Ohhh, need to sleep so badly and can't. I've been doing well with the insomnia problem for the last couple of weeks, and tonight, I am so cranky, hormonal and utterly exhausted, that I can't sleep or be still, and it's driving me mad.
I feel like a huge baby considering what's going on in the southern part of this country to say that I've had a week that seemed Dante-esque in its ickiness, but I can't help it.
And frankly, the events in the South are a large contributing factor to the way I feel right now. I'm dumbfounded at what is going on, and I honestly don't know what to do or say about it that will do any good whatsoever.
I may be able to volunteer next week, I'm just waiting to hear, and maybe that will help me stop feeling so impotent and like everything I have been doing in my daily life this week is so pointless when so many people need help.
That being said, there were other things that have contributed to my shitty, shitty mood; my job is wearing on my nerves faster than a Fox News program, and it's starting to get to me.
I went through waves of denial after the initial "Yay, I got a job with insurance" thing wore off, thinking, well, "It must get better. It can't truly be this mind-numbing." Umm..actually, it turns out it can and is, which makes me all the more determined to get into graduate school in the fall. I don't care if I have to go to Sasketchewan University to get my degree, I'm going back to school to study creative writing. I think I'd rather be happy and poor than comfortable and miserable.
What else am I cranky about? Hmm...in no particular order..
a. People who take people for granted. 'Nuff said. That is never an okay thing to do, and I grow weary of it.
b. Getting cut off in traffic about 50 times this week. They're called turn signals; look into them, drivers of Philadelphia.
c. The fact that I can have about 3 drinks now during the week and literally feel as though a truck has run over me the next day. Getting old is not all that pleasant at all. Also, a sub-note of that, I now get circles under my eyes if I don't sleep well, which I never did before, and I think readers of this blog know how well I'm sleeping, so happy f-ing 28th birthday to me. I'll be an alligator bag-face by the age of 30.
d. The cost of gas. That's all I'm going to say about it, but I think I'm going to start commuting via Razor Scooter.
Alright, I think that about covers it.
On a brighter note, there were things that made me happy this week: Finding out that all my friends and family were safe after the storm hit made me extremely grateful; Simon talking about kicking the "footy" and getting into an argument about where to buy Red Sox gear for someone who really loves the Red Sox with a crazy Phillies fan saleslady. I didn't think it was funny at the time, but now that I have a little perspective on it, it's actually really hilarious. Sports fans in Philly are so nuts, they really should have special wings of mental hospitals.
Good night (hopefully).
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
A loss of comprehension
I wrote yesterday about my initial impressions of the effects of Hurricane Katrina on my home state and surrounding areas, and I have to admit, I had no idea what I was talking about when I posted yesterday.
I have felt, since Sunday, that I was in an information vacuum, and had no real idea of how extensive the damage was.
The city of New Orleans, which I personally would wager to say, is the best fucking city in the country, is in dire straits. The levees have been breached in two places and because of the extensive water pressure on those places, the Corps of Engineers has not been able to repair them, which means that the city continues to be deluged with water, and the situation of what may happen next becomes more and more critical.
Because I'm in Pennsylvania, I have limited access to local coverage as to what is happening, although, clearly all news media is focused on what has happened there.
But the thing is, the coverage is centered on the coast, and because they weren't really able to get in there until yesterday, it's been sporadic.
So, as of yesterday morning, I had no idea that the situation was as bad as it was, and I was just glad that I was able to reach my dad last night to find out that they were okay. But then that presented a whole other set of problems, because the last time a major hurricane made its way up to north Mississippi, hundreds were without power; some lost their homes, and I wanted to know where my friends were, but I still couldn't get through because of limited phone service.
I have gotten through to everyone now, and I'm so grateful. I feel so bad for New Orleans and the cities of the coast that were the hardest hit, that I really can't even express it.
The thing that warms my heart, is that I know the resilient nature of a Southerner. We don't take no shit, and we don't admit defeat. Look at us, 140 years later, we refuse to admit defeat in the Civil War in earnest.
I have endured serious accusations of abandoning the South for "the Yankees," without a hint of irony, when I moved to Philadelphia.
It will be a long, costly, arduous process, but the cities will rebuild and the citizens will exhibit more strength than most of us are capable of, because that's what Southerners do.
And I've never been more aware of that fact until now, being over 1,000 miles away from that place in which I grew up, and truly, that's where my heart is gonna be for the next few months, or longer, until they are back to their fighting weight, but I have no doubt that they will eventually be, so that's what comforts me, if only somewhat, at this point.
I have felt, since Sunday, that I was in an information vacuum, and had no real idea of how extensive the damage was.
The city of New Orleans, which I personally would wager to say, is the best fucking city in the country, is in dire straits. The levees have been breached in two places and because of the extensive water pressure on those places, the Corps of Engineers has not been able to repair them, which means that the city continues to be deluged with water, and the situation of what may happen next becomes more and more critical.
Because I'm in Pennsylvania, I have limited access to local coverage as to what is happening, although, clearly all news media is focused on what has happened there.
But the thing is, the coverage is centered on the coast, and because they weren't really able to get in there until yesterday, it's been sporadic.
So, as of yesterday morning, I had no idea that the situation was as bad as it was, and I was just glad that I was able to reach my dad last night to find out that they were okay. But then that presented a whole other set of problems, because the last time a major hurricane made its way up to north Mississippi, hundreds were without power; some lost their homes, and I wanted to know where my friends were, but I still couldn't get through because of limited phone service.
I have gotten through to everyone now, and I'm so grateful. I feel so bad for New Orleans and the cities of the coast that were the hardest hit, that I really can't even express it.
The thing that warms my heart, is that I know the resilient nature of a Southerner. We don't take no shit, and we don't admit defeat. Look at us, 140 years later, we refuse to admit defeat in the Civil War in earnest.
I have endured serious accusations of abandoning the South for "the Yankees," without a hint of irony, when I moved to Philadelphia.
It will be a long, costly, arduous process, but the cities will rebuild and the citizens will exhibit more strength than most of us are capable of, because that's what Southerners do.
And I've never been more aware of that fact until now, being over 1,000 miles away from that place in which I grew up, and truly, that's where my heart is gonna be for the next few months, or longer, until they are back to their fighting weight, but I have no doubt that they will eventually be, so that's what comforts me, if only somewhat, at this point.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Helpless and nostalgic
I have been watching the news coverage of Hurricane Katrina that ripped through my home state and some of my old stomping grounds, including the Mississippi and Alabama Gulf Coasts and New Orleans, and I have been thinking about the time I've spent at the various locations that were hit the hardest and how sad it makes me to see the rubble they've become.
First of all, there is no worse feeling than the one I had yesterday when I didn't know where the storm was, knowing how devastating the winds could be even as far up into north Misssissippi where my parents and a majority of friends live, and I couldn't get through to anyone.
The news coverage of anywhere but the coast has been deplorable, as my parents, way the hell up in north Mississippi, had been without power for 20 hours, not that I would've known it, because the national media didn't mention the small towns throughout the South that were affected.
Now, I'm worried about friends I can't reach, although through local news there, I do now basically now that they're okay, but any of you reading this that I haven't spoken to, need to call me. I mean it, bitches!
I hate that helpless feeling, and I hate even more knowing that amazing areas of the South that colored memories of my youth are virtually destroyed now and will take weeks and months to rebuild.
We always went to Orange Beach in Gulf Shores for our annual family vacations, and, honestly, I have no idea what shape that area is in, but for other vacations, we went to Biloxi, and it was hit hard.
I remember Biloxi before its biggest boon was casinos, and it was a beautiful beach town. The beach left a lot to be desired at the time, because not nearly as much care was put into as has been since the casinos popped up, but it was a sleepy Southern beach town that afforded Mississippi families who wanted a short trip within their state a place to go, have fun and come home feeling satisfied.
New Orleans is a whole other story. I never went to New Orleans until I was in college, and I regret that I haven't been there more often.
New Orleans is easily the best part of the South with perhaps Memphis as a bit of competition, and it literally hurts my heart to see what shape not only the city itself, but the people are in right now.
New Orleans is a picture-perfect blend of quaint Southern charm and the naughtiness that non-judgmental Catholics can enjoy.
The architectural alone is enough to make you sigh, but then you experience the city, which has an actual pulse, and you're hooked.
I regret that I've only been there during Mardi Gras which is no way to fully appreciate such an amazing place, alive at all times with jazz and gypsies and who knows who else might be strolling down a street in the Garden District.
If you've never been there, give them about 3 months, and I know without hesitation, that they will rebuild, restructure and come back with a vengeance.
I was listening to NPR today to a guy who rode out the storm in his 160-year-old French Quarter apartment, and after the eye had passed, he went out exploring the immediate neighborhood. He encountered a few bars that had stayed open, boarding their windows and spray painting on the boards, "We refuse to die sober."
That city ain't going out into that good night..
First of all, there is no worse feeling than the one I had yesterday when I didn't know where the storm was, knowing how devastating the winds could be even as far up into north Misssissippi where my parents and a majority of friends live, and I couldn't get through to anyone.
The news coverage of anywhere but the coast has been deplorable, as my parents, way the hell up in north Mississippi, had been without power for 20 hours, not that I would've known it, because the national media didn't mention the small towns throughout the South that were affected.
Now, I'm worried about friends I can't reach, although through local news there, I do now basically now that they're okay, but any of you reading this that I haven't spoken to, need to call me. I mean it, bitches!
I hate that helpless feeling, and I hate even more knowing that amazing areas of the South that colored memories of my youth are virtually destroyed now and will take weeks and months to rebuild.
We always went to Orange Beach in Gulf Shores for our annual family vacations, and, honestly, I have no idea what shape that area is in, but for other vacations, we went to Biloxi, and it was hit hard.
I remember Biloxi before its biggest boon was casinos, and it was a beautiful beach town. The beach left a lot to be desired at the time, because not nearly as much care was put into as has been since the casinos popped up, but it was a sleepy Southern beach town that afforded Mississippi families who wanted a short trip within their state a place to go, have fun and come home feeling satisfied.
New Orleans is a whole other story. I never went to New Orleans until I was in college, and I regret that I haven't been there more often.
New Orleans is easily the best part of the South with perhaps Memphis as a bit of competition, and it literally hurts my heart to see what shape not only the city itself, but the people are in right now.
New Orleans is a picture-perfect blend of quaint Southern charm and the naughtiness that non-judgmental Catholics can enjoy.
The architectural alone is enough to make you sigh, but then you experience the city, which has an actual pulse, and you're hooked.
I regret that I've only been there during Mardi Gras which is no way to fully appreciate such an amazing place, alive at all times with jazz and gypsies and who knows who else might be strolling down a street in the Garden District.
If you've never been there, give them about 3 months, and I know without hesitation, that they will rebuild, restructure and come back with a vengeance.
I was listening to NPR today to a guy who rode out the storm in his 160-year-old French Quarter apartment, and after the eye had passed, he went out exploring the immediate neighborhood. He encountered a few bars that had stayed open, boarding their windows and spray painting on the boards, "We refuse to die sober."
That city ain't going out into that good night..
Monday, August 22, 2005
No sleep for the weary
I have recently become a world-class insomniac. I used to hear people say they had insomnia and think to myself, "HA! I can sleep through anything..suckers." Now, I think the fact that I had those thoughts is manifesting itself with some sort of karmic retribution, and it is not pleasant.
I am tired for most of the day, daydreaming about when I can come home and take a nap or imagining going to bed at a normal time and sleeping the sleep of the content. But that has only happened about 4 times in the last month, and it's starting to wear on me a bit.
I think of that line from "Fight Club," in the beginning, about how when you stop sleeping, you never really know what's real and what's not. I probably screwed that up, but you get the general idea.
Seriously, after the first couple of weeks, I would just sort of feel like I was underwater for a large part of the day, and then I would get a second wind, but still not feel quite normal. It was an odd euphoric feeling, that would still allow me to be able to sleep for at least the first part of the night, and then at 2 a.m. was when the fun would start.
Now, I don't know what to think. I'm pretty cranky all the time, which was hard to recognize as a symptom for a while, I have headaches, and when I do finally sleep, I wake up so many times that by the time my alarm goes off, I'm never really sure if I was asleep or not.
It's kind of a maddening way to live. I've tried to pinpoint what may've set this into motion, and I honestly don't know. Sleep and I have always had a very fond relationship.
Had a rough day? There's my old friend Sleep willing to step in and lend a 45-minute power nap-hand to help out.
Been burning the candle at both ends for a few days in a row? Sleep knows what to do. A nice 12-hour refueling, and everything is back to normal.
I'm trying to decide if my body has suddenly realized that it's 28 and no longer wants to accept caffeine after a certain hour, which is what my sister suggested, but I refuse to be one of those people who says that drinking a Coke after 1 p.m. will keep them awake for the rest of the day. I'm not THAT old, Jesus.
I will never forget one of the funniest memories I have of my friend, Brian. We had been dating about 3 months and had taken our first overnight road trip to Huntsville, Ala., to see my friend Layla.
We had been out having a few beers and had headed back to our hotel for the night. As we're going in, I stop by the vending machine, as this was during the "Mountain Dew..to hell with my kidneys" phase, so that I could dose up on its sugary goodness.
Brian says to me, without a hint of irony, "You're getting a Mountain Dew. Well (insert old man voice here), don't keep me awake all night after you drink it," as though I'm going to finish drinking it and immediately start pole vaulting around the room.
I found it so funny, in fact, that I laughed, rather loudly, for about 5 minutes, the entire way it took us to get to our room, and I'm fairly sure that I kept laughing well after we got into it.
Now, who's laughing? Now that I dread actually putting head to pillow at night, because I lie there (blink, blink), tossing and turning for 2 hours, I may actually have to conduct a series of experiments that may involve cutting off caffeine in the afternoon to see if that's what the problem is.
I'm off to bed (again). Wish me luck.
I am tired for most of the day, daydreaming about when I can come home and take a nap or imagining going to bed at a normal time and sleeping the sleep of the content. But that has only happened about 4 times in the last month, and it's starting to wear on me a bit.
I think of that line from "Fight Club," in the beginning, about how when you stop sleeping, you never really know what's real and what's not. I probably screwed that up, but you get the general idea.
Seriously, after the first couple of weeks, I would just sort of feel like I was underwater for a large part of the day, and then I would get a second wind, but still not feel quite normal. It was an odd euphoric feeling, that would still allow me to be able to sleep for at least the first part of the night, and then at 2 a.m. was when the fun would start.
Now, I don't know what to think. I'm pretty cranky all the time, which was hard to recognize as a symptom for a while, I have headaches, and when I do finally sleep, I wake up so many times that by the time my alarm goes off, I'm never really sure if I was asleep or not.
It's kind of a maddening way to live. I've tried to pinpoint what may've set this into motion, and I honestly don't know. Sleep and I have always had a very fond relationship.
Had a rough day? There's my old friend Sleep willing to step in and lend a 45-minute power nap-hand to help out.
Been burning the candle at both ends for a few days in a row? Sleep knows what to do. A nice 12-hour refueling, and everything is back to normal.
I'm trying to decide if my body has suddenly realized that it's 28 and no longer wants to accept caffeine after a certain hour, which is what my sister suggested, but I refuse to be one of those people who says that drinking a Coke after 1 p.m. will keep them awake for the rest of the day. I'm not THAT old, Jesus.
I will never forget one of the funniest memories I have of my friend, Brian. We had been dating about 3 months and had taken our first overnight road trip to Huntsville, Ala., to see my friend Layla.
We had been out having a few beers and had headed back to our hotel for the night. As we're going in, I stop by the vending machine, as this was during the "Mountain Dew..to hell with my kidneys" phase, so that I could dose up on its sugary goodness.
Brian says to me, without a hint of irony, "You're getting a Mountain Dew. Well (insert old man voice here), don't keep me awake all night after you drink it," as though I'm going to finish drinking it and immediately start pole vaulting around the room.
I found it so funny, in fact, that I laughed, rather loudly, for about 5 minutes, the entire way it took us to get to our room, and I'm fairly sure that I kept laughing well after we got into it.
Now, who's laughing? Now that I dread actually putting head to pillow at night, because I lie there (blink, blink), tossing and turning for 2 hours, I may actually have to conduct a series of experiments that may involve cutting off caffeine in the afternoon to see if that's what the problem is.
I'm off to bed (again). Wish me luck.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
A woman obsessed
I have a compulsive personality, I'll admit it. When I choose to engage in certain behavior, I do it obsessively until I'm tired of it, which could be anywhere from a week to a year.
Previous obsessions have included karaoke at least once a week, sometimes twice, fried cheese with ranch dressing, having to check my alarm clock 8 times before I went to sleep, and reading anything Kurt Vonnegut ever wrote.
Now, these are not all bad things to be addicted to, mind you, but having just spent nearly a full two weeks watching basically nothing but The Sopranos and only really stopping because I ran out of episodes and Season 4 won't be delivered until Tuesday, I realize now that I have some "issues," to put it mildly.
I once watched that show "I Love the '80s" on VH1 for an entire 8 hours, even though I had stuff to do that day and was actually expected somewhere about an hour before I got there.
That show is a perfect way for me to hone the compulsion. It has short, attention-grabbing clips, and when one show ends, the next one just kind of morphs into being without so much as a commercial break. So, even when I was thinking,"Okay, must get into the shower now," another show would start, and I would be held captive for the next half hour or 3 hours, however long the marathon went.
I did this with "Sex and the City" as well. When I had both a VCR and DVD player, I was a woman possessed with having to watch every episode back to back. I have 3 seasons on VHS and 2 on DVD, but now I only have a DVD player, so basically I have the seasons that I do own memorized, which is not such a good thing.
When a person is telling me of relationship trouble, or I'm discussing my own, and I say, "Well, it's like when Carrie and Mister Big did this...or said this..," that can't be good.
I've gone so far as to actually call certain men in my life Mister Big and give detailed reasons as to why I think that. I have a problem.
But now, the sickness is clearly focused on The Sopranos. I love, love, love James Gandolfini. I've mentioned that in a previous post about my fascination with the Mafia, but I think my feelings for him veer over into "I-Want-To-Start-A-Fan-Club" territory.
When he walks down the driveway to pick up the newspaper in his little terrycloth bathrobe, I want to molest him. Or even when he yells at his kids because he genuinely doesn't want them to turn out like him, *sigh*, my heart breaks just a little.
My name is Emily, and I'm addicted to Tony Soprano
Previous obsessions have included karaoke at least once a week, sometimes twice, fried cheese with ranch dressing, having to check my alarm clock 8 times before I went to sleep, and reading anything Kurt Vonnegut ever wrote.
Now, these are not all bad things to be addicted to, mind you, but having just spent nearly a full two weeks watching basically nothing but The Sopranos and only really stopping because I ran out of episodes and Season 4 won't be delivered until Tuesday, I realize now that I have some "issues," to put it mildly.
I once watched that show "I Love the '80s" on VH1 for an entire 8 hours, even though I had stuff to do that day and was actually expected somewhere about an hour before I got there.
That show is a perfect way for me to hone the compulsion. It has short, attention-grabbing clips, and when one show ends, the next one just kind of morphs into being without so much as a commercial break. So, even when I was thinking,"Okay, must get into the shower now," another show would start, and I would be held captive for the next half hour or 3 hours, however long the marathon went.
I did this with "Sex and the City" as well. When I had both a VCR and DVD player, I was a woman possessed with having to watch every episode back to back. I have 3 seasons on VHS and 2 on DVD, but now I only have a DVD player, so basically I have the seasons that I do own memorized, which is not such a good thing.
When a person is telling me of relationship trouble, or I'm discussing my own, and I say, "Well, it's like when Carrie and Mister Big did this...or said this..," that can't be good.
I've gone so far as to actually call certain men in my life Mister Big and give detailed reasons as to why I think that. I have a problem.
But now, the sickness is clearly focused on The Sopranos. I love, love, love James Gandolfini. I've mentioned that in a previous post about my fascination with the Mafia, but I think my feelings for him veer over into "I-Want-To-Start-A-Fan-Club" territory.
When he walks down the driveway to pick up the newspaper in his little terrycloth bathrobe, I want to molest him. Or even when he yells at his kids because he genuinely doesn't want them to turn out like him, *sigh*, my heart breaks just a little.
My name is Emily, and I'm addicted to Tony Soprano
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Confessions of an eternal flake..and other stuff
Remember when you were in school, and you had to engage in that vile academic absurdity, Parents' Night, where your parents would come and meet your teachers and get an update on your progress? I assume it's much different now, what with teachers being afraid to scar children by failing them now. They call it what, grade-promotionally challenged or something.
Anyway, the comments from teachers were any of the following "Doesn't pay attention," I'm fairly certain my sister got "Talks too much," some kids might've gotten "May grow up to be a serial killer," you get the idea.
Anyway, mine were always along the lines of "Has enormous potential, but doesn't apply herself fully," and if the saying "Who you are at 3 is who you are at 30," I'd have to say some teachers I scoffed at once upon a time may've actually gotten something right.
I have a tremendously hard time following through with anything. I'd like to think it's because I'm so incredibly brilliant that I can't be bothered to limit myself and therefore feel the need to dabble in a number of different things.
However, that is me being full of shit.
Let me just recap for you:
1. Was utterly convinced at the age of 16 that I would one day be a lawyer. I thought, "I'm argumentative, and I sure do like that movie A Few Good Men. How cool would that be?" So, I maintained that path, majoring in political science to give myself a strong background before I began my career as the next Johnnie Cochran. I didn't necessary want to be as sleazy as Johnnie Cochran, but I think I liked the idea of being a rhyming lawyer.
Anyway, that lasted until the middle of my sophomore year when I began to find political science to be a bit dull, plus one of the only two professor that taught me was intensely annoying.
So, I changed my major to journalism. I had always liked to write (still do, obviously), and I could see myself dashing in and out of the fray with a brown trenchcoat and stiletto heels like Ingrid Bergman or Katharine Hepburn while I brought down City Hall.
Uhh..yeah. I ended up at a school that had little focus on news reporting and became the Entertainment Editor of my college paper. Incidentally, it was the most awesome job I've ever had, so I have no regrets for that, but it kind of set a scene, if you will, about what professional direction my life ended up taking...However, this leads me to..
2. I was engaged to a giant ass clown when I was a mere 20 years old. I don't know what malfunctioned in my brain chemistry for me to ever have agreed to marry this person in the first place, but one week before my 21st birthday, I accepted a ring, and off we were.
So, as a result of that unholy pairing, I transferred schools, which is where I ended up as Entertainment Editor. But over the course of our courtship, I slowly began to realize what an emotional fuckwit this person was and then ultimately had it confirmed when I had to go to the emergency room for a kidney infection, couldn't locate my beloved until the next day when I was greeted with, "Where was I? Oh, I had a date last night." !@?!@? So..yeah, that was that.
I had just finished college, was still working part-time for the college paper and was temping while trying to find actual employment.
What next followed is what I have regretted for longer than I realize and basically just have to let go:
I was so distraught by being kicked in the teeth by this person who wasn't worth it, nor did he ever deserve me, I realize now, that I promptly fell apart. I was only 3 hours away from home, which is put into sharp perspective now that I'm 20 hours away from where I grew up, and I thought that it was too far away for me to be sufficiently coddled, so I packed it in when I had a really good job and went running home to my parents and my former life, thinking that would solve everything.
This leads me to the worst career move I ever made, taking a job as a copy editor at a paper that offered me nothing professionally positive. The best thing to come out of that job was that I met people that mean more to me than they may ever know, but that is it. I languished for almost 4 years, really merely gaining a distaste for the news business and picking up proficiency in some software that I truly hope I never have to use again.
A caveat to this bullet point is that in NO WAY should I have married that asshole. That's not the thing that I regret not following through with; I regret that I let the emotional toll of the break-up have me give up a job that paid well in an area that fostered what I wanted to do.
I think what took me so long to get over that break-up was just that. I let this person that I never should've been involved with in the first place dictate what I did with myself, and I will never fall prey to that again...
Compromise is a great thing, when it's the right time to compromise, and I hope to God that I know the difference now, with some age and wisdom.
3. I am sad to report that I have temporarily given up the guitar, which is a little bittersweet.
The thing of it is, my teacher was a pretentious meanie, and I'm not putting up with that crap. I promised myself that I would pick the guitar up again, and I will, but right now, I'm focusing on something else that I feel is more important and will be the thing that breaks the "flake curse."
I am going to graduate school next fall to pursue a master's degree initially and then perhaps a PhD in creative writing, but, mark my words, that is the last thing I will do, and I will follow through with it.
I will write my novels, and I will end up as a professor, perhaps the female counterpart to Robin Williams' character in "Dead Poets Society," except maybe I'll sleep with my more promising ingenues..I'm totally kidding.
Anyway, I'm breaking the cycle. There will be no more of "That Emily, she just bounces from one thing to the next."
Or, who knows? I might get bored.
Anyway, the comments from teachers were any of the following "Doesn't pay attention," I'm fairly certain my sister got "Talks too much," some kids might've gotten "May grow up to be a serial killer," you get the idea.
Anyway, mine were always along the lines of "Has enormous potential, but doesn't apply herself fully," and if the saying "Who you are at 3 is who you are at 30," I'd have to say some teachers I scoffed at once upon a time may've actually gotten something right.
I have a tremendously hard time following through with anything. I'd like to think it's because I'm so incredibly brilliant that I can't be bothered to limit myself and therefore feel the need to dabble in a number of different things.
However, that is me being full of shit.
Let me just recap for you:
1. Was utterly convinced at the age of 16 that I would one day be a lawyer. I thought, "I'm argumentative, and I sure do like that movie A Few Good Men. How cool would that be?" So, I maintained that path, majoring in political science to give myself a strong background before I began my career as the next Johnnie Cochran. I didn't necessary want to be as sleazy as Johnnie Cochran, but I think I liked the idea of being a rhyming lawyer.
Anyway, that lasted until the middle of my sophomore year when I began to find political science to be a bit dull, plus one of the only two professor that taught me was intensely annoying.
So, I changed my major to journalism. I had always liked to write (still do, obviously), and I could see myself dashing in and out of the fray with a brown trenchcoat and stiletto heels like Ingrid Bergman or Katharine Hepburn while I brought down City Hall.
Uhh..yeah. I ended up at a school that had little focus on news reporting and became the Entertainment Editor of my college paper. Incidentally, it was the most awesome job I've ever had, so I have no regrets for that, but it kind of set a scene, if you will, about what professional direction my life ended up taking...However, this leads me to..
2. I was engaged to a giant ass clown when I was a mere 20 years old. I don't know what malfunctioned in my brain chemistry for me to ever have agreed to marry this person in the first place, but one week before my 21st birthday, I accepted a ring, and off we were.
So, as a result of that unholy pairing, I transferred schools, which is where I ended up as Entertainment Editor. But over the course of our courtship, I slowly began to realize what an emotional fuckwit this person was and then ultimately had it confirmed when I had to go to the emergency room for a kidney infection, couldn't locate my beloved until the next day when I was greeted with, "Where was I? Oh, I had a date last night." !@?!@? So..yeah, that was that.
I had just finished college, was still working part-time for the college paper and was temping while trying to find actual employment.
What next followed is what I have regretted for longer than I realize and basically just have to let go:
I was so distraught by being kicked in the teeth by this person who wasn't worth it, nor did he ever deserve me, I realize now, that I promptly fell apart. I was only 3 hours away from home, which is put into sharp perspective now that I'm 20 hours away from where I grew up, and I thought that it was too far away for me to be sufficiently coddled, so I packed it in when I had a really good job and went running home to my parents and my former life, thinking that would solve everything.
This leads me to the worst career move I ever made, taking a job as a copy editor at a paper that offered me nothing professionally positive. The best thing to come out of that job was that I met people that mean more to me than they may ever know, but that is it. I languished for almost 4 years, really merely gaining a distaste for the news business and picking up proficiency in some software that I truly hope I never have to use again.
A caveat to this bullet point is that in NO WAY should I have married that asshole. That's not the thing that I regret not following through with; I regret that I let the emotional toll of the break-up have me give up a job that paid well in an area that fostered what I wanted to do.
I think what took me so long to get over that break-up was just that. I let this person that I never should've been involved with in the first place dictate what I did with myself, and I will never fall prey to that again...
Compromise is a great thing, when it's the right time to compromise, and I hope to God that I know the difference now, with some age and wisdom.
3. I am sad to report that I have temporarily given up the guitar, which is a little bittersweet.
The thing of it is, my teacher was a pretentious meanie, and I'm not putting up with that crap. I promised myself that I would pick the guitar up again, and I will, but right now, I'm focusing on something else that I feel is more important and will be the thing that breaks the "flake curse."
I am going to graduate school next fall to pursue a master's degree initially and then perhaps a PhD in creative writing, but, mark my words, that is the last thing I will do, and I will follow through with it.
I will write my novels, and I will end up as a professor, perhaps the female counterpart to Robin Williams' character in "Dead Poets Society," except maybe I'll sleep with my more promising ingenues..I'm totally kidding.
Anyway, I'm breaking the cycle. There will be no more of "That Emily, she just bounces from one thing to the next."
Or, who knows? I might get bored.
Monday, August 15, 2005
These women..
I just returned from the most awesome, sanity restoring weekend I've had in a while.
I went to see my best friend in the galaxy in Miami, and I have never meant it more when I say, "It was exactly what I needed."
Ms. Amanda Meadows, Esq., and I have been friends for an amazing 12 years, and I simply shudder to think at what I would do without her presence in my life. We've only had about 3 arguments that I can think of and none of them ever lasted for longer than it took for us to make each other laugh.
The truly wonderful thing about a friendship like ours is that we have both essentially "grown up" together, or as close to it as we're going to get anytime soon, and I've gotten to watch her do fearless and wonderful things and continue to become a genuinely awe-inspiring person the more I know her.
In addition to being able to have much needed girl time with her, I got to reconnect with a group of friends that she's made throughout her time in law school and their friends' friends (ya got that?), and I have to say that there is no better way to spend 3 days than in the company of smart, funny, amazing women that are a positive force in each others' lives.
Too often, and I'll be the first to put forth this opinion, women don't serve to support each other; they tend to be catty and suspicious and insecure, which is a huge reason that I've always had mostly guy friends.
But, maybe, as we get older and realize that men are rarely a beacon of anything that resembles anything close to helping us stay sane, we understand the need for that support system of giggly, advice-giving girl fun and how there is no equal for that.
Don't get me wrong, I love men, too much I think, sometimes, and I don't want to denigrate what they provide either, but it makes me truly sad when I see women who only do things with their boyfriend/husband/male friend with benefits..what have you, because they will never know the comforting embrace of estrogen-filled Saturdays spent watching bad movies and making fun of commercials after a night of carousing.
These are the people that will bring you a Bloody Mary when you have a hangover (it works, really), will tell you, no matter what the circumstances or what you may have done in a relationship, "It is NEVER your fault," will call you on a particularly low Tuesday just to cheer you up, will sing you a birthday song on your voicemail within minutes of the day actually turning over to your birthday and will pick you up from the airport blasting Justin Timberlake while shouting, "OWWW! Shake it!" much to the delight of the harried pilots waiting for their shuttle buses to their crappy hotels.
Frailty, thy name is woman, my ass.
I went to see my best friend in the galaxy in Miami, and I have never meant it more when I say, "It was exactly what I needed."
Ms. Amanda Meadows, Esq., and I have been friends for an amazing 12 years, and I simply shudder to think at what I would do without her presence in my life. We've only had about 3 arguments that I can think of and none of them ever lasted for longer than it took for us to make each other laugh.
The truly wonderful thing about a friendship like ours is that we have both essentially "grown up" together, or as close to it as we're going to get anytime soon, and I've gotten to watch her do fearless and wonderful things and continue to become a genuinely awe-inspiring person the more I know her.
In addition to being able to have much needed girl time with her, I got to reconnect with a group of friends that she's made throughout her time in law school and their friends' friends (ya got that?), and I have to say that there is no better way to spend 3 days than in the company of smart, funny, amazing women that are a positive force in each others' lives.
Too often, and I'll be the first to put forth this opinion, women don't serve to support each other; they tend to be catty and suspicious and insecure, which is a huge reason that I've always had mostly guy friends.
But, maybe, as we get older and realize that men are rarely a beacon of anything that resembles anything close to helping us stay sane, we understand the need for that support system of giggly, advice-giving girl fun and how there is no equal for that.
Don't get me wrong, I love men, too much I think, sometimes, and I don't want to denigrate what they provide either, but it makes me truly sad when I see women who only do things with their boyfriend/husband/male friend with benefits..what have you, because they will never know the comforting embrace of estrogen-filled Saturdays spent watching bad movies and making fun of commercials after a night of carousing.
These are the people that will bring you a Bloody Mary when you have a hangover (it works, really), will tell you, no matter what the circumstances or what you may have done in a relationship, "It is NEVER your fault," will call you on a particularly low Tuesday just to cheer you up, will sing you a birthday song on your voicemail within minutes of the day actually turning over to your birthday and will pick you up from the airport blasting Justin Timberlake while shouting, "OWWW! Shake it!" much to the delight of the harried pilots waiting for their shuttle buses to their crappy hotels.
Frailty, thy name is woman, my ass.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Gather ye rosebuds...or something
Well, I turned 28 years old today, and I have to say, this birthday was antcipated with a little more than mild trepidation. Yeah, I know people who are 30+ who are reading this saying, "Screw you; I wish I had my 20's back," but these people are not me, so I don't care.
I've thought a lot about this, about why creeping ever so steadily toward 30 bothers me so much, and I've come up with a number of things.
First of all, I'm kind of vain. Yeah, I'm sure some of you could be knocked over with a feather after that earth-shattering revelation, but it's true. I don't want to get wrinkles, I don't want any (more) gray hair, and I don't want my breasts to be in my shoes.
I'm not the most beautiful or the hottest girl in the world, by any means, but I'm not too bad to look at either, and I'd like to stay non-Crypt Keeper in appearance. It's shallow, but true.
I suppose my double secret fear is that I lose my looks and I, along with the rest of the world, discover that I'm not really as interesting or entertaining as I thought, and attention that I may've received in the past disappears.
On my good days, I know that's not true, but we all have our bad days.
Second of all, I'm not too crazy about death. Yeah, I know that no one is particularly looking forward to death, but everything about it scares the bejesus out of me to the point of insomnia, if I ever let myself think about it for too long.
It's not just my dying that scares me; in fact, that's really the least of it. It's the thought of as I get older, everyone I love gets older as well, and even thinking about the day I have to attend my parents' or sister's or best friend Amanda's funerals makes me want to broker a bunch of deals with God in order to be able to go first.
And third of all, and this is really the kicker I think and the one I can actually do something about:
I haven't accomplished what I imagined I would've at 28. This, this is the other thing that keeps me up at night when that pesky death thing isn't bothering me. When I was younger, I suppose I kept a vague idea in my head of what my life would resemble when I reached 30, and right now, it's not close.
Of course, when I was younger, I think a life at 30 entailed living with a big group of friends in California (where I could pursue my successful singing career), and we would all stay up as late as we wanted and always have Kool-Aid in the house, because my mom never let us have Kool-Aid, and I thought that a Kool-Aid-free house was no way to live.
But more recently, I would say that I set goals in college as far as where I would be career-wise, and at the present time, it's just not where I am, but over the last week or so, I have literally said to myself, "Give yourself a fucking break."
(I kind of got offended when I said that to myself, but I realized it was for my own good)
The thing of it is: A year ago, I moved from Mississippi to Pennsylvania and did not know ONE person. Not one. I had no idea what would happen after Election Day, and I didn't care at the time. A year later, I have found an apartment with an awesome roommate/friend, I have a job that pays me better than it should and gives me excellent benefits, I have people in my life here who mean more to me than I ever would've thought, and I have a plan to go back to school and see what path that might lead me down.
I think I may finally get it, Simon. I don't have to have all the answers. Asking the questions is as much a valuable part of the journey as knowing exactly what to do all the time.
So, happy birthday to me. I'm 28, and I'm fabulous.
I've thought a lot about this, about why creeping ever so steadily toward 30 bothers me so much, and I've come up with a number of things.
First of all, I'm kind of vain. Yeah, I'm sure some of you could be knocked over with a feather after that earth-shattering revelation, but it's true. I don't want to get wrinkles, I don't want any (more) gray hair, and I don't want my breasts to be in my shoes.
I'm not the most beautiful or the hottest girl in the world, by any means, but I'm not too bad to look at either, and I'd like to stay non-Crypt Keeper in appearance. It's shallow, but true.
I suppose my double secret fear is that I lose my looks and I, along with the rest of the world, discover that I'm not really as interesting or entertaining as I thought, and attention that I may've received in the past disappears.
On my good days, I know that's not true, but we all have our bad days.
Second of all, I'm not too crazy about death. Yeah, I know that no one is particularly looking forward to death, but everything about it scares the bejesus out of me to the point of insomnia, if I ever let myself think about it for too long.
It's not just my dying that scares me; in fact, that's really the least of it. It's the thought of as I get older, everyone I love gets older as well, and even thinking about the day I have to attend my parents' or sister's or best friend Amanda's funerals makes me want to broker a bunch of deals with God in order to be able to go first.
And third of all, and this is really the kicker I think and the one I can actually do something about:
I haven't accomplished what I imagined I would've at 28. This, this is the other thing that keeps me up at night when that pesky death thing isn't bothering me. When I was younger, I suppose I kept a vague idea in my head of what my life would resemble when I reached 30, and right now, it's not close.
Of course, when I was younger, I think a life at 30 entailed living with a big group of friends in California (where I could pursue my successful singing career), and we would all stay up as late as we wanted and always have Kool-Aid in the house, because my mom never let us have Kool-Aid, and I thought that a Kool-Aid-free house was no way to live.
But more recently, I would say that I set goals in college as far as where I would be career-wise, and at the present time, it's just not where I am, but over the last week or so, I have literally said to myself, "Give yourself a fucking break."
(I kind of got offended when I said that to myself, but I realized it was for my own good)
The thing of it is: A year ago, I moved from Mississippi to Pennsylvania and did not know ONE person. Not one. I had no idea what would happen after Election Day, and I didn't care at the time. A year later, I have found an apartment with an awesome roommate/friend, I have a job that pays me better than it should and gives me excellent benefits, I have people in my life here who mean more to me than I ever would've thought, and I have a plan to go back to school and see what path that might lead me down.
I think I may finally get it, Simon. I don't have to have all the answers. Asking the questions is as much a valuable part of the journey as knowing exactly what to do all the time.
So, happy birthday to me. I'm 28, and I'm fabulous.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I've been hoodwinked..or maybe not
Ladies, we are suckers. Truly, we and logic need to get together, because there's an almost mythological concept that we operate under most of the time, and I think it needs to come to an end.
Men are not our saviors. No matter what you've heard (and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my dad for telling me that I would know when I met "the ONE," because it would hit me like a bolt of lightning.
At this point, I think I'd rather be hit with actual lightning than have to try to decipher anything further in the relations between the sexes.
I feel I have been duped.
Because of my dad's crap advice and my obsession with movies and books, I was clearly expecting some stuff that hasn't been delivered to me.
Like, has anyone ever stood outside my window with a jambox, circa "Say Anything" and played Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes?" Uhh..no.
Has anyone ever realized what a moron they were by having let me go and said, at the risk of making a complete ass of themselves, as Matt Damon did at the end of "Good Will Hunting," "I have to go see about a girl."
I'm starting to agree with conservative senators about censoring Hollywood, except I could give a shit about the violence and profanity (obviously), no, I think it's far more dangerous to give women a false idea about what they should be expecting out of men.
Tell it like it is.
See "About a Boy." Except in my version, he never actually gets his shit together for the woman he supposedly loves. He strings her along for about 15 years until she realizes she's wasted her youth and her child-bearing years, and then he leaves her for a 25-year-old.
That's reality. Why don't we see more of that?
Just wait. Before I camp out permanently in the bitter barn, I actually want to say something that doesn't sound psychotic.
I love love. As kicked in the teeth by it as I tend to get and as downtrodden as I might get about the prospect of it ever actually working out for me and anyone, I have no intention of giving up, contrary to what I might say in my less optimistic moods.
I know that eventually I will have children and grandchildren at the forefront of which will be a man that I found who loved me for me and maybe possibly made a grand gesture or two while we were young, and even a couple after we weren't.
But, if my mother asks me one more f-ing time if I think that every single man I ever mentioned having a conversation with might become serious, I'm entering the damn nunnery just to spite her.
Men are not our saviors. No matter what you've heard (and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my dad for telling me that I would know when I met "the ONE," because it would hit me like a bolt of lightning.
At this point, I think I'd rather be hit with actual lightning than have to try to decipher anything further in the relations between the sexes.
I feel I have been duped.
Because of my dad's crap advice and my obsession with movies and books, I was clearly expecting some stuff that hasn't been delivered to me.
Like, has anyone ever stood outside my window with a jambox, circa "Say Anything" and played Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes?" Uhh..no.
Has anyone ever realized what a moron they were by having let me go and said, at the risk of making a complete ass of themselves, as Matt Damon did at the end of "Good Will Hunting," "I have to go see about a girl."
I'm starting to agree with conservative senators about censoring Hollywood, except I could give a shit about the violence and profanity (obviously), no, I think it's far more dangerous to give women a false idea about what they should be expecting out of men.
Tell it like it is.
See "About a Boy." Except in my version, he never actually gets his shit together for the woman he supposedly loves. He strings her along for about 15 years until she realizes she's wasted her youth and her child-bearing years, and then he leaves her for a 25-year-old.
That's reality. Why don't we see more of that?
Just wait. Before I camp out permanently in the bitter barn, I actually want to say something that doesn't sound psychotic.
I love love. As kicked in the teeth by it as I tend to get and as downtrodden as I might get about the prospect of it ever actually working out for me and anyone, I have no intention of giving up, contrary to what I might say in my less optimistic moods.
I know that eventually I will have children and grandchildren at the forefront of which will be a man that I found who loved me for me and maybe possibly made a grand gesture or two while we were young, and even a couple after we weren't.
But, if my mother asks me one more f-ing time if I think that every single man I ever mentioned having a conversation with might become serious, I'm entering the damn nunnery just to spite her.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Standing in the shower thinking...and ducking
I am living in fear of my shower head. Sure, sure, laugh it up, but this thing is out for blood.
It is one of those detachable shower heads, specifically called a "shower massager," and is rumored to have the capability of being a girl's best friend. (I'm sure I don't know why)
However, mine, which is held together by some manner of tape thanks to my ghetto landlord, is the polar opposite of being a girl's best friend.
Oh, and just as an aside, how friggin' sleazy are landlords? It never occurred to me that one day I would include landlords in the annals with used car salesman and FOX News journalists, but that is where they are in my psyche now. They are either around WAAAY too much or WAAAY too little. There is no middle ground,and the only way you can get them to do anything, apparently, is to sleep with them, and that's really no choice at all. Anyway, I digress.
Let me explain about my shower head.
A regular occurrence: It's shower time; I'm excited. Showers serve to both wake me up and allow me to sing at full volume, as my roommate is hardly ever home when I am in the shower. So, I get to enjoy our marvelous water pressure and sing Fiona Apple as loud as I want.
Then, the trouble begins. Halfway through the happy shower and just at the part when I start to bray, "Let me know the way...before there's hell to pay...," the shower head comes out of its little holster and tries to hit me in the head while simultaneously spraying the ceiling and hitting the cold water spigot, so that not only is it flailing around the tub, it's shooting out near-boiling water. So that if the initial bonk on the head doesn't kill me, it will at least scald the shit out of me.
Now, this is a problem.It has also frequently attacked my roommate and her boyfriend, and I feel like we're becoming prisoners in our own bathroom. We can't not take showers, but now, every time I'm in there, I anticipate at any moment that it's going to snake out of its little holder and attempt homicide again.
It must be stopped.
On another note, I began my much-awaited guitar lessons last week, and they were a little disappointing, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.
I think because I was so excited and anxious, that the actual lesson was a bit of a letdown.
My teacher, a 40-ish lifelong picker, was slightly condescending to me, remarking that "my nails were real pretty," had to be cut in order to fully strum the guitar. He went on to say something about "manicures being okay if you want to be fancy" or some such crap.
Okay, I have a manicure exactly once in my whole life, so, I dunno who this guy has me confused with, but I think he may be operating under a gross misapprehension that I'm some sort of princess-y type girl, and that is so not the case.
Then, I felt super-stupid because I don't know anything.
I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Of course you don't know anything; that's why you're taking lessons," and you would be right. I just didn't expect to know even less than I thought I did. It's very disconcerting.
But, I've been practicing, and I'm going to give Mister Bad Attitude teacher another week and see what happens. Otherwise, I will be looking for a new mentor, and this teacher can imagine that I'm sitting on a throne of diamonds somewhere being fanned. yea right.
On a final note, I am reading the most awesome book right now, and I highly recommend it. John Irving's "Until I Find You." It is so amazingly good, and I really only just started it.
I hope someday I can write 1/4 as well as Irving can, because this is one of those books that, not only am I enjoying the story, I'm in stupefied awe at the way he writes, just the way the sentences are set up.
And if you read that, you should also check out his books, "A Widow for One Year" and "The Hotel New Hampshire." They are amazing.
It is one of those detachable shower heads, specifically called a "shower massager," and is rumored to have the capability of being a girl's best friend. (I'm sure I don't know why)
However, mine, which is held together by some manner of tape thanks to my ghetto landlord, is the polar opposite of being a girl's best friend.
Oh, and just as an aside, how friggin' sleazy are landlords? It never occurred to me that one day I would include landlords in the annals with used car salesman and FOX News journalists, but that is where they are in my psyche now. They are either around WAAAY too much or WAAAY too little. There is no middle ground,and the only way you can get them to do anything, apparently, is to sleep with them, and that's really no choice at all. Anyway, I digress.
Let me explain about my shower head.
A regular occurrence: It's shower time; I'm excited. Showers serve to both wake me up and allow me to sing at full volume, as my roommate is hardly ever home when I am in the shower. So, I get to enjoy our marvelous water pressure and sing Fiona Apple as loud as I want.
Then, the trouble begins. Halfway through the happy shower and just at the part when I start to bray, "Let me know the way...before there's hell to pay...," the shower head comes out of its little holster and tries to hit me in the head while simultaneously spraying the ceiling and hitting the cold water spigot, so that not only is it flailing around the tub, it's shooting out near-boiling water. So that if the initial bonk on the head doesn't kill me, it will at least scald the shit out of me.
Now, this is a problem.It has also frequently attacked my roommate and her boyfriend, and I feel like we're becoming prisoners in our own bathroom. We can't not take showers, but now, every time I'm in there, I anticipate at any moment that it's going to snake out of its little holder and attempt homicide again.
It must be stopped.
On another note, I began my much-awaited guitar lessons last week, and they were a little disappointing, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.
I think because I was so excited and anxious, that the actual lesson was a bit of a letdown.
My teacher, a 40-ish lifelong picker, was slightly condescending to me, remarking that "my nails were real pretty," had to be cut in order to fully strum the guitar. He went on to say something about "manicures being okay if you want to be fancy" or some such crap.
Okay, I have a manicure exactly once in my whole life, so, I dunno who this guy has me confused with, but I think he may be operating under a gross misapprehension that I'm some sort of princess-y type girl, and that is so not the case.
Then, I felt super-stupid because I don't know anything.
I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Of course you don't know anything; that's why you're taking lessons," and you would be right. I just didn't expect to know even less than I thought I did. It's very disconcerting.
But, I've been practicing, and I'm going to give Mister Bad Attitude teacher another week and see what happens. Otherwise, I will be looking for a new mentor, and this teacher can imagine that I'm sitting on a throne of diamonds somewhere being fanned. yea right.
On a final note, I am reading the most awesome book right now, and I highly recommend it. John Irving's "Until I Find You." It is so amazingly good, and I really only just started it.
I hope someday I can write 1/4 as well as Irving can, because this is one of those books that, not only am I enjoying the story, I'm in stupefied awe at the way he writes, just the way the sentences are set up.
And if you read that, you should also check out his books, "A Widow for One Year" and "The Hotel New Hampshire." They are amazing.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Getting old and all of that other stuff
I haven't written on here in so long, I feel really badly, but I'm sure you've all managed to continue living your lives, breathing in and out and that sort of thing, even without my blog as incomprehensible as it is to me that people can really go all that long without a "dose of Emily," but, anyway. (and I am totally kidding. I would probably be a really happy person if I was that full of myself)
First things first: Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring from the Supreme Court, and it's very unsettling. When they announced on NPR, I was listening to headphones at work and said (very loudly), "Oh, shit," loudly enough that people around me were concerned.
I've been thinking about what it might mean quite a bit, and I am actually going to give Bush the benefit of the doubt until I have reason not to on this. He can't really gain all that much by stacking the court with right wingers, and as much as we Chardonnay-sipping (NPR-listening, for that matter) wailed about what Bush might do the court if given the opportunity, I actually am choosing to think that he might not want his legacy to have the country in a complete and total uproar over Roe Vs.Wade. We'll see.
Okay, next. I AM GETTING OLD. This is not so much distressing in and of itself, but I simply cannot do the things to my body that I used to. i.e., continuously get only about 5 hours of sleep a night during the week, drag myself up at 6:30 a.m. and just say, "Oh, well, I'll make it up by sleeping late this weekend." NO. No more. I had my first bags under my eyes the other day, and that is just not going to happen. I already have to contend with gray hair, laugh lines and that "Ugh" noise when I bend down to pick something up. Bags under my eyes will not stand.
What else? I've decided, after much reflection and meditation (perhaps the meditation involved cocktails), that stressing out about things is absolutely pointless.
Refer to a previous post of mine that I worry too much. I worry or have worried so much, in fact, that I can't be still. I am working on this, but due to my anxious nature, I shake my leg constantly, play with my hair, bite the inside of my mouth and clench my jaw to the point of giving myself headaches..and I don't even think that's it, but even people who know me really well at this point are like, "What?!"
So, I just say, fuck it. Recent personal issues made me realize that no amount of crying or not eating or listening to Kenny G was going to change any stressful situation, so "fuck it" is indeed my new attitude.
If things are meant to work out, they'll work out, and I'm tired of not enjoying the good moments in life by worrying about what's going to happen in a month, or six months or six years. It's no way to enjoy life, and I want to enjoy my life, however it may turn out.
And on that note, I will leave you with this. I have a flyer in my possession right now that directs me where to go to view midget wrestling at the end of the month.
Where am I gonna be on said night at the end of the month? Drinking beer and screaming for people that come up to my knees to pummel each other. Life is good.
First things first: Sandra Day O'Connor is retiring from the Supreme Court, and it's very unsettling. When they announced on NPR, I was listening to headphones at work and said (very loudly), "Oh, shit," loudly enough that people around me were concerned.
I've been thinking about what it might mean quite a bit, and I am actually going to give Bush the benefit of the doubt until I have reason not to on this. He can't really gain all that much by stacking the court with right wingers, and as much as we Chardonnay-sipping (NPR-listening, for that matter) wailed about what Bush might do the court if given the opportunity, I actually am choosing to think that he might not want his legacy to have the country in a complete and total uproar over Roe Vs.Wade. We'll see.
Okay, next. I AM GETTING OLD. This is not so much distressing in and of itself, but I simply cannot do the things to my body that I used to. i.e., continuously get only about 5 hours of sleep a night during the week, drag myself up at 6:30 a.m. and just say, "Oh, well, I'll make it up by sleeping late this weekend." NO. No more. I had my first bags under my eyes the other day, and that is just not going to happen. I already have to contend with gray hair, laugh lines and that "Ugh" noise when I bend down to pick something up. Bags under my eyes will not stand.
What else? I've decided, after much reflection and meditation (perhaps the meditation involved cocktails), that stressing out about things is absolutely pointless.
Refer to a previous post of mine that I worry too much. I worry or have worried so much, in fact, that I can't be still. I am working on this, but due to my anxious nature, I shake my leg constantly, play with my hair, bite the inside of my mouth and clench my jaw to the point of giving myself headaches..and I don't even think that's it, but even people who know me really well at this point are like, "What?!"
So, I just say, fuck it. Recent personal issues made me realize that no amount of crying or not eating or listening to Kenny G was going to change any stressful situation, so "fuck it" is indeed my new attitude.
If things are meant to work out, they'll work out, and I'm tired of not enjoying the good moments in life by worrying about what's going to happen in a month, or six months or six years. It's no way to enjoy life, and I want to enjoy my life, however it may turn out.
And on that note, I will leave you with this. I have a flyer in my possession right now that directs me where to go to view midget wrestling at the end of the month.
Where am I gonna be on said night at the end of the month? Drinking beer and screaming for people that come up to my knees to pummel each other. Life is good.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Going to see a guy about a guitar
I bought my first guitar yesterday for $75 from a guy named Lenny that I met through the wonderful world of craig's list. It's really no monumental occurrence; millions of people use craig's list to buy stuff every day, and probably half as many have bought musical instruments.
But, one acute difference where I'm concerned is that a. I don't know how to play the guitar, and b. I don't generally go to strangers' houses to purchase goods.
Point b is fairly irrelevant, but as I arrived at Lenny's and knocked on the door at our pre-arranged time after I got off work, it occurred to me that no one knew where I was and even more disturbing, it occurred to me that it would be until the next day that I didn't show up for work and then weekend plans, that anyone would even know I was missing.
These are thoughts a girl from Mississippi has in Philadelphia sometimes. I don't know if it makes me cautious or a wuss, but I'd rather not end up on Fox Channel 9 news here, where the newscasters can barely read and would most likely mispronounce my name when they reported that my head had been found on South Street while an arm turned up in Wissahickon (because I like to say Wissahickon).
Anyway, back to the guitar thing. I have wanted to learn to play guitar since I was about 10. I took lessons, in fact, for about 6 weeks, until my mother decided that the stupid piano was a more lady-like instrument for a Southern girl to learn. (for all the good that ladylike business did)
So, alas, I had been consigned to staring longingly at those who could pick up a guitar, start to strum and immediately conjure images of Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell.
I even made a New Year's resolution about 3 years ago to learn to play, since it was something I always wanted to do, but I believe that was the same year I resolved to quit smoking(see earlier post), so it fell by the wayside.
Having been knocked sideways by a few things this week, I realized, "What the heck am I waiting for?" How long will I have nearly unlimited time/resources all to MYSELF to do what I want, when I want and really better myself as a person?
Well, considering that I think my 3-year niece will be in a functional relationship sooner than I will, I may always have unlimited time to myself, but my more optimistic part says that will not always be the case, and one day, I will have the demands of juggling the things that a modern-day gal has to juggle and won't be able to pursue learning the guitar.
So, I'm doing it. And I'm so excited about it, it's almost obscene, but it feels good to look forward to doing something that I made a vow to myself a long time ago that I would.
And so, I am issuing preemptive apologies to friends, family and most importantly, neighbors, because I feel that this is something I will be slightly obsessive about, as I begin to realize my dream of sitting in a chair with my guitar bathed in blue light while I huskily sing "Me and Bobby McGee" in a seedy bar and am discovered by a indie producer who wants to make me the "next big thing."
Who says a rich fantasy life isn't necessary? If it weren't for my dreams and hopes, reality would be fairly bleak sometimes.
So, I'll be coming to an open mike near you sometime soon, be afraid, be very afraid.
FREEBIRD!
But, one acute difference where I'm concerned is that a. I don't know how to play the guitar, and b. I don't generally go to strangers' houses to purchase goods.
Point b is fairly irrelevant, but as I arrived at Lenny's and knocked on the door at our pre-arranged time after I got off work, it occurred to me that no one knew where I was and even more disturbing, it occurred to me that it would be until the next day that I didn't show up for work and then weekend plans, that anyone would even know I was missing.
These are thoughts a girl from Mississippi has in Philadelphia sometimes. I don't know if it makes me cautious or a wuss, but I'd rather not end up on Fox Channel 9 news here, where the newscasters can barely read and would most likely mispronounce my name when they reported that my head had been found on South Street while an arm turned up in Wissahickon (because I like to say Wissahickon).
Anyway, back to the guitar thing. I have wanted to learn to play guitar since I was about 10. I took lessons, in fact, for about 6 weeks, until my mother decided that the stupid piano was a more lady-like instrument for a Southern girl to learn. (for all the good that ladylike business did)
So, alas, I had been consigned to staring longingly at those who could pick up a guitar, start to strum and immediately conjure images of Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell.
I even made a New Year's resolution about 3 years ago to learn to play, since it was something I always wanted to do, but I believe that was the same year I resolved to quit smoking(see earlier post), so it fell by the wayside.
Having been knocked sideways by a few things this week, I realized, "What the heck am I waiting for?" How long will I have nearly unlimited time/resources all to MYSELF to do what I want, when I want and really better myself as a person?
Well, considering that I think my 3-year niece will be in a functional relationship sooner than I will, I may always have unlimited time to myself, but my more optimistic part says that will not always be the case, and one day, I will have the demands of juggling the things that a modern-day gal has to juggle and won't be able to pursue learning the guitar.
So, I'm doing it. And I'm so excited about it, it's almost obscene, but it feels good to look forward to doing something that I made a vow to myself a long time ago that I would.
And so, I am issuing preemptive apologies to friends, family and most importantly, neighbors, because I feel that this is something I will be slightly obsessive about, as I begin to realize my dream of sitting in a chair with my guitar bathed in blue light while I huskily sing "Me and Bobby McGee" in a seedy bar and am discovered by a indie producer who wants to make me the "next big thing."
Who says a rich fantasy life isn't necessary? If it weren't for my dreams and hopes, reality would be fairly bleak sometimes.
So, I'll be coming to an open mike near you sometime soon, be afraid, be very afraid.
FREEBIRD!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The most random of thoughts
Well, I haven't updated in so long, I'm sure whatever people may've been semi-regular readers have moved along to other, more interesting blogs, but since I never really did this for anyone but me, oh, well. It's my blog, and I'll update it when I want to. Here goes:
1. I've discovered a few things lately. I hate, hate, HATE getting up at 6:30 every morning, but I love, love, LOVE being able to afford things like regular happy hours, Sex and the City DVDs and the girliest shoes I've ever bought for myself that will probably inevitably kill me, but they make me forget that I have no coordination when it comes to walking in heels, so we'll see what happens.
2. I was in this funky little bar the other night that had writing all over the bathroom wall, and I saw something that made me laugh out loud. It said, "You're afraid of commitment? What the hell does that mean anyway?" Boys reading this probably won't see the humor in that, but I find it amusing that women hear that so often that it's become a mantra appropriate enough to scrawl across a bathroom wall so that every woman entering will immediately read it and knowing say, "Ahh..another one."
3. I watching watching a movie recently that said in a voice-over "There's a time in your life when you go to your parents' house and realize that it's no longer your home," and I believe I've reached that point in my life,and it kinda freaks me out.
I recently visited home, and I had an awesome time, don't get me wrong, but it may've been the first time in my life that I realized I have no desire to ever live there again, and it truly felt like just a visit. It was liberating and terrifying all at the same time.
4. I have no set political affiliation anymore. I think I hate them all equally. I've had it with the goofy-ass Democrats, and I still don't identify with the soul-less Republicans. My political sensibilities are at a crossroads, and frankly, whoever makes the most sense first will win my allegiance. I'm sick of the lot of them. I find it brutally disheartening that out of each party, the names being bandied about for 2008 are as pathetic as they are. We deserve better, and I hope that will happen between now and then, or, America, we are in some serious trouble. All I can say, is if John McCain runs, I will vote for a Republican and five minutes later, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will show up, so I'm giving everyone fair warning.
Alright, my lunch break is almost over. I've just been almost compulsively meaning to update, so now I have, albeit kind of briefly.
Let me leave you with this; you should really shy away from ever saying, "I will never (fill in the blank)," because you lose out on a lot of amazing experiences that way. That's Emily's little pearl of wisdom for whoever may peruse this.
1. I've discovered a few things lately. I hate, hate, HATE getting up at 6:30 every morning, but I love, love, LOVE being able to afford things like regular happy hours, Sex and the City DVDs and the girliest shoes I've ever bought for myself that will probably inevitably kill me, but they make me forget that I have no coordination when it comes to walking in heels, so we'll see what happens.
2. I was in this funky little bar the other night that had writing all over the bathroom wall, and I saw something that made me laugh out loud. It said, "You're afraid of commitment? What the hell does that mean anyway?" Boys reading this probably won't see the humor in that, but I find it amusing that women hear that so often that it's become a mantra appropriate enough to scrawl across a bathroom wall so that every woman entering will immediately read it and knowing say, "Ahh..another one."
3. I watching watching a movie recently that said in a voice-over "There's a time in your life when you go to your parents' house and realize that it's no longer your home," and I believe I've reached that point in my life,and it kinda freaks me out.
I recently visited home, and I had an awesome time, don't get me wrong, but it may've been the first time in my life that I realized I have no desire to ever live there again, and it truly felt like just a visit. It was liberating and terrifying all at the same time.
4. I have no set political affiliation anymore. I think I hate them all equally. I've had it with the goofy-ass Democrats, and I still don't identify with the soul-less Republicans. My political sensibilities are at a crossroads, and frankly, whoever makes the most sense first will win my allegiance. I'm sick of the lot of them. I find it brutally disheartening that out of each party, the names being bandied about for 2008 are as pathetic as they are. We deserve better, and I hope that will happen between now and then, or, America, we are in some serious trouble. All I can say, is if John McCain runs, I will vote for a Republican and five minutes later, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will show up, so I'm giving everyone fair warning.
Alright, my lunch break is almost over. I've just been almost compulsively meaning to update, so now I have, albeit kind of briefly.
Let me leave you with this; you should really shy away from ever saying, "I will never (fill in the blank)," because you lose out on a lot of amazing experiences that way. That's Emily's little pearl of wisdom for whoever may peruse this.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
At last, I can break my leg at will
Well, it's been a long, strange employment trip here in Pennsylvania at times. Since arriving here with a job in August, I've since had that job end and then had the humiliating experience of temping for four months for, frankly a bunch of assholes, to temping here and there for people that were nice, but not quite nice enough to pay me higher than slave wages, offer me insurance or give me tasks that even remotely spoke to my "extensive" abilities. (okay, I can spell really well..)
That has all come to a happy and abrupt end, thank God. Mississippi was starting to look good again after months of rejection letters and making $10 an hour.
As of last Monday, I started a job at a company I will keep secret (those of you that know me know, so that's all that's important), and as of this Monday, I was promoted...with a raise...and, ta, da...medical benefits (!!) to the position of proofreader, and yes, the last time I checked, that was something I have experience in.
After learning of my promotion on Friday, I seriously had the best drive home I've had in months, thinking about how frustrating and discouraging this whole experience had been thus far.
I came here to work for John Kerry, who by the way, in an ironic little twist, didn't offer health insurance. Notice no one mentioned that in any campaign ads promoting his hopeless ass, and he can stick it right in his ear for that the more and more I've considered it.
It actually turned me into quite the hypocrite, extolling his virtues and advocating health insurance for all, when the people working their asses off for him couldn't go to a doctor without paying $100+..trust me, I know. I had strep throat a week before the campaign, and I had to pay about $140. Thank God, the doctor took pity on me and gave me sample pills, or I shudder to think how much it would've been.
Miraculously, since August, that's the only time I had to go to the doctor sans insurance. Let's forget the fact that I'm pretty certain I'm allergic to every pollen-producing plant in Pennsylvania, my eyes have been watering since March and should've had shots months ago, that was a luxury I couldn't afford.
Anyway, as documented at various times on this very blog, I was really, really discouraged about my career situation and starting to labor under the impression that something was intrinsically wrong with me, or there really was something to that whole "North vs. South" thing.
So, anyway, my point is, I am making more money than I ever have, which is kinda sad, and puts into pretty sharp focus how much professional time I wasted in Mississippi, I have insurance and can actually go and get new glasses that I've needed for about 3 years now and had never had vision insurance to cover it, and if I want to break both legs, I can go ahead and do that, and not have to pay too much for it..Score!
So, simply put, I am happy, and that's a pretty good feeling. I'd forgotten what it felt like to not hang your head when someone asked you what you did for a living.
That has all come to a happy and abrupt end, thank God. Mississippi was starting to look good again after months of rejection letters and making $10 an hour.
As of last Monday, I started a job at a company I will keep secret (those of you that know me know, so that's all that's important), and as of this Monday, I was promoted...with a raise...and, ta, da...medical benefits (!!) to the position of proofreader, and yes, the last time I checked, that was something I have experience in.
After learning of my promotion on Friday, I seriously had the best drive home I've had in months, thinking about how frustrating and discouraging this whole experience had been thus far.
I came here to work for John Kerry, who by the way, in an ironic little twist, didn't offer health insurance. Notice no one mentioned that in any campaign ads promoting his hopeless ass, and he can stick it right in his ear for that the more and more I've considered it.
It actually turned me into quite the hypocrite, extolling his virtues and advocating health insurance for all, when the people working their asses off for him couldn't go to a doctor without paying $100+..trust me, I know. I had strep throat a week before the campaign, and I had to pay about $140. Thank God, the doctor took pity on me and gave me sample pills, or I shudder to think how much it would've been.
Miraculously, since August, that's the only time I had to go to the doctor sans insurance. Let's forget the fact that I'm pretty certain I'm allergic to every pollen-producing plant in Pennsylvania, my eyes have been watering since March and should've had shots months ago, that was a luxury I couldn't afford.
Anyway, as documented at various times on this very blog, I was really, really discouraged about my career situation and starting to labor under the impression that something was intrinsically wrong with me, or there really was something to that whole "North vs. South" thing.
So, anyway, my point is, I am making more money than I ever have, which is kinda sad, and puts into pretty sharp focus how much professional time I wasted in Mississippi, I have insurance and can actually go and get new glasses that I've needed for about 3 years now and had never had vision insurance to cover it, and if I want to break both legs, I can go ahead and do that, and not have to pay too much for it..Score!
So, simply put, I am happy, and that's a pretty good feeling. I'd forgotten what it felt like to not hang your head when someone asked you what you did for a living.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Fox Force Five joke
Well, it's been a whole two weeks since I've updated my poor little blog. I know that everyone has been inconsolable since then, so to anyone who's been upset, I apologize. Also, please know that I am not yet that full of myself, and I'm totally kidding.
I wish I could say that I've been living such a fabulously, action-packed life in the big city that it's kept me from the daily musings that I started in January.
That has not so much been the case.
The most fun I've had recently involved waking up at 11 a.m. on a Saturday to attend a 4-hour beer tasting, replete with a band that played "Sweet Home Alabama," obviously, just for me. Yeah, that sounds oh, so, chic, I know, but it put a smile on my face.
No, sadly, I was just given a different temporary employment assignment that did not let me gaze fixated on the computer screen wondering what porn sites I could get away with looking at..(again, kidding)
I have had a rough week, involving sleep deprivation, and on one night, something called a growler of beer, so if this jumps around, I apologize, but I like to think that my semi-incoherent posts are the ones that have that certain "je ne sais quoi."
The other day I was having a conversation with someone who frequently describes me as a "kooky liberal," and I thought about how vastly less liberal I have become in the last 5-7 years.
I was a self-described "feminazi" when I was in high school and early college and can remember berated a certain whipped boyfriend when he deigned to open doors for me. What a self-important idiot I was. I could turn anything into an inequality issue and Lord have mercy on whoever had the temerity to argue with me, and these would degenerate into near-screaming matches with me vowing never to hang out with whoever had offended me again.
What a long, strange trip it's been. You would think that having worked for a political campaign, I would've become more indoctrinated toward that particular viewpoint, but I honestly think it was the absolute best thing I could've done in terms of expanding my horizons and being open toward opinions that differ from mine.
I will likely never vote Republican. I can't say it for sure, though, and that's something I never thought that I would even consider.
I am now able to truly listen to others' opinions and even if I don't agree, carry on an intelligent two-sided conversation that generally doesn't end with my stomping away and calling someone a poopy-head or whatever brilliant attack I used to come up with when someone incensed me so badly just for not agreeing with me.
And I prefer it this way. I left Mississippi because I wanted to experience things that I had never experienced before, and whatever other things I set out to do and haven't accomplished, I have and continue to achieve that, and I feel pretty good about that.
I remember having a conversation in Mississippi when I was on one of about 4 "farewell bar tours" before I left that I think serves as a good reminder as to how far I've come.
I was in a certain bar I enjoyed having the occasional cocktail and witty banter in before I left, and I happened to meet a guy who worked for a local state representative. I was flirting with him a little, trying to use a little "leaving town mojo" someone had told me to take advantage of, and then he lowered the boom about who he worked for, and I proudly proclaimed, "Well, I'm moving to Pennsylvania to work for John Kerry," and off we went.
Before the night was over, the bartender had declared me wholeheartedly unpatriotic, as well as the skanky barmaid, and this guy and I, while perhaps still flirting, were at complete odds with each other, and I was frankly disgusted with myself for still flirting with him. I was at the bar well after closing time while poor Ellen waited in the car for me, thinking that I couldn't possibly argue with all of those people for much longer. Wow, was she wrong. I was practically thrown out of the bar and told that I was probably going to hell for working for John Kerry, or at the very least, people "like me," would be sorry for not agreeing with the war.
So, clearly, I've had some experiences a little different than that since leaving, and I don't think it's just because of the difference in ideologies here. I think I've become a lot more open to finding out why people think the way they do, rather than immediately lashing out at them for not thinking the way I do.
And there's not a thing wrong with that.
I wish I could say that I've been living such a fabulously, action-packed life in the big city that it's kept me from the daily musings that I started in January.
That has not so much been the case.
The most fun I've had recently involved waking up at 11 a.m. on a Saturday to attend a 4-hour beer tasting, replete with a band that played "Sweet Home Alabama," obviously, just for me. Yeah, that sounds oh, so, chic, I know, but it put a smile on my face.
No, sadly, I was just given a different temporary employment assignment that did not let me gaze fixated on the computer screen wondering what porn sites I could get away with looking at..(again, kidding)
I have had a rough week, involving sleep deprivation, and on one night, something called a growler of beer, so if this jumps around, I apologize, but I like to think that my semi-incoherent posts are the ones that have that certain "je ne sais quoi."
The other day I was having a conversation with someone who frequently describes me as a "kooky liberal," and I thought about how vastly less liberal I have become in the last 5-7 years.
I was a self-described "feminazi" when I was in high school and early college and can remember berated a certain whipped boyfriend when he deigned to open doors for me. What a self-important idiot I was. I could turn anything into an inequality issue and Lord have mercy on whoever had the temerity to argue with me, and these would degenerate into near-screaming matches with me vowing never to hang out with whoever had offended me again.
What a long, strange trip it's been. You would think that having worked for a political campaign, I would've become more indoctrinated toward that particular viewpoint, but I honestly think it was the absolute best thing I could've done in terms of expanding my horizons and being open toward opinions that differ from mine.
I will likely never vote Republican. I can't say it for sure, though, and that's something I never thought that I would even consider.
I am now able to truly listen to others' opinions and even if I don't agree, carry on an intelligent two-sided conversation that generally doesn't end with my stomping away and calling someone a poopy-head or whatever brilliant attack I used to come up with when someone incensed me so badly just for not agreeing with me.
And I prefer it this way. I left Mississippi because I wanted to experience things that I had never experienced before, and whatever other things I set out to do and haven't accomplished, I have and continue to achieve that, and I feel pretty good about that.
I remember having a conversation in Mississippi when I was on one of about 4 "farewell bar tours" before I left that I think serves as a good reminder as to how far I've come.
I was in a certain bar I enjoyed having the occasional cocktail and witty banter in before I left, and I happened to meet a guy who worked for a local state representative. I was flirting with him a little, trying to use a little "leaving town mojo" someone had told me to take advantage of, and then he lowered the boom about who he worked for, and I proudly proclaimed, "Well, I'm moving to Pennsylvania to work for John Kerry," and off we went.
Before the night was over, the bartender had declared me wholeheartedly unpatriotic, as well as the skanky barmaid, and this guy and I, while perhaps still flirting, were at complete odds with each other, and I was frankly disgusted with myself for still flirting with him. I was at the bar well after closing time while poor Ellen waited in the car for me, thinking that I couldn't possibly argue with all of those people for much longer. Wow, was she wrong. I was practically thrown out of the bar and told that I was probably going to hell for working for John Kerry, or at the very least, people "like me," would be sorry for not agreeing with the war.
So, clearly, I've had some experiences a little different than that since leaving, and I don't think it's just because of the difference in ideologies here. I think I've become a lot more open to finding out why people think the way they do, rather than immediately lashing out at them for not thinking the way I do.
And there's not a thing wrong with that.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Suffering blog
Well, to my fans, all five of you, the blog will only be updated periodically now, as I am no longer at a super-boring job that affords me a ton of free time. I'm sure that you're all really upset, but perhaps this means that my postings will no longer contain stream-of-consciousness type information, but will be chock full of meaningful, intelligent prose (yea, right). A girl can dream.
I've had some offers for guest bloggers, but I feel that would compromise the vision in this yellow dog's head.
Stay tuned for future posts when I can do them. I know you'll all be on pins and needles.
I've had some offers for guest bloggers, but I feel that would compromise the vision in this yellow dog's head.
Stay tuned for future posts when I can do them. I know you'll all be on pins and needles.
Friday, April 22, 2005
The First Amendment makes strange bedfellows
Okay, apparently, Jane Fonda was signing her new book in Kansas City, Missouri, yesterday when a Vietnam veteran spat tobacco juice at her as a way of letting her know he didn't so much agree with her stance against the war and felt the need to let her know it over 30 years after her anti-war actions.
It set off a bit of a media storm, especially at Fox News, and I use the word, news, loosely. Naturally, they began running footage of her Vietnam-era trip, and it seems to me that it was almost like they wanted to say,"Look, this is still so recent, look, there she is..," when the man was at fault here.
If you want to speak out against someone like an intelligent person, then do so. Spitting disgusting tobacco juice at someone at a crowded book signing really only serves to make you look like an inbred hayseed, rather than an intelligent man with a thought-out point.
I was trying to imagine the thought process behind it. Did he tell his children, "Hey, kids, Daddy's gonna go spit tobacky juice at that ther liberal Hollywood lady. Aren't you proud?"
I'm sure they'll treasure the news stories generated by their redneck father causing a scene when, if he wanted to protest her visit, he could've created a sign and stood outside, or even voiced his objections in the arena.
An excerpt from a news article:
"She is responsible for a lot of my friends, a lot of my buddies, a lot of my brothers being listed on 'the wall'," he said, referring to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, which lists 58,000 casualties from the war.
I think that's a bit strong. Since when are anti-war protesters responsible for the death of soldiers in battle? That mantle would be squarely placed on those who made the decisions to go to war, in fact the very same people that individuals like Fonda are objecting to.
We had no damn business being in Vietnam, which reminds me of something now...I wonder what that could be (maybe it'll come to me)...and maybe the vets should be pissed off at the government that sent them there rather than certain people who were trying to get them home.
She was photographed in an anti-aircraft carrier and claims she didn't mean to be, that she was merely touring the facilities with the Vietnamese. Now, I agree that this was a stupid thing to do. When we're at war, whether you agree or don't, you shouldn't try to do things that could affect troop morale or put yourself in a position in which it seems like you support the enemy, but I really do think it was a case of a ditzy actress trying to make a name for herself and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It also happened over 30 years ago. Do we want to hold people accountable for those actions? I think if that's the case, our fearless President better start damage control over the things delving into his past can and have brought out.
I don't agree with the war in Iraq; does that mean someone who has served in the Middle East should hate me? Hardly. I fully and wholeheartedly support every single soldier that is fighting in our military today. That doesn't mean that I agree with the governmental policies that put them there, and no one can tell me that I can't think that.
That's the absolutely brilliant thing about this country. It affords the freedom to say and express yourself however you choose, except for assaulting someone, including spitting on them. It protects me; it protects Michael A. Smith of Kansas City, Missouri, should he ever decide to voice his opinions without behaving like Boss Hog; and it protects Jane Fonda.
God Bless America.
It set off a bit of a media storm, especially at Fox News, and I use the word, news, loosely. Naturally, they began running footage of her Vietnam-era trip, and it seems to me that it was almost like they wanted to say,"Look, this is still so recent, look, there she is..," when the man was at fault here.
If you want to speak out against someone like an intelligent person, then do so. Spitting disgusting tobacco juice at someone at a crowded book signing really only serves to make you look like an inbred hayseed, rather than an intelligent man with a thought-out point.
I was trying to imagine the thought process behind it. Did he tell his children, "Hey, kids, Daddy's gonna go spit tobacky juice at that ther liberal Hollywood lady. Aren't you proud?"
I'm sure they'll treasure the news stories generated by their redneck father causing a scene when, if he wanted to protest her visit, he could've created a sign and stood outside, or even voiced his objections in the arena.
An excerpt from a news article:
"She is responsible for a lot of my friends, a lot of my buddies, a lot of my brothers being listed on 'the wall'," he said, referring to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, which lists 58,000 casualties from the war.
I think that's a bit strong. Since when are anti-war protesters responsible for the death of soldiers in battle? That mantle would be squarely placed on those who made the decisions to go to war, in fact the very same people that individuals like Fonda are objecting to.
We had no damn business being in Vietnam, which reminds me of something now...I wonder what that could be (maybe it'll come to me)...and maybe the vets should be pissed off at the government that sent them there rather than certain people who were trying to get them home.
She was photographed in an anti-aircraft carrier and claims she didn't mean to be, that she was merely touring the facilities with the Vietnamese. Now, I agree that this was a stupid thing to do. When we're at war, whether you agree or don't, you shouldn't try to do things that could affect troop morale or put yourself in a position in which it seems like you support the enemy, but I really do think it was a case of a ditzy actress trying to make a name for herself and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It also happened over 30 years ago. Do we want to hold people accountable for those actions? I think if that's the case, our fearless President better start damage control over the things delving into his past can and have brought out.
I don't agree with the war in Iraq; does that mean someone who has served in the Middle East should hate me? Hardly. I fully and wholeheartedly support every single soldier that is fighting in our military today. That doesn't mean that I agree with the governmental policies that put them there, and no one can tell me that I can't think that.
That's the absolutely brilliant thing about this country. It affords the freedom to say and express yourself however you choose, except for assaulting someone, including spitting on them. It protects me; it protects Michael A. Smith of Kansas City, Missouri, should he ever decide to voice his opinions without behaving like Boss Hog; and it protects Jane Fonda.
God Bless America.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Too much information?
On my way to work this morning, I got behind a car that had a "Baby on Board" sticker. Jesus, I didn't know they still made those, to be honest. Remember how those were everywhere at one point in the late '80s/early '90s. I never really understood the point of it.
Is the idea that obviously I would be headed to plow into the car, but, oh, wait, there's a baby in there, so I'll crash into someone childless.
I tend to think that it's more to let everyone who passes your car know that you, in fact, have a baby, like, "Look at me; I've contributed to society. I have a baby."
Which leads me to people imparting information to other people that only seems to serve the purpose of validating their lives.
There's a "Seinfeld" episode, one of the really early ones, and there's a scene that is still one of my favorites.
All of the gang goes to this horrible party in Long Island, and Elaine gets stuck talking to this woman and the conversation goes like this:
Annoying woman: Mary, have you seen my fiance? Where is my fiance? My fiance; I seem to have lost my fiance. The poor baby.
Elaine: Maybe the dingo ate your baby.
And the woman looks at her like she's on drugs and gets up, presumably to find her fiance.
I work with a guy who is quite odd and has the personality of a shoe and yet, every time I happen to be outside on a smoke break and am trying to make conversation with him, he invariably mentions his fiancee. A typical exchange:
Me: The weather is nice.
Weird guy: Yeah, my fiancee said that very same thing to me this morning.
Me: Ah. Yeah, I hope it stays this way.
Weird guy: So does my fiancee. We're getting married, you know.
I don't know if he thinks I'm trying to hit on him (he would be wrong), but I feel that it's more likely that he's so clearly bizarre, he needs the world to know that he is, in fact, loved by a woman.
It's funny, when I was engaged, fiance just didn't roll off the tongue. I ended up saying something like "This is Josh, he's my boyfri...ance. And I was always mildly uncomfortable when people noticed my engagement ring and asked me when the wedding was.
Now, there could be a number of reasons for this: I had no business getting married, I knew it was a match made in hell, or, and I choose to believe this, I just don't need to broadcast details of my life in order to validate myself.
I hate meeting people in an elevator, waiting room, etc..when, within about five minutes, I know that: they're divorced, they have ungrateful children, they've recently come out of the closet, or that antibiotic cream really paid off on that rash in their nether regions..
There is some stuff that simply needs to be kept to one's self.
I suppose it's ironic that I say that as I'm writing this for a blog on the Internet. But, whatever, do as I say, not as I do.
Is the idea that obviously I would be headed to plow into the car, but, oh, wait, there's a baby in there, so I'll crash into someone childless.
I tend to think that it's more to let everyone who passes your car know that you, in fact, have a baby, like, "Look at me; I've contributed to society. I have a baby."
Which leads me to people imparting information to other people that only seems to serve the purpose of validating their lives.
There's a "Seinfeld" episode, one of the really early ones, and there's a scene that is still one of my favorites.
All of the gang goes to this horrible party in Long Island, and Elaine gets stuck talking to this woman and the conversation goes like this:
Annoying woman: Mary, have you seen my fiance? Where is my fiance? My fiance; I seem to have lost my fiance. The poor baby.
Elaine: Maybe the dingo ate your baby.
And the woman looks at her like she's on drugs and gets up, presumably to find her fiance.
I work with a guy who is quite odd and has the personality of a shoe and yet, every time I happen to be outside on a smoke break and am trying to make conversation with him, he invariably mentions his fiancee. A typical exchange:
Me: The weather is nice.
Weird guy: Yeah, my fiancee said that very same thing to me this morning.
Me: Ah. Yeah, I hope it stays this way.
Weird guy: So does my fiancee. We're getting married, you know.
I don't know if he thinks I'm trying to hit on him (he would be wrong), but I feel that it's more likely that he's so clearly bizarre, he needs the world to know that he is, in fact, loved by a woman.
It's funny, when I was engaged, fiance just didn't roll off the tongue. I ended up saying something like "This is Josh, he's my boyfri...ance. And I was always mildly uncomfortable when people noticed my engagement ring and asked me when the wedding was.
Now, there could be a number of reasons for this: I had no business getting married, I knew it was a match made in hell, or, and I choose to believe this, I just don't need to broadcast details of my life in order to validate myself.
I hate meeting people in an elevator, waiting room, etc..when, within about five minutes, I know that: they're divorced, they have ungrateful children, they've recently come out of the closet, or that antibiotic cream really paid off on that rash in their nether regions..
There is some stuff that simply needs to be kept to one's self.
I suppose it's ironic that I say that as I'm writing this for a blog on the Internet. But, whatever, do as I say, not as I do.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Merrily, merrily, merrily
This morning, as I was driving to work, gripping the steering wheel with hands of rage as usual, something kind of funny happened. Even though I'm in a state of clench when I'm in traffic, I can't not sing along to the radio. So, while I'm generally annoyed, I'm also singing at the top of my lungs to "Maggie May" by Rod Stewart while simultaneously checking my cell phone to see what time it is.
And the reason that I have to do that is that the clock in my car, along with my alarm clock at home is about 35 minutes fast, so I never really know what time it is.
Everybody does that trick, right? Except for me, it no longer helps me to be on time, I just never know what time it actually is.
So, anyway, as I look up from my cell phone, there's a guy in the lane next to me laughing. At me. Because I'm singing rather animatedly. This happens quite a bit, and normally, I kind of get flustered and break eye contact, but this morning, I just laughed right back and kinda shrugged my shoulders to indicate, "Yeah, you caught me." It made the remainder of my commute a little more bearable.
Yesterday, during a particularly hideous day at work, I went outside for my 3:30ish smoke break. Now, I look forward to this for a number of reasons. The weather is awesome, and this is one of the few times I get to go outside during the day, smoking does calm me down a little (at least in my head it does) and by taking my break at 3:30, it means the hell that is my workday is almost over.
So, I'm outside, enjoying my cigarette, having just lit it, and what appeared to be a red wasp kind of just popped up in front of my face. So, I did what I've been doing since I was 5 and that consists of running away like an idiot, even though every logical piece of advice regarding things that sting you tells you to be still and just get them to go away.
So, I ran around the parking lot, yelling "Sonofabitch," that is, until I ran into the glass door, with my head, mind you, and, realizing that the stupid thing was still on my sleeve, entered the code more quickly than I ever have before, while knocking the gangster wasp off me.
Thank GOD no one saw me, and I feel sure that when I came back inside, everyone was wondering why I was that much out of breath, but I chose not to share it.
And, when I drove home, again in the lovely commute that makes me want to turn homicidal, I realized that my cell phone had been cut off, with no warning, not because I hadn't paid the bill, but because Sprint decides after an arbitrary point, that if you have a certain amount of minutes over your allotted minutes, regardless of how much money you've given them, they cut it off without telling you, even if this is your only phone, and masked bandits could kidnap you at any moment, with your cell phone being your only link to the outside world.
So, while waiting the up to four hours for my payment to go through, I had to borrow my roommate's boyfriend's phone to make calls, trying to assure people that "No, I'm not poor, I swear. Sprint just sucks."
But you know what? After sharing all of that, things could be A LOT worse, so I'm venting, but not complaining. There's a subtle difference.
And the reason that I have to do that is that the clock in my car, along with my alarm clock at home is about 35 minutes fast, so I never really know what time it is.
Everybody does that trick, right? Except for me, it no longer helps me to be on time, I just never know what time it actually is.
So, anyway, as I look up from my cell phone, there's a guy in the lane next to me laughing. At me. Because I'm singing rather animatedly. This happens quite a bit, and normally, I kind of get flustered and break eye contact, but this morning, I just laughed right back and kinda shrugged my shoulders to indicate, "Yeah, you caught me." It made the remainder of my commute a little more bearable.
Yesterday, during a particularly hideous day at work, I went outside for my 3:30ish smoke break. Now, I look forward to this for a number of reasons. The weather is awesome, and this is one of the few times I get to go outside during the day, smoking does calm me down a little (at least in my head it does) and by taking my break at 3:30, it means the hell that is my workday is almost over.
So, I'm outside, enjoying my cigarette, having just lit it, and what appeared to be a red wasp kind of just popped up in front of my face. So, I did what I've been doing since I was 5 and that consists of running away like an idiot, even though every logical piece of advice regarding things that sting you tells you to be still and just get them to go away.
So, I ran around the parking lot, yelling "Sonofabitch," that is, until I ran into the glass door, with my head, mind you, and, realizing that the stupid thing was still on my sleeve, entered the code more quickly than I ever have before, while knocking the gangster wasp off me.
Thank GOD no one saw me, and I feel sure that when I came back inside, everyone was wondering why I was that much out of breath, but I chose not to share it.
And, when I drove home, again in the lovely commute that makes me want to turn homicidal, I realized that my cell phone had been cut off, with no warning, not because I hadn't paid the bill, but because Sprint decides after an arbitrary point, that if you have a certain amount of minutes over your allotted minutes, regardless of how much money you've given them, they cut it off without telling you, even if this is your only phone, and masked bandits could kidnap you at any moment, with your cell phone being your only link to the outside world.
So, while waiting the up to four hours for my payment to go through, I had to borrow my roommate's boyfriend's phone to make calls, trying to assure people that "No, I'm not poor, I swear. Sprint just sucks."
But you know what? After sharing all of that, things could be A LOT worse, so I'm venting, but not complaining. There's a subtle difference.
Monday, April 18, 2005
What's the opposite of a health nut?
This weekend, I had the pleasure of watching "Super Size Me," a documentary by a guy named Morgan Spurlock who went on a diet of nothing but McDonald's food for an entire month.
The deal was, he ate everything on the menu at least once (even the Filet O' Fish, blech), and every time they asked him if he wanted to "super size," he did. All in all, he super-sized 9 times.
When he began, he weighed 185 and was in pretty good shape. He had 11% body fat and a cholesterol of 165. When he finished, he weighed 210, his body fat was 23% and his cholesterol was around 220. Also, every doctor that he went to told him that he had harmed his liver quite a bit by eating that much fat and sugar, even advising him to end his experiment early, but he didn't.
It took him almost 6 months to lose all of the weight. Crazy.
So, I started to think about all of the unhealthy things I do, and it's really quite sobering.
Now, I genuinely don't eat fast food that often. Every once in a while, I might get breakfast from McDonald's, but that's about it. And that's the most positive thing I can say about my health regiment.
I drink diet soda like there's nothing else in the world to drink. I am addicted to Diet Vanilla Pepsi. I used to be addicted to Mountain Dew, so that's a slight improvement, but diet drinks, while they don't contain sugar, contain aspartame, which has been linked to cancer. So, it's a question of preferring to be fat or preferring to increase your risk of cancer. Lovely choice.
As aforementioned, I smoke roughly a pack of cigarettes a day. I can't even begin to list all the adverse effects smoking has on a person. I have been smoking now for 12 years. That is crazy. I'm giving serious thought to quitting, as I am tired of being out of breath all the time and really tired of smelling like smoke. We'll see how that goes.
Now, I don't drink alcohol super often, maybe once or twice a week, but when I do, I drink too much at once. I suspect the reason my stomach seems to have regained part of its pre-Pennsylvania girth is that oh-so-tasty Pennsylvania treat, Yuengling lager. I truly love this beer, and it's starting to be a problem. Not a 12-step problem, but a "When's the baby due"? problem, and that's not good.
Let's see..I also either get way too much sleep or not enough, which has been linked to a number of health problems, and I never exercise. Oh, and I eat frozen food way too often to be considered a healthy eater.
So, I've clearly got some work cut out for myself.
Step one is to start going to the gym and eating better. I'm starting to eat a little better, but I really need to make an effort in that area, and I have GOT to go to the gym. Besides the stomach issue, I've had these jiggly areas under my arms for longer than I care to say, and you know what, I don't like 'em. I want Linda Hamilton in "Terminator 2" arms..not really, I think that would scare me, but you get the picture.
So, when I drag my lazy ass to the gym and maybe cut the I.V. of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, I'll be sure to let everyone know how the exercise and healthy living is treating me. Well, I'm probably a little ahead of myself. First, let's get through the beginnings of the exercise, and then we'll go from there.
Beefcake!!
The deal was, he ate everything on the menu at least once (even the Filet O' Fish, blech), and every time they asked him if he wanted to "super size," he did. All in all, he super-sized 9 times.
When he began, he weighed 185 and was in pretty good shape. He had 11% body fat and a cholesterol of 165. When he finished, he weighed 210, his body fat was 23% and his cholesterol was around 220. Also, every doctor that he went to told him that he had harmed his liver quite a bit by eating that much fat and sugar, even advising him to end his experiment early, but he didn't.
It took him almost 6 months to lose all of the weight. Crazy.
So, I started to think about all of the unhealthy things I do, and it's really quite sobering.
Now, I genuinely don't eat fast food that often. Every once in a while, I might get breakfast from McDonald's, but that's about it. And that's the most positive thing I can say about my health regiment.
I drink diet soda like there's nothing else in the world to drink. I am addicted to Diet Vanilla Pepsi. I used to be addicted to Mountain Dew, so that's a slight improvement, but diet drinks, while they don't contain sugar, contain aspartame, which has been linked to cancer. So, it's a question of preferring to be fat or preferring to increase your risk of cancer. Lovely choice.
As aforementioned, I smoke roughly a pack of cigarettes a day. I can't even begin to list all the adverse effects smoking has on a person. I have been smoking now for 12 years. That is crazy. I'm giving serious thought to quitting, as I am tired of being out of breath all the time and really tired of smelling like smoke. We'll see how that goes.
Now, I don't drink alcohol super often, maybe once or twice a week, but when I do, I drink too much at once. I suspect the reason my stomach seems to have regained part of its pre-Pennsylvania girth is that oh-so-tasty Pennsylvania treat, Yuengling lager. I truly love this beer, and it's starting to be a problem. Not a 12-step problem, but a "When's the baby due"? problem, and that's not good.
Let's see..I also either get way too much sleep or not enough, which has been linked to a number of health problems, and I never exercise. Oh, and I eat frozen food way too often to be considered a healthy eater.
So, I've clearly got some work cut out for myself.
Step one is to start going to the gym and eating better. I'm starting to eat a little better, but I really need to make an effort in that area, and I have GOT to go to the gym. Besides the stomach issue, I've had these jiggly areas under my arms for longer than I care to say, and you know what, I don't like 'em. I want Linda Hamilton in "Terminator 2" arms..not really, I think that would scare me, but you get the picture.
So, when I drag my lazy ass to the gym and maybe cut the I.V. of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, I'll be sure to let everyone know how the exercise and healthy living is treating me. Well, I'm probably a little ahead of myself. First, let's get through the beginnings of the exercise, and then we'll go from there.
Beefcake!!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Are you tough enough?
I originally wrote this as a column about a year ago. I'm sick and don't feel like writing today..enjoy.
I like to think of myself as a little country girl from Macon. Rather, that’s what everyone else likes to think of me as, and I generally cringe when reminded of the tiny 2,000 population town in which I grew up.
However, I recognize that I didn’t exactly grow up in the throes of a cosmopolitan area, and I am slowly accepting to embrace my past rather than deny it.
However, mud-riding and creek-swimming as a child and teenager aside, there are certain things even this “country girl” isn’t prepared for – a Toughman Contest, for instance.
In case you don’t know what a Toughman Contest is, I will be happy to fill you in. Apparently, there is a national Toughman Contest in which the regional winners throughout the country compete. So, each state holds a series of local Toughman Contests, and the winners from these take their illustrious spots nationally.
I had the privilege (?) to attend one of the regional contests in Meridian recently, and I have never witnessed a more surreal experience. Roughly 10 grown men entered and after receiving a required physical from the eminent Toughman-sanctioned doctor, off they went to pair off in order to beat the tar out of each other while being cheered on by a beer-fueled crowd.
Several things struck me about this event, in no particular order – The men who had registered early walked around, shirts off (a mistake in some cases) chests puffed out, listening to music ( I like to imagine it was Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman,” but I’m sure I’m mistaken) and giving withering looks to anyone who might challenge their manliness. A male thing, I guess, I really wouldn’t presume to know.
Secondly, there were small children at this thing. In one instance, I’m talking about near-newborns asleep on the chests of their fathers, who I feel sure probably could’ve stayed at home with a babysitter or a sane parent, but as a childless “singleton,” I suppose I have no say in such matters.
Finally, there were the “Ring Girls.” Now, I realize with the machismo of this event, I shouldn’t have been surprised by semi-scantily clad women proclaiming the beginning of each fresh round of torment for the loser, but these girls looked to be about 17 years old and were subject to the lasciviousness of men twice and three times their age, catcalling and hooting as though Pamela Anderson Lee was strutting across the stage. I found it a little sad, both for the catcallers and the “Ring Girls.”
In conclusion, I saw men who I assume have other, daytime jobs that don’t require them to beat down a co-worker do their best to at least leave them walking funny, and I admit it, by the end, I was cheering as well, caught up in all the testosterone and madness of it all. I guess it’s true; you can take the girl out of Macon, but you can’t take the Macon out of the girl.
I like to think of myself as a little country girl from Macon. Rather, that’s what everyone else likes to think of me as, and I generally cringe when reminded of the tiny 2,000 population town in which I grew up.
However, I recognize that I didn’t exactly grow up in the throes of a cosmopolitan area, and I am slowly accepting to embrace my past rather than deny it.
However, mud-riding and creek-swimming as a child and teenager aside, there are certain things even this “country girl” isn’t prepared for – a Toughman Contest, for instance.
In case you don’t know what a Toughman Contest is, I will be happy to fill you in. Apparently, there is a national Toughman Contest in which the regional winners throughout the country compete. So, each state holds a series of local Toughman Contests, and the winners from these take their illustrious spots nationally.
I had the privilege (?) to attend one of the regional contests in Meridian recently, and I have never witnessed a more surreal experience. Roughly 10 grown men entered and after receiving a required physical from the eminent Toughman-sanctioned doctor, off they went to pair off in order to beat the tar out of each other while being cheered on by a beer-fueled crowd.
Several things struck me about this event, in no particular order – The men who had registered early walked around, shirts off (a mistake in some cases) chests puffed out, listening to music ( I like to imagine it was Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman,” but I’m sure I’m mistaken) and giving withering looks to anyone who might challenge their manliness. A male thing, I guess, I really wouldn’t presume to know.
Secondly, there were small children at this thing. In one instance, I’m talking about near-newborns asleep on the chests of their fathers, who I feel sure probably could’ve stayed at home with a babysitter or a sane parent, but as a childless “singleton,” I suppose I have no say in such matters.
Finally, there were the “Ring Girls.” Now, I realize with the machismo of this event, I shouldn’t have been surprised by semi-scantily clad women proclaiming the beginning of each fresh round of torment for the loser, but these girls looked to be about 17 years old and were subject to the lasciviousness of men twice and three times their age, catcalling and hooting as though Pamela Anderson Lee was strutting across the stage. I found it a little sad, both for the catcallers and the “Ring Girls.”
In conclusion, I saw men who I assume have other, daytime jobs that don’t require them to beat down a co-worker do their best to at least leave them walking funny, and I admit it, by the end, I was cheering as well, caught up in all the testosterone and madness of it all. I guess it’s true; you can take the girl out of Macon, but you can’t take the Macon out of the girl.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Road warriors and good times
Nothing quite creates a feeling of camaraderie like a good road trip. It's typically something you do in college, but there's nothing to say you can't pick up and go anywhere with close friends well into your 40s. I certainly hope to still be doing that, maybe as an homage to "Thelma and Louise," excepting that whole over the cliff part at the end, oh, and committing murder. But, you get my point.
To date, my favorite road trip partner is by far one Amanda Meadows. She and I have been to New Orleans twice, Memphis at least twice, one of those trips spanning Memphis, Nashville and Lynchburg (to tour the Jack Daniels distillery) as well as a brief sojourn in Bucksnort, Tenn., and briefly touring the Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, Ala.
We actually went about an hour out of our way to stop in Bucksnort because when you're looking at a map, a name like that kinda jumps out and begs to be seen. What Bucksnort actually consisted of, was a sign and a couple of gravel roads, but we have pictures, and I have a commemorative rubber keychain, so it was totally worth it.
And the reason the Ave Maria Grotto tour was so brief, was that we arrived about 10 min. before they closed and had to do some fast talking to even be let in. Then, Amanda proceeded to curse over something, and we had a spasm of laughter over my telling her, "I don't think profanity is allowed in the grotto." We still laugh about that.
And, oh, was there singing on these road trips..and flashing..on the way to New Orleans. Not to out anyone, but it wasn't me doing the flashing..
The singing, which I clearly take too seriously, had maybe hit a new silly high/low (?) when Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" came on the radio, and I cleared my throat in order to sing it properly without even realizing it, and Amanda ridiculed me for the rest of the trip.
Perhaps the greatest purchases from the Tennessee trip, other than the Taking Care of Business sunglasses she bought at the Graceland gift shop were two lighters we bought at this hole-in-the-wall gas station.
Amanda's was a small, metallic leg (awesome), but mine was truly the best. It was a white, headless woman wearing a polka-dot bikini. When you depressed the button to light it, her nipples and crotch started blinking. I named her Tammy, and when the part of her leg that made her blink fell off, it was a really sad day for me. I still can't really talk about it without getting misty.
She was quite popular when I returned to Mississippi, dancing on the table to karaoke, she made the rounds in the bar until I had to retrieve her for fear someone would run away with her. But, I digress..
There was another trip to Memphis with Amanda and me, where we were driving through Oxford, Miss., and I swear to God, we saw a road sign that said "Cats crossing" with little pictures of cats crossing the road.
Yet another trip, just to Oxford, was to visit another friend who was staying with some fraternity brothers. I think it was Homecoming weekend at the University of Mississippi. There was this awesome '80s band playing, and they started to play Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," which may be the greatest song ever created.
With a little help from my friend alcohol and a little too much excitement directed toward the beginning strains of "Jesse is a friend...I know he's been a good friend of mine..," I slid down a muddy hill in front of about 200 people, and the sad part is, I didn't even care. I jumped up, covered in filth, and kept right on singing, while Amanda convulsed in laughter with my other friends who had witnessed this display.
And then, there was the shopping cart incident. Amanda, you knew I had to bring it up. Okay, we're in New Orleans at this awesome bar called Madigan's, I think, at our first Mardi Gras. We are having so much fun, it shouldn't even be legal, and we go outside to get some fresh air.
There just happens to be a grocery store across the street, replete with shopping carts. Well, in our infinite wisdom, Amanda says, "Let me push you! Get in!" Um..yeah, she pushed the shopping cart faster than it was ever meant to go, hit a pothole and I literally flew out, drink in hand and flying everywhere along with me, and landed on my ass. OY
People came out of nowhere.."Are you okay? That looked horrible. Let us buy you a drink.." So, all in all, not a terrible thing..although I had a bruise the size of Brazil on my ass the next day and a little trouble walking.
And, yes, I did end up getting her back in a very public way, but since it's not about a road trip, it's not relevant here..heheh.
Anyway, as long as Journey and Hall and Oates are played on the radio, Amanda and I will have the best road trips ever.
*sigh* Good times.
Love you, bubeleh.
To date, my favorite road trip partner is by far one Amanda Meadows. She and I have been to New Orleans twice, Memphis at least twice, one of those trips spanning Memphis, Nashville and Lynchburg (to tour the Jack Daniels distillery) as well as a brief sojourn in Bucksnort, Tenn., and briefly touring the Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, Ala.
We actually went about an hour out of our way to stop in Bucksnort because when you're looking at a map, a name like that kinda jumps out and begs to be seen. What Bucksnort actually consisted of, was a sign and a couple of gravel roads, but we have pictures, and I have a commemorative rubber keychain, so it was totally worth it.
And the reason the Ave Maria Grotto tour was so brief, was that we arrived about 10 min. before they closed and had to do some fast talking to even be let in. Then, Amanda proceeded to curse over something, and we had a spasm of laughter over my telling her, "I don't think profanity is allowed in the grotto." We still laugh about that.
And, oh, was there singing on these road trips..and flashing..on the way to New Orleans. Not to out anyone, but it wasn't me doing the flashing..
The singing, which I clearly take too seriously, had maybe hit a new silly high/low (?) when Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" came on the radio, and I cleared my throat in order to sing it properly without even realizing it, and Amanda ridiculed me for the rest of the trip.
Perhaps the greatest purchases from the Tennessee trip, other than the Taking Care of Business sunglasses she bought at the Graceland gift shop were two lighters we bought at this hole-in-the-wall gas station.
Amanda's was a small, metallic leg (awesome), but mine was truly the best. It was a white, headless woman wearing a polka-dot bikini. When you depressed the button to light it, her nipples and crotch started blinking. I named her Tammy, and when the part of her leg that made her blink fell off, it was a really sad day for me. I still can't really talk about it without getting misty.
She was quite popular when I returned to Mississippi, dancing on the table to karaoke, she made the rounds in the bar until I had to retrieve her for fear someone would run away with her. But, I digress..
There was another trip to Memphis with Amanda and me, where we were driving through Oxford, Miss., and I swear to God, we saw a road sign that said "Cats crossing" with little pictures of cats crossing the road.
Yet another trip, just to Oxford, was to visit another friend who was staying with some fraternity brothers. I think it was Homecoming weekend at the University of Mississippi. There was this awesome '80s band playing, and they started to play Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," which may be the greatest song ever created.
With a little help from my friend alcohol and a little too much excitement directed toward the beginning strains of "Jesse is a friend...I know he's been a good friend of mine..," I slid down a muddy hill in front of about 200 people, and the sad part is, I didn't even care. I jumped up, covered in filth, and kept right on singing, while Amanda convulsed in laughter with my other friends who had witnessed this display.
And then, there was the shopping cart incident. Amanda, you knew I had to bring it up. Okay, we're in New Orleans at this awesome bar called Madigan's, I think, at our first Mardi Gras. We are having so much fun, it shouldn't even be legal, and we go outside to get some fresh air.
There just happens to be a grocery store across the street, replete with shopping carts. Well, in our infinite wisdom, Amanda says, "Let me push you! Get in!" Um..yeah, she pushed the shopping cart faster than it was ever meant to go, hit a pothole and I literally flew out, drink in hand and flying everywhere along with me, and landed on my ass. OY
People came out of nowhere.."Are you okay? That looked horrible. Let us buy you a drink.." So, all in all, not a terrible thing..although I had a bruise the size of Brazil on my ass the next day and a little trouble walking.
And, yes, I did end up getting her back in a very public way, but since it's not about a road trip, it's not relevant here..heheh.
Anyway, as long as Journey and Hall and Oates are played on the radio, Amanda and I will have the best road trips ever.
*sigh* Good times.
Love you, bubeleh.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Seriously..
What is wrong with Ann Coulter's body? I dislike her independently of her freakishly thin body frame and bizarre long face, but, seriously, has anybody looked at her really closely?
They did this bit on Saturday Night Live over the weekend where Drew Barrymore portrayed her on this talk show, and they kept asking, "Seriously, what's wrong with your face"?
Thank God someone else finally put their finger on it. It's just that for her to be touted as the "sexy" conservative, that must mean there's not a hell of a lot for them to choose from these days because she looks like one of those biology skeletons wearing some skin and a blonde wig.
Sorry, Annie, but if you're going to say you hate liberals and act like a general stupid bitch in the name of selling books, I have no problem pointing out your obvious deficiencies in life as well.
They did this bit on Saturday Night Live over the weekend where Drew Barrymore portrayed her on this talk show, and they kept asking, "Seriously, what's wrong with your face"?
Thank God someone else finally put their finger on it. It's just that for her to be touted as the "sexy" conservative, that must mean there's not a hell of a lot for them to choose from these days because she looks like one of those biology skeletons wearing some skin and a blonde wig.
Sorry, Annie, but if you're going to say you hate liberals and act like a general stupid bitch in the name of selling books, I have no problem pointing out your obvious deficiencies in life as well.
Things that annoy me
Yes, it's true this post might not have some of the positivity of previous posts, but it's Monday, I left my apartment without drying my hair this morning, and I've had a headache since yesterday, so if you want to be uplifted, you should probably skip the blog today.
While most of the time I have decided to focus on what's good in the world, let's face it. I'm a pretty impatient person who is easily annoyed. I used to think that it was a terrible way to be, that I should try not to let little things get to me, etc..., and I don't react to them as badly as I used to, but I simply cannot help my high levels of annoyance.
There's really no explanation for it, other than for the most part, I come from a long line of grumpy people.
So, here we go..
1. Morning radio shows. I don't think there's anything more irritating in the morning than a group of two or three people on radio stations who have been chosen for some inexplicable reason by that station to greet morning commuters and give their oh, so intelligent and informed opinions on the day's events.
They are pretty much all people who have "faces made for radio," and somehow this little vocation that requires little to no skill has afforded them the idea that they are really, really cool. I think radio stations should just, I dunno, play music..what a novel idea.
2. Working in an office. I realize this is one of those annoyances I'm going to have to get over or just accept, and basically, I have, but I hate all of the little "Office Space"-isms of working in a place that has cubicles. My current supervisor at this temp job absolutely REFUSES to answer any calls transferred to her.
I know that people think I'm a huge liar everytime I have to say, "Oh, she's on the phone, or she's out of the office, would you like to leave her a voicemail?" Not only does she refuse to answer her phone, she refuses to meet with anyone who comes into the office for any reason. The security company wants to touch base? No, she's too busy, etc...
Which makes me wonder, what in God's name is she doing? She pawns off virtually all the work she can onto me, she's not answering calls, so what exactly is there to be so busy about?
Oh, yeah, I hate female superiors..sue me, Gloria Steinem. You work for a bitchy woman in her 40s or 50s, then get back to me about how great women are.
3. Money. I hate what it does to people, because, clearly, you can't live without it. I hate the fact that I'm terrified about potentially not having a job, obviously most principally because of money. I just signed a year lease, and I'm in no position to live a life of leisure. And I want to smack people who can and do completely squander large amounts of money while having no comprehension about how real people live.
I worked for a man, who was a millionaire, perhaps billionaire, but I doubt it. Anyway, this man had never had a real job that wasn't part of his "legacy" a day in his life, never wanted for anything, and he paid his employees so small a salary that most people had second jobs, and these were people with college degrees.
He refused to give cost of living raises, saying that they weren't necessary. Well, to someone who has no idea what the cost of living actually is, that makes perfect sense, I suppose.
I wish we could go back to a bartering system and then really see who's useful to society and who's not.
4. In no particular order: The price of gas, people who talk too loudly or too softly, gaining weight, religious television channels, being lonely, men who are sleazy, people who say "dude" way too much, people in politics who lie, poorly written books that are on bestseller lists, PARIS friggin' HILTON, being lied to, people who have not the slightest sense of irony or sarcasm, the Michael Jackson trial, insecurity, and metrosexuals.
While most of the time I have decided to focus on what's good in the world, let's face it. I'm a pretty impatient person who is easily annoyed. I used to think that it was a terrible way to be, that I should try not to let little things get to me, etc..., and I don't react to them as badly as I used to, but I simply cannot help my high levels of annoyance.
There's really no explanation for it, other than for the most part, I come from a long line of grumpy people.
So, here we go..
1. Morning radio shows. I don't think there's anything more irritating in the morning than a group of two or three people on radio stations who have been chosen for some inexplicable reason by that station to greet morning commuters and give their oh, so intelligent and informed opinions on the day's events.
They are pretty much all people who have "faces made for radio," and somehow this little vocation that requires little to no skill has afforded them the idea that they are really, really cool. I think radio stations should just, I dunno, play music..what a novel idea.
2. Working in an office. I realize this is one of those annoyances I'm going to have to get over or just accept, and basically, I have, but I hate all of the little "Office Space"-isms of working in a place that has cubicles. My current supervisor at this temp job absolutely REFUSES to answer any calls transferred to her.
I know that people think I'm a huge liar everytime I have to say, "Oh, she's on the phone, or she's out of the office, would you like to leave her a voicemail?" Not only does she refuse to answer her phone, she refuses to meet with anyone who comes into the office for any reason. The security company wants to touch base? No, she's too busy, etc...
Which makes me wonder, what in God's name is she doing? She pawns off virtually all the work she can onto me, she's not answering calls, so what exactly is there to be so busy about?
Oh, yeah, I hate female superiors..sue me, Gloria Steinem. You work for a bitchy woman in her 40s or 50s, then get back to me about how great women are.
3. Money. I hate what it does to people, because, clearly, you can't live without it. I hate the fact that I'm terrified about potentially not having a job, obviously most principally because of money. I just signed a year lease, and I'm in no position to live a life of leisure. And I want to smack people who can and do completely squander large amounts of money while having no comprehension about how real people live.
I worked for a man, who was a millionaire, perhaps billionaire, but I doubt it. Anyway, this man had never had a real job that wasn't part of his "legacy" a day in his life, never wanted for anything, and he paid his employees so small a salary that most people had second jobs, and these were people with college degrees.
He refused to give cost of living raises, saying that they weren't necessary. Well, to someone who has no idea what the cost of living actually is, that makes perfect sense, I suppose.
I wish we could go back to a bartering system and then really see who's useful to society and who's not.
4. In no particular order: The price of gas, people who talk too loudly or too softly, gaining weight, religious television channels, being lonely, men who are sleazy, people who say "dude" way too much, people in politics who lie, poorly written books that are on bestseller lists, PARIS friggin' HILTON, being lied to, people who have not the slightest sense of irony or sarcasm, the Michael Jackson trial, insecurity, and metrosexuals.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Janie's got a gun
I hate traffic. Traffic and getting anywhere since moving to an actual city have now become the collective banes of my existence. I work roughly 11 miles away from where I live, and it takes me between 45 and 55 minutes to get to work.
I seriously don't know how there aren't more instances of road rage or, frankly, people just abandoning their cars and running away screaming into the woods, because that's frequently what I want to do.
I understand that it's a big city and there's going to be traffic, but often, for no reason at all, the traffic will just cease to move for like 20 minutes, and you think to yourself, "Oh, there must be an accident," and when it starts back up, no, there was no car on fire, no woman giving birth, people just stopped, and then it makes you want to, again, run into the woods and perhaps live a life among the trees and wood nymphs.
There are some days when the commute home doesn't bother me as much, because it kind of serves as an unwinding, where I can blast the radio and decompress before getting to my apartment, but those days are mostly few and far between.
Mostly, I alternate between putting a death grip on the steering wheel and talking to myself about what idiots other drivers are. It can't be healthy behavior. Perhaps I should get a meditation tape or something to listen to on the way home to undercut the bubbling, psychotic feeling that wells inside me more frequently lately.
And my commute, by Philadelphia standards, is not even that far. Some people commute up to 40 miles, and it makes me tired to even think about how long that takes them daily.
And it's entirely possible that I will be one of those "long commuters" sometime soon should the career gods ever smile on me and actually grant me a decent job, and I guess I will do what everyone else does and get used to it, although I don't imagine my ever really being used to being confined in my car for such a long period of time while people simultaneously whiz past me and plod along in front of me.
I thought about it the other day, and it really is just crazy. I mean, what are you gonna do? You have to go where a job is, and clearly, you have to get home, so you're just stuck in this insanity, and there's nothing you can do about it.
After my brief relationship with legions of cars, I now fully understand Michael Douglas' character in "Falling Down," who just abandoned his car and went on a crazy all-day shooting spree with people that annoyed him.
I'm also really thankful that I don't have a gun, because I would fear for the driver of the car who takes up two lanes with his left blinker on and inevitably decides to turn right after holding up traffic for a full five minutes.
I seriously don't know how there aren't more instances of road rage or, frankly, people just abandoning their cars and running away screaming into the woods, because that's frequently what I want to do.
I understand that it's a big city and there's going to be traffic, but often, for no reason at all, the traffic will just cease to move for like 20 minutes, and you think to yourself, "Oh, there must be an accident," and when it starts back up, no, there was no car on fire, no woman giving birth, people just stopped, and then it makes you want to, again, run into the woods and perhaps live a life among the trees and wood nymphs.
There are some days when the commute home doesn't bother me as much, because it kind of serves as an unwinding, where I can blast the radio and decompress before getting to my apartment, but those days are mostly few and far between.
Mostly, I alternate between putting a death grip on the steering wheel and talking to myself about what idiots other drivers are. It can't be healthy behavior. Perhaps I should get a meditation tape or something to listen to on the way home to undercut the bubbling, psychotic feeling that wells inside me more frequently lately.
And my commute, by Philadelphia standards, is not even that far. Some people commute up to 40 miles, and it makes me tired to even think about how long that takes them daily.
And it's entirely possible that I will be one of those "long commuters" sometime soon should the career gods ever smile on me and actually grant me a decent job, and I guess I will do what everyone else does and get used to it, although I don't imagine my ever really being used to being confined in my car for such a long period of time while people simultaneously whiz past me and plod along in front of me.
I thought about it the other day, and it really is just crazy. I mean, what are you gonna do? You have to go where a job is, and clearly, you have to get home, so you're just stuck in this insanity, and there's nothing you can do about it.
After my brief relationship with legions of cars, I now fully understand Michael Douglas' character in "Falling Down," who just abandoned his car and went on a crazy all-day shooting spree with people that annoyed him.
I'm also really thankful that I don't have a gun, because I would fear for the driver of the car who takes up two lanes with his left blinker on and inevitably decides to turn right after holding up traffic for a full five minutes.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Oh, if only it were true
I love "The West Wing." I owe that love all to my friend Simon, and he would point that out if I didn't, but man, do I love that show.
Granted, the past couple of seasons haven't been as good as the first three were, but it's still by far one of the best shows to ever be on television.
But, it's also very tough for a person disillusioned with real-life politics to watch.
The premise of the show, for those who are not fans, is that Martin Sheen is the President, a Democratic president (yay) who is this amazing politician that everyone loves, even when he does things that they don't necessarily agree with.
When he began running for his second term, he had to disclose that he had Multiple Sclerosis, and had had it since before his first term. Yet, he still got re-elected, because, darn it, people just liked him too much.
This is partially what I mean about it not being terribly realistic.
His staff, which really make the show, are comprised of ultra-liberal, ambitious people who follow Bartlet (Sheen) without question, or generally, without question.
The brilliance of the first three seasons of the show lied within the cast and Aaron Sorkin's writing and creation of characters. They had this very fast-paced, witty repartee in the White House, and if you were anyone who was ever interested in politics, you thought, "That's cool. I could totally work in the White House and exchange glib wit with fellow co-workers."
I won't lie. Just like I was spurred on to consider law school after watching "A Few Good Men" repeatedly, the idea of working in an environment like that of "The West Wing" seemed very desirable to me. What can I say? I'm a product of pop culture.
Anyway, the episode last night was especially good and especially implausible, but made me cry out of awe or appreciation nonetheless. The season finale centered around the Democratic National Convention and how the party had to find a nominee before the end. Now, I have no idea, because I'm historically challenged, if such a thing has ever happened, that going into a convention, the party wouldn't have a nominee, but that's what was going on.
The choices were Congressman Matt Santos (Jimmy Smits), Vice President "Bingo" Bob Russell (Gary Cole), and Ed O'Neill from "Married with Children" fame. His character's name was Baker.
Now, at any given point during the episode, it looked as though the delegates would go with any of the candidates. Each had his strong points, and each had particular parts of the country loyal to them.
Right when it appeared that the milquetoast Russell that couldn't possibly defeat the Republican challenger was going to win, and Santos would step out, Jimmy Smits delivered this utterly kick-ass speech at the convention about how it wasn't up to him to step back and take away that choice from the delegates, and that's when I started to cry.
Of course, he ended up with the nomination and chose Leo, a Bartlet staffer, as his VP, which made it all the better, but the reason I was crying was this: I am a Democrat. Whether I am irritated with the party right now, there is no viable alternative for me. I will likely never be a Republican; I just don't believe in what they believe, and while some people don't pin too much importance on their political affiliations, I do, and it's intrinsic to my personality.
I still agree with Democratic beliefs as a whole, but when I was watching "The West Wing," and yes, I know it's a fictional program, I thought, there is no one in the party right now that I would throw my support behind blindly or who could move such a group of people through his ideas and speeches.
"The West Wing" takes the things that I believe in and makes them possible in this fictional universe, and the idealistic part of me wonders why that can't happen in real life. Why can't the Democrats get their heads out of their asses and unify based on the principles that made them great in the first place?
We're not so far gone that it's impossible, but it's going to take a substantial amount of work, and I hope that the party can do it and do it soon, because the longer they flounder about and scramble to become cohesive, the less likely people are going to be able to identify with them again.
And, for the record, working for the Kerry campaign was nothing like being on "The West Wing."
Granted, the past couple of seasons haven't been as good as the first three were, but it's still by far one of the best shows to ever be on television.
But, it's also very tough for a person disillusioned with real-life politics to watch.
The premise of the show, for those who are not fans, is that Martin Sheen is the President, a Democratic president (yay) who is this amazing politician that everyone loves, even when he does things that they don't necessarily agree with.
When he began running for his second term, he had to disclose that he had Multiple Sclerosis, and had had it since before his first term. Yet, he still got re-elected, because, darn it, people just liked him too much.
This is partially what I mean about it not being terribly realistic.
His staff, which really make the show, are comprised of ultra-liberal, ambitious people who follow Bartlet (Sheen) without question, or generally, without question.
The brilliance of the first three seasons of the show lied within the cast and Aaron Sorkin's writing and creation of characters. They had this very fast-paced, witty repartee in the White House, and if you were anyone who was ever interested in politics, you thought, "That's cool. I could totally work in the White House and exchange glib wit with fellow co-workers."
I won't lie. Just like I was spurred on to consider law school after watching "A Few Good Men" repeatedly, the idea of working in an environment like that of "The West Wing" seemed very desirable to me. What can I say? I'm a product of pop culture.
Anyway, the episode last night was especially good and especially implausible, but made me cry out of awe or appreciation nonetheless. The season finale centered around the Democratic National Convention and how the party had to find a nominee before the end. Now, I have no idea, because I'm historically challenged, if such a thing has ever happened, that going into a convention, the party wouldn't have a nominee, but that's what was going on.
The choices were Congressman Matt Santos (Jimmy Smits), Vice President "Bingo" Bob Russell (Gary Cole), and Ed O'Neill from "Married with Children" fame. His character's name was Baker.
Now, at any given point during the episode, it looked as though the delegates would go with any of the candidates. Each had his strong points, and each had particular parts of the country loyal to them.
Right when it appeared that the milquetoast Russell that couldn't possibly defeat the Republican challenger was going to win, and Santos would step out, Jimmy Smits delivered this utterly kick-ass speech at the convention about how it wasn't up to him to step back and take away that choice from the delegates, and that's when I started to cry.
Of course, he ended up with the nomination and chose Leo, a Bartlet staffer, as his VP, which made it all the better, but the reason I was crying was this: I am a Democrat. Whether I am irritated with the party right now, there is no viable alternative for me. I will likely never be a Republican; I just don't believe in what they believe, and while some people don't pin too much importance on their political affiliations, I do, and it's intrinsic to my personality.
I still agree with Democratic beliefs as a whole, but when I was watching "The West Wing," and yes, I know it's a fictional program, I thought, there is no one in the party right now that I would throw my support behind blindly or who could move such a group of people through his ideas and speeches.
"The West Wing" takes the things that I believe in and makes them possible in this fictional universe, and the idealistic part of me wonders why that can't happen in real life. Why can't the Democrats get their heads out of their asses and unify based on the principles that made them great in the first place?
We're not so far gone that it's impossible, but it's going to take a substantial amount of work, and I hope that the party can do it and do it soon, because the longer they flounder about and scramble to become cohesive, the less likely people are going to be able to identify with them again.
And, for the record, working for the Kerry campaign was nothing like being on "The West Wing."
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Always look on the bright side of life
Because I am not in the greatest mood due to a number of stressful things going on in my life at the moment, I am choosing not to embrace the despair, as would be what I would've done in the past.
To "damn the torpedoes" as it were, I thought I would instead choose to focus on things that inspire me and make me happy and have that be my new method of dealing with stress rather than retreating under the covers and waiting for the storm to pass.
So, the way I figure it is that everyone makes their own happiness in life. Of course there are outside factors that contribute to this, but when it comes down to it, there is no other person or thing responsible for your own happiness but you. And I am finally at a point in my life where I "get" that. I am never going to make everyone happy all of the time, and I shouldn't have to. They have to make their happiness themselves, and it is not my responsibility.
So, on that note, I want to share a few things that keep me getting up everyday because there's hope and promise and wisdom and humor in the world.
1. Remember the "Wear Sunscreen" song that came out in the 90's? Everybody freaked out over this spoken word song, and it was probably the most used graduation song in the history of the world. You know why? Cos' it's a pretty friggin' cool song. Some of my favorite lyrics: "Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements."
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
It's all about what you choose to find important to worry about. We're all going to worry no matter what, and God knows I'm going to worry no matter what, but you/I have to temper it with what you can change and what you can't.
2. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Who else but the Chairman of the Board himself can truly claim to have lived the way that he sung? He didn't take shit from anybody and the whole misogynistic attitude he had aside, I think he kicked ass.
"I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve had my fill; my share of losing. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing. To think I did all that; And may I say - not in a shy way, No, oh no not me, I did it my way."
Hell, yeah. He sums it up pretty well. He didn't always come out on top, but he damn well did what he wanted to do, and he learned from it and has no regrets for living his life the way he chose to do. Nobody will ever again have the self-assured swagger of Frank Sinatra, but I'm gonna do the best I can to duplicate his attitude.
3. In no particular order, the movies "The Princess Bride," "Three Amigos," "Student Bodies" and "Better Off Dead." Granted, there are more movies that I love, but these stand out as movies that I have spent countless hours quoting with friends when I could be in the worst mood in the world or even just a so-so mood, and with one "Hello, my name in Indigo Montoya, you kill my father, prepare to die," I am laughing so hard that I snort.
And while it may not be pretty, snorting during laughter is one of the most liberating things in the world. It means you're so happy that you don't even care that you are making an ass of yourself.
Frankly, every single word spoken in "Three Amigos" could send me into a fit of spastic laughter. It has been my favorite comedy since I was about 12, and I guess that saying about "Who you are at 3, you are at 30," rings pretty true in this case. The scene with the Singing Bush and Invisible Swordsman alone is enough to lift my mood just thinking about it, much less watching it. God bless Steve Martin.
4. Again, in no particular order, these are an assortment of random things that either inspire me or bring a smile to my face: My niece telling me she loves me, phone conversations with people that I care about that are neither productive nor necessary, but they do serve the purpose of making me feel good, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a well-written book where every sentence is so well put-together, you want to meet the author just to thank them, when, for no reason at all, the commute is 15 minutes shorter because of light traffic, spring, family holidays where everyone gets along, a fresh, blank journal, George Clooney, diet vanilla Pepsi, people that you sleep well with (I mean, sleep, too, get your minds out of the gutter), freshly picked flowers, a non-metered parking space in Philadelphia, skinny pants and skinny mirrors, karaoke, happy hour and crawfish.
So, that is the end of that, which is by no means all of my favorite inspirational things, but this could go on forever if I kept at it, so I'll save the rest for another day.
I hope that as well as shedding some much-needed optimism on my mood, I leave some of you feeling a little better.
Feel free to share things that inspire and motivate you or you can just quote "Better Off Dead" if you want.
To "damn the torpedoes" as it were, I thought I would instead choose to focus on things that inspire me and make me happy and have that be my new method of dealing with stress rather than retreating under the covers and waiting for the storm to pass.
So, the way I figure it is that everyone makes their own happiness in life. Of course there are outside factors that contribute to this, but when it comes down to it, there is no other person or thing responsible for your own happiness but you. And I am finally at a point in my life where I "get" that. I am never going to make everyone happy all of the time, and I shouldn't have to. They have to make their happiness themselves, and it is not my responsibility.
So, on that note, I want to share a few things that keep me getting up everyday because there's hope and promise and wisdom and humor in the world.
1. Remember the "Wear Sunscreen" song that came out in the 90's? Everybody freaked out over this spoken word song, and it was probably the most used graduation song in the history of the world. You know why? Cos' it's a pretty friggin' cool song. Some of my favorite lyrics: "Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements."
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
It's all about what you choose to find important to worry about. We're all going to worry no matter what, and God knows I'm going to worry no matter what, but you/I have to temper it with what you can change and what you can't.
2. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Who else but the Chairman of the Board himself can truly claim to have lived the way that he sung? He didn't take shit from anybody and the whole misogynistic attitude he had aside, I think he kicked ass.
"I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve had my fill; my share of losing. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing. To think I did all that; And may I say - not in a shy way, No, oh no not me, I did it my way."
Hell, yeah. He sums it up pretty well. He didn't always come out on top, but he damn well did what he wanted to do, and he learned from it and has no regrets for living his life the way he chose to do. Nobody will ever again have the self-assured swagger of Frank Sinatra, but I'm gonna do the best I can to duplicate his attitude.
3. In no particular order, the movies "The Princess Bride," "Three Amigos," "Student Bodies" and "Better Off Dead." Granted, there are more movies that I love, but these stand out as movies that I have spent countless hours quoting with friends when I could be in the worst mood in the world or even just a so-so mood, and with one "Hello, my name in Indigo Montoya, you kill my father, prepare to die," I am laughing so hard that I snort.
And while it may not be pretty, snorting during laughter is one of the most liberating things in the world. It means you're so happy that you don't even care that you are making an ass of yourself.
Frankly, every single word spoken in "Three Amigos" could send me into a fit of spastic laughter. It has been my favorite comedy since I was about 12, and I guess that saying about "Who you are at 3, you are at 30," rings pretty true in this case. The scene with the Singing Bush and Invisible Swordsman alone is enough to lift my mood just thinking about it, much less watching it. God bless Steve Martin.
4. Again, in no particular order, these are an assortment of random things that either inspire me or bring a smile to my face: My niece telling me she loves me, phone conversations with people that I care about that are neither productive nor necessary, but they do serve the purpose of making me feel good, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a well-written book where every sentence is so well put-together, you want to meet the author just to thank them, when, for no reason at all, the commute is 15 minutes shorter because of light traffic, spring, family holidays where everyone gets along, a fresh, blank journal, George Clooney, diet vanilla Pepsi, people that you sleep well with (I mean, sleep, too, get your minds out of the gutter), freshly picked flowers, a non-metered parking space in Philadelphia, skinny pants and skinny mirrors, karaoke, happy hour and crawfish.
So, that is the end of that, which is by no means all of my favorite inspirational things, but this could go on forever if I kept at it, so I'll save the rest for another day.
I hope that as well as shedding some much-needed optimism on my mood, I leave some of you feeling a little better.
Feel free to share things that inspire and motivate you or you can just quote "Better Off Dead" if you want.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Martha Stewart would be ashamed
I'm an unfit girl, y'know like an unfit parent that has their children taken away. If they could take away my breasts or something for being unfit, they probably should or they would if they could. Granted, I don't know who "they" are, but you get the point.
Okay, first of all, I really can't cook all that well. I mean, I can cook well enough to get by, and I have a few signature dishes that are not too bad, but my roommate, who actually does cook fancy stuff that intimidates me, has all of these kitchen accoutrements that confound and confuse me.
The kitchen kind of scares me sometimes. There are people who can enter anyone's kitchen, survey the utensils and ingredients and immediately conjure up a pretty decent meal. I've seen it happen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at the counter, drinking wine or coffee, half-heartedly saying, "Can I help?" hoping to God they don't say "yes," because outside of chopping stuff, some culinary projects are beyond my comprehension.
The strange thing is, I don't eat out all that often, so what does that mean? It means I eat a ton of pasta, because I can actually boil water,(one burn incident aside) and I buy a ton of frozen food that has the nutritional equivalent of eating cardboard.
That is something that I am determined to change and perhaps living with someone who genuinely enjoys cooking will rub off on me in some small way.
The second reason I should have my ovary privileges revoked is that I am a total idiot about all things decorative. My wish is to be so rich that I can have someone decorate my living space, because if it were up to me, my apartment would have bare walls, and people would likely sit on boxes as furniture. There would be books as far as the eye could see, but in terms of decorating, that's really not a good thing.
I know what things I like, but in terms of having random crap (which I do) look good placed just so on a coffee table or hanging on the wall, etc..I'm completely clueless. Again, my roommate, who is a an artist, is pretty much wholly responsible for the decoration of our apartment, and thank God for that.
My one contribution is a Guatemalan rain stick that a drummer ex-boyfriend gave me in high school, and it has gone everywhere I've lived since then. Now, it has a Clinton/Gore button and a Kerry/Edwards sticker on it to kind of demonstrate its longevity, but, seriously, that's it for my decorating abilities. So sad.
And while cooking can be learned, I don't know that I'll ever have that intrinsic ability to know what looks good where and be at some random flea market and say "Wow, that monkey's toe would go excellently on the shelf next to the television."
I recognize that I have other talents, and while they're not always apparent to me, I know they're there. I can engage in witty repartee, write a good letter and make people feel comfortable. There are more, but those are the ones that leap to mind, at least that I can write when my mom might read this, so there you go.
Maybe I'll get to keep my girl privileges for the moment, but I don't think I'll be Martha Stewart's "Apprentice" anytime soon.
Okay, first of all, I really can't cook all that well. I mean, I can cook well enough to get by, and I have a few signature dishes that are not too bad, but my roommate, who actually does cook fancy stuff that intimidates me, has all of these kitchen accoutrements that confound and confuse me.
The kitchen kind of scares me sometimes. There are people who can enter anyone's kitchen, survey the utensils and ingredients and immediately conjure up a pretty decent meal. I've seen it happen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at the counter, drinking wine or coffee, half-heartedly saying, "Can I help?" hoping to God they don't say "yes," because outside of chopping stuff, some culinary projects are beyond my comprehension.
The strange thing is, I don't eat out all that often, so what does that mean? It means I eat a ton of pasta, because I can actually boil water,(one burn incident aside) and I buy a ton of frozen food that has the nutritional equivalent of eating cardboard.
That is something that I am determined to change and perhaps living with someone who genuinely enjoys cooking will rub off on me in some small way.
The second reason I should have my ovary privileges revoked is that I am a total idiot about all things decorative. My wish is to be so rich that I can have someone decorate my living space, because if it were up to me, my apartment would have bare walls, and people would likely sit on boxes as furniture. There would be books as far as the eye could see, but in terms of decorating, that's really not a good thing.
I know what things I like, but in terms of having random crap (which I do) look good placed just so on a coffee table or hanging on the wall, etc..I'm completely clueless. Again, my roommate, who is a an artist, is pretty much wholly responsible for the decoration of our apartment, and thank God for that.
My one contribution is a Guatemalan rain stick that a drummer ex-boyfriend gave me in high school, and it has gone everywhere I've lived since then. Now, it has a Clinton/Gore button and a Kerry/Edwards sticker on it to kind of demonstrate its longevity, but, seriously, that's it for my decorating abilities. So sad.
And while cooking can be learned, I don't know that I'll ever have that intrinsic ability to know what looks good where and be at some random flea market and say "Wow, that monkey's toe would go excellently on the shelf next to the television."
I recognize that I have other talents, and while they're not always apparent to me, I know they're there. I can engage in witty repartee, write a good letter and make people feel comfortable. There are more, but those are the ones that leap to mind, at least that I can write when my mom might read this, so there you go.
Maybe I'll get to keep my girl privileges for the moment, but I don't think I'll be Martha Stewart's "Apprentice" anytime soon.
Monday, April 04, 2005
A woman without a vocation
I miss college. I miss the sheer ritual of going to class everyday, knowing that I'm learning something, no matter how useless that knowledge may be and looking forward to writing papers. (yea, I'm a dork, I know)
I miss the group discussions about communication theory and why the author chose that word for that particular poem and why historical context has as much to do with each piece of literature you read as anything else does.
In college, I kicked ass. I was the smart, insightful girl who wrote thought-provoking papers that professors sometimes used in class examples or spent half a page writing glowing comments about. I knew what to do there and what was expected for a favorable result and subsequent experience.
Post-college, things have not been what I would call easy for me in the realm of intellectual fulfillment.
Perhaps because although I went into journalism, then communication theory, which encompassed all aspects of communication, I never really had a clear idea of what I wanted to do.
I originally majored in political science, planning to go to law school, but sort of lost my desire to do that mid-way through my sophomore year. Perhaps I should've stayed with political science, given my recent foray into politics and how much it affected me, but I just didn't want to at the time.
I decided that I wanted to write. I had always enjoyed writing, had written short stories on my parents' typewriter from the time I was about 7, and when I really though about it, writing was the only thing that ever made me happy, so I changed my major.
For some reason, though, rather than focusing on creative writing or English, I chose to focus on journalism. I think I liked the glamour it conjured for me, which, after working for a newspaper for almost four years, is almost laughable to me now. I imagined dashing about like Katharine Hepburn in a trenchcoat and reporting to someone like Humphrey Bogart who would say, "Did you get the story, doll face?"
That is, quite clearly, not what happened. I ended up as a copy editor at a newspaper that's very foundation is hypocrisy and mediocrity, and I stayed there for far too long while letting whatever love I had once had for journalism ebb out of me like the slow leak in a tire.
So, here I am. I don't know what to do. I've applied for everything from PR at both the Catholic Diocese and the Jewish Family Services Organization (I'm an equal opportunity desperate job-seeker), to a copy writer at QVC, the shopping network. To demonstrate my patheti-sadness (oh, it's a word), I wasn't even contacted to interview for the first two, and I was deemed "not worthy" for one reason or another to write about decorative, yet affordable porcelain dalmations for QVC.
It's a cold job market, or I'm completely incapable of getting a job that I like that pays me above the poverty line. Let me believe the former for right now because the latter is just too depressing for words.
But I soldier on with what appears to be a useless college degree and gross deficiency of useful work experience and genuinely hope that I don't have to install a phone line in order to make extra money as a psychic or phone sex operator.
I miss the group discussions about communication theory and why the author chose that word for that particular poem and why historical context has as much to do with each piece of literature you read as anything else does.
In college, I kicked ass. I was the smart, insightful girl who wrote thought-provoking papers that professors sometimes used in class examples or spent half a page writing glowing comments about. I knew what to do there and what was expected for a favorable result and subsequent experience.
Post-college, things have not been what I would call easy for me in the realm of intellectual fulfillment.
Perhaps because although I went into journalism, then communication theory, which encompassed all aspects of communication, I never really had a clear idea of what I wanted to do.
I originally majored in political science, planning to go to law school, but sort of lost my desire to do that mid-way through my sophomore year. Perhaps I should've stayed with political science, given my recent foray into politics and how much it affected me, but I just didn't want to at the time.
I decided that I wanted to write. I had always enjoyed writing, had written short stories on my parents' typewriter from the time I was about 7, and when I really though about it, writing was the only thing that ever made me happy, so I changed my major.
For some reason, though, rather than focusing on creative writing or English, I chose to focus on journalism. I think I liked the glamour it conjured for me, which, after working for a newspaper for almost four years, is almost laughable to me now. I imagined dashing about like Katharine Hepburn in a trenchcoat and reporting to someone like Humphrey Bogart who would say, "Did you get the story, doll face?"
That is, quite clearly, not what happened. I ended up as a copy editor at a newspaper that's very foundation is hypocrisy and mediocrity, and I stayed there for far too long while letting whatever love I had once had for journalism ebb out of me like the slow leak in a tire.
So, here I am. I don't know what to do. I've applied for everything from PR at both the Catholic Diocese and the Jewish Family Services Organization (I'm an equal opportunity desperate job-seeker), to a copy writer at QVC, the shopping network. To demonstrate my patheti-sadness (oh, it's a word), I wasn't even contacted to interview for the first two, and I was deemed "not worthy" for one reason or another to write about decorative, yet affordable porcelain dalmations for QVC.
It's a cold job market, or I'm completely incapable of getting a job that I like that pays me above the poverty line. Let me believe the former for right now because the latter is just too depressing for words.
But I soldier on with what appears to be a useless college degree and gross deficiency of useful work experience and genuinely hope that I don't have to install a phone line in order to make extra money as a psychic or phone sex operator.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Optimistic beginnings
Well, now that I am fully moved into my new apartment in an awesome new neighborhood, I can set about the business of feeling like I'm finally at home.
For the past nine months, since I moved to Philadelphia, my life has been a series of transitions.
First, I moved almost 1,000 miles away from home, knowing no one once I reached my destination. Secondly, I started a job that was nothing like anything I've ever done before. And thirdly, I was living in a room in a house with people more than twice my age that was strange beyond explanation.
Within the span of three months, my job ended, so I had to find a new job and adjust to that and within another four months, it became painfully clear that I needed to find a new apartment.
The job search is still a little transitional because I'm doing temp work that degrades me on a daily basis, but I do have two very promising prospects, so with any luck, that will be resolved within the month. So, now what?
I am actually in a pretty amazing space in my life at the moment. I feel like I've finally begun what I wanted to do when I left my life in Mississippi. I wanted to feel like I was working toward something, establish myself in a new city and genuinely begin a life of which I could be proud.
I'm not there yet, but contrary to how hard I've been on myself for the last few months, I'm making pretty good strides.
I'm now looking forward to walking the funky cobblestone streets of Manayunk, familiarizing myself with my new neighborhood that has so much to offer for people in my stage in life.
I have this vision of myself meandering the streets with a cup of coffee in my hand, discovering and remembering why I chose to stay in this amazing city of Philadelphia after John Kerry failed to wrestle the presidency away from one George W. Bush.
In no more than two months' time, I want to know where a good place to work out is, where to buy a good bottle of wine and which part of the city catches the best view of the sunset.
As I was unpacking, I found a column that my grandfather had written about a variety of things, but most prominently, as was often the case, he had written about our county. He was one of those people who could convey his love and absolute appreciation for a place so eloquently that the reader felt like they were seeing what he saw.
It made me a little sad, thinking of how much I missed him, but it also made me happy remembering what a truly great person he was, and I made a vow to try to follow in his footsteps.
I've always wanted to follow his example and be someone that people could admire, but the way he inspired others is a tall order to fill, and I realized that all he would want me to do is be happy, and a person truly satisfied with themselves and their choices will, in turn, be an inspiration to those around them.
So, I'm going to live my life the best way I can and make myself happy and embrace each new challenge with a feeling of hope and the promise of things to come.
For the past nine months, since I moved to Philadelphia, my life has been a series of transitions.
First, I moved almost 1,000 miles away from home, knowing no one once I reached my destination. Secondly, I started a job that was nothing like anything I've ever done before. And thirdly, I was living in a room in a house with people more than twice my age that was strange beyond explanation.
Within the span of three months, my job ended, so I had to find a new job and adjust to that and within another four months, it became painfully clear that I needed to find a new apartment.
The job search is still a little transitional because I'm doing temp work that degrades me on a daily basis, but I do have two very promising prospects, so with any luck, that will be resolved within the month. So, now what?
I am actually in a pretty amazing space in my life at the moment. I feel like I've finally begun what I wanted to do when I left my life in Mississippi. I wanted to feel like I was working toward something, establish myself in a new city and genuinely begin a life of which I could be proud.
I'm not there yet, but contrary to how hard I've been on myself for the last few months, I'm making pretty good strides.
I'm now looking forward to walking the funky cobblestone streets of Manayunk, familiarizing myself with my new neighborhood that has so much to offer for people in my stage in life.
I have this vision of myself meandering the streets with a cup of coffee in my hand, discovering and remembering why I chose to stay in this amazing city of Philadelphia after John Kerry failed to wrestle the presidency away from one George W. Bush.
In no more than two months' time, I want to know where a good place to work out is, where to buy a good bottle of wine and which part of the city catches the best view of the sunset.
As I was unpacking, I found a column that my grandfather had written about a variety of things, but most prominently, as was often the case, he had written about our county. He was one of those people who could convey his love and absolute appreciation for a place so eloquently that the reader felt like they were seeing what he saw.
It made me a little sad, thinking of how much I missed him, but it also made me happy remembering what a truly great person he was, and I made a vow to try to follow in his footsteps.
I've always wanted to follow his example and be someone that people could admire, but the way he inspired others is a tall order to fill, and I realized that all he would want me to do is be happy, and a person truly satisfied with themselves and their choices will, in turn, be an inspiration to those around them.
So, I'm going to live my life the best way I can and make myself happy and embrace each new challenge with a feeling of hope and the promise of things to come.
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