Looky here.
A blog!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
He ate her food.
Ladies and dues with boyfriends who do not co-habitate, does this sound familiar to you?
You have made dinner. With minimal help from a boy, who's flopped on the couch catching up on whatever brand of Law & Order is on. Generally, he's stretched out as far as he can be on the sofa, a hand is on the belly and shoes are off. If he helped cook noodles, have a gold star handy, you'll need it.
This is fine. You like cooking. It's relaxing. You also know you are a better cook than your boyfriend, purely because of the training your mother gave you. Maybe because she liked it, or maybe because she was used to it.
You eat the delicious fruits of your labor: sometimes something that braised for 3 hours on the stove, sometimes something that popped fresh from the toaster oven onto a plate.
And yet you get stuck with the dishes.
Perhaps you, like me, inhabit that gray area-- where this is my house, and this isn't his house. I can't expect him to be as interested as dusting as I am, but on the other hand he spends a lot of time here. I'd like to not feel like he may start expecting turn-down service when he is around. I'm not wearing an apron, after all. Not even with a touch of irony.
A friend of mine has perhaps, the most illustrious experience.
Mine is known as the "get me water" fight. I'm sure you can see where that went. Let's just make it fair to say I was not headed for the kitchen.
My friend? Her boyfriend ate her food.
Hurriedly preparing for a fun night out, she had nuked a turkey burger to inhale before a few drinks with friends. This friend of mine has effortless composure, even after a few whiskeys. She's bad-ass. It must be the burgers! Her boyfriend arrived as it was freshly plated.
She turned around after greeting him, and found him mid-bite. In her dinner. In their rush. Because he was hungry. So hungry, in fact, that he didn't have the time to ask if he could forage for a snack. He just saw food on the table, and assumed he had full access to it.
This fight generally happens in the gray area of "we have been dating for a while and you are around, but you aren't living here, so you are a guest (?)". And guests get glasses of water handed to them when they ask. And plates of food set out are often for them.
But this dude isn't a guest, he's a part of your life. And when a part of your life puts you into a box without consideration, but in part because you let him-- the line of politeness and caring constantly shifts. You want to do nice things for him, but you don't want to be walked all over. Likewise, he gets used to being too comfortable in his divet in the couch and then when you pitch a fit, he's surprised. He had no idea, that in that moment, of his hands on his belly, or wrapped around your dinner, that he is not a guest. Nor are you the harried hostess who has a dinner party 3 - 4 nights a week with no dishwasher. And a monthly grocery bill that is triple his.
People aren't moving from their parents' house right onto marriage. People don't blindly accept that because I'm a lady I take care of the inside of the house, and a boy would take care of the outside. Because I rent an apartment, and I call shenanigans on whomever takes care of our front lawn (man or woman) because it needs HELP.
I'm already a multi-tasker, and I don't have children! I can put laundry in, clean the bathroom, update my Facebook profile, and make dinner all at once. FOR ME. FOR MY HOUSEHOLD OF ONE. I've lived alone for well over a year and I like things how I like them.
This brings me to the other issue: living alone has made me particular. Also my genes, but that was sort of undeniable anyway. I used to not get it when I "did the dishes wrong" as a child, but now I totally see it as clear as day. You're a fool to wash the pots first, and there's no argument you can make to change my mind. And that's an uphill battle with my own neuroses that I battle every day. The reality of it is that I can't imagine sharing an apartment, chores or DVR space with a boy. There's barely enough room for all the Top Model reruns and hit movies of the 90's in mine.
But that's what a relationship is: choosing your battles. Building a partnership requires give and take, but if both of you are carrying your relationship around in tandem, and one of you is constantly the one walking backwards, you start to resent his view of the future. Of course it looks awesome.
Because all you see is a trail of socks and shoes from your front door. And a collection of dirty glasses on the coffee table in your dishwasher-less apartment. But he sees a great gig with a girl who's funny but sometimes inexplicably furious. Suddenly, the boy who once "broke all the rules of dating" to take you out two nights in a row is completely unable to stand up and hydrate himself. Or if you're my friend, the boy who whispered sweet nothings in your ear in a language you don't speak had blatant disregard your schedule, and above all, your hunger.
So how do you fix them? How do you undo years of their mommies mommy-ing them and then even the years of your desire to be nice to them and do it the only nurturing way you know how? More mommy-ing? Greater interest in sports? More beer chugging like one of the guys? How can you show your appreciation without sacrificing your self respect so that when it comes to making big decisions you don't let your resentment speak for your heart?
Because hearts generally are better leaders, and often lead you to the good sense to have a dishwasher. And boys, take note-- they are necessary.
You have made dinner. With minimal help from a boy, who's flopped on the couch catching up on whatever brand of Law & Order is on. Generally, he's stretched out as far as he can be on the sofa, a hand is on the belly and shoes are off. If he helped cook noodles, have a gold star handy, you'll need it.
This is fine. You like cooking. It's relaxing. You also know you are a better cook than your boyfriend, purely because of the training your mother gave you. Maybe because she liked it, or maybe because she was used to it.
You eat the delicious fruits of your labor: sometimes something that braised for 3 hours on the stove, sometimes something that popped fresh from the toaster oven onto a plate.
And yet you get stuck with the dishes.
Perhaps you, like me, inhabit that gray area-- where this is my house, and this isn't his house. I can't expect him to be as interested as dusting as I am, but on the other hand he spends a lot of time here. I'd like to not feel like he may start expecting turn-down service when he is around. I'm not wearing an apron, after all. Not even with a touch of irony.
A friend of mine has perhaps, the most illustrious experience.
Mine is known as the "get me water" fight. I'm sure you can see where that went. Let's just make it fair to say I was not headed for the kitchen.
My friend? Her boyfriend ate her food.
Hurriedly preparing for a fun night out, she had nuked a turkey burger to inhale before a few drinks with friends. This friend of mine has effortless composure, even after a few whiskeys. She's bad-ass. It must be the burgers! Her boyfriend arrived as it was freshly plated.
She turned around after greeting him, and found him mid-bite. In her dinner. In their rush. Because he was hungry. So hungry, in fact, that he didn't have the time to ask if he could forage for a snack. He just saw food on the table, and assumed he had full access to it.
This fight generally happens in the gray area of "we have been dating for a while and you are around, but you aren't living here, so you are a guest (?)". And guests get glasses of water handed to them when they ask. And plates of food set out are often for them.
But this dude isn't a guest, he's a part of your life. And when a part of your life puts you into a box without consideration, but in part because you let him-- the line of politeness and caring constantly shifts. You want to do nice things for him, but you don't want to be walked all over. Likewise, he gets used to being too comfortable in his divet in the couch and then when you pitch a fit, he's surprised. He had no idea, that in that moment, of his hands on his belly, or wrapped around your dinner, that he is not a guest. Nor are you the harried hostess who has a dinner party 3 - 4 nights a week with no dishwasher. And a monthly grocery bill that is triple his.
People aren't moving from their parents' house right onto marriage. People don't blindly accept that because I'm a lady I take care of the inside of the house, and a boy would take care of the outside. Because I rent an apartment, and I call shenanigans on whomever takes care of our front lawn (man or woman) because it needs HELP.
I'm already a multi-tasker, and I don't have children! I can put laundry in, clean the bathroom, update my Facebook profile, and make dinner all at once. FOR ME. FOR MY HOUSEHOLD OF ONE. I've lived alone for well over a year and I like things how I like them.
This brings me to the other issue: living alone has made me particular. Also my genes, but that was sort of undeniable anyway. I used to not get it when I "did the dishes wrong" as a child, but now I totally see it as clear as day. You're a fool to wash the pots first, and there's no argument you can make to change my mind. And that's an uphill battle with my own neuroses that I battle every day. The reality of it is that I can't imagine sharing an apartment, chores or DVR space with a boy. There's barely enough room for all the Top Model reruns and hit movies of the 90's in mine.
But that's what a relationship is: choosing your battles. Building a partnership requires give and take, but if both of you are carrying your relationship around in tandem, and one of you is constantly the one walking backwards, you start to resent his view of the future. Of course it looks awesome.
Because all you see is a trail of socks and shoes from your front door. And a collection of dirty glasses on the coffee table in your dishwasher-less apartment. But he sees a great gig with a girl who's funny but sometimes inexplicably furious. Suddenly, the boy who once "broke all the rules of dating" to take you out two nights in a row is completely unable to stand up and hydrate himself. Or if you're my friend, the boy who whispered sweet nothings in your ear in a language you don't speak had blatant disregard your schedule, and above all, your hunger.
So how do you fix them? How do you undo years of their mommies mommy-ing them and then even the years of your desire to be nice to them and do it the only nurturing way you know how? More mommy-ing? Greater interest in sports? More beer chugging like one of the guys? How can you show your appreciation without sacrificing your self respect so that when it comes to making big decisions you don't let your resentment speak for your heart?
Because hearts generally are better leaders, and often lead you to the good sense to have a dishwasher. And boys, take note-- they are necessary.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Going hard
I like to pretend I'm a bad ass. See my blogger profile photo. Ooohhh tie and vest and short hair. SEE HER REBEL. BOY DOES SHE HAVE SOMETHING TO PROVE. I have a motorcycle jacket. Chuck Taylors. A belt chain. A wide array of footless tights. An ipod-induced commuting sneer.
But really, I couldn't be squishier inside. It's a bad holdover from high school.
Shhhhh, don't tell. I sleep with a stuffed panda. That my boyfriend gave me. And I knit things for babies, and cry at work, and TiVo Extreme Home Makeover. Punk rock I am not.
But one thing that I think is a little bad ass is my ladies-only poker night. It's become extra enjoyable now that we're all finally better at it (i.e. thinking in flushes and straights aside from wishing desperately make two pair).
Also, it comes with a serious amount of rib-poking. It's fun to be only chicks, talking the girl talk, sassing each other, and doing something "the boys do". Just pass the pinot grigio, shut up about your boyfriend, and call someone a naughty word for your own ladyparts if they mess it up. It's the absence of men that makes it so fun, actually. But the fact that there's some risk involved, quick thinking, and lots of wine help.
But with the bad-assery comes the squish. It's a $10 buy-in. Sometimes we'll sing with Lily Allen. Often, chocolate and cheese are involved.
But hey, like all tough players, regardless of gender, we stand up when we go all in.
But really, I couldn't be squishier inside. It's a bad holdover from high school.
Shhhhh, don't tell. I sleep with a stuffed panda. That my boyfriend gave me. And I knit things for babies, and cry at work, and TiVo Extreme Home Makeover. Punk rock I am not.
But one thing that I think is a little bad ass is my ladies-only poker night. It's become extra enjoyable now that we're all finally better at it (i.e. thinking in flushes and straights aside from wishing desperately make two pair).
Also, it comes with a serious amount of rib-poking. It's fun to be only chicks, talking the girl talk, sassing each other, and doing something "the boys do". Just pass the pinot grigio, shut up about your boyfriend, and call someone a naughty word for your own ladyparts if they mess it up. It's the absence of men that makes it so fun, actually. But the fact that there's some risk involved, quick thinking, and lots of wine help.
But with the bad-assery comes the squish. It's a $10 buy-in. Sometimes we'll sing with Lily Allen. Often, chocolate and cheese are involved.
But hey, like all tough players, regardless of gender, we stand up when we go all in.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Never gonna run around and desert you
April Fools day always makes me roll my eyes. Really, I hate it. The only reason I can stomach it is because it is now only 25 days until my birthday. This birthday is especially exciting because I'll be turning 26 on the 26th, which is I think, what they call your golden birthday. I hear on those special days, you poop rainbows, the mayor hands you a puppy, and the skinny mirror that gives you all your devious advice tells you you're the fairest of them all, and actually means it.
But back to stupid April 1st.
It's an excuse for the corporate world to try and nervously prove that it has a sense of humor. Meetings held to announce the end of TPS reports, email trails of Family Circus cartoons, and a promise of lobster in the office cafeteria. Of course, none of this is true, minus the stupid forwards of cartoons, usually from the type of person that has an email message background, a quote on the bottom of their email, and makes a lot of smiley faces.
The webber-tubes are also overly geeked about April fools day, making jokes with slashes, ones, zeros and cats laughing, rabbits disapproving, and dogs failing. One of my personal favorite sites, Jezebel, turned into Lucky-magazine-meets-the-skinny-website for a day. I let that slide though, because it's smart.
The only gag that really made today worth grinning and bearing, is the You Tubes.
When I was little, my dad had this 45. YES, THE 45! I would dance to it, watching my reflection on the darkened TV with Get in Shape Girl sweatbands on my wrists, thinking this is what it must be like at prom. Minus the spandex. And also, the possibility of cleavage.
Rick Astley makes everything better. A lousy week at work. Gloomy weather. A sinkful of dishes you've been ignoring since Sunday.
The bouncy dancing. He really leads with the knees and the finger snap, doesn't he? He's guilty of the white person overbite. And someone clearly told him to write his name in the air with his ass. While attempting "the eggbeater".
The pants. Specifically, the whole head-to-toe denim look. It's like he's hiding a cheese steak in there for a snack later. Maybe two.
The bartender. Where is he when I need him? Can we get him a job at Sonoma, my new favorite place to hang out? Seriously, just don't kick over my bowl of baby peaches and I think that would really spiff up the upstairs atmosphere. I especially like when he's recycled as the dancer in booty shorts who bounces off a fence. Nice transition, 1980's music video editor!
The set. Clearly, the filming location of your local haunted house during Halloween.
The two blonde backup dancers. Who does this guy think he is? The artist formerly known as Prince for the Landsende catalogue crowd?
THE SHADES.
I've watched this video no less than about 17 times today. I maybe danced to it in my living room.
But back to stupid April 1st.
It's an excuse for the corporate world to try and nervously prove that it has a sense of humor. Meetings held to announce the end of TPS reports, email trails of Family Circus cartoons, and a promise of lobster in the office cafeteria. Of course, none of this is true, minus the stupid forwards of cartoons, usually from the type of person that has an email message background, a quote on the bottom of their email, and makes a lot of smiley faces.
The webber-tubes are also overly geeked about April fools day, making jokes with slashes, ones, zeros and cats laughing, rabbits disapproving, and dogs failing. One of my personal favorite sites, Jezebel, turned into Lucky-magazine-meets-the-skinny-website for a day. I let that slide though, because it's smart.
The only gag that really made today worth grinning and bearing, is the You Tubes.
When I was little, my dad had this 45. YES, THE 45! I would dance to it, watching my reflection on the darkened TV with Get in Shape Girl sweatbands on my wrists, thinking this is what it must be like at prom. Minus the spandex. And also, the possibility of cleavage.
Rick Astley makes everything better. A lousy week at work. Gloomy weather. A sinkful of dishes you've been ignoring since Sunday.
The bouncy dancing. He really leads with the knees and the finger snap, doesn't he? He's guilty of the white person overbite. And someone clearly told him to write his name in the air with his ass. While attempting "the eggbeater".
The pants. Specifically, the whole head-to-toe denim look. It's like he's hiding a cheese steak in there for a snack later. Maybe two.
The bartender. Where is he when I need him? Can we get him a job at Sonoma, my new favorite place to hang out? Seriously, just don't kick over my bowl of baby peaches and I think that would really spiff up the upstairs atmosphere. I especially like when he's recycled as the dancer in booty shorts who bounces off a fence. Nice transition, 1980's music video editor!
The set. Clearly, the filming location of your local haunted house during Halloween.
The two blonde backup dancers. Who does this guy think he is? The artist formerly known as Prince for the Landsende catalogue crowd?
THE SHADES.
I've watched this video no less than about 17 times today. I maybe danced to it in my living room.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
New, big purchase, recession or no.
My new (old) bike!
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe
Lots of big, life purchases are made in your mid-twenties. I know people buying rings, buying homes, buying cars, or buying time. You know, for their grown up lives of homeownership, parenting, and credit-having.
I just bought the most gorgeous vintage bicycle. Really, who needs a better life-stage purchase than that?
It's true, it wasn't expensive. Five crisp twenties handed over to some kindly Dutch lady who was moving back to the Netherlands who had this bike while she was here.
She loved this bike, all three speeds of it. The fenders especially, for the rain.
I like it because this is a dream. Well, part of the dream.
Since I've lived in DC, I've wanted a bike. Since I was an idiot eighteen-year-old, wide-eyed with the city life. Specifically, with a basket. To put a puppy in. And streamers. Perhaps a horn. To ride to Eastern Market. To purchase veggies and fresh flowers. To ride home to my perfect life.
Now I have the bike. No basket or streamers or puppy or veggies. Just yet. But I live near Eastern Market. And I sometimes have fresh flowers.
I might have to buy this first. But otherwise. I like this stage. Free transportation is a good thing.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Somebody please just hit the lights
I'm ashamed by my new love affair. I've only said it out loud I think twice, and only cavort with it at work.
Really, work needs it.
A little Paula Abdul that is.
Seriously, it's like my cool kid card should be revoked. Ok, ok, ok, ok, like the half a cool kid card I found on the sidewalk once should be revoked. I should be telling you how much I love Vampire Weekend, but instead I really just want to dance like there's no tomorrow.
I don't know WHY exactly either. It's a little magic carpet ride, a little Prince hooky baseline, a little forever your girl, a little "Remember the Time" Michael Jackson kick-back and tres over-produced. Paula's voice is as flat as a pancake and as thin as her hair.
It's the kind of song you make dances up to. This song calls for three Katastrophic signature moves: making one's neck work (generally in a circle from right to left), the Roger Rabbit and the Michael Jackson snap while leaning to one side.
You should give it a try. It feels good. But not great. This song is the appetizer to your entree of Rhianna. The amuse bouche to your Fergie. This song revs you up to hear oooooooh what's next? Because that song is ABOUT that feeling. it's like an M.C. Escher drawing of getting ready to go out and flip your hair around, 3 cocktails to the wind and in a new shirt.
But I'll still take it, I'm a little cheesy.
Case in point: I'm the kind of girl who's had 7 PBR's and when "Umbrella" comes on at the Argonaut, I whip out my umbrella from my purse and do a little Mummers strut in my chair while I'm a little losing my balance and a lot losing my pride. At the Argonaut. Cuz there's lots of dancing at the Argonaut. With an umbrella open indoors. Bouncing above our heads. I squarely blame awesome bartender Lee and my boyfriend's birthday celebration for that. And PBR was $2.75.
Really, work needs it.
A little Paula Abdul that is.
Seriously, it's like my cool kid card should be revoked. Ok, ok, ok, ok, like the half a cool kid card I found on the sidewalk once should be revoked. I should be telling you how much I love Vampire Weekend, but instead I really just want to dance like there's no tomorrow.
I don't know WHY exactly either. It's a little magic carpet ride, a little Prince hooky baseline, a little forever your girl, a little "Remember the Time" Michael Jackson kick-back and tres over-produced. Paula's voice is as flat as a pancake and as thin as her hair.
It's the kind of song you make dances up to. This song calls for three Katastrophic signature moves: making one's neck work (generally in a circle from right to left), the Roger Rabbit and the Michael Jackson snap while leaning to one side.
You should give it a try. It feels good. But not great. This song is the appetizer to your entree of Rhianna. The amuse bouche to your Fergie. This song revs you up to hear oooooooh what's next? Because that song is ABOUT that feeling. it's like an M.C. Escher drawing of getting ready to go out and flip your hair around, 3 cocktails to the wind and in a new shirt.
But I'll still take it, I'm a little cheesy.
Case in point: I'm the kind of girl who's had 7 PBR's and when "Umbrella" comes on at the Argonaut, I whip out my umbrella from my purse and do a little Mummers strut in my chair while I'm a little losing my balance and a lot losing my pride. At the Argonaut. Cuz there's lots of dancing at the Argonaut. With an umbrella open indoors. Bouncing above our heads. I squarely blame awesome bartender Lee and my boyfriend's birthday celebration for that. And PBR was $2.75.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Adventures of an ipod-less commute
It's 7pm.
I'm on the metro home from work. Late. Because even though I'm miserable, all of that birth order hoo ha is completely true. I am not going to break any rules, stop over-achieving (hi first-borns!), or disappoint my superiors just because of a little misery?!
So I am sitting in one of those coveted seats, with no inward-facing seats in front of me, in the first row. By the window. I'm ipodless, bookless, knit-less and paperless, for once. I usually need an army of supplies to get me through my 16 minute commute or I am as cranky as a toddler on an endless road trip.
So I'm employing the standard Marge Simpson method-- closing my eyes and thinking of items I'd like to purchase to pass the time.
As I'm off enjoying visions of not sugarplums, but slingbacks, I hear someone behind me.
"I'm gonna bust a rocket up your ass. Yeah, I said it. I'm gonna bomb you."
I'm snapped out of my fantasy of shoe shopping with Stacey and Clinton and think, "huh.... I'm not sure who that was directed towards", and decide to resume fabricating the perfect flat, knee-high boot.
"Yeah, and I need an apple, or yogurt or something.... With some FLAX!" the voice behind me exclaims.
Now I'm intrigued.
It's the million-dollar question.
Are they crazy, or is it just Bluetooth?
I'm on the metro home from work. Late. Because even though I'm miserable, all of that birth order hoo ha is completely true. I am not going to break any rules, stop over-achieving (hi first-borns!), or disappoint my superiors just because of a little misery?!
So I am sitting in one of those coveted seats, with no inward-facing seats in front of me, in the first row. By the window. I'm ipodless, bookless, knit-less and paperless, for once. I usually need an army of supplies to get me through my 16 minute commute or I am as cranky as a toddler on an endless road trip.
So I'm employing the standard Marge Simpson method-- closing my eyes and thinking of items I'd like to purchase to pass the time.
As I'm off enjoying visions of not sugarplums, but slingbacks, I hear someone behind me.
"I'm gonna bust a rocket up your ass. Yeah, I said it. I'm gonna bomb you."
I'm snapped out of my fantasy of shoe shopping with Stacey and Clinton and think, "huh.... I'm not sure who that was directed towards", and decide to resume fabricating the perfect flat, knee-high boot.
"Yeah, and I need an apple, or yogurt or something.... With some FLAX!" the voice behind me exclaims.
Now I'm intrigued.
It's the million-dollar question.
Are they crazy, or is it just Bluetooth?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
How to survive 30 mins on the elliptical with only the golf channel to squint at and nary a magazine in sight
Larger than Life - The Backstreet Boys
Hey Mama - Black-Eyed Peas
Never Gonna Come Back Down - BT feat. Mike Doughty
Smiley Faces - Gnarls Barkley
Stop - The Spice Girls
Ojos Asi - Shakira
My Love - Justin Timberlake (Diplo Remix)
Days Go By - Dirty Vegas
Touch the Sky - Kanye West
Hey Mama - Black-Eyed Peas
Never Gonna Come Back Down - BT feat. Mike Doughty
Smiley Faces - Gnarls Barkley
Stop - The Spice Girls
Ojos Asi - Shakira
My Love - Justin Timberlake (Diplo Remix)
Days Go By - Dirty Vegas
Touch the Sky - Kanye West
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
I don't always enjoy being a girl.
Today I cried at work.
Cue the chorus of groans, you've all witnessed a girl cry at work. I'm groaning along with you, really I am. That girl sucks. I hate her too. She can't just separate work and real life. She can't not take everything too personally. She can't stand up for herself, she gets overwhelmed, blah blah blah.
I read ya. Loud and clear. I received a "I'm worried about you" AND a pity coffee today.
A PITY COFFEE.
In a time of layoffs, by the way. Again. Now with more beer money and less patience in waiting for my F-ing severance already!
The hot tears sprung to my eyes for the first place because my job is like working for The Terrible Trivium.
Like this:
So, after moving piles of sand with tweezers, drilling through mountains with needles, and emptying wells with an eyedropper, I had about had it.
So I cried.
Cue the chorus of groans, you've all witnessed a girl cry at work. I'm groaning along with you, really I am. That girl sucks. I hate her too. She can't just separate work and real life. She can't not take everything too personally. She can't stand up for herself, she gets overwhelmed, blah blah blah.
I read ya. Loud and clear. I received a "I'm worried about you" AND a pity coffee today.
A PITY COFFEE.
In a time of layoffs, by the way. Again. Now with more beer money and less patience in waiting for my F-ing severance already!
The hot tears sprung to my eyes for the first place because my job is like working for The Terrible Trivium.
Like this:
So, after moving piles of sand with tweezers, drilling through mountains with needles, and emptying wells with an eyedropper, I had about had it.
So I cried.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
How about you don't make this expensive mistake.
On Saturday night, I had the pleasure of going out to a fancy dinner. Since restaurant week this year was bypassed for five days in Quebec, DK and I decided to treat ourselves to the new nice restaurant in the neighborhood.
Every time I'd walk by, I'd press my nose against the glass to see the candles flickering, customers laughing, and the wine flowing. Seemed like my kind of place, if I could dig my elbow far enough into DK's side to get him off the couch, away from the soft glow of my flat screen TV.
DK and I couldn't wait to try it out. It was out of our normal price range, so we made it a special occasion. A maybe 3-year anniversary (who can know? We don't!). A date. A thing. That we'd drop some coin on.
Frankly, it was unremarkable.
Our server came over immediately after we sat down and pushed a cocktail on us. No menus had been opened, no wine list inspected, not even a breath between “hihowareyou” and “howaboutacocktail”. We said we were still deciding and off she went to be chatty with other patrons and let us sit for 10 minutes too long. That wait multiplied between courses while she laughed with the preferred table of five to our right. They ordered the cocktails. And maybe they didn’t look shocked at her attire. Which consisted of a short black skirt. And a black hoodie. A HOODIE. In a restaurant where 12 gnocchi were $17, and 3 scoops of pistachio gelato were $10, I feel like that waives both the customer and the server the right to wear a hoodie.
The busboy was my favorite hilarious wayward detail of the night. Water glasses? SLAM! There you go! He ran suicides back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, huffing and puffing the whole way. Bread and dipping oil was tossed onto the table, the basket skidding to a stop before he angrily re-arranged our glasses to accommodate the gliding hockey puck of an oil dish. He was so over-worked slamming glasses around; he only managed to refill water once—after we had finished eating.
In fact, the only likable person I encountered was a server who set down my cheese plate. Smiling, she explained which cheeses were which, and said to enjoy.
The food was lovely, but for the money you paid the loveliness of it didn’t warrant that teeny of a portion. DK had the pork belly, which was cooked to perfection, I must concede. My cheese plate was also delish, but compared to the past five days in Quebec without a war on bacteria, the cheese we ate there from the grocery store was decidedly better.
Yet the place was crowded. Packed. People desperate for a nice place to eat without leaving the Hill. Perhaps this is why we Hill people are so persnickety about leaving the neighborhood- we have to all the time just to get some decent food, we could be at least left alone to stare into our $5 beers stumbling distance from our apartments.
I love living on the Hill, don’t get me wrong, dive-y bars and all. I like watching dogs, having Eastern Market a few blocks away, and a knitting store just a few further. But since the government office and the throngs of their workers descend upon the neighborhood for lunch and post-work snacks, it’s not like any place sits idle— no matter how mediocre.
But seriously, the further DK and I get from our date, our special anniversary dinner, the less I liked my experience. This place doesn't know if it wants to be a Hook's Mediterranean little sister or a funky neighborhood bistro. If it wants to be the former, ban hoodies and amp up the sevice. If it wants to be the latter, lower the prices and amp up the portions. Considering there was less handholding and nuzzling on this date, and more “whoa— what is up with this busboy?” the more I think I’ll never try it again.
In fact, maybe you shouldn’t either. It was much better off remaining Meyhane.
Locanda is decidedly disappointing.
Every time I'd walk by, I'd press my nose against the glass to see the candles flickering, customers laughing, and the wine flowing. Seemed like my kind of place, if I could dig my elbow far enough into DK's side to get him off the couch, away from the soft glow of my flat screen TV.
DK and I couldn't wait to try it out. It was out of our normal price range, so we made it a special occasion. A maybe 3-year anniversary (who can know? We don't!). A date. A thing. That we'd drop some coin on.
Frankly, it was unremarkable.
Our server came over immediately after we sat down and pushed a cocktail on us. No menus had been opened, no wine list inspected, not even a breath between “hihowareyou” and “howaboutacocktail”. We said we were still deciding and off she went to be chatty with other patrons and let us sit for 10 minutes too long. That wait multiplied between courses while she laughed with the preferred table of five to our right. They ordered the cocktails. And maybe they didn’t look shocked at her attire. Which consisted of a short black skirt. And a black hoodie. A HOODIE. In a restaurant where 12 gnocchi were $17, and 3 scoops of pistachio gelato were $10, I feel like that waives both the customer and the server the right to wear a hoodie.
The busboy was my favorite hilarious wayward detail of the night. Water glasses? SLAM! There you go! He ran suicides back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, huffing and puffing the whole way. Bread and dipping oil was tossed onto the table, the basket skidding to a stop before he angrily re-arranged our glasses to accommodate the gliding hockey puck of an oil dish. He was so over-worked slamming glasses around; he only managed to refill water once—after we had finished eating.
In fact, the only likable person I encountered was a server who set down my cheese plate. Smiling, she explained which cheeses were which, and said to enjoy.
The food was lovely, but for the money you paid the loveliness of it didn’t warrant that teeny of a portion. DK had the pork belly, which was cooked to perfection, I must concede. My cheese plate was also delish, but compared to the past five days in Quebec without a war on bacteria, the cheese we ate there from the grocery store was decidedly better.
Yet the place was crowded. Packed. People desperate for a nice place to eat without leaving the Hill. Perhaps this is why we Hill people are so persnickety about leaving the neighborhood- we have to all the time just to get some decent food, we could be at least left alone to stare into our $5 beers stumbling distance from our apartments.
I love living on the Hill, don’t get me wrong, dive-y bars and all. I like watching dogs, having Eastern Market a few blocks away, and a knitting store just a few further. But since the government office and the throngs of their workers descend upon the neighborhood for lunch and post-work snacks, it’s not like any place sits idle— no matter how mediocre.
But seriously, the further DK and I get from our date, our special anniversary dinner, the less I liked my experience. This place doesn't know if it wants to be a Hook's Mediterranean little sister or a funky neighborhood bistro. If it wants to be the former, ban hoodies and amp up the sevice. If it wants to be the latter, lower the prices and amp up the portions. Considering there was less handholding and nuzzling on this date, and more “whoa— what is up with this busboy?” the more I think I’ll never try it again.
In fact, maybe you shouldn’t either. It was much better off remaining Meyhane.
Locanda is decidedly disappointing.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Cure for insomnia
1.) Run errands after work in the cold. Tell two separate stores' employees how excited you are for your winter, Canadian vacation-- full of lovely people, purple bruises, a merino wool face mask (what else are 12 hour car rides good for?) and a quest for the best poutine.
2.) Return home to the warm, soft glow of new TV and multiple episodes of Girls Next Door in the DVR.
3.) Spaghetti (not diet friendly).
4.) Three vodka tonics. Extra lime. (diet friendly! diet tonic!) No sharing.
5.) Rinse and repeat.
6.) zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
2.) Return home to the warm, soft glow of new TV and multiple episodes of Girls Next Door in the DVR.
3.) Spaghetti (not diet friendly).
4.) Three vodka tonics. Extra lime. (diet friendly! diet tonic!) No sharing.
5.) Rinse and repeat.
6.) zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
