Shopping list.

To Do list
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe

I was sitting in Farragut West waiting for a train on Thursday and when i stood up from the low, stone bench this was stuck to my ass.

Someone else's shopping list.

I looked at it and smirked a little.

Hat. Midol. Bug Spray. Claritin D 24h 20 count. Comb.

I know exactly whose this is.

Sounds like this person was going to have a KICK-ASS time at the beach.

SHE (thanks midol) probably will be allergic to everything in sight, and will spray herself with bug spray religiously because bugs only seem to like her and ignore everyone else. She'll be crampy so will exclaim about how she'd LOVE to go swimming, but simply can't because it's "that time of the month" every few hours. She'll have sunblock on her nose that's blue and will have perfectly combed hair which will be mussed under a huge hat under a huge umbrella.

Worst memorial day mini vacation list ever.

I'm going to the beach in July like a big kid for a week.

my list includes:

get skinnier, pronto.
booze.
bathing suit.
7 sundresses.
booze.
sunscreen.
booze.
frisbee.
a few trashy books.
booze.
deck of cards.
booze.

Things that made me chuckle today

My mom swears up and down everyone who works at Trader Joe's is in a Hawaiian-print, glassy-eyed, sandal-wearing cult.

Every time you go in you know you can chat with the check-out person about at least ONE item that they LOVE that you purchased.

You are prepared for this.

I walk into Trader Joe's constantly ready to over-share. To chat about pita chips and my huge food-crush on their cheese selection.

I perused the items. I bought some food, limiting myself to one basket full of treats for the after-work meals and weekend delights to look forward to.

After waiting in a line that lent itself to DMV-worthy groans, the check-out fellow asked me if I found everything OK.

I said "yes, for an impulse trip, I seem to have found a lot".

And that's when he started giggling.

A long, drawn-out, airy giggle. He then said "what's this (hee hee) here impulse (wheeze wheeze) trip?" in such a nonchalant way that I cocked my head and leaned in as a response.

What do you mean, check out guy? I came here on impulse. I realized that I had plans the rest of the week and should maybe buy that carnitas pork that your fine newsletter told me was so delicious. Maybe I need to pay you $2.99 for the luxury of purchasing a kit so I can make my own guacamole when the time is right. Maybe I need some wine with an "apricot" aftertaste (apricot, as I am learning, is just Chilean for "cheap").

Suddenly snapped back from squinting at him and thinking of the items I had just purchased, I immediately zeroed in on the issue at hand.

Just potentially, how high he might be.

He had a stamp of Trader Joe's address and phone number (in reverse, of course) on his forehead. His airy laughter belied him. He asked me to describe to him my "impulse trip" and gave me a wide grin like we were secret members of an awesome club.

"Well, you know," I said, "I found myself walking past the metro station and decided I should buy some food. For fun."

That was met with the aftermath of the initial wheezy laughter.

I shifted in my sandals and continued.

"Um, well, you know when you, do things on impulse?" and he draws out "yeah yeah yeah. Cool. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR TRIP".

So I said, "Uh, well, I was at work... Time passed... Now I'm here."

Wheezy liked that. He wheezed some more and said "that's alright, that's alright. Good trip."

I said, "Something like that, you could say. Thank you for taking my $50 and good day".

Wheezy continued to grin.

I then notice an impatient, all-business kind of clerk, standing to his left waiting to take over Wheezy's register with a tray of cash. He just looks at Wheezy, in disbelief of the conversation that he was engaged in.

Past tense.

Paused.

Wheezy had not spoken for a full minute.

The conversation had ceased.

Wheezy was enchanted with some place to the left of the top of my head. I'm guessing it was a non-verbal compliment to the at-home dye-job brought to you by Feria that occurred last weekend.

I ask Wheezy for my receipt, which has been waiting patiently to be collected since my initial squinting.

He says "yeah.... yeah" and hands it to me absentmindedly. No-nonsense clerk moves in as soon as humanly possible to take over the register.

I walk away with my bags (managing not to fall down and feel sorry for myself this time) and chuckled at that fellow.

Drinking the kool-aid at TJ's?

Nah.

Exactly what I needed to watch 15 times today

Today was the kind of day where I wanted to bang my head repreatedly against the wall, but there didn't seem to be any walls thick enough or hard enough to do the kind of damage that I was hoping would get me some medical leave.

The only thing that can remedy this is Turk dancing to Bell Biv Devoe.

First with the youtube. Then with the frank discussions of early 90's music that you must jazzercise-dance to. I loved a good bouncy early '90's running man. A little roger rabbit. Whatever that thing Turk does with his hands and flappy elbows. I've done it, and I'll do it again.

If I had a dollar for every time I've said 'Bell Biv DeVoe' in the last 2 weeks I think I'd have about 13 bucks.

Seriously though-- who has SEPARATE conversations about this? Over google chat. Over the Cubicle wall. Whatever.

That's some serious cash. For Bell Biv DeVoe I mean. When is the last time YOU said "Bell Biv DeVoe" out loud?

Try it.

It's one of those phrases that pleases your mouth to say it. It's like saying "kerfuffle". You just have to grin.

Like me now. Cuz now I'd have $15.

home is where the hemming tape is

I have lived in my current apartment for 8 months.

I have only, today, put up curtains.

(I have good blinds, for the record)

I had been putting it off, because they are Ikea curtains. You have to hang them up just to take them down, and then iron them, hem them, and cut off the excess fabric.

Seemed easy enough on paper.

It took 3 hours.

Have you ever tried to iron curtains?

It's not a particularly easy job. I swore a bunch. There I was. Trying to make a straight crease with an iron, only to RE-iron that crease with a piece of hemming tape precariously balanced between the two layers. And make it look straight. They are sheer, so they were slick to iron and kept falling off my ironing board. I had to take a break and have some lemonade.

I could have used a more grown-up drink, but I had plenty of margarita from the night before coursing through my veins. Enough so that I was trembly the next day. Not hung over, but reeking suspiciously of anxiety. Trembly. I thought "what eases tremblings?"

A TRIP TO CHINATOWN!

Nothing eases anxiety like over-stimulation. Blinky lights! Neon hoodies! Fuddruckers!

I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and bought hair die, a new toothbrush, and an iron.

My head is now RED. Like, the streaky red that everyone dyed their hair in 1996. I'm rolling with it. I could use the change.

I went to Urban outfitters and bought a shit-ton of decorations for my apartment. New "artwork". New picture frames waiting for photos to "Rasterbate".

And, I only did it today, because when my mother was visiting a few weekends ago, she remarked upon my lack of iron (in self defense, i had one, but it rusted) among other things, including decor. She could not believe that I didn't iron my underwear into perfect triangles and where were the hospital corners on my quickly made bed? She said to me and some of my friends at some lovely springtime outdoor festivities,

"oh, well with such nice friends like yours, who needs an iron?"

I let that fester. I bought an iron. I hung up curtains.

YEESH.

In defense of girly music

I bought the new Tori Amos album today. It was F-ing $14.99 on itunes.

Big surprise, I know.

Me!

She who sleeps in a Righteous Babe Records T-shirt!

I'm a huge slut for "girl music", which I'm sure defeats the purpose of girl music, but who can care? I love it all. Any lady who plays her own instrument and sings I will support. You got me. I am your target audience. PREACH! I will buy it, even though it's $14.99 on itunes.

What I think is funny is the sneering girl music gets. Yes, I know the Spice Girls ruined everything early and loudly, but they've since all mostly procreated and found other things to talk about, like Katie Holme's new house, or whether or not Eddie Murphy is their babydaddy.

I think it's all fair in the great equilibrium of music. If women are still bitches and ho's, then there's an asshole to sing about and you SING IT loud and all purdy-like.

And I don't feel the need to be ashamed of this. Yes, I like other music too. It's not like I'm monogamous with girl music. Like i said, it's my weakness. Like boys who wear glasses and have blazers with elbow patches.

So this album is my weakness, that is, if I could just get past the 2nd song on the album.

I cannot stop listening to Big Wheel, the first single.

I should get past it. There's a whole rest of an album to love! I mean, I'm a freak of a fan. I have B-sides and T-shirts.

And an example!

My parents did not know what to do with my combat-boot wearing, slip-sliding good-girl attitude in high school. They soon figured out their idiot 15-year-old daughter was making out with someone older than she was. They may or may not had figured out exactly what that "Icicle" song was about and they were appalled that was oohey, gooey and girly could be so nasty.

So they tore through my room for my diary and read it. Where I kept detailed accounts of my trials and tribulations getting to second base when I couldn't drive myself anywhere to make out in peace. I had been writing everything down in EXCRUCIATING (read: embarrassing) detail-- so much so, that they feared it was going to burn our house down with the fiery fury of the Virgin Mary.

They broke us up. I knew it was trouble when my mother AND father were both home from work when I got home from school.

I screamed and yelled back at my parents screaming and yelling. At one point my mom actually said out loud she blamed the music I listened to (?!) as a reason for getting to second base. As if 15-year-olds aren't surrounded by overt sexual messages, she blamed my role models! My swearing, combat boot wearing, men-dissecting idols.

So I screamed back, "MOTHER, Ani and Tori did NOT TEACH ME THE WORD", and I paused for teenage drama, "FUCK!!".

And then she promptly took the Cd's, tapes, posters and everything and tied them up into a neat little bag and hid it.

And so my friends furiously taped me everything they had. They clucked as they stroked my hair how wrong my parents were were for robbing me of my two lady loves on top of stopping me from seeing an OLDER boy from ANOTHER school. Oh, the humanity!

So I have a long history of being dramatic and fiercely loving Tori Amos.

And this new album is no exception. AND THIS SONG! I have listened to it no less than 157 times today. That is freakish! Adolescent! Lame!

I. DO. NOT. CARE.

This song just SLAYS me.

Yeah, it's nice sounding and stuff, but it's not pretty. It actually rocks. PRETTY HARD. Impossible not to tap your foot in a slow white girl "Proud Mary"-esque way.

It's the big belt on my swagger of a playlist. I imagine this song is what I'd hear if I were starring in "Saturday Night Fever: DC Faux-Hipsters Don't Dance, They Just Stomp To British Music" (Does she count? She lives in Cornwall.) It makes my spine straighten up. It makes my lips purse in some ridiculous Ashlee Simpson impression. It makes me think of that "Sex and the City" episode where Charlotte poses in drag for that weird artist guy and all she can talk about afterwards is the power she felt. I can imagine what it would feel like to be a man in a suit walking down a street in this town and feeling like it's his god-given right to tell me about how my ass is looking today.

And I think that's why I like girl music. Especially THIS girl's music. Yeah, yeah, women's rights blah blah blah. I know. I know. Life isn't hard for me, in 2007, a 25-year-old white girl. Boo hoo my rights, your laws, my body blah blah blah.

But every woman who has walked down the street in front of a construction site, a frat house, or your ex-boyfriend walking hand in hand with another woman needs to have this song blaring in the boom box of her brain.

Or at least, the recording studio of your bathroom.