Something old, something new.

So I'm back from Project H. It's been a while, puppies. I apologize for leaving you hanging.

I'd like to do a year in review. I'd like to but that's so lame. Everybody does a year in review. Boor-ing.

Instead I'll relay the dyanmite day I had this very day. It was explosive. Truly. Fasten your belts.

I kicked it off with my fierce morning karate practice. You didn't know I practiced the art of karate, did you? I do. Let this be a warning to never ever ever fuck with me. (Sidenote: I saw a kid with a t-shirt that read Never Fuck With Me but it was in Italian and therefore not easily understood by the non-paisans.)

Anyway, after my seriously freakalicious practice, I got in touch with my sensitive side and baked a cake. You didn't know I baked, did you? Just goes to show, you don't make the effort to get to know me. For shame. I did bake a delicious cake with fresh ingredients and now it sits like a large loaf, because it is loaf-shaped, on my kitchen table waiting for consumption.

After practicing the high art of karate and baking a cake, I was pretty bored. So I took a long walk. Downtown to Chinatown.

There have been more than one occassion in which I have found myself on these aimless walks deep in the heart of Chinatown. I'm never quite sure what to do once there. I look. I walk fast. I try not to make eye contact.

Quite honestly, I took this long constitution because I was pissed off about something and needed to "walk it off." The rage that is. I am sometimes filled with rage. You didn't know that either, did you?

Luckily the brisk air and a call from a former boyfriend put me back into a non-rage frame of mind. So here I am. The rage is at bay. I am staring at all the presents I've bought and wrapped for my totally awesome family and feeling pretty awesome myself.

So Happy Whatever-You-Celebrate to you and yours. Sorry for the delay in updating you post-vacation. I may have promised a picture but I'm feeling a little stingy after so much giving today.

Until tomorrow, pups.

Preparation-H

"While hemorrhoids are something you might not want to discuss, they are in fact a very common problem for both men and women."

Unfortunately, puppies, I am not in fact preparing for hemorrhoids. If you are in fact preparing for hemorrhoids or rather for their removal, I suggest you head over to the Preparation H site where you can pick up a handy $1 off coupon.

My subject is Preparation, the H referring to my vacation destination. You can let your mind run wild on all the hot H spots around the world. I think it will be more fun that way.

So I'm preparing. I've moved myself past the mental preparation, as in "I am thinking about packing but I am not mentally ready to pack." I have opened a suitcase and thrown in some random items which will probably not make the trip but as the early explorers would say "Progress!"

Anyway, this may be my last post for some time. Please do not cry. I will be back soon enough and promise to extol all of my H location secrets. Thanks for playing.

Happy bird.

The High Art of Procrastination

I never used to practice this now-familiar art. But I've embraced it in recent years with nothing short of gusto. I am happy to report I am now quite facile in this the highest of art forms.

I may start showing in galleries in Chelsea. "Come one, come all -- watch me procrastinate." It would be a live action, interactive exhibit. You could assign me simple tasks and then watch as I do not complete them. Of course the admission price would be exorbitant but could you really pass up such an opportunity to watch me not do this or that? I think not.

You should really stop shaking your head dismissively at this point. You should really stop closing your mind to the act of not getting things done. You've never tasted freedom, have you? Pity.

Well, off I go to plan not to plan to do what I most assuredly should be doing.

Ciao for now.

This is what they call a Block Party.

Writer's Block Party to be exact.

[Pause for writer's station break.]

So anyway, as shocking as it may sound, I have nothing to instruct, exaggerate, rant/rave, praise, demoralize, or otherwise jibber jabber about today. I'm quite tired to be exact. I can tell you that soon, very soon, I will be away. Somewhere tropical and warm, working on my serious tan.

I take tanning very seriously as anyone who knows me can attest. I get like dark chocolate. It's a sight to be seen firsthand, not second- or thirdhand. Maybe I'll share some of my awesome vacation photos with you upon my return. That alone should be enough to hold you over until this raging Block Party ends.

'Night.

Not the same

It's a sad Sunday. No accident either that it's windy as all get out. A true original left yesterday. So we're observing here at Shiny Penny headquarters. Our heads are hung low and our hearts are full. We're trying not to cry.

I will be investing my fortunes in JetBlue starting tomorrow.

Much love to you, Chicago. Now home to Sam and Silas, Lupe Fiasco, and a super super girl.

Curses!

Why must it be so difficult to shop at places called Circuit City and Best Buy?

Yes, I'm female but I probably know more about technology than you ever will so shut it.

I just can't grasp why these vast spaces that appear to hold so much stuff actually are filled with nothing that I want nor will ever need. I looked on your little website, Circuit City, and yet your store has a whole lot of nothing. I asked your staff, Best Buy, but they were dumbfounded by my recitation of serial numbers. And people wonder why people like me shop online?

I resolve to avoid the human experience from this point forward in regards to any and all matters relating to the purchase of technology. Because no one knows shit. And when I asked for a recommendation, I got bupkiss. (I didn't need your recommendation anyway; I was just being polite.)

Hey, I don't fault the folks who work at Circuit City and Best Buy. I'm sure there are some good eggs in there but they should really reconsider who they put in the direct line of fire. Your frontlines are weak.

You may have guessed I came home empty-handed, which is most unfortunate and highly annoying. I will be shopping online to complete my technology purchase but not from Circuit City nor Best Buy.

This concludes this test of human interaction. Please leave me alone now.

You know what's interesting?

Watching five-hour marathons of "Laguna Beach". Now that's interesting. Awful, but interesting.

Watching someone saw into a meatball the size of a giant baby's head. Now that's interesting.

Ordering coffee in the old-school way and sticking to the lingo:
ME: "I'd like a medium."
NOT ME: "A grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."
NOT ME: "Right, a grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."

Applying hand sanitizer after you've shook a stranger's hand. The look of horror is interesting enough to fill pages.

Arguing about the use of commas, especially when you know you're wrong but you just refuse to give in. Insulting your adversary becomes very necessary in these situations.

Seeing someone else's point of view. Case in point:
NOT ME: "I think your open lip sore is sexy."
ME: "You have drunk too much of the Kool-Aid."
NOT ME: "No really. I think bloody, crusted lesions are attractive."
ME: "I fear for you sometimes."

Picking scabs can be very interesting. Highly unrecommended, but nonetheless interesting. The texture alone is worth the pick.

These are just some of the many many interesting things I can think of off the top of my head. I'm sure your list is as provocative.

SICK III: The Anger

I can't seem to shake this sickness. It has taken over not only my body but my personality and replaced my normally sunny disposition with unbridled anger.

In addition to my ill temperment, I've become accident prone. I'm currently nursing Night of the Living Dead finger and some unexplained bruises on the left leg. If something doesn't give soon, I'm going to seriously lose it. I came real close today to screaming. A real scream, coupled with throwing of objects, ripping of cushions, and just generally tearing things up in a wholly uncivilized manner. I envisioned this scenario and it made me smile. I refrained from unleashing the wrath out of some small manner of decency I seem to be holding onto for dear life.

I don't have anything positive or uplifting or engaging to say. I don't care what you have to say either. I'm still sick after two weeks and I'm really fucking pissed off about it.

SICK II

Yes, I know. You don't want to hear it, but it's true. My insides continue to wage war on my outsides. The insides are winning. I don't appreciate this battling; I'm a pacifist. Just when I started to dive deep down into that dark, dark space where self-pity is as delightful as the Skittles rainbow, I learned this.

Do you know whose apartment that Yankees' pitcher crashed his plane into? The woman who was in a coma for some 20 days after being injured during the Macy's day parade. She was hit by a lightpole or a float or something. Can you imagine that kind of bad luck? Damn, woman. Time to get out of New York.

SICK II isn't so bad in comparison.

SICK

I think I've mentioned this documentary before called SICK. It's about a performance artist who also happens to have cystic fibrosis. He's also coincidentally into S&M. This guy is for all intents and purposes SICK. His body is ravaged by disease and self-inflicted pain. It's an amazing thing to watch, grotesque and yet entrancing. It's like he's doing this dance with his warped life and forcing the disease to feel the way he wants it to feel, which just happens to be hanging from his nipple rings naked in a gallery in New York.

Kind of puts things into perspective when you're whining about your sinus/chest infection. Boo hoo. I thought about that guy today as I moved into day two of invalidism. I don't have it so bad really. Sure I woke up at 2 a.m. with a splitting pain in my head and had to literally steam my sinuses clear for two hours. But during that time I heard the strangest things outside. One man was talking very loudly and animatedly about something but I couldn't understand him. I thought "there could be a shooting right here right now and I'd be called as a witness and the defense lawyer would get my testimony thrown out on account of my having a towel over my head and breathing in steam from a pot of boiling water." These are the kinds of things you think about at 2 a.m. when your sinuses have lain seige to half your face.

It's a sick, sick world.

All in the follow-through.

Project management has its pluses. It's all about the details and the pestering and for fuck's sake the follow-through. Yes, it's entirely thankless. No one likes to be bothered, harrassed, or otherwise annoyed. But the lack of follow-through is very telling.

Your mothers probably told you if you don't have something nice to say, shut it. Fine. Great upstanding-citizen advice. However, I doubt there's a caveat in there for 'if you don't know the answer to question posed or you're too much of a sissy to respond honestly, silence is golden.' I'd like to dispel that untruth right here.

Follow-through, people. It's a common courtesy. A basic right as Americans. Do I even have to point to history for the innumerable cases where a lack of follow-through would have avoided disaster, nay peril?

Do it. Say what you mean. Do what you say. Stop willy-nillying around and hoping you can hide in some dark cave until your pursuer loses the scent. Unless of course you are in a cheese cave, then by all means frolic to your heart's content.

This is what I have to tell you. Heed what I say. You'll be better for it in the end 'cause when the end comes. . . well, better left unsaid.

These boots were made for sex walking.

It's true. I do possess secret stores of knowledge where sex workers are concerned. I know, for instance, that there is a Whores Congress held annually in Amsterdam. I know that sex workers in Amsterdam have to pay taxes but are not entitled to benefits of any kind. (This was the case 8 years ago; things may have since changed.) I did in fact read the book "Sex Workers". I recommend it.

Why, you wonder, do I know all of these fascinating bits about sex workers? That's highly confidential and you can't be trusted.

So I stumbled across this site about sex workers the other day: http://theaphroditeproject.tv/

These Aphrodite folks have designed some zany shoes for sex workers. These platforms have video, GPS, music players, an alarm, one-button access to 911, hidden compartments, and data on the sex worker.

This is like super sex worker gear.

Unfortunately these shoes are not yet for sale because I would have a pair already even though I'm not a sex worker.

Curb your enthusiasm.

Now this is a very funny show. No argument there. But it's also an affliction. I know this.

I am a member and president of too much enthusiasm.

There is no known cure. Only constant reminders to "Curb your enthusiasm," "Calm down," "You are a spaz," "There's no dancing in here." Although I appreciate the constructive criticism, I'd like to point out that enthusiasm is appreciated in other cultures, in faraway places, distant lands, populated by easily excitable folk. I should move there.

In the meantime, I reject this curbature on my enthusiasm. I can't help it. I'm a victim. It's genetics.

Please send your donations to: Shiny Penny, Curb Your Enthusiasm Fight For a Cure.

Thank you.

Kick. Push.

So I'm not blind. In case you were fraught with worry. The UFO is still within sight however. Prognosis not so good for the hypochondriac. But I'm still kicking and pushing on through.

Speaking of which, I'm listening to Lupe Fiasco and I'd like to take a short moment to appreciate.

Did you hear that? It was a pregnant pause.

Awesome. Thanks for listening in and for all your letters of concern, concerning my sight. I was really touched.

Big love,
Shiny Penny

I believe, UFO.

This may in fact be my last post. I know. It's upsetting. Think how I feel for a second.

So, I'm seeing things. In the right eye. A "floater". I wasn't initially concerned three weeks ago when said foreign object invaded my vision. True, I did reach for the elusive fuzzy but was unable to capture it within my tiny palm, which is just about the time I started to freak out.

This particular UFO looks like a tiny tiny hairball and it moves like a tiger. Fast. I had sort of resigned myself to this special thing floating around my eye. And then I read up about it on WebMD.

I'd like to warn you about WebMD. If you have even a touch of hypochondria or general paranoia, stay away from the WebMD. This site is like a hungry parasite feeding on all your insecurities. Look up "flu" and you may discover you contracted ebola. I innocently researched my floater and was shocked and dismayed to learn I may have "retinal detachment" which requires SURGERY.

Calm down for a minute. I made an appointment with Dr. Magoo but I can't say the receptionist was all too concerned. I thought about whipping out my secret knowledge of "retinal detachment" but vetoed that decision.

As if all this trauma weren't enough, then I learn a good friend of mine has several floaters. Has had them for years.

Hold the phone, Buck Jones.

You can probably tell that I'm fairly worked up about losing my sight, especially after that other eye doctor compared my eyes to mangoes. So I'm going to stop staring at this screen and researching my fate. Keep your eyes crossed for me, puppies.

MOVE! Marlboro Man

As some of you may know, I love my laundromat. Many a story has been woven around the happenings at said wash & dry. Yesterday was no exception.

Upon entering, I noticed a funk but couldn't determine the exact funk source. There was a curious man in a high trucker-style cap and flannel shirt but I sniffed around him and gave him the negativo. So I'm washing. I'm washing. I'm washing. And I can't help but watch this man. He's taken his shirt off and put on another flannel shirt.

(Pause for station break. It was 77 degrees yesterday. Not necessarily flannel-wearing weather.)

I watch this man walk outside where he has a large shopping cart parked with all manner of neatly organized bags. I did notice he had nice toenails. No lie. Really. So there he is outside with his carton of whole milk. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. He had a quart of whole milk with him. That could have been what first attracted my attention. He takes long gulps from his carton. It was a hot day -- I guess milk can be refreshing. He then lights up a cigar. I couldn't even make this up, it's so good. He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk.

Let me just repeat that for good measure.

He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk. From the carton.

As this whole scene was being played out, I couldn't help but think of the Ludacris song "Move". You know the one. Or the video maybe. Luda has these crazytown big arms and walks down the street, knocking shit over with his posse of beefy ladies.

This man reminded me of that video for whatever reason. And then I thought, this guy could totally take the Marlboro Man in a tussle. He wasn't especially big or tall or sculpted nor was he riding a horse. He was just mas machismo. I'm not advocating an actual throw-down 'cause I think the Marlboro Man is dead and that kind of seems like the odds would naturally be against him. I'm just saying.

It's nice to have heroes.

There are no dumb questions.

Oh really?

I don’t know who perpetrated this untruth. But I feel it my profound duty to set you straight.

There are in fact dumb questions and dumb answers, and yes, even dumb people. Don't be alarmed.

I am witness to the abundance of dumbnosity. I am not judging, mind you, just laying out the facts as I see them. And I have seen the face of dumb; I’ve heard the voice of dumb. It is all around us.

I thought about making a list of ALL-TIME DUMBEST QUESTIONS EVER. I just couldn't whittle it down to a Top 10. So I'm just putting it out there so you can be armed the next time you encounter a truly dumb question. I challenge you to respond with an equal amount of dumbnosity, just to keep it interesting.

If you'd like to submit your dumb questions, I'll compile them with mine in the aforementioned list. Thank you.

I'll miss you Crocodile Hunter

My heart was broken by the news of Steve Irwin's passing. Broken into tiny little pieces. Damn that sting ray! I did love that Crocodile Hunter. He was so fucking ebullient and enthusiastic about everything. We need more people like that in the universe. Just a little touched by the crazy but so happy, so happy it almost hurts to look at them.

That's it. All I really wanted to say. The softer side of the Shiny Penny. Don't get used to it, puppies.

The Television

It is a rare evening when I am master and commander of the television. Not much interests me on the television, other than the WB11 Morning News and the occasional video hits classic. And now that Steve Irwin is passed, I don't hold out much hope for the future of the television.

There was a glimmer in that otherwise bleak future this evening. I happened upon two back-to-back episodes of the Scrubs. When I tell you, I laughed out loud several times...well, I've just told you. And there you have it. That shit is funny. All of it. How is it stuck on Wednesday nights? Is Brandon Tartikoff still the head of NBC? Do I need to write a letter to someone? Because I most assuredly will.

Like I said, I don't forsee a bright path ahead for the television unless the Scrubs stays on the air. If it gets cancelled I may cry and that would be unpleasant. For everyone.

Damn hands

Hands are useful. Except when they're not.

I put my hands to work today in hopes of tricking them out of wanting to do what they surely do want to do very much. My hands have a mind of their own. They are wicked hands. Disobedient. Willful. Reckless hands.

So I kept them busy with various mundane tasks. Washing dishes, throwing shit out, turning pages of magazines and books, clicking endlessly through satellite TV, feeding me, etc. Nothing these hands wanted to do, that I can assure you. And now I've run out of things to occupy these bad hands.

Crap.

Segue. My second-biggest fan remarked the other day that I do not leave the door open for comment on this blog. My immediate reaction was shut up but being open-minded, I decided to give a listen. Perhaps second-biggest fan has something there. Whatever it is, it's a very small nugget, hardly worth this paragraph of mention but my damn hands are enjoying this. So fine. You want to comment. Go ahead. I've left this blog sufficiently vague that I invite your clever conversation. If I strike back viciously, blame my hands.