Zugenia's Procrastination Salon

This is a very weird story out of Tokyo.

A homeless woman has been arrested after living undetected for almost a year in a tiny cupboard in a man's house in Japan.

...

Horikawa told police that she had nowhere to live and had first taken up residence in the cupboard, in a room that the man rarely used, about one year previously when the owner of the house had gone out and not locked the door.

Police believe she may have moved between different addresses in the neighbourhood during her stowaway year.

The woman did not apparently steal any money or other items from the house, but did make use of the shower and toilet.

The police described Horikawa as looking neat and clean. She was charged with trespassing.

Locally, my lady NKB-VP-LTL is in town for the weekend and last night we almost killed ourselves with fun. We've spent the day convalescing on the couch. The cycle shall continue through Monday.

Please note: Lady Z is TERRIBLE about answering her phone and responding to voice mail. Nobody knows why.

Voice mail from Ladies VP:

"This is the Vice President of the Ladies that Lunch trying to reach The G. The President wants you to know that you cannot just announce that you are getting married and not follow up with details. Please be in touch at your earliest convenience."

Another voice mail from VP:

"Um, yes. This is the Vice President calling AGAIN ... you seem to be officially WITHHOLDING information at this point, which is not acceptable. Please call."

Email from El Presidente, CC'd to VP:

ms z,

could you please update us regarding the following:

-how did the proposal happen
-have you set a date
-where is the ceremony going to be
-are you pregnant

and by 'please' i mean you NEED to give us details.

yours,
the pres

Email from VP, CC'd to El Pres:

exactly - I have made 2 official VP phone calls; it is time that you do your lady duty and provide copious updates...you can't leave us at mere speculation - I don't have enough liquor or friends for that.

and you need to start planning bachelorette...now. it's the only thing to live for.

nkb-VP-ltl

Yet another voice mail from VP:

"Yes, this is the VP calling YET AGAIN for the G, who is now facing an official EXECUTIVE CENSURE if she does not call back IMMEDIATELY."

Epilogue:
I finally called back to report: A. Proposal BBQ story; B. That I am not pregnant; C. Ceremony will be in NYC, but party in Fayetteville; and D. Bachelorette is in the works.

Last week I moved out of the box I've been living in for the past year and into an absurdly beautiful house. When I return to Fayetteville, I will have entered the third decade of my life and will begin to unpack it into all kinds of new spaces. But for now, I'm in upstate New York. nkb_vp_ltl is getting married tomorrow and I'm reading this e e cummings poem—

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

—at the ceremony in Buffalo. I know this is a wedding fave (the internet told me so), but NKB hand-selected it and I think e e cummings writes a beautiful love poem, especially for a poet with the name of a porn star. Also, he has a way with parentheses (my favorite punctuation marks).

I'm spending the last few days of my twenties hot, harried, and needing a pedicure.

NKB, Vice President of the Ladies Who Lunch, on the obvious choice of sex over alcohol, if one were placed in the tragic position of having to choose:

"Because sex makes you happy, whereas alcohol just makes you forget that you're unhappy."

For those voyeurs among you, this is to let you know that there are some new images up on the Ladies Who Lunch blog. If you happen to pay a visit, be sure to check out atabei's fantastic artistic interpretation in the July 2 entry.

Over the weekend, El Presidente declared a mandatory July 4 karaoke outing for the Ladies. We went to Mirabar. Stoli gimlets were imbibed. Madonna was channeled. Lesbian hearts were broken. Only once did I miss my chair while attempting to sit down. But today, I'm not so good with the language. So I offer you a news item that pretty much speaks for itself.

Astrologist sues NASA for altering her horoscope by blowing up comet

( Article text )

(For more on the Ladies at Mirabar, please see today's press release at The Ladies Blog.)

I think I'll have The Sloganizer generate all my subject headings from now on.

The Ladies, now minus Alyssa, have once again left their mark on the world. What began as a simple movie outing turned into the night to beat all nights. I won't go into detail here, but let's just say karaoke was involved, and spontaneous dancing, and an old man (a very old man) repeatedly walking by our table to wiggle his pelvis at us, and a young man moved by "Drop It Like It's Hot" to offer me a graphic description of what it would be like to experience certain parts of his racially inflected anatomy in certain parts of my own (which was quite imaginative; he should write), and Simon receiving a full round of "props" for clearly being the biggest pimp ever to enter Pawtucket. (We did not explain that Simon was, in fact, a "Lady." We let him have his moment of alpha male glory.) Let me state for the record that the Ladies are not lewd. We did not solicit raunchiness. It's just the spirit of the karaoke that moves people, and that, in its own way, is a beautiful thing. Anyway, if you'd like the full story, you can read Mariana's account on the Ladies blog.

I've been thinking lately about how little I've been thinking lately. I am sure this is dissertation-related. I am so close to the end, but my mind is inexplicably resistant to just finishing the thing off. I have been unable to work for days. Perhaps it is plain discouragement in the wake of this latest round of directorial abuse. Perhaps it is the fact that once I finish the dissertation, I'll have to rename "Zugenia's Dissertation Procrastination Journal." (Speaking of which, I welcome suggestions.) Perhaps it is summertime ennui. Whatever it is, it's made my brain mushy and my writing is suffering all around.

In lieu of thinking, I've been reading YA literature. In lieu of deep thoughts, I give you brief reviews:

Tanith Lee, Piratica
My dad bought this for me during our London book-shopping spree in early December. He has decided to help me cultivate a section of my personal library devoted to books about girl pirates. (So far, the other books in the collection are Celia Rees's Pirates! and Joan Druett's She Captains: Heroines and Hellions of the Sea.) It took me a while to get into this book, which is one of those YA books that I would enthusiastically recommend to younger readers but not necessarily to other adults. But once I got into it, I had a lot of fun. It presents an exciting vision of a fictional British Empire in which women are the most interesting heroes and villains. Towards the end, there's an awesome girl-pirate sword fight between Art Blastside, a.k.a. Piratica, Queen of the Seas, and her nemesis, the insufferable and wicked Little Goldie Girl. Also, it includes the line: "Is none of England's crime in decent male hands?" No, not in this world, sir.

Bette Greene, Summer of My German Soldier
I read this as part of drucillamac's bookring. I read and loved this book when I was a kid, maybe 10 or 11, so I decided to give it another read and see if it holds up. I should point out that I remembered this book making me cry and cry as a child. I didn't have a very clear memory of the whole story, just certain scenes, but for years, whenever anyone has asked "What's the saddest book you've ever—" I've said "Summer of My German Soldier" before they can even finish the question. My point is that I am predisposed to be moved by this story, which is, as Drucillamac pointed out, quite melodramatic in some respects. That said: I began this book Wednesday afternoon, and teared up at the first mention of the German soldier's name (Anton—oh, Anton!). Then I took a break to see War of the Worlds (eh) and have some dinner, and I returned home and sat up in bed till 2am finishing it. And I cried and cried and cried. And cried. Let me state for the record that I don't cry easily at books. But this one is devastating. It wasn't like there was one climactic moment that let me get it all out in a cathartic rush; no, it is just quietly brutal from start to finish, in this mounting way, as it unfurls the bleak story of a talkative, unloved girl in a cruel, unloving world. It's the kind of world in which the little flashes of kindness and love actually hurt more than they offer relief. I hadn't remembered it like that. But I guess that's an appropriate way to narrate life in a small town in 1940s Arkansas.

From the last chapter, as the narrator watches her elderly and put-upon nanny, Ruth, walk away from her:
I watched her. It was like watching my very own life raft floating away towards the open sea. And yet somewhere in my mind's eye I thought I could see the faintest outline of land. Then it came to me that maybe that's the only thing life rafts are supposed to do. Taking the shipwrecked, not to land, but only in view of land.

Anyway, this book has definitely ensconced itself in my list of lifetime tearjerkers, along with "The Body" episode of Buffy, and Disney's The Fox and the Hound.

Not much time to write just now. Last night the Ladies Who Lunch met for another special event at Simon's house, this time to see off Alyssa, who is departing soon to take up her new position as Professor of Philosophy at the University of Rochester. We celebrated with fish tacos off the grill and pitchers upon pitchers of mojitos. We then moved on to the local bar, where the vodka flowed till closing. At one point I drunk dialed my own boyfriend and got in trouble with El Presidente, not for the drunk dial (a genre she whole-heartedly approves) but because I got "all lovey" in public.

I would like to state for the record that it was before I had consumed my first drink that I discovered I had parked my car with A. the lights on, B. the keys in the ignition, and C. the doors locked. Nancy drove me home for my extra key, and, after rectifying the aforementioned ills, I refused to go near the car for the rest of the evening. I wasn't planning on driving it home anyway—I mean, I clearly don't know how to work a car sober; heaven forbid I attempt to operate it after a drink. But, by the light of day, I'm still not certain I'll retrieve it. I hate having a car. It's like having a big dumb expensive metal child. "Turn off my lights! Take your keys! Feed me a million dollars' worth of gas so I can pollute the planet! And fix my transmission while you're at it! Waaaaaaah!"

Anyway, the reason I'm in a rush is that when the Ladies Who Lunch have a late night, they often morph into the Bitches Who Brunch the next morning. So I have to go put my bitch suit on. But I had to stop in to thank the illustrious naamah_darling for introducing me to THE SLOGANIZER. It will change your life, or at least your Saturday. Don't say I didn't warn you. (Here's her post, only for the particularly dirty-minded.)

Here's a fun game for today: What Is the Most Unladylike Way to Be Roused from a Deep and Peaceful Slumber at 6am on a Monday Morning?

Is it

A. The alarm clock? (Nope, try again.)

B. The garbage truck roaring and clanging on the street outside? (Well, that is pretty annoying, but nope, try again.)

or is it

C. A large-rat-sized creature scrabbling around in the wall right behind your head? (Folks, we have a winner.)

Actually, this morning I was roused from my deep and peaceful slumber at 6am by a combination of B and C. As wake-up methods go, I do not recommend this one. Unless, of course, you want to be so thoroughly woken up that you want to leave bed forever and never return, in which case this is the wake-up call for you. (I, of course, being more committed to my morning sleep than most people, refused to let the Creature in the Wall win this round. I curled up unhappily with several pillows between my head and the thumps and scritchy noises in the wall and fell back into an insistent sleep, in which I dreamed that there was a rat running up and down inside the walls from floor to ceiling and back again, which, of course, was not a dream, as I discovered when I awoke again several hours later.)

Apparently, someone did not get the memo that ladies do not do rats.

Incidentally, the title of today's post is taken from an anecdote featuring Ladies President missmorandi that I failed to report last week. Last weekend, El Presidente and I decided to take a leisurely walk through downtown to our local palace of commerce, the Providence Place Mall. What we did not anticipate was downtown's being entirely colonized by some kind of mass bicycling event. The entire downtown area between College Hill and the mall had been transformed into a large race course. Now, though I do not choose to participate in them myself, I am not inherently averse to athletic endeavors. If the people must don spandex and race around in circles in 90-degree weather, why then, the people can knock themselves out. The organizers of this particular event, however, apparently did not consider the possibility that pedestrians might choose to make use of the public city streets, and had blocked off both sides of all streets all through the city. At the major intersections, there were volunteers posted to make sure no one tried to cross the streets. I am not kidding. There were no designated crossing areas. This was unacceptable. We walked miles around in the heat trying to persuade someone to let us cross the one goddamn street between us and the mall. At one intersection, we stood around for ten minutes or so waiting for a volunteer to let us through. Finally, she said to us, "OK, you can go now if you run!" to which El Presidente replied, without missing a beat, "Ladies don't run. And this isn't the Tour de France."

How's this for Sunday-morning decadence: I'm blogging from bed. For some cruel reason, May in Providence has been nothing but cold and colder. Yesterday, I took an afternoon nap and had a hard time crawling out from under the covers when I came to. Today, I've decided to stay under as long as necessary. That could be all day, except that I will eventually need coffee, which is downstairs. Z is in Boston today, and my staff of household servants seems to be, well, nonexistant.

Last night the Ladies met for a special Spring Event to celebrate Mariana's return from the Old Country and various job-gettings and other life achievements. Later today I will post the official Presidential Address from the event on the Ladies Who Lunch newsletter. It was quite powerful. Mariana wrote it; I assisted and supervised; and I delivered it on her behalf. We decided this made her, El Presidente, a combination of Sam and President Bartlet, and me a cross between Toby and CJ.

God I miss the Sorkin West Wing.

The theme of last night's event was "The Ladies Grow Up." El Presidente and I collaborated on the Discussion Agenda:

( The Ladies Agenda, 5/21/05 )

We also sipped a delightful cocktail called Hemingway's Daiquiri, expertly mixed by Simon with fresh-squeezed grapefruit and lime juices. The recipe came from this website, a discovery of Alyssa's: Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails. I urge you all to join us in supporting this worthy cause.

It's time I admitted that LJ is not the only site of my blogging activity. I am also a member of an elite online organization: The Ladies Who Lunch. "Ladies," as it is popularly known, was founded several years ago by me (Official Secretary) and my friends Mariana (El Presidente) and Nancy (VP). Soon thereafter, our table was rounded out by the additions of Simon (who does an excellent analysis of ladies' accessories) and Alyssa (the epitome of indie class). We were all in the throes of those wretched middle years of grad school and increasingly depressed by the sheer lack of elegance and politeness in graduate student culture, so we decided to meet once a week to lunch and discuss Important Lifestyle Issues such as designer shoes, high-end skin care products, fashion faux pas, and local "sightings" of note. We also had a regular Leelee Update, as Leelee Sobieski was a local celebrity who could be counted on to wear egregiously faulty outfits. Our lunches involved highly organized agendas, fastidious notetaking (by me, Official Secretary), rampant gossip, and, occasionally, much midday alcohol consumption. It was a golden time. But then our esteemed President went away to Italy to research her dissertation on an obscure Italian painter, and Ladies was relegated to cyberspace. Hence The Ladies Who Lunch. Please feel free to drop by and to comment—we are big fans of the "anonymous" ladies—but do be aware that this is all in the name of frivolous entertainment for a bunch of overeducated, underpaid young adults. Occasionally some anonymous visitor comes by and says, "Jeez, don't you people have anything better to do than sit around talking about nothing and judging people?" And the answer is, Yes, of course we do. That, Sir, is the whole point.

Mariana is now back from Italy and staying in my apartment until we can both move into our new places on June 1. She's teaching me how to wear makeup, and I'm teaching her to keep a LiveJournal. Hehehe.