Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Let me make it clear that I did not invite her. I do not condone workplace bonding outside of any type, unless it involves:
a. watching TV
b. spending an entire workday signing 300 Christmas cards and eating apple pie
c. two interns fornicating.
She’s going to be seeing me half-naked in the locker room. I’m going to have to go out and buy new underwear, God damnit.
Monday, November 29, 2004
I got home from the gym a half-hour ago. I have now ingested so much ravioli and orange juice (no comments from the peanut gallery about the strange nature of that meal, thankyouverymuch) that sitting, standing and moving are all painful activities. Breathing also hurts.
And, though there is absolutely no room in my gut, I really want a piece of pumpkin pie.
The moral of this story: I go to the gym to cancel out what I eat when I get home from the gym.
I should just stay home and watch Entertainment Tonight.
Nobody seems to know how long Max will live. We found out that he had nerve cancer back in September, when we had a tennis ball-sized lump removed from his side. Pre-surgery, the vet said it was a harmless fat tumor, a lypoma. Post-surgery, the vet thought it might be a foreign object that his body was protecting. The biopsy, in all its finality, ruled it as cancer.
Max acts normal. He does what he’s always done: begs for food, eats his own shit out of the backyard, sleeps on the couch and pretends that Stevie, our other black Lab, doesn’t exist.
While I’m happy that he’s not in pain, I resent his normality. I feel like ol’ Maxer should be swimming the Thames or jumping out of planes or writing read-this-after-I-die letters to his friends and family. I don’t like knowing that he doesn’t know.
I feel so god damn guilty, living my day-to-day life with the knowledge that he’s going to die when Max himself has no idea. I feel guilty leaving him at home when I go to work. I feel guilty for not opening the refrigerator and letting him ingest the people food that he thinks about every second of his days (except for when he’s nibbling on poo, perhaps).
When I “grow up” and “have a job where I actually make money” and “live someplace other than Mom and Dad’s house,” I don’t think that I’ll have a dog of my own. I’m not convinced that the affection and the company is a benefit if it ends in tears and mourning. 10 years isn’t enough. I’m not going to break my heart that often.
It’s better to love and to have lost...blah blah blah fucking blah. I’m selfish, yes, but I'm also protecting myself.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Do the yogis realize how traumatic it is for Miss Bloodied-And-Blistered-From-Breaking-In-Figure-Skates-And-Missing-Two-Toenails to be barefoot?
My little tootsies are more than slightly disgusting – they look like a cheap, raw steak with five partially-chewed Vienna sausages toothpicked to the end. My feet could serve as the body double for whichever perfect-footed Hollywood starlet plays The Amazing Firewalker in the next cinematic rendition of the lives and loves of circus freaks. My feet scare small children and no amount of L’Oreal Jet Set nail polish can hide their horror. Bet your sweet asses that I’ve tried.
Other than that, yoga class is pretty frigging sweet.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
They’re princesses. They glide effortlessly across a shiny mirror of ice, except for when they trip over a toe pick and tumble onto their knees. They dress in stretch velvet, sequins, lamè, and spandex, like the royalty that they are. They don’t mind that their Barbie underpants hang out beneath the panties of their skating skirt. They’re not too good for anything. They fawn over their coaches. They skate to Disney movies with a passion normally reserved for animated figments of the imagination. They wobble, they fall, they giggle.
I watch them when I am at the boards, barely upright, gulping water, attempting to steady my breathing. I love their arm-flailing efforts at grace. I love their chubby little legs unabashedly on display in skating dresses. I love the frequency with which their bottoms meet the ice. I watch them. I watch them falling in love with the sport that sustains me.
Friday, November 26, 2004
I’m not hurt, I’m just aware of who I am. Of what I am.
I am a friend, not a girlfriend.
I am a girl, not a woman.
I am sharp, not smart.
I am an acquaintance, not a friend.
I am forgotten, not invited.
I am capable, not included.
I am not ugly, I am never beautiful.
It is me, it is not them.
It can’t be them. The whole world cannot be mistaken. I am constantly looked over. I am constantly brushed aside. I am forgettable. I believe in coincidence, but coincidence cannot be the source of the fact that everyone I have met in my 22 years finds me unremarkable.
It’s not coincidence. It’s truth. I am unremarkable.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
It seemed like a really good idea to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner – he’s not from the area and doesn’t have family around to celebrate with – and it seemed like an even better idea when (after a slight bit of convincing) he said yes.
Well, he said that he would come. I never really believed that he would.
Apparently, I’ve got quite the gut instinct. He didn’t show.
Lets not create any high drama here. This should shock no one. I don’t know why I continue to try. I’m twenty-fucking-two years old and I’ve never been kissed. I think that pretty much says it all.
I don't have luck with guys. Luck, unfortunately, is not the only thing I'm missing. I don't have a fucking clue. And I certainly don't have any confidence.
But I have an enormous family filled with love and good-hearted dysfunction. I have so many people who love me and support me for who I am and who I want to become.
I like Kevin; I wanted him to come. I want to be mad and I want to be disappointed, but it's a lot easier to be thankful for who I have instead of being regretful for who I don't.
So fuck him.
A very happy Thanksgiving to everyone else.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Divide number of expected guests by two
Round up to the nearest whole number
Get yo’ ass baking
That’s right, kids, a half-pie for every person who will be giving thanks with you.
Let us apply this equation in a real life situation.
We will be having 23 people at my aunt’s house tomorrow.
23/2 = 11.5
A half of a pie? How do you make that?
You don’t. You make 12. Not 11. DO NOT ROUND DOWN. Baking only 11 pies puts guests at risk for hunger, malnutrition and, gasp, eating in moderation. YOU DO NOT ALLOW A PERSON WHO YOU LOVE (or a stranger, enemy or twin sibling) TO EAT IN MODERATION ON THANKSGIVING DAY.
Okay? Okay, great. Enjoy!
This public service announcement brought to you by the oldest child of a true (yet reluctant) domestic goddess.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Last night, we were doing chest bumps to celebrate his fantasy football win. But they were more like belly bumps, 'cause his gut is fucking huge.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Oh, he is as cute as a drunken elf dressed up for Halloween and his smile is simply a dazzling ray of sunshine and rainbows and – oooooh! – he shoots the shit with me so consummately.
And he likes [loves] hockey.
And he likes [loves] to poke fun at our bosses just as much as I do.
Tra la la. We’re going to get married and have 17 beautiful babies.
Yes, I do realize, given my past that this is actually nothing but a foolish fantasy and that I am destined to live my love life through reality television, remaining unhappy and alone forever.
Sometimes, however, it is important to pretend that you actually believe the shit you read on the advice pages of YM.
Hope – even if it's illogical – is good for the digestion.
“Yes,” I mumbled. “It hasn’t been that long since you brought it up to me.” I scurry into my bedroom.
When I was a little girl, I had a very special relationship with one of my teddy bears. I called it “chugging.” Dr. Ruth would call it masturbation.
Unfortunate to my pride and the blackmail prowess my parents have over me, I wasn’t exactly bashful when telling Mom and Dad about this oh-so-private activity.
I cannot imagine how hard they laughed.
Fuck. Stupid kid. Should’ve kept my big mouth shut.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Come on over to my house when I'm trying to get my hockey bag to fit out of the front door.
I looooooove taking showers. Hot water! Steam! Squeaky-clean sensation! Ah, the simple pleasures in my simple life.
On having a heat lamp installed in our remodeled bathroom, my shower experiences have considerably improved. Praise technology! No more dreading the end of a shower and the beginning of chattering teeth and marble-sized goosebumps. Love that.
I’ve had a radio in my bathroom for as long as I can remember. I would really rock out in high school, jumping out of the shower to switch tracks on my Rent soundtrack. I’m not really sure what I was thinking, as far as combining water and electricity goes. These days, I've simplified. I listen to morning radio hosts talk about boobs. It wakes me up.
This is what I don’t like about showers: wet hair.
Curly hair – my curly hair, anyway – doesn’t blow dry very well. Lest I walk around looking like Christina Aguilera in the Moulin Rouge video, I suck it up and slather on approximately 8 oz. of product and let my hair air-dry. Really pleasant. Especially in the inhumanely cold Midwestern wintertime, when my hair tends to get a tad crunchy if I stand too close to a drafty window.
The upside to frozen hair is that if I ever happen to sprain a limb, I can hold my curly tendrils on the offending appendage to ward away swelling.
Wet hair is also, like, really attractive. So I’ve got that going for me.
Investing in a shower cap might be a good idea, eh?
If Courtney Love can pull off dirty hair, so can I.
But whether or not I can pull of Courtney Love-esque hair with her grace and dignity is a whole different question.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
I’m a virgin.
I’ve never been kissed.
I’ve never been on a date.
I’ve never held hands with a male who isn’t a family member other than to play Red Rover in physical education.
There isn’t a concise way for me to explain how the aforementioned facts have molded who I am, what I think, how I act and why I do.
Just keep reading, I suppose.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Thinking in the car this morning: I really like kids. If someone offered me shelter, a steady income and a child, with or without a partner to help me raise the little brat, I would take it.
For the record: by no means do I think that raising a child is even moderately easy.
Question: why am I on the mailing list for a hospital that none of my doctors belong to and that I’ve never been to?
Irritation: flier mailed to me from aforementioned hospital with pictures of pudgy, cherub-faced babies chewing on their toes and the phrase “Expecting someone?” stretched across the top.
Asinine because: there isn’t a 22-year-old on this planet who is as NOT pregnant as I am.
In summation: I would really like to have kids one day, but the chances of me doing so are pretty damn slim if not entirely nonexistent. That stupid fucking pamphlet reminded me of that.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
I get the shivers and I have to rub my feet furiously on the floor of my car.
I’ll swerve like a maniac, regardless of the road and weather conditions, to avoid thumping my Michelins over an animal corpse.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Half awake and ha-ha-ha-happy to be alive, I pull on the following:
-One (1) pair footed tights
-One (1) pair footless sweater knit tights
-One (1) tanktop with built-in bra
-One (1) pair of black Under Armour ColdGear pants
-One (1) Under Armour ColdGear mock turtleneck
-One (1) fuzzy fleece pullover of some kind, in a bright color as to prevent me from looking like Morticia Adams
Then I bumble around. I make my bed. I usually check my email. I make a mocha. All of these things are done slowly, as to assure that I will leave at 6:35 instead of 6:30, which is when I should leave [actually, it's when I think I should leave. I've never left at 6:30, so I can't be absolutely certain].
I drive 20 minutes, listening to the hosts of my favorite morning show talk about boobs. Boob talk wakes me up. Generally, I'm fully coherent by the time I run from my warm car into...a damp, sub-freezing building.
As fast as my hands will work, I add the following to my already-attractive outfit:
-One (1) black fleece headband
-Two (2) pair black gloves
-One (1) pair ridiculously expensive figure skates
-One (1) pocketful Kleenex brand facial tissues
If I do these things fast enough, I'm the first one on the ice. While I'm warming up, I can hear rats munching on popcorn and discarded hockey gloves. I think. I think they're rats, anyway (could be raccoons or stray guinea pigs) and I think they're eating popcorn and discarded hockey gloves.
Once I'm warm, I spin so fast that the snot flies out of my nose and whips me in the face.
This makes me happy.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
I’d never known anyone who had died. I had never been to a funeral. Uncle Rich was the first person; Uncle Rich's was the first funeral.
He died of a heart attack. He had it at home, in his basement, running on the treadmill on a January morning before work. His body was in the basement all day.
Before Uncle Rich’s body was taken away, my Aunt Sarah slipped the shoes he was wearing off of his feet. I don’t know why. Over the course of the week that my family was in Ohio for the funeral, I would sneak down to the basement and stare at those shoes. I never touched them.
Uncle Rich was 44.
When the grief subsided to the point where they could function, my dad and his siblings had their hearts tested. They found out what they already knew: they’re at high risk. Heart disease runs in the family.
Grandma, Dad’s mom, followed Uncle Rich 20 months ago. She died of a heart attack.
Whenever the phone rings at an unexpected time, whenever a family member calls me multiple times and neglects to leave a message, I’m certain that they’re calling me to tell me that my dad is dead. Of a heart attack.
It’s hard to live so frightened. I’m terrified of his death -- an inevitable event.
My own, selfish fears are why I cried this morning while reading an email from C., my college roommate. C. wrote about her job hunt and our favorite professor; she slipped in the news of her father’s death. She’s living what I am most afraid of.
I’m sad for C; I’m scared for my family.
And I'm scared for myself.
Monday, November 15, 2004
You would blog if you lived in the Midwest. If you were spending your first year out of college interning for a company you have no future with. If you were 22, bored out of your mind, full of regrets and promising ideas, quite a pushover, naive to a fault and lacking in energy and motivation but exercising every day.
You would blog if you were me.