I am trying to figure out the bus schedule to get me to grad school so I went to type "Where does the M60 bus stop?" and I got to "Where does the" and typed in "M" and immediately "Where does the muffin man live?" was the first pull-down link and this was 3 minutes ago AND I AM STILL LAUGHING. God I'm so lame.
PS If I recall correctly, he lives on Drury Lane
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Love Letters of Yore
Since arriving in New York for grad school it's been my goal to "adultify" my tres 'child chic' bedroom. I'm talking pink blinds and purple walls, high school pictures in sparkly "PARTY GIRL!" frames, stuffed animals aplenty...yet this task often gets sidetracked by my plethora of amazing discoveries. I thought I'd share one with you today.
Background: In 8th grade I was hardcore in love with Mike B. Loved his gelled-down man bangs, his Abercrombie Woods scent, how good he looked in sweaters. He did not return this love. It's not that he was evil or unfeeling, more that I had eyebrows befitting an old hairy man, colorful braces, skin so oily you could probably see yourself in it, oh and let's not forget my twitch (every 4.5 seconds I rolled my eyes and flared my nostrils. This is all brilliantly documented in my Bat Mitzvah video, which we just put on DVD but I'm afraid to watch it because I don't want to actually view the evidence of my failure as an attractive person. An optic neurologist later diagnosed me with an astigmatism, but it took a series of self-pep talks- "Girl, you BETTER stop looking like a freak in public"- to truly cure me. I still do the eye rolls a lot though. But don't think it's just my astigmatism. ALWAYS assume I am bored by you. Consider it a growth experience).
Well, it turns out that he later proved himself as unfeeling during his last-day-of-8th-grade confessional where he said he'd rather have Fiori live in his basement for a year than kiss me (whaaa??), and I found out and was so distraught I flashed Mike O. and James Scott because I felt wild and out of control and urgently needed to show my boobs. Anyway anyway anyway. On a cold winter's afternoon, in a moment of 8th-grade artistic glory, I wrote him the love letter to end all love letters. Note my glorious 13-year-old emotions and, not to toot my own horn here, but very good writing for a middle schooler! Oh, and let it be said that my life is better for not having given this to him. Chances are I would have had to transfer. (My current notes to the letter are italicized, all other parentheses or underlines are true representations of the writing.)
Dear Mike,
Please don't tell anyone I gave this to you. It would really mean a lot to me if you kept this private (asking a middle school boy to keep a love letter private is basically like asking your friendly household turtle to do a standing back tuck. Not going to happen). Well, the point of this is to express my feelings towards you, which I have a feeling you know. I've liked you since the summer, but kept it quiet until September (a whole month!!)- very hard to do- when it became obvious to my friends that I liked you.
Personally, I think it's fine to hang out with different people. And I know you may think we're overreacting, but you and your friends DO ignore us and leave us out. Especially me. Sometimes (maybe it's just my imagination...) it seems like you pay attention to every girl except me. I can't help being a jealous and obsessed freak. I love you so much that sometimes I want to cry, and do. It is incredible pain to adore someone so much and know that they don't feel the same way about you. Maybe you have experienced this before and can be sympathetic (doubtful, Allie, since your emotions came from General Hospital while everyone else was clearly stuck in Nick Jr.).
Sometimes it feels like nobody sees the real me and that I'm a doormat to everybody. But truthfully, I'm a compassionate, loving, caring friend, and a funny person (and humble to boot!). I know I might not be the prettiest face in the crowd, but to love someone I believe you have to look to the inside. That is what I have done with you. (And the award for most backward compliment goes to...)
I might seem a little weird at times, because I'm around you. I blush, stammer, talk too loudly, say stupid things (note: WHAT HAS CHANGED SINCE THEN??). But it's all to impress you. God, Mike, everything is for you.
(Then I signed "Allison" in cursive. The entire letter was printed in red Crayola marker. Oh old-school me)
Background: In 8th grade I was hardcore in love with Mike B. Loved his gelled-down man bangs, his Abercrombie Woods scent, how good he looked in sweaters. He did not return this love. It's not that he was evil or unfeeling, more that I had eyebrows befitting an old hairy man, colorful braces, skin so oily you could probably see yourself in it, oh and let's not forget my twitch (every 4.5 seconds I rolled my eyes and flared my nostrils. This is all brilliantly documented in my Bat Mitzvah video, which we just put on DVD but I'm afraid to watch it because I don't want to actually view the evidence of my failure as an attractive person. An optic neurologist later diagnosed me with an astigmatism, but it took a series of self-pep talks- "Girl, you BETTER stop looking like a freak in public"- to truly cure me. I still do the eye rolls a lot though. But don't think it's just my astigmatism. ALWAYS assume I am bored by you. Consider it a growth experience).
Well, it turns out that he later proved himself as unfeeling during his last-day-of-8th-grade confessional where he said he'd rather have Fiori live in his basement for a year than kiss me (whaaa??), and I found out and was so distraught I flashed Mike O. and James Scott because I felt wild and out of control and urgently needed to show my boobs. Anyway anyway anyway. On a cold winter's afternoon, in a moment of 8th-grade artistic glory, I wrote him the love letter to end all love letters. Note my glorious 13-year-old emotions and, not to toot my own horn here, but very good writing for a middle schooler! Oh, and let it be said that my life is better for not having given this to him. Chances are I would have had to transfer. (My current notes to the letter are italicized, all other parentheses or underlines are true representations of the writing.)
Dear Mike,
Please don't tell anyone I gave this to you. It would really mean a lot to me if you kept this private (asking a middle school boy to keep a love letter private is basically like asking your friendly household turtle to do a standing back tuck. Not going to happen). Well, the point of this is to express my feelings towards you, which I have a feeling you know. I've liked you since the summer, but kept it quiet until September (a whole month!!)- very hard to do- when it became obvious to my friends that I liked you.
Personally, I think it's fine to hang out with different people. And I know you may think we're overreacting, but you and your friends DO ignore us and leave us out. Especially me. Sometimes (maybe it's just my imagination...) it seems like you pay attention to every girl except me. I can't help being a jealous and obsessed freak. I love you so much that sometimes I want to cry, and do. It is incredible pain to adore someone so much and know that they don't feel the same way about you. Maybe you have experienced this before and can be sympathetic (doubtful, Allie, since your emotions came from General Hospital while everyone else was clearly stuck in Nick Jr.).
Sometimes it feels like nobody sees the real me and that I'm a doormat to everybody. But truthfully, I'm a compassionate, loving, caring friend, and a funny person (and humble to boot!). I know I might not be the prettiest face in the crowd, but to love someone I believe you have to look to the inside. That is what I have done with you. (And the award for most backward compliment goes to...)
I might seem a little weird at times, because I'm around you. I blush, stammer, talk too loudly, say stupid things (note: WHAT HAS CHANGED SINCE THEN??). But it's all to impress you. God, Mike, everything is for you.
(Then I signed "Allison" in cursive. The entire letter was printed in red Crayola marker. Oh old-school me)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Thought Nubs
- You know when you have $10.75 in your pocket, and then it's gone, and you can never get it back, and you're oh so sad about it? This phenomenon is called "The Time Traveler's Wife." It's easily avoided by STAYING AWAY from your local multiplex.
- At this point in my life what I hate more than anything is that Facebook banner ad "Obama Asks Moms to Return to School" (oh, and financial aid is available to those who qualify). WHY is the grainy graphic a woman doing sit-ups? How does that exemplify the college experience (ok, maybe other people worked out in college and didn't sloth their days away eating Asian-inspired microwave noodle soups while watching Full House reruns)?? More importantly, Obama surely doesn't think that the average stay-at-home mom is sweatin' to the oldies at the gym all day in lieu of learning the philosophies of the world's greatest thinkers and all that, and whoever created this ad is a piece of shit who thinks this will attract people. Like, "Oh golly, although I do love staying home with my 18 children and sculpting my abs because no other B-roll was available, if our president thinks I should return to school, let's make that my goal this week!" -Michelle Duggar. I mean, has Obama ever said anything about education of the mom masses? I feel like it might even be libel. Is it sad that I don't remember the exact definition of libel? I know I'm not articulate about this argument, and even if I was it makes no sense that this banner ad drives me so outrageously insane (I think it's just that all ads that appeal to the lowest common denominator, expecting to succeed, drive me mad. Like when some weiner Repubs put up billboards around Miami advertising the wrong day to 'get out and vote!' Okay that's different, probably a crime, but...let's just say the world would be a better place if all advertisements centered around bread products), but especially the fact that I'm watching One Tree Hill at the same time doesn't help my cause. Mini-nub: WHY does no one on One Tree Hill have parents?? Seriously! In high school, I came home after school, binge ate cheese products and Cup a Soup, had tea with my mom and told her about my day, then had a nice family dinner. But then again that's probably why I didn't get pregnant, like all characters on One Tree Hill, or try hard drugs, like all characters on One Tree Hill, or end up with a murderous stalker, like, you guessed it, all characters on One Tree Hill. Oh, and why did Lucas frost his tips in 2006?
- When you buy multiple items at a store, are they taxed individually, or at the end once all added up? If it's the latter, would the total be equal to if it was the former? IE, do the little tax bits add up to equal the big tax? I know this is perhaps the most idiotic question I've ever asked and the answer is probably known by the average 8-year-old. Nor will it make me any more pleased to pay taxes. But it's plaguing me, almost as much as the fact that I can't remember the correct words to the shehekianu.
- What do you do if you share your name with a heinous celebrity? Totally serious query here. What if my name was Nadya Suleman, and I wanted to apply for a job at say, Deuche Bank? I'd put something like "Nadya Suleman- Not Octomom!!!!" on my resume title. But then no one would take me seriously for overusing the exclamation point, but how else do I get the point across that no, I do not have 14 children, including a set o'twins and one/maybe 5 with autism. Although a potential employer might take pity on the kids and hire me. Hmm.
I am not a hugger. My friends and I weren't the huggy types in high school, where I think the hugging gene is thrown in the pool and either sinks or swims. But when I got to college, hugging was an expectation of social decorum. So many times I'd just smile, shift my weight between my feet, say "Waaaayyl....bye!" and scoot away and people would give sad, expectant confused puppy eyes like "whaaa, no hug?" But really, hugging just makes me uncomfortable. Which way do you lean? How long do you hold it? Do you do the 'haven't seen ya in ages, girlfrayn!' upper body wiggle hug? I read a New York Times article a few months back about how hugging is so common in some high schools it's considered a distraction to learning (and obviously a huge time waster) and it's been banned. My worst fears have been realized. Not that it was banned, but that hugging has become such a norm that it must be banned for the sake of humanity. Even worse is the hug-kiss. Lean in for a half hug, keep hands on their shoulders, bend in and do the kiss on the cheek. Now I have a super duper Bachelors of Science in Journalism, okay, but I CANNOT GET THIS RIGHT. My kisses are delayed . Our cheeks either don't touch, and we're pretentious wannabe French people, or they slam against each other like I'm threatening my bitch in prison. I go for the wrong side of the face. And of course, the biggest worry, the sound. My casual "oh haaaay Sue, it's been so long!" cheek kisses seem amplified to me, the "MWAAAA" sound carrying over into oblivion. Was it a wet "mwaaa?" A squeaky, prolonged "mwaa?" Either way, when I try to avoid it the situation worsens, and I make a sort of lip fart sound right in someone's ear. Doubt you're mourning how long it's been NOW, eh Sue? No but seriously I have a problem.
- At this point in my life what I hate more than anything is that Facebook banner ad "Obama Asks Moms to Return to School" (oh, and financial aid is available to those who qualify). WHY is the grainy graphic a woman doing sit-ups? How does that exemplify the college experience (ok, maybe other people worked out in college and didn't sloth their days away eating Asian-inspired microwave noodle soups while watching Full House reruns)?? More importantly, Obama surely doesn't think that the average stay-at-home mom is sweatin' to the oldies at the gym all day in lieu of learning the philosophies of the world's greatest thinkers and all that, and whoever created this ad is a piece of shit who thinks this will attract people. Like, "Oh golly, although I do love staying home with my 18 children and sculpting my abs because no other B-roll was available, if our president thinks I should return to school, let's make that my goal this week!" -Michelle Duggar. I mean, has Obama ever said anything about education of the mom masses? I feel like it might even be libel. Is it sad that I don't remember the exact definition of libel? I know I'm not articulate about this argument, and even if I was it makes no sense that this banner ad drives me so outrageously insane (I think it's just that all ads that appeal to the lowest common denominator, expecting to succeed, drive me mad. Like when some weiner Repubs put up billboards around Miami advertising the wrong day to 'get out and vote!' Okay that's different, probably a crime, but...let's just say the world would be a better place if all advertisements centered around bread products), but especially the fact that I'm watching One Tree Hill at the same time doesn't help my cause. Mini-nub: WHY does no one on One Tree Hill have parents?? Seriously! In high school, I came home after school, binge ate cheese products and Cup a Soup, had tea with my mom and told her about my day, then had a nice family dinner. But then again that's probably why I didn't get pregnant, like all characters on One Tree Hill, or try hard drugs, like all characters on One Tree Hill, or end up with a murderous stalker, like, you guessed it, all characters on One Tree Hill. Oh, and why did Lucas frost his tips in 2006?
- When you buy multiple items at a store, are they taxed individually, or at the end once all added up? If it's the latter, would the total be equal to if it was the former? IE, do the little tax bits add up to equal the big tax? I know this is perhaps the most idiotic question I've ever asked and the answer is probably known by the average 8-year-old. Nor will it make me any more pleased to pay taxes. But it's plaguing me, almost as much as the fact that I can't remember the correct words to the shehekianu.
- What do you do if you share your name with a heinous celebrity? Totally serious query here. What if my name was Nadya Suleman, and I wanted to apply for a job at say, Deuche Bank? I'd put something like "Nadya Suleman- Not Octomom!!!!" on my resume title. But then no one would take me seriously for overusing the exclamation point, but how else do I get the point across that no, I do not have 14 children, including a set o'twins and one/maybe 5 with autism. Although a potential employer might take pity on the kids and hire me. Hmm.
I am not a hugger. My friends and I weren't the huggy types in high school, where I think the hugging gene is thrown in the pool and either sinks or swims. But when I got to college, hugging was an expectation of social decorum. So many times I'd just smile, shift my weight between my feet, say "Waaaayyl....bye!" and scoot away and people would give sad, expectant confused puppy eyes like "whaaa, no hug?" But really, hugging just makes me uncomfortable. Which way do you lean? How long do you hold it? Do you do the 'haven't seen ya in ages, girlfrayn!' upper body wiggle hug? I read a New York Times article a few months back about how hugging is so common in some high schools it's considered a distraction to learning (and obviously a huge time waster) and it's been banned. My worst fears have been realized. Not that it was banned, but that hugging has become such a norm that it must be banned for the sake of humanity. Even worse is the hug-kiss. Lean in for a half hug, keep hands on their shoulders, bend in and do the kiss on the cheek. Now I have a super duper Bachelors of Science in Journalism, okay, but I CANNOT GET THIS RIGHT. My kisses are delayed . Our cheeks either don't touch, and we're pretentious wannabe French people, or they slam against each other like I'm threatening my bitch in prison. I go for the wrong side of the face. And of course, the biggest worry, the sound. My casual "oh haaaay Sue, it's been so long!" cheek kisses seem amplified to me, the "MWAAAA" sound carrying over into oblivion. Was it a wet "mwaaa?" A squeaky, prolonged "mwaa?" Either way, when I try to avoid it the situation worsens, and I make a sort of lip fart sound right in someone's ear. Doubt you're mourning how long it's been NOW, eh Sue? No but seriously I have a problem.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I'm Going Backpacking Through Scranton
There is a reason that I'm uncouth and barbaric and simple-minded: it's because I hate to travel. Well that's an oversimplification as I like exploring foreign places. It's just the to-and-fro involved that keeps me up at night with hives and a stress-induced STD.
I'll never understand people I call "Easy Travelers," because to me traveling is such a stressful nightmare that in no way can take less than 17 hours of day-of planning. Take Maddie, for instance: Today she had a 4:30 pm flight to California. Last night we went to Rachel's house party, stayed up waaay past my bedtime, and I crashed at Maddie's. Let's put myself in this position, shall we? If I have a plane taking off in less than 24 hours, I'm not hosting guests. I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off, making 7 different check lists and losing them. I'm massively in awe of people who can pack right before their plane takes off, get to the airport with less than 4 hours to spare and be okay with it, NOT bring with them an empty water bottle to refill after security and save $3, etc. etc. For the art of traveling, to me, involves these essential 24-hours-before-takeoff functions:
1) Visiting the airline's Web site approx. twice an hour to familiarize myself with policies, tips and of course to check the flight status so I can time my cab better
2) Accurately planning my route, which involves counting backwards from the time I want to get to the airport to the cab ride, the bringing of baggage to door, last minute throw-ins, and so on
3) Vividly imagining what it's going to be like when turbulence knocks my plane out of the sky and I plummet to earth
4) Not being able to do normal human activities because of this heinous "waiting, packing, don't have stamina for other mental tasks" period. No going to the gym or out anytime in the morning of my flight. Just eating cereal while watching shows about large families and researching plane crash statistics
5) Using the beauty of weather.com to determine future temps at my destination to plan outfits to pack. Stressing over how to pack double what I need because you never know you might wet your pants 3 days straight and there will be NOWHERE to purchase underwear at your destination and THEN WHAT?
6) Decantering (word?) my liquids into tiny, TSA-approved bottles, which I will proudly display in their perfect-sized bag, separate from my other carry-ons, at the security line
7) Acting like I'm on meth and cleaning countertops/dusty kitchen corners while repeating to myself "Now it will be clean when I get home!!" and sounding sort of like Norman Bates
8) Plotting and packing my "survival snacks," ie 5 Quaker granola bars, 2 bags of almonds, aforementioned empty water bottle, then always gulping down a spoonful of peanut butter on my way out the door just to "hold me over" when let's be honest I just downed 3 Lean Pockets an hour ago
I'll never be the kind of girl who can go to work, get back at 6, throw some things in a bag and rush to the airport for my 7:30 pm flight. It's not just the heinous "rush" factor that terrifies me. I think in a former life I was one of those first airplane travelers, and it was such an experience, such an "us and not them" announcement of your lifestyle, so now I can't just view air travel as a way to get from point A to point B. It's a brain-encompassing labryinth of being absolutely 100% certain I'm going to die and that wherever I'm going pretty much isn't worth it.
Honeymoon in Pennsylvania what whaaaat
I'll never understand people I call "Easy Travelers," because to me traveling is such a stressful nightmare that in no way can take less than 17 hours of day-of planning. Take Maddie, for instance: Today she had a 4:30 pm flight to California. Last night we went to Rachel's house party, stayed up waaay past my bedtime, and I crashed at Maddie's. Let's put myself in this position, shall we? If I have a plane taking off in less than 24 hours, I'm not hosting guests. I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off, making 7 different check lists and losing them. I'm massively in awe of people who can pack right before their plane takes off, get to the airport with less than 4 hours to spare and be okay with it, NOT bring with them an empty water bottle to refill after security and save $3, etc. etc. For the art of traveling, to me, involves these essential 24-hours-before-takeoff functions:
1) Visiting the airline's Web site approx. twice an hour to familiarize myself with policies, tips and of course to check the flight status so I can time my cab better
2) Accurately planning my route, which involves counting backwards from the time I want to get to the airport to the cab ride, the bringing of baggage to door, last minute throw-ins, and so on
3) Vividly imagining what it's going to be like when turbulence knocks my plane out of the sky and I plummet to earth
4) Not being able to do normal human activities because of this heinous "waiting, packing, don't have stamina for other mental tasks" period. No going to the gym or out anytime in the morning of my flight. Just eating cereal while watching shows about large families and researching plane crash statistics
5) Using the beauty of weather.com to determine future temps at my destination to plan outfits to pack. Stressing over how to pack double what I need because you never know you might wet your pants 3 days straight and there will be NOWHERE to purchase underwear at your destination and THEN WHAT?
6) Decantering (word?) my liquids into tiny, TSA-approved bottles, which I will proudly display in their perfect-sized bag, separate from my other carry-ons, at the security line
7) Acting like I'm on meth and cleaning countertops/dusty kitchen corners while repeating to myself "Now it will be clean when I get home!!" and sounding sort of like Norman Bates
8) Plotting and packing my "survival snacks," ie 5 Quaker granola bars, 2 bags of almonds, aforementioned empty water bottle, then always gulping down a spoonful of peanut butter on my way out the door just to "hold me over" when let's be honest I just downed 3 Lean Pockets an hour ago
I'll never be the kind of girl who can go to work, get back at 6, throw some things in a bag and rush to the airport for my 7:30 pm flight. It's not just the heinous "rush" factor that terrifies me. I think in a former life I was one of those first airplane travelers, and it was such an experience, such an "us and not them" announcement of your lifestyle, so now I can't just view air travel as a way to get from point A to point B. It's a brain-encompassing labryinth of being absolutely 100% certain I'm going to die and that wherever I'm going pretty much isn't worth it.
Honeymoon in Pennsylvania what whaaaat
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Really Grateful Mom Hasn't Had Me Committed
Why? I'll tell you why. Recently, my parents had my room repainted and ripped up the carpet, which basically meant unloading drawers to move furniture and uncovering all my life secrets in one fell swoop. Nothing was said about my diaries full of freakishness (not angst, just odd stuff you'd read and be like "daaamn, this girl needs help")/78 Duracells from 3 faulty vibrators/printed out AIM conversations between me and Christina being heinous (yet hilarious) bitches and hating on everyone. But my mom recently wanted to find my Bat Mitzvah tape to put it on DVD. I told her exactly where it was- in my money box.
Let's take a left here on Digression Lane. All Jew jokes aside (I will slice you), I was the most miserly little troll of a child. I had a bank account as soon as I amassed the $25 necessary to open one, but I kept my cash in this old wooden tea box that I had 'creatively' covered in taped-on metallic silver tissue paper and bendy metallic straw things with stars on them. Most Sundays, after a rough weekend of ballet, Snick and Hebrew school I'd decompress by dumping the box on the floor and...shame shame...meticulously count my money. Like a Gringotts goblin. Well, as time went by I had more important things to do on Sunday afternoons (binge eat string cheese and Campbell's soup, write amateur porn stories, get in hours-long fights on AIM with my girlfriends) and although I still kept money in that box, it began to house other things. Gift cards. My awesome mini Barbie stereo that still to this day plays a fly beat when you drop it. And...First Response pregnancy tests. Errrrrooooo (sound of music screeching to a halt). What, Allison? You've taken a pregnancy test? You store them in a metallic-covered wooden tea box next to a gift card to Tower Records worth $11.87 (money I will NEVER see again, thanks Chapter 11)?
Quick mid-digression digression: Never in my life have I had unprotected sex. Never has my period been a minute late. YET one time my boobs were randomly sore so I bought a 3-pack of First Response. Used another when every morning for a week I mysteriously felt ill. Which leaves the remaining soldier in my money box, which mom naturally stumbled upon when looking for, of all things, the video of her precious, tick-having (at the time!), braces-wearing, awkward as fuck yet 2% adorable in a sad way daughter reading the Torah.
AS IF THAT DOESN'T HURT MY HEART ENOUGH. What else do I store in my money box? A whole lotta Bob. In high school we constantly went to this diner with paper place mats filled with advertisements, and we always made fun of the business card for this realtor, Bob S (I'll leave out his last name because I don't want him Googling himself, reading this, and being afraid of me), because he looked like a raging serial killer. I'm talking bald, angry eyes, unprofessional denim shirt, faded background like a mug shot...and anyway, in my weird, almost-autistic yet slightly-quirky/adorable teenagerness, I thought it would be a hoot to rip them out and collect them. Just because it was random and in high school random people are funny. Right? RIGHT?
Well I had completely forgotten about my Hope Chest o'Bob until, finding my money box, remembering mom looking through it and feeling a strange sense of dread, I opened it and imagined my mom's thought process, which come on, is only natural:
"My name is Shelley. My daughter is stalking a middle-aged real estate agent who looks like that clown rapist you accidentally hired for your 5-year-old's party and you hyperventilated when you saw him on the news. And it appears he might have gotten her pregnant. And why did I EVER buy her this God-awful Barbie boom box?"
If I was my daughter I'd be massively disappointed in me.
I still haven't thrown away the business cards. My heart beats only for you, Bob <3
Let's take a left here on Digression Lane. All Jew jokes aside (I will slice you), I was the most miserly little troll of a child. I had a bank account as soon as I amassed the $25 necessary to open one, but I kept my cash in this old wooden tea box that I had 'creatively' covered in taped-on metallic silver tissue paper and bendy metallic straw things with stars on them. Most Sundays, after a rough weekend of ballet, Snick and Hebrew school I'd decompress by dumping the box on the floor and...shame shame...meticulously count my money. Like a Gringotts goblin. Well, as time went by I had more important things to do on Sunday afternoons (binge eat string cheese and Campbell's soup, write amateur porn stories, get in hours-long fights on AIM with my girlfriends) and although I still kept money in that box, it began to house other things. Gift cards. My awesome mini Barbie stereo that still to this day plays a fly beat when you drop it. And...First Response pregnancy tests. Errrrrooooo (sound of music screeching to a halt). What, Allison? You've taken a pregnancy test? You store them in a metallic-covered wooden tea box next to a gift card to Tower Records worth $11.87 (money I will NEVER see again, thanks Chapter 11)?
Quick mid-digression digression: Never in my life have I had unprotected sex. Never has my period been a minute late. YET one time my boobs were randomly sore so I bought a 3-pack of First Response. Used another when every morning for a week I mysteriously felt ill. Which leaves the remaining soldier in my money box, which mom naturally stumbled upon when looking for, of all things, the video of her precious, tick-having (at the time!), braces-wearing, awkward as fuck yet 2% adorable in a sad way daughter reading the Torah.
AS IF THAT DOESN'T HURT MY HEART ENOUGH. What else do I store in my money box? A whole lotta Bob. In high school we constantly went to this diner with paper place mats filled with advertisements, and we always made fun of the business card for this realtor, Bob S (I'll leave out his last name because I don't want him Googling himself, reading this, and being afraid of me), because he looked like a raging serial killer. I'm talking bald, angry eyes, unprofessional denim shirt, faded background like a mug shot...and anyway, in my weird, almost-autistic yet slightly-quirky/adorable teenagerness, I thought it would be a hoot to rip them out and collect them. Just because it was random and in high school random people are funny. Right? RIGHT?
Well I had completely forgotten about my Hope Chest o'Bob until, finding my money box, remembering mom looking through it and feeling a strange sense of dread, I opened it and imagined my mom's thought process, which come on, is only natural:
"My name is Shelley. My daughter is stalking a middle-aged real estate agent who looks like that clown rapist you accidentally hired for your 5-year-old's party and you hyperventilated when you saw him on the news. And it appears he might have gotten her pregnant. And why did I EVER buy her this God-awful Barbie boom box?"
If I was my daughter I'd be massively disappointed in me.
I still haven't thrown away the business cards. My heart beats only for you, Bob <3
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Insert deep song quote from eighth grade...
Landed in New York. Engulfed in some serious 14-year-old angst right now:
"I miss my apartment I miss Joe I miss San Diego weather I have no income I'm scared for grad school howdoIgetthere oh and I'm probably pregnant just for kicks WAAA!"
Once I hook up wireless in my room (so, tonight) I'll brainstorm a good blog post so my mental anguish doesn't have to live in infamy.
"I miss my apartment I miss Joe I miss San Diego weather I have no income I'm scared for grad school howdoIgetthere oh and I'm probably pregnant just for kicks WAAA!"
Once I hook up wireless in my room (so, tonight) I'll brainstorm a good blog post so my mental anguish doesn't have to live in infamy.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Why I Love Being Alive
I had homemade garlic edamame with my salmon pasta for lunch. I needed to brush ma teefs. So I hastily grabbed my toothbrush, albeit a little too hastily, for somehow the brush flew out of my hand and landed bristles-up in the garbage. Now since I'm unemployed and the prospect of even buying a new toothbrush (I JUST opened this one last week!) makes me want to hide under my bed and cry, I immediately jumped to salvage the toothbrush from the can (just replaced the bag yesterday, the only contents in it were the eyeshadows I threw away in a typical pre-move "cleanse my life!" episode, and it landed bristles-up, OKAY?), yet while attempting to do that, I somehow knocked the toothbrush holder into the pee-filled toilet (I fiercely obide by the 'if it's yellow, leave it mellow' rule- San Diego is seriously drought-ridden, people [person- hey Maddie!]).
So I made the "oh, life" face that Kevin makes in Home Alone as his grocery bags simulatenously rip and his Kraft mac n cheese and orange juice that he had a coupon for slam to the ground, then laughed at myself, which turned into fake crying/whimpering noises at my plight, which almost turned into real crying because heRO I'm moving away from my fiance and wonderful life here in just a few days and I may be losing my mind over it. But I think that's just normal. Right?
Then I ate more garlic edamame because honestly if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And by that I clearly mean, if Joe is on duty anyway, why NOT smell like an Italian restaurant with 14-year-olds as cooks?
So I made the "oh, life" face that Kevin makes in Home Alone as his grocery bags simulatenously rip and his Kraft mac n cheese and orange juice that he had a coupon for slam to the ground, then laughed at myself, which turned into fake crying/whimpering noises at my plight, which almost turned into real crying because heRO I'm moving away from my fiance and wonderful life here in just a few days and I may be losing my mind over it. But I think that's just normal. Right?
Then I ate more garlic edamame because honestly if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And by that I clearly mean, if Joe is on duty anyway, why NOT smell like an Italian restaurant with 14-year-olds as cooks?
Monday, August 10, 2009
I Hate Yogurt Spelled "Yoghurt" and People Who Sing in the Car When The Car is Crowded and It's Otherwise Silent Except for Just Him/Her Singing
I meant to blog sooner, but my Internet history 'mysteriously' cleared itself again- ie a certain fiance of mine is adorably trying to cover his porn-laden Web tracks- and it was too frustrating typing in "eas" and not having the rest fill itself in so I just avoided the blog altogether in protest. Me is bad, very bad. You know what else is bad? When you get back from the gym and see you have a voicemail from Boss #1 asking 'what is this? YOU authorized some Discover payment on June 25th? Please call back IMMEDIATELY!' So naturally I gauged out my eyeballs with the fork meant for the grill, shot myself in the stomach, which is harder than you'd think with no eyes, then ressurected, showered, made up a brilliant story, called him back and, for the millionth time with him, Saved.My.Ass.With.Lies.
I shouldn't be so proud of my lying abilities, but being ashamed of them would even more certainly be a lie so who's a winner now? No one. See, not only am I a good liar, but a brilliant justifyer too.
So funemployment is truly an exercise in "how lazy can I comfortably let myself be?" I force myself to work out because there's truly no excuse not to (plus did you know the Hallmark channel has like 4 straight hours of The Golden Girls each morning?), and to take care of other housekeeping to-dos, but a lot of time is just spent reading trashy chick lit, and making myself feel okay with that has been the biggest challenge. So I decided to reaaally live it up and do what I've been wanting to do since I joined the San Diego Library System: check out Judy Blume's classic, the oft-banned "Forever." Let me explain: I read this book in middle school, when I totally knew all about sex and that jazz but loved me some Judy and was a horny beast and when those pieces come together, and you live in a town near a city and books aren't banned for having cartoon penises ("In the Night Kitchen"), you read "Forever."
In early winter I joined the library and had a libragasm. What is this, you ask? When you think of the library and remember "OMIGOD I CAN READ ALL THIS SHIT FOR FREE!!!" I get super into the library for a few months at a time until life takes its toll and I have to read serious stuff, but these waves, this cycle of forgetting/remembering makes each libragasm even better.
So this winter, upon receiving my bright blue San Diego library card, I enter the fiction section and see The Holy Grail- Judy Blume's "Summer Sisters"- and "Forever" is next to it. All I want to do is re-read this piece of my adolescent sexual-development history. But how to check it out when you're 23 and want to be taken seriously in the world? It doesn't help that I'm BFF with all three of the librarians (hey, when your mom is a librarian you feel the need to befriend them all because you hear horror stories constantly of kids with just NO love for books and NO respect for the English language and SO MUCH chewing gum it just tears at the soul) and would feel pangs of embarrassment that could quake the entire West coast if they saw what I wanted to read. Second thought, and for a solid 20 seconds I thought about this, was to make casual conversation about how I'm a mentor and I'm just picking up some books for the kid. REALLY, Allison? Picking up well-written, compelling, extremely informative yet BLATANTLY GRAPHIC SEX NOVELS for a 6th grader?
But today, with just one week left in this ghost town before I (US Airways) hoof it (appropriate physics terms for flying) to New York, I sucked it up and checked it out, no words uttered between me and Friendly Young Male Asian librarian. I kept on my sunglasses. And ran away Road Runner style yelling thaaaank youuuuu over my shoulder like the classic awkward "Superbad" scene where Evan and Becca are walking in the same direction but he wants to get past her so he trots quickly away.
Conclusion: My God, it's so good. Why? All the familiar feelings are coming back: "What will MY first time be like?" "I can't WAIT to be in love." "Wait, they had cordless phones in 1975?"
READ IT. READ IT AGAIN. Call up your first time. Reminisce. Did I spell that right?
I shouldn't be so proud of my lying abilities, but being ashamed of them would even more certainly be a lie so who's a winner now? No one. See, not only am I a good liar, but a brilliant justifyer too.
So funemployment is truly an exercise in "how lazy can I comfortably let myself be?" I force myself to work out because there's truly no excuse not to (plus did you know the Hallmark channel has like 4 straight hours of The Golden Girls each morning?), and to take care of other housekeeping to-dos, but a lot of time is just spent reading trashy chick lit, and making myself feel okay with that has been the biggest challenge. So I decided to reaaally live it up and do what I've been wanting to do since I joined the San Diego Library System: check out Judy Blume's classic, the oft-banned "Forever." Let me explain: I read this book in middle school, when I totally knew all about sex and that jazz but loved me some Judy and was a horny beast and when those pieces come together, and you live in a town near a city and books aren't banned for having cartoon penises ("In the Night Kitchen"), you read "Forever."
In early winter I joined the library and had a libragasm. What is this, you ask? When you think of the library and remember "OMIGOD I CAN READ ALL THIS SHIT FOR FREE!!!" I get super into the library for a few months at a time until life takes its toll and I have to read serious stuff, but these waves, this cycle of forgetting/remembering makes each libragasm even better.
So this winter, upon receiving my bright blue San Diego library card, I enter the fiction section and see The Holy Grail- Judy Blume's "Summer Sisters"- and "Forever" is next to it. All I want to do is re-read this piece of my adolescent sexual-development history. But how to check it out when you're 23 and want to be taken seriously in the world? It doesn't help that I'm BFF with all three of the librarians (hey, when your mom is a librarian you feel the need to befriend them all because you hear horror stories constantly of kids with just NO love for books and NO respect for the English language and SO MUCH chewing gum it just tears at the soul) and would feel pangs of embarrassment that could quake the entire West coast if they saw what I wanted to read. Second thought, and for a solid 20 seconds I thought about this, was to make casual conversation about how I'm a mentor and I'm just picking up some books for the kid. REALLY, Allison? Picking up well-written, compelling, extremely informative yet BLATANTLY GRAPHIC SEX NOVELS for a 6th grader?
But today, with just one week left in this ghost town before I (US Airways) hoof it (appropriate physics terms for flying) to New York, I sucked it up and checked it out, no words uttered between me and Friendly Young Male Asian librarian. I kept on my sunglasses. And ran away Road Runner style yelling thaaaank youuuuu over my shoulder like the classic awkward "Superbad" scene where Evan and Becca are walking in the same direction but he wants to get past her so he trots quickly away.
Conclusion: My God, it's so good. Why? All the familiar feelings are coming back: "What will MY first time be like?" "I can't WAIT to be in love." "Wait, they had cordless phones in 1975?"
READ IT. READ IT AGAIN. Call up your first time. Reminisce. Did I spell that right?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Allie n Stef 4L
So it's a well-kept secret (well, it waaas) that Joe's favorite song is Lady Gaga's "Poker Face." Because of this, plus a mix of boredom at work and intrigue about the lives of those people who are my age or younger and astronomically more successful than I am or will ever be, I've become mildly obsessed with learning about one miss Gaga. Oh, I'm also fascinated by anyone who wears a poncho made of Kermits the Frog, or a dress made out of sparkly corrugated cardboard stolen from a high school production of "Anything Goes," or a hat of brown bird feathers that looks like a prop from Star Wars, and then tries to act like a serious person. Here's what I learned: We are the same person. Read on.
1. First off, her name is Stefani, so this is how I'll refer to her. Because she's 23. And I don't have to call her by her royal name because we're the same age, duh.
2. She's not only my exact age but she's from Yonkers, which is 20 minutes away from me, so I'm totally positive I've bumped into her before in elementary school at Claire's or Food Emporium and thought 'DAMN that girl's got style, check out those flyKeds!' (also, I don't really get the breathy, British-lite accent she puts on in interviews. Westchester, hun. Be true to your roots!)
3. I, too, love Muppet characters and their ability to keep me warm, although I always prefer Grover in stuffed-animal-hugged-close-to-body-during-thunderstorm form over Kermit-as-Clothing.
4. From Wikipedia, "Gaga went on to write her first piano ballad at thirteen and began performing at open mic nights by the age of fourteen.[6]" At thirteen I, too, was writing intensely analytical speeches on my Torah portion and performing at a little open mic night let's call my Bat Mitzvah. Both performers at a young age, check!
5. "She moved out of her parents' house and started performing downtown, in the Lower East Side club scene with bands Mackin Pulsifer and SGBand.[11" OMG I also moved out of my parents' house! And I'm Jewish so my ancestry obviously lies in the Lower East Side and she totally partied and performed where my great-great-grandfather Sy sold dill pickles from a tub on the side of the road.
6. "By 2008, Gaga had relocated to Los Angeles, working closely with her record label to finalize her debut album The Fame.[12]" By 2008 I, too, had relocated to Southern California to work closely with the powers that be to finalize plans for The Cleaner Weiner and Mark O'Witz's, the Jewish-Irish deli that will someday make me rich.
7. Her song lyrics definitely embarrass her mother. My sex column/childhood songs about private parts/lifestyle choices consistenly embarrass my mom too!
So this may be where the similarities end. But Stef, that feeling when you look in the mirror and see me and get really confused, just know that I feel that way too sometimes and it's totally normal and if all else fails I hear Akon is a great listener.
I'll be looking for you by the sensitive-ear section of Claire's, old friend.
1. First off, her name is Stefani, so this is how I'll refer to her. Because she's 23. And I don't have to call her by her royal name because we're the same age, duh.
2. She's not only my exact age but she's from Yonkers, which is 20 minutes away from me, so I'm totally positive I've bumped into her before in elementary school at Claire's or Food Emporium and thought 'DAMN that girl's got style, check out those flyKeds!' (also, I don't really get the breathy, British-lite accent she puts on in interviews. Westchester, hun. Be true to your roots!)
3. I, too, love Muppet characters and their ability to keep me warm, although I always prefer Grover in stuffed-animal-hugged-close-to-body-during-thunderstorm form over Kermit-as-Clothing.
4. From Wikipedia, "Gaga went on to write her first piano ballad at thirteen and began performing at open mic nights by the age of fourteen.[6]" At thirteen I, too, was writing intensely analytical speeches on my Torah portion and performing at a little open mic night let's call my Bat Mitzvah. Both performers at a young age, check!
5. "She moved out of her parents' house and started performing downtown, in the Lower East Side club scene with bands Mackin Pulsifer and SGBand.[11" OMG I also moved out of my parents' house! And I'm Jewish so my ancestry obviously lies in the Lower East Side and she totally partied and performed where my great-great-grandfather Sy sold dill pickles from a tub on the side of the road.
6. "By 2008, Gaga had relocated to Los Angeles, working closely with her record label to finalize her debut album The Fame.[12]" By 2008 I, too, had relocated to Southern California to work closely with the powers that be to finalize plans for The Cleaner Weiner and Mark O'Witz's, the Jewish-Irish deli that will someday make me rich.
7. Her song lyrics definitely embarrass her mother. My sex column/childhood songs about private parts/lifestyle choices consistenly embarrass my mom too!
So this may be where the similarities end. But Stef, that feeling when you look in the mirror and see me and get really confused, just know that I feel that way too sometimes and it's totally normal and if all else fails I hear Akon is a great listener.
I'll be looking for you by the sensitive-ear section of Claire's, old friend.
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