Unusual Reason Why I Need To Move Out of My House #1

My friendly neighborhood walker saw my boobs this morning. Why is this such a big deal? Because I'm talking about him:
http://easywayin.blogspot.com/2010/03/old-man-and-tree.html
(for some reason blogger doesn't allow me to simply have the link say "him." Oh blogger...how non-Wordpressian you are.)

Anyway, I always get dressed with the window open, playing by the rules that if it's light outside and my light is on no one can see me. Well, friendly walking man was definitely looking in as he walked. He saw my yabos and now I need a new running route. A picture speaks a thousand words*:



*Picture not drawn to scale. Or reality. My boobs = NOT that saggy, I do not tower over my computer and lamp, and friendly neighborhood walker still does not wear a sideways cap.

Why I Need To Move Out, Reason 232493284:

Uttered Tuesday night, April 27, 2010:

"Once Allie sees "Precious," I think we should pick out a day to only talk like Precious's mom. Close tha fuckin dishwasher door, bitch!" -Larry Markowitz, high-powered attorney, father of two, whiter than the Tuscan sun.

And so that's that.

cont'd

5. I just used the word purse
6. Last Halloween I had nothing to do and my parents went out so I was in charge of handing out candy. I got SO INTO my costume. Four kids came, and I got really upset.
7. In less than a year I'll be Mrs. and that's old and scary

I Am Old

My mom has a humor book called "How Not To Act Old." And I should read it. Because the last time I acted 23 was, well, last Friday (but I spent aaall Saturday repenting to the porcelain gods of Maddie's apartment AND a breakfast diner for it), but before then, WHO THE F KNOWS MAN. My life consists of assessing the architectural styles of homes in my neighborhood with infant children who are not mine. And crankily yelling at the people who drive too fast on the Saw Mill. And talking about burial plots with my mom in daily conversation.

Welp, I've come to terms with it: I am old, and I could share my battle stories with that book's author for her sequel. Today I:

1. Spent 20 minutes on the phone with a woman I've never met before (she's running a health fair I'm working next month), talking about her daughter's college choice, running pros and cons of the two contenders, assuring her that she'll make a good fit with whichever college she chooses, and that her five-year-old sister will adjust after a brief rough patch. We discussed the merits of local public schools and if we think the property taxes are worth it. I think if this woman finds out I'm 23 she'll be really quite surprised. And that saddens me.
2. Mentioned watching the Today show during my presentation to the response of AUDIBLE LAUGHTER from my fellow classmates.
3. Came home, threw down my purse, and said, verbatim, "I think tonight I'll wind down by making an inventory list of what's in the freezers."
4. Repurposed funky-shaped jelly jars into awesome containers for cotton balls and q-tips and was more proud of myself than when Dr. Marks suggested I seek out a fellowship for my research proposal. Ok that's a lie. I'm clearly proud of myself beyond belief about that and hence that's why I had to find a way to work it into my blog to brag. But seriously, the jars look SO COOL and my bathroom has been TRANSFORMED.

The Three Worst Things A Friend Can Ask

I've been thinking a lot about sucking at life. And as much as I suck now, I used to suck more...or at least differently. Because I used to be "OMG Can I Tell You About My Dream?" girl.

I think "OMG Can I Tell You About My Dream?" girl is only slightly worse than "Promise Me You'll Come To My Play?" girl but still a little better than "Can I Borrow Some Money?" girl. Because here's the cold, hard facts I had to come to grips with: no one cares about your dream. Dreams are hard to describe. No one is ever envisioning it the way it happened in your mind. In fact, no one is even listening. I do, however, have some hilarious dreams sometimes, but I've discovered that if the dream must be shared, it must have a punchline, and be under two sentences. Case in point:

Former Allie:
"So last night I had a dream that I was being chased by these chickens. They kept following me everywhere it was SO annoying, and they smelled like poop, and then I realized it was actually ME who smelled like poop, but I hadn't pooped my pants, so I went on this huge journey to figure out why I smelled like poop...(five more minutes of babbling on about nonsense, often involving running late, not being able to find a prom dress, driving off a bridge, or being imprisoned)...and then crazily enough I bumped into John Stamos in a public bathroom, who assured me that sometimes people just smell like poop. But then he also reassured me that it really was the chickens. God, Uncle Jessie is so hot."

New Allie:
"I had a dream last night that chickens chased me until I bumped into John Stamos. He is still so hot. What's he up to these days?"

BAM. THAT is how you share a dream.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up, I'm a Judgmeeeeeental Wang

April 20th makes me feel like such a boring school marmy old person. I smoked a bit in high school and rarely in college then gave it up because a) it sparked panic attacks and b) I'm a judgy wudgerson and I think pot smoking becomes pretty lame and "I don't have my shit togetherish" after 21. But ask me about binge drinking! Wahoo!

Anyway, 4/20 just brings out a few things on society: poser behavior in people who smoke twice a year but think they have street cred when they talk about "celebrating the holiday," my bitchiness towards people who actually have fun in life, people who need to grow up and get jobs and stop smoking and take obscene pride in feeling productive one day of the year, oh and my smug bitchiness.

Today on facebook we had choice tidbits from:

1. Very obvious typical pothead who did nothing after high school posts "Happy 420!" I smile sadly. He is very pathetic.
2. Guy I met once who is 23 and so into 420 he CHANGED HIS PROFILE PICTURE to marijuana. Laugh smugly and think "Get over it!"
3. A recent new mom posts, wishing all a happy 420. YOU'RE A MOTHER NOW. TIME TO GIVE UP ALL THE THINGS YOU ONCE ENJOYED. LIKE POT. (Clearly, I've already given up the things I most enjoy, and I don't even have kids!)

I just...I get that I've snapped and become the least fun person imaginable. I really get it. And I can't exactly pinpoint when. College graduation? Getting engaged? Moving back home and turning into my mother? MY VERY BIRTH? But all that aside, I can't help waving my cane, adjusting my hearing aid and tearing out my overzealous, sprouting ear hair in exasperation at the damn kids who wont grow up.

Theeeee end.

Sisterly Love

Now if you know me at all you know I laugh at nearly anything- especially if it a) isn't actually funny, b) is inappropriate c) is highly offensive or d) is a situation where people fall down. The fatter the person, the funnier the fall.

Every time I run (yes, run. I have a crazy fear of missing my train on Thursdays even though I allow myself 45 minutes for a 12 minute bus ride) by the second floor office nook at school, I have to stop, take a moment, and giggle like a hyena. Because Kuwana Bullock's name is on the door. And WITHOUT FAIL, whenever I see that name plate, I immediately think of Sandra's African American sister and all the fun they must have together. I imagine them on a reality show where they just live like the Kardashians and drink together and get leg waxes and talk about boys. I mean hey this could be totally real- Sandra's mom is apparently German, like born in Germany, so perhaps she has a black sister. So I just went to People.com because I reaaaally don't want to once again rehearse my presentation for tomorrow, and I see the a headline announcing that Sandra's sister is aware of Sandra's whereabouts and that they are fine and Sandra just needs time, bla bla. And my first thought? Aw, Kuwana! Always there for Sandra! I wish I had a sister like Kuwana.

Yeah.

Did I Grow?!?!

Seriously! Because all of my short sleeve shirts from last year aren't as long as I recall. And I've lost weight since then, so it's not a tightness-ride-up issue. This would imply that I've grown in my torso, and not, you know, the all important leg area, which would really be a happy occasion no longer having to hem my PAJAMA PANTS but hey, I'll take what I can get.

OR I've been doing weight lifting entirely wrong and I've bulked up my shoulders instead of slimmed them down and this in effect makes my shirts ride up. For someone so insufferably vain I surprisingly haven't looked at myself in the mirror closely in awhile, so this could be entirely possible. Like how I noticed recently that even though I dyed my hair brown December 30 it is now blonde again and I freaked out like "How long has this been?!!"

THESE ARE THE PROBLEMS I FACE. THESE ARE THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES.

Hands up, baby hands up, water drips down dripping dripping drips down dripping dripping

Today I spent a solid 5 minutes feverishly tearing my room apart looking for my towel. Only to discover it was on my head. Time I will never, ever get back...anyway

I have a serious bone to pick with a) the people in charge of paper towel placement in public restrooms and b) the giant bumblebee climbing the inside of my window at present. There's not much I can do about either, but the paper towels make for a better story, so here goes:

WHAT THE FUCK?! I understand I'm smaller than the average human, but anyone who isn't a legal giant (haha...imagine having to legalize your giant status, poor Hagrid...God I'm a dork) has to lift their arm up at a 90 degree angle to reach for the paper towels. What happens then? Oh. Water drips down your arms. Sometimes, in a rush, a lot of water drips down. Pours, even. Because I might be physically incapable of properly washing my hands, BUT that's neither here nor there.

This is more of a problem in the winter, when long sleeves are involved, and then the sleeves are soaked for a good hour after (and NO I refuse to roll up my sleeves. Sometimes they wont roll, like button downs. Or puffy jackets. OKAY?). Now I can just use said paper towel to dry off my arm, but I'll still bitch and moan about it. Because at an institution of higher learning- cough cough Teachers College cough- someone should have been smart enough to kindly instruct paper towel dispenser installers to EASE UP on the height. The end.

I'm in a funk. That is why I stuff vanilla meringes in my face and don't blog.
But I think Glee's "Power of Madonna" episode will help me pull through. WORDS CAN'T DESCRIBE MY EXCITEMENT.
The end.

Update x2

In I Am Charlotte Simmons lots of things annoy me and make me want to throw the book at the wall or just stop reading it, which I can't, because I'm OCD and also because despite how much I hate it I do sort of wonder what will happen to ALL THESE ABHORRENT PEOPLE. Brief examples of things I hate (uh oh, dissertation sneak peak!): Wolfe's constant use of the words hide, brute, fannies, cretin, rhinal cavity, solar plexus, etc etc. But nothing bothers me more than when he describes sex with the noise "rut rut rut." Who does Tom Wolfe have sex with? The Little Engine That Could?

God that drives me nuts. Like makes my arm hairs shoot up and my nostrils flare and make me want to throw a pizza in Mr. Wolfe's face.

I have to go pierce myself with forks now to refocus.

Update

Dear 3 Readers,

My apologies for my absence of late. I've been furiously outlining my dissertation, whose working title is "The Reasons Every Copy of I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe Should Be Burned"
How I will relate this to Health Ed, I am not sure.

Also, I'll write more if people comment. When there are no comments I am once again aware that only Maddie and occasionally Kati and once a month Holly read my blog. And this makes me asad.