There is a chance that I may get back two years worth of federal taxes that I should not have had to pay from back when I was a grad student in Richmond.
The details of how/why are too boring to go into.
Granted, my salary was not even as high as it is now (and it's hard to imagine it being any lower), but still...it would be a very significant chunk of money.
If this happens, I'm going to do something exciting. Very exciting. Maybe I'll cruise around some fjords in Norway. Maybe I'll go back to Capri and try to make my dream of swimming in the Blue Grotto come true. Maybe I'll go see the Red Square in Moscow. Maybe I'll go to Thailand. Maybe I'll visit the souk in Marakesh. Maybe I'll finally see Machu Picchu.
I am getting dizzy. The possibilities are endless.
February 26, 2008
February 25, 2008
Funniest "let me leave you my inheritance" message EVER
--Forwarded Message Attachment--
From: annen_joubert@yahoo.de
Subject: INHERITANCE
Date: Tue, 26 Feb 2008 03:20:05 +0100
Dear Beloved,
Glory to God in heaven. My name is Mrs.Annen Joubert from South Africa. I am married to Mr. Abraham Benjamin Joubert, who is a farmer here in South Africa for many years before he died in 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a briefillness that lasted for only four days.Before his death we were both born again Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or geta child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited a total sum of $10. Million (Ten Million, U.S.Dollars) with bank in Europe.
Presently, this money is still under the safe keeping of the Reserve Bank Recently, my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next Two months due to my cancer problems. Though what disturbs me most ismy or better still a Christian individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct here in. I want a church or God fearing individual that will use this fund on, orphanages and widows propagating the word of God and give help to mankind. The Bible made usto understand that blessed is the hand that griveth.
I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are nota good Christians and I don't want my husband'shard earned money to be misused by unbelievers. I don't want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner. Hence the reason for taking this bold decision.
I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord.Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the lord will fight my case and I shall holdmy peace. I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health because of the presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated here in
With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I'll forward your personal information to the bank in Europe so that they will contact you as the legal owner of this fund before transferring the fund into your nominated Bank Account in your country. I will also issue you a letter of a authority that will empower you as the original-beneficiary of this fund. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the lord is my shepherd.i will stop here becouse of my health Hoping to hear from you as soon as possible. Read Hebrews13:15v16 New Living Translation
Remain blessed in the name of the Lord.
Mrs.Annen Joubert.
"All I got inside is..."
Inside my head I am much more transient than I allow myself to be in real life. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
February 19, 2008
The quotable Freddie Mercury
I'm not sure why these appeal to me at this moment. Maybe because it's raining. Maybe because it's Tuesday. Maybe because I hid my face in my hands so I wouldn't reveal what I was feeling. Maybe because...
"I am loved by thousands, but I feel like the loneliest man in the world."
"An interview? Oh, don't be ridiculous."
"I'm as gay as a daffodil, darling."
"I've made no effort to become a guitar hero because I can't play the fucking guitar!"
"We all have constant rows. We're like four cocks fighting. Ooh it's getting interesting this."
"Fuck today, it's tomorrow."
"I've stopped all that promiscuous lifestyle. I've stopped having sex and started growing tulips."
"I never thought of myself as the leader. The most important person, perhaps."
"Hello again, my beauties!...Is it happening? Is everybody okay? Wanna fool around?"
"I really do feel like being evil tonight."
"I am loved by thousands, but I feel like the loneliest man in the world."
"An interview? Oh, don't be ridiculous."
"I'm as gay as a daffodil, darling."
"I've made no effort to become a guitar hero because I can't play the fucking guitar!"
"We all have constant rows. We're like four cocks fighting. Ooh it's getting interesting this."
"Fuck today, it's tomorrow."
"I've stopped all that promiscuous lifestyle. I've stopped having sex and started growing tulips."
"I never thought of myself as the leader. The most important person, perhaps."
"Hello again, my beauties!...Is it happening? Is everybody okay? Wanna fool around?"
"I really do feel like being evil tonight."
February 18, 2008
February 16, 2008
February 15, 2008
Tales from the city #32 (Pablocito)
Last night (well, at this point it was two nights ago--Wednesday night. I digress...) I had a fairly exciting night. For many reasons.
My dear friend Nannette held her 40th birthday party at Asia SF. (What says "Happy Birthday" better than Asian men in drag? As one party attendee put it: "My penis is confused.") I have pictures and video from this event, but I should probably wait until I get, um, permission before displaying some of the things that took place.
Afterwards, I went with Scott and MJ to the Latin American Club, a bar in the Mission. I've been to the LAC before, but apparently I wasn't paying close enough attention the first time around. (Or something like that. Hush.) They have quite the collection of creepy pinatas, an impressive cluster of cuckoo clocks, multiple portraits of chihuahuas, and a giant white wooden rat displayed walls. We stayed until close. MJ said goodnight and Scott and I wandered to El Farolito, which is apparently a favorite 24 hour joint for cheap (and not bad) Mexican food.
I had recently complained that the men who hit on me were...well, freaks. Or crazy. Or drunk. Or all of the above. Inside the restaurant was a perfect example.
While waiting in line to order I met a drunk and nearly toothless man who beamed at me. I swear: one of his eyes was spinning in a circle. I briefly smiled at him and then glanced back at the menu, at which point he stepped over to me and said, "Muy bonita!"
It should be noted that the remainder of our interaction took place in Spanish. It also used every single bit of Spanish in my repertoire.
He asked me if I spoke Spanish and I told him, "Not much." He extended his hand and introduced himself as "Pablocito" and said he was from Guatamala. I ignored him while I placed my order and, because he was still there when I turned around, I told him my name, that I was from the United States, and un pacer de conocerlo (a pleasure to meet you).
Pablocito was VERY drunk, and it was difficult to make out what he was saying because, in addition to being in Spanish, he mumbled and slurred his words. He seemed terribly proud of his country, though, because he would frequently intersperse his sentences with cries of, "Guatamala!" and pound Scott and I on the shoulders enthusiastically.
He told me repeatedly how beautiful I was (and some other things that I'll leave to both of our imaginations)--it was around this point that I lied and introduced Scott to him as mi novio. He apologized to Scott profusely and then proceeded to do what he had been doing before: repeatedly asking my name, trying to touch my hands or face, and telling me I was beautiful. I pushed his hands away and told him, "We want to eat now, and you need to leave. Goodbye." (My "novio" was minimal help here. Just had to get that little dig in.) Finally, a police officer came and escorted Pablocito out. Scott complained that I was too polite, but my language skills are such that I only know how to make polite conversation and not how to tell someone to fuck off.
After the excitement died down, Scott said enviously, "At least someone wants to fuck you! Not even the crazies want me!" (There was a whole conversation that followed on this topic which should probably not be repeated.) But all in all it was an eventful evening.
Anyway, I have another story to tell about my cab ride tonight, but as I write this it's 4:33am and I should probably go to bed.
'Night.
My dear friend Nannette held her 40th birthday party at Asia SF. (What says "Happy Birthday" better than Asian men in drag? As one party attendee put it: "My penis is confused.") I have pictures and video from this event, but I should probably wait until I get, um, permission before displaying some of the things that took place.
Afterwards, I went with Scott and MJ to the Latin American Club, a bar in the Mission. I've been to the LAC before, but apparently I wasn't paying close enough attention the first time around. (Or something like that. Hush.) They have quite the collection of creepy pinatas, an impressive cluster of cuckoo clocks, multiple portraits of chihuahuas, and a giant white wooden rat displayed walls. We stayed until close. MJ said goodnight and Scott and I wandered to El Farolito, which is apparently a favorite 24 hour joint for cheap (and not bad) Mexican food.
I had recently complained that the men who hit on me were...well, freaks. Or crazy. Or drunk. Or all of the above. Inside the restaurant was a perfect example.
While waiting in line to order I met a drunk and nearly toothless man who beamed at me. I swear: one of his eyes was spinning in a circle. I briefly smiled at him and then glanced back at the menu, at which point he stepped over to me and said, "Muy bonita!"
It should be noted that the remainder of our interaction took place in Spanish. It also used every single bit of Spanish in my repertoire.
He asked me if I spoke Spanish and I told him, "Not much." He extended his hand and introduced himself as "Pablocito" and said he was from Guatamala. I ignored him while I placed my order and, because he was still there when I turned around, I told him my name, that I was from the United States, and un pacer de conocerlo (a pleasure to meet you).
Pablocito was VERY drunk, and it was difficult to make out what he was saying because, in addition to being in Spanish, he mumbled and slurred his words. He seemed terribly proud of his country, though, because he would frequently intersperse his sentences with cries of, "Guatamala!" and pound Scott and I on the shoulders enthusiastically.
He told me repeatedly how beautiful I was (and some other things that I'll leave to both of our imaginations)--it was around this point that I lied and introduced Scott to him as mi novio. He apologized to Scott profusely and then proceeded to do what he had been doing before: repeatedly asking my name, trying to touch my hands or face, and telling me I was beautiful. I pushed his hands away and told him, "We want to eat now, and you need to leave. Goodbye." (My "novio" was minimal help here. Just had to get that little dig in.) Finally, a police officer came and escorted Pablocito out. Scott complained that I was too polite, but my language skills are such that I only know how to make polite conversation and not how to tell someone to fuck off.
After the excitement died down, Scott said enviously, "At least someone wants to fuck you! Not even the crazies want me!" (There was a whole conversation that followed on this topic which should probably not be repeated.) But all in all it was an eventful evening.
Anyway, I have another story to tell about my cab ride tonight, but as I write this it's 4:33am and I should probably go to bed.
'Night.
February 10, 2008
On the drinking of milk
My rules for drinking milk have caused some confusion of late, and I thought I would clarify them.
I'm not weird or quirky or "interesting." I'm right.
1. Do not trust the expiration date on the container. Milk is funky at least 3 days prior to that date--probably more like 5 days. My nose can tell.
2. When opening milk you should hold it over the sink so that those little crusty, milky flakes that form around the lid don't end up in your glass, cereal bowl, etc.
3. Milk should only be drunk when it is very, very cold, which translates to drinking it within a minute or so of taking it out of the refrigerator. An exception can be made for the speed of cereal consumption, but it should still be done quickly.
4. The cloudy, milky residue and lip prints that are left on the side of the glass after taking a drink are gross. Therefore, every time you take a drink of milk you should turn the glass a couple of inches so you have a clean, residue-free side to drink from. If you run out of clean sides before the milk is gone, give it up. You're done.
5. Except for Oreo cookies, nothing should ever be dunked in milk. Even if it tastes good, the food chunks left floating in the milk are nauseating.
6. Milk should never, ever be drunk from a cereal bowl. Never EVER. Not only will you look like a Neanderthal doing so, but it violates the temperature and food chunk rules simultaneously.
You're welcome!
I'm not weird or quirky or "interesting." I'm right.
1. Do not trust the expiration date on the container. Milk is funky at least 3 days prior to that date--probably more like 5 days. My nose can tell.
2. When opening milk you should hold it over the sink so that those little crusty, milky flakes that form around the lid don't end up in your glass, cereal bowl, etc.
3. Milk should only be drunk when it is very, very cold, which translates to drinking it within a minute or so of taking it out of the refrigerator. An exception can be made for the speed of cereal consumption, but it should still be done quickly.
4. The cloudy, milky residue and lip prints that are left on the side of the glass after taking a drink are gross. Therefore, every time you take a drink of milk you should turn the glass a couple of inches so you have a clean, residue-free side to drink from. If you run out of clean sides before the milk is gone, give it up. You're done.
5. Except for Oreo cookies, nothing should ever be dunked in milk. Even if it tastes good, the food chunks left floating in the milk are nauseating.
6. Milk should never, ever be drunk from a cereal bowl. Never EVER. Not only will you look like a Neanderthal doing so, but it violates the temperature and food chunk rules simultaneously.
You're welcome!
February 8, 2008
The quotable Emily Watson
Early this morning I woke up worrying: what do you do when the two people you used to tell everything to are no longer interested or no longer around? When writing and talking to them have become an integral part of the way you process things, how do you go about changing?
I started looking for anything to distract me. I came across a bunch of quotes about plans that I had bookmarked in my computer for unrecalled reasons at some point. There was a quote by Emily Watson, and then there was a link to more quotes by her. I found this sort of odd and thought, 'Are we quoting Emily Watson now?' Anyway, I wanted something--anything--so I started reading the quotes that were attributed to her. Most were unremarkable, but then I came across this one:
"The film "Punch-Drunk Love is how you see the world when you're in love. You don't see someone's psychological baggage necessarily, you see the person walking out of the light."
I thought this was the loveliest thing and it hit a nerve with me. It was also quite appropriate because I haven't seen this movie yet and a couple different people have emphasized that I need to quite recently.
I found another quote by Emily that was also lovely and personal to me. This one was about coming home and spending time with her husband in between movies:
"When I did get home this last time, we had all these plans to go out. And then we hardly stepped outside because the time together seemed too precious."
And then I started pricing plane tickets.
I started looking for anything to distract me. I came across a bunch of quotes about plans that I had bookmarked in my computer for unrecalled reasons at some point. There was a quote by Emily Watson, and then there was a link to more quotes by her. I found this sort of odd and thought, 'Are we quoting Emily Watson now?' Anyway, I wanted something--anything--so I started reading the quotes that were attributed to her. Most were unremarkable, but then I came across this one:
"The film "Punch-Drunk Love is how you see the world when you're in love. You don't see someone's psychological baggage necessarily, you see the person walking out of the light."
I thought this was the loveliest thing and it hit a nerve with me. It was also quite appropriate because I haven't seen this movie yet and a couple different people have emphasized that I need to quite recently.
I found another quote by Emily that was also lovely and personal to me. This one was about coming home and spending time with her husband in between movies:
"When I did get home this last time, we had all these plans to go out. And then we hardly stepped outside because the time together seemed too precious."
And then I started pricing plane tickets.
This will make you feel better about your life.
Wake up in the morning with $20 on your pillow and then spend the rest of the day hanging around in front of a psychic's house if you want to feel you've reached an all-time low.
February 6, 2008
Edit the sad parts
In times of crisis, repetition has always comforted me.
As an adult this has taken various forms, including cooking things that involved a great deal of chopping, beating, or kneading. [Actually, a close friend of mine discussed this tendency in one of his last blog entries: Still Life With Imbecile. Though he told me I was bat-shit crazy--a point that really cannot be argued--it was done rather affectionately.]
As a child, one way I fulfilled this need for comforting repetition was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.
The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorite were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.
I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.
Sometimes I miss being little.
As an adult this has taken various forms, including cooking things that involved a great deal of chopping, beating, or kneading. [Actually, a close friend of mine discussed this tendency in one of his last blog entries: Still Life With Imbecile. Though he told me I was bat-shit crazy--a point that really cannot be argued--it was done rather affectionately.]
As a child, one way I fulfilled this need for comforting repetition was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.
The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorite were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.
I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.
Sometimes I miss being little.
February 4, 2008
A recent conversation with my mother #84
Amie: "So, how was your Super Bowl party at the Legion?"
Mom: "It was really nice. We had a lot of fun."
Amie: "That's good. Did people like the desserts you brought?"
Mom: "Oh, yeah. There was hardly anything left to bring home. And we had a lot of food."
Amie: "What other kinds of food were there?"
Mom: "Well, there was a lot of deer meat. And pickled eggs. You know, the usual Super Bowl snacks."
* * * * *
In other news, this made me giggle:
One Semester of Spanish Love Song
Mom: "It was really nice. We had a lot of fun."
Amie: "That's good. Did people like the desserts you brought?"
Mom: "Oh, yeah. There was hardly anything left to bring home. And we had a lot of food."
Amie: "What other kinds of food were there?"
Mom: "Well, there was a lot of deer meat. And pickled eggs. You know, the usual Super Bowl snacks."
* * * * *
In other news, this made me giggle:
One Semester of Spanish Love Song
February 3, 2008
"Filling jars full of silence you'll get nowhere."
I had a dream just before I woke up this morning that I want to remember.
In my dream, Nannette and I were on vacation again. We weren't in the Dominican Republic this time; it was more like a cruise ship and there were pools on multiple decks.
I was carrying this log around with me. It was about two feet long and pretty big around--like a log you'd split up into 3-4 pieces for firewood. It was big and obvious, and yet I tried really hard not to draw attention to the fact that I was carrying it around with me. I didn't want anyone to yell at me for having it, and I also didn't want them laughing and pointing, "Hey, look at that girl carrying the giant log around!"
It was so heavy. It made my arms tired. Its rough bark chafed my skin. My hands hurt from trying to grip it.
I took it everywhere we went: to the dining room, to the pool, in the water, to the bar. I was terrified that if I left it behind and tried to go and enjoy myself, someone would take it away.
Once I very reluctantly laid it in a lounge chair so that I could swim unencumbered, but that turned out terribly. I was so obsessed with keeping an eye on it and looking back at it and making sure that no one came near it that I couldn't have any fun at all.
I was terrified of being without it.
In my dream, Nannette and I were on vacation again. We weren't in the Dominican Republic this time; it was more like a cruise ship and there were pools on multiple decks.
I was carrying this log around with me. It was about two feet long and pretty big around--like a log you'd split up into 3-4 pieces for firewood. It was big and obvious, and yet I tried really hard not to draw attention to the fact that I was carrying it around with me. I didn't want anyone to yell at me for having it, and I also didn't want them laughing and pointing, "Hey, look at that girl carrying the giant log around!"
It was so heavy. It made my arms tired. Its rough bark chafed my skin. My hands hurt from trying to grip it.
I took it everywhere we went: to the dining room, to the pool, in the water, to the bar. I was terrified that if I left it behind and tried to go and enjoy myself, someone would take it away.
Once I very reluctantly laid it in a lounge chair so that I could swim unencumbered, but that turned out terribly. I was so obsessed with keeping an eye on it and looking back at it and making sure that no one came near it that I couldn't have any fun at all.
I was terrified of being without it.
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