I'm sitting here thinking about the feasibility of suing the company that made the shoes I wore today. I think I could get punitive damages at least. They're so cute, with heels and a sassy little thong between my toes, and now, 12 hours after putting them on, I curse whoever made them with a plague on all his houses, and I would give them to charity, except I don't want destitute people getting blisters either.
I think, after riding behind the fifth car in two week that either didn't have a muffler or the muffler was there strictly for show, it should be a national law that cars have to pass emissions tests. Now, before you start calling me Moon Queen and signing me up for Greenpeace, hear me out. Yes, it is truly awful for the environment to have your car just shooting out exhaust that smells like burning tires and prison, but you know what else? It's bad for me. My allergies and the Bubble Girl persona started when I lived in Philadelphia, PA, not because of trees and flowers and dust, but because the city, God bless it, emits more pollution than I believe any other U.S city, except for a few in California. In the actual hub of the city, you almost can't breathe for the cars, buses, weird grates that smell like people dump their septic tanks down there, the occasional person peeing on the sidewalk, etc...So, yeah, it's my personal opinion that maybe we don't worry about Mexicans who have been living here for 30 years and working their asses off. Maybe we worry about the fact that none of us can breathe properly.
I had a very strong memory of my dad today, and it was so weird how it happened. I was on my lunch break at work, and a very irritating person was discussing an alleged bill that Obama has proposed to add a 1% tax to some banking transactions. Where do I start???
A. Don't randomly bring up politics at work, for God's sake. Even I know that. If I went around espousing "I worked for John Kerry in '04, I voted for Obama in '08, and I do it again if he ran tomorrow," it would be akin to me going to an Alabama game, stripping down naked with the words "Bear Bryant was a homosexual," and running around the stadium. Generally not a good idea.
B. How exactly do people think we are ever going to get the country out of debt? I mean, really, I'm not kidding. If what this person was saying was true, and I'm not sure it was, a 1% tax would be added to paycheck deposits. Yeah, I said 1 percent. If that were true and it actually helped the economy, seriously?! That's why you want to bitch at Obama? Then, I really got nothing. Be sure to have some Earl Grey for me at the Tea Party. We should clearly just continue to overspend what we don't have, rely on credit, have unemployed people taking three vacations a year, and everything will work out fine. Do you know what the word sacrifice means? No, none of us do because this generation, and the one before us, I would venture to say, is spoiled rotten, expects to get everything they want now, now, now and knows nothing about what it means to cut back and save money. We're never going to progress without some modicum of sacrifice. Period.
Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I feel frustrated. It seems like I expect things to go one way, and they go another. I don't really do all that well with change, but I think I'm getting better. I had to kind of realize that no matter what I want to happen, and oh, the things I want (monkey butlers, a wine tap in my car, to have the financial freedom to write my best-selling novel, a baby without giving birth or adopting, minions), but what I want doesn't matter. God and the universe always have other plans. What I've gotten better about is how I cope with these things. You can't change other people's actions or behavior, but what you can change is your reaction and how you cope.
And that's what I've changed. I am 33 years old, I weigh more than I want, but my face is still really nice, I have excellent hair, a vocabulary, speech and spelling ability I'd match against anyone, my husband is the most amazing, sexy, protective man I have ever met, and he can reach whatever's up really high, and he fixes stuff...and cooks and kills bugs when I have a "Crying Game" moment and refuse to roll out of the fetal position until all bugs are dead, and I have a lot of people who truly love and care about me. What else is there? The rest is a ride to be enjoyed and used as a learning experience should things not go my way. I refuse to stress out about inconsequential things, and I want for people to think that knowing me enriches their lives. Hopefully, that's true, that I'm the kind of friend you'd want to have...
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
It is better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and say, "Hi, I'm Emily."
I've had my cranky pants off and on intermittently this week. To be clear, cranky pants are imaginary, and I haven't been randomly taking my pants on and off. In light of that tense, my shoulders-are-around-my-ears, feeling I've been rocking this week, I decided, after Smitty pointed out to me something stupid I said, to share with you the truly stupid actions and comments that have highlighted my 33 years....
1. When I was about 16, we had one of those stay-over parties no 16 year-old has any business having, and the next morning, we set about making breakfast. My gentleman caller at the time, Jon, who I am still friends with to this day (we're both happily married; don't judge me), asked me how many eggs I wanted in my omelet. I didn't care for eggs at the time and said, "Ew, just make mine without eggs," to which I was rewarded with mocking and ridicule that lasted about three years. Here's my justification: I had never had an omelet, my mother didn't make omelets, I knew that they existed as a food, but I thought they were made with butter and bread and maybe flour. I had never really thought about it before, and thus, was the butt of many, many jokes.
2. Again, when I was 16, actually, no, I was 15, I went to high school in New Hope, MS, which was about 45 minutes from Macon where we lived. My mother was the guidance counselor and made me change schools when she thought that the private school in Macon had "bad influences." In retrospect, that's pretty funny, because I came into contact at New Hope with some fairly shady characters, there were gang fights in our common area, and they had the highest rate of teen pregnancy in the state. I digress. So, all my actual friends lived 45 minutes away. I had a '87 Oldsmobile Firenza (which a. is NOT a Mexican car, and b. they don't make anymore), which I used to "go riding" in Macon every weekend at 6 p.m., and would drive to New Hope, hang out with my unbelievably trashy boyfriend (only dated 3 weeks), and then drive home by curfew. That particular night, my friend Jessica convinced me to drive back to New Hope at midnight to hang out with my trashy boyfriend and her and his older brother, who she was dating, although I used the term loosely.
I did, in fact, do that. I put Emily-size pillows in the bed in case my dad checked on me, climbed out the window and down the tree and set off for New Hope. I stayed there until about 3 a.m., drove back and assumed I could climb back in the window, no muss, no fuss. Well, I left the window cracked about 3 inches so I could get back in. It was about 20 degrees that night. So, when my dad checked on me, God bless him, he did that, he felt a brisk draft wafting in from the window. Then, he cracked my devious plan by pushing on the pillows and discovering I wasn't there. So, when I rolled in at 4 a.m., the window was closed. I didn't immediately panic, thinking, "well, maybe he just closed the window and didn't know I was gone. I'll just use my key, and they'll be none the wiser." HA. I opened the door, and he was lying in wait behind the refrigerator.
He asked me if I had a nice time, and I said "It was okay, I think I'm gonna break up with Shane," because I am THAT stupid, and then he gave me a 5-minute lecture about irresponsibility and what if something had happened to me, etc...then, he told me to go to bed...at 5. Then, I was awakened for church at 8 and threatened with what I'm sure they're not allowed to threaten you with anymore if I didn't get up and go to church. I was grounded for a month, which, in teenager time, is really, really long.
3. You'd think I used up all of my "stupid" in high school. You would be dead wrong. I actually hadn't even planned to tell this story, but it just occurred to me. When I lived in Huntsville, all of us went to Crossroads, which is still in the top 5 of coolest places ever...and I had too much to drink. A guy who worked at a restaurant in downtown Huntsville offered to drive me home, with my caveat that his friends that I knew would follow us. Apparently, there was a serious breakdown in communication, because they did not follow us. And when we got about a half mile from my apartment, Mr. Designated Driver got grabby. I told him to stop, and I told him to pull over and he wouldn't.
I made him pull over at a gas station under the guise I had to pee, and when I ran inside to call a friend of mine, author of http://amyblam.com/, he totally stole my car. I had the clerk call the police, who came and interviewed me as I described, "I dunno, he was a really gross guy who was sweaty, and I had no interest in him whatsoever." They found my car that night when he was arrested for DUI. A wonderful designated driver, eh? He also had thrown up several times in the car, and when I went to get it out of the impound lot, I had to have my dad, the registered owner, fax over a notarized statement to release the car to me. Then, I had at least 4 calls from a Huntsville detective who really wanted me to press charges for sexual assault. I declined, even though I would've been within my right, just because I handled it, he didn't really do anything, and they're not usually so nice to the female victims in court..
Wow, I haven't even scratched the surface of recently putting plastic lids on dishes and causing a fire in the oven or falling in a hole in the yard and tearing a ligament in my foot or burning my tongue every other effing day because I can't wait for stuff to cool, or when I lived in Philadelphia, I leapt into my bed, only to bounce off the bed and slam myself into the radiator, which caused bruises that looked like I was dating Ike Turner..I guess I'll save those for later.
1. When I was about 16, we had one of those stay-over parties no 16 year-old has any business having, and the next morning, we set about making breakfast. My gentleman caller at the time, Jon, who I am still friends with to this day (we're both happily married; don't judge me), asked me how many eggs I wanted in my omelet. I didn't care for eggs at the time and said, "Ew, just make mine without eggs," to which I was rewarded with mocking and ridicule that lasted about three years. Here's my justification: I had never had an omelet, my mother didn't make omelets, I knew that they existed as a food, but I thought they were made with butter and bread and maybe flour. I had never really thought about it before, and thus, was the butt of many, many jokes.
2. Again, when I was 16, actually, no, I was 15, I went to high school in New Hope, MS, which was about 45 minutes from Macon where we lived. My mother was the guidance counselor and made me change schools when she thought that the private school in Macon had "bad influences." In retrospect, that's pretty funny, because I came into contact at New Hope with some fairly shady characters, there were gang fights in our common area, and they had the highest rate of teen pregnancy in the state. I digress. So, all my actual friends lived 45 minutes away. I had a '87 Oldsmobile Firenza (which a. is NOT a Mexican car, and b. they don't make anymore), which I used to "go riding" in Macon every weekend at 6 p.m., and would drive to New Hope, hang out with my unbelievably trashy boyfriend (only dated 3 weeks), and then drive home by curfew. That particular night, my friend Jessica convinced me to drive back to New Hope at midnight to hang out with my trashy boyfriend and her and his older brother, who she was dating, although I used the term loosely.
I did, in fact, do that. I put Emily-size pillows in the bed in case my dad checked on me, climbed out the window and down the tree and set off for New Hope. I stayed there until about 3 a.m., drove back and assumed I could climb back in the window, no muss, no fuss. Well, I left the window cracked about 3 inches so I could get back in. It was about 20 degrees that night. So, when my dad checked on me, God bless him, he did that, he felt a brisk draft wafting in from the window. Then, he cracked my devious plan by pushing on the pillows and discovering I wasn't there. So, when I rolled in at 4 a.m., the window was closed. I didn't immediately panic, thinking, "well, maybe he just closed the window and didn't know I was gone. I'll just use my key, and they'll be none the wiser." HA. I opened the door, and he was lying in wait behind the refrigerator.
He asked me if I had a nice time, and I said "It was okay, I think I'm gonna break up with Shane," because I am THAT stupid, and then he gave me a 5-minute lecture about irresponsibility and what if something had happened to me, etc...then, he told me to go to bed...at 5. Then, I was awakened for church at 8 and threatened with what I'm sure they're not allowed to threaten you with anymore if I didn't get up and go to church. I was grounded for a month, which, in teenager time, is really, really long.
3. You'd think I used up all of my "stupid" in high school. You would be dead wrong. I actually hadn't even planned to tell this story, but it just occurred to me. When I lived in Huntsville, all of us went to Crossroads, which is still in the top 5 of coolest places ever...and I had too much to drink. A guy who worked at a restaurant in downtown Huntsville offered to drive me home, with my caveat that his friends that I knew would follow us. Apparently, there was a serious breakdown in communication, because they did not follow us. And when we got about a half mile from my apartment, Mr. Designated Driver got grabby. I told him to stop, and I told him to pull over and he wouldn't.
I made him pull over at a gas station under the guise I had to pee, and when I ran inside to call a friend of mine, author of http://amyblam.com/, he totally stole my car. I had the clerk call the police, who came and interviewed me as I described, "I dunno, he was a really gross guy who was sweaty, and I had no interest in him whatsoever." They found my car that night when he was arrested for DUI. A wonderful designated driver, eh? He also had thrown up several times in the car, and when I went to get it out of the impound lot, I had to have my dad, the registered owner, fax over a notarized statement to release the car to me. Then, I had at least 4 calls from a Huntsville detective who really wanted me to press charges for sexual assault. I declined, even though I would've been within my right, just because I handled it, he didn't really do anything, and they're not usually so nice to the female victims in court..
Wow, I haven't even scratched the surface of recently putting plastic lids on dishes and causing a fire in the oven or falling in a hole in the yard and tearing a ligament in my foot or burning my tongue every other effing day because I can't wait for stuff to cool, or when I lived in Philadelphia, I leapt into my bed, only to bounce off the bed and slam myself into the radiator, which caused bruises that looked like I was dating Ike Turner..I guess I'll save those for later.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
I pick strange battles
Can you be apathetically anal?? There are many, many things about which I'm very relaxed, some may say lazy (some may get punched)...I am a terrible housekeeper. I mean, our house doesn't look like Hoarders or anything, but I will leave my shoes anywhere...under the couch, in a pile by my dresser, in Smitty's side of the bed...the list could go on until Christmas. However, if you leave a dish in the sink without rinsing it, and those little chunks of food are glued on when I notice it hasn't been washed, it takes a great amount of restraint for me not to make you lick off the little chunks...(I'm looking at you, Smitty) The fact that Smitty doesn't do that is pretty funny because he is absolutely compulsive about everything else, that one little thing is the thing that irritates me most. Actually, maybe I just answered my own question.
In keeping with that, I am absolutely a psycho when it comes to being right and doing things correctly. This applies to every job I've ever had, even the ones I hated. I physically cannot go to a job and do a half-ass job or do something I know is wrong. It's just impossible. Soo, when I took a test last week for another job at my company and miserably failed the test, it was quite a little shock to the ego. I was furious with myself and am still not crazy about it. I gave myself a little talking-to last week, in fact. I've thought about it since then, and realize that I'm being stupid and actually realize that I need to stop taking personal setbacks like this so seriously and use them as a learning experience. Yes, I failed the test and felt like I should ride the short bus home that day. But, now I know what to expect from a test like that should I ever apply for a similar job. Also, and some of you may find this shocking, if it were God's will for me to have that job, I would have. He has something better in store for me, and really, I'm just along for the ride.
Speaking of God, I would like to first say, I am a Christian. I was raised in the Presbyterian Church, was confirmed at 12, and I do and am trying to lead a life that He approves. I think going to church is a fine idea, but I do not believe that going to church regularly makes you any more of an acceptable Christian than I am. We have found a church that we like, but our schedules/stress levels/dying parents have kept us from being in regular attendance. I do hope that we get back to attending soon, and I know that we will. However, I did not appreciate the letter I got from someone in our Sunday School class noting that we had been absent from class. That in and of itself was fine. The letter actually would've been very nice, except that it ended, "Christ is indeed worthy of our praise." Maybe had the word indeed not been added, it wouldn't tick me off so much, but you, whose handwriting I could barely decipher, and so actually don't know who you are, are the exact reason why a lot of people my age feel like church is judgmental.
I like to think that I am a Christian who will witness to others, not say to a gay person, "You're going to burn in hell, and we will never think otherwise. Please come to our church." Why would they subject themselves to that? Wouldn't it be far more effective to say, "Hey, we just want to see you worship with us. Please join us for fellowship." We are not here to judge; that is so not even remotely our job. When I think of an example to follow, I really do think about my father-in-law. I know he believes certain things, but he would never pass judgment to someone whose life might not fall in line with God's Word. He would witness to them, show them Christ's love, and demonstrate that's how a Christian acts. That is what might convert someone or make them think, "Hey, maybe these Christians aren't so bad. I'd like to see what that's about."
Further, I do not care for Facebook posts or statuses that are very similar to what I said above, i.e., quoting scripture that implies if you don't adhere to God's Word, that's it for you...that any deviation from the very letter of the Bible is a sin and you should be ashamed. Or, my other favorite, just preachy, holier-than-thou posts about why you should do this and why you should think this, etc...That's akin to me making frequent posts about why you should like Obama and why I am the smartest for supporting Obama. It's not the forum, and it's not your place to lecture using scripture, which anyone can cherry pick, to support your viewpoints.
Speaking of politics, that's another strange battle I've picked. Yes, I worked for John Kerry. I didn't particularly support him wholeheartedly, but I would've worked for Justin Bieber against another term of George Bush. I supported and do support Obama, and yes, I do get a little irritated when people seem to expect him to be some type of Iron Man/Superman combo when he was handed the worst economy since the 1920s, is actually keeping his campaign promise of reforming healthcare, and suffered an awful environmental disaster under his administration. And I still wonder, did people expect him to swim down there and plug the leak with his body? Remember that truly stellar response from the White House to Hurricane Katrina? Yeah, me, too. So, if I were a smug Republican, I might rethink faulting him for an oil spill for which he not only wasn't responsible, but some of the criticism was based on him not going there enough. Oh...silly amnesiac GOPs, how many times did Dubya go to the Mississippi Gulf Coast or New Orleans and how quickly? And by the way, as a delegate of Mississippi, yeah, Mississippi's coast was destroyed, too. Whole towns were destroyed, in fact. I'm guessing because Mississippi isn't as cool or happening or culturally rich as New Orleans, that disqualifies the coast for any attention? Yahhh...okay
Anyone know where I can find a giant, inflatable gorilla? I need to know.
In keeping with that, I am absolutely a psycho when it comes to being right and doing things correctly. This applies to every job I've ever had, even the ones I hated. I physically cannot go to a job and do a half-ass job or do something I know is wrong. It's just impossible. Soo, when I took a test last week for another job at my company and miserably failed the test, it was quite a little shock to the ego. I was furious with myself and am still not crazy about it. I gave myself a little talking-to last week, in fact. I've thought about it since then, and realize that I'm being stupid and actually realize that I need to stop taking personal setbacks like this so seriously and use them as a learning experience. Yes, I failed the test and felt like I should ride the short bus home that day. But, now I know what to expect from a test like that should I ever apply for a similar job. Also, and some of you may find this shocking, if it were God's will for me to have that job, I would have. He has something better in store for me, and really, I'm just along for the ride.
Speaking of God, I would like to first say, I am a Christian. I was raised in the Presbyterian Church, was confirmed at 12, and I do and am trying to lead a life that He approves. I think going to church is a fine idea, but I do not believe that going to church regularly makes you any more of an acceptable Christian than I am. We have found a church that we like, but our schedules/stress levels/dying parents have kept us from being in regular attendance. I do hope that we get back to attending soon, and I know that we will. However, I did not appreciate the letter I got from someone in our Sunday School class noting that we had been absent from class. That in and of itself was fine. The letter actually would've been very nice, except that it ended, "Christ is indeed worthy of our praise." Maybe had the word indeed not been added, it wouldn't tick me off so much, but you, whose handwriting I could barely decipher, and so actually don't know who you are, are the exact reason why a lot of people my age feel like church is judgmental.
I like to think that I am a Christian who will witness to others, not say to a gay person, "You're going to burn in hell, and we will never think otherwise. Please come to our church." Why would they subject themselves to that? Wouldn't it be far more effective to say, "Hey, we just want to see you worship with us. Please join us for fellowship." We are not here to judge; that is so not even remotely our job. When I think of an example to follow, I really do think about my father-in-law. I know he believes certain things, but he would never pass judgment to someone whose life might not fall in line with God's Word. He would witness to them, show them Christ's love, and demonstrate that's how a Christian acts. That is what might convert someone or make them think, "Hey, maybe these Christians aren't so bad. I'd like to see what that's about."
Further, I do not care for Facebook posts or statuses that are very similar to what I said above, i.e., quoting scripture that implies if you don't adhere to God's Word, that's it for you...that any deviation from the very letter of the Bible is a sin and you should be ashamed. Or, my other favorite, just preachy, holier-than-thou posts about why you should do this and why you should think this, etc...That's akin to me making frequent posts about why you should like Obama and why I am the smartest for supporting Obama. It's not the forum, and it's not your place to lecture using scripture, which anyone can cherry pick, to support your viewpoints.
Speaking of politics, that's another strange battle I've picked. Yes, I worked for John Kerry. I didn't particularly support him wholeheartedly, but I would've worked for Justin Bieber against another term of George Bush. I supported and do support Obama, and yes, I do get a little irritated when people seem to expect him to be some type of Iron Man/Superman combo when he was handed the worst economy since the 1920s, is actually keeping his campaign promise of reforming healthcare, and suffered an awful environmental disaster under his administration. And I still wonder, did people expect him to swim down there and plug the leak with his body? Remember that truly stellar response from the White House to Hurricane Katrina? Yeah, me, too. So, if I were a smug Republican, I might rethink faulting him for an oil spill for which he not only wasn't responsible, but some of the criticism was based on him not going there enough. Oh...silly amnesiac GOPs, how many times did Dubya go to the Mississippi Gulf Coast or New Orleans and how quickly? And by the way, as a delegate of Mississippi, yeah, Mississippi's coast was destroyed, too. Whole towns were destroyed, in fact. I'm guessing because Mississippi isn't as cool or happening or culturally rich as New Orleans, that disqualifies the coast for any attention? Yahhh...okay
Anyone know where I can find a giant, inflatable gorilla? I need to know.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
More than a few of my least favorite things...an unloading, if you will
Either I have PMS or my adrenal gland is functioning at twice its capacity. I am annoyed. The stupidity of my fellow humans has reached an Orange Alert, and I simply have to get it out or the little vein in the side of my temple is going to burst.
1. To the lady that called me a heifer and hung up on me, because I wouldn't tell her that her soon-to-be ex-husband has every right to make changes to his insurance policy, as does she, and I can't limit either of their abilities to do so. This was a concern to her, as her husband keeps calling her and telling her he took her and her car off the policy, which he hasn't, and I briefly felt bad about, but as far as I'm concerned, I hope she gets picked up by the police and made to sleep in a jail cell that smells like pee for having no insurance. Cranky bitch.
2. Alabama and Auburn fans everywhere, in my face, with their stickers and their stupid car flags and their invasive questions at the grocery store, gas station, doctor's office, "You like Auburn or Alabama?" "NEITHER! It is conceivably possible that a person can exist quite happily without choosing a damn football team in the state of Alabama to support. If you ask me again, I will pee in your shampoo. I've done it before, I'm not scared." And I really want to suggest to the genius entrepreneur by our house who sells $5 Alabama t-shirts every melon farming weekend this shirt idea, "If you can read this, you probably don't give a shit about football in the state of Alabama."
3. People who will not control the volume of their voices in a work environment. I am this close from pulling a Tonya Harding on a couple of folks at work simply because I cannot even string a thought together when their nasally, completely fake and loud, I'm-in-charge-of-this-even-though-80%-of-what-I-say-is-incorrect, collectively, voices pierce and invade the inside of my head day after day after day. I am extremely sensitive to noises, I don't know why, in fact most of the time, I'm kind of deaf, but this has become a special, fun test that I fear is designed for me to end up in a straitjacket screaming for the lambs to stop and talking to an invisible gorilla.
4. People who are just dumb. I adore Facebook, but what I do not adore is being in touch with various people, most of whom I went to middle school with, who are so impossibly stupid, that I realize nearly immediately I should not have accepted their friend requests. If you don't know how to use proper grammar and punctuation, and you think it's cute to spell crazy with a "K," or just don't look at how you spell, period, you and I probably don't need to be friends. There are some people who will be friends, not just on Facebook, with literally anyone. They're so nice and sweet that they make themselves endure people who never saw the inside of a high school just to be polite. I am not one of those people. I've had simple acquaintances in the past, and I remember trying to make small talk, and their turning it into "Aw, shoot, you use big words, I don't know what you're talking 'bout," and me thinking..."ah, I think I can end this weak relationship without guilt..wheww."
5. Smitty yelling at the damn TV and me about football. The TV can't hear him, and I don't care. Just watch the game and leave me out of it. I'm not complaining that you're watching it, I just don't want to be drawn into your madness and clapping and hooting. He needs some male playmates. I just want to read People magazine and be left alone. And this entry is his own fault because he told me to shut up and go back to my little computer...so there, Fart Blossom....you asked for it.
Hopefully, that will relieve this shoulders at my ears thing. If I offended you, I really don't care right now...I apologize for nothing.
1. To the lady that called me a heifer and hung up on me, because I wouldn't tell her that her soon-to-be ex-husband has every right to make changes to his insurance policy, as does she, and I can't limit either of their abilities to do so. This was a concern to her, as her husband keeps calling her and telling her he took her and her car off the policy, which he hasn't, and I briefly felt bad about, but as far as I'm concerned, I hope she gets picked up by the police and made to sleep in a jail cell that smells like pee for having no insurance. Cranky bitch.
2. Alabama and Auburn fans everywhere, in my face, with their stickers and their stupid car flags and their invasive questions at the grocery store, gas station, doctor's office, "You like Auburn or Alabama?" "NEITHER! It is conceivably possible that a person can exist quite happily without choosing a damn football team in the state of Alabama to support. If you ask me again, I will pee in your shampoo. I've done it before, I'm not scared." And I really want to suggest to the genius entrepreneur by our house who sells $5 Alabama t-shirts every melon farming weekend this shirt idea, "If you can read this, you probably don't give a shit about football in the state of Alabama."
3. People who will not control the volume of their voices in a work environment. I am this close from pulling a Tonya Harding on a couple of folks at work simply because I cannot even string a thought together when their nasally, completely fake and loud, I'm-in-charge-of-this-even-though-80%-of-what-I-say-is-incorrect, collectively, voices pierce and invade the inside of my head day after day after day. I am extremely sensitive to noises, I don't know why, in fact most of the time, I'm kind of deaf, but this has become a special, fun test that I fear is designed for me to end up in a straitjacket screaming for the lambs to stop and talking to an invisible gorilla.
4. People who are just dumb. I adore Facebook, but what I do not adore is being in touch with various people, most of whom I went to middle school with, who are so impossibly stupid, that I realize nearly immediately I should not have accepted their friend requests. If you don't know how to use proper grammar and punctuation, and you think it's cute to spell crazy with a "K," or just don't look at how you spell, period, you and I probably don't need to be friends. There are some people who will be friends, not just on Facebook, with literally anyone. They're so nice and sweet that they make themselves endure people who never saw the inside of a high school just to be polite. I am not one of those people. I've had simple acquaintances in the past, and I remember trying to make small talk, and their turning it into "Aw, shoot, you use big words, I don't know what you're talking 'bout," and me thinking..."ah, I think I can end this weak relationship without guilt..wheww."
5. Smitty yelling at the damn TV and me about football. The TV can't hear him, and I don't care. Just watch the game and leave me out of it. I'm not complaining that you're watching it, I just don't want to be drawn into your madness and clapping and hooting. He needs some male playmates. I just want to read People magazine and be left alone. And this entry is his own fault because he told me to shut up and go back to my little computer...so there, Fart Blossom....you asked for it.
Hopefully, that will relieve this shoulders at my ears thing. If I offended you, I really don't care right now...I apologize for nothing.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Singing never got me anywhere except in a perm and an ankle boot
I had very beautiful blond hair from the time I had hair until kindergarten when an extremely mean girl took those stupid safety scissors and literally hacked at my hair until half was long and half was short. So, from kindergarten to about 6th grade, I had what could be called a pixie cut if you were being nice, I call it "young lesbian."
So, after a period of this short hair torture, my mother decided "Hey, let's make it worse...Ogilvie home perms are nice." Thus began the afro days of Emily...short, unbelievably tightly curled hair with perms performed by my beloved Mamaw...Picture it, fumes, crying, yelling, with the final result resembling, oh, I dunno, Annie..which brings me to....
My mother decided I could sing. I can sing alright now, enough to pass, like if midgets had guns to my head and said, "Sing, monkey, or we'll take your arms," I could probably do it well enough not to lose my arms. However, at the age of 7, I really couldn't sing. Not only could I not sing, she wanted me to sing show tunes, namely "Tomorrow" from "Annie." Oh, and "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music," and "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead," from "The Wizard of Oz." I have no idea why I don't see a therapist regularly. My music teacher kept telling me, "There is a high Emily, and a low Emily, and I want to hear the high Emily." If you've ever heard my voice, there is NO low Emily. My speaking voice is nearly monotonous, and whenever I try to do a falsetto, it's painful to do and to hear.
So, seriously and thank the LORD we didn't have a camcorder, I entered into a number of ill-fated talent shows and lost every single one, except the one where I was the only one in my category. Nice. I have like one trophy that resides at my parents' house that mocks me every time I see it. Not meant for Broadway, and at approximately age 12, I think I held my breath until I passed out until my mom agreed to stop cutting my hair. Which is also why I will never, ever have hair more than an inch above my shoulders.
Fast forward to 20 years later...I loved/love karaoke so much. It is one of my guilty pleasures, and I don't need much prodding to agree to do it. I was at the Sports Page in Columbus, MS, which is a double wide trailer on some kind of stilts, doing my weekly karaoke routine. I was feeling sassy and as I left, I turned around to say something decidedly very clever, and as I slammed the door with satisfaction, I tripped backwards over the handicapped ramp.
Forget thinking, "Oh, no, I've broken something," no, no, I was too worried about the fact that I did this in front of 10 people. I jumped up, realized I couldn't put any weight on that foot, shook it off, and went to an after-party, where I was carried everywhere, which I rather enjoyed, and then argued with my ride home, an Australian friend I used to have before he turned into a self-important arsehole, and fell asleep on my bed in my clothes. I woke up the next morning to go to the bathroom and fell on my face due to the pain. I crawled to the bathroom while my dog Norton jumped on me and then had to call the aforementioned Australian to come help me by taking the poor dog outside. He proceeded to pee for about 7 minutes. Poor Norton.
So, the moral of the story is that in a handful of cases, very humiliating things have happened to me while trying to entertain the masses. I need to learn how to use my charisma in a positive way that benefits mankind as well as myself. No casts or ankle boots included.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Little ditty about all kinds of stuff
I am on Day 97 of disgusting throat infection with a side of coughing and fever. Apparently, I've taken so many antibiotics over the past 3 years, my body has decided, "Nah, not so much. Just give us sugar." I have also now infected Smitty, who hardly ever got sick before he met me, Typhoid Mary. So, we are a real laugh riot right now. We nearly came to blows last night over the remote control. He wanted to watch that sword fishing reality show, and I wanted to watch "The Soup," so rather than watch anything, we just bickered for 30 minutes. Being sick makes us both extremely cranky. Good times.
I think that there are two kinds of people, small-town people and city people. You could be born as either one and end up switching at some point, but inherently, you're one or the other. I am a city person. In fact, even growing up in rural Mississippi in Macon, population: 2,500, it's not like I was living on a farm or using an outhouse. We lived in town, both parents had master's degrees, etc...I was quite the disappointment when I moved to Pennsylvania because I spoke proper English and had no idea how to milk a cow.
Growing up in a small town is great, although I had occasional irritation at my dad for moving from Memphis before we were born, b/c growing up in Memphis would've been really cool. Nonetheless, it's a safe way to grow up, everyone knows you, not a lot of crime, etc...Ironically, except for the crime, those are the primary reasons that I do not ever want to live in a small town again. I don't actually want to know what my neighbors are doing. I rather enjoy just waving at them awkwardly when we're coming and going. I don't want them to know what we're doing either. If I want to perform a fire ritual in the back yard with an inflatable sheep and some Pygmies, that's my business.
I remember writing something shortly after I moved to Pennsylvania that began "I left home so I could disappear," and I meant it. With small-town values comes gossip, judgment, hypocrisy, and in Southern cases, racism, which is discussed openly as though nothing is wrong with it. I can't stand that. I can't be an educated 33-year-old with a college degree who hopes to have children and teach them by example and let it be okay hearing bigotry used as a punchline. When I moved to PA, friends of the family basically let it be known that since I was working for John Kerry, that "liberal," (real meaning: sympathetic to minorities), they really hoped I didn't do well, and how could my parents let me do that? Forget that I was 27 years old at the time, how could I forsake my roots and serve the liberals?
I'm sorry, I'll get off my soapbox now, but that has been bugging me for a couple of days. On to something lighter...I have been Emily, Mistress of Destruction, for the last couple of days. In my defense, some of the carnage wasn't my fault. Here is a sampling:
1. My car battery died, I mean died, dead, wouldn't even turn over. This is not my fault, but Smitty did have to come home from work to replace it so I could get to work. Yay, Smitty.
2. In connection with the car battery, when I realized it was dead, my first thought was to take Smitty's Passat, having forgotten that its battery was also dead. In my hurry to find the key, I apparently ripped a nail out of the wall that was holding up our "key holder," and now we can't re-hang it because of the way the nail ripped.
3. I poked myself in the eye with a pen yesterday while at work. My contact lens came out while I was on the phone, so I had to put it back in without a mirror and with dirty hands, so my eye was a plum-esque color for the latter part of yesterday.
4. Also at work, I had numerous coughing fits, the kind where you can't stop or talk or do anything. I was on the phone when most of these happened, so I would mute my phone while hacking up internal organs. Except that I was convulsing so hard from one attack, I unmuted and unleashed a truly disgusting mucus-filled cough into the poor customer's ear... Gross
This quote kept running through my head yesterday, and I have no idea why. "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."
I think that there are two kinds of people, small-town people and city people. You could be born as either one and end up switching at some point, but inherently, you're one or the other. I am a city person. In fact, even growing up in rural Mississippi in Macon, population: 2,500, it's not like I was living on a farm or using an outhouse. We lived in town, both parents had master's degrees, etc...I was quite the disappointment when I moved to Pennsylvania because I spoke proper English and had no idea how to milk a cow.
Growing up in a small town is great, although I had occasional irritation at my dad for moving from Memphis before we were born, b/c growing up in Memphis would've been really cool. Nonetheless, it's a safe way to grow up, everyone knows you, not a lot of crime, etc...Ironically, except for the crime, those are the primary reasons that I do not ever want to live in a small town again. I don't actually want to know what my neighbors are doing. I rather enjoy just waving at them awkwardly when we're coming and going. I don't want them to know what we're doing either. If I want to perform a fire ritual in the back yard with an inflatable sheep and some Pygmies, that's my business.
I remember writing something shortly after I moved to Pennsylvania that began "I left home so I could disappear," and I meant it. With small-town values comes gossip, judgment, hypocrisy, and in Southern cases, racism, which is discussed openly as though nothing is wrong with it. I can't stand that. I can't be an educated 33-year-old with a college degree who hopes to have children and teach them by example and let it be okay hearing bigotry used as a punchline. When I moved to PA, friends of the family basically let it be known that since I was working for John Kerry, that "liberal," (real meaning: sympathetic to minorities), they really hoped I didn't do well, and how could my parents let me do that? Forget that I was 27 years old at the time, how could I forsake my roots and serve the liberals?
I'm sorry, I'll get off my soapbox now, but that has been bugging me for a couple of days. On to something lighter...I have been Emily, Mistress of Destruction, for the last couple of days. In my defense, some of the carnage wasn't my fault. Here is a sampling:
1. My car battery died, I mean died, dead, wouldn't even turn over. This is not my fault, but Smitty did have to come home from work to replace it so I could get to work. Yay, Smitty.
2. In connection with the car battery, when I realized it was dead, my first thought was to take Smitty's Passat, having forgotten that its battery was also dead. In my hurry to find the key, I apparently ripped a nail out of the wall that was holding up our "key holder," and now we can't re-hang it because of the way the nail ripped.
3. I poked myself in the eye with a pen yesterday while at work. My contact lens came out while I was on the phone, so I had to put it back in without a mirror and with dirty hands, so my eye was a plum-esque color for the latter part of yesterday.
4. Also at work, I had numerous coughing fits, the kind where you can't stop or talk or do anything. I was on the phone when most of these happened, so I would mute my phone while hacking up internal organs. Except that I was convulsing so hard from one attack, I unmuted and unleashed a truly disgusting mucus-filled cough into the poor customer's ear... Gross
This quote kept running through my head yesterday, and I have no idea why. "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."
Thursday, September 16, 2010
That's me in the corner losing my voice
I am now on Round 3 of antibiotics. I completely lost my voice overnight Sunday night, which made for a truly excellent day at work on the phone Monday, where people either couldn't understand my name or thought I was saying "this is Billy," because my "Ms" didn't work. I'm starting to think I could be a case on "House," where they figure out that all the diet Coke in my system has dissolved my ability to respond to antibiotics. Either that, or I'm going to find a shaman or holistic healer to chant the bad germs back to hell.
Because I'm still sick, I can't make my the mini-memorial all my dad's friends are planning this weekend. Even if I'm better, there's camping and woods involved, so that would be the thing that caused my two white blood cells Marv and Herb to just give up and drink hemlock. I really wanted to go, even if there was camping involved, (I actually sorta thought they were kidding when they told me to bring a sleeping bag and pillow) because these men, who I called "Uncle," were friends with my dad for over 50 years. They all kept in touch that long, three or four of them were pallbearers, and they are the ones that got the unvarnished, twinkly, mischievous version of Daddy to whom I had such a connection.
I was really looking forward to being in that place, that camp that meant so much to him for so many years, and feeling his presence and the fellowship of those who loved him so much. I talk to him all the time, though. Most of the time, it's not out loud, just so parents in the grocery store won't remove their children from my general area. If I see something that reminds me of him, I just sort of think, "Daddy, look at that shrimp. How many pounds of that do you think you could eat?" or "Daddy, they're showing the Making of Jaws on AMC. I'm totally recording it." or "I saw Cool Hand Luke all the way through last night, and I remember all your commentary when I saw it for the first time."
So, even though I can't be there to celebrate him with others, I celebrate him every day with little things and telling people how funny and what a smart ass he was. I got his best qualities..haha...and then some of his worst..my skinny, chicken legs and complete lack of an ass..Oh, well, in the immortal words of "The Facts of Life," "You take the good, you take the bad...." That Mrs. Garrett was a wise woman.
Because I'm still sick, I can't make my the mini-memorial all my dad's friends are planning this weekend. Even if I'm better, there's camping and woods involved, so that would be the thing that caused my two white blood cells Marv and Herb to just give up and drink hemlock. I really wanted to go, even if there was camping involved, (I actually sorta thought they were kidding when they told me to bring a sleeping bag and pillow) because these men, who I called "Uncle," were friends with my dad for over 50 years. They all kept in touch that long, three or four of them were pallbearers, and they are the ones that got the unvarnished, twinkly, mischievous version of Daddy to whom I had such a connection.
I was really looking forward to being in that place, that camp that meant so much to him for so many years, and feeling his presence and the fellowship of those who loved him so much. I talk to him all the time, though. Most of the time, it's not out loud, just so parents in the grocery store won't remove their children from my general area. If I see something that reminds me of him, I just sort of think, "Daddy, look at that shrimp. How many pounds of that do you think you could eat?" or "Daddy, they're showing the Making of Jaws on AMC. I'm totally recording it." or "I saw Cool Hand Luke all the way through last night, and I remember all your commentary when I saw it for the first time."
So, even though I can't be there to celebrate him with others, I celebrate him every day with little things and telling people how funny and what a smart ass he was. I got his best qualities..haha...and then some of his worst..my skinny, chicken legs and complete lack of an ass..Oh, well, in the immortal words of "The Facts of Life," "You take the good, you take the bad...." That Mrs. Garrett was a wise woman.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Yo ho ho, and a bottle of codeine cough syrup
I seem to be relatively well from my bout with a sinus infection and pharyngitis. I have one antibiotic left, which I am not sorry to see the end of, due to having two days of face flushing, arm hives, and not being able to sleep until after 2 a.m. Oy.
Yesterday, I had a flashback to college days when I would stay up so late, staying up all night seemed the best idea. However, then, I could go back to my dorm after class and take a nap. Now, I obviously stay at work, despite the delirium and at one point in the afternoon, everything was kind of yellow, and I was convinced everyone could hear my thoughts. I was asleep no later than 10:30 last night and popped up this morning at 6:15. Smitty slept until after 8 and looked wildly confused when he walked into the living room and I was watching TV and drinking coffee. I like to pull little surprises like that on him every once in a while. Even if it really wasn't deliberate, it keeps the mystery alive, unlike when I get taziki sauce in my hair and trip over the carpet.
I've been on a Facebook friend-deleting kick for the past two days. It's really nothing personal to anyone, but I realized there are people on there whose friend requests I never should've accepted. We were never friends. Yes, we are aware of each others' existence, but that's pretty much where the common ground ends. I simply don't care what some people are doing, and I know they could care less about what I'm doing. So, I began yesterday, and as the mood hits, I will be whittling down the old friends list.
I think I have a caffeine addiction. I stopped drinking soda for so long and only drank coffee. So, to make up for the soda deficiency, I decided that 10 cups of coffee should do it. I spend most of the day bouncing my leg up and down, peeing, and twitching. I could stop...but I doubt that I will. I may start a Juan Valdez Coffee Drinker Anonymous Support group. The problem with that, though, is that support groups always have donuts, and how can you eat donuts without coffee?? So I say we have Bloody Marys..because we're not Alchoholics Anonymous.
Yesterday, I had a flashback to college days when I would stay up so late, staying up all night seemed the best idea. However, then, I could go back to my dorm after class and take a nap. Now, I obviously stay at work, despite the delirium and at one point in the afternoon, everything was kind of yellow, and I was convinced everyone could hear my thoughts. I was asleep no later than 10:30 last night and popped up this morning at 6:15. Smitty slept until after 8 and looked wildly confused when he walked into the living room and I was watching TV and drinking coffee. I like to pull little surprises like that on him every once in a while. Even if it really wasn't deliberate, it keeps the mystery alive, unlike when I get taziki sauce in my hair and trip over the carpet.
I've been on a Facebook friend-deleting kick for the past two days. It's really nothing personal to anyone, but I realized there are people on there whose friend requests I never should've accepted. We were never friends. Yes, we are aware of each others' existence, but that's pretty much where the common ground ends. I simply don't care what some people are doing, and I know they could care less about what I'm doing. So, I began yesterday, and as the mood hits, I will be whittling down the old friends list.
I think I have a caffeine addiction. I stopped drinking soda for so long and only drank coffee. So, to make up for the soda deficiency, I decided that 10 cups of coffee should do it. I spend most of the day bouncing my leg up and down, peeing, and twitching. I could stop...but I doubt that I will. I may start a Juan Valdez Coffee Drinker Anonymous Support group. The problem with that, though, is that support groups always have donuts, and how can you eat donuts without coffee?? So I say we have Bloody Marys..because we're not Alchoholics Anonymous.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Thank you, Alexander Fleming, a tip of my hat
So, my two white blood cells, Herb and Marv, gave up on Sunday. I had been around someone with contagious germs attaching themselves to my every being, and I fought the good fight. Yesterday, however, I succumbed and went to the doctor. Diagnosis: Sinusitis and pharyngitis and the knowledge that some resistant strain of something with a really long name that in ends in "coccus," tee, hee..is going around Birmingham. Lucky me.
Babies are everywhere lately. I have friends with babies, I see babies on TV, babies, babies, babies. I also recently read a post by someone on Facebook that said "you don't start living until you have babies." I wholeheartedly disagree with that. Does that mean I didn't have a life-changing experience in Philadelphia and find out more about myself than I ever thought possible? My father died before I have babies; does that mean my time with him was pointless?
I love children, I really do, and we do want one...ONE, you hear me? If we have twins fine, but after one, we're closing up the Uterus Shoppe. You can have one child and make sure they're not weird. He/she will have five first cousins to play with, and will meet friends at school and such. I dunno why everyone is so surprised when I say we only want one. Watch me eat my words and have a basketball team, but I doubt it. I'm 33, and the 'ol eggs probably aren't what they used to be.
Nonetheless, I understand that when you have children, it's wonderful and you love them, and they may complete your life, but I find it mildly offensive to suggest that a married couple without them isn't really living. That's a very egotistical comment to make. Some people never want children, and they live completely full and happy lives. That's like me saying, "If you've never been to Paris or New York, you've never really been anywhere." However, I do think if you've never eaten a fried pickle, you've never had pure joy in your mouth.
Speaking of children, I need a Halloween costume idea. And I don't want to hear "slutty," "naughty" or "schoolgirl" suggested. I like funny costumes, and have yet to understand why Halloween is an excuse for girls to dress like extras in a pornographic movie. It's a kids holiday, not a late-night Cinemax costume showcase.
Babies are everywhere lately. I have friends with babies, I see babies on TV, babies, babies, babies. I also recently read a post by someone on Facebook that said "you don't start living until you have babies." I wholeheartedly disagree with that. Does that mean I didn't have a life-changing experience in Philadelphia and find out more about myself than I ever thought possible? My father died before I have babies; does that mean my time with him was pointless?
I love children, I really do, and we do want one...ONE, you hear me? If we have twins fine, but after one, we're closing up the Uterus Shoppe. You can have one child and make sure they're not weird. He/she will have five first cousins to play with, and will meet friends at school and such. I dunno why everyone is so surprised when I say we only want one. Watch me eat my words and have a basketball team, but I doubt it. I'm 33, and the 'ol eggs probably aren't what they used to be.
Nonetheless, I understand that when you have children, it's wonderful and you love them, and they may complete your life, but I find it mildly offensive to suggest that a married couple without them isn't really living. That's a very egotistical comment to make. Some people never want children, and they live completely full and happy lives. That's like me saying, "If you've never been to Paris or New York, you've never really been anywhere." However, I do think if you've never eaten a fried pickle, you've never had pure joy in your mouth.
Speaking of children, I need a Halloween costume idea. And I don't want to hear "slutty," "naughty" or "schoolgirl" suggested. I like funny costumes, and have yet to understand why Halloween is an excuse for girls to dress like extras in a pornographic movie. It's a kids holiday, not a late-night Cinemax costume showcase.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Cigarettes and chocolate milk (and coffee)
You want to know the living example of a bad idea? Besides teasing monkeys and trusting the Bush family...me having 8-10 cups of coffee this morning. That was a supremely ill-advised idea. I woke up at 6:45 for no good reason. Those of you that know me well will be shocked to know, no matter what time I go to sleep, no matter my daily schedule, I am incapable of sleeping past 8 a.m. So, I woke up and thought, "Ooh, I can watch the Emmys I DVR'd last night," because I love any awards show that has to do with movies or television. I could literally care less about any music awards. So, I decided, I'll set the coffee pot for 8 cups, which is really more like 3 normal cups...and as I watched Jimmy Fallon sing some questionable musical numbers, I drank the whole pot, and then I made more....and then I refilled my cup at work...
Picture it, Sicily...no, really, picture it, this morning around 11:30, I'm halfway through Cup 11, and I start to feel odd. Like, everything went kind of yellow, I got hot, and I swear I heard someone saying my name. So, I put the coffee down, and for the next 3-4 hours thought, "hmmm..throwing up sounds pretty sweet right now," but I didn't. I waited for it to pass and learned a valuable lesson about my caffeine consumption and my willpower. Apparently, my motto is "If it feels good at the time, just do it; don't worry about later." This is a very good motto to have at age 4; at age 33, perhaps not.
Bikers, meaning cyclists, listen to me and listen closely: You and your little stretchy pants bother me. No one that currently doesn't reside in an '80s Bananarama video should wear spandex in public. Frankly, I don't think you should wear it in private, but what you wear, furry suit, gimp mask, etc...in your private time is your business. Explain the stretchy pants thing to me, please. I rode a bike incessantly from age 4ish to age 15, when I lost all motor coordination, and I never wore stretchy pants, and I could pop mad wheelies.
So, stop it, wear normal athletic gear that does not highlight your male equivalent of a camel toe and make me think of Richard Simmons. And here's a thought, if you're riding to the park to hug a tree and dance naked with the fairies, drive your damn bike there and then frolic cyclically. Do not, I repeat, not, ride on the actual thoroughfare during rush hour traffic on your way to the granola/free the hemp plant/Prius meeting. I'm one more encounter away from getting 30 points by nudging you off to the sidewalk with my mighty Aveo. And then you'll have to tell your patchouli for Men club buddies that a car made of plastic ran you off the road...and then no Tofurkey for you.
I'm taking Adapex now. It's supposed to boost your metabolism and kick-start the whole losing weight process. I started taking it Friday, and so far all it does is make me want to drink 9 gallons of coffee and talk to the point that Smitty actually went to bed to get away from whatever I was saying at 30 miles an hour. I dunno if it takes a while to start its pharmaceutical purpose, but am starting to think that this only reinforces the fact that whatever medicine is supposed to do, it does the opposite for me...or makes my ears and face swell.
I am very excited about the impending 3-day weekend. We are supposed to have visitors, and it promises to be a lot of fun. Mainly, I'm excited that I, nor Smitty, have to work, and this will probably be the last relaxed-esque weekend we have, as he starts back to grad school this week. Wives of graduate students are the unsung heroes of our generation. Meanwhile, I want him to hurry up and finish so I can finish my English master's. And I'm proud of him and stuff.
Picture it, Sicily...no, really, picture it, this morning around 11:30, I'm halfway through Cup 11, and I start to feel odd. Like, everything went kind of yellow, I got hot, and I swear I heard someone saying my name. So, I put the coffee down, and for the next 3-4 hours thought, "hmmm..throwing up sounds pretty sweet right now," but I didn't. I waited for it to pass and learned a valuable lesson about my caffeine consumption and my willpower. Apparently, my motto is "If it feels good at the time, just do it; don't worry about later." This is a very good motto to have at age 4; at age 33, perhaps not.
Bikers, meaning cyclists, listen to me and listen closely: You and your little stretchy pants bother me. No one that currently doesn't reside in an '80s Bananarama video should wear spandex in public. Frankly, I don't think you should wear it in private, but what you wear, furry suit, gimp mask, etc...in your private time is your business. Explain the stretchy pants thing to me, please. I rode a bike incessantly from age 4ish to age 15, when I lost all motor coordination, and I never wore stretchy pants, and I could pop mad wheelies.
So, stop it, wear normal athletic gear that does not highlight your male equivalent of a camel toe and make me think of Richard Simmons. And here's a thought, if you're riding to the park to hug a tree and dance naked with the fairies, drive your damn bike there and then frolic cyclically. Do not, I repeat, not, ride on the actual thoroughfare during rush hour traffic on your way to the granola/free the hemp plant/Prius meeting. I'm one more encounter away from getting 30 points by nudging you off to the sidewalk with my mighty Aveo. And then you'll have to tell your patchouli for Men club buddies that a car made of plastic ran you off the road...and then no Tofurkey for you.
I'm taking Adapex now. It's supposed to boost your metabolism and kick-start the whole losing weight process. I started taking it Friday, and so far all it does is make me want to drink 9 gallons of coffee and talk to the point that Smitty actually went to bed to get away from whatever I was saying at 30 miles an hour. I dunno if it takes a while to start its pharmaceutical purpose, but am starting to think that this only reinforces the fact that whatever medicine is supposed to do, it does the opposite for me...or makes my ears and face swell.
I am very excited about the impending 3-day weekend. We are supposed to have visitors, and it promises to be a lot of fun. Mainly, I'm excited that I, nor Smitty, have to work, and this will probably be the last relaxed-esque weekend we have, as he starts back to grad school this week. Wives of graduate students are the unsung heroes of our generation. Meanwhile, I want him to hurry up and finish so I can finish my English master's. And I'm proud of him and stuff.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The polar opposite of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...
Until recently, I thought the line from that song was "whispers on kittens," which obviously makes no sense, but that's how I heard it. I could start an entirely new blog called "Those are not the lyrics I heard," but it would get redundant after a while.
After seeing two full-sized vans today with the windows blacked out, I started thinking of things that give me the creeps. Some of them are fairly transparent, and some of them go a little further into the joy that is me:
1. See above. Any full-sized van that doesn't have a logo on the side is creepy. If it doesn't have windows, that's doubly so. I guess I will always bring to mind the scene in "Silence of the Lambs" where Buffalo Bill kidnaps the girl and slings her into a van. However, I guess it's more likely now they're using the back for a moveable meth lab. Still, ew.
2. My fingernails or hearing anyone else's fingernails scrape and scratch on denim. You can put 1,000 chalkboards in front of me, and it doesn't cause chills to go up my spine as much as fingernails scraping on denim. I don't know if I was a seamstress in a former life or what, but there you go.
3. Married couples who call each other any variation of Mama and Daddy. If you do it when talking to your kids, fine, but if you're the only people there, and you say "Daddy, bring me a soda," you're in banjo, Toddlers and Tiaras territory.
4. People with wildly outdated hairstyles. I used to work with a woman who had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, like forever. I've seen pictures. Why use that particular icon to hitch your wagon to? It was a bad haircut even in the 70s. I've seen some people lately with these huge, poufy Golden Girls hairstyles. Look, I thank you for being a friend and adore those ladies as much as anyone, but if you're under 80, you should not have that hairstyle.
5. Anything on TV that involves showing surgery, blood, cutting of organs where you hear that squishy noise, all of that grosses me out to no end. I will either turn completely away or look through my fingers, which doesn't really help. I did that when I watched "Hostel" at the theater, and my gentleman caller at the time kept trying to pry my hands away from my eyes until I punched him in the stomach. Everyone in front of us laughed. I hate it when "Grey's Anatomy" shows really graphic surgery, and "Nip/Tuck" was ridiculous about it. That's not necessary.
6. Kids acting or dressing inappropriately. First of all, the clothes for younger girls say things like "Juicy," "Naughty," "Bad Girl," really? For 10 year olds? Is Paris Hilton the shopper for your department store. If I were 16 and wearing a shirt that said any of that stuff, my dad would've made me change and probably burned the shirt. And low-rise jeans? Yah, 'cos that's what little girls should be doing, showing off their nonexistent asses. I don't know what people are thinking; I assume the target market is the Lohans or perhaps wardrobe selections post-Toddlers and Tiaras.
In connection with that, I saw a video last night of children, no older than 8, dirty dancing or grinding or whatever the cool term is these days...chubawubbin (I made that up), while adults laughed and recorded them. I honestly think there should be a mandatory IQ test before you're allowed to have or be around children.
7. Food with chunky or seedy consistencies. You will never see me eat a strawberry. When you chew them, those little seeds crunch in your teeth like you're eating bugs. Also, smoothies or milkshakes with chunks of fruit, be it peach, strawberry or raspberry. Again, there is the consistency of something that could be partially digested invading your ice cream or yogurt.
Garbanzo beans/chickpeas...again, not only do they look like little, shrunken heads, they have the consistency of something that was already eaten or needs to be given to a pet.
Sausage on pizza. When I was younger, I watched a "Nightmare on Elm Street" movie where the dream had Freddy in a malt shop. The doomed teenager watched him pull a pizza from behind the counter that had little sausages on it, but when they showed a close-up, the sausage turned into little heads of past victims screaming. He impaled one of them on his fingernail and ate it. I will never ingest a piece of sausage from a pizza again.
After seeing two full-sized vans today with the windows blacked out, I started thinking of things that give me the creeps. Some of them are fairly transparent, and some of them go a little further into the joy that is me:
1. See above. Any full-sized van that doesn't have a logo on the side is creepy. If it doesn't have windows, that's doubly so. I guess I will always bring to mind the scene in "Silence of the Lambs" where Buffalo Bill kidnaps the girl and slings her into a van. However, I guess it's more likely now they're using the back for a moveable meth lab. Still, ew.
2. My fingernails or hearing anyone else's fingernails scrape and scratch on denim. You can put 1,000 chalkboards in front of me, and it doesn't cause chills to go up my spine as much as fingernails scraping on denim. I don't know if I was a seamstress in a former life or what, but there you go.
3. Married couples who call each other any variation of Mama and Daddy. If you do it when talking to your kids, fine, but if you're the only people there, and you say "Daddy, bring me a soda," you're in banjo, Toddlers and Tiaras territory.
4. People with wildly outdated hairstyles. I used to work with a woman who had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, like forever. I've seen pictures. Why use that particular icon to hitch your wagon to? It was a bad haircut even in the 70s. I've seen some people lately with these huge, poufy Golden Girls hairstyles. Look, I thank you for being a friend and adore those ladies as much as anyone, but if you're under 80, you should not have that hairstyle.
5. Anything on TV that involves showing surgery, blood, cutting of organs where you hear that squishy noise, all of that grosses me out to no end. I will either turn completely away or look through my fingers, which doesn't really help. I did that when I watched "Hostel" at the theater, and my gentleman caller at the time kept trying to pry my hands away from my eyes until I punched him in the stomach. Everyone in front of us laughed. I hate it when "Grey's Anatomy" shows really graphic surgery, and "Nip/Tuck" was ridiculous about it. That's not necessary.
6. Kids acting or dressing inappropriately. First of all, the clothes for younger girls say things like "Juicy," "Naughty," "Bad Girl," really? For 10 year olds? Is Paris Hilton the shopper for your department store. If I were 16 and wearing a shirt that said any of that stuff, my dad would've made me change and probably burned the shirt. And low-rise jeans? Yah, 'cos that's what little girls should be doing, showing off their nonexistent asses. I don't know what people are thinking; I assume the target market is the Lohans or perhaps wardrobe selections post-Toddlers and Tiaras.
In connection with that, I saw a video last night of children, no older than 8, dirty dancing or grinding or whatever the cool term is these days...chubawubbin (I made that up), while adults laughed and recorded them. I honestly think there should be a mandatory IQ test before you're allowed to have or be around children.
7. Food with chunky or seedy consistencies. You will never see me eat a strawberry. When you chew them, those little seeds crunch in your teeth like you're eating bugs. Also, smoothies or milkshakes with chunks of fruit, be it peach, strawberry or raspberry. Again, there is the consistency of something that could be partially digested invading your ice cream or yogurt.
Garbanzo beans/chickpeas...again, not only do they look like little, shrunken heads, they have the consistency of something that was already eaten or needs to be given to a pet.
Sausage on pizza. When I was younger, I watched a "Nightmare on Elm Street" movie where the dream had Freddy in a malt shop. The doomed teenager watched him pull a pizza from behind the counter that had little sausages on it, but when they showed a close-up, the sausage turned into little heads of past victims screaming. He impaled one of them on his fingernail and ate it. I will never ingest a piece of sausage from a pizza again.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Black (or bluish) snake moan and other mishaps
I do not like the outdoors or most of the creatures that reside in it. Partially, it's because I'm allergic to most everything outside, and if I am outside when things are blooming, I will soon look like an itchy tomato. Also, it's because there are bugs, spiders (which are technically bugs, but deserve their own category), weird birds that fly lowly at my head, and all manner of slithering reptiles. I know lizards are really helpful, but when there was one in our bedroom, I trapped it in there with handy plastic bags from the grocery store stuffed under the door and called Smitty saying "There is a lizard in the bedroom. I'm not coming home until it's gone, and I want photographic proof." He sent me a picture with the little bugger hanging out on the front porch.
So, the reason I preface the blog this way, is that last night, when I headed, skipping and singing show tunes to get into my car and leave work, there was a strange object near my front left tire. I thought it was a stick, but when I moved closer to the car, it moved. There was a bluish, black small, yes, but who cares!? snake hanging out by my front wheel. I was amazingly calm, I think I said, "Oh, crap, no, no, no, not getting in the car," and stepped back. I also made my alarm do the weird, chirpy bird noise it does when it re-locks, and that make Senor Snake-y Pants slither underneath the front of my car. That is where I got a bit panicky. As long as I could see it and it looked docile, it was sort of okay.
At this point, the girl parked next to me came outside and must've heard me muttering "snake, snake, snake" in the Rain Man-esque manner I was saying it at the point. We both decided we were not getting in our cars until we knew our little spineless pal was gone. Another co-worker came out to make sure our feet would not get attacked a la "Snakes on a Plane" style so we could get in our cars. I leapt into my car with half a cup of water that spilled all over me and the seat, but I got away safely.
However, I drove home batting at myself like a detoxing crackhead because I kept feeling stuff crawling on me. I thought I heard noises in the car, so I kept turning the interior light on, which is actually not at all a good idea driving down Hwy 280. Also, my car is so reprehensibly disgusting, he could've crawled in there and had a cocktail party. Then, I imagined a scenario that while we were debating about getting in the car, it crawled up into whatever metal thingie surrounds the tire, and he was making a little, tiny, snake-sized blueprint to figure out how to crawl into my vent or glove compartment. Smitty says I have a ridiculous imagination. And by ridiculous, I know he means whimsical and delightful to experience.
Now, I see snakes everywhere I go....not literally, of course, but in my mind's eye, there are creepy, little vipers waiting on me in our driveway, in the parking lot. I went to my car Ninja-style, or as Ninja as I am capable, eyes darting around, looking for predators, and deeming everything okay after almost getting on the ground, got into my car. Who's dramatic? I don't know what that means.
I leave you with a little story that pretty much encompasses everything I feel about snakes, snakes as pets, snakes as dinner companions, snakes as chess opponents, etc....:
So, the reason I preface the blog this way, is that last night, when I headed, skipping and singing show tunes to get into my car and leave work, there was a strange object near my front left tire. I thought it was a stick, but when I moved closer to the car, it moved. There was a bluish, black small, yes, but who cares!? snake hanging out by my front wheel. I was amazingly calm, I think I said, "Oh, crap, no, no, no, not getting in the car," and stepped back. I also made my alarm do the weird, chirpy bird noise it does when it re-locks, and that make Senor Snake-y Pants slither underneath the front of my car. That is where I got a bit panicky. As long as I could see it and it looked docile, it was sort of okay.
At this point, the girl parked next to me came outside and must've heard me muttering "snake, snake, snake" in the Rain Man-esque manner I was saying it at the point. We both decided we were not getting in our cars until we knew our little spineless pal was gone. Another co-worker came out to make sure our feet would not get attacked a la "Snakes on a Plane" style so we could get in our cars. I leapt into my car with half a cup of water that spilled all over me and the seat, but I got away safely.
However, I drove home batting at myself like a detoxing crackhead because I kept feeling stuff crawling on me. I thought I heard noises in the car, so I kept turning the interior light on, which is actually not at all a good idea driving down Hwy 280. Also, my car is so reprehensibly disgusting, he could've crawled in there and had a cocktail party. Then, I imagined a scenario that while we were debating about getting in the car, it crawled up into whatever metal thingie surrounds the tire, and he was making a little, tiny, snake-sized blueprint to figure out how to crawl into my vent or glove compartment. Smitty says I have a ridiculous imagination. And by ridiculous, I know he means whimsical and delightful to experience.
Now, I see snakes everywhere I go....not literally, of course, but in my mind's eye, there are creepy, little vipers waiting on me in our driveway, in the parking lot. I went to my car Ninja-style, or as Ninja as I am capable, eyes darting around, looking for predators, and deeming everything okay after almost getting on the ground, got into my car. Who's dramatic? I don't know what that means.
I leave you with a little story that pretty much encompasses everything I feel about snakes, snakes as pets, snakes as dinner companions, snakes as chess opponents, etc....:
The Little Boy and The Rattlesnake
They sat there and watched the sunset together. It was so beautiful. Then after sunset the rattlesnake turned to the little boy and asked, "Can I go home now? I am tired, and I am old." The little boy picked up the rattlesnake and again took it to his chest and held it tightly and safely. He came all the way down the mountain holding the snake carefully and took it to his home to give him some food and a place to sleep. The next day the rattlesnake turned to the boy and asked, "Please little boy, will you take me back to my home now? It is time for me to leave this world, and I would like to be at my home now." The little boy felt he had been safe all this time and the snake had kept his word, so he would take it home as asked.
He carefully picked up the snake, took it close to his chest, and carried him back to the woods, to his home to die. Just before he laid the rattlesnake down, the rattlesnake turned and bit him in the chest. The little boy cried out and threw the snake upon the ground. "Mr. Snake, why did you do that? Now I will surely die!" The rattlesnake looked up at him and grinned, "You knew what I was when you picked me up."
Friday, August 20, 2010
I'm not aware of too many things; I know what I know if you know what I mean...
Here are some things I don't understand: (in no particular order)
1. Why friends and sometimes family use you under the guise of friendship and familial love, yet they really could care less about you. Like if they heard you were ground up by a wood chipper, they would feel some remorse, sure, but mostly they would bask in the attention surrounding them while they explained how they found you, how close you were, etc....that drives me nuts. Fair-weather user friends drive me nuts, and frankly anyone that cares more about the inconsequential things in life also drives me nuts. Capisce? (Imagine I am Tony Soprano; it's more menacing that way)
2. What the hell is wrong with the world today? I read the list of things that entering college freshman are contributing to the zeitgeist, and I'm scared. They can't write cursive, they don't own watches because they use their cell phones for a clock, they don't know Clint Eastwood played Dirty Harry, and, this is the one I'm adding, I know they don't know how to diagram a sentence.
I'm sorry, but if you talk to the average 18 year old, or, hell, even 20 year old, they are not that bright. They text while at work and school, they think Jersey Shore is the most amazing show ever, and they can't write an intelligible paragraph. I'm getting to the old and cranky stage in life. I cannot stress enough how much good grammar and serviceable writing ability helps you make a good impression on the people that matter. If you say "Lol" out loud in an interview, even just to be clever, you need to get a job carrying Sarah Palin's suitcase of shoes and promise never to procreate.
3. Triviality of any sort. If you go into almost any office or work environment, there is so much gossip, you'd think Bravo had cameras hidden. I myself have, on very rare occasions, enjoyed talking about someone's botched stomach stapling or baby Daddy drama, but doing everything you can to avoid doing your actual job while at WORK drives me insane. You're lucky to have a job, and your decision is to be as lazy as possible, do the bare minimum and spend most of your day bitching about why you're not getting promoted and so-and-so is. Gee, I have a slight clue as to why that might be.
Apathy and bad attitudes at work have always driven me crazy. I'm not saying I have loved every single job I've ever had; far from it, but I am the type of person who if I am sweeping the floor for a living (God forbid), I will show you how sweeping is done. I cannot stand to know I'm not reaching my potential. That's how you move ahead, and it's really convenient to blame it on your supervisor or your boyfriend trouble or whatever, but somewhere along the way, we (of my esteemed generation) developed some ill-advised sense of entitlement that we don't warrant. With the state of the world and people who would love to have a job you suck at and don't want anyway, you can't afford to coast. Removing soapbox...stepping down....
4. How the hell is 80s music gonna be on the Retro music channel on cable? Won't be long before it's under Classics. How did this happen? How did Rick Springfield and Tears for Fears go Retro? If you ask me, Rick Springfield could wring Justin Bieber's wormy, little neck. I think I'm having a pre-midlife crisis. I'm 33 years old, and I wore pigtails in my hair, and if I were 15 and I had seen a 30-something person wearing pigtails, I would've made a snarky comment. However, that 30-something would not have been as cool as me.
I just realized the History Channel is being flung upon me without my consent. Must remedy.
1. Why friends and sometimes family use you under the guise of friendship and familial love, yet they really could care less about you. Like if they heard you were ground up by a wood chipper, they would feel some remorse, sure, but mostly they would bask in the attention surrounding them while they explained how they found you, how close you were, etc....that drives me nuts. Fair-weather user friends drive me nuts, and frankly anyone that cares more about the inconsequential things in life also drives me nuts. Capisce? (Imagine I am Tony Soprano; it's more menacing that way)
2. What the hell is wrong with the world today? I read the list of things that entering college freshman are contributing to the zeitgeist, and I'm scared. They can't write cursive, they don't own watches because they use their cell phones for a clock, they don't know Clint Eastwood played Dirty Harry, and, this is the one I'm adding, I know they don't know how to diagram a sentence.
I'm sorry, but if you talk to the average 18 year old, or, hell, even 20 year old, they are not that bright. They text while at work and school, they think Jersey Shore is the most amazing show ever, and they can't write an intelligible paragraph. I'm getting to the old and cranky stage in life. I cannot stress enough how much good grammar and serviceable writing ability helps you make a good impression on the people that matter. If you say "Lol" out loud in an interview, even just to be clever, you need to get a job carrying Sarah Palin's suitcase of shoes and promise never to procreate.
3. Triviality of any sort. If you go into almost any office or work environment, there is so much gossip, you'd think Bravo had cameras hidden. I myself have, on very rare occasions, enjoyed talking about someone's botched stomach stapling or baby Daddy drama, but doing everything you can to avoid doing your actual job while at WORK drives me insane. You're lucky to have a job, and your decision is to be as lazy as possible, do the bare minimum and spend most of your day bitching about why you're not getting promoted and so-and-so is. Gee, I have a slight clue as to why that might be.
Apathy and bad attitudes at work have always driven me crazy. I'm not saying I have loved every single job I've ever had; far from it, but I am the type of person who if I am sweeping the floor for a living (God forbid), I will show you how sweeping is done. I cannot stand to know I'm not reaching my potential. That's how you move ahead, and it's really convenient to blame it on your supervisor or your boyfriend trouble or whatever, but somewhere along the way, we (of my esteemed generation) developed some ill-advised sense of entitlement that we don't warrant. With the state of the world and people who would love to have a job you suck at and don't want anyway, you can't afford to coast. Removing soapbox...stepping down....
4. How the hell is 80s music gonna be on the Retro music channel on cable? Won't be long before it's under Classics. How did this happen? How did Rick Springfield and Tears for Fears go Retro? If you ask me, Rick Springfield could wring Justin Bieber's wormy, little neck. I think I'm having a pre-midlife crisis. I'm 33 years old, and I wore pigtails in my hair, and if I were 15 and I had seen a 30-something person wearing pigtails, I would've made a snarky comment. However, that 30-something would not have been as cool as me.
I just realized the History Channel is being flung upon me without my consent. Must remedy.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
All work and something something make Homer something something
I'm not keeping up with my internal promise to update the blog every two days, but it's funny how something as simple as sitting down and writing something that doesn't even seem to follow a stream of consciousness becomes cumbersome to do more than a few times a week. I'm sorry, loyal readers and peripheral well-wishers, I aspire to do better.
I found my iPod. I'm very excited. If you were to look at the last playlist I created and the one that I will wear out until it tires me, you would think I was musically schizophrenic. But if you are, in fact, a loyal reader, you know that there is a monkey DJ in my head who does suffer somewhat from a multiple personality disorder. The songs on my iPod range from "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash to nearly the entire soundtrack of "Rocky Horror Picture Show," to Blind Melon to Frank Sinatra, and I love them all; and find that starting my day on the ride to work listening to my Sybil-esque playlist seems to alleviate the stress of the day..ooh, and Madonna, how could I forget her? She is my fall back when nothing else works. Which reminds me that when I was in middle school, I once recorded myself on a Fisher Price tape recorder singing "Dress You Up" and called my current crush and played it. Well, I played part of it, but I think he hung up after the first verse. Ah, the good 'ol days before Caller ID.
Speaking of the Fisher Price tape recorder, I also recorded myself singing Annie's "Tomorrow," because my mother cut my hair off when I was about 6 and forced me to suffer through Ogilvie home perms administered by my grandmother, which caused an actual Afro. Then, she made me sing in talent competitions. If I hadn't been so awkward and markedly untalented, we might've had whatever Toddlers and Tiaras turn into at age 8, but thank God after losing for the 3rd time to someone not much more talented than I singing "Rocky Top," a song which still haunts my dreams, she finally heard me say, "No means no." This is part of the reason why A. I refuse to ever cut my hair above shoulder length (although that's also because I look like a super butchy lesbian with short hair, and B. Pageants and talent competitions kind of creep me out.
I'm getting the old thyroid checked tomorrow. Well, actually, I'm going to the dr and saying "Take all the blood you need, check my thyroid, my blood sugar, my hormones, my cholesterol, my gravy to blood percentage, my prostate, whatever you got..." I have had swollen ankles for nearly a month, have possibly lost one pound that I gain back every day, and I'm getting cranky. If all of those things come out normally, she's giving me a new diet that includes carbs. My body needs carbs. You can't live a decent life without pasta or potatoes. Ask Sophia Loren; she's 400 years old, and people still think she's sexy. That's spaghetti..she's said it herself.
I found my iPod. I'm very excited. If you were to look at the last playlist I created and the one that I will wear out until it tires me, you would think I was musically schizophrenic. But if you are, in fact, a loyal reader, you know that there is a monkey DJ in my head who does suffer somewhat from a multiple personality disorder. The songs on my iPod range from "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash to nearly the entire soundtrack of "Rocky Horror Picture Show," to Blind Melon to Frank Sinatra, and I love them all; and find that starting my day on the ride to work listening to my Sybil-esque playlist seems to alleviate the stress of the day..ooh, and Madonna, how could I forget her? She is my fall back when nothing else works. Which reminds me that when I was in middle school, I once recorded myself on a Fisher Price tape recorder singing "Dress You Up" and called my current crush and played it. Well, I played part of it, but I think he hung up after the first verse. Ah, the good 'ol days before Caller ID.
Speaking of the Fisher Price tape recorder, I also recorded myself singing Annie's "Tomorrow," because my mother cut my hair off when I was about 6 and forced me to suffer through Ogilvie home perms administered by my grandmother, which caused an actual Afro. Then, she made me sing in talent competitions. If I hadn't been so awkward and markedly untalented, we might've had whatever Toddlers and Tiaras turn into at age 8, but thank God after losing for the 3rd time to someone not much more talented than I singing "Rocky Top," a song which still haunts my dreams, she finally heard me say, "No means no." This is part of the reason why A. I refuse to ever cut my hair above shoulder length (although that's also because I look like a super butchy lesbian with short hair, and B. Pageants and talent competitions kind of creep me out.
I'm getting the old thyroid checked tomorrow. Well, actually, I'm going to the dr and saying "Take all the blood you need, check my thyroid, my blood sugar, my hormones, my cholesterol, my gravy to blood percentage, my prostate, whatever you got..." I have had swollen ankles for nearly a month, have possibly lost one pound that I gain back every day, and I'm getting cranky. If all of those things come out normally, she's giving me a new diet that includes carbs. My body needs carbs. You can't live a decent life without pasta or potatoes. Ask Sophia Loren; she's 400 years old, and people still think she's sexy. That's spaghetti..she's said it herself.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The week of birthday suits and antibiotics
So, I have been sick since pretty much last Sunday. I'm okay now, I think, although food and I are still having a relationship laced with animosity. I've suspended the South Beach diet for a few days, as carbs were the only things I could eat that didn't make me cringe. But, I'm hopped up on Bactram, and it seems to be helping. So far, I'm not having a random allergic reaction to it, so that's a score for me after the incident with my face blowing up like Rush Limbaugh after taking Avelox last year.
I think I would rather have the flu or strep throat than a stomach virus. It's like you literally want to trade in your body for another one because yours is rejecting any and all forms of sustenance. And the fever, oh, the fever. I'm wacked out enough without adding fever to the mix. I think I slept like 30 hours between Wednesday and Friday. Enough about that; I'm mostly back to myself.
Smitty's 36th birthday is today...whoooo. Men are kind of funny about birthdays. Women will declare a "birthday week," wear tiaras and feather boas, and make an enormous deal out of our birthdays, and men, at least straight men, are like, "Meh, just another year." I simply don't understand this. This is the one day that should be for YOU, to do whatever you want, people have to be nice to you (also, this happens for 2 weeks after the death of a parent, believe me, I enforced this principle), and you get stuff. How could you not want to capitalize on that? Makes no sense.
I have yet to receive my birthday present from my mom because she mailed my gift to the apartment we moved out of ..... TWO years ago. She's 70, so you might suggest "senior moment," but no, this is a woman who went into the video store many, many years ago and said, "Do you have Mr. Opus' Holiday?" She has had a cell phone for at least 5 years and doesn't know how to do anything but answer it and make calls; she still can't remember the order that the components of Taco Salad go, and she's been making it for about 20 years, and she will call me sometimes, and I answer to complete silence and then hear either, "Oh, I didn't mean to call you," or my favorite is when she doesn't realize that her phone dialed and I just hear discussion between her and my grandmother about what they're eating for dinner. I am also one of the few people who can make her giggle uncontrollably, which as an added bonus, irritates my grandmother to no end. I can only guess it's because, as she recently confessed to me, she has no sense of humor.
In the past few days, I have had the following songs stuck in my head: "Copacabana," "Lola," "Let it Snow" (wishful thinking, I guess) and "Don't Stop Believing." Can you have musical schizophrenia? I'm mildly concerned.
But I will leave you with these Neko Case lyrics, because I love them:
"How will you know if you found me at last
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"
"I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" -- Neko Case
I think I would rather have the flu or strep throat than a stomach virus. It's like you literally want to trade in your body for another one because yours is rejecting any and all forms of sustenance. And the fever, oh, the fever. I'm wacked out enough without adding fever to the mix. I think I slept like 30 hours between Wednesday and Friday. Enough about that; I'm mostly back to myself.
Smitty's 36th birthday is today...whoooo. Men are kind of funny about birthdays. Women will declare a "birthday week," wear tiaras and feather boas, and make an enormous deal out of our birthdays, and men, at least straight men, are like, "Meh, just another year." I simply don't understand this. This is the one day that should be for YOU, to do whatever you want, people have to be nice to you (also, this happens for 2 weeks after the death of a parent, believe me, I enforced this principle), and you get stuff. How could you not want to capitalize on that? Makes no sense.
I have yet to receive my birthday present from my mom because she mailed my gift to the apartment we moved out of ..... TWO years ago. She's 70, so you might suggest "senior moment," but no, this is a woman who went into the video store many, many years ago and said, "Do you have Mr. Opus' Holiday?" She has had a cell phone for at least 5 years and doesn't know how to do anything but answer it and make calls; she still can't remember the order that the components of Taco Salad go, and she's been making it for about 20 years, and she will call me sometimes, and I answer to complete silence and then hear either, "Oh, I didn't mean to call you," or my favorite is when she doesn't realize that her phone dialed and I just hear discussion between her and my grandmother about what they're eating for dinner. I am also one of the few people who can make her giggle uncontrollably, which as an added bonus, irritates my grandmother to no end. I can only guess it's because, as she recently confessed to me, she has no sense of humor.
In the past few days, I have had the following songs stuck in my head: "Copacabana," "Lola," "Let it Snow" (wishful thinking, I guess) and "Don't Stop Believing." Can you have musical schizophrenia? I'm mildly concerned.
But I will leave you with these Neko Case lyrics, because I love them:
"How will you know if you found me at last
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"
"I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" -- Neko Case
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A pirate looks at 33...
When I was about 25, I wrote in my journal "Things I Will Accomplish By 30," and I tried to find the journal, which I know I still have, but I couldn't. I remember listed on it was "learn to play the guitar," "be an accomplished writer," and "be with someone who understands me." There were other things listed, probably something about skydiving or bungee jumping, but I really don't recall. Seriously, it was 8 years ago.
I attempted to learn to play the guitar from a really, really cranky guy who lived in an un-airconditoned apartment in Manayunk, PA...and he made learning the guitar miserable. I had cut my fingernails and painted them and when I didn't immediately pick up on what he was trying to get me to imitate, he said, "Well, I know you don't want to mess up your manicure, but try it again." I paid him for two lessons and quit because I think if you're trying to learn something you want to enjoy, you shouldn't learn it from a cranky, mean man who can't afford air conditioning.
Be an accomplished writer..hmm..haven't achieved that one in the strictest sense, but I wrote a poem in the poetry class I took towards my master's in English that my professor, who didn't like anything he didn't write, told me could easily be published if I pursued it. I have loyal blog readers, even if they won't COMMENT, ahem, and I'm working as hard as I can to make my writing more than something I do in my spare time. I love words so much that if someone would just let me write commercial jingles, I'd be happy. It makes me sad when I hear of creative writing, the literary magazine, or creative arts in general being cut from schools. You can't stifle creativity in children or teenagers. What if that person you're stunting is the next T.S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or John Irving? Words, grammar, and the ability to write an awe-inspiring phrase must still be valued...stepping off soapbox...
Being with someone who understands me...wow, did I hit the proverbial jackpot on this one. And I'll submit, Smitty made me so mad earlier, I cried on my birthday (break out the tiny violins), but one of things I love about Smitty is that our fights, discussions, disagreements, what have you, they only last for a little while. Neither of us can stand to fight with the other, we will not go to bed mad, and I don't care how long we've been married, that's a rule we will always follow, and we listen to each other.
Smitty understands that I trip over the carpet, bump in the yard, smooth hardwood, etc...for no reason at all; he understands that I sing a song that has no relation to anything happening at the time (example, last night, Rod Stewart's "Fascination," which is actually "Infatuation," but doing "Fascination....whoooo, fascination...whooo...while looking in the refrigerator); I will probably always have a dirty car; I refuse to admit there's anything I don't know, when in actuality, there are many things I don't know, but I can admit that to myself, just not to others; I become a crazy diva when there is karaoke involved, I'll snatch a microphone from a child, I'm not kidding; I have to have a recipe when I'm cooking, or chaos and fire ensue; it drives me utterly insane for anyone to mispronounce a word or use one incorrectly; and as long as I have coffee and he tells me he loves me, I'm pretty much satisfied.
And I understand a plethora of things about him, including there are some days when I do not need to share every unconnected thought that comes in my head; there are some days when he is physically incapable of sitting still; he likes guns, despite my outright hate for them, and he could literally watch the History Channel from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, and meanwhile, I'm trying to find a pencil to stick in my brain and swirl it around; he will not walk anywhere, even in the house, barefoot; he has a relationship to his mother that I will never have with mine, and I envy it; and he will do anything to shield me from even the slightest amount of pain, sadness, and hurt, despite the sacrifice to him at the time.
So, even though I can't remember the complete list, those are the fine points that I can recall. And I will eventually learn to play the guitar, but especially with having fulfilled the last major point, the rest of my goals will fall into place. I have a tall, bald guy who makes me laugh and feel safe, and nearly 4 1/2 years ago, I wrote about 200 thank-you notes showing my appreciation for people who celebrated our marriage, so I'm not kidding, I'm never doing that again. We're in this for the long haul. Thirty-three feels pretty nice so far...
In the words of Jimmy Buffet's song, "A Pirate Looks at 40,
" But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again...Just a few friends, just a few friends."
I attempted to learn to play the guitar from a really, really cranky guy who lived in an un-airconditoned apartment in Manayunk, PA...and he made learning the guitar miserable. I had cut my fingernails and painted them and when I didn't immediately pick up on what he was trying to get me to imitate, he said, "Well, I know you don't want to mess up your manicure, but try it again." I paid him for two lessons and quit because I think if you're trying to learn something you want to enjoy, you shouldn't learn it from a cranky, mean man who can't afford air conditioning.
Be an accomplished writer..hmm..haven't achieved that one in the strictest sense, but I wrote a poem in the poetry class I took towards my master's in English that my professor, who didn't like anything he didn't write, told me could easily be published if I pursued it. I have loyal blog readers, even if they won't COMMENT, ahem, and I'm working as hard as I can to make my writing more than something I do in my spare time. I love words so much that if someone would just let me write commercial jingles, I'd be happy. It makes me sad when I hear of creative writing, the literary magazine, or creative arts in general being cut from schools. You can't stifle creativity in children or teenagers. What if that person you're stunting is the next T.S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or John Irving? Words, grammar, and the ability to write an awe-inspiring phrase must still be valued...stepping off soapbox...
Being with someone who understands me...wow, did I hit the proverbial jackpot on this one. And I'll submit, Smitty made me so mad earlier, I cried on my birthday (break out the tiny violins), but one of things I love about Smitty is that our fights, discussions, disagreements, what have you, they only last for a little while. Neither of us can stand to fight with the other, we will not go to bed mad, and I don't care how long we've been married, that's a rule we will always follow, and we listen to each other.
Smitty understands that I trip over the carpet, bump in the yard, smooth hardwood, etc...for no reason at all; he understands that I sing a song that has no relation to anything happening at the time (example, last night, Rod Stewart's "Fascination," which is actually "Infatuation," but doing "Fascination....whoooo, fascination...whooo...while looking in the refrigerator); I will probably always have a dirty car; I refuse to admit there's anything I don't know, when in actuality, there are many things I don't know, but I can admit that to myself, just not to others; I become a crazy diva when there is karaoke involved, I'll snatch a microphone from a child, I'm not kidding; I have to have a recipe when I'm cooking, or chaos and fire ensue; it drives me utterly insane for anyone to mispronounce a word or use one incorrectly; and as long as I have coffee and he tells me he loves me, I'm pretty much satisfied.
And I understand a plethora of things about him, including there are some days when I do not need to share every unconnected thought that comes in my head; there are some days when he is physically incapable of sitting still; he likes guns, despite my outright hate for them, and he could literally watch the History Channel from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, and meanwhile, I'm trying to find a pencil to stick in my brain and swirl it around; he will not walk anywhere, even in the house, barefoot; he has a relationship to his mother that I will never have with mine, and I envy it; and he will do anything to shield me from even the slightest amount of pain, sadness, and hurt, despite the sacrifice to him at the time.
So, even though I can't remember the complete list, those are the fine points that I can recall. And I will eventually learn to play the guitar, but especially with having fulfilled the last major point, the rest of my goals will fall into place. I have a tall, bald guy who makes me laugh and feel safe, and nearly 4 1/2 years ago, I wrote about 200 thank-you notes showing my appreciation for people who celebrated our marriage, so I'm not kidding, I'm never doing that again. We're in this for the long haul. Thirty-three feels pretty nice so far...
In the words of Jimmy Buffet's song, "A Pirate Looks at 40,
" But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again...Just a few friends, just a few friends."
Friday, August 06, 2010
Ben Harper makes me want to get naked and touch velvet
Got your attention, didn't I? Sorry, I found a Ben Harper song on mix CD and his voice makes me happy. It's very soothing and kind of lulls you, which is maybe not the best driving selection, but filled me with joy nonetheless.
I have decided to blame my lack of weight loss on a thyroid problem. I'm only partially kidding. It occurred to me the other day since my mom has thyroid issues that it could be the reason I initially gained so much weight so fast, why I seem incapable of losing any weight despite a complete dietary renovation, and my ankles and feet will not stop swelling, along with a number of other symptoms involving lady problems that I won't delve into. I do have some shame.
So, whatever, I'll get that checked out, but speaking of shame, I realized something today. When you're very young and very old, you have no inner censor. Examples, when I was about 7 and we had the visiting preacher over to our house for lunch, and his wife asked my parents how they met, I replied, "In a bar," which was largely due to the fact that our maid let me watch "As the World Turns," and I assumed everyone met in a bar. My dad thought it was hilarious; my mom, not so much. I used to correct my nursery caregiver at church when she mispronounced a word while reading. That still drives me bonkers, but I try not to correct anyone I don't know that well, as not to make myself seem like a smart ass...they'll learn that soon enough.
On the flip side, my grandmother will say anything and everything that comes into her head. Example: We were at her house one day, DYING of heat exhaustion because even in the summer, her house is about 80 degrees, and she finally allowed us to turn on the window unit in the kitchen. I stood in front of it, crying because I finally didn't feel like I was about to keel over, and she walked past and said, "That thing's not working; it's just blowing out cool wind," and then I asked her what exactly functioning air conditioners did, and she realized what she had just said and wouldn't answer me. Also, she had a neighborhood cat that was sleeping on top of her car, which she didn't drive, and decided to call the local auto mechanic to ask "What is that stuff you can feed cats and it kills them?" I had to wrestle the phone away from her because in a town of 2000 people, if the preacher's cat, yes, I said preacher, turns up poisoned, and he lives two houses down, people might put two and two together.
The best thing that came out of that incident was that someone put a note on top of her windshield that read "I hear you need to get rid of a cat; I remember you had a similar problem with a tree. It seems like you should remedy it in the same manner." Back story briefly: Their neighbor had a tree which had a limb that partially hung over their property. Allegedly, (because my grandfather was awesome and I don't want to libel him) my grandfather sprinkled it with poison nightly for about a month until the entire tree died because the neighbor refused to cut the limb. I know that the note was her other neighbor having a laugh, but she put the note in a plastic bag, and you could only touch the bag, mind you, you couldn't even remove the note, with plastic gloves. She wanted to get a DNA sample from the police, but we dissuaded her against that, not to mention, I'm pretty sure in a town with like 4 cops, that wouldn't have been possible. And she was completely and totally serious, as she recently told me, "Emily, I have no sense of humor. Maybe that's why I didn't get along with your daddy." Fair enough, Mamaw, fair enough.
I have decided to blame my lack of weight loss on a thyroid problem. I'm only partially kidding. It occurred to me the other day since my mom has thyroid issues that it could be the reason I initially gained so much weight so fast, why I seem incapable of losing any weight despite a complete dietary renovation, and my ankles and feet will not stop swelling, along with a number of other symptoms involving lady problems that I won't delve into. I do have some shame.
So, whatever, I'll get that checked out, but speaking of shame, I realized something today. When you're very young and very old, you have no inner censor. Examples, when I was about 7 and we had the visiting preacher over to our house for lunch, and his wife asked my parents how they met, I replied, "In a bar," which was largely due to the fact that our maid let me watch "As the World Turns," and I assumed everyone met in a bar. My dad thought it was hilarious; my mom, not so much. I used to correct my nursery caregiver at church when she mispronounced a word while reading. That still drives me bonkers, but I try not to correct anyone I don't know that well, as not to make myself seem like a smart ass...they'll learn that soon enough.
On the flip side, my grandmother will say anything and everything that comes into her head. Example: We were at her house one day, DYING of heat exhaustion because even in the summer, her house is about 80 degrees, and she finally allowed us to turn on the window unit in the kitchen. I stood in front of it, crying because I finally didn't feel like I was about to keel over, and she walked past and said, "That thing's not working; it's just blowing out cool wind," and then I asked her what exactly functioning air conditioners did, and she realized what she had just said and wouldn't answer me. Also, she had a neighborhood cat that was sleeping on top of her car, which she didn't drive, and decided to call the local auto mechanic to ask "What is that stuff you can feed cats and it kills them?" I had to wrestle the phone away from her because in a town of 2000 people, if the preacher's cat, yes, I said preacher, turns up poisoned, and he lives two houses down, people might put two and two together.
The best thing that came out of that incident was that someone put a note on top of her windshield that read "I hear you need to get rid of a cat; I remember you had a similar problem with a tree. It seems like you should remedy it in the same manner." Back story briefly: Their neighbor had a tree which had a limb that partially hung over their property. Allegedly, (because my grandfather was awesome and I don't want to libel him) my grandfather sprinkled it with poison nightly for about a month until the entire tree died because the neighbor refused to cut the limb. I know that the note was her other neighbor having a laugh, but she put the note in a plastic bag, and you could only touch the bag, mind you, you couldn't even remove the note, with plastic gloves. She wanted to get a DNA sample from the police, but we dissuaded her against that, not to mention, I'm pretty sure in a town with like 4 cops, that wouldn't have been possible. And she was completely and totally serious, as she recently told me, "Emily, I have no sense of humor. Maybe that's why I didn't get along with your daddy." Fair enough, Mamaw, fair enough.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Long, hot, never ending summer
I'm sorry, did I sign up to be an extra in "A Time to Kill" and not remember? I cannot stop sweating, which is gross. It is too hot; I can't even sit on the front porch at night, because the mugginess rises up and smacks me in the face..which is rude for an atmospheric status to do. I never thought I would say I was ready for football season, but I am, because football season signals cool weather, Thanksgiving, sweaters, etc...I saw a girl at work today wearing a cardigan outside. I literally wanted to punch her. It made me hotter just looking at her. Clearly, she's a transplant from Alaska; that's the only logical explanation I can glean. Otherwise, she's a moron.
South Beach Diet Week 3, pounds lost: 3. SRSLY...I am losing one pound a week, and the book mocks me with its "By Week 3, you should've lost anywhere from 8 to 14 pounds. Hey, Dr. South Beach, why don't you bite me? I'm following your stupid diet, I nearly made Smitty and I sick with questionable turkey meatloaf last night, I haven't eaten pasta in a month, and your printed words echo failure throughout my head. If I had known eating healthily wouldn't have caused me to lose weight, I would've been in mashed potato and spaghetti-eating contests. I'm not stopping the diet, b/c I feel perhaps my monthly hormonal intruder is causing interference with the diet. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. If I don't start to lose weight soon, however, I'm having a talk with my doctor who recommended this torture.
My nightly sleep aversion reared its ugly head earlier this week. I was so tired, and I lay down, and bam, wide awake. I flipped and flopped around until I heard this from Smitty, "SSSSIIIIIIGGH," (that's really the only way I know how to write a frustrated exhalation, and I knew I was getting on his nerves and "stealing his warm cocoon air," so I got up and went to the couch and watched bad TV, then "Dead Poets Society," (Oh Captain, my Captain indeed) until I fell asleep at 2:30. Thank God I had the next day off or there would have been some degree of taking phone calls the next day and saying, "What was that? I nodded off while you were talking. You wanted to add a '10 Mercedes with comp and collision? Oh, you wanted to add an '89 Toyota Corolla with liability only? That's what I thought you said."
I got an early birthday present from Smitty..birthday is Aug. 9 for those who have deep pockets and a generous nature. He gave me American Idol 2 for the Playstation 3. Oh, my Lord. We already christened it Saturday night with friends and an off-balance me, but this game, while fun for groups, is actually for me to do as loudly as I want when no one is home or when Smitty is on business trips. We have no neighbors to apologize to, and when I'm by myself, my renditions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Holiday" rival no other. I give myself chills and then get cranky when game Simon criticizes my performance. He's mean, even on video game. I have, however, beat the game and become video American Idol, but that was on the XBox. I'll have to see what I can do on this newfangled game system.
South Beach Diet Week 3, pounds lost: 3. SRSLY...I am losing one pound a week, and the book mocks me with its "By Week 3, you should've lost anywhere from 8 to 14 pounds. Hey, Dr. South Beach, why don't you bite me? I'm following your stupid diet, I nearly made Smitty and I sick with questionable turkey meatloaf last night, I haven't eaten pasta in a month, and your printed words echo failure throughout my head. If I had known eating healthily wouldn't have caused me to lose weight, I would've been in mashed potato and spaghetti-eating contests. I'm not stopping the diet, b/c I feel perhaps my monthly hormonal intruder is causing interference with the diet. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. If I don't start to lose weight soon, however, I'm having a talk with my doctor who recommended this torture.
My nightly sleep aversion reared its ugly head earlier this week. I was so tired, and I lay down, and bam, wide awake. I flipped and flopped around until I heard this from Smitty, "SSSSIIIIIIGGH," (that's really the only way I know how to write a frustrated exhalation, and I knew I was getting on his nerves and "stealing his warm cocoon air," so I got up and went to the couch and watched bad TV, then "Dead Poets Society," (Oh Captain, my Captain indeed) until I fell asleep at 2:30. Thank God I had the next day off or there would have been some degree of taking phone calls the next day and saying, "What was that? I nodded off while you were talking. You wanted to add a '10 Mercedes with comp and collision? Oh, you wanted to add an '89 Toyota Corolla with liability only? That's what I thought you said."
I got an early birthday present from Smitty..birthday is Aug. 9 for those who have deep pockets and a generous nature. He gave me American Idol 2 for the Playstation 3. Oh, my Lord. We already christened it Saturday night with friends and an off-balance me, but this game, while fun for groups, is actually for me to do as loudly as I want when no one is home or when Smitty is on business trips. We have no neighbors to apologize to, and when I'm by myself, my renditions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Holiday" rival no other. I give myself chills and then get cranky when game Simon criticizes my performance. He's mean, even on video game. I have, however, beat the game and become video American Idol, but that was on the XBox. I'll have to see what I can do on this newfangled game system.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Love letter to carbs and some other things
Dear Carbs,
I miss you; do you miss me? You probably don't. You've probably moved on to others, and I understand. I would've done the same thing.
We've had some really good times, no? Pasta, do you remember how every time Smitty would go out of town, we would have our special time together because I didn't feel like cooking anything else? We would have wine, watch some DVR and really let our hair down. Mmm...I miss the taste of you mingled with marinara sauce. I dream about it.
Potatoes, I can't forget you. You soothed me when I was sick and couldn't eat anything else. Your loving starch enveloped me like a comfortable blanket and filled up my my empty places with buttery goodness. You are sometimes like the lesser-known friend talked about in "Wind Beneath My Wings." You fit into any meal with no aforethought as to whether you may have had something else to do, and you do it with aplomb and grace.
Rice and bread, how do you manage your adaptability? You can make a sandwich, and you can go underneath anything, respectively, to complete all of us. How many times has a sandwich hit the spot after a long day? And rice, you were a main component of my favorite dish growing up, pepper steak, and you can't be substituted for brown rice. Brown rice, I've met white rice, and you are no white rice.
I will be seeing some of you soon, although in smaller portions, perhaps with whole grains thrown crudely over your perfect forms, but I wanted you to know, that if you want to text me or friend me on Facebook, we could do that, but I can't make any plans to see you just yet.
I love you all,
Emily
Ahhhh...that was cathartic. When we went grocery shopping Sunday, I actually said to an inanimate potato, "I miss you." Smitty pretended not to know me. That's fine, I just wanted them to be aware. I nearly clawed the throat out of a co-worker eating a chocolate cookie, but it was a fleeting primal thing, like when you're waiting for a bus or train and briefly think about pushing someone in front of the bus/train. I fight these things. Occasionally, my inner censor fails, and I see a guy at a party wearing baggy, acid-washed jeans and a wife-beater, and I can't take it any more and ask, "I'm sorry, but what exactly were you thinking when you left the house?" And all my guy friends shrink away because they assume he won't hit me, but will hit them...and it works out fine, because he knows he's lame and just says, "I've been working out."
My point is, for the most part, I don't say or do the things I really want to. None of us do. I probably do more than others, but it's not really shocking from me anymore. We should all take a well-inked lesson from the "Simpsons" episode where Bart did whatever he wanted and the town followed suit. I think it causes cancer, or at the very least, wrinkles, to tell even white lies. That's how heart disease happens, people. Fly the blunt flag...or just do what I do and phrase it sarcastically so people don't know if you're serious.
I miss you; do you miss me? You probably don't. You've probably moved on to others, and I understand. I would've done the same thing.
We've had some really good times, no? Pasta, do you remember how every time Smitty would go out of town, we would have our special time together because I didn't feel like cooking anything else? We would have wine, watch some DVR and really let our hair down. Mmm...I miss the taste of you mingled with marinara sauce. I dream about it.
Potatoes, I can't forget you. You soothed me when I was sick and couldn't eat anything else. Your loving starch enveloped me like a comfortable blanket and filled up my my empty places with buttery goodness. You are sometimes like the lesser-known friend talked about in "Wind Beneath My Wings." You fit into any meal with no aforethought as to whether you may have had something else to do, and you do it with aplomb and grace.
Rice and bread, how do you manage your adaptability? You can make a sandwich, and you can go underneath anything, respectively, to complete all of us. How many times has a sandwich hit the spot after a long day? And rice, you were a main component of my favorite dish growing up, pepper steak, and you can't be substituted for brown rice. Brown rice, I've met white rice, and you are no white rice.
I will be seeing some of you soon, although in smaller portions, perhaps with whole grains thrown crudely over your perfect forms, but I wanted you to know, that if you want to text me or friend me on Facebook, we could do that, but I can't make any plans to see you just yet.
I love you all,
Emily
Ahhhh...that was cathartic. When we went grocery shopping Sunday, I actually said to an inanimate potato, "I miss you." Smitty pretended not to know me. That's fine, I just wanted them to be aware. I nearly clawed the throat out of a co-worker eating a chocolate cookie, but it was a fleeting primal thing, like when you're waiting for a bus or train and briefly think about pushing someone in front of the bus/train. I fight these things. Occasionally, my inner censor fails, and I see a guy at a party wearing baggy, acid-washed jeans and a wife-beater, and I can't take it any more and ask, "I'm sorry, but what exactly were you thinking when you left the house?" And all my guy friends shrink away because they assume he won't hit me, but will hit them...and it works out fine, because he knows he's lame and just says, "I've been working out."
My point is, for the most part, I don't say or do the things I really want to. None of us do. I probably do more than others, but it's not really shocking from me anymore. We should all take a well-inked lesson from the "Simpsons" episode where Bart did whatever he wanted and the town followed suit. I think it causes cancer, or at the very least, wrinkles, to tell even white lies. That's how heart disease happens, people. Fly the blunt flag...or just do what I do and phrase it sarcastically so people don't know if you're serious.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Welcome to Hotel Soda Detox
So, as many of you may've read, after starting the South Beach Diet, I felt phenomenal until yesterday, when I started feeling dizzy and off-balance..even more so than usual..and today, I figured it out. I'm not drinking caffeine any more after coffee in the morning. I was so geeked up on caffeine, and honestly, before starting this diet, I had even cut down, that I'm literally having withdrawals. Also, am still retaining water in my feet and now, hands, to the point that I look like Princess Cankles and the Mayor of Sausage Finger Village. Ugh...At this point, I haven't lost any weight and am somewhat dismayed because everyone who has tried this diet has lauded losing 5-8 pounds in the first week...well, there are two days to go, I've eaten everything I'm supposed to, and even exercised...sigh...alas, I'm not giving up, I just think, if we can put people on the moon, we can make diets that work instantly.
We're watching "The Golden Child," which never ceases to crack me up. It's nice to see Eddie Murphy when he was still funny. What happened to him? I think his last movie was "Daddy Day Camp vs. Dr. Doolittle: Electric Boogaloo." Sad..which brings me to...what ever happened to Jodie Foster, Edward Norton, Denzel Washington, Naomi Watts, and Nicole Kidman, to name a few...why aren't they making movies?
I have this mental list of productive things to do this weekend with my newfound energy:
1. Clean out my car. Any of you that have known me for at least 10 years know that I have a long-standing history of disgusting cars. The '93 Ford Probe I got when I graduated from high school wasn't a bad car, but for some reason, I chose to throw anything and everything into the backseat and floorboards of that car. My best friend Amanda once rode with me somewhere to meet mutual friends and secretly asked another friend to give her a ride back when something in the car bit her..(allegedly).
When I sold that car privately, there were books, my tennis racket, food wrappers, and possibly a small Mexican family living in it, but I couldn't clean it out because my ankle was broken, so my mom let the buyer drive away with God knows what. The funny thing was, that car also had about 5 bumper stickers on it which included, "It'll be a better world when teachers and schools have all the money they need, but the military has to hold a bake sale to buy weapons," "I'm Pro-choice, and I vote," and "Diva." A man in his 50s bought the car, and my friend Ellen saw it parked at Belk about 6 months later, and he had taken all the stickers off except for "Diva."
2. Straighten our bookshelf. Since I was 7, I've collected books. My grandfather got shipments of books from publishers and let us choose what we wanted, and he reviewed the rest for newspapers and the publishing companies. If I had to go to a desert island and choose only three books, I would die. Smitty had no idea what he was getting into as far as acquiring books along with a winsome bride. When my father died, I got some of the most precious books in the world, including his master's thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien and all of his Norton anthologies he used for teaching his literature classes. And the best part is that they're underlined with his favorite parts, some of which he and I used to discuss. I miss my dad.
3. Washing our dirty, stinky dogs. Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, but they are both long overdue for baths. Every time I get out of my car and they ebulliently greet me, a wave of general outside stench and stinky dog washes over me. I know how Norton deals with baths (shakes uncontrollably while giving me a dirty look and trying to escape), but I haven't given Zooey a bath yet. Should be interesting. In fact, I believe I shall enlist Smitty to take pictures. I don't take enough pictures..and I would like a photographic measure of how much weight I will lose...it'll be like before and after pics involving dogs..perhaps there's a fetish site where money can be made....hmmm
We're watching "The Golden Child," which never ceases to crack me up. It's nice to see Eddie Murphy when he was still funny. What happened to him? I think his last movie was "Daddy Day Camp vs. Dr. Doolittle: Electric Boogaloo." Sad..which brings me to...what ever happened to Jodie Foster, Edward Norton, Denzel Washington, Naomi Watts, and Nicole Kidman, to name a few...why aren't they making movies?
I have this mental list of productive things to do this weekend with my newfound energy:
1. Clean out my car. Any of you that have known me for at least 10 years know that I have a long-standing history of disgusting cars. The '93 Ford Probe I got when I graduated from high school wasn't a bad car, but for some reason, I chose to throw anything and everything into the backseat and floorboards of that car. My best friend Amanda once rode with me somewhere to meet mutual friends and secretly asked another friend to give her a ride back when something in the car bit her..(allegedly).
When I sold that car privately, there were books, my tennis racket, food wrappers, and possibly a small Mexican family living in it, but I couldn't clean it out because my ankle was broken, so my mom let the buyer drive away with God knows what. The funny thing was, that car also had about 5 bumper stickers on it which included, "It'll be a better world when teachers and schools have all the money they need, but the military has to hold a bake sale to buy weapons," "I'm Pro-choice, and I vote," and "Diva." A man in his 50s bought the car, and my friend Ellen saw it parked at Belk about 6 months later, and he had taken all the stickers off except for "Diva."
2. Straighten our bookshelf. Since I was 7, I've collected books. My grandfather got shipments of books from publishers and let us choose what we wanted, and he reviewed the rest for newspapers and the publishing companies. If I had to go to a desert island and choose only three books, I would die. Smitty had no idea what he was getting into as far as acquiring books along with a winsome bride. When my father died, I got some of the most precious books in the world, including his master's thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien and all of his Norton anthologies he used for teaching his literature classes. And the best part is that they're underlined with his favorite parts, some of which he and I used to discuss. I miss my dad.
3. Washing our dirty, stinky dogs. Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, but they are both long overdue for baths. Every time I get out of my car and they ebulliently greet me, a wave of general outside stench and stinky dog washes over me. I know how Norton deals with baths (shakes uncontrollably while giving me a dirty look and trying to escape), but I haven't given Zooey a bath yet. Should be interesting. In fact, I believe I shall enlist Smitty to take pictures. I don't take enough pictures..and I would like a photographic measure of how much weight I will lose...it'll be like before and after pics involving dogs..perhaps there's a fetish site where money can be made....hmmm
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)