Every morning when I make my coffee, I make a mental note of the time when I turn off the coffee maker. I bought my coffee maker for $7.99 at Target in the "off to college" section.
7:55. 8:01. 8:13. 8:23.
It's an integral part of my morning routine. Flip on "Today Show". Rinse and repeat. Apply liberally. Make sure coffee maker is off. Slip on shoes. Lock door.
I guess you could say I have an irrational fear of leaving the coffee pot on.
Well, of leaving the coffee pot on, it shorting some wires, and me burning my apartment building down.
I've double checked. Triple checked. Stopped checking because I felt like I belonged on MTV True Life: I have OCD.
I have even turned RIGHT around when finally at the metro in the morning to go BACK to double check that it's off. I stopped short at calling my boyfriend and having him in all his non-electrician glory console me and say that I could leave the coffee pot on. Nothing would break or burn.
I don't really trust myself not to burn the house down. I can't keep plants alive and I forget to vacuum a lot.
I used to live on the top floor of a row house in Adams Morgan above some businesses. I would come home from Thanksgiving to find the front door wide open for days thanks to thoughtless travel agency workers. The wiring in our building was old, and alarms went off and they almost shut down our power. We had a wire gate that separated us from the rest of the boozy world where drunk frat boys would pass out on our front steps.
I used to fret about whether or not the apartment would still exist when I was away. I would always see the outside and breathe a half-sight of relief; the other half exhaled when I saw none of my stuff was moved.
It's hard to shake that when you live in a proper apartment building with locks and a landlady.
Today I had to make a stressful phone call in the morning. I was EXTRA glad to discover coffee in my cupboard when I had presumed I was out. I made coffee! I rinsed and repeated! I made the phone call! I watched the Today Show!
And I went to work.
AND came home and watched TV.
AND went to the gym.
AND THEN, only 20 minutes ago, discovered when I followed my nose to the vague smell of burnt chocolate, that the coffee pot was still on.
Moral of the story: if you leave the coffee pot on, planets do not combust, God does not kill a kitten, and my house doesn't burn down.
Don't you think for a MINUTE that I'm going to press my luck twice in this department, thankyouverymuch.
It is currently unplugged.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
Breaking the habit
Breaking the habit
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe
I'm desperately trying to break some bad habits. I should prolly follow through and stop biting my nails, but I think attaining a level of personal enlightenment should allow you some faults. I think biting my nails and sometimes admitting out loud that I think Kathy Griffin is funny are two faults worth tackling a little bit later.
I've tried all sorts of new-age, hippie fault-fixing shit, but it doesn't really work for me.
I can't all of a sudden relax my body in a systematic way and dream that I'm at the beach and can hear the roar of the ocean as I sync my pulse with mother nature.
I can't sit still and imagine a room, where I visualize myself putting awful situations my brain conjured up in the cabinets and closets of my mind and then visualize locking them up.
I can't sit around and think about bad habits and take the time to go "hmmm... self. How will you feel about these choices later?".
I can't even stand googling HOW to break bad habits, scouring 43 things hoping that someone else like me might have asked Metafilter the secret to unlocking a similarly flawless existence.
Some bad habits make you realize that some people, when it comes down to it, like to suffer. Why else do we bite our nails down to the quick? Smoke a pack a day? Binge drink?
Part of the allure is the pain that follows. The inability to type any words involving "a" because your pinkie is bleeding. Silently enjoy your coughing spells. Smiling through your hangover.
I am therefore trying the age-old method of stopping a nasty habit. Every time I catch myself, I snap 5 rubber bands on my wrist.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not snapping the hell out of them. I'm not crying and smiling through it. It's something to take me out of my head and back to reality. It's something to remind me of how many times without even MEANING TO, I lead myself down a terrible path that takes a little while for missteps to be identified.
Also, I've just now gotten the short-hair fetish site guys to stop looking at my blog, so I'm in no rush to get the naughty rubber band fetish (hello! gum bands to you Brits!) underbelly of the interwebs interested in me trying to engage in a little head game against my head game.
Let me tell you, your brain learns things fast when you aren't allowed to float through life being that indulgent to its every whim.
The first day of my rubber band exercise last week I snapped them 31 times from the time I woke up until the time I went to bed. THIRTY-ONE times where I CAUGHT myself. Think of all the times I didn't realize I was even engaging in the fault! Think of when I felt JUSTIFIED in faulty behavior! Think of when I forgot to snap my rubber bands!
Today it was three.
And that, my friends, is progress.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Shopping list.
To Do list
Originally uploaded by dckatastrophe
I was sitting in Farragut West waiting for a train on Thursday and when i stood up from the low, stone bench this was stuck to my ass.
Someone else's shopping list.
I looked at it and smirked a little.
Hat. Midol. Bug Spray. Claritin D 24h 20 count. Comb.
I know exactly whose this is.
Sounds like this person was going to have a KICK-ASS time at the beach.
SHE (thanks midol) probably will be allergic to everything in sight, and will spray herself with bug spray religiously because bugs only seem to like her and ignore everyone else. She'll be crampy so will exclaim about how she'd LOVE to go swimming, but simply can't because it's "that time of the month" every few hours. She'll have sunblock on her nose that's blue and will have perfectly combed hair which will be mussed under a huge hat under a huge umbrella.
Worst memorial day mini vacation list ever.
I'm going to the beach in July like a big kid for a week.
my list includes:
get skinnier, pronto.
booze.
bathing suit.
7 sundresses.
booze.
sunscreen.
booze.
frisbee.
a few trashy books.
booze.
deck of cards.
booze.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Things that made me chuckle today
My mom swears up and down everyone who works at Trader Joe's is in a Hawaiian-print, glassy-eyed, sandal-wearing cult.
Every time you go in you know you can chat with the check-out person about at least ONE item that they LOVE that you purchased.
You are prepared for this.
I walk into Trader Joe's constantly ready to over-share. To chat about pita chips and my huge food-crush on their cheese selection.
I perused the items. I bought some food, limiting myself to one basket full of treats for the after-work meals and weekend delights to look forward to.
After waiting in a line that lent itself to DMV-worthy groans, the check-out fellow asked me if I found everything OK.
I said "yes, for an impulse trip, I seem to have found a lot".
And that's when he started giggling.
A long, drawn-out, airy giggle. He then said "what's this (hee hee) here impulse (wheeze wheeze) trip?" in such a nonchalant way that I cocked my head and leaned in as a response.
What do you mean, check out guy? I came here on impulse. I realized that I had plans the rest of the week and should maybe buy that carnitas pork that your fine newsletter told me was so delicious. Maybe I need to pay you $2.99 for the luxury of purchasing a kit so I can make my own guacamole when the time is right. Maybe I need some wine with an "apricot" aftertaste (apricot, as I am learning, is just Chilean for "cheap").
Suddenly snapped back from squinting at him and thinking of the items I had just purchased, I immediately zeroed in on the issue at hand.
Just potentially, how high he might be.
He had a stamp of Trader Joe's address and phone number (in reverse, of course) on his forehead. His airy laughter belied him. He asked me to describe to him my "impulse trip" and gave me a wide grin like we were secret members of an awesome club.
"Well, you know," I said, "I found myself walking past the metro station and decided I should buy some food. For fun."
That was met with the aftermath of the initial wheezy laughter.
I shifted in my sandals and continued.
"Um, well, you know when you, do things on impulse?" and he draws out "yeah yeah yeah. Cool. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR TRIP".
So I said, "Uh, well, I was at work... Time passed... Now I'm here."
Wheezy liked that. He wheezed some more and said "that's alright, that's alright. Good trip."
I said, "Something like that, you could say. Thank you for taking my $50 and good day".
Wheezy continued to grin.
I then notice an impatient, all-business kind of clerk, standing to his left waiting to take over Wheezy's register with a tray of cash. He just looks at Wheezy, in disbelief of the conversation that he was engaged in.
Past tense.
Paused.
Wheezy had not spoken for a full minute.
The conversation had ceased.
Wheezy was enchanted with some place to the left of the top of my head. I'm guessing it was a non-verbal compliment to the at-home dye-job brought to you by Feria that occurred last weekend.
I ask Wheezy for my receipt, which has been waiting patiently to be collected since my initial squinting.
He says "yeah.... yeah" and hands it to me absentmindedly. No-nonsense clerk moves in as soon as humanly possible to take over the register.
I walk away with my bags (managing not to fall down and feel sorry for myself this time) and chuckled at that fellow.
Drinking the kool-aid at TJ's?
Nah.
Every time you go in you know you can chat with the check-out person about at least ONE item that they LOVE that you purchased.
You are prepared for this.
I walk into Trader Joe's constantly ready to over-share. To chat about pita chips and my huge food-crush on their cheese selection.
I perused the items. I bought some food, limiting myself to one basket full of treats for the after-work meals and weekend delights to look forward to.
After waiting in a line that lent itself to DMV-worthy groans, the check-out fellow asked me if I found everything OK.
I said "yes, for an impulse trip, I seem to have found a lot".
And that's when he started giggling.
A long, drawn-out, airy giggle. He then said "what's this (hee hee) here impulse (wheeze wheeze) trip?" in such a nonchalant way that I cocked my head and leaned in as a response.
What do you mean, check out guy? I came here on impulse. I realized that I had plans the rest of the week and should maybe buy that carnitas pork that your fine newsletter told me was so delicious. Maybe I need to pay you $2.99 for the luxury of purchasing a kit so I can make my own guacamole when the time is right. Maybe I need some wine with an "apricot" aftertaste (apricot, as I am learning, is just Chilean for "cheap").
Suddenly snapped back from squinting at him and thinking of the items I had just purchased, I immediately zeroed in on the issue at hand.
Just potentially, how high he might be.
He had a stamp of Trader Joe's address and phone number (in reverse, of course) on his forehead. His airy laughter belied him. He asked me to describe to him my "impulse trip" and gave me a wide grin like we were secret members of an awesome club.
"Well, you know," I said, "I found myself walking past the metro station and decided I should buy some food. For fun."
That was met with the aftermath of the initial wheezy laughter.
I shifted in my sandals and continued.
"Um, well, you know when you, do things on impulse?" and he draws out "yeah yeah yeah. Cool. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR TRIP".
So I said, "Uh, well, I was at work... Time passed... Now I'm here."
Wheezy liked that. He wheezed some more and said "that's alright, that's alright. Good trip."
I said, "Something like that, you could say. Thank you for taking my $50 and good day".
Wheezy continued to grin.
I then notice an impatient, all-business kind of clerk, standing to his left waiting to take over Wheezy's register with a tray of cash. He just looks at Wheezy, in disbelief of the conversation that he was engaged in.
Past tense.
Paused.
Wheezy had not spoken for a full minute.
The conversation had ceased.
Wheezy was enchanted with some place to the left of the top of my head. I'm guessing it was a non-verbal compliment to the at-home dye-job brought to you by Feria that occurred last weekend.
I ask Wheezy for my receipt, which has been waiting patiently to be collected since my initial squinting.
He says "yeah.... yeah" and hands it to me absentmindedly. No-nonsense clerk moves in as soon as humanly possible to take over the register.
I walk away with my bags (managing not to fall down and feel sorry for myself this time) and chuckled at that fellow.
Drinking the kool-aid at TJ's?
Nah.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Exactly what I needed to watch 15 times today
Today was the kind of day where I wanted to bang my head repreatedly against the wall, but there didn't seem to be any walls thick enough or hard enough to do the kind of damage that I was hoping would get me some medical leave.
The only thing that can remedy this is Turk dancing to Bell Biv Devoe.
First with the youtube. Then with the frank discussions of early 90's music that you must jazzercise-dance to. I loved a good bouncy early '90's running man. A little roger rabbit. Whatever that thing Turk does with his hands and flappy elbows. I've done it, and I'll do it again.
If I had a dollar for every time I've said 'Bell Biv DeVoe' in the last 2 weeks I think I'd have about 13 bucks.
Seriously though-- who has SEPARATE conversations about this? Over google chat. Over the Cubicle wall. Whatever.
That's some serious cash. For Bell Biv DeVoe I mean. When is the last time YOU said "Bell Biv DeVoe" out loud?
Try it.It's one of those phrases that pleases your mouth to say it. It's like saying "kerfuffle". You just have to grin.
Like me now. Cuz now I'd have $15.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
home is where the hemming tape is
I have lived in my current apartment for 8 months.
I have only, today, put up curtains.
(I have good blinds, for the record)
I had been putting it off, because they are Ikea curtains. You have to hang them up just to take them down, and then iron them, hem them, and cut off the excess fabric.
Seemed easy enough on paper.
It took 3 hours.
Have you ever tried to iron curtains?
It's not a particularly easy job. I swore a bunch. There I was. Trying to make a straight crease with an iron, only to RE-iron that crease with a piece of hemming tape precariously balanced between the two layers. And make it look straight. They are sheer, so they were slick to iron and kept falling off my ironing board. I had to take a break and have some lemonade.
I could have used a more grown-up drink, but I had plenty of margarita from the night before coursing through my veins. Enough so that I was trembly the next day. Not hung over, but reeking suspiciously of anxiety. Trembly. I thought "what eases tremblings?"
A TRIP TO CHINATOWN!
Nothing eases anxiety like over-stimulation. Blinky lights! Neon hoodies! Fuddruckers!
I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and bought hair die, a new toothbrush, and an iron.
My head is now RED. Like, the streaky red that everyone dyed their hair in 1996. I'm rolling with it. I could use the change.
I went to Urban outfitters and bought a shit-ton of decorations for my apartment. New "artwork". New picture frames waiting for photos to "Rasterbate".
And, I only did it today, because when my mother was visiting a few weekends ago, she remarked upon my lack of iron (in self defense, i had one, but it rusted) among other things, including decor. She could not believe that I didn't iron my underwear into perfect triangles and where were the hospital corners on my quickly made bed? She said to me and some of my friends at some lovely springtime outdoor festivities,
"oh, well with such nice friends like yours, who needs an iron?"
I let that fester. I bought an iron. I hung up curtains.
YEESH.
I have only, today, put up curtains.
(I have good blinds, for the record)
I had been putting it off, because they are Ikea curtains. You have to hang them up just to take them down, and then iron them, hem them, and cut off the excess fabric.
Seemed easy enough on paper.
It took 3 hours.
Have you ever tried to iron curtains?
It's not a particularly easy job. I swore a bunch. There I was. Trying to make a straight crease with an iron, only to RE-iron that crease with a piece of hemming tape precariously balanced between the two layers. And make it look straight. They are sheer, so they were slick to iron and kept falling off my ironing board. I had to take a break and have some lemonade.
I could have used a more grown-up drink, but I had plenty of margarita from the night before coursing through my veins. Enough so that I was trembly the next day. Not hung over, but reeking suspiciously of anxiety. Trembly. I thought "what eases tremblings?"
A TRIP TO CHINATOWN!
Nothing eases anxiety like over-stimulation. Blinky lights! Neon hoodies! Fuddruckers!
I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and bought hair die, a new toothbrush, and an iron.
My head is now RED. Like, the streaky red that everyone dyed their hair in 1996. I'm rolling with it. I could use the change.
I went to Urban outfitters and bought a shit-ton of decorations for my apartment. New "artwork". New picture frames waiting for photos to "Rasterbate".
And, I only did it today, because when my mother was visiting a few weekends ago, she remarked upon my lack of iron (in self defense, i had one, but it rusted) among other things, including decor. She could not believe that I didn't iron my underwear into perfect triangles and where were the hospital corners on my quickly made bed? She said to me and some of my friends at some lovely springtime outdoor festivities,
"oh, well with such nice friends like yours, who needs an iron?"
I let that fester. I bought an iron. I hung up curtains.
YEESH.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
In defense of girly music
I bought the new Tori Amos album today. It was F-ing $14.99 on itunes.
Big surprise, I know.
Me!
She who sleeps in a Righteous Babe Records T-shirt!
I'm a huge slut for "girl music", which I'm sure defeats the purpose of girl music, but who can care? I love it all. Any lady who plays her own instrument and sings I will support. You got me. I am your target audience. PREACH! I will buy it, even though it's $14.99 on itunes.
What I think is funny is the sneering girl music gets. Yes, I know the Spice Girls ruined everything early and loudly, but they've since all mostly procreated and found other things to talk about, like Katie Holme's new house, or whether or not Eddie Murphy is their babydaddy.
I think it's all fair in the great equilibrium of music. If women are still bitches and ho's, then there's an asshole to sing about and you SING IT loud and all purdy-like.
And I don't feel the need to be ashamed of this. Yes, I like other music too. It's not like I'm monogamous with girl music. Like i said, it's my weakness. Like boys who wear glasses and have blazers with elbow patches.
So this album is my weakness, that is, if I could just get past the 2nd song on the album.
I cannot stop listening to Big Wheel, the first single.
I should get past it. There's a whole rest of an album to love! I mean, I'm a freak of a fan. I have B-sides and T-shirts.
And an example!
My parents did not know what to do with my combat-boot wearing, slip-sliding good-girl attitude in high school. They soon figured out their idiot 15-year-old daughter was making out with someone older than she was. They may or may not had figured out exactly what that "Icicle" song was about and they were appalled that was oohey, gooey and girly could be so nasty.
So they tore through my room for my diary and read it. Where I kept detailed accounts of my trials and tribulations getting to second base when I couldn't drive myself anywhere to make out in peace. I had been writing everything down in EXCRUCIATING (read: embarrassing) detail-- so much so, that they feared it was going to burn our house down with the fiery fury of the Virgin Mary.
They broke us up. I knew it was trouble when my mother AND father were both home from work when I got home from school.
I screamed and yelled back at my parents screaming and yelling. At one point my mom actually said out loud she blamed the music I listened to (?!) as a reason for getting to second base. As if 15-year-olds aren't surrounded by overt sexual messages, she blamed my role models! My swearing, combat boot wearing, men-dissecting idols.
So I screamed back, "MOTHER, Ani and Tori did NOT TEACH ME THE WORD", and I paused for teenage drama, "FUCK!!".
And then she promptly took the Cd's, tapes, posters and everything and tied them up into a neat little bag and hid it.
And so my friends furiously taped me everything they had. They clucked as they stroked my hair how wrong my parents were were for robbing me of my two lady loves on top of stopping me from seeing an OLDER boy from ANOTHER school. Oh, the humanity!
So I have a long history of being dramatic and fiercely loving Tori Amos.
And this new album is no exception. AND THIS SONG! I have listened to it no less than 157 times today. That is freakish! Adolescent! Lame!
I. DO. NOT. CARE.
This song just SLAYS me.
Yeah, it's nice sounding and stuff, but it's not pretty. It actually rocks. PRETTY HARD. Impossible not to tap your foot in a slow white girl "Proud Mary"-esque way.
It's the big belt on my swagger of a playlist. I imagine this song is what I'd hear if I were starring in "Saturday Night Fever: DC Faux-Hipsters Don't Dance, They Just Stomp To British Music" (Does she count? She lives in Cornwall.) It makes my spine straighten up. It makes my lips purse in some ridiculous Ashlee Simpson impression. It makes me think of that "Sex and the City" episode where Charlotte poses in drag for that weird artist guy and all she can talk about afterwards is the power she felt. I can imagine what it would feel like to be a man in a suit walking down a street in this town and feeling like it's his god-given right to tell me about how my ass is looking today.
And I think that's why I like girl music. Especially THIS girl's music. Yeah, yeah, women's rights blah blah blah. I know. I know. Life isn't hard for me, in 2007, a 25-year-old white girl. Boo hoo my rights, your laws, my body blah blah blah.
But every woman who has walked down the street in front of a construction site, a frat house, or your ex-boyfriend walking hand in hand with another woman needs to have this song blaring in the boom box of her brain.
Or at least, the recording studio of your bathroom.
Big surprise, I know.
Me!
She who sleeps in a Righteous Babe Records T-shirt!
I'm a huge slut for "girl music", which I'm sure defeats the purpose of girl music, but who can care? I love it all. Any lady who plays her own instrument and sings I will support. You got me. I am your target audience. PREACH! I will buy it, even though it's $14.99 on itunes.
What I think is funny is the sneering girl music gets. Yes, I know the Spice Girls ruined everything early and loudly, but they've since all mostly procreated and found other things to talk about, like Katie Holme's new house, or whether or not Eddie Murphy is their babydaddy.
I think it's all fair in the great equilibrium of music. If women are still bitches and ho's, then there's an asshole to sing about and you SING IT loud and all purdy-like.
And I don't feel the need to be ashamed of this. Yes, I like other music too. It's not like I'm monogamous with girl music. Like i said, it's my weakness. Like boys who wear glasses and have blazers with elbow patches.
So this album is my weakness, that is, if I could just get past the 2nd song on the album.
I cannot stop listening to Big Wheel, the first single.
I should get past it. There's a whole rest of an album to love! I mean, I'm a freak of a fan. I have B-sides and T-shirts.
And an example!
My parents did not know what to do with my combat-boot wearing, slip-sliding good-girl attitude in high school. They soon figured out their idiot 15-year-old daughter was making out with someone older than she was. They may or may not had figured out exactly what that "Icicle" song was about and they were appalled that was oohey, gooey and girly could be so nasty.
So they tore through my room for my diary and read it. Where I kept detailed accounts of my trials and tribulations getting to second base when I couldn't drive myself anywhere to make out in peace. I had been writing everything down in EXCRUCIATING (read: embarrassing) detail-- so much so, that they feared it was going to burn our house down with the fiery fury of the Virgin Mary.
They broke us up. I knew it was trouble when my mother AND father were both home from work when I got home from school.
I screamed and yelled back at my parents screaming and yelling. At one point my mom actually said out loud she blamed the music I listened to (?!) as a reason for getting to second base. As if 15-year-olds aren't surrounded by overt sexual messages, she blamed my role models! My swearing, combat boot wearing, men-dissecting idols.
So I screamed back, "MOTHER, Ani and Tori did NOT TEACH ME THE WORD", and I paused for teenage drama, "FUCK!!".
And then she promptly took the Cd's, tapes, posters and everything and tied them up into a neat little bag and hid it.
And so my friends furiously taped me everything they had. They clucked as they stroked my hair how wrong my parents were were for robbing me of my two lady loves on top of stopping me from seeing an OLDER boy from ANOTHER school. Oh, the humanity!
So I have a long history of being dramatic and fiercely loving Tori Amos.
And this new album is no exception. AND THIS SONG! I have listened to it no less than 157 times today. That is freakish! Adolescent! Lame!
I. DO. NOT. CARE.
This song just SLAYS me.
Yeah, it's nice sounding and stuff, but it's not pretty. It actually rocks. PRETTY HARD. Impossible not to tap your foot in a slow white girl "Proud Mary"-esque way.
It's the big belt on my swagger of a playlist. I imagine this song is what I'd hear if I were starring in "Saturday Night Fever: DC Faux-Hipsters Don't Dance, They Just Stomp To British Music" (Does she count? She lives in Cornwall.) It makes my spine straighten up. It makes my lips purse in some ridiculous Ashlee Simpson impression. It makes me think of that "Sex and the City" episode where Charlotte poses in drag for that weird artist guy and all she can talk about afterwards is the power she felt. I can imagine what it would feel like to be a man in a suit walking down a street in this town and feeling like it's his god-given right to tell me about how my ass is looking today.
And I think that's why I like girl music. Especially THIS girl's music. Yeah, yeah, women's rights blah blah blah. I know. I know. Life isn't hard for me, in 2007, a 25-year-old white girl. Boo hoo my rights, your laws, my body blah blah blah.
But every woman who has walked down the street in front of a construction site, a frat house, or your ex-boyfriend walking hand in hand with another woman needs to have this song blaring in the boom box of her brain.
Or at least, the recording studio of your bathroom.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
'blank' ass bitches
You know, April 26th has a lot of meaning.
John Wilkes Booth died, it's World Intellectual Property Day, the Geneva Conferences began and the first U.S. rocket landed on the moon.
Carol Burnett, I.M. Pei, Jessica Lynch, Jordana Brewster and I were all born, in different years of course. Tell me we aren't all important?
Wouldn't that be a FUNNY group of people in one room? I'd like to talk to each of these people at a reception over cocktail weenies.
Carol: Is it as much fun being funny as it looks? Cuz it looks like funny is old.
I.M.: Aren't you glad you are brilliant instead of a 12-year-old girl who would, like, TOTALLY giggle at your name?
Jess: What does that sort of amnesia taste like?
Jordana: Weren't you in some awful movies? No? Then who exactly ARE you?
But we're all Tauruses (Tauri?) and we are funny folk, us Taurus/es/i.
We are stubborn-ass bitches.
I would rather DIE than give in to ANYTHING. DIE. Because of this, I choose my arguments and statements carefully. Also for this, I sort of hate debating. HATE! Let's not philosophize or argue about something I can't change, because I'll have to unfortunately stick with that statement until it is buried with me, thanks.
Along with stubborn, we are patient. This, I think, goes hand-in-hand with stubbornness. Sometimes it's easier to wait for just the right time to proclaim how right you are about something than mess around with the wrong times for utter correctness and charm.
We are jealous-ass bitches.
In the equal amount of time I can sit without being antsy about how long it will take my hair to grow, when I'll be devastatingly toned, or when Jake Gyllenhaal will realize how cool I am, my blood can boil in five seconds about someone or something if it crosses me.
This is especially true of rivals of all sorts: people who are skinnier than me who are eating huge cheeseburgers, people who don't respect the fine social art of where lines in the sand are drawn, and people who have bulldogs of any variety.
Perhaps the flip-side of blood-boiling jealousy is blood-boiling of a different variety. We are sensual. It's true! I'm not just saying that to be like tooting my own sexy-horn or anything. We bullies enjoy good food. Good wine. Soft fabric. Backrubs. Exotic Flowers. Amazing views. Good smells. Oral hygiene.
Tauri are also reliable-ass bitches.
I may be perpetually 10 minutes late. But I will arrive when I say I will. I only break plans if I really need to and then I feel terrible when I do. If a friend is sad, I am all over that situation doing the monkey-with-cymbals distraction song and dance. I will help you move. I like helping! Look at me! I am so ready to help!
But reliability comes with inflexibility. If we are going out for sushi, don't all of a sudden go "hmmm... maybe we should have Indian food" because I will patiently choose to argue with you about the ridiculousness of what you are saying. I have internalized the sushi. Visualized the sushi. Dreamed about the smooth, cold fish, creamy heat of the wasabi and the vinegary rice. I taste the Kirin in my mouth, fool-- don't rob me of that!
Also, tell me I'm pretty. And bring on the quarter-life crisis.
Tauri are also NOTORIOUS birthday princesses.
(ok, ok birthday-princess-ass-bitches)
John Wilkes Booth died, it's World Intellectual Property Day, the Geneva Conferences began and the first U.S. rocket landed on the moon.
Carol Burnett, I.M. Pei, Jessica Lynch, Jordana Brewster and I were all born, in different years of course. Tell me we aren't all important?
Wouldn't that be a FUNNY group of people in one room? I'd like to talk to each of these people at a reception over cocktail weenies.
Carol: Is it as much fun being funny as it looks? Cuz it looks like funny is old.
I.M.: Aren't you glad you are brilliant instead of a 12-year-old girl who would, like, TOTALLY giggle at your name?
Jess: What does that sort of amnesia taste like?
Jordana: Weren't you in some awful movies? No? Then who exactly ARE you?
But we're all Tauruses (Tauri?) and we are funny folk, us Taurus/es/i.
We are stubborn-ass bitches.
I would rather DIE than give in to ANYTHING. DIE. Because of this, I choose my arguments and statements carefully. Also for this, I sort of hate debating. HATE! Let's not philosophize or argue about something I can't change, because I'll have to unfortunately stick with that statement until it is buried with me, thanks.
Along with stubborn, we are patient. This, I think, goes hand-in-hand with stubbornness. Sometimes it's easier to wait for just the right time to proclaim how right you are about something than mess around with the wrong times for utter correctness and charm.
We are jealous-ass bitches.
In the equal amount of time I can sit without being antsy about how long it will take my hair to grow, when I'll be devastatingly toned, or when Jake Gyllenhaal will realize how cool I am, my blood can boil in five seconds about someone or something if it crosses me.
This is especially true of rivals of all sorts: people who are skinnier than me who are eating huge cheeseburgers, people who don't respect the fine social art of where lines in the sand are drawn, and people who have bulldogs of any variety.
Perhaps the flip-side of blood-boiling jealousy is blood-boiling of a different variety. We are sensual. It's true! I'm not just saying that to be like tooting my own sexy-horn or anything. We bullies enjoy good food. Good wine. Soft fabric. Backrubs. Exotic Flowers. Amazing views. Good smells. Oral hygiene.
Tauri are also reliable-ass bitches.
I may be perpetually 10 minutes late. But I will arrive when I say I will. I only break plans if I really need to and then I feel terrible when I do. If a friend is sad, I am all over that situation doing the monkey-with-cymbals distraction song and dance. I will help you move. I like helping! Look at me! I am so ready to help!
But reliability comes with inflexibility. If we are going out for sushi, don't all of a sudden go "hmmm... maybe we should have Indian food" because I will patiently choose to argue with you about the ridiculousness of what you are saying. I have internalized the sushi. Visualized the sushi. Dreamed about the smooth, cold fish, creamy heat of the wasabi and the vinegary rice. I taste the Kirin in my mouth, fool-- don't rob me of that!
Also, tell me I'm pretty. And bring on the quarter-life crisis.
Tauri are also NOTORIOUS birthday princesses.
(ok, ok birthday-princess-ass-bitches)
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Justin Timberlake is my personal trainer
Let Me Talk To You Prelude / My Love
Katastrophic thoughts plus Justin Timberlake =
6 minutes, 10 seconds
Place: Washington Sports Club
Calories burned in that time: roughly 80
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey
(I'm tired of arguing girl)
Hey, hey, hey,
If my dad were around, he'd yell "Hay is for HORSES" already, JUSTIN.
(I'm tired of arguing girl)
Hey, hey, hey
Hey. I'm here, aren't I. FELLOWS. JT. Timbaland. I AM HERE TO BRING SEXY BACK, ETC. I AM HERE TO LOSE WEIGHT AND WORK HARD. See this? I am geared up to do AN HOUR OF CARDIO. TELL ME I AM PRETTY.
My love, uh huh, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(That's me, thanks. I know.)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(Don't I F-ing wish. Tell me why you wear vests and why it makes it hard to breathe when I am sneak-reading Tiger-Beat in my cubicle).
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love
My love
I love the way you're standing
Lips look so sweet, like cotton candy (My love)
That don't mean you gotta stop dancing
'Cause the way that you move is so demanding (My love)
It's true. I'm a demanding lady. I like all eyes on me when I want them and no eyes on me when mine are daggers. DUH. I love dancing in people's living rooms. In bars where no one else is dancing, and in crowded places. I hate it when my parents are around, the music involves too many guitars (I never know what to do) or I am not drunk enough.
Let's put it on cruise control
Let me take you to the crib, let me ease your soul (My love)
I gonna take it really nice and slow
But first let me, let me, let me talk to her
Is this what nice boys do? Talk to her? Don't people fall in love on dance floors? What I would have given for a west-side story-minus-tragedy-affair? Right? Like I'm in a swirly dress, and we dance once, I in my swirly dress and he in a red shirt. NOW WE ARE IN LOVE. God-- isn't this EASY? Also, we are Puerto Rican? Please say so!
LOVE.
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
God-- this was the BEST concert. Even from the nosebleed seats I could tell how hot he is. Yes my Ani DiFranco, Beth Orton, Indie rock loving self LOVES THIS SHIT.
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(My hips wiggle on the elliptical in time to the music. I can't help it. SO F-ing catchy!)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love
My love
DUDE. Wicked cowbell. Is that what it's going to take for me to drop down to an easy size 6? Some Cowbell? God-- I AM SO WHITE.
Walk into my great place, cozy
I'm glad you came, let's make a toast (My love)
A toast. We've made toasts. Whole wheat. Sometimes with Jelly. Once or twice regarding anniversaries, birthdays and perhaps flag day.
Let me make an indecent proposal
Let me take you to the back and do what we're suppose to (My love)
Let's take a trip to the bayou
You can be the investigator, I'm your Private I (My love)
You know I want a piece of that pie
(mmmm......pie. I'm on a diet. I CRAVE PIE EVERY FIVE MINUTES. What do you tell a stomach that wants pie that it's getting an apple? Nothing. You pretend it's not speaking. No hablo ingles, tummy. Solo tengo ensalada.
But first let me, let me, let me talk to her
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(oooh.... I smell the big tough guy transitioning into a total sap. God I LOVE TOTAL SAPS. SAP! SAP! SAP! Rings and puppies and picnics and SKINNINESS!)
(sigh. Not a pointed sigh either. Befuddled. Not there yet? I like chinese take-out and netflix. That's not SAP and that's not settling either. Where is it? Normal?)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
Ain't no other woman that could take your spot my..
(swoon. Holy hell. Justin Timberlake wears suit-type items with non-suit-type flair. SWOON.)
If I wrote you a symphony
Just to say how much you mean to me (what would you do)
If I told you, you were beautiful
(Go on.... I'm listening.)
Would you date me on the regular (tell me would you?)
Um, YES. you are like, #2 on my "list of celebrities". That's for another entry. Mine is random.
Well baby, I've been around the world
But I ain't seen myself another girl (like you)
This ring here represents my heart
Who is getting married these days? WHO DO I KNOW WHO THINKS LIKE THIS. What IS romance these days? Saving money? Convenience? Lowered condo fees?
But there's just one thing I need from you (say I do)
Because, I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
OMG CANNOT WAIT UNTIL I GO TO THE BEACH IN JULY. WAIT. (looks in mirror to the left of me on machine.) OH. RIGHT. That means other people have to see my ass in a swimsuit and still want to drink beer. That means not be nauseous. JUST YET.
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
You can be my baby
Let me make you my lady
SERIOUSLY. MOVE. BURN CALORIES. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, HAVING THAT BITE OF CHOCOLATE?
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothing crazy
oohhh... Sorry. You can have that bite of chocolate. Aren't we trying NOT to be insane? one bite (of chocolate) is OK. 15 Hershey bars is not. A stranger's arm? Your desk? Worse.
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (so don't give away)
My love (so don't give away)
Who gives a millionaire's love away? my boyfriend makes $3,000 more than me and I am like "wooo hooo, jackpot boyfriend".
My love (so don't give away)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
Does he understand my jealousy issues? Can JT SEE ME? RIGHT NOW?
My love
My love
My love
My love
Now if I wrote you a love note
When is the last time I got a love letter? I can't even tell you. Who can know? Who writes them anymore? Let's just say the last time someone signed an email "xoxo" perhaps? Can you send them from your black berry?
And made you smile at every word I wrote (what would you do?)
I sort of do that already. Is Gmail a love note? in the 21st Century, I vote YES.
Would that make you want to change your scene
((God I am so tired... Must keep going. Breathing is heavy. My back is wet. Catches glimpse of self in mirror. Making progress. Gulps. Sucks it up.)
And wanna be the one on my team (tell me would you?)
See, what's the point in waiting anymore
Everyone is waiting. While I am here, breathing in a creepy heavy way, I've seen about 4 wedding rings. NO ONE IS MARRIED. At least, NO MARRIED PEOPLE WORK OUT AT 10PM!
Cuz girl, I never been more sure (that baby, it's you)
This ring here represents my heart
And everything that you've been waiting for (just say it, I do)
Now, I, as a 24-year-old-turning 25 next week feel marketed to. Are you selling me your fidelity, JT? Are you selling me the package of a smoking hot 25-year-old who is TOTALLY down with commitment. Rings. Roses?
LIAR.
(Do you have a P.O. Box I could direct my fan fiction to?)
Because, I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
ALSO, GET PEDICURE. HOLY BALLS.
(mental note)
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
You can be my baby
I sort of hate that. Baby. Who calls people baby? I never really liked it. It's like, verbally squashing your adult-y independence and ability to buy alcoholic beverages. Baby. It's just so weird and like you are dating a doo-wop song.
Also why are there no songs about people with my name? NADA.
Let me make you my lady
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothing crazy
I prefer to think of crazy in the Patsy Cline kinda way. My boyfriend's basset hound at home bays with Patsy Cline. Maybe she and I are more alike than we know?
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (so don't give away)
At a house party this past weekend, I drunkenly did the dance from the video.
stomp, stomp, draaaggggg in a circle. Like the video.
stomp, stomp, draggggg.
My love (so don't give away)
My love (so don't give away)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
Why don't real people say this out loud ever?
My love
HOLY HELL. WHAT IS THAT SMELL? IS IT THE DUDE RUNNING IN FRONT OF ME?
((looks around))
Oh god. YES.
My love
Colloquially, English-speakers don't use this term as much as the Spanish-speaking world. It's too preshus for me to deal with in English. Too saccharine.
My love
stomp, stomp draaaag
My love
alright it’s time to get it JT
I don’t know what she hesitating for man
(Aye aye) Shorty, cool as a fan
On the new once again
(Baby) Still has fans from Peru to Japan
Listen baby, I don't wanna ruin your plan
But if you got a man, try to lose him if you can
WAIT-- NO. TI. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? When I first heard of T.I. I thought he was T 1. You know, like, ONE. Like a LAN connection. Boy, was I sad when I realized I was wrong. My friend laughed at me for weeks.
Cause the girls real wild throw they hands up high
when they wanna come and kick it wit a stand up guy
I ALREADY DO. MINUS STINK-RUNNING-FRIEND in front of me.
you don't really wanna let the chance go by
Cause you ain't been seen wit a man so fly
(baby) France so fly I can go fly
Private, cause I handle my B-I
I can handle that. (I think. What is that?) B.O. is another subject. YIKES. Running Friend! What is going ON?
They call me candle guy, simply because I am on fire
I hate to have to cancel my vacation so you can't deny
I'm patient, but I ain't gonna try
Ouch. Rings truer than normal. Yes, patience is a virtue. Don't you notice my held tongue? TRYING.
You don't come, I ain't gonna die
OH.
Maybe it's good I'm NOT dating JT. If he doesn't care about that sort of thing.
Hold up, what you mean, you can't go why?
Me and you boyfriend we ain't no tie
You say you wanna kick it, when i ain't so high
Well baby,its obvious that I ain't your guy
I ain't goin lie, I feel your space
But forget your face, I swear I will
What about glorious Brigantine, NJ? i'll totes be kicking it there in July. That's why I'm here for an HOUR OF CARDIO. To impress all of Central Jersey and Philadelphia on vacation that I am hotter than your average girl on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. Shouldn't it be NOT HARD?
St.Barth's, Anguilla, anywhere I chill
Just bring wit me a pair, I will
I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
Why don't I drink wine outside more? I totally should. Note to self: buy nice plastic cups.
You can be my baby
Let me make you my lady
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothin crazy
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (love)
stomp, stomp draaaaggg
why didn't I become a back-up dancer?
My love (love)
My love (love)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
My love
My love
My love
stomp, stomp drag
stomp, stomp drag.
My love
(phew. ONLY 13 more minutes!)
(OH GOD. UNTIL I'M DONE WITH THIS SET!)
Katastrophic thoughts plus Justin Timberlake =
6 minutes, 10 seconds
Place: Washington Sports Club
Calories burned in that time: roughly 80
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey
(I'm tired of arguing girl)
Hey, hey, hey,
If my dad were around, he'd yell "Hay is for HORSES" already, JUSTIN.
(I'm tired of arguing girl)
Hey, hey, hey
Hey. I'm here, aren't I. FELLOWS. JT. Timbaland. I AM HERE TO BRING SEXY BACK, ETC. I AM HERE TO LOSE WEIGHT AND WORK HARD. See this? I am geared up to do AN HOUR OF CARDIO. TELL ME I AM PRETTY.
My love, uh huh, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(That's me, thanks. I know.)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(Don't I F-ing wish. Tell me why you wear vests and why it makes it hard to breathe when I am sneak-reading Tiger-Beat in my cubicle).
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love
My love
I love the way you're standing
Lips look so sweet, like cotton candy (My love)
That don't mean you gotta stop dancing
'Cause the way that you move is so demanding (My love)
It's true. I'm a demanding lady. I like all eyes on me when I want them and no eyes on me when mine are daggers. DUH. I love dancing in people's living rooms. In bars where no one else is dancing, and in crowded places. I hate it when my parents are around, the music involves too many guitars (I never know what to do) or I am not drunk enough.
Let's put it on cruise control
Let me take you to the crib, let me ease your soul (My love)
I gonna take it really nice and slow
But first let me, let me, let me talk to her
Is this what nice boys do? Talk to her? Don't people fall in love on dance floors? What I would have given for a west-side story-minus-tragedy-affair? Right? Like I'm in a swirly dress, and we dance once, I in my swirly dress and he in a red shirt. NOW WE ARE IN LOVE. God-- isn't this EASY? Also, we are Puerto Rican? Please say so!
LOVE.
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
God-- this was the BEST concert. Even from the nosebleed seats I could tell how hot he is. Yes my Ani DiFranco, Beth Orton, Indie rock loving self LOVES THIS SHIT.
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(My hips wiggle on the elliptical in time to the music. I can't help it. SO F-ing catchy!)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love
My love
DUDE. Wicked cowbell. Is that what it's going to take for me to drop down to an easy size 6? Some Cowbell? God-- I AM SO WHITE.
Walk into my great place, cozy
I'm glad you came, let's make a toast (My love)
A toast. We've made toasts. Whole wheat. Sometimes with Jelly. Once or twice regarding anniversaries, birthdays and perhaps flag day.
Let me make an indecent proposal
Let me take you to the back and do what we're suppose to (My love)
Let's take a trip to the bayou
You can be the investigator, I'm your Private I (My love)
You know I want a piece of that pie
(mmmm......pie. I'm on a diet. I CRAVE PIE EVERY FIVE MINUTES. What do you tell a stomach that wants pie that it's getting an apple? Nothing. You pretend it's not speaking. No hablo ingles, tummy. Solo tengo ensalada.
But first let me, let me, let me talk to her
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
(oooh.... I smell the big tough guy transitioning into a total sap. God I LOVE TOTAL SAPS. SAP! SAP! SAP! Rings and puppies and picnics and SKINNINESS!)
(sigh. Not a pointed sigh either. Befuddled. Not there yet? I like chinese take-out and netflix. That's not SAP and that's not settling either. Where is it? Normal?)
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
My love, hey, my love, hey
Ain't no other woman that could take your spot my..
(swoon. Holy hell. Justin Timberlake wears suit-type items with non-suit-type flair. SWOON.)
If I wrote you a symphony
Just to say how much you mean to me (what would you do)
If I told you, you were beautiful
(Go on.... I'm listening.)
Would you date me on the regular (tell me would you?)
Um, YES. you are like, #2 on my "list of celebrities". That's for another entry. Mine is random.
Well baby, I've been around the world
But I ain't seen myself another girl (like you)
This ring here represents my heart
Who is getting married these days? WHO DO I KNOW WHO THINKS LIKE THIS. What IS romance these days? Saving money? Convenience? Lowered condo fees?
But there's just one thing I need from you (say I do)
Because, I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
OMG CANNOT WAIT UNTIL I GO TO THE BEACH IN JULY. WAIT. (looks in mirror to the left of me on machine.) OH. RIGHT. That means other people have to see my ass in a swimsuit and still want to drink beer. That means not be nauseous. JUST YET.
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
You can be my baby
Let me make you my lady
SERIOUSLY. MOVE. BURN CALORIES. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, HAVING THAT BITE OF CHOCOLATE?
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothing crazy
oohhh... Sorry. You can have that bite of chocolate. Aren't we trying NOT to be insane? one bite (of chocolate) is OK. 15 Hershey bars is not. A stranger's arm? Your desk? Worse.
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (so don't give away)
My love (so don't give away)
Who gives a millionaire's love away? my boyfriend makes $3,000 more than me and I am like "wooo hooo, jackpot boyfriend".
My love (so don't give away)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
Does he understand my jealousy issues? Can JT SEE ME? RIGHT NOW?
My love
My love
My love
My love
Now if I wrote you a love note
When is the last time I got a love letter? I can't even tell you. Who can know? Who writes them anymore? Let's just say the last time someone signed an email "xoxo" perhaps? Can you send them from your black berry?
And made you smile at every word I wrote (what would you do?)
I sort of do that already. Is Gmail a love note? in the 21st Century, I vote YES.
Would that make you want to change your scene
((God I am so tired... Must keep going. Breathing is heavy. My back is wet. Catches glimpse of self in mirror. Making progress. Gulps. Sucks it up.)
And wanna be the one on my team (tell me would you?)
See, what's the point in waiting anymore
Everyone is waiting. While I am here, breathing in a creepy heavy way, I've seen about 4 wedding rings. NO ONE IS MARRIED. At least, NO MARRIED PEOPLE WORK OUT AT 10PM!
Cuz girl, I never been more sure (that baby, it's you)
This ring here represents my heart
And everything that you've been waiting for (just say it, I do)
Now, I, as a 24-year-old-turning 25 next week feel marketed to. Are you selling me your fidelity, JT? Are you selling me the package of a smoking hot 25-year-old who is TOTALLY down with commitment. Rings. Roses?
LIAR.
(Do you have a P.O. Box I could direct my fan fiction to?)
Because, I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
ALSO, GET PEDICURE. HOLY BALLS.
(mental note)
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
You can be my baby
I sort of hate that. Baby. Who calls people baby? I never really liked it. It's like, verbally squashing your adult-y independence and ability to buy alcoholic beverages. Baby. It's just so weird and like you are dating a doo-wop song.
Also why are there no songs about people with my name? NADA.
Let me make you my lady
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothing crazy
I prefer to think of crazy in the Patsy Cline kinda way. My boyfriend's basset hound at home bays with Patsy Cline. Maybe she and I are more alike than we know?
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (so don't give away)
At a house party this past weekend, I drunkenly did the dance from the video.
stomp, stomp, draaaggggg in a circle. Like the video.
stomp, stomp, draggggg.
My love (so don't give away)
My love (so don't give away)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
Why don't real people say this out loud ever?
My love
HOLY HELL. WHAT IS THAT SMELL? IS IT THE DUDE RUNNING IN FRONT OF ME?
((looks around))
Oh god. YES.
My love
Colloquially, English-speakers don't use this term as much as the Spanish-speaking world. It's too preshus for me to deal with in English. Too saccharine.
My love
stomp, stomp draaaag
My love
alright it’s time to get it JT
I don’t know what she hesitating for man
(Aye aye) Shorty, cool as a fan
On the new once again
(Baby) Still has fans from Peru to Japan
Listen baby, I don't wanna ruin your plan
But if you got a man, try to lose him if you can
WAIT-- NO. TI. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? When I first heard of T.I. I thought he was T 1. You know, like, ONE. Like a LAN connection. Boy, was I sad when I realized I was wrong. My friend laughed at me for weeks.
Cause the girls real wild throw they hands up high
when they wanna come and kick it wit a stand up guy
I ALREADY DO. MINUS STINK-RUNNING-FRIEND in front of me.
you don't really wanna let the chance go by
Cause you ain't been seen wit a man so fly
(baby) France so fly I can go fly
Private, cause I handle my B-I
I can handle that. (I think. What is that?) B.O. is another subject. YIKES. Running Friend! What is going ON?
They call me candle guy, simply because I am on fire
I hate to have to cancel my vacation so you can't deny
I'm patient, but I ain't gonna try
Ouch. Rings truer than normal. Yes, patience is a virtue. Don't you notice my held tongue? TRYING.
You don't come, I ain't gonna die
OH.
Maybe it's good I'm NOT dating JT. If he doesn't care about that sort of thing.
Hold up, what you mean, you can't go why?
Me and you boyfriend we ain't no tie
You say you wanna kick it, when i ain't so high
Well baby,its obvious that I ain't your guy
I ain't goin lie, I feel your space
But forget your face, I swear I will
What about glorious Brigantine, NJ? i'll totes be kicking it there in July. That's why I'm here for an HOUR OF CARDIO. To impress all of Central Jersey and Philadelphia on vacation that I am hotter than your average girl on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. Shouldn't it be NOT HARD?
St.Barth's, Anguilla, anywhere I chill
Just bring wit me a pair, I will
I can see us holding hands
Walking on the beach our toes in the sand
I can see us on the country side
Sitting on the grass laying side by side
Why don't I drink wine outside more? I totally should. Note to self: buy nice plastic cups.
You can be my baby
Let me make you my lady
Girl you amaze me
Ain't gotta do nothin crazy
See all I want you to do is be…
My love (love)
stomp, stomp draaaaggg
why didn't I become a back-up dancer?
My love (love)
My love (love)
Ain't another woman that could take your spot my love
My love
My love
My love
stomp, stomp drag
stomp, stomp drag.
My love
(phew. ONLY 13 more minutes!)
(OH GOD. UNTIL I'M DONE WITH THIS SET!)
Monday, April 16, 2007
Otherwise entitled "yes, I admit to watching Country Music Television, and it maybe changed my life".
Sunday night sleep is never what you want it to be. You go to bed early in hopes of cashing sleep in or to bed late hoping you can write a check for it later.
In an effort to numb my brain screaming all sorts of Sunday-type worries both old and new, I drowned out the crazy with something even more horrendous: Country Music Television.
...I can explain.
I had gone to Florida Avenue Grill with my friend who had some very exciting news to tell me. She's going to save the world some day, one kid at a time, this friend of mine. She's recently changed her behavior to properly reflect what sort of good she'll do one day, so instead of drowning our dreary Sunday in margaritas, we drowned them in grits.
So, I was battling some serious food coma. I was bacon-induced sludge. I turned on the TV and saw "coyote ugly".
I thought: this is GREAT! This is just what I need, an awesome-terrible movie to keep me company while I food sweat-nap the biscuit out of me.
Except my napping plan was derailed by a SHOW about these gals. A REALITY SHOW.
I'm not exactly their demographic, considering the fact that I have to snort whenever women are consistently referred to as "girls" even though they are well into their child-bearing years. As far as I can tell, "boys" are "guys" the moment they hit 5th grade. You couldn't find a show on Comcast's cable line-up that centered on good looking "boys" handling liquids. You have to pay extra for that shit on Pay-Per-View, and then everyone is actually over 18 and takes monthly tests.
But the premise of the show is hilarious. They were looking for "bartenders" with a talent. It was Miss America for people with a platform of "wooooo!" or "yeeeahhhhh" and they were spokes-girls for their individual boob job funds.
So I spent all lazy afternoon dozing with half an eyelid propped up to watch this glorious train wreck.
Then I cleaned my apartment and winded down my Sunday night as most do: with a Tylenol PM (half a dose) and something to bore me asleep.
Which is right now, since I have two deleted posts and a few lives to stop ruining is: Why Can't you SHUT UP? How We Ruin Relationships-- How Not To by Dr. Anthony E. Wolf. I'm not saying it's not helping, but wallowing in your own shortcomings is not exactly the best way to end up not staring at the ceiling on an idle Sunday night with the 5am news broadcast looming in the near future.
For all my uppity "ew that's so gross" re: the bar booty-shaking that I watched these long-haired, long-legged ladies do, there was something that separated us.
I was awake despite some Tylenol PM, nursing a fragile manic-depressive ego re-adjusted by a life lesson learned that I can't say I'm entirely done processing or feel like anything outside of my own thoughts is going to change; except for the fact that it's no longer a topic of conversation. The green of jealousy is not an attractive color on me and I refuse to say anything about the subject again.
These "girls" were out there on TV embarrassing the hell out of themselves because they thought they could "make it". And perhaps "it" consisting of sharing prize money and getting a cushy bartending job is just about all they wanted. That would make them happy. They knew somewhere in their brains that this show was going to do something for them, whether get them somewhere new or stroke their egos. They liked dancing on bars and fiddling or singing or re-adjusting their bra straps-- whatever their talent may be.
And then there's me. So far in my own head that I can't realize how far in I am that I've become one with my eardrums. There always has to be drama. There always has to be dread. It's like I can't live without a pit in my stomach and making sure someone else know about said pit. Only when I'm drunk and dancing on the living room floor of a house party do I not give two shits about what's going on around me. Or knitting on the subway. Or strutting around the city with my ipod pulling my spine up straight.
I don't walk like that all the time.
Perhaps it's high time I should.
So I am going to try and be more like these ladies on the CMT. I think I need to hit the gym with greater vigor before those short-shorts can enter into the discussion (oh and like my yuppie ennui would even dare let me wear jean shorts). But I think I'm going to try and do something new.
Not worry. Not stress. Not internalize until I can't keep it in me anymore and then spew it out in a force of two years worth of why-did-you-do-this and why-didn't-you-do-that's of fears with no actual basis in reality, but based in the past. In the distant past.
I think trying to relax is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.
I suppose a nap on an idle Sunday was an OK start.
In an effort to numb my brain screaming all sorts of Sunday-type worries both old and new, I drowned out the crazy with something even more horrendous: Country Music Television.
...I can explain.
I had gone to Florida Avenue Grill with my friend who had some very exciting news to tell me. She's going to save the world some day, one kid at a time, this friend of mine. She's recently changed her behavior to properly reflect what sort of good she'll do one day, so instead of drowning our dreary Sunday in margaritas, we drowned them in grits.
So, I was battling some serious food coma. I was bacon-induced sludge. I turned on the TV and saw "coyote ugly".
I thought: this is GREAT! This is just what I need, an awesome-terrible movie to keep me company while I food sweat-nap the biscuit out of me.
Except my napping plan was derailed by a SHOW about these gals. A REALITY SHOW.
I'm not exactly their demographic, considering the fact that I have to snort whenever women are consistently referred to as "girls" even though they are well into their child-bearing years. As far as I can tell, "boys" are "guys" the moment they hit 5th grade. You couldn't find a show on Comcast's cable line-up that centered on good looking "boys" handling liquids. You have to pay extra for that shit on Pay-Per-View, and then everyone is actually over 18 and takes monthly tests.
But the premise of the show is hilarious. They were looking for "bartenders" with a talent. It was Miss America for people with a platform of "wooooo!" or "yeeeahhhhh" and they were spokes-girls for their individual boob job funds.
So I spent all lazy afternoon dozing with half an eyelid propped up to watch this glorious train wreck.
Then I cleaned my apartment and winded down my Sunday night as most do: with a Tylenol PM (half a dose) and something to bore me asleep.
Which is right now, since I have two deleted posts and a few lives to stop ruining is: Why Can't you SHUT UP? How We Ruin Relationships-- How Not To by Dr. Anthony E. Wolf. I'm not saying it's not helping, but wallowing in your own shortcomings is not exactly the best way to end up not staring at the ceiling on an idle Sunday night with the 5am news broadcast looming in the near future.
For all my uppity "ew that's so gross" re: the bar booty-shaking that I watched these long-haired, long-legged ladies do, there was something that separated us.
I was awake despite some Tylenol PM, nursing a fragile manic-depressive ego re-adjusted by a life lesson learned that I can't say I'm entirely done processing or feel like anything outside of my own thoughts is going to change; except for the fact that it's no longer a topic of conversation. The green of jealousy is not an attractive color on me and I refuse to say anything about the subject again.
These "girls" were out there on TV embarrassing the hell out of themselves because they thought they could "make it". And perhaps "it" consisting of sharing prize money and getting a cushy bartending job is just about all they wanted. That would make them happy. They knew somewhere in their brains that this show was going to do something for them, whether get them somewhere new or stroke their egos. They liked dancing on bars and fiddling or singing or re-adjusting their bra straps-- whatever their talent may be.
And then there's me. So far in my own head that I can't realize how far in I am that I've become one with my eardrums. There always has to be drama. There always has to be dread. It's like I can't live without a pit in my stomach and making sure someone else know about said pit. Only when I'm drunk and dancing on the living room floor of a house party do I not give two shits about what's going on around me. Or knitting on the subway. Or strutting around the city with my ipod pulling my spine up straight.
I don't walk like that all the time.
Perhaps it's high time I should.
So I am going to try and be more like these ladies on the CMT. I think I need to hit the gym with greater vigor before those short-shorts can enter into the discussion (oh and like my yuppie ennui would even dare let me wear jean shorts). But I think I'm going to try and do something new.
Not worry. Not stress. Not internalize until I can't keep it in me anymore and then spew it out in a force of two years worth of why-did-you-do-this and why-didn't-you-do-that's of fears with no actual basis in reality, but based in the past. In the distant past.
I think trying to relax is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.
I suppose a nap on an idle Sunday was an OK start.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Helloo "travelling for work"
I was away! For work! Work paid for me to eat awesome food!
Something about being alone in a strange city with no real ambition to go out in the morning and explore was at first luxurious and too quiet. Staying in a hotel room yourself when other people are occupied only has certain charms. I resorted to an old standby: hours and hours of TLC’s What Not to Wear, which always is a good thing. I could have gone to museums and strolled around, but I let laziness take the hold in a sea of soft sheets, cheez-it crumbs and the occasional tissue.
After the first day, things were a bit better. Exploring and the like, when I had time in between conference -type joys. I’ve never stayed in a hotel by myself before, and it’s weird to have your clothes in drawers and not feel “aahhh I’m home” when you let yourself in. Just more of a “aaahhh… I just might take my 5th free piping hot shower of the day”, which is its own joy to be sure.
People have different ways of functioning in hotels. Some people, like me shower. Some people actually do some work or go to the hotel gym. Some people relish the time alone. Right then was sort of one of those times that I didn’t want to be alone. I am sort of bad at being alone, unless it’s on my terms. It was a strange place with a marble desk wasn't my terms. There’s no Food Network there, you see.
As I got busier with my conference, it was WAY more fun. I had two beds. One was my "living room" and the other my "bedroom". I took joy in resisting the mini bar and $5 potato chips that loomed large before me in my hungriest hour, even. I didn't do a thing, except flood the bathroom and eat one gi-normous meal a day after a long day of "learning". What can I say? Foreign shower curtains and I aren't really friends-- it's not like my OWN shower curtain isn't a co-dependent whiner stuck on the right side of my body.
Also the interwebs were like, 500 dollars a minute, which is why I am back-posting. I don’t have $500, and if I did it would certainly be spent on shoes.
Something about being alone in a strange city with no real ambition to go out in the morning and explore was at first luxurious and too quiet. Staying in a hotel room yourself when other people are occupied only has certain charms. I resorted to an old standby: hours and hours of TLC’s What Not to Wear, which always is a good thing. I could have gone to museums and strolled around, but I let laziness take the hold in a sea of soft sheets, cheez-it crumbs and the occasional tissue.
After the first day, things were a bit better. Exploring and the like, when I had time in between conference -type joys. I’ve never stayed in a hotel by myself before, and it’s weird to have your clothes in drawers and not feel “aahhh I’m home” when you let yourself in. Just more of a “aaahhh… I just might take my 5th free piping hot shower of the day”, which is its own joy to be sure.
People have different ways of functioning in hotels. Some people, like me shower. Some people actually do some work or go to the hotel gym. Some people relish the time alone. Right then was sort of one of those times that I didn’t want to be alone. I am sort of bad at being alone, unless it’s on my terms. It was a strange place with a marble desk wasn't my terms. There’s no Food Network there, you see.
As I got busier with my conference, it was WAY more fun. I had two beds. One was my "living room" and the other my "bedroom". I took joy in resisting the mini bar and $5 potato chips that loomed large before me in my hungriest hour, even. I didn't do a thing, except flood the bathroom and eat one gi-normous meal a day after a long day of "learning". What can I say? Foreign shower curtains and I aren't really friends-- it's not like my OWN shower curtain isn't a co-dependent whiner stuck on the right side of my body.
Also the interwebs were like, 500 dollars a minute, which is why I am back-posting. I don’t have $500, and if I did it would certainly be spent on shoes.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Since I've become a whiney asshole
Here is a list of day dreams I play out in my head when I am upset.
- Arriving home to find a wicker basket wrought with pink ribbon full of soft, wriggling, white puppies on my doorstep (for me to keep and be nice to, don't get any awful ideas).
- Singing karaoke (current song idea: "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse, past songs include "Stolen Car" by Beth Orton) only to be discovered by record company and brought to fame, fortune, and total skinniness.
- Turning my knitting habit into some sort of arts and crafts themed bar/bookstore on H street with a greeny-blue decor, hodge-podge tables and hilarious drinks.
- Meeting a celebrity while riding public transportation (movie star/ musician preferred) and having them be instantly charmed by me, but sweetly decline because i have a "boyfriend".
- Starring in MTV faux-reality show about being self indulgent, the trials and tribulations of living in a warm place, being thin, and surviving.
- Like Marge Simpson, I close my eyes and think of items I'd like to purchase.
- Dream up situations where the offender finds me walking down the street with a single perfect tear rolling down my cheek and suddenly realizes how awful it is to wrong someone so attractive, and then something dramatic happens (catch up with me with a "Breakfast at Tiffany's" style kiss in the rain, apologize profusely and hands me a large check, tells me I won the lottery, has pizza, etc.)
Thursday, March 22, 2007
it's in the air.
As a Taurus, it's in my nature to stand at an impasse with my arms folded and bottom lip out refusing to budge. I am completely resistant to change. I am the champion of the way things were.
Even when I left my old terrible job, I felt guilty somehow that I was letting them down for leaving and thought about changing my mind. Just to keep things the same.
I moved to a new neighborhood. It's a very nice neighborhood and I like living on the Hill in its own right, but the 42 bus doesn't go here. I used to live and die by the 42 bus. The orange and blue lines are somehow not as successful a lifeline. The 42 always took me to happy places with butterflies in my stomach. Now I long for those days before the butterflies turned to wasps.
I complained about my stompy upstairs neighbor. I bemoaned her awfulness to everyone and anyone. But now that things are too quiet for me to bear, I sort of wish for her squeaky, thunderous warning signals that someone else was here, living and breathing right above me, so I wasn't completely alone. Just quiet in my own little box of an apartment and she (less quiet) in hers.
I miss the whizzing mechanical hum of stability. Right now everything could change, and I don't know how else to kick and scream and say NO. I am fighting for last week, last month, last year. If I could frame my pace before any missteps I would. I saved pieces of paper documenting what last felt normal. People can't leave. People can't give up. People can't die. People can't change. That much. Time is so short yet so slow. How do people reconcile?
Because I can't. I can't even deal with how I rearranged my refrigerator for Christ's sake. I've been growing out this damned pixie cut for months and I'm sort of grateful you can't really tell.
But all around me it's looming large. Faces are in my head of people who are gone, and people who might be next. People who are shrugging their shoulders and threatening to go, and people whose shoulders are bent from hanging on.
And I'm just sort of here, with my arms folded waiting for the hubbub to die down before I try and put things back where they belong. Asking me to change against my will is difficult. I never go down without a fight. It's in my nature to ride out storms with my chest puffed out for what I want.
The trouble is other people. And what they want.
Even when I left my old terrible job, I felt guilty somehow that I was letting them down for leaving and thought about changing my mind. Just to keep things the same.
I moved to a new neighborhood. It's a very nice neighborhood and I like living on the Hill in its own right, but the 42 bus doesn't go here. I used to live and die by the 42 bus. The orange and blue lines are somehow not as successful a lifeline. The 42 always took me to happy places with butterflies in my stomach. Now I long for those days before the butterflies turned to wasps.
I complained about my stompy upstairs neighbor. I bemoaned her awfulness to everyone and anyone. But now that things are too quiet for me to bear, I sort of wish for her squeaky, thunderous warning signals that someone else was here, living and breathing right above me, so I wasn't completely alone. Just quiet in my own little box of an apartment and she (less quiet) in hers.
I miss the whizzing mechanical hum of stability. Right now everything could change, and I don't know how else to kick and scream and say NO. I am fighting for last week, last month, last year. If I could frame my pace before any missteps I would. I saved pieces of paper documenting what last felt normal. People can't leave. People can't give up. People can't die. People can't change. That much. Time is so short yet so slow. How do people reconcile?
Because I can't. I can't even deal with how I rearranged my refrigerator for Christ's sake. I've been growing out this damned pixie cut for months and I'm sort of grateful you can't really tell.
But all around me it's looming large. Faces are in my head of people who are gone, and people who might be next. People who are shrugging their shoulders and threatening to go, and people whose shoulders are bent from hanging on.
And I'm just sort of here, with my arms folded waiting for the hubbub to die down before I try and put things back where they belong. Asking me to change against my will is difficult. I never go down without a fight. It's in my nature to ride out storms with my chest puffed out for what I want.
The trouble is other people. And what they want.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
My pride, served on a silver platter
Today at Trader Joe's, I got carded buying Two-Buck-Chuck. I handed over my license to the fellow ringing me up, and after taking one look, he told me, "Huh. I used to work in Devon". And thus, we begin to shoot the Pennsylvania shit.
It's a game I like playing.
He grew up in Norristown, where half of my delightful Italian molto mafioso family lives. He knew the ancient department store where my grandmother would take us shopping. He knew the random bar across the street from her house. He knew the zoo, and the slightly creepy Christophe Columbus memorial my great Uncle Frankie helped fund. It was a pleasant, breezy conversation.
And then he said:
"So why don't you have a DC license?"
I just don't. This is something I have often wondered about. I move around a lot here. Apartment to apartment, job to job-- it just doesn't make sense. I'm 24. Pennsylvania is still "home".
So I told him, "Well-- I went to GW, and now I work around the corner, so I guess I just never really left." Which sort of hung in the air. Bitter, almost. Without intentionally meaning to sound anything specific, out of my mouth came bitter.
I've lived here for seven years and everything is a bit the same, though at least now I live in a different quadrant. Not that the same, is bad. But it's the SAME. I've spent my days in Foggy Bottom on and off for 5 of those years. I take the same subway. I wear the same clothes. I have a lot of the same friends. The only passage of time is the length of my hair and the addition of shoes.
Check-out guy said, "Oh. Wow. You must like it here, then."
I said "yeah" and heaved my backpack over my shoulder and carried out my things. At least this city has water ice now. A transplant of my breed needs water ice to live, since we don't have acceptable substitutes like New York's Tasty Delite. (Or a FREAKING Wawa. What I wouldn't do for a Wawa hoagie sometimes.)
I walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about the interaction. What a pleasant fellow. I wonder which high school he went to? I wonder if he knows that the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner by my aunt's house on the main thoroughfare is being rebuilt. Did he also see movies in high school at the Oaks 10 theater when it was still new and big before the King of Prussia 16 moved in?
Walking along, eager to taste my TJ's treats, I opened a bag of pretzels and took a handful, pleased with myself, and began to munch. I am easy to talk to! I bought healthy things! I had a breezy conversation with someone from back home. Water ice! Zeps! Steak sandwiches! Valley Forge Park! South Street!
And then, reality smacked me in the face.
And by reality, I mean the cold, hard pavement, because I had lost my backpack-heavy, high-heel wearing balance and had fallen flat on my face.
I laid there sprawled out on the concrete, my weeks' worth of groceries heavy on my back and my one grocery bag tossed a foot ahead of me on the sidewalk. I lifted my cheek from the ground, rubbed my fingers against my scraped palms, and began to cry in a way where you are trying REALLY hard not to be that crazy girl with a backpack laying face down on the sidewalk, but what can you do? You look crazy, and for the moment you are. My ankle hurt. My knee is bleeding. I had hit my head and my hands were scraped.
I felt like I was down for an hour, but it was probably about 20 seconds. I pulled myself up and reached out for my bag. A passer-by asked me if I was ok, and I nodded with my eyes closed in embarrassment and lips pursed in anger with tears rolling down my cheeks.
It took the walk to Foggy Bottom to calm myself down. So then, I suppose, I was the crazy girl walking and crying with bags. Like walking with tons of bags and crying isn't just CODE RED for crazy.
I can't tell if I was in shock about the fall and the throbbing of my knees and ankle, or whether or not it was the stark realization that sometimes I still feel like my lost 18-year-old self; standing on a corner in Foggy Bottom wondering if this was, in fact, the right place.
It's a game I like playing.
He grew up in Norristown, where half of my delightful Italian molto mafioso family lives. He knew the ancient department store where my grandmother would take us shopping. He knew the random bar across the street from her house. He knew the zoo, and the slightly creepy Christophe Columbus memorial my great Uncle Frankie helped fund. It was a pleasant, breezy conversation.
And then he said:
"So why don't you have a DC license?"
I just don't. This is something I have often wondered about. I move around a lot here. Apartment to apartment, job to job-- it just doesn't make sense. I'm 24. Pennsylvania is still "home".
So I told him, "Well-- I went to GW, and now I work around the corner, so I guess I just never really left." Which sort of hung in the air. Bitter, almost. Without intentionally meaning to sound anything specific, out of my mouth came bitter.
I've lived here for seven years and everything is a bit the same, though at least now I live in a different quadrant. Not that the same, is bad. But it's the SAME. I've spent my days in Foggy Bottom on and off for 5 of those years. I take the same subway. I wear the same clothes. I have a lot of the same friends. The only passage of time is the length of my hair and the addition of shoes.
Check-out guy said, "Oh. Wow. You must like it here, then."
I said "yeah" and heaved my backpack over my shoulder and carried out my things. At least this city has water ice now. A transplant of my breed needs water ice to live, since we don't have acceptable substitutes like New York's Tasty Delite. (Or a FREAKING Wawa. What I wouldn't do for a Wawa hoagie sometimes.)
I walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about the interaction. What a pleasant fellow. I wonder which high school he went to? I wonder if he knows that the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner by my aunt's house on the main thoroughfare is being rebuilt. Did he also see movies in high school at the Oaks 10 theater when it was still new and big before the King of Prussia 16 moved in?
Walking along, eager to taste my TJ's treats, I opened a bag of pretzels and took a handful, pleased with myself, and began to munch. I am easy to talk to! I bought healthy things! I had a breezy conversation with someone from back home. Water ice! Zeps! Steak sandwiches! Valley Forge Park! South Street!
And then, reality smacked me in the face.
And by reality, I mean the cold, hard pavement, because I had lost my backpack-heavy, high-heel wearing balance and had fallen flat on my face.
I laid there sprawled out on the concrete, my weeks' worth of groceries heavy on my back and my one grocery bag tossed a foot ahead of me on the sidewalk. I lifted my cheek from the ground, rubbed my fingers against my scraped palms, and began to cry in a way where you are trying REALLY hard not to be that crazy girl with a backpack laying face down on the sidewalk, but what can you do? You look crazy, and for the moment you are. My ankle hurt. My knee is bleeding. I had hit my head and my hands were scraped.
I felt like I was down for an hour, but it was probably about 20 seconds. I pulled myself up and reached out for my bag. A passer-by asked me if I was ok, and I nodded with my eyes closed in embarrassment and lips pursed in anger with tears rolling down my cheeks.
It took the walk to Foggy Bottom to calm myself down. So then, I suppose, I was the crazy girl walking and crying with bags. Like walking with tons of bags and crying isn't just CODE RED for crazy.
I can't tell if I was in shock about the fall and the throbbing of my knees and ankle, or whether or not it was the stark realization that sometimes I still feel like my lost 18-year-old self; standing on a corner in Foggy Bottom wondering if this was, in fact, the right place.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Selected Haikus on the Oscars
Jennifer Hudson
the new "it" girl for the year,
minus that jacket.
Oh Jessica Biel,
Wearing a belt, but no bra--
I know of your kind.
So, Pan's Labyrinth
You were so brilliant, yet I
still sleep with lights on.
Nicole and Gwenyth,
Have you heard of "Locks for Love?"
Ample for ten kids.
You, Ryan Seacrest--
I'll double what they pay you,
If you just shut up.
Penelope Cruz,
Wrongfully a Mexican
For five full minutes.
Abigail Breslin
Secretly, I wish you won.
Over-achiever.
Ms. DeGeneres,
Infinitely better than,
Yup-- Billy Crystal.
Beyonce, diva--
you want to cut Jennifer,
Shameless fake smile.
Oh my dear Leo,
From under what rock do you
Crawl looking so fine.
Al Gore wins cool points.
You don't see Dan Quayle here,
That couch potato(e).
the new "it" girl for the year,
minus that jacket.
Oh Jessica Biel,
Wearing a belt, but no bra--
I know of your kind.
So, Pan's Labyrinth
You were so brilliant, yet I
still sleep with lights on.
Nicole and Gwenyth,
Have you heard of "Locks for Love?"
Ample for ten kids.
You, Ryan Seacrest--
I'll double what they pay you,
If you just shut up.
Penelope Cruz,
Wrongfully a Mexican
For five full minutes.
Abigail Breslin
Secretly, I wish you won.
Over-achiever.
Ms. DeGeneres,
Infinitely better than,
Yup-- Billy Crystal.
Beyonce, diva--
you want to cut Jennifer,
Shameless fake smile.
Oh my dear Leo,
From under what rock do you
Crawl looking so fine.
Al Gore wins cool points.
You don't see Dan Quayle here,
That couch potato(e).
Monday, February 19, 2007
Done. With. It.
Right now is one of those times where I hold up the white flag. This is me surrendering, people.
I, Katastrophe, am not cut out for apartment living. I am just not.
Upstairs neighbor (remember her?) is HAMMERING THE FLOOR. HAMMERING THE F-ING FLOOR. In my day dream, it's called "securing your new THICK, THICK wall-to-wall carpeting that will block your stomp foots and your boyfriend's vocal boom" but I doubt that is true. She's probably doing it just to be irritating because I've complained about her behavior and she's been gone for the weekend so she has to get her digs in. But seriously-- it's not human to wear high heels and clomp around your not-so-carpeted-should-be-carpeted bedroom floor at 6am. It is not human to listen to your TV that high or to let (make?) your linebacker-who-let-himself-go boyfriend stay over every freaking night. Doesn't that stort of immature bad girlfriend behavior fade when you start getting wrinkles?
Outside, in the back of the building (which my bedroom faces) the owner of the building is ice-picking the parking lot free from its wintry tyranny.
Inside the lobby (right outside my front door) the landlady is vacuuming, making sure to bump into all the corners that she can.
It's been like this since 10am.
Is it impossible to have a QUIET apartment and not pay 1600 for a one bedroom? A federal holiday is a precious thing, and I'm wasting it sitting around thinking about how MAD I AM. It's not like I don't pay a pretty decent amount of money for this place. I know some of that is being on the first floor-- but I am just losing it here, and I am not an angry person. I am mad at being mad.
My man-friend has never had a loud apartment. Yeah there was street noise, but that doesn't bother me as much. He never hears a peep from anyone else ANYWHERE. But he always lives somewhere swank and shares the place with a friend. I'm trying to afford my own space, and my budget is different.
Tell me of apartments available on the Hill, because complaining a lot often gets you out of leases. Tell me of how I can get this stompy fool to move out. Tell me how you cope with this, because all my own answers are falling short and I am about two weeks away from hammering my ceiling back and starting a serious war, instead of going through management and trying to be polite.
Being nice only gets you so far.
I, Katastrophe, am not cut out for apartment living. I am just not.
Upstairs neighbor (remember her?) is HAMMERING THE FLOOR. HAMMERING THE F-ING FLOOR. In my day dream, it's called "securing your new THICK, THICK wall-to-wall carpeting that will block your stomp foots and your boyfriend's vocal boom" but I doubt that is true. She's probably doing it just to be irritating because I've complained about her behavior and she's been gone for the weekend so she has to get her digs in. But seriously-- it's not human to wear high heels and clomp around your not-so-carpeted-should-be-carpeted bedroom floor at 6am. It is not human to listen to your TV that high or to let (make?) your linebacker-who-let-himself-go boyfriend stay over every freaking night. Doesn't that stort of immature bad girlfriend behavior fade when you start getting wrinkles?
Outside, in the back of the building (which my bedroom faces) the owner of the building is ice-picking the parking lot free from its wintry tyranny.
Inside the lobby (right outside my front door) the landlady is vacuuming, making sure to bump into all the corners that she can.
It's been like this since 10am.
Is it impossible to have a QUIET apartment and not pay 1600 for a one bedroom? A federal holiday is a precious thing, and I'm wasting it sitting around thinking about how MAD I AM. It's not like I don't pay a pretty decent amount of money for this place. I know some of that is being on the first floor-- but I am just losing it here, and I am not an angry person. I am mad at being mad.
My man-friend has never had a loud apartment. Yeah there was street noise, but that doesn't bother me as much. He never hears a peep from anyone else ANYWHERE. But he always lives somewhere swank and shares the place with a friend. I'm trying to afford my own space, and my budget is different.
Tell me of apartments available on the Hill, because complaining a lot often gets you out of leases. Tell me of how I can get this stompy fool to move out. Tell me how you cope with this, because all my own answers are falling short and I am about two weeks away from hammering my ceiling back and starting a serious war, instead of going through management and trying to be polite.
Being nice only gets you so far.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Things people have googled to find my blog
all together now:
"strutting like my daddy"
[ i have no idea how that came up. I don't write about strutting (or, struting, as my searching friend put it) and I haven't called my father 'daddy' since I was like 5 ]
"proper bathroom ettiquette"
[i wrote a post about this like, a year ago. it is still something very near and dear to my heart, especially since ladies know what kinds of shoes we all wear and then you know that Carol So-and-So over in Finance totally had a burrito for lunch. And that is gross and weird.)
"...calories in Andre Brut champagne"
[I love Andre. It's the two buck chuck of champange, only not as good. But cheap! And plentiful!]
"is Giada de Laurentis a midget?"
[yes.]
"ladylike belch"
[My boyfriend thinks that my burping is less of a 'belch' and more of a "blooorrrppppp". Whenever I burp (which is an embarassing frequency. I must be VERY attractive, since I burp with such reckless abandon and he only looks the more triumphant each time). SO attractive, perhaps, that I had a problem with a short haired ladies fetish site stalking my flickr and my blog. That actually didn't make me feel pretty. It made me feel pretty gross. ASK ME ABOUT THAT SOME TIME. I DIDN'T LIKE THAT VERY MUCH. ]
"strutting like my daddy"
[ i have no idea how that came up. I don't write about strutting (or, struting, as my searching friend put it) and I haven't called my father 'daddy' since I was like 5 ]
"proper bathroom ettiquette"
[i wrote a post about this like, a year ago. it is still something very near and dear to my heart, especially since ladies know what kinds of shoes we all wear and then you know that Carol So-and-So over in Finance totally had a burrito for lunch. And that is gross and weird.)
"...calories in Andre Brut champagne"
[I love Andre. It's the two buck chuck of champange, only not as good. But cheap! And plentiful!]
"is Giada de Laurentis a midget?"
[yes.]
"ladylike belch"
[My boyfriend thinks that my burping is less of a 'belch' and more of a "blooorrrppppp". Whenever I burp (which is an embarassing frequency. I must be VERY attractive, since I burp with such reckless abandon and he only looks the more triumphant each time). SO attractive, perhaps, that I had a problem with a short haired ladies fetish site stalking my flickr and my blog. That actually didn't make me feel pretty. It made me feel pretty gross. ASK ME ABOUT THAT SOME TIME. I DIDN'T LIKE THAT VERY MUCH. ]
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
When the moon hits yer eye
Today, at work, since we weren't home in sweatpants like we had all PLANNED, we ordered pizza. Ordering lunch to be delivered at work is pretty indulgent. No fetching, no wind, no winter, no scarf that smells like breath over my mouth and nose.
We placed a Papa John's order at 12:15. We called to confirm. They said about an hour.
We were overjoyed! PIZZA! On a cold day! The fat will keep us warm! Pepperoni will keep us alive! With the coupon it was like $4 each with a generous tip for the delivery person.
We sent around emails being thrilled! Hurrah! Pizza jokes! Pizza face! Pizza, pizza, pizza!!!!!!
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until we said "F this" and threw in the towel.
We called the store. And called and called. The phone kept ringing and ringing, and eventually we had Papa John's CORPORATE cancel our order because we were starving NOW. And while we realize that ordering out on a day where everyone and their MOTHER probably wanted to order in, and cancelling was crappy, we waited well over 2 hours. We were defeated.
So everyone else went to Subway and I had low-fat split pea soup that has lived in my desk since about October. The moment was gone. Gone was my desire to eat something crazy fattening and different. I was going to punish myself with a boring lunch for tempting fate. It was only right.
Also I didn't want to go outside. If all was right with the world and I was home in soft pants, I wouldn't have gone outside anyway. I abide by snow day rules on rightful snow days.
When everyone returned, we chatted about a friend's brithday and then how everyone is finding my seventeen-year-old vocabulary coming out out of our twenty (and thirty!) something mouths. Totes. Betch. W00t! OMG!
Then we went "back to work".
At 3:15 our pizzas arrived.
Fate is cruel.
We placed a Papa John's order at 12:15. We called to confirm. They said about an hour.
We were overjoyed! PIZZA! On a cold day! The fat will keep us warm! Pepperoni will keep us alive! With the coupon it was like $4 each with a generous tip for the delivery person.
We sent around emails being thrilled! Hurrah! Pizza jokes! Pizza face! Pizza, pizza, pizza!!!!!!
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Until we said "F this" and threw in the towel.
We called the store. And called and called. The phone kept ringing and ringing, and eventually we had Papa John's CORPORATE cancel our order because we were starving NOW. And while we realize that ordering out on a day where everyone and their MOTHER probably wanted to order in, and cancelling was crappy, we waited well over 2 hours. We were defeated.
So everyone else went to Subway and I had low-fat split pea soup that has lived in my desk since about October. The moment was gone. Gone was my desire to eat something crazy fattening and different. I was going to punish myself with a boring lunch for tempting fate. It was only right.
Also I didn't want to go outside. If all was right with the world and I was home in soft pants, I wouldn't have gone outside anyway. I abide by snow day rules on rightful snow days.
When everyone returned, we chatted about a friend's brithday and then how everyone is finding my seventeen-year-old vocabulary coming out out of our twenty (and thirty!) something mouths. Totes. Betch. W00t! OMG!
Then we went "back to work".
At 3:15 our pizzas arrived.
Fate is cruel.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Staff Meeting Haikus
these were all taken from what people said or looked like during a staff meeting:
a death stare he gives
daggers shooting from the eyes
eyebrow arch. contempt?
No news is good news
have you heard any mention
of the millions due?
this is my blank check
if i seem extra bitchy
waa- my deadlines
slowly passing time
a bit of a problem here
come out of the shoot
the puppet master
the camera just loves you
smile pretty for me
bullishly stubborn
disbelief takes form of fist
beating on forehead.
it's lonely here, at
parents without state partners
pony up, casserole.
a death stare he gives
daggers shooting from the eyes
eyebrow arch. contempt?
No news is good news
have you heard any mention
of the millions due?
this is my blank check
if i seem extra bitchy
waa- my deadlines
slowly passing time
a bit of a problem here
come out of the shoot
the puppet master
the camera just loves you
smile pretty for me
bullishly stubborn
disbelief takes form of fist
beating on forehead.
it's lonely here, at
parents without state partners
pony up, casserole.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Love thy neighbor
Like any good district resident, I spend a lot of time hating on the suburbs.
It's pretty easy. People from "out there" come "in here" and mess everything up. Traffic. Standing to the left on metro escalators. Crowding the sidewalks yelling "woooooooo!" coming out of the bars that would make me rather take my twenty dollar bill and swallow it, rather than enter. The suburbs are these ominous glistening towers of Harris Teeters and Targets where people live who want to afford home ownership.
I venture out into the suburbs sometimes, though. As a lady without a car, if you have a friend with a car who is going to Virginia to buy things, it's urban law that you MUST accompany them and MUST buy as much as you can such that getting to your ground floor apartment is a challenge. It's nature's will. If someone is going to Target, I must travel to the great unknown with them. Who doesn't ALWAYS need something at Target?
This past weekend, I was in Virginia both days, and as much as I hate to admit it, both were for good things.
Good thing the first:
The Cat Empire concert. At the State Theater. Man oh MAN was that a good show. Take 6 Aussies (5 regular band Aussies and one PAR-TIC-U-LAR-LY hot singer Aussie) and have them beach-jam-band-slash-Cuban-jazz their way into your heart and see if you don't tap those hipster-flats you're wearing. Dueling trumpets are something that I had not properly prepared myself for. Listen on myspace, it's worth it. Close your eyes and revel in the 5 + 1 who are awesome and surprisingly do not have a guitar amongst them.
The prize of the evening was the keyboard player. He was an amazing musician for sure, but was one of those band members who takes himself a bit seriously and John-Mayer-grimaces in some sort of painful orgasm of his own musical brilliance.
That aside, the State Theater is kind of an odd venue for this show. And there was an odd crowd. The crowd was like, 50-year-olds. But for every 50-year-old, there were two 16-year-olds. And then we twenty-somethings filled in the gap. Lots of people sitting down at tables, eating hamburgers like civilized people. And the 16-year-olds were crowd surfing. It did not compute.
Nor did the angry table-sitter who shoved the guy standing behind me to get out of his way, and the guy behind me managed to spill half his beer on me and my friend. I expect beer poured on me other places, not ones with table service. Apparently, standing and dancing was not allowed. At a concert. How Virginian of him!
Good thing the second:
The Italian store. Sweet Jeebus it's like going home! Everyone messed around with sandwiches of thinly sliced cold meats. That's delicious and all-- but child's play. Sausage and pepper sandwiches are where it's at. We waited a while for our lunches, but it was well worth it.
We ate in about 6 minutes outside in the balmy 38 degree weather before driving off to the Harris Teeter where we and all of Arlington fought for the last yellow onions in the behemoth store. I know Sundays are rough, but EVERYONE was at this store, and everyone was being pushy. I stopped saying "excuse me" when I was playing supermarket cart chicken, and instead just did what I had to do. My poor man-friend's deli meat took TWENTY FIVE minutes to arrive. TWENTY FIVE.
But I would say for the most part that I've had enough Virginia for a while, thankyouverymuch. You people have a lovely state with delicious sandwiches and tall buildings, but a girl cannot exist on sandwich or building alone.
It's pretty easy. People from "out there" come "in here" and mess everything up. Traffic. Standing to the left on metro escalators. Crowding the sidewalks yelling "woooooooo!" coming out of the bars that would make me rather take my twenty dollar bill and swallow it, rather than enter. The suburbs are these ominous glistening towers of Harris Teeters and Targets where people live who want to afford home ownership.
I venture out into the suburbs sometimes, though. As a lady without a car, if you have a friend with a car who is going to Virginia to buy things, it's urban law that you MUST accompany them and MUST buy as much as you can such that getting to your ground floor apartment is a challenge. It's nature's will. If someone is going to Target, I must travel to the great unknown with them. Who doesn't ALWAYS need something at Target?
This past weekend, I was in Virginia both days, and as much as I hate to admit it, both were for good things.
Good thing the first:
The Cat Empire concert. At the State Theater. Man oh MAN was that a good show. Take 6 Aussies (5 regular band Aussies and one PAR-TIC-U-LAR-LY hot singer Aussie) and have them beach-jam-band-slash-Cuban-jazz their way into your heart and see if you don't tap those hipster-flats you're wearing. Dueling trumpets are something that I had not properly prepared myself for. Listen on myspace, it's worth it. Close your eyes and revel in the 5 + 1 who are awesome and surprisingly do not have a guitar amongst them.
The prize of the evening was the keyboard player. He was an amazing musician for sure, but was one of those band members who takes himself a bit seriously and John-Mayer-grimaces in some sort of painful orgasm of his own musical brilliance.
That aside, the State Theater is kind of an odd venue for this show. And there was an odd crowd. The crowd was like, 50-year-olds. But for every 50-year-old, there were two 16-year-olds. And then we twenty-somethings filled in the gap. Lots of people sitting down at tables, eating hamburgers like civilized people. And the 16-year-olds were crowd surfing. It did not compute.
Nor did the angry table-sitter who shoved the guy standing behind me to get out of his way, and the guy behind me managed to spill half his beer on me and my friend. I expect beer poured on me other places, not ones with table service. Apparently, standing and dancing was not allowed. At a concert. How Virginian of him!
Good thing the second:
The Italian store. Sweet Jeebus it's like going home! Everyone messed around with sandwiches of thinly sliced cold meats. That's delicious and all-- but child's play. Sausage and pepper sandwiches are where it's at. We waited a while for our lunches, but it was well worth it.
We ate in about 6 minutes outside in the balmy 38 degree weather before driving off to the Harris Teeter where we and all of Arlington fought for the last yellow onions in the behemoth store. I know Sundays are rough, but EVERYONE was at this store, and everyone was being pushy. I stopped saying "excuse me" when I was playing supermarket cart chicken, and instead just did what I had to do. My poor man-friend's deli meat took TWENTY FIVE minutes to arrive. TWENTY FIVE.
But I would say for the most part that I've had enough Virginia for a while, thankyouverymuch. You people have a lovely state with delicious sandwiches and tall buildings, but a girl cannot exist on sandwich or building alone.
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