I'm not very good at keeping my personal life, personal, and my professional life, professional. It seems only natural to make myself perfectly comfortable where I have to spend 40+ hours a week, and vice versa. HELLO, if I like these people, I'm going to want to drink beers with them on my off time, not just fill out TPS reports.
I've done this EVERY job I've ever had. Work friends often cross the line into friend friends and they often have been some of my greatest delights. Before I know it, I'm gossiping at the water cooler about embarrassing things that shouldn't be spoken out loud while wearing security badges, and then the next day, I'm dragging myself into work hung over and that is always much more fun if there is someone else to blame.
Work friends are important especially here in DC. I've had more friends move in and move out and move back in (and then back out) than you could shake a stick at. People come here (and often go) from all walks of my life-- high school friends, college friends, hell; friends I met while living in different countries! But work friends often form bonds firm and fast because you know they are here to "stay". Not that jobs REALLY hold people down in this city, but you look at a work friend and you think maybe, "cubicles aren't conducive to rapid change. Please tell me that you'll stay for a bit and we can have some fun and laugh and drink beers and make faces at annoying people at work both on weekdays AND weekends!". And I don't mean that in a needy way, but when your friends are of the livelihood that they could do whatever they do in any city, it makes things more transient. Really, if you work in non-profit land, you work here. And here you will probably stay.
I don't know if this experience is universal or not. I highly doubt it. I am just sort of a social circle busy-body and mold them constantly. And I wouldn't say I have a specific circle of friends, even, because who does after college? But I really value them, however they are scattered.
At my old job, I met two of my best friends here. And my job would be much less sunny (ok, perhaps my whole existence) without shiftless badger by my side.
So here's a thanks- to work friends old and new. No, I won't sing you the Golden Girls theme song, but I'm TOTALLY TEMPTED. So enjoy that as a token of my appreciation for liking jobs that don't pay very much but are somehow money-centered. Go figure?!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Welcome to the neighborhood
I did the only thing I could do.
I threw my head back and yelled "BALLS!!!!!!!".
A woman walked by in an expensive-looking trenchcoat and looked at me strangely. I showed her the shoe as she was talking on her cell phone. Her look of snobbish contempt gave way to empathy. Every girl has feared the snap of a heel. Tonight was my night.
I can tell you exactly how that happened. It got stuck between two cobbles in the sidewalk. I tugged.
I'll have you know I never broke ONE HEEL while living in Adams Morgan, and I clomped home late at night in heels often. I'm not used to this. I my second assumption was that there was trash under my heel that caught it-- maybe a Big Mac box or a Subway cup, not quaint street that is centuries old.
I have ONE BEER and come home in a klutzy tradewind to this after a long list of hilariousness in the day. Exploding coffee in the microwave. Dropping of keys in a puddle. Cramping of knees while sitting on the floor at Sushi Taro.
This is uncalled for.
Capitol Hill, I want a refund.
Nine West, you suck.
Who has a good cobbler?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A long time ago, we used to be friends.
I'm notoriously late on things. Cool-kid things.
Like this whole here blogging thing? Yeah, 3 years too late. Maybe more.
Legwarmers? Didn't do it the first time around. HELL YES, do I do them now.
Ok Go? Yeah, I was a year too late on that bandwagon. Everyone was dancing in their awkward band-front-flag-girl kind of way along with their adorable backyard video and a YEAR later there I am, "oh yeah guys, there's this awesome new thing on teh internets" and the rest of the world sighed with a dull yawn of DUH. Where were YOU in 2004?
My new favorite thing in the world that I totally missed the boat on but REALLY, isn't there time for redemption-- is a TV show. No, it's not The Wire, because EVERYONE just jumped on that bandwagon. That show gives me bad dreams and the theme song stays in my head for weeks on end. That ship is overloaded, they are throwing their suitcases overboard to last.
I'm totally girl-crushing on Veronica Mars. Where WAS SHE ALL MY LIFE?
I was an AVID Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. I still love a host of terrible actors because of it (see Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alyson Hannigan, Michelle Trachtenberg et. al). There is a toss up for me as to what I would name my first-born. Xander, Giles or Spike. So lots of folks who jumped the Buffy ship landed gracefully on the Veronica Mars space odyssey.
It's a good one.
When I was cable-less in my squatting situation, I caught Veronica Mars one night because it was the only TV show aside from public television stations begging for money that came through with no static. I was instantly hooked.
VM is now my crack. I've netflixed season 1. The WHOLE rest of the show is in my queue. I am obsessed with its film noir slant through blue-washed retrospection. I love her chunky adorable haircut. I love that the dog's name is "back up" and she takes him on stake-outs. I love that she takes pictures and wears short sleeve hoodies.
I hate that Kristen Bell is OLDER THAN ME. And that all the boys in the show look at LEAST 27. But I can look past these things.
It's re-arranged my world view. Like "OH, OMG, that's the girl from Big Love who plays the only likeable character!". Or "OH, OMG, you can say 'laid some pipe' in that sorta way on UPN?". Or "OH, OMG, that's the guy from Just Shoot me who plays the only likeable character!."
So I'm getting better. I was TOTALLY on top of OK GO's SECOND video. Treadmill times? I'm getting better. HELL YES.
Like this whole here blogging thing? Yeah, 3 years too late. Maybe more.
Legwarmers? Didn't do it the first time around. HELL YES, do I do them now.
Ok Go? Yeah, I was a year too late on that bandwagon. Everyone was dancing in their awkward band-front-flag-girl kind of way along with their adorable backyard video and a YEAR later there I am, "oh yeah guys, there's this awesome new thing on teh internets" and the rest of the world sighed with a dull yawn of DUH. Where were YOU in 2004?
My new favorite thing in the world that I totally missed the boat on but REALLY, isn't there time for redemption-- is a TV show. No, it's not The Wire, because EVERYONE just jumped on that bandwagon. That show gives me bad dreams and the theme song stays in my head for weeks on end. That ship is overloaded, they are throwing their suitcases overboard to last.
I'm totally girl-crushing on Veronica Mars. Where WAS SHE ALL MY LIFE?
I was an AVID Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. I still love a host of terrible actors because of it (see Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alyson Hannigan, Michelle Trachtenberg et. al). There is a toss up for me as to what I would name my first-born. Xander, Giles or Spike. So lots of folks who jumped the Buffy ship landed gracefully on the Veronica Mars space odyssey.
It's a good one.
When I was cable-less in my squatting situation, I caught Veronica Mars one night because it was the only TV show aside from public television stations begging for money that came through with no static. I was instantly hooked.
VM is now my crack. I've netflixed season 1. The WHOLE rest of the show is in my queue. I am obsessed with its film noir slant through blue-washed retrospection. I love her chunky adorable haircut. I love that the dog's name is "back up" and she takes him on stake-outs. I love that she takes pictures and wears short sleeve hoodies.
I hate that Kristen Bell is OLDER THAN ME. And that all the boys in the show look at LEAST 27. But I can look past these things.
It's re-arranged my world view. Like "OH, OMG, that's the girl from Big Love who plays the only likeable character!". Or "OH, OMG, you can say 'laid some pipe' in that sorta way on UPN?". Or "OH, OMG, that's the guy from Just Shoot me who plays the only likeable character!."
So I'm getting better. I was TOTALLY on top of OK GO's SECOND video. Treadmill times? I'm getting better. HELL YES.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Kevin and Neal: 2 vignettes
Kevin is 22 and realized before the rest of his friends that any beers involving the words "ice", "natural" and "keystone" should be avoided. He could play you any song he ever heard once on any intstrument in any key you would like. He is crass and likes working his summer job as a janitor and is bitter about having 1 more year of college left in his 5-years-for-two-degrees gig at Temple.
He may be crass and bitter, but he's a very nice brother and came down to help me move into my apartment. In return, I bought him beers that did not have the words "ice", "natural" or "keystone" on their labels. He returned the favor by sleepwalking out of my apartment into the basement of my building for which I had lived in for precisely 18 hours. He woke up at some point to walk back up my stairs and rap lightly on my door for a short eternity, which my exhausted ears did not hear. Instead, my land lady did and she let him into my apartment at 2:30 in the morning after good-naturedly ribbing him with "Who's waking up the land lady?".
Kevin didn't tell my mother, but my dad told me eventually and my cheeks burned for a full 10 minutes. I apologized to said land lady who has known me know for like, a week. I promised her she wouldn't find strange boxer-clad men rapping lightly at my door at 2:30 in the morning again. I promised her that with a bit smirk on my face with a "maybe I will, maybe I won't" charm but truth be told I hope she meets the DK and understands he's not "strange" before she encounters him in a similar fashion.
* * *
Neal is so freshly 18 that he saves poignant away messages to describe how being so newly in college feels he can share them with everyone. He wants everyone to like him so much, that he's squirmy about it. He doesn't have to be, because he's cute and personable and funny, but it seems everyone knows that but him.
He's the baby of the family, and my mother frets about his every waking breath and whether or not the next will properly find its way in. He is in his second week of college, and was a staunch non-drinker in high school. I had encouraged him this summer to figure out what he likes and dislikes (beer and gin, respectively) and how much he can ease into drinking, because that is better than lying and saying you don't drink only to find yourself at an Edward-40-hands party so dizzy you confused yourself for a sprinkler system.
Being impressionable AND wise, he took my advice sort of. He doesn't want to be uncool, so he's going with the flow of his peers. An email came on Saturday.
"Hey K. Just so you know, I entered a case race on Saturday night. Thought you'd want to know".
I, being a fool, read that e-mail out loud. To my parents, who were diligently helping me clean and put together furniture. We all thought, "Neat! Sounds like a marching band thing!"
Later that night, I found out it is definitely not a marching band thing. Case = beer. Duh, he's 18 and at college. I had envisioned co-eds traipsing up and down the football field with their instrument cases full of leaves or water until they knew the fight song. So I text him "go Neal! Don't boot!". He IMMEDIATELY drunk calls me back and tells me how many beers he's had and how fun it is. I don't think anything else of it.
Until the next day, when my mother asks him "how the case race went". Some back-peddling and excuses later, the truth comes out. My prudent mother was appalled. I was embarrassed to have broken sibling code. Neal was embarrassed that Mom knows he can drink beer in Western Pennsylvania.
Moral of the stories? Siblings' memories are short for things like this. I hope Kevin is laughing about his tour sleepwalking half-naked around my apartment building. Neal, hopefully, is laughing at our prim and proper mother making disapproving Marge Simpson noises about him drinking beer. Because I am laughing at them already, and that's what big sisters are for.
He may be crass and bitter, but he's a very nice brother and came down to help me move into my apartment. In return, I bought him beers that did not have the words "ice", "natural" or "keystone" on their labels. He returned the favor by sleepwalking out of my apartment into the basement of my building for which I had lived in for precisely 18 hours. He woke up at some point to walk back up my stairs and rap lightly on my door for a short eternity, which my exhausted ears did not hear. Instead, my land lady did and she let him into my apartment at 2:30 in the morning after good-naturedly ribbing him with "Who's waking up the land lady?".
Kevin didn't tell my mother, but my dad told me eventually and my cheeks burned for a full 10 minutes. I apologized to said land lady who has known me know for like, a week. I promised her she wouldn't find strange boxer-clad men rapping lightly at my door at 2:30 in the morning again. I promised her that with a bit smirk on my face with a "maybe I will, maybe I won't" charm but truth be told I hope she meets the DK and understands he's not "strange" before she encounters him in a similar fashion.
* * *
Neal is so freshly 18 that he saves poignant away messages to describe how being so newly in college feels he can share them with everyone. He wants everyone to like him so much, that he's squirmy about it. He doesn't have to be, because he's cute and personable and funny, but it seems everyone knows that but him.
He's the baby of the family, and my mother frets about his every waking breath and whether or not the next will properly find its way in. He is in his second week of college, and was a staunch non-drinker in high school. I had encouraged him this summer to figure out what he likes and dislikes (beer and gin, respectively) and how much he can ease into drinking, because that is better than lying and saying you don't drink only to find yourself at an Edward-40-hands party so dizzy you confused yourself for a sprinkler system.
Being impressionable AND wise, he took my advice sort of. He doesn't want to be uncool, so he's going with the flow of his peers. An email came on Saturday.
"Hey K. Just so you know, I entered a case race on Saturday night. Thought you'd want to know".
I, being a fool, read that e-mail out loud. To my parents, who were diligently helping me clean and put together furniture. We all thought, "Neat! Sounds like a marching band thing!"
Later that night, I found out it is definitely not a marching band thing. Case = beer. Duh, he's 18 and at college. I had envisioned co-eds traipsing up and down the football field with their instrument cases full of leaves or water until they knew the fight song. So I text him "go Neal! Don't boot!". He IMMEDIATELY drunk calls me back and tells me how many beers he's had and how fun it is. I don't think anything else of it.
Until the next day, when my mother asks him "how the case race went". Some back-peddling and excuses later, the truth comes out. My prudent mother was appalled. I was embarrassed to have broken sibling code. Neal was embarrassed that Mom knows he can drink beer in Western Pennsylvania.
Moral of the stories? Siblings' memories are short for things like this. I hope Kevin is laughing about his tour sleepwalking half-naked around my apartment building. Neal, hopefully, is laughing at our prim and proper mother making disapproving Marge Simpson noises about him drinking beer. Because I am laughing at them already, and that's what big sisters are for.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Idiosyncrasies
My new apartment has been mine for about 4 days now, and we are getting along swimmingly. It's fun to get acquainted with new house-- its character is always fun to figure out. It's like making a new friend, and trying to describe her to someone else.
My old apartment was a sorority girl. Her name might have been Amber or Heather and she might have worn jeanskirts and danced on bars and flipped her hair to pout. My new apartment? She's old but has kick-ass vintage jewelry and her name could be Vera or Blanche. Shehas been known to indulge in too much port after dinner and has the habit of winking at handsome waiters.
My old place had no neighbors to be conscientious about. There was a set of Parrot Bay plastic margarita glasses left for us in a cabinet. The rug was grayish and the windows dirty. The price was right and the layout good for roommates. We had parties and once had a whole yellow cake with chocolate frosting smashed into our rug. We didn't care, it was a first apartment and we treated it as such. It was our savior when it was impossible to find housing. She was to us like the friend all the boys liked, and you hung around with her hoping that energy would rub off on you somehow.
The new place has welcome mats in front of each apartment. The hardwood floors gleam and my oven is retro-fabulous--totally Rachel Ray styles. I tiptoe around in socks now because I don't have rugs yet and don't want to stomp around to annoy those below. I have mopped and scrubbed this new apartment with yellow rubber gloves on my hands and knees to get this place clean. My silence is reverent and I have been watching a lot of jeopardy and have some old lady chic knitting projects coming down the pike. When I walk around I let one hand linger on the walls, trying to learn each corner and light switch's home
The difference has resonated with me immediately.
The problem with that is, frankly, that fretting about the proper furniture and decor does not a well-rounded girl make. Nor does this adult-old-lady-pipe dream where I am 24 and have a broom to scoot the riff-raff out the door. I have grout to scrub, a bedroom to paint, and curtains and pillows to sew. I want to do it all RIGHTTHISMINUTE, but I have no time for other things. Important things. I haven't seen friends regularly, and even had to wimp out at RUNJIT's birthday party because I was so tired I could barely converse, let alone bowl. I haven't written in ye olde blog in weeks. I haven't run in a week, and I hadn't slept in my own bed in a month. I have been drinking more wine.
So now is the fun part, I suppose. Game on. The exciting changes and balancing them with the activities of my old house. Turning the novelty of a new place into reality. But know this-- I totally kept those parrot bay glasses. For the kitsch factor, of course.
My old apartment was a sorority girl. Her name might have been Amber or Heather and she might have worn jeanskirts and danced on bars and flipped her hair to pout. My new apartment? She's old but has kick-ass vintage jewelry and her name could be Vera or Blanche. Shehas been known to indulge in too much port after dinner and has the habit of winking at handsome waiters.
My old place had no neighbors to be conscientious about. There was a set of Parrot Bay plastic margarita glasses left for us in a cabinet. The rug was grayish and the windows dirty. The price was right and the layout good for roommates. We had parties and once had a whole yellow cake with chocolate frosting smashed into our rug. We didn't care, it was a first apartment and we treated it as such. It was our savior when it was impossible to find housing. She was to us like the friend all the boys liked, and you hung around with her hoping that energy would rub off on you somehow.
The new place has welcome mats in front of each apartment. The hardwood floors gleam and my oven is retro-fabulous--totally Rachel Ray styles. I tiptoe around in socks now because I don't have rugs yet and don't want to stomp around to annoy those below. I have mopped and scrubbed this new apartment with yellow rubber gloves on my hands and knees to get this place clean. My silence is reverent and I have been watching a lot of jeopardy and have some old lady chic knitting projects coming down the pike. When I walk around I let one hand linger on the walls, trying to learn each corner and light switch's home
The difference has resonated with me immediately.
The problem with that is, frankly, that fretting about the proper furniture and decor does not a well-rounded girl make. Nor does this adult-old-lady-pipe dream where I am 24 and have a broom to scoot the riff-raff out the door. I have grout to scrub, a bedroom to paint, and curtains and pillows to sew. I want to do it all RIGHTTHISMINUTE, but I have no time for other things. Important things. I haven't seen friends regularly, and even had to wimp out at RUNJIT's birthday party because I was so tired I could barely converse, let alone bowl. I haven't written in ye olde blog in weeks. I haven't run in a week, and I hadn't slept in my own bed in a month. I have been drinking more wine.
So now is the fun part, I suppose. Game on. The exciting changes and balancing them with the activities of my old house. Turning the novelty of a new place into reality. But know this-- I totally kept those parrot bay glasses. For the kitsch factor, of course.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Since I have no TV and no permanent home yet
I've been exercising all the freaking time.
SERIOUSLY, having no cable has forced me take long runs in the evenings to fill the cavernous void that sitting on my ass in front of the TV on an idle evening had previously filled.
I've been so bad at my life since I've been in interim housing; piss-poor job of seeing friends, not folding clothing and failing to get a good night's sleep, etc. At first it was like camping at a hotel with a soft leather couch and drawers full of other peoples' clothing. Now it's like "OMG, LET ME MOVE IN ALREADY!" I'm totally lacking the energy to be sociable because I am totally unsettled. I just want to sit until it's move-in day.
So I am. Sorta. Until Saturday, that is.
But until then, I shall continue to be bad at my life. Minus the running part. I might even keep it until it gets cold and I get wimpy and join a gym to work out inside.
Life needed some calories burned lately, so this is a good thing. I've never been much of a runner. I'll begrudge myself 20 minutes on the treadmill at the gym to shake up my old boring routines. I ran in Rock Creek Park after college because I couldn't afford a gym. I ran some in college when I was new to DC and just wanted to stare at these big white structures with my suburban mouth gaping at all the stateliness of this city.
I was never good at running, but I always found running on a track soothing in high school gym class. The chaotic monotony of running in the same circle with something new to see has always settled well with me. Taurus. Remember? I'm a Taurus. It's the same routine, the same turns and the same landmarkers. I can push myself until a designated position, or lap and the view is always changing.
So, since fleeing Northwest, there's a lovely park that I run around that seriously just fuels my soul. It's long enough that it's like running on a track. that's squished so the straight parts are longer. There are fast lanes and slow lanes. There are runners and walkers and the two people playing always sort of playing lacrosse. There are families and babies and crap, but more importantly; THERE ARE DOGS. SO MANY DOGS. It's like I've died and gone to petster heaven. It's glorious. One day I saw a bulldog AND a miniature schnauzer AND like, 40 of their waggy-tailed friends. My friend E told me there's an ALL BULLDOG DOG PARK DOWN HERE. I'll run all over this city until I find that! It's my idea of heaven, provided that I get to choose the soundtrack.
This whole opposite quadrant thing is going to work out well. Figure A.
SERIOUSLY, having no cable has forced me take long runs in the evenings to fill the cavernous void that sitting on my ass in front of the TV on an idle evening had previously filled.
I've been so bad at my life since I've been in interim housing; piss-poor job of seeing friends, not folding clothing and failing to get a good night's sleep, etc. At first it was like camping at a hotel with a soft leather couch and drawers full of other peoples' clothing. Now it's like "OMG, LET ME MOVE IN ALREADY!" I'm totally lacking the energy to be sociable because I am totally unsettled. I just want to sit until it's move-in day.
So I am. Sorta. Until Saturday, that is.
But until then, I shall continue to be bad at my life. Minus the running part. I might even keep it until it gets cold and I get wimpy and join a gym to work out inside.
Life needed some calories burned lately, so this is a good thing. I've never been much of a runner. I'll begrudge myself 20 minutes on the treadmill at the gym to shake up my old boring routines. I ran in Rock Creek Park after college because I couldn't afford a gym. I ran some in college when I was new to DC and just wanted to stare at these big white structures with my suburban mouth gaping at all the stateliness of this city.
I was never good at running, but I always found running on a track soothing in high school gym class. The chaotic monotony of running in the same circle with something new to see has always settled well with me. Taurus. Remember? I'm a Taurus. It's the same routine, the same turns and the same landmarkers. I can push myself until a designated position, or lap and the view is always changing.
So, since fleeing Northwest, there's a lovely park that I run around that seriously just fuels my soul. It's long enough that it's like running on a track. that's squished so the straight parts are longer. There are fast lanes and slow lanes. There are runners and walkers and the two people playing always sort of playing lacrosse. There are families and babies and crap, but more importantly; THERE ARE DOGS. SO MANY DOGS. It's like I've died and gone to petster heaven. It's glorious. One day I saw a bulldog AND a miniature schnauzer AND like, 40 of their waggy-tailed friends. My friend E told me there's an ALL BULLDOG DOG PARK DOWN HERE. I'll run all over this city until I find that! It's my idea of heaven, provided that I get to choose the soundtrack.
This whole opposite quadrant thing is going to work out well. Figure A.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Not enough to miss comcast, but still
Post "le gran move du monde" or "how I swindled 8 perfectly nice people into carrying heavy things up and down 25 steps for 8 hours in exchange for some falafel", I find myself in a very interesting interim housing situation.
My apartment (the for real one) won't be ready until late late August, and I have amazingly cool friends with super lovely neighbors who have come to my rescue. My friend E had asked her neighbor, an acquaintance of mine, if she might borrow an air mattress for me to sleep on in my 3.5 weeks of homelessness. Her neighbor, replied "or, she can just stay at my apartment" because she was traveling outside of the country on business and is just so freaking nice.
This woman seriously, saved my butt. J, in all her kindliness and amazingness left her apartment spotless, and 2/3 of my entire life fits stacked up in the 2 corners of her apartment. Her taste is impeccable; beautiful leather couches, crate and barrel model kitchen, and a whole apartment full of design porn a la Better Homes and Gardens. It's the perfect place to gear up to decorate and think about how I want my apartment to be.
I say this because there's a lot of time to think.
Cuz the woman may be brilliant, tasteful, nice as all get out, but she lacks cable. And that hit me where it hurts, friends.
I will not say one word of complaint about my time without cable, because this lady, J, has done me such a huge favor that not the biggest basket of thank you odds and ends and wine and dinners will ever cover it. However, this lead me to discuss with other friends exactly how funny it is what some people spend their money on.
I know plenty of other people without cable, without a TV, even (I'm looking at you, R and R in Mt. Pleasant). And you people are utterly crazy.
It is currently almost 10pm. I've been stuck with one eyeball oogling the Ikea catalogue, and the other warily watching "Wife Swap", which is making my blood boil that a) wives are commodities to be traded b) husbands and fathers are that idiotic and c) children could be that squeaky.
If I were in charge of my TV viewings, I could be drooling over Food Network, watching the 500th replaying of Project Runway, or even maybe watching Entourage On Demand. I find it interesting, and have been talking with a friend M, about how funny it is what people spend their money on. My friend Dan doesn't have a TV, but he's got like 14 computers and a pimp vehicle. E doesn't have cable, but girlfriend has a hott apartment. R and R don't have TV, but they do have a healthy understanding of the ends of the internets and are pros at drunk biking.
But I am not in charge since I am only sort of superficially living here out of suitcases and not getting anything dirty-- so I've read a few books and A LOT OF HOME MAGAZINES and all I have to say is
1.) Driving over Lemons made me want to leave a life of cubicles and learn to midwife sheep and have a farm in Spain and
2.) I totally found the inspiration for my new living room in the new Martha Stewart mag Blueprint and just might sign up for a year subscription.
Ok, well Super Nanny is on now, and I think that's where I have to draw the line. I still have my dignity among the boxes, you know.
My apartment (the for real one) won't be ready until late late August, and I have amazingly cool friends with super lovely neighbors who have come to my rescue. My friend E had asked her neighbor, an acquaintance of mine, if she might borrow an air mattress for me to sleep on in my 3.5 weeks of homelessness. Her neighbor, replied "or, she can just stay at my apartment" because she was traveling outside of the country on business and is just so freaking nice.
This woman seriously, saved my butt. J, in all her kindliness and amazingness left her apartment spotless, and 2/3 of my entire life fits stacked up in the 2 corners of her apartment. Her taste is impeccable; beautiful leather couches, crate and barrel model kitchen, and a whole apartment full of design porn a la Better Homes and Gardens. It's the perfect place to gear up to decorate and think about how I want my apartment to be.
I say this because there's a lot of time to think.
Cuz the woman may be brilliant, tasteful, nice as all get out, but she lacks cable. And that hit me where it hurts, friends.
I will not say one word of complaint about my time without cable, because this lady, J, has done me such a huge favor that not the biggest basket of thank you odds and ends and wine and dinners will ever cover it. However, this lead me to discuss with other friends exactly how funny it is what some people spend their money on.
I know plenty of other people without cable, without a TV, even (I'm looking at you, R and R in Mt. Pleasant). And you people are utterly crazy.
It is currently almost 10pm. I've been stuck with one eyeball oogling the Ikea catalogue, and the other warily watching "Wife Swap", which is making my blood boil that a) wives are commodities to be traded b) husbands and fathers are that idiotic and c) children could be that squeaky.
If I were in charge of my TV viewings, I could be drooling over Food Network, watching the 500th replaying of Project Runway, or even maybe watching Entourage On Demand. I find it interesting, and have been talking with a friend M, about how funny it is what people spend their money on. My friend Dan doesn't have a TV, but he's got like 14 computers and a pimp vehicle. E doesn't have cable, but girlfriend has a hott apartment. R and R don't have TV, but they do have a healthy understanding of the ends of the internets and are pros at drunk biking.
But I am not in charge since I am only sort of superficially living here out of suitcases and not getting anything dirty-- so I've read a few books and A LOT OF HOME MAGAZINES and all I have to say is
1.) Driving over Lemons made me want to leave a life of cubicles and learn to midwife sheep and have a farm in Spain and
2.) I totally found the inspiration for my new living room in the new Martha Stewart mag Blueprint and just might sign up for a year subscription.
Ok, well Super Nanny is on now, and I think that's where I have to draw the line. I still have my dignity among the boxes, you know.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Breaking up is hard to do.
I can't.
I'm sorry.
Don't hate me.
Words made famous by Sex and the City regarding breaking up. Moving on.
Moving sucks, and there are complications with moving, so I blame my neighborhood. It just wasn't working out. It was me, not it. So we're through.
We sort of had a torrid affair, and then when I decided that this wasn't what I was looking for. I came to realize that this wasn't going to work. Adams Morgan. Me. Us.
I lived on 18th Street in Adams Morgan. ON 18th STREET. Yes, people LIVE THERE. This came as a constant surprise to all the loiterers who stared at me in disbelief as I hauled an old-lady cart full of groceries into what people assumed was a bar or an office. My neighbors were Queen's Hookah and a Moroccan bazaar owned by the nicest guy ever. I lived in a 3rd floor walk up where weekends meant cleaning up the pizza plates and turning up the TV a few notches so that the fervent prayers of "wooooo!!!" and "hhheeeyyyyyyy!" could be audible to their gods: Millie and Al. It meant arguing with college kids who were about to hurl on my front steps to get past so I could slip in the front door without their vom touching my shoes. It was the loud sighs I would emit while I had to dodge kickball players walking 6 across on the sidewalk in matching T-shirts like they owned the place because the backs of their t-shirts proclaimed Tom-Tom as THEIR BAR. Well, you guys can have it in the divorce. Trust me, it's no loss on my behalf.
It's not Adams Morgan's fault.
At first it was SO FUN. Restaurants, bars, stores, everything and everyone was my front yard. It's hustle and bustle in a way that makes you forget that you are in Washington, and maybe somewhere with a little more edge. I liked that. But then you see the edges soften and finally just dull. When we first moved in, my roommate and I would get excited. "Ooh! Listen! We can hear live jazz!". That quickly turned into "EFFING FELIX NEEDS TO GET A NEW BAND." We had Jumbo Slice for our friends who helped us move in. "It's not too bad sober," we thought. Now, the smell of Jumbo slice and the pounding refrain of "Dame mas gaso-lllllllliiiiiinnnna" makes me lose my appetite. I haven't gone out to the bars on that street (save Asylum and Bourbon) in months. I couldn't stand it because there was no relief. I couldn't throw open our windows and yell "For the love of God, SHUT UP!" like I wanted to on idle Thursday nights. I was a woman scorned. It was too much.
So I moved. I was grown about it. It was an amicable split. I am sure there is some girl out there who could learn to love the AdMo more than I. Though there are still things about my old stomping ground that I love and will miss seeing. Astor Mediterranean cafe, for starters. Pasta Mia. Western Market. Amsterdam Falafel. The Red Box DVD vending machine. Real live diversity on a weekday. Saturdays at Asylum. The excuse to pop into Payless with a disturbing frequency. Sitting on my stoop during the afternoon on a clear day reading the paper with a coffee. The guy behind the Salsa Safeway who winked at me when he gave me my turkey. Memorizing more happy hour specials than I care to repeat. The glutial workout of 25 stairs from front door to apartment door.
I'll go back there for some of those things. For others, I will gladly let the new guys who moved into my apartment enjoy. And then promptly grow to hate. Two years there was my fill. And if you can handle more then that, I salute you.
I'm sorry.
Don't hate me.
Words made famous by Sex and the City regarding breaking up. Moving on.
Moving sucks, and there are complications with moving, so I blame my neighborhood. It just wasn't working out. It was me, not it. So we're through.
We sort of had a torrid affair, and then when I decided that this wasn't what I was looking for. I came to realize that this wasn't going to work. Adams Morgan. Me. Us.
I lived on 18th Street in Adams Morgan. ON 18th STREET. Yes, people LIVE THERE. This came as a constant surprise to all the loiterers who stared at me in disbelief as I hauled an old-lady cart full of groceries into what people assumed was a bar or an office. My neighbors were Queen's Hookah and a Moroccan bazaar owned by the nicest guy ever. I lived in a 3rd floor walk up where weekends meant cleaning up the pizza plates and turning up the TV a few notches so that the fervent prayers of "wooooo!!!" and "hhheeeyyyyyyy!" could be audible to their gods: Millie and Al. It meant arguing with college kids who were about to hurl on my front steps to get past so I could slip in the front door without their vom touching my shoes. It was the loud sighs I would emit while I had to dodge kickball players walking 6 across on the sidewalk in matching T-shirts like they owned the place because the backs of their t-shirts proclaimed Tom-Tom as THEIR BAR. Well, you guys can have it in the divorce. Trust me, it's no loss on my behalf.
It's not Adams Morgan's fault.
At first it was SO FUN. Restaurants, bars, stores, everything and everyone was my front yard. It's hustle and bustle in a way that makes you forget that you are in Washington, and maybe somewhere with a little more edge. I liked that. But then you see the edges soften and finally just dull. When we first moved in, my roommate and I would get excited. "Ooh! Listen! We can hear live jazz!". That quickly turned into "EFFING FELIX NEEDS TO GET A NEW BAND." We had Jumbo Slice for our friends who helped us move in. "It's not too bad sober," we thought. Now, the smell of Jumbo slice and the pounding refrain of "Dame mas gaso-lllllllliiiiiinnnna" makes me lose my appetite. I haven't gone out to the bars on that street (save Asylum and Bourbon) in months. I couldn't stand it because there was no relief. I couldn't throw open our windows and yell "For the love of God, SHUT UP!" like I wanted to on idle Thursday nights. I was a woman scorned. It was too much.
So I moved. I was grown about it. It was an amicable split. I am sure there is some girl out there who could learn to love the AdMo more than I. Though there are still things about my old stomping ground that I love and will miss seeing. Astor Mediterranean cafe, for starters. Pasta Mia. Western Market. Amsterdam Falafel. The Red Box DVD vending machine. Real live diversity on a weekday. Saturdays at Asylum. The excuse to pop into Payless with a disturbing frequency. Sitting on my stoop during the afternoon on a clear day reading the paper with a coffee. The guy behind the Salsa Safeway who winked at me when he gave me my turkey. Memorizing more happy hour specials than I care to repeat. The glutial workout of 25 stairs from front door to apartment door.
I'll go back there for some of those things. For others, I will gladly let the new guys who moved into my apartment enjoy. And then promptly grow to hate. Two years there was my fill. And if you can handle more then that, I salute you.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Easily swayed
I was out this past week with a friend from California at dinner. He and I were discussing some things, and jean shorts were brought up, somehow. I told him that I hadn't worn jean shorts since I was 16, and that I didn't get them.
When I was 16, I spent the better part of my summers in cut-offs and teva sandals chasing children who were recently taken off their ridalin around outside. It was always an exciting choice-- which jeans deserved to be immortalized by scissors. Jean shorts to me are a time and a place that I could pull up in a capsule of time.
When I think jean shorts, I think my father gardening in 1991. I think being in middle school where whomever had the longest acceptable fray on their shorts was the coolest. I think about tourists and Middle America and the Gap.
My friend said he didn't understand the East Coast snobbery, because when he showed up freshman year of college, he wore jean shorts out on one of those first few awkward group outings where 30 18-year-olds do the same thing. He said he got made fun of something fierce for wearing jean shorts. I laughed at him AGAIN. Like I did, lo these many years ago. JEAN SHORTS? GIVE ME A BREAK!
I see hipsters walking around now with the knee length jean shorts. They look pretty cool on skinny girls with converse and a few tank tops, it's true. I am easily swayed by hipster nonsense like that.
So, I did something this weekend that I haven't done since I was 16.
I made cut-offs. To be like the hipster kids with the converse.
Only mine were old brown Gap chinos.
I rule.
When I was 16, I spent the better part of my summers in cut-offs and teva sandals chasing children who were recently taken off their ridalin around outside. It was always an exciting choice-- which jeans deserved to be immortalized by scissors. Jean shorts to me are a time and a place that I could pull up in a capsule of time.
When I think jean shorts, I think my father gardening in 1991. I think being in middle school where whomever had the longest acceptable fray on their shorts was the coolest. I think about tourists and Middle America and the Gap.
My friend said he didn't understand the East Coast snobbery, because when he showed up freshman year of college, he wore jean shorts out on one of those first few awkward group outings where 30 18-year-olds do the same thing. He said he got made fun of something fierce for wearing jean shorts. I laughed at him AGAIN. Like I did, lo these many years ago. JEAN SHORTS? GIVE ME A BREAK!
I see hipsters walking around now with the knee length jean shorts. They look pretty cool on skinny girls with converse and a few tank tops, it's true. I am easily swayed by hipster nonsense like that.
So, I did something this weekend that I haven't done since I was 16.
I made cut-offs. To be like the hipster kids with the converse.
Only mine were old brown Gap chinos.
I rule.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Apparently, Buster the Bunny was a HUGE Digital Underground fan
I had the unique displeasure of watching a rabbit go to town on my slippered foot this evening.
Buster, my rabbit-friend who is taking a vacation from his daddies while one daddy is in Ghana and other daddy is biking across the country, is currently in love with my foot. Via my slipper.
I was sitting on the floor in shorts and slippers with my feet flexed watching some "Good Eats" on the Food Network while I slipped out of my "drrrr spreadsheets" coma. I was watching him make pad Thai with renewing vigor when I sensed some OTHER renewed "vigor".
There was Buster, holding onto my toes for dear life while he pounded away at the ball of my slippered foot. I couldn't shake him off. I was frozen-- staring at this creature hammer away like he was an awkward teenager who was mistaking speed with skill, while I watched my foot pray for this drunken mistake to just END ALREADY. In about 15 seconds it was all over. For the time being.
A wave of emotions washed over me. I went through the normal cycle.
Guilt.
Violation.
Shame.
Pride.
No, no. NO PRIDE.
ONLY GUILT.
Buster has two daddies who are raising him to be an open-minded, worldly, and knowledgeable citizen of the world. And then my Catholic upbringing realized that I HAD HELPED THIS RABBIT GET OFF. Being paralyzed by the horrified fascination of this rabbit mistaking MY FOOT for a foxy lady rabbit had inadvertently gotten him hooked. Apparently, my neon green slipper is a machine in the sack, because that was it for him-- the deal was sealed. He became more adventurous-- different positions, different speed, you get the picture.
I'd like to thank a friend for giving me this slippers. I'd like to thank my mom for the yarn that I stuffed into the toe after my foot was rammed the first time so hard that I felt like I should start charging this fellow and we should share a celebratory cigarette. I wore these slippers religiously for over a year, and I am sad to see that they met their whorish demise. At least until I can wash them a few times.
Then he tried the same deal with my ankle. Up on his hind legs with a good grip on my calf muscle. That got him put back into his cage. I was raised Catholic enough to laugh after the fact, not be ok with Rabbit-to-skin contact. I can't help a brother out THAT MUCH.
Now that my slippers have been deflowered by a rabbit with two daddies who clearly HAVE TAUGHT HIM WELL, it's at least helpful to look at the positives. Apparently, he's a five-minute-man, but at least he owes the slippers the courtesy of multiple lovemaking sessions. Kudos, gentleman. You are raising the boy right.
Buster, my rabbit-friend who is taking a vacation from his daddies while one daddy is in Ghana and other daddy is biking across the country, is currently in love with my foot. Via my slipper.
I was sitting on the floor in shorts and slippers with my feet flexed watching some "Good Eats" on the Food Network while I slipped out of my "drrrr spreadsheets" coma. I was watching him make pad Thai with renewing vigor when I sensed some OTHER renewed "vigor".
There was Buster, holding onto my toes for dear life while he pounded away at the ball of my slippered foot. I couldn't shake him off. I was frozen-- staring at this creature hammer away like he was an awkward teenager who was mistaking speed with skill, while I watched my foot pray for this drunken mistake to just END ALREADY. In about 15 seconds it was all over. For the time being.
A wave of emotions washed over me. I went through the normal cycle.
Guilt.
Violation.
Shame.
Pride.
No, no. NO PRIDE.
ONLY GUILT.
Buster has two daddies who are raising him to be an open-minded, worldly, and knowledgeable citizen of the world. And then my Catholic upbringing realized that I HAD HELPED THIS RABBIT GET OFF. Being paralyzed by the horrified fascination of this rabbit mistaking MY FOOT for a foxy lady rabbit had inadvertently gotten him hooked. Apparently, my neon green slipper is a machine in the sack, because that was it for him-- the deal was sealed. He became more adventurous-- different positions, different speed, you get the picture.
I'd like to thank a friend for giving me this slippers. I'd like to thank my mom for the yarn that I stuffed into the toe after my foot was rammed the first time so hard that I felt like I should start charging this fellow and we should share a celebratory cigarette. I wore these slippers religiously for over a year, and I am sad to see that they met their whorish demise. At least until I can wash them a few times.
Then he tried the same deal with my ankle. Up on his hind legs with a good grip on my calf muscle. That got him put back into his cage. I was raised Catholic enough to laugh after the fact, not be ok with Rabbit-to-skin contact. I can't help a brother out THAT MUCH.
Now that my slippers have been deflowered by a rabbit with two daddies who clearly HAVE TAUGHT HIM WELL, it's at least helpful to look at the positives. Apparently, he's a five-minute-man, but at least he owes the slippers the courtesy of multiple lovemaking sessions. Kudos, gentleman. You are raising the boy right.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Letters unsent
Dear Jay McCarroll:
I love that one skirt in your Project Runway Season 1 collection. So patchwork-zen, blue-green glory. Should I get this (fingers crossed) apartment, it's the inspiration for my living room. This is geeky, but I really like fabric and paint swatches so it's just heaven to me. Rock on, sir.
-K.
Dear mail guy at work:
You are very short. Your hair is decidedly slicked-down. But very pleasant. I always say hi to you in the halls with my head cocked to one side bemused by the combination.
-K.
Dear skinny blonde woman with the eclectic wardrobe that always looks work-appropriate:
I really dig your clothes. I'm glad you work in my work 'hood and manage to look like you have some spunk. Also you look like my friend from high school. She was a little kooky.
-K.
Dear Pilates Instructor:
I am going to miss your classes since I cancelled my gym membership. I thought about keeping it, just for you. But I then remembered that you teach other places too and I'll track you down that way. Seriously, your classes make me feel like a Gazelle. In a long and lean way, not in a "I'll start walking on all fours" way.
-K.
Dear lady who is always working at Peking Garden:
I love that you asked me once "that's it?" when I ordered food without the DK present. I don't come in super often, but you've started to pretend to recognize the two of us together, which makes me feel fuzzy inside. Also, the general tso's chicken does that too. Nice and spicy. No messing around with too much broccoli filler. Just sweet, sweet chicken filler.
-K.
Dear friendly cafeteria worker who makes the killer wraps:
You rock. Seriously. "good sandwich-maker" is something to aspire to. Also I tend to flush when you call me "baby" while I ask for hot peppers. Makes it seem so natural to have so much hot peppers on a sandwich. You're a nice lady.
-K
Dear the ONLY nice lady at Comcast I have ever spoken to:
You make me want to maybe not think about getting "the dish", but then I think about all your colleagues and I giggle about how I'm going to maybe get "the dish".
-K.
Dear random older gay gentleman who asked me to dance in the middle of Sonoma last night:
You were a good dancer and your partner seems very nice, though confused how we knew each other. I understand you wanting to help your buddy Carlos score some ladies, but the gay bbf angle doesn't work on us. Three taken-ish women sipping white wine on an idle Tuesday would much rather just talk to you, because you were drinking the same wine and it would be easy-- don't you see?
-K
Dear Amos Lee:
please please please please please please please come to DC. I saw that you were playing in Vienna, and thought, "you know? I'd TOTALLY go to Virginia to see him" but then I realized it was Austria. And I pouted. Please sing me the phone book any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
xoxoxoxoxox
K
I love that one skirt in your Project Runway Season 1 collection. So patchwork-zen, blue-green glory. Should I get this (fingers crossed) apartment, it's the inspiration for my living room. This is geeky, but I really like fabric and paint swatches so it's just heaven to me. Rock on, sir.
-K.
Dear mail guy at work:
You are very short. Your hair is decidedly slicked-down. But very pleasant. I always say hi to you in the halls with my head cocked to one side bemused by the combination.
-K.
Dear skinny blonde woman with the eclectic wardrobe that always looks work-appropriate:
I really dig your clothes. I'm glad you work in my work 'hood and manage to look like you have some spunk. Also you look like my friend from high school. She was a little kooky.
-K.
Dear Pilates Instructor:
I am going to miss your classes since I cancelled my gym membership. I thought about keeping it, just for you. But I then remembered that you teach other places too and I'll track you down that way. Seriously, your classes make me feel like a Gazelle. In a long and lean way, not in a "I'll start walking on all fours" way.
-K.
Dear lady who is always working at Peking Garden:
I love that you asked me once "that's it?" when I ordered food without the DK present. I don't come in super often, but you've started to pretend to recognize the two of us together, which makes me feel fuzzy inside. Also, the general tso's chicken does that too. Nice and spicy. No messing around with too much broccoli filler. Just sweet, sweet chicken filler.
-K.
Dear friendly cafeteria worker who makes the killer wraps:
You rock. Seriously. "good sandwich-maker" is something to aspire to. Also I tend to flush when you call me "baby" while I ask for hot peppers. Makes it seem so natural to have so much hot peppers on a sandwich. You're a nice lady.
-K
Dear the ONLY nice lady at Comcast I have ever spoken to:
You make me want to maybe not think about getting "the dish", but then I think about all your colleagues and I giggle about how I'm going to maybe get "the dish".
-K.
Dear random older gay gentleman who asked me to dance in the middle of Sonoma last night:
You were a good dancer and your partner seems very nice, though confused how we knew each other. I understand you wanting to help your buddy Carlos score some ladies, but the gay bbf angle doesn't work on us. Three taken-ish women sipping white wine on an idle Tuesday would much rather just talk to you, because you were drinking the same wine and it would be easy-- don't you see?
-K
Dear Amos Lee:
please please please please please please please come to DC. I saw that you were playing in Vienna, and thought, "you know? I'd TOTALLY go to Virginia to see him" but then I realized it was Austria. And I pouted. Please sing me the phone book any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
xoxoxoxoxox
K
Monday, July 10, 2006
I am currently wasting my life
Looking for an apartment.
House-hunting is currently gnawing away my social life. Friends are decidedly SICK of me discussing where I am going to live. They are sick of hearing the logistics of the what-ifs of timing. I'm at work bitching to EVERYONE who listens about all my apartment woes. The woes of the lack thereof.
I've seen a basement apartment that was 300 square feet and the ceilings were so low I could put my hand up (the hand above my 5"7 head) to touch the ceiling. It was painted the most putrid mustard yellow color and had two windows the size of my ibook.
I saw a very cute studio, cozy. But the floor plan was so awkward that I couldn't put much more than a bed in it. It had cabinets older than me, and a bunchy carpet that looked like it had been smoked on and then tidied up, trying very hard not to gather my attention. It's hard when you are too young to have saved up a lot of money, and get paid less than your old college tuition bills PLUS room and board. And I just got a raise! If I had $1500 a month for a one bedroom, I wouldn't be whining. But I don't. So I am. A little.
I think I ONLY have about another few conversations of the "pleasantly quirky new neurotic girl whose eyes twitch when she jokes about putting a cot in her cube because REALLY, I THOUGHT about the dimensions." I have an eye-mask. It could totally work for a while. I already eat 2 meals a day there, why not just make it 3? There's a TV. There are chairs and a microwave.
But I suppose that this is what you do, in order to find your home. Today in ALL honesty, I said to a potential landlord "you know, I can bake pretty well. Seriously, think about that come the holiday season. I could make it worth your while in sprinkles." She wasn't very impressed, but I hope she at least denoted the sense of urgency in my voice.
When I found my current apartment, I did everything but shove a check in the face of my very pleasant yet slightly shady landlord, who took pity on my roommate and I because he had a son my age and "knows how it goes". We had a lease and the *perfect* apartment stolen from under our noses, but it was much better how it worked out this way. We both walked to work and both made some friends by saying "well if you're out in Adams Morgan you should call me".
I have until August 6th to find an apartment. AUGUST 6th. AT. THE. LATEST. Like sign a lease and move some boxes. It's pulling apart at the insides of my stomach when I eat, and keeping my eyeballs peeled open at night. It's refreshing websites every 30 minutes and pulling my brain away from other important things. It's doing fervent math on my cell phone calculator and making lists only to cross possibilities off.
So that's why I'm not blogging. Also cuz my new work blocks gmail, blogger, and for some reason the EFFING Washington city paper classifieds. DAMN YOU!
House-hunting is currently gnawing away my social life. Friends are decidedly SICK of me discussing where I am going to live. They are sick of hearing the logistics of the what-ifs of timing. I'm at work bitching to EVERYONE who listens about all my apartment woes. The woes of the lack thereof.
I've seen a basement apartment that was 300 square feet and the ceilings were so low I could put my hand up (the hand above my 5"7 head) to touch the ceiling. It was painted the most putrid mustard yellow color and had two windows the size of my ibook.
I saw a very cute studio, cozy. But the floor plan was so awkward that I couldn't put much more than a bed in it. It had cabinets older than me, and a bunchy carpet that looked like it had been smoked on and then tidied up, trying very hard not to gather my attention. It's hard when you are too young to have saved up a lot of money, and get paid less than your old college tuition bills PLUS room and board. And I just got a raise! If I had $1500 a month for a one bedroom, I wouldn't be whining. But I don't. So I am. A little.
I think I ONLY have about another few conversations of the "pleasantly quirky new neurotic girl whose eyes twitch when she jokes about putting a cot in her cube because REALLY, I THOUGHT about the dimensions." I have an eye-mask. It could totally work for a while. I already eat 2 meals a day there, why not just make it 3? There's a TV. There are chairs and a microwave.
But I suppose that this is what you do, in order to find your home. Today in ALL honesty, I said to a potential landlord "you know, I can bake pretty well. Seriously, think about that come the holiday season. I could make it worth your while in sprinkles." She wasn't very impressed, but I hope she at least denoted the sense of urgency in my voice.
When I found my current apartment, I did everything but shove a check in the face of my very pleasant yet slightly shady landlord, who took pity on my roommate and I because he had a son my age and "knows how it goes". We had a lease and the *perfect* apartment stolen from under our noses, but it was much better how it worked out this way. We both walked to work and both made some friends by saying "well if you're out in Adams Morgan you should call me".
I have until August 6th to find an apartment. AUGUST 6th. AT. THE. LATEST. Like sign a lease and move some boxes. It's pulling apart at the insides of my stomach when I eat, and keeping my eyeballs peeled open at night. It's refreshing websites every 30 minutes and pulling my brain away from other important things. It's doing fervent math on my cell phone calculator and making lists only to cross possibilities off.
So that's why I'm not blogging. Also cuz my new work blocks gmail, blogger, and for some reason the EFFING Washington city paper classifieds. DAMN YOU!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Not unlike crack
Cutting your hair off makes you feel really good, really fast.
I liked my cute other short haircut, but this one takes the cake.
It was a hot steamy Friday and I had an appointment at the same place I normally get my haircut, BANG, but with a different stylist. My usual stylist was booked FULL UP until mid-July and when you need a haircut you only really notice after it's WAY TOO LATE ANYWAY, and I was headed home for my little brother's graduation party and there was NO WAY that my she-mullet was coming home with me.
I went to the website and decided, that yes, I katastrophe, was going to judge a book by its cover. So I did. I gauged who had lots of availablilty and decided that it was because they were new and didn't have a client base yet-- and that was not for me. I noticed one stylist had just a few holes in his schedule. So I looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, and hesitating ONLY SLIGHTLY-- clicked the "book it" button.
All week at work I was the "neurotic about my hair in a sort of adorably self-centered way, also maybe this will make you remember me since I'm new" girl. On Friday I burst out of the office full of nervous energy about seeing "the random".
Oh reader, I married him.
Ok not really, but I am totally going to cheat on my old stylist with him. Like, take his calls when she's around speaking in code, and making up excuses about why I haven't called so that she doesn't know I totally left her for another man, and a man with an armful of tattoos and a man-mullet who gave me the best haircut of my life. I don't care that it's dangerous. Her chair is right next to his. I am so in love-- SO IN LOVE, that I gave him a gi-normous tip and I give you this.
YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO GOOGLE "SHORT HAIR". More of you come to this blog as a gift from the internets to seek out becoming pony-tail-challenged. HERE IS A PICTURE.
EVERYONE WHO IS LOOKING FOR A SHORT HAIRCUT-- you there, netscape searching, googling, and google blog hunting. Have no fear. DO IT. Cut it off.
Who wants you to have long boring hair? a boy? a girl? your fears?
Release yourself! (hot damn, and your CHEEKBONES) and CUT. IT. OFF.
it's awesome.
Also economical. I'm going to have my bottle of shampoo for like 4 months!
(except not economical because now i have some sort of "My Hero!" type fascination with he who cut my hair and will probably continue to tip gi-normously).
I liked my cute other short haircut, but this one takes the cake.
It was a hot steamy Friday and I had an appointment at the same place I normally get my haircut, BANG, but with a different stylist. My usual stylist was booked FULL UP until mid-July and when you need a haircut you only really notice after it's WAY TOO LATE ANYWAY, and I was headed home for my little brother's graduation party and there was NO WAY that my she-mullet was coming home with me.
I went to the website and decided, that yes, I katastrophe, was going to judge a book by its cover. So I did. I gauged who had lots of availablilty and decided that it was because they were new and didn't have a client base yet-- and that was not for me. I noticed one stylist had just a few holes in his schedule. So I looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, and hesitating ONLY SLIGHTLY-- clicked the "book it" button.
All week at work I was the "neurotic about my hair in a sort of adorably self-centered way, also maybe this will make you remember me since I'm new" girl. On Friday I burst out of the office full of nervous energy about seeing "the random".
Oh reader, I married him.
Ok not really, but I am totally going to cheat on my old stylist with him. Like, take his calls when she's around speaking in code, and making up excuses about why I haven't called so that she doesn't know I totally left her for another man, and a man with an armful of tattoos and a man-mullet who gave me the best haircut of my life. I don't care that it's dangerous. Her chair is right next to his. I am so in love-- SO IN LOVE, that I gave him a gi-normous tip and I give you this.
YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO GOOGLE "SHORT HAIR". More of you come to this blog as a gift from the internets to seek out becoming pony-tail-challenged. HERE IS A PICTURE.
EVERYONE WHO IS LOOKING FOR A SHORT HAIRCUT-- you there, netscape searching, googling, and google blog hunting. Have no fear. DO IT. Cut it off.
Who wants you to have long boring hair? a boy? a girl? your fears?
Release yourself! (hot damn, and your CHEEKBONES) and CUT. IT. OFF.
it's awesome.
Also economical. I'm going to have my bottle of shampoo for like 4 months!
(except not economical because now i have some sort of "My Hero!" type fascination with he who cut my hair and will probably continue to tip gi-normously).
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Commercial Jingles with which I have been known to serenade my boyfriend
1.) At Eastern Motors, your job's your credit!
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Yes, Britney-- I am "pro love"
Because I know we gossip freaks exist, and exist in shamefully high numbers, I'm not even going to operate under the pretense that people might not have watched Dateline tonight and the hour-long Britney Spears "KFC thigh and breast combo with two sides(#3 )" special. Apparently, Dateline has run out of online predators staring at the camera caught like a deer in headlights, so they have moved onto the poor prey that is Mrs. Federline, with child, natch.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Footie Widow
So this here World Cup thing.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Of day dreams and playlists
In college, the student paper would occasionally stop people on the street and ask them what music they were listening to. This would then be published for all to judge according to how cool the music was and also how attractive they appeared in their photos with the kicky blurb below.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
Monday, June 05, 2006
All aboard the Katastrophe Paranoia Express
Well, the first day went off pretty well. First days are like that. Pretty good.
What stressed me out the MOST though, was my new commute. Before, my own two feet would shoo themselves out my door and after about 3 - 4 songs on my Ipod, that would be that. BAM. C'est le Commute.
NOW, I have to walk, take a bus, walk some more, or even figure out mysterious 'H' busses. Have YOU EVER RIDDEN AN 'H' BUS? NO, didn't think so.
Everything is variable now. I have to make the bus at 8 or I'll be late. But if the bus comes before 8 I'll miss it. If I miss it, I could walk to work in like 45 mins (I'm already set on walking home when it's not MadStickyHot or raining or sleeting or whatever) but that bus is crucial. The bus before it gets me there too early, the bus after gets me there too late. I need my 8am bus to come at 8am. Or my world will fall apart.
This means, for safekeeping, I have to get to the bus stop at 7:55. That's even taking chance too far. The Mythical L 2 cannot be trifled with. Sometimes when you need it, it won't come for 40 sufferable minutes. Other times, when you harrumph and resign yourself to walk, three pass you by. This morning it came at 7:59 on the dot, and this princess stepped into her coach ready to be whisked away to a shiny new building to be the smiling idiot, frantically trying to remember names and match up departments in her head.
The walk home was actually enjoyable, minus some very SERIOUS engagements with sidewalk chicken matches. I seriously took off about 2 shoulders and sidestepped around 6 people yapping on their phones. I could bus it home-- but really, DC isn't all that big and I owe myself the exercise, though I do miss out on some very important Ray-Ray time.
So, I think this gig will work out nicely. There are some minor complications, but I'm sure they will all get ironed out. It's day #1. How bad could it be?
(biting tongue as so tomorrow night's post won't be "OMG IT GOT WORSE".)
What stressed me out the MOST though, was my new commute. Before, my own two feet would shoo themselves out my door and after about 3 - 4 songs on my Ipod, that would be that. BAM. C'est le Commute.
NOW, I have to walk, take a bus, walk some more, or even figure out mysterious 'H' busses. Have YOU EVER RIDDEN AN 'H' BUS? NO, didn't think so.
Everything is variable now. I have to make the bus at 8 or I'll be late. But if the bus comes before 8 I'll miss it. If I miss it, I could walk to work in like 45 mins (I'm already set on walking home when it's not MadStickyHot or raining or sleeting or whatever) but that bus is crucial. The bus before it gets me there too early, the bus after gets me there too late. I need my 8am bus to come at 8am. Or my world will fall apart.
This means, for safekeeping, I have to get to the bus stop at 7:55. That's even taking chance too far. The Mythical L 2 cannot be trifled with. Sometimes when you need it, it won't come for 40 sufferable minutes. Other times, when you harrumph and resign yourself to walk, three pass you by. This morning it came at 7:59 on the dot, and this princess stepped into her coach ready to be whisked away to a shiny new building to be the smiling idiot, frantically trying to remember names and match up departments in her head.
The walk home was actually enjoyable, minus some very SERIOUS engagements with sidewalk chicken matches. I seriously took off about 2 shoulders and sidestepped around 6 people yapping on their phones. I could bus it home-- but really, DC isn't all that big and I owe myself the exercise, though I do miss out on some very important Ray-Ray time.
So, I think this gig will work out nicely. There are some minor complications, but I'm sure they will all get ironed out. It's day #1. How bad could it be?
(biting tongue as so tomorrow night's post won't be "OMG IT GOT WORSE".)
Sunday, June 04, 2006
D-day
So full of worries about the first day of my new job tomorrow. First days of new jobs are just the worst. I imagine I will wander around like a lost soul on my way to finding the ladies room, and probably spend the majority of the day reading things and organizing the post-its and a highlighter collection that will live on my desk.
The first day of my old job, I was asked to do some simple things, without any explanation of how they wanted them, and ended up staying late and crying softly in the restroom about my impending firing for not understanding how to set up a certain document. I should have read into that and run screaming for the hills, but instead I stayed for two years because it was easy enough and a short walk downhill.
But I assume (minus crying) that first days of work are uniformly awful. You don't know anyone's name, where anything is, what's important, what's not, and who you're going to eat lunch with (hurrah for having a friend work there!). You always will mess up, and you'll inevitably feel like a complete fool complete with flushed cheeks and red ink on paper.
Tomorrow is a whole new chapter. Perhaps the first chapter of like, part two of a book. New job, in 2 months finally living by myself and ruling my own roost, and sort of settling into life. I had sort of languished in freshman and sophomore year of life, and like a college junior thirsting for something new this job came at just the right time and is going to usher in a whole boatload of changes that I am very excited about. Also, I think this job is going to be important for me career-wise, and I'm excited to learn new things and not languish in boredom anymore. I guess my blog reading routine will get done at home more than the office now.
I'm nervous. This also is par for the course. I'm a pretty nervous character. I suppose all I can do is relax tonight, show up early in a bitchin' outfit and smile pretty.
Thank god we threw a party on Saturday and there's a lot of booze about.
The first day of my old job, I was asked to do some simple things, without any explanation of how they wanted them, and ended up staying late and crying softly in the restroom about my impending firing for not understanding how to set up a certain document. I should have read into that and run screaming for the hills, but instead I stayed for two years because it was easy enough and a short walk downhill.
But I assume (minus crying) that first days of work are uniformly awful. You don't know anyone's name, where anything is, what's important, what's not, and who you're going to eat lunch with (hurrah for having a friend work there!). You always will mess up, and you'll inevitably feel like a complete fool complete with flushed cheeks and red ink on paper.
Tomorrow is a whole new chapter. Perhaps the first chapter of like, part two of a book. New job, in 2 months finally living by myself and ruling my own roost, and sort of settling into life. I had sort of languished in freshman and sophomore year of life, and like a college junior thirsting for something new this job came at just the right time and is going to usher in a whole boatload of changes that I am very excited about. Also, I think this job is going to be important for me career-wise, and I'm excited to learn new things and not languish in boredom anymore. I guess my blog reading routine will get done at home more than the office now.
I'm nervous. This also is par for the course. I'm a pretty nervous character. I suppose all I can do is relax tonight, show up early in a bitchin' outfit and smile pretty.
Thank god we threw a party on Saturday and there's a lot of booze about.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Goodbye, Job.
I leave you with something I drew during the last staff meeting out of boredom so devastating that I thought about the utensils that I could stab myself in the eye with as an excuse to leave and also as a cathartic symbol of the pain and grief you caused me. (and how staunchly I will refuse to work with all women EVER AGAIN.)
It's a piece I've entitled:
Things I'd Like to Eat and Drink: A Staff Meeting of Longing.
Stay tuned for tomorrow: sleeping away my one day of vacation before throwing a gi-normous house party and convincing a friend with a car to help us to pick up our keg of cider for snake bite blacks.
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