On How I'd Rather Be On Fire Than Move House

Today won't be a long post, as I am about two weeks behind at work, and a total vegetable at home. A hooch huffing vegetable. Or something in the drunken squash family, definitely. Picture a pumpkin holding a large glass of brandy and crying just a little bit. Here's why I'm an inebriated tuberous vegetable:

We have finally finished moving house. I may tell you more later, but suffice it to say that I am a broken woman, who having approached, entered and finally passed into the ether of the outer reaches of insanity, can finally and absolutely say that joining a Monastary sounds like a good life plan—more fun than Disneyland, more fun than jungle monkey sex with George Clooney and Ewan McGregor both at the same time, more fun than a poke in the eye with a Qualude on a stick bejeweled with diamonds and pearls. If I never have to move another box or sort through assorted detritus of 30 years of life's garbage again it will be too soon. But, of course, in what is now less than nine months, we'll have to move again. I should probably start packing now.

Have I mentioned how not-fun it was to spend upwards of $200 cash money schelpping loads of our crap (thanks to Betty the Beast, aka Girl Kid's ancient van) to the Auschwitz-Birkenau of Garbage, more commonly known as Snohomish Solid Waste Transfer Station? No? Well, it's actually a fairly nice structure cunningly decorated on the outside with old hubcaps, aluminum cans and driftwood. But once you get inside the place exactly reproduces what I imagine the interior a Nazi gas chamber must have looked like, only with a giant wall of garbage being the only defense between your tender trembling body and several giant dump trucks rushing at you with their huge scoopers out, rumbling and snorting in an ominous manner. Or maybe that was me.

Seriously, I've never been to a dump where you just throw your crap on the ground, which is actually more of a bog of composed of a thin layer of brown dump water filled with tiny shards of pointy things, but since the Shoreline transfer station is "closed for remodelling" (in a place where people go to throw things away, how unnecessary is that?), we had to drag ourselves up the horrid Aurora corridor to Snohomish instead.

And then, of course, there were also the literally dozens of trips to Desert Industries to rid ourselves of mountains of Girl Kid's clothes from various ages and fashion eras, random kitchen debris, toys, books, white elephant gifts...the list goes on. I would have preferred not to give our stuff to a rampantly christian organization like Deseret Industries, but one, they were close to the house, and two, those people will take anything, accept as it turns out, an unopened gallon barrel of olive oil. (Don't ask, 'cause I'm not telling what that was supposed to be for. Okay, I was going to make soap. Get your mind out of the gutter. Or don't, because I like that.)

I'm not sure what the christians will make of our various and sundry discarded gargoyles, black mesh goth garb, purses shaped like coffins, reproduction Midaeval daggers, and binders of Magic cards (no rares, so stop screaming). Maybe they will burn them in a special mass and bury the ashes while dancing around naked under a DayGlo statue of Jesus while praying for our salvation or our swift deliverance to hell. I really don't care, it's all gone and out of our lives forever, as long as we stay out of the thrift store. The christians can give our discards to poor starving children in third world countries, who I'm sure will be overwhelmed with joy to receive the hottest fashions from Hot Topic, circa 2002. Those sub-African bush children will be the envy of the entire continent, I'm completely sure.

And A Movie...You Didn't Think I'd Forget That, Did You?

I'll post more later, because like I said, I'm very behind at work. Plus I don't want to get caught. In the meantime, go see The Savages, with Philip Seymour Hoffman, (who must be my new boyfriend by now, because I can't stop talking about him). This movie is not what you could call fun. It's not exactly depressing, but it is a bit too realistic, if you know what I mean. Who wants to pay to see real life? But, my boyfriend is transcendently spectacular in this film. It's his best acting to date, and that's saying something. This movie is bound to get ignored The Oscars, and it's a shame. There's a scene where, after hurting his back he tries to talk and eat an open face tuna melt sandwich while suspended by a sort of jock strap and wire hanger contraption hanging from a door, which is the reason movies were invented I'm sure. Pure genius—I laughed so hard I almost spewed my Diet Coke over the balcony and onto the unsuspecting heads below, which I think we can agree would Not Have Been A Good Thing. I want to have Mr. Philip's baby, I swear. On the other hand, the usually super Laura Linney gives a performance that is just a tad annoying. Of course, her character is supposed to be that way, so I can't really fault her acting.

And, I just heard that my annual High Holy Holiday that begins with the Golden Globes is going to be completely ruined because of the writer's strike. No, awkward, teary or drunkely rambling acceptance speeches choked out by people who made provocative (Hillary Swank's blue backless dress, god, even I wanted to snog her), hilarious or just plain disastrous fashion choices, instead we'll be treated to a boring press conference to announce the winners. Damn, damn, double damn on Spam. My first free weekend in I can't remember how long is ruined. Thanks Hollywood writers! Still, I support you. You should be getting Internet residuals, and, frankly, so should I. Seriously, I can't afford our new rent. Maybe the BAFTA's will have Stephen Fry as host again. God, please god, let my Big Gay Lover Mr. Fry host the BAFTA's this year, I beg you. You owe me.

Bye for now my dear Reader, and remember that your Mistress loves you.