioned cord phone on the porch, just in case any random strangers want to make 1-900 calls on our bill), and my Dad says, "who is it?"

Mom: It's your daughter!

Dad: Oh cool, tell her I said 'hi'.

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??? Mr. You Make-a Me Cry-a says "hi." What an ass. I'm never calling home again. Which, by the way, is the only way to deal with a stalker.

WARNING: don't click on today's subject line unless you know my sense of humor and political leanings. Howdeee neighbor!

Singin' in the Rain

Wow. Apparently I stumbled upon a bible-thumpin' teen felon! G'mornin' neighbor!

"But JoBiv," you say, "It's not raining!" No, not currently. Saturday morning, however, was heavenly with rain. I like the first few autumn showers - the ones that have some backbone. They make all the remaining flowers and foliage perk a bit for a last hoorah. And I get to wear my favorite red-hooded sweatshirt (rammalammadingdong), and carry an umbrella. All good things.

Saturday morning... okay, Saturday afternoon, I made some excuse to go to Liquors Foods. Now, if you have never visited me in my current apartment (and this includes a long list of people, including my own brothers, David Blouin, Sean Connery and Prince William), you may not know about Liquors Foods. Let me explain. Boston and Brookline service their population rather well with a plethora of convenience stores. Mostly they are hidden behind the few gas stations in town, but a true city convenience store has nothing to do with a gas station. Am I right? 7 Eleven, City Convenience, and Stowah Twenny Fowah (Store 24) get the job done right. They are cramped, understocked, and run by the mentally ill.

Not that I have anything against the mentally ill. I consider myself in allegiance with them.

So, there's a Stowah Twenny Fowah across the street from my apartment building. They have 1. excellent ice cream, 2. all kinds of matches, lighter fluid, charcoal and other delights including the One Big Match I bought to keep our pilot light from killing us in our sleep, 3. an ass-raping ATM machine, 4. The sketchiest employees in the history of convenience stores. I will not allow contest on this last point. Between the squirrelly much-tattooed punk boy whom I've named Wannabag after the ONLY THING I'VE EVER HEARD HIM UTTER and the Nam vet who always likes to make an announcement about how crazy this particular Friday is when it is actually a Monday or a Sunday and then continues to harangue the Mellow Yellow delivery guy who clearly doesn't know shit about driving a truck because he's never been stuck in the mud surrounded by Charlies, I think the Craziness award remains on their shoulders.

And then there's Liquors Foods, my preferred shopping destination. First of all, their name, in the most straightforward way possible, tells you what you can find there. Liquors. Foods. Hooray. Store 24 and 7 Eleven would make you think that they are open all the friggin' time. That's bogus. Don't fall for it. Also, their staff comes entirely from one apartment of latino (I think Mexican actually) guys who are great pals. None of them have shown outright signs of craziness. And they all like my big rack and give me special treatment.

Also in Liquors Foods, the thirsty person will never leave unrequited. I have never seen such an array of drinkable liquids. Who knew that Polar made club soda in every flavor known to man? And when's the last time you saw Sarsparilla soda? ANYWHERE? Besides the stunning overabundance of sodas, there are thirteen varieties of orange juice with varying degrees of pulpiness and calcium, a healthy showing of Goya fruit juices, and this awesome Ocean Spray product called Juice and Tea (which, like Liquors Foods itself, delivers its goods in a straightforward manner).

And possibly the cream of this particular cup o' coffee is that I don't have to cross the street to get to Liquors Foods. In a straight convenience store to convenience store match-up, that fact alone blows away the competition. It's just so... convenient.

You can imagine that on a Saturday morning when I was all by my lonesome with nothing but an evil freelance project ahead of me, I would not want to venture out into the deluge. You'd be WRONG! Venture I did! To Liquors Foods! I bought orange juice. Minute Maid with low pulp and extra calcium.

And on the way back to my apartment, I couldn't help twirling my umbrella, feeling self-satisied, and humming "Singing in the Rain."

Okay, I did have something to look forward to besides the plane project. I got to hang out with the lovely Miss Meera, who was rahther rightfully annoyed that I hadn't emailed this blog's address to her. Sorry, Meera Love. It was a very nice little sojourn we had, Miss Meera and I, and I made out like a bandit with a free dinner (at McDonald's) complete with a Happy Meal toy.

So this day went along nicely, and when I got home in the evening I flipped around on the tv until I found - drumroll please - Singing In the Rain! The movie! On TV, man!

That's it. My whole point. Watch it if you ever get the chance. You will smile.

This song's made up, made second rate

blue
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

Today's neighbor blog comes from Singapore, and the blogger has some quite fun things to say about a competitor in the Olympics. I surely laughed, I did.


Okay, so back to music. First of all, after listening to some of my CDs last night on a random shuffle, I have a thoroughly confused self-image. The list: Norah Jones - Come Away With Me, White Stripes - White Blood Cells, Muse - Showbiz, Jack Johnson - Brushfire Fairytales, Joni Mitchell - Blue, The Violent Femmes (self-titled I think), Bebel Gilberto - self-titled, Maroon 5 - Songs About Jane, James - The Best of (who supplied today's title), Franz Ferdinand - self-titled.

(I've provided links only to the bands you should definitely peruse because perhaps you never have.)

Has any band ever actually named their album "Self-Titled?" I think I would. Because I'm annoying like that. Some other album names cooked up by K-Dawg and myself: Ukilele Lookyloo and Exploiting the Loiter. Wish I had a nice group of three, but alas, my creativity belongs to Baseline Development Group and the subject of planes.

If you want more of this type of thing, and why wouldn't you, go visit Sarah's post, and then read Dana's list in the comments.

Okay, so back to JoBiv's thoroughly confused self-image. As I was saying, I'm not sure if I'm a 56 yr old woman, an indie-rocker wannabe, a Brit born roughly 5-7 years before my actual birth... it's all very confusing.

JoBiv, go write about planes, dammit! There will be time for your Weblog, or whatever you kids call it, after your work is done. Do I make myself clear? (That's the 56 yr old woman yelling at the indie-rocker wannabe.)

Good mornin' Neighbor!

I have decided to make my post titles links to random other blogspots. Y'know how you're offered "Next Blog" by way of a nifty button at the top right of the page? I have already clicked it for you! And perhaps clicked it again until I find something worthy. And then I share it with you, and it's like I'm introducing you to my neighbors.

As I told poor Dana last night, it's like a Blog Party. HA! (Get it? Block Party? Blog Party? I know... awful.)

So this one's visually stunning, and then that's about it. I have no idea what this girl is talking about.


Speaking of gettin' to know people, H-Bomb and I have bonded yet further. Can I get a what-what for roommate bonding? (What what!) It turns out we both like really dumb kid jokes. I was telling her about my brother DannySmacks, whose jokes are always inappropriate for the time, place, and audience. Then she told me this gem:

"What's brown and sticky?" sez She.

"I dunno," sez I.

"A stick," sez she.

And I laughed heartily.

So then I told her this one, and I confess it is one of my favorites. In fact, if ever I am trading jokes with you and I start telling this one, do not crush my lil heart by saying, "I already know this one, you wrote it in one of your posts." Just smile and let me tell it, and you will hear me giggle uncontrollably. Ahem:

"Where did Napoleon keep his armies?" sez I.

"I dunno. Where?" sez H-Bomb.

"Up his sleevies!" sez I, and then the giggling ensues...

Giggling now, in fact...

Recovering...

Okay, as I was saying, I have decided that H-Bomb can stay as long as she lets me giggle at my own dumb kid jokes. And if she learns that I have excellent taste in films and music, and therefore does not have to act so surprised when she enjoys something I recommend, we just might be friends. And if she continues to let me try out her ice cream flavors, too. That's important.

Hehehe... sleevies...

Vrrrroooooom!!!

So I'm writing freelance-like again. Can anyone guess the topic? Here's a hint: I just zoomed around the new library's foyer with arms straight out (and Dana laughing at my hijinks) and I'm feeling my lack of physics education where it hurts...

PLANES!

Planes are fun. Planes fly in the sky. I like planes. Do you like planes?

My actions in the library remind me of an anecdote. Lucky lucky blogreaders, sit back and enjoy.

I have this friend from my lovely days in Victor NY, and his name is DannyWelch. I would say he's a High School friend, which is true, but in Victor you know everyone from the first day of nursery school onward. But Danny and I got to be better friends in High School.

I think our paths began to cross more often when DannyWelch joined the chorus and the musical. He was a joiner, in general.

Ahh... the musical... it was West Side Story our Senior Year. I had auditioned (poorly, of course), gotten a small part out of pity from my mentor/teacher Mr. Gary Thomas, and backed out after the first rehearsal due to last-semester-senior-year panic attacks. But that's another story altogether.

If you know anything about West Side Story, you probably know that there are two gangs who dance about fruitily and sing about how cool they are. The Puerto Rican gang call themselves the Sharks (why not Los Tiburones?) and the white kids called themselves The Jets. Snappy, eh? Lucky for Victor, we had three latino citizens. Two were brothers. They both had leads. The third was imported from New Mexico or something back in eighth grade, her name was Emily Torres, and she was an awful person. She also had an adequate voice and was cast as Maria.

So DannyWelch was a Jet, not merely because he's a white kid, but because he has a lot of energy and no one could mistake him for being a Shark of any kind. It's his sweetness, I think, and his gung-ho attitude. I think that one of the high points of DannyWelch's High School career (besides receiving instructions from our English teacher to skip our English class and go to Perkins because he was one of three people in the class who wrote the assigned paper correctly [Gutter and JoBiv were the other two]) was the opening scene of our spirited rendition of West Side Story.

Imagine with me...

The audience, comprised mostly of relatives of cast members, squirms in its collective seat, bored already and praying that its respective child hits his/her respective high note. Suddenly, the orchestra leaps to life, squeakily but adequately delivering energetic music while the audience takes in our set designs of faux brick and graffiti. Then, all of the sudden, ZOOOOOM, here comes DannyWelch, arms standing out stiff while his legs wheel below him, careening around in dizzying circles as though there's engine trouble and he may crash and burn at any second.

Wow, that kid sure is a convincing plane, the audience thinks to itself.

Meanwhile, JoBiv (helping with hair and make-up) and best friend at the time SarahFerg (playing Anita), who have seen this scene about thirty times over the past weeks of rehearsals, finally get it at the last show. "Ohhh... He's a Jet!"


How did I ever get into college?

Oh yeah, the overall dumbing-down of America and lies lies lies on applications! That's how!

Flaming cabbage is a beautiful thing

flaming cabbage is a beautiful thing
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

Photographic evidence! The Cabbage flames eternal.

This was taken by... someone else? K-Dawg? We had a Marathon '03 party at her other apartment. We also had a Marathon '04 party at the Swingin' Bachelorette Pad, but only Meera and Kate showed up, and their visits never overlapped.

Those of you who have never seen a Flaming Cabbage before, Behold! Seldom are such things of beauty caught on film. Or digital media. I should do a painting... hmm... Can we say MURAL, boys and girls?

Flaming cabbages abound!

I've got Shane on the Brain these days. It must be the general back-to-schoolness that makes me think of him. And going through photos I've noted the dirth of St. Bonaventure pictures. It's a problem. Honestly, I have more pictures of flaming cabbages in Boston than I do of any heart parties.

Just as I felt remiss in omitting my perfect niece, I have to say I felt remiss in omitting Shane. So I'll paste here some words I shared with a portion of Shane's entourage and we'll call it a thing done.



Here is my contribution to the email archive - my favorite laugh-and-cry-out-loud email from S. Tamika himself:

"Once i had a miss piggy cake for my birthday. I ate the boobs. for real."

No salutation, no signature, just telling me something he liked to tell me at regular two week intervals.

Some other random memories worth sharing... When Shane came back to school after his surgery, he had nothing but elastic waisted pants, but even those were too much for him (painful on his steroid-bloated belly). We'd go to lunch, clawing freshman for texas toast grilled cheese and fresh green peppers from the salad bar (which he ate with salt), and before we even walked out the door toward Dev he'd say, "Good LORD JoBiv I can't WAIT to take my pants off! And shoot up... we have to go to my room, take my pants off and shoot up. Whaddaya say?"

Preparing for our post lunch depanting in the morning, he would often wear his Target pj pants underneath his elastic-waisted khakis, which were made out of some stain resistant and utterly transparent material. In short, he wuddn't foolin' nobody. (And it's not like he put them on fresh from the laundry. HOT.) Those targets in the pattern stood out like a bad disease under his pants. Imagine Shane shlumping into Dr. DeLaVars' Women in Lit class with his Target-and-khaki pants and Ernie's Crab Shack shirt, where he carefully crafted his theories on pop culture imitating literature (published in The Laurel to a wide and presumably receptive audience).

Shane liked to leave notes on my door when I wasn't there at his imperial command. The first note of the day would say, "JoBiv - Where oh where are you, my sweet monkey of love? - Love Shane." The second one would have a "hell" carroted into the first "where are you" line, and the "Love" crossed out of "Love Shane." The third would be a short but effective tirade: "Johanna Mary Quintessa Princapessa North America Balboa Olivia Newton John Travolta Biviano III Esq. - I am never speaking to you again. I hate you. Love, Shane."

When I got in my door I'd see seven messages, all from Shane, all a variation on the same theme - "There is no excuse for a busy girl like you to not be in her room at MY convenience! Is that understood? Young lady?....... call me back, bye." "I forgot to say it was me on the last message. It was me. Call me back, bye." "Shane, that is. I didn't say that on the last message. The last message was Shane." "And the three before the last message. But what if someone else called you in between my messages? Then only the messages that were me would be from me... " Et cetera.

All I can think now... all I can think is - How did I live a whole year of my life without Shane on this earth with me? With us? Without his updates on his latest obsession and his latest disappointments, his constant reluctance to talk about the real dangers of his existence, the thoughtful comments, the maddening childish stubborn moments, the arms flinging, hands jazzing, lips smacking, eyes rolling caricature of himself that he pulled out for our enjoyment...

How can I not be furious that something took him away from me?

I woke up to my radio alarm on Sunday, not because I was sharing in the lets-all-pray funfest. I'm not a praying girl. Anywho, I woke up to Janis singing, "Take another little piece of my heart now babayy..." Shane's biopsy song. All that fury and sadness and hilarity overtook me, and like Uncle Chuckles, I cried. I thought of the girl who was stabbed fourteen, or was it seventeen times, to give Shane his last heart - the black girl who gave him license to refuse sunscreen. I thought of Shane's incredible mother and her penis collection, the bracelet of penis links she wore even to the award ceremonies and hospitals.

I also thought of late-night BV counseling sessions in the Laurel office with Shane sprawled on the floor, drawing pictures of "anything you want, sweet sweet JoBiv" - including an elaborate paper-towel mural and a pie. I thought of how I ran to Shane's BV office after a soul strangling english comp with Mulryan, and as soon as he saw me I started to cry... Shane hugged me and whimpered and properly trashed Mulryan and opened a bag of Skittles with a bit too much gusto, then proceeded to eat the scattered Skittles off of the floor while consoling me, spitting out carpet lint every so often. And I missed him properly and unendingly, and could see myself missing him forever, perhaps getting a little more accustomed to the spot that I swear hurts, right between my ribs, like I have my own scar there from someone cracking my ribcage open and trying to put me together again with new parts.

I just thought right now that I remember all of these things because I was always trying to remember them. I never deleted Shane's emails or threw out his toilet-paper notes to me. I wrote down some of the things he said and did because as I was knowing him, I knew he was something... rare...? I could never completely imitate him or even attempt to guess what the next thing would be - crude, sweet, yearning, rejecting... even his tropes were precious enough that I've always been learning them by rote.

You poor things. I'll end this now. This is my therapeutic addition. This is my $3.00 rose for the gravestone, and the lump in my throat that I've just vomited at your feet, but rest assured I vomit with love. HA!

MUCH love,
Johanna Mary Quintessa Princapessa North America Balboa Olivia Newton John Travolta Biviano III Esq.

Giraffes rock, okay? That's all I got.

I won't even tell you how sad I am these days. I won't, because then I'd have to tell you why, and that would be like asking you to take sides. Instead of asking, just send me money. Okay? That's all I need.

Here's a laugh.

http://www.haggis-on-whey.com

Oh, and thank you, Maldenites, for a lovely Breakfast For Dinner evening.

Viva la JoBiv!

I friggin' RULE! Not ONLY did I figure out how to put a link in my page, I linked to my very perfect friend Sarah's page! So happy! Let's do this again!

Here's Meera Love's page!

Click on coy lookin' girl


And here's KDawg's Flickr Madness:

Hot stuff, man!


And zees ees veddy funny, no? Okay, and scary.

Bring in a coupoooon


HAHAHAHA! MANIA is FUN!


In other news...

I got a splendid package from Ms. K-Dawg today. It was a photo album, filled nearly completely with wonderful pictures of our little lives in Boston. There was a shocking dirth of flaming cabbages, but the pictures were lovely on the whole. I actually came close to tears, to be honest. I miss my gorgeous friends. (Refer to mopey initial post, please.)

Also, I'm going out to play poolio with Michelle with a C and Carl with a K. And an entire friggin' army of other Harvard Med. strangers. A bit threatening, I'd say. "And what do you do, JoBiv?" "Oh, me? I'm a professional Bohemian. I don't believe in gravity or North Dakota. What's it like being a neuroscientist?"

I can't wait to make new friends!

Yet another attempt at computer wizardry...

Ms. Imholt's Page

The pile-driver stopped

The Boston Public Latin School marching band started.

No more teachers' dirty looks

"Um, like, where are the bathrooms?"
"Oh, you didn't know?"
"Um, know what?"
"We dig holes here at Simmons. In that grass over there."

I've always wanted to say that.



Okay okay, so I didn't.

This marks the first First Day of School in which I am not invited to participate as a student in twenty years. TWENTY YEARS, PEOPLE! I miss the new notebooks, the new eraser smell, the new shoes, the where-the-hell-will-I-sit anxiety, the endless stream of similar "how was your summer" conversations.

I haven't quite escaped those, however. I'm here at Simmons workin' away at the ol' job search, as the freelance well has run a bit dry of late. Oh, and I don't have a computer, remember? So all the new students run amok and I just sit here pluggin' away and hoping they don't get too close lest I feel threatened and start to bite.

Okay, as I was saying... those conversations have only been postponed until tomorrow night, when I am supposed to join the Children's Lit. Masters of the Future for drinks after their first Victorian Lit. class. I donwannago. I have to admit that I feel out of place among the younger set. They don't seem to like to do work, and they seem delighted to complain about the load, and they seem to think I'm some kind of saint for making it through already, mostly in tact. My job is to say, "don't worry, you'll get through it, you'll just get it done, you'll enjoy it, the professor is brilliant so try to appreciate her, et cetera." Except I don't SAY et cetera. (And by the way, I spell it out in hopes that people will read it and think, "Oh... et CETera... not ECKsetera. I'm so lame! I can't believe I was such a moron as to say it that way! Thank goodness JoBiv spelled it out and guided me back to the path of righteousness!")

Where was I? OH! As I was saying, I don't like being Ye Olde Sage of Children's Literature much. I miss the camaraderie of my old pals as we slugged through it together, slaving ever onwards toward our non-professional degrees...

Those were good times.

Here's my long overdue lash-out to the new class (whom I suppose I love anyway, somewhere in my blackened heart): YOU CANNOT REPLACE MY OLD FRIENDS, DAMMIT! There. That's better.


Speaking of old friends, I talked to K-Dawg last night. She got a job! Whoohoo, yay for K! And she was NOT watching the Sox vs. A's - Shocking! (It was a good game, Sox schooled 'em!) But she reminded me about a Very Important Book: Giraffes? Giraffes! by Dr. and Mr. Haggis-On-Whey. Look it up on www.haggis-on-whey.com. If I had any internet suavity, I'd make that a link. I don't, so deal with it. Anyway, brilliant book. Brilliant, I say. Look at it.


P.S. - I don't remember noticing that new dye jobs were a part of the Back to School flurry. Hmm.

Whosa baby? Awww!

Nora Violet
Originally uploaded by JoBiv!.

Is this kid frickin' cute? I do miss the nannying days. This was taken in May, I believe. Nora's probably off to college by now. She'll surely get her driver's license before I do. Har.

Since no one I know is related to a pile-driver:

I HATE PILE-DRIVERS! RARR!

Four out of five JoBivs recommend...

It's Labor Day. Shouldn't I be frolicking or fighting holiday traffic or washing lighter fluid/charcoal soot off my hands?

Instead, I think I will talk about how Franz Ferdinand is like The Strokes but good.

Trust my judgement, by the way. I have excellent taste in music and movies. People always act surprised when they like something that I recommended, which I think is funny. Frinstance, the H-Bomb and Tom went to go see Garden State, on my recommendation. They came back very pleased with the experience, and H-Bomb kept saying, "No, really, it was a really great movie!" Um, I know. Remember, I told you that? And we do have similar tastes in some things, so she shouldn't really be shocked that she liked something I liked.

Okay, so when I say similar tastes, I mean that we both eat copious amounts of ice cream and watch Smallville on purpose.

JoBiv vs. Phone

The phone nearly always wins.

You may ask me why I chose to start a blog. It's not because I like the word blog, I can tell you. And it certainly has nothing to do with some incredible techie prowess. The truth, I miss my friends, and perhaps I can avoid talking to them on the phone while they still get news of my comings and goings.

The phone is evil. (Eveeel. Like the frooeets of the deveeel.)

You never know when your phone will ring. You could be deeply involved in a great movie, and RRRING, someone interrupts. You'd be rude if you said, "sorry, I'm watching a movie right now, and it's more interesting than you." You try not to be a liar, in practice, so you can't say, "Can I call you back? I'm in the middle of something important."

Or say you're in the bathroom and the phone rings. That's just kinda embarassing. You can't catch the phone, and maybe the person thinks you're out somewhere, but maybe they think you're in the bathroom. If you're anything like me, you don't want your friends to visualize your potty time.

Or maybe you're doing dishes, and if you grab the phone you could die of an electric shock, and then how awful would the caller feel that he killed you by calling? HUH? I want to spare my friends that pain.

Also, um... I don't like talking to people on the phone. Is that enough? Yes, yes it is.

In emergency, pull this.

I remember lying in bed at night when I was younger - probably nine or ten. I used to imagine my escape plan in case of a fire. We had run drills, of course. The plan was to crawl out to my parents' room and go out onto the roof, then down this big nasty evergreen tree. But if I couldn't get there, I'd have to jump out of my window. We lived on a hill, and my window was three stories up because of the way the hill sloped to reveal our basement. There was a little brick patio right below my window, too. I imagined sitting on my windowsill, telling myself to jump, swinging my legs a little, smelling the smoke and watching it seep in through the cracks of the doorway.

I'd lie in my bed. (Lay? Lie? And you call yourself an English major?) I'd think of all the things I would throw out the window before pushing my butt off the sill. My diary. My favorite dolls, Delta the cabbage patch and Kirsten, whom I'd paid for with my own money (Where did I get $75?). I'd also wrap some sentimental figurines and small boxes and things in my pink baby blanket, and chuck that over. Then I'd leap and pray for the best, trying to roll like my brothers did when they missed the landing from their skateboard ramp.

It's funny, though, how this evacuation plan became a regular nighttime routine. No wonder I turned into an insomniac. I'd imagine the fire all around... at 13 I thought of things I'd want left there and destroyed, because, let's face it, I'd probably die in that jump and then I wouldn't want my journal to survive me. At seventeen I'd chuck all my writings out, and my artwork, and most of my cds if I could figure out a way to pad them well enough and quickly enough. In the summer after I graduated from college, I thought I'd jump and maybe fly out toward the moon, if it was a moony night. I would love to abandon everything that existed before me, and let it burn.

Why does this come up, you wonder?

Let's call my new roomie the H Bomb. Just cuz I think I'm funny. She's beautiful and nice, but she needs a nickname.

Anyway, the H Bomb's boyfriend, Tom, lives in Florida, on the eastern coast. Y'know, the coast that's getting harassed by that pesky hurricane. Last night his whole area was evacuated. He caught a flight to Boston to hang out in our apartment and hope that his boarded-up windows will hold against the storm. When I let him in he had three big bags full of stuff, and I imagined all the things I'd take now - important medical and financial papers, gifts from parents and loved ones, love letters, expensive and favorite clothes... But none of these felt urgent. Maybe it's moving away from home that does it, but I feel supremely unattached. I'd be at a loss, I expect, for a week or so, thinking of all the value of the things. I'd think, "Man, I should have sold it all. I could use the money now."

Do I have a point? Maybe not. I guess I'm just saying that I sometimes feel like I'm floating away from everything. All the things I can touch, I suppose they're real, but nothing is close enough, and nothing is a part of me. I don't remember feeling this way before. What is it? What is it...

Two-part academic titles: pretentious or illuminating?

I vote illuminating of course.

So no shit, I wrote this long and intelligent (I promise) post yesterday, and then the internet went down. I hate when that happens. It's alright, though. In the post I had promised to figure out how to use links in here, and I hadn't succeeded.

Lemme try again.

Whammo Kablammo! Voila!

Did that work?