I’m incapable of functioning with an argument in my head, even if said argument is 80% imaginary. I pace around, moping, silently going over my defense. It’s exhausting, and nothing cures it, not even wine, though I’m starting to take a certain writerly pride in the number of wine bottles I put out with my recycling each week.
There are people who can shrug off this sort of thing. They are the same people who shake off insults with the haters gonna hate mantra, that has never once convinced me of anything other than my own social paranoia.
My internal dialogue goes something like:
"Whatever. Haters gonna hate. You’re delightful."
"What? HATERS? People HATE me? How can I make them like me? All of them, right now? RIGHT NOW."
And I guess that wouldn’t be so hard if I didn’t have this stubborn streak. You see, all that pacing around I did amounts to a pretty convincing argument that I am right and the other person is a MORON. I want them to like me, but they have to come around to it on their own.
That’s fine. They’ll realize it any minute now. I’ll just wait for their apology, which I will, of course, accept with just the right mix of gracious reluctance. I’ll just wait right here. Patiently.
But of course, I’m not patient. I’m wretched! Someone doesn’t like me! We’re having a fight! It’s torture. What’s wrong with me (I ask my glass of wine, miserably). Unfortunately, the answer to that is a much longer entry.
I don’t know what made me think I could sit through this mess
in its entirety, but I made it through 25 minutes and two glasses of wine last night before Brittany Murphy’s unbearable British accent (explained away by “a childhood spent in America”!!), the self-conscious dialogue, and a TANGO SCENE convinced me that it just wasn’t going to happen. You just can’t watch something that terrible alone without feeling like a Cathy cartoon.
What happened to all the moderately enjoyable cheesy romantic comedies? I’m not asking for You’ve Got Mail caliber gems. I’d settle for something along the lines of Notting Hill or The Wedding Singer. Even Save the Last Dance - which is to say, it can be bad, as long as it doesn’t think it’s good.
Ever since I left home permanently a few months ago, my mom has had some pretty intense empty nest syndrome. She finally settled on replacing me with a puppy, an Australian Labradoodle from Maine, to be exact. (Never mind the fact that I begged for a dog my whole life and never got one because my mom is allergic…) And today the little bitch was born.
We don’t know which one is ours yet, but the litter was all girls. Hopefully, I’ll be heading up to Maine with my mom later in the fall to bring our little lady home.
I just had to share these pictures of the newborn pups from the website:
Rest assured that you’ll be seeing a lot more puppy photos this fall.
- Went to the gym (ok, I know it’s not actually an errand, per se, but I feel like it counts)
- Went to the bodega to buy that shampoo I like
- Went to the fancy little market for fruit and freshly made guacamole
- Went to the regular grocery store for all the other stuff I eat, AND Murphy Oil Soap
- Dropped off clothes at the drycleaner that have sat in a pile in my apartment all summer
- Went to Beacon’s Closet (also not exactly an errand, but whatever, sometimes you just need a new vintage dress)
- Went to Target for new bras, new shower curtain liner, velcro hair curlers, green glass soap dispenser for my bathroom, and some hair products that I don’t know how to use
- painted my nails (this one counts, too! I don’t even like doing it!)
Errands I Should Have Done Yesterday:
- bought a mop and a bucket… I ended up using my swiffer and my tub. Whatever, you don’t know me. It totally worked. Until my swiffer broke. Thankfully, it held out until I was finished.
I felt so proud of myself last night. Like, really truly accomplished. I didn’t even care that my swiffer was broken or that I’m going to owe the drycleaner’s about a frillion dollars or that I ripped out a good third of my hair attempting to use those curlers. I cleaned my floor. The whole thing. Even the bathroom.I am a grown up.
“Tell a man you are moving. Any man. He will offer to help. It’s a reflex for them I think, like saying “bless you” when someone sneezes. They don’t even notice they’ve said it. Go ahead, try it. Say it at the end of a first date, even if it’s going badly. Say it to an ex you’ve avoided for six months and he’ll probably offer to put up shelves. Say it to the man at the deli who calls you mami and maybe he’ll wait for the cable guy for you. Delight at the small army you could build.”—
“I have been developing a similar obsession with this awareness that some people do errands all the time and probably do them on the day they think of them—and then I think, my GOD you could spend your entire life just doing the errands and its TRUE i think the sign of a truly successful person is doing errands ON THE WAY TO OTHER ERRANDS. I think maybe this is their secret, but whenever I try to do that I freak out about mapping them out and timing them the right way and oh, will I have to go and buy coffee with a bag full of groceries and like, will people judge me for using plastic bags (yes) and so I sit in front of my computer FREAKING OUT about what errand to do first and kind of decide i am a huge failure because I can’t possibly BRING A BAG OF LAUNDRY TO THE BANK, CAN I? And then I read people’s blogs where they are like, “Oh, I just rode my bike to the market to buy these local organic vegetables just another beautiful day in brooklyn!” and I’m like DAMMMMMITTTTTTTTT and start googling therapists again.”—
“Floating somewhere just within reach is a list of books people say everybody Should Read. I haven’t read many of them, a fact that embarrassed me so much in college that I lied when I was asked whether I had read some of the greats: the Iliad, Jane Eyre, and anything by Ernest Hemingway. The truth of it is, I really don’t believe we’re meant to read all of those books. Some of them we’ll never be ready for. Treat a book like a person and you will understand that they come into our lives like dates, or chance encounters, or friendships. They chip a little bit away and they put a little bit in. Read a book you’re not ready for, and, well, it’s like meeting somebody you’re not quite ready to meet—like having a coffee date with God.
Nothing is a greater waste of time than a book you weren’t quite yet ready to read.”—
Ever since I posted this morning about Burlesque, I’ve had a terrible urge to watch that CMT reality show The Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search. I don’t have TV, and I rarely stream shows because I just don’t have time, but sometimes I really miss very good very bad reality tv. Imagine my delight when I found that the show has apparently aired (is still airing?) 3 seasons and they’re available to watch online!
I am settling in for a night with season three. I am drinking a homemade key lime cocktail, paired with Tostitos restaurant style salsa and Xochitl Mexican chips.
I literally could not be happier with how this night turned out.
How come more people aren’t talking about Burlesque, the upcoming movie about an innocent blonde’s struggle to prove herself, and her subsequent rise to fame in the burlesque industry? Maybe people ARE talking, but, not being privy to television, I’m missing out on some very important Entertainment Tonight episodes and E! News Weekends.
It’s a (rather blatant) mix of Showgirls, Honey, Coyote Ugly, and Chicago, starring Christina Aguilara, Cher, and Stanley Tucci. This movie could not possibly be more gay if it tried, and if no one will go see it with me, I will go by myself and have an AWESOME time.
Side note: is Christina Aguilara getting younger, or was this shot in like 1999?
I left yoga tonight about fifteen minutes into class, which I’ve never done before despite wanting to more than a few times. Everything hurt, I couldn’t bear to hold any poses for longer than a few breaths, I got a weird cramp in the bottom of my foot in the first down dog that didn’t go away,…
I insist that I count as a homemaker even if it’s not my primary career, and no one lives in my home except me.
However, I have to admit a couple of things, and for the record this may cross into overshare territory.
I’m… not big on cleaning. I keep my apartment fairly tidy. I keep my countertops disinfected, my desk neat, my closet moderately organized. Sometimes I leave clothes or a towel on the floor, or some (rinsed) dishes in the sink for an evening, but when I compare it to my disastrous high school bedroom, I consider myself quite clean. BUT. I’m still not used to the whole being a grown up and ACTUALLY cleaning thing. My tub could use a lot of help. I literally haven’t dusted… anything since I moved in 5 months ago. And my floor? My floor is the big issue.
Now, before I explain, let me tell you that I have done some vigorous swiffering of the place, though probably not as often as I should. The thing is, it almost seems futile. My floor WILL NOT get clean through swiffering alone. I have hardwood floors that appear shiny, though quite old and worn, but DEAR GOD. If you walk on my floors in bare feet, you will end up with an inch high layer of dust/dirt on the bottoms of your feet. I know. I know! It’s awful. But I have put off doing anything about it, under the excuse of not knowing how to properly clean wood without damaging it. I know a quick google search could probably set me straight, but rarely having guests has made me complacent in my mess, and I just haven’t had the motivation to deal with this.
My duvet is a cheap, white, uncovered thing I picked up at Target before moving in. I was going for simple, easy, inexpensive, and I planned to buy a cover for it soon. Well, I haven’t bought one yet, and things have gotten ugly. The duvet itself attracts the dust from my floor, creating this awful sweater pill effect (do you know what I’m talking about? when your sweater gets those tiny clumps of wool that look ugly and drive you nuts?), except with dust. Ugh. I know. I’m baring my shameful soul here, you guys. It gets worse. The only way to get rid of them is to brush them off using a hair brush, ripping out the whole tangled mess, and tossing it into the garbage. Obviously, this is gross and I hate it. The comforter is also not looking so great since it’s too large for a washing machine, and well, WHITE.
So I’ve been looking into getting a pretty comforter cover, and this one has stolen my heart for obvious reasons. Most importantly, it can be removed from the duvet and washed separately. Also considering the more practical grey shade (which reviewers say appears more oatmeal colored in person).
But first I’ve got to set this floor straight. As I said, my floors are hardwood and rather old, with deep grooves between the boards. So… tips? Tricks? Cleaning products you swear by?
“I used to wish for twin brothers every day when I was growing up! And then I got them! Can you believe that? That was my wish that was fulfilled. It was like God looked down at me and said, ‘Ok, Rachel, you want twin brothers as your one wish that you’ll have granted in life? Here they are.’ And I looked back up at him and said, ‘wait, what? no!’”—Rachel Mudd (via yourpalmal)
So I’m heading back to NY on the Megabus. I know, short weekend, right? I work on Sundays, so the ones that begin with a bus ride to the city are inevitably interminable.
I try to remind myself that I’m going back to New York City, WHERE I LIVE. People DREAM of living there. I dreamed of it. And it’s not that my love has grown stale. I still wouldn’t move for anything. But the butterflies I had in my stomach in March have become more and more infrequent. Our romance has reached that comfortable stage, where we argue because we are beginning to know each other too well. We disappoint each other, there are fewer surprises. The spontaneous dates are few and far between.
Maybe (to stretch this metaphor to its breaking point) we’ve just become one of those couples who never go out with other people anymore. It’s always the two of us, the same jokes, and always our favorite restaurant. Our friends have all but stopped calling. I think you get the picture.
Often, at this point in the relationship, I feel the urge to break up, cut loose, see other people, I don’t think we can be friends yet. But not this time. This time it’s different. I have a feeling New York and I are in it for the long haul.
(Editor’s note: This was written just before my internet cut out completely for the rest of the trip, I became severely carsick on a ride that was half an hour longer than scheduled, and then exited the bus into a torrential downpour that soaked me down to my skin on the walk to work. Sigh. “Sometimes New York wins…”)
One day I’ll have a job that does not require women to adhere to dress codes that reflect the fashions/ professional norms of two decades ago. Pantyhose are no longer a “thing” we “do.” Please adjust your employee manuals accordingly. Oh, and red nail polish falls under the category of “natural” (aka acceptable) but purple, blue, or green are somehow deviant? Bitch, please.
Women use exclamation points online as indicators of a “friendly interaction.” We’ve been socialized to try to make people feel comfortable and to keep the peace. Hence sentences like, “Bill, I can’t wait to see the 4th quarter EMBO Report on the new 12-gauge ball bearings!”
She’s not excited to see that report. No one is excited to see that report. She’s letting Bill know that she’s not angry that it’s late yet. When she’s angry, she’ll use a period.