Archive for November, 2006
My eyes popped open this morning at 5:30 a.m., much to my horror and chagrin. Every time I’m under any sort of stress – self-inflicted or otherwise – I go to bed late, sleep hard for a few hours, and pop up like a toasted bagel the second I see the faintest glimmer of sunlight. This wouldn’t be a big deal, and I might be able to eke out a few more minutes of rest, if not for the ever-vigilant cat, who senses movement like a heat-seeking missile, and tumbles into the bedroom screaming his crusty-eyed head off. When I don’t respond appropriately – I don’t know, by whipping cans of food out of my armpits – he starts knocking things off of the nightstand in order of size, staring at me between items. And when that doesn’t work, he tries ripping down the mini-blinds, which result in a clattering train-like sound that makes me want to peel my ears off of my head like a banana. He stares at me after every clank – I’m telling you it’s calculated, like living with a feline Stewie.
I’ve been agonizing over a single project all week – obsessing, really, like my life depends on it, which it totally doesn’t – and it’s made for some pretty shitty work/life balance, albeit almost entirely self-inflicted. I’ve been rolling out of bed before dawn after going to bed past midnight, and moving through my days zombie-like and unhappy. (All day today, I kept asking everyone, “Does this day seem weird to you? Like, really weird and foggy?” They didn’t think so.)
Anyway, after I get up, if the dog hasn’t gotten up with a heavily bladdered whimper after the cat starts screaming with the screams of a thousand angry banshees, I’ve been taking my laptop into the bathroom and either working on the floor while I wait for my shower to heat up or (oh my God), I’ve been taking the laptop into the stall, doing whatever it is I need to do, and sitting on the toilet (lid down! lid down!) to finish working. Um, at 6:15 a.m. Honestly, I haven’t sunk to such depths in a long time, and I hope never to be there again.
In the middle of a wild toilet-bound editing session this morning, I fell asleep and dropped my laptop into the magazine basket (thank Jesus it was there instead of the tile floor), which tumbled over and came crashing down, and obviously, it woke me up. I came rip-tearing out of the bathroom, mumbling, “What’s that NOISE?” because, of course, I’d completely forgotten where I was, or what I was doing, and all I really knew was that there was a loud noise! Somewhere! NOISE! In my frenzy, I bumped into the television and knocked over a stack of DVDs, which also, conveniently, came crashing to the floor making more! NOISE!
A. slept through the whole damn thing. Did not move. Which of course, led me to the only possible conclusion:
He was dead.
He was totally dead. He wasn’t even breathing, oh my God. I just freaked out and started sticking things under his nose: a spoon and a pair of scissors, to be specific. I saw fog, and noticed the bed swelling with his breath, which would have been a helpful observation pre-scissors, for I almost poked his eyes out. Anyway, he was breathing, but still not awake, no matter how many times I jammed things in his nostrils. Which meant he was comatose, and might be that way for many months, or maybe forever, and I almost started crying again, imagining myself visiting him in the hospital like Terri Schiavo or Mike Delfino and oh, it was just so awful and stupid. And yet: I didn’t try to wake him. I just stood over him like a funeral director, waiting for him to give me some sort of sign of his early morning demise, until he finally peeped one eye open and grumbled, “The hell you looking at?” and rolled over. Not exactly romantic, but he was alive.
Anyway, this is a long way of saying it’s finally over, my projects have all been turned in, deadlines met and the wonder of delight and freedom that is Friday lies before me like an open road. Now all that’s left to do is sit and wait for the familiar panic to set in that I’ve accidentally hidden a massive “Go fuck yourself!” in the documents, or someone else took hold of my body and wrote hilariously erroneous facts that are so obviously wrong and libelous, and I’m going to be indicted by some grand jury somewhere, but I’m used to that, as I’ve said before. But holy crap, I need to get some sleep, because thinking my husband was dead totally sucked.
Also, apropos of nothing, I wrote yesterday’s post a while ago, and had forgotten about it. I threw it up yesterday because I thought if I didn’t put something up then, I never would again, because I’d be too busy editing on the toilet for the rest of my life (I could not see the forest for the trees, clearly, for I really believed that statement. It would go on forever, I was sure, and you’d be stuck with an oboe forevah). Hence, no continuation today on anything oboe or sorority-related (and oh yes, it was, uh, sororal), and I’ll get to that another day. I’m sure you’re beside yourselves with anticipation. Delta! Delta! DELTA!
Have a great weekend.
*Dave Matthews. Told you I loved him. Lay off.
November 9th, 2006
My friend S. has a theory about people who were once cool vs. those who have never managed to rise above “marginally acceptable” in the overall social system . He shared this theory with me a few years ago while we were at a work function watching a (married) HR-type hump the leg of our (notoriously lascivious) overseas sales dude on the dance floor while we threw back drinks at one of those lame company bonding events that not only involved sumo wrestling, but also featured one of those bouncing moonwalk things. Because nothing says “bonding” like donning sweaty plastic fatman outfits and clotheslining your colleagues after many many drinks – ooh ooh, and also dry humping on the dance floor, not to mention getting extremely drunk and wondering if your boss is actually hitting on you, or is it that you’ve had too many gin and tonics? Not that it’s ever happened to me.
The year prior, at the same annual event, I actually raced around the floor of a convention center on some sort of souped-up motorized toilet with wheels. Normally, I don’t go for that kind of thing, but it was a face-off with my European counterpart who spent most of the summer on holiday (NINE WEEKS, PEOPLE) and yammering on about “beauty sleep” while I worked until 1 a.m. contemplating how many apples I could stuff in the bags underneath my eyes for the trip to hell. So when the opportunity presented itself, I was bound and determined to exact revenge and beat her siesta’d ass, even if it involved setting aside my dignity to straddle an American Standard.
For the record, I lost. I couldn’t figure out where the accelorator was or how to steer or…well, anything, and I wound up jamming myself and the toilet between a pillar and the fire extinguisher, requiring the toilet proprietor to pluck me out while my opponent raced around the orange cones to victory. Story of my life.
Anyway, the dry humping raged along on the dance floor, and after trying to play it cool and figure out how one of us – any of us – could snap a picture of it with our camera phones (we totally did and yes, we shared it with my boss of all people, who found it as amusing as we did), we ended up talking about the kind of person who initiates that sort of public debacle. His theory is that people like this woman were never, ever cool in their entire lives, and are always trying to make up for it by being extra obnoxious in their adult lives. I’m not sure of the specifics of this theory, or why it applies, but I do know for sure that I have never really been cool in the traditional sense, save for one completey ill-advised time in college, and lo, it was very bad.
I have mentioned it before, but I played the oboe all through middle and (oh my God) high school. Clarinet, too, and oh yes, I dabbled in cello. I can still play the first two pretty well (seriously), but the cello never really stuck. My senior photo? Is me in a marching band uniform, and honestly, if that doesn’t scream – well, I don’t know what it screams, but it can’t be good. But the thing is, I totally loved it. I had no idea that it wasn’t cool until I went to college, after my former high school boyfriend was ahead of me and joined the marching band IN COLLEGE, and reported back that no, people didn’t find drum majors hot the same way we did in Pennsylvania, and yeah, maybe agreeing to play the saxophone at a Big East school wasn’t such a great idea, because the ridicule factor was pretty high.
My high school band competed in local and statewide competitions, and we took it extremely seriously, my God, SO SERIOUSLY. I remember when our head majorette (twirler, if you will), fell off the podium in the middle of a really crucial moment, and I was so torn up – just inconsolable – on the field, my salty tears falling into my open mouth as I heaved sobs around my clarinet mouthpiece and tried to march on. I was ENRAGED that she could just FALL OFF like that, without consideration for the rest of us who worked so damn hard at marching around, all serious-like, while we played “Shine Down” for the screaming crowds in wool uniforms (oh, and also hats with giant feathers. Yes.)
We also played football games. Oh yes, we did. And liked it. I still have absolutely no idea about the game of football, but I can tell you the exact moment it’s appropriate to break into a rousing rendition of “Louie, Louie,” or, if you prefer, the Notre Dame fight song. In addition, because I know someone is going to ask, yes, I totally went to band camp for six years. Six years, because I was apparently an elite enough oboe player to make it to the high school band while I was still in middle school. Well, that and oboe players are hard to find, so they were desperate. But yes, band camp. But I can tell you there was no sex involved, but oh, we totally said things like, “This one time, at band camp?” all the time, because a lot of shit went down at band camp. Band camp was where the magic HAPPENED.
Anyway, back to band competitions: I was served up a plate of cosmic comeuppance for the podium incident a few months later when I hyperventilated, then subsequently fainted while playing a really important oboe solo at a concert band competition in Virginia. (I can’t believe I typed the words “really important oboe solo” in reference to myself in a public forum, but there you have it.) There were paper bags offered, heads hitting the ground and oh my GOD, the tears and disappointment, because I botched my solo, and NEARLY FAINTED to boot, bringing the whole thing to a screeching halt. My band director – who, by the way, I still keep in touch with, and adore, honestly – ended up having to help me off the stage in my sweaty wool uniform in front of everyone, and if there was ever a moment I wanted to die, that was it. Oh, and we lost the competition, and everyone blamed me, including me. The bus ride home was AWESOME, and full of much mockery from the twirlers I’d so mercilessly railed on only weeks prior. Le sigh.
Anyway, not cool, not cool at all over here. And by ‘not cool’ I mean, actually dorky for reals, not hipster geeky uncool that everyone likes to throw around with the tech boom and all. There were no hot geeks involved here. This is epic, authentic oboe-playing uncool. So in college? I totally planned to try to be cool. And I succeeded, and hot damn, it was a bad idea, and before I knew it, I’d put myself back in the uncool category, with a little more pride. But really, I have gone long enough, so that social experiment dissection is just going to have to wait until tomorrow, where we can all decide if my Moment of Ill-Advised Cool is the reason I never dry-humped a married man on a dance floor.
*Tori Amos
November 8th, 2006
I’ve been bogged down with a variety of work-related projects that, while interesting and enjoyable, are sucking up my time like a giant McDonald’s straw, leaving me drained and exhausted, unsure of whether to sleep, cry or stick a fork between my eyes in an effort to get me a decent night’s sleep in a hospital. These projects conveniently coincide with a series of (actually really fun and engaging) corporate meetings that inhale 3-4 hours in the middle of the day, and the combination makes me lean wholeheartedly towards the fork-in-eye option.
I voted today, as I hope all of you did, no matter what actually happened vs. what you wanted to happen, because even though the whole process feels skewed and pointless at times, it’s one of those things about living here, about being alive, that moves me. Every single election year, I get excited at the ritual of traveling to my polling place, waiting in line, voting and finally – FINALLY! – getting my cute little sticker with some sort of uplifting message full of rhetoric about whatever it is I’ve done to stand up for freedom. And yet, I always get tears in my eyes when I walk out the door. It’s so stupid and cheesy and contrived, but really, I am more than a little bit geeked about the democratic process, I can’t help it. And you should know that I’m still wearing my sticker.
Today, however, I went to a new polling place (a giant Catholic church), and when the time I spent anxiously waiting in line was up, I was not led into a room full of voting machines and happy retirees in blue and red aprons, but instead, realized that I was in the wrong building, and was waiting in line for some sort of very serious Catholic mass. I didn’t realize my error until I (and thank God, another gentleman behind me) was face to face with a solemn priest, his hand thrust out in greeting, a concerned look on his face. And of course, I ran away after simply blurting out, “I’m voting!” And left the gentleman behind me to explain whatever foolishness I’d left in my wake. But HONESTLY, would a sign have killed them? A sign that says, “This is mass. Voting is down the hall?”
I consider myself an extremely informed voter. I think it is my responsiblity to do a lot of research and vote for the candidate that makes the most sense for me, and is in line with my belief system. I even research the hell out of the referendums and amendment votes, along with any other lesser elections they seem to throw in at the end of the ballot (“Third-degree circuit court judge and lead fisherman, district fifty bajillion!”). I was thrown off, however, by the fact that I was expected to vote for three (THREE!) open seats for the some sort of obscure board that I didn’t realize existed, and I’d done absolutely no research into whatsoever. And with the new-fangled machines, I could not figure out how to abstain, so there went three votes with eenie meanie minie moe, which is sad. And the board was pest-related, so if and when I get malignant malaria or the plague, I will have no one to blame but myself.
Oh my God, that’s all I’ve got. This week may be the least exciting in blog history, because again, I am a pile of fried zucchini drowning in ranch dressing, and by Thursday (when all of this madness is over. OVER FOR THE LOVE OF GOD), I fully expect to have crawled into the microwave, pressed “popcorn” and waited for my whole body to blow up into a million kernels. Because if it’s not obvious by now, I am bone-tired and mildly catatonic and can’t even write a decent post, much less any sort of analogy (zucchini? popcorn? Seriously?)
(Although, dude, there is a carrot. I totally get to see Lawyerish this weekend. And meet her mom. And her husband. Be jealous, for it’s all I’ve got going for me right now.)
*Toad the Wet Sprocket. Love Toad.
November 7th, 2006
It’s finally occurred to me that it’s November and Christmas is coming. Or perhaps more pressingly, Thanksgiving is coming. I’m sure you all already knew that, with the weather where you are being normally cool/cold and all, but given that I took the dog out for a walk this morning for about three minutes and came back with beads of sweat on my upper lip, it’s not so obvious for us. My sister asked me about our Christmas plans Thursday, and I was just…confused, to say the least, because it’s AUGUST, and Christmas is not something you think about in the summertime, you crazy woman.
But sadly, heat or not, time marches forward, and in little more than two weeks, I have an entire mound of family descending on our little house for Thanksgiving, and a dining room that looks like this:
Clearly, we eat in front of the TV. And keep our pets in a strange sort of prison.
I’ve always wondered who the hell uses Rent-A-Center, because paying $200 a month for a dining room table, or worse, a flat-screen TV, makes about as much sense as wearing a black bra under a white wifebeater, because if you can afford $200 per month for a dining room table, you can afford to save and BUY the dining room table, so why, Rent-A-Center, why? But given that hopefully we’re moving someday soon, and even if that move is three blocks from here, I am not paying to move a dining room table that may or may not fit in my next dining room.
And so to avoid having to lay down towels for everyone to sit on the floor and eat on, we’re going to rent the world’s most hideous dining room table. It’s plastic, painted to “closely resemble” cherry, which is entirely my fault, because when the man asked me if I cared if it was made from wood, I earnestly replied, to Adam’s endless amusement, “Well, I don’t know. I do know that I would like it to be made out of something!” As opposed to nothing, or maybe that new-fangled invisible material that’s all the rage in dining room tables.
But apparently “something” does not equal “wood” and so a shiny plastic faux-cherry dining room set is making its way to our home next week, for the price of $200 (we have to pay for the whole month, even though we only need it for the day. Thanks RAC(ket)!.) Dress code for Thanksgiving is green polyester. Extra kugel for bellbottoms. Bring grape jelly pie.
Are you all asleep yet? Because this was my weekend, and let me tell you, it was riveting.
I’ve opted to cater Thanksgiving entirely (with the exception of kugel and autumn bruschetta), as opposed to even attempting to make anything at all and give us all foodborne illness, or worse, stuck desperately trying to find a restaurant that is open on Thanksgiving to save us all from the charred remains of what was supposed to be dinner.
By the way, nothing, absolutely nothing, is open on Thanksgiving, and that seems to include Burger King, and I know this from many years of experience. Even Chinese restaurants close on Thanksgiving, I suppose to thank Columbus for presenting them with yet another country to spread their astrological charts and love for pu pu platters, and if you forget even one thing, you’re hosed, just hosed right up the hoo-ha, and a sad frittata made from months-old eggs may be your only saving grace.
Incidentally, the final nail in the catering coffin was when Adam read this post, where I discuss my delusions of foodie grandeur and beg for help in crafting a delightful meal for our family (location of TwoBusy‘s autumn bruschetta recipe is in the comments). Within moments of him reading it, I was politely informed that the only delusion I was still harboring was “the one where I’m actually going to let you make any of it and risk killing off my entire family.”
Arrangements to cater were made shortly thereafter.
As for the rest of the weekend, when I was not agonizing over plastic rented tables, I was torturing myself by cleaning the house in the manner of an obsessed lunatic that included a horrible Joan Crawford moment where I worked myself into a hysterical Fantastik’d frenzy because I could not, just COULD NOT, get my dishwasher control panel and dial clean enough. (“Miss Jenkins said it was clean? Do YOU think it’s clean? CHRISTINA!”)
Finally, the weekend was not without fabulous movies, and this weekend’s choices included Two for the Road (one of Audrey Hepburn’s last before her quasi-retirement, and Albert Finney manages to be sexy, would you ever guess?), Suspicion (Cary Grant as villain! Joan Fontaine!) and Rebecca (Joan Fontaine again! Hitchcock again! Creepy lesbian pseudo-necrophiliac housekeeper!)
I hope y’all had great weekends. If you’ve made it this far, give yourself a cookie. I’ve had four.
*Anna Nalick.
November 5th, 2006
I have Anne Murray on my iPod. If you don’t know who Anne Murray is, then you’re missing out. If you know who she is, then you’re probably embarrassed for me, and that’s okay too, but I’ll get to do the Tennessee Waltz, and you won’t. I also voted for Carrie Underwood over and over and over again during her season on American Idol. I know it was that much cooler to like Bo, or better yet, Elliot, but I was with Carrie all the way, dude, right up until “Jesus Take the Wheel,” where things got a little too…well, I just don’t think that Jesus is taking any wheel of mine because I’m a pretty lousy driver.
And Dave Matthews? I still love him. I have since freshman year of college, before Under the Table and Dreaming was annoying, and when he was still – no, just becoming – cool. And then one day I woke up, and he was no longer cool, and I seemed to have missed the memo that he is mock-worthy and appropriate only for fraternity parties, which I am supposed to be vastly above. I’m not. Bring on the ice luge shots, I guess.
I also have a strange sort of affection for Celine Dion. I mean, let’s be honest. Name one other woman in the world who can get away with an Egyptian-themed wedding in Vegas that involves headdresses that weigh as much as ten watermelons suspended in mercury, and actually takes herself seriously. (“We have an epic love! That requires headdresses! And SEQUINS!”) Come on, you have to admire that, dude. And seriously, I like “My Heart Will Go On,” if I’m in the right mood. Mock me if you will.
Mock! Mock!
Adam and I often talk about how music choices, more perhaps than any other hobby or personal preference, are reflected in who we are, what we do, how we look. And honestly, nothing makes me happier in the whole world than listening to music. Peter Gabriel can change my entire morning, and if “I Grieve” happens to flash across my iPod while I’m driving, I need to either frantically hit ‘skip,’ or prepare myself for a morose drive full of crying jags followed by a day of repeated calls to Adam to scream how much I love him and please do not die, today or ever, or I will kill you.
Music is pretty damn miraculous that way. It changes us, makes us who we are, and brightens our mood. It can, in a way, define us.
But at the risk of sounding cranky, I’m getting a little bit annoyed at the whole hipster scene going on in music today where if any band is remotely recognizable then my God, they’ve sold out, and you are a sellout by association because they were so much better back then, and you missed it you fool. And you’re also completely clueless because haven’t you heard of the FranzingFlenFriends? They are so hot, dude, and what the hell is wrong with you?
I’m exaggerating, and perhaps being needlessly cruel, it’s just that I really loathe snobbery of any kind, unless it involves lunch meat, and in that case, snob away, because no one should have to endure jellified turkey, and can we not talk about Carl Buddig packaged meats? Ever? Boar’s Head, please. Dietz & Watson if you’re desperate.
And it’s just that music snobbery is just so awful, because everyone feels differently about it. It doesn’t have to define you as cool or uncool. It’s kind of malleable. It can be fun, if that’s what you feel like, or you can weep into your chocolate soda, if that’s your mood. However, Celine is FUN and comes with chest-thumping! Your heart, it goes on.
And yet, so many people are so determined to make it not fun. Maybe it’s fun for them, because listening to the FarFlungFruitLoops makes them feel like they are so much cooler than the rest of us, and my God, do they let us know that they are cool because of this very fact. FarFlungFruitLoops says so, because they sing like angry teenagers who’ve smoked too much weed, and wow, do they have confusing lyrics! Cool, confusing lyrics and greasy hair and whiny voices. And don’t get me wrong, I fully support these choices as much as I do any other musical endeavor. And yes, I like me the confusing lyrics and whiny voices, and far flung bands, but that does not make me cool by that fact alone. I hate the implication that you are cool because you can throw around random band names and mock people who like someone more mainstream, because they are stupid and don’t know any better. It’s just different. Bad music does not make you stupid.
I’m all for hobbies, and the music afficionados who run out and find obscure bands and genuinely enjoy them – I really am. But when a hobby becomes an exclusionary tool, I’m out, man, I AM OUT, and I’m just going back to my New Kids on the Block, Morrissey and New Order. The great irony is that I’ve been accused of musical snobbification, especially because I think in terms of song titles (I do that because it makes me happy, and also think of fun music! Yay Neil Tennant!), but let me assure you, the music I listen to, I happen to love because I love it by accident, and I don’t care if you love it, and I don’t even care if you’ve never heard of it and want to go home and listen to Michael Bolton on repeat over and over again, with a little Rod Stewart thrown in, followed by a chaser of Kenny G. I will still think you are supercool.
(Although, seriously, I had a Kenny G song played on the piano at my wedding, and I lied on the program and used his full name – Kenneth Gorman (Sorry! Edited: GORELICK! GORELICK!) – because I just didn’t feel like dealing with the assholes would be all, “KENNY G AT YOUR WEDDING, YOU CHEESEBALL,” and at that point, I was so stressed that I would take the easy way out of anything, and that includes betraying the very point I’m making now. So if you are getting married, I fully support this decision. People are assholes. Change Rod Stewart’s name to Rodney Stewartostopholis-Macy, I do not care. I will not judge you. Weddings make you crazy.)
And in case anyone was wondering, I choose my music very scientifically: I grew up in the 80s and 90s, and spent a lot of time listening to The Cure, because back then I was really angsty and superimportant because I was a teenager and woe, seriously WOE, was me, and also, I was madly in love with ELO because of my weirdo parents. And then in middle school I found Peter Gabriel by accident. Hence, I have spent the last 10 – 25 years trying to recapture the magic that once was, and I do so through Amazon’s suggestions, iTunes surfing and maybe Pandora if I have an assload of time.
And also! Music is to be shared together, not hoarded like you’re some kind of special person. Share! If you wanted to listen to whatever I listen to, and if you wanted to copy my entire iPod and run around with my playlists and love on them, I’d be so flattered and excited and I would give you whatever you wanted because we should all listen to The Smiths! Girlfriend in a Coma!
Or maybe you prefer New Kids on the Block? I have Hangin’ Tough and also Cover Girl. And I also met them in New York City when I was 13, and I was actually THERE when Joey bought the peace sign jacket he wore in all the photos and the Hangin’ Tough video. And then many years later, he hit on my friend at a bar after he was uncool and tried to tell us that he was very cool, and then EVEN LATER, a friend of a friend (hi Annelise!) made him leave Daisy Buchanan’s on Newbury Street by singing, “I HOPE YOU ALWAYS STAY THE SAME” really loudly to all of us and then staring at him a whole lot. We were 27. Sigh. So I guess what I’m saying is that I have an obligation to keep NKOTB fresh.
My really long-winded point is that God, we find a way to make everything exclusive and frustrating sometimes, don’t we? Even music, which is possibly the greatest gift in the history of miraculous gifts, and I think that kind of blows. Long live Celine.
*Pet Shop Boys
November 2nd, 2006
First, a small matter of housekeeping. I talked to my neighbors, and apparently we were one of the only people who didn’t sell out on our candy this year, which is infuriating and also, may be because we had a giant blue penis in the window. But in my defense: really? Does it still look like a penis, even when not illuminated and also, face-first? Scroll below for reference, if you need to. I can wait. Also bear in mind that this picture is really pointless, since it was dark and also illuminated during the entire time. So yes, it probably looked like a penis. But humor me.
Ignore the vast perfume collection behind it. I don’t know if I ever mentioned it, but I have a serious problem.
Secondly, I endured what was possibly the worst self-inflicted humiliation of my life today when I called a woman named Lillian Blendenheimer (not really, but close). The conversation went something like this:
(male voice answers the phone) “Hello?”
“Hi! This is Jonniker, I’m looking for Lillian Blendenheimer!”
“*mumblesomething* husband *mumblesomething*”
“Oh! Right! Of course. Well, do you know when your wife will be back?”
” Uh yes. Right here.”
*confused*
“OH! You mean your wife is there? Take your time! I can wait!”
“No, I mean I AM THE WIFE. This is Lillian.”
“Oh! HA! Well, hello, uh, Lillian!”
And then I died, only to be revived with the thought that listen, at least I’m not Lillian, because there is no way that Lillian is not a man. But I am also quite distraught at my own stupidity, and let’s all thank God the call wasn’t professional.
And finally, it should be noted that I’ve eaten no fewer than 15 Reese’s peanut butter cups with caramel, and I guess I’m wondering where they’ve been all these years? Peanut butter and chocolate is brilliant, but peanut butter and CARAMEL is an entirely different issue altogether, and is somewhere in the range of fantastical. But you know what’s sad? I’ll keep on this candy bender for a few more weeks, and by Thanksgiving, my pants won’t fit, and I won’t remember why. And I’ll probably write a post about how pissed I am that I’m not losing any weight, because I will have forgotten the peanut butter cups, but you’ll be here to remind me, won’t you Internets?
I have a history of blaming everyone but me for my weight. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, because I am old and apparently boring and also repeat myself, but the first time I gained weight, I was in college, and one day I woke up and not a single one of my skirts, pants or even UNDERWEAR fit. And I blamed the dryer. Threw a fit, called the landlord and and let her know kindly but firmly that there was an old dryer in our house that had shrunk all of our clothes, despite the fact that no one else in the house reported similar incidents. I’m sure I’ll find a way to blame someone else for the peanut butter cup consumption. The penis ghost, maybe.
I might add that this is the same landlord whose leftover generic menthol cigarettes we (or should I say ‘I?’) used to pick out of the ashtray and smoke when we had too much to drink and had run out of Parliaments. And those memories are just a few of a frillion reasons why I am so freaking glad college is over.
*Peter Gabriel
November 1st, 2006
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