Tuesday, May 25, 2010

i just don't have the proper tools

There comes a time, in adulthood, when it becomes apparent that the activities of one’s Sundays and Mondays are in direct correlation to the activities of the previous two nights (or days, if that’s you’re thing, which I’m totally not criticizing, because it’s generally completely my thing). So when you find yourself at Walgreen’s, purchasing Clorox kitchen cleaner and degreaser, Pledge hard surfaces dusting spray, and something called “Tilex Mold and Mildew Remover,” it should become evident that you will soon be attempting to bleach out all evidence of your ex-boyfriend’s brief visit to your apartment with caustic chemicals. Instead, all you end up thinking about is how what should be evident is that you have kind of started to flirt with the Walgreen’s guy.

It is easy to giggle while dumping an amount of cleaning supplies that makes it clear that you don’t really do a lot of cleaning, into the open arms of the cute, slightly ageless cashier. It is still easy to giggle when he says, “Hopefully we’ll see you soon,” because you’ve just bought enough cleaning chemicals to pull off a mildly successful mass suicide, and really the only reason you would need to return “soon,” would be if you lived in a frat house, or if you had an immune system lined with aluminum, and for some reason this didn’t finish you off. You think about saying this, but instead you just smile and say, “Oh, probably!”

This is how you know you’ve started to full-on flirt with the Walgreen’s guy. Whenever you start to flirt with someone you’re embarrassed to find attractive, you always lose your funny. It is only later, as you are unlocking the security door to your apartment building that you begin to wonder what the logical progression of this relationship will look like. Now that he’s looking forward to seeing you again soon, will he ask you out? Will you go? Is that creepy? Is it weird? What will happen if you go on a date? Will you make out with him, just a little? Maybe he’s an aspiring pharmacist (not possible – he doesn’t work in the pharmacy). Is he certainly younger than thirty? Also important – what if you have to buy Maalox again soon?

This is how you are once again reminded that you are lonely.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

One of my few joys at work is eating the leftover baked goods from meetings. Depending on meeting attendance, sometimes I can enjoy my baked good with leftover coffee or soda. Sometimes if the end of the meeting coincides with lunch time, I can do all this while checking facebook on my lunch break. Today I got the trifecta.  It's really the little things.

If you were wondering, yes, this does make up for the fact that our entire ceiling is leaking into buckets to such an extent that it sounds like it is raining inside, and three ceiling tiles have fallen down, because of the water pressure, already this morning. I am eating a bran muffin!

Sunday, May 9, 2010

i think i was the last one remaining

In all seriousness, this is what I look like. This is an actual picture of me, taken with the photo booth camera on my MacBook Pro, and edited, so that you don't know who I am. Pretty cool, I can wear my hair in two different ways. I can also put it into an accidental variety of hairstyles. Neat, huh?

Yep, that’s me. I’ve never really had a boyfriend. I mean, I had one in high school, but does that really even count? We didn’t hug in the halls or anything, and he dumped me before prom anyway. It was cool, I didn’t really want to go anyway. Nope, not even a little bit. I had way better stuff to do like smoke pot out of apples and walk around my house in all my other dresses. He also broke up with me on AIM. He told me I didn’t have any original thoughts. Yeah, so, anyway, are we really going to consider high schoolers people?

Back to the matter at hand, which is that I’ve never gotten a date. I’ve never even had any interest expressed outside of several distinct venues and demographics. I work in the building next to the temporary holding cell. I seem to particularly blow up that spot, as one might say. Unfortunately, theirs is a moveable feast, as they are on their way to jail to be held until someone sells a savings bond or a child to get them out. It’s not really a very stable relationship plan. I also have lots of success in bars, among the drunken elderly gentlemen with real estate built up around the side bar stools by the bathrooms – hair optional. I’m also quite pleasing to those who are at least thirty pounds overweight. This isn’t a bad thing, other than the fact that I starve myself of most of my favorite foods (pizza, bacon, ranch dressing, French fries) and work out like it’s my second job in order to attract those who place similar concern on their fitness, and I just expect that same kind of attention to detail in some way. I’m not asking for Rambo here. But if we were looking for something to do, and decided to go on a jog, I wouldn’t want you to get it handed to you. I’ve got pretty short legs.

And that brings me to another point. I am athletic. I’ve been athletic for a long time – since I was about four. I’ll just get right to it. My thighs touch. There, I said it, I was a breaststroker in high school. But these days, I can do a mean adducter and there’s only so much a girl can do if she wants to walk out of there afterwards. Right? I’m not really even all that athletic anymore. I just like to go jogging. Is that a problem? Most people do it, I don’t know. I don’t think this is that big of a deal.

I like to go out. I know a lot about beer. I enjoy hip-hop music and dancing embarrassingly and I’m pretty good at flip cup. But in case you were looking for one of those more lightweight, twee girls who giggles when she messes up, I am also pretty bad at beer pong, so we could just always play that if you have a complex or something. Also, I don’t go out as much anymore, now that I am an adult. Now I get kind of sick if I have more than four beers, and actually, I don’t really have money for more than that, so I think that makes me pretty much like a normal girl.

Is it seriously because I don’t believe that a fetus has as many rights as the fifteen-year-old girl’s body that it unwillingly inhabits? Or because I believe that I should make as much money as a man doing the same job I’m doing? Is this a feminist thing? Haven’t we gotten to the point where men believe it is empowering to be with a feminist, or with a girl who wants to be treated like a real person? I shave my legs – I’m not nasty. I also enjoy being treated with respect, pretty much at all times, and I make it pretty clear. Once, some dumb five-foot guy who wore Crocs like they were normal shoes asked me if I wanted something explicit from him while I was walking from my dorm room to the campus bar. I slapped him, to the amazement of all in audience. He pretty much had it coming. If this is a boyfriend deterrent, then I guess I don’t want one. Okay, as long as we’re laying it all out on the table, I’ll admit, when I was in college, I was an art major, and I had a lot of friends who were dudes. People probably thought I was a little crazy. But, I don’t know, I think it’s crazy that we don’t have universal health care yet.

People tell me a lot of things about “turn-offs” lately. They try to give me a lot of first date advice. That’s all nice, if I could even get my foot in the door, I’d be sure to hide my professional personality, not mention too many of my own successes, be sure to appear kind and comforting, and hide my masculine, self-deprecating sense of humor. I would probably also straighten my hair, or at least use a large barrel curling iron. I’d do all that.

So, I get it. I’m not perfect. Neither are you. But you know what? I’m a lot of fun, especially at an open bar, a rap battle, or while sailing with your Uncle Ted. So throw me a bone, and ask me on a date. Don’t drunkenly scribble your number on my hand or text me and ask me to come over after midnight. I graduated from college, and I deserve all the privileges that come along with that honor.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

it is so i could hit you if i didn't want you here

Last night, my ex-boyfriend came over and tried to convince me that hooking up with him was a mutually beneficial, good idea. There are a lot of funny stories I could relate about the FIVE HOURS he spent here. (While we’re at it, five hours? Does it take anyone that long to try to lose their virginity anymore? I kind of thought it was an in-and-out sort of arrangement.) This is the least damning of them. I keep a hammer on the windowsill next to my bed, you know, just in case. So in the middle of his little speech, he picks it up and asks me, “Why do you keep this here?” I thought for a little while, because I suppose this is part of what people mean when they say I have a threatening exterior, but then I realized. This is probably exactly why I keep it here. But instead I said, “You know, in case someone breaks in.” I’ve been defining “break-in” loosely these days. I’ve been told I’m unfriendly.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

you & i both know it's a negative thing

Today I dressed kind of like a stripper for work. At least, on the bottom half, and when covered up by a pleather jacket on top, I'm really not doing myself any favors. It doesn't help that I often suspect that people wonder where I'm going as I'm short-cutting it through parking lots at eight in the morning - like they've got a sneaking suspicion that I'm walking from work rather than to work. Now that I'm at work, I'm feeling sort of weird about it, like maybe I should have just gone with opaque tights instead of these lacy ones, and maybe it would have been less of a faux-pas to wear a wool pencil skirt in April than it would have been to dress like a stripper.

This morning, in general, was a struggle, so I suppose I should give myself credit even in the least bit for rolling (when I say this, it's literal, I do roll - I don't think people understand that) out of bed, slapping some clothes on my used-and-abused body, and making it to work in the a.m. I also had to allot time for a spontaneous activity, because usually everything that I force myself to do in the morning is something that I absolutely have to do to make it out the door while fully clothed (sometimes this is flexible; I've thrown tops into my purse and walked to work wearing pajamas under my coat on two occasions). This morning I had to take out the trash. All the trashes in my apartment, to be exact.

This is why:
It would be painfully clear to anyone who masochistically decided to sift through my recent addition to the dumpster that I ate my feelings this weekend. Not only would they be able to determine that I'd done this, but they would also probably be able to determine the cause of the eating spree. They would pretty much be able to tell why I ate five pounds of feelings onto my body. And I deserve it. I deserve five pounds of extra suffering for my absolutely deplorable behavior.

Monday, March 29, 2010

your car can't make up for your awful personality.

I came as close as I ever have to getting hit by a car today.  In a situation like none I had ever seen, as I started to cross the street during the indicated “walking” period, a woman pulled up around the curb, came within inches of running over my feet, leaned over, held out her stupid white woman palm to indicate that no matter what the light said, her rules required that I stop. Had I not been looking over my shoulder, I would have been hit dead-on. The worst part was that I was so shocked by her blatant disregard for my safety, and her complete lack of concern about how to drive a car, that I didn't even yell at her, or gesture clearly enough to the fact that I had a walk sign on my side, or even better, to kick at her car. The woman clearly had no indication of stopping, and probably could not have been bothered to do so even if I had been in the middle of the road when I was legally allowed to do so. It wasn’t so much that this woman hadn’t wanted to stop. It was that she patronizingly held out her hand, with the expectation that I would see it, to indicate that I was no more than a trifling impediment with no respect or understanding for the importance of her time. It wasn’t that I was jaywalking, or attempting to cross when it was illegal, or even crossing just as the light had changed, or that I had darted out in front of her car. I was there first, and I was crossing during the walk symbol. It was simply that she couldn’t be bothered to step on the breaks of her Honda Accord in her hurry to drive straight ahead to the next stoplight, where she would inevitably be stuck for five minutes with only her shitty personality. People like this really make me hate myself. Just the fact that they can exist with so much self-importance and so little regard for the fact that their needs aren’t the most important things to ever happen makes me wonder what happens in their day-to-day lives that allows them to get away with always getting their way. Putting your arm out to stop me from walking across the street while you’re in your little Honda Accord? Really? So, like, not only do you know that what you’re doing sucks, but you’re actually going to blame me for it and act like I’m the asshole? Great, but you know, if you had hit me, you would have broken the law. Asshat. I don't care if you don't volunteer or give your money to charity or have friends, but pull it together long enough to go out in public.

Friday, March 5, 2010

I’m starting to think I could use a boyfriend because my expenses are getting too expensive. Burritos, movie tickets, gigantic sodas at the movies, not to mention the lies about who else is eating the pizzas, sitting next to me at the movies, and meeting me at the restaurant. It is just getting expensive. But for now, I like getting out of the movie and walking to the bus stop and seeing that your car is still parked. I like knowing that no one else’s blond hair is blowing in the breeze, and that at least if I have to be alone, you have to be alone too.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

i'm right there with you, girl

...tell you how I miss you
Thought I would have a son for you
But now it’s official it’s over and I can’t let you go
But I gotta let you know all the shit I did make it feel like I’m dying real slow, 

cause no one understands me 
they don’t know what to do when I’m hurt when I’m angry
Cause of you all them chicks couldn't stand me
So why hurt you? That’s the question
It took this long for me to learn my lesson
Cause now all I want is peace and forget drama
I finally understand the true meaning of karma

Please baby forgive me, mommy was young, mommy was to busy tryna have fun 
Now I pat myself on the back for sending you back,
'cause God knows I was better than that, to conceive and then leave you 
the concept alone seems evil - I’m trapped in my conscience
I adhear to the nonsense, listened to people who told me I wasn’t ready for you
But how the fuck would they know what I was ready to do?

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

gettin' counted

I just filled out the census! By myself! It was really easy and actually took less than a minute to do! I feel so grown up, especially since filling out the census is apparently a very difficult thing that most people don’t do. But now I am pretty much eating Girl Scout cookies for dinner, so once again, we are at an impasse.

Seriously about the census, though, I was expecting it to be quite difficult, like more intellectually taxing than it was, because there is so much emphasis on how important it is to fill out the entire census on time and return your responses and make sure everyone is counted! I was expecting it was going to be a rather tedious process that would take hours. No. It took literally forty-five seconds. I understand I’m a household of one, but please. They only give you space for twelve people. The maximum time this could take is twelve minutes! Is it seriously possible to be unsure about the race of the people living in a house with you? I think not.

There are also many reminders on the census envelope that my responses are confidential, so I was assuming they’d ask some juicy questions, like what race of people I prefer to sleep with or if I’ve ever been pregnant or something. Nope. None of that. The only question that could possibly be seen as a little embarrassing is one about Person 1 predominantly staying somewhere else. If I was currently hooking up with an ugly dude, and I had to fill out a write-in section of this question, and the census counters and I all went to the same college, and we were sitting around counting the census together, I guess my response to this question could be embarrassing, and I’d want the census counter to keep it confidential. But seriously, please, the census? What’s the big deal? I don’t get it. You could probably make it up and still get it right. I should fill in imaginary information about my household so they stop closing schools and fire departments in this neighborhood, and maybe give me a new bus stop. But I won’t, because that is also emphasized as very illegal

Monday, March 1, 2010

Errbody knows it ain’t trickin if you got it

It’s just that every time I sit down to consciously start writing, I start thinking about how Julia Allison is probably sitting down to start liveblogging pictures of herself dressed as an upside down cupcake, and thousands of little girls with access to MacBook Photo Booths are concurrently contorting themselves into poses that only make you think of their fathers, and dashing off tumblr posts about Edward Cullen that not only misuse both forms of “you’re,” but also elucidate on the sexiness of physically controlling “romantic” behavior.  And then I remember that at the same time, Sarah Palin is tucking in to pen another incoherent page of her next memoir filled with gems about what being an American has to do with hunting, and Lauren Conrad is dictating the vapidity of Reality TV to a well-paid ghostwriter in order to put the bowels of the television world into writing, and Sue Grafton and Dan Brown are whipping out their mini laptops spewing forth the stuff of a new generation of Airport novels.
It’s like, there’s just too much.
The computer has done more to fuel the aspirations of people who would never have passed the writing section of the SAT than probably even the Tea Party Movement.