My god. I guess on holiday weekends, my ridiculous neighbor picks the last possible day off to get in screaming phone fights with his married girlfriend. Every. Fucking. Weekend. I have to listen to this fuckerhead say “NO, BULLSHIT” into the phone about a hundred times from his camping chair in the backyard. Every weekend I have to listen to him insist that this woman doesn’t love her husband (I mean, obviously), and every weekend I have to restrain myself from hanging out the window and telling this guy that he doesn’t seem so great for her, either. Jesus. I’m not saying that I’ve always got my shit together or anything, but I’d like to think that even if my life was falling apart (like if I was in my 40s, still lived with my mother, and was carrying on an affair with a married person), I’d still have the dignity required to hold incriminating conversations in my indoor voice. And it’s not like I can close the windows today. It’s BEAUTIFUL out. Even a miserable bastard like me has to put down the Netflix to enjoy the outside today, or at least sit closer to the window while I watch my documentaries.
I planned my weekend perfectly, in that I didn’t plan much at all. I had two appointments to look at houses (one was completely destroyed by the previous tenants and their apparently free range cats, the other was kind of perfect and I might cry a little if we don’t get it) and a show to review on Saturday night, but other than that, I’ve done a lot of sitting around, which is perfect because next to sleeping, sitting around is probably my favorite activity.
What I should be doing is packing. I’m not planning to move for another month and some change, but I’ve got a lot of books and other junk just sitting around, and when I think about what I use on a daily basis – or even just the stuff I’ve touched in the past month – most of the stuff in my house could be packed away and I wouldn’t even notice. This is the dangerous part of moving; the part where I look around and realize how little of what I have is at all necessary to my life, and think that maybe everything would be easier if I just got rid of a lot of it. With the exception of art, books, and little things my parents gave me, I’ve thrown or given away an impressive amount of things in my 10+ years of moving around. Including a VHS copy of The Craft, which I’m still a little pissed at myself for doing.
The books, though, those have to be packed away. I’ve tried to imagine myself leaving those behind (or generously giving them away, which is a noble idea but I’m selfish and incapable) and the thought makes me cringe. Even though I still don’t have the shelf space for all of them, and that although the IKEA Expedit bookshelf is less than $200 and available online, the shipping cost alone is $349 and I almost crapped myself when I saw that price in my cart. Oh, IKEA. You dirty, greedy Swedes. Moving costs enough, I have neither the time to drive to Chicago nor the balls to throw away that kind of money on anything, even if I so desperately need it to keep myself from looking like a hoarder.
So if anyone in St. Louis would like to sell a large, non-ugly bookshelf or knows someone who is willing to build one for around $200, I’d be much obliged.
It’s a Gorgeous Day to Put Your Life in Boxes
Ridin’ With Saint Louis, Sleepy Kitty*
Janglin’, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
Mazes, Moon Duo
Infinity Guitars, Sleigh Bells
Jejune Stars, Bright Eyes
Speaking Politely, Sleepy Kitty
Wouldn’t It Be Nice, The Beach Boys
The Ornament, Gold Leaves
Forget That You’re Young, The Raveonettes
Don’t Tred, Frankie Rose and the Outs
Pleasuring the Divine, Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter
Soft in the Center, The Hold Steady
DNA, The Kills
Romance, Wild Flag
My Heart, The Ettes
NYC Really Has It All, Sleepy Kitty
Carpetbaggers, Jenny Lewis
You Have Never Lived Because You Have Never Died, Listener
East Harlem, Beirut
West Side High, Polite Sleeper
Good Light, The Lucksmiths
Wonder Why, Vetiver
Stay Alive, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart
Whatever (Folk Song in C), Elliott Smith
Romeo and Juliet, Dire Straits
Beyond the Sea, Bobby Darin
* If you live in St. Louis and haven’t purchased Sleepy Kitty’s new full-length album Infinity City, then you need to be kicked out. Of everything.
Ephemera Etc. 
This mix is almost enough to make me offer to help you move. Almost.
I’m a grownup, I’m hiring movers.
I knew I liked you.
Recommend squirt gun with lemon juice for the neighbor. 😛
Certain folks absolutely HAVE to put all their bidness in the street and play out all their personal dramas (which are numerous and complex) right before the neighborhood’s eyes. I think it’s a genetic trait.
Wow..you picked up a lot “numerous and complex” from a single repetitive action. You are a shrink with a PhD and have studied the genetic molecular disorder? Cool beans..opps Erin is going hate me for the “Cool beans” remark rofl.
Nope, I’m not a shrink. (If I was, I’d want to be like Lorraine Bracco’s character in “The Sopranos.”) However, I do have a Ph.D.from South Side U. I recently applied for a research grant to study the genetic traits linked to tramp stamps (females) and mullets (males).
Sounds like an interesting field of study. I can’t wait to read your thesis.
Tattoos have become a fad in our society and it would be interesting to read what you uncover in your study. For instance: Why do most girls get their tattoos in the small of the back or neck instead of the traditional location on the shoulder and what change in society prompted the new location for tats? I look forward to reading your thesis also.
Oh, you don’t need the thesis for that. The answer to your tramp stamp question is that some of us (ahem) got them before the term “tramp stamp” existed, and chose the location because it was easy to hide from our parents. My fondness for putting out had nothing to do with it.
What I would like to know is why the new location seems to be the ribcage; while this is also easy to hide from authority figures, tattoos are certainly more acceptable now than they were when I was 17, so I see no reason to get them in such a poor spot.
If the majority of individuals got the “tramp stamp” before the term existed and it was only to hide it from their parents how can a genetic trait now be considered one of the reasons for the tattoo? Do either of your parents or family members have tattoos?
I was not aware the ribcage was the new location. Not only does that make you wonder why they are choosing such a poor spot but it also has to be very painful as well considering the skin is closer to the bone on the ribcage.
The ribcage area offers a bigger “canvas” for some really cool tattoo artistry. The serious tat-ters don’t care whether it’s more painful to get ink there (i.e., no pain, no gain). There are myriad ways to numb oneself before the session, anyway. So Erin, when you got your tramp stamp, was it painful?
The “serious” tattoo collectors aren’t young girls getting Marilyn Monroe quotes on their ribcages.
And yes, when I got mine, it hurt a lot. Of course, when I went back to add to that area (thus creating a “piece” instead of a “tramp stamp”) after several years of collecting other tattoos, I found that it didn’t really hurt that much at all. The armpit tattoos are decidedly worse.
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