Wednesday, August 31, 2005


I just spent the last hour of my life - an hour I could've spent reading John Irving's Until I Find You - researching apartments. Location, location, location (of course). And price, price, price (duh). As Indoor Stella is living in Mom and Dad's garage and Outdoor Stella is piling on the miles, I was fairly obsessed.

When I was done with The Great Apartment Search, I pulled up my online banking to see if that $9,000,000 I've been praying for had been deposited and...oh...what is that?

Apartment #3 cashed the check I gave them to cash, upon passing my credit check, to hold the apartment.

Um, hello?

Is this a bad joke?


I am confused.

I have a few phone calls to make.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Answer this, friends

Is it Murphy's Law?


Does can my stupid fucking dog tell that I'm about to get to bed before 10:00 and, on the basis of that information and the fact that it's dark and raining and windy and it looks like the scene of a Lifetime rape/murder made-for-TV-movie, decide to run away THE NIGHT AFTER I TOOK HIS FURRY ASS TO DAIRY QUEEN AND BOUGHT HIM A VANILLA CONE WITH SPRINKLES?

I would appreciate any and all explanations, logical or otherwise.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Moving daze

I was totally prepared to be moving out sometime in the next two to three weeks, so I am rather dissatisfied with the Apartment 3 roadblock. Seriously, Lady. I am throwing my money and a one-year lease at you. Could you at least call me back?

Apparently not. It's been a week. I think I'll give up.

Which, by default, means that I will be spending Saturday apartment shopping with Mom again. Oh, how fun. Oh, how repetitive. Oh, how I would like to stab myself in the eye with a blunt object.


Dad is talking about buying me a condo. "It's an investment" he keeps saying.

"Okay!" I keep saying. You want to buy me someplace to live? I will not argue. Unless it is, like, really ghetto. Then I might squabble a bit.

But, the more I think about it, the more obvious it is. I want to move out. Immediately. The idea has been hatched, the Indoor Stella has been purchased, the beautiful chairs have been reupholstered. I am already halfway out the door.

Collectively, let us pray. Let us pray that there is a leasing agent in this wide world who will call my ass back. Because, while we still have our old playhouse in our backyard, I'm not certain I can fit all of my shit inside.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Televison therapy

MTV's three hour Laguna Beach marathon was exactly what I needed today to mitigate a not-so-sweet weekend of a 12-hour workday (Saturday! Son of a bitch!) and a rather severe tendonitis attack.

Not to say that the dark chocolate didn't help, too.

Friday, August 26, 2005


Nothing really tops the feeling of dread that I get after pulling back the shower curtain and reaching for a towel that isn't there.

It is so annoying, having someone to wash your towels and clean your bathroom without proper warning.

As if having someone wash your towels and clean your bathroom wasn't annoying enough!

(I'm lying about that second part, Mom. I swear it.)

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Communicate with me, assholes

My mom bought me a couch! A cute, smallish, leather couch exactly the color of Stella! We have named my couch Indoor Stella.

I am excited about Indoor Stella. She matches well with my chairs and the rug and coffee table I bought at the Pottery Barn Outlet this weekend. And the old buffet I painted up to look frigging adorable. I have an entire room of cuteness!

And nowhere to put it.

On Monday, I put in an application for Apartment #3. The leasing agent I'd toured with wasn't there, but the broad I gave my application to promised that she'd call me on Tuesday.

Now, call me crazy, but it seems to be Thursday and I haven't heard from her.

Wouldn't you call to say that my application was rejected, at least?

(Which I can't imagine that it was. I just leased a fucking Lincoln. How bad can my credit be?)

This bitch can't pick up a phone, so I mostly am hoping that I did get rejected. Like I even want to live in an apartment where the front office staff doesn't know how to dial a phone!

This rant guarantees that I will be accepted and that I will be drowning in the pool one day while the office staff stands around attempting to remember the number for 911.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Can't. Take. It.

I am 22 years old.


The only thing worse than this is knowing that I am more than halfway to living the title of the movie.

The shallow scholar

I’m already thinking about graduate school.

Honestly, I don’t know how that could be. I was so glad to be done and I swore to myself, while running the Naked Mile, that I’d never go back.

And I already have the itch.


I’m afraid that I want to go back for the prestige more than for the education. I’m halfway to my 10-year high school reunion and maybe I just want that master’s degree so I can say that I have it in an insanely nonchalant manner. I can’t be certain that my fancy-schmancy bachelor’s degree will make blood boil with envy. And that’s not shallow at all.

I miss learning and I miss the college environment. But I could probably live without the homework. And the debt. And the stress.

Lucy and I have made a pact to become GRE study buddies once she’s home from Thailand.

And I started researching Sport Management programs at the local Universities – of which I am fortunate enough to have a handful of truly quality programs to choose from

So. I guess maybe I do want to do this.

Side note: I was totally lying about running in the Naked Mile. Didn’t even consider it. Perverts with cameras and websites and the U administration had all but squashed it by my time, anyhow.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Looking glass

I long for the day when I can look people in the eye.

When I don’t shy from mirrors.

When I can dismiss the preconceptions and the insecurity and see my exterior for what it is.

Because I’m not as hideous as I feel.

I know that. And I don’t.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Hi, I'm stupid

I clicked on the wrong link yesterday. My computer now has the PC equivalent of gonorrhea, pubic lice and herpes. Ugh. I am so much smarter than that. Treat my computer like it was born of my own flesh smarter than that.

Aviva (who works for a major record label) would laugh at me if she knew. She would laugh and say that it's exactly what I deserve for attempting to download the new Kanye West CD - even if I was only doing it because John Mayer guests on it and all I wanted to do was hear it once.

I hate being taught lessons.

V. successful day at the outlet mall. Oh, Pottery Barn Outlet, how you fashion my apartment.


Yep. Apartment. Mom and I went looking yesterday. We saw three.

#1 = ghetto. On the older side. Cheap. I'd consider living there if it weren't for the subtle phrases the leasing agent tossed into conversation that made feel like it wasn't the safest place in the world.

#2 = decent. It's pretty new. Has a pool and a clubhouse and a gym and all of that crap. Fairly young tenants. Washer and dryer. Pretty standard. The leasing agent was a chump. It's right off of a main road, lots of traffic noise.

#3 = cute. Cheaper than #2, more expensive than #1. A smaller complex. Has carport for dear Stella. Washer and dryer. Pool. Clubhouse. Other amenities that I wouldn't use. Blah, blah, blah.

#3 was the winner. The complex has exactly one apartment that will be available in my time frame (sometime in the next 6 weeks). I know that there was another girl who looked at it on Saturday. Now must be v. nervous that she'll go and sign the lease before I can. Must sneak out of work. Tomorrow. Early.

Must bring my laptop in for major repairs, too.

Which is entirely my fault.

Well, actually, I think I'll split the blame with Kanye West and Johnny Mayer.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Miss Martha

Lookie what I made!

Um. I didn't build it or anything. But, with my mammy's help, I refinished and reupholstered two of these chairs, which were my great grandma's and happen to be the most comfortable reading chairs that the world has ever known.

My chair project consumed last weekend. This weekend, it's painting a buffet and priming bedroom furniture.

And looking at a few apartments.

Oooh la la! This little girl is getting awfully excited.

I suppose parts of growing up aren't so bad.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Found time

This week, Meg’s best friend went back to Colorado, where she goes to school, and Jay – the 300 lb. leech – left for an extended visit with his parents in California.

Meg is depressed.

She’s our sensitive, fragile little baby, so Mom is concerned and I am taking action. We will make Meg feel better the only way we know how – by distracting her.

This weekend will be painting ceramics with the little cousins, a shopping adventure at the best outlet mall within a three-hour radius, apartment hunting, gym going, Blizzard eating, fun having and sister bonding.

I’m fairly excited. This summer, we’ve been more far than close. I don’t like it that way.

She moves back to school on September 2.

Lots of time to catch up.

And to do plenty of damage to Dad’s credit card.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Yo Colin

I don’t know how this happened or what caused it or if we just overstayed our welcome and fizzled out. I just know that I am sick of pushing our jalopy along by myself. It takes too much out of me. I’m not strong enough.

I don’t want to let us go, but all muscles reach a point of exhaustion. Mine are there.

Would you mind taking a turn?

Will you jump-start us?

I don’t really want to give up. But I’m awfully tired of doing all of the work.

You could start with a phone call.

Monday, August 15, 2005

I explain it all

I still get mad when I think about how much my uncle pushed me to pursue a job that I didn’t want. It annoys me. It remains insulting.

Insulting and annoying with a heaping side of fucking hilarious.

Know that company that my uncle wanted me to work for sosososososoSO badly that he would gladly ruin my trip to Chicago to twist my arm into agreeing to work there?

He is suing it for breach of contract.


I am wise beyond my years.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

This probably should've come sooner


I do need to expand my horizons.

Broaden them so wide that Colin appears a tiny speck. A tiny, insignificant speck.

Thursday, August 11, 2005


I’m in a funk. Because Lucy is leaving and I’m working myself to death and 100 other little things, I guess.

I have a ticket to tomorrow night’s Eminem/50 Cent/Lil’ John concert. I want to go, but I’m not.

I’m supposed to go with my sister, my cousin Paul and six others. We have floor tickets; the floor is designated as one monstrous mosh pit. For safety reasons, there are no chairs. I expect it to be wild.

Or the stories to be wild, anyway. It’ll all be second hand.

I’m exhausted. And I remember all too well how tiring the Eminem/50 Cent/Missy Elliott concert I went to in ’03 was. I have a hard enough time making it until 5:00. Midnight – going from wake to work to the concert without time for a breath in between – is essentially out of the question.

I’m bummed out. But I don’t want to be the miserable bitch who just wants to go home. If I’m going to go, I want to have fun. I want to enjoy myself. And, at this point, I don’t think that I can. I’m not acclimated to my new schedule. I’m in 1,000 depressions about Lucy. And it just doesn’t feel right.

I mentioned to my mom that I wasn’t going.

You can let your job run your life, she snapped.
You could leave early for once.
Your work will be there on Monday morning.

And tonight, after my dad asked me what I was doing tomorrow night.

Staying at home, like an old lady.

I hate that. I resent it. I am angry that she thinks that I, at 22, am not capable making decisions in my best interest.

I’m pissed enough at the fact that my life isn’t such that I can do everything that I want to do exactly when I want to do it. I don’t get to the gym as much as I want to. I don’t skate as much as I want to. I can’t sleep as much as I want to. I’m two months late for my six-month checkup and I don’t like it. But my life is what it is and I am doing my best to live it to the maximum.

And maybe that means missing a concert, Mom.

Maybe that means staying at home like an old lady.

Maybe that means making a decision that you wouldn’t.

Sorry. You’ll just have to get over it.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Lonely through mid-December

Lucy is the brave one.

Midway through our sophomore years in college, she put her education on hold to serve in AmeriCorps.

I remember how hard I cried as I drove home after we bid each other an awkward goodbye in her driveway. I cried because I felt alone. My college years were not rich in friendships; I felt desperately lonely knowing that the girl who understood me the best was leaving me for Colorado (and, as it turned out, Minnesota, Nebraska, Louisiana and Indiana).

I expect tonight to be the same. I still don’t have many friends. She still knows me best. I’m still going to cry because I don’t want her to go and because I’m envious of her bravery and because I’m proud to be her best friend.

She’s studying abroad this semester. Thailand. She leaves on Friday.

And that makes me awfully sad.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Chain reaction

We’re dogsitting my cousin Paul’s dog while he’s gallivanting around Cedar Point.

M.J. (in my family, we have a bad habit of naming dogs after famous athletes) apparently spent yesterday eating a lot of grass and drinking a lot of lake water. Last night, darling M.J. barfed in my parents’ room. Approximately 12 times.

When Stevie woke up (he sleeps in Meg’s room), he went in to visit Mom, Dad and Cousin M.J.

Stevie smelled M.J.’s dog barf.

And puked.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Chock full

As a student of communications and a child raised on ABC News, I am totally bummed out about the death of Peter Jennings.

His death surprised me; my reaction did not.

I've always had a tender heart. It's never taken much to make me cry. Deaths are not an exception. From Princess Diana to my grandma, I've never handled death well. ...even if it doesn't directly impact me.

Like Peter Jennings.

Like my friend Brad's father.

My friend Brad's dad, who was known to students throughout our district as Mr. K, died suddenly when we were sophomores in college. Mr. K was in his classroom, eating lunch with a few of his students, when he died of a heart attack brought on by his type-1 diabetes.

I found out from my sister, who played volleyball on one of the many teams Mr. K coached. (Mr. K coached our local junior high, high school varsity and community college teams). Meg's heart was broken.

And mine followed soon after. Not for Mr. K, really - I didn't know him - but for Meg and for Brad. I went to the visitation. In the days that followed, I cried a lot. I do that. Crying for those who deserved to be cried for, even if I didn't know the deceased.

It probably isn't a good thing for my mental state.

Overall, however, I think that it is.

More people need to be cried for.

More people need to be eulogized through tears.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

This is when to say when

I’m exhausted. I’ve been doing the hour-long commute for a mere 10 days and, already, the road is kicking my white ass.

It’s just as well.

I really need to move out.

Not just because Mom and Dad live an hour from where I work. But because I’m 22 and have a full-time job and the means and the intelligence and the desire to live away from home. And because my current situation borders on pathetic. As if I can’t see that!

If there is such a thing as the perfect time to move out, this is probably it. There’s the charming new commute, of course, plus my soccer season is ending and my gym membership expires in just over a month. Meggie is getting ready to go back to college, too.

And Mom and I could totally go shopping at IKEA over Labor Day weekend!

So let’s target November as my move-in goal. Totally doable. Ya’ll breathe down my neck; I’ll do the planning and the packing.


Thursday, August 04, 2005

No, Ropedncr, it’s nothing like that

I haven’t written about – or mentioned – Colin in weeks because it’s too complicated and I’m too clueless and it’s too juvenile and I won’t want to hear that I just need to move on, even if that really is what I need to do.

I want to know what he wants from us.
I want to meet his mom.
I want him to call me more and email me less.
I want him to know everything.
I want consistency.
I want clarity.
I want him to worry less.
I want my education to have no influence on his ambition.
I want more quiet nights.
I want a definition.
I want a title.
I want to be somewhere other than between.
I want to know and I don’t want to ask.
I want the moon.
And I want to know if he’s the one who can give it to me.

And, Jesus Christ, I want to stop sounding like a sappy Hallmark greeting card.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

My shallow gene pool

Not only did my dad take a car through his store’s carwash without putting the back windows up.

Not only did my dad take a car through his store’s carwash without realizing the back windows weren’t up.

Not only did my dad take a car through his store’s carwash without realizing the back windows weren’t up until one of the strips of blue washing cloth hit him on the back of his head.

He decided that the wet smack to the back of his noggin improved his hairdo.

And did not hesitate to tell us any of this.

[Disclaimer: I am not Kelly Osborne.]

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Doing what I do best

I left for work at 7:20 this morning. I was supposed to leave at 7:15.

The drive to work is an hour, though it doesn’t seem that long. Time passes quickly while I fret about all of the miles I’m putting on my Stella.

Work is fine. The last week has been so busy that I don’t have time to regret that I am not Paris Hilton and, instead, have to work a real job like a real person. Instead of bemoaning my unfortunate birth into the upper-middle class, I spend approximately three hours per day on the phone with Jeremy, the company’s tech wiz. As we’ve just moved into our new building, Jeremy has had a lot to set up, fix and rig into working order. And, when he calls to make remote repairs, he always asks to speak to me. And won’t let me off of the line.

I fear that I am unknowingly fulfilling some scandalous fantasy of his.


I’ve been working late. I hate it, but it can’t be avoided.

On my drive home today, I saw Geraldo Rivera driving a late-model Cavalier. I cannot verify the accuracy of this sighting.

I went to my gym straight from work.

And then I came home to blog about the INEXCUSABLY short number of hours in the day.

Having 90 minutes at home before I need to go to bed isn’t cutting it.

I want to go to the gym. I want to eat dinner. I want to do laundry. I want to work on a knitting project. I want to watch Laguna Beach on MTV. I want to be embarrassed about watching Laguna Beach on MTV. I want to go swimming. I want to work on a book or the latest issue of Rolling Stone. I want to talk to Lucy and Aviva on the phone. I want to stop by Grandma’s house because I know it will make her happy. I want to go to Dairy Queen with Meg. I want to put my cell phone in its charger the minute I get home and have it finish charging by the time I go to bed. I want to paint my toenails. I want to bake cookies. I want an evening, not a few minutes.

I need to dump this work bullshit off of my schedule.

I need to marry rich.

Monday, August 01, 2005


Today was the first day in my new office -- the fresh-out-of-the-box facility that I was hired for.

An hour's commute seemed like nothing when I was hired.

Sure seems like a little somethin' somethin' now.

From this point forward, my blog will be comprised of:
a. play-by-play of my favorite morning show
b. detailed roadkill count
c. incoherent ramble (much like what I am poisoning your brain with this very second)
d. bitching
e. moaning
f. whining.

Get pumped.
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