Thursday, June 30, 2005

I am cheap

Today, I learned that Nicole Ritchie was a figure skater. Quite a talented one, at that.

So now I have some amount of respect for her.

And I would classify that as scary.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

A rush of blood to the nether regions

I fucking love blogs.

At the company I work for, we don’t have mailroom staff. The company is relatively small, so it isn’t really an issue. But it becomes a tad bit irritating when you’re mailing 17,485 postcards, the intern is working at another office and throwing tempter tantrums in the office is highly frowned upon.

I spent today, as well as half of yesterday, bumbling between my desk and the mailroom. In the mailroom, I sweet-talked the Pitney Bowes machines. At my desk, I read the Virginity Monologues.

Which I am in love with.

Okay, so maybe it is really nice to read that I’m not the only virgin over the age of 20. And it’s comforting to read that you can be intelligent and sassy and beautiful and write a fine blogging specimen and still be a virgin.

For some time, I’ve thought that I was either the exception to the rule or not half as fabulous as I convinced myself I was.

Perhaps I’ve been wrong.

Because, as it turns out, wanting to get The Event over and done with isn’t all that unusual. Wanting It with a boyfriend-type (Q. what sort of guy would willingly want to take on that project? A. creepy), instead of with a random on a drunk, sloppy debacle of an evening maybe isn’t all that fucked up and deranged after all. Who knew?!

Not this virginal little, um, virgin.

And, you know, while we’re on the subject, I read in Blender that Chris Martin – lead singer of Coldplay, husband of Gwyneth Paltrow, daddy of Apple – was a virgin until 22.

Seems like he turned out pretty successful. The Grammys and such.

This leads me to believe that there may be some hope in the world.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

A sound like someone trying not to make a sound

Tonight, my mom asked me why I don’t write books like John Irving.

So, first, let us pause here and recognize the fact that I am not John Irving. I have not lived his life. I have never wrestled. I did not go to Exeter. I have no fascination with little people. I have experienced my fair share of farting Labs but something tells me that the ripe asses of family pets was not the sole ingredient to Irving’s success.

What Mom meant when she asked me what I don’t write books like John Irving was why, precisely, I don’t write books like John Irving.

As in putting words onto paper and having other people read your words and getting your name on a cover and, thus, making Mother proud.

It’s not the first time my mom has told me to write a book. And she’s not the first person to suggest it.

I hear it a lot, actually.

I tend to smile at the suggestion before extinguishing it with my doubts. Books are so long. Books take so much dedication. Books are born of ideas. Books take time. Books require skill.

But I think that I could do it.

But I don’t say that.

I say that I wasn’t meant to be an author. The subject is quickly replaced with college football and the local GAP with the best clearance rack. Safe things. My preference.

And while we snicker at the mere thought of Britney Spears tackling motherhood, I toss around authorship in the back of my head.

It has a good weight to it.

The heat makes me bitchy

You know how spring was just, like, so unbelievably absolutely totally amazing?

Seven days in: summer fucking blows.

On the Colin front.

On the heat front.

Oh the my darling baby sister, Meg, is acting like a psychotic teenage werewolf front.

And on the everything else front.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Phone tag

Over the weekend, my mom had to track down my grandma and grandpa on their boat (a 40' sailboat that they keep on the sixth, unofficial, Great Lake about an hour from our houses). The first time Mom called Grandma and Grandpa was to tell them that a friend and neighbor of over 40 years had died. The second time Mom called was to tell them that Grandpa's brother had died.

Unbelieveable.

Due to location (we live five minutes from my grandma's house) and last name (six letters, is spelled just as it sounds), my mom is a lot easier to track down in the phonebook than her sisters. And so she breaks the bad news.

Which gives me a legitimate reason to marry someone with a surname more uncommon than the man my sister marries.

I'm a thinker. Yes, yes I am.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Dear Everyone

Meet my new friend, Stella.



Thursday, June 23, 2005

Rememories

I feel like I probably should remember the day that a boy I was babysitting for pulled out a gun.

Until yesterday, I didn’t.

I was in the car with my mom and two of my aunts; we were talking about owning guns.

I didn’t even remember it until my mom brought it up.

I was in junior high; I was babysitting for friends of the family, as well as for my sister and my cousin, Paul. Kris, the youngest of the four, was frustrated. The big kids were being mean to him.

He went into his parents’ bedroom and came out with a handgun.

I don’t recall being scared. I yelled, I’m sure, but I don’t think that I punished him. Truthfully, I’m not sure that I realized how wrong it was.

Eventually – though it wasn’t that night and probably not the next day, either – I told my mom. I’m not sure why I waited. Mom thinks that it’s because I was trying to protect Kris. Maybe. I don’t know.

I don’t know because I don’t really remember.

And it kind of freaks me out.

It wasn’t just an evening of babysitting. It wasn’t another day.

It should have been awfully significant. For a girl who is afraid of guns. For me.

But I just filed it away.

It’s bewildering.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

I kneeded to play

My right knee has really been bothering me. It feels loose. Side-to-side movement is awkward and unsteady. I’m worried about it, to be honest. I’ve been around sports long enough to know that knees aren’t joints to fuck with.

Worried, yes.
Smart, no.

Despite persistent knee pain that lasted over a week, I played in my soccer game on Sunday.

To compensate for my gimpy knee, my hip worked extra hard.

[That’s how I translate the sharp, unbearable pain that I'm repeatedly stabbed with every time I move, anyway.]

The price to pay for playing in my game = going to bed with ice on my knee and on my hip.

Tax = going to bed with ice on my ankle, which is swollen, bruised and lacerated because some bitchass ho went in for the ball spikes up.

Shipping and handling = spending all of Monday limping around and restraining from a strong urge to vomit, a feeling sparked by my overdosing on ibuprofen and Tylenol to combat joint/muscle pain.

Hi, everyone! I’m a hot mess! Kill me now, please!

Sunday, June 19, 2005

We best

I love my family

Because, at Paulie's graduation party,

(which I was cocky enough to label my graduation party, too)

we played a fun game called

Name That Adjective for Uncle Paul's Drunkenness.

Stumbling drunk?

Slap happy drunk?

Rowdy drunk?

Meg thought he'd be shitfaced drunk.

I guessed he'd be sloppy drunk.

Aunt Becky suspected Uncle Paul to be a belligerent drunk.

Cousin Liz suggested hot mess drunk.

Dad predicted sleepy drunk.

He was obnoxious drunk.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Equation

Something magical happens when you put your best friend and your favorite musician in your new car and drive with no destination in mind.

I am so lucky.

And I’m not talking about the LS.

Sunnyside up

I am not sure anything will ever surpass the pure look of terror in my mom’s eyes when I walked into her bedroom and told her that my cousins, Max (5) and Paige (8), were awake.

It was 6:20.

She’s watching Max and Paige on Thursday nights and Fridays through the summer.

If she makes it through today.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

I know it's silly to cry over an object

My grandma has been dead for over two years. Her death tends to sucker punch me.

I found out today that Meg had been at my grandma’s house, which remains unsold because Dad and his siblings are shuffling through township bureaucracy to get her lot split.

She was there with Jay, who is her boxing coach/boy toy and the object of the most dislike for a single human being that I can muster up.

Jay just broke up with his live-in girlfriend. He’s moving out of the house that they were renting together.

And my fucking parents are going to let him live in my grandma’s house.

He’s 34 years old and fucking around with their 18-year-old daughter. And they’re going to do him a favor. A huge favor. He’s 34 and doesn’t hold and steady job because he’s far too busy with the previously-mentioned fucking around with my previously-mentioned 18-year-old sister. Why is Jay's housing the concern of my parents? Why do they feel the need to take the responsibility to provide Jay with lodging? Why in Grandma’s house?

My grandma's house. So thick with memories that it smothers me when I drive past it.

Grandma's house, I know, must eventually belong to someone else. It will be a house filled with another family’s memories.

Letting go will be hard enough.

Letting go so that Jay can have a place of his own that he can screw around with my sister in is wrong. It’s wrong that I can feel.

I’ve already brought it up. I’ve already been blown off.

There’s nothing I can do.

Except cry myself to sleep tonight with the hope that I’ll feel better about it in the morning.

I really doubt that I will.

A button to push

Mother,

Next time you paint the living room, how about you not drip huge globs of paint onto my new soccer cleats?

Just an idea.

Love,
Your oldest

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Asshole test

In college one summer, I was lazy and the economy wasn't too great and I didn't have any other options, so I worked for my dad.

I'd worked for my dad intermittently in the past. Mostly I sat in his office and bitched about how bored I was and drove great distances to pick up his lunch. It was great.

One summer, however, I was actually expected to work. Like, all day and all summer. Dad was so serious about my being a legitimate employee and minimizing the number of times per day I asked him for money to buy food, in fact, that he set me up to work in the building across the street from his.

It was, like, so way shitty.

I dealt with irate Lincoln owners all day long.

Irate Lincoln owners, in case anyone was uncertain, are slightly more difficult to deal with than an irate Ford owner or an irate Mercury owner. This is because Lincoln owners think that, because their car was moderately expensive, they should be constantly showered with confetti and affection.

This is what makes them assholes.

Now, the moderately-expensive Lincoln owned by an asshole (as well as the moderately-expensive owned by a dainty, charming schoolteacher who doesn't have a mean bone in her body) sometimes needs service.

[All cars need service, as a matter of fact.]

It was my summer job to provide rental cars, free of charge, to any customer who wanted one while his or her car was in for service.

Seems straightforward enough, no? We had Lincolns. We had Mercurys. I filled out the paperwork, walked the customers around the cars, handed over the keys and sent them on their merry way.

Like it was ever that easy.

Here's the thing: there's only so many cars. Lincoln owners always had first priority but there were days (oh, so many days) when there weren't enough Lincoln rental cars to fill the number of Lincolns coming in for service.

What does that mean?

It means that a Lincoln owner would have to (gasp) drive a Mercury for, like, four hours.

This often created a huge problem.

Because when you are a Lincoln owner, you are way, way too good to drive a Mercury. And you will have no qualms about standing at the rental counter and yelling about how they truly are too high class to even consider driving anything other than a Lincoln, even for four hours.

For the first few weeks of my job, I blanketed all Lincoln owners as snooty assholes who wouldn't, couldn't and shouldn't ever be subjected to the disrespect that was my suggestion that they drive a lesser vehicle.

But, with very few exceptions, there are two types of Lincoln owners:
1. those who can afford their vehicles.
2. those who cannot

If you cannot really afford your Lincoln, you bought it for the status. You bought to say that you drive a Lincoln. You bought it so people look at you at stoplights. You can’t handle not being A Lincoln Driver, thus you cannot handle driving a Mercury for a day while your vehicle is in service.

If you can afford your Lincoln, you don’t give a damn if you have to drive a Mercury because you’re just happy to have a free rental car to get you to work. You’re what I would classify as a decent human being.

Because of my thrilling experience in the rental department, it seems awfully ironic that my very first brand new car paid for with my own money will be a Lincoln LS.

And I’ll even be able to afford it.

But that’s a whole different story.

For now, let’s tackle the important issue: what color should I get?

Monday, June 13, 2005

The reluctant jockette

I’m playing softball now.

My work has a co-ed softball team; I was asked to join in April but kindly declined because I have no hand-eye coordination. But, because I possess Godlike intelligence and instinctively knew that co-ed teams generally have an X-number-of-girls-on-the-field rule, I told the captain of the softball team that I would be glad to stand on the field anytime they were short on vaginas.

Which, unfortunately, has been a regular occurrence. And I should’ve realized this when they gave me a jersey (which, at size XL, is often mistaken for a sassy dress) to keep at the first game I subbed at.

So now we’re up to six sports.

[Mom, thank the Almighty that I wasn’t bit by the I’m a Multi-Sport Superstar bug until after I passed my driver’s test.]

Let’s review the list:
Figure skating
.
Soccer.
Softball.
Kickboxing workouts at the gym.
Golf.
Hockey.

Yet I am still baffled, on a daily basis, by my lack of free time. What I want to do, every night when I get home from work, is collapse on the couch and sleep for 13 hours. What I opt for instead is peeling my sweaty high heels off of my feet and replacing them with athletic apparel.

It exhausts me. But, secretly, I like it. Transitioning straight from running at the office to running for exercise drains my batteries. I’m asleep two seconds after I fall asleep. I don’t move until my alarm clock screams me out of bed.

I’ve found that exhaustion handily squashes late night fretting.

Exercise-induced exhaustion, anyway. The good kind.

Second only to a bloating-induced food coma, I’d wager.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Happy Awkward Sunday

I was in Colin’s bed last night when I pulled away from him and promised that things would be awkward between us today.

He scoffed. Hardly, Al. Why would things be awkward?

I thought of a dozen reasons and shared none.

Colin and I, we’re not together together. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not his girlfriend. We’re friends and we talk every single day and neither of us would deny the obvious-like-a-flashing-neon-light tension between us. It’s there on the phone. It’s there in the emails we exchange during the workday. It’s there in person, spitting in our faces and pinching the back of our arms.

We don’t do anything about the tension. We’ve never discussed; we haven’t defined. We pretend it isn’t happening. We feign a platonic friendship and convince absolutely no one. Especially ourselves.

More days than not, we won’t even kiss. Why would we? Friends don’t kiss; friends are what we pretend to be.

There are nights when our flimsy tent of denial topples and I end up in his room. Hands and lips everywhere, the temporary state of the situation hangs over us. We are only together when the stars align. We can only last until the sun rises on a day that I know as Awkward Sunday. Aptly named, because it truly is.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Ground

It breaks my heart when I consider what my priorities were five minutes ago and what they are now, having just learned that a kid I went to high school with – a kid who had leukemia when we were in junior high – has been diagnosed with tongue cancer. He started chemotherapy this week; today he had his tongue removed.

He’s 23.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Would you like a blog full of useless babble?

Yes, you would.

I went to summer camp today. The timing of my company’s retreat/bonding day was just too perfect. When I skipped out of bed this morning and slathered myself in sunscreen, I could taste sixth grade camp and smell elementary school field days. It felt just like the end of the school year.

Okay. So, technically, it is the end of the school year. And the end of my first year out of school and the start of my first summer working full-time. Hi. This sucks.

Sarah asked me if I didn’t blog this weekend because I was with Colin. No. Unfortunately not. Actually, I spent last week and a good part of the weekend thinking that Colin and I were on the outs. Thankfully, it looks like we’re getting past that. But what the fuck do I know?

I bought my sister a Netflix subscription for her birthday. So now would be the time for ya’ll to send me lists of all of the movies I absolutely must see.

My latest reads: Kate DiCamillo’s The Tale of Despereaux and Tiger Rising. DiCamillo, the author of Because of Winn Dixie, writes absolutely enchanting children’s books. I read her books and I have two reactions: first, I want to cry, second, I want to write a children’s book myself.

I wanted to buy Coldplay’s new album today, but I never got around to it.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll skate before I go to work. Immediately after work, I will go to soccer practice. Busy.

I hate that there isn’t enough time for me to do all of the things that I want to do and learn all of the things that I want to learn and be with all of the people that I want to spend time with. I fill every second of my days and I can only cross half of the objectives off of my list.

I really need to look into becoming less ambitious.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Hot, hot, hot

Seeing as how it’s hit 90 degrees yesterday and today, I think that it’s safe to say that we’ve skipped spring and transitioned straight to summertime. Not to shine my own shoes but – this weather is so midwestern.

I don’t do hot weather very well.

80+ makes me sluggish and crabby. I’m hot; I’m uncomfortable. I itch. I’m unmotivated. I reek of sunscreen. I want to claw my eyes out.

We don’t have air conditioning.

It makes me bitchy.

Mom and Dad have refused to install air conditioning for the last 12 years. Because we live on a lake, they claim, we should have the windows and doors open.

Because we live in the 21st century, I argue, we should have air conditioning so that I do not have to be reduced to a sweaty heap of flesh for four months of the year.

I seriously hate it.

I had my first outdoor soccer game yesterday. Oh, how typical for it to be 90 degrees for my first outdoor game in five years. And for the grass to be long enough for it to feel like I was running through knee-deep mud.

But I scored a goal.

A pretty goal. The first for my team, in fact.

And after I scored, I nearly crawled off the field, choosing to collapse onto the bench instead of basking in my glory and immediately gunning for another.

Seriously. I hate the heat.

I hate the heat enough to fully appreciate the storm that crashed through the county last night, despite the fact that it poured into the open windows and doors and left Colin without power and enough traffic lights out to make me late for work this morning.

It cooled the situation down.

For a while, anyway.

Until I went to bed and it got muggy and I tossed and turned and sweated through a hor-or-or-rible sleep.

I’m tired!

Which is why I’m bitchy.

No. Revise.

It’s part of the reason I’m bitchy.

Other reasons:
1. My computer at work died a fast, horrible death at 9:35 this morning.
2. I like to be bitchy.
3. My dinner tonight was, like, really icky gross.
4. My Aunt Lynn and Uncle Paul are here and won’t leave.
5. I hate the heat.

So there you go.

And while we’re on the subject of heat: GO PISTONS.

Gah

Mondays that leave you with the distinct feeling that you're bleeding from the head?

Not my favorite.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Piling on

It’s going to be a long time before I can top today on the weirdness scale.

I’m driving home today and I see this man on the side of the road, carrying a red gasoline canister. Poor bastard ran out of gas.

Poor bastard is smoking a cigarette while carrying a canister of gas back to his car.

Now, you can be a stranger and have no respect for your own life. That’s your business. But when you’re enough of a jackass carry around a lit cigarette and a canister of gas while you’re walking alongside a busy road, that’s where I draw the line. That’s where I blog about you.

And then I come home to this:



The kid who lives two houses down is a senior, right? Tonight is prom.

Why I was surprised to find that a colony of tents had sprouted by the lake, I am not so sure.

Tonight, a bunch of high schoolers are going to get laid. On prom night. Practically in my back yard.

I waffle between finding it excessively humorous and sadly disturbing.

But them there kids sure are a’higher on my list than Gasoline Man.

As is Colin, who finally called me.

As is my favorite communications professor, who made my day simply by being quoted in the New York Times.

But if you cross me, I'll hate you, too

Dear Colin,

WHEN YOU DON’T CALL ME FOR FOUR DAYS, IT MAKES ME WANT TO RUN YOU OVER WITH A TRUCK AND/OR A LARGE SUV (but not a Hummer because those, like, really annoy me).

Yes, we might exchange 931 emails per day while we’re at work. But – sorry, assface – emails aren’t calling. Not even close. Emails scream “you’re the only one of my friends who has a real job and can email back and forth with me all the day long.” And, indeed, I am the only one of his friends who has a real job and can email him back and forth all the day long. So that doesn’t count. Because, of course, I am better and more entertaining than doing work. But am I good enough to cut into 10 minutes of playing poker with your friends?

I honestly don’t know.

AND FOR THAT, YOU ARE A BASTARD.

-----------------------------------------------------

Dear Bitch Who Writes Horoscopes,

Stop fucking with my head.

I am pissed at Colin and I decided that I would make myself feel better by being undeniably immature and intentionally neglecting to respond to any of his stupid emails.

I had my mind all made up. So, since you’re psychic or a good guesser or whatever you should have already known that TODAY WAS NOT THE DAY to write “if you are quick to respond to someone you are totally attracted to, you can take this relationship to a whole new level.”

-----------------------------------------------------

Dear everyone else,

I don’t have you.

So you’ve got that goin’ for you.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Sound advice

If you’re, by far, the weakest player on a soccer team that consists of women who have played their entire lives, it is inadvisable to send out a group email asking if your friend can join the team under these conditions:
1. You describe your friend as being an “awesome” player.
2. The aforementioned friend has never played soccer before.

Come on.

Stupid moves like that make me want to trip you in line.
 
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