Unexpected Acting Lessons. . .

As I begin to observe my Land Lady inorder to get her story passive agressivly, I find myself discovery little health problems with her here and there. Like Christmas morning, I seem to unwrap little gifts one by one. Last night I was creeping through the house to get myself a glass of water (on TAP), and I just so happened to walk by her door. Since she keeps it open at all times many akward and observational moments tend to ensue quite rapidly. As I snuck by her door, I was taken aback by a strange noise that resembled that of an air pump. Well I just kept walking by. . .actually I did no such thing. I pocked my head in only to find that she uses a portable oxygen concentrator at night to help her breathe. This device, which is a pretty casual thing, makes the user resemble a terminal hospital patient. While most would find this alarming and uncomfortable, I have decided to make it a learning opportunity. Sometimes when she takes naps during the day I stand outside her room, and play out various hospital scenes from outside her room. Sometimes Samson plays the doctor, but considering he's equity I'm usually stuck with the porcelain doll that resembles Angela Lansbury. Sometimes I pretend my husband is in there and he is about to tell me his final wishes. Sometimes I am a villain and this bitch knows too much, but luckily she's in intensive care, and I have to pull the plug before she wakes up. It always helps to make it a little teary too. "He has to make it out alive! How will I live?" or "So there isn't a will?" or "What do you mean where was I last night?" Im practically taking personal acting lessons from Stella Adler. I mean, I have practically renacted every scene from One Life to Live. Now I just await for the day in which she beckons me into her room and whispers, "Come Closer. . ."

-Ready and Willing

I'm Gay. . . You're Gay. . . We All Scream for Ice Cream!

So if anyone reading this knows me (Which is the whole 10 people reading this thing) you know that I have been bitching for the past few days since I moved to Minneapolis about not having anything to do. I blame this dilima on 3 facts:

1. Lack of a car or any other transportation that doesn't scare the hell out of me.
2. Lack of knowing anybody in the city.
3. The people who I do know, and who claim to live in "Minneapolis" are more or less 30 mintes away from me. Let's be honest with ourselves, and admit that if we live in Minnetonka, Chanhassan, Fridley or any of these other distant suburbs, that we do not live in Minneapolis. Let's save eachother the time of lying.

Luckily, my dear friend M. Anderson took pity on my sorry ass, and came to my rescue. I will give him credit, because his suburb is only 15 minutes outside of the city. My night in shining armor rescues me from my Porcelain Prison, and off we road into the night skyline. Our plans were vague to say the least, and we found ourselves driving down mysterious roads that led us passed an Arby's that was sporting a welcome sign roughly the size of my Land Lady's computer.

After passing up this great and intimidating realm of roast beef sandwiches, Manderson and I found ourselves amongst the academia of the U of M (apparently all roads in Minneapolis led to the U of M). Against all better judgement I agreed to visit one of Manderson's friends who lives right outside the campus. I should have known to turn back the second a saw the androginous shadow sporting a pair of cut off sweats and fuzzy flip flops. What I was about to experience would alter my life drastically. As I walked down the hall, I suddenly felt a feeling of Dejavu. I knew that smell..."Oh right, that time I was forced to go inside of a Hollister. and my sense of scent was fucked up for the rest of the week." Once I was seated on the couch I was able to take in my surroundings. Imagine for a second that Urban Outfiters and Ikea conceived a bastard child. Well here we were. From the high concrete ceilings and cheaply jeweled chandeleir, to the christmas lights wrapped around a metal poll-beam that couldn't possibly have any use other than catter to the sick demands of a vicious homosexual. As I adjusted my eyes to the low lighting, and heavy fragrance, I found myself seated in the corner of the room where I could be conviniently ignored by the group of seething homosexuals who resembled a cross between the Real Housewives of Orange County and that other stupid show on Bravo about the gay real estate young adult millionaires. I was not amused. Luckily my sarcastic remarks seemed to evaporate in the air before they reached any of the ears in the room (I blame that on the fragrance and smoke) My minutes seemed to weave together, and before I knew it there was a bitch fight going down outside the hall (A good a spot as ever to evacuate). I was back "home", and the sounds of oxygen tubes and cat collar bells never seemed so soathing.

-Alone and Loving It

Son of Sam. . .Son

I knew from the minute I layed eyes on Samson that we would be lifelong soul companions. He eats everything, is overweight, overbearing, but you can't help but always invite him in. I saw our similarities instantly. Samson is one of those cats that you can hardly call a member of the feline species. From his jingle bell collar, to his many food based cat toys, Samson is just about as suave and cat-like as Hello Kitty. For starters, this house is anything but "Hi-Tech." The computer is roughly the size of a voltswagon bug, and I'm sure its only use is for a rousing game of pong! However, in the kitchen lives a small water filtered fountain system to make sure that Sammy's water is always cold, purified and refreshing. I looked in envy as I poured myself a glass on tap in the middle of the night, "I mean who would know if I just slipped my cup  under th....oh dear lord what am I thinking?" Luckily Samson is so friendly that I have been able to overlook my jealousy of his fountain of refreshment. After unpacking last night Samson found himself entering my room about every few minutes, and his pattern continued throughout the night. I checked with the landlady to make sure that Sammy's interest in my room would not agitate her. Although she assured me that Samson is free to travel wherever he pleases within the house, I knew she felt disdain for our newly founded friendship. I discovered that Samson and I share the same tastes in food. I noticed while snacking that he was growing a liking to my garlic bagle and la croix sparkling water (I live on the corner of Class and Taste). Once Landlady and I both retired to our rooms for the night I heard a small bell ringing along with a door creek. I knew Samson had chosen my bed for the night, and somehow I felt such a sense of relief. I was number 1. I was the A Squad. As I cuddled in with the Samson (Whose eyes glow in the dark which freaked the crap out of me) I heard a small shrill voice from the other room, "SAMSONNNN!!! Come to Mommy you naughty cat!" The jig was up, and I was on the receiving end. I quickly threw Sammy out of the room to dodge being turned into a porcelain angel. I had to lay in bed the rest of the night listening to his siren call from behind the closed door. Although Samson has not mentioned anything today, I know he is just  being passive aggresive, and our relationship will never be the same.

-Single and Looking

In the Arms of an Angel. . .

Well, after stuffing a small uhaul sized amount of possesions into a mediumish clown car I was on my way to the shining gates of the land the people of the north call Minneapolis. A short, but interesting car ride that involved blinding sun glare, a broken GPS and a small bladder on a big boy that caused several off road bathroom breaks (I have no dignity). I have decided to move to Minneapolis a week early in order to get myself settled and ready for what has so far been a surreal experience. As I finally pulled up to the house (and by I, I mean Alex Attardo and Katie Carney packed in the clown car and close by my side) I found myself in a quant and lively neighborhood. (This first impression would further stifle my next one by a longshot) As I glided through both of the bolted doors I found myself with no lack of company: The dolls, the angels, the scarecrow and the cat. Lucky for me my bladder was so full that I was just about to jolt towards the litter box when my new landlady kindly pointed me towards the bathroom. . .complete with angel night light near the sink (I was shocked to say the least). After washing my hands, and passing the cat as he took his spot in the bathroom, I took in the treasures that surrounded me. Antique's Road Show's wet dream. Wall to Wall porcelain angels ranging in size, color and condition. I would say there are around 5 to 486,673,124 of God's holy choir craming up space in the wooden display shelf. As I felt a few pairs of eyes stairing at me from the back, I assumed my two road companions were stairing with the same general look of horror, but alas they had already made a quick exit to begin the unloading phase. What met my eyes with terror were two porcelain dolls who resembled Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" They were even set up in a similar pose to the scene where Bette is taping Joan to the bed frame. My glare could only be defered by the presence of a small pumkin-headed scarecrow filling a spot in a dining room chair.

I knew in that instant that I was in a home away from home. After being left to fend for myself, I decided to unpack. The room is small, hot, and I have a giant pipe in the corner that provides me with water trickling ambiance every time my upstairs neighbor decideds to refresh his bladder. Fortunatly for me, I have supreme interior design skills, and have transformed this sewage pipe into a fountaine of overflowing scarves. One of my many attempts to shine a small portion of my personality onto the hearts of my new feline and porcelain house mates. I feel too faint from packing to go on with the description of my new, humble abode, but I am sure to violate this page once more with a final checklist. The rent is cheap, and I feel that I am truly living on my own and survivng off the land around me. I wonder if the pioneers felt this way?

-Anxious and Waiting