What a day of restoration.
Ever wake up and feel like you’d give anything to have peace? Five seconds of peace. I feel like that all the time. Today I got that five seconds.
Today I was feeling exceptionally discouraged, missing my old funny self that I used to know so well. I needed crisis intervention. I called my Memaw.
Any time you feel like your life is going to hell, a good call to Memaw will cure you.
I cried the whole way to work, feeling empty and broken and lost, like nothing made sense. Raccoon tracks made their way down my face as I slobbered into my blue tooth like a big fruitcake. Most of the time I didn’t even talk. I just listened. Memaw talked to me my whole way there, from Playa all the way to Miracle Mile, telling me that God had a plan and purpose for me. In my heart I know that, but I sure as heck haven’t felt that way in a long time. I’ve felt like a screw up. Is perfectionism curable? Is there a pill for this? This sure is a self-centered, completely illogical weakness. Anyway, talking to my Memaw made remember and BELIEVE that God really DOES know what He’s doing, even though most of the time I’m floundering around like a kick fixin’ to puke on one of those whirly things on a playground.
I made it through my typical horrendous work day and drove home grimacing every time I had to move my foot. I think I have a broken toe. Pretty sure I broke it while attempting to teach myself to moonwalk 24/7 for five consecutive days during Thanksgiving break. I don’t have the luxury of hardwood floors at my apartment. I had to take advantage of those glorious slick surfaces, smooth as bacon grease, while I was back in Memphis.
I rode the elevator up to the third floor of my building not giving a crap if anyone saw me with my chipped toenail polish and my nappy filthy hair. I have that hateful DON’T MESS WITH ME aura when I ride that elevator at 7:46 a.m. and 7:06 p.m. I was hungry and exhausted and my toe hurt like hell.
I came to my apartment door with a gorgeous bouquet of roses and daisies at the step. I had to look at the number on the wall twice to figure out if this was even my apartment. I’ve been on this boyfriend sabbatical sort of since 2008. I’ve dated here and there, but let’s face it, flowers are usually a “I am an idiot, maybe these will make you forget that” gesture from a doofus boyfriend. And sometimes they’re just a kind gesture; but most men don’t get that. Most men just buy them because it’s a bandaid to a horrendous event.
My dad doesn’t make this mistake. Rusty buys my mom flowers because he “gets it.”
My best friend from Baton Rouge sent me flowers for no reason at all. That, my friend, is a quality human being. When I called her to thank her, she said, “Your Facebook statuses made me think you could use a little happy.” Even as I type this I’m a little teary. This girl has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
I made dinner and showered and plowed through about 2439082039 pages of homework and I went downstairs to check my mail.
I normally check my mail once a week, because either the box is empty, which makes me marginally sad, or the box is full of bills, which makes me realize that I need a trust fund. Both feelings are not so hot.
There were two cards in my mailbox that weren’t even bills.
One was from my parents. It was a card just because. They said they were proud of me and were praying for me. It choked me up.
The other card was from my Uncle Randy telling me he’s proud of me for making it through my master’s program. He said a lot of really kind stuff and he even sent me a graduation check. There’s a big fat knot in my throat as I type this. I’d write more but I already had my daily cry and don’t want to release all of that estrogen again. The ozone layer is already in enough trouble.
I think sometimes people feel like they’re at the end of the rope. They feel frazzled and empty and lost, like nothing in life makes sense. They can’t see the pattern. There’s just madness. I’ve felt like that since last spring. And all of a sudden, today, I woke up to an outpouring of unconditional love. It felt right- and for the first day in at least five months, I’ve had a sense of peace.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
When you have Insomnia...
I've submitted my written comps, but I still can't come off the high of anxiety/adrenaline raging like a high school freshman with a scorching case of PMS. I've been on sinus medication for the past 10 days that has made me completely loony tunes and the stress I've been under has been so intense that I don't know what it feels like to be relaxed anymore. I wonder if the old me is gone for good. I remember a time when I was genuinely funny and congenial. I saw the good in things. Now I am mad ALL THE TIME. I also cry on a regular basis, which is not like me AT ALL. I used to wave at people when they let me in front of them in traffic. I don't even do that anymore. Anyway. It's 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday. Nobody should EVER be awake at 6:30 on a Saturday unless they are an ER nurse. Effin insomnia. There's nothing like lying in your bed in a deep REM sleep and then dreaming that a gang of your hoodlum neighbors rip your hand-crafted Christmas wreath off your door, tear it to pieces, and leave bits and pieces of garland and glittery ribbon all over your Melrose Place building. Yes. These are the things that wake me up with a pounding heart. Do I need meds? Do I need intense therapy? DO I NEED AN EFFING VACATION? Yes, yes, yes.
I went home for Thanksgiving, which was good. It's like gaining closure after you've been in a dysfunctional relationship and you've been stuck in an unhealthy pattern of behavior for so long that you've forgotten normality. Here's what I mean: I've been stuck between the glitz and glamor and loneliness and self-centeredness of L.A. and the genuineness and simplicity and underachieving sweetness of the South since January. I've been trying to figure out if I should move back to Memphis. Just the stress of balancing my checking account at the end of every month is enough to give me a coronary. I envy those bimbo idiots on "The Hills" who make gazillions of dollars for getting lit and being whores. I really do. Must be nice to be as intelligent as an eggplant and get a check for $29089238209829382 at the end of the day for doing NOTHING. Anyway. Being single and a woman in a big city is the most isolating, anxiety-invoking experience in the entire world. It's exhausting knowing that YOU are responsible for everything. EVERYTHING. If something breaks, you have to fix it. If a rapist comes to your door in the middle of the night, YOU have to knock him in the head with a hammer. If your car dies, YOU have to ride in the tow truck with Alfonzo to the nearest service station. If a homeless man decides to steal your purse in Venice, YOU have to chase his ass down and take it back. It. is. EXHAUSTING.
So anyway, I've been reevaluating and second guessing my whole life for the past few months, trying to kick this depression and figure out what makes sense for me. I keep thinking that maybe I just need an emotional rest. Maybe I should move back to Memphis and live with my parents and be an old maid and work on paying school loans. Maybe I could quit my job where my hair falls out because I am in an EXTREMELY verbally abusive environment and am constantly subjected to the irrationalities of a rageaholic and move back in with my parents and do something simple like work as a receptionist in a dentist's office. I keep thinking this. I keep longing for less.
Then I went home.
Going back to Memphis reminded me of how people are in other parts of the states. You live in L.A. long enough, and you start thinking that everyone is out to use you. Everyone is out to trample you to get what they want. Even people I've considered as close friends have proved my theory right by calling me up, telling me how much they miss me, and then ending the conversation with a quick, "Oh, by the way, can I borrow your....(fill in the blank)?" and then I realize that all of the theatrics were for typical L.A. show.
I think I got a hernia when my best friend got married in September and I danced my tail off at her wedding. With this being said, the first stop on my venture to the M-town was a trip to the chiropractor. It was my 25th birthday and I was at the chiropractor's office. How depressing.
Now, I have only seen this guy maybe twice before, a few years ago. AS SOON AS I WALK IN THE DOOR, the receptionist says, "If it isn't Miss California!!!!" and begins asking me all about grad school and life on the left coast. All of the chiropractic aides gathered around me and asked me what California was like and asked me if I ever saw famous people. It was the cutest thing I've ever seen. They weren't pretending like they cared because they wanted to borrow my crap. They really, genuinely cared.
I saw friends of mine that I haven't seen in a long while. Just being with them made me feel centered again. I also didn't have insomnia while I was back home. I slept all night, the whole night through. We had Thanksgiving dinner with family friends and I realized that they'd known me my whole life. They really KNEW me. It felt right.
It's funny how being home can sort of heal you. It was a good trip. I didn't have to worry. I also realized, though, after day two, that I wouldn't be able to hack it if I moved back home. Just driving without the traffic made me slow down. I'd stop at Walgreens or the grocery store and wouldn't have to shove my shopping cart between 15 kids under the age of 4 who were hanging off the cereal shelves like spider monkeys. I didn't have to wait to get gas in the car. I had to follow the speed limit, often 30 MPH, or else I WOULD get a ticket. Things were...slow. Slow isn't bad. But I also got a little bit sad when I saw everybody doing the same things they were doing two or three years ago. Is this bad? Absolutely not. A lot of people feel very comfortable in routine; in familiarity. I just wish I was one of those people. I wish I was comfortable with living the same life forever. Maybe if I wasn't always having a panic attack about something, maybe if I wasn't a control freak, maybe if I wasn't always on the verge of a puke fest, I would be even worse off. Maybe all of this intense negativity is a good motivator for me.
The thought of having a job like working as a receptionist and living with my parents makes me want to DIE. Really. But then I think, I wish I wanted that. I wish that I could be happy with that. I see people's mini feeds on facebook saying things like, "Michelle cooked a casserole for her husband tonight! Decorated the Christmas tree and the kitty helped! Now baking cookies!" or "Candice has the best husband! Can't wait to cook for him!" and I feel a little bit like an alien. Most of my "friends" from "home" write about:
A) their husbands
B) cooking
C) cooking for their husbands.
I wonder what it's like to be content sitting around making barrettes all day, longing for my husband to come home, and as soon as he walks in the door, hugging him and kissing him and telling him how I've had no purpose all day because he has been gone, and then inviting him to a Southern Living feast to make him happy.
Freaking disgusting.
The thing is, a lot of people are genuinely happy living that way- and who is to say that they're wrong? I'm just beginning to wonder if I have a substantial mental health deficit. I think that I am going to become an insane hermit.
Back to Memphis. I needed it. I completely needed that slow pace... But I've seen too much now. It's like that guy in the Matrix who essentially ruined his own life because he'd experienced too much. I can empathize.
I wonder what I'm doing. L.A. is too fast, Memphis is too slow, Baton Rouge is out of the question... I have no next step. This could be why the meltdowns continue to occur. I keep wondering if I've somehow ruined my life; like I'm completely un-fixable now that I expect a certain level of stress to keep me motivated. Ugh. It's my job, friends. Pray for me. I'm going to snap.
Over the past month or so, I've really been insane. With comps lingering over my head, I've been unable to focus on anything. I keep forgetting things. I can't remember simple conversations I've had with people. I can't remember where I park my car. It's been horrendous.
I came back to L.A. after Thanksgiving and started working on my stupid comps. As I was at my computer, typing away on how my classes had made me a better person (total B.S.), I get a text from this guy that I hate telling me that my comps were due Thursday, instead of Friday, which is when I thought they were due. I absolutely flipped out. This shaved off 24 hours from my bullshit fest of essays about my life-changing experiences at a Jesuit institution. I. nearly. died.
Right at this time, as my face feels hot and my throat is closing up, my chair breaks. The legs just fall right off. I land on the floor, right on my tailbone. Not exactly positive reinforcement for someone who's dealt with a lifetime of self esteem issues.
Ugh.
I'm grouchy because the sun isn't up yet and it's SATURDAY. It's like I can't even enjoy my weekends because I know that Monday is lingering around the corner, about to snatch me up with its ebony claws and leathery wings.
I need an intervention.
I went home for Thanksgiving, which was good. It's like gaining closure after you've been in a dysfunctional relationship and you've been stuck in an unhealthy pattern of behavior for so long that you've forgotten normality. Here's what I mean: I've been stuck between the glitz and glamor and loneliness and self-centeredness of L.A. and the genuineness and simplicity and underachieving sweetness of the South since January. I've been trying to figure out if I should move back to Memphis. Just the stress of balancing my checking account at the end of every month is enough to give me a coronary. I envy those bimbo idiots on "The Hills" who make gazillions of dollars for getting lit and being whores. I really do. Must be nice to be as intelligent as an eggplant and get a check for $29089238209829382 at the end of the day for doing NOTHING. Anyway. Being single and a woman in a big city is the most isolating, anxiety-invoking experience in the entire world. It's exhausting knowing that YOU are responsible for everything. EVERYTHING. If something breaks, you have to fix it. If a rapist comes to your door in the middle of the night, YOU have to knock him in the head with a hammer. If your car dies, YOU have to ride in the tow truck with Alfonzo to the nearest service station. If a homeless man decides to steal your purse in Venice, YOU have to chase his ass down and take it back. It. is. EXHAUSTING.
So anyway, I've been reevaluating and second guessing my whole life for the past few months, trying to kick this depression and figure out what makes sense for me. I keep thinking that maybe I just need an emotional rest. Maybe I should move back to Memphis and live with my parents and be an old maid and work on paying school loans. Maybe I could quit my job where my hair falls out because I am in an EXTREMELY verbally abusive environment and am constantly subjected to the irrationalities of a rageaholic and move back in with my parents and do something simple like work as a receptionist in a dentist's office. I keep thinking this. I keep longing for less.
Then I went home.
Going back to Memphis reminded me of how people are in other parts of the states. You live in L.A. long enough, and you start thinking that everyone is out to use you. Everyone is out to trample you to get what they want. Even people I've considered as close friends have proved my theory right by calling me up, telling me how much they miss me, and then ending the conversation with a quick, "Oh, by the way, can I borrow your....(fill in the blank)?" and then I realize that all of the theatrics were for typical L.A. show.
I think I got a hernia when my best friend got married in September and I danced my tail off at her wedding. With this being said, the first stop on my venture to the M-town was a trip to the chiropractor. It was my 25th birthday and I was at the chiropractor's office. How depressing.
Now, I have only seen this guy maybe twice before, a few years ago. AS SOON AS I WALK IN THE DOOR, the receptionist says, "If it isn't Miss California!!!!" and begins asking me all about grad school and life on the left coast. All of the chiropractic aides gathered around me and asked me what California was like and asked me if I ever saw famous people. It was the cutest thing I've ever seen. They weren't pretending like they cared because they wanted to borrow my crap. They really, genuinely cared.
I saw friends of mine that I haven't seen in a long while. Just being with them made me feel centered again. I also didn't have insomnia while I was back home. I slept all night, the whole night through. We had Thanksgiving dinner with family friends and I realized that they'd known me my whole life. They really KNEW me. It felt right.
It's funny how being home can sort of heal you. It was a good trip. I didn't have to worry. I also realized, though, after day two, that I wouldn't be able to hack it if I moved back home. Just driving without the traffic made me slow down. I'd stop at Walgreens or the grocery store and wouldn't have to shove my shopping cart between 15 kids under the age of 4 who were hanging off the cereal shelves like spider monkeys. I didn't have to wait to get gas in the car. I had to follow the speed limit, often 30 MPH, or else I WOULD get a ticket. Things were...slow. Slow isn't bad. But I also got a little bit sad when I saw everybody doing the same things they were doing two or three years ago. Is this bad? Absolutely not. A lot of people feel very comfortable in routine; in familiarity. I just wish I was one of those people. I wish I was comfortable with living the same life forever. Maybe if I wasn't always having a panic attack about something, maybe if I wasn't a control freak, maybe if I wasn't always on the verge of a puke fest, I would be even worse off. Maybe all of this intense negativity is a good motivator for me.
The thought of having a job like working as a receptionist and living with my parents makes me want to DIE. Really. But then I think, I wish I wanted that. I wish that I could be happy with that. I see people's mini feeds on facebook saying things like, "Michelle cooked a casserole for her husband tonight! Decorated the Christmas tree and the kitty helped! Now baking cookies!" or "Candice has the best husband! Can't wait to cook for him!" and I feel a little bit like an alien. Most of my "friends" from "home" write about:
A) their husbands
B) cooking
C) cooking for their husbands.
I wonder what it's like to be content sitting around making barrettes all day, longing for my husband to come home, and as soon as he walks in the door, hugging him and kissing him and telling him how I've had no purpose all day because he has been gone, and then inviting him to a Southern Living feast to make him happy.
Freaking disgusting.
The thing is, a lot of people are genuinely happy living that way- and who is to say that they're wrong? I'm just beginning to wonder if I have a substantial mental health deficit. I think that I am going to become an insane hermit.
Back to Memphis. I needed it. I completely needed that slow pace... But I've seen too much now. It's like that guy in the Matrix who essentially ruined his own life because he'd experienced too much. I can empathize.
I wonder what I'm doing. L.A. is too fast, Memphis is too slow, Baton Rouge is out of the question... I have no next step. This could be why the meltdowns continue to occur. I keep wondering if I've somehow ruined my life; like I'm completely un-fixable now that I expect a certain level of stress to keep me motivated. Ugh. It's my job, friends. Pray for me. I'm going to snap.
Over the past month or so, I've really been insane. With comps lingering over my head, I've been unable to focus on anything. I keep forgetting things. I can't remember simple conversations I've had with people. I can't remember where I park my car. It's been horrendous.
I came back to L.A. after Thanksgiving and started working on my stupid comps. As I was at my computer, typing away on how my classes had made me a better person (total B.S.), I get a text from this guy that I hate telling me that my comps were due Thursday, instead of Friday, which is when I thought they were due. I absolutely flipped out. This shaved off 24 hours from my bullshit fest of essays about my life-changing experiences at a Jesuit institution. I. nearly. died.
Right at this time, as my face feels hot and my throat is closing up, my chair breaks. The legs just fall right off. I land on the floor, right on my tailbone. Not exactly positive reinforcement for someone who's dealt with a lifetime of self esteem issues.
Ugh.
I'm grouchy because the sun isn't up yet and it's SATURDAY. It's like I can't even enjoy my weekends because I know that Monday is lingering around the corner, about to snatch me up with its ebony claws and leathery wings.
I need an intervention.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Welcome, Mississippians!
My sister tells me that I have a cluster of readers in Mississippi. Mississippians, I welcome you!
It's 10 p.m. L.A. time and my binders are still strewn across my floor like someone barfed academia all over my carpet. I have come to the conclusion that comps will not work themselves out. Damn you, comps.
I know that I have been in a rut until today because for the past week, I have come home from work every single day, taken all of my disgusting, hideous work attire off, thrown it all on the floor, and left dirty dishes all over my counter tops. This is the sign of a necessary intervention, coming from the girl who has every bank statement she's ever received in chronological order in her "Bank of America" file. I just haven't felt like dealing with the maintenance. Every once in a while, about twice per year, I look at my systematized, beautifully organized crap, and think, "Why the H am I wasting all of this time being orderly when we all die one day anyhow?" Dramatic. I am so dang dramatic.
Now. Let me tell you how I almost hit a woman in the face today.
I never take a lunch break. Never. I wake up every single day thinking, "If I can get through today without slitting someone's throat at work, then today will be called an ultimate success." and so when I get to work, I bury myself in work oriented projects so I can just power through this worst day of my life and be done with it. Not today.
I woke up this morning and saw about 30 frozen microwavable meals in my freezer and I wanted to barf. I am so effing sick of microwavable meals. I became so overwhelmed at the thought of tearing back the corner of the plastic film and pressing the "4" on the microwave that I left my house, empty handed, with no lunch at all.
I am not a creature of habit, but when it comes to food, I put little thought into it. Food = fuel. I am no snob. I eat disgusting frozen dinners or cereal essentially every day because it's efficient and requires no thought. But today, I just couldn't handle it.
Around 2 o'clock I felt like I was about to faint. Between the stale smell in my office of morning breath and mildew, and with all of the estrogen floating in the air like some sort of Playboy horror movie, I thought that I might die. My head felt light and my stress level was so astronomical that I thought to myself,
IF I DON'T GET OUT OF THIS EFFING 1980'S HIDEOUS OFFICE IN DESPERATE NEED OF FENG SHUI IN FIVE SECONDS, I AM GOING TO BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!!!!!!!!!!!
So I decided to walk next door to this disgusting sandwich place and eat a grilled cheese.
I used to be real big on cheese. Now I don't even care. I just wanted a very plain, childlike sandwich, and grilled cheese was the only solution that I could think of in the ENTIRE WORLD that would keep me from blowing my effing brains out at work.
So.
I walked next door to the disgusting sandwich place. Irritant numero uno: I see the CASH ONLY sign, in big, red, offensive letters. This automatically made me mad. Who carries cash these days? It's 2009 and people are thieves. Worst idea ever.
So, seeing that grilled cheese was the only thing in the entire world that was saving my office from its ultimate demise, I walked over to the ATM to take out some cash money.
$2 service charge.
Well, of course there's a $2 service charge. What would be the point in just taking out the money you need to buy a grilled cheese sandwich when you can piss $2 to the A-holes who set up ATMs all over town?
I go through all of the trouble of using this disgusting 1940's ATM that has a bacon-grease film all over the buttons (HEART ATTACK), and I approach the counter.
I was in a time warp.
Maybe I was on another planet.
The lady working at the counter spoke approximately 3% of the English language and was wearing some kind of ghetto-fabulous sunglasses that only a Kardashian would wear. She wore eyeliner for lip liner. Not like I'm hating. I do it, too.
"I'd like a grilled cheese, please."
"We no have grill cheese."
"What?"
"We no have grill cheese. Nah now."
"What?"
"We make korean bah-beh-que and grill is bad."
I gave this woman the death stare from hell.
"Well. That's weird."
I said it flatly, like it was the last little lame sentence that could possibly be slapped out of a corpse.
I stood there staring at her like some sort of internal time bomb was going to go off any second, and my body parts and plasma were going to spray all over her nasty sandwich store and filthy vintage ATM, and then her Korean BBQ grill would really be effed up.
I think she felt it.
"Well, one part of grill clean. I cook white bread grill cheese fah you there."
Ah, white bread and all. Nice touch.
Then, she gave me 50 cents off. I don't know why. I think it's because she was afraid of me. I don't blame her. Is this a raging case of PMS? Is this the fear of being a quarter century old? Is it the fact that I sleep by myself every night and am getting desperate enough to buy a cat, because I'm scared I could drop dead and nobody would find my body for weeks? Who knows.
I just glanced at the binders on my floor. They make my stomach churn.
This blog is too long. Alas, I have more to rant and rave about.
My buddy and I got soul food after class last night, and it was fantastic. The night before that, I went to my coworker's house in Bel-Air, and she made all of our coworkers dinner. It felt SO GOOD to be in a real, legitimate house. One that isn't a part of a filing cabinet. It also felt good to be in a house that smelled like a mom. Ug. Being at this age/stage is hard. You're too old for a mom, too young for a spouse, stuck somewhere in the middle without a place. Anyway. It was wonderful.
One of these days I'm going to write about all of the funny stuff my grand parents said when I was in Baton Rouge in September and I might even write a little blurb about Halloween. But for now, it's time to post obscene videos on Anna's Facebook page. Ciao.
It's 10 p.m. L.A. time and my binders are still strewn across my floor like someone barfed academia all over my carpet. I have come to the conclusion that comps will not work themselves out. Damn you, comps.
I know that I have been in a rut until today because for the past week, I have come home from work every single day, taken all of my disgusting, hideous work attire off, thrown it all on the floor, and left dirty dishes all over my counter tops. This is the sign of a necessary intervention, coming from the girl who has every bank statement she's ever received in chronological order in her "Bank of America" file. I just haven't felt like dealing with the maintenance. Every once in a while, about twice per year, I look at my systematized, beautifully organized crap, and think, "Why the H am I wasting all of this time being orderly when we all die one day anyhow?" Dramatic. I am so dang dramatic.
Now. Let me tell you how I almost hit a woman in the face today.
I never take a lunch break. Never. I wake up every single day thinking, "If I can get through today without slitting someone's throat at work, then today will be called an ultimate success." and so when I get to work, I bury myself in work oriented projects so I can just power through this worst day of my life and be done with it. Not today.
I woke up this morning and saw about 30 frozen microwavable meals in my freezer and I wanted to barf. I am so effing sick of microwavable meals. I became so overwhelmed at the thought of tearing back the corner of the plastic film and pressing the "4" on the microwave that I left my house, empty handed, with no lunch at all.
I am not a creature of habit, but when it comes to food, I put little thought into it. Food = fuel. I am no snob. I eat disgusting frozen dinners or cereal essentially every day because it's efficient and requires no thought. But today, I just couldn't handle it.
Around 2 o'clock I felt like I was about to faint. Between the stale smell in my office of morning breath and mildew, and with all of the estrogen floating in the air like some sort of Playboy horror movie, I thought that I might die. My head felt light and my stress level was so astronomical that I thought to myself,
IF I DON'T GET OUT OF THIS EFFING 1980'S HIDEOUS OFFICE IN DESPERATE NEED OF FENG SHUI IN FIVE SECONDS, I AM GOING TO BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!!!!!!!!!!!
So I decided to walk next door to this disgusting sandwich place and eat a grilled cheese.
I used to be real big on cheese. Now I don't even care. I just wanted a very plain, childlike sandwich, and grilled cheese was the only solution that I could think of in the ENTIRE WORLD that would keep me from blowing my effing brains out at work.
So.
I walked next door to the disgusting sandwich place. Irritant numero uno: I see the CASH ONLY sign, in big, red, offensive letters. This automatically made me mad. Who carries cash these days? It's 2009 and people are thieves. Worst idea ever.
So, seeing that grilled cheese was the only thing in the entire world that was saving my office from its ultimate demise, I walked over to the ATM to take out some cash money.
$2 service charge.
Well, of course there's a $2 service charge. What would be the point in just taking out the money you need to buy a grilled cheese sandwich when you can piss $2 to the A-holes who set up ATMs all over town?
I go through all of the trouble of using this disgusting 1940's ATM that has a bacon-grease film all over the buttons (HEART ATTACK), and I approach the counter.
I was in a time warp.
Maybe I was on another planet.
The lady working at the counter spoke approximately 3% of the English language and was wearing some kind of ghetto-fabulous sunglasses that only a Kardashian would wear. She wore eyeliner for lip liner. Not like I'm hating. I do it, too.
"I'd like a grilled cheese, please."
"We no have grill cheese."
"What?"
"We no have grill cheese. Nah now."
"What?"
"We make korean bah-beh-que and grill is bad."
I gave this woman the death stare from hell.
"Well. That's weird."
I said it flatly, like it was the last little lame sentence that could possibly be slapped out of a corpse.
I stood there staring at her like some sort of internal time bomb was going to go off any second, and my body parts and plasma were going to spray all over her nasty sandwich store and filthy vintage ATM, and then her Korean BBQ grill would really be effed up.
I think she felt it.
"Well, one part of grill clean. I cook white bread grill cheese fah you there."
Ah, white bread and all. Nice touch.
Then, she gave me 50 cents off. I don't know why. I think it's because she was afraid of me. I don't blame her. Is this a raging case of PMS? Is this the fear of being a quarter century old? Is it the fact that I sleep by myself every night and am getting desperate enough to buy a cat, because I'm scared I could drop dead and nobody would find my body for weeks? Who knows.
I just glanced at the binders on my floor. They make my stomach churn.
This blog is too long. Alas, I have more to rant and rave about.
My buddy and I got soul food after class last night, and it was fantastic. The night before that, I went to my coworker's house in Bel-Air, and she made all of our coworkers dinner. It felt SO GOOD to be in a real, legitimate house. One that isn't a part of a filing cabinet. It also felt good to be in a house that smelled like a mom. Ug. Being at this age/stage is hard. You're too old for a mom, too young for a spouse, stuck somewhere in the middle without a place. Anyway. It was wonderful.
One of these days I'm going to write about all of the funny stuff my grand parents said when I was in Baton Rouge in September and I might even write a little blurb about Halloween. But for now, it's time to post obscene videos on Anna's Facebook page. Ciao.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Comps are Stupid
I haven't blogged in a while, and my brain is so fried that I'm not sure I have anything interesting to contribute, but I'll do what I can.
Today I got a package in the mail. I was stoked. My parents are good about sending packages, but other than that, I don't normally get mail, except for bills, and we don't talk about those. I hauled the package upstairs and opened it and saw a teddy bear inside. I got a little bit excited. My emotional reaction struck me as mildly lame, because I'm not really into the chick flicky stuff, but everyone likes it when people are thoughtful and send stupid crap in the mail for no reason.
I pulled the teddy bear out and read a note that was attached to its neck that said it was traveling around the world for a third grade school project.
Way to pound in the reminder that I live by myself and have no S.O., bear!
I remembered my best friend from back home telling me her second cousin or something was doing this for a school thing, and then all of a sudden, I felt a little sad that I had received this 2009 version of Flat Stanley.
This made me start wondering what it is about getting something in the mail unexpectedly that can really make or break your postal service experience.
I just wrote this paragraph about this ex boyfriend that sent me flowers when I was having one of my typical graduate school nervous breakdowns, and then I deleted it all, because right after I thought about how nice it was for him to do that, I thought about what a crappy bf he was, so eff him; his story will not be told.
I am sitting in my cow chair in bachelor-esque attire looking at 7 binders strewn across my floor. I have to write about every class I've taken at school in order to prepare for comps. I'd just as soon swallow razor blades.
The past two weekends have possibly redeemed 2009, the worst year of all time. The only way I can describe it is that feeling that sophomores in college get- that sinking, lackluster feeling, like all of the mystic wonder about college is gone and they have no real goals and they just want to sleep a lot and eat pizza. Or that crappy second year of camp when you're not going for the first time but you're not the oldest kid, either, so you're stuck in this middle-child state where you're lost in the shuffle and trying to figure it all out. This is a bad predicament for a control freak.
Last weekend started as a long weekend, because I went on a hilarious first date on Thursday night. A lot of times, on first dates, both parties are trying so hard to impress the other person, that it winds up being stressful. This first date was HILARIOUS. I spend a lot of my time courtesy laughing, but I genuinely laughed at this guy because he was genuinely funny. It has been a long, long time since I have been on a date with a funny guy. So. That was fantastic.
On Friday, we had a pre-Halloween get together and dressed up in our costumes and sang karaoke at some crappy "to catch a predator" looking establishment. again, awesome. i'd get into the details of my friend, colonel cat, but i'm on the verge of carpel tunnel here and i'm already fading fast.
halloween was legendary. that's all there is to that statement. the most hilarious and economical halloween i've ever had, for sure. the only scary part was finding embarrassing (decent, don't worry) pictures on some weird short guy's blog. How did that happen?
this past weekend, i went out with the first date guy again on second and third dates, which were all hilarious.
i think for the past several months, i have been in this dumb, uninspired, academic funk, because my job is killing me and i haven't hung out with any funny folk.
i think i'm on the verge of resurfacing.
after finals, of course.
i just wouldn't be me if i wasn't having a serious meltdown during finals.
Today I got a package in the mail. I was stoked. My parents are good about sending packages, but other than that, I don't normally get mail, except for bills, and we don't talk about those. I hauled the package upstairs and opened it and saw a teddy bear inside. I got a little bit excited. My emotional reaction struck me as mildly lame, because I'm not really into the chick flicky stuff, but everyone likes it when people are thoughtful and send stupid crap in the mail for no reason.
I pulled the teddy bear out and read a note that was attached to its neck that said it was traveling around the world for a third grade school project.
Way to pound in the reminder that I live by myself and have no S.O., bear!
I remembered my best friend from back home telling me her second cousin or something was doing this for a school thing, and then all of a sudden, I felt a little sad that I had received this 2009 version of Flat Stanley.
This made me start wondering what it is about getting something in the mail unexpectedly that can really make or break your postal service experience.
I just wrote this paragraph about this ex boyfriend that sent me flowers when I was having one of my typical graduate school nervous breakdowns, and then I deleted it all, because right after I thought about how nice it was for him to do that, I thought about what a crappy bf he was, so eff him; his story will not be told.
I am sitting in my cow chair in bachelor-esque attire looking at 7 binders strewn across my floor. I have to write about every class I've taken at school in order to prepare for comps. I'd just as soon swallow razor blades.
The past two weekends have possibly redeemed 2009, the worst year of all time. The only way I can describe it is that feeling that sophomores in college get- that sinking, lackluster feeling, like all of the mystic wonder about college is gone and they have no real goals and they just want to sleep a lot and eat pizza. Or that crappy second year of camp when you're not going for the first time but you're not the oldest kid, either, so you're stuck in this middle-child state where you're lost in the shuffle and trying to figure it all out. This is a bad predicament for a control freak.
Last weekend started as a long weekend, because I went on a hilarious first date on Thursday night. A lot of times, on first dates, both parties are trying so hard to impress the other person, that it winds up being stressful. This first date was HILARIOUS. I spend a lot of my time courtesy laughing, but I genuinely laughed at this guy because he was genuinely funny. It has been a long, long time since I have been on a date with a funny guy. So. That was fantastic.
On Friday, we had a pre-Halloween get together and dressed up in our costumes and sang karaoke at some crappy "to catch a predator" looking establishment. again, awesome. i'd get into the details of my friend, colonel cat, but i'm on the verge of carpel tunnel here and i'm already fading fast.
halloween was legendary. that's all there is to that statement. the most hilarious and economical halloween i've ever had, for sure. the only scary part was finding embarrassing (decent, don't worry) pictures on some weird short guy's blog. How did that happen?
this past weekend, i went out with the first date guy again on second and third dates, which were all hilarious.
i think for the past several months, i have been in this dumb, uninspired, academic funk, because my job is killing me and i haven't hung out with any funny folk.
i think i'm on the verge of resurfacing.
after finals, of course.
i just wouldn't be me if i wasn't having a serious meltdown during finals.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Adult Children
I got a lot done today. I took the day off work because I’d already maxed out my hours for the week, so I was able to be productive and work on some school stuff, run errands, what have you.
I’ve been in this weird limbo place trying to decide if I should stay in L.A. or move somewhere else where I fit with the culture better. Here’s the way my friend put it, and I think it’s perfect.
“-people in New York and LA= smart, cultured, "aware" of things, open-minded, but usually self-centered asshole douches.
-the rest of the country= more concerned with football than what the hell is going on in the world. tricked into voting against their own self-interests, but usually NICE, GENUINE, HUMAN BEINGS who actually CARE about OTHER PEOPLE.
so, it is a dilemma for someone like me who has experienced the best and worst of both worlds.... and rather than become a part of either of them, I find it's easier to become an insane hermit who gets annoyed by (almost) everyone.”
At least someone else in this city “gets it.”
Today I had to call my old car insurance company and work out some kinks with checking accounts and all of that, because apparently some creep named Tyrone Johnson copied my debit card and blablabla, I don’t feel like getting into it because I have to go to the airport in a minute.
So I call ole’ Nationwide Insurance in the M-town and I am greeted by a very pleasant receptionist with a drawl so thick that I felt like I was swimming in it. She called me Miss Haley. I love that.
I told her, “You know, it is so good to hear a Southern accent, and it’s so nice to be called Miss Haley and ma’am- I moved to L.A. where people have no accent and no manners, and talking to you feels like I’m at home.”
Creepy.
I am creepy.
She said thanks and we went on about our business. I word-vomited a confession of homesickness all over the car insurance lady.
I stood in line at the post office today next to a really tall, white haired man who could have been in his 50’s, but apparently he thought he still had some game. I do dig older men and I do dig the 6’3”+ crowd, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Santa Claus’ manorexic stunt double wasn’t gonna cut it. Out of the blue he told me that he had one too many margaritas last night but later on today he was gonna bake it all off. Ug. I get really tired of baby boomers talking to me about smoking weed. L.A. is full of adult children.
Maybe I am on this kick because I just watched a video of myself giving a presentation to my classmates. I was dressed all fly in my suit and I didn’t even crack one joke- which is next to IMPOSSIBLE for me, because it’s much easier for me to be funny than for me to be professional. Anyway, today, as I watched this video, I had an epiphany about myself and realized that I am a suit-wearing woman going through a quarter life crisis, and somehow, this has made me really irritated with people who are 40 or 50 and talking to me about margaritas and herb.
What else. My cousin is coming to visit me tonight. I’m so excited. I baked him cookies. I try to avoid baking goods for men. I do not want to further marginalize myself as a woman. In fact, recently, a young man asked me to bake him a pie for his birthday, and I actually did it because I am somewhat of a nice person about 12% of the time, but somewhere along the line we never talked to each other again, so I brought it to work and my coworkers ate it. I WILL NEVER BAKE A STUPID MAN A PIE AGAIN! Unless it’s my dad. He doesn’t suck. But alas, I did make my cousin some cookies, and now my apartment smells like a storybook.
And now it is time to go to the LAX and pick him up. Ta-ta!
I’ve been in this weird limbo place trying to decide if I should stay in L.A. or move somewhere else where I fit with the culture better. Here’s the way my friend put it, and I think it’s perfect.
“-people in New York and LA= smart, cultured, "aware" of things, open-minded, but usually self-centered asshole douches.
-the rest of the country= more concerned with football than what the hell is going on in the world. tricked into voting against their own self-interests, but usually NICE, GENUINE, HUMAN BEINGS who actually CARE about OTHER PEOPLE.
so, it is a dilemma for someone like me who has experienced the best and worst of both worlds.... and rather than become a part of either of them, I find it's easier to become an insane hermit who gets annoyed by (almost) everyone.”
At least someone else in this city “gets it.”
Today I had to call my old car insurance company and work out some kinks with checking accounts and all of that, because apparently some creep named Tyrone Johnson copied my debit card and blablabla, I don’t feel like getting into it because I have to go to the airport in a minute.
So I call ole’ Nationwide Insurance in the M-town and I am greeted by a very pleasant receptionist with a drawl so thick that I felt like I was swimming in it. She called me Miss Haley. I love that.
I told her, “You know, it is so good to hear a Southern accent, and it’s so nice to be called Miss Haley and ma’am- I moved to L.A. where people have no accent and no manners, and talking to you feels like I’m at home.”
Creepy.
I am creepy.
She said thanks and we went on about our business. I word-vomited a confession of homesickness all over the car insurance lady.
I stood in line at the post office today next to a really tall, white haired man who could have been in his 50’s, but apparently he thought he still had some game. I do dig older men and I do dig the 6’3”+ crowd, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Santa Claus’ manorexic stunt double wasn’t gonna cut it. Out of the blue he told me that he had one too many margaritas last night but later on today he was gonna bake it all off. Ug. I get really tired of baby boomers talking to me about smoking weed. L.A. is full of adult children.
Maybe I am on this kick because I just watched a video of myself giving a presentation to my classmates. I was dressed all fly in my suit and I didn’t even crack one joke- which is next to IMPOSSIBLE for me, because it’s much easier for me to be funny than for me to be professional. Anyway, today, as I watched this video, I had an epiphany about myself and realized that I am a suit-wearing woman going through a quarter life crisis, and somehow, this has made me really irritated with people who are 40 or 50 and talking to me about margaritas and herb.
What else. My cousin is coming to visit me tonight. I’m so excited. I baked him cookies. I try to avoid baking goods for men. I do not want to further marginalize myself as a woman. In fact, recently, a young man asked me to bake him a pie for his birthday, and I actually did it because I am somewhat of a nice person about 12% of the time, but somewhere along the line we never talked to each other again, so I brought it to work and my coworkers ate it. I WILL NEVER BAKE A STUPID MAN A PIE AGAIN! Unless it’s my dad. He doesn’t suck. But alas, I did make my cousin some cookies, and now my apartment smells like a storybook.
And now it is time to go to the LAX and pick him up. Ta-ta!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Today was a not-so-good day. I’d say the one thing in this world that can help a not-so-good day is a Reese’s McFlurry from Mickey Dee’s. After having a soul-searching morning at work, where I felt lost and dull and bored and frustrated for not having a “next step” in place for my life, I decided that in my tiny time frame between work and class, I could treat myself to a self-loathing Reese’s McFlurry.
Approach drive-through box.
(static)
“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take yo awdah?”
R: Yes. I would like a Reese’s McFlurry.”
“We don’t have none.”
R: What?
“We don’t have none.”
R: WHAT?
“They was limited time only. That time is up.”
R: You just ruined my day.
(R drives away jaded)
True story. So I drove to class a little sad. I talked to my mom for a minute. For a while now, I’ve felt disconnected and distant, even though I’m a good faker and I participate fully – specifically in school. I imagine that scene in “Analyze This” where Billy Crystal goes postal on his patients and tells them exactly what he thinks, all to pan out to see him sitting there with his best counselor face on. Take this idea and apply it to class tonight.
I’m over it.
I’m over these mid 20’s students TEXTING during class. Are you effing kidding me? Act like a dang professional. We’re in grad school. We’re not in the seventh grade.
Pause.
I sit here watching an 80’s werewolf movie and regret a little bit that I wasn’t born sooner in life so that I could have fully enjoyed all of the ridiculous perks of the 1980’s. Awesome hair.
Commence.
A weird thing happened last night.
I was eating and watching a show about transgender teens. It occurred to me that I am an odd bird when I was shoveling down a bowl of “Boo Berry” cereal (my fave, which only comes out around Halloween time these days- LAME SAUCE) as I was watching Trisha transform to Ted and having her gynormous fatty breasticles surgically lopped off into a big bucket. These suckers were outrageous. Big yellow pockets of fat being sucked out and scraped off and dumped into a bucket. And all the while I’m gobbling down Boo Berries, never considering that this would make the average Joe puke.
I wish that I wanted medical school bad enough. I always wanted that. Just not bad enough. I wish the left side of my brain worked. I wish I had gone to business school. I hate being poor. Being poor sucks.
So as I’m eating Boo Berries and watching Trisha transform into Ted (alliteration!) I get a text message out of the blue from some guy I met at a bar. I only remember him (vaguely) because we took a picture that night. It was a group thing. This was months ago.
Life (and Big Rusty) has taught me that I will NOT date a boy that I met at a bar. Plus I’m sort of over that scene. Drunken brawls don’t appeal to me. Dating bar guys doesn’t appeal to me. I’m not sure where you actually meet good men in this city, but so far, the best route has been friends-of-friends. I actually dated a nice guy for a few months that way. We were better off friends. But that’s neither here nor there.
Let’s get back to bar-boy’s text.
The first few texts were casual and asking me how I was doing and how school is going and all of that. I was half paying attention. I was too into the second portion of the program where Landon became Elle and had gender reassignment surgery. Anyway, before you know it, bar-boy’s asking me to drive an hour away to his apartment so that we can “cuddle and watch movies.” Then he says, “And you can spend the night so you won’t have to drive home late by yourself on the 405.”
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Great! I’ll drive an hour ONE WAY (no traffic) to your crap neck-of-the-woods, and we’ll CUDDLE and WATCH movies. Because every heterosexual 20-something male wants to CUDDLE when you drive to his house at night by yourself at midnight.
Ug. I am so over it. The culture of L.A. men. Pathetic.
I said, “Sir, I politely decline. I am nobody’s professional booty call. Regards!”
Then there was a whole slew of “Rachel, I know you’re a good girl, I would never think that of you!” types of messages, to which I did not respond.
I don’t even really remember this guy. I have better relationships with people I’ve met on airplanes.
Anyway. Back to the culture of men in this city.
I keep thinking that maybe this isn’t a good fit for me. Now, getting married, having kids, all of that- it’s never been an expectation for me, but I do want all of that one day, I think, providing I’m with the right person. I just keep wondering if it’s statistically possible for me to meet the right person as long as I live here.
The thing is- I love L.A. I love my close friends (essentially all girls). I love the mountains and the ocean. I love Venice. I love the smell of the air by the beach. I love that I can wear whatever I want and nobody looks twice. I love that I can get lost in a crowd. I love that I can find people I know if I want to. I love that I can order avocado on everything. I love that you can’t smoke in restaurants or bars here. I love this city. I love that nobody looks the same. I love that this is the city of broken dreams. I don’t know why, regarding that part.
Anyway. So it’s like this. Most of the men out here are sleezes. The ones who really earn their keep by making an A during the romancing period (dates, thoughtfulness, random “thinking about you” messages, stuff like that) always fall flat. They wind up being crazy.
I shouldn’t keep harping in on this dating thing. I’ve got to save thoughts for my book. Plus I have been on two dates with a nice guy who doesn’t seem sleezy. Maybe herein lies my problem, though. No matter how many sleezes I meet, I never lose hope. I never think of myself as a romantic, but apparently I am. This paragraph makes me want to puke. Let’s move on.
So two good things happened today. I am having two visitors this month.
My sister is coming over the weekend, and I’m excited. We haven’t had one-on-one time in quite a while. Maybe the last time we did was when she and I sang karaoke at the NewsCorp Christmas party in NYC and blew Rupert Murdock away with our vocals. Anyway. I think it will be good. Something about being around family is healing. I miss my family a lot. I’d kill for a parent hug.
Next good thing. My cousin randomly said he’s coming in a few weekends. I am so excited. It’s weird, because he and I only just discovered each other a few years ago. I think that’s the best kind of family. The family you didn’t know you had, and all of a sudden you meet them, and you have this connection and this similarity, and you realize that you share the same blood and the same spirit. I am so excited. Plus, he hates everyone, so to come see me is a very big deal (He said this on the phone and I concurred).
I feel like there are so many things that I should be doing right now. I feel like I always have this lingering feeling, like I should be reading or writing or researching something (alliteration!). It’s a bad feeling. I hate it. It’d be nice to know that one day, when I wake up, nothing is due. But I think if I ever had that feeling, I’d hate it too, because I can’t just plant. I’m always moving forward. Blessing and curse.
What else, what else.
This blog is sort of negative. Maybe I should end it with a joke. Ok. Maybe this isn’t really a joke? It doesn’t matter. It’s funny.
Energizer Bunny arrested - charged with battery.
Approach drive-through box.
(static)
“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take yo awdah?”
R: Yes. I would like a Reese’s McFlurry.”
“We don’t have none.”
R: What?
“We don’t have none.”
R: WHAT?
“They was limited time only. That time is up.”
R: You just ruined my day.
(R drives away jaded)
True story. So I drove to class a little sad. I talked to my mom for a minute. For a while now, I’ve felt disconnected and distant, even though I’m a good faker and I participate fully – specifically in school. I imagine that scene in “Analyze This” where Billy Crystal goes postal on his patients and tells them exactly what he thinks, all to pan out to see him sitting there with his best counselor face on. Take this idea and apply it to class tonight.
I’m over it.
I’m over these mid 20’s students TEXTING during class. Are you effing kidding me? Act like a dang professional. We’re in grad school. We’re not in the seventh grade.
Pause.
I sit here watching an 80’s werewolf movie and regret a little bit that I wasn’t born sooner in life so that I could have fully enjoyed all of the ridiculous perks of the 1980’s. Awesome hair.
Commence.
A weird thing happened last night.
I was eating and watching a show about transgender teens. It occurred to me that I am an odd bird when I was shoveling down a bowl of “Boo Berry” cereal (my fave, which only comes out around Halloween time these days- LAME SAUCE) as I was watching Trisha transform to Ted and having her gynormous fatty breasticles surgically lopped off into a big bucket. These suckers were outrageous. Big yellow pockets of fat being sucked out and scraped off and dumped into a bucket. And all the while I’m gobbling down Boo Berries, never considering that this would make the average Joe puke.
I wish that I wanted medical school bad enough. I always wanted that. Just not bad enough. I wish the left side of my brain worked. I wish I had gone to business school. I hate being poor. Being poor sucks.
So as I’m eating Boo Berries and watching Trisha transform into Ted (alliteration!) I get a text message out of the blue from some guy I met at a bar. I only remember him (vaguely) because we took a picture that night. It was a group thing. This was months ago.
Life (and Big Rusty) has taught me that I will NOT date a boy that I met at a bar. Plus I’m sort of over that scene. Drunken brawls don’t appeal to me. Dating bar guys doesn’t appeal to me. I’m not sure where you actually meet good men in this city, but so far, the best route has been friends-of-friends. I actually dated a nice guy for a few months that way. We were better off friends. But that’s neither here nor there.
Let’s get back to bar-boy’s text.
The first few texts were casual and asking me how I was doing and how school is going and all of that. I was half paying attention. I was too into the second portion of the program where Landon became Elle and had gender reassignment surgery. Anyway, before you know it, bar-boy’s asking me to drive an hour away to his apartment so that we can “cuddle and watch movies.” Then he says, “And you can spend the night so you won’t have to drive home late by yourself on the 405.”
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA
HA HA HA HA HA !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Great! I’ll drive an hour ONE WAY (no traffic) to your crap neck-of-the-woods, and we’ll CUDDLE and WATCH movies. Because every heterosexual 20-something male wants to CUDDLE when you drive to his house at night by yourself at midnight.
Ug. I am so over it. The culture of L.A. men. Pathetic.
I said, “Sir, I politely decline. I am nobody’s professional booty call. Regards!”
Then there was a whole slew of “Rachel, I know you’re a good girl, I would never think that of you!” types of messages, to which I did not respond.
I don’t even really remember this guy. I have better relationships with people I’ve met on airplanes.
Anyway. Back to the culture of men in this city.
I keep thinking that maybe this isn’t a good fit for me. Now, getting married, having kids, all of that- it’s never been an expectation for me, but I do want all of that one day, I think, providing I’m with the right person. I just keep wondering if it’s statistically possible for me to meet the right person as long as I live here.
The thing is- I love L.A. I love my close friends (essentially all girls). I love the mountains and the ocean. I love Venice. I love the smell of the air by the beach. I love that I can wear whatever I want and nobody looks twice. I love that I can get lost in a crowd. I love that I can find people I know if I want to. I love that I can order avocado on everything. I love that you can’t smoke in restaurants or bars here. I love this city. I love that nobody looks the same. I love that this is the city of broken dreams. I don’t know why, regarding that part.
Anyway. So it’s like this. Most of the men out here are sleezes. The ones who really earn their keep by making an A during the romancing period (dates, thoughtfulness, random “thinking about you” messages, stuff like that) always fall flat. They wind up being crazy.
I shouldn’t keep harping in on this dating thing. I’ve got to save thoughts for my book. Plus I have been on two dates with a nice guy who doesn’t seem sleezy. Maybe herein lies my problem, though. No matter how many sleezes I meet, I never lose hope. I never think of myself as a romantic, but apparently I am. This paragraph makes me want to puke. Let’s move on.
So two good things happened today. I am having two visitors this month.
My sister is coming over the weekend, and I’m excited. We haven’t had one-on-one time in quite a while. Maybe the last time we did was when she and I sang karaoke at the NewsCorp Christmas party in NYC and blew Rupert Murdock away with our vocals. Anyway. I think it will be good. Something about being around family is healing. I miss my family a lot. I’d kill for a parent hug.
Next good thing. My cousin randomly said he’s coming in a few weekends. I am so excited. It’s weird, because he and I only just discovered each other a few years ago. I think that’s the best kind of family. The family you didn’t know you had, and all of a sudden you meet them, and you have this connection and this similarity, and you realize that you share the same blood and the same spirit. I am so excited. Plus, he hates everyone, so to come see me is a very big deal (He said this on the phone and I concurred).
I feel like there are so many things that I should be doing right now. I feel like I always have this lingering feeling, like I should be reading or writing or researching something (alliteration!). It’s a bad feeling. I hate it. It’d be nice to know that one day, when I wake up, nothing is due. But I think if I ever had that feeling, I’d hate it too, because I can’t just plant. I’m always moving forward. Blessing and curse.
What else, what else.
This blog is sort of negative. Maybe I should end it with a joke. Ok. Maybe this isn’t really a joke? It doesn’t matter. It’s funny.
Energizer Bunny arrested - charged with battery.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Attention, Target Shoppers.
I am supposed to be reading my therapy book, but I have a few different things I’d like to write about before delving back into “Evocative Empathy.”
Because I am on the verge of having full-fledge AD/HD, I shall create an outline to avoid further distraction:
1. I hate screaming effing children
2. I made a new buddy at Target
Numero One.
My friends know that there is nothing I hate more than a screaming kid. I might be the most restless, tightly wound person that I know, which could add to my disdain for screaming children; but for whatever reason, I can’t handle it. I no longer shop at Target on Saturdays because I hate screaming kids so much. When I hear a kid screaming, I want to run over to the family and punch the mom in the face. Let me explain.
It’s always like this. There’s some stupid screaming a-hole kid, and the mom is pushing the kid in the basket, trying to appease him by saying, “Now, now, little Johnny, don’t do that --- quiet down. Would you like some candy? Would you like a toy?”
Really?
Explain to me why it makes sense to reward a kid for horrendous behavior.
Here, kid. Scream your butt off in public for no apparent reason, and I will give you a gift for ruing everyone’s day and damaging their eardrums.
I can’t handle it.
I think I may have some sort of hearing issue, anyway, because there’s a certain pitch in some people’s voices that makes me want to pull all of my hair out. I also can’t deal with loud talkers. My heart starts beating really fast and I get that crazy werewolf look in my eye like I will freaking beat you to death if you keep up that pitch.
I sleep with earplugs in every night. EVERY night.
I also have to wear earplugs when I take tests because I can’t handle the sound of scribbling pens and flipping papers. I can’t handle it. I CAN’T HANDLE IT, I TELL YOU!
Now, if I know I’m going to be going somewhere with even the REMOTE possibility of a screaming kid, I bring my Ipod, I plant those earbuds deep in my ears, and I crank up Otis Redding or Elvis at maximum volume.
I find myself at the grocery store picking out frozen pizza, watching a screaming kids’ mouth flailing open like a demon possessed bird, and as “Sittin on the Dock of the Bay” is blaring in my brain, I don’t seem to feel near as rattled. I almost feel like I know this wonderful, sneaky secret for calming my nerves, which doesn’t involve mind-altering substances. Go team!
Now, on to point number two. My new buddy at Target.
A few weeks ago, I was jamming out to “Suspicious Minds,” blocking out the screamers, and pondering which deodorant to buy. I was standing next to a lady who was sniffing every single brand. Secret. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Degree. Sniff, sniff, sniff. She sniffed every flavor of every deodorant [yes, I call them flavors].
Then she says to me, “One of them smelled like bug spray last time.”
I pulled out an earbud, let it drop, and “we can’t build our dreams with suspicious miiiiiinds” faintly echoed on my chest.
“What?” I asked.
“Last time, I bought one, and it smelled like bug spray. I don’t want to buy that one again.”
This was weird. I was sniffing deodorant, too, so why did she feel like she had to justify the fact that she was a deo-sniffer?
Mind you, it has never occurred to me that this is an odd behavior. If I’m going to buy something, I want to know what I am purchasing. So if it’s deodorant that needs to be sniffed, by golly, I will sniff it.
I found it weird that for some reason, she felt like she had to justify to me WHY she was sniffing deodorant. I wonder if I gave her my “judger” face.
I said, “Well, the clear solution here is to avoid buying the one that says ‘bug spray scented’ on it.”
She sort of half laughed and we continued sniffing deodorants.
Isn’t it weird how people do these things? I spend approximately 80% of my travel time dancing and/or singing at the top of my lungs in my car. I also “sing” the various orchestral parts of songs. It never occurs to me that other people could be watching and thinking I look ridiculous. I think if this thought ever DOES occur to me, I will not care.
I had like 30 other things I was going to write about in this blog, but I started it a few weeks ago, and I want to move on to my Baton Rouge blog, so I will go ahead and post this one and the BTR one shall follow. Thank you- that is all.
Because I am on the verge of having full-fledge AD/HD, I shall create an outline to avoid further distraction:
1. I hate screaming effing children
2. I made a new buddy at Target
Numero One.
My friends know that there is nothing I hate more than a screaming kid. I might be the most restless, tightly wound person that I know, which could add to my disdain for screaming children; but for whatever reason, I can’t handle it. I no longer shop at Target on Saturdays because I hate screaming kids so much. When I hear a kid screaming, I want to run over to the family and punch the mom in the face. Let me explain.
It’s always like this. There’s some stupid screaming a-hole kid, and the mom is pushing the kid in the basket, trying to appease him by saying, “Now, now, little Johnny, don’t do that --- quiet down. Would you like some candy? Would you like a toy?”
Really?
Explain to me why it makes sense to reward a kid for horrendous behavior.
Here, kid. Scream your butt off in public for no apparent reason, and I will give you a gift for ruing everyone’s day and damaging their eardrums.
I can’t handle it.
I think I may have some sort of hearing issue, anyway, because there’s a certain pitch in some people’s voices that makes me want to pull all of my hair out. I also can’t deal with loud talkers. My heart starts beating really fast and I get that crazy werewolf look in my eye like I will freaking beat you to death if you keep up that pitch.
I sleep with earplugs in every night. EVERY night.
I also have to wear earplugs when I take tests because I can’t handle the sound of scribbling pens and flipping papers. I can’t handle it. I CAN’T HANDLE IT, I TELL YOU!
Now, if I know I’m going to be going somewhere with even the REMOTE possibility of a screaming kid, I bring my Ipod, I plant those earbuds deep in my ears, and I crank up Otis Redding or Elvis at maximum volume.
I find myself at the grocery store picking out frozen pizza, watching a screaming kids’ mouth flailing open like a demon possessed bird, and as “Sittin on the Dock of the Bay” is blaring in my brain, I don’t seem to feel near as rattled. I almost feel like I know this wonderful, sneaky secret for calming my nerves, which doesn’t involve mind-altering substances. Go team!
Now, on to point number two. My new buddy at Target.
A few weeks ago, I was jamming out to “Suspicious Minds,” blocking out the screamers, and pondering which deodorant to buy. I was standing next to a lady who was sniffing every single brand. Secret. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Degree. Sniff, sniff, sniff. She sniffed every flavor of every deodorant [yes, I call them flavors].
Then she says to me, “One of them smelled like bug spray last time.”
I pulled out an earbud, let it drop, and “we can’t build our dreams with suspicious miiiiiinds” faintly echoed on my chest.
“What?” I asked.
“Last time, I bought one, and it smelled like bug spray. I don’t want to buy that one again.”
This was weird. I was sniffing deodorant, too, so why did she feel like she had to justify the fact that she was a deo-sniffer?
Mind you, it has never occurred to me that this is an odd behavior. If I’m going to buy something, I want to know what I am purchasing. So if it’s deodorant that needs to be sniffed, by golly, I will sniff it.
I found it weird that for some reason, she felt like she had to justify to me WHY she was sniffing deodorant. I wonder if I gave her my “judger” face.
I said, “Well, the clear solution here is to avoid buying the one that says ‘bug spray scented’ on it.”
She sort of half laughed and we continued sniffing deodorants.
Isn’t it weird how people do these things? I spend approximately 80% of my travel time dancing and/or singing at the top of my lungs in my car. I also “sing” the various orchestral parts of songs. It never occurs to me that other people could be watching and thinking I look ridiculous. I think if this thought ever DOES occur to me, I will not care.
I had like 30 other things I was going to write about in this blog, but I started it a few weeks ago, and I want to move on to my Baton Rouge blog, so I will go ahead and post this one and the BTR one shall follow. Thank you- that is all.
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