-Carrie Bradshaw
Mmkay kids, I’m going to be real honest with you right now.
If you call me within the next few months and my life is largely similar to how it is today, and you ask me to go have dinner or drinks or take in a movie or an Il Dolce gelato…I gotta tell ya, I’m going to have to say no. No hem, no haw; just a good ol’ fashion, cut to the chase, grow-a-pair-and-just-say-it: NO.
It’s not you though. It’s me.
And I’m not breaking up with you I SWEAR; it’s seriously not like that. I just think I need some time alone to think about where I am…you know, in life. Don’t say I’m bullsh*tting you, and don’t think my feelings for you have changed. This is simply a matter of personal need; a sabbatical from dating if you will, and when I say “dating” I mean “hanging out in any capacity that isn’t entirely and absolutely free.”
Because OH YES THAT’S RIGHT MY FRIENDS…
Frankie is in the Poorhouse.
(Le sigh.)
I am using this blog-post to turn a private matter public; to make all y’all who think pestering me to order another Riesling or join you at Benvenuti’s is a harmless pastime feel dreadfully bad right now. I know you mean well. I do. Especially all of you who took to kidnapping me following the Demonic Day of Doom; I truly appreciate it and probably needed it (though I did not need all those Oreos). But from this point forward, it’s over. This madness of spending - this constant hemorrhaging from my savings has GOT TO END. I just can’t take it anymore.
I’m a graduate student, people. A Full. Time. GRADUATE STUDENT. And yes, OU is paying me to go to school, but let me assure you they aren’t shelling out 6-figures for me to sit on my ass in the Gaylord library and Facebook all the livelong day. Life ain’t that sweet I’m afraid. And yes, I have enough money to pay rent and purchase groceries and buy my 18-bajillionth lip gloss when I’m feeling blue (or frisky). But that is the extent of it; that is where my fountain of funds runs dry. Theretofore, this seemingly unbreakable relationship between socializing and spending money simply cannot continue. It’s just not good for me (and it’s not good for you either, as I’m apt to completely lose it one day and snap you and your Chase Rewards Card in half).
In case you need proof, Example 1 of my Poordom: As of last week I was so financially strapped that I actually considered selling my blood plasma. My LIFE JUICE, for God’s sake! I got my latest hospital bill for the Boobotomy from Hell (another story for another day), and I thought to myself “yep…selling my bodily fluids.” That is just SAD.
(The only reason I’m not doing it is because of this right here. Be forewarned; it’s heinous and will make you want to tuck your fists up under your chin and never unbend your arms…ever, ever again.)
In case you need more proof, Example 2 of my Poordom: I was standing in the seemingly endless line at Victoria’s Secret, just itching to spend money on unmentionables for an upcoming lingerie shower. (When broke and newly single, it is a sheer delight to buy expensive panties for somebody else’s eminent marital-romps-in-the-hay. There’s simply no greater pleasure.) So I was standing there, and I heard the cashier say to her customer “did you try on the What’s-Its-Face bra today? If so, you get $5 off your purchase!” And I stopped, and I thought “hmmmm…what was the name of that bra again?” Because even though I’d stood in line for 7 years, and even though the last thing I wanted was to endure a personalized Victoria’s Secret bra-fitting (Satan!), I was actually considering popping out of line to try on the What’s-Its-Face bra. To save 5 dollars. FIVE. DOLLARS.
(I didn’t do it…I never could remember the name. Probably for the best though, because I used to work at Victoria’s Secret and those bitches are FIERCE. If they had figured out I was playing them, it’s likely they’d have strangled me with their hot pink measuring tapes.)
So I beg of you, comrades: don’t make fun of your friend Frankie the next time she orders a diet coke at The Library. And don’t get fussy when I have water on our coffee dates…and don’t glare at me and think I’m on a starvation diet when I order chicken broth for lunch. I’m not trying to be inconsiderate, and I’m definitely not aiming to be the next MK Olsen. I’m just poor. POOR, I say! Broke, impoverished, in need, without. POOR.
I have high hopes that my cash flow will pick up shortly; I landed my first freelance gig (PRAISE THE BABY JESUS!), and I have several summer job applications currently underway. But even if I can’t get out tha po’ house anytime soon, I assure you I’ll be fine. I’ve got this covered, so be cool bitch…be cool. As long as you’re willing to hang out with me in superawesome, no-riches-required capacities, my life will putter along happily as usual (just with a little less Chipotle and fewer new shoes). I love you, my dears. I truly do. But I believe in Dave Ramsey, and I’m going to try my damnedest to keep my 6 Month Emergency Fund alive. So please understand that I never meant to hurt you, but something’s gotta give. For I was born a poor black child…
But I have no intentions of dying that way.
Much love.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Demonic Day of Doom
Firstly, I’d like to say how thrilled and indeed blessed I feel to be here today, with you people, on planet Earth. For it is no exaggeration to declare that I very nearly died last week.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Frankly, Frankie.
It is days like today that make me thankful for the order and unshakable patterns of human existence. Afternoons like this one, when the sun is out but remnants of harsh weather still linger in swampy puddles beneath my storm drain, remind me why disorder equals chaos…and why in reality, chaos is only good for horror film dialogue and Britney Spears lyrics.
Today is one of those days when nothing is wrong, but nothing is quite right either. It is a day of funk; it is a day of unease. But just as things always work out in this endless cycle of hours and days and of months and years, my weary mind can find solace in this day in particular. For my day of restlessness has fallen on God’s day of rest. It is Sunday, and in 2009 secular terms, it’s the international day to recharge one’s battery.
So recharge I will. Rest I will, and pray a little I definitely will. I’m off to take my Sunday afternoon nap, people. I hope you get yours, too.
Much love.
Today is one of those days when nothing is wrong, but nothing is quite right either. It is a day of funk; it is a day of unease. But just as things always work out in this endless cycle of hours and days and of months and years, my weary mind can find solace in this day in particular. For my day of restlessness has fallen on God’s day of rest. It is Sunday, and in 2009 secular terms, it’s the international day to recharge one’s battery.
So recharge I will. Rest I will, and pray a little I definitely will. I’m off to take my Sunday afternoon nap, people. I hope you get yours, too.
Much love.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Does your URL say Dooce.com?
Yeah...I didn't think so.
I made a detrimentally huge mistake today.
So I’m perusing Facebook, as is my nightly ritual...peel an orange, pop in a season of Friends (as disc 1 of Arrested Development is tragically MIA), grab the Macbook and stalk. Oh stop it, you do it too.
But as Facebook has recently decided to be a Big Fat Failure and Twitterfy it’s homepage, I find it increasingly uneventful to stalk in this forum. So after several minutes of out-loud-to-myself complaining about the newandimproved Lamebook, I decided to take my stalkery in a new direction.
I decided to read other people’s blogs.
This will probably seem quite hypocritical (ahem, narcissistic) to you, but for the most part I’m not a blog consumer. I have a few close friends who blog in a manner I can tolerate; they’re adept writers, and they talk about familiar things/people so I that I feel like an unspoken VIP when reading their posts. I’m also a faithful follower of Dooce.com, as she makes me laugh about some of the more pathetic aspects of being a female. Better than crying about them I suppose. But beyond that, I view most blogs as the mindless prattle of people who couldn’t (and shouldn’t) construct a written sentence if it weren’t for the ease of the keyboard.
And today that view was entirely and painfully justified.
My first mistake was browsing the Facebook profiles of former college acquaintances. Perhaps the term “acquaintance” isn’t poignant enough; these were the people who were not necessarily my enemies, but who did for reasons yet unknown vandalize my apartment 12 times in one semester (and this was at a religious school, but we won’t get into that mess of weeds). So when I say “acquaintances,” I mean people who I secretly wish great misfortune upon. Kidding, only kidding…(but really only kidding a little bit).
Mistake 1: stalking people whose very existence seems to me like a waste of perfectly good oxygen.
Mistake 2: following the Queen Bee of My Loathed College Peers’ link to her blog. Ohh, how I wish I hadn’t done that…
For it was like opening the very gates to my own personal Hell.
Something you need know about my college frenemies: they all, ALL went to university for the sole purpose of receiving their MRS degrees. And now that many of them have achieved it (thank you Jesus! Old Maid Syndrome is evaded once more!), they’ve moved onto ultimate life goal #2.
Reproduction.
Don’t get me wrong - I think marriage and child-rearing is all well and good, and I plan to do it myself one day if I can manage to get my act together. But some things about being a wife and mother should absolutely-without-question be left to the imagination. Example:
In a matter of mere moments I knew all about one girl’s, uhh…well, period. I can’t figure out a way to make that more discrete. I knew when it was and how it affected her relationship with her husband, and I also knew about her new baby’s diaper deposits – frequency, consistency, color and smell.
I am not kidding.
Then another blogger informed THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE of her massively unreasonable mood-swings, and how she cries 4 or 5 times a day. Sad, yes. Postpartum depression is a bitch I’m sure, and I feel for anyone who has to endure it. But ON YOUR BLOG? REALLY? Then she too described her baby’s bathroom habits, and concluded with a description of her after-baby-jelly-belly.
This kind of offensive exchange continued for blog after blog after blog after blog…it was like being sucked into a vacuum-world of people whose entire lives revolve around the digestive habits of another human being. And truthfully, that’s a pretty accurate description of early motherhood.
I spent several hours this weekend holding/feeding/burping (I masterfully avoided changing) an 8-week-old baby. He was CU-U-UTE, and it was fun to play caretaker…but new babies seriously don’t do a whole lot. At one point he started gurgling in his sleep, which prompted me to have a minor freak-out that I was inadvertently drowning him in his own baby-spit (I wasn’t, thank God). But besides that brief outburst of involuntary noise-making, he essentially just laid there.
Point being, I understand that new Momdom must get pretty monotonous, and I can’t imagine the sleep-deprivation and the hormonal tidal waves. I sympathize…really, I do. But if I still have this blog when I get overconfident enough to procreate, this is my solemn vow: you will NEVER read about my mini-me’s dirty diapers on God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise. I care about you, and I'd never do that to your delicate psyche.
So to my college frenemies I address this plea: you are not Heather Armstrong (and I’m not either, although I’m a damn bit closer as I know the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE). If you want to talk about your uber personal bodily issues, that’s your prerogative…but do it through an email. Do it by phone, do it by text. Hell I don’t care if you do it via Facebook note, as long as I’m not tagged in it. Just leave it out of the PUBLIC FORUM that is your blog, where innocent eyes can be unwillingly traumatized by the detailed account of your issues with breast-feeding. Discretion, people. It’s a beautiful thing.
I know that karma will probably come back to haunt me for this post, and when it is my time to birth a baby I’ll be the next Octomom in all the tabloids. That would be just my luck. But it’s alright, because I’ve got a plan…if that happens, I’ll sell the suckers on eBay (and as I’ll have cute kids, people will definitely want to buy them.) Then I’ll be so bloody rich I’ll purchase blogger.com…
And shut down my frenemies’ failed attempts at Mommy Blogging.
Much love.
I made a detrimentally huge mistake today.
So I’m perusing Facebook, as is my nightly ritual...peel an orange, pop in a season of Friends (as disc 1 of Arrested Development is tragically MIA), grab the Macbook and stalk. Oh stop it, you do it too.
But as Facebook has recently decided to be a Big Fat Failure and Twitterfy it’s homepage, I find it increasingly uneventful to stalk in this forum. So after several minutes of out-loud-to-myself complaining about the newandimproved Lamebook, I decided to take my stalkery in a new direction.
I decided to read other people’s blogs.
This will probably seem quite hypocritical (ahem, narcissistic) to you, but for the most part I’m not a blog consumer. I have a few close friends who blog in a manner I can tolerate; they’re adept writers, and they talk about familiar things/people so I that I feel like an unspoken VIP when reading their posts. I’m also a faithful follower of Dooce.com, as she makes me laugh about some of the more pathetic aspects of being a female. Better than crying about them I suppose. But beyond that, I view most blogs as the mindless prattle of people who couldn’t (and shouldn’t) construct a written sentence if it weren’t for the ease of the keyboard.
And today that view was entirely and painfully justified.
My first mistake was browsing the Facebook profiles of former college acquaintances. Perhaps the term “acquaintance” isn’t poignant enough; these were the people who were not necessarily my enemies, but who did for reasons yet unknown vandalize my apartment 12 times in one semester (and this was at a religious school, but we won’t get into that mess of weeds). So when I say “acquaintances,” I mean people who I secretly wish great misfortune upon. Kidding, only kidding…(but really only kidding a little bit).
Mistake 1: stalking people whose very existence seems to me like a waste of perfectly good oxygen.
Mistake 2: following the Queen Bee of My Loathed College Peers’ link to her blog. Ohh, how I wish I hadn’t done that…
For it was like opening the very gates to my own personal Hell.
Something you need know about my college frenemies: they all, ALL went to university for the sole purpose of receiving their MRS degrees. And now that many of them have achieved it (thank you Jesus! Old Maid Syndrome is evaded once more!), they’ve moved onto ultimate life goal #2.
Reproduction.
Don’t get me wrong - I think marriage and child-rearing is all well and good, and I plan to do it myself one day if I can manage to get my act together. But some things about being a wife and mother should absolutely-without-question be left to the imagination. Example:
In a matter of mere moments I knew all about one girl’s, uhh…well, period. I can’t figure out a way to make that more discrete. I knew when it was and how it affected her relationship with her husband, and I also knew about her new baby’s diaper deposits – frequency, consistency, color and smell.
I am not kidding.
Then another blogger informed THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE of her massively unreasonable mood-swings, and how she cries 4 or 5 times a day. Sad, yes. Postpartum depression is a bitch I’m sure, and I feel for anyone who has to endure it. But ON YOUR BLOG? REALLY? Then she too described her baby’s bathroom habits, and concluded with a description of her after-baby-jelly-belly.
This kind of offensive exchange continued for blog after blog after blog after blog…it was like being sucked into a vacuum-world of people whose entire lives revolve around the digestive habits of another human being. And truthfully, that’s a pretty accurate description of early motherhood.
I spent several hours this weekend holding/feeding/burping (I masterfully avoided changing) an 8-week-old baby. He was CU-U-UTE, and it was fun to play caretaker…but new babies seriously don’t do a whole lot. At one point he started gurgling in his sleep, which prompted me to have a minor freak-out that I was inadvertently drowning him in his own baby-spit (I wasn’t, thank God). But besides that brief outburst of involuntary noise-making, he essentially just laid there.
Point being, I understand that new Momdom must get pretty monotonous, and I can’t imagine the sleep-deprivation and the hormonal tidal waves. I sympathize…really, I do. But if I still have this blog when I get overconfident enough to procreate, this is my solemn vow: you will NEVER read about my mini-me’s dirty diapers on God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise. I care about you, and I'd never do that to your delicate psyche.
So to my college frenemies I address this plea: you are not Heather Armstrong (and I’m not either, although I’m a damn bit closer as I know the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE). If you want to talk about your uber personal bodily issues, that’s your prerogative…but do it through an email. Do it by phone, do it by text. Hell I don’t care if you do it via Facebook note, as long as I’m not tagged in it. Just leave it out of the PUBLIC FORUM that is your blog, where innocent eyes can be unwillingly traumatized by the detailed account of your issues with breast-feeding. Discretion, people. It’s a beautiful thing.
I know that karma will probably come back to haunt me for this post, and when it is my time to birth a baby I’ll be the next Octomom in all the tabloids. That would be just my luck. But it’s alright, because I’ve got a plan…if that happens, I’ll sell the suckers on eBay (and as I’ll have cute kids, people will definitely want to buy them.) Then I’ll be so bloody rich I’ll purchase blogger.com…
And shut down my frenemies’ failed attempts at Mommy Blogging.
Much love.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Ultimate Douchetard
Good God, I’m the dumbest person alive.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Madness is like gravity...
all it takes is a little push.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Invasion of the Spider Monsters
Living alone, for the most part, is a necessity of life I’ve come to enjoy.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
