The entry that never was

I'm sitting on my couch watching "Crowned: The Mother of all Pageants".

I'm trying to write about how hilarious this show is, and how crazy queeny Carson Kressley is the least flamboyant thing on my TV. I love how the losers are announced by a de-sashing ceremony, complete with bejeweled scissors. I want to write about how this show is going to change my "bad" TV viewing schedule and how it's the show with the highest priority in my DVR. One team named themselves "Silent but Deadly" because they are quiet but totally smart. They totally didn't realize that they are now "Team Fart".

But i can't, because my "delete" key on my keyboard doesn't work. I love my wee macbook, and I am scared to try and mess with the keys. All my goodies are under the keyboard. Airport Card! Extra memory! But Macs only have delete, no backspace. I can only either POUND ON IT with my 4th finger (seriously, WITH PURPOSE) or highlight things I want to delete and then immediately begin typing which is perhaps the most counter-intuitive thing ever.

So I won't. I'll continue to watch with my pint of Ben & Jerry's. I watched America's Next Top Model beforehand.

I've lost 50 brain cells today.

I don't care.

Vignettes on a week in my parent's house:

-I return home at 2:45 am after watching a movie with friends.  My father and brothers are away on a man road trip for the night.  My mom has been waiting up for me since she's alone, and she's a mom.  She had to look at me through tired eyelids with a tired eyeball as living proof of my late arrival. This is why curfews exist.  So when you are too old for one, you know when to be sorry for being late.  I apologize for worrying her.  She goes back to dozing on the couch. An hour later, and she's still there, perhaps waiting for me to complete the journey and march upstairs. 

- My brother Neal and I are sitting on the couch.  We take turns pointing at each other and saying things that our oddly reserved, yet gloriously wacky father might say to make us laugh (or make my mother roll her eyes) during the commercial breaks of a "Scrubs" marathon.  With an affected voice only my father can really do, we say the things that make us giggle until we can't come up with any more. I win with the version of my father presenting you a plate of bacon.  In this goofy cartoon voice he says "here you are" that sounds more like one word "heeeyaaaaheeeeyaaaah" in a way that we don't know exactly who he's poking fun at, but hey! Free bacon! 

- I know many people who are teachers, and right now each one wants to bang their head against a wall.  My brother, included.  His response is the only one I hear that makes the most sense. It involves several variations on the word "fuck". 

- I'm walking with a friend through Valley Forge Park.  On our way we pass 6 awesome dogs, a woman who graduated high school 3 years ahead of us with a baby carriage, and a man wandering alone through the trails in the woods, but for his bagpipes, which he is playing alternately on and off key.  My friend wonders aloud, 'are there any re-enactments today?'.  This is somehow normal. 

- I return to Pennsylvania my 17-year-old self, only now with money.  On my first excursion out of the house, i have lunch at the diner with Cameron.  Only now, as a salaried woman of the world, it is followed by 2 hours of vigorous shoe shopping. 

Headdress on

Headdress on
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe

I love Halloween.

I love crafting.

It's only right that Halloween mean a few hot glue gun burns, finding needles in your couch-used-as-pin-cushion, hunting through your spare fabric, and general giddiness because you dug to the DEPTHS of your stash of stuff you save for moments exactly like this.

I had more fun making my Carmen Miranda headdress than I can properly explain. It's raining out. Shitty E! is playing in the background. I am "allowed" to come into work a little late tomorrow because I've been pulling some late hours. I covered something with hot glue. There are remnants of feather everywhere and there's no avoiding vacuuming my couch (really: i should get a desk).

I've already paraded around my house trying to get the balance of it correct, which I think was pretty even (you know, on purpose, I'm cool like that).

I got the idea from CRAFT magazine, which totally sells out my awesome geekery. Angie Pontani of the Pontani sisters (a burlesque troop) supplied the instructions and inspiration. When I saw it online, I IMMEDIATELY knew it was for me. I don't think she knows yet, but we are friends. Submitting stuff like this to awesome magazines? BRING. IT. ON.

I just need to make a skirt. I was most-worried about the headpiece, so making a skirt will be easy-peasy

Life doesn't get any better than this. Ok, well less burns on my fingers might be nice. I am typing this in pain. HOT GLUE IS HOT!

Faux-Halloween is in full effect on Saturday and I can't wait.

It seems to me

That the "shorter period" birth control commercials have cornered the market. And by that, I mean they know how to sell birth control pills. By featuring basset hounds to capture my attention before I go "OH, another birth control commercial! Telling me how much I must surely be suffering in some way for my chemically responsible decision to not have children."

Usually when these commercials come on I laugh, and think "Buy the three extra packs. And maybe just never have your period?" and roll my eyes and go back to looking at the internet while watching TV while talking on the phone.

There are a few exceptions.

There's the commercial for Loestrin 24, featuring Cammie and her basset Shorty. I like that fellow. He's wee and has ankle fat. Floppy ears and is leash-trained. What's not to love?

Perhaps the idiotic dream that his doggie-mama lives in alphabet city, sits around googling birth control and THEN calls up her man. When I googled the commercial, you find a whole RUN DOWN of how this character lives her life.

But I'm not going to switch my birth control in hopes of becoming like her, and having a loft, I "fix up with flea market and second hand" finds. And no, I do NOT believe she lives in Alphabet city, but NICE ONE Loestrin. I'm sure some teenage girl might think that is EXACTLY what she might do when she graduates college and becomes suddenly aware that brilliant good luck like Cammie's TOTALLY exists. Move to this New York and see if she can't have a loft in a pricey neighborhood, with a dog and a man and skinny-ass legs in jeans tucked into boots.

The basset hound is the only thing in that commercial that's real. That chick is perplexed enough by lady times to spend an idle afternoon googling it. Thankfully, she doesn't hide for a whole WEEK when her period comes and ruins her life, she only hides for up to three days! It's like four whole extra days to LIVE.

And then! Today! One minute, staring dreamily at Anthony Bourdain in Tahiti talking to drag queens, then another and THERE IT IS. Some chick, alone at the beach because her friend wouldn't come with because she had her period. The bad, bloaty friend texts back and forth with her sunbathing, well-adjusted friend about how shorter periods would bring world peace. Or feed children in developing countries.

Or rather, how the sunny, skinny friend is SMART! Takes birth control that lightens everything up. Lame bloaty friend seems to think you must sequester yourself in shrouds of lady-misery and communicate only via text.

Friend at the beach is all "whatever, Bloaty", cuz she has two ice cream cones and a man waiting for her on the boardwalk.

See that? Sit at home with a sweatshirt tied around your waist to hide any potential "issues" and you could miss out on meeting a MAN. A handsome man who loves mint chocolate chip as much as you do. AND ALSO, HAS A BASSET HOUND.

I'm telling you.

Clearly, market research has been done. I'm mad ad agencies know this. And tell pharmaceutical companies to capitalize on it. A bunch of old white guys must know the twenty-something ladies, like me, seem to think that the trifecta of happiness is skinny, man, and dog.

I'm not going to lie. It's a bit my life dream to be skinny, have a nice man-friend (check!) and have a dog.

My life's dreams are being sullied. So that I might be marketed to.

More dogs, less whiny friends in commercials, please.

Can't spell insomnia without MIA

It's two am.

I am wide awake.

blink blink.

W-I-D-E A-W-A-K-E.

In my living room. Gone AWOL from the bed because isn't that what you are supposed to do? Only sleep in bedroom, no fidgeting.

Where did I go wrong?

I suppose I slept in too late this weekend. That probably robbed me of a decent night's sleep last night and tonight. When you sleep 24 hours total in a weekend, why would you need weekday sleep? Aren't you supposed to not sleep in?

I suppose I shouldn't have taken ONE Tylenol PM last night in order to start the week off on the right sleeping foot since i slept until noon both days. I was strung out on it well past 4pm and useless at work. I was so exhausted from being drunk on whatever a half dose does to you that I fell asleep for twenty minutes this evening.

I suppose I shouldn't have taken a power nap at 7pm. I was just so tired from being drunk on Tylenol that I needed to give into the exact urge I had been fighting for 12 hours.

I suppose I should have been less combative in a meeting today, but I have no patience for self importance amid your post-it notes.

I suppose I should be more patient, or at least, learn to let my mini-grudges go. I think a large part of my insomnia is residual anger that just snowballs.

I suppose I should be less angry, and might learn from his that going to the gym exhausted is better in the long run for your mental well-being. Working it out at the gym is better than muttering to yourself about everything you are angry about at 2 am on an idle Monday night.

I suppose muttering might be ok, because it drowns out any creaks and groans from my apartment building that are crazed lunatics trying to break in. My windows might be 7 feet off the ground, but lunatics are raised mighty tall these days, and are hankerin' for a break-in.

I suppose whipping through "The Boleyn Inheritance" is not the best way to soothe yourself to sleep. First of all, it's heavy enough to fend off any potential attackers, and secondly, it makes me angrier about girls treating each other horribly throughout history, the lack of feudal feminism, and how I might end up poisoned or beheaded, or both.

At least there's Bourdain on for me at this hour. He's in Brazil, the least I could be in is lala land.

too much cheese, sushi and brown butter

I love the weekends because I get to cook (or eat!) a bit better than during the week just because I have more TIME.

During the week, I get home about 6:30 or 7, and often hit the gym. By the time I'm back ,it's late-ish and if I want to make an involved dinner, then I'd better be wanting to eat at 10pm or later. Often, if I feed the DK, I like to make something nicer than grilled cheese, because who doesn't like to woo one's significant other with delicious food? But eating late means it's hard to get to sleep, which means I can't sleep for days, and then I end up going to bed at 9pm, avoiding Anthony Bourdain, Tyra, and all other TV hosts that distract me from spending time in my un-cable equipped bedroom.

Friday night: Ladies fondue night at my house. We watched dreamgirls, ate cheese, drank arbor mist (YES! we are proud, whatever) and hung out with our full bellies protruding from our sweatpants. Classy girls night in full effect!

Saturday night: I grazed all day and then had delicious, delicious sushi at Bamboo Cafe in Virginia. It was an old haunt of my friend E's and we had some SERIOUS delights. They put creamy shrimpy sauce on California rolls. How smart are they?

Sunday: I went to Eastern market with Shifty, to buy lunch meats and fish for dinner. After drinking wine and eating pretzels all lazy afternoon, E came over for a dinner of scalloped potatoes, steamed veg, and fish in browned butter and lemon sauce.

This week I have delicious sandwiches and apples for lunch.

Life is ok. Sandwiches and cheese are plentiful.

I don't have anything to say

Partly because tonight marks night #2 this week that I will be in bed before 9pm. I guarantee it.

As a total night owl, this kills me.

I was at the gym, half-heartedly chugging along on an elliptical, and could barely keep my eyes open. I made a grilled cheese sandwich for my gourmet dinner, and almost let it drop out of my hand.

You have to be in pretty dire straights to be dropping sandwiches and can't make it through an episode of America's Next Top Model, let alone stay up for the Top Chef finale.

TV and sandwiches. That's really all I ask on weeknights. Maybe I go to the gym, maybe I have a beer with friends, but a good dinner and some tube is really all I need.

And right now, I am propping my eyelids up to see who Tyra kicks off and then promptly ignore my dishes and leap right into bed.

Ignore the vacuuming. Ignore the work I brought home with me that I will get up earlier tomorrow to do. Ignore listening to my voice mail (Alex, I'm so sorry I owe you a phone call) and just read a page out of my library book and just pass out.

you make me sick.

Job-hunting required something of a blog hiatus. Of all things, frankly, I was sick of talking about my damn self. I am boring, really, and it's pretty hard to walk around in put-together outfits and try and tell everyone how WONDERFUL! YOU! ARE! When you are in the throws of job hunting, you can't see further than the interviewer in front of you. Sitting in front of a mirror. So you can see yourself, too.

And then realize that there's this thing on the internet where you used to brain dump anecdotes that fell from the 'tell your boyfriend' list, weren't exactly appropriate for the 'tell your mother list' and really, it's just better to not put them on the 'tell your friends' list because telling the same story leads to confusing who you told it to, so you tell everyone a few times until collective groans mark your exit.

And then you remember that you have a life. A life that fell by the wayside completely while you were trying to look around interviewer's office for conversation starters once your pre-memorized question reel was through.

And yeah, some real life things fell by the wayside. I forgot a dear friend's birthday who sort of lives for birthdays. I sent my own mother's birthday card late. I still have yet to send my newborn baby second cousin a card and a present. Or, perhaps, acknowledge that my cousin was ever, in fact, pregnant. I still have yet to write an important thank you note. I still have yet to make headway in the 45 craft projects I am dabbling in. I still have yet to clean my bathtub with baking soda and a grapefruit. I still have yet to donate half my wardrobe that is stuck in my inner-15-year-old, outer-25-year-old questionable taste.

And really, the only reason I have a blog is to have ONE, UNEDITED space in the world where I control the content, and that content is me. And for a while, that content was: whine, whine, whine, (sniffle, woe is me!), whine, whine, (CRUNCH, mmmmm cookie!) whine, whine.

And that gets old. Hell, I was sick of me.

I still am a little.

I hate to think that for a while I was an EVEN GREATER self-fulfilling prophecy of the urban twenty-something than I normally am. She who can't talk about anything but herself. Her troubles. Her relationship. Her pants. Her hair. Her bruise from just trying to give her damn blood away. I wasn't even talking about myself in my usual "dudes, I am a geek and here's why. Now LEARN before anyone else catches you acting a fool like me. I only get away with it because after this geeky thing happened, I tripped over someone's front stoop and skinned my knee and then mumbled something about 'finding ten dollars' and then everyone forgot.

Seriously. Being self-involved could not be more boring. From now on, it's only moderately self-involved for me. Now with more charity. For the children!

Too pooped to pop.

I've been "on" for almost 2 week and I am exhausted.

I've been on 4 job interviews since not this past Friday, but the Friday before.

I also spent some time with the DK's lovely family, and even though they are lovely, it's still time to be ON! SHINY! NEW! PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE, THOUGH LACKING JEWISHNESS. PRETTY?

I've had to sell myself left and right.

You want creative problem solving? it's called TAKING AMTRAK, not GREYHOUND ever AGAIN!

Communications skills? I have carried on conversations with children onto grandmothers, and written about 45 thank you notes.

Experience? I'll give YOU experience!

Dry cleaning? Check.

Emergency pedicure at the dirtiest salon EVER (bebe nails on Penn ave, SE. NEVER Go. Let's just say "dirty, used toe dividers" and "wet, used flip flops". Oh and the lady killed a bug by smacking it on my friend's leg, but I digress.)

Check.

I haven't sworn, eaten something garlicky, not sat straight up with my legs crossed or smiled encouragingly in ages. I am out of nice clothes to wear, inoffensive stories that would make anyone giggle, and looking around the room for conversation starters. Like you in a frame with Bill Clinton. I am perpetually ready to impress someone. Anyone.

You there, with the umbrella on the street, I HAVE PLANNED SOME SPECIAL EVENTS.

Madam who kindly took my Chinese take-out order, may I go on and on at length about my killer communications skills? You know, by ordering the amount and THEN the type of fried rice?

Oh sir who held the door for me, I could creative problem solve your life, if you'd just let me.

Kindly CVS check-out person, I know that you are a non-Catholic, and I am a lapsed Catholic, but let me prove to you how awesome I am so that you don't worry about that so much. Extra Care!

Please like me, anyone out there. I am a laid-off, lapsed Catholic desperately seeking a job I can wear jeans to, have funny co-workers, occasionally read the internets, and get paid better. Skills include: gets along well with grandmas of all faiths, ability to eat large amounts of ethnic delights, ably timing my arrival with public transportation. Basset hounds a plus.

boring, boring, depressed, boring.

General glum-i-tude has taken over from crying and swearing repeatedly.

Since my poor mom heard me say the F-word while sobbing, she's had to have been held back to not drive down here, slap some people around, fetch me and bring me home to eat her Italian mama diet of comfort food to pad the ego and the ass.

I almost wanted her to. I almost wanted to give the world the finger and go be taken care of immediately, but I suppose that's adulthood. Adulthood minus the fact that you might have to borrow money from your parents if your sorry depressed ass can't (or won't) find a job.

In all seriousness, if I could sit on the couch in ill-fitting sweatpants until October, I would.

Which is pathetic and stupid, because I have a pretty good shot at getting a new job at my workplace I think, and I have heard people say nice things about me. I have people high and low sending me jobs, being encouraging, and generally helping me land on my feet. There are jobs for me I could find.

Everyone is hugging, emailing, texting, calling and preventing me from being a slug in ill-fitting sweat pants.

And I'm grateful for them.

But a small, nagging part of me just wants to see me fail.

Part of me wants to get hit by a bus, so I had an excuse to just lay in a bed somewhere. You know, I don't have a woe-is-me-death wish or anything, I just sort of morbidly daydream about some minor broken bones and my jaw wired shut so in 3 months I could emerge shiny and new. Skinny. Ready.

Not this.

So that small, nagging, bullshit part of me is fleeing to the beach to crash my parent's vacation for a few days. To clear my dramatic bullshit head and have it patted by my mom and dad because I can't handle things here myself.

And get a little tanner, since my OWN vacation lo these TWO WEEKS AGO.

I just need to get away from the drama that keeps us glued to coming to work and talking with each other like we were prisoners of war. So I stop beating down on my nice boyfriend because he won't give me enough pity (every hour on the hour, if you please, and louder, with more head patting). So I stop putting off working on my resume. So I stop ruining my own fun.

So my mother can fix me a plate and lie and say I look skinny and good. And my dad can just be adorably geeky and I'll feel like he needs me to survive a bit better because I am the oldest kid and he finally sees me as something of an adult so don't whine, and moan and be dramatic when you could be, you know, DOING SOMETHING?

Because if it were up to me, sitting here right now, I might not.

I'm Mr. Bright-sized.

brightsizing n. Corporate downsizing in which the brightest workers are let go. This happens when a company lays off those workers with the least seniority, but it's those young workers who are often the best trained and educated.

I got laid off today.

I am not one to write about work on the Internet. I don't think it's fair, and I don't want to be punished later in life because I have opinions about work. Apparently that sort of talk is for the water cooler and not on the Internet.

The situation is this, at my nameless workplace. I got laid off. My position no longer exists.

I know this because a big boss at work as well as some fake-nice HR lady told me so.

Today.

In a conference room with a box of tissues and some bottled water. As she brightly talked about how this was going to be BETTER. She was trying to sell me on my three weeks of severance pay as something to be overjoyed about. Like it was severance Christmas and I had been a good girl.

They kept talking about how the new structure of our unit will better serve our partners, and all I could think was, what about us?

In my department of 36, all but about 8 got laid off, including Shiftless Badger. There are positions in the new structure for us to compete for, but you would be doing so with your tail between your legs ready to beg, borrow, or steal to be continued to be paid.

Many of those 8 who retained their jobs spent the day either being dicks about retaining their jobs and how this change could be good for us. The rest of them are mad at us for belonging to the newest, hippest club out there. The laid-off club.

Not that anyone has said laid off.

"Re-aligned". "Right-sized".

It's hard to rationalize this.

That I put in AWESOME, hard work there. I did some killer stuff. Big, important people know I do good work.

And for what?

It's like work dumped me. I feel slapped in the face and punched in the gut.

And now I'm in an abusive relationship, because it hit me, and I have to crawl back for more. I have to go back to work for WEEKS before the "end date". Or I have to go beg work to take me back and interview for other jobs. Which, if I am lucky enough to get, I'll no doubt resent.

I tried drinking beer, but I couldn't get drunk.

I tried pigging out, but my stomach hurts too much.

I have been smoking cigarettes and saying words that hurt the ears of baby Jesus.

I have been calling my co-workers in the department who still have their jobs awful names out of spite.

I cried on my parent's answering machine. I accidentally said the F-word while I was crying about my job on my parent's answering machine.

I cried on my boyfriend's shoulder. On my friend's shoulder. On the couch.

Luckily, I have tickets to the Cat Empire show in Baltimore tomorrow.

It's nice to have something to look forward to.

F, man.

F.

I'm comin' out

My boyfriend is handsome, and I'm not just telling the Internet that because he bought me a blender as a present for no reason when we were at Target today.

He's handsome because he's got the smoothest nose I've ever seen. I'm dating a Jew, and he defies stereotypes with a nose is as perfect as any Colorado bunny slope. It's perfectly smooth and quite proportional to his high cheekbones and full, thick head of hair.

I CONSTANTLY compliment him on his nice hair. He is a straight man who has a trendy haircut. Sometimes his nice haircut gets more attention than his pink tie collection.

But that nice hair is both his pride and a curse.

Namely, because it begins at the eyebrow and creeps like vines past his shoulders. WELL PAST THEM.

Normally, when the topic of the follicle-ly enhanced comes up, he waves it away.

"Ain't no skin off my nose," he says, and rightly so. He doesn't see his furry back. It doesn't bother him, usually.

However, tonight, there was some skin off him. Thanks Sally, Hansen!

Yes, Internet, I waxed my boyfriend's back tonight.

JEALOUS?

He thinks you shouldn't be. I told him as I smoothly applied wax to his shoulders to think of the ladies. Think of us, as we get bikini waxes, with our legs up in the air making idle conversation with a lady who doesn't know my name but knows where I have THAT FRECKLE.

He shrugged it off. He was too nervous to have me ramble on about my own waxing woes. This was him, admitting with a receipt for $10.99 that his back was furry.

I told him, "Don't worry. I did my roommate Julie's legs in college. I know what I'm doing."

That made him feel better. (Truthfully, it was just the backs, and it was like twice.)

I ripped.

That made him feel worse.

He didn't yelp. He didn't say anything. Once I got a "hoo HOO!" in pain, mostly some very deep breathing. That was about it.

The whole process took about 20 minutes. 11 strips of wax later, he was done. Smooth, like a turkey.

He was a TOTAL champ. Maybe it was the lavender essential oils in the wax. Maybe it was his pride. Maybe it was the promise of a post-back-wax milkshake, thanks to the blender present.

He got through it. Soon, he was slurping on a milkshake with lots of neosporin on his back. Soon, he was ready to hit the dusty trail.

As he was putting on his shoes, he said to me, "I think no on the S,B,C. B is just fine."

"B?", I asked.

"Sack, Back and Crack" he smiled, "I don't know how those dudes do it. You must REALLY be committed. No, sir. Not this guy."

I smiled at his bravado. He was gasping in pain at the work of my hands not an hour ago.

A jaunty kiss and a spin on his heel, and he strolled away from my front door with a "I'm going to the beach with my friends in 5 days" spring in his step.

And then I understood.

I noticed the shiny with neosporin skin that was pink with new-ness. This was his neck's coming out party. This was his back's independence day.

The Diana Ross could be heard faintly in the background of his stroll.

DK is free. The Jersey shore shall be his oyster. Going shirtless (with pride) shall be his pearl.

ALSO

My alley is swarming with fire fighters. I think it's the building the PIRG is in? I walk by it every day, but I couldn't tell you now. I saw the firefighters walking around on the second floor. The building is narrow and non-descript, between the WSC on Dst, SE and the American Legion Hall.

Searchlights. Hose. No visible smoke. Lots of yelling. Men in the bottom halves of their suspended fire suits in their DCFD t-shirts all up in the tunnelled alley.

I am that kooky lady peering at these poor people through my blinds.

How on EARTH are people sleeping through this? How can you not watch?

I feel like I'm the only neighbor awake through the noise.

They see me peeking through the blinds and you can tell they wish I wouldn't.

So... internet. Got any answers?

It finally happened.

Every morning when I make my coffee, I make a mental note of the time when I turn off the coffee maker. I bought my coffee maker for $7.99 at Target in the "off to college" section.

7:55. 8:01. 8:13. 8:23.

It's an integral part of my morning routine. Flip on "Today Show". Rinse and repeat. Apply liberally. Make sure coffee maker is off. Slip on shoes. Lock door.

I guess you could say I have an irrational fear of leaving the coffee pot on.

Well, of leaving the coffee pot on, it shorting some wires, and me burning my apartment building down.

I've double checked. Triple checked. Stopped checking because I felt like I belonged on MTV True Life: I have OCD.

I have even turned RIGHT around when finally at the metro in the morning to go BACK to double check that it's off. I stopped short at calling my boyfriend and having him in all his non-electrician glory console me and say that I could leave the coffee pot on. Nothing would break or burn.

I don't really trust myself not to burn the house down. I can't keep plants alive and I forget to vacuum a lot.

I used to live on the top floor of a row house in Adams Morgan above some businesses. I would come home from Thanksgiving to find the front door wide open for days thanks to thoughtless travel agency workers. The wiring in our building was old, and alarms went off and they almost shut down our power. We had a wire gate that separated us from the rest of the boozy world where drunk frat boys would pass out on our front steps.

I used to fret about whether or not the apartment would still exist when I was away. I would always see the outside and breathe a half-sight of relief; the other half exhaled when I saw none of my stuff was moved.

It's hard to shake that when you live in a proper apartment building with locks and a landlady.

Today I had to make a stressful phone call in the morning. I was EXTRA glad to discover coffee in my cupboard when I had presumed I was out. I made coffee! I rinsed and repeated! I made the phone call! I watched the Today Show!

And I went to work.

AND came home and watched TV.

AND went to the gym.

AND THEN, only 20 minutes ago, discovered when I followed my nose to the vague smell of burnt chocolate, that the coffee pot was still on.

Moral of the story: if you leave the coffee pot on, planets do not combust, God does not kill a kitten, and my house doesn't burn down.

Don't you think for a MINUTE that I'm going to press my luck twice in this department, thankyouverymuch.

It is currently unplugged.

Breaking the habit

Breaking the habit
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe

I'm desperately trying to break some bad habits. I should prolly follow through and stop biting my nails, but I think attaining a level of personal enlightenment should allow you some faults. I think biting my nails and sometimes admitting out loud that I think Kathy Griffin is funny are two faults worth tackling a little bit later.

I've tried all sorts of new-age, hippie fault-fixing shit, but it doesn't really work for me.

I can't all of a sudden relax my body in a systematic way and dream that I'm at the beach and can hear the roar of the ocean as I sync my pulse with mother nature.

I can't sit still and imagine a room, where I visualize myself putting awful situations my brain conjured up in the cabinets and closets of my mind and then visualize locking them up.

I can't sit around and think about bad habits and take the time to go "hmmm... self. How will you feel about these choices later?".

I can't even stand googling HOW to break bad habits, scouring 43 things hoping that someone else like me might have asked Metafilter the secret to unlocking a similarly flawless existence.

Some bad habits make you realize that some people, when it comes down to it, like to suffer. Why else do we bite our nails down to the quick? Smoke a pack a day? Binge drink?

Part of the allure is the pain that follows. The inability to type any words involving "a" because your pinkie is bleeding. Silently enjoy your coughing spells. Smiling through your hangover.

I am therefore trying the age-old method of stopping a nasty habit. Every time I catch myself, I snap 5 rubber bands on my wrist.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not snapping the hell out of them. I'm not crying and smiling through it. It's something to take me out of my head and back to reality. It's something to remind me of how many times without even MEANING TO, I lead myself down a terrible path that takes a little while for missteps to be identified.

Also, I've just now gotten the short-hair fetish site guys to stop looking at my blog, so I'm in no rush to get the naughty rubber band fetish (hello! gum bands to you Brits!) underbelly of the interwebs interested in me trying to engage in a little head game against my head game.

Let me tell you, your brain learns things fast when you aren't allowed to float through life being that indulgent to its every whim.

The first day of my rubber band exercise last week I snapped them 31 times from the time I woke up until the time I went to bed. THIRTY-ONE times where I CAUGHT myself. Think of all the times I didn't realize I was even engaging in the fault! Think of when I felt JUSTIFIED in faulty behavior! Think of when I forgot to snap my rubber bands!

Today it was three.

And that, my friends, is progress.

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.