Hello, I'm here, don't go away!
Boyfriend and I are prepping for a dual trip to visit my roots in Kentucky with my family before immediately taking off on our 8 day trip to Europe. The KY/Euro combo commences in t-minus 4 days. Stress much? Blogging hasn't been a top priority.
But please check back! I have so much work to do I can't even start writing the posts I want to now, but I will...soon...I promise...maybe. Not that anyone is waiting with baited breath or anything, but I'm just saying I will be back. Sometime. Hopefully.
My confidence in the matter is staggering.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Ren Festing
Wow. This past weekend boyfriend and I and two of our friends sojourned to the Maryland Renaissance Festival, and it...was...awesome. If I happened to have been a bigger nerd in high school, the Maryland Ren Fest would have been my yearly safe haven. Teaming with bully-fodder of all kinds, it was like this magical hole in the space/time continuum that allowed for the oft sought paradox of "normal" and nerdy. A mingling of present day and past fantasy. An all encompassing exhibition of the conveniences of sturdy footwear and hand sanitizer against the stark backdrop of wool clothing and hand forged arrows. And a really cute guy that spoke Gaelic and taught me a swear about some guy named Cromwell.
Enough of that. But it really was fun. My friend and I immediately set to the task of acquiring the perfect state of tipsy on the real life mead (which was shockingly tasty, especially mixed with hard cider). Being quite practiced in the matter, we were able to meet our goal and then moved on to trying on metal head ware, watching an archery match, cheering for the jousters, and devouring a turkey leg or two. What more could you want out of your renaissance festival?
As a side note, I'm watching a news segment right now where DC Mayor Adrian Fenty just spent 4 MILLION DOLLARS building the biggest bike station in the United States. Thats right, "What is a bike station" is the correct response. This, amidst near violent protests over hundreds of teachers being laid off in the DC public school system due to lack of funding. Way to budget, team America.
So in conclusion, next year we have already decided that we are going to DRESS UP for the Ren Fest (hopefully I'll have forgotten this by next year), and I'm hoping to be an elf...pointy ears and all. Please, no swirlies.
Enough of that. But it really was fun. My friend and I immediately set to the task of acquiring the perfect state of tipsy on the real life mead (which was shockingly tasty, especially mixed with hard cider). Being quite practiced in the matter, we were able to meet our goal and then moved on to trying on metal head ware, watching an archery match, cheering for the jousters, and devouring a turkey leg or two. What more could you want out of your renaissance festival?
As a side note, I'm watching a news segment right now where DC Mayor Adrian Fenty just spent 4 MILLION DOLLARS building the biggest bike station in the United States. Thats right, "What is a bike station" is the correct response. This, amidst near violent protests over hundreds of teachers being laid off in the DC public school system due to lack of funding. Way to budget, team America.
So in conclusion, next year we have already decided that we are going to DRESS UP for the Ren Fest (hopefully I'll have forgotten this by next year), and I'm hoping to be an elf...pointy ears and all. Please, no swirlies.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Crying Over No Milk
I love soups of all kinds. Even the poo-ish looking lentil/bean soup that films over in the cute deli around the corner, because no one wants to eat the poo soup. But its delicious, just like every other soup in the world.
I'm no foodie really, and I'm not ashamed to admit my love of soup extends happily to my grocers canned goods isle, where I stock up on my favorite Campbells delectables. Sorry Progresso, I can't stand your tinny aftertaste. Today is the first real day of Northern Virginia fall, so I decided to pop a Chicken Corn Chowder in the microwave and enjoy the slightly sweetened goodness.
Except there was no goodness! Only squishy bits of chicken fat and a broth so thin and bitter I spit it out immediately. Whats all this??? Campbells, you've failed me. I checked the expiration date, no problems there. I checked my microwave setting, seems to be in working order. I reread the heating instructions and confirmed they were properly followed. What gives?
Determined to have my cozy meal, I go for soup number two. A delightful variety of Campbells Turkey Pot Pie. But again, no delight was to be had! Only a twisted up bad-food taste face and a slight mess in my microwave from all the popping. Ugh. I need soup!
Now I don't know how to proceed. I have my heart set on something rich and (dare I say the word...oh, forgive me) creamy. I thought about making a variety of my own soup/hearty warm fall dish, but alas, I've no milk, and they all require it. And I'm not wearing pants so I can't just run to the store. Clearly an insurmountably obstacle.
Now you may just say, why are you even concerned about lunch food, its only 11:20 am. You've barely just had breakfast, fatty. But you don't understand! I just came from 4 days of visiting my family in Indiana and all we did was eat and talk, as is custom. My stomach became quite used to hourly feedings and now I'm suffering the first twinges of American-style hunger pangs, which, naturally, are nothing like rest-of-the-world hunger pangs. So dissimilar, in fact, I almost feel guilty making light of it, really. Too much trouble to erase now though! Whats done is done.
So I guess I'll go have some peanut butter on crackers, as I also don't have any bread. My palate, it suffers.
I'm no foodie really, and I'm not ashamed to admit my love of soup extends happily to my grocers canned goods isle, where I stock up on my favorite Campbells delectables. Sorry Progresso, I can't stand your tinny aftertaste. Today is the first real day of Northern Virginia fall, so I decided to pop a Chicken Corn Chowder in the microwave and enjoy the slightly sweetened goodness.
Except there was no goodness! Only squishy bits of chicken fat and a broth so thin and bitter I spit it out immediately. Whats all this??? Campbells, you've failed me. I checked the expiration date, no problems there. I checked my microwave setting, seems to be in working order. I reread the heating instructions and confirmed they were properly followed. What gives?
Determined to have my cozy meal, I go for soup number two. A delightful variety of Campbells Turkey Pot Pie. But again, no delight was to be had! Only a twisted up bad-food taste face and a slight mess in my microwave from all the popping. Ugh. I need soup!
Now I don't know how to proceed. I have my heart set on something rich and (dare I say the word...oh, forgive me) creamy. I thought about making a variety of my own soup/hearty warm fall dish, but alas, I've no milk, and they all require it. And I'm not wearing pants so I can't just run to the store. Clearly an insurmountably obstacle.
Now you may just say, why are you even concerned about lunch food, its only 11:20 am. You've barely just had breakfast, fatty. But you don't understand! I just came from 4 days of visiting my family in Indiana and all we did was eat and talk, as is custom. My stomach became quite used to hourly feedings and now I'm suffering the first twinges of American-style hunger pangs, which, naturally, are nothing like rest-of-the-world hunger pangs. So dissimilar, in fact, I almost feel guilty making light of it, really. Too much trouble to erase now though! Whats done is done.
So I guess I'll go have some peanut butter on crackers, as I also don't have any bread. My palate, it suffers.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Cleanliness is next to...uh...
I was always at least mildly interested in school growing up, however one particular subject consistently fascinated and motivated me to continue studying and learning: me. Ah vanity, you are a wiley minx. So, yes, big surprise, the blogger likes to think about herself. I do not believe this will come as a particular shocker to anyone.
My recent academic pursuits on the subject revealed a startling discovery that may change the way I face my mornings. Let it be said that I was never a morning person. Growing up with a twin sister, I was the one most often characterized as lazy, while she was the one my mom would suggest running laps around the outside of the house. While pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks. In knee deep mud. She just had a lot of energy to burn. Naturally then, I always found myself the last to wake up of the pair- a trait I've regrettably inherited from my father who is a class A world champion sleeper. And a great dad, I might add.
The last few days I've been SO TIRED in the morning, much more so than usual, and I've been spending half the morning hours rubbing my eyes, drooling on my shirt and trying in vain to convince my neck muscles to hold my head upright. Yes, its true, I am a newborn.
I realized this morning though that the last few days I have also been showering at night. In my mind this save leagues of time in the morning rush, however, with the new evidence at hand I believe my logic is faulty. I went through the whole age regression song and dance this morning and then at 10 am decided to hop back in the shower to liven up, and wonder of all wonders I am now quite refreshed! And zestfully clean! My day has finally begun!
So now we know, the cure for excessive drooling and lack of motor skills is....water.
My recent academic pursuits on the subject revealed a startling discovery that may change the way I face my mornings. Let it be said that I was never a morning person. Growing up with a twin sister, I was the one most often characterized as lazy, while she was the one my mom would suggest running laps around the outside of the house. While pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks. In knee deep mud. She just had a lot of energy to burn. Naturally then, I always found myself the last to wake up of the pair- a trait I've regrettably inherited from my father who is a class A world champion sleeper. And a great dad, I might add.
The last few days I've been SO TIRED in the morning, much more so than usual, and I've been spending half the morning hours rubbing my eyes, drooling on my shirt and trying in vain to convince my neck muscles to hold my head upright. Yes, its true, I am a newborn.
I realized this morning though that the last few days I have also been showering at night. In my mind this save leagues of time in the morning rush, however, with the new evidence at hand I believe my logic is faulty. I went through the whole age regression song and dance this morning and then at 10 am decided to hop back in the shower to liven up, and wonder of all wonders I am now quite refreshed! And zestfully clean! My day has finally begun!
So now we know, the cure for excessive drooling and lack of motor skills is....water.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Julia Weeps
I've been steadily repeating to myself over the last week my new favorite guilt induced mantra, "I have not abandoned my blog...I have not abandoned my blog...I have not abandoned my blog.....Ooooohmmmm, Ooooooohmmmmm......I have not abandoned my blog...mother earth...I have not abandoned my blog....soy chips and carbon footprints...nuevo hippie jargon. And so forth and so on. I'm really a novice when it comes to mantra chanting.
I wasn't planning on posting today, but I guess my subconscious is tired of the self-induced and completely unnecessary guilt. You would think I was Catholic or something.
Anyway, religion notwithstanding, I just got back from a 3 mile "run" and am still feeling a bit on the jelly side. I'll have you know that the term "run" in my estimation means any activity greater than or equal to a forward motion performed on a treadmill. Take that as you will regarding my fitness level. I'm no Flo Jo.
After said run I decided some dinner was in order, as is customary in the mid-evening hours. I got all Julia Childlike and whipped up my favorite "healthy" dish of plain microwaved frozen chicken breast with a delicate honey dipping sauce on the side. My palate demands only the best. And I love microwaves. And I'm not much of a cook. Clearly.
The microwaving process has never been much of a challenge for me, as I passed 4th grade many years ago and thankfully grew some very handy opposable thumbs, so it is with a heavy heart that tonight, when the final score was tallied, the results were Me: 0, Microwave: 1. The 1 would stand for 1st degree burns. Note to all: do not, under any circumstances, "fiddle" with the plastic wrap covering your frozen chicken at any point after you've started the food cooking process. There's steam in there. Evil, wretched steam. Burney burney steam.
Now, as the blisters are no doubtedly setting in on my pulsing left hand, I must away to tend to my (completely preventable) wounds. And then I will start the paperwork for the Me v. Frozen Chicken lawsuit. How many innocent knuckles must twinge before something is done!?! Justice will be served! Victory will be mine! All you need is love!
Uh...how'd that last one get in there...
I wasn't planning on posting today, but I guess my subconscious is tired of the self-induced and completely unnecessary guilt. You would think I was Catholic or something.
Anyway, religion notwithstanding, I just got back from a 3 mile "run" and am still feeling a bit on the jelly side. I'll have you know that the term "run" in my estimation means any activity greater than or equal to a forward motion performed on a treadmill. Take that as you will regarding my fitness level. I'm no Flo Jo.
After said run I decided some dinner was in order, as is customary in the mid-evening hours. I got all Julia Childlike and whipped up my favorite "healthy" dish of plain microwaved frozen chicken breast with a delicate honey dipping sauce on the side. My palate demands only the best. And I love microwaves. And I'm not much of a cook. Clearly.
The microwaving process has never been much of a challenge for me, as I passed 4th grade many years ago and thankfully grew some very handy opposable thumbs, so it is with a heavy heart that tonight, when the final score was tallied, the results were Me: 0, Microwave: 1. The 1 would stand for 1st degree burns. Note to all: do not, under any circumstances, "fiddle" with the plastic wrap covering your frozen chicken at any point after you've started the food cooking process. There's steam in there. Evil, wretched steam. Burney burney steam.
Now, as the blisters are no doubtedly setting in on my pulsing left hand, I must away to tend to my (completely preventable) wounds. And then I will start the paperwork for the Me v. Frozen Chicken lawsuit. How many innocent knuckles must twinge before something is done!?! Justice will be served! Victory will be mine! All you need is love!
Uh...how'd that last one get in there...
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Random Bits
Looks like I kinda fell off the blogging wagon there for a bit. I guess a week sans blog doesn't really qualify as "off the wagon" though. It's more like I was wrapped around the wheel, cartoon style, as the wagon made its way down a gravel path strewn with detritus of all kinds. But I have found my way back (!) and am now sitting comfortably on a haystack enjoying the view...covered in gravel and detritus, naturally. There are no showers on a wagon. Especially a metaphorical blogging wagon.
There really hasn't been much to blog about lately, and I didn't want to just ramble on about nothing in particular. Heh. As though I don't just ramble anyway.
I've taken a few weeks off from posting about More to Love, and I think I've waited a reasonable amount of time to curb any sort of obsession rumors that may be floating around. At this point in the show, there are only 3 (THREE!) ladies left in the man hunt, and I am SHOCKED with the selection. First of all, and trust me, this isn't the shocking part, Luke had decided to keep the four (as of the prior week) thinnest women on the show. One of the women doesn't even appear to have a weight problem. She's just cute. AND she's a fitness trainer! I'm calling a foul on that one. The shocking part in all of this is that the remaining women have not once even considered (or the producers edited out their consideration) that Luke may not be right for THEM. Ugh. I overlooked this in the beginning because you don't really need to life-screen a first date, but things are getting serious gals, and as much as I support Fox's portrayal of the people on this show, I would really hate for the final message to be a resounding, "Take what you can get, fatty!"
Ahem, moving on. I'm prayerfully considering buying a new bed. Does anyone have any thoughts on that? The one I have now is a hot mess. I've had it since senior year of college and it's really seemed to lost its will to live. Most annoyingly, the metal frame is stuck in the temperamental toddler years and can't make up its mind if it wants to stay in an upright and locked position or if it wants to randomly and without warning fall apart. Before you get any ideas, I assure you that there hasn't been any "vigorous use" issues that could account for such unusual bed frame behavior. Even the slightest movement threatens to upset the delicate balance and one time, I kid you not, my bed dropped an inch and a half after a small cough. Additionally, the mattress is lumpy and mounds up in the middle. No me gusta. So, Cheapy McGee over here has to throw down some funds for a new bed. Boooo.
Finally, I tried to hang some art work on my living room wall over the weekend only to find out that my living room wall is made of f-ing concrete. Instead of artwork, I have a really nice hole in the paint about 2/3 of the way in. Very art deco.
There really hasn't been much to blog about lately, and I didn't want to just ramble on about nothing in particular. Heh. As though I don't just ramble anyway.
I've taken a few weeks off from posting about More to Love, and I think I've waited a reasonable amount of time to curb any sort of obsession rumors that may be floating around. At this point in the show, there are only 3 (THREE!) ladies left in the man hunt, and I am SHOCKED with the selection. First of all, and trust me, this isn't the shocking part, Luke had decided to keep the four (as of the prior week) thinnest women on the show. One of the women doesn't even appear to have a weight problem. She's just cute. AND she's a fitness trainer! I'm calling a foul on that one. The shocking part in all of this is that the remaining women have not once even considered (or the producers edited out their consideration) that Luke may not be right for THEM. Ugh. I overlooked this in the beginning because you don't really need to life-screen a first date, but things are getting serious gals, and as much as I support Fox's portrayal of the people on this show, I would really hate for the final message to be a resounding, "Take what you can get, fatty!"
Ahem, moving on. I'm prayerfully considering buying a new bed. Does anyone have any thoughts on that? The one I have now is a hot mess. I've had it since senior year of college and it's really seemed to lost its will to live. Most annoyingly, the metal frame is stuck in the temperamental toddler years and can't make up its mind if it wants to stay in an upright and locked position or if it wants to randomly and without warning fall apart. Before you get any ideas, I assure you that there hasn't been any "vigorous use" issues that could account for such unusual bed frame behavior. Even the slightest movement threatens to upset the delicate balance and one time, I kid you not, my bed dropped an inch and a half after a small cough. Additionally, the mattress is lumpy and mounds up in the middle. No me gusta. So, Cheapy McGee over here has to throw down some funds for a new bed. Boooo.
Finally, I tried to hang some art work on my living room wall over the weekend only to find out that my living room wall is made of f-ing concrete. Instead of artwork, I have a really nice hole in the paint about 2/3 of the way in. Very art deco.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Ahem
I told myself that today I would do all my mindless internetting and the ritual eating of the breakfast before starting work so I can maximize not only my efficiency but also cut out all the fun stuff in one fell swoop so I don't use it as an excuse to take take a 10 minute internet break after making one phone call.
Do I get a prize or something prize-like for my award winning run-on sentence?
I've found a flaw in the plan. I don't know if you all realize this or not, but the internets, they are infinite. And my blog is part of the infiniteness. And blogging takes more time than just about anything else I do on the internet. Ergo, I'm sacrificing time management on the alter of efficiency. Should I have brought a burnt offering for that? Where are my manners...
I was deathly ill (read: scratchy throat) this past weekend, and by Saturday night I had lost my voice completely. However, just prior to Saturday night I sounded exactly like a pubescent bullfrog. Most warm blooded humans with any ounce of soul tethered even perilously to the last vestige of flesh and bone would be able to garner some kind of sympathy for the infirm. The cashier at CVS on Saturday night was no such mortal being.
Non-Human CVS Cashier: Hello!
The Otherwise Sympathy Inducing Human Customer: hII. (Ahem, cough, clear throat)
NHCVSC: Is this all for you? (motioning to my extra strength throat spray stuff)
TOSIHC: yES, (hack, clear throat) THank ooO.
NHCVSC: So, are you sick or what? What do you need this for?
TOSIHC: Na sURE wh--- (ahem) what is WRONG. My vo--- (ahem) vo--- (cough, ahem) vOICE keeps go---ing iiNN and out.
NHCVSC: I'm sorry, what did you say?
TOSIHC: (Ahem, cough, clears throat) I s--d I th--k I'm OOsing my VOice.
NHCVSC: Come again?
TOSIHC: My thROAT huRRts and I'm l--sing my --ice.
NHCVSC: Ha ha. I heard what you said the first time. Ha ha ha.
TOSIHC: J--k (hemm, cough) JERK.
In totally unrelated news, throat spray makes me gag.
Do I get a prize or something prize-like for my award winning run-on sentence?
I've found a flaw in the plan. I don't know if you all realize this or not, but the internets, they are infinite. And my blog is part of the infiniteness. And blogging takes more time than just about anything else I do on the internet. Ergo, I'm sacrificing time management on the alter of efficiency. Should I have brought a burnt offering for that? Where are my manners...
I was deathly ill (read: scratchy throat) this past weekend, and by Saturday night I had lost my voice completely. However, just prior to Saturday night I sounded exactly like a pubescent bullfrog. Most warm blooded humans with any ounce of soul tethered even perilously to the last vestige of flesh and bone would be able to garner some kind of sympathy for the infirm. The cashier at CVS on Saturday night was no such mortal being.
Non-Human CVS Cashier: Hello!
The Otherwise Sympathy Inducing Human Customer: hII. (Ahem, cough, clear throat)
NHCVSC: Is this all for you? (motioning to my extra strength throat spray stuff)
TOSIHC: yES, (hack, clear throat) THank ooO.
NHCVSC: So, are you sick or what? What do you need this for?
TOSIHC: Na sURE wh--- (ahem) what is WRONG. My vo--- (ahem) vo--- (cough, ahem) vOICE keeps go---ing iiNN and out.
NHCVSC: I'm sorry, what did you say?
TOSIHC: (Ahem, cough, clears throat) I s--d I th--k I'm OOsing my VOice.
NHCVSC: Come again?
TOSIHC: My thROAT huRRts and I'm l--sing my --ice.
NHCVSC: Ha ha. I heard what you said the first time. Ha ha ha.
TOSIHC: J--k (hemm, cough) JERK.
In totally unrelated news, throat spray makes me gag.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Counting Down to Retirement
Who else feels like their memoirs should be titled, "My Best Just Isn't Good Enough: A Look Into the Ugly Side of Near Constant Failure?" I've worked 13 hours so far today and I'm still going to miss a deadline. Ugh. That's my hand you see there in the horizon with the gnawed fingernails and nervous twitch sinking down into whatever fictional body of water you would like to envision. I'm personally imagining a mid-flush public toilet of grotesque magnitude...that feels about right. That hand movement you see there, it's not quite a wave, more like...oh, lets say...a desperate signal for help. Please don't ignore it. Do, DO send coping mechanisms straight away- I prefer chocolate and What Not To Wear marathons, but am open to exploring other ideas. I'll also be needing a copy of the classifieds. Chop chop.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Cookie Monster
Up until 95 seconds ago, I honestly believed my parents fed me cookies swimming in a bowl of milk for breakfast throughout my impressionable formative years. I distinctly remember indulging in delicious overflowing bowls of chocolate Teddy Grahams many a morning before bouncing off to elementary school in a blissful sugary rush.
(Sidenote, it's late. My syntax isn't perfect and I definitely realize that I've technically admitted to eating delicious bowls, but what I meant to say was that the Teddy Grahams in the bowls were delicious. The bowls themselves were only so-so. I'm too lazy to fix the sentence, which is absolutely hypocritical based on the amount of time I've spent explaining my mistake.)
Anyway, I just found this site that proves my parents were not intentionally nutritiously neglectful. Teddy Grahams were marketed as actual cereal in the 90's, which I fully support given that I may still primarily consume them with a spoon. Or a shovel. No wonder half the population has the di-a-bee-dus. I should go ahead and put Wilford Brimley on my speed dial. Wonder if he's on facebook...
(Sidenote, it's late. My syntax isn't perfect and I definitely realize that I've technically admitted to eating delicious bowls, but what I meant to say was that the Teddy Grahams in the bowls were delicious. The bowls themselves were only so-so. I'm too lazy to fix the sentence, which is absolutely hypocritical based on the amount of time I've spent explaining my mistake.)
Anyway, I just found this site that proves my parents were not intentionally nutritiously neglectful. Teddy Grahams were marketed as actual cereal in the 90's, which I fully support given that I may still primarily consume them with a spoon. Or a shovel. No wonder half the population has the di-a-bee-dus. I should go ahead and put Wilford Brimley on my speed dial. Wonder if he's on facebook...
Monday, August 10, 2009
Where Do I Apply
A certain Texan friend who knows me well recently suggested I look into professional "adult romance" fiction (aka porn lite) writing to obtain the obscene salary and personal job satisfaction that I so longingly desire and have no prospects of achieving in my current line of work. Being a novice in the field myself, I wonder how to go about exploring this new career opportunity. Naturally, I like to write, so right away I have a head start. I'll check that off the list. I wonder if there are any sort of formal internship programs already set up, and what the application process for such a program would entail. Would field research be required, and if so could this be merely observational or is it best to get hands on experience? Would I have access to cross vocational training? What about opportunities for advancement? I think I would be ok writing novellas or short scripts, but venturing into full length smut creation seems intimidating. I have a hard time committing to an email font, let alone entire themes of ill repute! Perhaps if I can get a foot in the door I'll be able to work my way up the corporate ladder. You know, I'll bet the adult fiction industry has a whole different set of professional jargon that I'm not even aware of, as our culture is so proficient with the double entendre. I wonder what analogous item a professional is expected to climb when dealing with this facet of the entertainment industry? Surely not a ladder. I have much to learn.
Wanted: tall, muscular Eastern European equestrians from medieval times or sooner for field research on an upcoming novella. Long flowing hair preferred, though all types are welcome to apply. Indicate on your application if you have any previous experience rescuing or seducing distressed and/or repressed damsels, or if you have any allergies or sensitivities to sand, hay, grass, musty air, dark alleys, or heavy breathing as prolonged exposure to these items is necessary to fulfill terms of employment. Applicant must be able to gaze longingly and/or with burring desire for at least 30 minutes at a time. EEO employer.
Good thing I rarely follow through with most of my bright ideas, huh mom. She would be so proud.
Wanted: tall, muscular Eastern European equestrians from medieval times or sooner for field research on an upcoming novella. Long flowing hair preferred, though all types are welcome to apply. Indicate on your application if you have any previous experience rescuing or seducing distressed and/or repressed damsels, or if you have any allergies or sensitivities to sand, hay, grass, musty air, dark alleys, or heavy breathing as prolonged exposure to these items is necessary to fulfill terms of employment. Applicant must be able to gaze longingly and/or with burring desire for at least 30 minutes at a time. EEO employer.
Good thing I rarely follow through with most of my bright ideas, huh mom. She would be so proud.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Natural Born Stalker
I promise that my future posts won't all be about More to Love. Except for this one.
Cross my heart.
Hope to die.
Er, let's change that to "hope to dye." The former seems unnecessarily severe. It's just a blog.
Last night boyfriend and I settled in for a glorious night of slovenly watching the teevee. Boyfriend left work early and I joined soon thereafter, and not one minute after my foot crossed the threshold of his gadget infested man cave we had our bootleg season 2 of Battlestar Galactica up and running. Bliss.
As a side note, your sinful judgement of my sophisticated entertainment tastes is leaking through my monitor and beginning to corrode my keyboard. Battlestar Galactica and More to Love- think of it as diversity. PC TV.
After 3 captivating episodes of the aforementioned BG, we switched over to last nights second episode of MTL. It was the most deliciously engrossing train wreck of a deluded love story I have ever had the honor of bearing witness to. And I don't even care that I ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm willing to let the ghost of my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Berrong, the same teacher who threatened to cut off a chunk of my sisters emo hair style during her "wall of bangs" phase, haunt my dreams tonight just to describe the twisted splendor of this show.
At this point in our big boned tale of love and loss, the contestants have presumably met Prince Charming ONE TIME. The girls are preparing to go on a split group date for their second opportunity to win over the boy wonder with their feminine wiles and curves of varying degrees, so naturally, here come the testimonials. There is one lucky lady in particular, Christian, who is convinced that the bachelor already loves her, and refers to his unwavering commitment with the same kind of ignorant passion and dewy romantic filth usually reserved for fairy tales and Disney movies. She waxes on about how he is the man her mother would pick for her, how he is so sweet and gentle with her, how he clearly respects and admires her pure heart and all other manner of deluded foolishness. I think she may have even uttered the word soulmate. Meanwhile, this guy is making out with 5 different girls all at once and 3 others are waiting in line behind them. Christian must have some kind of mental disconnect, because Mr. Right can't even muster up the gumption to kiss her on the mouth, and she thinks thats great! She fancies herself quite the alluring and mysterious tease. At one point she pauses in her litany of praise over his every quality, and he actually kinda halfway goes in for a real kiss as she just stares at him in bug eyed, fanatical admiration, but then he diverts mid-strike (you can almost hear him mentally say, "Nah") and plants an awkward cousinly peck juuuuust to the left of her lips, but nooooooot quite on her cheek.
She, of course, takes this as a sign of his gentlemanly charm, and continues to go on about how they were meant for each other, and that they have so much in common, and how she fits just perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, and how they will be so happy together forever once she can get rid of all those other evil bitches and lock him up in the cellar in her parents basement so she can have him all to herself where no one will ever be able to take him away from her. Not even a psychiatrist...or an excorsist...or a swat team. (pant, pant, pant) Just as the camera pans away, you catch the first fleeting glimpse of what ends up being near constant stalkerish adoration sweep across her face, and you just kind of know that underneath her pillow she's hidden a Luke replica doll made out of candy bar wrappers and a pair of dirty boxer briefs she stole out of her last crush's laundry hamper that night she crawled in his bedroom window to watch him sleep.
Anyway....I spent most of the show pacing in front of the tv like I was watching a sporting match, yelling at the girl who couldn't go 45 seconds without crying, cheering on the ballsy vixens going in for the kill, and literally whooping with delight when Bonnie, the edgy tattooed quick witted girl who proclaims to have the soul of a 50's housewife, said something clever. Boyfriend did his best to ignore me while balking at his temperamental computer and throwing out the occasional, "Wow, you must...uh...really be into this show, huh. Why don't you sit down, you're making me nervous."
As promised, that is all for my MTL synopsis. Until next week. Heh.
Cross my heart.
Hope to die.
Er, let's change that to "hope to dye." The former seems unnecessarily severe. It's just a blog.
Last night boyfriend and I settled in for a glorious night of slovenly watching the teevee. Boyfriend left work early and I joined soon thereafter, and not one minute after my foot crossed the threshold of his gadget infested man cave we had our bootleg season 2 of Battlestar Galactica up and running. Bliss.
As a side note, your sinful judgement of my sophisticated entertainment tastes is leaking through my monitor and beginning to corrode my keyboard. Battlestar Galactica and More to Love- think of it as diversity. PC TV.
After 3 captivating episodes of the aforementioned BG, we switched over to last nights second episode of MTL. It was the most deliciously engrossing train wreck of a deluded love story I have ever had the honor of bearing witness to. And I don't even care that I ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm willing to let the ghost of my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Berrong, the same teacher who threatened to cut off a chunk of my sisters emo hair style during her "wall of bangs" phase, haunt my dreams tonight just to describe the twisted splendor of this show.
At this point in our big boned tale of love and loss, the contestants have presumably met Prince Charming ONE TIME. The girls are preparing to go on a split group date for their second opportunity to win over the boy wonder with their feminine wiles and curves of varying degrees, so naturally, here come the testimonials. There is one lucky lady in particular, Christian, who is convinced that the bachelor already loves her, and refers to his unwavering commitment with the same kind of ignorant passion and dewy romantic filth usually reserved for fairy tales and Disney movies. She waxes on about how he is the man her mother would pick for her, how he is so sweet and gentle with her, how he clearly respects and admires her pure heart and all other manner of deluded foolishness. I think she may have even uttered the word soulmate. Meanwhile, this guy is making out with 5 different girls all at once and 3 others are waiting in line behind them. Christian must have some kind of mental disconnect, because Mr. Right can't even muster up the gumption to kiss her on the mouth, and she thinks thats great! She fancies herself quite the alluring and mysterious tease. At one point she pauses in her litany of praise over his every quality, and he actually kinda halfway goes in for a real kiss as she just stares at him in bug eyed, fanatical admiration, but then he diverts mid-strike (you can almost hear him mentally say, "Nah") and plants an awkward cousinly peck juuuuust to the left of her lips, but nooooooot quite on her cheek.
She, of course, takes this as a sign of his gentlemanly charm, and continues to go on about how they were meant for each other, and that they have so much in common, and how she fits just perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, and how they will be so happy together forever once she can get rid of all those other evil bitches and lock him up in the cellar in her parents basement so she can have him all to herself where no one will ever be able to take him away from her. Not even a psychiatrist...or an excorsist...or a swat team. (pant, pant, pant) Just as the camera pans away, you catch the first fleeting glimpse of what ends up being near constant stalkerish adoration sweep across her face, and you just kind of know that underneath her pillow she's hidden a Luke replica doll made out of candy bar wrappers and a pair of dirty boxer briefs she stole out of her last crush's laundry hamper that night she crawled in his bedroom window to watch him sleep.
Anyway....I spent most of the show pacing in front of the tv like I was watching a sporting match, yelling at the girl who couldn't go 45 seconds without crying, cheering on the ballsy vixens going in for the kill, and literally whooping with delight when Bonnie, the edgy tattooed quick witted girl who proclaims to have the soul of a 50's housewife, said something clever. Boyfriend did his best to ignore me while balking at his temperamental computer and throwing out the occasional, "Wow, you must...uh...really be into this show, huh. Why don't you sit down, you're making me nervous."
As promised, that is all for my MTL synopsis. Until next week. Heh.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Disclaimer for the previous post
Hello blogging world, it is I, your humble servant.
The post following this one discusses a topic sensitive in nature. I really debated publishing it because I fear it may send a message regarding myself, when the intent was more along the lines of social commentary. But publish I did. Obviously.
The issue below is not about me. It's not about my weight or my self image or my insecurities, and I hope that as (or if...or as if) you read it, you will consider the representation of my own feelings as examples to my point, not as the point itself.
Clearly, once (or if), you read the post and then, as we did in middle school, apply what you've read to this post, you will understand that some issues never fully resolve, even if the appearance of the issue does.
Gratis.
The post following this one discusses a topic sensitive in nature. I really debated publishing it because I fear it may send a message regarding myself, when the intent was more along the lines of social commentary. But publish I did. Obviously.
The issue below is not about me. It's not about my weight or my self image or my insecurities, and I hope that as (or if...or as if) you read it, you will consider the representation of my own feelings as examples to my point, not as the point itself.
Clearly, once (or if), you read the post and then, as we did in middle school, apply what you've read to this post, you will understand that some issues never fully resolve, even if the appearance of the issue does.
Gratis.
Love Loving More to Love
I'm not what you would call the most...petite...woman to have ever graced the world with her presence. So when I saw the previews for More to Love on Fox, basically another in the long line of Bachelor-type shows but featuring contestants that have what some might consider "bonus material," I was not only skeptical that the show would turn out to be a season long exploitation of fatties throwing their weight around in a manic effort to find the one thing they believe their own bodies will never allow them to have, but I was also wickedly curious.
The show definitely didn't disappoint, and after the first episode I am shocked by the surprisingly kind and honest way that Fox handled the portrayal of these women of no insignificant stature. Did they seem a little pathetic and weepy? Yes, of course. It is "reality" television after all, there has to be some kind of drama, but gosh darn it, they have a right to seem pathetic! Their tears were so meaningful and produced from years of an inner dialogue that repeats over and over that they aren't good enough, they are too fat, no one will love them this way, they are disgusting and they must change. Even the most strong willed, self confident, physically perfect woman on occasion questions her looks, wonders if life would be different if she was a little taller, her eyes a little brighter, her nose a little straighter or her boobs less lopsided...
Ok, lets be real here. That last one shouldn't really count. Don't we all wish our boobs were a little less lopsided?
Anyway, my point was, before I got distracted by boobs (hmmm...is this what it's like to be a guy?), that the women in the show, and countless others like them, have an ongoing, daily reminder of their defect. It's in the way they walk, the type of clothes they wear, the activities they continue to make excuses to avoid, the wondering who will be thinking nasty thoughts about them if they buy an ice cream cone, or a salad, or nothing at all. Average framed people can't possibly understand just how deep the fat goes. It gets in every part of your life. You begin to truly believe that no one can look past it, not because it is true, but because you yourself can't look past it. It's all you see. You can't forget it. You can't have a relationship or a conversation or even a passing glance with a stranger on the street without knowing deep down that they see a fat person, first and foremost. You tell yourself this, again, not because it is the reality, but because it is your reality.
The vulnerability of this show was staggering. Women, myself included, have gone to such great lengths to deny to the world that they see themselves as fat, or more realistically, that all they see in themselves is fat. We typically don't address it. I remember I used to not even like to say the word fat in any type of context, because I was sure if I did, whoever I was talking to would immediately apply the adjective to me. I read a comment from some TV critic after the first episode aired that mentioned that one of the contestants, I can't remember her name, confessed that she had never been on a date because she was always afraid she was being asked out only as a joke. Like someone was having a laugh at the fat girl's expense, to see if she would really believe that someone would actually want her. The critic seemed aghast, like this line of thinking was borderline delusional. But it was so real. I know I've always thought like that. It made me wonder how many men I have accidentally turned away in an attempt to save myself from a phantom humiliation. Before I met boyfriend, and alas, sadly even after I met him, I would pawn off every guy who showed me even the slightest bit of interest onto my girlfriends. I didn't want them to think that I was so stupid as to believe they might be into me. In bars if a guy came up to talk to me, I assume it was just to get to my friends, so I automatically get into matchmaker mode. It even took me months to fully convince myself that boyfriend actually liked me, and wasn't just using me for a while until he could find a better model. I literally asked him, point blank and completely unprompted, if he actually liked me or if he wanted me to set him up with someone else. On our third date. Right after he kissed me for the first time. After he had called me every day since we met. After he took off work early two days after our first date to surprise me at work because he couldn't wait to see me again. After we had been emailing every 15 minutes for the last two weeks because we had so much to say to each other. After all that, I still couldn't and didn't really believe that an average sized guy could ever really want me. But he did! And he does! Yay!
I say all of this not to garner any sympathy or fish for compliments or get slapped on the face with a floppy dead herring (I couldn't think of a third reason why I would be not saying this, but it just sounds better to have three options), but rather to just commend these brave women who are giving a voice to the fears and insecurities and realities that so many other people face. Being fat is still so taboo, and most fat people are still so scared to really talk about it. Not just make jokes or excuses or vows to lose weight, but to really talk about how the present reality of weight winds its way though every aspect of their lives. I think that watching this show made it so clear that these women will most assuredly find love because they are good, beautiful people with sparkling personalities, and I think the longer the show airs, the more evident that truth will become to the women themselves, no matter who ends up with the well-built bachelor, and to the rest of the world.
I think we should all take a minute to thank Fox for not letting this show become the big joke that those beautiful women are so afraid they may fall into, should they let themselves believe that they are worth the real thing.
The show definitely didn't disappoint, and after the first episode I am shocked by the surprisingly kind and honest way that Fox handled the portrayal of these women of no insignificant stature. Did they seem a little pathetic and weepy? Yes, of course. It is "reality" television after all, there has to be some kind of drama, but gosh darn it, they have a right to seem pathetic! Their tears were so meaningful and produced from years of an inner dialogue that repeats over and over that they aren't good enough, they are too fat, no one will love them this way, they are disgusting and they must change. Even the most strong willed, self confident, physically perfect woman on occasion questions her looks, wonders if life would be different if she was a little taller, her eyes a little brighter, her nose a little straighter or her boobs less lopsided...
Ok, lets be real here. That last one shouldn't really count. Don't we all wish our boobs were a little less lopsided?
Anyway, my point was, before I got distracted by boobs (hmmm...is this what it's like to be a guy?), that the women in the show, and countless others like them, have an ongoing, daily reminder of their defect. It's in the way they walk, the type of clothes they wear, the activities they continue to make excuses to avoid, the wondering who will be thinking nasty thoughts about them if they buy an ice cream cone, or a salad, or nothing at all. Average framed people can't possibly understand just how deep the fat goes. It gets in every part of your life. You begin to truly believe that no one can look past it, not because it is true, but because you yourself can't look past it. It's all you see. You can't forget it. You can't have a relationship or a conversation or even a passing glance with a stranger on the street without knowing deep down that they see a fat person, first and foremost. You tell yourself this, again, not because it is the reality, but because it is your reality.
The vulnerability of this show was staggering. Women, myself included, have gone to such great lengths to deny to the world that they see themselves as fat, or more realistically, that all they see in themselves is fat. We typically don't address it. I remember I used to not even like to say the word fat in any type of context, because I was sure if I did, whoever I was talking to would immediately apply the adjective to me. I read a comment from some TV critic after the first episode aired that mentioned that one of the contestants, I can't remember her name, confessed that she had never been on a date because she was always afraid she was being asked out only as a joke. Like someone was having a laugh at the fat girl's expense, to see if she would really believe that someone would actually want her. The critic seemed aghast, like this line of thinking was borderline delusional. But it was so real. I know I've always thought like that. It made me wonder how many men I have accidentally turned away in an attempt to save myself from a phantom humiliation. Before I met boyfriend, and alas, sadly even after I met him, I would pawn off every guy who showed me even the slightest bit of interest onto my girlfriends. I didn't want them to think that I was so stupid as to believe they might be into me. In bars if a guy came up to talk to me, I assume it was just to get to my friends, so I automatically get into matchmaker mode. It even took me months to fully convince myself that boyfriend actually liked me, and wasn't just using me for a while until he could find a better model. I literally asked him, point blank and completely unprompted, if he actually liked me or if he wanted me to set him up with someone else. On our third date. Right after he kissed me for the first time. After he had called me every day since we met. After he took off work early two days after our first date to surprise me at work because he couldn't wait to see me again. After we had been emailing every 15 minutes for the last two weeks because we had so much to say to each other. After all that, I still couldn't and didn't really believe that an average sized guy could ever really want me. But he did! And he does! Yay!
I say all of this not to garner any sympathy or fish for compliments or get slapped on the face with a floppy dead herring (I couldn't think of a third reason why I would be not saying this, but it just sounds better to have three options), but rather to just commend these brave women who are giving a voice to the fears and insecurities and realities that so many other people face. Being fat is still so taboo, and most fat people are still so scared to really talk about it. Not just make jokes or excuses or vows to lose weight, but to really talk about how the present reality of weight winds its way though every aspect of their lives. I think that watching this show made it so clear that these women will most assuredly find love because they are good, beautiful people with sparkling personalities, and I think the longer the show airs, the more evident that truth will become to the women themselves, no matter who ends up with the well-built bachelor, and to the rest of the world.
I think we should all take a minute to thank Fox for not letting this show become the big joke that those beautiful women are so afraid they may fall into, should they let themselves believe that they are worth the real thing.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The last few weeks have swept through my life with all the force and fury of something quite forceful and furious. Ugh. I waste too much time trying to be all prose-y. I should treat this blog more like a free writing session. Remember those from elementary school where the teacher would write in gigantic perfectly formed hand writing a couple of inane topics on the board and you were supposed to write without ceasing for some ungodly amount of time- like 10 minutes or so? How did we ever survive basic primary education? The horror. I actually always liked free write time because I fancied myself something of a wordsmith in my youth. A skill that, as so many things in the life are akin to being, requires nearly constant practice and refining to maintain. How unfortunate. Early on, though, the trick is just to pick unique things to write about and no matter how terrible it is, the teacher will still likely find it more stimulating than the same text that they have read every year since the dawn of time. I love teachers. I wish I had become one. I always wanted to be a teacher until I realized that I didn't really like children much.
Anyway, so I've had a busy bit of life here. I'm gonna get real real and complain about my ongoing urinary tract infection. The one that will not quit. A very devoted and persistent strain of bacteria, really. Damn overachiever I've got. I'm almost done with my second round of antibiotics and it is still going strong. Apparently, it laughs in the face of danger. This is no mortal UTI. My next proposed treatment will be to either find and swallow handfuls of kryptonite or replace the whole urinary track with drinking straws and plastic baggies. Can anyone recommend a good surgeon for that who would be familiar with the process?
I would love to blog more, but I have to go take my antibiotic. Or, as I like to call it, the placebo.
Anyway, so I've had a busy bit of life here. I'm gonna get real real and complain about my ongoing urinary tract infection. The one that will not quit. A very devoted and persistent strain of bacteria, really. Damn overachiever I've got. I'm almost done with my second round of antibiotics and it is still going strong. Apparently, it laughs in the face of danger. This is no mortal UTI. My next proposed treatment will be to either find and swallow handfuls of kryptonite or replace the whole urinary track with drinking straws and plastic baggies. Can anyone recommend a good surgeon for that who would be familiar with the process?
I would love to blog more, but I have to go take my antibiotic. Or, as I like to call it, the placebo.
Friday, July 3, 2009
What is this strange situation I am in? I'm so confused. I'm at my apartment, and it's Friday...usually a work day....I know I have work to do, but there is this force, stronger perhaps even that the pulse of life that beats through every moment....that is pulling me toward....nothing. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. It's beat fills my core. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. What is this?
Something is coming to me...a hazy vision, mere shifting forms stretching out from the debts of my memory. A vague familiarity washes over me. I've been here before, in this situation. I know this place. The foggy vision comes closer, in sharper relief by the moment. Now it's clear. I have total understanding. I HAVE been here before. This is free time! I'm having free time! No pressure, no working, no drone of the everyday. Free time!
You would have thought I could figure this out, knowing that the holiday has been approaching for the last YEAR, and it came around last year too, and the year before that. I should have been prepared for the shock. Ah, free time.
Even as I typed "ah, free time" I breathed a little easier. Things have been biz-ee. I got all caught up with work and was doing really really well up until 2 weeks ago when I went back to home-sweet-home to see my friend's darling gassy baby and hang out with the most wonderful 4 Women of Independent Means that the world will ever know. Then last week boyfriend and I took an impromptu trip to New York over the weekend, which was delightful, but did nothing to help the work situation. So now I'm "celebrating" the extended July 4th weekend by doing NOTHING...at least for a few hours. And at some point I promise (myself) that I will catch up on all the work. Maybe.
There is nothing else of consequence to blog about at the moment, besides my inexpressible excitement over Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince movie coming out in a week and a half, to which I already have a ticket for the midnight show with boyfriend and two other great friends that share our obsession with the Boy Who Lived. Heh. I'm not ashamed!
Something is coming to me...a hazy vision, mere shifting forms stretching out from the debts of my memory. A vague familiarity washes over me. I've been here before, in this situation. I know this place. The foggy vision comes closer, in sharper relief by the moment. Now it's clear. I have total understanding. I HAVE been here before. This is free time! I'm having free time! No pressure, no working, no drone of the everyday. Free time!
You would have thought I could figure this out, knowing that the holiday has been approaching for the last YEAR, and it came around last year too, and the year before that. I should have been prepared for the shock. Ah, free time.
Even as I typed "ah, free time" I breathed a little easier. Things have been biz-ee. I got all caught up with work and was doing really really well up until 2 weeks ago when I went back to home-sweet-home to see my friend's darling gassy baby and hang out with the most wonderful 4 Women of Independent Means that the world will ever know. Then last week boyfriend and I took an impromptu trip to New York over the weekend, which was delightful, but did nothing to help the work situation. So now I'm "celebrating" the extended July 4th weekend by doing NOTHING...at least for a few hours. And at some point I promise (myself) that I will catch up on all the work. Maybe.
There is nothing else of consequence to blog about at the moment, besides my inexpressible excitement over Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince movie coming out in a week and a half, to which I already have a ticket for the midnight show with boyfriend and two other great friends that share our obsession with the Boy Who Lived. Heh. I'm not ashamed!
Friday, May 29, 2009
Family Sitcom
Wow. It's been so long since my last post that the internets didn't even remember the website. I had to type the whole thing in the address bar. Ah, I shall be faint with fatigue if I have to keep up such difficulties.
My parents came to visit last weekend and we had a great time. I'll post more on that later (at a time when there is no reasonable expectation that I am doing actual work instead of blogging...heh) and it took nary but 30 minutes time to realize that I should be chronicling all the weird things my dad said during his brief stay. I think I whipped out the paper and pen while we were still just driving back from the airport. The highlights are as follows. Pay close attention, you TOO may be old and weird one day, and you'll want to reuse some of these.
ME (on the phone making a work appointment): Thank you (name), I'll see you at (time, place).
-just barely hangs up phone in time-
DAD: Are you sure you're not a prostitute?
SCENE: Sitting at an outdoor restaurant with mom, dad, me, facing a fancy entrance to a very well marked building.
DAD (motioning to the building with very clear signage): Have you ever eaten at that restaurant?
ME: That's a food court, dad.
- to be clear, the sign on the building said "FOOD COURT"-
DAD: Oh.
SCENE: At the bar of a nice upscale restaurant, having a drink while we wait on an open table.
BARTENDER (to dad): And what can I get for you, sir?
DAD, loudly: Do you have any blackberry wine?
-Dad is referring to cheap flavored wine, along the lines of Boons Farm or Arbor Mist.
BARTENDER, clearly confused: Uh, no sir. I believe all of our wine is made from grapes. Do you like...grape...flavored wine?
DAD: No, huh-uh.
Scene.
My parents came to visit last weekend and we had a great time. I'll post more on that later (at a time when there is no reasonable expectation that I am doing actual work instead of blogging...heh) and it took nary but 30 minutes time to realize that I should be chronicling all the weird things my dad said during his brief stay. I think I whipped out the paper and pen while we were still just driving back from the airport. The highlights are as follows. Pay close attention, you TOO may be old and weird one day, and you'll want to reuse some of these.
ME (on the phone making a work appointment): Thank you (name), I'll see you at (time, place).
-just barely hangs up phone in time-
DAD: Are you sure you're not a prostitute?
SCENE: Sitting at an outdoor restaurant with mom, dad, me, facing a fancy entrance to a very well marked building.
DAD (motioning to the building with very clear signage): Have you ever eaten at that restaurant?
ME: That's a food court, dad.
- to be clear, the sign on the building said "FOOD COURT"-
DAD: Oh.
SCENE: At the bar of a nice upscale restaurant, having a drink while we wait on an open table.
BARTENDER (to dad): And what can I get for you, sir?
DAD, loudly: Do you have any blackberry wine?
-Dad is referring to cheap flavored wine, along the lines of Boons Farm or Arbor Mist.
BARTENDER, clearly confused: Uh, no sir. I believe all of our wine is made from grapes. Do you like...grape...flavored wine?
DAD: No, huh-uh.
Scene.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Comes Back Around
A year ago I wrote a post about how I had unfortunately procrastinated in packing to move into my first solo apartment. Welp, hello again! I move to my SECOND solo apartment in a mere 3 days and I have nary even a single item boxed. Granted, I don't have a lot of stuff, but you would think that I would be more on top of things. Or, if you actually know me, you would not. At all. In fact you would be impressed that I even remembered the move date. Sadly, this go-round is a little different because on top of moving I also have a solid bit of work to do (from home) so I can have time to move. And if there's one thing I'm good at, its putting everything off to the last minute in favor of more stimulating activities like watching Dirty Jobs and Girls Next Door.
I typed out a whole paragraph detailing my disappointment in the Sunday 1:00 pm TV lineup, but when I reread it I sounded way more pathetic than I will allow, even on a quasi anonymous blog. So I guess writing this post is my last stand, the final frontier between me and my work. And I'm afraid I've lost. Damn.
I typed out a whole paragraph detailing my disappointment in the Sunday 1:00 pm TV lineup, but when I reread it I sounded way more pathetic than I will allow, even on a quasi anonymous blog. So I guess writing this post is my last stand, the final frontier between me and my work. And I'm afraid I've lost. Damn.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I'm Melting
Good news! I "calmly alerted" my apartment management that I was experiencing a "moderate pest issue" and they sent in exterminators to spray my place the following Friday. Naturally, I made a mental note to have everything neat and tidy for my Friday saviours, and planned as such so that the exterminators, whose esteem I clearly desire, would know that I was just the unfortunate victim in this insect tragedy, not the cause of such. Unfortunately, while they told me the exterminators would be in on Friday, they actually came on Wednesday, and I was quite unprepared for guests. Luckily, I was not at home typing in my underwear...ahem...not that I do that anyway, I'm always properly dressed when working...but unluckily I was about 12 hours away from doing dishes. Which means that the kitchen could best have been described as unseemly. When I got home on Wednesday evening I saw a note from said exterminators cautioning me not to leave out dirty dishes, as they attract bugs. But...but...but...I'm a clean person!....they weren't supposed to come until Friday!....I would have had everything nice and tidy on Friday!...I've been framed! I definitely wasn't prepared for the Wednesday visit, and I have half a mind to invite those exterminators back over to show them that I am clean and keep a tidy apartment, and the roaches aren't my fault. I can feel their judging eyes on me even to this day. It haunts me.
The note from the exterminators also cautioned not to spray any insecticide in my apartment as it may interfere with the effectiveness of their spray....uh....considering I practically set up a Raid bomb in my apartment nary but 2 weeks ago, that may be a problem.
I think bugs are just attracted to me no matter how much Raid I spray. Yesterday when I finally got home after a long day I noticed an itch at my scalp. When I went to scratch, a freaking ladybug flew out of my hair. Ok, fine, it wasn't a ladybug...it was one of those stink bugs that look like brown ladybugs...but definitely not as bad as a roach in my bathtub. I let the "ladybug" live and it is now just hanging out on my wall. No reason to smash a stinkb...er...ladybug in my apartment.
Summer has brought all of its sweaty, uncomfortable friends to my neighborhood for a block party way too early this year. The last couple days have been in the low 90's and today its supposed to be 89. Which means my apartment is hot. Sauna hot. I should charge myself to sit here. My bananas are ripening at a ridiculous rate and I no longer have to bother with boiling water to make tea. Also, my skin is melting off. Yet I REFUSE to turn on the air conditioner. In April. Even though, according to my mom, this qualifies me for early entry into the old lady club. I'm ok with that. Even though I realize that it would probably only increase my electric bill by about $20, I abstain on principle alone, even if that means sweating to death buck naked in my insect infested apartment with the dirty dishes.
Psych. I have no scruples. I turned the air on halfway through the post.
The note from the exterminators also cautioned not to spray any insecticide in my apartment as it may interfere with the effectiveness of their spray....uh....considering I practically set up a Raid bomb in my apartment nary but 2 weeks ago, that may be a problem.
I think bugs are just attracted to me no matter how much Raid I spray. Yesterday when I finally got home after a long day I noticed an itch at my scalp. When I went to scratch, a freaking ladybug flew out of my hair. Ok, fine, it wasn't a ladybug...it was one of those stink bugs that look like brown ladybugs...but definitely not as bad as a roach in my bathtub. I let the "ladybug" live and it is now just hanging out on my wall. No reason to smash a stinkb...er...ladybug in my apartment.
Summer has brought all of its sweaty, uncomfortable friends to my neighborhood for a block party way too early this year. The last couple days have been in the low 90's and today its supposed to be 89. Which means my apartment is hot. Sauna hot. I should charge myself to sit here. My bananas are ripening at a ridiculous rate and I no longer have to bother with boiling water to make tea. Also, my skin is melting off. Yet I REFUSE to turn on the air conditioner. In April. Even though, according to my mom, this qualifies me for early entry into the old lady club. I'm ok with that. Even though I realize that it would probably only increase my electric bill by about $20, I abstain on principle alone, even if that means sweating to death buck naked in my insect infested apartment with the dirty dishes.
Psych. I have no scruples. I turned the air on halfway through the post.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Unholy War Against Nature
Fueled by a bottle of lambic peach, I decide to post yet again.
Nature has it out for me. And it knows exactly which irrational fear buttons to push to send me over the edge. Last Sunday, on the day of our Lord, a sacred and holy day, a day for relaxation and reflection on the blessings we've all been given, the spawn of Satan himself made a visit to my home. For four terrifying hours I struggled with this unholy spawn, until I was so mentally and emotionally exhausted I thought I would surely give up. But I didn't. And with one last push of all the strength I had, I finally overcame.
There was a roach in my bathtub.
A ROACH in my BATHTUB. The place I go naked. The place that cleanses me. The place I go to relax after a hard day or a workout or a stress knot in my back. And I found a live roach. In there. It was 3 pennies long. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to pull back your shower curtain and find a live 3-penny long roach flipped up on its back with its hairy spikey legs floundering in the air and 4 inch antenna flopping against the floor?
Luckily, or so I thought, it appeared the offending creature has already partially succumbed to my protective spray of preventative Raid that I faithfully hose through my apartment every 3 months. However, to be on the safe side I immediately, after a brief minute of wigging out and pacing frantically through my living room, sprayed it down with at least a half can of additional Raid. Then I "calmly" shut the bathroom door so that the roach could finish its death sentence in peace, as I would wish it do the same for me if it or any of its 8 billion relatives were ever to show up in my apartment in the future, and then vowed never to enter my bathroom again. No more than seconds later I called boyfriend to come remove the beast from my presence.
Except he didn't answer. I left a "calm" yet non-descript message requesting his immediate assistance, as he doesn't quite understand my irrational yet pervasive fear of bugs whose only true potential for harm to humans is producing the heebie jeebies. And waited. And waited. And then I sent a text. And waited. It soon became obvious that this distressed damsel needed to grow a pair and double as her own charming prince. And I can be very charming. I went into the bathroom again, peered into the bathtub and wouldn't you know that f-ing bug was still f-ing alive! FOUR HOURS LATER after literally wading in a pool of poison, this mutant of a roach is still kicking around its hairy spikey legs and the damn antenna again flop against the floor. Literally, the bug was drenched in roach spray for four hours. No effect. Still alive.
I called in the only infallible action I know- I took my moms advice. Mom is wise. She told me to smash it with something heavy. So I did. And it died. Finally. And then I had roach guts all over my bathtub. And then I took a nap. Exhausting work, extermination and hyperventilation.
After a long and well deserved nap, I knew I had to dispose of the creature somehow. Flushing seemed the most fitting and least creepy method. So I taped together three pieces of junk mail end to end to create the longest "shovel" with the most stability to scoop up the roach-that-would-not-quit, and as quickly and with the least amount of shaking possible, I flung it into the toilet. And flushed. Oh no! In my fog of panic I completely forgot about the weak swirl! Very limited flushing power! The flush was unsuccessful! THIS ROACH WILL HAUNT MY DREAMS! I will never be rid of it! But I had come so far, I would not give up now. Three more flushes and I was finally free of the roaches snare. And now, the next Thursday, I was able to take a shower for more than 30 seconds in my bathroom without fear. Baby steps.
Nature has it out for me. And it knows exactly which irrational fear buttons to push to send me over the edge. Last Sunday, on the day of our Lord, a sacred and holy day, a day for relaxation and reflection on the blessings we've all been given, the spawn of Satan himself made a visit to my home. For four terrifying hours I struggled with this unholy spawn, until I was so mentally and emotionally exhausted I thought I would surely give up. But I didn't. And with one last push of all the strength I had, I finally overcame.
There was a roach in my bathtub.
A ROACH in my BATHTUB. The place I go naked. The place that cleanses me. The place I go to relax after a hard day or a workout or a stress knot in my back. And I found a live roach. In there. It was 3 pennies long. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to pull back your shower curtain and find a live 3-penny long roach flipped up on its back with its hairy spikey legs floundering in the air and 4 inch antenna flopping against the floor?
Luckily, or so I thought, it appeared the offending creature has already partially succumbed to my protective spray of preventative Raid that I faithfully hose through my apartment every 3 months. However, to be on the safe side I immediately, after a brief minute of wigging out and pacing frantically through my living room, sprayed it down with at least a half can of additional Raid. Then I "calmly" shut the bathroom door so that the roach could finish its death sentence in peace, as I would wish it do the same for me if it or any of its 8 billion relatives were ever to show up in my apartment in the future, and then vowed never to enter my bathroom again. No more than seconds later I called boyfriend to come remove the beast from my presence.
Except he didn't answer. I left a "calm" yet non-descript message requesting his immediate assistance, as he doesn't quite understand my irrational yet pervasive fear of bugs whose only true potential for harm to humans is producing the heebie jeebies. And waited. And waited. And then I sent a text. And waited. It soon became obvious that this distressed damsel needed to grow a pair and double as her own charming prince. And I can be very charming. I went into the bathroom again, peered into the bathtub and wouldn't you know that f-ing bug was still f-ing alive! FOUR HOURS LATER after literally wading in a pool of poison, this mutant of a roach is still kicking around its hairy spikey legs and the damn antenna again flop against the floor. Literally, the bug was drenched in roach spray for four hours. No effect. Still alive.
I called in the only infallible action I know- I took my moms advice. Mom is wise. She told me to smash it with something heavy. So I did. And it died. Finally. And then I had roach guts all over my bathtub. And then I took a nap. Exhausting work, extermination and hyperventilation.
After a long and well deserved nap, I knew I had to dispose of the creature somehow. Flushing seemed the most fitting and least creepy method. So I taped together three pieces of junk mail end to end to create the longest "shovel" with the most stability to scoop up the roach-that-would-not-quit, and as quickly and with the least amount of shaking possible, I flung it into the toilet. And flushed. Oh no! In my fog of panic I completely forgot about the weak swirl! Very limited flushing power! The flush was unsuccessful! THIS ROACH WILL HAUNT MY DREAMS! I will never be rid of it! But I had come so far, I would not give up now. Three more flushes and I was finally free of the roaches snare. And now, the next Thursday, I was able to take a shower for more than 30 seconds in my bathroom without fear. Baby steps.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Grassroots Effort
Right now if you were to walk into my apartment, your first impression would likely be that I've been robbed. It's a mess. But it's MY mess.... ..... ..... Ugh, yeah, that logic isn't working. Why is it SO HARD to keep my place clean and orderly? I need a manservant. A tidy muscular manservant.
I was horrified last night when I read an article about the earmarks in the economic stimulus plan. As you know, I am SO politically minded. So you can understand my outrage when I read about the millions of dollars being spent to eradicate the Mormon cricket in the Northwest. Outraged because I think this issue actually deserve billions, if not trillions, and should be immediately elevated to national security levels. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be to have swarms and hordes of "roaches with grasshopper legs" tear through your town?!? One lady even said she would wake up to these 3-inch long MONSTERS in her BED! AUGH! Just reading that made me sleep with the light on. Lets all rally congress to supply more funding so that we can get this problem cleared up before the abominations make their way to the East Coast.
Please, write to your congressman today.
I was horrified last night when I read an article about the earmarks in the economic stimulus plan. As you know, I am SO politically minded. So you can understand my outrage when I read about the millions of dollars being spent to eradicate the Mormon cricket in the Northwest. Outraged because I think this issue actually deserve billions, if not trillions, and should be immediately elevated to national security levels. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be to have swarms and hordes of "roaches with grasshopper legs" tear through your town?!? One lady even said she would wake up to these 3-inch long MONSTERS in her BED! AUGH! Just reading that made me sleep with the light on. Lets all rally congress to supply more funding so that we can get this problem cleared up before the abominations make their way to the East Coast.
Please, write to your congressman today.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Welcome Back, Sanity
The last few weeks here at homestead Chatfield Lite have been kind of rough. I started getting behind at work- and if I haven't mentioned before, I work from home, so there is nary a time when a distraction is not but a few inches away. See also: 460 square foot apartment. Nothing is ever more than a few inches away. Unless it is in someone elses place.
Anyway, so I got behind on a bit of work, and then I started working frantically to get caught up. All that work then led to gross neglect of domestic responsibilities. And then mail started piling up. And then I kept forgetting to call about renewing my lease. And then my dishes didn't wash themselves and I ran out of underwear and I got a letter from the DMV about insuring my car that I don't drive that I didn't realize needed to be insured while it wasn't being used. But now I know. So last night I got to an ugly place where I realized I was running low on non-guilt related issues in my personal and professional life. So I went over to boyfriends house and watched Harry Potter.
Ok, so that last part wasn't quite the solution I was looking for, but today I have my resolve back and my dignity is also not so far away. I'm staying in today not only because of the overwhelming responsibilities that I've neglected, but also because Mother Nature or Father Time or Aunt Flo or some other obscure relative/mythical force of nature decided to dump 5 inches of snow on the ground. Just the excuse I need to get caught up on work and life! I'm doing things in phases. Work for an hour, TV for 15 (er...or was it 30?) minutes, clean the kitchen for an hour (yes, it took an hour), put some clothes away, and back to work. Oh, and blog. Always blog.
Today is officially Get Your Shit Together Day in honor of that person whom I sometimes wish I were if only becoming her didn't cut into my reruns of NCIS. Happy GYST-D everyone!
Anyway, so I got behind on a bit of work, and then I started working frantically to get caught up. All that work then led to gross neglect of domestic responsibilities. And then mail started piling up. And then I kept forgetting to call about renewing my lease. And then my dishes didn't wash themselves and I ran out of underwear and I got a letter from the DMV about insuring my car that I don't drive that I didn't realize needed to be insured while it wasn't being used. But now I know. So last night I got to an ugly place where I realized I was running low on non-guilt related issues in my personal and professional life. So I went over to boyfriends house and watched Harry Potter.
Ok, so that last part wasn't quite the solution I was looking for, but today I have my resolve back and my dignity is also not so far away. I'm staying in today not only because of the overwhelming responsibilities that I've neglected, but also because Mother Nature or Father Time or Aunt Flo or some other obscure relative/mythical force of nature decided to dump 5 inches of snow on the ground. Just the excuse I need to get caught up on work and life! I'm doing things in phases. Work for an hour, TV for 15 (er...or was it 30?) minutes, clean the kitchen for an hour (yes, it took an hour), put some clothes away, and back to work. Oh, and blog. Always blog.
Today is officially Get Your Shit Together Day in honor of that person whom I sometimes wish I were if only becoming her didn't cut into my reruns of NCIS. Happy GYST-D everyone!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Overage Drinking
There was a guy at the grocery store today who was clearly intoxicated, and when our paths intersected in the bread isle, he looked me straight in the eyes, grabbed the end of my cart, shook it a little and screamed "BOO!" Uh....
Yeah. I just laughed manically and walked by quickly. That was the right thing to do, right?
Yeah. I just laughed manically and walked by quickly. That was the right thing to do, right?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Captain McGumsbleed
I noticed today that my gums are SO SORE. Let me take this time to point out that one does not typically pay much attention to their gum comfort on a day to day basis. In fact, most of the day I could tell something was bothering me, and it took a few hours to realize that the pain was radiating from my mouth which I didn't even think to consider because my mouth is one of my favorite and most reliably pleasureable part of my face. Eating, talking, eating, kissing, drinking and talking and eating. All good things that come along with the mouth. Gum pain...not what I expected. Or at least not what I expected in the next 105 years or so until there was literally nothing else to complain about.
But there I was, old-lady gum pain and all, trying to figure out what was going on. At first I thought I must be pregnant- mainly because that is always my first and worst fear and it has so many damn symptoms that are not only exceedingly common (uh...hunger and food cravings- see: uses of mouth) but also can be explained in a million different ways (like...for example...oh...freaking gum pain).
So, the good news is that unless I'm carrying some kind of tasty pirate baby spawn made of carbs and high fructose corn syrup, I think I may know the reason for my problem. Last week boyfriend and I went to Wal Mart and I succumbed to their low low prices on everyday goods and indulged in a giant box of Captain Crunch with Crunchberries. Which I have been eating in healthy portions daily since. I got thrown off because the roof of my mouth is fine- no shredding or bleeding as is common with the Captian. But I just had another bowl (glutton for punishment?) and noticed that while the pulsating pain in my gums was not unbearable enough to leave even one crunchberry uncrunched, it is clearly irritating my mouth. Mystery solved. When do I get my own Discovery Health show?
But there I was, old-lady gum pain and all, trying to figure out what was going on. At first I thought I must be pregnant- mainly because that is always my first and worst fear and it has so many damn symptoms that are not only exceedingly common (uh...hunger and food cravings- see: uses of mouth) but also can be explained in a million different ways (like...for example...oh...freaking gum pain).
So, the good news is that unless I'm carrying some kind of tasty pirate baby spawn made of carbs and high fructose corn syrup, I think I may know the reason for my problem. Last week boyfriend and I went to Wal Mart and I succumbed to their low low prices on everyday goods and indulged in a giant box of Captain Crunch with Crunchberries. Which I have been eating in healthy portions daily since. I got thrown off because the roof of my mouth is fine- no shredding or bleeding as is common with the Captian. But I just had another bowl (glutton for punishment?) and noticed that while the pulsating pain in my gums was not unbearable enough to leave even one crunchberry uncrunched, it is clearly irritating my mouth. Mystery solved. When do I get my own Discovery Health show?
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Love is in the Air
I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger page willing myself to write something witty and clever that my sister will say is funnier than Dooce. That method always works, right? The psych-yourself-out method? The writers-block method? The pressures-on method? Some of the greatest unread authors of our time relied heavily on all of these methods, with varying levels of success.
Valentines Day was lovely. I made bf a delightful hand made card highlighting his finer points and believe it or not the man actually cried. Tears. Tears of Crying. Well, tear. One tear that he casually wiped off from under his eye RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE. Not even a cough and turn or declaration of allergies or a panicked and unexplained splash of water in the face. And he wasn't even ashamed to admit it. Do I need to repeat that? He said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has given him. Which, well, besides being kind of sad for him, was so wonderful and the best gift for me, ever. I couldn't ask for a better man. This is no joke.
We actually did Valentines Day yesterday, on the oft overlooked holiday of Feburary 13th. Don't bother re-checking your calender, that would be Friday the 13th. We are nothing if not romantic. After a ceremonious blood leading and chainsaw massacre to mark the occasion we tucked into a game of Fable II on the Xbox. The romance was palpable. Hearts all a flutter. Well, flutter is understated. I guess forcefully removed by what I believe is supposed to be magic electrocution would be more accurate. But I'm no expert. Learning something new is romantic, right? Then we fell asleep watching a TiVo'd episode of American Idol. Life of the party, we are. I'd rather be geeky and sleepy with no one else.
Overall, a great Valentines Day.
Valentines Day was lovely. I made bf a delightful hand made card highlighting his finer points and believe it or not the man actually cried. Tears. Tears of Crying. Well, tear. One tear that he casually wiped off from under his eye RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE. Not even a cough and turn or declaration of allergies or a panicked and unexplained splash of water in the face. And he wasn't even ashamed to admit it. Do I need to repeat that? He said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has given him. Which, well, besides being kind of sad for him, was so wonderful and the best gift for me, ever. I couldn't ask for a better man. This is no joke.
We actually did Valentines Day yesterday, on the oft overlooked holiday of Feburary 13th. Don't bother re-checking your calender, that would be Friday the 13th. We are nothing if not romantic. After a ceremonious blood leading and chainsaw massacre to mark the occasion we tucked into a game of Fable II on the Xbox. The romance was palpable. Hearts all a flutter. Well, flutter is understated. I guess forcefully removed by what I believe is supposed to be magic electrocution would be more accurate. But I'm no expert. Learning something new is romantic, right? Then we fell asleep watching a TiVo'd episode of American Idol. Life of the party, we are. I'd rather be geeky and sleepy with no one else.
Overall, a great Valentines Day.
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