Ladies, we are suckers. Truly, we and logic need to get together, because there's an almost mythological concept that we operate under most of the time, and I think it needs to come to an end.
Men are not our saviors. No matter what you've heard (and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my dad for telling me that I would know when I met "the ONE," because it would hit me like a bolt of lightning.
At this point, I think I'd rather be hit with actual lightning than have to try to decipher anything further in the relations between the sexes.
I feel I have been duped.
Because of my dad's crap advice and my obsession with movies and books, I was clearly expecting some stuff that hasn't been delivered to me.
Like, has anyone ever stood outside my window with a jambox, circa "Say Anything" and played Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes?" Uhh..no.
Has anyone ever realized what a moron they were by having let me go and said, at the risk of making a complete ass of themselves, as Matt Damon did at the end of "Good Will Hunting," "I have to go see about a girl."
I'm starting to agree with conservative senators about censoring Hollywood, except I could give a shit about the violence and profanity (obviously), no, I think it's far more dangerous to give women a false idea about what they should be expecting out of men.
Tell it like it is.
See "About a Boy." Except in my version, he never actually gets his shit together for the woman he supposedly loves. He strings her along for about 15 years until she realizes she's wasted her youth and her child-bearing years, and then he leaves her for a 25-year-old.
That's reality. Why don't we see more of that?
Just wait. Before I camp out permanently in the bitter barn, I actually want to say something that doesn't sound psychotic.
I love love. As kicked in the teeth by it as I tend to get and as downtrodden as I might get about the prospect of it ever actually working out for me and anyone, I have no intention of giving up, contrary to what I might say in my less optimistic moods.
I know that eventually I will have children and grandchildren at the forefront of which will be a man that I found who loved me for me and maybe possibly made a grand gesture or two while we were young, and even a couple after we weren't.
But, if my mother asks me one more f-ing time if I think that every single man I ever mentioned having a conversation with might become serious, I'm entering the damn nunnery just to spite her.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Standing in the shower thinking...and ducking
I am living in fear of my shower head. Sure, sure, laugh it up, but this thing is out for blood.
It is one of those detachable shower heads, specifically called a "shower massager," and is rumored to have the capability of being a girl's best friend. (I'm sure I don't know why)
However, mine, which is held together by some manner of tape thanks to my ghetto landlord, is the polar opposite of being a girl's best friend.
Oh, and just as an aside, how friggin' sleazy are landlords? It never occurred to me that one day I would include landlords in the annals with used car salesman and FOX News journalists, but that is where they are in my psyche now. They are either around WAAAY too much or WAAAY too little. There is no middle ground,and the only way you can get them to do anything, apparently, is to sleep with them, and that's really no choice at all. Anyway, I digress.
Let me explain about my shower head.
A regular occurrence: It's shower time; I'm excited. Showers serve to both wake me up and allow me to sing at full volume, as my roommate is hardly ever home when I am in the shower. So, I get to enjoy our marvelous water pressure and sing Fiona Apple as loud as I want.
Then, the trouble begins. Halfway through the happy shower and just at the part when I start to bray, "Let me know the way...before there's hell to pay...," the shower head comes out of its little holster and tries to hit me in the head while simultaneously spraying the ceiling and hitting the cold water spigot, so that not only is it flailing around the tub, it's shooting out near-boiling water. So that if the initial bonk on the head doesn't kill me, it will at least scald the shit out of me.
Now, this is a problem.It has also frequently attacked my roommate and her boyfriend, and I feel like we're becoming prisoners in our own bathroom. We can't not take showers, but now, every time I'm in there, I anticipate at any moment that it's going to snake out of its little holder and attempt homicide again.
It must be stopped.
On another note, I began my much-awaited guitar lessons last week, and they were a little disappointing, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.
I think because I was so excited and anxious, that the actual lesson was a bit of a letdown.
My teacher, a 40-ish lifelong picker, was slightly condescending to me, remarking that "my nails were real pretty," had to be cut in order to fully strum the guitar. He went on to say something about "manicures being okay if you want to be fancy" or some such crap.
Okay, I have a manicure exactly once in my whole life, so, I dunno who this guy has me confused with, but I think he may be operating under a gross misapprehension that I'm some sort of princess-y type girl, and that is so not the case.
Then, I felt super-stupid because I don't know anything.
I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Of course you don't know anything; that's why you're taking lessons," and you would be right. I just didn't expect to know even less than I thought I did. It's very disconcerting.
But, I've been practicing, and I'm going to give Mister Bad Attitude teacher another week and see what happens. Otherwise, I will be looking for a new mentor, and this teacher can imagine that I'm sitting on a throne of diamonds somewhere being fanned. yea right.
On a final note, I am reading the most awesome book right now, and I highly recommend it. John Irving's "Until I Find You." It is so amazingly good, and I really only just started it.
I hope someday I can write 1/4 as well as Irving can, because this is one of those books that, not only am I enjoying the story, I'm in stupefied awe at the way he writes, just the way the sentences are set up.
And if you read that, you should also check out his books, "A Widow for One Year" and "The Hotel New Hampshire." They are amazing.
It is one of those detachable shower heads, specifically called a "shower massager," and is rumored to have the capability of being a girl's best friend. (I'm sure I don't know why)
However, mine, which is held together by some manner of tape thanks to my ghetto landlord, is the polar opposite of being a girl's best friend.
Oh, and just as an aside, how friggin' sleazy are landlords? It never occurred to me that one day I would include landlords in the annals with used car salesman and FOX News journalists, but that is where they are in my psyche now. They are either around WAAAY too much or WAAAY too little. There is no middle ground,and the only way you can get them to do anything, apparently, is to sleep with them, and that's really no choice at all. Anyway, I digress.
Let me explain about my shower head.
A regular occurrence: It's shower time; I'm excited. Showers serve to both wake me up and allow me to sing at full volume, as my roommate is hardly ever home when I am in the shower. So, I get to enjoy our marvelous water pressure and sing Fiona Apple as loud as I want.
Then, the trouble begins. Halfway through the happy shower and just at the part when I start to bray, "Let me know the way...before there's hell to pay...," the shower head comes out of its little holster and tries to hit me in the head while simultaneously spraying the ceiling and hitting the cold water spigot, so that not only is it flailing around the tub, it's shooting out near-boiling water. So that if the initial bonk on the head doesn't kill me, it will at least scald the shit out of me.
Now, this is a problem.It has also frequently attacked my roommate and her boyfriend, and I feel like we're becoming prisoners in our own bathroom. We can't not take showers, but now, every time I'm in there, I anticipate at any moment that it's going to snake out of its little holder and attempt homicide again.
It must be stopped.
On another note, I began my much-awaited guitar lessons last week, and they were a little disappointing, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.
I think because I was so excited and anxious, that the actual lesson was a bit of a letdown.
My teacher, a 40-ish lifelong picker, was slightly condescending to me, remarking that "my nails were real pretty," had to be cut in order to fully strum the guitar. He went on to say something about "manicures being okay if you want to be fancy" or some such crap.
Okay, I have a manicure exactly once in my whole life, so, I dunno who this guy has me confused with, but I think he may be operating under a gross misapprehension that I'm some sort of princess-y type girl, and that is so not the case.
Then, I felt super-stupid because I don't know anything.
I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Of course you don't know anything; that's why you're taking lessons," and you would be right. I just didn't expect to know even less than I thought I did. It's very disconcerting.
But, I've been practicing, and I'm going to give Mister Bad Attitude teacher another week and see what happens. Otherwise, I will be looking for a new mentor, and this teacher can imagine that I'm sitting on a throne of diamonds somewhere being fanned. yea right.
On a final note, I am reading the most awesome book right now, and I highly recommend it. John Irving's "Until I Find You." It is so amazingly good, and I really only just started it.
I hope someday I can write 1/4 as well as Irving can, because this is one of those books that, not only am I enjoying the story, I'm in stupefied awe at the way he writes, just the way the sentences are set up.
And if you read that, you should also check out his books, "A Widow for One Year" and "The Hotel New Hampshire." They are amazing.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Getting old and all of that other stuff
I haven't written on here in so long, I feel really badly, but I'm sure you've all managed to continue living your lives, breathing in and out and that sort of thing, even without my blog as incomprehensible as it is to me that people can really go all that long without a "dose of Emily," but, anyway. (and I am totally kidding. I would probably be a really happy person if I was that full of myself)
First things first: Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring from the Supreme Court, and it's very unsettling. When they announced on NPR, I was listening to headphones at work and said (very loudly), "Oh, shit," loudly enough that people around me were concerned.
I've been thinking about what it might mean quite a bit, and I am actually going to give Bush the benefit of the doubt until I have reason not to on this. He can't really gain all that much by stacking the court with right wingers, and as much as we Chardonnay-sipping (NPR-listening, for that matter) wailed about what Bush might do the court if given the opportunity, I actually am choosing to think that he might not want his legacy to have the country in a complete and total uproar over Roe Vs.Wade. We'll see.
Okay, next. I AM GETTING OLD. This is not so much distressing in and of itself, but I simply cannot do the things to my body that I used to. i.e., continuously get only about 5 hours of sleep a night during the week, drag myself up at 6:30 a.m. and just say, "Oh, well, I'll make it up by sleeping late this weekend." NO. No more. I had my first bags under my eyes the other day, and that is just not going to happen. I already have to contend with gray hair, laugh lines and that "Ugh" noise when I bend down to pick something up. Bags under my eyes will not stand.
What else? I've decided, after much reflection and meditation (perhaps the meditation involved cocktails), that stressing out about things is absolutely pointless.
Refer to a previous post of mine that I worry too much. I worry or have worried so much, in fact, that I can't be still. I am working on this, but due to my anxious nature, I shake my leg constantly, play with my hair, bite the inside of my mouth and clench my jaw to the point of giving myself headaches..and I don't even think that's it, but even people who know me really well at this point are like, "What?!"
So, I just say, fuck it. Recent personal issues made me realize that no amount of crying or not eating or listening to Kenny G was going to change any stressful situation, so "fuck it" is indeed my new attitude.
If things are meant to work out, they'll work out, and I'm tired of not enjoying the good moments in life by worrying about what's going to happen in a month, or six months or six years. It's no way to enjoy life, and I want to enjoy my life, however it may turn out.
And on that note, I will leave you with this. I have a flyer in my possession right now that directs me where to go to view midget wrestling at the end of the month.
Where am I gonna be on said night at the end of the month? Drinking beer and screaming for people that come up to my knees to pummel each other. Life is good.
First things first: Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring from the Supreme Court, and it's very unsettling. When they announced on NPR, I was listening to headphones at work and said (very loudly), "Oh, shit," loudly enough that people around me were concerned.
I've been thinking about what it might mean quite a bit, and I am actually going to give Bush the benefit of the doubt until I have reason not to on this. He can't really gain all that much by stacking the court with right wingers, and as much as we Chardonnay-sipping (NPR-listening, for that matter) wailed about what Bush might do the court if given the opportunity, I actually am choosing to think that he might not want his legacy to have the country in a complete and total uproar over Roe Vs.Wade. We'll see.
Okay, next. I AM GETTING OLD. This is not so much distressing in and of itself, but I simply cannot do the things to my body that I used to. i.e., continuously get only about 5 hours of sleep a night during the week, drag myself up at 6:30 a.m. and just say, "Oh, well, I'll make it up by sleeping late this weekend." NO. No more. I had my first bags under my eyes the other day, and that is just not going to happen. I already have to contend with gray hair, laugh lines and that "Ugh" noise when I bend down to pick something up. Bags under my eyes will not stand.
What else? I've decided, after much reflection and meditation (perhaps the meditation involved cocktails), that stressing out about things is absolutely pointless.
Refer to a previous post of mine that I worry too much. I worry or have worried so much, in fact, that I can't be still. I am working on this, but due to my anxious nature, I shake my leg constantly, play with my hair, bite the inside of my mouth and clench my jaw to the point of giving myself headaches..and I don't even think that's it, but even people who know me really well at this point are like, "What?!"
So, I just say, fuck it. Recent personal issues made me realize that no amount of crying or not eating or listening to Kenny G was going to change any stressful situation, so "fuck it" is indeed my new attitude.
If things are meant to work out, they'll work out, and I'm tired of not enjoying the good moments in life by worrying about what's going to happen in a month, or six months or six years. It's no way to enjoy life, and I want to enjoy my life, however it may turn out.
And on that note, I will leave you with this. I have a flyer in my possession right now that directs me where to go to view midget wrestling at the end of the month.
Where am I gonna be on said night at the end of the month? Drinking beer and screaming for people that come up to my knees to pummel each other. Life is good.
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