things I am thankful for

• Pumpkin butter
• The 80.98 miles between my apartment and my parents’ house (...that make me appreciate seeing them so much more when I do eventually find my way home)
• Paul Simon’s song, “The Obvious Child” for being so poetic and musically interesting and for being the song I’ve been playing on repeat for the past 4 days.
• Diet Coke
• My chiropractor for reminding me that I am going to get osteoporosis from drinking Diet Coke
• Mothers who leave me voicemails about my all-around superiority
• Fathers who still say “You’re the apple of my eye”
• A 3-year-old cousin that leans on me at Thanksgiving dinner every five minutes to tell me he loves me
• Anne Lamott, for articulating so honestly and graphically what messes we are but how God works with us anyhow
• Flannel sheets
• Turkish apricots
• The quirky guy at Blockbuster who wears the weird Salvation Army-looking sweaters and makes fun of my movie selection and who has no idea how much I look forward to seeing him at the end of the day
• Run-on sentence fragments
• Patty Griffin’s sad songs
• Alpaca wool mittens
• Friends who remind me that being good enough was never in the cards which is why God offers enough grace to cover me

Keeping it classy

Irene: "Don't tell Marta I farted in her bed. She gets so emotional about it."

Maybe it's just me

Restless Leg Syndrome: still bullshit. But maybe that is just my Syndrome Intolerance Syndrome speaking. I think I also might have a case of Intense Desire For Reese's PeanutButter Cup Syndrome. I'm a sick, sick girl.

Random.

Today, I shipped a used West Coast Choppers oil tank to Thailand. You know, like you do sometimes.

Thoughts on Men

I'm reading "Operating Instructions" by Anne Lamontt right now. Not surprisingly, I am enjoying it immensely. I am in love with her voice and fed by her perspective. Today I read this great passage about her thoughts on men:
"Part of me loves and respects men so desperately, and part of me thinks they are so embarrassingly incompetent at life and in love. You have to teach them the very basics of emotional literacy. You have to teach them how to be there for you, and part of me feels tender toward them and gentle, and part of me is so afraid of them, afraid of any more violation."

What WILL they think up next?

I think Restless Leg Syndrome is bullshit. Just saying.

Danger Dog

I just switched computers with Mark and now I have the Mac. The Mac has Photo Booth. Getting work done just got a lot harder.

Dilemma

Anna: "Red wine gives me heartburn but white wine gives me a headache."

Me: "Yeah me too. Maybe we should drink less."

Anna: "Sadly that didn't even occur to me as a viable option."

My subconscious hates me.

Ew. I dreamed that I was making out with country music star, Toby Keith. My subconscious hates me.

Serious question

On the expression, “I’d tap that” : Can a girl say it or does the verb ‘to tap’ necessitate boy parts?

Yeah, I thought about going to the gym this morning...

For the low level at which my brain functions around 6a.m., I sure can think of some clever reasons not to get up and go to the gym.

I think the winner this morning was that if I got up and went to the gym at such a ridiculous hour I would be unhappy because I was tired and then I would associate negative feelings with exercise and then one day all that negative emotion will cause me to snap and I will refuse all physical activity including walking and so I'll stay in my bed all day long and eat and then they will have to get me out of my house with a crane because I will weigh 1,000 pounds.

These were my thoughts at 6:00. I did not go to the gym.

Proactivity

And while she knew that this too would probably pass, she thought she might help it along with large amounts of chocolate and wine.

pumpkin spice soy latte

Just when I thought I had run out of bad ideas for the week, I went and ordered a pumpkin spice latte with soy milk.

And while yes, I admit responsibility for this senseless act and accept the consequences- that my mouth will taste like a belly button for the next 3 hours- I am just a little bit angry with the Starbucks barista for letting me order it. Baristas, when a customer asks you for pumpkin spice latte with soy milk, the correct response is "No."

I feel like I am cheating on my PC.

I don't know how this is even allowed, but I just downloaded the Safari browser on my PC. I know I should feel guilty but it just feels so right.

vignette

And as the boy thought about all he may have done wrong, the girl wondered if he had ever met someone as in conflict with herself as she.

How to make me want to castrate you.

Say the following to me and be completely serious: "You would be more appealing to men if you cooked."
Even better, follow this remark by hitting on me.

Bulletin

This just in: pointy shoes hurt to walk in, no matter how sexy they make my feet look under my lesbo-riffic pants suit.

Grace

I take comfort in knowing that not one of my shenanigans comes as a surprise to God.

Truman.

My heart warmed to have someone so happy to see me awake this morning, I worried that I wouldn't want to give Truman back. But then I discovered he had yarked on my kitchen floor and my fears were put to rest.

Ways to feel incompetent

Depend on a 9-year old for directions to her school and then get totally lost after you have dropped her off.

Fury shirt and an unhappy Truman

Bulldogs are not lap dogs and I need to just accept that.

Might as well

6 a.m. might as well be 4 a.m. and 55 degrees might as well be below freezing. Shock to my freakin' system.

Sick satisfaction

Is it wrong how satisfying I find it to call my mom who is a hundred miles away to tell her how sick I feel just to make her worry and then not take her advice? I think I mostly want to make sure someone would care if my throat did in fact swell shut in the middle of the night.

Dog-sitting

Carrie and Mark have been in California for the last 10 days at the Car Show to End All Car Shows and so I agreed to take their bulldog, Truman. I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into. Truman comes to work everyday and so I am familiar with his vomiting and his flatulence. Still, from time to time he grosses even me out.

For one thing, he sounds like a coffee percolator when he moves around because he gargles when he breathes. Secondly, he snores as loud as my mother, which I know you probably can’t appreciate because you haven’t heard it, but let me tell you; it’s bad. He doesn’t know many tricks, but he knows the word “cookie.” If you say this word, you had better be prepared to pay up and give him one because the consequences for making him wait are pools of his spit on and around your feet.

Despite all of this, I am quite taken with the little monster whom I lovingly call “Gross-o.” When he isn’t making you clean up his puke or spit, he’s a pretty cool side-kick. Because of his wrinkles, his face is really expressive and he makes me laugh out loud at least four times a day. Also, he is a man-magnet. I have had more men approach me while walking him. So far none of the men have been attractive or interesting, but I still think Truman has some special power.

Mostly, the last 10 days haven’t been too bad with Truman around. The past 24 hours have been the worst. I thought we were having fun but apparently I was alone in these sentiments because Truman has made two escape attempts since yesterday night.

I went home after work yesterday and decided to go in the hot tub. I let Truman come outside with me because he would lose his little Truman mind if I left him inside and because I knew he wouldn’t go far from me since he is insecure in this strange yard and thinks I will leave him. So I let him come outside with me while I went in the hot tub. Things were going swimmingly. I sat in the tub reading my book and getting massaged by the water jets and Truman laid down next to the tub and slept. It was beautiful.

But then, a dog barked in the distance and Truman stood at attention. “Tru,” I said trying to bring his attention back to me and the nice little arrangement we had going. “What’s going on little buddy?” He marched down to the edge of the yard, by the pond and stared off into the woods where, somewhere on the other side, was a house with a barking dog. He won’t do it, I thought. Especially since it would be so inconvenient for me to chase him right now.

Wrong.

Truman darted into the brush to meet/fight the dog in the yard beyond the forest.

I sat there dumbstruck for a moment because I couldn’t even believe my situation. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wear much into hot tubs. Thus, I wasn’t really prepared to run into the bushes where I could run into ticks and/or other people.

I got it together, hopped out of the tub, grabbed my towel and ran into the house to get some clothes. I threw on some capris and a sleeveless T, neither of which went on easily, as I was soaking wet, and ran outside.

Truman was nowhere to be seen. I walked into the woods, calling for him and clapping and whistling, but I heard not so much as the jingle of his collar. I walked around the pond, myself now following the sound of the distant dog barking, and finally saw a short, fat lump of white, that was Truman 100 yards away. I called to him and he turned to me happily as if to say “Oh there you are!” He ran towards me and probably would have just followed me back to the house, but I wasn’t taking any chances and I grabbed his collar and forced him to go back at my pace. I emerged from the woods back at the house covered with mosquito bites and possibly poison ivy.

Truman, sensing that my bad mood was his fault, quietly took himself to the corner in the kitchen for a nap. I spent the next hour itching and glaring at him.

The next morning, I had a similar incident. You would have thought that after the first one, I would have decided to keep him on a leash at all times when I went outside, but no. This morning, Truman came up to my bed and started fussing. I knew he probably had to go potty, so I got up and brought him outside. Because I was going to go back to bed afterwards, and because there is decent tree coverage around the yard and driveway, I did not get dressed but rather just went outside in my PJs, which in my case are underwear and a tank top.

There were some carpenters building a garage across the street and when Truman heard their voices, he couldn’t help himself. He went flying down the driveway and out of the yard before I could catch him. For the fat little stubby-legged creature that he is, he moves surprisingly fast when he wants to. I called for him and called for him, but responding when you call his name is not one of his better tricks. He was gone and once again I found myself left behind because of my nakedness. I went inside and put on some pants and then ran outside and down the driveway. The carpenters, amused by my situation, pointed to where he had gone.

I clapped and called for him and he appeared out of some shrubbery, once again happy to see me. I proceeded to drag him by his collar back into the house and into his pen where I confined him for the next 15 minutes until we both had to leave for work.

Even though he hates it, I have put him on a leash for every outdoor excursion since. Also I have worn more clothing.

It looks like a fairy princess puked on my bed.

I went and bought a bed. And a mattress set. I did it. It has been done. If you read by post, mattress shopping and my quarter-life crisis you know my qualms about purchasing furniture. But I sucked it up and did it. I now own a bed, a mattress and a box spring. I bought my mattress and box spring off of Craigslist, which ended up being a compromise I could cope with: good quality items but I am not in debt. Ten points for me.

The problem now is linens. Believe me, it KILLS me that decorating my damn room is occupying enough mental space to feel like a problem, but it is. It just feels like moving into my new place marks a new phase of life and so I want my space to represent that.

I went shopping for sheets at Marshalls the other day and walked through the aisles trying to sense what sort of bed sheets represent me best. I wanted to buy sheets that would project all the qualities I want people to perceive in me. What do smart, quirky, classy, funny sheets look like anyway?

As I riffled through the bedding section, it struck me that I was attempting to construct my identity through the things I bought and this worried me for a moment that I was being corrupted by the materialistic, consumer society I was born into.

My concern passed quickly though as I was distracted by a display of Vera Bradley luggage. If you asked me, Vera Bradley has achieved the most unsexy luggage design ever: quilted cotton bags with Provencal tablecloth fabric. Nicely done, Vera. Fine for older women and younger ones who have just given up on appearing hip. I texted Marta and said: “If I ever own a quilted Vera Bradley garment bag, I want you to run over me with the minivan I probably also own.”

I turned back to the task at hand of constructing a more appealing identity via bed linens. I wasn’t having much luck. Everything was too plain, too frilly, or too covered with little green alligators. Just when I was about to give up hope and go home for the evening, a set of pink and green paisley sheets caught me eye. They were perfect. Sophisticated. Delicate without being too girly. Classy. I might even have ascribed adjectives like “smart” and “happy” to them.

I hugged the package to my bosom for a moment like it was my newborn child reflecting my image back at me. Success. I found the perfect sheets.

Or so I thought.

I went home that night with my perfect sheets and a pair of Calvin Klein pillows which were sold as a pair for $16 because Marshalls is the BOMB. I couldn’t wait to get my new bedding on my new bed. As I drove home, I could feel the sophistication and perfection emanating from the shopping bag on my backseat.

But it was problems in paradise for me and my sheets when I got home. I didn’t realize until they were unfolded and on my bed just how pink they were. Or how paisley. The design was still beautiful, but it had been much more appealing when I was only experiencing it as a 10X10 square as it appeared in its package. All the details were so much more intense when it was covering my whole mattress. The delicate pink in the pattern that had seemed so understated and charming in that small area seemed fragile and girly. And the green seemed so… Fern Gully. I stood back from my half-made bed cupping my chin in my hand and analyzed the situation. Something had gone terribly wrong.

I thought the sheets were so me. I quickly became uncomfortable with identifying myself with my sheets. I wondered if I was anything like them in the sense that I am only appealing in small doses but too much when I put it all out there. In trying to carry out that metaphor I wondered how a human could fold themselves into a 10X10 package.
I hoped that I didn’t come off as fragile and girly… or Fern Gully.

I called my roommates in and asked them if it looked like a Fairy Princess puked on my bed. They consoled me and affirmed that the sheets were pretty.

I decided that I will not allow myself to be petty and vain enough to obsess over bed sheets and the way they reflect on me and so I am keeping them. I am keeping them and forcing myself to see them for what they really are, bed linens, and not character reflections. So far, the not obsessing is coming slowly.

My first bikini wax.

Today I actually paid a stranger to rip my hair out from the root. Not only that, I tipped her for it. Something has gone terribly wrong with my life.

Somewhere along the line, someone decided that sophisticated women should take care of their bikini lines. And by “take care of” I mean eliminate the hair that belongs to that incredibly sensitive area in the most painful way possible. Maybe not THE most painful way, but I can’t think of a more unpleasant method of hair removal than waxing. Maybe burning it off while someone punches you in the face would be more painful… who knows?

Anyway. I am a sophisticated woman and so a bikini wax was inevitable. I’m not sure sophisticated women wear Hello Kitty Band-Aids and put skull and crossbones temporary tattoos on their forearms, but I am working on it.

According to the Women That Know, sophisticated ladies have professionals neaten up their private areas. Carrie is a Woman That Knows. That is why I asked her advice about the bikini wax thing. She was helpful in telling me where to go and who to ask for. Her most helpful advice though, was to go to the liquor store across the street from the salon and wash down some Advil with a mixed beverage in the parking lot before going in.

In my anxiety, which I think was entirely legitimate given the situation, I had maybe more Advil and mixed drink than Carrie had in mind. Also I am a lightweight when it comes to that sort of thing. Thus, I was extremely mellow when I walked into the salon and asked for Jen. I wasn’t irritated at all when I had to wait a long time for her to finish a facial either- the haircut books just seemed so awesome this evening. I almost wanted Jen to have a turn at the waiting thing because I was only half way through the celebrity makeover section when she called me in.

The waxing room was deceptively soothing. The lights were dim and there was gentle music playing softly in the hallway. I explained that this was my first waxing and she asked if I was getting a bikini or a Brazilian wax. I was nowhere near brave enough for the Brazilian yet and so I shyly requested the regular bikini wax and instantly felt less sophisticated.

Jen gave me see-through panties to put on and then left for me to change into them which seemed weird to me. What is the point of privacy if it is only to put on transparent undergarments? I thought it was already understood that the whole situation was pretty invasive.

The waxing itself was as painful as expected. I felt more sober than ever and pitied my poor body.

In trying to distract myself from the burning rip of the waxing cloth, I tried to think peaceful thoughts about God and the universe and things like that. I think the new agey music brought that on. Philosophizing during a bikini wax really adds some interesting perspective to your inner discussions on morality. I thought about the Golden Rule and suddenly, everyone seemed just a little more doomed. If doing unto others as we would have done unto ourselves is the standard of moral perfection, I hope that “Others” are kinder to themselves than I am to myself because at that moment I was having done unto me a whole world of discomfort and was feeling ready to return the favor unto someone else, namely Jen at that moment.

mattress shopping and my quarter-life crisis

Marta and I started off our Friday night at Jordan’s furniture looking at mattresses and bedroom sets. This is already funny if you know about our fear of domestication. Our worst case scenario for the next ten years is that we get good jobs, make good money and buy houses and cars and find husbands and make children. We have these fantastic dreams of travel and adventure and we are afraid that the simple life will creep up on us a little at a time, taking us over until we are tethered to a materialistic and mundane existence like mosquitoes on flypaper.

Dramatic, maybe, but if such domestication is indeed some sort of virus to be avoided, I’m afraid shopping for furniture has got to be a pretty serious symptom. Suddenly, you have these not-so-mobile objects to be responsible for and the more you pay for them, the worse you’ll feel about leaving them.

But there we were, looking at beds and mattresses to furnish the new apartments we’ll move into in the next month. We went from bed to bed, pushing on the tops with the palms of our hands before tentatively sitting and then laying down on them. Every one of them felt like some sort of magic wonder cloud compared to the Alcatraz style “mattress” I’ve been sleeping on these days.

Here’s the tricky thing about shopping for stuff that is already out of your price range: the numbers all start to seem the same. A $600 mattress set is the same as a $1400 mattress set because you don’t have either amount of money. The kind gentleman in the fakie doctor’s coat who works there prescribing expensive bedding to shoppers explained the various financing options to me.

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me I don’t have to pay for this baby for a whole year?” I asked, patting a Beautyrest. Luke, the “Sleep Technician” confirmed this. At first, this was exciting news. I paused and thought about all the wonderful nights of solid, restful sleep I could get. I made my own little Simmons commercial in my mind where I could see myself sleeping with this dumb-ass grin on my face because I am so happy on my new free-for-a-year mattress.

Luke walked me over to a little machine near the door where I could type in my information and get preapproved for this sweet deal. I very nearly fell for it too, but just in the nick of time I saw what he was doing. I realized that he is not Luke the Sleep Technician at all but Luke the Prince of Darkness trying to trick me into financing expensive purchases one at a time. A mattress today, a house with a while picket fence tomorrow. I don’t THINK so! Nice try, gypsy!

Suddenly, I didn’t remember why we came to this Jordan’s Furniture joint in the first place. I tactfully declined the credit approval thing for the moment, saying that we’d like to look around some more first. I took Marta and we made a B-line out of there. That’s a lie. We didn’t make a B-line. It was more of a scribbly, loopy, crazy line because as soon as we got out of the mattress section, we were in the bedroom furniture section and everything was so pretty that I forgot about Luke the Sleep Technician Devil and his no-payments-for-a-year mattresses.

Soon, we lost all sense of time, purpose and self, wandering around with our tongues hanging down to our chests, talking nonsense and saying things like “Oh that set would be so great for a guest room- but I think I would want it in the darker wood.”

Occasionally we’d catch our reflection in the mirrors of the vanity tables and we'd think that those girls looked vaguely familiar. Were they those feminist world travelers who wanted to live modest lives in far away countries? We didn’t know, but we did know that those little girl bunk beds that looked like pink houses were adorable and I was just sure that little Ella and Alexandra, my unborn, yet apparently named daughters, would fight over the top bunk.

Before I had the chance to slap myself across the face for thinking this way, someone came on the loud speak to announce that the store was closing. I pretended not to be devastated and Marta and I made our way to the car, making a quick detour to look at oriental rugs.

We sat in the car for a moment plotting our next move. The night was young- 10pm on a Friday- and we weren’t ready to go home yet. We pretended to think seriously about it for a few moments, as though there were many options at that hour besides going to a bar. We decided not to resist the inevitable but thought we would shake it up a bit by going to a bar in a different town- we are adventurers after all.

Some cocktails, some live music and a little dancing are quite a sufficient antidote to the poison of a trip to Jordan’s, I discovered. Later that night, I crawled into bed on my uncomfortable mattress and had no trouble getting or staying asleep. I woke up gently at 8:00 in the morning surprised that I had slept through the night.

This started me thinking about some other mattress financing options. Instead of figuring out how much my monthly payments would be to sleep soundly on a new Beautyrest, I started calculating how much I would need to spend on vodka for the same effect on my old mattress. That way, I wouldn’t get myself into debt AND if I suddenly decided to flit away to Europe or North Africa or somewhere, I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving behind an expensive mattress or bringing it with me. And a new alcohol problem is easy enough to pack, I figured.

“I’m not sure you’re $130,000 smarter…”

“I’m not sure you’re $130,000 smarter…”

Says my boss the other day in discussing how much I just paid for my college education. I looked at him incredulously for a moment, trying to shame him into feeling badly about his insult while stalling for time so that I could think of a clever comeback. Apparently I had evicted all of my clever comebacks and leased the mental space to information about the Peloponnesian War and so I had to resort to rolling my eyes at him before walking away.

This is actually pretty typical of my interaction with Mark. He attempts to provoke me with an insult so blunt my brain short circuits in trying to respond and I half smile and walk away briskly. Somehow, Mark got it into his head that I’m “badass” though, so actually, my lack of response works to my advantage. I’m pretty sure he just ends up thinking I’m cooler than him.

Unfortunately, Mark’s annoying little comment weaseled its way down through my cerebellum. It really didn’t have to weasel much. The way is paved with my heightened sensitivity about the future now that I’ve graduated and have no idea what I want to do next.

On the upside, I do have a real job. For the last year, when I haven’t been kicking and screaming my way through the last classes of my undergrad degree, I’ve been working at a shop that restores really important vintage European racecars for rich people. The title I get to give myself on my resume is “Administrative Assistant to the Vice President.” The Vice President is Carrie, Mark’s wife and I administratively assist her in making sure that things run smoothly in Mark-town so that the Ferraris and Porches run well and look shiny, which is actually an enormous amount of work.

Basically Carrie and I spend our days running around like crazy women trying to get impossibly rare parts that were supposed to be here yesterday to arrive no later than tomorrow. This means we spend silly amounts of time on the phone trying to coerce old men in Utah or Wyoming or wherever to please stop hording parts and please please please just send us just the two we need and we’ll leave them alone. When I'm not doing this or getting lunch for Mark I also sometimes get to make threatening calls to shipping companies who hold back our shipments coming from Europe. This can be kind of fun because in order to get anywhere with those people you have to be a bitch sometimes and you get to say things like, “Look Valerie, this is unacceptable and I am VERY upset about this whole thing. That package arrived from the Netherlands four days ago…”

And while there is a certain amount of gratification involved in all of this, and while I know that some people would kill a puppy to hang out with some of the cars I walk by everyday, I know that this is not a long term plan for me.

The tricky part is that I don’t really have any other solid plans in the works, per se. I’m still getting used to the idea that I am even employable. I graduated last month from college with a double major in Communication Arts and French, and quite frankly, I have no idea what that makes me qualified for. Usually when I tell people my majors, they say something like “Oh great! So you can communicate in French!” People who say this think they are being funny and generally seemed pleased with themselves for being so clever to make this connection. It mostly makes me want to go Mike Tyson on their asses and rip off some ears and this worries me that I am becoming a mean, angry person.

There are no “communicating in French” positions on the horizon as of yet and I wonder about Mark’s irritating comment about the money I just shelled out, and will continue to shell out for my education as my damn loads come due.

I would feel a little better about my situation if I had some idea about what I want to be when I grow up but as yet I do not know and I’m actually not sure I’m $130,000 smarter either.

Maybe it’s because I am in this time of transition right now as I plot my next move, but I feel like I am on a layover on what is turning out to be a very expensive trip. I’m one of those travelers who relishes a good layover too. Some people hate the interruption and wish they could fly non-stop, but I like to stop and look around. You get to hang out in a bright, shiny airport and eat $15 airport turkey sandwiches while you people watch and read trashy magazines. I’m always in a good mood waiting for my next plane because I know I am going someplace I want to be. I guess the difference in my current situation is that I don’t know where I’m headed. For now, I am just going to relax and pay attention.