If you or anyone you know well has any of the following names and would like to take part in a very short interview please kindly send me an email at michele at this domain dot com.

Audrey, Agnes, Anita, Allen, Alicia, Andrew, Allison, Betsy, Beulah, Bob, Connie, Carla, Cleo, Carol, Camille, Celia, Carmen, Cesar, Charley, Diane, Donna, Dora, David, Diana, Edna, Eloise, Elena, Flora, Fifi, Frederic, Fran, Floyd, Fabian, Frances, Gracie, Gloria, Gilbert, Georges, Hazel, Hattie, Hilda, Hugo, Hortense, Ione, Inez, Iris, Isidore, Isabel, Ivan, Janet, Joan, Juan, Jeanne, Klaus, Keith, Luis, Lenny, Lili, Marilyn, Mitch, Michelle, Opal, Roxanne

I’ll explain at a later date. I promise. Ideally, I would like to find one person per name. If you can help me make that happen, I won’t let you down.

Edited to Add: If you wrote me below or via email, and haven’t received a follow-up message yet, please let me know. Basically, I need the contact information of the names listed (phone number or email). I am going to conduct a brief interview with them. Hopefully, they are still interested.

Assuming I get every name folks gave, I only need 18 more people! Thank you everyone. I’ll update more on Monday after I receive more contact information.

I am still collecting stories for the “A Dollar for your Thougths: The Big Easy” project. I realize it went a little sour (derailed, whatever) after someone said something negative about New Orleans, but I want to leave this up for as long as humanly possible in hopes of receiving more stories. If you’re afraid to leave comments, please email me instead.

Internet, don’t make me break up with you, write a story. It’s really easy, hence the name.

Edited to add: A very, very good friend of mine informed me of something tonight that I hadn’t realized. He said that I might receive more stories if I remove the part about donating a dollar. He said, with respect, that it felt a bit weird having someone tell him where to put his dollar. And I have to say, while the idea had never occurred to me, I have to agree. That being said, I am just asking for stories. Forget the dollar donation, I just want your stories. So, if you have them, share them. Sometimes I kick myself for not thinking things through. This has proven to be one of those times.

I am writing. I have set a small goal for myself and with my lovely husband’s help, I plan on making that goal happen. There is a huge part of myself that I have not only ignored but I have also discouraged and I’m so tired of doing that. It’s time to make something happen.

In time, I will divulge all the details but for now the plan is so new to me, I need to figure it out for myself first. I don know this; posting here might die down a bit. And it might not. We’ll see.

If anyone has any suggestions, questions, words of encouragement or words of discouragement please continue to email me at michele at this domain dot com. (Gonna turn off comments methinks. But I do enjoy email.)

Edited to add: RSS feeds confuse me. Comments are back.

When I was a kid, I really, really wanted friends. I wanted them to worship me with as much passion as I had with the idea of having them. I wanted them to want to be with me and buy me presents and I’d buy them presents.

Some of you have seen this image before. It’s a picture of me taken when I was 10.

Currently, this picture is hanging on our refrigerator at home. There is a rather pathetic story behind it. A story I am going to share with the Internet this morning.

When I was around 11 or 12, we moved from New Cumberland, Pennsylvania all the way to Raleigh, North Carolina where my brothers and I were to start new lives and make new friends.

I didn’t know anyone in Raleigh. And so it was time to begin anew, create new fantasies about all the friends I didn’t have and the people I’d keep. I hung out with my head a lot back then. I fantasized about everything from horses to future boyfriends to becoming rich and famous and having a house full of cats. I was, for all intents and purposes, what one might call, Michele “total dork!”

Toby Joe jokes about the photograph often. The other night he came into our bedroom right before bed. He interrupted my nightly stab at arranging words perpendicular to one another with something that seemed important. I looked up right away.

“You know if there was one word – no, one phrase – I’d use to describe you, do you know what that would be?”

“What’s that, baby? “

“It’d be Crazy Nut! You’re a Crazy Nut! Quotation marks and everything.”

“And that’s why I love you, Beaner.”

Several months ago, after rediscovering the photograph for the fourth time, Toby Joe made fun of the bubbly cursive handwriting written strategically on its backside. “What’s this all about?” He had asked. Knowing I’d never be able to pawn that atrocious handwriting off onto my mother (who writes like an angel) I said, “Someone must have written that on it when I was a kid.” I took the picture away from him.

“What’re the quotation marks all about? As it reads, it’s as if you’re saying Crazy Nut! and not that it’s about you.”

“Yeah. Kids are stupid.”

Stacy and Sherry and Kimberly and Jenny all had pictures of one another with bloated bubbles written above them, stuffed full of words and phrases like, “Best Friends, Forever!” and “I Heart You!! Stacy-Bee!” Kimberly penned “You’re so nuts girl! I love you!” above her picture in Jenny’s yearbook at the end of a grade. Girls everywhere plastered their pink walls with poster boards sporting images of them and a few hundred of their closest friends with things written on them—things written on them about how cute and zany they all were. I wanted to be on one of those poster boards. I wanted to have a name ending in the letter “y” or “i” so I could dot them with hearts or underline the rest of the letters by overextending the tail of my name’s last letter. But I was often the new kid and not only the new kid, but the weird kid who contorted her hands into pet horses and had the same hands gallop along imaginary mountain ranges in a brown customized Ford van.

Years after that picture was taken and we were living down south, I rediscovered it in a drawer of our ranch house in Raleigh. I took out a pen and got started. I had to make the handwriting look as real and un-Michele as possible. I vividly remember picking the quotation marks so that people would think there was a third party present at the time it was written. I remember messing up my cursive M so that folks couldn’t trace it back to me. And that Z, I wrote much better cursive Zs. “What do I want this person to write about me?” I thought.

A few weeks ago, while Toby and I were making dinner, I found the picture again on the floor under the table in the living room. I picked it up and walked it into the kitchen and put it below a yellow magnet shaped like Pennsylvania.

“Beaner?”

“Yeah?”

“There is something I want to tell you. I haven’t ever told anyone this before. No one. Really.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s about this picture. Promise not to divorce me from shame?”

“I promise.”

I poured him another glass of wine and told him about the time I created my own friend and forged what they thought about me.

but My Morning Jacket’s latest CD is phenomenal. And guess who is going to see them in October. Yes, indeed, painting the Internet green with envy.

As most all of America already knows, my beloved JetBlue had an incident over Los Angeles last night. My understanding was that the landing gear would not retract after liftoff. Basically, the it was stuck sideways.

I’ve mentioned it before. I hate flying. It’s my biggest, most irrational fear. When Jet Blue was born, I became its most loyal customer. Much like Rainman’s passion for flying only Quantis, I will only fly on JetBlue. I have had the most excellent experiences aboard JetBlue flights. The staff always seems happy. And the pilots are top-notch. If JetBlue were a person, I’d name it my life insurance beneficiary.

The landing, it brought tears to my eyes. It was a moment of grace—absolute grace. I applaud them yet again.

Rest assured, however, if this proves to be an air bus issue, I will never, ever fly anywhere ever again. Ever.

I just got back from visiting my new (and much improved) primary care physician. Like most doctors, he asked me what he could do for me today. And that’s when I just let it rip. Not gas, mind you, information.

Well, I don’t get to the doctor very often - aside from the gynecologist. I have a skin thing on my shins that I don’t know what it is but it’s really itchy. And it’s not active right now so there is nothing to see really. I probably need to have blood work done. Also, I have three warts on the bottom of my heel and I want them gone once and for all. I have had it cut out twice and it hasn’t worked. I’ve had it for nearly 20 years. Also, my ears are sort of screwed up - have been since I was a baby. I have intestinal problems and really wicked heartburn, too. I am told there is a most excellent gastroenterologist here.

He wrote vigorously.

After cramming about 20 years worth of information on a piece of unlined, white paper, he asked me some of the usual questions. Are you allergic to any medications? Is there a history of _ in your family? Are you taking any regular medications? Do you smoke? How often do you drink? How old are you? You get the picture.

I’m going to examine you and then have you get some blood work done. Ok?

We left his office and headed into an exam room where I was told to undress apart from my underpants.

Uhoh.

You would think that after 31 years of living I’d have figured out how to be a decent lady by now. In other words, whenever trying on clothing and/or visiting non-gynecological doctors wear your friggin’ underpants. But no, I didn’t wear my friggin’ underpants and so the next 30 second proved to be as uncomfortable as having a wedgie on a crowded subway train.

I thought quickly. I could just not tell him and strip down and tell him I didn’t hear him. But he said it twice. Hmmmm. I could just tell him I’m stupid. No, that won’t work either. If I don’t tell him now, he’ll either think I’m totally insane and come in explaining “It’s not that kind of exam.” Oh my god, what if he thinks I’m coming on to him when he comes back in and I’m naked. Maybe I should just leave.

After a brief argument with the rude side of myself, the decent side of me decided I had to tell him.

Ummmmm, Doctor? I hate to say this, I am not wearing any underpants today.

Judging by his reaction, I must have looked mortified as if I had just popped the word’s biggest boner while on the diving board directly in front of Suzy while at the public pool.

That’s OK. Just undress and we’ll find something to cover you with.

(Side note: I think it might be time to go underpants shopping.)

I got the full examination, minus the cold stirrups. He checked everything and I appear to be in perfect health, at least on the outside. He told me the gastroenterologist will most likely want to stick cameras up my ass and check out my intestines and that the podiatrist would check out that planters wart (which, I have to admit, is one of the biggest things I hate about my body, aside from my boobs.) He told me we’d draw blood and check for everything and anything and that in a week we’d know more about my health for future pregnancies, etc. He then told me to get dressed and come back to his office once I was finished.

We sat down again and he wrote some more. He jotted down an ENT, a podiatrist, and an gastroenterologist.

Oh, and I have an even stranger request, I have lost some weight and my breasts haven’t gotten any smaller, actually, they deflated and I have wanted a reduction for quite some time but am afraid of it so if you have any suggestions for accomplished plastic surgeons, I’d like to know about them, too.

He stopped writing.

Well, just so you know, insurance won’t cover that, because, well, you know, they’re not huge like some women’s breasts. It’d be an out-of-pocket expense.

I am OK with that, sir.

And you will have scars.

Scars? Really? Still?

Yes. Unfortunately, with reductions, they have figured out how to do it scar-free. I haven’t seen any reductions done that don’t have scars.

That’s the pits. You’d like to think it’d be the other way around for reasons I can’t back up.

He began to write again.

I’ll give you three names and referrals for plastic surgeons. Meet with all three and find out which one you like the most. You know, forgive me for asking, but why do you want this done? Your breasts seem fine.

No harm asking. I just don’t like them. Nothing fits right. They are always getting in the way. I can’t wear what I want to wear and even now, after having lost nearly 15 pounds, they are still the same size. I guess I expected a better, smaller reward—if you know what I mean.

Yes, that makes sense. If you’re not happy with them, then do whatever will make you happy. But you will have scars. Either way, it doesn’t hurt to talk to them and discuss this with a plastic surgeon. They will better know how to proceed.

We finished up with a few more items, such as making an appointment with their leading gastroenterologist, the same butt doctor Toby has gone to for years. Then, I was on my way.

I called Toby from outside and expressed how great it felt visiting a doctor who took that much time with me. No doctor (aside from my ear doctors from the past) has ever done that.

Rest assured, sweet Internet I’m bound to keep you updated on my medical procedures in the upcoming weeks especially the one where I get an anal probe. I wonder if I’ll get to bring home souvenirs of the inside of my anus. Who knows, if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll share them with you, too.

The last two posts had references I wonder if anyone out there got. Did you? Did you get my references?

Free Anti-Bush T-Shirt to anyone who guesses right. If you’re a supporter and you win an Anti-Bush T-shirt you can use them to wash your car.

Hint: They are on the main page (i.e. not within the comments section)

I wanna take a minute to mention that Weeds is the greatest show on non-television (i.e. Showtime). You see, both Toby Joe Boudreaux and I have the hots for Mary-Louis Parker. Years ago, Missy and I saw Mary-Louis Parker perform in Proof on Broadway and then I took Toby Joe to see Proof and Jennifer Jason Leigh played the lead roll. Both gals are on “the list”. Incidentally, I recently read the most scathing article written on the film version of Proof featuring none other than Gwyneth Paltrow who, I am told, doesn’t quite bring it to life as seen in the Broadway version. But I think that’s because she just don’t got what Mary Louis Parker and Jennifer Jason Leigh got. For starters, I think she needs one more name.

I’ve liked Mary Louis Parker since 1991. I have proof. I remember it well. Many years ago, I told a lesbian friend, Vanessa, that I found Mary Louse Parker super hot. (This was right after Fried Green Tomatoes came out.) Vanessa found Mary Stuart Masterson hotter than Mary Louis Parker. I thought she was crazy and so I suspended her Lesbian Card for the day.

None of this really has any anything to do with anything else. I just wanted to write to say that Weeds is awesome.

The whole no underwear/thong conversation held here on Friday made its way into my real life, too. On Sunday, the conversation resurfaced. A lot was discussed. And much to my delight the evening ended with Anna (aka Leggs Luther of Roller Derby fame) throwing me a thong out the sunroof of Gerry’s car.

I kept them as a souvenir.

(Featuring Toby Joe as Farmer Ted, ‘The Geek’.)

I gotta be honest, every now and again I’m like, “Dude, mihow, I hate this Web site.” Usually, it comes and goes right away. In the past it would come along every 3 or 6 months or something. Now, it’s every other day.

I really, really need to figure out if I want to keep doing this. Why is this so addictive? Why do I feel compelled to keep doing this?

The first thing I ever wrote on here was “Snot has invaded my head.” Perhaps the last should read: “Blog has invaded my head.”

Something needs to change… it’s either me or this damn Web site, but something’s gotta change.

P.S. I am not looking for reasons to stick around or “OMG OMG! YOU’RE THE SHIT! LOL! LOL!” feedback. Nor am I looking for someone to tell me how badly I suck. I’m just venting.

This is Laurie and her friend. Aren’t they adorable? I love this shot. I can’t stop looking at it.

Everyone, go visit Laurie by clicking the above image. She’s hot and she surfs!

Toby Joe and I waxed Josephine the car on Sunday and now my arms are killing me. I totally know karate.

A few weeks ago, Toby and I were eating at one of our favorite Indian restaurants, Brick Lane. I had just finished my meal and the waiter cleared the plates. I went to grab my water when I noticed a baby roach running madly around the table. I lifted the water glass and put back down, directly on top of the beast’s head, killing it dead.

A week later, we were at Dumont, another absolute favorite. We were sitting at the back bar, ordering our meal when I noticed another baby roach running across the bar top. I lifted the water glass and put back down, directly on top of the beast’s head, killing it dead.

On Sunday, Toby and I were at Sea, not a favorite but we didn’t know where else to go. We just finished eating, when suddenly, a brown roach about the size of my thumbnail, ran all over my side of the table.

Holy Mother Of God. A roach.

I got up as if someone was burning my ass.

Can you pay so we can leave? I am not sitting back down.

Toby tried to grab someone to share the fact that a mammoth size roach was running all over my table. (He was already pissed about the fact that someone gave him a beer glass with a dead bug in it and instead of giving him a new beer, the guy removed the glass from the table, took it back into the kitchen, removed the bug and then brought the same glass back out to him. So it’s safe to say he wasn’t easing up anytime soon.)

Excuse me, man, but there’s a roach on our table.

The busboy then lifted my napkin and squashed it right there on the table.

We paid our bill and left and I never sat down again. As a matter of fact, I don’t care of Sex and the City and Garden State was filmed there, I don’t plan on sitting down there ever again.

Surely, this must be God’s way of telling us to stop spending so much money eating out and instead buy a farmhouse in upstate New York.

I just purchased two tickets to see The Moscow Cats Theatre perform in Tribecca on October 14th. The performance combines my most favorite living creatures with on of my most feared: cats and clowns, respectively. (Damn New York Times helping me throw away my savings.)

Toby and I won tickets to a Mets game today and for some reason everyone I tell that to laughs at me. Apparently we have Rock Star seating. However, judging by others’ reactions, I am gathering that’s like having front row seats to a Menudo concert. (Who, incidentally, I have already seen.)

I have to admit, I was a little disappointed/hurt with how few stories I received in response to my “Dollar for Your Thoughts” post. I get at least 500 regulars a day and anywhere from 10 to 20 thousand hits. And while that’s not a devastatingly high number of people, I assumed I’d get at least a hundred responses.

Yesterday, I was so premenstrual and grumpy, I wrote the most pathetic post about it. But today, I’m feeling much better so it won’t ever see the light of screen. In the end, even though I didn’t receive a hundred stories, I plan on donating the amount I made recently on a freelance project to those who need it. (I would like to donate the money to people directly, so if you know of people who need assistance, please send me an email. Thanks).

This morning,I am going to admit something to the Internet that I have no business admitting. Ready?

I don’t wear underpants. As a matter of fact, I hate them. I haven’t worn underpants since I was 19 years old. That’s 12 years of not wearing the underpants. I have saved a lot of underpant trees over the years.

For every story I get in the comments section (stories about trips to New Orleans, Mississippi, whatever. Hell, it could be about jazz, being big and easy or binge drinking for all I care) I’ll donate one dollar to the Red Cross. It’s up to you, kittens. This is so unbelievably easy. Plus, I really, really like stories.

Edited to add: A very, very good friend of mine informed me of something tonight that I hadn’t realized. He said that I might receive more stories if I remove the part about donating a dollar. He said, with respect, that it felt a bit weird having someone tell him where to put his dollar. And I have to say, while the idea had never occurred to me, I have to agree. That being said, I am just asking for stories. Forget the dollar donation, I just want your stories. So, if you have them, share them. Sometimes I kick myself for not thinking things through. This has proven to be one of those times.

I just saw the oddest tattoo. You know those scars that many people who are older than 35 have on their arms? I forget what vaccination it was. Anyway, they are circular and rather large. A guy had a tattoo that used it as the sun in part of an outdoor scene.

I am politically retarded. That being said, will someone tell me why the people don’t vote for Supreme Court nominees?

I didn’t have animals growing up. I used to temporarily steal the neighbors’ animals, but I never had one of my own. I was the neighborhood cat watcher and a damn good one as I not only fed the furry beasts but I petted them as I was deprived of such a pleasure all of my life.

When I got older I started adopting cats. Schmitty adopted me when I was 19, Pookum came into my life when I was 22 and Tucker the Fucker arrived two years ago.

Meet Schmitty.

He’s a Big Guy. He’s also all of the following: Fatty Poopington, Chubs Mahone, Chubs McKensey, Professor Snugglesworth, and Fatty McPherson. Scmitty is the biggest most lovable cat there is. And I really mean that. He’s a sweetheart and I love him like he’s a person. Actually, I love him more than I like most people.

Yesterday, my boss called out as she had to put her 18-year-old cat to sleep last night and wanted to spend as much time as possible with her before doing so.

Last night, when I got home I grabbed the Big Guy and snugged with him like I’ve never snugged with him before. Then, I moved on to Tucker and then Pookum. Tucker was all, “Yo bitch, why you doin’ this to me?” And Pookum just talked a lot. Schmitty ate the attention up.

Not only was I deprived of all the snuggling, I was also deprived of putting them to sleep. I guess there is an upside to never getting attached to these fuzzy beasts as you never ever have to say goodbye.

Edited to add:

Kitty pictures!!!

Here is a video of Pookum. Pookum Gets Her Cute On

Meet Tucker.

More Tucker.

Schmitty, Pookum and Toby Joe.

Some folks, they get constipated. Others get the runs. And then there are others who get stomachaches or suffer from nausea every time they eat. Me? It ain’t even 8 AM and I have already taken a Pepcid. Heartburn will be the death of me. Whether death is directly related or delivered by my very own hand. It’s gonna take me down one way or another.

Brown resigns. Who will hire that guy now?

(All images taken using a Pentax K1000 with NPC 160 Speed film. Each image can be clicked to enlarge. Captions, if any, below each image.)

We went to the Union Square Farmer’s Market on Saturday and took some picutures. Here is Toby Joe with a fake smile.

Preserves tasting.

The goods.

A man sits outside sunbathing at Union Square.

Blimpie meets Mr. Softee

This guy makes buying vegetables a little daunting.

Protesters in Union Square.

Someone apparently sleeping in the park.

A coffee truck at Union Square.

Barrels.

Sunday’s WTC Memorial.

Sunday’s WTC Memorial.

Shoe-shiners outside Grand Central.

The guy who sells stuff outside my office.

This little girl was left outside by herself and two people passing by totally freaked out about it. Someone asked me if it was my baby. I was like, “No, I just take pictures of babies left behind to fend for themselves on the streets of NYC.”. Someone finally found her mother SHOPPING inside a store.

View from our back porch.

On Sunday, Toby Joe and I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge in order to check out the 9/11 WTC memorial in downtown Manhattan. I knew it was going to be an emotional day and figured I should try and make the best of it by throwing myself directly into it.

It took us about an hour to walk over the bridge and into the downtown area. We wandered around and snapped roll after roll of film. I brought some of my Bush T-shirts with me as I figured I’d give some away. (I didn’t want to turn any sort of profit on a day like that especially downtown where most people were mourning.)

A lot of people were putting up flowers, pictures of loved ones and balloons. So Toby suggested I put up a shirt up for all those to see. I didn’t feel right about putting it directly ON the memorial, there is a time and a place for politics, that was not one of them. Instead, we put it across the way, directly across from the urinals.

We were going to leave after that because I am a chicken shit. But Toby had an even BETTER idea and suggested our taking pictures of everyone’s reaction. Most of them laughed and only a few shook their heads. Several people took pictures of it. I couldn’t believe it but it was actually coming off to be quite a hit. A guy acted it out to his girlfriend and then brought her over to see for herself. One African American man laughed loud enough for us to hear him and then it happen again a few minutes later. While our goal was to have someone steal it and we had a few people who seemed interested, in the hour we stood there watching from afar, no one took the shirt but the reactions ranged anywhere from hilarious to a satisfied smile. Even if I don’t sell too many of these shirts, after yesterday, I felt really proud. Proud enough that I’m going to set up shop on Bedford this Saturday and just do it.

It was an interesting hour. I felt kind of like I was watching the Discovery Channel, you know, sort of like that DSW ad. We’ll have more photos once the film is developed.

Yahoo is sending a veteran journalist named Kevin Sites all over the world to cover every armed conflict there is and basically blog about it. It’s called the Hot Zone and it begins on September 26th. (More here.) I am not sure how I feel about this yet. I do like the independent media feel about it. I’d also like a constant feed of Anderson Cooper, too.

Last night, we lost a valuable member of our household, a super high thread count fitted sheet. You see, I hung it and a its partner, the top sheet, out back to dry and when I went to take them both in the fitted sheet was nowhere to be found. There should be a word for this feeling, the feeling one has when they walk over to their clothesline and an article of clothing is missing. And then there should be a word for what one feels when they look down and see it lying there, dead, attracting bugs, dirt and neighborhood cat poop.

I discovered his site months ago. It’s worth some more link love. Stop by David Naugle’s site. There is some really great work there.

I lived in New York on September 11th, 2001. I wrote about my experience 3 days after the attack. I watched the first plane hit without the protection of a TV screen. I watched people jump to avoid the fire. I watched them run up Broadway, crying. And then I watched those magnificently tall buildings fall. September 11th, 2001 was the day that something inside of me changed forever. It was the day every nightmare I ever had became a reality. It was the day I thought I lost my little brother.

A few months ago, Amanda B. sent me some interview questions. I answered every one of them until I got to the very end. There was a question about 9/11 and where I was and what I saw. And I began to answer it. After about three pages worth of text, I realized I was crying. I never sent her my responses because ultimately the answer to the final question would never end (Sorry, Amanda B!) because I realized I may never recover from it.

The other night, Missy, my brother, Ryan, and I sat around a table outside at Spring Street Natural talking about that day. I still can’t talk about without crying. If you show me images from that morning I tear up. I can’t hear anything about it and not shudder. I am not sure I will ever come to terms with what I saw. I’m not sure I ever want to.

After the attacks, I figured that since so many lives were directly affected much more tragically than my own, I didn’t have the right to hurt. I wanted to. I called therapist after therapist in hopes of finding a way to come to terms with what I saw. As one might imagine, it was next to impossible to get a therapy appointment in New York City at the time. This further convinced me that my pain wasn’t as urgent as everyone else’s.

For two years following September 11th, not a day went by that I didn’t think about it. I began living existentially. I firmly believed that there might not be a tomorrow and that it was the beginning of the end of the world. Now, writing that down, it just sounds silly. Would you believe me if I said it was shamefully true? I wanted to hit the ground around low-flying aircrafts. I stared at shady-looking people (I irrationally deemed as potentially dangerous) on street corners and on subway platforms. Every time a subway came to a stop I was convinced it was going to explode. I even remember the day I finally surrendered to fear entirely and accepted the fact that my life was going to be that way and I would have to learn how to live with it as one does after sustaining a physical injury. I simply could not imagine spending one day without remembering.

Eventually, the minutes of terror making up those days became less frequent. The fear came every other day and on occasion I had to force myself to notice that I hadn’t noticed it all. And I guess I’d call that progress.

While the recent events in the Gulf aren’t to be compared with what happened on September 11, 2001, that acts of God are much different from those of man, I can’t help but lay them side by side. And I wish I could sit down with someone from New Orleans who witnessed the recent devastation first-hand and show them that things are rebuilt and that people do eventually heal. While New York wasn’t wiped out 4 years ago and we weren’t forced to evacuate, I chose to run from the city, the day, fear, and myself.

The towers were built the same year I was born. And on the day they came down, something inside of me was destroyed as well. And today, four years removed, New Yorkers are seeing something grow in their place. And I’m too close to myself to know if it’s true, but I’d like to think that’s what will happen to me as well.

Today, I realize that I must figure out a way to forgive myself for feeling so much pain and not addressing it. Perhaps some day I’ll have the courage to actually talk about it with someone whose job it is to sort out the pieces and rebuild. Most of all, I need to realize that pain isn’t absolute, it’s absolutely relative.

That day held, without a doubt, some of the most horrific moments of my life. Only in retrospect have I realized that it opened up an avenue leading to some of the best as well.

Toby Joe and I saw The Exorcism of Emily Rose yesterday afternoon. The critics panned it. It was OK. It was Law and Order meets John Grisham meets Jacob’s Ladder meets the Exorcist. Quite honestly, Laura Linney can do no wrong in my eyes. She had me at You Can Count On Me.

Yesterday, after a discussion about food with a woman I work with, Toby Joe and I took her up on a suggestion and headed to a raw restaurant called Pure Food and Wine.

Pure Food and Wine is pricey, but it’s well worth the splurge. Located on Union Square East, it has to fight with several other expensive restaurants as well as pay the monthly rent. Which I imagine is a hefty amount.

In spite of our goal to sit outside in the much talked about garden, we were forced to sit inside as the back was completely full for the duration of the evening. (For those of you who are ever interested in checking it out on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday, make sure to make reservations.) Each table was candlelit. Beyond that, there wasn’t much more light. There were orchids strewn across the inside and we could smell them every time the breeze blew through the open storefront whose doors slide open and expose Irving Street. Judging by the attention to detail on the inside I imagine that the garden was all that it was said to be but unfortunately, I didn’t get a peak.

We ordered a bottle of wine first. We ordered a sauvignon blanc from Italy which was just amazing. Toby kept saying it smelled like those fruits one might find in Chinatown called durian. Which I hear smells kinda stinky but has the most amazing fruity taste. Our wine was kind of like that and while I know that the description might make it sound awful, we really enjoyed it and would buy it again if we manage to find it.

For our first course I ordered the marinated shitake, avocado and pickled ginger sushi rolls, sesame, dulse and wasabi and Toby ordered the fennel, rosemary and cashew cheese tart with blood orange and pinot blanc dressing. Both plates were scraped clean.

Our second course consisted of the xucchini and golden tomato lasagna with basil-pistachio pesto sun-dried tomato sauce and pignoli ricotta and the white corn tamale with raw cacoa mole marinated mushrooms an davocado-cilantro salsa. The tamales sported some of the most amazing flavors I have ever put in my mouth. That dish was amazing. I almost didn’t order is as I never mix my sweet with savory but the waitress (who went far beyond accommodating) insisted we try it. And I am so glad that we did.

Our night was expensive but we had the most romantic meal and found ourselves desperately trying to avoid the typical ‘vegetarian’ food conversation one always seems to overhear while eating at a vegetarian restaurant. Toby Joe as mentioned many times, “You don’t hear the patrons at a steak house discussing why they eat steak and where their best steak was. But at a vegetarian restaurant the snobbery runs rampant.” We fought that stereotype tooth and nail. But that became downright impossible once we go to the the dessert.

We ordered the Dark chocolate layer cake with milk chocolate mousse, chocolate sauce and chocolate ice cream and the peach cobbler with vanilla and lavender iced cream (which them make on the premises). In the end, the waitress brought us their latest and most recent creation that I have no real way of explaining but ended up being our favorite one.

It was our night of debauchery. We arrived at 7:00 PM and by 9:30 PM we were stuffed to the gills in some of the best most thoughtful, well-displayed, tasteful food I’ve ever eaten. And like many New York City restaurants who want you to eat and get out, it was insisted we take our time. (When you’re paying that much on a meal, that’s the only way it should be.) But if you’re not in the mood for a two+ hour affair, you can try their juice bar around the corner where you can get a lot of their desserts as well as the smaller items on the menu.

While it may seem as if I’m speaking entirely in superlatives, something I hate, I mean them all. So don’t knock the ‘raw’ food concept until you’ve tried it. Rest assured, you’re missing out on something artful.

We are trying something different this weekend on Self-Portrait Day. I have opened up the site to New Yorkers who experienced 9/11/01. I know it’s last minute, so I don’t expect much of a response, but if you’re interested in taking part, please send your images and a short story about your experience (if it’s long, have it elsewhere and we will link to it.) directly to me (mihow at this domain dot com) or to nyc@selfportraitday.com. Please send them by Saturday at noon.

We have flipped the way posts are made. You may take notice, the most recent posts are now first pushing older ones down the page.

Toby Joe to the rescue! Here is the way it works:

• 1). Folks who visit www.mihow.com (homepage) get the last 10 posts
• 2). people who click on any given DAY get all posts for that day
• 3). people who click on any given POST all comments for that post

If anyone has questions, let me know.

One time, a long, long time ago, I was at the local New Cumberland Skate Rink. I minding my own business, while imagining I was a muse. That’s what I always did whenever skating, pretended I was friends with Olivia Newton John in Xanadu.

On this particular occasion, I was really getting into it. I closed my eyes some, but not often enough to welcome a bust. I skated that way for at least two songs and imagined that boys everywhere were thinking, “Oh my, look at how shiny her hair is! She must use VO 5 Hot Oil Treatment.”

Everything, that day, was superb that is up until Heather’s mom decided to stop me, mid-snicker.

Look at your arms sway! Your arms were moving so much. It’s as if you were going to take off!!

Heather’s mom.

Heather’s mom said that to me, not 9-year-old Heather, but Heather’s 43-year-old mom. Life has gotta be pretty grim if someone’s mother is teasing you at the local roller rink on a Friday night. Pretty grim, indeed.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I also remember the months following her arm-swaying comment when I stopped moving my arms while walking, running, or skating. What a mess that was. Everyone knows that a person’s arms are the keystone to good balance. I didn’t move mine as often as I thought about it (which was a lot, let me tell you.)

Looking back, it’s a good thing I didn’t take this neurosis to the YMCA with me.

(Next week, adolescent mihow stops swallowing her own saliva.)

Everyone by now has nervously witnessed the American people dropping statements that either border on unconscious racism or enter blatant domains instead. Take Barabara Bush, for example. Apparently, she believes that “this is working out very well” for the poor who were forced to evacuate their homes—their lives.

I had a discussion with my friend Gerry last night about everything going on down South. Someone he knows well fully admitted to having less than compassionate thoughts for many of the displaced (poor, black) people in the Gulf. And I know a few people who have hinted to such as well. Thoughts like, “Well, they had every opportunity to get out in time. What they are experiencing now is totally their fault.” have been uttered more times than I care to admit.

What occurred to me yesterday, was that no matter how hard I try and no matter how long I live, I will probably NEVER fully understand or be able to empathize with many of the poor who were left when the levee gave way. All of my life I have had money. I was raised in a white, middle class home with two parents who loved me and made sure I had everything I ever needed.

Lately, I have had to stop myself from trying to understand the situation down South at all.

When we see the images on TV and in the paper, it’s easy to sympathize with the people who lost everything. But is it really possible for an upper middle class American to empathize with someone who has spent their life so poor? It seems to me, that when we attempt to empathize with an individual we can never fully understand or relate to we make poor decisions for them based on where our history has led us. And when those decisions backfire and said person doesn’t react the way we assumed that they should we throw our hands up and move closer and closer into a state of apathy.

In this day and age with such a drastic difference between classes, will there ever really be a solution?

This place is like so dead at night.

::Chirp::

Here are more images from Rhode Island. These are boring “landscape” images because Toby Joe mixed my film in with his and he won’t let me take them to my developer because he only trusts C-Lab. That being said, the rest of my images won’t see the light of day until he takes all the rolls to the beloved C-Lab. But there will be more. In the meantime… (click to enlarge)

The window into our house.

The farm next door. The farmer guy had a MASSIVE pig named Valentine. It must have weighed over 400 pounds. (Toby has a picture). It ate 15 loaves of bread twice a day. Pig.

Tractor on the farm.

Nico, standing tall with Faith. This was our walk to the beach.

Toby Joe

A lure.

Handle.

Country wires.

Chicken coop.

Antique store. Check out the rooster.

Plants.

For some reason, the private beach got a lot of wash up trash. This was one of the items.

Our private beach.

Another wash-up.

A farm ain’t a farm without a broken old truck.

New York City.

Missy.

An open house at Kenneth Cole. They served wine and everything. I did not attend. I tried and they threw me out for wearing brown and black^

Cops on horseback.

Grand Central this AM.

I just got my pictures back. I am currently optimizing all of them and will upload them shortly. I did want to share this image in the interim. My car has apparently laid an egg. (All images can be enlarged by clicking on the thumbnail.)

I broke up with Jon Stewart this morning.

I didn’t even get a “Marconi” after yesterday.

Those bastards.

Tonight is the Clap Your Hand Say Yeah show in Greenpoint. It’s a good thing it’s right next door to where we live because my old ass wouldn’t make it otherwise.

Toby might have to work late. So I might have to go alone. (Gulps) We’ll see. If any NY People want to play pinch-show goer, send me an email or give me a call.

I am a little worried that they might suck after lana called them “Clap Your Hands Say Yawn”. I’ll keep y’all posted.

Speaking of music, I purchased two tickets to see an added Death Cab for Cutie show in October. I freakin’ love this damn band. Can’t wait for that one!

2:30 PM—Letter is sent via messenger to The Daily Show:

---

To: The Funniest People on Earth

From: A Girl on a Mission

Several months ago I printed an illustrated t-shirt featuring Monica Lewinsky sucking George Bush’s Pinocchio nose. At the time, I toyed with sending a t-shirt to The Daily Show as I think the staff might find it amusing. But I never did.

Last night, however, Jon Stewart joked about how Lake George was Bush’s Lewinsky and I thought it might be the perfect time. If you’re reading this, please pass this on.

Thank you in advance for your assistance.

Michele Howley

---

3:15 PM: I haven’t heard back from the messenger guy who told me he’d call if there were problems. I guess that’s a good sign, right? It’s either that or some messenger has three new Bush T-Shirts.

---

3:28 PM: Got a call from the messenger. Says the following:

“MIchele, I delivered the package to a man at the door. I had him promise me he’d bring it upstairs as I was not allowed up there. He assured me it would be delivered to someone. Call me if you hear anything.”

::throws up::

---

3:42 PM: Contemplates going down there and handing them out, too. Decides that a partner in crime is necessary. Fears being alone and in crowds.

---

4:09 PM: Called the messenger back and left a message thanking him.

---

4:34 PM: Decides to give one to Rush Limbaugh when he does his one man show on broadway in October.

Last night, Toby Joe and I sat down to watch the Daily Show. Jon Stewart has been away or whatever for a week. Contrary to all the rumors, we were NOT away together. I was in Rhode Island. He was probably someplace like India. Anyway, it was funny as usual. But there was this one part…

You see, several months ago I printed a bunch of t-shirts featuring Monica Lewinsky as herself sucking on the Pinocchio nose of G W Bush. You may or may not have heard of them. Anyway, last night Jon Stewart said that “Lake George” (aka New Orleans) was GW Bush’s Monica Lewinsky (and apparently Jon Stewart has become my Nicole Kidman). He continued making the comedic point for quite few minutes. And before I could throw a mere peep in Toby’s direction, my phone was ringing.

It was Gina - my sweet Gina - calling all the way from Detroit.

GINA! Are you watching The Daily Show?

[Laughter]

I am! And your shirts are going to sell like crazy now!

[More laughter]

You’d think! I can’t belive he’s bringing that up now!

[More laughter]

You should totally send him one tomorrow. Or, hell, just walk it to him.

[Snort]

Oh my god! I should totally send him one!

[Lightbulb illuminates Greenpoint]

We talked for a few more minutes about a few of her friends from New Orleans who are in need of some assistance. (An aside, I love Gina. She has a kind heart.)

Years ago, when I was 6 or 7, I wanted to win the Michael Jackson sparkly glove. This is what I looked like (without the eggs of course) and this was the wallpaper I stared at while on the phone:

I sat on the phone for hours trying to win that damn thing from some radio station out of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Why a Harrisburg radio station had THE MJ glove to give away is beyond me. I never questioned authority back then. I, of course, did not win. I didn’t even get past a busy signal except for that one time I misdialed. This was before redial, so my fingers did the walking. In retrospect, had I actually gotten through, I’d have had to still answer a question as to what song was playing after hearing a mere thought of a musical note and that would have been comical at best. Only after answering correct would I then move on into the final round. And even then said group was hit with another, harder question. I was 7 so that’d have been interesting. But I never got that far. I was completely silenced by a mere busy signal.

What’s my point? My point is that winning that Michael Jackson sparkly glove was really hard if not downright impossible for me. Finding a way to get this damn t-shirt to Jon Stewart has become my new Michael Jackson Sparkly Glove only sans the phone lines and without all the wallpaper. It occurred to me last night while chatting with Mrs. Gina; I simply must do this. That’s all there is to it.

This morning I wrote a letter to Comedy Central (yes, an actual letter). I also copied down every New York City address I could find. The Daily Show’s doors open between 5:30 and 5:40 and I have contemplated getting my psychopath on and heading over there this afternoon. In the meantime, I will send one to the Comedy Central Headquarters and try and drop one off at their Broadway office, too.

Today, I am armed with six t-shirts. And it might seem silly but God dammit, I am still really worked up over not winning MJ’s sparkly glove.

So bring it on, folks, tease me endlessly, tease me ruthlessly. I can totally take it. Make me callous so I can handle the impending rejection.

• mihow: does poop stink before it leaves someone’s ass?
• mihow: just now, a woman in the bathroom made me gag
• mihow: and I was wondering
• mihow: does it smell up someone’s insides, too?
• mihow: or is it like blood
• mihow: and changes its state
• mihow: once it hits air
• t0byj0e: hrm
• t0byj0e: i have no clue
• t0byj0e: i bet it stinks
• t0byj0e: everywhere
• t0byj0e: YES
• t0byj0e: it does
• t0byj0e: that’s why some farts stink
• t0byj0e: the air passes over turds
• t0byj0e: on the way out
• t0byj0e: i need to barf now

I am not sure why but I find it a little disturbing that people are walking around with things that smell that badly inside of them at almost all times. Gross.

Well, I got one roll of film back today. Here are the images. (All images can be enlarged by clicking on them. All images were taken using a Pentax K100 and using NPC 160 Speed film.)

Anna at Diner.

Taken in NYC right before we left for vacation.

Ahhhhh Rhode Island, we are here.

Grays General store.

This is Faith. She’s the best dog I have ever met. She’s super cute and cuddly.

This is George. He’s having a beer and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

Nico and Nora.

Toby Joe standing in the outdoor shower.

Toby Joe does some work on a PC. Yes, a PC. Blasphemy.

A knitting Nico.

Rob and Alex and Toby Joe.

My car in the country. I think she looks really good in the country.

Nora and Nico.

Goerge, Alex and Rob. (Toby in the background.)

More to come…

This sign is in Williamsburg above The Diner. It made me laugh out loud, actually.

What do you say GW Bush opens up that 600 Acres of land he has in Crawford, Texas to house some refuges?

I have always wanted to go to India. I have told Toby Joe that for years and years.

Let’s go to India!!!!

How the hell are you going to survive a 20+ hour flight to India? You sobbed on the way home from San Francisco.

I can drug myself. Let’s go to India.

That dream has solidified after having seen the latest 60 Minutes regarding Medical Tourism. I wonder how much a boob reduction would cost? Knowing I could sit on a beach in India wearing a B-cup bikini top (or maybe one of those coconut bras) while sipping a mango lassi directly following surgery sounds awfully tempting.

I wonder how much a boob job cost in India.

(Side note: I will have one roll of vacation photos up later today.)

Matthew from The Chopping Block started a site called www.displaceddesigner.com. It’s for folks who may have lost their job/office/equipment/desk because of the recent disaster in the Gulf. I think it’s a really great idea. I wish our fellow AIGA had thought about it but in the end it seems it’s more and more about the little guy stepping up to the plate in order to make shit happen. (yay! Matt!)

Anyway, pass it on. It’s a really great idea. I wish there were one for every profession out there…

Toby and I just got back from dropping off four large boxes filled with bedding, clothing, shoes, and other necessities at a Brooklyn UPS distribution center. After calling a list of places found via the Red Cross as well as our local Salvation Army and Habitat for Humanity in search of small ways to lend a hand, I finally decided to call the Baton Rouge Salvation Army directly. And low and behold I got a hold of someone. I assumed that the Baton Rouge office would be overwhelmed with donations but that someone there might have information regarding where or who I might talk to. I was surprised to discover that that office was still gratefully accepting donations.

The woman I spoke to was a refugee herself. She had fled from New Orleans and was helping out as she had nowhere else to be or go. We spoke for a bit. I became teary-eyed and began dropping my sloppy words all over the phone. It was wonderful to hear from someone who, in spite of the obvious horror, was willing to put everything aside personally and lend out what was left of their hand.

People are lovely. She is lovely.

Toby Joe and I spent what was left of the afternoon packing up boxes and writing notes. We dropped them off just moments ago to a man who was so kind he waved the fee he normally adds on top of each box.

Today was such a good day. I signed up to help a number of local charities who are up to their ears in volunteers but who will in time need assistance.

This time, I am going to stick to what I said and help out during non-emergent times. I simply must find a way to make my life seem a little more useful.

Not sure what came over me the past several days but I am feeling so much better today. I think I needed sleep and pizza and to remember how absolutely wonderful so many people are. I plan on buying some of Sherri’s baked goods for sure.

That being said, adopting the spirit of many other bloggers, I have decided to donate all the money I receive from the Anti-Bush t-shirts I designed to the people who lost everything because of the hurricane. ALL the money I receive from the t-shirts will go to them. I figured it this way, I can get a message out there and help people at the same time.

Please email me at michele at mihow dot com and I will take care of the rest. Or click the PayPal button on the left and I’ll take care of the rest.

P.S. Gina, if you’re reading this, please call me. I have left you several messages and am beginning to feel like stalker but I want to make sure everyone is O.K. :]

I know it’s silly but I really wish hurricanes weren’t named after people.

That’s what the statue of bigotry says. —Lou Reed.

Spending a week in the country and returning to this can do a number with one’s existence. Prior my knowledge of the hurricane, I mentioned that I need to redirect my life. I’m not sure what day it was because after a day or two without the need for day names you tend to forget what to call it. I just started questioning everything I do from how I make my money to how I spend my free time. I questioned the rent I pay, my quality of life, and the amount of time I spend on the Internet doing the things that I do, really believing that I’m doing something, fooling myself into believing I am doing something.

I am not doing anything here. Writing every day does nothing for me or anyone else. Yet every day I join the ranks of a million other people who whine about what should be done and how it should be done and why it should be done instead of doing anything at all.

And I hate that I’m like this.

I am not even sure if I want to continue this Web site as all it really does is take up the time that I could actually spend DOING something.

I’m having trouble moving back into this life I have after realizing it’s entirely possible to exist without it, happily, too.

I wish I knew what to do to help people. I wish I could be a better person everyday. I wish I knew what to do.

What do I do?

The last time I felt this useless was on September 11th, 2001. I tried to give blood. I tried to go help clean up. I donated money. I asked for donations. I put together a benefit at a local bar in Brooklyn. I told my brother I loved him after believing the worst. I stood with groups of people trying to figure out what to do and how to help and even after the Red Cross and the NYPD said there was no real need. I made a promise to myself that on more non-emergent days, on days where there weren’t THOUSANDS of people offering up their help, I’d do whatever I could to help out.

It’s so easy to lose sight of that once time has time.

What the hell can I do?

And why am I still writing this?

I seriously feel like I woke up from a dream and into a total nightmare. Not having Internet access, a television or much cell service while in Rhode Island has pushed me so far out of the loop I can’t even begin to explain…

We had NO idea this was happening while we were away. I feel so totally stupid and baffled and surprised and shocked by all of this.

I think I have to get my head around it before I can even think of anything coherent. I also need to find out if friends and family are OK.