Archive for February, 2008
The movers finished packing our crap early this morning, so hey, guess what? We’re off! TO VERMONT. Greetings from … where the hell am I? Oh yes! At this moment, I am outside Savannah, somewhere off of I-95. Savannah, incidentally, is one of my very favorite places in the United States, and when I lived in Hilton Head, I often wished I’d lived here instead. For context, my other favorite places in the country are Charleston, S.C.; Salt Lake City, Utah (yes, really); Newburyport, Mass. and, the winner of all, Orange County, Calif. My version of heaven is a small stretch of beach outside of the Montage resort in Laguna Beach. Oh, and their facials aren’t half bad either.
It’s unfortunate that we have to leave tomorrow, because it’s the Collard Green Festival this weekend, and who doesn’t like a … festival … celebrating the wonders that are collard greens! I should confess, too, that I love collard greens but, ah, A FESTIVAL? Really?
The drive so far has been blissfully uneventful and honestly, y’all? It’s effing weird. We’re in that weird sort of limbo-homeless state where we have completely closed out our old house and loaded our shit into a Mayflower truck (holla if you see one! It might be my bedroom set!) and yet, our new house isn’t officially ours until Saturday. Ergo, until then, I am calling a Four Points Sheraton, my sister-in-law’s house and my parents’ place home. And thank God they’re having us, because without them, we would be wandering the streets of a strange town hoping that someone would give Sunny Milk Bones and let us use their toilet.
I should tell you that I did flip off the entire state of Florida as I entered Georgia, and I know that kind of makes me jerky, but Florida and I weren’t friends. So to my Floridian friends: I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.
What I don’t like is road trip food. Adam has been mocking me repeatedly, for I am nothing if not the picture of health. Within a ten minute stretch today, I was gnawing on a slice of beef jerky, downing a Mountain Dew and sneaking a contraband cigarette out the window of my Honda (Smoking: a road-trip vice I return to, again and again, mercifully with no lasting consequences. Last time I did this was our trip down to Florida two years ago. I seem to be of the lucky former smoker sort who can have an occasional cigarette without being addicted. Given my otherwise shitty luck, I’ll take this one small boon of good fortune, if you can call it that). Oh, and we had McDonald’s for lunch — drive through, baby, because with a certain small dog in the back, dining in healthily is no longer an option.
I also had Combos. And y’all, I LOVE Combos. If heaven were a snack, it would be a big bowl of Combos and crema de leche. And further, it’s the official snack of NASCAR, which is UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, because I’m sorry, NASCAR — or any sport, for that matter — needs an official snack.
And unless you want to hear my review of Kurt Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions”, which I am the last person in the world to read, I think we’re done here (the verdict: Love. I mean, no shit, right? It’s Vonnegut! But also, it reminds me of “The Corrections” in its achingly unflinching and sympathetic portrayal of utterly contemptible characters, which is stupid stupid stupid, as dude, which one came first? HELLO). NASCAR snacks are the best I can do right now, but since people who know me in real life read this, it’s the easiest way to say hey! We’re alive! And in Georgia! Tomorrow: Virginia. Again, throw the goat if you see us in the Chesapeake region.
February 26th, 2008
All I can think about right now is how I can sneak in a nap without making anyone angry, and by “anyone” that would be my husband, because, my friends, we are on the HOME STRETCH, and if that doesn’t test the limits of one’s mental health, I don’t know what does.
Our entire house is basically packed up and decorated with cardboard boxes and blank walls and would you believe that despite all of the evidence in the universe to the contrary, I still don’t believe that I’m actually moving? I don’t. Nope. NOT AT ALL. I think I’m going on a vacation, perhaps, to a wintry paradise. Maybe I’ll ski, maybe I won’t, but in a week or so, I’ll return to the same life I’ve had for two and a half years. Or ah, not, because our house is PACKED, y’all. And it’s all happening so fast, and as of Wednesday morning, I’ll be on the road to New England, where it’s snowed all winter long. A LOT. And I’m still bootless. I’m hoping it’s melted enough so that I can scrape off my windshield in the mornings while wearing flip flops. (I KID.)
In the meantime, I do not make a very good Lady of Leisure, as by day two, I was calling Adam to beg for errands, and I e-mailed a freelance client for some more editing work. I mean certainly, we have enough shit going on that I don’t need instructions, but after working for 12 years, I turned into mush at the thought of one or two entirely unstructured days. I did, however, have lunch with Carol on Thursday and am having lunch with Tammie tomorrow, and dude, with Carol? I had a BEER. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. I also adore her father and Carol looks even more gorgeous than she did the last time I saw her, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t recognize her, because she went and got these super glamorous bangs that make her look like a movie star, for God’s sake.
Despite being both tremendously busy and incredibly bored, I have found time to make some utterly useless observations, not the least of which is thank God Bath & Body Works discontinued the Mandarin Mango scent, because the hand soap smells PRECISELY like morning breath. Every single time I wash my hands, I find myself vaguely sniffing the air in search of the source of the stale, icky breath. Mercifully, we won’t be packing that with us, and I may even leave it for Lindsey. Perhaps it will smell good to her.
It reminds me, incongruously, of my love for Guerlain’s Aqua Allegoria Pamplelune, which is one of their lighter, less staid perfumes with notes of grapefruit, vanilla and patchouli and don’t make me talk about patchouli’s wonders again (I’ve discussed patchouli before and owe packages, I KNOW. When we move, I promise.) And while it smells delicious to me — tart and crisp, with a slightly bitter edge of pith, like a sunrise walk through a grapefruit grove — apparently to others, it smells precisely like superbad B.O. After wearing it for an entire week on a business trip, I came home to find Adam very gently asking me if I’d showered lately, because over the last few days he’d noticed I smelled … a little ripe, perhaps? And when I proffered my wrist, he nearly DIED of grapefruit inhalation and started screeching, “That’s it! That’s it! IT SMELLS LIKE SWEATY CROTCH!”
So, you know, for what it’s worth, based on my expertise as both a perfume copywriter and an avid collector: always always get a second opinion on your fragrances. While it’s most important that YOU like it, it’s also important that you not smell like sweaty balls and not even realize it.
And in additional odd segues, my diet this week has consisted almost purely of nothing more than Diet Mountain Dew, to which I am entirely addicted and have had five, count ’em, FIVE today, and crema de leche, which is this cheap, brandless Latin candy that tastes like heaven. Or, more accurately, if you insist, it tastes like dulce de leche, because that’s exactly what it is, hardened and sliced up in one-ounce portions with a cheap blue label with no name, and I don’t think I’m being overly dramatic when I tell you that I don’t know how I’m going to go on without access to it. I’m thinking about cleaning out the entire supply at my local Walgreen’s, which is the only place I can find it, natch. They also have coco de leche, which features coconut mixed in, and some crazy coco-pineapple macaroon-type thing that sends me into swoony fits and might also be the reason my once-loose waistband on my skinny jeans is starting to feel a little tight.
Happy Monday! It’s my last day in Florida with furniture!
Also, if I owe you an e-mail, it’s because we’ve had, ah, technical difficulties around these parts, but we’re back up now.
February 24th, 2008
Hello! Greetings from the land of the unemployed! I finished my last day of work today, and it’s been a whirlwind of work-related drama and worse, I accidentally deleted my ENTIRE INBOX AND SENT MAIL, so Jesus, I really hope they don’t need anything after I’m gone. So that was my last gift to the company: sheer idiocy and technical incompetence. Good times. I mean, logic tells me they won’t need it because hello, I DON’T WORK THERE ANYMORE, but the last thing I want to look like is the shady weirdo who vanished without a trace. Mission so not accomplished.
Anyway, I think tomorrow is officially going to be there weirdest day, when I wake up for the first time with nowhere to actually go. Well, I am meeting Carol at noon, but that’s about it, and then … nothing scheduled for the foreseeable future, except for that whole MOVERS ARRIVING thing. And then the whole cross-country (up country?) thing. Incidentally, we’re planning on stopping in Georgia, Virginia, New Jersey and Boston, so if you see a silver Honda CRV with a pug and two glazed-over people in it, it’s us. I’m the one with the flaming red hair. Wave, if you want to. I’ll totally wave back. Or better yet, throw the goat, because how else will I know it’s you?
I’ve been a shitty, shitty human being lately. I’ve been a shitty friend, a shitty acquaintance and a shitty … lots of things. And one of the things I’m looking forward to about starting over is having the time to repair some of my relationships that have fallen apart because of lack of attention. I certainly didn’t do anything overt or direct to hurt anyone, but I’ll say that my strategy for relationships lately has been … benign neglect. I’ve not called a ton of people I need to call. I’ve failed to keep up on my family. And it sucks, ergo I suck. The only thing I can really say is that tomorrow is another day — another day for a fresh start, apologies and Jesus, a little action. I plan to remember birthdays and anniversaries and actually call people back.
And not that this is any excuse, but this all happened SO FAST. The truth is that while the move was sort of planned, it wasn’t planned to go down that fast — Adam’s was initially a telecommuting job, and when we realized we’d want to move, it was an open deadline to get there. And then, just like that, we got a renter and a house and we had to leave and … I don’t even know, I just sort of feel like I blinked and it arrived. And before that, I was working so much and dealing with personnel issues and the pressures of deadline that I neglected to actually LIVE, and I screwed so much of my life up while I wasn’t paying attention. And now, although I never liked Florida that much, it’s too late to really realize what I did have here, and what I ignored while I was focused on things that I now realize don’t really matter.
And you know, I haven’t talked about it in a long time, but we had very few friends here, really. And in retrospect, a lot of that was our fault. Oh, I had people at work that I loved — my coworker, Chad, is someone that I honestly will miss immensely. I felt like Dorothy leaving the Scarecrow, for I will miss Chad most of all. Male-female relationships are so hard — especially between two people who are happily married — due to all of the appropriateness issues, but I think we genuinely liked each other as people on a purely platonic level, and my only regret is that I didn’t have him and his wife over for dinner. I would have liked to get to know her, too, and spend time with both of them and it’s a chance I wish I’d taken. And the truth is, if Chad were a woman, I would have. And when he left, he said the same thing. And for that, I am an idiot, and so is he, for that was stupid, and there was nothing inappropriate about our relationship for even a flash of a second.
And also, did I ever tell you that I’m a pansy? Yeah. I suck at reaching out to people, because I’m always afraid I’ll be rejected. Even when someone is CLEARLY trying to be friends with me, I back off, terrified that I’ll offend them or come on too strong. There have been times when I have avoided friendly advances from people who want to SPEND TIME WITH ME — because surely, I think they must be mistaken, and what if I say the wrong thing? I think it’s why, in part, I’m so comfortable at work. I’m aggressive at the office — organized, outspoken and even risky — because I’m smart and capable (and confident!). And if I’m working, it helps me to avoid what I’m actually afraid of — for in my personal life, I am a turtle. The slightest breeze sends me ducking for cover.
And the other thing is that Adam and I became dangerously complacent in our friendless state. In Boston, we were able to rely on a foundation that we’d built when we were 18 — we moved there from Syracuse with nearly every one of our college friends, and once you have a foundation like that, you can build on it easily. And when we moved here, we quickly got used to having no one to rely on but each other. While it did wonders for our already solid marriage because we literally spent every waking moment together except when we were working, it is a shame that we never branched out to other people. Most of that was because of the weird dynamics of this place — elderly retirees outnumber people under 80 by about 20 to 1, and the young people fall in two categories: rednecks or the extremely wealthy and pretentious Charles Schwab-types with pinstripe suits and cars that they care DEEPLY about. And once we realized we were leaving here (which was about five minutes after we arrived), we just gave up. Because once you know you’re leaving, no matter how far into the future it is, you check out.
I’m looking forward to a life that I can be checked into. I haven’t had that life for two-and-a-half years.
So hey! Here’s to new beginnings. I guess I’ll figure that my life, once again, is happening now and maybe I should wake up and pay attention.
Have a great Thursday.
February 20th, 2008
Oh hi! I can barely walk, thanks, due to non-stop box toting and heavy lifting. Usually, I collapse into bed at night just PRAYING that my back feels better in the morning and yet knowing that it really doesn’t matter, for I shall lift again come morning. I am now walking around vaguely like a person who is approximately eleven months pregnant, complete with hands on lower back and jutting abdomen.
And sadly, that is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me lately, for when your life revolves around packing and Home Depot, that’s kind of the best you can hope for, in terms of blog fodder. It would have been much more exciting if I were, I don’t know, IMMOBILE or something, but alas, fake-pregnant duck waddling is the best I can do. And further, reality hasn’t totally set in that we’re moving, but it’s hard to deny that I am, in fact, blowing this joint in about a week and a half.
Excuse me while I go to collect my intestines from the floor after reading that statement again.
But anyway, you don’t need to be tortured this way, for I have MANY other mundane things to go on about, and aren’t you lucky? For starters, I attempted to order a pair of boots in anticipation of the grand freeze, and I thought Adam would shit himself right then and there, because NO BOXES IN THE HOUSE. NO MORE ITEMS. NO BOOTS. BOOTS COME IN BOXES. HAVE I GONE MAD? I didn’t know that a pair of Uggs (shut up) could cause such marital strife and though I am simply DYING to get a pair of footwear that doesn’t expose the entire length of my foot, I will refrain until we arrive in the Green Mountains, lest I tip Adam over the moving edge with Yet Another Pair of Shoes.
Also, I plan to wear my Uggs with shorts and Bohemian tops, like Kate Hudson. Will that offend anyone?
Speaking of Adam, and he’ll throttle me for this, but I was going on to Lawyerish earlier about one of the grand unfair universal truths: men get hotter as they age, and I’m living with a real, live specimen of this truth, and frankly, it’s really starting to piss me off. Adam is WAY hotter now than he was when we first started dating, and while I’m thrilled — don’t get me wrong — that I get more eye candy than ever before, I can say without too much self-deprecation that I have not, in any way, shape, or form, gotten hotter. Better hair, maybe, but that barely breaks me even when you consider the expanding hip-and-ass factor, along with the ever-appealing incredible shrinking boobs. I mean, maybe I’m more attractive because I’m older and therefore less irritating (less drama, less whining … orrr, maybe it’s just different. Forget it), but I haven’t gotten physically hotter the way he has. And it’s totally unfair. Delicious, but wholly unfair. I think these sorts of things should be doled out to couples EQUALLY, so that we can be equal in our hot factor. But alas, I am getting LAPPED, and he was ALREADY way ahead of me on this one before he went and got himself all distinguished with age.
I cannot take advantage of any of this distinguished-ness, incidentally, for not surprisingly, the stress of all the moving has landed me a wonderful case of Lip Herp, so not only am I losing the war of hotness, but as of this moment, I am going down in the smallest of battles, too. I’d also like to say — and cold sore sufferers will back me on this — that I have never in my life had more sympathy for genital herpes sufferers than when I have a cold sore. The VERY THOUGHT of such a tingly, painful open sore (ew, open sore! EW! That’s what it is? I HAVE AN OPEN SORE. GROSS) in that general vicinity makes me want to weep in solidarity. There wouldn’t be enough Valtrex in the world to placate me, and if there are any readers who are … lower herp sufferers, please let me buy you something pretty and shiny, like a Corvette, because Jesus, you deserve it.
Oh and ALSO, I’m watching Big Brother, and though there are many who eschew it for all of the usual reasons (the people are dumb, the content is reprehensible, there isn’t a likable person in the bunch like, EVER), I have to say: I’m addicted yet again. Something about that creepy slice of random, classless life is like television crack to me. I know, there are so many other things I should be doing with my time (like, say, packing boxes or massaging my lips with Abreva or bathing my dog, for she is emanating waves of doggie stink), but I remain riveted by whatever contrived theme they throw my way (Couples! Til Death Do Us Part! AND THE IDIOTS DON’T GET IT. LIKE, HOW HARD IS THAT? HOW HARD IS THAAAAAAT?)
*Interpol, who I adore, but I always forget. But dude, I dare you to listen to them and not feel cool, no matter how dorky you are.
February 18th, 2008
Through a series of strange and ridiculous circumstances at my place of employment, I ended up hiding in a pile of palmettos (long, ridiculous story that isn’t as unprofessional as it sounds … I guess. Let’s just say I got pulled into a covert meeting outside and someone drove by and … OH GOD, IT IS JUST RIDICULOUS) And if hiding in the BUSHES as a grown woman isn’t absurd enough, the clandestine meeting quickly turned dangerous when I — and hey, a quick interjection here to say that you know how I love the hyperbole? THERE IS NONE HERE — I ended up plucking, one by one, a pack of biting fire ants from my butt. Yes, you read that right. During my brief stay in the bushes, I felt a familiar prickling sensation INSIDE MY UNDERWEAR and each time I reached my hand back there to figure out what the Christ was going on, I removed a fire ant and realized I was seated directly into a mound of them. And … and one or two of them reached the front, and that’s all I have to say about that, except that it hurts less than you’d think it does, but OH DOES IT ITCH, though the ones that sneaked into my ballet flats managed to leave quite a searing mark.
Honestly, I wish I were making that up. I had ants — an entire mound of BITING ANTS — in my underwear, and when … when I took my pants off later, at least five crushed carcasses came FROM MY UNDERWEAR. And we won’t talk about the horrible moment I had removing them — again, FROM MY UNDERWEAR — in front of my coworker as they snacked on my tender white rear end flesh.
Thank you, I would like to die now, please. I … I don’t know why I think talking about it will make it better, because it won’t. I have a fire ant bite on my girly bits and at least thirty on my … backside. And it’s too horrible for me to sit on, and when I told Adam, he all but screeched, “I CANNOT HEAR THIS. IT IS TOO AWFUL.” And when I — for reasons unknown — tried to show him, he wasn’t having it.
But you get to hear ALL ABOUT IT, because you can’t tell me to stop. I will, however, spare you from an illustrative photograph of my devoured backside. Be glad you don’t live with me, for I’d be dropping my pants right now seeking sympathy.
Other than being paid to get gnawed on, my day was somewhere in the range of super-stressful as I worked myself into a wild frenzy, realizing that — sorry — we have actual MOVERS SHOWING UP HERE to take us away to ANOTHER STATE. I realize I should have known this — I mean, I TOLD you about it — but the reality hadn’t set in until I packed up more than half the kitchen and emptied the refrigerator entirely. Nothing says “moving!” like tossing months-old bottles of Kikkoman realizing that you probably won’t get around to making that stir-fry before you leave.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m trying to focus on anything other than the fire ant mound, because half of you have stopped reading by now because again: FIRE ANT MOUND PLUS ASS CHEEKS AND GIRLY BITS = NOT GOOD.
I’d also like to point out that we spent most of the evening under a tornado warning and for one harrowing moment, watched the news announce, “If you live in XX area, we have seen tornadoes touch down, so you might want to be alert and prepare to take action!” Oh, and there was HAIL.
I don’t need to tell you, of course, that XX area was my house. However, mercifully, the storm has passed, and the warning lifted. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t shit myself and come running inside like a little girl when my neighbor opened his garage door while I was trying to get Sunny to finally go poop after a long night cooped up to keep her bowels covered. And honestly, all I could think was that things were going a little too well and of COURSE the tornado was going to come and rip our house down, OF COURSE.
I don’t think that’s a healthy line of thinking, and I’m pretty sure most therapists wouldn’t approve. It’s hardly what I learned in CBT, after all.
But while we’re admitting things, I’ll tell you that I am excited, but I am also very scared. But what scares me isn’t that I’m scared, it’s that I’m very clearly most afraid of being without a career the way I’m accustomed to having one. I mean, sure, I’m sure I can if I want to, and of course, yes, I’m scared of not making friends and trying to have kids and not being able to, and all KINDS of big, scary things, but it’s easier to be afraid of not having a career — a career is controllable, which is why I like it. Come to think of it, this might be a very good thing. A scary, but very good thing.
But I’m still pretty darn terrified of everything I just said and then some.
And again, most of you just read blah blah blah FIRE ANTS IN PANTS, blah. But really, that’s kind of how I feel too.
FIRE. ANTS. IN. UNDERPANTS.
AND CLEARLY I CANNOT TURN OFF THE CAPS.
Happy Wednesday! (Do you know that I wrote “happy Thursday” before I realized that it is only Wednesday? Goddamn, what a crushing disappointment. Then again, I need every damn day I can get.)
*Hello! I’m Johnny Cash. I love that song. Don’t make fun of me.
February 12th, 2008
I’m going to warn you: the channel we’re tuned to around these parts is “All Moving, All the Time” and if that bores you (and I can’t say I blame you), might I direct you to the blogroll on the right? Start at the top and work your way down and let them entertain you! Or better yet, go make pickled carrots. That’s where I’m off to next, in fact. Batch number ten, it calls to me.
So … Lindsey took the house, so thank you all (I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you that I think it’s all your doing, for reals). I have a signed lease, a security deposit and various and sundry rental agreement items. Which means, oh holy shit, we’re actually out of here as early as Feb. 27. And we HAVE to be out of here March 1. OMFG, y’all. I’m signing MY lease tomorrow on the most delightful 19th century farmhouse on two acres within walking distance to the gleaming metropolis of downtown Small Town Vermont. With all eight people who live there or whatever. Also, “delightful” is entirely in the subjective eyes of my husband, as I haven’t set foot in it, nor have I, again, set foot in this particular area of Vermont. Am ballsy, I like to think, but I’m guessing the word for it is “stupid and blinded by love and a desire to leave Florida.”
It does have a sunroom, though, see?
Also, they’re leaving their piano for us, which excites and scares me, because I have this strange and extraordinarily unrealistic vision of trying to pick it up by myself and dropping it down the stairs, despite the fact that it’s on the first floor.
All of this is, by the way, in the words of our darling tenant, Lindsey, “a colon moment,” as she put it when she walked out the door realizing that between the three of us, a lot of shit has to be packed and moved and yes, we are sort of holding our bowels together, it’s true. There is so much to be done, I can hardly see straight, but lo, we’ve packed up two whole rooms and the laundry room! That’s something, right?
Lindsey, by the way, said something about us being Democrats and supporting Obama and when I said that yes, she was mostly right, she POINTED TO MY HAIR and said, “Well, I figured with that hair.”
I have Democratic hair, did you know that? I EXUDE Democrat from the neck up. It must be the pink streaks.
I … I want to do something for all of you. Like buy you all Segues or keep you in Bare Minerals for the rest of your lives, but I can’t afford to do that, so … is there anything you want that’s free or thoughtful in the “free” sort of way? Can I TELL you anything you’ve ever wanted to know? I mean, I promise to answer any question except for my last name and my exact address. Not that the former matters that much, but … well, whatever, Google, you know. And that is the lamest offer I’ve ever made, but I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO FOR YOU PEOPLE.
I love you and I would kiss you all on the lips if I ever met you. Does that help? Sadly, I’m not joking. I have nice lips, and I’m a good kisser. It should be something to look forward to.
Sunny, by the way, has been a big help with the move, if by “help” you mean following us around under our feet and barking angrily at the boxes, because they don’t BELONG there, and they weren’t there YESTERDAY and that box! It’s going to SWALLOW YOU WHOLE!
Also, hey, look, I’m sorry: I threw away my wedding dress. I’m not particularly proud of this, but my options are limited, given the less-than-17-day nature of this particular operation. I cut out a reasonable swath of it for posterity — and also to ensure that yep, ah, it’s completely ruined, sorry — and it’s currently sitting in our giant Waste Management receptacle, awaiting what will surely be the world’s largest garbage dump on Tuesday
And finally, I am on the hunt for a new gynecologist in Vermont and honestly … they all have accompanying photos and they all scare me. Their photos vary from the not-so-vaguely homicidal to Sam Shepherd in “Baby Boom” without the hot vet factor and I … I’m scared, really. I don’t know if I feel like sharing the vast idiosyncrasies of my wonky menstrual cycle with a guy who looks like he’s about one second away from doing that whole lust killing in Se7en. And I can’t really wait, so ah … pray for me.
I hope y’all have a wonderful Monday. I, for one, will kick off my day getting my car registered, because I got pulled over for a bum registration on Friday night and I’m lucky I didn’t get it impounded.
I should also tell you that I am now terrified of moose. There are MOOSE in Vermont, you know. I’ve never lived with moose before, and I’m scared they’re going to eat my pants in my sleep or I’ll hit them with my car.
Also, hey, a question: for those of you who have your own hosted URL, who do you use to host it? We’re currently hosting this on our own server, but are planning to get rid of it in favor of outsourcing it …
I’m tempted to close with “XXOO” because that’s kind of how I’m feeling about the Internet lately, but I’ll refrain. Sort of …
Happy Monday to you!
*Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan
February 10th, 2008
Oh ah, GEEZ, where did y’all come from? I have knitting bloggers out there! I had no idea! How THRILLING. Also, I kind of love all of you and wish you all commented more, because we could be e-mail friends and I LOVE e-mail friends (ask the birthday boy and Lawyerish), even though sometimes, when I get very busy, I am not as good as I should be at returning one-offs in a timely fashion. But I am trying to get better! And I HATE when I do that (Jennifer from Seattle-ish, I’m looking at you, because I AM SORRY.)
I love knitting bloggers, and read quite a few of them (even other than Crazy Aunt Purl, and who DOESN’T read Laurie? Which reminds me: I love her. If there is anyone who does the big blogger-slash-author thing with humility and class, it’s Laurie. So if you don’t read her, please read her now. I also owe her for leading me to Jen, who I also love. And looky-me, aren’t I just all LOVEY today?). I think my knitting bloggery might be because I cannot knit, and have, in fact, about eleventy million scarves — or at least I did, because shit, where are they now that I’m going to need them? — and a half-knitted sweater with one arm for a Keebler Elf, and another for Andre the Giant. Well, if he were alive. I’m pretty sure his corpse-y arm would fit into the sweater, as it’s either cremated or emaciated. Either way, it’s gross, and I’m sorry I brought you there.
So! I quit my job yesterday, and it went over better than I expected. This, naturally, can be taken several ways and what kind of kills me about that is that there was NO WAY FOR THEM TO WIN. If they threw themselves in front of me, begging me to stay, I would have felt like a royal shit because I couldn’t, of course. And if they were gracious and happy about it, which they were, then it means THEY DO NOT LOVE ME ENOUGH. BEG ME TO STAY YOU INGRATES. But ultimately, I’m happy, and I’m crediting the happiness and smooth resignation to all of you and your happy, kind thoughts. Do you want a cookie? Perhaps a wheel of cheese made with farm-fresh rennets? Ooh ooh — I know, a pickled CARROT.
However, I did bring at least one co-worker to tears and another’s face fell like a little boy when he said, “NOOO,” which both touched me and broke my heart. And yet another announced that secretly she was thrilled because it meant we could finally be friends, as until I quit, it would have been inappropriate. And now that I think about it, that sounds super-awkward, and I guess … I guess it is, but awkwardness is my game. I embody awkward.
And for some reason, and perhaps only journalists will appreciate the ridiculous dorky nature of this statement, when I told my friend Vivek that I quit my job in like, PARAGRAPH SIX, he responded with a snarky, “Way to bury the lede. God.” And then I realized I’m going to miss the whole thing, but it’s GOING TO BE OKAY. THERE WILL BE CHEESE. And Ben & Jerry’s. Totally lots of Ben & Jerry’s. (Seriously, B&J is only an hour away. DANGER, WILL JONNIKER)
And hey, speaking of ice cream — because things can’t get any more random than this — I have a flavor question for you: black raspberry ice cream. Do you know it? Love it? Ever seen it? In Pennsylvania, where I grew up, it was one of the most popular flavors, and it’s been my favorite since I was about six. I recently had a hankering for it, and honestly, I can’t find it anywhere in Florida (well, my particular odd part of the state). I can find five-way chili because I live in a land of Ohioans and I can even get a Chicago Italian beef sandwich, but I can’t find the damn ice cream. And a quick survey at work says that at least two people — one from Florida, one from Indiana — have never heard of it. To which I ask you: seriously? Black raspberry ice cream is one of the world’s best things. I found Haagen Dazs black raspberry vanilla chip, which is NOT THE SAME.
And finally, if it’s not too much to ask, if you have a spare moment between 1 & 2 p.m. tomorrow, perhaps you could think, “LINDSEY. THIS IS TOTALLY THE HOUSE YOU WANT. SIGN ON THE DOTTED LINE,” that would be awesome. For Lindsey, our tenant prospect, is coming by for a “final look” to make sure she’s “100 %” with the renting of our house. I sort of love Lindsey and she’s perfect for us, and I WANT HER. I WANT HER BAD. (And also am in process of finalizing my own lease for a house that has a creek and an apple tree, and would like not to have to start over. Yes.)
Happy Friday! Thank you again, for everything. You’re all awfully nice and helpful.
February 7th, 2008
I’m quitting my job tomorrow. There’s nothing wrong with my job, it’s a perfectly lovely job, and despite a thousand challenges that would likely make you laugh out loud if I told you about them, I have enjoyed (almost) every minute of it. I loved being a journalist, and I made some great relationships with people in the community, and with so many of my coworkers that on many levels, I am heartbroken to leave, I really am.
Well, doesn’t that sound cheesy and contrived, eh? But I really do mean it.
Honestly, I’m telling you this because if I write it down here, I will actually have to follow through and do it. But the thing is, I HAVE to do it because in as little as three weeks — maybe more, I don’t know — we won’t be living in the state of Florida anymore.
The other thing — the bad thing, the only very bad thing — is that where we’re going, there is no Target. NO TARGET. Did you hear me? THERE IS NO TARGET. NONE. THE CLOSEST TARGET IS IN ANOTHER STATE.
Target aficionados may realize that this means we’re either moving to Vermont or Alaska, and if you had to guess, which would you pick?
I like daylight, thank you very much, so Alaska is out. Which means, that’s right, we’re moving to Vermont. I don’t know anyone in Vermont except my (potential) future landlords and I’ve never even set foot outside of a vehicle in the town we’re moving to, though I am assured it’s lovely by my beloved (hey, um, anyone ever been to Middlebury? BECAUSE I REALLY HAVEN’T). This has been in the works since just after Christmas, when we almost killed ourselves on Route 93 in New Hampshire, and I am hopeful, if petrified, that our journey to the Green Mountain state will be better than the interview tour.
The reason for this move is oh-so-very Tammy Wynette in that Adam got a killer job that was too good to turn down and, as is well known to longtime readers, we’ve been itching to get out of Florida virtually since we moved here. And it’s New England, and New England is our home, it really is. I would have liked to have made this work, but … well, no. At some point I’ll do a series on Florida and its massive ills lurking around every corner, but for now, I’ll leave it at a desire to just go home.
But even if we didn’t love it, I’d make him take the job, because it’s what he wants and it’s good and it’s so perfectly him. And if you might let me be sappy for one brief second, I have to tell you that I am so over the top proud of him, I’m nearly busting out of my skin. And further, he’s working so much that there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that we’d be able to get the hell out of here without me being a lady of leisure. Well, if you count “lady of leisure” as “lady of packing and moving,” that is. So my time as a working woman in Florida officially ends here.
Honestly, I’m scared and excited and … well, everything you would expect. I’m scared because I’m trying to finalize a tenant AND finalize a place in Vermont and get a mover and quit my job and OH MY GOD, I’m trying to do a lot. And a lot of it might fall through and put us back to square one, but I won’t be able to get any of it done if two of us are working 18-hour days. So I could be a LoL for three weeks, or I could be a LoL for four months. No one really knows. But I am trying to stay positive, and the first step is talking about it like it’s real.
This has gone on too long, really, and I’m sorry. To answer the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times: what the hell am I going to do in small-town Vermont? The answer is that I simply don’t know. I’m going to freelance for a while, surely, and I’m going to see what’s out there. I may end up working in a ham store or buying rennets by the truckload to cure my own cheese in pigs’ assholes, you never know. I could, too, open up a maple syrup store or something, because I’m sure Vermont doesn’t have enough of those. Or I could go back to corporate America in whatever form it exists in Vermont. The world, it would seem, is my cheese shop to explore and mess around in.
And that’s that. And if you know anyone in Vermont, give me a holler, because I sure as hell don’t. But you know what one of the best parts of blogging is? I get to take you all with me, no matter where I go.
Happy Wednesday! And for the love of God, I could use any happy thoughts you have to pull all of this off, dear Jesus. I didn’t mention it before, but that’s part of why I wanted to write about it, because as lame ass as it sounds, I’m sure that the Internet’s good luck thoughts, they totally help (if you’re wondering where to FOCUS those thoughts, there’s that whole renter thing, as well as the movers we have coming to estimate the cost of moving our worldly possessions tomorrow. And you know, the whole QUITTING MY JOB THING. OMFG, I feel like throwing up.)
And finally, George Stephanopoulos has totally had Botox, yes? Is it me?
Again, happy Wednesday.
*Emerald Alley. It says it’s some kind of theme for “Indian Morning” whatever that is. All I know is that it is awesome, and I don’t even know how I got it.
February 5th, 2008
Last Thursday evening/Friday morning was among the most sucktacular of my career, what with an early morning finish and an even earlier start — to put it in perspective, I slept a grand total of two and a half hours in the pants I was wearing and turned around and wore them the following (well, SAME) day, unaltered (same underwear too, because I am gross like that and was also VERY TIRED). Jeans, by the way, do not make good pajamas, but I’m guessing you already knew that. And while normally, I like to change my underwear every day, I also like to wash off my raccoon eyes, but this was a special circumstance where neither happened.
Beyond that, I have one thing basically on my mind: SUPER TUESDAY SUPER TUESDAY SUPER TUESDAY. I can’t focus, I’m so excited about it. No no — excited is the wrong word. ANXIOUS. I am so very anxious. Sadly, this election, I have turned into one of those people who has become a little passionate, so you know what, I’m not even going to talk about it, because I like you, and there’s a chance we might disagree and who wants to argue? No one! (OMG SUPER TUESDAY)
Moving on! Do you know that after last week’s Facebook post (short story: I joined and feel old, as what is the POINT?), during the aforementioned work misery, I had a lull between editing some stuff (at midnight, oh yes, MIDNIGHT) and I was dorking around on that stupid, stupid evil application and somehow ended up — or so I thought — accidentally inviting my entire Google address book to be my friend on Facebook. THANK YOU FACEBOOK. This is awesome, as it was my professional account, and oh yes, there were CEOs and Microsoft executives and assistants to Steve fucking JOBS on that account. People I have e-mailed exactly ONCE, likely for a story or a press release or something STUPID, and oh, please, will Steve Jobs be my Facebook friend? Pretty please?
Mercifully, after a frantic e-mail to Metalia (who was kind enough to laugh with me at the ridiculously frantic tone of my note), it appears that I did not, and THANK YOU JESUS, because right after that happened — AND I MEAN RIGHT AFTER — my friend Sean tagged and posted a video of me freshman year of college hanging out in someone’s dorm room and gazing adoringly into the camera that my then-soon-to-be boyfriend was wielding (VOMIT OMG). And it was just when I’d convinced myself that even if I had, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.
Oh God. I was wearing sorority letters and cutoff light denim shorts (WITH FRAYED EDGES) and Sean was singing loudly to Rusted Root and there’s that whole LOOK I keep giving to the camera (or to the cameraman, more likely, and again, OMG PUKE) and please, imagine, if you will, Google’s head of China operations, Kai Fu Lee, accepting my invite (although really, WHY WOULD HE?) and finding that little gem for all to see.
Please, please kill me now. I have to be honest in that I haven’t even watched the whole thing and I don’t think I can. One look at my frayed-edge shorts and I’m contemplating burning all the jean shorts I can find in some sort of wild effigy. Mostly, though, I want to take my nineteen-year-old self aside and tell her, really, this whole thing is a waste of time: get a new haircolor, a new boyfriend (Adam was a mere dorm building away but I didn’t know it) and also maybe some new pants. Or any pants at all.
In other news, and I meant to mention this before, but Lawyerish reminded me with her phobia post (please go tell her what you’re afraid of, because I am RIVETED by phobias and I can’t wait to read the comments. Also: she’s afraid of clusters of things! CLUSTERS! FASCINATING): I, too, share Swistle’s fear of Large Underwater Things. Once, at the dolphin tank at Sea World (the same visit that I fell headfirst into the stingray pool, which is another story), I lost my everloving SHIT because a giant gray dolphin was under the water! Near me! GAAAAAAAAAH. And I haven’t even gone into the countless times I freaked out while swimming in granite quarries growing up (LARGE SLABS OF UNDERWATER GRANITE), nor have I mentioned the other fear I have: that of finding a dead body in the water.
I’m TERRIFIED of finding a dead body. What would I do? Who would I call? HOW WOULD I GO ON? I realize the chances of this are slim-to-none (how many bodies have YOU found?), but every time I’m swimming (which is a lot, I love to swim), I suddenly become irrationally afraid of a dead body floating in the water, its deadness coming to get me with the papery milky skin and everything and OH MY GOD, I can’t, because I just threw up.
And with that, I think that’s enough. There’s a LOT of screaming and throwing of hats and sundry items in my house right now, for the Superbowl, it did not go well. And I have to tell you: I am glad I don’t care that much, because if this were baseball I would be crying and throwing things, too. Um, how about them Celtics, I guess? (Tom Brady was totally injured, so Adam says, and I tend to agree.) (Also, this whole idea that the winner is a “world champion”? It makes no sense to me! THERE ARE ONLY AMERICAN TEAMS THAT PLAY FOOTBALL.) (Same goes for baseball: NORTH AMERICAN TEAMS, PEOPLE.)
I would also like to add a random aside that I’ve always harbored the notion that Tom Brady is a bit of a douchebag — I know I’m supposed to like him, being a New Englander and all, but the whole Golden Boy image rang hollow for me, and in the pre-game interviews, Adam just reminded me that Terry Bradshaw TOTALLY SET HIM UP to look like a douche, with the baby talk and all, and OH HE DID. So you know, Tom Brady, maybe you should grow up a little. You aren’t perfect! In fact I DO NOT THINK YOU ARE HOT. SO THERE.
*Rusted Root. And ah, Facebook friends can see my friend Sean doing a DELIGHTFUL rendition of it, in addition to me in short denim shorts and a Tri-Delt sweatshirt. (I HATE YOU FACEBOOK.)
February 3rd, 2008