The Long and Winding Road, Or What Happens on Cicero

The smell of Bontex paper mill is oppressive and pungent as I drove over the bridge to face once more my Virginian doom. I am back in Buena Vista. Joy. I have mixed emotions about coming back to this place-- with an evil beauty that lures one into a complacency as the South slowly creeps over your existence. I am ecstatic to see friends and ready to begin my academic pursuits, but the threat of a break down looms in the back of my mind. But at this point, I cannot see what is to come, I can only learn from what I have experienced up to this point.

Lesson #1: guard rails are put on the highway for a reason. And now my passenger door will not open, so if you want a ride, then you are welcome to climb over the stick shift and parking break.

Lesson #2 Never show your driver's liscence if a hotel clerk asks to see ID-- choose a school ID or something without your birthdate on it, because apparently being under 21 is not kosher in the world of hotel check-ins

Lesson #3 if you ever own a hotel, you can call any room a non-smoking room if someone is not currently smoking in it. If you do not belive me stay in the Holiday Inn at Beckly West Virginia.

Here is the story of my journey back to the Beev. It starts on Sunday morning when I load up the car, say goodbye to my confused dog, and then cry a little with my mom. I cant really see as I am driving away because I have been crying too much. I start out with the Spinners to comfort me--nothing will do you better at a trying time than the bass laine of track 8. I drive until I get hungry (mom's cookies can only tide you over for so long) and I stop in Tomah Wisconsin. The chinese buffet there is very very special...I am not sure if they have ever seen a chinese person.... Well, I keep driving and by the time I am doing the potty-dance I am in Deforset, just outside of Madison. Let me tell you, this town's only claim to fame is a giant pink elephant with glasses--and hey, it worked, cause I stopped and took a picture with it.

Well, I pressed on to Chicago, which was a pain on the 294 due to road construction, but when I reached Cicero Ave (a sketchy place to begin with), I saw my first Midget Bar. For a moment I was confused-- but don't worry, the signs clarify everything-- it is the premiere bar for Midgets in the United States (apparently). Well, I started to consider what a midget bar would entail besides midgets and liquor, and then I began to wonder about what kind of shot glasses they used...I mean, do they use thimbles or what? By this time I had plowed through Gary--the armpit of Indiana and I attempted to stay at the Radisson in Merrilville, but being 19 kicked me in the butt, so at the next hotel I tried I turned on the smile and girly flirtatiousness and charmed the concierge into letting me stay. (A handicapped room--so very spacious, but the shower was just mounted on the wall in the bathroom--next to the toilet--no curtain, and the floor flooded a little...how is that handicap friendly?)

Now I was in Indiana and itching for Kentucky-- because there is not much to be said for southern Indiana--except for that crazy McDonald's in Layfayette which is only decorated with VanGogh, mahogany, and gold leaf. The only eventful part about Kentucky involved a guard rail and my passenger side door...I don't really wish to discuss that part. In West Virginia I got the last room at a Holiday Inn-- I fondly refer to it as the ash-tray suite. Well, there is not much else to ne said for WV except they have the audacity to toll you on their dinky highway...seriously guys...you are in the middle of nowhere. I ABBA'd myself clear into Lexington (went straight to my favorite cafe and got the veggie wrap) and then rocked out to Chiquitita all the way to my apartment. Sing a new song Chiquitita...(no sing a new song ABBA)...

My bedroom was my first priority-- because if I am going to live in the south, it is going to be my way-- so I have constructed a lovely shrine in which to house my lovely Frida paraphenalia, and of course the creepy baby head chalkware that hangs above my bed.

Etsy Shop Up and Running!!!

Visit my shop at vintagescrewball.etsy.com to view all of my terrific time wasters! It is up to kind people like you to help stave the craft explosion of my apartment! You can help, you can shop!

Cleaning the Sty.

Anyone who knows me has discovered that I am a complete packrat. I cannot throw things away, partially out of laziness, but mostly because there are too many possibilities. I cannot get rid of something for fear it will be just the thing I will need to complete one of my many "projects" (these projects are often of a dubious nature, including creations such as the 'Birth of Venus' made out of a Cap'n Crunch box pictured above). Often when I finally do throw something away after years of clinging to it, I will finally find a use for it immediately after it is irretrievable. It is a frustrating cycle of binging and purging-- but mostly the hoarding binges. My bedroom this summer has suffered the crossfire of this constant war I have with my need for clean and my need for things. Unfortunately I have fed, and fed, and fed this monster of packratting and pile making, and now the painful purge is necessary if I would like to be able to move freely in my room without breaking my neck on one of the many piles. The one thing about throwing up is that it always sucks while it happens, but afterward you always feel much better. If you have seen my bedroom this summer it looks like it could become a living beast at any moment-- and unfortunately my psyche is just as monstrously disheveled. All year I have been hunkered into survival mode-- packratting to console my exhausted, depression ridden self, and I have finally reached the point where I have the mental facilities to take back the power and begin the purge. Good. It is about time.


here are some recent exploits that have fed the packrat room mess monster