Chasing Happy

Week 3, Thing 5

2010-06-04T11:33:00.001-05:00

Don't blame the ewoks
Originally uploaded by marker (mark®)

For reasons not too hard to decipher, I decided to search "unemployment" on flickr and came up with this. I dig it. Earlier attempts to complete this "thing" have completely failed, so hopefully this will work before my MCPL time runs out!

Week 3, Thing 5

2010-03-25T14:37:00.001-05:00

Love notes for Juliet
Originally uploaded by Torve

Having a new baby, and family spread all over, I have become pretty familiar with Flickr over the past few months. However, I had never before searched through for images other than my own or my sister's.

I promise I did not search only my daughter's name, but unsurprisingly (at least to me) the most interesting photo I found came from that search. This shot of a wall in Verona, purported to be THE Juliet's home, is of hundreds of love notes stuck up with chewing gum.

While the gum part squicks me out some, I just love the idea of this wall and knowing that something like this exists in the world is a bright spot amidst the past grim days.

Week 3, Thing 5

2010-03-25T14:25:00.001-05:00

Love notes for Juliet
Originally uploaded by Torve

Speaking of Crying

2007-05-23T19:01:00.000-05:00

Never Get Married

That’s not true, of course you should get married. You should especially get married if you can marry someone like D’oh who is the only person who talks you out of your nonstop cryfest that you have to fake sick at work and go home to control. Just, if you do get married? Don’t have my day that I had today, because it will make you crawl under the covers and/or stare into space between fits of crying. And it is hot today. And I haven’t turned on the air conditioning. And I hate to be hot. A lot. So, sad crying + under covers= laugh/crying over how ridiculous you are with a remainder of migraine beginnings.

As you can probably tell, today was super-awesome!!

To begin, when you decide (because your Mom makes you…just kidding!) to get married in the Catholic Church, you know there are some marriage preparation hoops/hurdles/unnecessary ridiculous craptacularocities to contend with. What you are not aware right off the bat, though? Is how impossible it is to get someone to tell you what those things are and how to go about completing them.

D’oh and I got engaged last July. I couldn’t get an answer about marriage preparation from either the church I “attend” or the church at the beach where we are getting married until February. I called everyone. And then I called them again. And then I called them one more time. And then my Mom called and my sister called and what each and every one of us was told was, “It’s so far away, don’t worry about it.” Finally, I was told, “Take this class and you’re good.” Fine.

Class taken. It was very painless except for one moment in the class about “marital relations” where I thought the woman was about to seriously over-share about the best night of “relations” her and her husband ever had. Ew.

Fast forward to today, only take time to notice that in the last few weeks, my car has been purposely keyed by some little bastards at work, D’oh and I have become first-time homeowners of a supercute house (that really needs to be painted and oh my god why is paint so hard to pick!) and I am feeling very unready to be one, some old lady is calling downtown to complain about how unhelpful I am because I will not let her do eleventy things I’ve told her eleventy times I am not allowed to let her do, my wisdom teeth are coming through with claws attached, I think my left hip is slightly out of joint, a ginormous zit has appeared twice now on the side of my nose, I can’t sleep no matter how much alcohol I do/do not drink, I’ve found out my sister is moving to Missouri, and my apartment is disgusting.

Are you caught up? Good. Because today is the day I find out that I am a horrible person who has all this marriage paperwork to do and it says right here in your file, missy, that you were going to do all this paperwork in DC and you haven’t done it and it should have been done by now and the priest has no time for you and there is a Note in your File saying that Father Tom (who? he isn’t the priest marrying us and I’ve never heard his name before EVER I PROMISE!!!!) called you on September 5th and you never called him back and you can never get married and by the way you are stupid and I don’t like your haircut!

Cue Cryfest 2007.

I cannot get ahold of myself and I am baffled at the meanness of this woman who totally hears that I am crying on the phone with her and does NOT CARE and who I have spoken to at least twice before and nobody freaking mentioned this to me and oh my god I’m crying again as I write this, this is so ridiculous!!!

Anyway, I cry cry cry, fake sick, go home, cry some more, call my sister, cry some more, call D’oh, cry some more, pretend to nap, cry some more, finally start to clean my apartment (Shannon, you were right, throwing things away does make you feel better…but not that much), cry some more, decide the one Oprah I have a shot at watching this season will not help with the not crying as it is about some woman whose husband made her children videotape his beatings of her, and stare into space.

Finally, mean church lady calls me back and is still completely scoldful when she tells me that the priest can squeeze me in only if I am at Mass at the beach at 11:30 on June 3rd and D’oh and I can fill out my paperwork while he (the priest, not D’oh) does a baptism. Which is fine, only it ruins my bachelorette party that was supposed to be here in DC the night before so my sisters could escape their stinking kids for once and my friend from Puerto Rico could attend.

And can I just say that I have not even met this priest who is marrying us? Not even one time! And every time EVERY TIME I called there to meet up with him I was blown off in the most ridiculous way, like, “Bitch, you don’t need to meet no damn priest, he ain’t got no time for you anyway!”

But, hope is on the horizon because D’oh who was very matter of fact and helpful when the cryfest started at work is on his way over to cheer me up, right? Um, no. At last contact, D’oh was headed back home after his car overheated and almost blew the heck up on the side of the road because it is possibly about to die.

So, even if it isn’t helping me sleep, I’m off to find the alcohol. At least tomorrow I will be puffy and hungover and that sounds more appealing than how I’ve felt for even one minute of this afternoon. Later.

Crying Coming and Going

2007-04-09T22:42:00.000-05:00

This weekend I attended my cousin's quite lovely wedding at which I internally mocked him and most of his immediate family for being a bunch of cryers. Sniffly, damp-eyed, choked up cry-boys. I am a cryer, I know, but I chose to ignore this fact and mock with wild abandon through the whole weekend.

So, karma.

This morning I had a very long, very vivid dream about D'oh being dead. He didn't die in the dream, it picked up after he had died and I had apparently moved back to the beach with my parents and gone back to my old retail job. But apparently I had done so like 5 minutes after he died, because it was all I and anyone around me was talking about...while I was letting people into dressing rooms with no more than five garments/three if they were swimsuits. Anyway, his death was not well investigated obviously, because it ended with some girl saying she was going to ask the police to make REALLY sure that it was D'oh who was dead and not somebody else.

Strange dream, to say the least, and it also made me cry cry cry as I was waking up this morning.

And then tonight, my well documented favorite show, Run's House, returned with the episode I've been wondering if they would do, about their baby daughter who died at birth, and it also made me cry cry cry because it was so sad and so awesome at the same time.

So now I will rest, and tomorrow, because of my stinking Irish genes, and a vengeful dose of karma, my face will be full of puff and red.

After the wedding, D'oh and I purchased a plant for his mother that I don't think we were charged for, yet we didn't take it back. Stay tuned tomorrow for the story of how I will probably have gotten mugged. Thanks a lot, karma! Keep it up, and I'll stop watching My Name is Earl.

No, I won't. I love it. And karma, that sneaky trickster, totally knows it.

The Greatest Show on Earth? Really?

2007-04-01T19:43:00.000-05:00

Ask, and you shall receive, Shannon.

Once again, and probably for the last time, my sister and three nutjobs (plus six stuffed dogs, one of whom is a snake) arrived on my doorstep for the second annual circus/zoo/lunch in a restaurant/drinking too much by the adults weekend that has come, for me, to symbolize the beginning of spring. You have baseball, Shannon and I have liters of wine.

As usual, this weekend was peppered with some strange behavior on the part of her kiddies. While in every other location they may be cute, funny, and most importantly, compliant little things, once they enter my apartment door, they seem to overdose on some sort of punk pill. I can’t blame Marty too much for his inability to stop stomping his feet since we, as a family, usually applaud and encourage his twenty minute stomp and dance routines. But the girls’ strange obsession with the cup of change/Wedding Postage Fund that sits next to my television was almost the undoing of myself and their mother.

Part of this is my fault, since every other time they came over I had change sitting on every blank surface. But last weekend, all of the pennies, etc., had been firmly ensconced in a giant plastic cup. Which was seized by all kiddies for the sole purpose of dropping each coin one by one onto the hardwood floors so that everyone in my apartment and the one below me wanted to poke a variety of sharp instruments into their eardrums so that they would never have to hear that sound again. Then they covered a mirror with them. Then they were just taking out fistfuls for no reason. Then they wanted to weigh the cup of change. And then, my head popped off. Next time the nutjobs are in town though, D’oh and I will be in our house, I hope, and they can throw change left and right, up and down, east and west, you know, in a lot of directions, because it will be our house and no one will be living downstairs…unless we rent it out, because we’re broke.

Anyhoo, punkish though they are, I really was sad to leave the little buggers when I had to leave the zoo and head to work on Sunday. Part of me may have been afraid though, that Shannon might do away with them if Lauren’s attitude did not shift dramatically, and then I would have no one to drink with once next spring came around.

What we are actually here to talk about today, though, is the circus. The whole reason the nutjobs were in town was to see this allegedly entertaining show. Unfortunately, what we saw was equivalent in entertainment value to that show where they are trying to find the new Sandy and Danny for Grease. D’oh made the fatal mistake of claiming to want to see that once, so I checked it out for fresh mocking material. It made my brain bleed. Billy Bush, who I believe I have mentioned before is dumber than your average hammer, is in charge there. I have to tell you that because if you just watch it, you won’t be able to recognize him underneath the eleventy layers of makeup he is sporting. And he is the only man in America whose lips are currently a lighter shade than the rest of his face…I hope. (Actually, I can think of one more, check the last paragraph.)

What I have subsequently learned about the circus is that there are actually three of them, Red (which we saw last year and very much enjoyed), Gold (which we’ll probably get stuck with next year), and Blue (which I wish I had not seen this year.) The Blue circus is called the Circus of Dreams in which a “family” is pulled from the audience and given the chance to live out their “dreams” by joining the circus right then and there in front of your very own eyes. Yes, that’s right folks, Dan, a young boy of indeterminate Asian descent, will be forced to choose what he wants to do FOREVER right here in front of you, thousands of strangers. His mom, sister, and father, of course know what they want to do right off the bat so they…abandon him and then he is immediately attacked by a giant dragon. Hmm. Initially, what Dan wants to do is beat a drum and look bored. And lip synch…badly. The circus web site claims that the Dans and company (yes multiple, we’ll get to that) do not speak English, but they have learned to lip synch. A useful skill in this country, to be sure. Although I do appreciate the circus being forthcoming about this and not setting us up for a Milli Vanilli-scale disappointment, no, they have not learned to lip synch. Neither has Dan’s “mom” or his “sister.” (Angelina Jolie aside, there is no way that a paunchy, washed up Broadway actor, a borderline little-person Russian acrobat, an obnoxious, (no matter where she’s from) teenage dancer, and Dan make up a plausible family.)

Spoiler alert: It turns out what Dan wants to be is one of those people who get flipped around by other people’s feet. He learns this after taking part in a human video game? Or something. I was lost long before then.

My first (although I guess I have snuck a few in here already) complaint about this spectacle is that the performers were so incredibly bored that they were not even phoning it in, they were tapping it in, in a very slow, morose, Morse code. One clown (an actual one...heh) just stood still throughout the whole opening number. Now, I am the first to be irritated by overly chirpy children’s performers, but if what you do for a living is entertain children? Especially children in my family? Be chirpy or go home.

My second complaint is that there hardly were any performers in the circus. A good chunk of the time was spent watching video screens where we got to see a behind the scenes shot of circus performers teaching Dan how to cheat at poker. This is where I first caught on to the multiple Dans as the kid in the video looked so little like the one on stage it was almost offensive. Just because they’re both Asian, Mr. Ringling, doesn’t mean that I’m not onto you.

I say it was almost offensive because what was actually offensive was the other thing we had to watch on the screen, that being the “sassy” elephants. I’m not sure why, but for some reason, the elephants all spoke like Mary did on 227 when Lester was acting a fool. Only the elephants made no sense. It went a little something like this.

Sassy Elephant #1: “The humans think they’re in charge around here, but we know who’s really in charge, don’t we girls?”

Baby Elephant: [Insert long, rambly, obvious elephant fact here. Something like, “We eat lots and are big. Humans eat less and are smaller”]

Sassy Elephant #2: Mmmm-hmmmmm, let’s spray the clowns with water

Or something like that.

In conclusion, the circus was not that good and it didn’t make any sense and they relied far too heavily on the horsey boys who rode their horses through fire (Mean!) to keep everyone interested. There was a bunch of motorcycles in a ball but really all that is is loud.

But, the kiddies seemed to enjoy it and the truth is, if there hadn’t been a hockey game later requiring the Verizon Center to be a balmy one degree, and if Shannon and I hadn't, very unwisely, opened the second giant bottle of wine the night before, I probably would have enjoyed it more myself. And it is always fun to have Shannon and her kids around, partly because when we are together we run into things we probably would not notice if we were not together. Once, it was a little boy practicing his tin whistle on the porch. The day of the circus it was an irritated albino riding a Segway up and down the street for no apparent reason. What more can you ask for?

edited to add: A commercial for the circus just came on while I was posting this, and about half the things in the commercial were not in our show. However, the announcer made a point when he said, "You have never seen anything like the Circus of Dreams. And I hadn't. Now I have. Eh.

Technically? It's Thirty-Six, People, Thirty-Six, 'Kay?

2007-03-09T22:11:00.000-05:00

Lucky for you all I had nothing to do tonight because it just took my computer a month and a half to switch to the new blogger/google combo and I was inches away from chucking you all straight out my window. Now what we're doing today, kids, is killing some birds with some stones. Not literally, of course, that will get us thrown in the clink right quick. But figuratively, here tonight, through the magic of my crappy computer, I will simultaneously catch up on my email, and my blog. I know. It's super interesting AND also not boring. Except it might be. No promises.

ANYWAY

Earlier this week I got the email I'm sure you've all gotten entitled, 4 Things About Me and You. I get these survey things fairly regularly and I like them. I liked this one because it pretended (see title of this post) it was short, and sometimes 32 questions is just too many to be answering about myself. Then, I realized that I was mentioned by some, and defended by NONE, as someone who was unlikely to respond to that email because I am too busy. Which I am, but being me I instantly decided that of course I would respond, I always answer my email what do you mean no I don't just because I never do doesn't mean that I never do. I know, it's a fun little place inside my head. Then to add a non-injury to a non-insult, my non-blogging sister listed my blog as one she reads every day and then slammed me for never updating! Can you believe it? It's only been like, months, no? The result of this maelstrom of non-insults and non-injuries and non-blogging siblings has resulted in this post. As it is created out of guilt, I lay no claim to its quality. You only have yourself to blame, Carroll, if it sucks.

4 Things About Me and You

A. Four jobs I have had

Nanny (because I cannot escape children, they are everywhere I go and they flock to me, it's a little unsettling. My sister used to refer to me as a baby whisperer, and I don't think she was too far off.)
Sales clerk at a store in a resort town (I've discussed this at length somewhere in here, but I can't stress enough how miserable vacation people are. Stay home, I'll like you better that way)
Children's Librarian (ongoing...)
Abstractor/Indexer (you might think that sounds boring, but wait until you are stuck abstracting policy papers in a single office with someone you HAAAAAATTTTTTTEE!!!! Because, wow, that makes you want to invest in a hot poker for your own eyeball.)

B. Four movies I would watch over and over (I feel a little unqualified to answer this one as I just today finished watching a Netflix movie I've had since November. Yes, I am how they make their money.)

Bridget Jones' Diary (because if you don't love that part where he wraps her up in his coat at the end, I can't be friends with you. I can, but I will totally talk smack about you behind your back because you are an unfeeling and cold individual. Kisses!)
Any and all movies starring any and all Muppets characters. (Muppets, not Sesame Street, I appreciate what their purpose is, but all of the residents of that street seem to have some sort of personality disorder as well as abandonment issues. Big Bird, I'm looking at you.)
A Christmas Story (For real? You don't know why? You're dead to me.)
Sixteen Candles (Birthday cake? Table? Candles? Love.)

C. Four places I have lived (Hopefully in a few months there will be a new one to add to the mix. D'oh and I done bought a house...almost.)

Washington, DC (Within and without shouting distance of the wild animals that take up a heck of a lot of room.)
Wilmington, DE, Ardmore, PA, and Washington, DC, simultaneously. (I refer to this as my squatter period.)
Bethany Beach, DE (I refer to this as my leech period.)
Poughkeepsie, NY ( I refer to this as the time I escaped with my life as it turned out there was a serial killer on the next block. That was the best time of my life to not be a hooker.)

D. Four TV shows I love to watch (Four might be a stretch, I'm sort of mad at TV since it ruined Top Chef)

The Amazing Race (although if Oswald and Danny don't make it to the end of this season, I don't know that I will, either.)
Project Runway (don't you? DON'T YOU??)
House Hunters (see C above)
What Not to Wear (I am anticipating a return to obsessive viewing of this show now that the sound has mysteriously returned, after mysteriously disappearing, from TLC.)

E. Four places I have been on vacation

Bethany Beach, DE (it's not leeching, when it's vacation, right?)
Ocean City, NJ (I never could get myself to go through the haunted house, maybe someday...probably not)
Nassau, Bahamas (there was a smidge less national attention on that area at that time)
Wellesley, MA (a very fun, but very cold and froggy pool can be found here)

F. Websites I visit regularly

Perez Hilton (don't judge me)
Tell it to Coachie (I like to see how my own family is ripping me off every once in a while. HAHAHAHA)
The Entropy Three (she may be a thief but she's got cute kids)
Television Without Pity (because watching isn't enough)

G. Four of My Favorite Foods

Goat Cheese and Poblano Burger (you can find them here, and oh my god you should)
Any combination of potato and cheese (except au gratin, I just don't get it. Do you like it? Really?)
Dark chocolate (milk chocolate doesn't taste right. You won't convince me. And, please don't mix any chocolate with orange flavor because I will puke right now, I swear to god)
Spice Rubbed Chicken and Vegetable Tacos with Cilantro Slaw and Chipotle Sour Cream (Make it today! Tell your friends! Tell mine, maybe they'll make it for me!)

H. Four people I think will respond

Shannon and/or Carroll may leave a comment, but that will be all
----
----
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I. Four favorite beverages

Margaritas
Water, but without ice (haven't you had that glass that's all ice and no water and it keeps knocking against your teeth? And still with the ice? Don't even talk to me about water with lemon, or seltzer (sorry Mom and Shannon and Kate) Plain water is the only way)
Champagne (I like bubbles...and that it makes me a very happy, but slurrrrrry, drunk)
Coke (If I'm so hungover that I want to die, and I tell you that I want to drink something other than that, punch me in the face, because I am a liar)

So, there we have it, Thirty-Six things masquerading as 4 things about me. See you in a few months.

Fine, Here it Is! or How I Spent My Winter Vacation or Meddy Kreestmas, I Vant to Suck Your Blood!!!!!!!

2007-01-16T19:45:00.000-05:00

To say the least, the holidays were exhausting. In a good way, though, with lots of merriment and merrymaking, aside from a slight cheesecake power struggle that erupted between me and my mom, but was swiftly squashed by a realization that the wrong cheesecake had been made and the throwdown was called off. If you’re related to me, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re not, you are probably not reading this, anyway.

So, knowing in advance that the holidays would be doubly crazy and time consuming what with the addition of D’oh and his family’s traditions I decided to tackle the most work-intensive part of the holidays, gift giving, with an uncharacteristic good attitude. This shouldn’t have been too difficult because who loves giving gifts more than me? Answer: No one.

The good attitude was specific in nature, however. I knew that one wrong encounter with a surly salesperson would send me tipping right back over to RageTown, USA (It’s in Texas) so I decided that I would win them over. The salespeople would love me, because I would force them to. After all, I come from their ranks.

As recently as way too recently for someone my age, I worked retail in a resort town. What I learned in that job, is that people who have lots of money and go on vacation are evil and bad and should be paid a visit by Children’s Services. I’m not kidding. There is no person more miserable than the 50 something dad of a 5 year old being forced to spend time with their family in such a concentrated time and space. They hate their families a little, is what I’m saying. But! They have to keep that to themselves, that hate, so they feel free to share it with whoever else crosses their path, especially those who are younger and poorer than they are. And if they are in a position to impact those people’s day for the worse? They will take it and tear right into it. It really is disturbing how cruel grown people will be to people in the service industry, just because they can. But let’s not sail off on that tangent, there are vampires ahead in this story!

Anyway, one of those 50 year old men, I was determined not to be, so off I went to spread my Christmas cheer and much to my surprise, it freaking worked! People, as evidence of my success, listen to this! I won over the Grand Mama of Miserable Salespeople (a.k.a. the one lady working the returns counter at Toys ‘R Us one week before Christmas.) I had her wrapped around my finger by the time I got out of there, and she didn’t make me show my receipt. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to exchange anything there, but be it known that thou shalt render your blood in exchange for thy Tinker Toys iffeth you arriveth withouteth your receipteth. (That was weird, huh?)

I kept up my shiny attitude for many many shopping trips but then, as I should have known, I hit a roadblock. There are some people in my family, specifically some boys and boys-in-law that proved a little difficult to shop for. Now, I KNOW that I don’t have to give everyone the perfect gift and some people tell me I don’t have to give them a gift at all. Which is fine and I get it, but that kind of hurts my feelings because I do not give gifts because I have to, I give them because I love to give the gifts! I love the be the giver of the Best. Gift. Ever! So just take your gifts and tell me how awesome they are, even if you return them, ‘kay?

Um, anyway.

The quest for the gifts for these people had sapped my good will and my regular, somewhat cranky attitude was starting to emerge when I finally, Finally, FINALLY stumbled across a kiosk in the mall (I know) that sold these prints of all these places around DC that you would only recognize if you really lived here. At last! Perfect. Gift. FOUND!!! My good attitude was on the verge of returning, when I heard.

“You like to be looking at zee peectures?”

I turn around, come smack dab face to face with Vampire Lady #1

Me (still surprisingly friendly given that I am, you know, me): “I’m just looking”

VL#1: “ Ok, thees ees ze prices and thees ees the prices and over here, thees is the prices.”

Me: Ok, thank you.

VL#1: Oh, I deedn’t meeeen to boder you. I don’t want to be bodering you. I deedn’t meeeen to boder you.

Me (looking at D’oh with the exact expression you would have if you were a regularly rageful person who had just been perfectly nice to a vampire who in turn became completely offended): …

At this point Vampire Lady #1 wanders off a little and keeps muttering about how she didn’t mean to bother me which is fine except….WHAT?

I pick a print for a boy-in-law, pay the scary lady and scurry off, baffled to say the least and a little annoyed because my perfect record of salesperson kindness had almost been broken and who doesn’t like to achieve their goals? Not me, that’s who. (Does that make sense?)

However, because I am apparently the type of person who somehow always manages to prolong situations that annoy her to the point of insanity, I had to return to the mall for some last minute gifts, and I told myself that I would NOT leave the mall until all my shopping was done. Except then I couldn’t find anything so I unwillingly stopped back by the kiosk (I know) to give the prints another quick look. And, things were looking up because Vampire Lady #1 was not there. Except:

Vampire Lady #2: I see you bee looking at zee pictures for vedddy long time, no?

Me (Out. Of. Patience!): I’m just looking

Vampire Lady #2: Okaaaaaay, I just to be standing here staring at you until you are so uncomfortable you consider jumping over the railing to get away from me.

Me (Literally, two minutes later): Do you have another copy of this, there is some dirt on the mat.

Vampire Lady #2 (Drawing herself up to her full 4 foot 9 inch frame and giving a little, I don’t even know, shimmy?): You know what this is? This? This? This it is dirt. You know what else it is?

Me (to myself, I think): Kill me kill me kill me kill me

Vampire Lady #2: It is reeeeemmmovvvaaabbbllle.

Then the lady dusts it off, puts it back in the plastic wrap or whatever, puts the print behind her back and just stands there staring at me, obviously trying to hypnotize me with her eyes and creepy demeanor until I squeezed my blood into a sippy cup and gave it to her.

Many moments of silence pass. I have no idea what to do.

Me: So, can I buy it?

Vampire Lady#2: Oh, you want to buy it? I did not know because you are so….

And then she just stands there smirking at me. Never a good idea, my friends. Never.

Me (to myself, possibly): Do not kill her do not kill her do not kill her. Yes, she is insulting you in some strange Transylvanian way but this is the last gift, let’s make it through. Let’s dig in. Let’s dig deep. Let’s be a team player. Let’s remember our good attitude. Let’s remember how we won over the mean Toys R Us lady. Let’s…not expose our neck.

Unfortunate passerby to Vampire Lady #2: Do you know where the food court is?

Vampire Lady #2: You to go down and you to turn right.

And then she turned back to me while the girl is still standing there and says,

“You see how I am very abrupt with them, yes? I guess that is my way”

Me: What the…?

More awkward staring commences until she FINALLY tells me the price, takes my credit card, writes something down (not the price, some strange very long sentence) in her little notebook about me, and gives me a raised eyebrow as a goodbye after doing that thing where she keeps holding on to the bag after she hands it to me for just that extra second too long.

I have know idea what that whole experience was about, but it happened, and it was vaguely interesting enough to constitute a blog entry of some length so happy belated holidays. Fa la la la la and all that stuff and just be happy I posted, ‘kay?

I sort of promise to update more regularly with better written entries, but we both know I don’t mean it. Maybe that way I’ll actually do it…heh.

Progress, with a Problem

2007-01-09T23:19:00.000-05:00

I have actually started to write a post of some substance but unfortunately I have resolved to get more sleep and not be late for work anymore so I can't finish it. I'll finish it tomorrow. I sound like I'm lying but I'm not. Believe me, I'm a super good liar.

Just In Case You Thought I Was Smart

2006-11-21T22:22:00.000-05:00

Hi Internet,

Here's a quick note just to let you all know that I heard a pop in my head today and I have now confirmed that it was a cluster of cells just giving up and exploding. Here's how I know:

In an effort to get things done tonight, all but one of which I got done, I decided to tape Gilmore Girls.

Did it tape? Yes it did.

Did I change the channel and become baffled by static EVERY SINGLE TIME the commercials came on the TAPE?!?!?

Yes I did.

What's That? Shannon Stole My Letters?

2006-11-15T22:29:00.000-05:00

I don't think so. Yes, she has beautiful children, yes, she's a chemist, yes, she has managed to consistently out-shoe me this year, yes, she updates her blogs all the time and so everybody loves her.

BUT

NO

She will not steal from me!

And so,

Dear AOL,

I HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTEEEEEEE you!!!!!!!! I mean, from the bottom of my belly I hate you. You are the worst. You hide my mail from me, you do that irritating beyond all reasonable account thing where when I log out and attempt to write something in the address bar, you put the cursor in your search box. Where, you then execute the worst, most useless, least helpful search to be found on the Internet.

And why Why WHY, when I check my mail from work, do you a)never work and b)dedicate only enough room for me to see TWO emails when you have the entire freaking screen covered with useless nonsense!!!!!! I DON'T WANT YOUR CHANNELS!!!!!!!!!!!!

D'oh swears when we get married we can get high speed and then I will get rid of you and I will love it. It will fill me with so much joy that my Yahoo mailbox can be full to the brim with spam every day and I will whistle a little tune as I delete it because anything, even 500 emails from someone named debora who I think is stalking me, will be better than you.

You're dead to me,
e

Dear Top Chef,

Why are you on so late? I guess it's not that late but there was NOTHING on tv tonight so it feels very very late. And why are you so poorly edited? And what is with all the figs? And, um, dude, why call attention to the "crustiness" of your dish? Maybe it's just me, but that's a little yucky. However, I do think it's hilarious that the obnoxious bald judge has to eat alone in the kitchen and although this episode has not ended, I'm full of hope that the girl with the widgy ears who never says a word on camera but is full o'smack off camera, will be kicked off tonight.

(Edited to add) But let me say this, you jack-headed judges. If one of these contestants ever EVER didn't send out a dish, you know you would send them home in about 10 freaking seconds, so how about you just shut it, and maybe put some clothes on because even in an episode about offal, you are thing that grossed me out.

(Edited again to add) I do, however, appreciate the increase in the number of cute boys this year. Nicely done.

We'll see,
e

Dear Invitation Stationery Lady,

You are so nice. You are a pleasure. So far, you have been the most helpful, least pushy, most forthcoming with useful information type person outside of our families I have come across in the wedding planning parade and I would like to encourage you to go into the floral/catering/favor/priest business asap.

Thanks,
e

Dear Laundry,

Just do yourself. And don't be so expensive. And let me use different types of coins.

You're dumb,
e

Dear Gilmore Girls,

I don't get what you're doing. I've seen every episode of this show, and the one thing, that I absolutely have NOT been waiting for, is that pencil head grossing me out every freaking week. He may be on once a season at most if you want to stay friends. Otherwise, I'm telling everyone that you smell.

I'm not kidding,
e

Dear Internet,

I just remembered there is a Peppermint Patty in my purse.

Gotta go,
e

Saturday Is Still Part of This Week!!!!!

2006-11-04T22:42:00.000-05:00

So, this is what I was saying.

First, I am the first one to admit that I burn hours each week looking at other people’s wedding online. HOURS!

But.

Yes, getting married is a super-fun, important and momentous occasion, I totally and completely get where the excitement comes from. However. Since D’oh and I got engaged, I have gotten the distinct impression that I am not as on the ball/obsessed with my wedding as I should be.

So far, every conversation about the crazy looking ring that I am obsessed with on my left hand has begun with some version of the question, “What are your colors?”

To which I respond: “…”

Which in turn is greeted with, “Your colors?! The color theme of your wedding?!?”

To which I have no response. Why can’t I have all the colors? I’m not the colors girl. I have never been strongly associated with a specific color to my knowledge and there is not a given color theme that has marked the majority of my life. And I read these web sites where these lovely and excited girls are ticked that their MOH (maid of honor, not, as I had originally believed, Monkey of Hell) are not fully on board with their color scheme of celadon, celery, and cucumber. (Because EVERYBODY looks good in celery!) One girl’s best friend for real emailed her and bitched her out for choosing teal, when she KNEW that the best friend had always wanted teal since the day she was given the absolutely wrong priorities by her mother!

Why do I know this? Because these lovely and excited girls are posting every single teeny tiny miniscule itty bitty detail of their wedding planning on the Internet. And yes, I’m reading them, so I have no room to be even whispering, let alone talking, but this has struck me as decidedly strange, and a little deflating.

Why am I not taking hours out of work to track every new post on the Washington, DC board of theknot.com? Am I not as excited about being married? (I object to this question, I totally am excited!) Am I not as on the ball as they are and so they have more time than I to post and then post and then respond to every post about their giant poofy dress? (Not unlikely, I’m not exactly known for being ahead of the game, more of a cram the night before kind of girl right here) Why do I refer to D’oh as D’oh and not my DH (Dear Hubby or some such nonsense that makes my skin, literally, try to crawl away from my eyeballs every time I read it) or my FI (having given up the cussing, I can’t really go into what I thought that meant, but apparently it means fiancé…who knew?)?

I think it’s because I was just not brought up to be the girl who plans your wedding starting when you are in 1st grade (which reminds me, I just was reminded about Tom Thumb weddings. They are creepy. Please quit it.). I was raised to be the girl who had her own life and if she met a nice, kind, freakishly tall dork-o who will use every paper product around including post-its! EXCEPT tissues to blow his nose, who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, so be it.

And I have decided that that is ok. I’m going to do things the way I think is most reflective of the way D’oh and I are hoping that our life will be. I’m not going to wear a tiara, especially not one that can then be made into some nasty ass choker that I would never pay myself to wear. I’m going to insist that the wedding party wear exactly what they feel best in, because that is certainly what I am going to do, and I’m going to invite every child and +1 that pops into my head. This other stuff, this obsessive stuff, this stuff about monogrammed aisle runners and candy buffets, I have finally come to realize, is silly silly fluff and not something that JUST I am missing the appeal of.

Our wedding is going to be a super fun rollicking good time where people I like (and some that I’ve never met but sound lovely) will come and eat a reallllly good cake and wish us well. (That, and hopefully provide us with a KitchenAid mixer because I looooooooooovvvvvve it!) And that is enough.

Anyway, Back to What I Was Saying...

2006-10-30T21:42:00.000-05:00

Hello, cupcakes!

So sorry for the delay, but first I had a birthday, then I had a vacation, then I had to recover from my vacation, and then I decided I could do nothing else until I went to the gym. No updating, no nothing. Not. Until. the Gym. So, I went today, and now here I am.
Hi!

Now, the one thing of note about today, or, no, yesterday, is that my freaking cell phone, the phone that was supposed to bring peace to all the land and keep me from blowing the heck up…has died. It imploded, melted, broke the heck down, and just plain don’t work no more. This is a dangerous situation. The replacement phone, unless I wanted to PAY (new code here at Chasing Happy: CAPITAL LETTERS=RAGE) for it, won’t come for like a week. No good. So this week is a tenuous time for all of us. D’oh is on the lookout for ear steam emissions and the children at work have been warned and practiced the safety drills that come along with a rage pop head.

Now, what have you all been up to? How has October been for you? Did you switch your clocks? What are you going to dress up as tomorrow? Nothing? Me neither. I freaking hate costumes. On me. On other people, ain’t no thing. Go forth and trick or treat. Check for needles in your M&Ms, though, and no unwrapped sweet goods, ok? I’d hate to have something happen to you.

One thing I did note today though, is that the site counter here has hit 1,000, which is strange and fun and happy-making all at once. But, since I’m fairly sure that 250 are me, 250 are my sister, 250 are my other sister, and 250 are D’oh, with a few poor souls who were trying to get to nakedtown.blogspot.com by clicking from one blog to the next sprinkled in, I’m not going to get too big in the noggin. I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to since my dome is plus-sized to start.

Anyway, I’m a little tired, and a little spacey, so I’m going to stop for now, but I SWEAR (that’s not rage, that’s earnestness, perhaps we will denote earnestness with italics from now on, and you can tell I really am earnest about that, can’t you?) I will make it back around these parts before the week is out.

Because, there are engaged people all over the internet referring to the person they are marrying as either their DH or their FI. I don’t know what you all think those things mean, but they apparently really do not mean what I thought they meant.

Later!

Coming Attractions

2006-09-26T23:26:00.000-05:00

Wow, it has been a while, no? I already know the answer is yes, people keep mentioning it to me. And actually, this is not a real post, this is a place holder, if you will.

I actually have a lot to say around these parts but I may have caught narcolepsia from D'oh and have been actually trying to accomplish things outside of work. I never do that, so I haven't really figured out my time management. I mean, look what time it is right now! And then go to bed, because it is very late.

ANYWAY, upcoming topics include, '5 people I have come across that make me glad I'm marrying D'oh and not one of those 5 people,' my theories on the substances that make up Billy Bob Thornton's head, and my ridiculous amount of dislike for the movie 'Elizabethtown.' Then we will tackle why I'm not using proper quotation marks, and my newfound ability to keep my apartment clean, before we touch on some aspects of the wedding industry that are on my last nerve.

So, we'll pick this up tomorrow, hopefully. Well I guess today is tomorrow, (Why is the movie 'Say Anything' forever in my brain waiting to come out), so we'll tackle this later. Not now, is what I'm saying.

I'm Sorry, Will I What?

2006-08-14T22:34:00.000-05:00

So, hmmmm, what do you want to talk about?

Do you want to talk about the Thursday I was exposed to a variety of communicable diseases? The highlights of that experience involve my keys, my cell phone, a woman with unwashed hands, Target, and a potentially dead body.

Do you want to talk about the fact that yesterday I had nothing, Nothing NOTHING to do and so I, in fact, did nothing Nothing NOTHING! Except, I did watch a lot of TV. Specifically, I flipped back and forth between Tupac: Resurrection and Grizzly Man. The impact of that experience is still playing out in my head and once I have fully understood its meaning, we will reconvene here and discuss. It’ll be huge. Trippy, even, I believe.

Do you want to talk about the time I got to use the phrase, “brother from another mother” (aka “brotha from anotha mutha”) twice in one month and it was totally appropriate both times?

Do you want to talk about the fact that today was very disillusioning on a cosmic level and I realized that a gigantic portion of my life is doomed to failure? No, me neither.

Do you want to talk about the fact that I have tricked some foolish tall boy into thinking that I am the sort of person he wants to hang out with for good, permanently, and until he is dust? Me too. It was fun.

So, D’oh. You’ve heard of him, scroll down if you haven’t. He is known best around these parts for sleeping through crises and making poorly thought out comments about my comprehension of world events. But, he is also lovely and kind and digs me. And wow, is he tall. His wingspan is the length of a couch. I’m not kidding. Ask my sister. Brother is tall. The fact that he cannot, in fact, take flight, continues to baffle me.

Anyway, let’s not get off track.

(You: “Hi, Erin? Spit it out, mmmkay? This story happened weeks ago and when you no longer abandon your blog for weeks at a time, then you can tell your stories however you want. Until then, you will reach your point and you will reach it soon, or you will feel wrath.” Me: “Whatever, I know only my sisters and D’oh read this, so you just hush-a-long, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmkay?”)

Anyway, let’s still not get off track.

Now, the fact that D’oh and I are were thinking about throwing down matrimonial-style was officially? The Worst Held Secret EVER!!! We have a pretty plaque to prove it (not the tooth kind, that’s yucky). Places were booked, is what I’m saying. Places were even booked, canceled, and then new places were booked, is what I am saying now, before we were even engaged. Which we now are, but we were not for a very long time after we had booked the things, and that made me feel….like an a—hole. And that is so not how I enjoy feeling. But D’oh had a plan and he wanted to stick with it and I wanted to be the girl that was cool with that. And I really, really, RRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAALLLLLLLY tried to be that girl, and I succeeded minus one freak out that both of us weathered fairly well.

Anywho, I am waiting very much patiently for my proposal (not my ring, different, much longer story there, y’all take a vote and let me know if you want to hear it) up until the night that our PARENTS are going to MEET even though we STILL ARE NOT ENGAGED NOT THAT I WAS AT ALL FREAKING OUT ABOUT THAT!!! SHUT UP, I WAS NOT! Or are they?

Here I am, innocently emerging from getting ready, and having a really good hair day, surprisingly enough when I encounter both my sisters waiting for me. It went a little something like this.

Me: Hey

Sisters (intently staring):

Me: Ummm, hey?

Sisters (intently staring):

Me: He-ey?

Sisters: D’oh left something for you in the utility closet

(Oooh, let me interrupt here. The utility closet was not even in the original plans for my parents’ new house. Imagine where we would be if my parents had not been so patient that they agreed to wait for the builder’s every freaking move with so much goodwill that the builder stuck an extra room in their home! You know where we would be? At the beginning of this useless parenthetical note.)

Me:…

Sisters (thinking to themselves, “This is why we don’t let our children throw each other around and injure each other’s heads, look what we did to this poor thing”): The utility closet

At this point we all walk to the utility closet.

What was in this closet: A giant tape recorder, a big white envelope with my NAME on it, and a giant arrow pointing to the giant tape recorder that said PRESS PLAY.

What I saw in the closet: …

Sisters (concerned for my brain stem): Right there

Me: …

Sisters (pointing wildly and considering medical intervention): RIGHT THERE

Me: …

Me: What?...Wrapping paper?...Huh……. OOOOOOOOOHHHHHH, a beer?

My sisters had placed a beer on the giant tape recorder, next to the giant envelope and giant arrow. I see the beer, still don’t see anything else (Is that a red flag?). One shoulder shake and a bop on the head later I figure out I’m supposed to press play. However, and this part was not my fault, the arrows for play and fast forward and all the directions are all backwards. Unnecessary roadblock, I say, European innovation, you say. Then you say “ouch” because I pinch you. I figure it out half an hour later (who’s got the Master’s Degree up in here?) and there is D’oh’s voice over the Mission: Impossible theme telling me that my ride will be there shortly.

Only. Shortly is an HOUR away, and I am already ready and now I need to puke. And also I apparently need someone to tell me that I am not, in fact, going out to dinner with my parents and D’oh’s parents because I am slow (Shannon: “…to walk!”).

Finally, an hour passes, I drink my beer and then a 13-year-old makes me a hell of a margarita, and if you have seen anything cuter than my nieces and nephews seeing a limo pull up to the house, you are Bambi’s neighbor.

And, of course, I have the most inappropriate ugly-AND-wrongly-buttoned-vest-wearing limo driver driving a limo full of birthday balloons. Ken, that would be him, insists that it is my birthday. It is not. Ken insists that we are picking up several people. We are not. Ken also insists that D’oh has not done a very good job planning this out and if he had only told the limo people what was up, they could have really done it up right. Ken, apparently? Not much for getting off on the right foot.

(You: “Damn, wrap this @#$% up already!” Me: “That’s no way to make friends.”)

So, four clues, forty-four bug bites, one dig in the sand and fourteen internal, “Shut up, Ken”s later, I arrive at the beach where D’oh is waiting. We walk a million blocks to a little blanket and chairs setup where I…melt.

Wait.

I do not melt from emotion or excitement or la-la-la but from being so sweaty from the fifty pounds of humid air that has taken up residence on my shoulders. It was…not cold.

We both power through, though and D’oh gets down on one knee and says,

“Erin”

And then he says,

“Me”

(He said a lot of things in the middle that were very lovely that are not so much your business but even if they were, I don’t remember word for word. I was a little preoccupied by the fact that my heart was beating like a million miles a minute. I’m not being sappy, I was worried about infarction. I don’t know what that is, but I think it’s heart-related, no?)

I said, “Of course I will” and now we are officially getting hitched and it is going to be so super fun. It is so super fun that writing this actually made me feel better today and today was, officially, the Worst Day This MONTH!

For real, I have a pretty plaque.

Hopefully? A Step in the Right Direction

2006-07-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

Deep title, no? Don't get worked up. It's about nothing.

The other day my boyfriend mentioned that he loves my hands because they are always so warm. AAWWwwww, right? Um, sorry, I’m not that girl. What I realized though, at that moment, is that the reason my hands are always so warm? I think my blood may be at a constant boil. Why? The rage.

So, the rage. Not the best. And it’s getting a little difficult to contain. I think the problem with the rage is that it is continually sparked by things I have no control over. Like what, you ask? How about a list:

Global warming
The mouse that I think is still in my %$#@ing apartment (why oh why did I ever bring up Lesson #1? It’s hurting me. Physically. I need to throw up a little bit, is what I’m saying.)
Everyone under the age of 24 (Nieces and nephews excluded of course)
Everyone, and I mean everyone, on television. (Except! Run’s House. I know. I’m obsessed. But it just makes me smile, ok? OK?!?)
My very belated for no apparent reason raise
My hair
My giant dome that I have knocked three times in one day on the doorframe of my car and then on a table. I hate myself.
Traffic
People with bumper stickers
Stand up comedians
AND, first and foremost, my cellphone.

Now, you probably don’t have rage. You probably are normal and your blood actually dips below 200 degrees on a regular basis and you are not always always ALWAYS hot. (Alternative explanation for why I can never ever sleep under the covers until the ice forms on my nose? Super-early menopause. And doesn’t that make me feel better?...No it does not.)

If you are someone with rage though, let me give you this advice.

Replace your cell phone. Now. Today. IMMEDIATELY. (Why couldn’t you just listen the first time. Why did you make me yell? People? The rage. Pay attention!)

Granted, I should not have stuck with my cell phone for so long. If nothing else, the rotary dial should have tipped me off that I was not buying the most up-to-date model on the market. But! Stick with it I did in the name of frugality, being a grad school student (First I wrote law school student and totally thought it was right. I did not go to law school and seeing as how I am, well, myself, I should have picked up on that. Sad), and self-punishment for spilling a bottle of water on my last cell phone that I loved Loved LOVED because I could set a picture of a fish on the screen.

But I have hated my phone since day one. And the fact that it always drops my calls has not been good for the rage. I mean every time a call gets cut off or my battery dies not three hours after it has charged for an entire day, the rage becomes such that my head pops off. And that’s just messy. I have to flail around the until I can find it, then I have to screw it back on, and then I have to coax my poor boyfriend out of whatever corner he is cowering in because I have almost burned down the apartment with the rage. (And also, don’t you fucking (whoops!) hate that I keep saying “my boyfriend”? Punch me in the face already! We’ll call him by his name…eh, what if someone kills him. We’ll call him what I usually type when I type his name. Um, that’s mean. We’ll call him “D’oh!” That’s close enough. And that’s not mean at all since he just called me uninformed about world events! Hi!)

So, long story not even a little bit shorter, I have bought a new phone. It will arrive shortly and peace will be restored to the land. For that day, at least.

Obviously the Lesson You Need to Learn

2006-06-22T19:46:00.000-05:00

Is that when I say “tomorrow night” what I mean is “a week from tomorrow night, if nothing is on tv.”

Oh, that’s not true. Don’t feel bad. There is too something good on tv, Run’s House, yet I am here anyway, because I saw this one last week.

I just wrote and deleted an entire post because I am fried. Every part of my body hurts and spending the whole day at work with hundreds (literally) of children and no air conditioning has left me in a state where adhering to Lesson #1 is at best unlikely. So instead of entertaining you tonight, I am going to eat a low-fat ice cream cone, watch Run's House, and pass out.

Later.

Life Lessons! (Peppered with PARENTHESES and interESting CapitalizaTION)

2006-06-12T21:28:00.000-05:00

The reason you all have not had the pleasure of my company lately is that things have been…irritating at best, thunderous rage-inducing at worst. But, today things have looked a little bit up, and I have decided to look back at the last week in a new light. The first glass of wine light. Just kidding of course, I’m totally on my second glass.

Lesson #1 Ix-Nay on the Ussing-Cay

So, my sister called it first, but it’s true. I am a total guttermouth. But only when I’m full of rage. The problem? I’m full of rage on a semi-regular basis. It’s encoded in my DNA and I’m just not sure there’s anything I can do about that. And you don’t need to chastise me about the rage, because when I am full of it, I am aware of it, and I am wracked with guilt. So…keep it to yourself, mmmkay?

Anyway, I first started having twinges about the constant cussing (and if you live north of DC, yes, it’s very funny that I say cussing and not cursing. It’s hiLARious. I get it) when my sister started linking to me all the time and I realized that it’s probably a little jarring for people to go from a blog about lovely and freaking (see? I’m trying) hilarious children to one where I channel old ladies and cuss (I still get it. It’s funny. Move on, Yankees) like it’s my job. Although that old lady did cuss and so I’m giving myself a pass on that one.

Also, since my parents probably never read this blog before she started with the linking (which I’m not against, and look what good has come out of it!) they probably are a little taken aback by the constant dropping of f-bombs (not my dad possibly, though, I’ve heard about what goes on during golf) and at the age of 28, I still live in fear of them. What if they react the way they did when they caught me coming in from outside with my coat unzipped! I still remember that moment with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It was not pretty. (Before you get concerned, what happened was, I was only allowed outside after promising to zip up my coat and wear a hat. And then I, um, didn’t. And I was completely busted coming up the front steps by my dad at the exact moment I was trying to re-zip and re-chapeau and then he said, “Why don’t you have your jacket zipped up?” My response: “WWWWWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! I’M SORRY!!!!! WWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” Ugh, always with the dramatics with that one. No wonder she never got to go to Maine.)

The point of that rambly section? Me=scared of angry parents. Blog=no more bad words.

The final reason why the cussing must go is that my nieces and nephews have started an alarming trend. They are trying to do a little thing called READING, and they are alarmingly computer literate and it would be just my luck for 2-year-old Marty to learn a certain word that starts with luck because Mommy left the wrong screen up and his brilliant sisters started reading aloud. (Because she is soooooooo like that. Terrible mother, that one!) Unlikely, but why risk it?

Lesson #2 I am too attached to my car

Picture this: A girl and her boyfriend are driving to beach. Girl is driving girl’s car because she doesn’t like it when other people drive it and um, oh yeah, her boyfriend didn’t offer to even though he got off work 2 hours earlier and doesn’t work with children who could use Lesson #1 (Hi!)

Girl (Guess who it is!): Ah, my car. I love my car. This is the best car in car town. I loooove her.

Boyfriend: Snorrrrrrrrre

Engine Light: Hi! Here I am! I work! This is how I light up! And I am here to give you a panic attack!

Girl: AAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHH! The engine light! We’re all going to die! And I’ll have to get a new car and I LOVE MY CAR AND OH MY GOD YOU ARE A BOY WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY CAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I’m quoting, it’s allowed. It’s required by law, actually…shut it.)

Boyfriend: huh, engine light. SSNNNNNNOOORRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

Girl: (whimper) my car is sick. (whimper)

Boyfriend: SSSSSSSSssssssssnnnnnnnnnnoooorrrrrrrrrreeeeeee. And P.S.? I’m asleep.

To move this along, boyfriend redeems himself by dropping off girl’s car at seemingly reputable repair shop but then takes a half step back by unwisely calling girl AT WORK to tell her that the light is demanding $1500 to go away. Girl freaks out, CRIES at WORK, which is the worst thing ever and calls her dad and probably gives him a mini-stroke by crying semi-hysterically and saying that she was having a crisis. (Probably too strong, that crisis phrase. But she was very sad! She LOVES her CAR!) Brilliant dad lays down the law that we don’t negotiate with terrorists and offers multiple plan Bs for the sick sick poor little car who just didn’t deserve for that stupid light to come on!

Goodness, this isn’t moving along at all, is it? Basically, reputable repair shop not so reputable and the breaky break costs exactly nothing to fix. Jerk.

Lesson #3 Get thee a warranty, post haste.

The reason the breaky break is free? Still under warranty. I will now have a warranty for everything. I don’t care if it’s a scam, I will always get it. I will warranty paper plates if you want me too. I’m sold.

Lesson #4 Mormons are everywhere I go.

This is not a lesson so much as something I have noticed. If you get a lesson from it, I am not responsible.

Now, I read a book about Mormons, and then that Mormon guy is on the run for marrying all the girls in all the salty towns, and then I went to the beach where my sister and I had the full-of-ick experience of watching what can only be described as a husband and two sister-wives enjoying the pool during adult swim. (I know. Go throw up. I’ll wait.) And let’s not forget the HBO show with naked Bill Paxton EVERY FIVE SECONDS!

Finally, I watched What Not to Wear (because everyone should) and saw one Mormon who safety pins her clothes together and then I think I saw some other ones who looked so freakishly similar and had so many children that if they’re not Mormons they are the main characters from Flowers in the Attic (I’m not saying they killed their mom, but I’m saying there’s a chance they are brother and sister) . At the very least, they are related to Timothy Busfield.

No comment here about Mormons though, because what I learned from that book? Is that Mormons? Will cut a bitch. (That expression works no other way. Baby steps, people!)

Lesson #5 I am not meant to drive a Pontiac Grand Prix

So, you get it. The car issue was not good. For anyone. Especially anyone who had to deal with me during that whole debacle.

But.

The one thing, the only thing, that could make me laugh (at least until I got to my sister’s and 6/7 of my nieces and nephews were in attendance and significantly cheered me up) was my rental car.

People? I drive a Mazda Protégé. It is itty bitty. The Grand Prix? Is full size. Full size is code for gigantic, humongous, not small, and also for “Erin, you should really know better.”

I have driven a few full size cars before. My mom’s, my aunt’s, and my psycho psycho tried to kill me roommate’s.

I have driven in a full size car when my grandmother who used to live with my uncle’s family at the tippy top of the tallest hill in Massachusetts ( I totally spelled that right on the first try!) would throw the closest grandchildren at hand in the car and careen down the hill to the ice cream store. (And also when the psycho psycho tried to kill me roommate tried to, well, KILL ME.)

And careening? Is the only thing you can do in a full size car. Things are rattling (Heh. I wrote thong first), the side mirrors are the size of your head (And my dome? Is not small), steering wheels that are too thick for you to wrap your hands around are rotating on their own, you can’t reach your bag even if it is just on the other side of the armrest, and you have to pull your seat up so close to the steering wheel that you knock your hips into it if you ever try to get out. (The real cause of hip replacements in the 70+ population? I think so.) How are you supposed to drive like this! You can’t.

You must careen and hope for the best. And that? As cheesy as it is, is not the worst way to get by. And while I do have more things to write about I have to return the rental at a sinful hour and must rest. Good night! We’ll finish this tomorrow.

The Little Old Lady Who Lives in My Brain

2006-05-22T22:12:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of taking an extremely long subway ride with a lovely lady by the name of Bobbie (and…of course that was her name, there is no other name she could be) who started every sentence with, “So I says to Nancy, I says--Nancy that’s my boss, that’s Nancy--so I says to Nancy, I says…” and then she said whatever she said to Nancy, she said. She, apparently, said a lot of things to Nancy. And she said a lot of things to Nancy, she said, about those gosh darned Democrats and about how they keep calling to complain about this ad that they say is a baldfaced lie and she said to Nancy, she said, ‘Do they know it’s a baldfaced lie or not, have they read the research? Do they know it’s a lie? Do they know for sure that it’s a baldfaced lie?”

I kind of think, if those gosh darned Democrats had just said the ad was a regular lie, I would have nothing to write about right now. It was the baldfaced part that seemed to rub Bobbie just the wrong way and kept her from ever, ever stopping with the talking.

The point though? About Bobbie? Is that I’m OBSESSED with her. I’ll likely never see her itty bitty little frame in her hot pink terrycloth jumpsuit, her bleached “kicky” haircut, and her gigantic glasses ever again but a little part of her? Lives in my heart. The part that is super mean. A bigger part of her though, lives in my brain. And ever since that day? I have started almost every thought in my itty bitty little brain with, “So I says to ______, I says.” For example:

So I says to Paul McCartney and Heather Mills, I says, did you ever think that you all are getting divorced because you are both annoying as fuck?

So I says to the show “Alias,” I says, I have no interest in you. Just go. And put something vaguely interesting on in your place, because you are at best? Dull.

So I says to the show, “Grey’s Anatomy,” I says, I know my sister has more than put you in your place but godDAMN you are the worst show on television. Of course women can’t be good doctors! They only want men. They only play doctor till the big boy doctor pays attention to them, or sleeps with them in an empty room, and then they are truly happy because they never wanted to be a doctor. They only wanted a boyfriend! I hate you. And not just because I hate Ellen Pompeo. I hate her because she just seems mean.

So I says to the guitar player of The Eagles, I says, so Bravo put your concert on TV, do you really think it’s a good idea to remind everyone that you’re just a bunch of whiny-voiced assholes by wearing a yellow construction hat and Hammer pants for no apparent reason? And nobody likes “Hotel California.” Shut up…I says.

So I says to MTV, I says, nobody, and I mean from the deepest part of my soul, NOBODY wants to watch another Road Rules/Real World Challenge. NOBODY! Aren’t all these people like 40?

So I says to the fucking bumps that are reappearing on my hands, I says, I will fucking burn you off before I will deal with you for the rest of my life. I suggest you deflate…now.

So I says to American Idol, I says, you make me very uncomfortable. When are you going to go away? When is Paula Abdul going to rehab? She could not even hold herself together on the Home Shopping Network (HSN) to sell her star-shaped jewelry!

So I says to you, I says, I prefer not to discuss why I know about Paula Abdul’s visit to HSN.

So I says to the people on Channel 4, I says, is it really that cool to ask people who you are warning that a TORNADO is soon to arrive at their abode to send any film or video of that tornado to you? Do you not think that could be a little, I don’t know, fucking dangerous?

So I says to that toenail fungus commercial or whatever the fuck that commercial with the yellow thing is for, I says, I will pull my toenails off myself before I use whatever the fuck you are selling to cure whatever the fuck might be wrong with them.
(That was a little gross, huh? Sorry. I think Bobbie has taken over my body because I appear to be full o’rage.)

So I says to myself, I says, why are you cussing so much today?

And then I says to myself, I says, I swear in ordinary conversation I do not talk like this but in my head I am basically waiting for the day when my grandchildren sit me out on the lawn with a poker visor, a webbed plastic chair, and some pink lemonade so that I can flip off the neighbors without fear of reprisal.

Later.

Why Don't I Know Anything?

2006-05-15T21:48:00.000-05:00

I had an expensive, extensive education, where I had the opportunity to learn anything and everything I could possibly want to know. And what I learned is that I can write, I think fairly well (did you not see the fantastic and fascinating list I composed earlier this week? Genius). And I have more than your average aptitude for numbers. I’m smart enough to recognize people that mean me, and more often than not you, harm and I’m smart enough to pay some fucking attention when I finally meet a worthwhile and lovely boy. But what I never learned was what the hell had happened.

My knowledge of history and science is woefully inadequate. I vaguely can tell you whenabouts something happened and more often than not I can tell you who probably won a given war. Absolutely somebody walked on the moon and of course My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies…I think. But there is so much I don’t know it actually frightens me at times. And what I never figured out is how I missed out on knowing. Of course, I never did my homework. Ever. But I never did math or English homework either so that can’t entirely be why. What I think, however unfairly, is that the science and history teachers I came across early on were just not up to the job. I suspect that almost everyone in my graduating class from that school is just about as uninformed as I am. This is not a screed against teachers. (See? Screed? Smart.) I know a billion teachers and I am also smart enough to know that they will never be paid enough. They just won’t. Granted, they may not be able to handle the rigors of smiling widely like Julia Roberts does to earn her $20 million a movie, but they deserve a little more dough.

But my specific teachers? In elementary school? Well, one told me that my grandchildren would have gills. (“How’s Nemo?” “Cute, Mom, but how do we get him to stop picking his fins?”) The one thing I learned from a certain social studies was that the Firth of Forth, whatever that is, if that is even a thing, is in Scotland. I learned that because he made me stand in front of the entire class like an asshole and make like a hundred million guesses before he gave in and told me. “Come on, Erin. Firth? Hello? Scotland? You can sit down.” Dick.

I’m reading this book right now about John Wilkes Booth and his brother. Did you know they were actors? Famous ones? Both of them. I knew JWB was an actor, but I totally thought he was a shitty one. I thought he was Kyle from the Real World Chicago who is taking the world by storm as Philip on Days of Our Lives, the dumbest hammer on record. There is all this information about the Civil War in there, most of which I respond to with, “Huh?...huh.” Because I have no idea what happened. I went to Gettysburg, but all I remember is the bus ride. It was long. I’m also getting ready to read a book about how drinks, such as tea and soda, shaped history, and another about Booth and still another about e.e. cummings and then when I’m finally done, I’m going to read a bunch of books about LBJ and then track down something that will teach me any kind of something about this planet, or the other ones. And then I absolutely have to track some books about Vietnam and World War I and II and the Korean War because if there is anything I know nothing about, it is what caused these wars.

Perhaps, you’re thinking, I just didn’t have the “head” for history and science. To which I would say, no expression has done the children of this country a greater disservice than that one. I read a brilliant article in library school that proved, basically (this could not be more boiled down if it was, you know, something very boiled) that girls who are exposed to nonfiction books at an early age are more likely than other girls to score high on math and science tests. That is mindblowing to me. One extra click at Barnes and Noble or Amazon and your daughter has hopped one more fence keeping her from her fine lab coat. How many more easy things could we be doing? There are so many people, myself included, who just aren’t doing enough as they should be to knock those fences down altogether for girls and boys, especially the poor ones. I see so much wasted intelligence on a daily basis that it is disheartening.

Today, one of the schools that I should be serving learned that it will close at the end of this school year. And it is in a dilapidated building in a kind of shady neighborhood and absolutely there are valid reasons why it should close. Except. And this is the thing that no one will know because it IS in a shady neighborhood and it DOES serve kids that you cannot help but want to look away from and there are richer and poorer schools closing. The Except is: this is the only exclusively special education school in the neighborhood where I work. And that is why it is so expensive to operate and why it is hurting my heart a little bit that it is closing. Another school I serve has not had a librarian, or a library, for three years. Next year it will be four. Kids attend that school for seven years total. When those kids are my age, and realize they know nothing, it will not occur to them to look for a book to teach themselves unless I force myself on them now to an obnoxious degree and teach them how to do it. That could also be disheartening, or it could be a purpose. We shall see.

Nothing, really

2006-05-12T12:38:00.000-05:00

So, you may be wondering why I have reappeared.

Some may think it’s because I have used so little of my brain lately it’s starting to leak out my ears. Some may think it’s because I have huge news to impart (I totally don’t, if you are part of that some, you should look away). But the truth is this. My sister has decided to try to outblog me, with not one, but two blogs that are better than mine and that just will not stand.

As some of you may know, my sisters and I are ultra-competitive. We MUST outdo each other and make the others feel small and little and also? Puny. We’re like those sisters in that movie where one plays one instrument (saxophone?) and one plays another (cymbals?) and the little mousy one gets famous and the more-talented-yet-also-more-evil one gets…drunk, and I think dead. That’s us! Hate and Bitter and Mean Stuff spewing whenever we get together!

Just kidding, of course! Although we do get drunk a lot.

My sisters and I are actually all the same person, born in different years with completely different hair. We are so similar we almost always say the exact same thing at the exact same time. In fact, if my other sister were to also get a blog, I can pretty much guarantee that one day the three of us would each post the exact same entry on the exact same day without even trying. That would be, of course, only if I update mine more than once every 5,000 days. But I’m going to. I promise! I do! I am not even lying! This time I mean, I am actually not lying.

To catch you up, though here’s a quick rundown of the months you have been without me.

Times I have fallen down: 4

Times I have cut my hair: 1 (I know! It was gross. I just can’t go that long again.)

Times I have had a pox…yes, a POX! Break out on my hands and feet: 1

Amount of time it took to recover from the pox…yes, a POX!: 3 weeks (I know! It was also gross.)

Times I have gone to the Bahamas: 1 (You should totally go. They have conch! Everywhere! It’s not that exciting, really, and it’s very chewy but isn’t it hard to find around here?)

Pairs of butterfly flip-flops purchased: 1 (So cute)

Other pairs of shoes purchased: 0 (Shameful.)

Times I spilled gasoline all over myself: 1 (I think that’s enough, don’t you?)

Times I hit my head on the wall in the shower: 1 (I think I have an inner ear disorder)

Times I have walked around the zoo for fun: 1

Times I have walked around the zoo for exercise: A lot. (And it isn’t fun. But I am hopeful that I am building a good enough relationship with some of the animals that should they escape, they will not snack on me. My sister assures me that this is unlikely and that instead they will probably come right for me. She’s nice.)

Number of jade necklaces I had lost almost a year ago found this week by my mother: 1

Number of times I had told myself, “This is why you cannot have nice things. Because you are irresponsible and you don’t put things away and that is why they get lost or broken so you canNOT buy that gold bird necklace because you do NOT deserve it!” when thinking about lost jade necklace: 4,870

Number of times it occurred to me I was possibly being a smidge too hard on myself: 1 (But then I quickly changed my mind because Erin, if you do not take better care of your things, you will have no more things because I will not buy them for you! Love, Erin)

Number of times I had secretly thought that my nieces and/or nephews had broken it and thrown it out so as to avoid getting in trouble: 1,297. (Except they ALWAYS either confess or out each other so that was an unlikely scenario.)

Number of times my refrigerator broke and needed to be replaced: 1 (And that is plenty, thank you.)

Number of days I have left work unable to feel my feet because the air conditioning is up too high: 3 and counting.

Number of times I have thought about eating macaroni and cheese in the last month: 1,443 (No reason, really, I just think about it a lot.)

See? Nothing. There is nothing going on here, but the real reason I am coming back to the blog and hopefully back to some normal brain function, because I seriously think mine is rotting, is that yesterday I spent 45 minutes reading a scrapbooking catalog. And I mean reading closely and critically and trying to figure out what a brad is and marveling at the eleventy hundred types of paper available and wondering if instead of ordering the variety pack of barbecue brads (that I still do not understand the purpose of) I can just order the ones shaped like grills. And that? Well…That just cannot happen again. And I'm not anti-scrapbook, it's just that if I start one more thing that involves bringing even one more piece of crap (or scrap...hee!) into my apartment, I will pop.

Boo!

2006-01-24T00:14:00.000-05:00

AAAAhhh!

Did I scare you?

It's me, don't worry. I'm back after months and months of going out in the world and doing basically nothing.

Seriously...nothing.

So, since I have nothing to say about me, here is the story of the man who freaked the fuck out in the middle of the grocery store near my work.

Just to give you an adequate picture: The heads of lettuce are on the left wall, the bags of lettuce are on the aisle facing that wall. I am stationed in the middle, near the tomatoes, but don't get caught up on that because nobody in this story buys tomatoes because for some strange ass reason tomatoes are now a batrillion dollars.

Anyway, here we go.

Me (inside my head because I am not quite the scary talking to herself lady...yet): Is there anything in this world less attractive than a man with a ponytail? Especially this fool with one that reaches his...well, I'll just say it...his behind. It is horrifically icky and wrong and stringy. Nothing should ever be stringy. Under the definition of "stringy" there should be a note. It should look like this: Note: All things stringy are bad and should immediately be discarded...or cut off. We're talking to you stringy pony tail men. Love, Merriam & Webster.

Companion of Stringy (speaking to Stringy who is by the heads of lettuce): Oh, I found the bags of spinach over here. They have bags of spinach and they're over here. They're over here and they're two for four dollars. I found the bags of spinach over here. They have them over here in the bag...and it's spinach...and it's two for four dollars. And then I found the spinach.

Stringy (not quietly): WHAT ARE THEY FIVE DOLLARS A BAG? ARE THEY FIVE DOLLARS A FUCKING BAG? I'LL BET THEY'RE FIVE DOLLARS A BAG?!

Everyone in store: What the...

Me: I am about to start laughing and he is going to turn around and he is going to kill me. Yes, I see the woman I work with trying to make eye contact with me so we can laugh but he is right here so I definitely should not. If nothing else happens, I will live.

Lettuce Head #1: Dudes, this asshole is squeezing me like super tight.

Lettuce Head #2: Don't worry, I have an idea. These fuckers HATE it when we do this. Follow me, boys!!!!

Lettuce Head #3, #4, #5: Yeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwww

Stringy: Aw, fuck. Fuck FUCK FUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!

Companion of Stringy: Did you know that they have spinach over in the bag and that it's two for....what's going on?

Me: Wow. I was really doing well until he dropped all the lettuce heads on the floor. And then he picked them up. And oh, look, there they go again!!!! This is where I die. Because she is one side and he is on the other and my hands are full and there is no way to cover my face and oh thank god the woman I work with is done and we can get out of this aisle unscathed...but wait...is he?...what is he doing?

Stringy: THANKS A LOT, MARLENE! YOU SEE ME OVER HERE LOOKING LIKE A FUCKING ASSHOLE WITH THE LETTUCE AND YOU DON'T EVEN HELP ME, MARLENE. THANK YOU, MARLENE. THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME LOOK LIKE A FUCKING ASSHOLE OVER HERE BY THE LETTUCE.

At this point, Stringy lifts three heads of lettuce up over his head, takes a step backward, and then runs full-speed at the lettuce basket and slams them down.

Lettuce #2 (he's the total badass of this story): You MOTHERFUCKER! Now I am BROKEN. My LEAVES now are SEPARATED from whatever my BOTTOM part is called. GET HIMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Lettuce#1: Get the shoes, boys, get the shoes!!!!!!

Lettuce, #3, #4, #5: We got you, fool. We. Got. You!!!

Now at this point, I have taken all I can take from Stringy and the Gang and I am walking away as Stringy's language skills and mental faculties deteriorate and my co-worker and I discuss whether we should call security. And then I hear:

Companion of Stringy: You made me leave my PURSE over in the CART, Brye-in (I assume his name is Brian but she said it super-strange)

Stringy: No, Marlene, YOU DID

Companion of Stringy: YOU DID

Stringy (stomping his feet, I swear to god): NO, MARLENE, YOU FUCKING DID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lettuce#2: Ah, boys he got me. His left moccasin has mashed me. I am gone. Warn the spinach...whatever...you...do....warn...the........spina....(dies)

Lettuce#1, #3, #4, #5: Fucking pony tails, man. Fucking. Pony. Tails.

If You Want to Live, You Should Not...

2005-10-31T21:42:00.000-05:00

Read something on which I have written "January 4, 2006" and then leave me a sticky note that says, "Maybe it should say, 'Wednesday, January 4, 2006.'"

Wear a train conductor's hat and sing some silly song about not wanting to be anything other than a prison guard's son. Just fucking be one, then, and take off the hat. And then shave your head. Basically everything going on up there is wrong and full of ick.

Say, "Oh, Erin." Then turn around, walk away, and then do that fucking two finger beckoning thing that I suspect only rich women do to their maids to get me to follow you to where you can show me the 14 million things you want me to do that there are no logical reasons for me to do.

Talk in such a way that there is a distinct possibility that if you were on tv, the little bouncy ball would be travelling down your words.

Be a drunk Irish boy who is very gropey and impossible to understand. And then don't grab my friends. And then don't sniff me.

October Letters

2005-10-20T19:24:00.000-05:00

Dear People of the Universe,

You know what you should not do if your family is being batted around by events that make you (but more so your mom) want to cry more than a little?

You should not watch a show about two-headed babies.

Because at more than one point in that show? One of the heads comes off, and it’s not the best.

Seriously,
e

Dear Sheryl Crow,

Good is good and bad is bad?

No shit.

Smooches,
e

p.s. On the cover of Self? One of your eyes is TOTally bigger than the other one. heh.

Dear Rachel Ray,

Just when you win me over, you hook up with Oprah? Really? You JUST got less annoying. Haven’t you seen Dr. Phil? And don’t you already have four shows? Leave some for the rest of us. Well not me so much because I really could not want to be on tv any less than your friendly neighborhood hermit but still, you see where I’m going.

You had to push it, didn’t you?
e

Dear West Wing,

Shut it. Immediately.

Bradley Whitford, I’m looking at you. And get rid of your stupid name while you’re at it.

I mean now,
e

Dear $,

Why don’t you like me? Don’t you want to hang out with me for a little bit at least? I’m working, I’m reasonably nice, and on certain occasions, I have to say, I’m a hoot.

I really feel like I am offering you a very nice place to stay so please? For a little while? Just stay here and hang.

I’ve got beer,
e

Dear girls on Laguna Beach,

Who smushed in all of your faces?

I mean really…why do you look like that? All of you…it’s freaking me out.

No offense, the boys look funny too,
e

Dear Squash,

When did you get so good? I’ve been very anti-you for very long and now I am jumping right on board. Let’s work on the name now, ok? Lovely.

I’m not talking to you, squash the game…you’re silly and dumb and men only play you to talk to other men about the secretaries they are sleeping with. Well, at least that’s the gist I got from Dynasty.

Squash the vegetable..who knew?
e

p.s. On further reflection, I realize that “Squash the vegetable” sounds like I’m telling you who are reading this to actually squash (as in smush in the manner of the not so lovely ladies mentioned above) the vegetable of your choice. If you think that? Then you’re stupid. Sorry.

Dear my cable company,

Switching Fox News with Mtv…just plain mean.

I don’t like you,
e

Oh, Kids

2005-10-03T22:03:00.000-05:00

**I just read this post over. It's not that good. You can skip it if you want.

I cannot think of a single thing to write about. Nothing. Not one. Zero things. I have been rendered completely useless by television. I cannot stay away from it. There are millions of zillions of things I would like to read, yet I do not. I watch tv.

At this moment? I am watching something about Kanye West's purchase of a diamond-encrusted Jesus head. They keep saying "Jesus heads" over and over. See why I am stupid?

What will kill me though? What will actually cause my brain to leak out of my ear? That would be My Fair Brady. A completely made-up yet plotless reality show about two people who squick me out. And this is not one of things that you know you shouldn't like but secretly do. I DON'T like it. I don't care what happens from one episode to the next, I don't feel any emotion at all while I'm watching it, and I don't particularly pay attention to the "Next time on..." which I am usually obsessed with. Yet, I watch. And then I hate myself. Awful. And I should be reading right now, but it's getting late and I have to work tomorrow...and also, you know, the Jesus heads.

Work. Eh. And then a mouse was spotted in my apartment. And then I have been attacked two times by giant mutant bees that appear to emerge from within my walls, and then I am currently the walking definition of living paycheck to paycheck.

So, in an effort to secure my financial future I have been reading up on all sorts of important stuff with initials and was all ready to make all these moves to increase my FICO score when I learn that I have somehow gone over my credit limit. Ridiculous! Now it will take me like a million years to make it up. Not so happy there.

In other news, for the first time ever in my life I had to wash out TWO vases at once and that was nice.

Really?

2005-09-08T18:50:00.000-05:00

Dear Entertainment Tonight,

Richard Simmons? Really?

Ummmmm...ok?
e

Hurricanes Make Me Sad, So I Write Nonsense That Sort of Turns Into a Stop It! List

2005-09-07T21:28:00.000-05:00

There is a big bug in my apartment. I haaaaate that.

Anyway, how have you been? Sorry for...you know, abandoning you, but I think we've all realized by now that that is my thing. I write something consisting mainly of promises to write more, and then I do not deliver. You should totally break up with me, I am very much not holding up my end of the bargain. But, since you're here, here is what I waste my brain thinking about.

Blue Days

I've been feeling a little grumpy lately, and I think the reason for that is the insistence of every radio station in every city in every every state around here on playing Green Day songs.

Now, I watched Green Day's Behind the Music and I think they are lovely and entertaining boys who have normal wives and cute babies. Love that. Their music? Doesn't do it for me. I don't know why and I reeeeeeeally don't care. I don't like it. I think their music is whiny and complainy and I only enjoy that when I'm doing it, or when my niece is doing it and she says, "Mama ALWAYS makes us clean up." That is the most awesome sentence ever and I don't really know why.

I'm Old

People! Almost all of my nieces are in Kindergarten or above. This means that

Me = 100 years old

Style Network

It seriously runs my life. I don't even particularly enjoy the shows on it, yet I cannot look away. How does it do this? Do you know? I decidedly do NOT enjoy the fashions shows set to house music every morning, yet sometimes I cannot look away. Is it because of the clothes? No. Is it the music? No, I fucking hate that crap. How does that network do it? I even like their little circle with the word "style" in the middle network identification thing. I am seriously seriously obsessed. And it's getting bad. I think I have now seen every episode of How Do I Look?

No, that's a lie, I know I have. I have seen them all two times.

They really aren't that good.

Help me.

Nancy Grace, et al.

Oh my God, shut up.

I mean...I can't even...I just...You are bad at this. Whatever this is that you are doing? You are not good at it. Stop it. Immediately. And Greta, and Geraldo, don't think I don't see what you fools are doing. Stop it. And also? Shepherd Smith? Are you made out of makeup? Because I think you might be...and that isn't good. So you? Stop it.

Not you, Anderson. You can do whatever, that is how happy The Mole made me when it was on a million years ago.

Magicians

Um, here's the thing. You all? You're magicians. Relax. Your profession was founded by men who like bunnies, hair gel, and glitter. Stop talking about your suffering and stop it with the staring thing. Staring and talking in an unnaturally low voice and wearing dirty clothes doesn't make you seem straight. Ok?

Walker, Texas Ranger

Wow. You guys? Here is the one scene I ever watched:

Walker: Juan, (Oh, I forgot, Juan is a gang member pointing a gun at another gang member in front of a Christmas tree. Anyway, back to our scene.) what did Jesus say to the thief who hung beside him?

Juan: (sniffle, sniffle) He said...(emotional choking)

Walker: What did He SAY, Juan?

Juan: He said [insert long, yet accurate Bible quote here]

Walker: That's right, Juan. And then He said [Insert long, long, long, even longer Bible quote here]

Juan: WWWRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH (Juan falls to the ground, peace is restored to the world, gangs no longer exist, yay for Bible-talking Walker!)

Walker's Toupee: Ah, Juan. Nobody's looking at you. I have them all in my thrall. Sorry, buddy.

Me: Ew...and also? Stop it.

Here! Present! Don't Put a Warrant Out!

2005-08-03T10:25:00.000-05:00

These are things you have to say when you have jury duty. You only have to say the last one if you're late, which I was not, so I just had to sit through 40 million roll calls without ever once being asked to step up and give my questionnaire answers. Very frustrating. I had good answers. To number 7? My answer?: Yes. Riveting. But, the justice system will have to roll along without my assistance for the next two years because I am done with my duty.

Wouldn't it be interesting if that was the reason why I haven't updated this sucker in like a month? Probably not. And also? It would not be accurate.

I have been very verrrrrry busy. Sort of. Lots of family time, some other things I believe you people refer to as "dates" but are actually sort of foreign to me, and lots of sitting around doing nothing because I am so very very tired what with the being unable to sleep in one location for more than a few nights in a row. I hate that.

My computer is currently acting very ornery and I must hose off before I head off to work so, I will come up with something brilliant and interesting to say later and won't that be fun for you? Cheers!

Instant Awesome Boyfriend

2005-07-10T19:40:00.000-05:00

Friday night I stayed in. And I am ok with it. And I would like everyone else in the world to be ok with it. And I would really like it if the television shows that come on on a Friday night did not feel the need to shame me for it. Not sure what I'm talking about?

Well.

I attempted to watch some random movie on Oxygen (I know) with Janine
Garafalo where she's some matchmaker datey-thinger and I didn't know what the name of it was but this thing that popped up on the screen said "Instant Awesome Boyfriend." So this, I assume, is the name of the movie.

It is not.

What is it? It is this...I don't even know...skit? that comes on before and after the commercial breaks where this allegedly handsome man talks to the camera like the helpless, unsuspecting, not even remotely enjoying the television any longer, viewer is his girlfriend.

And he is their Instant Awesome Boyfriend who tells his Buddies that he's going to miss the Game to hang out with his Lady and who tells his Honey that he's really enjoying the movie and isn't it funny and let's talk more after the movie because he doesn't want to miss anything. And then he makes you dessert.

And then? When the movie is over?

He proPOSES to you!

This is the Instant Awesome Boyfriend? I do not want a woman for a boyfriend. The Instant Awesome Boyfriend for me? Buttons his shirt up all the way, uses my name, and frankly, buys me a nicer ring.

Stop it, Oxygen.

July Letters

2005-07-06T09:23:00.000-05:00

Dear the 2 people who read this,

So sorry to disappear like that. Things have settled down now, though, so I can go back to blathering on about the nothingness that is my life. Not in a Seinfeld way though, I fucking hate that show.

hi again,
e

Dear creepy old man,

Um, ok. Telling me I have nice legs? Not the most offensive comment, I know. Not the most accurate comment either, especially since I have giraffe legs in that they are covered in spots because I bang my legs into whatever hard object that crosses my path.

But? Bringing it up again, two hours later when you discover that I work in the library you are currently camped out in? Not my favorite. You think you offended me? Not exactly. You should really apologize for being creepy and squirrely, that would make me feel better.

And also? Saying that you wouldn’t have brought it up if you knew I worked there? Makes me hate you and I’m not sure why.

Go away now,
e

Dear my hair,

Please stop doing that.

I’ll pull you right out, I swear,
e

Dear 6233,

Bye, buddy.

I know that it should be the memories and not the house. But for me, part of it, a big part, is the house. And I already know all the reasons that this is a good thing and all the things I shouldn’t be sad about and all the reasons it’s ok that a new family lives in you, but I am sad and it would be cute if everyone would just let me be and not act like moving out of the house I spent 98% of my life was something that deserved little more than a shoulder shrug.

Thank you for always giving me a place to come back to. Thank you for hiding me in the basement to eat a whole pizza at 13, play video games at 8, play with my brother at 5, work off my pizzas at 27. Thank you for not getting broken into. Thank you for holding my room up despite all its cracks. Thank you for being my home.

This whole thing is weird and it’s sad and don’t worry, I won’t bring it up again since it’s remarkably clear that not one other person is sad about it. So, I guess that’s enough.

Thanks,
e

Dear Coldplay,

How did you do that? I had successfully resisted you so far. Yes, I appreciated your artistic talent and thought you were perfectly fine. I saw the Coldplay obsession develop around me and just couldn’t quite get on board. Enjoy? Yes. Obsess? Not so much. Gwyneth Paltrow? Eh…ok.

And then, seriously, how did you do that? I hear your “speed of sound” song one time and I love it to the point where I want to eat it with a knife and a fork. I do NOT want to eat it with a spoon because it just is not really possible to eat anything with a spoon 100% effectively.

I got off track there somewhere,
e

Dear Fellow Gas Station Customer,

Oh my God, how I hate you. I mean…I really fucking hate you.

Here is why:

When you pull into a gas station and watch someone REVERSING their car into gas purchasing position, you do not cut them off.

And when you do, you do not first pull up to give them room, then BACK the FUCK up and push them away from the pump they have finally managed to maneuver themselves into.

And then when that person finally gets a spot at the pump next to you, DO NOT get out with your friend and stand next to the pump and have the world’s most fucking inane conversation about nothing sprinkled over not much.

AND THEN YOUR FRIEND SHOULD ABSOLUTELY NOT WALK IN FRONT OF MY CAR AT THE PACE OF AN eeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEVIL TURTLE WHILE I AM PULLING AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously? Hate. You.

e

Dear Tom Cruise,

I think that if you really believe something, you just say it. And then the people that hear you know that you believe what you’re saying because you say it simply and do not feel the need to bug your eyes out at them while you are speaking.

So, this, more than anything, is what is bothering me about you these days.

Tom? Just say it. When you combine the just saying it with the saying it over and over as well as with the clenching, and the leaning forward, and the calling people, “Man,” and acting like Billy Bush is a) listening to you and b) smarter than a hammer, you lose a little bit of ground with me, and you had less than a little ground to begin with. I really do not give half of an anything about you, your movies, or your religion full of wacky hijinx, but the fact that you are famous makes you an expert on exactly nothing, and you need to pick up on that.

I’m sure you’re all studied up on whatever this nonsense is you’re blathering about all over the place, but you either come out smart, or you come out famous. You came out having sex on a train…see?

Who I’m really disappointed in is Katie Holmes. I used to think she was smart and interesting and normal. Now, I think she is boring. I blame you.

That’s enough now,
e

Dear cast of “Blowout,”

Y’all, I’m onto you. You can’t act. Stop it. Immediately. That nonsense phone call where the stylist who has gotten seriously better plastic surgery since last season “calls” his assistant was, I think, the worst fake reality moment of all time. Let’s just wrap this up before somebody gets hurt.

This is what happens when the egomaniac drives the bus. And? His haircuts? A little bit Dallas-y, no? I’m just saying. Sure, it’s a neato trick to blow dry an “S” into someone’s hair, but…that’s enough now, ok? Just give people what they’re asking for, especially that poor girl from Arrested Development who obviously got roped into some deal where she HAD to have you do her hair.

Really, just in general? Stop it.
e

Focus

2005-06-13T09:53:00.000-05:00

So, I've been working on this month's correspondence which will be appearing shortly, but in the meantime? I have purchased this.

This is what we all need to focus on, people. It looks fine now, but I think it will look about a thousand times better if I am way skinnier and tanner by the time I need to wear it on August 13th to the wedding of the lovely and delightful Jen. So, let's focus. Should you see me doing things that are not consistent with focusing on the dress, such as eating fried chicken for lunch and ribs for dinner, not that I did that yesterday or anything, then you need to give me a little poke, or a big one. Because it is TIME TO FOCUS ON THE DRESS!!!!!!! Got it? Thanks. I appreciate your assistance in advance.

Also, if you could focus a little bit on my car who I think is trying to break up with me, I would appreciate it. She needs to not need any more repairs that aren't really repairs and she REALLY needs to not get another flat tire because that nonsense made me want to cry a little bit AND it made me late for work, which thanks to the way I was raised by my lunatic mother, fills me with rage.

To My Loving Husband

2005-05-31T21:20:00.000-05:00

I know we haven't actually met yet, but if we do, and you want to marry me, please keep in mind that these are the things that make me break up with you.

We watch a Memorial Day concert, and you don't get weepy when they show the old men in the audience singing along with the Marine Corps theme song.
You have an issue with the fact that I can eat as much pasta as is put in front of me.
You're a racist.
You're a Yankees fan.
You make fun of my family...any of them, even the swinger. I'll cut you.
You don't read.
You wear denim shorts.
You have a cat. Girls can have them, you can't. Not sure why, but that's the way it is.
You're mean to the waitress/bartender and/or are a bad tipper.
You're not funny.
You're jokey.
You drive a bright yellow or an obnoxious blue car.
You're addicted to porn...or anything really. Moderation, honey, it's your friend most days.
You drink mixed drinks other than margaritas and things involving bourbon or Jack Daniels...Bacardi drinkers, I think you know what I'm saying.
You're not handy around the house.
You're a picky eater. You can be choosy, but don't be picky. And, you don't have to eat mushrooms or onions.
You're shorter than me. Sorry, but I'm short so this shouldn't be difficult.
You're dumb.
You make regular use of a picture phone.
You say, "As you might guess of anyone who does conceptual art for video games, I'm all about the weed."
And then you say, "I have a two-year-old half-Jamaican, half-Asian son."

One Quick Letter

2005-05-23T00:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Jewel,

You're standing still.

Shut up,

e

Mean Boys

2005-05-22T23:50:00.000-05:00

Can I ask you all a question?

Do you hate the men in your lives?

I mean the ones you make out with, not the ones you’re related to.

No?

Then why in the name of something people ask things in the name of, do you take them shopping with you? They don’t want to go. And if they do? Then that’s a problem.

Do not let boys pick out your clothes!!! Have you seen their clothes? They should not be in charge of your clothes. Unless they are gay. And if they are gay? Don’t date them. It’s a DISaster, and nobody likes those.

Also, the boy shopping with you thing? It’s a little controlling and controlling leads to emotional abuse and emotional abuse leads to the least informative Oprah Winfrey show ever:

Secret video: Dan is yelling yelling yelling and bringing the mean stuff all over his wife.

Oprah: Dan, why do you do this?

Dan: I don’t know.

Oprah: Dan’s wife, how do you feel about this?

Dan’s wife: I don’t like it.

Oprah: Dan, why do you do this?

Dan: I don’t know.

Dan’s wife: I don’t know either.

Therapist: I think Dan is angry.

Oprah: It’s cute that you think anyone’s listening to you, here’s what I think. I think Dan is angry.

Audience: Now that is some shocking motherfucking shit. Did you see that coming? Angry? I thought his heart was two sizes too small. Angry…huh. That Oprah. She is a fucking genius.

Oprah: Dan, why do you do this?

Dan: I don’t know.

Oprah: Thank you, Dan. Really, I thank you. I know this was difficult.

Dan’s wife: Ummmmmm…thanks?

Audience: Do you think that thing about wearing red getting you on camera is true? Angry…that fucking Oprah…genius.

Anyway, what brought this post on? I was in DSW today (where I spent $112, while saving $113. This is how you beat The Man) where I saw this woman totally get dumped right in the middle of the store. Unfortunate…yet entertaining.

It wasn’t as entertaining as it could have been though, seeing as how the man doing the big dump (ew!...not like that…you’re gross) was doing so over the phone not live on pay-per-view. But still, it was fun for me, until I remembered that I fully and completely object to any relationship-severing type conversations that do not take place in a face to face encounter. So, no matter how annoying this chick comes across in the proceeding transcript, please remember that this dude is a total dick.

Crying lady in DSW: But what am I supposed to do? I do not even have a tissue!

Me: Dude, (Dude in this case being me as I was talking to myself because I was, as always, alone) is she crying?

CLIDSW: But why?

Me: Yup, she’s crying. AWWWKward. How can I get around her to those shoes that she is directly in front of.

CLIDSW: But why now? But why when I am here where I am?

Me: Awwww. She’s dumb. Poor little lamb. Dumb and crying in the middle of a shoe store. So sad.

CLIDSW: I do not even know what that means.

Me: That’s because you are super dumb. And also? You are not smart. And me? I am totally going to get struck down by all kinds of bolts for talking shit like this in my head.

CLIDSW: Can’t I just come over?

Me: NOOOO. Don’t go over. God, do not let her go over. I know this guy is a dick what with the whole phone break up but PLEASE, give him sense enough to talk her out of coming over. Nobody should ever go over…EVER. Now, also, could you drop the price of shoes sometime? That would be super helpful. That’s it for now, so sorry to interrupt you, feel free to return to miracle-making any time now.

CLIDSW: But I just found shoes for you. I just found the ones we saw last time but now they’re on sale I could just bring them and then…

Me: Don’t make eye contact, let’s just get us out of this aisle before we throw up on her.

CLIDSW: (mumble mumble sniffle sigh sigh)

Me: Yes, this aisle? Much better. Still have view of drama, but out of earshot so as to avoid accusations of not minding my own beeswax. Also, “minding my own beeswax?”…worst expression ever, let’s stop using it post haste, ‘kay?

CLIDSW: Fine. Fine. OK. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. OK. I guess. Fine. Fine. Fine.

Phone: Click

CLIDSW: (to DSW worker man) Can you put these back?

Me: Is this seriously happening? That dude is a fucking dick. If I did not hate the talking to of the people I would totally go say something to her but we all know how I feel about the people.

And that, my friends, is how we got to today’s lesson: Boys? No shopping with them, ok? They will dump you on the phone. Can we automatically assume that the two things are related? No. Do I care and do I love the random-ass assumption? No...and then yes.

Stuff About Stuff

2005-05-15T21:30:00.000-05:00

Oh, kids. Where to begin? Much has happened, but first, how are you? How did that thing go with the thing and the other thing and the stuff? Really? Cute.

In the past few weeks I have done much and much and then some more. I have flown to Kentucky, where I drank and ate way past too much, won $400, and made out with a cute boy from Chicago. Not the worst way to spend a weekend, no?

Then I worked worked worked, and then I went to the beach last night where I drank and ate right about too much. I definitely drank past too much, but I think I ate right around much. Does that make any sense? No? Well, sorry, write it yourself next time. Anyway, it was super fun even though I had to drive through a fucking hurricane two times to get there. Don’t do that, by the way, if you have the option. It’s no good.

But between the working and the hurricane? I got my car back. You know what was wrong with it? NOTHING.

The fool boys who fixed the dents from the EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeevil boy who jumped on my car put the hood on wrong so the shaky shaky has been coming from a loose hood, not, as suspected, from an unfixable break in the most expensive part of my car. OY.

We have been having a great time together now that we’re reunited, though. She needs a bath. That’s some boring shit though, so I’m not writing about that any more.

So that’s my news. And you? Really? Huh. Have you seen that show Intervention? It’s on now. This gay guy uses meth to fuel his sex addiction….If you need to fuel your addiction, are you really addicted? I mean, I think you’re really a meth addict who has sex a lot. It just started though so who am I to judge? I’m addicted to nothing so I have no cred here.

I have no real narrative here so I’m just going to spill out some nonsense I’ve been thinking about.

First up, Chiclets.

Stay away from them. Especially the blue ones. And if you absolutely cannot help yourself from burning your last quarter I suggest that you chew, chew, then spit. Chiclets turn into pickle juice in your mouth and that is gross and gross with a sprinkle of ick.

Next up, Elvis.

What is all this interest about? I could not give less of a…I don’t even know what. He is dead and they already made this movie at least once so let’s just stop it. Right NOW!

The girl on Intervention is addicted to gambling. This may be inappropriate but her boyfriend is super-cute.

Alright, I’m officially blathering, I’ll try and give this another shot later.

The Contents of My New Apartment

2005-05-04T21:47:00.000-05:00

Overpriced throw pillows: 2
Reasonably priced throw pillows settled upon out of guilt over spending too much on other throw pillows: 4
Reasonably priced throw pillows that I actually enjoy very much because they are super soft and pretty: 2
$0.74 dish towels: 2
Rugs that are too small but I love: 1
Rugs that are too small that I am reconsidering altogether: 2
Ridiculously green green towels: 8
Pieces of blue furniture: 2
Pieces of furniture made by relatives I never met: 1
Slow slow Internet connections: 1
Kick ass rocking chairs assembled completely by me: 1
Cable-less tvs whose remotes I have no idea how to locate: 1
Stereos with absolutely zero pieces of furniture capable of holding them: 1
Unassembled bookshelves: 2
Boxes of books: 437
Sleepy librarians: 1

On Death and Moving

2005-04-30T17:36:00.000-05:00

Hello, everybody! So sorry for neglecting you, please don’t break up with me.

I have, actually, been verrrry busy. Very busy and without access to a computer that isn’t monitored by The Man. Well, I mean I have access to this, my computer, obviously, but if I am not at work I am very sleepy. Yet, I do not sleep. Why? Because I am a kook.

In other news, I had to go to a funeral today. It was…and I’m not being a punk…a little sad. Catholic funerals are usually all: “Yes, dead person is dead but now they are in heaven and let’s have a big party because dead person is having a way better time with Jesus and the other dead people than they ever had down here with you. So, pray, sniffle, sniffle, be happy for them, the end.”

This funeral, at a different religion's church was a little: “Dead person is dead, dead, dead. You will never see her again because she is dead. She suffered and now she is dead. Afterlife yes, but she is dead, dead, dead. She used to be dying, now she is dead. And before that she was suffering and she had cancer and in case you forgot she is dead and you should be very sad and grieve-y and she is dead and gone and dead and gone. Be sad. True, Jesus is around and she’s hanging out with him…but, in case you forgot. She is dead. Dead. But, bright side, you’ll be dead eventually, too.”

Not that I was looking for a party, but it was kind of a downer which is disappointing because the lady whose funeral it was really liked a good time and, I think, would have been a smidge let down by the lack of Yay, Heaven and the plethora of Dead, Dead, Dead.

In other, happier news, I move tomorrow! Yay, yay, and then more yay, please.

So, I move this weekend, I’m off to the Derby next weekend, then I’m off to the beach the next next weekend so I’m sure I will have many fun stories with which to entertain y’all because I seem to be developing something that closely resembles a life. Maybe.

So

2005-04-14T22:03:00.000-05:00

Did you know that I am very sleepy? Well, I am. Full of sleep. That is me.

But I am updating this nonsensical thing because I am too full of guilt not to. Catholic school does strange things to you, and not in a good way (but not in that pervert way either...ew). Let's see, I'm bored here. What can I have you do. Hmmm...survey?

Did you know that it takes a fucking year to download the 22 pages that contain the 2 pages of tax forms I need?

Did you know that my gray pants have disappeared?

Did you know that a yardstick just now fell on my foot?

Did you know that something ELSE is wrong with my car?

If the man next to you on the metro refused to stand up when you said "excuse me" because he's getting off at the same stop as you and thereby saw no reason for you to be allowed out of your seat would you:

a. pout like an overgrown passive aggressive baby
b. elbow man in belly
c. both

If Jeopardy was cancelled, would you care? Explain

True or false:
I've fallen asleep the last 8 nights running on my parents couch.
I've gotten a rock in my Target shoes every single time I've worn them.
American What not to Wear is better than the British version.
I'm quickly running out of things to write.
My back hurts.

Which item from the following list are you least likely to buy the next time you leave your house:

Febreze
Downy ball
Music CD
Shawl
Shrug
Seisel rug

Who is cuter?

That kid or the other kid (Please exclude your own biological children from this question)

Who is uglier?

That other other kid or this one right here (See above)

Are you sleepy?

Do you have anything to contribute to the back pain discussion other than Pilates, walking, and milk? Please describe. Omit any references to the dangers of triple doses of Advil.

That's It. I'm Going to Live with the Monkeys

2005-04-09T17:55:00.000-05:00

Well, not so much with the monkeys as directly across the street from them. I found me some new digs. And just in time too as these parents of mine are getting the fuck out of here post haste and there will be no place for me to lay my weary head. Or my back. And you know that bitch needs a place to lay down. Lie down. Lay down. I don't fucking know and I have an English degree...sad news, no?

Anyway, my apartment search was surprisingly brief. I'm taking the apartment in the second building I saw. Why? Because the people there are normal. You know who is not normal? Keep reading.

I was looking at apartments online and I found the building I wanted to live in. I loved it to bits and kibbles for the pure and simple reason that it has arches in every apartment. Yay, arches! But, the day I started looking there was no one at that building to show me anything so I looked next door (eh) and across the street (my new home).

I admit, I was almost ready to sign right up for an apartment I saw in the eh building. It was the only apartment in the building with character even though it was too expensive for me and the guy was Mr. Jokey-Seller-Guy and that never works well with me. You can be funny, but don't be jokey.

Smarty that I am, I didn't sign anything and I was on my way home when I saw that the building across the street had an apartment available sign so I went in, got the manager to show it to me and had a moment. I just sort of knew that this was the place for me. I got an application and left, still expecting to see the home of my dreams the next day.

Next day, I meet up with the lady who leases the building I want and of COURSE she is a complete nutbag. she shows me the apartment and I literally am not in there thirty seconds when she starts pressuring me to put down a deposit. If not a deposit, why not an application fee. How about an application fee and $100 to hold the apartment? Huh? Why not? You won't do any better for the price. Huh? Huh?

Seriously, if this had been a drug deal, she would have been the worst undercover cop in history.

I can't really even see the apartment because she has filled it up with her words and I can't see through them. Unfortunately, she also leases basically all of the other buildings I want to look at so we go on a little tour...in her car.

On the front seat of her car were the following things:

A Bible
A tupperware water bottle filled with I swear to god a blended pizza.
A calzone

She does not move these things. I move them. Ew.

Some of the things she says to me while driving are:

"A librarian, huh? That is something that I just would never ever want to do."
"What I really am is a musician. But I was actually asked to do this job, Erin. Can you imagine, Erin? Someone asks you to work for them, Erin? Well, if it'll save me money on my rent, Erin, then, Erin, I guess I'll do it, Erin."

Every sentence not insulting my chosen profession includes at a minimum, one instance of my name. I now hate my name. She killed it. It's dead.

So, of course I like all the apartments she shows me, but I'm just not sure and so I take my application and leave. She for some reason thinks I will be returning the next day with that application, as well as with a $500 deposit. Crazy lady, you need to listen when I say I will apply and that is all. And then you need to shut the FUCK up. OK? Perfect.

She is a total scammer, I think. She tells me how to work around the income requirement ("Include your bonus, commissions, etc." Yes, librarians live off their commissions) and all this other shit which I just kind of think she should not be doing.

But, unfortunately, I do love the last apartment she showed me. I mean love love love, that kind of love. I could have gotten pre-engaged to that apartment. But! It is too pricey. The apartment I am now getting and the apartment I originally saw online are the only two in the running when I leave her.

Next day, she leaves me two messages, and two hangup calls. Caller i.d., crazy lady, is not your friend. She leaves these messages by 10:30 am. I put her off and convince the ever brilliant Giulia to look at both apartments with me on Tuesday.

The plan: Giulia distracts crazy lady with billions of questions while I look at the apartment. Plan works, the apartment is too small. I'm still not sure though, and give her $40 to run my credit. You know how much it cost to run my credit for my new home? $20. Exactly.

I can't get in to show Giulia the apartment I'm now getting but basically I talk it out with her, and decide I definitely want it. It's bigger, it's on a more convenient side of the street, and the kitchen is bigger, if not as nice. But is it really nice kitchen if you cannot stand in front of your oven to open it? I'm not convinced. Also, crazy lady basically tells Giulia that I'm difficult and makes fun of me for wanting to think about it and for using email. Bitch.

So, I email her, tell her I don't want the place and now she is basically holding my $40 ransom. I have to go get it from her, she won't leave it at the desk or mail it to me. Apparently no one will ever be at the desk again, despite the selling point that all buildings have 24 hour desk service. I know she's lying and making it difficult for me to get it back, and I just don't fucking care. When she told me I could have it back she also said she had another apartment to show me. I answered that just the dollars would do, and now she is jerking me around. But! She cannot have my $40. I will get it back and then I will live happily ever after in my new-bigger- not- as-nice-but-cheaper-although-fewer-utilities-are-included-but-there's-more-parking-on-that-street apartment. Which has windows! Out of which you see grass! Out of her apartment you saw bricks.

So, in conclusion. Crazy lady? She can basically just bite it and that'll be enough, ok? Perfect.

Hello Again

2005-04-02T21:22:00.000-05:00

So, did you miss me? Of course you didn’t because nobody even reads this fucking thing! Well, except for those of you who do. Just ignore that last part, you two.

I’ve been very busy and important in the working world doing working things and taking trains and buses and cars and commuting every which way I can find. And don’t forget the walking. I walk walk walk like a bizarre little bunny that walks instead of hops.

I’m not going to write too much about the job here. This IS the Internet and all and the last thing I need is to get my flimsy enfeebled identity stolen. My poor identity. It has no money. It would like some. I also don’t want to get my ass fired. Or the rest of me, either.

My feelings about work are so uneven right now anyway, I really don’t know what I could say. Except that I can say I am in a smidge over my head since I was in CHARGE of the whole operation for two days this week. People, don’t put me in charge! I’m a little minnow. I canNOT be in charge yet, ok? Maybe next week.

My return to the world of working has, as I mentioned, returned me to the world of commuting and there are some people there that I feel the need to communicate with. So, I decided to shamelessly copy myself and catch up, once again, on my correspondence.

Here we go:

Dear girl with the pink checkered suit,

Look. I know it’s difficult. Clothes are tough fucking stuff sometimes, but honey, that suit does not fit you. It is too small. And this is not a dig at your size which I think is completely normal. This is a complaint about fit. Your clothes have to fit you, and this is why. For some reason, whether you (and by you I mean every person in the history of ever who has worn clothes) wear clothes that are too big or too small, you look super fat. Unfair? Of course it is. Even if you aren’t anywhere near fat, too big or too small clothes are your enemy, got it? Watch What Not to Wear, British or American version, and figure it out! You don’t have to look fantastic, but you absolutely canNOT look like that again, hear me? And stop talking so loud, that’s just fucking annoying and you need to stop it.

Hugs,
e

Dear girl blatantly hitting on the guy who is only taking the train with you because he interns with you,

It’s not going to happen for you, lovey. No reason why it shouldn’t from what I saw, but it isn’t. He’s not going for it and you too need to stop talking so fucking loud. Could be at least part of the reason why it REALLY is not going to happen. Sorry.

Cheers,
e

Dear guy blatantly hitting on the girl I think might like you back,

Here’s why it’s not going to happen for you. She, I suspect, is like me. You have to fucking say it right out loud if you like her, because she likes you but is oblivious to the fact that you like her. If she is like me, you need to poke her on the shoulder and say, “Hey Stupid, I like you. Pick up on the signs already, fool!” Only nicer. It’s a block many, if not most, girls have that guys for some reason remain oblivious to. Not all girls are playing with you, most have been so screwed over by their official “Boyfriend Who Damaged Me” that they are hesitant to believe a cute boy is shining their cuteness on them. This is why I will always be alone. If you like her, ask her the fuck out, because I guarantee you she wants to go.

After you go out and smooch and other stuff and get married, ask her where she got that bag because it is really cute and I must have it.

Ciao for now,
e

Dear cell phone lady on my bus,

You can be loud on your cell phone. You can take up three seats with all your shit. You can wear shoes that are that fucking ugly. What you cannot do? Is all of those things at once.

I’m tripping you on Tuesday,
e

Dear touchy-feely calling each other not baby but babes couple,

Stop it. Go away. Get out. Be quiet. Shut up. Leave. Don’t do that. Stop. Don’t. Do Not Do That. Ew. Shut up. Get out Get Out GET OUT. Where is your fucking stop, already!

I hope your head pops off,
e

Dear old lady who spent the entire bus ride digging her pointy fucking elbows into my stomach the whole way home on Thursday,

You and me? We’re fighting. And yes, you better move over there and yes I did give you that look on purpose and yes, I was blatantly moving away from you in a flagrant breach of bus etiquette so you would get my fucking point that elbows to the gut are unnecessary and a sign of low upbringing. Ha! That’s right, upbringing!!! Take that, old lady!

Please don’t read this and then die right away, I have enough problems,
e

Marathon Interrupted

2005-03-20T18:40:00.000-05:00

So, I gave up the book marathon because, after all, I am starting a new job tomorrow. Me being me, this means I spend all of my time freaking out, convincing myself not to freak out, freaking out, and feeling generally like I want to cry, laugh, dance, and throw up.

Book Marathon Book 2

2005-03-19T10:54:00.000-05:00

Next up is Summerland by Michael Chabon. It's a young adult book but I kind of need to get more familiar with that stuff. Anyway, it's awesome. It's a little Wrinkle in Time-esque (which is a good thing) with the missing father and the world leaping and stuff but it is full of baseball and everyone always loves a story where someone bad at a sport becomes good, don't they? Well they should because if they don't they are evil.

I love Michael Chabon. I love everything about his books. Except The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. That I thought got a little cloudy but if you've ever had a conversation with me about books in the last five years, you would know that I consider The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay to be required reading for everyone.

Book Marathon Book 1

2005-03-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

So, as I said, I’m having a book marathon this weekend. I started with Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon and I was nervous that I wouldn’t like it because I’ve read a lot of this author’s stuff online and really liked it. But, no worries, it’s good stuff.

I like that it goes off in directions you don’t expect, that it’s smart, that it’s fucking hysterical in parts and literally breaks your heart in others, and that Ian’s new girlfriend was not Tess. I like the fact that she can incorporate e-mails and instant messaging exchanges in a way that is not the usual, “Look, I can be different in my different way of writing my different book that has different things. See? See? Aren’t I different? AREN’T I?” I’ve read those books. They are not good.

I do not like the fact that I am doing such a craptastically bad job of describing why I liked this book but I haven’t showered yet today and am full of yuck and ick and my brain isn’t working. But, I think the truest sign of how I felt about this book is that I actually read every word of it. I’ve been known to zone out and skim over pages and paragraphs when I think I know what’s going to happen. I didn’t though, and that is a good thing, Martha!

Hi. I'm Snow White.

2005-03-18T13:58:00.000-05:00

That was unsettling.

I’m sitting here, staring at a blank page when I hear this sound.

“whoo-WHIRRRRR-whoo”

It’s not so much a bird sound as it is a sound someone makes when they are trying to sound like a bird to lure someone else outside for the purposes of kidnapping or smooching.

I hear it again.

“whoo-WHIRRRRR-whoo”

My mom comes in and says, “Is that a bird?”

We laugh.

No more noise.

My mom leaves.

I look at apartments online because even though my job has not even STARTED and I will not get paid probably until the middle of APRIL everyone wants to know where and when I am moving. Plus, I love looking at apartments. It’s my porn, apartments.com.

Anyway.

I hear it again.

“whoo-WHIRRRRR-whoo”

I get up, all Inspector Gadget-y, “I MUST find the bird!”

And there it is…just chillin in the bathroom window, which for some reason no longer has either a closed window, screen, or storm window. Good thing my dad put up the shutters otherwise we would have had a bird IN the house and we all know what that means…DEATH!...or something, I don’t know.

Now, I didn’t really think I had any particular feelings about birds. They fly, they don’t, one shit on my cousin at the beach and that was kind of funny, whatever. But once I realized that this bird could be in my house I realized that I very much did not want him in here. Especially because I think he’s been trying to get in for a while.

I think he wants to hang out with me. He’s been loitering on all the windowsills of the rooms I have been in for weeks now and sometimes he just stares at me like we’ve made plans and he’s on time and I’m late all, “Hello, it’s me. It’s cold out here. Let me in already.”

Which is impossible, because I am always on time if not early.

So, I do a little tap tap on the shutter, he flies away and hopefully that will be the last we hear of his kind because I don’t need that kind of guilt.

In other news, I’m having a book marathon this weekend. I just read Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon. I’m glad I liked it since that was the one I bought. Everything else came from the library.

Speaking of the library…have you been going? You need to go. Right now. We can’t be friends otherwise. Actually, of course we can, but it would make me feel good…and depending on where you live, possibly contribute to my salary! Because I’ll have one. Because I got a JOB! Yup. It’s still fun to say.

Anyway…book marathon. I shall be posting reviews as I complete them. I’d post the first review now but I am fucking starving.

A Result of Being Psychic and of You Having No Faith

2005-03-14T19:08:00.000-05:00

I cannot read your mind. I cannot move things with my mind and I do not have x-ray vision. I’m not really sure that x-ray vision is a psychic power, but I do not have it. But y’all, I think I am a little bit psychic. Just a smidge…a teeny tiny bit.

Here are the things I can do:

Make a movie appear on tv.

“Give me an example,” you say?

Fine, doubty-pants.

Why do you think Doc Hollywood appeared this year again out of nowhere? I brought it back. One day, out of the blue, I was thinking about Doc Hollywood and then the next day, and almost every subsequent day? There it is. Michael J. Fox and the only actress short enough to appear with him in a full body shot Southing it up in the little town with the pig and the cranky old doctor and I TOTALLY MADE THAT HAPPEN!

Also, I recently brought back While You Were Sleeping.

“That shit is always on, fool,” you say?

Well, watch your mouth AND it is not always on. It is usually on during the Christmas season and it is on HBO. It is not on in March, on TBS, is it? No. I did that. Me and my psychic friend, Myself.

Make songs play on the radio.

Songs I think about always come on the moment I think of them. Always. Random songs that should not even be played on the kind of station I am listening to, people!

You might say, “Everyone fucking thinks they can do that. It’s a result of radio stations playing the same songs in the same basic order so often that your brain becomes used to the order and may occasionally correctly predict the next song played.”

To which I would respond: You are really starting to bother me. Please shush or I will shush you and you will cry. OK? Perfect.

Examples of songs I have made play:

Peter Gabriel, “In Your Eyes” Yes it is on a lot, but why does it always come on when I am sad and need it to?

Madonna, “La Isla Bonita” Why was I thinking of that song? I don’t know. But I think a better question is, why did it come on three seconds later?

You again: “Um, psycho, you probably heard the dj say it was coming up, maybe?”

This just proves how little you know about me. I do not listen to people talk on the radio. That is not what it is for. If it is a talk show, that’s one thing, but I have no time for the talking of the non-talk show crowd and if you had ever paid even the slightest bit of attention to me while we were in the car together, you would have picked that up. Now, feel free to SHUT IT!

Predicting who will hook up in a given situation.

This absolutely should not be confused with any sort of matchmaking ability on my part. I can’t do it. I don’t think I’ve ever done it voluntarily and I never ever will. It’s just a bad idea. It immediately puts things on the date/relationship level and that is too much pressure and it never works out and nobody should ever do it.

You, not having learned the shushing lesson: “Didn’t your parents meet on a blind date?”

Me: Did I not tell you to shut it? It still needs to be shut whether you have a point or not.

Anyway, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted AGAIN, I can look around any bar and predict who is and who isn’t going to either smooch or go home together. And I can more accurately predict who will be very very sorry the next day that they did.

Example? Well, the night that my friends and I ended up eating cheese sandwiches on the porch of a man named Randolph, let’s actually call him a boy, we had earlier met a bachelor party group and I predicted two things just on first sight that turned out true.

1. The lone girl in the group was the bachelor’s “best friend” who was secretly in love with him and was out to sabotage the whole wedding thing.

2. The bachelor was not so much ready to get married.

How did these two predictions prove true? Well, bachelor boy and random blondie blonde were making out at the bar within an hour of arrival and best friend? Doing nothing to stop it. I wonder why. No, I don’t. I know why…and so do you.

You: “Well that’s…just because…hey, that hurts!”

Did I not warn you about the shushing and the crying? I think I did.

Make crocuses pop through the snow.

I’m not sure how I did it. I thought about them. I pictured them. I walked a block. I saw them. I don’t know how, but it made me a little uncomfortable because really it was not warm enough for that to happen.

You: “Crocuses are very common in your neighborhood and…”

Me: This not learning of the shut and shush lesson is very disappointing. No cookies for you…and they’re good cookies.

I have also predicted:

Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner way back when they were on Dinner for Five together and she was quite the smitten kitten…he was just starting the j.lo nonsense, but I predicted this eventual couple, and I was right. Ha!

Dick Clark’s long stroke recovery. Ask my sisters, they’ll tell you. I was on that story from day one. I knew it was worse than they said. You canNOT FOOL ME!!!

Aaron Carter’s little secret. We’ve covered that though.

But what I have done recently, which I am most proud of, is use my psychic powers to bring about the end of one of society’s greatest ills. I don’t know if you’ve seen it. I don’t know if it was on in your market. But nonetheless, I needed it to be removed, and so I have removed it.

I Cancelled “Good Day Live”

Yes, I did! It was me! I did it! You all didn’t do it. You did not hate it like I hated it. You did not sit at the table in the cold cold Georgetown University food court where it was projected on the entire fucking wall for your entire lunch hour and wish that all television would end just so you would never ever have to sit through this horrific horrendousness ever again! You did not! It was me.

You: “Um, I don’t think I said it was me.”

Me: Seriously, the shutting of the it and the shushing of the you needs to begin immediately if not sooner.

As I was saying, I strongly strongly believe that I am responsible for the end of this show. From the moment I saw this monstrosity of daytime television, I have wished for its departure from this world.

Every time I listened to the useless co-hosts interrupt each other every fucking second and make every non-funny joke available to them, I wished it away. (And I mean the old co-hosts and the new ones. All of them were shitty in the exact same Star Jones celebrity boot-licking way. And I think they may have tried to make fun of celebrities on occasion, but that shit doesn’t work when it is so obvious that should you meet any of them you would, if you could, sit on their lap, lick their ear, and ask them to rub your belly.)

Every time I listened to that fucking sanctimonious faux-Regis old man host claim after every story about reality television or celebrities to be so above what he was doing every fucking day without fail, I wished it away. “Does America really care about this?” Well, Steve Edwards, apparently they should have and then maybe your ass wouldn’t be out of a job right now, you think? As my dad would say to any Yankees hitter up against any Red Sox pitcher...SIT DOWN.

Obviously, low ratings may have played some role in the end of this monstrosity, but explain this: on Friday, I was thinking how much I hated that fucking show and wished it would be cancelled and I of course turned it on because I need to remind myself periodically of why I don’t watch it so I won’t be sucked into watching it when somebody I’m vaguely interested in seeing makes the mistake of showing up on that show. And what do I hear? It’s cancelled. At the moment I wish it is cancelled….Poof! It’s gone. Or it will be at the end of this week. You’re welcome.

You: “Huh, well the timing of that is sort of strange. I mean you think about it being cancelled, you turn it on at the exact moment that it announces it’s being cancelled…that might be something.”

Of course it’s something and I don’t need any help from you so just shuffle off there, buddy.

Ladies of “The View” I’m coming for you next. Specifically, Meredith, Star, and Barbra, though not necessarily in that order. Starting tomorrow, I’m wishing you away. Good luck.

Shopping Stuff

2005-03-10T18:04:00.000-05:00

I have now heard three different people make the eye poke joke. Is this a saying? Really? I would like it if it was not, ok? Thanks.

In other news, I’ve been shopping my little heart and my even littler bank account all the way out. Before today, I had been having distressingly bad luck. It’s not so much that nothing fit, as it was that nothing was not ugly. Today was a step in the right direction. I found pants! Pants!

I usually have very much difficulty finding pants because they do not make pants for me. And I mean me, specifically. The shorter, the taller? The fatter, the skinnier? They’re all taken care of. Have all the pants you want and then go have a big pants party but Erin cannot come because there are no pants for Erin.

Until today.

Today I went into the Limited for the first time in, I would say, three years. And I tried on billions of pants. And they all fit. I actually had to pick which of the ones that looked good to buy! So, I picked two pairs and I was ready for them to be super expensive although I thought maybe one pair was half off.

This is where my legendary shopping mojo at last returned to me. The pair I thought wasn’t on sale? Half off. The pair I thought was half off? $9.99. Ridiculous. So, I got $150 worth of pants for $46. These are the things that make me happy. Oh, and last night online I bought one pair of $150 pants for $40. We shall see how they turn out but I’m excited that they weren’t my best bargain.

Now, I still have much to do because all of my clothes are black. All of them. I need to remedy this because I just bought brown shoes. I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m not so much with the smart stuff.

Strangest Day Ever

2005-03-07T15:57:00.000-05:00

So, remember when I told you all that I blew the interview for the job I went to graduate school to get and I was very sad and mopey and very much the "leave me alone or I will spill out my uncontrollable rage on you" type of girl? Me too...um, sorry about that.

I got a job.

I got the job I blew the interview for.

I got the job I was convinced I didn't get.

I got the job I went to graduate school to get.

Huh.

And to think I was going to consider today a success if I didn't fall down again, seeing as how I had on the potentially dangerous shoes and was taking the potentially dangerous bus at the exact same potentially dangerous time as last week.

This morning I had a meeting with a guy who does library temping placements and he was super nice and kind of a jolly old man which I never expect to come across in job interview situations (not that it's ever happened before today) and I left feeling pretty good about what he had to say. Except when he said, "It won't pay the rent but it's better than getting poked in the eye with a pointy stick." I wasn't really sure how I felt about that.

Then I got home (safely, no fall, not even a wobble) and there was a message from the library temping chick I met with last week with an interview opportunity for a long-term temp. That's good, right? I didn't really want to temp, but again, I have zero dollars (although I did get a cut of my dad's refund...he's nice) so I can't really be picky but I have to move fairly soon and temping I don't think would make that happen so much.

Then the phone rings again and I don't answer it because I'm trying to eat my sandwich while the house reeks of paint fumes and that requires concentration.

The message is from Library Lady and she wants me to call her back. I immediately think, "Why is she calling me all this time later just to tell me I didn't get the job? That's kind of mean."

So I call her back and she offers me a job.

And I am rendered incapable of speech and kind of blabber on and tell her I need to call back because, you know, this job had been mourned. I had gone through the five stages of grief for this job. I know it seemed like I got a little caught up in anger, which I did, but I swear I really did move on.

I call my sister, genius-at-large, and tell her I don't know what to do because hey, I could temp or I could get the job I've been working toward for two years. Her response?

"So what's your question?"

Exactly.

A Result of Watching Two Minutes of The Company

2005-03-04T19:00:00.000-05:00

I don’t like the ballet movie. I would like it to stop being made. Because it is bad. Bad for ballet, bad for girls in general, and bad for movies.

Nice, economically challenged, beautiful girl wins scholarship/competition/audition to the world renowned Something Something Academy of the Dancing Something in the bustling city of Someplace. For some reason, everyone else is already there when she starts and everyone knows everything about everybody. Why is this? Why does NECB always arrive in the middle? We’ll never know because the people who have written this story twelve billion times now still haven’t figured that out. Frustrating.

NECB struggles struggles struggles to become the Best Dancer Ever but all of a sudden she sucks. This is NEVER explained well. Why is she so bad? How did she win her spot if she sucks so much? I think what these fools would have us believe is that her teachers push her SO hard because they know she is the Best Dancer Ever and they have to be extra tough. That is a bullshit teacher lie. You know how I know? Well, in 8th grade my Social Studies teacher tried to fail me…which, ok, several ensuing teachers did successfully (I’m a smarty, but I’m not so much for the doing of the work), but this fool did so with no warning! None! And I was little! And my mom was really not on board with the F so there was a meeting and the teacher actually pulled out the line, “Well, I didn’t send a warning letter because I was so surprised she was doing so badly.” Good one. His argument basically that was because I was SO smart and should be doing well, all his behavior was absolved. Not so much. I still wonder what would have happened if I had blown the whistle on the fact that he spent most of basically every class getting this kid to do George Bush impersonations. This isn’t to say that I wasn’t doing a slack ass job in that class. But let’s remember…I was little.

Anyway, back to NECB.

She meets Evil Dancer #1 who everyone knows already is the Best Dancer Ever and she tells NECB to go home or makes fun of her clothes or calls her poor or fat or all of the above. Her mother is very overbearing and loves her daughter’s career if not so much her daughter. Many scenes of pressure to be skinnier, dancier, or sluttier with the director, end with the mother exiting and the daughter staring wistfully at her back. Later we will learn that what she really wants to be? Is a regular girl. Bullshit right there, nobody wants that.

The Evil But It’s OK Because He’s an ARTIST Director of the school/company/production is a middle aged allegedly handsome man who everyone knows is sleeping with the World Famous Ballerina who never actually shows up in the movie (cover story, Mr. Ballet Guy? I think so). How do we hear this?

From Spunky Bad Dancer (a.k.a. Automatic Best Friend to NECB) who the teachers call fat and untalented all the time (which leads one to wonder why this school/company/production keeps letting in bad dancers--Is it just to fuck with them? Seems mean.) and she just kind of takes it and her friends never stand up for her. Lovely.

Washed Up Ballerina is always a teacher who serves no purpose other than to follow EBIOKBHAA Director and tell all the dancers how bad and fat and bad they are.

The Best Dancer Ever: Male Category is usually some sort of sensitive, all knowing, all understanding welder-turned-ballerina who rides a motorcycle and falls for NECB immediately and ballet dancers give it up awfully quick in these movies. He is superbly perfect because only girl ballerinas are evil and mean. I’m sure. Baryshnikov was a super bitch on Sex and the City and he hadn’t pulled on the tights for decades. And Evil Dancer #1 either is secretly in love with him or they’ve already gone out and broken up.

So, rehearsals start and Evil Dancer #1 gets the lead in the whatever it is they’re making of course and OF COURSE she either breaks something, overdoses on something, or throws up a whole bunch of something a whole bunch of times. She then must drop out, make peace with her mother who Surprise! realizes she’s been a little too hard and She (tears) Loves (tears) Her (sniffle sniffle hug!).

NECB is the star and becomes Best Dancer Ever, Best Dancer Ever: Male Category love love loves her, Spunky Best Friend decides ballet just isn’t her thing and her friends pretend to protest but are really thinking “Oh good, because she fucking sucked,” and Evil Dancer #1 and NECB automatically forge a new understanding and are the bestest best friends ever in the history of best friends. Then there’s a bow, and flowers, and Neve Campbell still really needs to deal with the fact that she ain’t no ballerina.

This Will Surprise Exactly No One

2005-03-03T15:52:00.000-05:00

Now, I’m sure some of you who read this, assuming anyone does, have thought to yourself at least once, “This girl is a mess, it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall down and hurt herself.”

Well.

So, today, blah blah interview, we’ll see what happens and I’ll let you know and until then don’t ask me, ok? Feeling pretty good about myself and my new shoes that are still comfortable after the first four hours, I head off toward home after the interview is over. I’m waiting for my bus, and I of course have just missed one and the next one is coming in half an hour. Of course it is! Because it’s not like it was freezing and windy. Except that it was. But, no problem because I have on comfortable shoes and I actually think to myself the following things over the course of my wait, “I’m so glad these shoes are comfortable,” “I wonder what would happen if I fall down,” “Shit, my heel just got stuck in the dirt,” “That would be so embarrassing if I had fallen down, good thing these shoes are easy to walk in,” “How funny was it when I fell in the mud? It was funny but that’s enough with the falling,” “Or how about when I fell in Mary Ann Mayer’s boyfriend’s garage? That was funny but again, let’s be done with the falling, especially when we are doing so well with our new shoes.” “Excellent point, definitely let’s be careful.” And so on and so forth and I think it’s pretty obvious that this dialogue in my head was serving as karma’s alarm clock.

Then, the bus comes! Yay, bus! There are approximately 0-1 people on the bus and approximately 0-1 people waiting for the bus. Not exactly packed. Yet, somehow in the hustle and bustle of one person disembarking, and one person (it’s me just in case you’re not catching on) getting on the bus, a bus that isn’t scheduled to depart for yet another ten minutes…I. Wipe. Out.

Where once there was my head, there is air. Where once there was my ass, there is my head. Where once there was curb, there is my ass. Where once there was shoe, there is no shoe. Where once there were two functioning ankles, there are not so much two as much as one functioning and one aching. Where once there was one fucked up back there is still a fucked up back, only now it is cold because it is lying where there once was sidewalk.

Awesome.

Anyway, I bought new shoes and they make me very happy. That, apparently, will have to be enough because the One. Good. Thing. has yet to appear.

One. Good. Thing.

2005-03-02T14:28:00.000-05:00

I get the whole universe-yin-yan(g?) give a little to get a little but can I please get One. Fucking. Break.

My car won't start.

Well it wouldn't start. It's started now thanks to helpful tow-man but there were a few dicey moments where I almost blew up the world with my rage. Fun stuff.

How Do I Know Everything?

2005-03-01T16:13:00.000-05:00

While in the checkout aisle today I saw this on the cover of the National Enquirer:

Guess Which Teen Star Got Caught Using Drugs?

You don't need to guess though, because I already told you!

Oh, and National Enquirer? If you want people to buy your magazine to find out who is in that picture, you probably shouldn't have his name appear when people scroll over it...just a thought!

Did You Know

2005-02-28T18:38:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-02-28T10:58:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-27T20:15:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-24T13:30:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-23T13:31:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-22T18:45:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-02-21T14:35:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-19T19:09:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-17T15:34:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-15T21:45:00.000-05:00

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...

2005-02-14T17:07:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-12T18:59:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-09T17:37:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

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...

2005-02-07T19:12:00.000-05:00

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.