I was thinking that I'd probably make it through a whole month without any updates, but we're watching the State of the Union and it's getting me all sorts of annoyed, so here goes.
Where have I been? Working, working, and more working. I'm extremely disillusioned with my job right now, but we're gearing up for the year's major conference and I feel like I don't have time to even think about getting another job. There's no place for me to go right now, so I'm concentrating on just getting by and trying not to let the general shitty mood get me down every day. It's a job. It's a job that pays better than Starbucks. I need to accept that.
Right now, the days are pretty much filled with back to back meetings. Last week, I had 3 days of meetings from 8 a.m. - 7 p.m. and then one "team dinner." I have no idea when I'm expected to get my work done, but I'm not getting a free pass for all of those meetings. Bitch, bitch, bitch.
On the good side:
* My new writing class is awesome. We have six new pages due every week on a number of different topics, and I have one long manuscript due on Feb. 7. I'm thinking of combining my "Fantasy of Being Thin" piece with a piece I did on my Weight Watchers sucks the bag. It still feels fucking exhilirating to be writing again.
* My injury is almost healed. I've started running again, and completed 3 miles at my old pace for the first time in a month last week. I'm hoping to get up to 5 miles and do the short version of this post wedding.
* I was the liturgist at church this weekend. I have no idea how to talk about church without sounding like some sort of religious fantatic Jesus Freak, so I'll just say that I enjoy it; it keeps me sane; and it helps put everything else in perspective.
* Wedding shit is coming along. We ordered our invitations last night. My mom is doing the flowers. We're buying the MG a dress soon. Cake has been ordered and we're doing the meal tasting this week.
* Upcoming vacations. We'll be in New Hampshire in a few weeks for skiing and tubing, and YG's super secret birthday trip at the end of the month. As of today, YG has only one month left in his 30s. I will be buying him a cardigan sweater and velcro shoes to celebrate.
* Awesome new stuff in the fatosphere. First, a new Fat Rant. Then, the piece in The New York Times that was actually fair. And some great posts, as usual, over at Shapely Prose including this and this. I'm so not there yet in terms of full acceptance, but I cannot tell you how much of a life changer these blogs have been.
* LOST! Bitchez, how psyched are you?
I guess that's about it for now. I was going to bitch about how jack shit hasn't changed since one year ago with the Democrats' victory and the combat boots and whatnot, but I'm feelin' okay right now.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Live Blog (Well, It Was Live At the Time) – Hannah Montana Concert
Live Blog (Well, It Was Live At the Time) – Hannah Montana Concert
Background: one of the MG’s Christmas presents was tickets to the Hannah Montana show on 12/21. I think YG might have been the only guy in all of New England to pay face value for these seats, and for that, I am grateful. Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus is like Jesus to this kid, and as much as I mock the greedy, capitalist “anything for my kid” types, I probably would have shelled out some big bucks to make this happen.
Anyway, hilarity ensued.
4:45 p.m. – Miraculously get good parking somewhere near DCU Center. Woostah represent! Blast Hannah Montana CD as to be fully prepped for the Miley Cyrus “experience.”
4:55 – Discover massive pink Miley tour bus and packs of cotton-candy colored, screaming girls dancing and singing. My cold, shriveled heart sighs a bit and acknowledges that this is a little bit cute, but it’s a LOT cold.
4:56 – Aimlessly look around for people to snark on, but everyone is just kind of …normal. Where are the Hummer limos?
5:05 – Head to Pizzeria Uno as it’s the only “restaurant” we know within walking distance. We head there with every other middle-class father with daughter, roaming the streets of Worcester. Two hour wait for crappy, chain pizza. Briefly consider calling Dominos delivery to the car.
5:20 – Head back to the DCU and step inside to try and buy a t-shirt before doors open at 5:30. Massive pile-up. So many girls. The MG’s eyes are like saucers. Still no major snarkage, just lots of sheepish smiles. I was hoping for hozzle moms in SUVs with diamonds and skanky, mini-Spears-like kids, so that I can act all self-righteous and cooler than you.
5:21 -- $55 for a fucking long sleeve t-shirt! And they’re out of the MG’s size. Remember how awesomely retro these shirts are going to be in, like, 20 years – how psyched some college-aged, mini me will be to find it in a consignment shop. I would give a nut, if I had them, to have my Donnie Wahlberg New Kids on The Block t-shirt back right now.
5:22 – Standing around waiting for the doors to open, packed in like a fire hazard. Imagine being trampled to death by a pack of rabid, pre-teen girls.
5:23 – Run into someone I know from work. Confronted with my own mortality. I am old enough to bring my kid to Disney-sponsored concerts. I know people who are old enough to bring their kids to the same concerts. I am so not cool.
5:30 – Doors finally open, and FINALLY, something to bitch about. Woman to my left keeps unnecessarily pushing, stepping on my foot and hanging on my bag. Resist urge to elbow her in the face. Use bag to jam her in the gut instead.
5:35 – THEY HAVE BEER HERE! THANK YOU, JESUS! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
5:36 – Of course they’d have beer here – it’s a sports arena -- but with the whole Disney thing, I was expecting some sort of push for family (read: non alcoholic) values.
5:45 – Find seats. Watch Disney videos. Gross.
6:00 – Go in search of women’s bathroom. Packs of mini hozzles doing their CVS-brand make-up and whipping around their hair and pouting in the mirrors. They are executing costume changes in the FOUR available stalls, while harried moms with smaller kids look on. Relish chance to be the bitch, and loudly announce in best shitkicker voice, “If you’re not using the toiler, get out of the stall.” Get the hairy eyeball from some pre-teens, but thank yous from the mommy contingent.
6:01 – Clean, pee-free seat, imagine that. Value of Disney right there.
6:05 – Fork over $35 for the MG’s concert tee because it will make her happy, and that’s how I roll. Eye roll. Self-directed.
6:10 – Sit down to write, while YG goes in search of dinner. The MG offers a running commentary on everyone and everything, lest I miss anything.
6:12 – We both note that “High School Musical” kind of sucks ass.
6:20 – Enjoy healthy dinner of hot dog and pretzel, with refreshing beverage of choice – Budweiser. Note that I am the only parent within eyesight drinking beer. Hee.
6:30 – “Funny” guy sits down behind us. Made mistake of laughing at one of his jokes (for the record – “these are the best tickets $1000 can buy”) and now he’s cracking tired one-liners.
6:40 – Disappointed that there’s not much to see.
6:45 – Tits ahoy! There’s a mega rack in a tight hooded sweatshirt making its way up the stairs, followed by a pack of three, look-alike small, medium and large hozzles-in-training, dressed in gold sequined tank tops and baseball caps. YG and I stare at each other. I point out the rack. He notes that I am the best partner EVER.
6:50 – Still searching for another beer drinker. Using binoculars, I locate a “husky” dad in a Patriots sweatshirt. I toast you, my bad parenting friend.
6:55 – Just waiting. Unnecessary girl squealing starts when one of the tech guys comes onstage.
6:56 – Janitor with mop rushes downstairs. Uh oh. Who puked?
6:57 – FINALLY, a hozz mom. Way too long hair, way too much makeup, major camel toe. Trailing some Lohan look-alike behind her.
6:58 – Per crappy Disney video playing, I am supposed to “Push it. Push it. Cuz I’m in it to win it.”
6:59 – Thank Jesus that I don’t have one of these kids that whine or cry, and that the MG is, about 95% of the time, chill. Feel almost bad about giving the tantrum-throwing five-year old girl in front of me withering stares, but then I remember that her parents probably worked hard all day and are spending their free time days before Christmas at Hannah Montana. Suck it up, brat.
7:00 – Guitar strings. SHRIEKING.
7:01 – Earplug debate. Resolved. They’re in.
7:03 – Jonas Brothers. Holy fucking glow sticks!
7:04 – Am I ready to rock? LOL.
7:05 – Are they playing “We’re The Kids in America”? Okay, you win. Love.
7:06 – Dude, I would have been all over red leisure suit Jonas when I was 14. There’s a four year old across the aisle, dancing and spazzing out in the most awesome way.
7:10 – Do you think Jonas 2 and 3 hate Jonas 1 for having awesome hair? They have a fat bass player. Love this kid – he would have been my boyfriend.
Cartwheels? No cool.
7:15 – First Christmas sweater sighting. And tapered jeans. Sweet Jesus.
7:20 – Raise the glow sticks! Raise the cell phones! BALLAD! Lots of faux sexy staring. Prepubescent masturbatory fantasies in the making.
7:21 – A Hannah and Lily, wigs and all, sit down in front of us.
7:29 – Ooooh, clip art. Fancy.
7:30 – Just took out ear plugs to talk to MG. HOLY SHIT. SOS. Kids going apeshit. Faux Sexy Jonas does a split. Woo!
7:31 – Only a half hour set? Weird.
7:35 – Corporate shilling video. Go to Disney.com/Hannah and use some shit that HP makes. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
7:36 – Two kids just knocked over my empty beer bottle. Their mother gives me the eye. Me – bad mommy!
7:40 – Okay, I know I’m writing so pot, kettle, black, but lady with cell phone AND blackberry, seriously? It can’t wait?
7:41 – What did people do at concerts before cell phones? It’s so ridiculous. There’s a break and everyone busts out their phones. I am a big fan of the, “No. No. Over HERE. No. HERE. In Section 108! I’m the ONE wearing the white tee shirt. HERE” conversations. Who are you talking to?
7:45 – Billy Ray video. Mullet flashbacks. Sweet!
7:46 – YG is attempting to find me another beer. Beer + naproxen = fun for the whole family.
7:50 – More screeching at the sound dude.
7:51 – Advertising for Adopt a Classroom and supporting teachers. Kind of awesome.
7:52 – Hey There Delilah? They have a video? This is one the wedding playlist I’m pulling together. YG gives me the ax signal. I had no idea this song was popular, but then again, the last time I listened to the radio, besides NPR, was sometime circa 1997.
7:53 – I applaud the woman behind me for being more loud and annoying than a STADIUM filled with 8-year-old girls. She’s hit me in the head for the fourth time. I give her look of doom, and she apologizes profusely. Whatever.
7:54 – Christmas sweaters #2 and 3. With sprayed BANGS.
7:55 – When Miley needs some “rest” after her crazy tour schedule, she likes to “relax” at her favorite Disney parks. Can you believe?
7:58 – Kids start to notice that she’s made her way to the backstage. She waves. The place goes partially apeshit.
8:00 – Good opening. Fireworks. Lady behind me smacks me in the head AGAIN in all her excitement. She’s the MOTHER.
8:05 – Dancers are cute and not all anorexic and perfect looking. The MG is practically peeing herself in ecstasy.
8:10 – We have ONE RULE for this show, per Hannah. We all gotta be out of our seats singing and dancing. I can’t tell if she’s lip synching at all, but she’s entertaining nonetheless.
8:12 – How OLD is this back up singer? She’s cute, but not 15. I notice that YG is completely fixated on the other, red-headed backup singer (dude is OBSESSED with red heads) and I briefly consider tapping her and miming “jail bait,” but remember that these things are more fun when he’s not expecting them. Hee.
8:15 – Nobody’s Perfect. Every single little girl sings along and knows every single word. It’s a good message. I wish that it was being relayed by anybody by Disney.
8:20 – We’re up. We’re loud. We’re pumping up the party now. In pink sequins. And wigs.
8:25 – Yo, Woostah, represent. She says we’re some of the loudest fans. And shit, it is LOUD.
8:30 – The Jonas Brothers come back out. Isn’t one of them her boyfriend? Not the super hot one, though, right? The more talented one with an actual instrument? The faux hot one has on a gold bomber jacket. Ouch.
8:32 – PIANO BALLAD. “For all the ladies in the house.” I briefly die laughing, and fake sing to YG that he needs to “look into my eyes and tell me that he loves me.” Or at least tell red-headed back up singer.
8:33 – The lady next to me has gotten up to pee about four times already. And she doesn’t even have a cool, refreshing Budweiser!
8:40 – Synthesizers!
8:42 – Brown-haired Miley is back. With some of the cheesiest wind machine work I’ve ever seen.
8:50 – Pee break. Still a mile-long line for the bathroom so I walk around and find the VIP lounge where a bunch of displaced parents are reading books and drinking beers. My peeps. Also, no line for the bathroom.
8:52 – On the walk back, I see a mom with long, red white-girl weave (aka “a fall”), skintight jeans and furry boots up to her knees.
8:53 – Costume change. Wish I was still able to wear my 15-year-old clothes. I would totally rock a purple petticoat and Chuck Taylors.
9:00 – Hey Miley to the tune of Hey Mickey. Reserving judgment.
9:05 – Cute birthday thing for the manager, who also looks young and cute (read: my age – probably ancient to the star of the show.)
9:07 – Girls Night! Is the 2000’s version off Girls Just Want to Have Fun? The kids are going NUTS. Streamers! Woot!
9:15 – Best of Both Worlds. God, I know all the fucking words. I strongly resist the urge to sing along because I believe, deep down, that I, with some work, could be cool again.
9:17 – Curtain call, almost like a high-school play. There’s confetti and screaming and streamers, and then Hannah/Miley disappears into a hole in the stage.
9:18 – Coats on. YG is ready to zipper us out the door and back to our cars. He’s a Nazi about traffic.
9:18 – Encore. Barefoot with guitar and horse art.
9:20 – And we’re out. We walk back to the car, and the MG is just breathless, talking about how cool it was.
* Later that night, she hugs us and thanks us for the most awesome show EVER and it just warms the cockles of my bitter, black heart. I remember to thank my parents for driving me all the way out to Long Island twenty years ago to see NKOTB because you know; it was “JUST LIKE THE BEATLES.”
Background: one of the MG’s Christmas presents was tickets to the Hannah Montana show on 12/21. I think YG might have been the only guy in all of New England to pay face value for these seats, and for that, I am grateful. Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus is like Jesus to this kid, and as much as I mock the greedy, capitalist “anything for my kid” types, I probably would have shelled out some big bucks to make this happen.
Anyway, hilarity ensued.
4:45 p.m. – Miraculously get good parking somewhere near DCU Center. Woostah represent! Blast Hannah Montana CD as to be fully prepped for the Miley Cyrus “experience.”
4:55 – Discover massive pink Miley tour bus and packs of cotton-candy colored, screaming girls dancing and singing. My cold, shriveled heart sighs a bit and acknowledges that this is a little bit cute, but it’s a LOT cold.
4:56 – Aimlessly look around for people to snark on, but everyone is just kind of …normal. Where are the Hummer limos?
5:05 – Head to Pizzeria Uno as it’s the only “restaurant” we know within walking distance. We head there with every other middle-class father with daughter, roaming the streets of Worcester. Two hour wait for crappy, chain pizza. Briefly consider calling Dominos delivery to the car.
5:20 – Head back to the DCU and step inside to try and buy a t-shirt before doors open at 5:30. Massive pile-up. So many girls. The MG’s eyes are like saucers. Still no major snarkage, just lots of sheepish smiles. I was hoping for hozzle moms in SUVs with diamonds and skanky, mini-Spears-like kids, so that I can act all self-righteous and cooler than you.
5:21 -- $55 for a fucking long sleeve t-shirt! And they’re out of the MG’s size. Remember how awesomely retro these shirts are going to be in, like, 20 years – how psyched some college-aged, mini me will be to find it in a consignment shop. I would give a nut, if I had them, to have my Donnie Wahlberg New Kids on The Block t-shirt back right now.
5:22 – Standing around waiting for the doors to open, packed in like a fire hazard. Imagine being trampled to death by a pack of rabid, pre-teen girls.
5:23 – Run into someone I know from work. Confronted with my own mortality. I am old enough to bring my kid to Disney-sponsored concerts. I know people who are old enough to bring their kids to the same concerts. I am so not cool.
5:30 – Doors finally open, and FINALLY, something to bitch about. Woman to my left keeps unnecessarily pushing, stepping on my foot and hanging on my bag. Resist urge to elbow her in the face. Use bag to jam her in the gut instead.
5:35 – THEY HAVE BEER HERE! THANK YOU, JESUS! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
5:36 – Of course they’d have beer here – it’s a sports arena -- but with the whole Disney thing, I was expecting some sort of push for family (read: non alcoholic) values.
5:45 – Find seats. Watch Disney videos. Gross.
6:00 – Go in search of women’s bathroom. Packs of mini hozzles doing their CVS-brand make-up and whipping around their hair and pouting in the mirrors. They are executing costume changes in the FOUR available stalls, while harried moms with smaller kids look on. Relish chance to be the bitch, and loudly announce in best shitkicker voice, “If you’re not using the toiler, get out of the stall.” Get the hairy eyeball from some pre-teens, but thank yous from the mommy contingent.
6:01 – Clean, pee-free seat, imagine that. Value of Disney right there.
6:05 – Fork over $35 for the MG’s concert tee because it will make her happy, and that’s how I roll. Eye roll. Self-directed.
6:10 – Sit down to write, while YG goes in search of dinner. The MG offers a running commentary on everyone and everything, lest I miss anything.
6:12 – We both note that “High School Musical” kind of sucks ass.
6:20 – Enjoy healthy dinner of hot dog and pretzel, with refreshing beverage of choice – Budweiser. Note that I am the only parent within eyesight drinking beer. Hee.
6:30 – “Funny” guy sits down behind us. Made mistake of laughing at one of his jokes (for the record – “these are the best tickets $1000 can buy”) and now he’s cracking tired one-liners.
6:40 – Disappointed that there’s not much to see.
6:45 – Tits ahoy! There’s a mega rack in a tight hooded sweatshirt making its way up the stairs, followed by a pack of three, look-alike small, medium and large hozzles-in-training, dressed in gold sequined tank tops and baseball caps. YG and I stare at each other. I point out the rack. He notes that I am the best partner EVER.
6:50 – Still searching for another beer drinker. Using binoculars, I locate a “husky” dad in a Patriots sweatshirt. I toast you, my bad parenting friend.
6:55 – Just waiting. Unnecessary girl squealing starts when one of the tech guys comes onstage.
6:56 – Janitor with mop rushes downstairs. Uh oh. Who puked?
6:57 – FINALLY, a hozz mom. Way too long hair, way too much makeup, major camel toe. Trailing some Lohan look-alike behind her.
6:58 – Per crappy Disney video playing, I am supposed to “Push it. Push it. Cuz I’m in it to win it.”
6:59 – Thank Jesus that I don’t have one of these kids that whine or cry, and that the MG is, about 95% of the time, chill. Feel almost bad about giving the tantrum-throwing five-year old girl in front of me withering stares, but then I remember that her parents probably worked hard all day and are spending their free time days before Christmas at Hannah Montana. Suck it up, brat.
7:00 – Guitar strings. SHRIEKING.
7:01 – Earplug debate. Resolved. They’re in.
7:03 – Jonas Brothers. Holy fucking glow sticks!
7:04 – Am I ready to rock? LOL.
7:05 – Are they playing “We’re The Kids in America”? Okay, you win. Love.
7:06 – Dude, I would have been all over red leisure suit Jonas when I was 14. There’s a four year old across the aisle, dancing and spazzing out in the most awesome way.
7:10 – Do you think Jonas 2 and 3 hate Jonas 1 for having awesome hair? They have a fat bass player. Love this kid – he would have been my boyfriend.
Cartwheels? No cool.
7:15 – First Christmas sweater sighting. And tapered jeans. Sweet Jesus.
7:20 – Raise the glow sticks! Raise the cell phones! BALLAD! Lots of faux sexy staring. Prepubescent masturbatory fantasies in the making.
7:21 – A Hannah and Lily, wigs and all, sit down in front of us.
7:29 – Ooooh, clip art. Fancy.
7:30 – Just took out ear plugs to talk to MG. HOLY SHIT. SOS. Kids going apeshit. Faux Sexy Jonas does a split. Woo!
7:31 – Only a half hour set? Weird.
7:35 – Corporate shilling video. Go to Disney.com/Hannah and use some shit that HP makes. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
7:36 – Two kids just knocked over my empty beer bottle. Their mother gives me the eye. Me – bad mommy!
7:40 – Okay, I know I’m writing so pot, kettle, black, but lady with cell phone AND blackberry, seriously? It can’t wait?
7:41 – What did people do at concerts before cell phones? It’s so ridiculous. There’s a break and everyone busts out their phones. I am a big fan of the, “No. No. Over HERE. No. HERE. In Section 108! I’m the ONE wearing the white tee shirt. HERE” conversations. Who are you talking to?
7:45 – Billy Ray video. Mullet flashbacks. Sweet!
7:46 – YG is attempting to find me another beer. Beer + naproxen = fun for the whole family.
7:50 – More screeching at the sound dude.
7:51 – Advertising for Adopt a Classroom and supporting teachers. Kind of awesome.
7:52 – Hey There Delilah? They have a video? This is one the wedding playlist I’m pulling together. YG gives me the ax signal. I had no idea this song was popular, but then again, the last time I listened to the radio, besides NPR, was sometime circa 1997.
7:53 – I applaud the woman behind me for being more loud and annoying than a STADIUM filled with 8-year-old girls. She’s hit me in the head for the fourth time. I give her look of doom, and she apologizes profusely. Whatever.
7:54 – Christmas sweaters #2 and 3. With sprayed BANGS.
7:55 – When Miley needs some “rest” after her crazy tour schedule, she likes to “relax” at her favorite Disney parks. Can you believe?
7:58 – Kids start to notice that she’s made her way to the backstage. She waves. The place goes partially apeshit.
8:00 – Good opening. Fireworks. Lady behind me smacks me in the head AGAIN in all her excitement. She’s the MOTHER.
8:05 – Dancers are cute and not all anorexic and perfect looking. The MG is practically peeing herself in ecstasy.
8:10 – We have ONE RULE for this show, per Hannah. We all gotta be out of our seats singing and dancing. I can’t tell if she’s lip synching at all, but she’s entertaining nonetheless.
8:12 – How OLD is this back up singer? She’s cute, but not 15. I notice that YG is completely fixated on the other, red-headed backup singer (dude is OBSESSED with red heads) and I briefly consider tapping her and miming “jail bait,” but remember that these things are more fun when he’s not expecting them. Hee.
8:15 – Nobody’s Perfect. Every single little girl sings along and knows every single word. It’s a good message. I wish that it was being relayed by anybody by Disney.
8:20 – We’re up. We’re loud. We’re pumping up the party now. In pink sequins. And wigs.
8:25 – Yo, Woostah, represent. She says we’re some of the loudest fans. And shit, it is LOUD.
8:30 – The Jonas Brothers come back out. Isn’t one of them her boyfriend? Not the super hot one, though, right? The more talented one with an actual instrument? The faux hot one has on a gold bomber jacket. Ouch.
8:32 – PIANO BALLAD. “For all the ladies in the house.” I briefly die laughing, and fake sing to YG that he needs to “look into my eyes and tell me that he loves me.” Or at least tell red-headed back up singer.
8:33 – The lady next to me has gotten up to pee about four times already. And she doesn’t even have a cool, refreshing Budweiser!
8:40 – Synthesizers!
8:42 – Brown-haired Miley is back. With some of the cheesiest wind machine work I’ve ever seen.
8:50 – Pee break. Still a mile-long line for the bathroom so I walk around and find the VIP lounge where a bunch of displaced parents are reading books and drinking beers. My peeps. Also, no line for the bathroom.
8:52 – On the walk back, I see a mom with long, red white-girl weave (aka “a fall”), skintight jeans and furry boots up to her knees.
8:53 – Costume change. Wish I was still able to wear my 15-year-old clothes. I would totally rock a purple petticoat and Chuck Taylors.
9:00 – Hey Miley to the tune of Hey Mickey. Reserving judgment.
9:05 – Cute birthday thing for the manager, who also looks young and cute (read: my age – probably ancient to the star of the show.)
9:07 – Girls Night! Is the 2000’s version off Girls Just Want to Have Fun? The kids are going NUTS. Streamers! Woot!
9:15 – Best of Both Worlds. God, I know all the fucking words. I strongly resist the urge to sing along because I believe, deep down, that I, with some work, could be cool again.
9:17 – Curtain call, almost like a high-school play. There’s confetti and screaming and streamers, and then Hannah/Miley disappears into a hole in the stage.
9:18 – Coats on. YG is ready to zipper us out the door and back to our cars. He’s a Nazi about traffic.
9:18 – Encore. Barefoot with guitar and horse art.
9:20 – And we’re out. We walk back to the car, and the MG is just breathless, talking about how cool it was.
* Later that night, she hugs us and thanks us for the most awesome show EVER and it just warms the cockles of my bitter, black heart. I remember to thank my parents for driving me all the way out to Long Island twenty years ago to see NKOTB because you know; it was “JUST LIKE THE BEATLES.”
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Ow. Motherfucker. Ow!
This is seriously unreal. I have another cold. I also have, according to my doctor, a "sprain of the chest wall." This happened because of the sinus infection about a month back. I was coughing too hard, and thought I cracked a rib. X-rays showed that it wasn't a fracture, but some sort of gross sprain. Only thing to do with that? Rest, painkillers, and time.
I WAS feeling better, and had started exercising again and helped shovel the other day. But now with this new cough, I am doubled over in pain and totally fucking miserable. I can't remember anything hurting this bad, ever before in my life. It's just....PAINFUL. And nothing is helping. I am also having some sort of allergic reaction to something, so previously-mentioned skeevy, hivey red rash is back.
List of shit I am currently taking that is doing absolutely nothing:
* cough medicine
* painkiller for the chest
* Claritin during the day for the rash
* Benadryl at night for the rash
* vitamins
I also was prescribed Percocet, but I just don't want to take anything that strong. I have a fear of any kind of addictive substance and try to avoid them, if I can. Now I don't know.
So, yeah, fucking pity party over here. I can't lift anything. I'm sitting inside while YG is outside shoveling so I feel like a total useless loser. And it hurts to try and exercise so I feel like a fat, useless loser. And the MG is peppering me with the usual barrage of 8-year-old questions so my inner "shut the fuck up" monolouge is going crazy.
I slept very restlessly last night, and spent some time just staring at the ceiling doing some prayer stuff. I am not into getting down on my knees and doing the normal, religious-type praying -- it feels very "not me" and ungenuine, so I try and have regular conversations. Last night, feeling woozy from Benadryl and coughing my lung, I snotted, "What the fuck, man? What is this? What is the lesson here? I have been sick in one form or another SINCE OCTOBER. That I should take better care of myself? That I should stop hating my body for dumb shit? OKAY -- I GET IT. Shit, man, I get it. Can you please just make this stop? Yeah? Thanks." Then I slept from 4-7:30, but the pain? Not getting any better.
ARGH.
I WAS feeling better, and had started exercising again and helped shovel the other day. But now with this new cough, I am doubled over in pain and totally fucking miserable. I can't remember anything hurting this bad, ever before in my life. It's just....PAINFUL. And nothing is helping. I am also having some sort of allergic reaction to something, so previously-mentioned skeevy, hivey red rash is back.
List of shit I am currently taking that is doing absolutely nothing:
* cough medicine
* painkiller for the chest
* Claritin during the day for the rash
* Benadryl at night for the rash
* vitamins
I also was prescribed Percocet, but I just don't want to take anything that strong. I have a fear of any kind of addictive substance and try to avoid them, if I can. Now I don't know.
So, yeah, fucking pity party over here. I can't lift anything. I'm sitting inside while YG is outside shoveling so I feel like a total useless loser. And it hurts to try and exercise so I feel like a fat, useless loser. And the MG is peppering me with the usual barrage of 8-year-old questions so my inner "shut the fuck up" monolouge is going crazy.
I slept very restlessly last night, and spent some time just staring at the ceiling doing some prayer stuff. I am not into getting down on my knees and doing the normal, religious-type praying -- it feels very "not me" and ungenuine, so I try and have regular conversations. Last night, feeling woozy from Benadryl and coughing my lung, I snotted, "What the fuck, man? What is this? What is the lesson here? I have been sick in one form or another SINCE OCTOBER. That I should take better care of myself? That I should stop hating my body for dumb shit? OKAY -- I GET IT. Shit, man, I get it. Can you please just make this stop? Yeah? Thanks." Then I slept from 4-7:30, but the pain? Not getting any better.
ARGH.
Monday, December 03, 2007
God, Hillary, Just Shut The Fuck Up
There was no way in hell that I was ever going to vote for Clinton anyway, but this is so pathetic.
And
More here.
As a PR person, this shit drives me absolutely nuts. THINK about how this is going to play out. TEST it on real people. You just look pathetic, and even if you are, it's the PR staff's job to help you look less so.
Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton's campaign has used words attributed to Sen. Barack Obama from when he was a kindergartner -- and from when he was in third grade -- to accuse him of "rewriting history" when he says he hasn't been planning for a long time to run for president.
And
Responding to the creation of Obama's Hillary Attacks website, Clinton campaign spokesman Phil Singer e-mailed us to say that "it's rather disingenuous of Senator Obama to complain about questions being raised about his record -– which remains unknown to voters –- considering that he has spent the last three months impugning Senator Clinton's character. When it comes to changing our politics, Senator Obama talks a good game but clearly lacks the courage of his convictions."
More here.
As a PR person, this shit drives me absolutely nuts. THINK about how this is going to play out. TEST it on real people. You just look pathetic, and even if you are, it's the PR staff's job to help you look less so.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Conspicous Consumption Saves The Day
I was ready to file today under "Sucks The Bag." I had some drama at work around something that somebody else should have paid for but didn't, and now I am expected to pull large sums of money out of my ass. It put me in a foul mood and made me question my career (again) and made me nostalgic for the old days when I had the money and power I felt guilty about having. And it's cold and blah. I just wanted to get home and change into something with an elastic waist and watch Project Runway.
But then I came home and the magical healing powers of shoes helped save the day. Or I should say, the magical healing power of these $275 Charles David beauties on sale on Amazon for $66.
Behold!
You are allowed to question the practicality of a peep-toe eyelet pump in the winter. In Massachusetts. But then I will stab you.
After this, we went to Mr. Crepe for dinner and potato soup and tons more sex-ed questions from the MG. She wanted to know if she had to get married when she grew up, and we told her that she didn't have to -- that you don't need to get married and you don't need to have kids. You can do whatever you want. The "no kids" thing sparked, "and then no penis in the vagina?" "Because you get pregnant when you put a penis in the vagina." We explained that you could still put a penis in the vagina and not get pregnant, which prompted, "kill the baby?" Followed by YG using some amazing hand gestures and trying to demonstrate how a "baggie" on the penis keeps sperm from getting into the vagina. And then we went back to talking Hannah Montana. Good times.
But then I came home and the magical healing powers of shoes helped save the day. Or I should say, the magical healing power of these $275 Charles David beauties on sale on Amazon for $66.
Behold!
You are allowed to question the practicality of a peep-toe eyelet pump in the winter. In Massachusetts. But then I will stab you.
After this, we went to Mr. Crepe for dinner and potato soup and tons more sex-ed questions from the MG. She wanted to know if she had to get married when she grew up, and we told her that she didn't have to -- that you don't need to get married and you don't need to have kids. You can do whatever you want. The "no kids" thing sparked, "and then no penis in the vagina?" "Because you get pregnant when you put a penis in the vagina." We explained that you could still put a penis in the vagina and not get pregnant, which prompted, "kill the baby?" Followed by YG using some amazing hand gestures and trying to demonstrate how a "baggie" on the penis keeps sperm from getting into the vagina. And then we went back to talking Hannah Montana. Good times.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Must Read: The Fantasy of Being Thin
I read this post, The Fantasy of Being Thin, over on Kate Harding's site today, while I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch at work. I actually cried a little just because the whole post, and the comments, were so spot on. You really should read the whole thing, but I'm cutting and pasting the bit that hit me the hardest.
Sigh. I still believe that someday I am going to be SO FUCKING COOL. Thin and cool, or fat and cool, but cool nonetheless. When I get that [insert whatever it is that I need right now -- job, shoes, weight], I'm going to be so goddamn cool, you're totally going to dye your hair red, buy a pair of green glasses, and Single White Female me.
"Overcoming The Fantasy of Being Thin might be the hardest part of making it all the way into fat acceptance-land. And that might just be why I’d pushed that part of the process out of my memory: it fucking sucked. Because I didn’t just have to accept the size of my thighs; I had to accept who I am, rather than continuing to wait until I magically became the person I’d always imagined being. Ouch.
That is, of course, a pretty normal part of getting older. You start to realize that yeah, this actually is it, and although you can still try enough new things to keep anyone busy for two lifetimes, you’re pretty much stuck with a basic context. There are skills, experiences, and material things you will almost certainly never have, period. It’s a challenge for all of us to understand that accepting this fact of life does not necessarily mean cutting off options or giving up dreams, but simply — as in the proverbial story about the creation of the David — chipping away all that is not you. But for a fat person, it can be even harder, because so many fucking sources encourage us to believe that inside every one of us is “a thin person waiting to get out” — and that thin person is SO MUCH COOLER.
The reality is, I will never be the kind of person who thinks roughing it in Tibet sounds like a hoot; give me a decent hotel in London any day. I will probably never learn to waterski well, or snow ski at all, or do a back handspring. I can be outgoing and charismatic in small doses, but I will always then need time to recharge my batteries with the dogs and a good book; I’ll never be someone with a chock-full social calendar, because I would find that unbearably exhausting. (And no matter how well I’ve learned to fake it — and thus how much this surprises some people who know me — new social situations will most likely always intimidate the crap out of me.) I might learn to speak one foreign language fluently over the course of my life, but probably not five. I will never publish a novel until I finish writing one. I will always have to be aware of my natural tendency toward depression and might always have to medicate it. Smart money says I am never going to chuck city life to buy an alpaca farm or start a new career as a river guide. And my chances of marrying George Clooney are very, very slim.
None of that is because I’m fat. It’s because I’m me.
But when I was invested in The Fantasy of Being Thin, I really believed that changing this one “simple” (ha!) thing would unlock a whole new identity — this totally fabulous, free-spirited, try-anything-once kind of chick who was effortlessly a magnet for interesting people and experiences. "
Sigh. I still believe that someday I am going to be SO FUCKING COOL. Thin and cool, or fat and cool, but cool nonetheless. When I get that [insert whatever it is that I need right now -- job, shoes, weight], I'm going to be so goddamn cool, you're totally going to dye your hair red, buy a pair of green glasses, and Single White Female me.
Back To The Grind and Other Things
Made it back to The People's Republic with little fanfare. Leaving early was the right thing today and gave me enough time to mentally adjust to the fact that I have to work -- FIVE DAYS IN A ROW -- this week.
The long weekend was fantastic. I didn't read enough, write enough, blog enough, do enough, etc. but I think that's what I needed -- a nice weekend of visits and eating and baby gazing and not doing much of anything. I got back to work yesterday and back to my regular workout/running routine today.
Now I have a list of hundreds of things to do in the next month including:
* Christmas shopping
* Registering for classes
* Holiday hoo hah (tree and whatnot)
* Grocery shopping and bill paying and the mundane
* Writing pretentious Christmas letter and making out cards
* Wedding stuff
-- finding florist
-- finishing playlists
-- finishing guest list
-- invitations
-- figuring how to pay for all this
Should be a busy month or so.
The long weekend was fantastic. I didn't read enough, write enough, blog enough, do enough, etc. but I think that's what I needed -- a nice weekend of visits and eating and baby gazing and not doing much of anything. I got back to work yesterday and back to my regular workout/running routine today.
Now I have a list of hundreds of things to do in the next month including:
* Christmas shopping
* Registering for classes
* Holiday hoo hah (tree and whatnot)
* Grocery shopping and bill paying and the mundane
* Writing pretentious Christmas letter and making out cards
* Wedding stuff
-- finding florist
-- finishing playlists
-- finishing guest list
-- invitations
-- figuring how to pay for all this
Should be a busy month or so.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
The whole daily posting thing did not work out, as expected, but I did take a few days to try and get better. I'm still stuffy and gross, so I bagged the 5K this morning and am trying to practice being grateful rather than feeling guilty.
The drive down went fine. Instead of waiting until Wednesday, I worked from home on Tuesday, had some dinner with YG and the MG at Mr.Crepe, and then took off around 7. I hit virtually no traffic and the entertainment of The Nanny Diaries for the duration of the ride. Cheesy schlock, but interesting enough when you're tired, and sick, and have a four-hour drive ahead of you.
Yesterday, I worked from here and caught up on all those nagging work things that I usually let go until someone needs them. I listened to my mother read the directions for the coffee pot OUT LOUD for an hour. It was a slow day, so I logged off around 4 and gave myself two hours to wander the aisles of Century 21, getting in my last shopping trip before the hell that is "holiday shopping season."
But a strange thing happened. I kept trying on shoes and bringing more and more things to the dressing room, and I liked what I saw, but not enough to buy anything. This is like a shock to my system. I LOVE shopping. I LOVE buying. I LOVE consuming, like the good American capitalist I am. Or at least I did. But I don't NEED anything. I have plenty of shoes, pretty sweaters, dresses (although, I am slightly regretting not nabbing the Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress with the yellow flowers), pants -- I don't need anything. Really. And if I don't need it, why buy it? I have everything I want.
And that leads me to Thanksgiving.
It's so easy to focus on the negative. I am, after all, an eternal pessimist, or to be more realistic, I am always pessimistic about ME -- thinking I should do more, be more, make more, say more, share more, give more, more, more, more, more. I still haven't mastered or even begun to truly accept, "progress, not perfection." There are plenty of things I want to "fix" -- my career, my health, my solitariness. But not today.
Today, I am going to be thankful for:
* Me. I am not that bad, all the time.
* My health. I've made it this far without any major issues. I am not as fat or unhealthy as my shitty committe thinks I am.
* My family. Both of them. YG and the MG up in Cambridge. The orignal cast here in NJ.
* My friends. The in-the-flesh ones and the email buddies and what my mom refers to as my "friends from the Internet."
* My cats.
* The ability to understand that I've "unstuck" myself before, and I can do it again.
* Our new church.
* Good books and good music and good food.
Today, I'm going to go for a walk, eat approximately 3 pounds of mashed potatoes with gravy, and read. A perfect day.
Happy Thanksgiving all!
The drive down went fine. Instead of waiting until Wednesday, I worked from home on Tuesday, had some dinner with YG and the MG at Mr.Crepe, and then took off around 7. I hit virtually no traffic and the entertainment of The Nanny Diaries for the duration of the ride. Cheesy schlock, but interesting enough when you're tired, and sick, and have a four-hour drive ahead of you.
Yesterday, I worked from here and caught up on all those nagging work things that I usually let go until someone needs them. I listened to my mother read the directions for the coffee pot OUT LOUD for an hour. It was a slow day, so I logged off around 4 and gave myself two hours to wander the aisles of Century 21, getting in my last shopping trip before the hell that is "holiday shopping season."
But a strange thing happened. I kept trying on shoes and bringing more and more things to the dressing room, and I liked what I saw, but not enough to buy anything. This is like a shock to my system. I LOVE shopping. I LOVE buying. I LOVE consuming, like the good American capitalist I am. Or at least I did. But I don't NEED anything. I have plenty of shoes, pretty sweaters, dresses (although, I am slightly regretting not nabbing the Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress with the yellow flowers), pants -- I don't need anything. Really. And if I don't need it, why buy it? I have everything I want.
And that leads me to Thanksgiving.
It's so easy to focus on the negative. I am, after all, an eternal pessimist, or to be more realistic, I am always pessimistic about ME -- thinking I should do more, be more, make more, say more, share more, give more, more, more, more, more. I still haven't mastered or even begun to truly accept, "progress, not perfection." There are plenty of things I want to "fix" -- my career, my health, my solitariness. But not today.
Today, I am going to be thankful for:
* Me. I am not that bad, all the time.
* My health. I've made it this far without any major issues. I am not as fat or unhealthy as my shitty committe thinks I am.
* My family. Both of them. YG and the MG up in Cambridge. The orignal cast here in NJ.
* My friends. The in-the-flesh ones and the email buddies and what my mom refers to as my "friends from the Internet."
* My cats.
* The ability to understand that I've "unstuck" myself before, and I can do it again.
* Our new church.
* Good books and good music and good food.
Today, I'm going to go for a walk, eat approximately 3 pounds of mashed potatoes with gravy, and read. A perfect day.
Happy Thanksgiving all!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Weekend Observations
Still sick, but slightly less miserable. After keeping YG up for the past few nights -- and with the cough medicine with codeine in it not even working -- I finally sucked it up (or YG forced me) and went to my doctor's "urgent care" office over the weekend. I have a sinus infection, and am now on my second round of antibiotics in three weeks. Fantastic. Who doesn't love a yeast infection?
Despite all this, we managed to have a pretty decent weekend.
* The MG asked YG, "where do babies come from?" so he bought her a book. She said, "why can't you just tell me?" Him: "We need a book." So now we have It's So Amazing!: A Book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families. This pretty much covers everything from your regular old baby making to spank banks and bean flicking to homos to abortions to IVF to AIDS. With cartoons.
Some times I feel like it was a great gift to grow up nice and Catholic and repressed because I didn't have to sit and read picture books with my parents about nut sacks. I am trying *very* hard to be straight faced and open, but it's really hard not to either burst out laughing or run and hide and die inside when you get questions like:
* Have you ever seen an erection? What is it like? Does it really stick out like that? [this in response to the cartoon boner]
* Why does it say that the stuff is milky? Can you drink it?
SERIOUSLY! My god.
That being said, it's sort of interesting to read through it with her and YG and see her just take everything in. Kids are such a product of their environment -- you only turn into an ignorant bigoted douchebag if you're taught to be one.
And speaking of, I love this dude in the Amazon comments. "Overall, a good informative book, however there is one page that describes homosexual attraction as something natural, just like heterosexuality. This is a dangerous lie that is too prevalent in our culture. It is offensive to God because it perverts his beautiful design and ruins his wonderful gift to each of us. It is not only wrong, but totally inappropriate for any age. The rest of the book is great. Too bad I couldn't tear out that one bad page without eliminating the other side, which was worthwhile. Because of this, I would NOT recommend this book!"
The gays! They are taking over! They are so PREVALENT! They are ruining my "beautiful gift." But the rest of the book? About nut sacks and tits? Totally A-OK.
* We had another fantastic dinner at The Blue Room. Yummy pork and shrimp and champagne. AND sleeping in the next day. Nice.
* We bought new pants for the MG and I started some of my Christmas shopping. I remembered how much I hate the mall and humanity at "holiday" time, when some lady on line behind us in Macy's picked a fight, saying that I cut her kid in line. When I said that I had been standing there for 15 minutes, she got all hands up and actually used "relax." We had a brief exchange, but I let it go because I had the MG and I'm still trying to convince YG that I am fit to be around children. Lady, however, kept doing that passive-agressive whisper thing, talking to her kid about how "SOME PEOPLE" are so rude and obnoxious and blah, blah, blah. I whispered to YG, while looking right at her, "I'm ready to fucking punch this bitch." Horray -- the Son of God is born. Peace on Earth. Goodwill!
* Cheesecake Factory. I know that liking my mall cheesecake means I'm only a few years away from wearing elastic-waist pants and a wolf sweatshirt, and a scrunchy in my hairsprayed hair. However, that shit tastes divine.
* Six months after moving in, we finally hung our curtains.
* I saw a cab today with a Nixon/Agnew bumper sticker on it.
* Pho Lunch.
* More for the "I hate Humanity" file. I had a wax appointment in Boston today, so I left YG and the MG in Harvard and took the T in. The red line was down between Kendall and Park, so I ended up having to take one of the shuttle buses. I had bumped off the first two because of overcrowding, but squeezed onto the third one by pretty much hanging off the strap by my pinky. I had my hat, bag, book and other stuff in my left hand, about 30 people pressed up against me, AND ended up with one of my hacking-up-a-lung coughing jags, trying my absolute best to cough into my jacket and not infest the whole bus. This bitchy little hozzle, with her straight-ironed hair and stupid Ugg boots, gave me the stink eye and snotted, "Ughhh. How about you try covering your mouth?"
This, dear readers, is when I have a choice to apologize and let go of the strap (the only fucking thing holding me up) and be a nice human being who just went to church and had a nice communion. OR I could be the bitch who was sick, and sick and tired of being jostled, and sick and tired of being sick, and sick and tired of these rich, shitty, bratty college kids. So I chose to look right back at her, and mimic her cadence and delivery, and snotted back, "How about I beat your ass?" This was not what she was expecting, and like all those snotty rich bitches, she knew that she most definitely would get her ass beat in a fight. So she and her look-alike hozzley friends started to slowly back away and stared at the floor.
Very mature. 31 years old. Taking names, and kicking ass.
The trip back took almost an hour and a half (usually about 30 minutes), was just as crowded, and I had a small human spill hot chocolate on me. Good times.
* Short week this week. I haven't been back to work since Thursday, and am hoping, kind of, that I still have a job.
Despite all this, we managed to have a pretty decent weekend.
* The MG asked YG, "where do babies come from?" so he bought her a book. She said, "why can't you just tell me?" Him: "We need a book." So now we have It's So Amazing!: A Book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families. This pretty much covers everything from your regular old baby making to spank banks and bean flicking to homos to abortions to IVF to AIDS. With cartoons.
Some times I feel like it was a great gift to grow up nice and Catholic and repressed because I didn't have to sit and read picture books with my parents about nut sacks. I am trying *very* hard to be straight faced and open, but it's really hard not to either burst out laughing or run and hide and die inside when you get questions like:
* Have you ever seen an erection? What is it like? Does it really stick out like that? [this in response to the cartoon boner]
* Why does it say that the stuff is milky? Can you drink it?
SERIOUSLY! My god.
That being said, it's sort of interesting to read through it with her and YG and see her just take everything in. Kids are such a product of their environment -- you only turn into an ignorant bigoted douchebag if you're taught to be one.
And speaking of, I love this dude in the Amazon comments. "Overall, a good informative book, however there is one page that describes homosexual attraction as something natural, just like heterosexuality. This is a dangerous lie that is too prevalent in our culture. It is offensive to God because it perverts his beautiful design and ruins his wonderful gift to each of us. It is not only wrong, but totally inappropriate for any age. The rest of the book is great. Too bad I couldn't tear out that one bad page without eliminating the other side, which was worthwhile. Because of this, I would NOT recommend this book!"
The gays! They are taking over! They are so PREVALENT! They are ruining my "beautiful gift." But the rest of the book? About nut sacks and tits? Totally A-OK.
* We had another fantastic dinner at The Blue Room. Yummy pork and shrimp and champagne. AND sleeping in the next day. Nice.
* We bought new pants for the MG and I started some of my Christmas shopping. I remembered how much I hate the mall and humanity at "holiday" time, when some lady on line behind us in Macy's picked a fight, saying that I cut her kid in line. When I said that I had been standing there for 15 minutes, she got all hands up and actually used "relax." We had a brief exchange, but I let it go because I had the MG and I'm still trying to convince YG that I am fit to be around children. Lady, however, kept doing that passive-agressive whisper thing, talking to her kid about how "SOME PEOPLE" are so rude and obnoxious and blah, blah, blah. I whispered to YG, while looking right at her, "I'm ready to fucking punch this bitch." Horray -- the Son of God is born. Peace on Earth. Goodwill!
* Cheesecake Factory. I know that liking my mall cheesecake means I'm only a few years away from wearing elastic-waist pants and a wolf sweatshirt, and a scrunchy in my hairsprayed hair. However, that shit tastes divine.
* Six months after moving in, we finally hung our curtains.
* I saw a cab today with a Nixon/Agnew bumper sticker on it.
* Pho Lunch.
* More for the "I hate Humanity" file. I had a wax appointment in Boston today, so I left YG and the MG in Harvard and took the T in. The red line was down between Kendall and Park, so I ended up having to take one of the shuttle buses. I had bumped off the first two because of overcrowding, but squeezed onto the third one by pretty much hanging off the strap by my pinky. I had my hat, bag, book and other stuff in my left hand, about 30 people pressed up against me, AND ended up with one of my hacking-up-a-lung coughing jags, trying my absolute best to cough into my jacket and not infest the whole bus. This bitchy little hozzle, with her straight-ironed hair and stupid Ugg boots, gave me the stink eye and snotted, "Ughhh. How about you try covering your mouth?"
This, dear readers, is when I have a choice to apologize and let go of the strap (the only fucking thing holding me up) and be a nice human being who just went to church and had a nice communion. OR I could be the bitch who was sick, and sick and tired of being jostled, and sick and tired of being sick, and sick and tired of these rich, shitty, bratty college kids. So I chose to look right back at her, and mimic her cadence and delivery, and snotted back, "How about I beat your ass?" This was not what she was expecting, and like all those snotty rich bitches, she knew that she most definitely would get her ass beat in a fight. So she and her look-alike hozzley friends started to slowly back away and stared at the floor.
Very mature. 31 years old. Taking names, and kicking ass.
The trip back took almost an hour and a half (usually about 30 minutes), was just as crowded, and I had a small human spill hot chocolate on me. Good times.
* Short week this week. I haven't been back to work since Thursday, and am hoping, kind of, that I still have a job.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Sick
I missed two days of blogging because I've been holed up in my house, sick yet again. I attempted to go to work on Thursday, and that was a very bad idea. I felt like my head was going to explode and just sat in my cube wimpering -- a total waste of a good outfit. Went home and went right to bed, but I couldn't sleep because I was coughing and too stuffy. You would not BELIEVE the shit that I'm coughing up.
Normally, I'd be all excited about almost a week's worth of working at home, but I'm just kind of sad and whiny.
And of course, self-blaming because:
* If I took better care of myself, I wouldn't be sick
* If I ate better, I wouldn't be sick
* If I exercised more, I wouldn't be sick
* If I didn't let myself get so stressed out, I wouldn't be sick
And so on. It's lovely. :-(
Normally, I'd be all excited about almost a week's worth of working at home, but I'm just kind of sad and whiny.
And of course, self-blaming because:
* If I took better care of myself, I wouldn't be sick
* If I ate better, I wouldn't be sick
* If I exercised more, I wouldn't be sick
* If I didn't let myself get so stressed out, I wouldn't be sick
And so on. It's lovely. :-(
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Woe Is Me
File under: Things That Suck.
* I am sick AGAIN. Not deathly ill, not flu-like, just motherfucking annoyingly filled with snot. Argh. After Hacking up My Lung Cold Part 1, I had about 3 minutes of feeling human before starting to feel this way again. I keep blowing my nose and coughing, but all I really want to do is sleep and stay in sweatpants all day.
I attempted to run three miles this morning with Snot Cold, and that sucked. I worked from home, but that freaks me out with its solitariness so I decided to walk up to Davis for lunch and more cough medicine. I threw on a hot outfit of white sweat socks, clogs, jeans that are too short and one of YG's sweatshirts and headed to Diesel where my homeless ensemble attracted one of the local crazies. She sat next to me at the lunch counter, kept breathing in my ear, and freaked the fuck out when I said that I eat meat. She had total rat's nest hair, about three teeth, and was just spaced out, but got very very angry when I told her about how I slaughter baby cows for fun and roast them in a pit in my yard (read: am not a vegetarian.) Everyone else was politely ignoring us and wishing us gone.
I'm not usually down with the whole interacting with the public thing, but I've been getting better. I'm not outwardly hostile, and I generally enjoy the people at Diesel and like chatting there. Not today. Not down with the crazy. I wish I wasn't feeling so miserable -- then I would have walked to McDonald's and ordered a cheesesteak and eaten it in front of her. Today, I just pretended to be deaf.
* I just had another $600 worth of work done on my car. "Winterizing," oil change, brakes, transmission fluid flush and some other shit that I don't really understand. I know I'm a smart person, but I don't understand anything about cars. This has nothing to do with my gender. I'm just not smart about them. I'm not smart about bidets either, but you don't have anyone questioning my worth as a human because I don't understand why you'd build something to shoot water up your ass. Anyway, I usually take my car in when I'm going on a long trip or something bad hasn't happened in a while. I'm driving to NJ next week during the worst driving time of the year and I had the great pleasure of my car breaking down on Thanksgiving weekend on the Pike last year, so I decided to take it in. I asked for the winterizing thing, and when they called to tell me everything else I needed, I relied on YG to translate -- or explain it to me as he would to a baby or to a retarded person. Basically, it translates into $600. Good times.
* I just realized that a Secret Santa exchange that I signed up for requires me to make something, not buy something. I am not crafty. At all. I do not cook, knit, paint, draw, woodwork, sew, needlepoint, bedazzle or anything like it. I shop. I am a capitalist. I feel very, very badly for my person who is probably going to get a deformed origami bird with a "it's unfortunate that I suck. Happy Nondemoninational Holiday" card.
And that is it for today. No spell checking. More sleep.
* I am sick AGAIN. Not deathly ill, not flu-like, just motherfucking annoyingly filled with snot. Argh. After Hacking up My Lung Cold Part 1, I had about 3 minutes of feeling human before starting to feel this way again. I keep blowing my nose and coughing, but all I really want to do is sleep and stay in sweatpants all day.
I attempted to run three miles this morning with Snot Cold, and that sucked. I worked from home, but that freaks me out with its solitariness so I decided to walk up to Davis for lunch and more cough medicine. I threw on a hot outfit of white sweat socks, clogs, jeans that are too short and one of YG's sweatshirts and headed to Diesel where my homeless ensemble attracted one of the local crazies. She sat next to me at the lunch counter, kept breathing in my ear, and freaked the fuck out when I said that I eat meat. She had total rat's nest hair, about three teeth, and was just spaced out, but got very very angry when I told her about how I slaughter baby cows for fun and roast them in a pit in my yard (read: am not a vegetarian.) Everyone else was politely ignoring us and wishing us gone.
I'm not usually down with the whole interacting with the public thing, but I've been getting better. I'm not outwardly hostile, and I generally enjoy the people at Diesel and like chatting there. Not today. Not down with the crazy. I wish I wasn't feeling so miserable -- then I would have walked to McDonald's and ordered a cheesesteak and eaten it in front of her. Today, I just pretended to be deaf.
* I just had another $600 worth of work done on my car. "Winterizing," oil change, brakes, transmission fluid flush and some other shit that I don't really understand. I know I'm a smart person, but I don't understand anything about cars. This has nothing to do with my gender. I'm just not smart about them. I'm not smart about bidets either, but you don't have anyone questioning my worth as a human because I don't understand why you'd build something to shoot water up your ass. Anyway, I usually take my car in when I'm going on a long trip or something bad hasn't happened in a while. I'm driving to NJ next week during the worst driving time of the year and I had the great pleasure of my car breaking down on Thanksgiving weekend on the Pike last year, so I decided to take it in. I asked for the winterizing thing, and when they called to tell me everything else I needed, I relied on YG to translate -- or explain it to me as he would to a baby or to a retarded person. Basically, it translates into $600. Good times.
* I just realized that a Secret Santa exchange that I signed up for requires me to make something, not buy something. I am not crafty. At all. I do not cook, knit, paint, draw, woodwork, sew, needlepoint, bedazzle or anything like it. I shop. I am a capitalist. I feel very, very badly for my person who is probably going to get a deformed origami bird with a "it's unfortunate that I suck. Happy Nondemoninational Holiday" card.
And that is it for today. No spell checking. More sleep.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Some Kind of Relief
I didn't get laid off tonight. I didn't think I would, but there was a piece of me that would have actually been relieved. Don't get me wrong -- I NEED to work and I have a lot of expenses (rent, car payments, credit card debt, the whole freakin' wedding). But there's a part of me that feels that getting laid off now would not be the worst thing that ever happened to me.
It might force the issue of figuring out what to do next. I know that I want to spend more time writing, and I know that I want to use some of my work skills to help our church out more with some of its PR and comms needs. If I wasn't working so much, I could. If I wasn't working so much, I wouldn't have time to fuck around and wonder what I should do next. I would HAVE to figure it out.
There's a part of me that would LOVE to tell my very work-identified parents that I got laid off and that I was going to get a job at Starbucks and "thanks for shelling out that hundred grand on my education and always telling me that I was important and shit and to make you proud. Yeah. Thanks. But I think I'm going to hang out and write poetry, maybe smoke a little pot and make coffee. Okay. And maybe walk dogs too. Hope you're not disappointed or anything." :-)
Oh well. I guess this is for the best and I'll keep on keepin' on if you will.
It might force the issue of figuring out what to do next. I know that I want to spend more time writing, and I know that I want to use some of my work skills to help our church out more with some of its PR and comms needs. If I wasn't working so much, I could. If I wasn't working so much, I wouldn't have time to fuck around and wonder what I should do next. I would HAVE to figure it out.
There's a part of me that would LOVE to tell my very work-identified parents that I got laid off and that I was going to get a job at Starbucks and "thanks for shelling out that hundred grand on my education and always telling me that I was important and shit and to make you proud. Yeah. Thanks. But I think I'm going to hang out and write poetry, maybe smoke a little pot and make coffee. Okay. And maybe walk dogs too. Hope you're not disappointed or anything." :-)
Oh well. I guess this is for the best and I'll keep on keepin' on if you will.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Sweet!
We just joined the new gym in Davis Square. It's lame how happy I am about this, but I am totally going to kick ass running and biking this winter.
And then I am going to SMOKE YG on the rail trail next spring.
Yes, I said this last year, but this time, for reals.
And then I am going to SMOKE YG on the rail trail next spring.
Yes, I said this last year, but this time, for reals.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Cooking Blows, And Other Observations
I smell like onions. I have been chopping onions for the last half hour because I'm cooking tonight. And I *never* cook. To be fair, I actually love this chili recipe. But I'm much more in love with the eating part.
YG and I taught Sunday school for the first time today. We've been assisting for the past few weeks, but this was the first time we were there alone. He taught. I was the doorkeeper -- the polite way of saying the disciplinarian. Nobody died, was taken to the hospital, or hit or bit each other. It was three little boys and one hyperactive girl. We did Exodus. When asked what was your favorite part of the story, the boys said, "when all the Eygyptians died." Adding, "like in the movie." Fair enough.
In wedding news, the photographer is booked and so is the DJ (read -- guy who comes and plays the playlists off my iPod). So if you're coming and you think the music sucks, it's my fault.
In general news, I'm enjoying running in the cold weather. I hauled my ass out of bed at 6 a.m. last Friday and ran in the neighborhood and it was fantastic. Today, not so much. I sucked ass -- was slow and winded the whole time and feeling blah. I'm running a 5K in NJ on Thanksgiving morning and I'm hoping to improve on my times.
Wow, I am really fucking boring today. I chopped onions. We bought vitamins. Huzzah.
YG and I taught Sunday school for the first time today. We've been assisting for the past few weeks, but this was the first time we were there alone. He taught. I was the doorkeeper -- the polite way of saying the disciplinarian. Nobody died, was taken to the hospital, or hit or bit each other. It was three little boys and one hyperactive girl. We did Exodus. When asked what was your favorite part of the story, the boys said, "when all the Eygyptians died." Adding, "like in the movie." Fair enough.
In wedding news, the photographer is booked and so is the DJ (read -- guy who comes and plays the playlists off my iPod). So if you're coming and you think the music sucks, it's my fault.
In general news, I'm enjoying running in the cold weather. I hauled my ass out of bed at 6 a.m. last Friday and ran in the neighborhood and it was fantastic. Today, not so much. I sucked ass -- was slow and winded the whole time and feeling blah. I'm running a 5K in NJ on Thanksgiving morning and I'm hoping to improve on my times.
Wow, I am really fucking boring today. I chopped onions. We bought vitamins. Huzzah.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Everyday, Everyday
This committing to blogging every day in November thing is already tough, and we're only in the first day of double digits. So I'm doing one of those tag things that I usually delete. Enjoy.
* Are you taller than your mother?
Yep. 5'7. She's around 5'2 or 5'3 -- I think.
* What color is your car?
It says silver, but I think it's more of light purple/gray.
* If you instantly become qualified for any profession, what would you do?
1.Novelist.
2.Lead guitarist in a glam rock band.
3.American Gladiator.
* What is your ring-tone?
The Verizon standard.
* Is there an animal that creeps you out?
Most things that live outside, although the rats that were living in our basement (i.e. The Rat Palace) were quite creepy.
* The last person you rode an elevator with?
Some randoms at work.
* Did you go ice skating as a kid?
Mennan Arena represent!
* Last person you had an argument with.
Probably YG. I claim it was a political disagreement. He claims it was a fight. :-)
And I argue with lots of people at work. Because I am either a bitch or smart, depending on your frame of reference.
* Ever have stitches?
Yep. I've had numerous goodies removed from my back.
* Favorite non alcoholic drink?
Diet Coke is the sweet nectar of the gods.
* How long ago did you kiss someone?
About five minutes ago.
* Ever caught something on fire?
I don't think so. The first thing that popped into my head was this girl in my middle school who caught her hair on fire with a Bunsen burner in science class. Even then I was an asshole because I suppressed a giggle while everyone else freaked out.
* Ever seen the northern lights?
Nope.
* Would you be a surrogate mother, carry a baby for someone else?
I don't think I could handle it.
* Ever been in a fight?
Two. I won. One was at a Phish show. Fuckin' hippies.
* Wearing nail polish?
Nope. Hardly ever.
* Innie or outie?
Innie.
* Ever used a Ouija board?
At sleepovers when I was a kid. They freak me out.
* Sweet or sour?
Chicken?
* Sun or Moon?
Sun.
* What shoes did you wear today?
Slippers. Running shoes.
* Favorite eye color of the opposite sex?
Blue.
* Most important quality in a relationship.
Trust. Loyalty. Ability to withstand my crazy.
* Nap today?
Nope.
* Time of day that you were born?
I don't remember. Will have to ask my mom.
* Do you know your blood type?
Not a clue.
* Name something annoying about public transit?
The fact that some people interpret public transit to mean public bathroom. Do not pee on the T!
* Did you grow up in a city or in the country?
Burbs all the way.
* Consider going on a reality show for a large amount of money?
Probably not.
* Flown in your dreams?
Nope.
* Whats the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?
I'm a picky eater. Boar.
* Hugs or kisses?
Both
* What was the best night out of your life? Lurid details please!
The date that wasn't a date.
* Whats your favourite item of clothing?
Flannel pajamas. Gray wool skirt.
* What form of dancing are you best (or worse) at?
The phrase "white people dancing" applies.
* Would you at any time of your life have done playboy for a million?
Totally. I've got way too many body hang ups. If someone wants to plaster my naked ass on a magazine spread, I'll take him or her up on it.
* Gold or silver?
Both.
* If you joined the circus, what would you be?
Mime
* Do you have a criminal record?
Clean as a whistle.
* What item of make-up can you not live with out?
Lipstick.
* Slurpee flavor?
Cherry Coke all the way.
* Are you taller than your mother?
Yep. 5'7. She's around 5'2 or 5'3 -- I think.
* What color is your car?
It says silver, but I think it's more of light purple/gray.
* If you instantly become qualified for any profession, what would you do?
1.Novelist.
2.Lead guitarist in a glam rock band.
3.American Gladiator.
* What is your ring-tone?
The Verizon standard.
* Is there an animal that creeps you out?
Most things that live outside, although the rats that were living in our basement (i.e. The Rat Palace) were quite creepy.
* The last person you rode an elevator with?
Some randoms at work.
* Did you go ice skating as a kid?
Mennan Arena represent!
* Last person you had an argument with.
Probably YG. I claim it was a political disagreement. He claims it was a fight. :-)
And I argue with lots of people at work. Because I am either a bitch or smart, depending on your frame of reference.
* Ever have stitches?
Yep. I've had numerous goodies removed from my back.
* Favorite non alcoholic drink?
Diet Coke is the sweet nectar of the gods.
* How long ago did you kiss someone?
About five minutes ago.
* Ever caught something on fire?
I don't think so. The first thing that popped into my head was this girl in my middle school who caught her hair on fire with a Bunsen burner in science class. Even then I was an asshole because I suppressed a giggle while everyone else freaked out.
* Ever seen the northern lights?
Nope.
* Would you be a surrogate mother, carry a baby for someone else?
I don't think I could handle it.
* Ever been in a fight?
Two. I won. One was at a Phish show. Fuckin' hippies.
* Wearing nail polish?
Nope. Hardly ever.
* Innie or outie?
Innie.
* Ever used a Ouija board?
At sleepovers when I was a kid. They freak me out.
* Sweet or sour?
Chicken?
* Sun or Moon?
Sun.
* What shoes did you wear today?
Slippers. Running shoes.
* Favorite eye color of the opposite sex?
Blue.
* Most important quality in a relationship.
Trust. Loyalty. Ability to withstand my crazy.
* Nap today?
Nope.
* Time of day that you were born?
I don't remember. Will have to ask my mom.
* Do you know your blood type?
Not a clue.
* Name something annoying about public transit?
The fact that some people interpret public transit to mean public bathroom. Do not pee on the T!
* Did you grow up in a city or in the country?
Burbs all the way.
* Consider going on a reality show for a large amount of money?
Probably not.
* Flown in your dreams?
Nope.
* Whats the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?
I'm a picky eater. Boar.
* Hugs or kisses?
Both
* What was the best night out of your life? Lurid details please!
The date that wasn't a date.
* Whats your favourite item of clothing?
Flannel pajamas. Gray wool skirt.
* What form of dancing are you best (or worse) at?
The phrase "white people dancing" applies.
* Would you at any time of your life have done playboy for a million?
Totally. I've got way too many body hang ups. If someone wants to plaster my naked ass on a magazine spread, I'll take him or her up on it.
* Gold or silver?
Both.
* If you joined the circus, what would you be?
Mime
* Do you have a criminal record?
Clean as a whistle.
* What item of make-up can you not live with out?
Lipstick.
* Slurpee flavor?
Cherry Coke all the way.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Class Assignment: Piece of Music
The assignment was to write a short, 1000-word story about a piece of music that meant something to you. Here's what I didd.
Birds and Ships
Who knew wood paneling could be so romantic? This was one of the many thoughts racing through my head as I attempted to get warm under the threadbare, scratchy blanket. Who knew that I, ever a cynic, could even process the thought of romance in a way that wasn’t bitter or sarcastic? But I was feeling warm and glowing. Isn’t that how romance is defined in those kinds of girl-meets-boy-and-falls-in-love movies? How did I get here?
* * * * *
My friend who wasn’t a friend, but wasn’t quite yet a boyfriend was located in Massachusetts. I was living in New Jersey. And we were both tired of driving 250 miles for “date night.” After some discussion, we agreed that a mid-point somewhere in Connecticut, and preferably cheap and cheesy where we would play characters in a steamy romance novel, would be best. I found the Milford Motel the way all sexy romance characters find their motels – by Googling “I-95” and “cheesy motel” and “wood paneling.” The Milford was the first hit, and given that it came with a black and white print out coupon advertising a $49.99 rate per night, it won out over less favorable locations.
After battling traffic on I-95 and I-91 respectively, we arrived at The Milford, conveniently located right off the exit from the interstate, a gem tucked in between a Pilot AutoCenter, a Wendy’s, Dunkin Donuts and a Penthouse Playmates “boutique.” We were greeted by a mangy grey and white cat seated on a cracked vinyl chair in the inappropriately named reception area. A surly “host” behind bullet-proof glass handed us two faded towels and the giant key to Room 131 where my friend, a son of a Boston cop, informed me that the dents in the door could have only been made by a cops’ baton during some sort of raid.
Inside wasn’t much better. One light hung over a busted table with two faded chairs, and the bed, barely larger than a twin, had a scratched formica headboard, two deflated pillows, one flat sheet and a bedspread that looked eerily similar to one my parents had donated to Goodwill in 1980. My friend and I looked at each other, and immediately burst out laughing. We threw our provisions – iPod, beer, and candy – on the table and headed out for our planned date of Mexican food and bowling.
At El Torrero, Milford, CT’s home of the one-liter margarita, we wolfed down tequila, indulged on empanadas and fajitas, and discussed all the reasons why our previous marriages had failed. I was still smarting from my failure to succeed, and he was still trying to adjust to a life that didn’t include seeing his daughter everyday. The weight of our combined baggage should have dampened the evening, but laughed and talked long after our plates were cleared.
“Did you bring it,” I asked.
“Your playlist? I uploaded the songs last night.”
“Did you listen to any of them?”
“Some. On the way down.”
“So….?”
I held my breath. I have a complicated relationship with my playlists, and am constantly revising the soundtrack to my life, depending on my moods. As a “mix-tape junkie,” when I make a mix for someone, I spend hours pouring through my music library, selecting only songs that mean something to me and tell the story of the mix-receiver and I. The final playlist I had presented to my friend had been revised six times after deliberate and methodical consideration and included a careful selection of songs that didn’t mention anything about dating, or worse, being a boyfriend. They were all “getting to know you” or “missing you” songs with a few classics thrown in for good measure – if asked, I could always say they were representations of a certain time in musical history.
“I loved it, he said. “Especially ‘Birds and Ships’”
“Oh, I love that one too. It’s a Woody Guthrie song. Wilco and Billy Bragg recorded it for a collection they did of his previously unreleased stuff.”
“That line, “Where might my lonesome lover be,” he paused, and looked at me.
“Yeah.” I could feel myself reddening and looked away, swigging happily on my tequila.
We sat in silence for a bit longer, making eye contact every once in a while, blushing and glowing, before heading back to the motel.
On the rock-hard, scratchy bed, we lay side by side, headphones on, listening to my playlist. Earlier in our not-quite relationship, we had discovered how well we slept together, how our various limbs fit together like puzzle pieces, and I rolled over onto my side, letting him spoon me. Bob Dylan sang about leaving me lonesome when I go, and a cover of The Beatles “Don’t Let Me Down” rang softly in our ears. At “I’m in love for the first time, this time it’s going to last,” I smiled and grasped his hand, while he snuggled in closer. And then “Birds and Ships.”
I stared at the wood paneling, feeling like I was having some sort of out of body experience. I was deeply drunk, and the room rocked slowly as my thoughts fired away in rapid, cannon-fire progression, carefully cataloging my good luck, followed by “this is crazy” followed by “what’s next” and then “I am probably going to fuck this up too.” I have always wanted to turn my brain off for just five minutes, if only to appreciate the silences in moments like these.
“Where might my lonesome lover be?” came through the headphones.
I realized that the back of my neck was wet, and I reached up to touch my friend’s face, wiping away his very quiet tears. My inner monologue finally shut up.
“I am glad I’m here,” I said quietly, into the darkness, still staring at the walls.
“Me too.”
I rolled over and buried my face into his warm neck, where I’m told I fell asleep.
* * * * *
We are sitting on the couch. I’m folding laundry and he’s checking the weather on his Blackberry. His daughter is asleep for the night. On the table are various notes about DJs and photographers.
“If I book this guy,” he says, “he just shows up with his speakers and hooks up the iPod. You can do the playlists, right?”
“Ha! Can I do the playlists?” I snort.
He smiles and hits me with a renegade sock.
“Birds and Ships?”
“Of course.”
# # #
The lyrics
"Birds And Ships"
The birds are singing
In your eyes today
Sweet flowers blossom in your smile
The wind and sun
Are in the words you say
Where might your lonesome lover be?
Birds may be singing
In my eyes this day
Sweet flowers blossom when I smile
But my soul is stormy
And my heart blows wild
My sweetheart rides a ship on the sea
Though my soul is stormy
And my heart blows wild
Where might my lonesome lover be?
Birds and Ships
Who knew wood paneling could be so romantic? This was one of the many thoughts racing through my head as I attempted to get warm under the threadbare, scratchy blanket. Who knew that I, ever a cynic, could even process the thought of romance in a way that wasn’t bitter or sarcastic? But I was feeling warm and glowing. Isn’t that how romance is defined in those kinds of girl-meets-boy-and-falls-in-love movies? How did I get here?
* * * * *
My friend who wasn’t a friend, but wasn’t quite yet a boyfriend was located in Massachusetts. I was living in New Jersey. And we were both tired of driving 250 miles for “date night.” After some discussion, we agreed that a mid-point somewhere in Connecticut, and preferably cheap and cheesy where we would play characters in a steamy romance novel, would be best. I found the Milford Motel the way all sexy romance characters find their motels – by Googling “I-95” and “cheesy motel” and “wood paneling.” The Milford was the first hit, and given that it came with a black and white print out coupon advertising a $49.99 rate per night, it won out over less favorable locations.
After battling traffic on I-95 and I-91 respectively, we arrived at The Milford, conveniently located right off the exit from the interstate, a gem tucked in between a Pilot AutoCenter, a Wendy’s, Dunkin Donuts and a Penthouse Playmates “boutique.” We were greeted by a mangy grey and white cat seated on a cracked vinyl chair in the inappropriately named reception area. A surly “host” behind bullet-proof glass handed us two faded towels and the giant key to Room 131 where my friend, a son of a Boston cop, informed me that the dents in the door could have only been made by a cops’ baton during some sort of raid.
Inside wasn’t much better. One light hung over a busted table with two faded chairs, and the bed, barely larger than a twin, had a scratched formica headboard, two deflated pillows, one flat sheet and a bedspread that looked eerily similar to one my parents had donated to Goodwill in 1980. My friend and I looked at each other, and immediately burst out laughing. We threw our provisions – iPod, beer, and candy – on the table and headed out for our planned date of Mexican food and bowling.
At El Torrero, Milford, CT’s home of the one-liter margarita, we wolfed down tequila, indulged on empanadas and fajitas, and discussed all the reasons why our previous marriages had failed. I was still smarting from my failure to succeed, and he was still trying to adjust to a life that didn’t include seeing his daughter everyday. The weight of our combined baggage should have dampened the evening, but laughed and talked long after our plates were cleared.
“Did you bring it,” I asked.
“Your playlist? I uploaded the songs last night.”
“Did you listen to any of them?”
“Some. On the way down.”
“So….?”
I held my breath. I have a complicated relationship with my playlists, and am constantly revising the soundtrack to my life, depending on my moods. As a “mix-tape junkie,” when I make a mix for someone, I spend hours pouring through my music library, selecting only songs that mean something to me and tell the story of the mix-receiver and I. The final playlist I had presented to my friend had been revised six times after deliberate and methodical consideration and included a careful selection of songs that didn’t mention anything about dating, or worse, being a boyfriend. They were all “getting to know you” or “missing you” songs with a few classics thrown in for good measure – if asked, I could always say they were representations of a certain time in musical history.
“I loved it, he said. “Especially ‘Birds and Ships’”
“Oh, I love that one too. It’s a Woody Guthrie song. Wilco and Billy Bragg recorded it for a collection they did of his previously unreleased stuff.”
“That line, “Where might my lonesome lover be,” he paused, and looked at me.
“Yeah.” I could feel myself reddening and looked away, swigging happily on my tequila.
We sat in silence for a bit longer, making eye contact every once in a while, blushing and glowing, before heading back to the motel.
On the rock-hard, scratchy bed, we lay side by side, headphones on, listening to my playlist. Earlier in our not-quite relationship, we had discovered how well we slept together, how our various limbs fit together like puzzle pieces, and I rolled over onto my side, letting him spoon me. Bob Dylan sang about leaving me lonesome when I go, and a cover of The Beatles “Don’t Let Me Down” rang softly in our ears. At “I’m in love for the first time, this time it’s going to last,” I smiled and grasped his hand, while he snuggled in closer. And then “Birds and Ships.”
I stared at the wood paneling, feeling like I was having some sort of out of body experience. I was deeply drunk, and the room rocked slowly as my thoughts fired away in rapid, cannon-fire progression, carefully cataloging my good luck, followed by “this is crazy” followed by “what’s next” and then “I am probably going to fuck this up too.” I have always wanted to turn my brain off for just five minutes, if only to appreciate the silences in moments like these.
“Where might my lonesome lover be?” came through the headphones.
I realized that the back of my neck was wet, and I reached up to touch my friend’s face, wiping away his very quiet tears. My inner monologue finally shut up.
“I am glad I’m here,” I said quietly, into the darkness, still staring at the walls.
“Me too.”
I rolled over and buried my face into his warm neck, where I’m told I fell asleep.
* * * * *
We are sitting on the couch. I’m folding laundry and he’s checking the weather on his Blackberry. His daughter is asleep for the night. On the table are various notes about DJs and photographers.
“If I book this guy,” he says, “he just shows up with his speakers and hooks up the iPod. You can do the playlists, right?”
“Ha! Can I do the playlists?” I snort.
He smiles and hits me with a renegade sock.
“Birds and Ships?”
“Of course.”
# # #
The lyrics
"Birds And Ships"
The birds are singing
In your eyes today
Sweet flowers blossom in your smile
The wind and sun
Are in the words you say
Where might your lonesome lover be?
Birds may be singing
In my eyes this day
Sweet flowers blossom when I smile
But my soul is stormy
And my heart blows wild
My sweetheart rides a ship on the sea
Though my soul is stormy
And my heart blows wild
Where might my lonesome lover be?
Thursday, November 08, 2007
If You Live in Denver, Throw Donuts at This Douchebag
The ladies over at Big Fat Deal were the first to alert me about the Antigym Guy who has a gym to save the "chubbies." I had a rant and rave and then kind of forgot about him, until I saw this article on Feministing about a new ad that he's running. An ad that actually ran on Fox TV.
Per Feministing:
If you're not disgusted yet, check out his definition of a bearded lady.
I would love to pelt this guy with donuts and fried chicken. Or get him a "Premature Ejaculator" t-shirt to go with his "No Chubbies" one. Idiot.
************************************************************
In other news, it's National Blog Writing Month so I am attempting to post everyday. I have a bunch of stories from my class that I want to put up and enough people to hate on to take up the rest of the month. I promised the same this last year, but this time....
Per Feministing:
"The commercial starts with a woman sitting on her couch watching television. The TV shows a news report of a not-model-skinny woman about to kill herself by jumping off a bridge. A young woman in the news report screams, "Oh my god! She's going to start a tidal wave!"
It cuts back to the woman on the couch who hears her husband come home. ("Honey, I'm home!") But as the woman runs up to her hubby, a skinny porntastic looking woman pushes her aside, takes her man and starts making out with him. They leave together, and the dog follows.
Enter Karolchyk, who busts through the woman's refrigerator, wearing a shirt that says "No Chubbies," screaming: "Look at you! Moo! Moo! You're never going to have a hubby if you're a chubby! So forsake the cake!" (He pushes the woman on the couch, crying.) As the scene fades to the gym info, Karolchyk says, "Pathetic! No chubbies!"
If you're not disgusted yet, check out his definition of a bearded lady.
I would love to pelt this guy with donuts and fried chicken. Or get him a "Premature Ejaculator" t-shirt to go with his "No Chubbies" one. Idiot.
************************************************************
In other news, it's National Blog Writing Month so I am attempting to post everyday. I have a bunch of stories from my class that I want to put up and enough people to hate on to take up the rest of the month. I promised the same this last year, but this time....
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Bad Parenting
YG is on a golf trip so I dropped the MG off at school today. The 50-minute drive out wasn't that bad, and I wasn't even late -- woo hoo! Personal victory! As I got her out of the car, the curmudgeonly school traffic guard muttered something beneath his breath, but the MG informed me to just ignore him because "he's mean." I dropped her off, and when I returned to my car, he was waiting for me.
Him: Excuse me, ma'am -- YOU NEED TO FOLLOW POLICY. We have a policy here of walking BEHIND the parked school buses, not inbetween.
Me: Oh, okay, thanks. I'm sorry. This is only my second time dropping her off.
Him: You're sorry? That's all you're going to say about endangering the life of a child.
My Inner Monologue: Supress urge to be sarcastic. Supress urge to be sarcastic. Stop. Stop Stop.
Me (in reality): Um......yeah. Sorry. It won't happen again.
Him: It Better Not.
*snort*
I gotta go sell crystal meth to some kids now.
Him: Excuse me, ma'am -- YOU NEED TO FOLLOW POLICY. We have a policy here of walking BEHIND the parked school buses, not inbetween.
Me: Oh, okay, thanks. I'm sorry. This is only my second time dropping her off.
Him: You're sorry? That's all you're going to say about endangering the life of a child.
My Inner Monologue: Supress urge to be sarcastic. Supress urge to be sarcastic. Stop. Stop Stop.
Me (in reality): Um......yeah. Sorry. It won't happen again.
Him: It Better Not.
*snort*
I gotta go sell crystal meth to some kids now.
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