Book Club

For Chi Omega book club, we're reading Greg Mortenson's "Stones Into Schools." He keeps referring to the idea of sharing three cups of tea with everyone he meets in Afghanistan/Pakistan. All I can think of is how bad I'd have to pee after that type of encounter. This is why I am a close-minded fool who will never advance beyond The Box Car Children series. The end.

Mount Pleasant

Is where I live. It is pristine. It is family-oriented. It is, to state the obvious, Pleasant. And what I find hysterical is the most prominent businesses. Everywhere you look there is an auto repair shop, an eye doctor or eye clinic of some sort, and a veterinary hospital. So I've decided this: Mount Pleasant is pleasant, alright, until you drive too fast and hit a dog, then need a place to take it, and a place to take your car to get fixed, and you realize you probably need your eyes checked.

But there's an all-you-can eat Lowcountry buffet five minutes from my house by foot, so all is right with the world.

Here I am in Charleston

How is Charleston different than New York? Tough to say. I was expecting lynch mobs and throngs of morbidly obese people, but things aren't that different. Except that we live two blocks away from a megachurch. And the heat. Oooooh, the heat. You don't know heat-related discomfort until you move to the south. Where everything is heavily air conditioned but it's still NOT ENOUGH. A walk on the treadmill at the air-conditioned gym has me dripping with sweat. Dripping in the literal sense. As in drip stains on the treadmill. Good enough imagery? Moving on. I get out of my car and my glasses fog up. Walking across a parking lot is so torturous I've demanded Joe let me stay in the car on quick errands. The problem is that it's so gorgeous outside (we live right on preserved foresty land and it's so pretty and I just want to sit on the deck and enjoy), but the second you open the door to explore, it's just too much to bear. So I'm currently enjoying the great outdoors via the fabulous invention of windows.

Anyway, it's been a fairly easy transition moving back in with Joe. To all the ladies out there who have yet to move in with a man, take note: you will have NO SECRETS any more. Take this example. I love to get my upper lip waxed. In New York it's a mere $8 for the delicious, indescribable bliss of smooth and numb under-nose skin. In South Carolina, they charge you $10 to sit you in the middle of the salon in front of horrified-looking southern housewives, NOT apply numbing agent to your skin, subtly disparage your eyebrows, oh and then SCORCH YOUR SKIN WITH THOUSAND-DEGREE WAX WHILE GIGGLING. Needless to say, I overpaid to have an angry, flaming red scab under my nose for the past three days. Which cannot be hidden from my lover/roommate. Who thinks it's hilarious. It hurts to smile and laugh. Good thing I have nothing to smile and laugh about (seriously, keep me unemployed for three more days and I'll start up with really, really dark poetry. I am not meant for sitting around. Because you have to sit around when you are unemployed. Otherwise the second you go anywhere you spend money you don't have! Gah!). Draaaaama teenager.

Anyway. So I had a job interview Monday and actually managed to cover up the scab with enough makeup to hide it, but not too much to look obvious. Oh, but then I left my house. And sweated it off in 4.2 seconds. Not to mention I did NOT anticipate the parking garage at the hospital being full, so by the time I found a spot on the top floor and parked and jetted down 7 flights of stairs IN HEELS, sprinted across the parking lot and into the clinical building, I was a fully-scabbed, drenched, shaking, soaked-hairline mess in a wilted suit arriving a minute late. What a way to make a good impression!

Alright, I've been staring at the treadmill for an hour and should probably hop on. I know that the second it becomes inconvenient for me to answer the phone, it'll start ringing, so let's bring on the interview calls!

Maybe blast from the past?

I'm cleaning out my Word documents (Read: NOT packing) and found this, and although I may have posted already, here I go again on my own. Blogging down the only road I've ever known?

There are so many times I’ve wished there was an “Instantly Regret!” button that, when pressed, could take you back to 10 seconds ago, no strings attached. Like when I was being careless and went to cut the tag off my brand new Ann Taylor button down for work and accidentally cut a hole in the back of the shirt. Or walked into a branch and ripped a hole in the sweater I purchased the day before (sensing a trend?) Or when I say half the things I say. But recently, I’ve decided it would need to serve a new purpose. And this one is entirely my fault. I mean, so is walking into branches and being haphazard with scissors, but stay with me. Because I keep asking people what their dissertation research is on, and OH MY YAWEH IN HEAVEN do I regret it in 3 seconds. I’ll admit it- I’m self-centered, boring, and impatient. So unless your dissertation is on Allison and Joseph’s Wedding, Rapid Weight Loss By Consuming Only Peanut Butter and Animal Crackers, The Many Ways In Which Allison Looks Pretty Today or Dissertation Photo Montage on Cute Golden Retriever Puppies, I am sorry I asked. And I don’t hide it well. God, I need to just stop asking. But one of my New Year’s resolution* was to be more interested in other peoples’ lives (lol.) so I thought this would be a good way to check that one off daily. New method: “What did you eat for every meal today, and what are your dinner plans?” Because this, my friends (me still has friends?), is a topic I could talk about until the cows come home. I love that expression. Where did they go in the first place? California? To hit on cow babes? I love TV.

*Since no one is ever in this crevice of my room where my computer toils, I posted my chicken-scratched New Year’s resolution list on the side of my dresser so I can look at it for “inspiration” (or to get disheartened and hate myself). Now our new cleaning husband-wife team is cleaning my room once or twice a month (guess the Westchester cat is out of the bag!) and were in here last Wednesday and totally saw the list and think I’m ridiculous because I swear Sonya was smirking at me and and and but I mean wasn’t “Stop assuming the worst in people” one of my resolutions? Along with “Dwell less on stupid problems,” “Stop the self-doubt” and of course, “Be less of a raging bitch”?

Hey what's up my blog's back!!

I'll write actual post posts when I'm settled in Charleston, but in my packing I've come across my usual random slips of paper with thoughts on them, that I want to share with you all. Here is what I found on my "to blog about" slip:

"Susan Boyle. NOT good." Well that's just self-explanatory

"Intellectual Disappointment." That's the little nickname I've given myself, because in my immediate family, that's my role. Example: I learned most of my vocabulary from teen movies. You know the scene in Clueless where Cher says "I felt impotent, and out of control"? Weeeelp until I was far too old, and got corrected by an adult, I used the word impotent to mean "restless" or "crazed." I learned the word "amenable" from Legally Blonde, and used it often, and then once I had that Clueless epiphany, I wanted to hide under my bed forevs in fear of what amenable could actually mean. Turns out I've been using it correctly. PHREWF! And of course, Bring it On, which taught me words like "alacrity" and "afulgence" and I still don't know what the latter means. My senior year of high school our Christmas Day choice of movie was Something's Gotta Give and my mom said I didn't have to go because I wouldn't like it. Why didn't she think I'd like it? It didn't have teenagers in it. She'd been taking Rachel to Tennessee Williams plays and poetry readings since the ripe age of approx. 4 months, but I wasn't trusted to like a ROMANTIC COMEDY STARRING DIANE KEATON. Bring onnnnn the chorus: Intellectual disappointment!

And the last notation we'll explore today comes from my first day of Dr. Judy's Psych of Intimacy class this June: "Cal at dinner being condescending"

This is because as we're sitting down for our first class (haha, foreshadowing), Dr. Judy calls everyone's attention to the back of the room to point out that Jason, one of the tech support guys employed by TC, would be joining us because he asked to sit in. But her tone was so condescending, and pointing him out so entirely unnecessary, the first thing I could think of was that scene in Titanic when Cal says to the table, "Jack is joining us tonight from the third class..."

God I love Titanic. Probably because of all the teenagers.

Conversations with Malka aka And Then I Cried #2

Malka is 4. I babysit her and her brother. I love asking kids what they want to do when they grow up, and what they think I should do. The responses are normally hilarious. Yet after last night, I'll never do it again.

Allison: Malka, what should I be when I grow up?
Malka: You ARE a grown up!
Allison: I guess you're right. Well, what should I be?
Malka. Nothing. You're just a babysitter.


...and then I cried

How To Scare Your Mom

Today I'm going on the van at work to volunteer somewhere. Jovan parks the van at health fairs and such, and then people come aboard for condom demos, questions, pamphlets, etc. I wasn't smart enough to ask where we're going or...when we'll return...which led to this conversation this morning:

Mom: Are you home for dinner?
Allie: I have no clue. We're leaving at 4 so chances are we won't be back until 7 or 8.
Mom: Where are you going?
Allie: I wish I knew. All I know is that at 4 pm I'm leaving my car in a parking lot, meeting up with a black man, getting into his van filled with lubricant, and driving away.

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEH FUN TIMES.

Shh I'm not updating I swear

okaaaay fine I had to just put this up because Henry out-cuted himself Friday and it needs to be shared. I was bathing him (rephrased from "We were taking a bath," which is untrue as I am always fully clothed around children, thanks Maddie) and I referred incorrectly to a TV character, so he corrected me, and I apologized. Then I sang to him "It's too laaaate to apologizeeee, it's too laaaaate" and he looks at me with the most sincere eyes and says: "You ALWAYS get a second chance."

And then I died a little and took the cryogenic lock off my ovaries because maybe I will have babies.

I'm Sad

Because I think I have to take a blogcation. I have a lot to say and I love to say it; however, this summer semester isn't just kicking my ass. It's grilling it. In the center of the grill, not the cooler side areas where you put the food to stay warm but not overcook. Even though writing is therapeutic, thinking about updating the blog has become yet another "oh my GOD stress more to do!" thing so for now I'm just taking a blogatus. Like a hiatus. For a blog. I'll be back. Who knows, maybe tomorrow, now that the pressure's off. From all 3 readers...

I Just Ate 4 Dinners

Both me and my dad have "It's Complicated" at home from Netflix. I love that so, so much.

You know what I don't love? People who are too publicly emotional. Yeah, I know, I'm Sobfest 2006 at any funeral or viewing of A Walk To Remember, but otherwise, I keep my shit together. People who start to cry when talking about their great aunt Shirley who died in 1974 before they were even born? GET.OVER.IT. And yes, I know I'm not nice. This was established July 1, 1986, when my mother says I came out of the womb with a judgmental scowl on my face.

So in my Intimacy class Monday, we're going over potential project ideas, and a student from the prof's 2002 class comes in to tell us about his project: he wrote a song. About 9/11. You can't see my face now but...use your imagination. (Since you asked, I firmly believe that songs shouldn't have themes except "Christmas." A song whose sole purpose is to make you cry is a BAD BAD THING. BAD. Let's walk in a winter wonderland and rum pum pum pum but I DO NOT want to be reminded of people jumping out of windows to certain death (his lyrics, not mine). So then he goes into how the woman singing along with him was a dear friend who died last year. Ok. That's sad. So get teary, make your point and sit down. Don't try to fight it. Don't continue on and give me a story about how we're all waiting to become stars in the sky lighting the path for the living when we croak (ok, my word and not his. He's the "passed on" or "in a better place" type, clearly). So it goes on for like, five more minutes and he gets sad about EVERYTHING.

"And we sang it by this statue? That survived (squeak) Hiroshima (voice cracks)?" I mean, granted, I only just got over Hiroshima in 2009, but come on buddy, come on...

Ok this entry really petered out quickly BUT moral of the story: emotional people drive me nuts. I wish everyone were cold, stoic and dead inside like me. We can all wear black and mope and only show emotion during "Party in the USA"

Hip THIS

I really kind of miss my Health Promotion class. It was just six students and our awesome professor joking around a table for two hours. I likened it to the gang from "Community." When my mom asked which one I was, and the best match I could think of was Ahbed, the one with Asperger's...I felt sad.

So I'm at the point where if I hear the term hipster used one more time for just an average young person I might de-eyeball someone. Why does this bother me? It's often used derogatorily, or in a joking way, and always as an "us" versus "them" thing, but I don't get it. WHAT IS A HIPSTER?!

From my sad sad corner of global thought, I have come to realize that based on what people tell me, hipsters are a) trendy b) too cool for me c) insecure. And this makes no sense. Because essentially everyone is a hipster under those terms. Everyone under the sun who wears a hat or leggings, has a low-paying job, drinks cheap beer, doesn't get a lot of sleep, is under the age of 33, and has at one point in their life lived in Brooklyn qualifies. Narrow the parameters people! I mean sometimes I wear leggings with a long button down because it's comfortable and the top was super cheap at TJ Maxx. Does that make me a hipster? I have a superiority complex. Does that make me a hipster?

I guess what I'm saying is that overall the word is too often used, often by people who don't know what a hipster truly is so then just open up the umbrella of the term waaayy too wide. I always thought hipsters were unaffected young city people who make no money but spend all their parents' money and are ridiculous music snobs and act too cool to know you and smoke and deeeefinitely don't shop at TJ Maxx. True hipsterness is not me.

But seriously if one more person claims someone else is a hipster because they wear odd shoes or are <28 and live alone I will murdaaa.

Happy Wednesday!

So this Mucinex pill I've been encouraged to swallow is approximately the size of a small votive candle. And because this medicine is apparently imported from East Timor, the little side label has about 2 lines of instructions, none of which say whether it is for AM or PM, or what the side effects are, or essentially if I'll die. Interestingly enough for my purposes, all it DOES say is that the product can't be crushed, chewed or broken. Hello, votive candle. I'd like to introduce you to my trachea- enjoy your experience getting lodged. Haha, that sounds sexual.

So here goes! T- one hour until lunch, when I will take this with food and my new anti-acne oral antibiotics, which Dr. Kaplan neglected to mention may decrease the effectiveness of oral contraceptives say what the fuck?! And here's hoping the Mucinex and Soladyn and Gummy Vites and leftover pierogi/kielbasa don't interact and make me drop the baby this afternoon...or poop my pants.

I Am Really Dumb. Repeatedly.

I consider myself a pretty smart person, because I work hard and get good grades and mostly because I live a life of comparisons to others and most other people in this world are just nincompoops to the 8th power. But lately I've been thinking I'm a dummy bear, mainly because this situation keeps happening: I'm stretching out for a run, and I think, "Gee, I should really put some SPF on my face, now that I'm all high and mighty about the horrors of tanning and skin cancer and wrinkles blah dee blah." I ponder it for a moment, then shrug, thinking, "Whatever, I'm moving quickly, I'm never in one place long enough to need it."

I smile to myself, walk about two feet, then realize HELLO THE SUN IS EVERYWHERE. IT IS NOT A SPOTLIGHT ON YOU IN ONE PLACE. EVEN IF YOU MOVE, AND BOUNCE, IT IS STILL HITTING YOU.

DEAR ALLISON, YOU CANNOT OUTRUN THE SUN. LOVE, COMMON SENSE.

And then I feel ridiculous and hate myself a little and maybe this should have been tagged as "And Then I Cried" and guess what THE SAME THING WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IN TWO DAYS.

And Then I Cried

This blog has become sort of my outlet for self-deprecating humor...or often not humor...so I thought I'd corral the funnier Allie Sucks stories into the title "And Then I Cried."

I watched "Precious" Friday night after I put the babysitting charges to bed. What was I thinking when the movie concluded? That I was horrified by Precious's struggle, and how it compares to my adolescence? That I was inspired by her new devotion to parenthood and her own future? That with JUST THE RIGHT TEACHER anyone can learn? That Mo'nique is a great actress? That my gosh my golly welfare has certainly changed since the late 1980s? No. As the credits rolled, all I could think about was how I can find Mariah Carey's daily makeup artist and hire her for my wedding. And that I wanted some fried chicken.

...and then I cried.

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.