"You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone."

~ Andrew Largeman, Garden State

This morning we went to Chenango Bridge for a walk-through of the new house. Until today I'd only ever seen it from the outside. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.

Of course, I had just downed a Starbucks doubleshot espresso on the way so I was able to remain very optimistic, but ...

The living room and dining area were carpeted in a hideous shade of grass green, and the matching drapes looked like they had come straight out of a Lemony Snicket book. But I was forced to admire them, because the owner (who had grown up there) thought they were the greatest thing ever, and had them especially cleaned before selling the house. Dry-cleaning the drapes alone cost him over $400. And it's a terrible waste because they will be the first thing to go -- I'd rather have newspapers over the windows, they are truly that ugly. They remind me of that monster on Sesame Street who lived in the garbage can. But, at least they are better than the curtains on every basement window, stamped with a pattern of the Kool logo.

And speaking of the basement... above the door to the basement is a little light like the kind you see outside television studios when they're filming something. Apparently the owner's father, who built the house, got really mad when anyone left the adjacent hallway door open while he was in the basement, because if he came out of the basement and opened the door it would hit the other door. So he installed the light, which is on whenever anyone's in the basement, so whoever is upstairs knows not to leave the adjacent door open. Seriously. When I saw that light and heard the story I wanted to burst out laughing.

This guy who built the house also tried to dig a bomb shelter in the backyard, until one of the walls collapsed and his wife yelled at him and made him fill in the hole. Which is why there is now a random concrete slab off the back of the house. Some porch.

The bathroom upstairs is really tiny and built into the back dormer, and has no shower because the owner's parents "never took showers." Instead they built a shower for him set into the wall of what used to be his room. Just a random shower not connected to the bathroom at all. And speaking of, this bedroom is completely lined with wood floor to ceiling, no paint or wallpaper anywhere, so we've been referring to it as "the wood room". It's really weird because none of the other bedrooms are like that, it's just so random.

And the kitchen countertops are bright blue. Like, blogger blue.

Then there's the fireplace. A family of raccoons had been living in the chimney until a week ago when the people came home and discovered them, and the mother and 3 of the babies climbed out. There's still one baby left, that's apparently too small to climb out of the chimney yet, and the mother keeps bringing it food. But there's nothing to be done yet, because the piece won't come off the bottom of the chimney so no one can open it up to get the raccoon out. And the regular-sized ladder doesn't reach to the top of the chimney. So all they can do for now is wait and see if it gets out on it's own.

Have you ever spent some weeks looking for yourself, only to turn around and realize that you've been there all the time but now everyone else has gone?

I've done it again.

It's like searching everywhere for a pair of glasses that have been right on top of your head, and when you finally notice and put them on, you wonder why you ended up here, as if you'd forgotten you knew your way by heart because in your panic you thought you relied on the glasses. And now you're here for absolutely no reason. And it took so long to find the glasses that now you can't remember what it was you needed them for, no matter how pressing it had seemed in the moment.

I feel very, very alone.

Today while browsing the latest headlines, I noticed an article on the BBC news about the House of Lords rejecting a law which "would have removed the threat of prosecution from those who go abroad to help an 'assisted suicide'". So because assisted suicide for the terminally ill is illegal in the UK, if a person were to travel to, say, the Swiss clinic Dignitas to die, their spouse could not accompany them or they would risk prosecution under the Suicide Act.

All this controversy about physician assisted suicide etc. etc. really makes me angry. In my opinion, it's almost ridiculous. It's hard for me to comprehend how government can possibly have this much say over an individual's rights, and I don't know how people stand for it.

Assisted suicide is illegal in the U.S. as well except for in Oregon and Washington, and even in those states there are strict laws concerning when this can be legal. How can the state place these kind of limits on personal liberty? Isn't the choice concerning time and circumstance of death a highly personal matter, and shouldn't we each have the right to make those sorts of decisions? When one is terminally ill and death is imminent, why can't one have the choice to die with dignity? Those opposing PAS talk about the effect it has on family and friends. What is the effect on family and friends who watch their loved one waste away, or discover them dead in much worse circumstances than the person would have chose ... or those who go tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt to keep their loved one alive, when the last thing that person wants is be kept alive to suffer through another day? What if said person doesn't even recognize his or her family, and isn't really even aware that he or she is alive? Who are we to lock anyone into that sort of half-existence?

True compassion would require that assisted suicide become legal. Of course it could be abused, like any law in the legal system. But the bottom line is that when we are already dying, and our quality of life is hastily declining, we should have every right to avoid needless suffering and choose a peaceful, painless death. I don't see how any argument can really be made against this. Of course it is hard on families. Death is never easy to deal with. But isn't it easier to know that your loved one has died in the time and place they wanted, with everything in order and their wits about them, than to have it on your conscience that you fought for another few weeks or months that they never wanted and couldn't enjoy? And after all, if it were you, what would you want?

What really confuses me is being in a situation where I think, out of the blue, "it would be really weird if ___ showed up right now," and I have just enough time to wonder why I even thought of that person, and then he/she appears? Or when for no reason at all I picture people doing or saying something that has nothing to do with anything that's going on at the moment, and I ask myself why I even pictured that because it's so bizarrely disconnected from anything I'm experiencing in the real world, and my mind seems to answer that it's because I just had a dream about that recently -- and then it actually happens, even though it's completely unexpected?

Situations like this happen so often, many times weekly, even daily. And I should be used to it by now, but every time it totally messes up my mind. Like back in first grade when I'd have just completed a complicated picture on an Etch-a-Sketch and then somebody would accidentally shake it a little and even though most of the lines were left on the screen I just couldn't picture in my mind what it had looked like.

Or like when you see a tiny stray thread on the hem of a skirt and you try to break it off, but instead it pulls so the entire skirt is bunched up, twisted, and bruised-looking. And you wonder why you didn't just let it go.

God, this life is strange sometimes.

I've decided my primary goal throughout the summer is to become healthier. I'm going to drink eight glasses of water a day so I'm not dehydrated anymore (and so I stay away from the temptation of bowl after bowl of ice cream). I've also heard increased water intake is good for the complexion, another incentive to stick to this resolution. And speaking of healthy skin, even though I don't really care whether or not I look tan, I'm going to make myself get some sun every day because I know it's good for me.

I'm also going to do Yoga every other day. My muscles are way too inflexible right now -- most of them barely get used, and my leg muscles are so tight that I can't even keep my heels on the floor during the Adho Mukha Svanasana pose. My arms are so weak from not shooting archery anymore, that halfway through the routine they start shaking when I use them for support. I am determined to get more fit and more flexible. Plus, when I get good at Yoga, I can use it as a stress reliever. Which I am probably going to need next semester. I've decided that once I have had sufficient practice following instructional videos, I'm going to reward myself by signing up for a legit class.

And finally, to make sure I get enough exercise over the summer, I'm going to continue walking in the mornings and go jogging every 2nd or 3rd morning. I've never tried to go jogging before this summer, and the one time I tried it didn't go so well. But I'm going to not eat breakfast first next time. And I'm going to start with intervals so it's not as hard. The lower my expectations, the better I'll feel I did. We'll see how long this lasts.

<
rant>

If there is one thing that hurts more than anything else, it's when my mother can't stand to see me happy. It's when her endless thirst for drama, conflict, and war comes running after me, teeth bared, long after I've backed away from the challenge. It's when I'm accused of "romanticizing" the life she's forced me to live, because I've brought resilience out of the wreckage of the past two years, and begun to pick up the pieces as I learn to survive on my own -- because I'm finally starting to realize that I'm the only person I'll always be able to rely on for the rest of my life. It's when she repeatedly informs me that I've made her life hell. It's when she starts to shed tears for her own entertainment, and makes me feel overcome with guilt even though I am the one being victimized. It's when she denies the words that are etched across my mind for the rest of my life. It's when I tear myself away from the temptation of apologizing for nothing, of trying for the millionth time to make everything better, and instead trudge to my car to face another day knowing that our relationship will turn out the same as the one she has with my estranged grandmother. It's when I lie awake at night staring at the rocking chair she used to sing me to sleep in when we were mother and child, in that different life we had fifteen years ago. It's when I wish I had a mother to give me advice and hold me while I cry and believe in my dreams. It's the sick jealousy I feel when I see my friends' mothers, and the guilt that floods my mind when I become aware that I am jealous. It's the embarrassment I feel when anyone asks.

If there is anything I have learned from all of this, it is never to become that person. The person who thrives off of other people's unhappiness, who stumbles through life bruising other lives. I will never be like that. I will never do this to my child.

< /rant >

In response to this post by Susanna at Dreaming as the Summers Die:

I feel like my life is a house whose front door hardly anyone uses. Other souls come climbing through the windows, waltzing in the back and side doors, slinking up the cellar stairs, seeping under cracks and creeping in through crannies, scuttling around the attic and down the chimney. They never come out the way they came; they find another way, leaving a trail through my life, patterns in the dust on the floor. But the few who enter the front door -- who come into my life in the most obvious ways -- step into the foyer, wait, and are gone.

I was just thinking today about how some aspects of my character haven't changed very much throughout my entire lifetime. It's almost like my personality now is founded on who I was as a child and even a baby. I'm sure the examples I thought of are just strange coincidence, a pattern that only appears to exist, like the monkeys typing theory. But still, now that I've thought about it I bet there are some people out there who theorize that we are born as who we will be, that our personalities and character traits are already a part of our soul, that environment and circumstance have nothing to do with our development as a person. It's strange to think about. But anyway, here are the examples I thought of, just as curiosities:

• My first words were when my parents took me for a walk and I saw a bird fly past. According to the story, I pointed and shouted, "Bird! Pretty bird!" For my entire life, I've had a fascination with birds and anything with wings. When I'm bored, I can stare at a backyard birdfeeder for hours on end. I pick up feathers that I find outside and use them as bookmarks. Once when I was 10 I found a flamingo feather in the bird room at the Syracuse zoo and begged the zookeeper to let me have it. I have an inkwell on my desk with quill pens in it as a decoration. I love feather jewelry. And I don't really care that much if any other animal gets run over (yes, I know, that's terrible of me to say) but when a bird gets hit by a car, I'm depressed for the entire day. I saw a sparrow get hit by a semi-truck once on Route 369 on the way to class, and it was so upsetting I burst into tears and even now I sometimes see it replayed like a video clip in my head. It's one of the worst things I think I've ever seen. As ridiculous as that sounds. I think its because birds are supposed to be free from all the lowly things down here -- they're supposed to fly and sing and be careless and detached from everything. When I see an eagle or something soaring high above the earth, I feel weightless and alive, and the world seems right again. When I see a dead bird by the side of the road I feel dirty and corrupt and caged in by my very existence.
• The other interesting thing I noticed about this story -- if it is true -- is that immediately after speaking my first word, I strung together an adjective and a noun. Since then, I've gone through many plans for possible career choices, but I always come back to being an English major. Always. I wonder if it's possible to be born with one's brain wired in a certain way, so that linguistics come especially easy.
  

• My favorite movie as a toddler was Beauty and the Beast. Belle was pretty much my childhood hero. I always wanted to dress up like her in my "belle dress", and I had a bunch of mini plastic "belle dolls" from the disney store that I took with me everywhere I went. I think it's funny that I ended up being a lot like the character of Belle. I had a vivid imagination and was always daydreaming about things being different than they were, and I learned to read really early which is why I hated kindergarten and persuaded my parents to homeschool me. By the time I was 10 I had read the entire childrens' section in the Moore Memorial Library. I always dreamed about having a library like the one in the Beast's castle, with ladders I could swing on. I still want to have my own library when I get a house of my own. And there will be ladders on the shelves, just wait and see.

• My favorite color when I was about 2 years old was red. All of my coloring books were monopolized by red crayon. I wanted to wear red all the time, and I painted one of my belle doll's blue dresses red. I cried and cried when we moved from our red victorian house in Tully to the white one in Greene, and according to my parents, I had a tantrum when I found out we were moving and shouted "I don't want Carly [the daughter of the people who bought the house] to have my red house!!!" I swore I was going to have a red house and a red car when I grew up, and I told my parents when I was old enough to dye my hair I would dye it red. Well, I've never looked particularly good in red because of my skin tone, and truthfully I don't even care for the color that much anymore, at least in terms of clothing and accessories, so I hardly ever wear it. But I think it's really funny that my first car coincidentally ended up being bright red, and the first time I dyed all of my hair instead of just streaking it, it ended up being red (though that was mostly unplanned).
  

So I was wandering around Binghamton on my way home from Vestal tonight, shopping for father's day and just trying to think of stuff to do in general so I wouldn't have to come back here and be bored again... When suddenly I started thinking about books and got the distinct urge to write. I didn't know what, I just really really wanted to write. It seemed like forever ago since the last time I just sat down and wrote something worth keeping. So I hurried to check out and drove home in the rain with the radio blasting, thinking the whole way about how I was going to plan out some amazing plotline and write this really stirring, thought-provoking, philosophical, character-driven story that I would be so proud of.

Of course, I didn't actually plan it, I just planned that I was going to plan it. When I got home.

So now here I am, at home, staring at a blank notebook wondering what the hell I was thinking. And wishing I hadn't been in such a rush to leave Vestal so I could've remembered to bring some charcoal and chalk for my collage. Or remembered to get some cash from the ATM. Or gotten the hair conditioner I so desperately need right now. Or brought something back to wear to work tomorrow.

Couldn't I at least have had the presence of mind to stop at a Starbucks and write instead? At least somewhere where there are people around to use as inspiration. Instead me sitting alone inside this huge empty house and its silent, brooding atmosphere, staring out the windows at the gloomy rain-blurred view.

Now seems like a pretty good time to curl up on the couch with a movie.

Why do my days so often come to this?

All day today there have been trucks driving up and down our road delivering cow manure to be spread on the fields of nearby farms. The smell seems somehow worse this year, maybe because it's so rainy and overcast. Usually I can stand the slight whiff of dried manure in the distance, even, almost, welcome it as a familiar scent unique to the country. But this is so disgustingly fresh and overpowering that it has made me lose my appetite every time I step outside.

I could go on complaining about it but I am not, in fact, in a negative mood today. So instead, as I am about to light a stick of incense, I have been thinking of smells that I do like. As far as I can think right now, these are my top ten:

1) Coffee
2) Campfires
3) Horses
4) Books
5) Leather
6) Tangerines/ Clementines
7) Lilacs
8) The Ocean
9) Cedarwood
10) Warm home-baked bread

Observations I have made today:

- While baking chocolate chip cookies just now, I realized that:

• I always listen to reggaeton and Latino hip-hop on AOL radio while baking, but I never listen to it otherwise...
• While making anything with vanilla, I purposely let the tablespoon overflow so there's about twice as much vanilla as the recipe calls for...
• I can follow the exact same recipe and it never looks the same as when my mom makes it ...
• and I have absolutely no idea how to tell when stuff is done baking.

Also, a good story. On the way home from our trip to Binghamton, Grace and I were driving near the end of our road, by the farmhouse with all the horses, and there was this guy standing in the field near the road, next to a parked pick-up truck -- rough-looking type with a cowboy hat on, shielding his eyes to look at the horses, and as we drove by he turned to look at us, and we saw with amazement that he was actually wearing a black bandit mask!! It looked like he was plotting to steal the horses. I don't know what was actually going on but it struck me as hilarious and I laughed so hard I thought I was going to die. Just thought that was weird enough that it was probably worth sharing ...

Also. As I am sitting here typing this, a male cardinal is repeatedly flying out of the rhododendron bush to slam into the kitchen window. He's been doing this for 3 days straight. Apparently he thinks his reflection is another male cardinal. So far he's managed to dislodge the window screen from its frame, scratch up the glass window pane, and probably knock himself out a couple of times. Every few minutes he hits the glass so hard with his beak (which, amazingly, is still intact) that he falls, disoriented, to the ground and has to get back up to sit in the bush again and stare at the window reflection. It's so annoying. I think I'm going to go crazy if I have to watch this for another 5 minutes.

And in case anyone cares to know, I just retyped the word "rhododendron" different ways for 4 minutes, waiting for the spell-check highlight to go away, before I finally gave up and looked it up in the dictionary, which took 25 seconds. I am brilliant.

So yesterday I was trying on clothes and the memory randomly surfaced in my mind of how Amy and Joy used to tell Grace and I that we were fat, merely because the two of them were twiggy little 8 and 10-year-olds, and Joy later explained that she never actually thought we were fat, she was just jealous that Grace and I, both older, were more fully developed. All this time I'd assumed that she was speaking for both her and Amy, but now Amy unabashedly informs me that actually, she sincerely had thought we were fat. Thus turning a good laugh into a not-so-good discovery. I was horrified. I couldn't stop thinking about it for the next few hours. I felt really sympathetic for my past self, and, as a form of it, my current self.

Later on, we were playing ping pong in the top of the barn, and it was really hot up there so I rolled my shirt up and tucked it into my bra. I suddenly realized that Amy was staring at me and she goes, "Holy cow, where did YOU get ab muscles?? It's not like you ever exercise or anything!" Which, of course, was a very backhanded compliment, as it revealed the fact that she still expected me to be out of shape and, well, fat like she apparently used to think. But it also vastly improved my self image after her earlier comments. Especially since I hadn't previously been aware of the fact that I even had ab muscles.

And then I got to thinking about how hilarious it is that my sister commenting on my abs should make me feel so much better about myself.

So, to prove that I don't care how my body looks, I've since eaten 3 bowls of French Silk ice cream, and am currently devouring 6 oz of Dove chocolate with a cup of chocolate raspberry coffee.

Because that really shows everyone exactly what is important to me, right?

...Yeah. Now that I've admitted all this publicly on my blog, I can't stop laughing at myself.

Today I got home to find a booklet from Starbucks in the mail, obviously an offer for gold card members because it has the same black background and gold foil coffee cup on it like my favorite card in my wallet ... so I was really excited to open it and even more excited to find three coupons for a FREE iced brewed coffee, a FREE iced caffe mocha, and a FREE caramel frappuccino. I was so happy I forgot about everything else for awhile and thought about how lucky I am and what a great life I have.

And then I realized later on how crazy it is that it takes free coffees to make me realize this.

What makes the whole situation ironic is that I paid $25 for the gold card in the first place. So it's probably only just starting to pay for itself after these coupons, since I always use the money I save with the card discount to tip the barista. I don't count the free wireless internet because I can get that anywhere on campus. So yeah. Apparently I only have this card because it's pretty and makes me feel special.

And because coupons for free coffee make me feel like I am leading a great, amazing life.

I feel slightly ridiculous all of a sudden.

Just thinking about how the best part of completing something, whether it's cleaning out my car, converting all my CDs to my ipod, rolling coins, running errands, writing papers, finishing a good book, etc., is not how I feel right when I complete it but when I look back on it later and think, oh wow, I actually finished that, and I forget how much time it actually took up because it's suddenly a couple of steps behind me and, distanced from it, I don't ever have to think about it again.

And then I consider that my entire life is comprised of a range of of seemingly important tasks that I list in my mind and focus my all on completing, only to put them behind me, like climbing a ladder while looking down so I don't realize there's nothing at the top til my hand doesn't reach anything. It's like playing Mahjong, matching up tiles at top speed just so you can turn over new ones because that's what the rules say you're supposed to do, and all you're left with at the end is an empty table.

There's got to be something more to life than this.

After a long week of being out all day every day doing something or other... it felt good to sleep in, eat a gigantic cinnamon bun with lemon frosting for breakfast, and drink Seville Orange coffee while watching old episodes of Friends on the DVR. Wearing my new AE sweatpants (rolled up, of course, given my shortness) and a gray tank top, with a messy ponytail and no makeup, I've spent the last 30 minutes or so doing the dishes, sorting laundry, wishing I didn't have to do either, and staring out the window at the backyard birdfeeder. I know I should be thinking about going to my sister's softball game, but I'm too lazy to get ready to go, even though Bagsai field is in close proximity to the Front St. Starbucks. And as for driving there ... I cringe every time I think about the dwindling amount of gas in my car's tank as its value continues to shoot skyward. It's so much cheaper for me to stay home and read trashy romance novels with another cup of coffee and our current supply of chocolate chip cookies ... maybe end up watching music videos on Youtube ... clean up my room so parts of the floor might miraculously be revealed ... no, even that sounds like too much work. I'm better off sitting here blogging for the rest of the day.

So today I almost went out for breakfast for the first time in my life. Unfortunately I didn't wake up until 8 so I went to pick up Alex(andra) at 9:30 (and got lost on the way -- navigating a traffic-less Riverside Drive enough to find Laurel St. is just too much for me). By that time neither of us were hungry so we went to the mall instead. And since it was early, I got an awesome parking spot right near the door. And we were practically the only people in the mall. It was pretty darn amazing.

Unfortunately, I had my credit card handy so the purchases got a little out of hand. I bought a gorgeous pair of peacock-feather earrings at Penney's, and a pair of painted green earrings (kind of an Indian-type design) to go with a floral draped-front top I got at Mandee. Okay, so here's what I hate about shopping at Mandee, despite the fact that I've had some really great finds there. The security devices there are gigantic and they're not only placed on every single store item, they're also put in places that make most inconvenient to check for fit. Like under one sleeve, or right in the middle of the back where your bra fastens, so all you see when you're trying on a shirt is a big round bulge where it should be flat, and the pulls it creates in the fabric so you just can't be sure if it fits well enough. So ... all in all, it remains to be seen whether I keep or return this shirt.

When we had lunch (Ruby Tuesdays) I had an embarassing moment where I was thinking so hard about nothing that when the waitress asked if we were ready to order I automatically answered yes before realizing that I did not, in fact, have any idea what I wanted to order. Now any normal person would have made something up on the spot, but I, being me, as it were, I had to say, "Oh, wait, actually, I still need a minute," and follow it up with a nervous little ha-ha "look everyone I'm laughing at myself" laugh just to complete the picture. Lucky for me, we were practically the only customers so the waitress wasn't pissed. But still. I wasn't exactly embarassed for myself but I had that awful little nagging feeling in the back of my mind, telling me that I should be embarassed for myself, which was almost as bad. The good that came out of this situation was that I actually took the time to examine the menu thoroughly to make up for it, and as a result I ended up ordering Avocado Quesadillas, which I have never had before, and which I have never thought of having before, which means that I killed two birds with one stone in one sitting. Yeah. They were really really good. I actually almost ate all of them, which is pretty much a record for me. I never eat more than half my food in restaurants.

I forgot my coupons for Victoria's Secret, which was pretty sad cause I really really really wanted to get one of those new BioFit 7-way bras, which are slightly amazing. But I guess it's probably better that I saved myself the $50. Or the $100 since I kinda found something else I wanted too. I can't shop in that store. I always end up practically emptying my savings account in one visit. And all I have to show for it is a little pink shopping bag. Oh my life.

So ... instead of going bankrupt, I did the rest of my shopping at American Eagle, where I actually bought my first pair of sweatpants ever. Well, not ever as in ever, more like ever as in like ever. As in, it's been more than 5 years, and maybe more than 8 years, and maybe as much as 10 years, since I've gotten a pair of sweatpants. So I am very proud of myself for that. Though not so much as I am of the fact that I saved 20% by asking if I could apply for an American Eagle credit card. And they gave me the 20% off even though I wasn't approved. Because when have I ever been approved for a credit card? But usually I apply anyway on the off chance that I will be for the first time in my life and I might end up saving a couple dollars. And this time, I didn't even have to be approved to save. This is like a milestone moment in my shopping career.

So anyways. After that we drove to BCC and it was really creepy cause Tichener Hall was pretty much abandoned. It was so silent it was eerie. I hurried as fast as I could and went in the empty communications department and sorted through a box of photography portfolios to try and find mine, but alas, it seems to be missing. Which is really annoying cause I drove all the way there. And there were like $40 worth of prints in it. From Staples, where they were playing the Shins while I waited, which makes them momentos of an important moment in history. On the positive side, I went to the Mechanical Building and cleaned out my locker, which had a mean letter on it from the Security lady saying that if everything wasn't cleaned out by the 20th it would be thrown in the garbage. That made me extremely satisfied to know that I was cleaning it out a day late. Because I've always delighted in anything that makes her job more difficult. Well not always. Just since she started making my life more difficult. Long story. Anyway. There wasn't really anything important in there anyway, just a pile of old papers, a stack of Supplemental Instruction brochures, and a box of French vocabulary flashcards. At least I got to keep the word-lock that I was using. Not that I'll probably ever use it for anything else, but it's still pretty cool.

So after BCC we went to the Cyber Cafe. I looked all over for evidence that they sell iced coffee, since I really really wanted a Peruvian Dark but it was way too hot out to drink it hot. Finally I asked and right when the girl said they did, I realized that right under the two lines I'd been reading over and over again on the drinks menu, were the words "Iced Coffee" and the list of prices. Yep. I'm pretty intelligent sometimes. But the iced coffee was really refreshing, and after that combined with the Harmony Cheesecake, I felt ready to face the world again.

Traffic was really bad and, having to make a left turn, I was prepared to wait for ages pulling out of the parking lot, but luckily some nice old chap decided to let me go ahead of him while he waited for a traffic light anyway. So I went on my merry way, waving at him in happy thanks, when all of a sudden everyone in the car yelled and there was a squeeling of brakes and I discovered with horror that some guy in a white car was speeding down the center turning lane and luckily I gathered my wits about me just in time to slam on the gas and get out of his way. It was a narrow escape. The idiot came within two feet of hitting my car, and then he had the nerve to be angry at me, when in fact he was the reckless driver in the situation at hand. Considerably shaken, we continued on our way. Later, driving down 434 on the way back to Vestal, in the right lane, I came upon a large truck/ moving van type thing, in the left lane, with its signal on as if it were about to switch lanes. It did not, however, switch lanes, despite the fact that I kept my distance from the Verizon store to the travel agency. So, assuming they had accidentally left the signal on, I prepared to pass them since we were going about 30 MPH. However, as soon as I gained on them they began to swerve into my lane. So I hung back again and waited, but they still continued to drive along in the left lane. Finally, fed up, I began to speed past them, and then they really started to swerve into my lane, so much that Amy started yelling in the passenger seat. So I slammed on my brakes and sure enough, they practically ran me over to get in the right lane. It was really weird. We had a good laugh over it though.

So we get home, tired and hungry from a long day of shopping and driving around the Southern Tier. When, tramping up the driveway with our arms full of shopping bags, what to we find? A water fountain blocking out way onto the porch. We were so exhausted that it took us a moment to realize that it was not, in fact, a water fountain, but a hose. Our tired eyes took in the facts of the situation: a) no one was home, b) the hose seemed to have been accidentally left on and then burst open, as was evidenced by a long split in the seam, and c) this seemed to have been going on for awhile, since the nearest window well was overflowing with water, and judging from the distant but steady dripping noise, said water was making its way into the basement.

The first thing I thought to do was bail out the water in the window well. Unfortunately the bird feeder is right above it, so I ended up with bucketfuls of equal parts water and sunflower seed shells (and probably bird crap too, which thankfully I didn't think about at the time). In a hurry, I dumped it right on the new flower bushes my mom had apparently been planting earlier that day, so that the perfectly spread mulch was now full of birdseed.

Sure that that would be the first thing she'd freak out about upon her homecoming, I hurried inside to find that the half of the cellar closest to the window was covered in about an inch of water. Of course, this also happened to be the side of the basement in which all the cardboard boxes were stacked. So not only did I have to spend the next hour mopping up the flood scene, we also had to move all the floor-to-ceiling boxes and empty the bottom ones to survey the damage within the soggy cardboard.

All in all, it was not a fun ending to the day. The only good side of it is that I did not, in fact, get blamed. Which is a definite first.

So yesterday afternoon Alex came over and we walked to the corner ice cream store (I think it's called Lickety Split but I'm not entirely sure so I'm not going to call it that for certain). Anyway, on the way there I nearly stepped on a dead baby bird on the sidewalk. It was so sad. It was completely bald with a wrinkled eyelids (at least its eyes were shut -- there is nothing I hate more than seeing dead eyes) and tiny little wings and it was all curled up on its tummy like a baby only it was really really dead looking and its skin was a sickening gray-pink color. I yelped and jumped over it and was really horrified, wondering where it had come from, whether it had just fallen out of its nest or been killed and left there by a cat or something. And then I wondered what would happen to it now, if someone would clean it up or if a cat or dog would eat it or if it would just lie there and rot or if someone else would unsuspectingly step on it like I almost did. But that's beside the point. The point is (wasn't, but it can be) that it may have been a bad omen for what was to come.

When we arrived at the ice cream store, we took forever deciding what to get. Finally we ordered and the girl gave us our ice creams and we went to pay and ... we discovered there is tax on ice cream.

Yes, in other words, we didn't have enough.

And I can tell you, being $0.30 short on ice cream you've already started eating is not a comfortable experience. Especially when the girl just stares at you like you're an idiot. At least she took pity on us and just let us go. Cause I was starting to think I'd have to give her my cell phone as an investment (or whatever that's called) while I ran back home to get the thirty cents.

Regardless, I felt like I was eating stolen ice cream the whole way home. I have resolved to take an extra 30 cents next time I go there.

So just a few minutes ago I was sitting in my sister's room drinking coffee while she wandered around putting away clothes and art supplies and whatever else was randomly lying around. While she was hanging up shirts in her walk-in closet she started singing something like, "love is a battlefield, you better get your armor on," and I commented that whoever wrote that song wasn't very original. She argued that it was a brilliant song (I have never heard it so I have no idea what she was talking about anyway) and I said it couldn't be since the lyrics are the most important part of a song and if they're not original who would bother listening to it? She snorted through her nose and remarked that I shouldn't be talking since "All your favorite songs have random poets in them that no one has ever heard of." I was really confused and asked her to name one since I had no idea what she was talking about. "You know," she replied, "like that one about some guy, Oscar Wilde." I laughed so hard I nearly had coffee come out my nose. "Oscar Wilde is a playwright," I said, "And pretty much everyone has heard of him." "No they haven't," she insisted. "Um, yes they have -- even Poppy knows who he is," I pointed out. "Well that's because he probably had to study him in school." "Exactly," I said, "Because lots of people have to study Oscar Wilde in school, which is why they all know who he is!" She rolled her eyes. "Um, no. They forget. You learn this stuff and then you forget cause you never use it and who really cares. No one remembers what the capitols are of every state, do they? That's why they have that show, Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? Because no one really knows all that useless stuff anymore." I nearly died laughing. I'm not sure if it was because of what she said or the obnoxiously sarcastic tone of voice she said it in. Amy can be pretty stubborn sometimes.

So I watched P.S. I Love You again tonight and it gave me a brilliant idea. I'm going to buy shoes off the clearance rack and go crazy decorating them with ribbons and buttons and whatever I find lying around. It'll be fun.