Did You Know

That when someone says that they are putting in a trench drain that actual trenches will then be dug? Inside your house? I don't think I had fully grasped that concept until I wandered into the basement and there they were. Trenches. All around the place. Giant holes filled with rocks and dirt where once there was floor. I'm very thrown. I have absolutely no idea why I am thrown or why I am obsessing over this because if there is anything less interesting to think about than a hole in the ground I have yet to figure out what it is. Yet, I am not only thinking about it, I am writing about it. Troubling signs, no? The thing is, if the trenches were filled with water it would look like our basement floor had a moat around it...and that's weird, right? I have to stop this. I'm boring all of us. Sorry. I'll stop now.

Guess Who's Back?

No, it's not Dre. Nope, it's not Eminem...IT'S MY CAR!!!!!!!!!!

She's home! She has a new roof and a new paint job and she looks lovely. And the repair shop where she was staying was not scary at all and the boys there are very nice. Kelley's Auto Shop. Look them up. They're good people.

My joy over this makes the fact that there are now jackhammers...that's right, jackhammers...going in the basement a little more bearable. Like me, you may have thought that jackhammers were an outside toy, but you, like me, would have been wrong.

Horrible, Horrific, and Horrendous OR How Radio Rage Made My Head Pop Off

Before I begin this post about my day yesterday, I feel I must share something with you all. I saw something today, at a family function no less, that I thought had been completely eradicated from the planet. Do you know what it was? Take a breath. It was a tail. A rat tail. A rat tail growing from the hair of a grown ass man. I know. But here is where it goes from alarming to downright wrong and incorrect. The tail, if you're going to do it right, we all know, belongs in the middle of your neck so that it looks accurately enough like its rodent cousin. This one? Is being grown off of the right side of this poor soul's neck. Do you understand me? Picture a rat ass that is equivalent in size to a skinny man's head, then move the tail approximately four inches to the right. Now go take a minute to throw up before you read the rest of this post if you need to. I'm sorry to burden you all with such a picture but I can't live this alone any longer.

Anyway, yesterday is what I meant to write about originally, and now I shall. Yesterday was the day that the radio decided it hated me. Now, normally Radio and I get along swimmingly. Just the other day I was feeling particularly blue and not once but twice did Radio play Maroon 5's "Sunday Morning" followed by Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," which are two songs that make me very very happy. Good job, Radio!

The fact that Radio and I were such good friends made what happened yesterday all the more troubling. On my way to the mall (by the way, I fucking hate the mall when I am not the almost only person in it) to pick up my dad's birthday gifts for my mom (see how I'm being nice and doing things for others?) the first song that came on was, "She's Gone," I believe by Hall and Oates, or maybe just one of them. As the song went on I began to understand exactly why She had left and I sort of wished I could shake her hand. So, I flip to another station where I stumble across the one-hit-wonder of the now-defunct (or they should be) hair band Mr. Big. That band, if you recall was made of band members of hair bands that had gone defunct before the five minute hair band craze had even ended! That's how good they are. That song I believe is called, "To Be With You." I don't want them to be with you. Please send them away.

Things spiraled downward from there and every song that came after was equally horrible if not worse. I heard the Beach Boys. I heard some song that I cannot believe I am forgetting right now because I remember thinking as I was listening to it, "Oh look, it's the song that every person on every talent show ever ever sang."

I not only heard "Caribbean Queen" by Billy Ocean, I heard, and I still am stunned by this, "Forever Your Girl," by Paula Abdul. Did you hear me? Paula. Ab. DUL!!!!! Are you kidding me? I thought we all agreed that we would allow her her little comeback if she agreed never Never NEVER to sing again and would remove all her old songs from the public arena.

That means I heard not one but two songs by people who did music videos with cartoon characters. That is wrong wrong wrong and bad and wrong. Granted neither of those two songs were the cartoon songs (why do I know that? I don't know! But I'm already upset about it so leave me alone already!) but still, I was very upset by the whole debacle. Paula Abdul? Did you see her on The Daily Show a few weeks ago? She could not have been more coked up if she was Boy George at Live Aid (those of you who saw his stirring Behind the Music will know what I'm referring to there...although the rest of you can probably figure it out if you've ever, you know, seen him).

As I am driving through this horrendousness on my way to the horrific place of shopping gratuitousness, I think to myself, "The only thing that could make this worse is if that damn Avril Lavigne starts singing." Next thing I hear? "Oh-oh, oh-oh, so much for my happy ending."

And then my head exploded.

Catching Up On My Correspondence

Dear Moving Process,

Please don’t kill my dad. I know that you are very demanding and important and you require lots of devotion and pretty presents, but could you take it easy? He has devoted many hours and days to filling your dumpsters and sorting through your boxes and spending oodles of money on dumpsters, boxes, and oh yes, new houses. Can we not relax now? Must we demand the removal of carpeting and floor tiles and the hiring of men to dig trenches in the basement? Stop hurting his back and his feet and clear up his eye immediately because he doesn’t need that sort of nonsense. He has a neurotic wife who thinks that her ridiculously sellable house on one of the selliest streets in Washington isn’t going to sell, millions of kids and grandchildren--any one of which may flounder off the deep end at any moment, and he just had a birthday!

Thanks,
e

Dear Dumpster Delivery Guy,

I apologize for not having any questions for you about dumpster installation. I was not aware that you were coming prepared for a full-out question and answer session. Plus, I mean, we were both on our phones with different people and having one of those totally not-funny-yet-always-on-tv conversations where we didn’t know if we were talking to each other or to the person we were on the phone with. HiLARious! And, I’m sorry, what exactly was I supposed to ask? Please let me know so that I am prepared for our next encounter. Our conversation was awkward at best and I definitely feel that you left here disappointed and I would love to remedy this situation. I don’t want our relationship to suffer.

Smooches,
e

Dear Man Who Decided to Name a Certain Eye Condition “Sty,”

When naming a common medical condition that occurs on the eye, could you not come up with something a little less…I don’t know, hickory-dickory-dock? Or was your goal to make everyone who has something that irritating feel like an asshole? Having to say “I have a sty on my eye” gives one the same feeling as saying “I have a mouse in my house.” The horror, fear, lack of sleep, and general irritability that accompany both situations is completely nullified by the fact that you know when you utter those words that the person you are speaking to is totally trying not to giggle and say, “You’re a poet and you didn’t even know it!” And that sentence? Makes people want to kill other people. Rhyming…I had no idea I was so against it.

Later gator,
e the bee

Dear Michael Kors,

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m a smidge curious about one little thing. Last night I was watching Project Runway, as everyone should, and I think I heard you say to Jay, “I felt you missed it on the color.” Um, Michael Kors, weren’t you…I mean, weren’t those…I could have sworn I saw you wearing…I mean maybe I’m wrong but did I not see…I guess what I’m trying to say is….weren’t you wearing SUNGLASSES? Just curious.

Respectfully yours,
e

Dear Kara Saun of Project Runway,

See what happens when you get a little big for your britches (And also, were those actual britches that you had on)? I think it was pretty clear from your newly acquired and highly disappointing smug attitude that you thought that you were not only going to win, but that everyone else should know it too and just sort of live with it and that is no fun for anyone. Be nice already! And I hate to point this out but you were TOTALLY CHEATING with the shoes and I’m glad they smacked you down. And I think you know you were cheating because you had the anger of someone who is angry that they aren’t being allowed to do what they know is wrong but think they should be allowed to do anyway. Classic sign of that sort of anger: “Just don’t talk to me.” And I think you do lovely lovely things and I’m all for being inspired but all your stuff looked not so much inspired by “The Aviator” as much as it looked like it was a big fat copy job with the backs cut off. Sorry. Besides, you live in LA and obviously have billions of connections. Jay lives in Middle-of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania and I think he has a little too much time on his hands. He needs the win more. And. He’s nicer than you and honest honest honest which I love love love. Yay, Jay!

Please ignore the rhyme in the last line,
e

Dear Wendy Pepper of Project Runway,

I’m all for makeovers, but why did you turn yourself into everyone else in America? Your black/white tent outfit and your crazy hair were horrendous, but at least they were original. And your daughter is cute but why do you cut her hair like that? And where was your husband? And is your mom a nutter? And why do you cry all the time? And why are you so mean? And why are you so smarmy? And why do you things that get you into arguments when you are bad at arguing and only know how to cry and say you have a daughter? Everyone has a daughter! Well, I don’t but my mom does and so do both my sisters and one of my brothers, so there. Wendy Pepper, when you are done answering these questions please remove your Wendy Pepper: The Longshot hat and t-shirt and put them in a teeny tiny box. Then throw that box on a big big fire because that shit is ugly ugly ugly and wrong.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter,
e

DEAR PEOPLE WHO WRITE EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS,

Please stop yelling at me.

Regards,
e

Dear Person Who Sings the Song With the Line, “Make me your selection,”

I will preface this letter by saying that I unfortunately must admit that I love Matchbox 20 and so, obviously have horrendous taste in music and no leg to stand on in any quality music discussion. That being said, your song is awful. Please go away and take with you the Duff Sisters, Lindsay Lohan, Steely Dan, and Jesse McCartney who I haven’t heard sing but I saw a commercial of his video and I’m confident that I will not like him. Oh, and don’t forget Aaron Carter although I saw him in a little segment on Conan O’Brien last night and it looks like you may need to drop him off at rehab on your way.

Sincerely,
e

Dear Men Who Think They Don’t Need Haircuts,

You do. Right now. Go get one.

I’m not kidding,
e

Dear NBA,

Please go on strike and disappear forever. Ask NHL for tips.

XOXO,
e

Dear Duff McKagan and Scott Weiland,

I’m super-excited that your martial arts thing is keeping you off heroin and you are still alive and your band is so successful. And nice job on the Grammys. But why are you so scarily skinny? Please eat something. There is something really frightening about how tightly your skin is stretched down your necks.

Concerned,
e

Dear Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20,

Are you in their martial arts class or are you on heroin? Because you did NOT look good on the Grammys.

Just wondering,
e

p.s. Only Bono can pull off yellow sunglasses. Take yours off and put them in Wendy Pepper’s box.

p.p.s. Please stop writing catchy songs that I love. People are starting to look at me funny. I know that you are bad. Please act like it.

Great. Now I'm Mean and Evil

I just wigged on my mom.

I mean seriously wigged out freaked out wigged.

It went a little something like this:

Mom: I have some ideas about your "dilem-

Me: No

Mom: -ma" or not dilemma, job finding problem

Me: I don't wanna hear it

Mom: Well I'm going to tell you anyway

Me: No!

Mom: Why not? What if it's good advice?

Me: Because I can't hear it and it's everyone I know has something to say and I just can't and please and I've just...had enough and I just can't hear it (and so on and so forth for a long time with no sense-making in sight)

Mom: Fine, crazy bi-yotch, I'm out.

Ok, so I'm paraphrasing, but still...it wasn't good. I was very stumbly and couldn't really get anything out coherently and now I feel mean and evil but the thing is, I feel like everyone in my life now thinks I'm an idiot who has not even one fucking clue as to how to find a job because I haven't found one. Which I know is not the case but I am miserable and defensive and apparently, given to fits of irrational anger that make it impossible for my mother to stay in the same room with me because I'm so scary and mean. Great! I wasn't really angry so much as shrieky and crazy but it probably all comes off the same way.

What I want is for me to be mean and surly and secretive and mute about my own life and for everyone else just to take it, ok?

Of course that's not fucking ok! I know, but I have apparently turned into a lunatic. Bad news to say the least.

Quite possibly that whole exchange could have been avoided by me having my mom read my earlier blog entry but I'm keeping it from my parents what with all the bad bad words...although my dad has said "asshole" about three times this year in front of me. But most times he's referring to Peter Jennings and really, what other word is there that describes him so accurately? UFOs? Go back to Canada, fool.

Anyway, the point is, you only think you're feeling bad until you're mean to your mom. That, my friends, is always worse.

Update: All better now. She can't stay mad at me. I'm the giant sub to her Homer.

Oy

So, i tried to make this for my dad's birthday tonight and the frosting has just totally fallen to shit and I am ridiculously sad about it. I'll let you know how things turn out but since I have now spent 8 hours trying to put this fucking thing together, I'm not feeling super optimistic.

Update: My mom whipped together a new, white frosting so it all turned out ok. I'm still super-pissed. That recipe was on the COVER for god's sake!

Thanks?

My Washington Post job search agent just sent me a job posting for an elevator mechanic. Very helpful, thank you.

A Result of Driving Today

Share this, Bitches!

Bike people (On the off chance that Shane Williams is reading this, please consider yourself to not be included in the bike people group), you are bothering me. I can share a road with the best of them but you fools are supposed to do the same, remember? AND, you are supposed to follow all the same traffic rules that we are and you are not supposed to run stop signs or red lights. So when you do, and you get squished like a bug, know that you’ve earned it. Most of the time you yellow-shirted faux-Armstrong fools are in front of me you are way out in the middle of my lane. This is not sharing and it is even more not sharing when there is a vacant and expansive bike path right over there. That path follows the exact same route as the road we are on and I would like you to get on it post haste. Thank you. There’s plenty of room for you because none of you fuckers use it. And a special note to the man I saw two years ago biking down the middle of Wisconsin Ave. during rush hour wearing a shirt that said “One Less Car:” You still annoy me and a small part of me still regrets not giving you a little nudge.

Embarrassing Moment #43213234549

Have you ever been driving along on a busy road/highway and a horrendous song that you know you shouldn’t love but do comes on and you turn it all the way up because you love it and no one can hear you anyway? And then, have you ever suddenly realized that you are no longer in a crowded area but rather stopped at a red light next to a crowded bus stop and the song is still playing really loudly and you have a stupid grin on your face because you love Love LOVE the song so much and everyone is staring at you? Me too. Today’s song? “Neutron Dance” by the Pointer Sisters. Awesome.

Seat Belt Hickey and Other Problems

Since my car is undergoing surgery, I have to drive my mom’s car. I do not love this car. I don’t dislike it and I’m grateful to have it but it is a fucking boat. It doesn’t look that big but it is most definitely not small. Today, in the middle of pulling into a ridiculously oversized parking space, I had to stop and laugh at myself because it literally took me three different turn-reverse-turn-forward maneuvers to get the thing in there. Not my finest hour.

And the boat has leather seats which I really don’t believe are ever a good idea.

And the boat makes a very frightening, monster-eating-your-brakes kind of noise when you first start driving it.

And the boat’s mirrors show only a minute portion of your surroundings and you feel a little bit like a blind person and sometimes the boat decides it would like to get a little closer to the cars in the next lane whether you’re steering or not…although there is a distinct possibility that I just wasn’t paying attention there.

And as many times as I embarrassed myself while in the boat today, it couldn’t let me go without a parting shot. For some reason the gas pedal on this car is bizarrely far back, requiring me to move the seat all the way forward to have any chance of reaching it. This means that instead of resting nicely and safely on my shoulder, the seat belt goes almost directly across my neck. So, in the event of an accident I will most likely be decapitated rather than rescued by that particular device. Anyway, the edge of it digs into my neck the whole time I’m driving which is annoying enough but I realized, upon getting out of the car, that it leaves a gross red, blotchy thing on my neck that is alarmingly reminiscent of a hickey. Pretty.

An open letter to those who love me

I’m writing this letter to make the completely unreasonable, possibly insensitive, and most likely ungrateful request that you please, all of you, not ask me about my job search.

To be me right now is to be someone who is sad most of the time. Someone who is irritable and disheartened and often demoralized and yes, someone who is avoiding you. It is difficult to be my age and to be living where I am and be looking for work. In fact, it is often heartbreaking. It does not feel good to be 27 and to be claimed as a dependent on someone else’s tax return. It feels even worse to let other people know that.

What I want to do in this letter, in the nicest way I can think of, is to ask you to back off. There is no news on the job hunt. Obviously. Do you not think I would send out the message if there was? If it were up to me, and I would like to think that it is, no one would know if I’ve interviewed or how they have gone until I have accepted a job. The one interview I had was for the job I went to graduate school to get. And I didn’t get it. And I don’t want to tell you that. It was a tough blow and it set me back and I am trying hard to claw myself back to happy and I can’t if I have to keep telling you how things are not going for me.

Odds are, I’m not doing this the way you would. Well, I’m not and I don’t want to have to defend the fact that I’m not temping or that I’m not doing whatever it is you think I should be doing. And I know that you are not trying to put me on the defensive but you need to know that that is where I already am. I know about temping and I know about asking people who work where I want to work and I promise that I know whatever aspect of the job hunting process you are thinking of bringing up to me. I know and I don’t want to talk to you about this.

And I am sorry. I’m sorry that I’m so unwilling to accept your advice or to answer your questions but that is how I feel right now. I know that I am often being unreasonable and that my temper is too close to the surface and that it is rude of me to blow off your questions and I’m sorry.

But the thing is, you can’t be enjoying this either. It can’t be fun for you to sit through the awkward conversations we keep having about how nothing has happened yet. I know I don’t enjoy them. There’s so much other stuff we can talk about. Let’s talk about shoes or the news or the fact that I’ve started writing again or even my sad sad love life. Even better, let’s talk about you! I love you people and frankly, I could use the distraction.

Now, this letter was sparked by the fact that one person in my life, I think, is enjoying on some level that this is where I am. This is difficult to deal with and I’m still not sure how I will. The rest of you I know have good intentions and have genuine love and concern for me. I’m asking you now to back off because I don’t want to start feeling about you the way I feel about this person. They have me fairly riled up and I admit my emotions are a little uncontrolled and it wouldn’t take much for me to take out my anger with them on one of you and this cannot happen. So please, for your own sake, believe this letter.

What I am doing now is trying. I’m trying to find a job and I’m trying to be happy (how’s that for a hint about the title of this blog, huh?) and I need you to let me alone, in this one area, to do that. I have every confidence that I will get a job and that I will love it and that things will look up. I know that it will happen. And I need you to know that too. And until then, please, with kindness and much love…shut up.

Of Dogs, Mail, and Frosted-Hair Ladies

You know what I discovered today? The post office is one of the most, if not the most, friendliest place in the world. At least around here. Since I am currently surviving financially on the money I get from re-selling my overpriced library science books online, I get to spend a lot of time there.

Today, the woman in front of me there, dressed in head to toe red for some reason, had her two dogs tied to the bench out front while she was doing whatever she was doing in the post office and one of them was going a little nutty with the barking and the jumping and the general anxiety that comes with being a dog separated from its favorite red lady on earth while tied to an iron bench. It’s tough stuff. Her other dog? Just chillin’. Very Snoopp, that one.

Anyway, the barking is not quiet while the post office is super quiet (and hot) so of course everyone notices and she’s all, “Yup, that’s my dog.” And then she proceeds to tell this super-long story to everybody and nobody all at once. Now, I was across the room at this point (the beginning) of the story and she either said that she had rescued the dog the day it was supposed to be euthanized OR the dog is being euthanized tonight. Originally, I really thought she had said it was being put to sleep tonight and I was more than a little horrified thinking this lady was announcing to everyone in the post office that she was offing her dog in a matter of hours. But, once I had finished addressing my envelope at the useless counter that is never open and I moved with my stuff to the actually useful line, I could more blatantly eavesdrop on her conversation and I think I cleared that up. Although, I’m not sure it actually qualifies as eavesdropping as she was talking to everyone in else in line. Just because I hadn’t been in line in the beginning didn’t mean I wasn’t supposed to be listening, right? I don’t know. I was confused and not really all that interested because I kind of thought she may be a horrible person what with the euthanasia-bragging and all, so I just listened and didn’t make direct eye contact with her. Luckily, the absurdly tall man behind me in line kept asking me envelope questions and borrowing my pen so I didn’t have to jump all the way into the dog conversation.

ANYWAY, to finish up this totally not interesting story, the red lady rambled on and on for like 10 minutes (not that long, but long given the subject matter at hand) about how the dog likes people but needs to bark at them first and once she barks at you (or at other dogs, she was hard to follow and again, the tall guy and the pen borrowing distracted me) and snaps at you, but doesn’t bite, then she’ll be your friend. And then there was a really long explanation of why no one could ever dognap her. Good to know, I guess. Totally discouraged my plan to rescue the dog from a possibly imminent put down. (Not really, where would I have put it? It really was very barky and besides, my parents fucking hate dogs.)

But the point of this pointless story is how everyone in the post office joined in with this lady and was so super nice (except for me obviously, but in my defense, I thought she maybe was evil) and chimed in with dog stories and dog anxiety stories and were very smilely and lovely and gave the woman much props for rescuing the dog (at least I think she did. And there is still the possibility that she rescued it, AND it was being euthanized tonight. Would that have been rude of me to ask? Probably.) That was so unexpected, the nice smilely stuff. Especially because I live in like the snottiest part of DC where everyone is old and mean and rich and not given to talking with strangers.

But this nice stuff has happened almost every time I have gone to the post office lately. One person in line says something or comments on something they see (usually stamps and that’s even less interesting than the dog story you just sat through) and then everyone else joins in, and this always makes me wonder things similar to the following: Where am I? We’re being nice to each other now? When did this start? Do I have to join in? Because I generally do not like it when people talk to me. Granted, most people who talk to me who I don’t already know are fucking nuts and I shouldn’t talk to them because if they kill me then who’s the asshole now, you know? But is this a general niceness taking over or is it post office-exclusive?

I suspect it’s only a mail-oriented phenomenon because right after the post office I went to the grocery store and I was in line then stepped out for like a second to get a bottle of water out of the cooler that was at the end of my check-out aisle to sustain me for my walk home when this frosted-hair lady totally snaked my place in line, restoring my faith in the fact that most people in my neighborhood? They are not so much with the nicey nice.

To the One I Love...

Today is Valentine’s Day and the one I love was taken from me this morning. My car, Baby, went into the shop today for a minimum of two weeks. We’ve never been apart for this long. I don’t think many people understand how much I love my car, mainly because I keep pretty quiet about my devotion to her. But I do. I love her. I love everything about her. We spend a lot of time together, usually without anyone else, and I just love her. I love that her license plate starts with AH so that every time I see her I go “Ah, there she is!”

She has taken such good care of me and saved my life on more than one occasion. So, Baby, thank you.

Thank you for starting every single time.
Thank you for not ever blowing a tire even though I drove them well past the point of needing to be replaced.
Thank you for never letting me steer you into an accident.
Thank you for not being damaged after I got you stuck on that snowbank at Rob’s house.
Thank you also for not being damaged after that stick got stuck underneath you.
Thank you for putting up with the fact that I gave you such a ridiculous and girly name.
Thank you for putting up with the monster puppet I insist must live on your dashboard.
Thank you for getting me away from all the other drivers I give the finger to.
Thank you for not killing me on any and all of the following occasions:

*The time it was snowing and I got us lost in the serious ghetto of Philadelphia
*The time your brakes gave out
*The time we drove to the middle of bumblefuck Amish country in the freezing cold to a wedding neither of us wanted to go to, a trip that required several harrowing miles through curvy mountain roads undergoing construction
*Every time I drove on the westbound span of the Bay Bridge and had my mini-panic attack and my hands started to sweat and my vision got fuzzy and I probably should not have been driving
*Every time I drove up and back to class in the middle of Philadelphia , with its ridiculous highways and deranged Pennsylvania drivers (Seriously, there’s something wrong with those people)
*The time I was driving home from the beach and the road flooded and we had to pull off
*The other time I was driving home from the beach and it was raining so hard I couldn’t see and we had to crawl along for miles seeing only the flashing hazards of the car in front of us
*The time we took Giulia to the beach and drove through a similar storm, only it was dark and there was no one else on the road
*The time we drove Thate down that crazy-ass road near her house in yet another thunderstorm
*Every time I drove up and back to Poughkeepsie, thank you especially for not breaking down in front of the serial killer’s house…that could have ended badly
*Every time I drove you drunk (I’m really really sorry about that. I’ll stop.)

I’ll miss you, Baby. I drove a different car today and it just felt wrong. I hope that they are nice to you at the shop and that you don’t need a new roof. I’ll see you in a few weeks.

Stop It

The last few days have been dark.

But, it’s time to regroup. So, things are not working out spectacularly for me in the work, spinal health, automotive, and other areas of my life. I cannot wallow. I definitely have been wallowing, but it’s difficult not to when you’re trapped alone on the floor of your living room with nothing but a Lucky magazine and a television for company and a spine that is so inexplicably angry with you that it has decided you cannot go for more than two steps without yelping in pain and hunching over like that woman who poisoned Snow White, you know? Besides, today the back feels better, so me? I’m going to Stop It. I’m going to Stop It with the sad and the complaining and the general misery that is doing me no good at all. As I was lying on the floor, making my Stop It decision, I began to think of all the other things and people in the world that need to Stop It and I made a list (I should really say “another list,” I think about my Stop It list a lot, it is unlikely this is the only one you’ll see). These are things that just need to Stop It for the general betterment of society, I think. Here is the list (which was heavily influenced by the ridiculous amount of tv I watched while lying on my living room floor with Weezer's "The Sweater Song" in my head since Thursday afternoon) in no particular order:

*George W. Bush
*Usher (except for that song with Alicia Keyes, that can stay)
*Jay Leno
*Anyone and everyone currently working at VH1 (except for the guy who does Bands Reunited because that show? Good stuff and I love him)
*Caroline Rhea
*The commercial for the toothbrush strip thing you stick on your finger
*The horrendous commercial that starts with “Isn’t it weird that I’m like coming up to you in this maxi pad aisle?” Yes, it is. Stop It.
*Anyone and everyone who has been on The Real World since the London season
*Pat O’Brie/an (The guy on The Insider. That show is disgusting and what the fuck is he talking about during the closing credits? It didn’t make sense on Access Hollywood, it doesn’t make sense now either)
*Parents who let their children become bodybuilders before puberty (see above jackass for more info there)
*A certain friend of mine
*Every kid who appeared on that horrendous MTV sweet sixteen nonsense show, particularly the guy with the collar (except for the girl whose mom got wasted…I like her)
*Guys who wear their collars like that kid
*Paul Schaeffer (I can’t help it. He makes me insane and he’s not funny and just oh my God he needs to Stop It!)
*Weathermen…and women (You don’t know, just fucking say it)
*The Goo Goo Dolls
*Any and all Capital One commercials
*The guy who wrote If Only It Were True
*Donny Deutsch
*Geraldo Rivera
*Wolf Blitzer
*Basically, anyone on cable news who isn’t on Headline News or isn’t Anderson Cooper
*Every student loan consolidation company that is not the one I already picked
*Guys who idolize Jack Kerouac, yes he was cool but odds are he wouldn’t like you
*Jon Favreau (this breaks my heart. I used to love him but his ego is out of control on that dinner show he has and Jon? I saw Made. It was bad)
*Dr. Greg and his Corti-Slim lifestyle
*Not Oprah, but most of the people in her audience definitely, although she is getting close
*Channel 9 and those awful commercials you put on during 10 o’clock shows. That anchor is not appealing and he’s trying too hard and I think his forehead may be collapsing. “We’re in an Amazing Race to get the news together for you tonight” Are you kidding me?
*Peter Jennings. I don’t know what’s up with you lately but enough already with the touchy feely, ok?
*People who use “party” as a verb
*Beatles fans


A special Stop It note to Andrew McCarthy. A few hours ago I caught the last five minutes of a Hallmark movie you did with Teri Polo. And in that movie you were a cowboy. Now, Andrew McCarthy, I’m not a particular fan of yours. I thought Pretty in Pink was atrocious apart from Annie Potts and the scene where Molly Ringwald makes her own dress, and that eye widening pursed mouth face you make all the time is creepy and vaguely alien-like. Plus, you were really annoying in St. Elmo’s Fire. Putting that all aside though, I don’t wish you ill will, Andrew McCarthy, so please listen to me when I say that when someone offers to put you in a movie where you play a cowboy and you start to think that that is a good idea and something you can remotely pull off? Stop It. It’s not. Especially if that movie ends with you walking a horse into an art gallery.

And another Stop It note to myself: Stop It with the Hallmark Channel immediately if not sooner. Thanks.

Ouch

My back hurts. It hurts all the time. While I’m sitting, while I’m standing, while I’m sleeping, while I’m brushing my teeth, even when I’m super wasted and theoretically should not be able to feel anything (or see anything)…all the time. It hurts so much at this particular moment that I am writing this entry in an effort to not cry (I have mentioned crying a lot lately, and I don’t really think I’m a cryer. No, wait, I think I am. But not over small stuff, only over car dents, back pain, the end of the movie Hardball, and whenever anyone else I know is crying) This is discouraging because I’m only 27 and I should not need a new spine already.

It doesn’t hurt the same way all the time. Sometimes it’s a dull throb, sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten hit with a stick across the middle of my back, sometimes I feel like my upper spine is sitting on my lower spine in the same way that older siblings sit on younger ones just because it’s funny. There is pretty much always a feeling like I’ve gotten hit by a tennis ball somewhere on my lower right side and sometimes, a shooting pain down my back will prevent my right leg from moving properly. All this is bad news. But what do you do? The only time my back does not hurt is in the two hours after I’ve done an hour of yoga. I like those two hours. However, I cannot spend one out of every three hours doing yoga. I don’t have that kind of time and I’m not even employed! Plus, I think doing that much yoga would somehow inevitably lead to me marrying a man with a ponytail and that is my least favorite thing ever. Followed closely behind by men who wear denim shirts with jeans and you know most men with ponytails LOVE that look.

But what do I do about this? Heating pads don’t work, ice doesn’t work, walking doesn’t work, laying on a flat surface with my knees lifted doesn’t work, prayer does not appear to be working but since it is Ash Wednesday and I have no intention of going to Mass, I probably had no shot with that remedy anyway. I’m poor and painfully single so massages are not available to me.

I know that part of the problem is the fact that I am physically incapable of sitting in a chair like a normal human being. For instance, right now, my right leg is bent underneath me and my left knee is bent so that it can hold up my chin because I am very sleepy as I write this.

The reason I am sleepy is probably also the reason my back hurts (Ew. It’s not that). I spent the first four hours of my day cleaning out my closet, moving and lifting heavy objects down multiple flights of stairs without “lifting from the knees” whatever that means, and then shoving gigantic bags of clothes and shoes into a recycling bin with an opening way to small for the volume of clothes and shoes I can stick into one bag. I’m not 100% you can even donate shoes but I did. They match the clothes I gave away, and they’ve hardly been used. I like to buy things that I don’t really like, never wear them, hold on to them for years, and then give them away with the tags still on. I have decided to stop doing this and am confident that one day, I will. Especially since I have zero dollars. I came to a similar decision about doing shots several years ago and I have to say, I have been mostly successful. I don’t even like most shots and I’m a much smarter drunk than I used to be so I’m pretty sure I’m done with them.

ANYWAY, my back hurts even more now that I have forced my two asleep legs into a pretzel underneath me so I should wrap this up. Huh, as soon as I wrote “wrap this up” I completely ran out of things to say. So, all done!

Everywhere you look

There's the face /of somebody who needs you/, or something like that. Yup, I know the theme song to Full House. That show is horrendous, yet I have the feeling that I may have seen every episode. That is terrible news. I will say that all I did as an adolescent (and kind of still do as an adult) was watch tv. It's literally all I did. I didn't do my homework (thank god for good test-taking skills, huh?), I didn't play sports most seasons and I didn't really go out with my friends too often. I watched tv. A lot. All the time. But that still is no reason for me to have watched Full House. I tried to get through like a minute of it today and even with the hijinks and frivolity involved in a small child left unattended driving a car through the side of the house while managing to sustain no injuries, I could not. You should not either. And you definitely SHOULD NOT buy the DVD. It will make me sad for you. Is there even a market for such a thing? I'm not convinced.

In other news, the insurance estimate for the damage to my car is $1474.00. Awesome. The roof probably will have to be replaced, as will the trunk. What is wrong with people. I only cried for a little bit when I discovered the damage, but the estimate somehow made it worse even though I know it's all covered (-$100 deductible, of course). What a fucking punk. Whoever you are, there aren't words for how disappointed in you your grandmother would be if she knew what you did to my car.

Unless, of course, she is like the charming lady I just saw on Judge Judy who was suing the mother of a 16-year-old girl who had died while driving the charming lady's car for the medical expenses of her doughy son who came out of the crash without a scratch and for the damage to her car. If she is like that lady, then your grandmother would likely take you out for ice cream and offer tips on how to get the windshield next time. But, I suspect she is not.

I need to stop watching Judge Judy, but Oprah was about plastic surgery and that just grosses me out. Plastic surgery should be used to fix disfigurements...physical, not mental ones.

Oh my god, I am the worst 27-year-old on the planet. Must get life post haste.

I got to see one of my nieces today for a little bit and that's always sunny, so, I guess today was a draw. Not quite happy, not quite sad. Now, I am going to throw away basically all of my clothes, as I have been saying I would do, then not doing for about a month now. Good stuff.

A Rough Go...

So, a week ago I decided to start a blog. Today, I did it. That right there tells you something about me. However, even though I can procrastinate with the best of them, I actually had things happen to me this week, leaving me with little time to start this little bugger. Would you like to know what happened? Let's start last Tuesday at about 1:30 pm.

Phone: Ring Ring!
Me: Hello?
Library Lady: We're tired of you bothering us with your resumes and other such nonsense, come in for an interview already!
Me: Yay! I'm so there!
Library Lady: Good, then will you leave us alone?
Me: Definitely maybe!
Library Lady: Ugh, goodbye already.
Me (while jumping up and down): Goodbye! Goodbye, Library Lady, goodbye! Thank you! Thank you!
Phone: Click

Let's now fast forward to Friday

Interview Lady: Oh hello, we'll be right with you in an hour and a half after we told you to be here, we've been interviewing all day and are totally drained and have no energy left to talk to you but you're here so, you know, whatever
Me (annoyingly smilely and happy and other such nonsense): No problem, thanks for calling me in!

Hour and a half passes

Interview Lady: Alright come on in and sit in this hot room and stumble through these questions while the four of us pretend to listen
Me (see above): OK, great!

Questioning begins, my answers go as follows:

Me: Um, well, maybe, perhaps, sometimes, only on Flag Day, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, uh huh, of course, right, right, right, really, huh, um, well, maybe perhaps, sometimes
Interview Lady: Alright spaz, that's enough, you can go.

So, not my finest performance. And it was only an interview for the job that I went to grad school for but who wants to work anyway, more time for Judge Judy this way.

Putting my crushing disappointment aside, I gamely pull myself together and head over to the lovely Georgetown apartment of my lovely friend for the going away party of her lovely boyfriend. Good time is had by all, especially by me because I drink lots and lots.

The next day, let's call it Sunday, I am driving another friend of mine back to the party apartment where we have left her car in the name of safety. On that ride I look in my rearview window and notice that there is a weird smudge on my back windshield. Then, I notice there is also a footprint (Timberland bootprint, if we're being specific) on the windshield. Then, I notice that ceiling of my car (is that what you call it? I know it's the roof but what do you call it while you're inside?) appears to be sagging. Curious, no? I immediately start to freak out, but I am driving, so my movements are limited. We get my lovely friend to her car and I get out and yes, half of the roof of my car has a gigantic dent in it. Sad, no? Well, there are also five other dents on my car and fucking Timberland and hand prints all over the place and I want to cry. I feel only slightly better when my friend notices footprints on her car and a little dent as well, but still, my car is fucked up.

So, not my favorite five days, but I'm sure things will look up. At least once they call me to tell me I didn't get the job, I can move on.