new in travel

New post in the travel blog. The link to it is on the right hand side of the blog screen -- it says 'Flip Worldwide.' Check it out.

I will be writing more later. Right now I am drained and letting myself sink into a quiet morosity. (Which isn't a word, but think of it as morose + ity.)

I do have this to say at the present time, however:

Negative people are terrible to be around.
Negative people are angry people.
Negative people try very hard to bring others down around them, especially those in close proximity.
It's very hard not to let negativity get under one's skin, especially when it's personal.

However, ...

Positive people are wonderful to be around.
Positive people are at peace.
Positive people do not have to try to bring people up, they simply do so.

Thank goodness I have a few positive people in my life to counteract those who are constantly unhappy.

6/20

What a rainy, gray day. After all the praise I've been heaping upon the weather, you'd think it'd try and stay sunny for me. But alas, no such luck. The sky is brightening somewhat, and it's supposed to be quite hot by the late afternoon ... however, it's already close to 1pm, so I'm not holding my breath.

I do have to admit that I like New York City in the rain, especially Manhattan. The streets get slick and wet, and all the electric signs and lights reflect off the pavement. Pedestrians move quicker than usual, and I love watching their umbrellas bob over their heads. They always remind me of wet balloons. The sights and colors all blend together and it starts to feel like some sort of crazy carnival. Bright shop signs popping against the dark sky, damp clothes smelling of closets and mothballs, rubber rain boots blurring past in dizzying yellows ... I enjoy it all. There's something satisfying about getting soaked to the skin while walking around the city. It feels nice and natural. And colorful.

Brooklyn is a little more depressing in the rain. There's less people bustling about, so you see fewer umbrellas and rain boots. There aren't many electric signs either, so you miss out on the experience of watching their light flicker across wet streets. Everything is a little damper and grayer in Brooklyn.

Then again, Queens is worse than Brooklyn in dreary weather. Well, this is at least true for the Astoria areas. Things seem very dismal in the rain there for some reason. Queens in general tends to be even more residential than Brooklyn, so perhaps that's why. It feels like any suburban neighborhood getting peed on by the rain gods, instead of some urban wonderland. (Admittedly, I'm not a big fan of Queens in the first place.)

But enough about the weather. Here's an interesting little sight I saw while on a walk yesterday:

It's an old water pump and frying pan that someone turned into art. The person who made it draped metal chains from the pump to the pan to look like water. I loved it. Very creative. It was just sitting there by some one's front stoop.

I took a long walk yesterday. I normally stick to the same streets, but I ventured to a different avenue this time. I walked about 30 blocks and 4 avenues, which isn't a huge distance but enough to get the legs stretched out and blood pumping.

I love to walk, like most New Yorkers. It's what we do best. Everyone walks here, young and old. I always tell potential visitors to bring tennis shoes. "You'll be walking a lot," I tell them. Out-of-towners are always flabbergasted at what New Yorkers consider a short walk. "Oh, it's about a ten block hike," I say, and suddenly my visitors look at me with horror on their faces. But really, ten blocks isn't much. Probably not even a quarter of a mile.

It's the avenues that get you. Walk down the length of an entire avenue and you'll be on the go far longer than you need to. Streets = good, avenues = pain in the rear end. I always tell visitors to avoid walking down avenues when possible. It makes any trip shorter to avoid walking down their length.

In other news, here's what I've been up to in my own life:

Books I'm Currently Reading:

The Air Conditioned Nightmare, by Henry Miller

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers
My two textbooks on African politics and culture

Classes I'm Taking for the Summer:

World Cultures: Sub-Saharan Africa

Intensive Spanish I & II

Bands/Songwriters I'm Liking & Currently Listening To:

Amy Winehouse

Erykah Badu

Q-Tip

A Tribe Called Quest

Waste of Time:

The Sims 2

sleeping

avoiding doing anything productive by writing this blog

I'm terribly unmotivated to do work at the moment, especially musically. I need to plan some concerts or something, because if I don't have anything to work towards, I simply can't practice. Or won't. Whichever. Either way, it sucks.

I need to go figure out some musical plans for myself ...

have a happy day, and more posts to come (very) soon.

Oh, and weather update:

I spy blue skies.

summer is ...

Summer in New York City is:

buying cool treats from an ice cream truck

walking barefoot in the grass

watching the sun set with a beer and a friend

eating gazpacho soup at an outdoor cafe

enjoying the sunshine

planting flowers

wearing shorts

remembering to shave your legs so that you can wear shorts

hot dogs

hot cats and kids

kids playing ball in the street

expensive electric bills -- all those AC's and fans cost money to run!


My summer is off to a nice start. The weather is beautiful, my plants are doing well on the fire escape, and I have good friends to hang out with. Classes have begun again, which gives me something to focus on and work toward. Music is slow right now, but I'm hoping to get back into playing shape soon and stop putting off practicing all the time. It's just so hard in this nice weather!

I have some posts I am going to put up soon. Check back in a day or two for more.

mexican orphans & playing house

I was sitting in Prospect Park the other afternoon, stretched out on a patch of grass and thinking. There was nothing important being mused upon in my head, just random thoughts that floated past like the clouds in the sky above. Life, getting older, what to eat for dinner, bills to pay, school, books I need to write ...

A pair of little girls broke into the middle of these thoughts. They were standing near my head, talking in the loud and self important way that only children can pull off.

"Let's play house, okay?" one of the girls was saying. "You're the daddy and I'm the mommy."

This comment made me smile. It brought to mind memories of playing house when I was younger. I was never the daddy, and hardly ever the mommy -- I usually got stuck being the little sister or baby. I actually enjoyed these lesser roles, because that way I got more attention paid to me by everyone else. Babies and sisters need attention from pretend mommies and daddies, after all.

"Okay, I'm the daddy and you're the mommy." This, coming from the other little girl.

"And we're rescuing faeries."

"Yeah, we're going to rescue fairies. We're orphans who save faeries."

A happy squeal errupted near my left ear. I heard feet trample around in a running pattern as I looked up into the blue sky above. I hadn't quite managed to flip myself over enough to get a good look at the two girls playing, but I knew plenty from listening to them. Under the age of eight, probably dolled out in the color pink, and fans of stories about homeless and impoverished little children their own age who get adopted by magical aunties or grandmothers. That was pretty much me at that age.

The two girls ran about rescuing the faeries of the world for a good four or five minutes. I heard their dialogue the entire time, trilling voices weaving stories about a duo of kids who save magical creatures. The orphan theme made me smile. I had always been a fan of being an orphan in games, as well. I never had any idea why, except that it seemed appealing to be alone in the world but able to stand up to it anyway.

When I finally mustered the energy to turn over onto my stomach, I got a good look at the two girls. They were kneeling in the grass, pulling up clumps of daffodils and speaking in quick, light voices. The two were very somber in expression, taking their job of playing very seriously.

"We're helping a girl from Mexico run away from her evil stepmother."

The taller of the two girls, a fair skinned brunette, informed her smaller colleague of this new twist in plans. "She has a really mean stepmother who isn't nice to her and she has to run away. She can't go back to Mexico."

"Okay, we have to figure out her escape route." This, coming from the little blonde member of the duo.

"Yeah, she can't go back to Mexico or her stepmother will hurt her. Her stepmother is in Mexico, so we have to help her cross the border safely."

Well, this was interesting. I didn't even have a concept of Mexico at that age. My town was home, and everything else was just kind of nebulous. I'd done extensive traveling even at that young of an age, but the idea of Other Countries didn't really exist yet, let alone a concept of America or the United States.

Listening to the two girls brought up many memories for me. It was poignant, because it made me realize how long ago I'd stopped playing those sort of games. I'm not even sure I'd know how anymore. I'd wonder about bills getting paid and how daddy and mommy would work to support their babies and sisters. I'd feel silly prancing around a house made of twigs and leaves instead of bricks and plaster. I'd wonder if other people were staring at me for trying to be a little kid.

I was getting older, no question about it. This game drove it home for me. I was getting older and there was nothing I could do about it. It was a sad moment. I'd traded in playing house for wondering if I'd ever be able to afford a real home.

Then there was the whole issue of Mexico being tossed into the play acting I witnessed. It seemed an odd thing to toss into a story. Immigration issues weren't such a current event in my day. While there were tensions over it, illegal immigration hadn't yet errupted as a major political issue. Had things changed so much that little girls now bring international affairs into playing house?

"I'm tired."

"Yeah, me too. Let's go see Emmie."

"Yeah, okay. We can play house later."

The two little girls ran off, leaving me alone again with my thoughts. I flipped myself onto my back, and stared at the sky. The clouds were still floating past, the day was still sunny, and the same old questions came bouncing back into my head. What to eat for dinner, bills to pay, school, books I need to write ...

but this time, every few minutes, two new thoughts came sneaking back in:

1) When did I get too old to play house with my friends?

and

2) Why Mexico?

park slope in bloom part 3

A bath tub full of blossoms up close ...

and from far away.

Bamboo grows anywhere, including in urban gardens.

park slope in bloom part 2

park slope in bloom

People tend to think that Brooklyn is a bleak place lacking in any kind of greenery. While on a walk today, I decided to set the record straight. In a 20 block radius of Park Slope, I took nearly two dozen photos on my cell phone camera to prove that people really do care about their yards and gardens here, and that Brooklyn has plenty to offer to those who enjoy all things natural ...

even in an urban setting.

These are a few of the things I saw ... more photos to come.

A sculpture flashes the peace sign ...

A spare patch of land can be turned into a jungle of flowers and bushes.

Fences look classier when draped in white blooms.

Even sidewalks can use a little help ...

Row homes always look better with a little decorating!

documentary clip

This youtube clip is part one in a five part series from the Discovery Channel. I think it's a reminder about how precious life is, and how much we have to be thankful for in being able to live in a relatively free nation:






I have watched all 5 parts to the documentary online, and it is worth hunting down all of the clips. I haven't been able to find it on dvd, but it might be able to be ordered from discovery.

I am so thankful to be alive and living in a place that allows me personal expression and freedom.

found

Just to let everyone know ...

Ra Ra Riot's drummer John Pike was found yesterday after an air and sea rescue search. His body was found floating in about 7 feet of ocean water. He had drowned, and was declared dead at the scene.

Condolences to his family, friends and band mates.

There is a wonderful place to grab Moroccan food on my street. It's a small cafe with a beautiful back yard set up with all sorts of tables and chairs. The food is amazing, the owner is a native of Morocco, and the wait staff are always pleasant. Everyone seems happy when they are there. It's a nice place to be.

One of my favorite things about the place (other than the chicken tagine and amazing hummus) is the resident cat. He belongs to the neighborhood, a slinky black creature who recently fathered a litter of kittens. A waitress politely informed me that "kitty kitty" was actually named Puma.

Puma is *quite* the character. He rubs up against the legs of patrons, snatching up attention like bits of lamb. Puma stares at the dinner plates with a hungry gleam in his eye, despite looking very well fed. He is an absolute gem.

Luckily enough for me, I was able to snap a photo of him yesterday evening:

missing

This is a bit of an unusual post. I'm doing this on behalf of the band Ra Ra Riot (who are good) and were managed for a time by a friend of mine. I have heard the band live, and they seem like nice people and solid musicians.

This posting went out this morning to friends of the band on myspace, and I feel like I need to share it:

"Last night our drummer John Pike went missing at 3 am. He was last seen in Fairhaven, MA wearing a yellow t-shirt and jeans. If you have any information on where he may be, know anyone in the Fairhaven area, or spoke with him after 2 am saturday morning, please contact Fairhaven police immediately as well as John's mother, Paula Pike - (978) 835 2140. We appreciate any information."

There is a photo of the drummer on Ra Ra Riot's myspace page.

If anyone has any information, please contact the above number. I'll keep you posted if/when he is found. (And no, this is NOT a joke.)

bluestockings: the bookstore

The room is hot. And crowded. And very full of masculine women.

Rows of chairs have been neatly set up, most of which are already full. Only a few empty seats remain. Thanks to the small dimensions of the room, the audience looks much larger than it actually is. Bodies are packed in neat rows, draped in all kinds of interesting clothing. Many of the people sport interesting style combinations, such as sun dresses that reveal tattooed backs, lumberjack flannel mixed with short haircuts and floaty skirts with combat boots. Several members of the audience have a grungy, crunchy look to them, a sort of revival of the unwashed hippie era.

Only a handful of men are in the room. They sit quietly, probably afraid to open their mouths. The scattering of males have all come with female companions, and most have the artful look of someone who is gay. I'm pretty sure that the only straight men in the room are the two who are with my group of friends. Everyone else is positively gay, gay, gay. Not surprising, then, that one of the men present turned out to be transgendered "since 1989", a woman in a previous incarnation.

I've come to the famous Bluestockings Bookstore to hear a friend read her poetry and prose at an open mic night. She is the featured reader, following a slew of semi-awful to dreadful poetry. Women with names like 'Gala' and 'Sophia' take control of the microphone for eight minutes at a time, sharing their voices with the world -- or, at the very least, with those present.

A girl from Montreal recites her original piece while singing. Another speaks so quietly in her British accent that I can barely understand what she's saying. One young woman insists on using the 'f word' every other line. Jokes are exchanged about 'butches' and 'fems' and I find myself not laughing at all. I don't get it. This is so not my world.

But I'm here anyway, being a good person and supporting a nice friend. She reads well, her prose and poetry well written and interesting to hear. The pieces are nicely chosen and the audience listens closely. I'm happy for her, and applaud loudly when she's finished. "Superstar!" I tell her, patting her on the back. I feel like a mother hen.

The other featured writer is a professor from Smith College. She reads a short story entitled 'The Knife Lady.' It seems a normal enough tale, until about half way through when I realize the story is about discovering one's true sexuality. I listen with interest as the storyline progresses. I'm not entirely comfortable sitting here and listening to it, but it's certainly a new experience.

After the reading is over, my companions and I quickly leave. We share jokes over dessert at the vegan cafe next door about manly women and feminine men. It's not that we have a problem with living alternative lifestyles -- it's just that it isn't for us.

After clearing the air with a few laughs, we discuss the contents of the bookstore. All sorts of fascinating titles on political theory, feminism, alternative history and gay and lesbian lifestyles fill the place. I'm sure it's the type of business that carries Noam Chomsky and the like. My interest is sparked. I have to go back to this bookstore at some point and browse around. Who knows what I could find?

Bluestockings is, after all, one of the more famous bookstores in Manhattan. It has a legendary underground status. Entering it is a little like approaching a cult like mecca for radical liberals. Everyone is so far left they're practically apolitical.

More information about the bookstore can be had by visiting their website at http://www.bluestockings.com. Going on an open mic night can be quite an experience, especially if there is a good featured author.

miss universe 2007

So, who watched the Miss Universe pageant last night? Japan won. (Rightfully so, in my opinion ... she was the spunkiest, had the best evening gown and was pretty darn attractive.) The competition was in Mexico City. I'm sure the place is great and all, but geez. What a rowdy audience. Everyone booed Miss USA, especially after she fell on her rear end and got chosen for the top five anyway. I wasn't sure if the audience's bad behavior was a reflection of USA getting chosen over Miss Mexico, or if it had more to do with American immigration policies toward Mexicans. Perhaps it was a combiniation of both. At any rate, the audience behaved in a really tasteless manner. I felt so bad for Miss USA. She looked so stunned after she fell. Poor girl. She placed fifth.

Miss Korea, who placed in the top five, was another interesting contender. Rumor has it that she's had tons of plastic surgery, including work on her eyes and cheeks. I have a feeling all the women involved have had at least some work done. They all look the same, which is interesting considering Koreans and Brazilians don't normally look alike.

I went to the Miss Universe webpage (http://www.missuniverse.com) and looked at some of the contestants. Angola, India, and Japan rocked the house. All three were top finalists as well. Angola and India should have been in the top 5, but these things are so fake anyway, it's probably all decided in advance and fixed.

Here's the clip of Miss USA falling on her butt:

That's got to be so mortifying.

What's worse, here's Miss USA getting booed by the Mexican audience:

Brutal!! I think the Miss Universe audience owes Miss USA an apology. It isn't her fault America is unpopular or that the competition is clearly fixed in favor of North American nations.

I realize this is a pretty shallow post, but I am a female, and I dig stuff like this, soooo ... put up with it this one time. (insert smiley face here.) It also has nothing to do with New York, buuuuut ... well, who cares? It's entertaining!

roasting

It is hot.

Very hot.

Melt your face off hot.

I will update this blog when I am not busy roasting to death.

Life without air conditioning = crappy.

I have a cute photo to post and a story to share. Hopefully soon I will get them up online for your reading pleasure.

Until then ... please send New York City cooling vibes.

kids gone wild

A swarm of children has taken over the empty back lot of the apartment building next door. They live on the second floor and have figured out how climb down the fire escape to the grubby parcel of land below. No one is meant to go there. The landlord has it locked off, and high fences surround it. It had a neglected and lonely feeling all year, at least until the kids figured out to play in no man's land.

It's amazing how one can always count on children to act their age. This is by no means a criticism. In fact, it's a beautiful thing. Even in the middle of America's largest city, urban youth have a need to roll around and play in some dirt. Dirt is an essential part of childhood. Digging for earthworms, building mud pies, constructing mini forts from wet soil and having soft ground to somersault on are all integral parts of being a kid. All of these things rely on an empty patch of land that can take some abuse.

The neighbor's kids seem to love it down there. They scream, laugh, yell and joke around in that small dusty space. Dirt clods are flung about, boys terrorize girls with bugs, and wads of grass get dug up and tossed aside for no apparent reason. The scene reminds me of a bunch of puppies let loose to root around and get muddy paws.

Too bad my own back'yard' is home to the Nazi Troll down below. I wish I had a dog so I could let him run around there and poop his way into canine delight. Maybe I should tell the kids next door that the grass is greener on the other side ... i.e., come down and visit my neck of the woods -- and pay mister troll a visit as well!

the guggenheim & my sister's visit

As noted in my last blog entry, my sister was in town for a visit. It was her first time in the city since high school, a good 16 years or so. Needless to say, things have changed a LOT since then.

She was here mostly to relax. This translated into spending copious amounts of time at my apartment vegging out and chatting on the sofa. We did venture out to scope out my neighborhood, the local park and to grab some yummy food. The pair of us became especially enamored with the local Moroccan restaurant and the diner down the street. We also spent several hours at the Guggenheim, checking out the Picassos and Van Goghs. My beloved Gauguin was on display as well.

We also spent some time strolling around a posh neighborhood of Manhattan, marveling at the old ladies and their $500 handbags and pedigreed poodles. We bumped elbows with European tourists, looked at the wares being sold by street vendors, and sipped coffee at Starbucks. All in all, not a bad trip.

I should linger a little longer on the phenomenon that is the Guggenheim. It is a marvelous building built in the shape of a spiral. You wind your way through the museum by walking up ramps that coil in a circle around the inside perimeter of the building. Upon reaching the top most tier, you have a dizzying sensation that you could easily fall off and onto the ground floor far below. This is unlikely, of course, but it's a feeling that is hard to shake, especially if you're afraid of heights like I am.

I wasn't crazy about the special exhibits on display during this past visit. I'd been to the Russia! show that was on about a year ago and had loved it. This time the Guggenheim was hosting very modern artwork with all sorts of concepts that I didn't get. I stopped trying after about the fourth or fifth piece that made zero sense to me.

The coolest installation was a room that had a flashing disco floor that was lit up with what looked to be LED lights. Hip hop blared from two speakers located at opposite ends of the space. People were dancing, posing for photos and staring in awe at the sight. Naturally my sister and I snapped some photos of it. We posed like maniacs in all of the photos. Good times.

One other exhibit that caught our attention was that of the Italian divisionist artists. The paintings were beautiful and often had a social message about poverty and the working conditions of the poor. As a social science major, I appreciated that, and my sister, who also majored in a social science in grad school, liked that aspect of the art as well.

The best thing about the Guggenheim are the permanent galleries. They are filled with all kinds of invaluable artwork, including Kandinskys and Seurats. There is something amazing about going up to a famous piece of art and staring at the original brush strokes of a master painter. Bronze sculptures by Degas (and his little ballerinas) are especially amazing to look at up close. Every artists has a different brush stroke, and it was interesting to compare Van Gogh's with a lesser known artist.

I feel sorry for the security guards posted all around the building. Actually, I'm not even sure they're security. They might be poor souls stationed around to prevent people from touching the art work. Whatever purpose they serve, it isn't a fun one. They all have a similar expression on their face -- one of glazed indifference and sheer boredom. One woman's face reminded me of a martyred saint's. She looked so miserable and tortured that I wanted to go up to her and tell her, "At least you're getting paid to stand around on your feet all day. I paid to do this to myself!"

The museum store is worth a visit. Everything is overpriced in there, but they have a great selection of posters and postcards. I scooped up a handful of cards to add to my ever growing collection.

At any rate, my sister had a lovely time there. She bought a poster and enjoyed seeing all the different artists. We were very ready to leave once we had finished our tour of the building, however. It is implausibly exhausting to walk around and stare at art.

Some links to the museum's web page and a few of the artists on display at the Guggenheim:

The Guggenheim's Official Website

Franz Marc (one of my favorites)

Pablo Picasso

Georges Seurat

Wassily Kandinsky

Paul Gauguin
Edward Degas

in bloom

I live above a Nazi. Not literally, but more in a figurative sense. The man in question is a middle aged, grouchy old fellow with a German accent and bad attitude. I was watering my plants yesterday when he started yelling at me about dripping water onto his front steps. The amount of water in question was small, yet the man acted like I'd just released a biblical flood onto his yard. (I'd like to point out it was the first time I'd ever seen anyone at that location, and nothing at ALL has been done to the "garden" in the "yard" that the man was so protective about.) Mind you, I live four stories above the ground, so it wasn't like my water was close enough to even impact him. Still, he fussed and waggled his head furiously at me.

It's okay though. I saw him leaving the building today with a bag of marijuana stashed in his back pocket. Mister Saintly isn't all that perfect, now is he? I have my eye on you, mister Nazi!!

The dripping garden in question:

Not very evil looking, right? In fact, quite nice on the eyes ...

I've added some more plants. My sister came into town to visit (which will be the subject of another post), and having a similar love of plants, got me some more lovelies for my garden. I have four geraniums now, phlox, ivy, an unidentified plant that used to live in my window, two oregano plants, peppermint, cilantro, lavender and rosemary. I'm thinking of adding some parsley and regular mint to the mix as well. Other flowers would be nice to add some color and kick on the aesthetic spectrum. I just love looking out and seeing green that isn't treetops or backyards. (Don't get me wrong, I love treetops ...)

My sister also bought me a lovely indoor peace lilly and an ivy plant that now lives in the bathroom. Thanks, sis!

yes

It's Monday ...

(oops about posting late).

The test went well.

The pain killers before and after were very helpful.

I'm glad it's over.

yuck

Well.

How things change.

That previously mentioned illness of mine has improved somewhat, but not enough to prevent doctors from prescribing me a medication for my stomach and ordering a scope Thursday morning.

Needless to say, I am not thrilled.

I have to go into the hospital, get an iv drip and sedatives and then get a tube and camera stuck down my throat and into my gut. Sounds yummy, right?

If anyone reads this before 10:45am eastern time on Thursday, send me some good vibes. I need 'em! I will probably not be posting a blog entry tomorrow, but I will be sure to let everyone know how it goes by Friday or Saturday.

Hope everyone else is doing a lil' bit better than me!!

sick

Okay, I'm not going to lie. Today sucked. Royally. Things have been not so great since 10pm last night. That's when my stomach started giving me excruciating pain. Around 1am I started vomiting non-stop, and after about six hours of doing so, decided I'd had enough of clutching my sides and sweating from throwing up so much. Sexy, right? I tried keeping down water, to no luck. Ice cubes wouldn't stay down, either. I was dizzy and sweating from being so sick, and I could hardly move from off the bathroom floor where I'd been planted for the past several hours.

After a 6am phone call to a family member that was along the lines of "what should I do?", I called myself a cab and hauled myself into the nearest emergency room. I sat there for a painfully long while until I was finally admitted into a bed and given a skimpy hospital gown which left me freezing and over exposed. Then I had the joy of being stuck with needles by a rabid and PMSing nurse. I think she was part vampire. The woman took enough blood from my right arm to nourish Dracula. The samples were for blood tests, which didn't turn up normal and therefore added to the Shit Factor of being in the hospital.

I was in the E.R. for around seven hours. After being cleared to leave, I decided to save money and walk home instead of taking a cab. (Why? I don't know. Because I'm cheap. Because I'm dumb. Because I am secretly into causing myself grief.) Anyway, I got so many weird looks from people on my trip back. I can imagine why, too. My hair hadn't been brushed all night and probably had strands of dried vomit in it, my clothes had the worn-in look of a homeless woman, and I had a hospital bracelet and gauze bandage wrapped around my arm. I scowled the whole way home. I figured an evil facial expression would complete my homeless bandit woman look.

I was fine for most of this past evening until I attempted to have a bowl of chicken noodle soup. My stomach suddenly started flaring up again, and I ended up getting a little panicky as a result. I had a tearful conversation with a friend who called, and ended up feeling like an idiot for blubbering over not being able to eat.

At any rate, here I am with my stomach feeling like a load of embers is resting in it. It isn't quite at the burning fire stage. More the 'smoldering charcoal' sensation. I suspect it's related to a previous health problem, which actually is fairly serious if left untreated. I was ordered to go in for tests with a GI specialist as soon as possible by the ER doctor. My attending nurse was concerned about my blood test results as well, and urged me to see her own stomach doctor.

Anyway, to keep my mind off this whole tummy thing, I've been searching around youtube like a mad woman. A link I like:

One Big Flipbook -- cute and creative.

Youtube is a healing past time. Seriously.