Act I, Scene 1:
Decide to bake muffins. Pumpkin spice.
Decide to roast almonds. Chili spiced.
Decide to do these things at the same time in a kitchen that is smaller than my cubicle at work. That means small.
Act I, Scene 2:
Realize after my trip to the store that I am out of salt. WHAT???? OUT OF SALT??? How did I not see this coming??? How could I have missed this??? Who runs out of salt???? I AM A FAILURE AT LIFE!!!!!
(Curtain falls as the young woman crumbles in a heap on her kitchen floor, arms outstretched screaming at the heavens).
ACT II
Scene 1:
I change out of my sweatpants (nightmare) and replace with jeans. Skip putting on a bra and just grab a sweatshirt. Stomp to CVS. Get to CVS. THEY DON'T HAVE SALT?????? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD!!!????? Glare at the poor woman who cannot control the fact that they are missing this item. Exit. Try Whole Foods.
Scene 2:
Whole Foods. T Minus 36 hours to Thanksgiving. Misery. Lines. Overflowing shopping carts. Screaming babies. Out of sugar. Out of cinnamon. Out of brussel sprouts. Women with intense and competitive eyes, peering around every aisle. Men staring blankly at the lists they have been given. It is a war zone. I join the fray.
Scene 3:
I am staring at 8 different kinds of salt. They do not have the kind I usually buy. WHERE IS IT??? Oh, it is the kind that EVERYONE buys and therefore they are completely out. What kind should I get? The one that has a picture of a chef on it? The one that is Kosher? Sea Salt?? The one that is clearly the off-brand of salt??? Does buying off-brand salt matter the way off-brand matters with shampoo or macaroni and cheese?? Perhaps I should just cry like I want to and use the salt from my tears. No. Be an adult. You are being over-dramatic. Besides, you already watched Little Women this week, let's be honest, your tear ducts are dried up. Just pick one. Kosher it is. Bend down, pick up the salt. The word 'Kosher' makes me want pickles. Consider going down another aisle to get some pickles. Decide my hatred of people in large quantities is greater than my desire to eat a kosher dill. Proceed to checkout line which is surprisingly calm but the vultures are hovering. Salt is purchased quickly, store is exited.
ACT III
Scene 1:
At home, the baking and roasting begins. It is 10:15 pm. K-State is already losing. A few expletives are muttered. The batter smells good. I consider trying some then consider the raw eggs. Stomach churns. Wonder where my fear of eating certain foods has come from. I used to eat pork rinds for crying out loud and now I can't try just a little bit of spiced pumpkin muffin mix. Ultimately, give in to the fear, decide against the taste and begin filling cups. As I do this, I start thinking about pork rinds again. Someone once told me that they were George H. W.'s favorite snack. As I am thinking of George Bush sr. and pork rinds, I fail to grease the muffin pan. I bake for 25 minutes. I now have 12 muffins I am unable to remove from the pan. Consider just bringing the pan to Thanksgiving dinner and making people pass it around the table and eat the muffins out with a fork. Laugh. Remember that I am angry and promptly turn bitter again.
Scene 3:
Start roasting the almonds. Have high hopes for this snack. Treat them tenderly, lovingly, like they are my baby almonds and I am their almond mother. Burn them. EXPLODE.
(Curtain falls as the young woman crumbles in a heap on her kitchen floor, arms outstretched screaming at the heavens).
ACT IV
Scene 1:
Next Morning.
Apologize to all injured parties (kitchen, boyfriend, muffin pan, burned-alive baby almonds, the kosher dills I should have bought).
End of Play.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
POP
If I fail at everything else in my life, I'll always be able to say I knew my way around a pop machine.
"Pop machine?" You ask.
"YES!!! A pop machine!!! I love them. When I see them, my heart beats faster."
But there's this one pop machine lately that has really been testing me. I can't work her out. She eats my money. She eats it twice a week. I've tried chatting with her, telling her jokes, not talking at all, tickling her, or not looking at her directly in case she's the shy type.
But she just won't give in to me. She won't give me the trick to getting my pop every day, every time. If she keeps it up, I may have to call her mother. By mother, I mean the phone number that is listed on her front.
Pop machines. They inexplicably make me nostalgic. They remind me of being 12 and not being allowed to drink pop so my sister and I would ride our bikes to the grocery store and spend 40 cents (YEAH, I SAID 40 CENTS) on a pepsi and then ride our bikes home and hide the cans down our pants, cringing and screeching at how cold they were against our skin as we crept back up to our rooms. If upon our arrival, our mom couldn't be avoided, one person would hide both cans in her pants while the other created a diversion. Sitting her thinking about it, I miss my sister more than ever. I also miss 40 cent pops.
I love pop machines. I worship them. I am a slave to their ability to provide my drug at a moment's notice. But they can break your heart. The cruel words, "sold out." The moment after you insert your dollar and you don't hear that satisfying click and you know your dollar is gone forever. The moment when you realize you are a nickel short. Oh yes, they can break your heart. And they'll do it just to remind you that they are in charge. Or something.
In other news, everyone here calls it soda and I hate it. I find it offensive.
"Pop machine?" You ask.
"YES!!! A pop machine!!! I love them. When I see them, my heart beats faster."
But there's this one pop machine lately that has really been testing me. I can't work her out. She eats my money. She eats it twice a week. I've tried chatting with her, telling her jokes, not talking at all, tickling her, or not looking at her directly in case she's the shy type.
But she just won't give in to me. She won't give me the trick to getting my pop every day, every time. If she keeps it up, I may have to call her mother. By mother, I mean the phone number that is listed on her front.
Pop machines. They inexplicably make me nostalgic. They remind me of being 12 and not being allowed to drink pop so my sister and I would ride our bikes to the grocery store and spend 40 cents (YEAH, I SAID 40 CENTS) on a pepsi and then ride our bikes home and hide the cans down our pants, cringing and screeching at how cold they were against our skin as we crept back up to our rooms. If upon our arrival, our mom couldn't be avoided, one person would hide both cans in her pants while the other created a diversion. Sitting her thinking about it, I miss my sister more than ever. I also miss 40 cent pops.
I love pop machines. I worship them. I am a slave to their ability to provide my drug at a moment's notice. But they can break your heart. The cruel words, "sold out." The moment after you insert your dollar and you don't hear that satisfying click and you know your dollar is gone forever. The moment when you realize you are a nickel short. Oh yes, they can break your heart. And they'll do it just to remind you that they are in charge. Or something.
In other news, everyone here calls it soda and I hate it. I find it offensive.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Nothing in particular
WebMD tells me I have sinusitis. That doesn't even sound real. Sinusitis means I have bacteria or fungi residing in my sinus cavities. This grosses me out quite a lot. Sort of like the time the dentist told me that my wisdom teeth had impacted my sinus cavities and when he pulled them out, there was a possibility that food would come out my nose. Grosssssssssss. Basically due to my sinusitis I spend my days imagining those green blobs from the Mucinex commercials residing in my face. One can only hope their mucus blobs have New Jersey accents and carry suitcases.
**I trust WebMD implicitly. It never occurs to me to visit an actual doctor. The only thing I've discovered cures my sinusitis headache is eating. Can you believe it???? If you know me, you can believe it. This weekend I had an absolute feast. feast, I tell you. But guess what? I cooked it all. Almost. Because, guess what????? I can cook now. Did you know that?? Probably not. Because last time you were in a kitchen with me you probably witnessed me struggling to operate even the microwave, and keeping a solid 10 feet between me and the stove. Alas. Times have changed. I am a kitchen whiz.
While being a kitchen whiz and eating for 48 hours straight, I created for myself a "Christmas Omelet." I named it "Christmas" because of the colors involved: peppadew peppers, spinach, and goat cheese. Red, Green, and White. Divine. Capital D. Make it for yourself next time you have an omelet hankering. get the peppadews from the olive bar.
SO, as I was making this Christmas omelet (I wish I took pictures for my blog...it really was a thing of beauty) I realized that Christmas is round the corner. HUSH, I know. It's not Halloween yet. BUT. Hello. Thanksgiving is in like, a month. It can't be already. You know what I'm more excited for than Thanksgiving or Christmas this year? Harry Potter 7, Pt I. People talk about days they will remember for the rest of their lives: weddings, birth of their child, graduations, etc. I think that November 19, the date Part I is released, will be one of those days for me. One that I will include in my own personal lifetime achievement scrapbook. "Do you actually have a lifetime achievement scrapbook?" you ask. "Perhaps. But keep taking that tone with me and you'll never be allowed to see it," I snap.
I don't know if the last two sentences can be diagnosed in some psychological way. Probably.
In other news: this weekend I also made potato pancakes which were really top drawer (top drawer is truly one of my favorite ways to say something is awesome. It is the top draweriest way to note something is best, in my opinion). Also, I found the tiny corner of my apartment where I get reception. If I huddle in the corner, as close to the window as my body will let me, I will receive your phone calls. Success.
This is probably my worst ever.
What is in my face: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgh-sR2hxb4
**I trust WebMD implicitly. It never occurs to me to visit an actual doctor. The only thing I've discovered cures my sinusitis headache is eating. Can you believe it???? If you know me, you can believe it. This weekend I had an absolute feast. feast, I tell you. But guess what? I cooked it all. Almost. Because, guess what????? I can cook now. Did you know that?? Probably not. Because last time you were in a kitchen with me you probably witnessed me struggling to operate even the microwave, and keeping a solid 10 feet between me and the stove. Alas. Times have changed. I am a kitchen whiz.
While being a kitchen whiz and eating for 48 hours straight, I created for myself a "Christmas Omelet." I named it "Christmas" because of the colors involved: peppadew peppers, spinach, and goat cheese. Red, Green, and White. Divine. Capital D. Make it for yourself next time you have an omelet hankering. get the peppadews from the olive bar.
SO, as I was making this Christmas omelet (I wish I took pictures for my blog...it really was a thing of beauty) I realized that Christmas is round the corner. HUSH, I know. It's not Halloween yet. BUT. Hello. Thanksgiving is in like, a month. It can't be already. You know what I'm more excited for than Thanksgiving or Christmas this year? Harry Potter 7, Pt I. People talk about days they will remember for the rest of their lives: weddings, birth of their child, graduations, etc. I think that November 19, the date Part I is released, will be one of those days for me. One that I will include in my own personal lifetime achievement scrapbook. "Do you actually have a lifetime achievement scrapbook?" you ask. "Perhaps. But keep taking that tone with me and you'll never be allowed to see it," I snap.
I don't know if the last two sentences can be diagnosed in some psychological way. Probably.
In other news: this weekend I also made potato pancakes which were really top drawer (top drawer is truly one of my favorite ways to say something is awesome. It is the top draweriest way to note something is best, in my opinion). Also, I found the tiny corner of my apartment where I get reception. If I huddle in the corner, as close to the window as my body will let me, I will receive your phone calls. Success.
This is probably my worst ever.
What is in my face: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgh-sR2hxb4
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Acute Viral Rhinopharyngitis: A Love Story.
An Excellent Cure for the Common Cold:
Wine. And lots of it.
If you have already tried Dayquil, Sudafed, Vicks, and whatever else over the counter medication you can find and still feel miserable, I recommend doing the following: Consuming a few over the counter remedies and then going on a wine tour of Seneca Lake. This will do several things. First, you will get drunk extremely quickly (make sure you have a driver). Second, your drunkenness will lead to some of the strangest dreams imaginable. Much like Bill Cosby experiences when he eats sandwiches too close to his bedtime.
Another thing that will probably happen is you will meet some bikers. Don't ask me to explain what bikers are doing in wine country. They probably just like their wine like any other regular person. But don't worry, when you drop your glass and splash some of your beverage on their leather chaps, they won't be angry. They will instead go to the bar and get you a damp towel and then start chatting with you about their wife. They will also start asking you where you are staying. Keep in mind that you are telling a strange biker where you are sleeping at night. Think. Then respond.
After you've met the bikers, you will probably have at least half a dozen encounters with bachelorette/bachelor parties. They will be loud and screechy and shockingly, mostly in their 30s and 40s. You will then have a perfectly reasonable conversation with a nice man regarding the reality and scientific fact of river monsters, and why you never go swimming anywhere you can't see your feet. You might even try and explain the recurring dream you had about Jaws when you were seven years old. You might.
At some point during the day you might get hungry and buy the following things: Buffalo jerky, pickles, vindaloo curry dipping sauce, and a falafel salad. You won't be able to explain any of these purchases but you will want nothing more than to dive face first into a vat of each item. Especially the vindaloo.
When you complete your day, the wine will be wearing off and you will be searching for congestion relief yet again. I recommend drinking half a bottle of cough medicine, cranking the air conditioning in your hotel, and watching HBO until you are yet again, unconscious.
Summary: Another excellent weekend excursion.
Wine. And lots of it.
If you have already tried Dayquil, Sudafed, Vicks, and whatever else over the counter medication you can find and still feel miserable, I recommend doing the following: Consuming a few over the counter remedies and then going on a wine tour of Seneca Lake. This will do several things. First, you will get drunk extremely quickly (make sure you have a driver). Second, your drunkenness will lead to some of the strangest dreams imaginable. Much like Bill Cosby experiences when he eats sandwiches too close to his bedtime.
Another thing that will probably happen is you will meet some bikers. Don't ask me to explain what bikers are doing in wine country. They probably just like their wine like any other regular person. But don't worry, when you drop your glass and splash some of your beverage on their leather chaps, they won't be angry. They will instead go to the bar and get you a damp towel and then start chatting with you about their wife. They will also start asking you where you are staying. Keep in mind that you are telling a strange biker where you are sleeping at night. Think. Then respond.
After you've met the bikers, you will probably have at least half a dozen encounters with bachelorette/bachelor parties. They will be loud and screechy and shockingly, mostly in their 30s and 40s. You will then have a perfectly reasonable conversation with a nice man regarding the reality and scientific fact of river monsters, and why you never go swimming anywhere you can't see your feet. You might even try and explain the recurring dream you had about Jaws when you were seven years old. You might.
At some point during the day you might get hungry and buy the following things: Buffalo jerky, pickles, vindaloo curry dipping sauce, and a falafel salad. You won't be able to explain any of these purchases but you will want nothing more than to dive face first into a vat of each item. Especially the vindaloo.
When you complete your day, the wine will be wearing off and you will be searching for congestion relief yet again. I recommend drinking half a bottle of cough medicine, cranking the air conditioning in your hotel, and watching HBO until you are yet again, unconscious.
Summary: Another excellent weekend excursion.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Hairy Problems
I got my hair cut on Saturday for the first time in almost a year. This was partially due to negligence on my part and my hesitation to spend what I consider a ridiculous amount of money on someone using scissors on my head but also in part due to my terrible self consciousness about my hair.
Being a girl doesn't come easily to me. I mean, being female is fine and natural but being a girl, being feminine in the way of styling and fashion and whatever, does not come naturally. I have worn my make up the same since I first started applying it at the age of 14. I wear the same two or three pairs of shoes each week. I prefer velcro shoes to high heels and still haven't figured lipstick out. It would never cross my mind to carry a hairbrush in my purse. The clothes I select are generally designed specifically for comfort or for humor. I like to look pretty, but always take the easiest and shortest path possible which generally leads to appearing passable.
You can imagine how making a trip to the salon is difficult for me. Growing up, I got my hair cut once a year because I had long, wavy, horsey looking hair that was worn in a braid every day. There was no reason to get it cut more often. The woman who cut my hair charged $6. When I got to college, I started having my friend Claire cut my hair. She did a perfect job and did what I told her and we could do things like watch Beauty and the Best while she did her work. She did not charge me anything. You can imagine my transition to the world of hair in Washington DC. Difficult. It's all salons with loud music and trendy set ups. Everyone seems, or possibly is, arrogant. The women all walk in exuding confidence and seem like the kind who get their hair trimmed every six weeks like magazines tell you to. They go to the same stylist and they chat easily about what's new in their lives. They know how to sit still when their hair is being washed and to tell whoever is cutting their hair exactly what they want. They don't look in the mirror and giggle at how they look with the smock over their body or appear to be entertained by the fact that this is exactly what you would look like if you didn't have arms.
The thing that gets me truly nervous though, is my hair. Oh my hair. If you're reading this, you've seen my hair. It's super thick and wavy (though I try desperately to keep it straight). It's the kind of hair that has to be blow dried and then straightened or else you would end up looking like a cave woman. It doesn't fall nicely and if I let it air dry, I sprout an actual, bona fide, lion mane. When I sit down to have my hair cut and the person begins running their fingers through my hair (or tries to), their faces immediately change. It's always the same expression: This is going to take longer than I thought. And then they always compliment me in an annoyed voice: "Wow, you've got a lot of hair." Then they realize how it sounds and they quickly add, "I mean, that's great. Better than not having enough!" I am used to this, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. The worst was when a man cut my hair. He started running his fingers through my mane and flat out said, "Wow, this is really bushy." Just what every woman longs to hear when her head is being described.
Growing up, I dreamed of having hair like Pocahontas. Long and straight, shiny, no curls. Or like Maxine Barbie, who also had long straight hair and in the commercial she would flip it over her shoulder and it would land in a blond splash over her shoulder. Jealousy. Since then I have watched women (women with the same gene pool as me) simply blow dry their hair and go about their day. It's a one step process that takes 15 minutes and they are out the door. I seethe. I whine. I whimper in the corner, drying my tears with my massive amounts of bushy brown hair.
All this emotion has led to massive amounts of self consciousness regarding the mop that resides on my head.
So this weekend I finally worked up the amount of courage it requires to get my hair cut. It had been a year after all, and the ends were split about 7 ways and it was too long and ratty to be controlled any more. I sat waiting for them to call my name, palms sweating, eyes scrutinizing every other head in the salon, silently cursing any deity I could think of for my own hair, cursing whatever fluke in the gene pool caused the atrocity that is my hair. When Leah (who had adorable short blond hair that stuck up fashionably and perfectly so that she appeared cute and quirky, but still lovely) called my name, I stood up and followed her to the chair. It was all the same, the comment: "WOW, You have lots of hair, don't you?" My internal response, "Oh, well spotted! Yes, I have lots of hair!! Congratulations, no one has EVER said that to me before!" My actual response, "Yes, sorry. I apologize in advance for how long it's going to take you to blow dry it."
And so I got my hair cut. Phew. Check that off the 2010 to do list.
Oh well. Hair is not a real problem, I suppose. Summary of this hairy monster of a post: My self consciousness knows no bounds and I will forever be the same uncertain girl I was at 12. Like you didn't already know that.
Being a girl doesn't come easily to me. I mean, being female is fine and natural but being a girl, being feminine in the way of styling and fashion and whatever, does not come naturally. I have worn my make up the same since I first started applying it at the age of 14. I wear the same two or three pairs of shoes each week. I prefer velcro shoes to high heels and still haven't figured lipstick out. It would never cross my mind to carry a hairbrush in my purse. The clothes I select are generally designed specifically for comfort or for humor. I like to look pretty, but always take the easiest and shortest path possible which generally leads to appearing passable.
You can imagine how making a trip to the salon is difficult for me. Growing up, I got my hair cut once a year because I had long, wavy, horsey looking hair that was worn in a braid every day. There was no reason to get it cut more often. The woman who cut my hair charged $6. When I got to college, I started having my friend Claire cut my hair. She did a perfect job and did what I told her and we could do things like watch Beauty and the Best while she did her work. She did not charge me anything. You can imagine my transition to the world of hair in Washington DC. Difficult. It's all salons with loud music and trendy set ups. Everyone seems, or possibly is, arrogant. The women all walk in exuding confidence and seem like the kind who get their hair trimmed every six weeks like magazines tell you to. They go to the same stylist and they chat easily about what's new in their lives. They know how to sit still when their hair is being washed and to tell whoever is cutting their hair exactly what they want. They don't look in the mirror and giggle at how they look with the smock over their body or appear to be entertained by the fact that this is exactly what you would look like if you didn't have arms.
The thing that gets me truly nervous though, is my hair. Oh my hair. If you're reading this, you've seen my hair. It's super thick and wavy (though I try desperately to keep it straight). It's the kind of hair that has to be blow dried and then straightened or else you would end up looking like a cave woman. It doesn't fall nicely and if I let it air dry, I sprout an actual, bona fide, lion mane. When I sit down to have my hair cut and the person begins running their fingers through my hair (or tries to), their faces immediately change. It's always the same expression: This is going to take longer than I thought. And then they always compliment me in an annoyed voice: "Wow, you've got a lot of hair." Then they realize how it sounds and they quickly add, "I mean, that's great. Better than not having enough!" I am used to this, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. The worst was when a man cut my hair. He started running his fingers through my mane and flat out said, "Wow, this is really bushy." Just what every woman longs to hear when her head is being described.
Growing up, I dreamed of having hair like Pocahontas. Long and straight, shiny, no curls. Or like Maxine Barbie, who also had long straight hair and in the commercial she would flip it over her shoulder and it would land in a blond splash over her shoulder. Jealousy. Since then I have watched women (women with the same gene pool as me) simply blow dry their hair and go about their day. It's a one step process that takes 15 minutes and they are out the door. I seethe. I whine. I whimper in the corner, drying my tears with my massive amounts of bushy brown hair.
All this emotion has led to massive amounts of self consciousness regarding the mop that resides on my head.
So this weekend I finally worked up the amount of courage it requires to get my hair cut. It had been a year after all, and the ends were split about 7 ways and it was too long and ratty to be controlled any more. I sat waiting for them to call my name, palms sweating, eyes scrutinizing every other head in the salon, silently cursing any deity I could think of for my own hair, cursing whatever fluke in the gene pool caused the atrocity that is my hair. When Leah (who had adorable short blond hair that stuck up fashionably and perfectly so that she appeared cute and quirky, but still lovely) called my name, I stood up and followed her to the chair. It was all the same, the comment: "WOW, You have lots of hair, don't you?" My internal response, "Oh, well spotted! Yes, I have lots of hair!! Congratulations, no one has EVER said that to me before!" My actual response, "Yes, sorry. I apologize in advance for how long it's going to take you to blow dry it."
And so I got my hair cut. Phew. Check that off the 2010 to do list.
Oh well. Hair is not a real problem, I suppose. Summary of this hairy monster of a post: My self consciousness knows no bounds and I will forever be the same uncertain girl I was at 12. Like you didn't already know that.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Remedies for The Sweats (aka anxiety)
There's a man talking to the girl who sits in the cubicle next to mine and his voice is identical to the voice that I used to have to listen to in Spanish, when we would do our audio tests in the computer lab. Identical. I have to say, I find it extremely comforting, though I'm not sure why. I hated the sound of that voice in college because hearing it meant that I was in the language lab, pretending to understand Spanish. But today, on this ridiculous Tuesday, for some ridiculous reason I can't explain, I can't imagine a voice I'd rather hear.
I've been searching for comforts lately--things that calm me. Why I am anxious, I do not know. In search of calm, I've just re-read the Harry Potter series. Well, not all of it, just books 4-7. I don't know why I didn't start at the beginning. I can't explain either, why reading Harry Potter calms me. Maybe it is just a break from reality. Maybe I just like to imagine that Fred and George Weasley are my bffs and we fly around on brooms all day playing pranks on people. Maybe I like to imagine that Sirius Black exists and is my soul mate. Maybe. Maybe on occasion I see a stick on the ground that strongly resembles what I imagine a wand should look like and I briefly consider picking it up and realizing that this wand contains the tail feather of a phoenix and that I am destined to save the wizarding world from evil. Maybe I sometimes consider that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does exist, and I encounter him on a daily basis at work. Maybe.
Another anxiety remedy I've recently attempted is re-watching Gilmore Girls. This one is even more difficult to explain as I never really watched the show in the first place until the last two seasons. And that was because my HLM loved it. But now, I just have a strong desire to return to Stars Hollow. Because it's nice to imagine you live in a small town where everyone knows you and isn't boring at all and you have an intense coffee addiction and the rugged man who owns the diner in town is the love of your life. Also it's nice to imagine that you come from money and have always lived in Connecticut and have things like an ivy league school and trust fund babies waiting for you on the other side of adolescence. That's nice to imagine.
I'm searching for things that comfort me. And I don't know why I need comforting in the first place. August is over, and I haven't necessarily been weepy in September just...in need of some comfort. I can't explain why at this juncture in my life my sources of comfort are Gilmore Girls and Harry Potter and the Spanish-Speaking man currently in the cubicle next to mine. I can't explain it. And I won't attempt to here, I will just continue to share the strange workings of my brain with anyone who can stomach it.
I've been searching for comforts lately--things that calm me. Why I am anxious, I do not know. In search of calm, I've just re-read the Harry Potter series. Well, not all of it, just books 4-7. I don't know why I didn't start at the beginning. I can't explain either, why reading Harry Potter calms me. Maybe it is just a break from reality. Maybe I just like to imagine that Fred and George Weasley are my bffs and we fly around on brooms all day playing pranks on people. Maybe I like to imagine that Sirius Black exists and is my soul mate. Maybe. Maybe on occasion I see a stick on the ground that strongly resembles what I imagine a wand should look like and I briefly consider picking it up and realizing that this wand contains the tail feather of a phoenix and that I am destined to save the wizarding world from evil. Maybe I sometimes consider that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does exist, and I encounter him on a daily basis at work. Maybe.
Another anxiety remedy I've recently attempted is re-watching Gilmore Girls. This one is even more difficult to explain as I never really watched the show in the first place until the last two seasons. And that was because my HLM loved it. But now, I just have a strong desire to return to Stars Hollow. Because it's nice to imagine you live in a small town where everyone knows you and isn't boring at all and you have an intense coffee addiction and the rugged man who owns the diner in town is the love of your life. Also it's nice to imagine that you come from money and have always lived in Connecticut and have things like an ivy league school and trust fund babies waiting for you on the other side of adolescence. That's nice to imagine.
I'm searching for things that comfort me. And I don't know why I need comforting in the first place. August is over, and I haven't necessarily been weepy in September just...in need of some comfort. I can't explain why at this juncture in my life my sources of comfort are Gilmore Girls and Harry Potter and the Spanish-Speaking man currently in the cubicle next to mine. I can't explain it. And I won't attempt to here, I will just continue to share the strange workings of my brain with anyone who can stomach it.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August Gives Me the Weeps
I've been feeling emotional lately and it keeps happening at the strangest times. Like the other night I was watching this ridiculous and terrible movie, "My Life in Ruins." It is supposed to be like "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," but it is not nearly as sweet and falls flat. However, I found myself absolutely sobbing in the last twenty minutes of this ridiculous movie when it turned out, the hairy bus driver was actually a handsome Greek man who had been leaving Georgia daisies all along!!! And guess what??? He DID speak English!!! sobbing. I mean sobbing. on my couch, eating a quesadilla, sobbing. zero explanation.
The crying happened again this morning. My bff Alejandro is moving out of Kansas. And though I have been out of Kansas for years now, I somehow felt like it was goodbye for the first time. And I sat at my desk just crying over how much I would miss him and staring at all our old facebook pictures together. Keep in mind, we haven't lived in the same state for two and a half years. My boss came in early and asked me what was wrong and I told her I had to sneeze. Excellent, Megan. Really excellent.
There is no real explanation for all of this emotion. I'm not particularly stressed at work, I'm not particularly stressed in any part of my life. I'm just.....weepy.
As of this moment, I've decided to blame it on the end of summer.
Even though I am SO ready for summer to go away (I'm tired of walking in to work drenched in sweat. tired of carrying around a sweat towel...) and ready for fall to come in and sweep me off my feet (Oh yes please, cardigan weather. oh, new boots? don't mind of I do) I always get a little sad at the end of summer.
Because remember being 10 and realizing that school was starting in a week? Remember how the pool used to gradually get emptier and emptier? Remember how kids would suddenly start looking civilized again? You know, fresh haircuts, regular bathing, new clothes, etc. It all used to make me sad. Every time August came around, I would get that feeling in my chest--that desire to make summer go on forever. More popsicles, more carnivals, more swimming, more bicycles, more vacations in a conversion van, more wild, sun-bleached hair. More of everything.
I am getting weepy again.
It's August, I tell you what.
The crying happened again this morning. My bff Alejandro is moving out of Kansas. And though I have been out of Kansas for years now, I somehow felt like it was goodbye for the first time. And I sat at my desk just crying over how much I would miss him and staring at all our old facebook pictures together. Keep in mind, we haven't lived in the same state for two and a half years. My boss came in early and asked me what was wrong and I told her I had to sneeze. Excellent, Megan. Really excellent.
There is no real explanation for all of this emotion. I'm not particularly stressed at work, I'm not particularly stressed in any part of my life. I'm just.....weepy.
As of this moment, I've decided to blame it on the end of summer.
Even though I am SO ready for summer to go away (I'm tired of walking in to work drenched in sweat. tired of carrying around a sweat towel...) and ready for fall to come in and sweep me off my feet (Oh yes please, cardigan weather. oh, new boots? don't mind of I do) I always get a little sad at the end of summer.
Because remember being 10 and realizing that school was starting in a week? Remember how the pool used to gradually get emptier and emptier? Remember how kids would suddenly start looking civilized again? You know, fresh haircuts, regular bathing, new clothes, etc. It all used to make me sad. Every time August came around, I would get that feeling in my chest--that desire to make summer go on forever. More popsicles, more carnivals, more swimming, more bicycles, more vacations in a conversion van, more wild, sun-bleached hair. More of everything.
I am getting weepy again.
It's August, I tell you what.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Bathroom Behavior
Hey lady in the bathroom--
I'll apologize if you do.
Look, I'll even go first. Ahem.
I'm sorry I am in the habit of unbuttoning and unzipping my pants before I'm actually in the stall. I can't explain why I feel the need to do this part of going to the bathroom so far away from the actual toilet. It's just who I am. I'm really sorry you got an eye full of my pasty white stomach and that you now know what color of underwear I am wearing today. Sorry, I know it was uncomfortable for you, I know.
Ok--your turn. Here's what you should say:
Hey, I'm sorry that we were the only two people in the bathroom and that there were 12 other empty stalls but I chose the one directly next to yours. I know it made you feel weird and uncomfortable and inexplicably made you want to stick your hand under the stall and wave at me. I know it may seem weird to you, me choosing that stall right next to yours--and looking back, yeah, it probably was a little weird. I mean there were literally 12 other empty stalls I could have chosen. Also, my sincerest apologies for talking on my cell phone in the bathroom, on the toilet, in the stall right next to yours. Sorry. It probably made you feel extremely strange--thinking about how the person I was talking to could hear you peeing. Probably felt a little like an invasion. You probably sat there wondering who I was talking to--imagined all possible scenarios. You probably really had to go to the bathroom but were trying to hold it in because you were so dreadfully embarrassed. Heartfelt apologies.
Alright. Amen. Friends again.
But really not friends again. Cell phone in the bathroom. Probably not necessary. Probably not sanitary. Probably should be illegal.
I'll apologize if you do.
Look, I'll even go first. Ahem.
I'm sorry I am in the habit of unbuttoning and unzipping my pants before I'm actually in the stall. I can't explain why I feel the need to do this part of going to the bathroom so far away from the actual toilet. It's just who I am. I'm really sorry you got an eye full of my pasty white stomach and that you now know what color of underwear I am wearing today. Sorry, I know it was uncomfortable for you, I know.
Ok--your turn. Here's what you should say:
Hey, I'm sorry that we were the only two people in the bathroom and that there were 12 other empty stalls but I chose the one directly next to yours. I know it made you feel weird and uncomfortable and inexplicably made you want to stick your hand under the stall and wave at me. I know it may seem weird to you, me choosing that stall right next to yours--and looking back, yeah, it probably was a little weird. I mean there were literally 12 other empty stalls I could have chosen. Also, my sincerest apologies for talking on my cell phone in the bathroom, on the toilet, in the stall right next to yours. Sorry. It probably made you feel extremely strange--thinking about how the person I was talking to could hear you peeing. Probably felt a little like an invasion. You probably sat there wondering who I was talking to--imagined all possible scenarios. You probably really had to go to the bathroom but were trying to hold it in because you were so dreadfully embarrassed. Heartfelt apologies.
Alright. Amen. Friends again.
But really not friends again. Cell phone in the bathroom. Probably not necessary. Probably not sanitary. Probably should be illegal.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Forgive me in advance...
...for the lengthy post.
But I’ve got things on my mind. Whoever reads this, forgive me.
I tend to shy away from talking about God in general. Whether or not he exists—-and if he does exist, what role he plays in our lives. I think that each person probably has their own version of God, and ultimately, that’s how He would want it. Each person seeking out their own meaning based on their unique spirit.
It came to me the other day though, that I think in the past several years, I have—-partly in revolt—-shied away from the God that I know. I haven’t entered a church in over three years, unless my mother makes me. I still pray, but in an irregular sort of way. I still believe, but in a non-committed, ‘hey—who really knows what’s out there’ kind of way. But lately. Lately I can hear Him calling for me. Not like, in a Morgan Freeman voice—-but in my soul—deep and quiet, explaining to me in that gentle way He has, that it’s time to come sit with him for awhile.
I haven’t always been so confused and irritated with religion. Growing up Catholic, I once stated that I would grow up and become a nun. There were those brief and wonderful years when I believed wholeheartedly that it was all true. Then I turned 16 and I started having thoughts. The biggest one? Religion is just some great idea some government somewhere created in order to keep people in line. I went with that. I was bored with the routine of church, antsy to get home and continue my weekend. I continued to go, of course—I wouldn’t dare tell my mother I would not be attending any longer.
In college, things did not improve. Tired of my Catholic ways, but too afraid to stop church all together, I tried different groups—non-denominational stuff that made zero sense to me. They were so sure of their faith—so sure of God’s love and devotion. I couldn’t fathom it, and so I immediately distrusted it. I wanted to be a part of it, but it was all so foreign, so, so….open.…I couldn’t quite handle it. Oh I had a few moments where I thought, “Now I get it,” but they were always fleeting, always lasting for a couple weeks, and then escaping out whatever window they had snuck in. So again, I walked away from it all, swearing that I didn’t need much more than my own two hands and the strength I had inside to get through life. A sentiment I still believe is at least partly true.
After college, I left home. Moved far away. I felt the intense desire to shrug everything off, to make my own way and do it by myself. You can see where I’m going with this. My intense desire for independence did not leave much room for faith in anything other than myself. God, to me, meant submission. And I would not be submissive to anything. I stuck to that. I thought (and sometimes still think) that to have faith in something other than myself, meant I was not holding myself accountable, wasn’t believing in my own strength. Some days I wondered if I was an atheist—though I could never go that far. I settled on agnosticism for awhile….but that didn’t stick either. I got to the point that when asked if I went to church or was of any religious persuasion, I would respond: “I grew up Catholic.” Simple. To the point. People hear “Catholic,” and they can wrap their mind around you. They know where you fall on their religion spectrum. They miss the past tense of the statement, and just move on.
But lately.
Lately, I’ve been thinking. And feeling. My soul is stirring. I can hear it whispering to me, telling me that it thinks I need something else. “What does it all mean, if it’s just this?” Soul asks. And I don’t have a response for the question. And maybe it’s Him I’m hearing. (I should say, I don’t know if God is a Him—I just use that because everyone always says God is a man. In order to avoid confusion, I will follow in suit) Maybe after all my years of asking why any God would want me (—or how I’m supposed to know any of it is true—or how it makes more sense that when we die we go to this divine place instead of just the ground—) I am getting to the point where I’m tired of avoiding the real issue**. Maybe I’d like to give my fidgety little soul, a good long rest in something that feels warm and full of love. Maybe I just want to sit in some church (or field) and listen to that beautiful music that makes me cry and desire more every time I hear it. Maybe my skeptical heart is ready to let go a little bit. maybe.
I won’t call it submission—I never will. I will call it…liberation. I will call it an awakening.
Because you see, for all my attempts to be strong and faithful to myself first, I have lost something. I am not as kind, not as giving—a sort of exterior has formed around my heart and instead of making me stronger, it has weakened me. The things I desire most from my life, the things my soul longs for, are the things I’ve locked away so tightly. Oh of course I still love—my family, my boyfriend, my dear, dear friends. But the point is, I think I could be better and there’s an ache inside me that longs to be filled up with the warmth I’ve lost by allowing spirituality and faith to drift out of my life.
I still think that everyone has their own version of God and I suppose the nuts and bolts of any religion will always leave me at least slightly anxious. I have trouble with the rigidity of church and any enforced doctrine. I don’t like the idea of exclusion. I think if a person can love, that person is a divine creature. I don’t like judgment, I don’t like politics, and I don’t like mistreatment. What I like, is love. And support, and kindness, and giving, and each person celebrating the unique individual they are. Is there a place like that??? I think I’m ready to find it.
**fear.
But I’ve got things on my mind. Whoever reads this, forgive me.
I tend to shy away from talking about God in general. Whether or not he exists—-and if he does exist, what role he plays in our lives. I think that each person probably has their own version of God, and ultimately, that’s how He would want it. Each person seeking out their own meaning based on their unique spirit.
It came to me the other day though, that I think in the past several years, I have—-partly in revolt—-shied away from the God that I know. I haven’t entered a church in over three years, unless my mother makes me. I still pray, but in an irregular sort of way. I still believe, but in a non-committed, ‘hey—who really knows what’s out there’ kind of way. But lately. Lately I can hear Him calling for me. Not like, in a Morgan Freeman voice—-but in my soul—deep and quiet, explaining to me in that gentle way He has, that it’s time to come sit with him for awhile.
I haven’t always been so confused and irritated with religion. Growing up Catholic, I once stated that I would grow up and become a nun. There were those brief and wonderful years when I believed wholeheartedly that it was all true. Then I turned 16 and I started having thoughts. The biggest one? Religion is just some great idea some government somewhere created in order to keep people in line. I went with that. I was bored with the routine of church, antsy to get home and continue my weekend. I continued to go, of course—I wouldn’t dare tell my mother I would not be attending any longer.
In college, things did not improve. Tired of my Catholic ways, but too afraid to stop church all together, I tried different groups—non-denominational stuff that made zero sense to me. They were so sure of their faith—so sure of God’s love and devotion. I couldn’t fathom it, and so I immediately distrusted it. I wanted to be a part of it, but it was all so foreign, so, so….open.…I couldn’t quite handle it. Oh I had a few moments where I thought, “Now I get it,” but they were always fleeting, always lasting for a couple weeks, and then escaping out whatever window they had snuck in. So again, I walked away from it all, swearing that I didn’t need much more than my own two hands and the strength I had inside to get through life. A sentiment I still believe is at least partly true.
After college, I left home. Moved far away. I felt the intense desire to shrug everything off, to make my own way and do it by myself. You can see where I’m going with this. My intense desire for independence did not leave much room for faith in anything other than myself. God, to me, meant submission. And I would not be submissive to anything. I stuck to that. I thought (and sometimes still think) that to have faith in something other than myself, meant I was not holding myself accountable, wasn’t believing in my own strength. Some days I wondered if I was an atheist—though I could never go that far. I settled on agnosticism for awhile….but that didn’t stick either. I got to the point that when asked if I went to church or was of any religious persuasion, I would respond: “I grew up Catholic.” Simple. To the point. People hear “Catholic,” and they can wrap their mind around you. They know where you fall on their religion spectrum. They miss the past tense of the statement, and just move on.
But lately.
Lately, I’ve been thinking. And feeling. My soul is stirring. I can hear it whispering to me, telling me that it thinks I need something else. “What does it all mean, if it’s just this?” Soul asks. And I don’t have a response for the question. And maybe it’s Him I’m hearing. (I should say, I don’t know if God is a Him—I just use that because everyone always says God is a man. In order to avoid confusion, I will follow in suit) Maybe after all my years of asking why any God would want me (—or how I’m supposed to know any of it is true—or how it makes more sense that when we die we go to this divine place instead of just the ground—) I am getting to the point where I’m tired of avoiding the real issue**. Maybe I’d like to give my fidgety little soul, a good long rest in something that feels warm and full of love. Maybe I just want to sit in some church (or field) and listen to that beautiful music that makes me cry and desire more every time I hear it. Maybe my skeptical heart is ready to let go a little bit. maybe.
I won’t call it submission—I never will. I will call it…liberation. I will call it an awakening.
Because you see, for all my attempts to be strong and faithful to myself first, I have lost something. I am not as kind, not as giving—a sort of exterior has formed around my heart and instead of making me stronger, it has weakened me. The things I desire most from my life, the things my soul longs for, are the things I’ve locked away so tightly. Oh of course I still love—my family, my boyfriend, my dear, dear friends. But the point is, I think I could be better and there’s an ache inside me that longs to be filled up with the warmth I’ve lost by allowing spirituality and faith to drift out of my life.
I still think that everyone has their own version of God and I suppose the nuts and bolts of any religion will always leave me at least slightly anxious. I have trouble with the rigidity of church and any enforced doctrine. I don’t like the idea of exclusion. I think if a person can love, that person is a divine creature. I don’t like judgment, I don’t like politics, and I don’t like mistreatment. What I like, is love. And support, and kindness, and giving, and each person celebrating the unique individual they are. Is there a place like that??? I think I’m ready to find it.
**fear.
Friday, June 18, 2010
oh poor toilet
Why are you so messy?
Who missed when they were trying to use you?
I sometimes want to spell you t-o-l-i-e-t,
but I would NEVER do what that other person did to you and left for others to find.
How could she?
I can't believe it was a she. can't. won't.
No, it was a monster who did this to you.
Genderless.
Just some big huge monster who was unfamiliar with your ways, toilet.
Yes, a monster.
I heartily apologize on behalf of the monster who so thoroughly defaced you today.
Who missed when they were trying to use you?
I sometimes want to spell you t-o-l-i-e-t,
but I would NEVER do what that other person did to you and left for others to find.
How could she?
I can't believe it was a she. can't. won't.
No, it was a monster who did this to you.
Genderless.
Just some big huge monster who was unfamiliar with your ways, toilet.
Yes, a monster.
I heartily apologize on behalf of the monster who so thoroughly defaced you today.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
P is for Purpose. P is for Pisces. P is for...Pulchritude
I am at a crossroads, I feel.
If I sit still, I fear I will wind up glued to this chair for the next 40 years.
If I move...who knows. I may be sitting in this exact spot in 2 years, claiming to be at another "crossroads"
It makes me wonder if I will ever get to a point in my life where I just want to be still.
I hope I do. In some ways, I want to--
I love my boyfriend--I'd like that to stay the same for a long, long time.
But there are things...professionally. Professional things.
That make me cross-eyed.
Make me want to rip my hair out.
I'd like to find my "thing."
I've known people who just knew what they wanted to do.
And I always thought it was better to not know. To wander around and find yourself.
Now I realize that's usually how you end up sitting behind a desk you never wanted to sit at.
I don't know if my job will ever be my purpose in life...for some people, I think it is.
And I am a little jealous.
To go to work and feel you are walking toward your purpose...I can't imagine that.
I feel my purpose every day on my walk home.
Or when I'm with friends.
Or sitting on my couch on a long Saturday morning.
Or picking out birthday presents.
Or sitting on my rooftop with my boyfriend, taking in the last bit of daylight.
These are not things anyone is willing to pay me to do.
Pity, because I'm excellent at all of them.
My problem is that I assimilate.
Tell me what you need me to do/be, and I will do/be that thing.
You want me to be a young professional?
I will buy a pair of glasses, take excel and powerpoint classes, and I will be the most professional little thing you've ever met.
I blame my sign. Pisces. You stupid fish, chameleon.
So what do I want?
What do I want myself to do/be?
I'm not sure.
Don't know if I'll ever be sure.
For now--
I know I'd like to be...
kinder,
smarter,
frequenter in my correspondence with those I love.
craftier--I'd like to learn to sew.
I'd like to have more faith in myself, in others, and in things unseen.
outdoorsier. but who can be in this city?
I'd like to love better. fuller.
I'd also still like to have a puppy. Or at least a replacement fish.
If I sit still, I fear I will wind up glued to this chair for the next 40 years.
If I move...who knows. I may be sitting in this exact spot in 2 years, claiming to be at another "crossroads"
It makes me wonder if I will ever get to a point in my life where I just want to be still.
I hope I do. In some ways, I want to--
I love my boyfriend--I'd like that to stay the same for a long, long time.
But there are things...professionally. Professional things.
That make me cross-eyed.
Make me want to rip my hair out.
I'd like to find my "thing."
I've known people who just knew what they wanted to do.
And I always thought it was better to not know. To wander around and find yourself.
Now I realize that's usually how you end up sitting behind a desk you never wanted to sit at.
I don't know if my job will ever be my purpose in life...for some people, I think it is.
And I am a little jealous.
To go to work and feel you are walking toward your purpose...I can't imagine that.
I feel my purpose every day on my walk home.
Or when I'm with friends.
Or sitting on my couch on a long Saturday morning.
Or picking out birthday presents.
Or sitting on my rooftop with my boyfriend, taking in the last bit of daylight.
These are not things anyone is willing to pay me to do.
Pity, because I'm excellent at all of them.
My problem is that I assimilate.
Tell me what you need me to do/be, and I will do/be that thing.
You want me to be a young professional?
I will buy a pair of glasses, take excel and powerpoint classes, and I will be the most professional little thing you've ever met.
I blame my sign. Pisces. You stupid fish, chameleon.
So what do I want?
What do I want myself to do/be?
I'm not sure.
Don't know if I'll ever be sure.
For now--
I know I'd like to be...
kinder,
smarter,
frequenter in my correspondence with those I love.
craftier--I'd like to learn to sew.
I'd like to have more faith in myself, in others, and in things unseen.
outdoorsier. but who can be in this city?
I'd like to love better. fuller.
I'd also still like to have a puppy. Or at least a replacement fish.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Goodbye Desmond Paco
I have been wanting a dog for a long time. I have dreamed about owning a beagle (would be named Frank) or a daschund (would be named Ruby) or some mutt who needed me (Olive or Doris) for a long time. I would also settle for a cat. I would have two (Patty and Mayonnaise, Mayo for short, after my favorite cartoon character of all time). You get the idea, I want a pet. Something to nurture. But of course, my building, fascist, heartless, jerks that they are, will not allow pets. And admittedly, it would be unkind to put a dog or cat in my shoebox of an apartment. To both the animal and the carpet.
So, last weekend, I decided I would buy a fish. Desmond Paco. Des and I were the best of friends immediately. I bought him the expensive jewels for his bowl instead of the cheap gravel because he seemed like that sort of guy. When he came home with me we watched Lost and he liked it, I would imagine because of all the water. However his show of choice actually ended up being "Kendra." (I can't blame him--who can resist?)
I owned Desmond Paco for approximately 26 hours before he died. I came home from work and started talking to him about my day, you know, the usual things one says to a fish. Then my friend stopped by and of course I introduced them.
"I think your fish is dead," my friend said.
"Oh no he's not. He just doesn't move that much." I looked.
Desmond P was pretty still. **Frantic shaking of the bowl and tapping commenced. Becoming more desperate, I reached in the bowl and tapped him on the back. After this, he immediately flipped over, and floated to the top of the bowl.
Explosion of Emotion.
I cried for about 10 minutes because I felt like such a failure of a mother. My boyfriend told me his death was due to DC water, which is basically poisoned with chlorine. Apparently there is so much crap (literally, crap) in the water, they have to add huge amounts of chlorine in order to head off an epidemic. He also told me that "it's very normal for fish to die quickly."
This series of comments led to me throwing a tantrum and stating that, "My life will only be disappointment." In an attempt to comfort me, my boyfriend said, "I'll buy you another one, it was only $3.50." This was only more upsetting and only led to further tantrums. You see, my boyfriend is the stable one. Even-keeled, approaches situations analytically as oppose to emotionally. I tend to resort to the most extreme conclusion possible
(this happens to me in many situations, and I will outline a few 1) the man walking behind me absolutely has a knife in his pocket and is planning on chasing me into an alley. 2) the woman in CVS hates me. I know this because to every other customer she is very friendly and hands them their bags. With me, she shoves my tampons across the counter and disregards me entirely. Either she hates me, or does not like feminine products. I would entertain the latter if she was male. 3) The pain I get in my side when I run is absolutely cancer. It can't be that I am out of shape. It's cancer. 100%. 4) I'm certain that my job is shaving years off my life. Every stressful interaction is a day less I will live. I sometimes imagine the following while sitting in a pointless meeting: I'm 30 minutes away from finding the buried treasure and suddenly, I realize I am going to die in 29 minutes. I would remember all those wasted minutes in meetings and think, 'BLAST! If only I could have had one less meeting!! The treasure would be finally be mine!!' This is an unlikely scenario, as I rarely use the word 'blast.' 5) Oh, my fish died? That must mean that the rest of my life will only be one big, fat disappointment. That's the only logical conclusion.)
Many people have consoled me, told me their own fish-death stories. But I miss my Desmond Paco. And irrational as I can sometimes be, his untimely death deeply saddened me and I don't think I will forget his long, sad float to the top of his bowl, nor the plop he made when my boyfriend dropped him in the toilet. I felt a little guilty--making his final resting place the very water that murdered him--but, as I have been told, he was just a fish, and fish die.
Des and I just hanging out.
BFFs
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Art of Basket Weaving (plus a slew of nonsensical desires)
I was remembering the other day how this time of year felt when I was 17. I remember a space and an openness and afreedom I'm not sure exists in the city. I know I romanticize my childhood because I distinctly remember hating my life and my little Kansas town. But now, looking back, I see how lucky I was to have access to unpaved roads--to have been able, on a daily basis, to experience landscapes still untainted. When I think about growing up there, I become unreasonably nostalgic and even more aware of the claustrophobia and structure of my current life and landscape.
I have this fantasy. It's just me and I'm barefoot and it's one of those perfect days weather wise. The kind that happen maybe twice a year. In the fantasy I'm just walking. I'm not worried about anything. There isn't any noise, there isn't any stress. There's just me and my bare feet, and the soft grass beneath. Exciting fantasy, but at this point in my life I can't think of anything better. Because I am tired of the following:
1) crowded sidewalks 2) making small talk 3) honking horns 4) bus exhaust 5) people who have no idea that they are blocking a doorway and then become irritated when you say "excuse me." 6) Automatic bathrooms--6.5)the kind that flush for you (sometimes) 6.75) and spit water and paper towels out at you (sometimes). 7-10) The callous that is forming on my thumb from too much time on my computer. 11) Ringtones and 12-187) voicemail. 187-Infinity) Constant noise.
I'm just tired.
I was watching this episode of "No Reservations" and he was in French Polynesia. And he went to this place where they just fished for what they wanted to eat or picked it from the trees. And they weaved plants together to make plates. And they didn't have electricity, just torches and fire pits and guitars and their own voices to entertain themselves. I wondered why I live my life the way I do when I really want to be a feral person. Removed from society, wild, no responsibility to anything or anyone. Just living on my tiny piece of land, fishing in the ocean. It just seems like every problem I encounter these days is so man-made, so avoidable, so unimportant. I feel like we've made life so unbelievably exhausting and I don't really know what for.
Who knows. One of these days I might just disappear without any warning. Set up shop on an island somewhere. If I can find one that is resort-less, which may at this point be impossible. If that doesn't work out, perhaps I will just wander around living in tree houses. Or with wolves.
Disclaimer: This entry was written after the series finale of LOST.
I have this fantasy. It's just me and I'm barefoot and it's one of those perfect days weather wise. The kind that happen maybe twice a year. In the fantasy I'm just walking. I'm not worried about anything. There isn't any noise, there isn't any stress. There's just me and my bare feet, and the soft grass beneath. Exciting fantasy, but at this point in my life I can't think of anything better. Because I am tired of the following:
1) crowded sidewalks 2) making small talk 3) honking horns 4) bus exhaust 5) people who have no idea that they are blocking a doorway and then become irritated when you say "excuse me." 6) Automatic bathrooms--6.5)the kind that flush for you (sometimes) 6.75) and spit water and paper towels out at you (sometimes). 7-10) The callous that is forming on my thumb from too much time on my computer. 11) Ringtones and 12-187) voicemail. 187-Infinity) Constant noise.
I'm just tired.
I was watching this episode of "No Reservations" and he was in French Polynesia. And he went to this place where they just fished for what they wanted to eat or picked it from the trees. And they weaved plants together to make plates. And they didn't have electricity, just torches and fire pits and guitars and their own voices to entertain themselves. I wondered why I live my life the way I do when I really want to be a feral person. Removed from society, wild, no responsibility to anything or anyone. Just living on my tiny piece of land, fishing in the ocean. It just seems like every problem I encounter these days is so man-made, so avoidable, so unimportant. I feel like we've made life so unbelievably exhausting and I don't really know what for.
Who knows. One of these days I might just disappear without any warning. Set up shop on an island somewhere. If I can find one that is resort-less, which may at this point be impossible. If that doesn't work out, perhaps I will just wander around living in tree houses. Or with wolves.
Disclaimer: This entry was written after the series finale of LOST.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Food Fight
There are all kinds of remorse. I have experienced many kinds. The quitting kind, the drinking kind, the boy kind, the money kind. But I think the one that plagues me, I mean absolutely plagues me, is the eating kind.
I used to run around all the time so I could eat 8 burritos and then I would go to basketball practice and I would be fine. Also, I was 16. Now, I still have the desire to eat 8 burritos in one sitting but do absolutely nothing to burn it off. And I'm not 16 any more.
In addition to my desire to eat 8 burritos every day of my life, I hate working out. This is something I have learned about myself. I hate to do anything before 7 am, and anything (besides eat and drink and watch ridiculous tv) after 6 pm. This leaves my lunch break. Which is basically like my recess for the day and I am hesitant to give up.
For me, eating goes something like this. I'm good all day long. Healthy breakfast, ok lunch. 3 diet cokes/day. (addiction). Then I get to dinner and I am just ready to feast. Every day on my walk home I tell myself I will eat a normal amount. The amount that a normal human being would eat. And then, an hour and a half later, I'm sprawled across my couch, rubbing my full belly. Poor belly, she doesn't know any better. I equate my love of food to a dysfunctional romantic relationship. I'm good all day. My willpower is strong, and then at night, I give in and am suddenly making passionate love to a tub of pasta and washing it down with 3 glasses of wine.
I love food. I love it. I have recently started cooking more and this is only making the problem worse. I can now make even more things to fatten myself up. It is like Hansel and Gretl except there aren't any children, only a witch (me) and I'm fattening myself up...and I will probably soon trip and fall into my own oven. So it's not like Hansel and Gretl, it's more like The Chubby Old Lady and Her Oven. All this combined with my aversion to working out leaves me wondering if I will someday be 800pounds.
So. I have a new goal. It is to find a physical activity that I actually like. Right now, I'm leaning toward roller-skating. Mostly because I found these:
I used to run around all the time so I could eat 8 burritos and then I would go to basketball practice and I would be fine. Also, I was 16. Now, I still have the desire to eat 8 burritos in one sitting but do absolutely nothing to burn it off. And I'm not 16 any more.
In addition to my desire to eat 8 burritos every day of my life, I hate working out. This is something I have learned about myself. I hate to do anything before 7 am, and anything (besides eat and drink and watch ridiculous tv) after 6 pm. This leaves my lunch break. Which is basically like my recess for the day and I am hesitant to give up.
For me, eating goes something like this. I'm good all day long. Healthy breakfast, ok lunch. 3 diet cokes/day. (addiction). Then I get to dinner and I am just ready to feast. Every day on my walk home I tell myself I will eat a normal amount. The amount that a normal human being would eat. And then, an hour and a half later, I'm sprawled across my couch, rubbing my full belly. Poor belly, she doesn't know any better. I equate my love of food to a dysfunctional romantic relationship. I'm good all day. My willpower is strong, and then at night, I give in and am suddenly making passionate love to a tub of pasta and washing it down with 3 glasses of wine.
I love food. I love it. I have recently started cooking more and this is only making the problem worse. I can now make even more things to fatten myself up. It is like Hansel and Gretl except there aren't any children, only a witch (me) and I'm fattening myself up...and I will probably soon trip and fall into my own oven. So it's not like Hansel and Gretl, it's more like The Chubby Old Lady and Her Oven. All this combined with my aversion to working out leaves me wondering if I will someday be 800pounds.
So. I have a new goal. It is to find a physical activity that I actually like. Right now, I'm leaning toward roller-skating. Mostly because I found these:
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Window
It's official. I have moved up in the world. Drum roll please.....
I have a window.
I know what you're all thinking: that is not an accomplishment. Oh but it is. I recently got a new job and all joking aside, I think I ultimately took the job because it came with a view.
Not the worst reason I've ever done something.
In my old office, I had this horrible cubicle that seemed to have the ability to suck out my soul. Additionally, it was in a basement. There were a couple windows, but they all had bars on them. Needless to say, I have not experienced natural light on a Wednesday in two years.
But NOW. Now, I have a window. And I can look out and see lacrosse practice or some other ridiculous east-coast sport. I feel like I've "made it" in life. And all because of a little (Ok, it's a BIG) window. It strikes me as funny; the speed at which our standards can be lowered. Or highered. I think of myself two years ago and am sure that it would have taken more than a window to wind me up. I guess that's life. Constantly lowering or highering expectations. Or maybe just getting to the point where you don't have any expectations at all so that having a window, thrills the shit out of you. Maybe.
I sort of hope I'm always the kind of person whose life can be absolutely made, by a window.
Here is my new building. You have to admit, it is sort of fabulous:
I have a window.
I know what you're all thinking: that is not an accomplishment. Oh but it is. I recently got a new job and all joking aside, I think I ultimately took the job because it came with a view.
Not the worst reason I've ever done something.
In my old office, I had this horrible cubicle that seemed to have the ability to suck out my soul. Additionally, it was in a basement. There were a couple windows, but they all had bars on them. Needless to say, I have not experienced natural light on a Wednesday in two years.
But NOW. Now, I have a window. And I can look out and see lacrosse practice or some other ridiculous east-coast sport. I feel like I've "made it" in life. And all because of a little (Ok, it's a BIG) window. It strikes me as funny; the speed at which our standards can be lowered. Or highered. I think of myself two years ago and am sure that it would have taken more than a window to wind me up. I guess that's life. Constantly lowering or highering expectations. Or maybe just getting to the point where you don't have any expectations at all so that having a window, thrills the shit out of you. Maybe.
I sort of hope I'm always the kind of person whose life can be absolutely made, by a window.
Here is my new building. You have to admit, it is sort of fabulous:
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Reality TV Wasteland
I used to think I did not watch reality tv. By "used to" I mean up until last week. I thought that because I wasn't watching Survivor or Big Brother or Amazing Race that I wasn't watching any. Then I spent an entire Sunday sitting on my couch, without watching one show with an actual script. And it hit me. I AM a reality tv junkie. How did it happen? I can't say for sure. I have been sucked up into the vortex. Part of me is ashamed. But part of me just wants to talk about it. Like Twilight. Here are the ones I watch.
Keeping up with the Kardashians. They are actually wretched people. They traipse about LA and spend money and get into fights with each other and talk in gross ways about their lady parts. They have too much money and not enough things to care about. But, I love Bruce Jenner. I love Bruce Jenner like there's no tomorrow and I do not know why. Maybe it's because I love the Olympics or I like grown men who have little boy hobbies (collecting toy helicopters) or I don't know what, I just love him. Oh Bruiser.
The Biggest Loser. I basically want Bob to be my bff. I love him. Jillian is crazy and makes me uncomfortable when she's screaming in someone's face about their sister dying, but she's fun to watch. I like when she perches on a leg machine and makes them lift her. Sometimes, it makes me cry. But in a good way. Not the way I cry in my desk at work.
American Idol. Always and forever. But I miss Paula. She was so cracked out but I miss how she used to cry and slur her words and stand up and dance. Ellen is cool but she is so nice and no one can make fun of her because she is flawless. I just think maybe she should consider picking up a prescription drug habit because THAT was entertainment. Poor little Paula Abdul and her ugly necklaces and crazy face lifts. Kara though. She is annoying. I'm tired of her talking about people's "souls" and "feelings." Come on Kara, it's American Idol, they are trying to find a pop star. I can't think of one pop star who has a soul.
16 and Pregnant. I like to watch this show on a bad day. On a day when I'm feeling particularly particularly awful. I also like to watch it while I'm hungry or when I haven't showered in several days. It's just one of those things. I like to scream at the tv when the dead beat teenage baby daddy is cheating on the girl again. I especially like when an episode is set in the south. That makes for some good tv. Also a good way to remind yourself that it's better to keep your pants on when confronted by a boy coming off his 3rd DUI, who does not have teeth or a job. Because sometimes I need reminding.
Pretty Wild. I've only watched part of one episode and I don't really get it yet. I know it's about rich girls who have too much money in LA. So, it's Keeping up with the Kardashians 2. I think one of the girls was involved in stealing things from Orlando Bloom. Or something. I would steal things from Orlando Bloom though if I lived close to him. Mostly, I would try and steal his heart. Also any LOTR paraphernalia he had lying around. Like Elijah Wood.
Kirstie Alley's Big Life. This one is new. And weird. She is so odd and I just want to remember her on Cheers. But now she is large and screechy and has a cage full of marmots or ferrets or something strange and she lets them crawl all over her while she talks about her cocaine habit or how she wants to dance on new year's eve. I think I will stick with this one though. There's nothing I love more than a reality tv show based on weight loss. Plus, I think she's going to lose her mind, so, win win.
America's Next Top Model. Well, Tyra Banks is a lunatic but everyone knows that. This show really makes me giggle. There is always someone crying or fighting or snapping in half for lack of calories. What I like about this show is when Tyra gives life advice. Like sometimes she will tell them, "you need to just turn your brain off." Really, Tyra? Really? Yes, please tell the 95 pound model to turn her brain off. Pretty please. I also love Nigel. The photographer. I think my love for Nigel trumps my love for Bruce Jenner. He is so cool with his accent and his photography skills.
So. That sums it up. My reality tv swamp. Come and join me if you want...or tell me which ones I'm missing.
This post is dedicated to Paula Abdul. Shockingly, this is the second time I've used this photo.
Keeping up with the Kardashians. They are actually wretched people. They traipse about LA and spend money and get into fights with each other and talk in gross ways about their lady parts. They have too much money and not enough things to care about. But, I love Bruce Jenner. I love Bruce Jenner like there's no tomorrow and I do not know why. Maybe it's because I love the Olympics or I like grown men who have little boy hobbies (collecting toy helicopters) or I don't know what, I just love him. Oh Bruiser.
The Biggest Loser. I basically want Bob to be my bff. I love him. Jillian is crazy and makes me uncomfortable when she's screaming in someone's face about their sister dying, but she's fun to watch. I like when she perches on a leg machine and makes them lift her. Sometimes, it makes me cry. But in a good way. Not the way I cry in my desk at work.
American Idol. Always and forever. But I miss Paula. She was so cracked out but I miss how she used to cry and slur her words and stand up and dance. Ellen is cool but she is so nice and no one can make fun of her because she is flawless. I just think maybe she should consider picking up a prescription drug habit because THAT was entertainment. Poor little Paula Abdul and her ugly necklaces and crazy face lifts. Kara though. She is annoying. I'm tired of her talking about people's "souls" and "feelings." Come on Kara, it's American Idol, they are trying to find a pop star. I can't think of one pop star who has a soul.
16 and Pregnant. I like to watch this show on a bad day. On a day when I'm feeling particularly particularly awful. I also like to watch it while I'm hungry or when I haven't showered in several days. It's just one of those things. I like to scream at the tv when the dead beat teenage baby daddy is cheating on the girl again. I especially like when an episode is set in the south. That makes for some good tv. Also a good way to remind yourself that it's better to keep your pants on when confronted by a boy coming off his 3rd DUI, who does not have teeth or a job. Because sometimes I need reminding.
Pretty Wild. I've only watched part of one episode and I don't really get it yet. I know it's about rich girls who have too much money in LA. So, it's Keeping up with the Kardashians 2. I think one of the girls was involved in stealing things from Orlando Bloom. Or something. I would steal things from Orlando Bloom though if I lived close to him. Mostly, I would try and steal his heart. Also any LOTR paraphernalia he had lying around. Like Elijah Wood.
Kirstie Alley's Big Life. This one is new. And weird. She is so odd and I just want to remember her on Cheers. But now she is large and screechy and has a cage full of marmots or ferrets or something strange and she lets them crawl all over her while she talks about her cocaine habit or how she wants to dance on new year's eve. I think I will stick with this one though. There's nothing I love more than a reality tv show based on weight loss. Plus, I think she's going to lose her mind, so, win win.
America's Next Top Model. Well, Tyra Banks is a lunatic but everyone knows that. This show really makes me giggle. There is always someone crying or fighting or snapping in half for lack of calories. What I like about this show is when Tyra gives life advice. Like sometimes she will tell them, "you need to just turn your brain off." Really, Tyra? Really? Yes, please tell the 95 pound model to turn her brain off. Pretty please. I also love Nigel. The photographer. I think my love for Nigel trumps my love for Bruce Jenner. He is so cool with his accent and his photography skills.
So. That sums it up. My reality tv swamp. Come and join me if you want...or tell me which ones I'm missing.
This post is dedicated to Paula Abdul. Shockingly, this is the second time I've used this photo.
Friday, March 19, 2010
When I Grow Up...Wait, I am Grown Up.
I had to fill out my annual "performance review" today at work. My annual self evaluation. The questions were what you would expect: How did my performance contribute on the challenges faced by my department? What were the actions or factors that inhibited my performance? etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. times infinity.
***I am avoiding what is really bothering me about the performance review***
........sigh.
Really, what this annual performance review marks, is another year of my strange and unexpected professional path. I won't say it's the wrong or right path...but it's definitely not what I expected. I wonder where my creative self went. Was it sucked up by my computer screen? Did it get tangled up in my swivel chair? Is it lost in my dozens of unheard voicemails? I don't know. But somewhere between the beige walls, the bland office furniture, and cubicle farm that is my life, I think I've lost something I know I once had. I'm still me but there is something depressing about sitting down in your chair and suddenly realizing that you are just another 9-5er. I basically like my job. It pays my bills, sometimes interesting things happen, and sometimes my boss orders pizza for everyone. awesome. I like the people I work with but it's so very normal. I don't know. I was too naive. I was always under the impression that I would just simply fall into a job that allowed me to go on safaris and whale-watching tours and all the while fund my ever-expanding shoe collection. Not so, my friends. Not so.
There is something nice about it all, I suppose. Like because I have a stable job, I will someday be able to buy a house. And I can then have rooms in my house with themes like "safari" or "whale watching" and pretend like I did all those things. right. But there's still a twinge of confusion that I'm sure all people my age experience. That twinge that says, 'I was supposed to be special.' And what a hilarious, ridiculous thing to think. The funny part is, I don't remember anyone ever telling me that I was special and that it would be different for me. I was just sure that it would be. Like all young idiots.
So. Take a breath, I suppose. Reassess. Appreciate smaller things. Learn to cook spectacularly so you trick yourself into thinking your life is quite glamorous. Go to garage sales to remind yourself that really, we're all in the same boat. Appreciate that I've got an abundance of love in my life. Remember that it's spring and almost cherry blossom season in my city. What have I really got to complain about? Zero, my friends. Zero. Life is just funny, as usual.
It would be nice if my job would send me on a safari though.
***I am avoiding what is really bothering me about the performance review***
........sigh.
Really, what this annual performance review marks, is another year of my strange and unexpected professional path. I won't say it's the wrong or right path...but it's definitely not what I expected. I wonder where my creative self went. Was it sucked up by my computer screen? Did it get tangled up in my swivel chair? Is it lost in my dozens of unheard voicemails? I don't know. But somewhere between the beige walls, the bland office furniture, and cubicle farm that is my life, I think I've lost something I know I once had. I'm still me but there is something depressing about sitting down in your chair and suddenly realizing that you are just another 9-5er. I basically like my job. It pays my bills, sometimes interesting things happen, and sometimes my boss orders pizza for everyone. awesome. I like the people I work with but it's so very normal. I don't know. I was too naive. I was always under the impression that I would just simply fall into a job that allowed me to go on safaris and whale-watching tours and all the while fund my ever-expanding shoe collection. Not so, my friends. Not so.
There is something nice about it all, I suppose. Like because I have a stable job, I will someday be able to buy a house. And I can then have rooms in my house with themes like "safari" or "whale watching" and pretend like I did all those things. right. But there's still a twinge of confusion that I'm sure all people my age experience. That twinge that says, 'I was supposed to be special.' And what a hilarious, ridiculous thing to think. The funny part is, I don't remember anyone ever telling me that I was special and that it would be different for me. I was just sure that it would be. Like all young idiots.
So. Take a breath, I suppose. Reassess. Appreciate smaller things. Learn to cook spectacularly so you trick yourself into thinking your life is quite glamorous. Go to garage sales to remind yourself that really, we're all in the same boat. Appreciate that I've got an abundance of love in my life. Remember that it's spring and almost cherry blossom season in my city. What have I really got to complain about? Zero, my friends. Zero. Life is just funny, as usual.
It would be nice if my job would send me on a safari though.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Sinus Infection Fantasies
I am having issues with my sinuses today and I'm at work. So I'm miserable. Naturally, because I'm miserable, I decided to fantasize about a perfect day.
It would be October. I would start the day early, but not too early. About 7. Go to a coffee shop, get some tea and eat a bagel and read for awhile. I would sit in the window and watch the world wake up...you know, pedestrians and bicycles zipping or sauntering by. I would be wearing some lovely whimsical outfit. (I never find myself clothed in some lovely, whimsical outfit...) Maybe I would meet up with someone I know there. Hopefully not an awkward acquaintance, hopefully a friend who already knows I'm odd. We would chat and then decide to go to the local flea market. or antique shop. either. We would buy lockets and old mirrors and compacts. We would forget that nobody has a dressing table anymore and just buy things we thought were pretty. non-sensible things only. Perhaps I would also buy a jar of something pickled. I like people who know how to pickle things. It would be quite a sensible thing to know in the event of society collapsing. Also farming and sewing. Many skills that have gone out of fashion could potentially be very important if something nuclear happened. But I would be ruining my perfect day with nuclear thoughts. So like me. After my friend and I had more trinkets than we could carry, we would part ways.
I would then go to a movie. I love to go to movies alone at strange times. Like in the morning or early afternoon. I would see a movie that film snobs would say was too emotional. But I like when they go a little over the top, so I'd pick something where there is a lot of crying, a lot of angst, a lot of love. You know, the type of movie that requires estrogen to sit through. I would buy the largest coke they had. And sit by myself in the dark and laugh and cry. It would be nice.
I think after the movie I would eat a BLT. As far as sandwiches go, the BLT is really top shelf. There is nothing better. So I would go get myself a BLT somewhere. It is the most fantastic sandwich, after all.
Probably after this I would run into a carnival. I can't explain my love for carnivals. They are actually quite gross and trashy. But I love the smell of funnel cakes, even if I don't like the taste. And I like the music and the flashing lights and how you can win yourself a goldfish or stuffed animal. And I've always liked the carousel, so I would take a ride on that. Also the ferris wheel. Classics. And I would win a goldfish. It would be grand. I would also get a bag of caramel popcorn. Which is by far, the greatest treat imaginable.
After that I would be pretty loaded down with my purchases from the flea market and my goldfish and my caramel popcorn. So I would call my driver to come pick it up and take it home for me. I would then go to Williams Sonoma. Money would be of no concern. I am after all, an heiress. But a nice one. I would buy new dishes and glasses. And a whisk. Because I don't have one, but it's always been my favorite kitchen utensil. I like the sound that happens when something is whisked. I would probably spend quite a lot of time in that magical place. Because it is divine. It makes me feel clean. It's like church.
My day is pretty much winding down. It's after 7 and I am supposed to meet my hott boyfriend for dinner. We don't go to a fancy place. We go someplace with a bar and music that's a little too loud and atmosphere that's a little too bustling. But we like it because we both feel uncomfortable in snobby restaurants. So we'd have a couple beers and eat a steak. "because there's nothing better than a good steak," says the Kansan. We wouldn't worry much about our waistlines because we are walking home so we can look at stars. On our walk home he lets me stop in a travel shop that sells photographs from around the world. I pick one from Italy. It's of a bicycle leaning against a fence. I can't explain why I love it...it just looks like heaven. I pull out my red notebook and make a note to myself, "must go to Italy."
When I get home I just plop down on my couch and watch HBO. HBO is the best at television. I would also watch an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I can't explain that one. Then I fall asleep.
It would be October. I would start the day early, but not too early. About 7. Go to a coffee shop, get some tea and eat a bagel and read for awhile. I would sit in the window and watch the world wake up...you know, pedestrians and bicycles zipping or sauntering by. I would be wearing some lovely whimsical outfit. (I never find myself clothed in some lovely, whimsical outfit...) Maybe I would meet up with someone I know there. Hopefully not an awkward acquaintance, hopefully a friend who already knows I'm odd. We would chat and then decide to go to the local flea market. or antique shop. either. We would buy lockets and old mirrors and compacts. We would forget that nobody has a dressing table anymore and just buy things we thought were pretty. non-sensible things only. Perhaps I would also buy a jar of something pickled. I like people who know how to pickle things. It would be quite a sensible thing to know in the event of society collapsing. Also farming and sewing. Many skills that have gone out of fashion could potentially be very important if something nuclear happened. But I would be ruining my perfect day with nuclear thoughts. So like me. After my friend and I had more trinkets than we could carry, we would part ways.
I would then go to a movie. I love to go to movies alone at strange times. Like in the morning or early afternoon. I would see a movie that film snobs would say was too emotional. But I like when they go a little over the top, so I'd pick something where there is a lot of crying, a lot of angst, a lot of love. You know, the type of movie that requires estrogen to sit through. I would buy the largest coke they had. And sit by myself in the dark and laugh and cry. It would be nice.
I think after the movie I would eat a BLT. As far as sandwiches go, the BLT is really top shelf. There is nothing better. So I would go get myself a BLT somewhere. It is the most fantastic sandwich, after all.
Probably after this I would run into a carnival. I can't explain my love for carnivals. They are actually quite gross and trashy. But I love the smell of funnel cakes, even if I don't like the taste. And I like the music and the flashing lights and how you can win yourself a goldfish or stuffed animal. And I've always liked the carousel, so I would take a ride on that. Also the ferris wheel. Classics. And I would win a goldfish. It would be grand. I would also get a bag of caramel popcorn. Which is by far, the greatest treat imaginable.
After that I would be pretty loaded down with my purchases from the flea market and my goldfish and my caramel popcorn. So I would call my driver to come pick it up and take it home for me. I would then go to Williams Sonoma. Money would be of no concern. I am after all, an heiress. But a nice one. I would buy new dishes and glasses. And a whisk. Because I don't have one, but it's always been my favorite kitchen utensil. I like the sound that happens when something is whisked. I would probably spend quite a lot of time in that magical place. Because it is divine. It makes me feel clean. It's like church.
My day is pretty much winding down. It's after 7 and I am supposed to meet my hott boyfriend for dinner. We don't go to a fancy place. We go someplace with a bar and music that's a little too loud and atmosphere that's a little too bustling. But we like it because we both feel uncomfortable in snobby restaurants. So we'd have a couple beers and eat a steak. "because there's nothing better than a good steak," says the Kansan. We wouldn't worry much about our waistlines because we are walking home so we can look at stars. On our walk home he lets me stop in a travel shop that sells photographs from around the world. I pick one from Italy. It's of a bicycle leaning against a fence. I can't explain why I love it...it just looks like heaven. I pull out my red notebook and make a note to myself, "must go to Italy."
When I get home I just plop down on my couch and watch HBO. HBO is the best at television. I would also watch an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I can't explain that one. Then I fall asleep.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A pair of spandex is not a pair of pants
I was sitting on the bus the other day and a girl was standing directly in front of me. This is not an unusual occurrence but the girl was wearing tights/spandex/leggings/whatever you want to call them, as pants. And there wasn't like a long shirt to cover her behind either. It was just booty in my face with a tiny, inconsequential piece of fabric separating me and her rear end.
It leads me to the question I've asked every female friend I have over the last year. Do spandex count as pants? The majority have said, "NO" and then shared their own personal horror spandex as pants story.
I think there are specific situations/professions that make it acceptable to wear spandex as pants. They are as follows:
Being a Speed skater
Being a Baby (babies can also get away with jump suits)
Being a Mom from the 80s and early 90s. (stirrups are required to make this acceptable)
Being a Male Ballet Dancer
Being J. Lo
Most of the people I see wearing spandex as pants are non of the above. And I want to officially say, I hate the trend. Pants please. Pants.
It leads me to the question I've asked every female friend I have over the last year. Do spandex count as pants? The majority have said, "NO" and then shared their own personal horror spandex as pants story.
I think there are specific situations/professions that make it acceptable to wear spandex as pants. They are as follows:
Being a Speed skater
Being a Baby (babies can also get away with jump suits)
Being a Mom from the 80s and early 90s. (stirrups are required to make this acceptable)
Being a Male Ballet Dancer
Being J. Lo
Most of the people I see wearing spandex as pants are non of the above. And I want to officially say, I hate the trend. Pants please. Pants.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Department of Motor Vehicles
I had to get a new driver's license today. My old Kansan one was going to expire on my birthday so I decided it was time to part ways with it. I didn't think it was a big deal, just an extra $45 and a draining trip to the DMV. But, I had my book, and it meant I got to go to work late, so I was ok making the trek.
The man who helped me was was middle aged and sort of brusque, probably from years of dealing with annoying people. He sat on a stool and his finger nails were jagged and he was using an ink pen that I desperately wanted to steal. (There's nothing I love more than a good ink pen). I was already nervous because I'm always nervous when I have to do things I'm not used to doing. Like when I have to stand up on the city bus. I always feel like I'm standing weird or holding the rail in a strange way. I get sweaty and wonder if I look like an idiot. I have learned that this fear is irrational, but one I will experience my entire life. Because of my tense disposition in new situations, I probably wasn't as pleasant as I could have been with the man, so in turn he wasn't as pleasant as he could have been with me. He was irritated with me because I had failed to bring my birth certificate and I was irritated because of the horrible fluorescent lighting. I was also nervous about the possibility of an eye exam. Nervous for a couple reasons: A) I've needed to have my eyes checked for about a year and still haven't done it. B) The eye exam machine was gross. The pad that you're supposed to rest your forehead on was sort of brownish and greasy looking from too much lady make up and oily faces. Luckily, he didn't make me take the test, so I breathed a sigh of relief and watched people have their pictures taken while the man filled out my paperwork.
Once he was done entering my information in the computer he told me that I must "surrender my old license." He said it just like that. Like he wanted to take over my pirate ship or something. His face dared me to say no. Like he had been told no before. He had his arms folded across his chest and he was sort of frowning at me and I thought it might be funny to tell him no. But alas, I lamely took out my old ID and slid it across the counter to him.
My old license was really old and battered. I once fell asleep with it in my pocket and it bent in three places. My picture was taken early on a Wednesday morning when I was in college so I look tired and squinty. I mean, it was time to let it go. But when he said, "surrender your license," I got a little agitated. I had clung to my Kansan license because it was the last piece of physical evidence that I was still from there. I liked showing my ID to bartenders because it was always a conversation piece. "You're from Kansas? What are you doing out here?" And we would chat and exchange pleasantries and I liked it. Today when I handed the DMV man my license, he promptly dropped it in the shredder, right in front my eyes and acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. It looked like he may have even smirked a little. Like shredding people's identities was the most enjoyable part of his job. Unexpectedly, it broke my heart a little bit. It was so final, so severe. Like a guillotine. The DMV man had guillotined my identity. Downtrodden, I shuffled away from him to have my new picture taken.
I left the DMV, with my shiny new card that looked so terribly generic. I left thinking about the soft blue color of my old license and the way it had wheat on it and the way one of the creases went right over my forehead and made me look a little angry but in a funny kind of way. My new license is wretched. The blue is too bright and the picture is too big and my face looks greasy in it (maybe everyone's face is greasy when they go to the DMV...hence the greasy eye test machine) and it just looks generally unpleasant to me.
And so my Kansan identity is gone for good. I feel a little lost.
The man who helped me was was middle aged and sort of brusque, probably from years of dealing with annoying people. He sat on a stool and his finger nails were jagged and he was using an ink pen that I desperately wanted to steal. (There's nothing I love more than a good ink pen). I was already nervous because I'm always nervous when I have to do things I'm not used to doing. Like when I have to stand up on the city bus. I always feel like I'm standing weird or holding the rail in a strange way. I get sweaty and wonder if I look like an idiot. I have learned that this fear is irrational, but one I will experience my entire life. Because of my tense disposition in new situations, I probably wasn't as pleasant as I could have been with the man, so in turn he wasn't as pleasant as he could have been with me. He was irritated with me because I had failed to bring my birth certificate and I was irritated because of the horrible fluorescent lighting. I was also nervous about the possibility of an eye exam. Nervous for a couple reasons: A) I've needed to have my eyes checked for about a year and still haven't done it. B) The eye exam machine was gross. The pad that you're supposed to rest your forehead on was sort of brownish and greasy looking from too much lady make up and oily faces. Luckily, he didn't make me take the test, so I breathed a sigh of relief and watched people have their pictures taken while the man filled out my paperwork.
Once he was done entering my information in the computer he told me that I must "surrender my old license." He said it just like that. Like he wanted to take over my pirate ship or something. His face dared me to say no. Like he had been told no before. He had his arms folded across his chest and he was sort of frowning at me and I thought it might be funny to tell him no. But alas, I lamely took out my old ID and slid it across the counter to him.
My old license was really old and battered. I once fell asleep with it in my pocket and it bent in three places. My picture was taken early on a Wednesday morning when I was in college so I look tired and squinty. I mean, it was time to let it go. But when he said, "surrender your license," I got a little agitated. I had clung to my Kansan license because it was the last piece of physical evidence that I was still from there. I liked showing my ID to bartenders because it was always a conversation piece. "You're from Kansas? What are you doing out here?" And we would chat and exchange pleasantries and I liked it. Today when I handed the DMV man my license, he promptly dropped it in the shredder, right in front my eyes and acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. It looked like he may have even smirked a little. Like shredding people's identities was the most enjoyable part of his job. Unexpectedly, it broke my heart a little bit. It was so final, so severe. Like a guillotine. The DMV man had guillotined my identity. Downtrodden, I shuffled away from him to have my new picture taken.
I left the DMV, with my shiny new card that looked so terribly generic. I left thinking about the soft blue color of my old license and the way it had wheat on it and the way one of the creases went right over my forehead and made me look a little angry but in a funny kind of way. My new license is wretched. The blue is too bright and the picture is too big and my face looks greasy in it (maybe everyone's face is greasy when they go to the DMV...hence the greasy eye test machine) and it just looks generally unpleasant to me.
And so my Kansan identity is gone for good. I feel a little lost.
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