Tuesday, May 31, 2005

The worst present ever

For her high school graduation, I bought my sister a six-month membership to our gym.

Stupidest. Move. Ever.

Meg started out like all of the rich bitches at the gym: taking classes. And then, because her brain is not wired like that of a normal female, she got a stupendous idea.

She’d join the boxing team and get hit in the face for fun.

Sweet!

So Meg went from spending an hour per day at the gym to spending every fucking spare moment of her time there.

Spending every fucking spare moment of her time at the gym translated into spending every fucking spare moment of her time with a lot of really, really shady characters.

Like her boxing coach.

Jay is 34.

Ahem. Let me repeat that.

Jay is 34.

Jay is 34 and, one year after Meg joined our gym, Jay and Meg “hang out” every day. Somehow neither of them think that there’s anything wrong with this. An 18-year-old and a 34-year-old can be just the best of friends! Sure, she’s essentially a kid. Sure, he’s divorced and has a kid and a live-in girlfriend. Sure, she is always lying about what she does with Jay. Sure, she skanks out before she goes out with Jay. Sure, they’re just pals. It’s normal!

I hate it. Oh, baby Jesus, do I hate it.

The age thing – it’s weird. Yes, it is. But it isn’t what bothers me.

What bothers me is that Jay is a professional thug [a “bodyguard” for a man who isn’t anyone but happens to get off on gambling huge sums of cash]. I am unsettled by Jay’s fantastic stories – he was born so big that he was eating solid food within a week of being born! He’s boxing in Germany! His boxing match in Germany, suddenly cancelled because the guy he was supposed to fight was murdered by the Russian mafia! But Meg sits on his lap (literally) and eats it all up.

And babysits his kid.

It’s hard for me to look past what’s happening with Jay and Meg. Letting my sister maker her own mistakes is proving to be infuriatingly slow. He strings her along. She is constantly nipping at his heels.

And I am constantly biting my tongue.

The nurse told me I have good veins

I did a good thing today. I gave blood.

Okay. Giving blood was, technically, the only notable activity of my day.

If you don’t count getting terribly excited about the Deep Throat story.

Monday, May 30, 2005

Off the mark

The Three-Day Weekend, unfortunately, was only able to maintain its charm through two days.

Monday, Memorial Day, was sunny and warm and I didn't fit into the dress I'm to wear in my cousin Liz's wedding and more muck was stirred by Uncle Ed's grandiose plan for my life.

And so The Three-Day Weekend ends in tears.

Fitting.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Proof that I'm a working girl

I am a HUGE fan of The Three-Day Weekend. My love is fanatical. I am all over this shit.

The Three-Day Weekend is occupied with tasks that do not fit in The Two-Day Weekend.

And, with that exceptional forward, I present to all of you:

The List o’ Activities That Would Not Fit Into A Two-Day Weekend And Wouldn’t Fit Into A Three Day Weekend, Either, Except Colin (that fucker) Is Out Of Town:

1. The viewing of Pretty Woman
2. The knitting of a purse
3. The purchasing of the ultimate pair of jeans that ohmygod make me look so skinny and so tall and just like the love child of Anna Kournikova and John F. Kennedy
4. The pickling of my brain via 90 straight hours of MTV’s True Life
5. The fantastical fun that is a putting and chipping lesson with my dad
6. The tripling, in one night, of the amount of sleep I get over the course of a regular (read: shitty) workweek

And tomorrow morning I’m having breakfast with Kevin!

I seriously could, like, die.

Friday, May 27, 2005

My aunt is Bette Midler

My aunt Lynn called me last night, crying.

Crying frigging tears of joy, for God’s sake.

Little Paulie passed his paper.
Little Paulie passed his English class.
Little Paulie is graduating.

And, according to Aunt Lynn, it was all because of me.

And I had thought that all I’d done was write a lousy English paper! Ha! My influence cannot be minimized in such a fashion! I do not give myself enough credit! I did not write a paper; I inspired! I pushed Paul into the arms of greatness!

Paul passed his math exam because of me.
Paul passed his English exam because of me.
Paul passed his government exam because of me.
Paul passed his marketing exam because of me.
Paul passed his physics exam because of me.

[That clever little jock passed physical education on his own.]

I was the wind beneath his wings.

And I was the safety net beneath Aunt Lynn’s optimistic decision to mail out Paul’s graduation announcements.

Oh. And speaking of Paul’s graduation announcements. We’re having a party for him.

I was thinking you might want to make some desserts for the party.

Wouldn’t that be fun?

Really better left unsaid

Colin stopped by my house last night to borrow a movie. And he was reunited with my dad, who he hasn’t seen in over a year.

They chatted. They promised that they would find time to go to the bar together. They shook hands and pretended that they were all adult and manly or whatever. Watching it was an out-of-body experience marked by a strong flavor of inbred, hometown weirdness.

And then my dad goes into his bedroom and says to my mother: “that Colin is a good looking young man.”

For real. He said that. He for real said that. Really. For really.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

I've named my thighs Thor and Thor, jr.

I think I'm getting fat.

Don't be alarmed. I always think that I'm getting fat. I am obsessed, in fact, with the constant fear that I am getting fat.

This is how I deal with the fear.

Day zero: Eat everything in sight in massive quantities.

Day one: Resolve not to eat everything in sight in massive quantities. Forget about resolve not to eat everything in sight in massive quantities by 10 a.m.

Day two: Have enormous breakfast then resolve to be better about not eating everything in sigh in massive quantities. Have small lunch. Have enormous snack after work. Eat dinner an hour later.

Day three: Eat mostly fruit and vegetables. Constantly. Upon realization that you've eaten everything in your sight in massive quantities, question whether diet is reasonable and/or necessary.

Day four: Eat well. Eat healthy. Do not starve self. Do not snack arteries into bypass surgery.

Day five: Weep with equal parts joy and pain as mother grandly unveils a FIVE (5) FUCKING POUND bag of sour gummy bears, purchased for you. And you only.

Day six: Emit muffled (mouth is full of sour gummy bears) squeal as Norwegian troll grandma brings over a plateful of chocolate cupcakes.

Day seven: Spend in sugar coma.

Day eight: Eat everything in sight in massive quantities.

Day nine: Resolve not to eat everything in sight in massive quantities.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Red Flags

You know you work in the sports industry when your boss unknowingly calls you by the same nickname your high school soccer referred to you by.

You know you work in the sports industry when work tardiness is addressed as “starting the game shorthanded.”

You know you work in the sports industry when employees are measured by their alma mater’s athletic prowess more than by its academic reputation.

You know you work in the sports industry when old equipment is the predominant form of interior decoration. Okay. It’s the only form of interior decoration.

You know you work in the sports industry when the company softball team’s scores, highlights and key performers are prominently featured in every week’s employee newsletter.

You know you work in the sports industry when the storage room smells like sweaty jock straps. Because that’s what it’s filled with.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Pain. Growth. Gain.

I’ve done a decent job, I think, of getting over the mistakes I made in my friendship with Jess.

I never thought that I would find a day when I didn’t think of her, of the lies that our friendship was founded in, of all of the bad I committed when I was trying to maintain good.

I fucked up enormously, no doubt. But I am more than my mistake. I can look in the mirror. It’s a relief.

I think about her...enough.

There were a lot of positives in our friendship. We were, as far as friends go, a good match. Had different decisions been made, had Fate blown her breezes differently, we could have been the best of friends. We were a lot alike.

We made the same mistakes.

I regret not showing her the truth: that there was no Good and no Evil. That her hands are not unsoiled. That she is not the victim, not the perpetrator, but an equal in a mistake that we – together – perpetuated.

It was both of us.

And I took the fall. And I stung with embarrassment. And I wallowed in the self-hatred.

And that’s fine.

I deserved it.

I’m a happier, better person because of it.

And that’s why I hope she suffered and learned, too.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Sweet redemption

Baby girl had a skating competition today. She won the silver.

It was a delightful contrast from last year, where, at the same competition, she finished in the basement.

Things just keep looking up.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Role model Saturday

Even on four hours of sleep, today was the Saturday that all Saturdays should look up to.

Sunny but not hot. Busy but not hectic.

I skated. I watched my cousin’s soccer game. I read a book. I got a little pink. Dinner with the fam at Dad’s country club.

Sunny but not hot. Busy but not hectic. Fun but not exciting.

The kind of Saturday that, pre-employment, I would have branded as boring.

Yeah. This work shit is really fucking with my better judgment.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Maybe I don’t know better

For the first time since high school, I’m playing outdoor soccer.

I was invited to play by a few girls I played indoor soccer against.

They were looking to add a couple more players to the team; I invited Heather.

Why can’t I just hate her?

Oh my God, do I want to. I want hate Heather.

And I can’t. I can’t because, somehow, we click. We clicked in elementary school, even though she made fun of me at Girl Scouts. We clicked in junior high, when she picked on my clothes. We clicked in high school; she was venomously jealous of me. We click now. And it’s always the same.

She treats me like shit and I harbor so much resentment and you get us together and...

...it’s like nothing ever happened.

It’s like we went to college and kept in touch. It’s like she didn’t throw me aside for a boyfriend only to come crawling, ungracefully, back into my life when they broke up. It’s like she didn’t break my heart when she tossed aside the news of my grandma’s death. It’s like I didn’t expend so much energy, fighting the poison of our toxic friendship.

I can’t hate her.

It infuriates me.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how far to let her back in.

How many times do you brush off the remnants of the past?

How many times do you forgive?

Thursday, May 19, 2005

She gets even better, Joe

My grandma, while a fulltime adorable Norwegian Troll, also moonlights as a pathological liar.

Grandma lies about everything. From the little (what she said to my grandpa when she caught him sneaking ice cream) to the big (when she was married in relation to when she popped out her first brat). She'll lie to anyone. Strangers, acquaintances, friends, relatives, her offspring.

And her grandchildren.

I know. It is brutal. I am scarred.

Por ejemplo:

I'm a kid. It's springtime. We're at the zoo, checkin' out the giraffes.

The giraffe exhibit is made authentic (and when I say authentic, I mean terribly corny) by a towering statue of an Egyptian pharaoh and his bitch that looked over the giraffes.

Meg, my cousins, Emma and Anna, and I were ogling over the giraffes when Grandma joined us at the fence, pointed at the statue and let us in on a family secret.

“That's me and Grandpa. We modeled for that.”

I didn’t need to hear the story. I was already pumped to go to school on Monday and throw the good news – my grandparents were motherfucking models! – in the faces of all of my lame-ass classmates.

Grandma was happy to elaborate.

They had just moved from Wisconsin.

My aunt was a baby; she was in a stroller.

They were standing by the giraffe exhibit, which was under construction, when they were stopped by a zoo-commissioned artist who asked them to sit for a sketch.

Which was used to make the statue.

The reason Grandma’s hand was like that – bent at the wrist, palm up, Walk Like an Egyptian-style – was because she was asking Grandpa for money.

Grandpa wore a towel on his head.

We believed it.

And told all of our friends.

And were all mighty pissed when, months later, the truth came out.

You cannot trust trolls.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Confession

On Wednesdays, I wish that I had a pet elf to blog for me.

A literary elf. My very own.

Not to be confused with my cute grandma, who is a troll.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

The apart part

While I’m currently working at my company’s corporate office, come August I will be moving to the office I was hired to work out of, which happens to be a brand spankin’ shiny new office in the brand spankin’ shiny new building that the company is in the midst of building.

Ta da!

It’s all very exciting. One of the reasons I was pumped about this job was that I was going to be blazing a trail, as the first one to hold this job. No need to conform to the inefficiencies of the idiot before me. Because there was no idiot before me. And no smarty-pants to measure up to, either.

Love that.

The new building, much to my chagrin, is an hour away from home. In an area that I’m quite unfamiliar with. With a lot of really crappy, congested roads en route.

The commute, I expect, will drive me to tears/chewing on my flesh/insanity/psycho-bitchdom within six working days.

Sooooooooo. I’m looking for apartments. And I’m pretty much excited about it.

Okay, fine. I am not so excited about the apartment as I am excited about shopping at IKEA to furnish it.

I think I’d be more excited about the actual apartment if:
a. I wasn’t paying for it.
b. I wasn’t leaving a house that is 2.5 miles from Colin’s to an apartment that will be a minimum of 15 miles away.
c. The thought of packing/unpacking didn’t make me projectile vomit.
d. Justin Timberlake was my roommate.

Monday, May 16, 2005

The voicemail and I

At my freshman orientation, there was a girl who wore her hair in unfortunately high ponytails. I remember thinking that she looked like a fool. The ribbon that she had tied in her hair, every frigging day of orientation, was equally unfortunate. The combined ponytail/ribbon effect made her look like a giant, mutant five-year-old.

Ribbon Girl and I were assigned to live in the same dorm during our freshman year.

She shocked the hell out of me by showing up on move-in day with a new hairstyle. Not a ponytail, not a bun, it hung off of her head looking something like a giant, hairy teardrop. But it still had the ribbon. The unfortunate ribbon.

Ribbon Girl wore her teardrop hair and her ribbon every day of our freshman year. When I saw her on campus as a sophomore, it was two pigtails and two matching ribbons. As juniors, it was a half-ponytail. And a ribbon. During our senior year, she wore her hair down and tied her ribbon as a headband.

If Ribbon Girl had anything, it was bad taste.

If she had anything else, it was a trademark.

But don’t we all?

My trademark is the incoherent, babbling, maybe-she-was-high-when-she-called messages I leave on everyone’s voicemail.

They are truly first class.

Colin gets my messages the most, because I call him the most. Lucy gets the strangest ones, because she likes all things strange. Aviva’s voicemail messages are cheerful, long and usually end with me squealing “I missssssssssssssssss yoooooooooooooooooou!”

When we first started...uh...doing whatever it is that we’re doing*, I think that my patented voicemail messages threw Colin for a loop. I talked too fast. My messages were too disjointed. He would call me back and say, “so. I know that you called me but I have no idea what you said.”

Oopsie!

But now, three months in, I can call Colin and explode verbal diarrhea all over his voicemail and he doesn’t flinch.

He obviously expects it. Probably adores it. Is likely charmed and amused by it.

I’m breaking him in to my strangeness.

Which makes me want to belt out into that song from The King and I.

“Getting to know you, getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me.
Getting to know you, putting it my way,
But nicely,
You are precisely,
My cup of tea.”

*I think what we’re doing is best classified as making ourselves insane while our relationship exists in the awkward limbo between friends and lovers, merely because we’re both too timid and afraid of seriously screwing something up to foster any sort of discussion on the subject.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Revision

Amendment to number 31:

I love a good love story. But they always make me feel melancholy.

Friday, May 13, 2005

10/2 [/1982]

I think that the break room here has some sort of magnetic charge. I’m drawn to the break room approximately 97 times per day (which works out to approximately 11.4 times per hour) for various reasons, but mostly because I like to eat and I do it, passionately, all the day long.

I was just in the break room (at least the 25th time since I’ve been here) and McPaper caught my eye. Why? Because that is what McPaper is supposed to do. Inform readers about the world? Eh. Secondary to bright colors and mindless graphs and – oooh la la! – American Idol reviews in the purple section!

McPaper, for those of you who weren’t communication/journalism majors, is USA Today. I hate USA Today not because my comm. professors told me to, but because it is always the only newspaper I can find when I’m traveling on the weekend and ohmygoodlord, could it be any more annoying to be forced to choose between reading a day-old newspaper and staring at my fellow passengers while they’re passed out at the gate, drooling on themselves and the pleather seats they're squeesed into?

Now that I am employed, I have come to appreciate McPaper. A little bit. I still mostly hate it. But, wow, when I catch a glimpse in the break room on my food runs, McPaper shoots me up with a cheerful burst of pop culture fluffiness! And, when I am at work, fluffy is exactly what I crave.

Except when I’m eating my lunch. Then I read a real newspaper. I like to digest real news with my meals. Call me gruesome.

This is the part where I start getting to the point of this entry.

I was just getting water and a banana and I meandered my way over to McPaper. I read an article on Lance Armstrong’s LiveSTRONG bracelets. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t even own one.

But that isn’t important.

What is important is that I learned that Nike is riding the LiveSTRONG wave into clothing and shoes. The line is going to be called 10/2, for the day in 1996 that Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with cancer.

October 2 is my birthday. I am painfully pleased that I will be able to buy athletic wear with my birth date plastered all over it.

I never said that I wasn’t easily amused.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Another family rant, for good posterity

I was in a meeting yesterday when my aunt, Lynn, called and left a cryptic message on my voicemail.

I thought someone was dead.

As it turned out, nobody was dead. But my cousin? Definitive confirmation that he is embarrassingly lazy.

Aunt Lynn answered the phone panting and ranting.

Paul has the rough draft of a paper due in English class tomorrow!
His teacher called me and said that is failing!
If he doesn't turn in a good rough draft, he'll fail the class!
If he fails the class, he won't graduate!

Paul is my 17-year-old cousin, Aunt Lynn's only child. He's not stupid. He's lazy.

I promised Aunt Lynn that, because I am a selfless and awesome cousin and niece, I would gladly help him with his paper.

Aunt Lynn thanked me profusely.

And then she let slip the oh-so crucial detail that she neglected to tell me before I agreed to sign my evening away writing a high school research paper.

The teacher said that little Paulie had a half-page of his paper written; the majority of his classmates, however, had managed to churn out between five and seven pages.

Sweet.

I politely suggested that Aunt Lynn sit Paul's punk ass down and have him start writing the minute that he got home so that we would have more than 200 words to work with.

"I can't!" Aunt Lynn wailed.

Oh. How silly of me to assume that, because YOU ARE THE PARENT, you have some sort of pull and influence over your son. No wonder he's doing so well in class.

Take him to the library, I insisted. Make him write. Take him to Starbucks. Eliminate the distractions that are his computer (and email and AOL Instant Messenger) and the television and the refrigerator and his Xbox.

"He won't! I can't!" Aunt Lynn screeched. I imagine that her wails echoed through her office and pissed off her coworkers, even though they should probably be used to how frigging loud she is.

I threw up, gave up and hung up.

I went to soccer practice straight from work and to Paul's house straight from soccer practice. When I got there, at 8:15, I'd been out of the house for 13 hours.

And Paul had a whopping half-page.

What I wanted to do was beat some ass. What I did do, however, was clap my hands and squeal with feigned excitement and tell Paul all about how we were going to finish his paper and the world was going to continue to turn and he would graduate and everything would be swell.

We sat at the dining room table. We ate breadsticks and Greek salad. We wrote.

Well, not exactly.

I dictated. Paul typed what I dictated, even though I told him every seven seconds to rephrase my sentences into his own words.

We got it done. It is likely that Paul will graduate. I saved the day.

But I don’t feel good about it.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

My uncle the fuck

I went to Chicago to see my cousin.

I did NOT go to Chicago to get a job.

That probably doesn’t surprise many of you, since I haven’t kept the fact that I have a job a secret. Or since I haven’t shut up about my job since I got it. Whatever.

Although you wouldn’t know it, I haven’t kept the fact that I’m employed from my extended family, either.

Okay. Lets recap.

I HAVE A JOB.

And my uncle knew that I had a job when he invited me to a hockey game/business function that he’d be attending when I was in Chicago. Uncle Ed does advertising for a company in the field I work in; he said that he thought I could meet a few good connections.

Connections? Okay. We all need connections. And, in the future, I might need a new job.

Key word: future.

Not this month. And this month was exactly what was proposed to me.

Which fucking pisses me off.

I have a job and I am offended that my uncle thinks that I am enough of a spineless douche bag to even entertain the idea of leaving my company (which is great and treats its employees exceptionally well) after a MONTH because something that sounded slightly better came along.

And my night was ruined because my uncle is too pussy to tell me that he thinks that I’m selling myself short at my current job. He would rather dress me up and throw me to schmooze with the wolves.

Which leads me to this life lesson: when attempting to run someone else’s life, be direct about it.

If you are my uncle, you should just tell me that you think that I’m wasting away my life and the education I got at the school that I was too stupid to go to. Let me stay in my sweatpants and away from your business associates.

Use words. Use logic. And go to hell.

Monday, May 09, 2005

A case of the Mundays

I just knocked my dad’s cell phone off of the counter and into the dogs’ water dish.

Which sums up my entire day pretty well, actually.

I am not functioning well. I am tired. I am crabby. And, ever since I woke up from my nap, I’ve wanted to cry.

I’m starting the week off on the right foot.

I’m pissed off at something that my uncle did on our trip to Chicago. That’s all I’m going to say, because he sucks so badly that he deserves an entire entry devoted to what an incredibly large prick he is.

I’m bitchy because I’m exhausted, because I haven’t seen Colin in over a week, because I can’t meet my unreasonable demands for perfection.

And, because the majority of my sleep came in the backseat of a Navigator with a seatbelt buckle lodged in my back, I am not coping very well. All of tonight’s interactions with fellow humans have left me on the edge of tears with the insatiable desire to chew off someone’s face.

So let us all thank the good lord that the new Dave Matthews Band CD is coming out tomorrow.

Otherwise I would be writing this with human flesh on my breath.

Preferably my uncle’s.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Century

1. I don’t know how to do the hustle.
2. I wear a size 7 ½ shoe but a size 6 skate. That isn’t unusual.
3. I like being busy.
4. In sports, I always wear number 2 on the back of my jersey.
5. I have a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone.
6. Squirrels frighten me.
7. The photo I had taken of me standing between Anna Kournikova and her then-husband Sergei Fedorov is one of my most prized possessions.
8. I only wear Wonderbras and Champion Double Dry sports bras.
9. I had surgery to repair a hernia. When I was four.
10. In high school, I was a Viking.
11. In college, I was a Wolverine.
12. I tell people that my dad loves my sister more than he loves me, even though I know that isn’t true.
13. I sprained my ankle in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.
14. There are 19 letters in my full name.
15. I’ve never seen Forrest Gump.
16. I went to the same university that my mom and my aunt graduated from; my sister and my cousin go there now.
17. I like to eat raw oatmeal.
18. I have a favorite truck stop.
19. I sleep with socks on.
20. My legs are a little too muscular; I call them my linebacker legs.
21. My checkbook is always balanced.
22. I hate making phone calls.
23. Until I was 20 years old and went on a stretching binge, I couldn’t touch my toes.
24. Tall, full bookshelves make me giddy.
25. I am fucking AWESOME at spending money.
26. One summer, I babysat for four boys. Two were identical twins.
27. Watching strangers say goodbye to their loved ones at the airport makes me cry.
28. I drink more coffee than I should.
29. I wear Clinique makeup.
30. I hate hot weather.
31. I love a good love story.
32. My dad’s nickname for me is Cashew.
33. As a kid, I wanted to grow up to be a librarian.
34. Traveling is one of my favorite pastimes, but it always feels great to come home.
35. I don’t like American cheese.
36. I have dry skin.
37. If I had been a boy, I would have been named Kyle.
38. I’m uncomfortable in churches.
39. Free t-shirts are my favorite.
40. I don’t mind getting up early.
41. I secretly like being short.
42. I owned Bend It Like Beckham on DVD before it was in theatres in North America; I bought a foreign edition on eBay.
43. I love bookstores.
44. I’m glad to be thin.
45. Paying my bills online makes me feel smart and powerful.
46. As a kid, I was a horrible jump roper.
47. I should be more embarrassed by the amount I swear.
48. I work 8:30-5:00.
49. I track my weight and my period in my planner.
50. I am right-handed, right-footed and right-brained.
51. People always think my name is Jessica.
52. My parents didn’t have me baptized.
53. I’m 5’2”, but, proportionally, my legs are quite long.
54. I’m a virgin.
55. I can’t sing.
56. In social settings, I tend to talk too much about my family, forcing those I’m with to think that I am a freak.
57. I love the smell of ice rinks and papers straight out of the copy machine.
58. I can name the 50 states in alphabetical order.
59. I named my sister.
60. I’m easily forgotten.
61. I vote Democrat.
62. I am constantly preoccupied with the paranoia that I have something enormous, black and furry lodged between my front teeth.
63. I don’t look my age.
64. I wear my college class ring every day.
65. Nothing fires me up like a good deal.
66. My birthday is 14 days before my dad’s.
67. I have hideously ugly feet.
68. I am the second oldest grandchild on my mom’s side of the family; I’m the third oldest on my dad’s side.
69. In the last six months, I have developed an insatiable hunger for motherhood.
70. I have been in one wedding; my cousin’s November nuptials will double my total.
71. I have my mom’s nose.
72. Due to my dad’s profession, I’ve driven every vehicle that Ford, Lincoln and Mercury has produced since I turned 16. And then some.
73. I never hit the snooze button on my alarm clock.
74. I was a Girl Scout.
75. I’ll never be wealthy.
76. I dislike soda.
77. I’m good with kids.
78. I only paint my nails with L’Oreal Jet-Set polish, because I can’t stay still long enough for traditional nail polish to dry.
79. I get up at 6:15 on every morning but Sunday.
80. Making friends does not come natural to me.
81. My job sounds more interesting and important than it really is.
82. I cannot fucking wrap presents to save my soul.
83. I’m a feminist.
84. Nothing pisses me off quite as much as when my parents do my laundry, even though I don’t want them to do it, and they do it wrong.
85. I can recite a Norwegian table prayer.
86. I like things clean and simple.
87. I can make a mean motherfucking batch of cookies.
88. Low self-esteem is an issue for me.
89. I like a set routine.
90. Missing a day of blogging really pisses me off.
91. My smile is crooked and toothy.
92. In college, I lived in room numbers 5424 and 201 and apartment 15.
93. I have been on two cruises; both vacations were on Royal Caribbean Voyager-class ships. They had ice rinks.
94. Ice rinks, on cruise ships and on land, make me happy.
95. I spoke on behalf of her grandchildren at my grandma’s funeral.
96. I laugh too loud.
97. My bedroom has two doors.
98. My name is spelled with a Y because my mom’s is.
99. Writing consecutive sentences that start with I makes me queasy.
100. It took me a month to make this list.

Friday, May 06, 2005

I need a body double who doesn't look like me

My worst fear has come to fruition.

I have to have a headshot taken for my job.

Which will to go the marketing girl.

And make her giggle.

Marketing Girl will put it on the company website.

And then my white trash high school classmates will google me (if they can
turn on a computer).

And then they will laugh. Probably for hours.

And then they'll open my headshot in Paint and draw a penis on my cheek.

I have never been so sure of something in all my 22 years.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

The friends and family plan

My dad told me tonight that he was proud of me.

When I asked him why, he told me that it was because I’m a good little hockey player.

...tonight was our last game, so he must have been feeling guilty about how overmatched I was all season.

But then he told me that he was proud of me because I had nice friends.

“They’re nice kids. And they like you a lot.”

Which felt really, really good to hear.

On the boy front

We are moving blissfully slow.

I feel fortunate. I am smitten. I am not his girlfriend. I am happy.

I know my luck. I look for potential sources of problems. I try to anticipate because I want to be prepared. This is new; I am happy. If the rug is pulled out from under me, I want to smell it coming. I want to know. I want to brace myself.

I’m a pessimist.

I don’t think he’ll hurt me.

But I fret.

Because that’s what I do.

Our education levels come up too much; that’s my worry of the week.

Colin didn’t graduate from college; I went to the best one in the state and graduated in four years with two majors.

You read books, he’ll say. You’re educated.

It’s an honest observation. Completely devoid of envy or intimidation or annoyance. Maybe he says it because I’m a novelty; his friends and acquaintances aren’t college grads, either. Maybe he says it because it’s impossible to ignore the sore thumb. Maybe he says it because he knows that I’m proud. Maybe he says it because he’s proud of me.

He doesn’t outwardly care. He shouldn’t outwardly care.

He shouldn’t inwardly care, either.

But I’m afraid that he does.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

National Lampoon's Mother's Day Vacation

My mom is capitalizing on her Mother’s Day and is making me (and the rest of the famiglia) go to Chicago this weekend.

After hinting at my disinterest, reciting dramatically long lists that detailed 73 legitimate reasons for me to stay at home and, eventually, flat-out refusing, I have realized that Mom is not hearing me.

On purpose.

Of course. It’s a mom specialty. Smart bitches! Clearly, mothers weren't honored with a holiday just for carrying their children for nine months and being forced to suffer through their children's bullshit for the rest of their lives.

Yeah.

So I’m going to Chicago to see (this is going to be confusing):
1. My aunt, my uncle and my two cousins
2. My cousin
3. My aunt and my uncle
4. A play
5. The inside of my eyelids for long stretches of time.

Elaboration:
1. My aunt, my uncle and their two kids live in Chicago.
2. My cousin is living in Chicago temporarily. She’s an actor; the musical she’s in is in Chicago for a few months. She's not related to my Chicagoan aunt/uncle/cousins, but she lived with them one summer.
3. My aunt and my uncle live 25 minutes from my house. They’re also visiting their daughter, the actress, this weekend.
4. Cousin. Actor. Hello.
5. I’ve given up fighting with my mom because I need an excuse to sleep. Providing Dad doesn’t feel the need to blast the Aerosmith, I will be drooling heavily in the backseat.

I’m excited about:
1. Sleeping
2. Seeing Cousin’s musical
3. Shopping at H&M

Before we leave on Saturday:
1. I sure as fuck better find a Mother’s Day present for The Mom.

The end of this post:
Abrupt, isn't it?

Monday, May 02, 2005

From the head of a zombie

I could really go for a few more hours in the day.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Today, it’s my back

My body constantly hurts.

I realize that I bring it on myself, with soccer and hockey and walking into stationary objects and skating and wearing excessively high heels and boxing at the gym.

But it is not fun and I will never be okay with it.
 
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