of home.

Arriving in the States, smelly, tired and confused, ( a usual state when traveling) I was greeted by a stunningly good-looking, gloriously non-smelling of AzeriCologne, young man at the custom control, who gave me a dead on stare and a real pearly white, Colgate bleached, toothy smile, and said with a twinkle in his disarming hazel eyes   ‘Welcome Home Colleen’.  This threw me into confusion, and embarrassment ( of course!) causing me to mumble an awkward  ‘Thank you’ and then shamble off  zombie like to search for my luggage.

It was only until I was sandwiched  between a  OCD 15-year-old St.Louis boy and a washed up movie producer (who claimed to be on the production team of ‘A Christmas Story’- the one about the Red Rider BB Gun) that I was hit with 4 realizations: (1.) The absolute ‘Bad Form’ of my  garbled ‘Thank You’  (2.) Cute Custom guy was likely thinking: ‘There was a reason they kept that shambling one away for so long’ (3.) Damm, everyone is so happy and (4.)…Oh. My. I have been away for 2 3/4 years!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The state of culture shock has not diminished.  Celebrating Christmas with family, shopping at the Mall of America, buying glue at Target, walking my German Shepherd Mercedes, having NinjalarCandyDiskThrowing fights with Rob and drinking liters of quality wine has been a massive exercise in self-indulgence that is at once both intoxicating (!!!) and strange. 

There is only more in the next 3 weeks and I can almost not sleep at night, (jet lag be dammed) due to adventures on the horizon: New York, underground, dancing with Katie, art museums, Scrubs with Rousey,Sweeny’s, running (glorious running), Uptown mischief with Megan….

Post Moving Blues (or pre holiday angst)

The days leading up to a holiday are always drawn out:  electricity is out, flat is frozen, which hasn’t diminished the smell of rat piss and insta-concrete newly splashed into the holes in my floor, opening my kitchen door to the yard I nearly fall into a fresh pile of chicken squirt artfully arranged on my stoop, I hate chickens, they eat the rubbish spilling from the sad metal trash bin, which no one is skilled enough to actually aim trash into, too bad the cross eye cat doesn’t live near by, I contemplate the ramifications of cat napping a cross eyed cat and letting him lose on my rats, the cat being the only thing I will ever miss from what I have decided to call the ‘H0H0House’ due to my sterling, yet fictional reputation and skill (again false) to be in 2 regions at once, do actual ‘LadiesOfTheNight’ get this much crap(?), likely not, as they provide a ‘valuable service’ (according to collective thought)  to the ignorant and repressed, even the taxi drivers provide a valuable service, without them , I’d have nothing to cuss at, nothing to blame for bad days and the fact that I’ve been standing, looking out on a field of trash, feral animals, concrete blocks, car skeletons and a lone cow for over 15 min, in danger of contracting some hideous disease from the chicken shit due to being barefoot since the laundry I washed 4 days ago refuses to dry, and who can blame it, I have no heat, and being a girl lack the wrist strength to effectively ring out wool, in the next 15 min my lower half goes numb from the rotting wind and I’m still staring, my mind wandering to the cash one could have by inventing: (1.) quick dry wool socks, (2.) vodka that didn’t make you vomit, (3.) rat poison that disposed of and killed the rat, and (4.) taxi drivers with all their teeth; the black puppy that has chosen my stairwell as home starts crying, running, and barking, the neighbors, cry, slam and run overhead in response, I haven’t met them yet, have tried not to meet them, have imposed a barrier of a bent head, a low hat, a loud ipod to prevent an introduction, there is no need, 6 times before I have been nice, made cake, drank tea, looked at pictures, taken pictures, smiled and listened, 6 times before I have been vilified, trashed, laughed at, wrongfully accused, gossiped about; have been retold, invented and created into a person that not even closely resembles me, even if all adrenalin seeking antics from my pre AZ life are accounted for, there is no need for me to be nice anymore, perhaps its bitter, perhaps I’m burnt out, perhaps I’ve learned, three cups of tea be dammed, I cannot be perma-nice, though, given the current dressing trends, it is possible to be perma-stuck-in-a-bad-80’s-fashion-vortex, I might even like chickens if they had blue spiky hair, it would at least brighten up the view, little blue blobs running everywhere, my toes are now blue, and the sky gray (how cliché) its too depressing to sand here anymore, its only 1 week ‘till its all faded a bit and I’m home and home for a month of the easy, predictable…clean…warm…

…I’m made of plastic…

…isnt it fantastic?!

It has been noted various times over the past few years that the general population is fascinated by the industrial piercing in my ear.  Not only do most think I’m deaf in that ear, they also think that I must be in near constant excruciating pain. 

Apparently, it is the one defining point in my appearance, as so wonderfully captured in this doll. Given to me by a student from Qabala, the girl knitted the dress and explained to me that she had searched for over a week for the perfect needle/pointed object to push through the ear.

Must say that the plastic version of me isnt so bad, I have blue eyes and pouty lips afterall!