I sometimes imagine myself walking into a room, doing that cliche sexy slo-mo hair flip thingwhile this song plays in the background. You know, sometimes.
Side Note: my reference for this was going to be Jennifer Love Hewitt’s entrance in Can’t Hardly Wait, which I was sure fell into the above category, and then I rewatched it and realized it is actually totally different than I remembered it. She doesn’t saunter in looking all supercool and confident. She steps in, does an awkward half smile thing, and then stares into space with an overwhelming amount of self-consciousness. So, basically: how I walk into every public space. I am so relieved.
I return to the Complete Poems of Anne Sexton like a believer to the Bible. When I’m unhappy, I pull out a relevant verse and use it to make sense out of my life. The binding has completely come unglued from my copy - a testament to my love for it.
By next Monday night, I will have worked 60 hours over the course of 7 consecutive days. This will be followed by a solitary day off. Have I mentioned this job involves standing all day? Everything in me is collapsing.
I’m depressed and yesterday my closet broke and all my clothes came crashing down and maybe broke my printer which was on the shelf, and my phone is breaking because it’s 100 years old, and I just want to eat lots of and lots of french fries and maybe get drunk, but mostly the fries thing.
I just tried to de-stress by building a bookshelf. I mean, all the parts were delivered today, it’s not like I’m a carpenter or something. But they were big and heavy and plentiful. There were over 15 large wooden pieces and about a million tiny things, like screws and other things that connect to things (shut up I have no idea what I’m talking about). Sometimes laborious processes like this that simply involve following directions can be soothing to me.
First, I built the drawer which goes on the bottom of the bookcase. It was kind of soothing except the part where I accidentally smashed myself in the face with a piece of wood. So I finished the drawer. It took me the length of the second half of What Not To Wear and an entire documentary on dwarves.
Next, per the directions, I attached a long wooden thingy to a flat wooden thingy. Easy. Then it was time for the real building to begin. It is at this point that I realized that the sides to my 6 foot tall bookcase were missing. I had two back pieces, 4 of shelves, a top, a bottom, and 9700 tiny little pieces, but no giant sides. I foolishly returned to the boxes which were now more of a mountain of cardboard and styrofoam the size of Rhode Island piled outside my bedroom door. (I’m trying to be realistic about states that would fit in my basement here, ok?) Obviously, there were no sides in there.
And now my bedroom floor is completely covered in bookcase pieces and I’m pretty much trapped down here for life. Good thing I built that drawer first. It’ll come in handy when I need a place to store all my suicidal thoughts.
The other day an older woman came into the lobby of the hotel. She was thin, with Bette Davis eyes, and looked a little bit lost. I noticed her because she seemed both strong and frail, like a dancer, and my immediate thought was that she was with the visiting New York City ballet, even though they aren’t staying at our hotel. Some sort of ballet instructor, perhaps? My thoughts on her ended there as she wandered away and I turned my attention to another person in the lobby.
Today I found out she was Joyce Carol Oates. No one I work with cared, but I was pretty thrilled.
While quite a few celebrities have stayed in the hotel recently, she is the first one to make me feel that strange fanatic desire to share and connect. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t just some hotel peon, that I was a person who read books. Her books. I wanted to tell her about how I read We Were The Mulvaney’s in Cape Cod and how the pages got grains of sand stuck in between them.
A personality type with whom I find myself incompatible:
people who say things like “I keep it real. I always say exactly what’s on my mind. I’ll always be upfront and tell you the truth to your face.” This is code for: “I have a complete lack of regard for social discretion, your feelings, and tact in general. I also feel that I am above the need for a verbal filter because what I have to say is always more important than how it affects those around me.” It implies that those who are less likely to speak their mind, refrain due to some sort of innate timidity, or worse, deceitfulness, rather than the reality - that they are simply more diplomatic, empathetic, and in control of their intellectual output.
I recently stumbled across this furniture website (via this tumblr) that manufactures the furniture of my fantasies (see photos below). While my mind tells me that most of it is outlandishly ornate and would probably only look good in a castle, my heart keeps fluttering about how I could certainly use a couple of double-doored armoires, a gilt dressing screen, and a chaise lounge or two.
On the downside, if I bought furniture like this, I would probably be forced to start calling my bedroom my “boudoir” and no one likes people who say things like “boudoir.”
Unpleasant smells that become vastly more objectionable due to their context. Case in point: the luke warm food smell of a cafeteria - namely, the break room at work. Somehow, familiarity only makes it worse.
Guys, I can’t cook. I don’t claim to be able to, I don’t have much interest in it, I don’t try recipes I’m clearly incapable of making. One thing I am confident about, however, is my ability to cook a frozen pizza in the oven. I do it a couple times a week at least. I think it’s safe to say I’ve pretty much got it down.
Yesterday I attempted to deal with some drippy cheese and I started a fire in the oven that involved aluminum foil and flames and melting. I scared my grandmother (who I’m pretty sure already thinks I’m borderline retarded and possibly verging on death because I never cook healthy dinners for myself) and made a mess.
If I ever have a family one day and my husband leaves, my children are going to have to cook because mommy’s not allowed to touch the appliances.
Lonely holidays have a way of making me feel terribly sorry for myself.
I missed last year’s fourth of July, as I spent it in Canada. I was disappointed and missing the US with a wistful patriotism I hadn’t really experienced until that point. Now I’m back, but I’m still spending the night indoors, by myself, listening to the neighbors shoot of fireworks in their backyard. There was no picnic, no family get together, and not even any drunken debauchery to ease the weird sadness. I say weird because the 4th of July has never really seemed like an important holiday to me. But nearly every year I ate hot dogs cooked on the grill with my parents and then spent an the evening at the park watching the fireworks, and waving at friends who had gathered from around town. It never seemed like a big deal, but it was tradition.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes only when something’s changed do you realize how important its consistency had been.
I’ve always enjoyed the fact that the dress code for the 4th of July (shorts, tank tops, flip flops, american flag bandanas) is similar to that of a Texan trailer park. I imagine that it’s pretty much Independence Day year round in the south.
In honor of today’s holiday, I’ll only post clothes in festive colors. Because nothing says America like a little redwhiteandblue materialism.
One of the benefits of having a laptop is the ability to bring it into the bathroom for the excruciatingly dull (and usually extended) period of time between the moment you realize you need to throw up and the moment this goal is finally actualized.
I really really like buying presents for people*. I never understand why other people dread Christmas shopping. Wandering around the mall for hours, looking for the perfect gift is one of my favorite things to do. If I don’t have much time, 45 minutes in Target will also easily do the trick. Multiple presents are always better than one. Unless your present is really really good, or I am really really poor, there is a good chance you will be receiving multiple things from me. When I’ve finished picking out presents, then there is the satisfying finale of choosing the right sized gift bag and the perfect card. (The card finding is no easy task. Trust me.)
I should really look into becoming one of those people who makes gift baskets for rich people who don’t have time to shop for their friends. My gift baskets would be the best, and they would never include annoying shit like fancy mustard or monogrammed coffee mugs. No one wants that shit.
*Unfortunately, this only applies to female people. If you are a male, I will tear my hair out after five minutes of searching and then buy you something overpriced and unnecessary from Brookstone or a book. Or a tie. I suck.