Facebook status updates I decided against recently:
Too provocative
Kate Surgeon showered this morning with a dirty Venetian. Oh, no wait. She showered with her dirty venetian blinds. Same thing, right?
Kate Surgeon took a pole dancing class last night and, though there were no mirrors in the studio, she's pretty sure she looked like a deranged cat in heat.
Too Much Information
Kate Surgeon has three zits she'd like to introduce you to: Snap, Crackle, and Pop!
Kate Surgeon wonders if you ever wonder, after looking at a poop, what you ate.
Too Sappy
Kate Surgeon misses him. Like crazy.
Kate Surgeon liked his imperfections best.
Kate Surgeon is pretty sure she was the only one crying at pole dancing class.
Kate Surgeon wants to shake him, and then smooch him, and then shake him, and then smooch him.
Too Vague
Kate Surgeon believes in avocados.
Kate Surgeon eats too much dried mango.
Kate Surgeon is crossing her fingers.
Too Work-Related
Kate Surgeon would like the receptionists at work to follow her around everywhere. They think she's HILARIOUS!
Kate Surgeon regrets to inform you that her office crush has found another job. Flowers may be sent to her at the office.
Kate Surgeon now has only two bottles of wine in her bottom drawer. The others have found their way home. (And by "home," she means her innards.)
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I can barely make sense of this myself, so good luck!
I collect delightful experiences like some people collect bellybutton lint -- unintentionally, unexpectedly, and seemingly unendingly. But, unlike bellybutton lint, I don't have the metaphorical belly hair to force those experiences to stay with me, so I rely on postcards and my own chicken scratch.
Unfortunately, this occasionally leads to carrying around a list of things that makes no sense. Which, also unfortunately, leads me to sharing them with you without a hint of compunction.
Like this one. The note says simply, "Tastes like ass control."
Now, I remember it being funny at the time -- I mean, REALLY funny at the time -- but I no longer have any recollection why.
I mean, inherently, it's kind of a funny idea. What exactly is ass control, and what would it taste like? Can't be good. (I'm thinking it probably tastes like rotten spinach.)
So in an effort to track down the source of this mysterious phrase, I asked Fernando if he had said it, as I remember it being a guy who spoke it. My office mate denies any knowledge of it, and given that he's not big on swearing, I'm choosing to believe him on this.
Which leaves it as something a date must have said. I've run into these verbal doggie bags before, and they're tricky, because lord knows why I wrote it down. Could be: a) because I really liked him and found him funnier than perhaps I should have, b) because I really DIDN'T like him, and was trying not to look him in the face, or c) I was indifferent and wanted something to do, and this note was the dating equivalent of doodling.
Having dragged this poor phrase through the mud (and not being any the better off for it), I will now cross it off the list and consign it to the lint-and-booger pile of history.
(that exists, right?)
Unfortunately, this occasionally leads to carrying around a list of things that makes no sense. Which, also unfortunately, leads me to sharing them with you without a hint of compunction.
Like this one. The note says simply, "Tastes like ass control."
Now, I remember it being funny at the time -- I mean, REALLY funny at the time -- but I no longer have any recollection why.
I mean, inherently, it's kind of a funny idea. What exactly is ass control, and what would it taste like? Can't be good. (I'm thinking it probably tastes like rotten spinach.)
So in an effort to track down the source of this mysterious phrase, I asked Fernando if he had said it, as I remember it being a guy who spoke it. My office mate denies any knowledge of it, and given that he's not big on swearing, I'm choosing to believe him on this.
Which leaves it as something a date must have said. I've run into these verbal doggie bags before, and they're tricky, because lord knows why I wrote it down. Could be: a) because I really liked him and found him funnier than perhaps I should have, b) because I really DIDN'T like him, and was trying not to look him in the face, or c) I was indifferent and wanted something to do, and this note was the dating equivalent of doodling.
Having dragged this poor phrase through the mud (and not being any the better off for it), I will now cross it off the list and consign it to the lint-and-booger pile of history.
(that exists, right?)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
ah, delight!
A collection of wonderful things I've read recently:
1. It's not how you look, it's how you look at the world. (This was an online dater's headline, which I found absolutely charming.)
2. From the NY Times (in a great article on aphrodisiacs):
"[C]hocolate’s reputation as an aphrodisiac is highly exaggerated, food researchers say. Romantic and deeply pleasurable, yes, especially because of its tendency to melt in the mouth at body temperature. And yes, it does contain some chemicals like phenylethylamine, which produce feelings of euphoria. Yet one widely cited study showed that a 130-pound person would have to eat 25 pounds of chocolate in one sitting to significantly alter the mood. But who would be in the mood after eating 19.2 percent of her weight in chocolate?"
and later, it says:
"In one small experiment on sexual response to food scents, vaginal and penile blood flow was measured in 31 men and women who wore masks emitting various food aromas. This was the study that found men susceptible to the scent of doughnuts mingled with licorice. For women, first place for most arousing was a tie between baby powder and the combination of Good & Plenty candy with cucumber. Coming in second was a combination of Good & Plenty and banana nut bread."
[First off, who but destitute college students would volunteer for these kinds of measurements? And second, wouldn't it be embarrassing if you had an abnormal response to something like the smell of, say, egg salad?]
3. From Amy Bloom's book, Where the God of Love Hangs Out,
"[S]he told him that she'd heard that young men shaved their balls now. Ray lifted his head and asked her if she would like that. I guess I would, she said. Is it unpleasant otherwise? Ray said. Oh, I don't know, Ellie said. It's like a mouthful of wet mitten -- what do you think?"
1. It's not how you look, it's how you look at the world. (This was an online dater's headline, which I found absolutely charming.)
2. From the NY Times (in a great article on aphrodisiacs):
"[C]hocolate’s reputation as an aphrodisiac is highly exaggerated, food researchers say. Romantic and deeply pleasurable, yes, especially because of its tendency to melt in the mouth at body temperature. And yes, it does contain some chemicals like phenylethylamine, which produce feelings of euphoria. Yet one widely cited study showed that a 130-pound person would have to eat 25 pounds of chocolate in one sitting to significantly alter the mood. But who would be in the mood after eating 19.2 percent of her weight in chocolate?"
and later, it says:
"In one small experiment on sexual response to food scents, vaginal and penile blood flow was measured in 31 men and women who wore masks emitting various food aromas. This was the study that found men susceptible to the scent of doughnuts mingled with licorice. For women, first place for most arousing was a tie between baby powder and the combination of Good & Plenty candy with cucumber. Coming in second was a combination of Good & Plenty and banana nut bread."
[First off, who but destitute college students would volunteer for these kinds of measurements? And second, wouldn't it be embarrassing if you had an abnormal response to something like the smell of, say, egg salad?]
3. From Amy Bloom's book, Where the God of Love Hangs Out,
"[S]he told him that she'd heard that young men shaved their balls now. Ray lifted his head and asked her if she would like that. I guess I would, she said. Is it unpleasant otherwise? Ray said. Oh, I don't know, Ellie said. It's like a mouthful of wet mitten -- what do you think?"
Thursday, October 22, 2009
oddities for the odd
Excuse me while I kiss this guy:
The refrain of the song that plays in aerobics is, I'm guessing, supposed to be saying "That's right, that's right. Move your body" but instead sounds like it's saying "Basmati! Basmati! Move your body!"
The guy on the sidewalk who is hawking for the gold store is constantly, to my ears, saying "Coincide! Check it out!"
And have you heard that Maroon 5 song, So This Is Goodbye? Me neither. But I did hear that fabulous track, Solipsistic Guy!
How Now Brown, ur Chicken?
I've been buying brown eggs recently because they're the only ones in the grocery store that aren't sold in styrofoam containers. The only drawback is that I hard boil them, and there's something about the brown shells that makes them kind of, well, rubbery. It's disconcerting to crack your egg and have it bounce back up at you.
Haiku For-u
Yesterday I wrote a poem that I felt represented my romantic experience lately:
Online dating guy
Was I more fun when I was
Imaginary?
In response, my friend Christina, who has the plague, created a poem that she felt represented her experience lately:
I think it's swine flu
Sniffling, coughing, achy, plus
I'm sneezing bacon
Speaking of sneezing...
Did you see that the weather on Sunday is Partly Cloudy with a chance of Widespread Flu?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Going Crutchless
(This should be preceded by Crutch Removals Numbers One and Two, but I haven't written those yet.)
Crutch Removal Number Three
The phone rang. Well, it shouted, really. (Her bag was too enormous for anything short of the most annoying ring set to the highest volume to be successful.)
Frank's face flashed onto her phone, identifying her caller with one of his less attractive photos. (It's not her fault he likes to ham it up for the camera.) She answered happily, as Frank was always a delight to talk to, even when drunk, which she hoped he wouldn't be at 5:45 on a Friday -- especially since, for him, it was really 3:45 out in Nebraska.
"What's going on?" she asked, in a wild-and-crazy-guy kind of voice.
"I just got a new tire on my back."
"You what?"
"I got a new tire on my back."
She stopped, squinted her ears and tried desperately to figure out which word she was screwing up.
"Ok," she said, "your accent's getting in the way. You got a tire on your back?" Frank was Australian, and his accent (one of her many favorite things about him) occasionally made conversation with him into an audial house of mirrors. Sometimes he swapped out familiar words with foreign ones ("bloke" for "guy," etc.), but more often it was the tweaking of a pronunciation that threw her. "Weird" became "weeid," "smart" became "smot," and "party" very often became "poddy."
"No, Jane, on my bicycle. I got a new cover for the wheel of my bicycle."
"Oh, ok. I thought you were just getting fat."
Jane was browsing the aisles of Dean & Deluca aimlessly, killing time until Mallory showed up for dance class. More focused on her conversation than the high end food and wares, she periodically tuned back in to what she was seeing and was baffled. Anise salt? That sounded disgusting. What could you possibly use that for? And quinoa flour -- for all a girl's gluten-free baking needs, thank god! Balsamic jelly. Jane conjured up images of the sixty year old mint jelly in her parents' fridge and wanted to barf. Fancy food seemed like an awful lot of work these days.
"So what else is going on?"
He told her about work, about the poddy he was at last weekend where they set the backyard on fire, how his roommate with the possession conviction was faring with the prospect of pending jailtime (and how he'd gotten a little Jesus-y lately), and finally he wended his way back around to what she really wanted to know.
"So May and I have been seeing someone, you know, kind of working out our issues together."
"Oh, that's great," she said as enthusiastically as she could muster. May was his ex-girlfriend, nearly his wife, and Jane had met Frank soon after they broke up. Now, Jane was all for people working out their issues -- especially Frank-- but she wasn't 100% sold on May. The few stories he had told Jane about her were ugly -- angry, abusive and childish. Like the time she had smashed a window in his car because he didn't want to leave the bar when she did, or when she changed the locks on the front door because he didn't come back from a business trip when he said he would, even though he called to let her know.
Truth was, Jane didn't necessarily want Frank anymore, but she didn't want him to be involved with someone who mistreated him.
"Yeah, kinda."
"What do you mean, 'kinda'?"
"Well, May's got this thing about you."
Jane stopped being the bigger person for a minute and smack in the middle of the cookie cutter aisle, she flat out hated May. "Why?" she demanded, hopefully not as petulantly as she felt.
"Well, she thinks I was sneaking around on her with you."
Deep breathing keeps the nerves calm. (Jane needed periodic reminders.)
"That's ridiculous, Frank. It's nearly impossible to sneak around with someone who lives on the other side of the country." She started contemplating sending a basketload of anise salt and balsamic jelly to May, except that petty revenge should never cost over $60.
"I know, but she saw that you called me once, near the beginning, and freaked out about me seeing someone before she had moved out."
For a brief moment, the earth stopped spinning on its axis. The $14-an-ounce spices flew off their racks, the sushi got up and walked out of the case, and rolling pin after rolling pin fell from the sky to hit Jane on the head. Either Jane had not known, or she had conveniently forgotten the fact that Frank and May were still living together when Frank and Jane hit it off on the train to Boston.
"Ok."
"She wants me to not talk to you anymore."
The silence that ensued burned up all the oxygen in the store, collapsed Jane's heart and sent the sushi marching back to its refrigerated case.
Jane loved Frank. He was funny, smart, sexy, cute, and 1,662 miles away. He was also a little bit of a jerk, and if not an alcoholic, verging on it. So friendship it was for them. No more pining for him, hoping he'd say just what she needed to hear when he was sober, and only hearing it when he was drunk. No more cross-country flights to feel welcomed, yet ridiculously out of place in his world of big trucks, heavy drinking and owned property. And really, no more hoping he would just turn that corner and become the man she knew he could be, if he only tried. Just emails, phone calls, acceptance of the man as he is, and sporadic inappropriate text messages. And, of course, the understanding that if either party picked up a significant other, the party of the first part would tone it down a bit.
And that's what Jane had done when she first found out (by email-- and not in a dedicated email, either, but as a parenthetical addition to an innocuous, regular old email) that Frank and May were speaking again. Any urge she had to text him at 2 in the morning was quashed (even though it was only midnight there and he gets texts all the time and they don't sound any different on his phone than a voicemail message does, and he wouldn't have to check it if she was around).
Jane was silent as the tears welled up in her eyes.
"It's you, specifically, Janie. Not any of the other girls I dated."
Jane knew well enough to take that as a compliment. In general, women aren't threatened by unworthy opponents, and Jane knew she had had quite an impact on Frank. If the tables had been turned, and someone as fantastic as Jane had come along into Jane's (albeit imaginary) boyfriend's life, sure, she'd be threatened, but she wouldn't turn around and issue ultimatums. She learned that lesson in college: her then actually-cheating boyfriend had eventually married The Other Woman, ultimatum or no ultimatum.
"Ok."
Focus on the cheese, Jane. Count the linoleum tiles. Head down, don't let them see you cry. No one here is going to care and goddamnit, where's Mallory??
"It's not what I want, Jane."
"I know. It's not what I want either. But I don't seem to have a say in the matter."
"Well, then maybe it doesn't have to happen." And he changed the subject completely, babbling on about his truck, how it needed to take it to the shop because it was squeaking so badly, but it was going to be expensive and blah blah blah. All Jane could hear was the resounding echo of the stamp of her inner six year old's foot. It's not fair.
This is retarded, thought Jane. I don't want him as a boyfriend, so why should it hurt so bad to lose him as a friend? She counted the reasons: Maybe it was because May was almost ten years younger than she was. Maybe it's because May represented acceptance of everything Jane could never find her way around. Maybe it's because Jane held out hope that Frank would come around. Maybe it's that Jane was just lonely and didn't want to lose another friend. Maybe it's because May was being a selfish little bitch, and that's what Jane wanted to be.
"... and the acceleration's busted so I really need to --"
"Frank? I have to go to dance class now."
"Oh, ok."
Silence.
"Talk to you soon, then, Jane."
"Ok, bye."
She snapped the phone shut before he could reply and the tears spilled down her cheeks. When Jane was younger, her sister got in trouble for something minor, and stormed off to her room. Moments later there was a sign hanging from her sister's door, made from a dry cleaner's hanger that read "NON-FIANK!" in multi-colored crayon. When flipped to the other side, it read simply, "FIANK." When asked what the sign meant, Jane's sister replied that when something wasn't fair, it was NON-FIANK. Jane hung her imaginary NON-FIANK sign on the doorknob of life, and waited for Mallory.
All things considered, Jane reminded herself, I'm doing very well with this. No scene, no big dramatic climax, not much of anything at all. And then she cried all over again.
Jane positioned herself by the window, mostly to distract herself from her thoughts (which got progressively more negative and tended towards the ever-present you're not good enough) and moments later Mallory bustled in, carrying three bags and a jacket.
"I'm sorry I'm late!" she said, hugging Jane in a oh-my-god-I'm-sweaty-but-you-really-look-like-you-need-a-hug kind of way. "What's the matter?"
"Frank just told me that he and May are getting back together and May doesn't want him to talk to me."
"That's stupid!" said Mallory, adding some finality to the situation.
"That's what I said. Well, I didn't really say it, but I implied it by not saying it."
Mallory grabbed some sushi and they sat by the window while she ate it. She regaled Jane with stories of shoe shopping and her latest crush and did a fairly excellent job of taking Jane's mind off of things. One of Mallory's greatest strengths was cheerleading for Jane, and Jane had come to rely on it over the last few years. Oh, and Mallory was really great at smooching boys.
"So then I told him that he was NOT coming in my house, and he was all annoyed, like I hadn't said so when I got in the car. He knew what he was doing, driving me all the way out there. Nobody put a gun to his head and made him do it. So I just made out with him in the car for a bit and went home. Alone. Not bad, huh?"
"No, not bad at all."
"Jane, don't worry about it. Either he'll work things out with her and find a way to stay friends with you, or he won't. There's nothing you can do about it. Brooding won't help."
"You're right. But ginger will." And she stole half of Mallory's pile.
The next day, when Jane got into work, there was an email waiting there from Frank. It had two pictures, one of him in a t-shirt she had bought for him months ago, and another of his truck. The text of the email was, "One good looking thing and one expensive one. You tell me which is which."
Jane was tempted to fire back a witty response, remind him of how much fun she was, how great it was to be friends with her, how worth it she was to make changes for, but instead, she stepped up to become the change she wanted to be in the world. (You're welcome, Gandhi, or Buddha, or whoever, she thought.)
She took close to an hour to compose the following:
Hey Frank,
You know I love to hear from you, but this is getting complicated for me. I don't think May's demands are reasonable, but I'm willing to respect them (albeit reluctantly) because if I were her, I would want that same respect from me. And, more importantly, from you.
If you really do want to work things out with May, I think it's important that you figure out the sacrifices you will have to make to make that happen, and the rewards you will get in return. Are the compromises worth it for you? (And I'm not just talking about me here.) What are you getting in return? More of the same, or something new? While I respect May's wishes, my main concern is you, of course, and it's generally a red flag to me when a woman makes restrictive demands on the man she's with.
The long and the short of it is that I'm fine (not happy, but fine) with parting ways if it's what YOU want -- not just what May wants. If working it out with her will make you happy and give you what you deserve, then I will back silently out of the picture.
But in true Janetastic fashion, I would really like you to think about it. Because I lose something, too, and don't really get to have a say about it.
The parting party of the second part,
Jane
She sent it off, and that was it. She didn't hear back for the rest of the day.
For the week, really. And then, before she knew it, a month had gone by.
She called Mallory one night with a sizeable realization.
"You know I'm crutchless these days, right?"
"What?"
"I mean that when Frank left, I realized that he was the last of my crutches. That I no longer have some guy to call when I feel crappy, who I know will tell me just what I want to hear. I have nobody to fall back on if I start to get really old and lonely and more willing to make compromises. I mean that, as of about a month ago, I am Totally Alone."
"Well, not really. You still have me."
"Well, duh. And my family, and Sheila, and Robin and Bruce, and tons of others. But no crutches."
"So... how's it feel?"
"It sucks." They both laughed. "No, it's not that bad, really. I mean, there's a big, Frank-shaped emptiness in my heart, but every day, it gets a little smaller, like an ear piercing closing up on itself. Maybe by the time this all closes over, I'll be ready to get my ears pierced again!"
"Um, Jane, you don't have pierced ears."
"I know, Mal, it was a metaphor. Now what are we doing Friday night? I was thinking that, since I have no crutches, we should go dancing."
Crutch Removal Number Three
The phone rang. Well, it shouted, really. (Her bag was too enormous for anything short of the most annoying ring set to the highest volume to be successful.)
Frank's face flashed onto her phone, identifying her caller with one of his less attractive photos. (It's not her fault he likes to ham it up for the camera.) She answered happily, as Frank was always a delight to talk to, even when drunk, which she hoped he wouldn't be at 5:45 on a Friday -- especially since, for him, it was really 3:45 out in Nebraska.
"What's going on?" she asked, in a wild-and-crazy-guy kind of voice.
"I just got a new tire on my back."
"You what?"
"I got a new tire on my back."
She stopped, squinted her ears and tried desperately to figure out which word she was screwing up.
"Ok," she said, "your accent's getting in the way. You got a tire on your back?" Frank was Australian, and his accent (one of her many favorite things about him) occasionally made conversation with him into an audial house of mirrors. Sometimes he swapped out familiar words with foreign ones ("bloke" for "guy," etc.), but more often it was the tweaking of a pronunciation that threw her. "Weird" became "weeid," "smart" became "smot," and "party" very often became "poddy."
"No, Jane, on my bicycle. I got a new cover for the wheel of my bicycle."
"Oh, ok. I thought you were just getting fat."
Jane was browsing the aisles of Dean & Deluca aimlessly, killing time until Mallory showed up for dance class. More focused on her conversation than the high end food and wares, she periodically tuned back in to what she was seeing and was baffled. Anise salt? That sounded disgusting. What could you possibly use that for? And quinoa flour -- for all a girl's gluten-free baking needs, thank god! Balsamic jelly. Jane conjured up images of the sixty year old mint jelly in her parents' fridge and wanted to barf. Fancy food seemed like an awful lot of work these days.
"So what else is going on?"
He told her about work, about the poddy he was at last weekend where they set the backyard on fire, how his roommate with the possession conviction was faring with the prospect of pending jailtime (and how he'd gotten a little Jesus-y lately), and finally he wended his way back around to what she really wanted to know.
"So May and I have been seeing someone, you know, kind of working out our issues together."
"Oh, that's great," she said as enthusiastically as she could muster. May was his ex-girlfriend, nearly his wife, and Jane had met Frank soon after they broke up. Now, Jane was all for people working out their issues -- especially Frank-- but she wasn't 100% sold on May. The few stories he had told Jane about her were ugly -- angry, abusive and childish. Like the time she had smashed a window in his car because he didn't want to leave the bar when she did, or when she changed the locks on the front door because he didn't come back from a business trip when he said he would, even though he called to let her know.
Truth was, Jane didn't necessarily want Frank anymore, but she didn't want him to be involved with someone who mistreated him.
"Yeah, kinda."
"What do you mean, 'kinda'?"
"Well, May's got this thing about you."
Jane stopped being the bigger person for a minute and smack in the middle of the cookie cutter aisle, she flat out hated May. "Why?" she demanded, hopefully not as petulantly as she felt.
"Well, she thinks I was sneaking around on her with you."
Deep breathing keeps the nerves calm. (Jane needed periodic reminders.)
"That's ridiculous, Frank. It's nearly impossible to sneak around with someone who lives on the other side of the country." She started contemplating sending a basketload of anise salt and balsamic jelly to May, except that petty revenge should never cost over $60.
"I know, but she saw that you called me once, near the beginning, and freaked out about me seeing someone before she had moved out."
For a brief moment, the earth stopped spinning on its axis. The $14-an-ounce spices flew off their racks, the sushi got up and walked out of the case, and rolling pin after rolling pin fell from the sky to hit Jane on the head. Either Jane had not known, or she had conveniently forgotten the fact that Frank and May were still living together when Frank and Jane hit it off on the train to Boston.
"Ok."
"She wants me to not talk to you anymore."
The silence that ensued burned up all the oxygen in the store, collapsed Jane's heart and sent the sushi marching back to its refrigerated case.
Jane loved Frank. He was funny, smart, sexy, cute, and 1,662 miles away. He was also a little bit of a jerk, and if not an alcoholic, verging on it. So friendship it was for them. No more pining for him, hoping he'd say just what she needed to hear when he was sober, and only hearing it when he was drunk. No more cross-country flights to feel welcomed, yet ridiculously out of place in his world of big trucks, heavy drinking and owned property. And really, no more hoping he would just turn that corner and become the man she knew he could be, if he only tried. Just emails, phone calls, acceptance of the man as he is, and sporadic inappropriate text messages. And, of course, the understanding that if either party picked up a significant other, the party of the first part would tone it down a bit.
And that's what Jane had done when she first found out (by email-- and not in a dedicated email, either, but as a parenthetical addition to an innocuous, regular old email) that Frank and May were speaking again. Any urge she had to text him at 2 in the morning was quashed (even though it was only midnight there and he gets texts all the time and they don't sound any different on his phone than a voicemail message does, and he wouldn't have to check it if she was around).
Jane was silent as the tears welled up in her eyes.
"It's you, specifically, Janie. Not any of the other girls I dated."
Jane knew well enough to take that as a compliment. In general, women aren't threatened by unworthy opponents, and Jane knew she had had quite an impact on Frank. If the tables had been turned, and someone as fantastic as Jane had come along into Jane's (albeit imaginary) boyfriend's life, sure, she'd be threatened, but she wouldn't turn around and issue ultimatums. She learned that lesson in college: her then actually-cheating boyfriend had eventually married The Other Woman, ultimatum or no ultimatum.
"Ok."
Focus on the cheese, Jane. Count the linoleum tiles. Head down, don't let them see you cry. No one here is going to care and goddamnit, where's Mallory??
"It's not what I want, Jane."
"I know. It's not what I want either. But I don't seem to have a say in the matter."
"Well, then maybe it doesn't have to happen." And he changed the subject completely, babbling on about his truck, how it needed to take it to the shop because it was squeaking so badly, but it was going to be expensive and blah blah blah. All Jane could hear was the resounding echo of the stamp of her inner six year old's foot. It's not fair.
This is retarded, thought Jane. I don't want him as a boyfriend, so why should it hurt so bad to lose him as a friend? She counted the reasons: Maybe it was because May was almost ten years younger than she was. Maybe it's because May represented acceptance of everything Jane could never find her way around. Maybe it's because Jane held out hope that Frank would come around. Maybe it's that Jane was just lonely and didn't want to lose another friend. Maybe it's because May was being a selfish little bitch, and that's what Jane wanted to be.
"... and the acceleration's busted so I really need to --"
"Frank? I have to go to dance class now."
"Oh, ok."
Silence.
"Talk to you soon, then, Jane."
"Ok, bye."
She snapped the phone shut before he could reply and the tears spilled down her cheeks. When Jane was younger, her sister got in trouble for something minor, and stormed off to her room. Moments later there was a sign hanging from her sister's door, made from a dry cleaner's hanger that read "NON-FIANK!" in multi-colored crayon. When flipped to the other side, it read simply, "FIANK." When asked what the sign meant, Jane's sister replied that when something wasn't fair, it was NON-FIANK. Jane hung her imaginary NON-FIANK sign on the doorknob of life, and waited for Mallory.
All things considered, Jane reminded herself, I'm doing very well with this. No scene, no big dramatic climax, not much of anything at all. And then she cried all over again.
Jane positioned herself by the window, mostly to distract herself from her thoughts (which got progressively more negative and tended towards the ever-present you're not good enough) and moments later Mallory bustled in, carrying three bags and a jacket.
"I'm sorry I'm late!" she said, hugging Jane in a oh-my-god-I'm-sweaty-but-you-really-look-like-you-need-a-hug kind of way. "What's the matter?"
"Frank just told me that he and May are getting back together and May doesn't want him to talk to me."
"That's stupid!" said Mallory, adding some finality to the situation.
"That's what I said. Well, I didn't really say it, but I implied it by not saying it."
Mallory grabbed some sushi and they sat by the window while she ate it. She regaled Jane with stories of shoe shopping and her latest crush and did a fairly excellent job of taking Jane's mind off of things. One of Mallory's greatest strengths was cheerleading for Jane, and Jane had come to rely on it over the last few years. Oh, and Mallory was really great at smooching boys.
"So then I told him that he was NOT coming in my house, and he was all annoyed, like I hadn't said so when I got in the car. He knew what he was doing, driving me all the way out there. Nobody put a gun to his head and made him do it. So I just made out with him in the car for a bit and went home. Alone. Not bad, huh?"
"No, not bad at all."
"Jane, don't worry about it. Either he'll work things out with her and find a way to stay friends with you, or he won't. There's nothing you can do about it. Brooding won't help."
"You're right. But ginger will." And she stole half of Mallory's pile.
The next day, when Jane got into work, there was an email waiting there from Frank. It had two pictures, one of him in a t-shirt she had bought for him months ago, and another of his truck. The text of the email was, "One good looking thing and one expensive one. You tell me which is which."
Jane was tempted to fire back a witty response, remind him of how much fun she was, how great it was to be friends with her, how worth it she was to make changes for, but instead, she stepped up to become the change she wanted to be in the world. (You're welcome, Gandhi, or Buddha, or whoever, she thought.)
She took close to an hour to compose the following:
Hey Frank,
You know I love to hear from you, but this is getting complicated for me. I don't think May's demands are reasonable, but I'm willing to respect them (albeit reluctantly) because if I were her, I would want that same respect from me. And, more importantly, from you.
If you really do want to work things out with May, I think it's important that you figure out the sacrifices you will have to make to make that happen, and the rewards you will get in return. Are the compromises worth it for you? (And I'm not just talking about me here.) What are you getting in return? More of the same, or something new? While I respect May's wishes, my main concern is you, of course, and it's generally a red flag to me when a woman makes restrictive demands on the man she's with.
The long and the short of it is that I'm fine (not happy, but fine) with parting ways if it's what YOU want -- not just what May wants. If working it out with her will make you happy and give you what you deserve, then I will back silently out of the picture.
But in true Janetastic fashion, I would really like you to think about it. Because I lose something, too, and don't really get to have a say about it.
The parting party of the second part,
Jane
She sent it off, and that was it. She didn't hear back for the rest of the day.
For the week, really. And then, before she knew it, a month had gone by.
She called Mallory one night with a sizeable realization.
"You know I'm crutchless these days, right?"
"What?"
"I mean that when Frank left, I realized that he was the last of my crutches. That I no longer have some guy to call when I feel crappy, who I know will tell me just what I want to hear. I have nobody to fall back on if I start to get really old and lonely and more willing to make compromises. I mean that, as of about a month ago, I am Totally Alone."
"Well, not really. You still have me."
"Well, duh. And my family, and Sheila, and Robin and Bruce, and tons of others. But no crutches."
"So... how's it feel?"
"It sucks." They both laughed. "No, it's not that bad, really. I mean, there's a big, Frank-shaped emptiness in my heart, but every day, it gets a little smaller, like an ear piercing closing up on itself. Maybe by the time this all closes over, I'll be ready to get my ears pierced again!"
"Um, Jane, you don't have pierced ears."
"I know, Mal, it was a metaphor. Now what are we doing Friday night? I was thinking that, since I have no crutches, we should go dancing."
Sunday, September 14, 2008
an ode to my loneliness
There's a hole in my heart that goes all the way to China.
There's an ache in my soul that lands somewhere near Nepal.
There's a lack in my day that is stronger than ten ponies.
I'm so bored and so lonely that my body wants to stall.
There's a drag to my step that reminds me that I'm solo.
There's a slump to my spine that protects me and my fear.
The refrain in my brain just goes over, over, over,
"You're alone today, kid, and there's none but me to hear."
So I hurt, and I yearn, and build a new agenda,
And I plan out my day to distract me from the ache.
While I play by myself I feel raw and remember
If I focus on drowning, I will never cross this lake.
So I take a deep breath, and I plunge into the water,
And it's cold and it's lonely, but hey, look, I didn't die.
A whole day by myself and I'm only getting stronger.
All alone, on my own, but with loneliness nearby.
There's an ache in my soul that lands somewhere near Nepal.
There's a lack in my day that is stronger than ten ponies.
I'm so bored and so lonely that my body wants to stall.
There's a drag to my step that reminds me that I'm solo.
There's a slump to my spine that protects me and my fear.
The refrain in my brain just goes over, over, over,
"You're alone today, kid, and there's none but me to hear."
So I hurt, and I yearn, and build a new agenda,
And I plan out my day to distract me from the ache.
While I play by myself I feel raw and remember
If I focus on drowning, I will never cross this lake.
So I take a deep breath, and I plunge into the water,
And it's cold and it's lonely, but hey, look, I didn't die.
A whole day by myself and I'm only getting stronger.
All alone, on my own, but with loneliness nearby.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
a community of the spirit
I'm having one of those days where I'm so stressed out it's hard to breathe. So here I sit at 10:58, listening to Justin Timberlake, drinking root beer and reading Rumi:
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street,
and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close bogth eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd's love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.
You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
It's a truly interesting night tonight.
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street,
and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close bogth eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd's love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.
You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
It's a truly interesting night tonight.
Monday, August 25, 2008
book recommendation
This book recommendation is for the ladies, and, really, mostly for the dissatisfied single ladies among those ladies. But the review's for everyone, so even if you're not ladylike in the least or have no interest in Dating (or Not Dating, as the case may be), please, feel free to read on.
I finished a book recently that gave me a cleaner perspective on my dating life, and served as the straw that finally broke this camel's back. For a while now, many people/events/books/coaches/friends/neighbors/skywriters/things-in-general have indicated that perhaps I should take a break from dating. But I've been steadfastly refusing, thinking "it's just a numbers game" and "I just haven't met him yet" and, simply, "NOOOOOO!" And while it's true, I probably haven't met him yet, the book I'm about to recommend (hold your horses, it's coming) managed to cast Not Dating in such a positive light that I finally decided to give it a try.
Ok, first the book: All the Good Ones Aren't Taken, by Debbie Magids and Nancy Peske.
Second: what encouraged me to finally stop dating? The idea that, sure, it may be a numbers game, and I may have to keep searching and searching for the right guy, but it's been a really long time since I had clarity about what "right" meant to me (in terms of men), and I've focused so much on getting to know the men I'm meeting that I've neglected the continued process of getting to know myself. And without knowing who I am, what lights my fire and what's important to me, there's considerably less chance that I'll find a lasting relationship. (This also happens to coincide with a general rethinking of my career path, and a greater sense of who-the-hell-am-I-and-what-the-hell-do-I-really-like-anyway?)
Argue with me if you want. I see holes in this theory from start to finish. But really, if what I want is a long term, lasting relationship, and I'm willing to look at alternative methods of finding it, why not try it? At most it costs me two and a half months. And what's that they say about insanity? That it's doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
Hmmmmm…
I finished a book recently that gave me a cleaner perspective on my dating life, and served as the straw that finally broke this camel's back. For a while now, many people/events/books/coaches/friends/neighbors/skywriters/things-in-general have indicated that perhaps I should take a break from dating. But I've been steadfastly refusing, thinking "it's just a numbers game" and "I just haven't met him yet" and, simply, "NOOOOOO!" And while it's true, I probably haven't met him yet, the book I'm about to recommend (hold your horses, it's coming) managed to cast Not Dating in such a positive light that I finally decided to give it a try.
Ok, first the book: All the Good Ones Aren't Taken, by Debbie Magids and Nancy Peske.
Second: what encouraged me to finally stop dating? The idea that, sure, it may be a numbers game, and I may have to keep searching and searching for the right guy, but it's been a really long time since I had clarity about what "right" meant to me (in terms of men), and I've focused so much on getting to know the men I'm meeting that I've neglected the continued process of getting to know myself. And without knowing who I am, what lights my fire and what's important to me, there's considerably less chance that I'll find a lasting relationship. (This also happens to coincide with a general rethinking of my career path, and a greater sense of who-the-hell-am-I-and-what-the-hell-do-I-really-like-anyway?)
Argue with me if you want. I see holes in this theory from start to finish. But really, if what I want is a long term, lasting relationship, and I'm willing to look at alternative methods of finding it, why not try it? At most it costs me two and a half months. And what's that they say about insanity? That it's doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
Hmmmmm…
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
k8’s poetry corner
I may or may not have a date to eat ice cream with a gentleman named Peter this week (it all hinges on a scheduling conflict). In his honor, I wrote this poem:
Peter, Peter, ice cream eater
Had a date but couldn't meet her
Put her in an ice cream cone
And there he left her, all alone.
Today, I was in the park and saw this five foot girl kissing this seven foot guy. In her honor, I wrote this poem:
A note to short girls
Please stop dating the tall guys
They are hard to find.
And recently, a friend of mine told me he threw a baby shower (with two kegs), at which he and guests of his rode down the stairs of his house on his ironing board. In their honor, I wrote this poem:
There once were some guys drinking rums
Who ironed the stairs with their bums
When no one was hurt
Each took off his shirt
And showed off rug burns on his thumbs.
(I have photos to prove it.)
Peter, Peter, ice cream eater
Had a date but couldn't meet her
Put her in an ice cream cone
And there he left her, all alone.
Today, I was in the park and saw this five foot girl kissing this seven foot guy. In her honor, I wrote this poem:
A note to short girls
Please stop dating the tall guys
They are hard to find.
And recently, a friend of mine told me he threw a baby shower (with two kegs), at which he and guests of his rode down the stairs of his house on his ironing board. In their honor, I wrote this poem:
There once were some guys drinking rums
Who ironed the stairs with their bums
When no one was hurt
Each took off his shirt
And showed off rug burns on his thumbs.
(I have photos to prove it.)
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
for your entertainment
I bring you some entertaining sites for any kind of enforced time-wasting.
First, extremely meta cartoons.
Second, the best fuss-buckety column ever.
Third, my grand-naby (and his mom, who's totally in love with him).
That's all for now, folks.
First, extremely meta cartoons.
Second, the best fuss-buckety column ever.
Third, my grand-naby (and his mom, who's totally in love with him).
That's all for now, folks.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
tag-a-doodle-doo
I've been tagged! Gasp!
Apparently, these are the rules of having been tagged.
1. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.2. At the end of your blog, you choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
Except that, aside from my tagger (Aaron) and a couple of other friends (a few of whom were tagged pre-Aaron), I don't know anyone else who writes and would actually post this.
(Does that count as a random fact about myself?)
Ok, so here goes:
1. When I was a kid, I used to call pillows "pellows." My friend Sherri Berglund called me on it once and when confronted with the truth, I lied like a rug. "That's how Swedish people say it," I claimed.
Um, yeah, Sherri Berglund was also Swedish.
2. This is creepy. Aside from a rug, a bookcase and a shelving unit in my kitchen, I have not purchased any of the furniture in my house. (Awesome roman shades do not count.) Most of it has been passed down in my family, given to me as a gift, inherited from old roommates or boyfriends, or simply picked up off the street.
3. Sometimes my pantyhose are so tight that they give me a tummyache.
4. I have a rabid fear of puke. If someone on the subway looks green, or a kid nearby starts to cry and cough, I change locations. I haven't seen someone puke in years, and I have absolutely no desire to see it again any time soon. (I mention this only because I almost barfed in a cab today. I didn't! But it was definitely an option.)
5. I loathe reality television, and yet I'm secretly addicted to The Biggest Loser. I am rooting for just about everyone on that series, because, really, who doesn't want an unhappy fat person to be a happy thin one?
6. My favorite parts of a man's body are his hipbones and his upper arms/shoulders. However, my only physical requirement of a man is that he be able to pick me up and carry me. (Not into the next county, for example, but at least into the next room.)
7. I don't always flush the toilet every time I use it.
8. I can put leftover frosting in the freezer and forget that it's even there. However, once I re-discover it, I usually can't walk away from it and end up having to throw it out. (Why save it in the first place, you ask? Hmmm. Good question.)
So here's the part where I tag people, huh? Well, how about these fine folks:
Sara
Romero
Christina
Ian
John
Marcia
Bonnie
Bring it on, guys, bring it on!
Apparently, these are the rules of having been tagged.
1. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.2. At the end of your blog, you choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
Except that, aside from my tagger (Aaron) and a couple of other friends (a few of whom were tagged pre-Aaron), I don't know anyone else who writes and would actually post this.
(Does that count as a random fact about myself?)
Ok, so here goes:
1. When I was a kid, I used to call pillows "pellows." My friend Sherri Berglund called me on it once and when confronted with the truth, I lied like a rug. "That's how Swedish people say it," I claimed.
Um, yeah, Sherri Berglund was also Swedish.
2. This is creepy. Aside from a rug, a bookcase and a shelving unit in my kitchen, I have not purchased any of the furniture in my house. (Awesome roman shades do not count.) Most of it has been passed down in my family, given to me as a gift, inherited from old roommates or boyfriends, or simply picked up off the street.
3. Sometimes my pantyhose are so tight that they give me a tummyache.
4. I have a rabid fear of puke. If someone on the subway looks green, or a kid nearby starts to cry and cough, I change locations. I haven't seen someone puke in years, and I have absolutely no desire to see it again any time soon. (I mention this only because I almost barfed in a cab today. I didn't! But it was definitely an option.)
5. I loathe reality television, and yet I'm secretly addicted to The Biggest Loser. I am rooting for just about everyone on that series, because, really, who doesn't want an unhappy fat person to be a happy thin one?
6. My favorite parts of a man's body are his hipbones and his upper arms/shoulders. However, my only physical requirement of a man is that he be able to pick me up and carry me. (Not into the next county, for example, but at least into the next room.)
7. I don't always flush the toilet every time I use it.
8. I can put leftover frosting in the freezer and forget that it's even there. However, once I re-discover it, I usually can't walk away from it and end up having to throw it out. (Why save it in the first place, you ask? Hmmm. Good question.)
So here's the part where I tag people, huh? Well, how about these fine folks:
Sara
Romero
Christina
Ian
John
Marcia
Bonnie
Bring it on, guys, bring it on!
Monday, June 18, 2007
automatic nonsense
Remember when I was at the Fearlessness workshop? Well, one of the things we had to do was ten minutes of automatic writing. We were given a topic, and then just wrote and wrote until our fingers fell off and we died.* The first topic was "regret" and I ended up writing some serious nonsense about "regret, egret, she-gret, Gretta Garbo, Gretta Garbage." (yeah, it wasn't so great.) The second topic, though, was success, couched in a poem about Icarus, and so the topic was actually "flying." What I wrote, while not genius, was kind of cool, and I was re-reading it the other day, and thought I'd post it here, in all its unedited glory. Make of it what you will.
* we didn't actually die. (duh)
When did I fly? Oh, I flew so much I was practically a stewardess. Every time I ended something, I started something new. On to the next and the next. And then, one day, I ran out of nexts.
"Stand still. Stand here by yourself."
"No." I said. "No, thank you."
"But until you do," I heard, "you'll never really fly. You'll look really good trying, but you have no idea how to really fly."
Shit.
You're right.
I haven't the slightest clue how to really fly.
So I took off the wings, hid in my closet and cried. For about six months.
Really though, I'm ready to fly now. To love, to share myself with you. I'm here to be a part of something. Not to play at it like a child with his jacks. Not to lie about it or make claims. I'm here to do it.
But now I have no idea how.
"Don't worry," the voice returns. "You'll find a way. I'll see to it."
"Um, thanks. Can I get a timeline?"
"Dream on, Surgeon."
Silence.
"Is that my timeline?"
A snicker. Like the god who accidentally struck down the nun in the swearing priest golfing joke.
So, really, now I'm waiting. I'm a blank page, ready for the next adventure.
Here comes one.
Oh, wait, no. No, thanks.
But wait, I'm a stewardess. My standards are different now that I've lost my little clip on wings. (Would you like a blanket? Chicken or fish?)
I'm ready for my next adventure.
Oh, here he comes.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"What's your name?"
"Uh, Fate. But I have to go. I'm expecting someone."
"Me?"
"No, your sister, I think."
My sister? She's already got her adventure. Where's mine? Where's my due? I'm owed here, Mr. Fate, and I was told you'd be delivering. Or did you just stick one of those notices on my door that will force me to go to Canarsie to pick up my destiny?
Fate walks away. I'm left with a sticky feeling on my fingers, a broken pair of pilot's wings and a blanket with what looks like a barf stain on it.
Isn't this supposed to be about my fliying? And yet, here I've stuck myself in a bar with God and Mr. Fate and not a drink in my hand. This seems like an unpropitious opening.
Let's start again.
I'm a stewardess. I'm an actress. I'm so fucking creative I'm goddamn Icarus. But Icarus also flew, and I can too.
I'd like to give the world a set of wings. And a coke. And furnish it with love.
My most recent flight? Just last night, when I told her I was afraid. Afraid I'd lose her, my girl, my love, my mirror. When I told her how I really felt, I tasted my own salt tears, and there she stayed. Never leaving me.
Then I really fucking soared.
----------------------------------
(I never said it was going to make sense.)
* we didn't actually die. (duh)
When did I fly? Oh, I flew so much I was practically a stewardess. Every time I ended something, I started something new. On to the next and the next. And then, one day, I ran out of nexts.
"Stand still. Stand here by yourself."
"No." I said. "No, thank you."
"But until you do," I heard, "you'll never really fly. You'll look really good trying, but you have no idea how to really fly."
Shit.
You're right.
I haven't the slightest clue how to really fly.
So I took off the wings, hid in my closet and cried. For about six months.
Really though, I'm ready to fly now. To love, to share myself with you. I'm here to be a part of something. Not to play at it like a child with his jacks. Not to lie about it or make claims. I'm here to do it.
But now I have no idea how.
"Don't worry," the voice returns. "You'll find a way. I'll see to it."
"Um, thanks. Can I get a timeline?"
"Dream on, Surgeon."
Silence.
"Is that my timeline?"
A snicker. Like the god who accidentally struck down the nun in the swearing priest golfing joke.
So, really, now I'm waiting. I'm a blank page, ready for the next adventure.
Here comes one.
Oh, wait, no. No, thanks.
But wait, I'm a stewardess. My standards are different now that I've lost my little clip on wings. (Would you like a blanket? Chicken or fish?)
I'm ready for my next adventure.
Oh, here he comes.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"What's your name?"
"Uh, Fate. But I have to go. I'm expecting someone."
"Me?"
"No, your sister, I think."
My sister? She's already got her adventure. Where's mine? Where's my due? I'm owed here, Mr. Fate, and I was told you'd be delivering. Or did you just stick one of those notices on my door that will force me to go to Canarsie to pick up my destiny?
Fate walks away. I'm left with a sticky feeling on my fingers, a broken pair of pilot's wings and a blanket with what looks like a barf stain on it.
Isn't this supposed to be about my fliying? And yet, here I've stuck myself in a bar with God and Mr. Fate and not a drink in my hand. This seems like an unpropitious opening.
Let's start again.
I'm a stewardess. I'm an actress. I'm so fucking creative I'm goddamn Icarus. But Icarus also flew, and I can too.
I'd like to give the world a set of wings. And a coke. And furnish it with love.
My most recent flight? Just last night, when I told her I was afraid. Afraid I'd lose her, my girl, my love, my mirror. When I told her how I really felt, I tasted my own salt tears, and there she stayed. Never leaving me.
Then I really fucking soared.
----------------------------------
(I never said it was going to make sense.)
Thursday, May 31, 2007
things I want
So, in trying to figure out what to do with my life, I've started to work with a life coach. And one of the things I was told to do was to write down a fifty things I want, ranging from the mundane to the extraordinary. (I'm a bit of an overachieving dork, so I did 76.) It's actually a really neat exercise, and gives you a cool picture of yourself when you're done. I'd recommend it.
However, since I don't know who's reading this, I'm only going to highlight a few of my favorites -- you may recognize some of them as things I think should be rules.
1. I want the right job for me
2. I want the right boyfriend for me
4. I want to go swimming
10. I want a dishwasher
13. I want to go on a good date
14. I want to go on a lot of good dates
15. I want diet coke to be health food
28. I want to be free from answering someone else's phone ever again
31. I want to laugh more
32. I want a bathtub that drains
34. I want New York theatre to hold itself to a higher standard
37. I want to make someone breakfast
38. I want to drive through the countryside with the windows down
39. I want more reliable subway service
40. I want a better energy policy
41. I want a better president
45. I want someone else to do my homework tonight
47. I want unlimited peanut butter
58. I want them to change the exhibit at Lever House. (I'm tired of it)
59. I want a gym that's closer to my office (or an office that's closer to my gym...)
65. I want all married men to wear a ring
66. I want all tangerines to be seedless
68. I want the lilacs to stay in bloom all year long
69. I want to have (outstanding) sex with someone I'm wild about
70. I want another pair of those black heels I love
72. I want to find my missing jewelry
72. I want the new Martin Sexton album.
74. I want a massage. Daily.
75. I want to blow my own mind.
76. I want to live up to my potential
Now, see, if I were smart, I'd have written "I want a million dollars" 76 times, because already five or six of these have come true -- I went swimming, I went on a good date, they changed the exhibit at Lever House, I found my jewelry, I got the new Martin Sexton album (which is awesome), and we got a new president.
Oh wait...
However, since I don't know who's reading this, I'm only going to highlight a few of my favorites -- you may recognize some of them as things I think should be rules.
1. I want the right job for me
2. I want the right boyfriend for me
4. I want to go swimming
10. I want a dishwasher
13. I want to go on a good date
14. I want to go on a lot of good dates
15. I want diet coke to be health food
28. I want to be free from answering someone else's phone ever again
31. I want to laugh more
32. I want a bathtub that drains
34. I want New York theatre to hold itself to a higher standard
37. I want to make someone breakfast
38. I want to drive through the countryside with the windows down
39. I want more reliable subway service
40. I want a better energy policy
41. I want a better president
45. I want someone else to do my homework tonight
47. I want unlimited peanut butter
58. I want them to change the exhibit at Lever House. (I'm tired of it)
59. I want a gym that's closer to my office (or an office that's closer to my gym...)
65. I want all married men to wear a ring
66. I want all tangerines to be seedless
68. I want the lilacs to stay in bloom all year long
69. I want to have (outstanding) sex with someone I'm wild about
70. I want another pair of those black heels I love
72. I want to find my missing jewelry
72. I want the new Martin Sexton album.
74. I want a massage. Daily.
75. I want to blow my own mind.
76. I want to live up to my potential
Now, see, if I were smart, I'd have written "I want a million dollars" 76 times, because already five or six of these have come true -- I went swimming, I went on a good date, they changed the exhibit at Lever House, I found my jewelry, I got the new Martin Sexton album (which is awesome), and we got a new president.
Oh wait...
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
lynching louise lynch
Don't date a Writer. Just don't.
[And by "a Writer," I don't mean me, of course. You can date me. I'm just a writer. I write. I don't define myself by writing, I don't itch to write, I don't write-or-die. I just write... sometimes.]
I dated a Writer in college, and I loved his burning need to write. His passion for writing was the only thing I could really count on -- aside from his general unaccountability. But I just loved how he would turn a phrase or link three simple words together and change my world completely.
Lately, however, he's been changing my world again -- into his own fiction.
Seven years later, when the wounds are all healed (or at least scarred over enough not to hurt anymore), the Writer seems to be enjoying digging them back up again. And taking a little pin, and pricking the skin along the outline of the scar. For no reason that I can figure out. I'm finding out, fairly unpleasantly, that the way I loved this man, the things I did to show I cared for him, the help I gave him to keep him from the brink of seemingly endless disaster... well, he fictionally resents me for it.
His timing on this is odd and uncomfortable, as the multi-part story about the fictional me, Louise Lynch, comes just as he and his wife and I are reconnecting with one another. It's almost as if he has to paint Louise in an angry enough light to justify his being friendly with Kate.
I know that the question to look at is not why the Writer is doing this -- he was an emotional scab-picker by nature when I knew him well -- but why does his doing it bother me so much? Partly because it's never fun to see your ex-relationships from someone else's point of view (where you're not actually the hero of them) and partly because some of the way he paints the picture is patently untrue.
But it's fiction.
Or is it?
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4 (skip to about 2/3 through the piece)
[And by "a Writer," I don't mean me, of course. You can date me. I'm just a writer. I write. I don't define myself by writing, I don't itch to write, I don't write-or-die. I just write... sometimes.]
I dated a Writer in college, and I loved his burning need to write. His passion for writing was the only thing I could really count on -- aside from his general unaccountability. But I just loved how he would turn a phrase or link three simple words together and change my world completely.
Lately, however, he's been changing my world again -- into his own fiction.
Seven years later, when the wounds are all healed (or at least scarred over enough not to hurt anymore), the Writer seems to be enjoying digging them back up again. And taking a little pin, and pricking the skin along the outline of the scar. For no reason that I can figure out. I'm finding out, fairly unpleasantly, that the way I loved this man, the things I did to show I cared for him, the help I gave him to keep him from the brink of seemingly endless disaster... well, he fictionally resents me for it.
His timing on this is odd and uncomfortable, as the multi-part story about the fictional me, Louise Lynch, comes just as he and his wife and I are reconnecting with one another. It's almost as if he has to paint Louise in an angry enough light to justify his being friendly with Kate.
I know that the question to look at is not why the Writer is doing this -- he was an emotional scab-picker by nature when I knew him well -- but why does his doing it bother me so much? Partly because it's never fun to see your ex-relationships from someone else's point of view (where you're not actually the hero of them) and partly because some of the way he paints the picture is patently untrue.
But it's fiction.
Or is it?
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4 (skip to about 2/3 through the piece)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
i laughed so hard i cried.
My mother is a RIOT! After telling her that I've "enrolled in classes" at Kate State University, she sent out the school's very first newsletter.
(don't worry if you don't get all the jokes... a lot of them are inside ones)
Oh my god, I'm still drying the tears.
(if you can't read it (and actually want to) let me know and I'll send you a .pdf)
(don't worry if you don't get all the jokes... a lot of them are inside ones)
Oh my god, I'm still drying the tears.
(if you can't read it (and actually want to) let me know and I'll send you a .pdf)
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
orphans, young men and now an emperor!
Ok, I have so much other stuff to do and far more interesting things to write about, but if I get one more myspace message from someone who wants to be my boyfriend, I'm going to throw up and die.
First, a message from the orphan (who, you will note, is "black and strong"):
Good day ma'm My name is charles,i am 36yrs,working with a bank here in the uk.i am black and strong. I am just browsing through the internet and came accross your pics,i must tell you that you are uniquely perfect.I am not looking for Miss World,ok?i simply want a honest God fearing woman that i can be there for.I hope i am not inconveniencing you with this mail,if i am,please i am trully sorry,i just had to speak out my feelings. I have been an orphan far too long for me to remember,and it has made me go through life all by myself,i really think its time i have someone special to my heart...Can you be the one?
Then there's Mr. Mike (who has now emailed me twice):
hi i saw your profile and i loved your pic...your beautiful! im 25 from brooklyn.im 5'9 blond blue eyes and attractive.(i tried uploading my pic but it didnt work for some reason, apparently the file was too big or anything.)i just got on myspace so there isnt too much on my page, but id gladly answer any questions u may have about me. id love to chat with u sometime, do u have aol or yahoo messenger? if you do use either one i can send u my pic thru there, im sure u wouldnt be disappointed.write back either way because id love to hear from u. please don't be discouraged over the age difference also, im not so i dont think you should either. p.s im not spam or anything so dont worry lol im serious and for real im idareyou06 on yahoo/msn messneger,,,and bkny2005k on aim.write me back your screen names
Oh, wait, here's another lonely, semi-orphan in ALASKA:
hello,how re u doing today?...my name is louis nelson from alaska,i am 39 yrs old i am a civil engineer by profession presently i am working on a contract in west africa as the IPT there and the things that trobles me the most is that i am lonely.i am the only child of my parents though i have other brothers and sisters but they were all adopted well why not hit me up so we can get to know more about each other.......my yahoo id is louis4coollove@yahoo.com and the msn id is louis4coollove@hotmail.com hope to hear from u ok. LOUIS
And today's message, which just threw me over the top:
good afternoon to you, how are you feeling this week, well am Emperor from nigeria, i have read your profile and i am very sure to be your friend, you are just the type of lady that i have been looking for since, please lady am not trying to fool or joke around i am very serious about what ever i put down here and am not trying to hurt you own that i like telling the person that love my feelings,so dear, this my number +234- 80 360 927 03 or send me mail via (abemperor4u@yahoo.com or xyemperor777@yahoo.com)i will be expecting either your flash so that i can call you or your mail. don't mind the code it is ghana code due to i happend to study there. sweet heart please don't like my joy weather away. am right now online.
Please, if any of you feel inspired to write to them or to not like their joy weather away (whatever on earth that means), feel free. Especially if you, too, are an orphan.
First, a message from the orphan (who, you will note, is "black and strong"):
Good day ma'm My name is charles,i am 36yrs,working with a bank here in the uk.i am black and strong. I am just browsing through the internet and came accross your pics,i must tell you that you are uniquely perfect.I am not looking for Miss World,ok?i simply want a honest God fearing woman that i can be there for.I hope i am not inconveniencing you with this mail,if i am,please i am trully sorry,i just had to speak out my feelings. I have been an orphan far too long for me to remember,and it has made me go through life all by myself,i really think its time i have someone special to my heart...Can you be the one?
Then there's Mr. Mike (who has now emailed me twice):
hi i saw your profile and i loved your pic...your beautiful! im 25 from brooklyn.im 5'9 blond blue eyes and attractive.(i tried uploading my pic but it didnt work for some reason, apparently the file was too big or anything.)i just got on myspace so there isnt too much on my page, but id gladly answer any questions u may have about me. id love to chat with u sometime, do u have aol or yahoo messenger? if you do use either one i can send u my pic thru there, im sure u wouldnt be disappointed.write back either way because id love to hear from u. please don't be discouraged over the age difference also, im not so i dont think you should either. p.s im not spam or anything so dont worry lol im serious and for real im idareyou06 on yahoo/msn messneger,,,and bkny2005k on aim.write me back your screen names
Oh, wait, here's another lonely, semi-orphan in ALASKA:
hello,how re u doing today?...my name is louis nelson from alaska,i am 39 yrs old i am a civil engineer by profession presently i am working on a contract in west africa as the IPT there and the things that trobles me the most is that i am lonely.i am the only child of my parents though i have other brothers and sisters but they were all adopted well why not hit me up so we can get to know more about each other.......my yahoo id is louis4coollove@yahoo.com and the msn id is louis4coollove@hotmail.com hope to hear from u ok. LOUIS
And today's message, which just threw me over the top:
good afternoon to you, how are you feeling this week, well am Emperor from nigeria, i have read your profile and i am very sure to be your friend, you are just the type of lady that i have been looking for since, please lady am not trying to fool or joke around i am very serious about what ever i put down here and am not trying to hurt you own that i like telling the person that love my feelings,so dear, this my number +234- 80 360 927 03 or send me mail via (abemperor4u@yahoo.com or xyemperor777@yahoo.com)i will be expecting either your flash so that i can call you or your mail. don't mind the code it is ghana code due to i happend to study there. sweet heart please don't like my joy weather away. am right now online.
Please, if any of you feel inspired to write to them or to not like their joy weather away (whatever on earth that means), feel free. Especially if you, too, are an orphan.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
make the choice to read this book
I've been quiet on a lot of fronts lately, so if you've missed me, I apologize. I've missed you, too. (I've also probably eaten your share of Easter food, and you've probably gone hungry. Really sorry about that. I think we're over it now, though, so it's safe to eat with me again... unless you're bringing Peeps!)
ANYWAY... I'm going to a really cool conference this weekend, and in preparation, I read a book by one of the instructors, Debbie Ford, who is a life-coach trainer (yet another reason I'm going to the conference) in addition to being a teacher and author.
You must read this book. All of you. Go out now and read it. (Well, finish reading this first, but then go!)
The book is called The Right Questions, and it's for anyone who can see the problems in his or her life, but feels paralyzed about how to actually go about changing things.
Debbie starts with the premise that life is about choices. Every day, we're faced with hundreds of choices, some simple (do I want coffee?) and some complex (am I willing to make my life better?). And how we act on those choices reveals not necessarily what we want, but what we are committed to, in an underlying, unconscious way. Take me for example: for years I wanted to be an actor, and thought my choices were leading me down that road, but in retrospect, the choices I made were fulfilling my underlying commitment to be financially secure, respected and valued. Are they separate things? Not necessarily. But in my case, they definitely were.
So the first step is actively choosing between being true to your goal (in this case, acting), or being true to your underlying commitment (in this case, security and respect).
This concept of underlying commitments plays out in even more insidious ways in relationships -- you may want desperately to be in a relationship, but if you have an underlying commitment to being alone, your choices will play themselves out to leave you alone at the end of the day.
(Pretty sneaky, sis.)
Once you've committed to your goals, there are a variety of questions (the Right ones, in fact) that will help you stick to that goal. I won't list them all here (because you really ought to read the book, and I don't think that listing them all would be fair to the author), but some of them are (in her words):
Will this choice propel me toward an inspiring future, or will it keep me stuck in the past?
Am I looking for what's right, or am I looking for what's wrong?
Is this an act of faith, or is it an act of fear?
There are a few more, and they're all really valuable. The key to success with them is to think of them just as you're making a choice or a revelation or a change. (Like when you're about to put that 45th peep into your mouth, just think, will this peep propel me toward a skinny future, or will it keep me stuck in my ass?)
Oh, and the book is 180 pages long and will likely take you three subway rides (to my house, at least) to finish it. So what do you have to lose?
Make the choice. Read this book.
ANYWAY... I'm going to a really cool conference this weekend, and in preparation, I read a book by one of the instructors, Debbie Ford, who is a life-coach trainer (yet another reason I'm going to the conference) in addition to being a teacher and author.
You must read this book. All of you. Go out now and read it. (Well, finish reading this first, but then go!)
The book is called The Right Questions, and it's for anyone who can see the problems in his or her life, but feels paralyzed about how to actually go about changing things.
Debbie starts with the premise that life is about choices. Every day, we're faced with hundreds of choices, some simple (do I want coffee?) and some complex (am I willing to make my life better?). And how we act on those choices reveals not necessarily what we want, but what we are committed to, in an underlying, unconscious way. Take me for example: for years I wanted to be an actor, and thought my choices were leading me down that road, but in retrospect, the choices I made were fulfilling my underlying commitment to be financially secure, respected and valued. Are they separate things? Not necessarily. But in my case, they definitely were.
So the first step is actively choosing between being true to your goal (in this case, acting), or being true to your underlying commitment (in this case, security and respect).
This concept of underlying commitments plays out in even more insidious ways in relationships -- you may want desperately to be in a relationship, but if you have an underlying commitment to being alone, your choices will play themselves out to leave you alone at the end of the day.
(Pretty sneaky, sis.)
Once you've committed to your goals, there are a variety of questions (the Right ones, in fact) that will help you stick to that goal. I won't list them all here (because you really ought to read the book, and I don't think that listing them all would be fair to the author), but some of them are (in her words):
Will this choice propel me toward an inspiring future, or will it keep me stuck in the past?
Am I looking for what's right, or am I looking for what's wrong?
Is this an act of faith, or is it an act of fear?
There are a few more, and they're all really valuable. The key to success with them is to think of them just as you're making a choice or a revelation or a change. (Like when you're about to put that 45th peep into your mouth, just think, will this peep propel me toward a skinny future, or will it keep me stuck in my ass?)
Oh, and the book is 180 pages long and will likely take you three subway rides (to my house, at least) to finish it. So what do you have to lose?
Make the choice. Read this book.
Friday, December 29, 2006
scurvey survey
I hijacked this from Bon, who hijacked it from Beffers, who begat Shemshalot and Urachai, who begat...
1. How old will you be in five years?
Ahem. 35. (excuse me, I still had the taste of 29 in my throat)
2. Who did you spend at least two hours with today?
Me. But the day's still young. I spent at least two hours with Francesca and Alex yesterday, and that felt pretty good.
3. How tall are you?
5'8" Taller in shoes.
4. What do you look forward to most in the next six weeks?
Ooh, good question. Mostly just getting to the other side of the holidays. And recording my audiobook demo.
5. What's the last movie you saw?
Warm Springs, the Branagh movie about FDR's time in Georgia, trying to walk again. Actually quite good. And Cynthia Nixon wears fake teeth in it, which is prety awesome. Prior to that I saw 28-Up. Part of the Up documentary series in which they follow 9 or 10 kids from the time they're seven until most recently, they came out with 49-Up. Cool concept. (the films themselves tend to be a little long, if you ask me, so I have to sleep through some parts)
6. Who was the last person to call you?
Sadly, the word processing department, seeing if I can cover another attorney today.
7. What was the last text message you received?"Cousin Brian?" (of course the text I had sent out previously said "Guess who's at Yum Yum Bangkok?")
8. Do you prefer to call or text?
It depends on what my objective is. If I want to just pop someone a note to say hi, or I love you, or I'm down the street, I'll text. Or if I'm in the subway and have no cell service, I'll totally text. But to really connect with someone, I like the phone. And face-to-face. Email's good, too.
9. What were you doing at 8pm last night?
Eating Thai food (at Yum Yum Bangkok, surprise surprise). With Francesca and Alex (surprise surprise).
10. Are your parents married/separated/divorced?
My mom and dad are still together after almost 37 years. And they rock.
11. When is the last time you saw your mom?
Tuesday morning, when she drove me to the train station. I'm seeing her again on Saturday.
12. What color are your eyes?
Brown. With some brown highlights.
13. What time did you wake up this morning?
8:00 a.m. by the bedroom clock, 7:54 by the kitchen clock. (yes, I'm one of those people, but mostly because every time I set my alarm, the time moves forward a minute or two, and I can't be bothered to correct it. I don't let it get more than 10 minutes ahead, though, because that's just silly.)
14. What are you wearing right now?
Jeans! At work! (only thing I like about new year's is the casual dress today) And a pink sweater. And a belt that used to be the sweater ties, but they irritated me the way the bopped against my stomach, so I cut them off, made a belt out of them and now I call them my pom pom numchuks.
15. What is your favorite Christmas song?
The Christmas Wish from the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Album. Makes me kinda weepy.
16. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a child?
The Thing Under the Bed.
17. How many computers do you have in your house?
Uno.
18. How big is your bed?
Big enough for me!
19. Do you have a laptop or desktop computer?
Desktop. I don't do a lot of computery stuff at home (since I spend 8 hours a day in front of one here) so I'm all good with what I've got.
20. Do you sleep with or without clothes on?
With. Definitely with. I mean, what if the house catches fire or something?
21. What color are your sheets?
They're supposed to be cream colored, but it's been a while since I've changed them. They might be getting kind of greyish. (makes mental note to change sheets this weekend.)
22. What is your favorite season?
Spring. (I don't have allergies)
23. Have you ever kissed more than one girl in a night?
One girl? No. One boy? No comment.
24. What do you like about winter?
SNOW! And Christmas. And my birthday. And being cozy.
25. What cities/towns have you lived in?
Lots of News: New Rochelle, New Snootyville, New Haven, New York City (Manhattan, Queens and Brooklyn).
26. Do you like Chinese food?
Not as much as Thai and Japanese.
27. Do you like coffee?
Does a bear shit in the woods (after drinking coffee)?
28. How many glasses of water, a day, do you drink on average?Not enough. I'd like to drink more, but the water fountain is so... far... away...
29. What do you drink in the morning?
Decaf.
30. Do you know how to play poker?
Sort of. I don't particularly enjoy it, though, especially when real money is involved. Penny poker I can get behind.
31. Do you like to cuddle?
See #27.
32. Do you have an addictive personality?
Yes. I am both addicted to things and addictive to people. ("Quick! I need me a Kate fix, STAT!")
33. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you?
Yes. In addition to Katie Holmes (we go way back), I share my birthday with Ruth Wallman (who was in a two-woman show with me several years ago -- what are the odds that we'd have the same birthday?), Dana Syracuse (my friend at work) and Amanda Nelson (who could be any of these people. I lost track of her in middle school).
34. Do you want kids?
Do you?
35. Do you speak any other languages?
I can speak enough Spanish to get by, but I get really shy and nervous speaking Spanish to native speakers. My sister and I used to speak Spanish at the dinner table to discuss the regalos were giving to our madre para la Navidad. They thought we were all smart and bilingual.
36. Have you ever gotten stitches?
Yes. I have 13 in my chin, from falling on a steel railing and a bunch in my throat from my tonsilectomy.
37. Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seats?
Window! Let me sleep leaning against something that isn't a fellow passenger.
38. Do you know how to drive stick?
That's personal.
39. Can you roll your tongue?
Yes, but I can't do that fancy clover leaf thing.
40. What is the main ring tone on your phone?
Oh, it's this lame funky beat. I've given the VIPs rings of their own, which is great because I know who's calling before I even get there.
1. How old will you be in five years?
Ahem. 35. (excuse me, I still had the taste of 29 in my throat)
2. Who did you spend at least two hours with today?
Me. But the day's still young. I spent at least two hours with Francesca and Alex yesterday, and that felt pretty good.
3. How tall are you?
5'8" Taller in shoes.
4. What do you look forward to most in the next six weeks?
Ooh, good question. Mostly just getting to the other side of the holidays. And recording my audiobook demo.
5. What's the last movie you saw?
Warm Springs, the Branagh movie about FDR's time in Georgia, trying to walk again. Actually quite good. And Cynthia Nixon wears fake teeth in it, which is prety awesome. Prior to that I saw 28-Up. Part of the Up documentary series in which they follow 9 or 10 kids from the time they're seven until most recently, they came out with 49-Up. Cool concept. (the films themselves tend to be a little long, if you ask me, so I have to sleep through some parts)
6. Who was the last person to call you?
Sadly, the word processing department, seeing if I can cover another attorney today.
7. What was the last text message you received?"Cousin Brian?" (of course the text I had sent out previously said "Guess who's at Yum Yum Bangkok?")
8. Do you prefer to call or text?
It depends on what my objective is. If I want to just pop someone a note to say hi, or I love you, or I'm down the street, I'll text. Or if I'm in the subway and have no cell service, I'll totally text. But to really connect with someone, I like the phone. And face-to-face. Email's good, too.
9. What were you doing at 8pm last night?
Eating Thai food (at Yum Yum Bangkok, surprise surprise). With Francesca and Alex (surprise surprise).
10. Are your parents married/separated/divorced?
My mom and dad are still together after almost 37 years. And they rock.
11. When is the last time you saw your mom?
Tuesday morning, when she drove me to the train station. I'm seeing her again on Saturday.
12. What color are your eyes?
Brown. With some brown highlights.
13. What time did you wake up this morning?
8:00 a.m. by the bedroom clock, 7:54 by the kitchen clock. (yes, I'm one of those people, but mostly because every time I set my alarm, the time moves forward a minute or two, and I can't be bothered to correct it. I don't let it get more than 10 minutes ahead, though, because that's just silly.)
14. What are you wearing right now?
Jeans! At work! (only thing I like about new year's is the casual dress today) And a pink sweater. And a belt that used to be the sweater ties, but they irritated me the way the bopped against my stomach, so I cut them off, made a belt out of them and now I call them my pom pom numchuks.
15. What is your favorite Christmas song?
The Christmas Wish from the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Album. Makes me kinda weepy.
16. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a child?
The Thing Under the Bed.
17. How many computers do you have in your house?
Uno.
18. How big is your bed?
Big enough for me!
19. Do you have a laptop or desktop computer?
Desktop. I don't do a lot of computery stuff at home (since I spend 8 hours a day in front of one here) so I'm all good with what I've got.
20. Do you sleep with or without clothes on?
With. Definitely with. I mean, what if the house catches fire or something?
21. What color are your sheets?
They're supposed to be cream colored, but it's been a while since I've changed them. They might be getting kind of greyish. (makes mental note to change sheets this weekend.)
22. What is your favorite season?
Spring. (I don't have allergies)
23. Have you ever kissed more than one girl in a night?
One girl? No. One boy? No comment.
24. What do you like about winter?
SNOW! And Christmas. And my birthday. And being cozy.
25. What cities/towns have you lived in?
Lots of News: New Rochelle, New Snootyville, New Haven, New York City (Manhattan, Queens and Brooklyn).
26. Do you like Chinese food?
Not as much as Thai and Japanese.
27. Do you like coffee?
Does a bear shit in the woods (after drinking coffee)?
28. How many glasses of water, a day, do you drink on average?Not enough. I'd like to drink more, but the water fountain is so... far... away...
29. What do you drink in the morning?
Decaf.
30. Do you know how to play poker?
Sort of. I don't particularly enjoy it, though, especially when real money is involved. Penny poker I can get behind.
31. Do you like to cuddle?
See #27.
32. Do you have an addictive personality?
Yes. I am both addicted to things and addictive to people. ("Quick! I need me a Kate fix, STAT!")
33. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you?
Yes. In addition to Katie Holmes (we go way back), I share my birthday with Ruth Wallman (who was in a two-woman show with me several years ago -- what are the odds that we'd have the same birthday?), Dana Syracuse (my friend at work) and Amanda Nelson (who could be any of these people. I lost track of her in middle school).
34. Do you want kids?
Do you?
35. Do you speak any other languages?
I can speak enough Spanish to get by, but I get really shy and nervous speaking Spanish to native speakers. My sister and I used to speak Spanish at the dinner table to discuss the regalos were giving to our madre para la Navidad. They thought we were all smart and bilingual.
36. Have you ever gotten stitches?
Yes. I have 13 in my chin, from falling on a steel railing and a bunch in my throat from my tonsilectomy.
37. Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seats?
Window! Let me sleep leaning against something that isn't a fellow passenger.
38. Do you know how to drive stick?
That's personal.
39. Can you roll your tongue?
Yes, but I can't do that fancy clover leaf thing.
40. What is the main ring tone on your phone?
Oh, it's this lame funky beat. I've given the VIPs rings of their own, which is great because I know who's calling before I even get there.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
poetry slam
Odes to my hateful neighbors, who drive me crazy, and make me want to kill them.
I've got these crap neighbors next door,
One of whom is a door-slamming whore.
Slams it early or late
With no thought for poor Kate --
Oh, I hate them right down to my core!
3 a.m. I'm awake in my bed
Sounds of slamming reverb in my head
Through the door to 3L
Live the neighbors from hell
And I think they'd be better off dead.
To them I cried and begged and pleaded
But my wishes for quiet were ne'er heeded.
With sheer heartless disdain
They ignored me again
A drastic rent hike for them is what's needed
Every day I'm awake 'fore my time
Just to sleep would be oh so sublime
But they slam every door
With loud stomping galore
They're the bastards of 329!
When they leave their apartment the floor shakes
I can only imagine each board quakes
And with every door slam
To myself I say, "Damn,
I regret ever baking them doorcakes!"
I've got these crap neighbors next door,
One of whom is a door-slamming whore.
Slams it early or late
With no thought for poor Kate --
Oh, I hate them right down to my core!
3 a.m. I'm awake in my bed
Sounds of slamming reverb in my head
Through the door to 3L
Live the neighbors from hell
And I think they'd be better off dead.
To them I cried and begged and pleaded
But my wishes for quiet were ne'er heeded.
With sheer heartless disdain
They ignored me again
A drastic rent hike for them is what's needed
Every day I'm awake 'fore my time
Just to sleep would be oh so sublime
But they slam every door
With loud stomping galore
They're the bastards of 329!
When they leave their apartment the floor shakes
I can only imagine each board quakes
And with every door slam
To myself I say, "Damn,
I regret ever baking them doorcakes!"
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