Archive for July, 2008
I have a funny feeling that this outs me as a closet prude, but I nearly fainted at the sight of VIBRATORS in the regular shelves of my local Rite Aid, just sitting there next to the pregnancy tests and ovulation kits. I mean, I’m all for whatever floats your boat, obviously (particularly during the time of Duty Sex), but I’ve never seen them just casually resting there, all sex-toy like in a small-town drugstore. And they’re the PINK kind with the … well, with the thing that can only be described as a HEAD. What it boils down to is that I don’t think I could buy a vibrator from the same man who knows my name and regularly fills my Synthroid prescription. I’d prefer to do that kind of shopping in a store where everyone’s there for the same thing and is likely a LOT kinkier than me, you know?
Oh hi! I’m a PRUDE.
In other news, the vacation reading has been purchased, and there isn’t a single thing of substance in the whole pile. I finally succumbed to peer pressure and nabbed the entire Twilight series, which I’m sincerely hoping gets better than the first two pages, which are so poorly written, I sort of want to stab Stephanie Meyer in the face. But! I’m told it gets more compelling — so much so that I won’t even notice that it appears to be written by a second-grader. Uh, right?
I also picked up the first two books in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, at the recommendation of a lot of you, along with the whole Philip Pullman His Dark Materials series, a Sophie Kinsella (shut up) and the latest Kristin Gore. Let’s just say that it’s obvious that I don’t plan on THINKING much this vacation. I might as well throw in a Danielle Steele to ensure maximum brain leakage, and maybe a Jackie Collins.
Speaking of vacation, I ran out to pick up a second bathing suit at lunch — at my only option, your friend and mine, TJ Maxx — and once again, my Darwinian failings reared their ugly head when I opted to try on some suits immediately after stuffing a cupcake in my gaping maw. Cupcake belly = not flattering, unless you’re planning on buying a Spandex muumuu, and even then, it had better be of the Miracle Suit variety, preferably with steel reinforcements. For the record, I ended up buying something with an ungodly amount of ruching, in a thinly veiled attempt to distract and interest passers-by with my creative abdominal draping! Unfortunately, a full-body ruch is unavailable at this time.
Also, please note that this did not stop me from eating a lone McDonald’s cheeseburger for dinner, enjoyed in bed with a book. Adam is traveling, stranded in JFK for the foreseeable future (oh, happy husband!) and apparently I’ve let all healthy habits go to shit, aside from the four pounds of cherries consumed for lunch. Or … breakfast. Or something. I don’t know, I’ve been waking up at 4:30 or 5 a.m. FOR THE DAY lately, and the meals all blend together after a while. And yes, regularly waking up pre-dawn for NO REASON AT ALL is awesome, thank you for asking!
In other sexytime news, I got my eyebrows waxed yesterday and had a … unfortunate reaction, you could say, in the form of a monobrow-like breakout. I’m hopeful it’s a one-time issue that will clear up by the weekend, but man, I sure do miss my old waxer with her hard-wax magic, sans those awful strips that actually cause (oh my God) BRUISING in my special lady area (TM Emily) after a bikini wax.
Happy weekend to you! It’s my fifth anniversary on Saturday. FIVE. YEARS. Oh my God, I can hardly believe it. Jaysus, time flies.
July 31st, 2008
Hola! Greetings from what has surprisingly turned into the Busiest Summer Ever. I hate that we’ve become the couple who is never home, but here we are! Never home! This never-homedness has resulted in a classic case of my old friend The Herp Lip. Oh, Herp. I’ve missed you so.
By the way, no sooner had I announced that I’m only seeing dead centipedes, did I find approximately eleventy million LIVE CENTIPEDES, scurrying about like tiny little mice with their hairy … well. That’s enough, I think, of the hairy centipede-talk, but the point is that they LIVE and are ALIVE and are not eating very many insects, despite that being their purported benefit, for I’m seeing plenty of OTHER insects, including a fly population that I killed off one by one last week. A fly population that sent me into fits, because oh my God, what if they are the MAGGOT OFFSPRING? What THEN? (Will likely kill myself. That’s what, then. It’s been nice knowing you all.)
Oh dear. Vermont is very buggy, and I wasn’t expecting it and I now realize that above all things, I am a pansy. Send reinforcements.
It’s funny — we’re heading on vacation very soon, and yet I can’t help but feel like I haven’t been home at all lately, so what am I leaving home for? Oh yes, RELAXATION. Oh ha ha. And although everyone I love is coming with me on vacation (yes, even the dog), I feel guilty, like our house is going to miss us and cry giant creaky tears because we’re not in it. A classic case of benign neglect.
It also speaks volumes that the biggest thing I’m looking forward to about vacation is the availability of poutine. I LOVE poutine, drunk or not and have done an embarrassing amount of research to determine who makes the best poutine and how close it is to where we’re staying. This is all so utterly ridiculous, as I’m talking about glorified GRAVY FRIES, but that is in no way stopping me, because I take my gravy fries (WITH CHEESE CURDS) very seriously.
Aaand, I’ve got a project to finish before I go to bed, despite being SO TIRED, so I’m afraid our (very lame) time is up, but not before sharing two things that have been occupying my time in the wee moments before sleep for DAYS:
1) I know people think that bloggers are exhibitionists, but that doesn’t mean I understand people who go on reality TV, specifically the foulest of (delicious) reality TV such as Big Brother. Who, no really, WHO, does such a thing? I’m trying to envision a scenario that I would willingly sign up for a reality show and … I can’t think of any. Not even if it were for $10M. Uh, could you?
2) Retaliatory judgment. I’m not clear why it’s okay to make personal attacks on someone you feel is judging you. Yes, maybe they were being an asshole, but why does that mean YOU have to be an asshole to THEM? For countless examples of this, one needs only to read endless strings of comments on ParentDish (Land of the Thousand Nutbags!), specifically those surrounding the WAHM/SAHM debate. I mean, that’s not the ONLY example of such behavior, nor is it one I REMOTELY feel like rehashing (SO NOT THE POINT) but it’s the most obvious I can think of at the moment.
July 29th, 2008
Through a series of truly unfortunate events, I wound up with dog poop on not one, but BOTH of my boobs today — a fact I realized during dinner, of all inappropriate places.
(Actual query from Adam: “Damn, you have a lot of dog hair on your chest. And is that … is that puke?” Uh, no, not puke. Even better! DOG FECES.)
Without going into a bunch of unnecessary detail, Sunny’s back to having a few butt-related issues, resulting in me having to occasionally (oh my God) wipe her bum after she poops, usually with a nearby maple leaf, as I’m sorry, I’m not about to waste my preshus Cottonelle with Aloe & E on someone who won’t appreciate it, especially someone who’s idea of good hygiene is scraping her ass along a grassy knoll. I’m can only assume the transfer occurred during an exceptionally vigorous leaf-wiping.
During this same walk, by the way, not only did I get caught in a thunderstorm and get leaped on by two Airedale terriers the size of horses, but I stepped in a pile of Large Mammal Poop (cow? horse? ox? IN COUNTRY. WHO KNOWS.) the circumference of a DINNER PLATE, which leads me to wonder if I am either blind or lacking any sense of the world around me at all.
And this was BEFORE I thought I’d take a break from my eye-pokingly busy day by paying some bills. Yes, BILLS. The break that relaxes and soothes! Who doesn’t enjoy taking a nice stress-free moment to empty one’s checking account to exciting corporations like Wells Fargo, American Strategic Insurance and, my personal favorite, Sallie Mae?
Please, someone smack my three o’clock self right in the fucking FACE, preferably with an ice mallet.
Anyway! On to brighter things! Like centipedes! Wait, what? Okay, look, I know centipedes aren’t bright! happy! topics! but MAN, I’ve been vacuuming up a few too many house centipede corpses and MAN, I’m really not pleased about it like, at all. I have yet to see a live one, but the bodies are haunting me, leaving me to wonder if there isn’t a larger, more treacherous centipede killer out there, perhaps the size of an R.O.U.S.
(OMG, what if it’s an R.O.U.S.?)
Also, don’t click that link if you’re anything like me and think that the bugs are going to come to life like a freaky Ben Stiller movie and suck your brains out. Not that I actually believe that or anything (OMG BUG PICTURES).
Well. I should go, before I launch off onto yet another diatribe about how I’m afraid my arms are becoming BEEFY and I can’t seem to solve the problem and I’m actually afraid if this keeps up, I’m going to look like a butchier version of Rosie the Riveter.
AM WELL OF POSITIVITY.
(Actually, am better than I sound and I’m sorry for laying it all on you, but MAN, this was cathartic.)
Have a great weekend! We’re meeting friends for dinner that we haven’t seen in at least five years and their “new” baby, who is probably no longer a baby and is, in fact, applying to Harvard, because that’s how LONG IT’S BEEN.
July 24th, 2008
I didn’t think it was possible, but I’ve lost my enthusiasm for Charmed. I realized things had gotten out of control sometime last week when I was reluctantly setting aside time to have it on in the background, like it was some kind of chore. And nothing involving Alyssa Milano’s midriff should be a chore.
By the way, if we’re pretending there was no nice family or fun wedding this past weekend, the rest of our experience was actually pretty painful. My God, we could not have chosen a worse hotel, which was completely taken over by the Wilson Family Reunion. This meant that not only were the Wilsons all wearing matching sun-yellow T-shirts with their deceased ancestor creepily emblazoned on the back, but they decided that since there were so many of them, that they were free to use the entire hotel for their own purposes, including a raucous game of Monopoly in the hallway right outside our door. Let me tell you, nothing is worse than hearing screams of “I GOT BOARDWALK, SUCKAH!” at 1 a.m. when Jesus knows, you’d rather be sleeping. Also, why the door slamming? Can no one shut anything GENTLY?
(Side note: The entire Wilson family then proceeded to rise at 6 a.m. in preparation for the bus that was taking all 150 of them to Sesame Place. Wilson family, do you ever fucking SLEEP?)
(PS, I don’t like you Wilson family! I don’t! You are A LOUD, LOUD PEOPLE.)
This unfortunate hotel choice came about, by the way, because we had to bring the dog, as we have to everywhere these days. We just haven’t found a reliable sitter for her, because I’m a giant softy who refuses to put her in a kennel where she’s either a) alone all day in a rubber-lined run in the blazing heat; or b) in a cage, oh dear lord, at the vet’s office, and only gets out to pee on some kind of schedule. Add it to the list of things I miss about Florida: plenty of reliable dog sitters specializing in small dogs who regularly wear tennis skirts and are named things like Princess Crystal Amoure. My needy little pug is low maintenance compared to a dog that eats off of crystal dishes and requires a fresh grosgrain bow every morning.
Hotel misery aside, I’ve got to tell you, I surprised myself by realizing that while I like it here — I do — I don’t want to stay in this particular town long-term. It’s just too small, I’m sorry it’s TOO SMALL. And I miss shopping — I was in the Franklin Mills Mall for all of five minutes and realized that normal people have access to malls and convenience stores and don’t have to travel an hour and a half to buy a MICROWAVE.
It’s not that I am a giant consumerist, it’s that it’s SO FRUSTRATING not to have anywhere to just go and get something without it being a giant hassle. I miss Starbucks. I miss having somewhere to work other than a) my house; b) the library (NEVER AGAIN); or c) the same coffee shop full of the same damn people, because like, oh my God, I saw that lady yesterday and she was yelling at her husband and now it’s awkward, and I have to pretend I didn’t see it, and wait, why is she wearing winter boots in July?
So! If things continue to go well here, when our lease is up in March, we’re likely moving closer to the big city. Also, I have to tell you, while I love freelancing, I miss the option of HAVING a real job if I wanted one, and for reasons unknown it all makes me feel a bit desperate and panicky.
I am not cut out for hardcore country living. This makes me feel like a failure in some way, but I’ll admit it, I can’t hack it. Give me Target (or a reasonable facsimile) or give me death, I’m sorry.
So! Living in the country = FAIL. Putting down roots in new small town = FAIL. Realizing that this is precisely why I may never buy a house again, even after the one I already own sells = RELATIVE SUCCESS.
And finally, I’m hoping someone can tell me why, for the love of God, I can’t eat a piece of bread or a granola bar or anything producing crumbs without ending up with said crumbs in my bra, leaving me with itchy, crumb-y boobs that are as bad, if not worse, than the post-haircut hairy boobs. And by hairy boobs, I mean full of hair cut from my head, not Yeti-like nipples.
July 23rd, 2008
Oh I love your wedding stories, and admittedly, was full of envy at some of them (Jenny, you were right! That IS my perfect wedding!), but I mean that in the most loving way possible.
I don’t mean to linger on this topic, but there was something about this weekend’s affair I wanted to mention. What are your feelings on cake smooshing? Adam and I didn’t cut the cake in front of people, mostly because I don’t get why cutting a cake is a spectator sport, and we fed each other pieces (again, why? WHY?), but there was no smooshing. NO SMOOSHING. However, there was smooshing at the wedding this weekend, and through some strange stroke of misfortune, the groom accidentally toppled the bride over with the act of smooshing. She hit the floor, taking an entire tray of plates with her, shutting down the dance floor for a full fifteen minutes while throngs of vested employees ran to clean up the floor. She was fine, but her parents were so upset that my nephew (the groom) had to apologize to them, and oh dear, it was an accident, but still. SHE FELL OVER, INTO A PILE OF CAKE AND PLATES.
In awkward transitions, I am the world’s worst grocery shopper. I can NEVER, not once, get everything I need in one trip. NEVER. It’s like I’m incapable of making a list that encompasses everything we need before I leave, and end up wandering aimlessly until I EXIT THE STORE and realize I forgot something pivotal, like chicken or toilet paper (we were thisclose to using napkins. THISCLOSE, PEOPLE) As a result of my incompetence, I went to three separate grocery stores today, and still didn’t get everything I needed. I think I need efficiency training.
And now onto the garden. I’m afraid I have a snake problem, which is hindering my ability to weed or spend any time out there at all. SNAKES. SNAAAAKES. Garter snakes, but still, they’re in there, lurking beneath the bolted lettuce plants and hiding among the beets, and every time I see a little slithering tail, I run away, and the weeds live another day.
Also, I may take photos tomorrow, but I have more than two hundred tomatoes from the thirteen plants that are out there thriving right now and … well, those are the only ones I could COUNT. TWO HUNDRED GREEN TOMATOES ON THE VINE. AND TWELVE CUCUMBERS WITH AT LEAST TWENTY MORE FLOWERS. Someone told me that August is the month that you lock your car doors, lest you come out of the video store to find a pile of unwanted zucchini in your back seat. I never once considered that I’d be the one making stealthy deposits of tomatoes. Next up: Jonna’s Roadside Organic Produce, coming to a rural highway near you.
July 21st, 2008
Oh names. It appears they plague us all. Seriously, I loved reading your stories of name mispronunciation, and it makes me happy to know that when we do have a kid someday, I’m pretty much screwed no matter what he/she is called, so I’m not going to worry about it in advance. Because seriously, not even the beloved man game of The Playground Teasing Test can fully anticipate the variations kids will come up with. (Actual snippets of conversation over the years: “Marco!” “Ha! Polo!” and “You can’t name him WINSTON. That sounds like WEENIE!” and so on.) (For the record, my nephew’s name is Marco and not once has he been called out with a “Polo!” NOT ONCE. And Winston is a FINE NAME.)
Because really, who would have expected that in third grade I’d be saddled with “Jonna Marijuana”? Seriously, WHO? No one even knew what marijuana WAS. WE WERE EIGHT.
Anyway, let’s talk about weddings, shall we? Because I find that despite the fact that mine was almost five years ago AND, God willing, I’m never going to have another one, I’m always very reflective and opinionated about weddings after I attend one. For the record, the family wedding was really lovely and reasonably drama-free, save for the mild drama that I accidentally caused (IRONIC BURNING OF HELL) which is SUCH a story for another day, I promise, but today is not that day.
So, weddings. Honestly, I don’t like them. Wait, that sounds awful. I mean, I LIKE them — I do, and I get all weepy/lovey, and I always end up having a good time no matter what — but I wish they were a lot different than they are. For example, I’m not a fan of traditional wedding dresses. And I say that as a person who WORE a traditional wedding dress, so please, past and future brides, don’t hate me. It’s just that while the bride looked incredible (she did!), I sort of feel like all (traditional) wedding dresses kind of look the same, and as a result, all brides take on that homogeneous look of Random Bride. They’re all ivory/white/cream, have some variation of draping/beading/tulle and are either strapless/off-the-shoulder/spaghetti straps and they ALL KIND OF LOOK THE SAME. I feel awful saying this, but I don’t know that I could pick MY wedding dress out of a lineup from more than five feet away. Also, I threw it away in March. Apparently am not sentimental.
And further, wedding dresses are not the most flattering dress for a person! No! I don’t think they are! They’re WHITE, for starters, and a lot of us — even we olive-skinned folks — don’t look good in white-ish! And it’s NOT SLIMMING. And they’re all bustle-y and poofy and … well, generally very big-body-making, and not always in the best way. I don’t know what I would have preferred, but I wish I’d opened it up for more OPTIONS. Like maybe a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Well, maybe not THAT casual, but not a wedding dress, certainly. I do distinctly remember wanting to wear a tea-length pale pink dress, and put my wedding party in cream, but alas, I never found the perfect pink dress, and no one supported my plan.
As if THAT weren’t enough curmudgeon, I wish there were more casual wedding venues available. I wanted to get married in a barn, which fine, might not have been a great idea in August, I’ll grant you that (although it turned to be a cool 70 degrees that day). However, it would have suited my personality more, but there was no AC, and Adam was adamantly against it.
I didn’t WANT fancy, but I wanted a venue that could house 125 people comfortably, and THOSE VENUES ARE MOSTLY FANCY. Fancy enough to want to serve things like crispy pork belly with a bourbon vanilla gastrique — a menu that does not, I’m sorry, translate to more than five people (have obvs seen too much Top Chef). That amount of people means that they really should be serving something like meatball subs and pigs in blankets. (Secret: I LOVE pigs in blankets. I don’t care how lame they are. They were also the first app to go on Saturday. I AM NOT ALONE.)
I mean, most people can’t AFFORD an outstanding meal featuring perfectly cooked langoustine and Vietnamese-style hamachi with a fois gras chaser for 125, therefore I wish there were more options available for us who would not even like to TRY, rather than half-ass a giant wedding menu with those godawful silver plate covers. I would like to have served gourmet pizzas, or maybe some lobster rolls. It’s HARD to screw up pizza, and there are so many ways to do it! You CAN have semi-fancy pizza! And most people like it! And you can do it all casual-like, making the cocktail hour (the most fun at the wedding, IMO) go on FOR THE WHOLE WEDDING.
Instead, I think I had ho-hum chicken piccata and filet mignon, sit-down style. Fleh.
I think what I’m saying is that if I had to do it over again, I’d have a casual wedding at a comfortable, yet slightly upscale environment, sans wedding dress. And I recall TRYING to have that wedding, and you know what sucks? It turned out to be almost TWICE AS MUCH as the (already very expensive) wedding I ended up throwing with the chicken piccata. There was talk of a CLAM BAKE. A CLAM BAKE THAT COST LIKE $25,000 FOR 100 PEOPLE BEFORE YOU EVEN FACTORED IN THE SILVERWARE. OR A VENUE. OR PLATES. I DO NOT EVEN THINK IT INCLUDED CONTAINERS FOR THE FOOD. WE WOULD HAVE TO EAT IT OUT OF THE BACK OF A TRUCK IN A PARKING LOT WITH OUR HANDS.
Clearly I’m still bitter about this.
And uh, now that I’ve turned this into a bitter rant that I never got the redneck barbecue wedding of my dreams and instead was FORCED AT GUNPOINT to have a fancy afternoon wedding in a real dress, tell me: if you made it this far (and God bless you), what kind of wedding did you have? Any regrets? And if you’re not married, but would like to get married or just feel like fantasizing about weddings for no good reason at all than to amuse me, what kind of wedding would you like?
July 20th, 2008
I hate my name. I mean, I sort of like it, but I also hate it, because no one can a) pronounce it, or b) spell it. Did you know it’s pronounced JOHN-a? Like Donna, but with a J? And further, as I ask people each and every time this comes up, would you EVER say Donah or Doanna instead of Donna? You wouldn’t right? Therefore, I ask you: WHY WOULD YOU DO IT TO JONNA?
(I don’t hold it against you if you do. Everyone does.)
Every time I introduce myself, it takes at least three tries to say my name.
“Hi, I’m Jonna!”
“Nice to meet you, Shawna!”
“No, it’s JONNA”
“OMIGOD IT IS JONNA”
“Oh, DONNA! I’ve got it!”
You get the point. So you see, I’m accustomed to this, but I’ve gotta say, my insurance company really takes the proverbial cake when they’ve now sent me THREE new insurance cards to get my name right, and have yet to do it. The first card said Joana. I called to get it fixed. The second arrived as Joanna. I called again. The third, arriving today, is an even further abomination, and features a woman named Joann Mylastname.
I’m sorry, I don’t mean anything against the Joann/Joanna/Joanas of the world, but I hate those names. Hate them. Not that there’s anything WRONG with them, necessarily, but … well, I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal, Joanne. It’s just that your name isn’t MINE and it sort of sucks, but for reasons that have nothing to do with its beauty.
In other news, I recently went on an online capri-buying spree, and Old Navy had this adorable little pair of pants that were billed as “at waist”. It seems I, and the rest of the world, have forgotten what “at waist” actually means. While I’m not a fan of the muffin-toppiness born of the low-rise revolution, I can’t say I’m thrilled with a pair of pants that actually, swear to God, adds ten pounds to my frame. In addition to being cut like … well, honest to Jesus, they come up like three inches PAST MY BELLYBUTTON and are cut in the “stovepipe” sort, which is very bad for a capri. Very bad. Behold, the midsection lumpiness caused by pants near the armpits, in addition to the very sexy tree-trunk legs caused by the widest-legged pants ever:
I have a tiny head. I know this. My family calls me Pinhead. This is exacerbated by pants that give me giant, terrifying legs and a bulging midsection. Also maybe ignore junk in background, as that is the Forgotten Corner, where old knick knacks go to die before we throw them away. They have one foot in the grave and we know they’re ugly.
What the HELL, Old Navy? What. The. Hell.
And finally, I have to express my extreme disappointment in the second season of Dexter. In short, it sucked. It was like one big shark-jumping — or, as Television Without Pity put it, a Cabin Flaming — and I was so disappointed in the writing, the acting, the everything. I also didn’t need to see Keith Carradine’s backside, and I saw far too much of Lila’s boobs. So yes, I was crushed, one might say. Simply crushed. The first season was so promising! Frankly, this one wasn’t HBO-quality, and I’m now down on Showtime, the redheaded stepchild of the premium cable channels.
I hope all of you at BlogHer are having fun. I’ll be thinking of you while I attend the Family Wedding of Misery Which Is Six Hours Away and Promises to Be Challenging For So Many Reasons Acknowledged By My Whole Family, None of Whom Want to Go Either. For my part, by the way, I’d rather be at Blogstle than anywhere else.
Happy weekend, whatever you’re doing!
July 17th, 2008
Well, somebody other than me, that is, for today anyway. I loved -R-‘s blogshare idea the last few times she did it, and read some of the best posts I’d ever seen on the Internet as a result. The basic idea is that we all post anonymously on each other’s blogs — again, ANONYMOUSLY — sometimes to share something we can’t on our own, sometimes just for fun. Last time, one of the participants, swear to God, included a hilarious tale of a woman who visited the Hedonism resort and held TWO PENISES AT THE SAME TIME. While I can’t promise you that you’ll read about the joys of multiple wieners, I do bring you a lovely guest post by an anonymous visitor. Enjoy!
Oh! And if you want to read the rest of the participants, -R-‘s got the whole list here.
For women I think it is inherent that we will have drama with our friends at some point in our lives. It just seems like a natural part of growing up. Throughout the stages of our lives, we go through different sets of friends. Some stay around for the long haul, some stay for a bit and serve a certain purpose and some leave our lives faster than they came in.
Right now I’m having some friend drama. This Blog Share post came around at the PERFECT time because I cannot write about this on my own site because she reads. Well, she doesn’t now because I blocked her IP address. (More on that later.)
Anyway, this is a friend I’ve had since high school. We actually met in the eighth grade, but we weren’t really friends. She sat behind me in English and I made fun of her because she was new and because the boy I liked in eighth grade made fun of her. (Isn’t adolescence such a fun time?)
In high school, we both joined the marching band and started having a lot of similar classes and we became friends. Her house was the house our tight-knit group of friends spent a lot of weekend nights being silly, watching movies and doing typical high school nerdy stuff. (I was a total square and didn’t drink or party until college.)
We lost touch in college. I moved away. I was the only one from the group to move away. And then I stayed away for 10 years. I built a new life 3,000 miles away and rarely came home to visit. When I moved back home in 2005, I was a different person than the 17-year old kid I was when I graduated high school.
We picked up right where we left off 10 years earlier when I moved back. I didn’t know anyone else really, so it may have been a friendship out of convenience more than anything at first. But it was nice being in touch with her again and it made the trials of moving 3,000 miles back home a little less daunting.
But lately, things have been bad. They hit a head last week when we got into an argument over email. (I know, never a good idea.) The problem was that her anger stemmed from a seemingly innocent comment that I made about the book The Secret. Turns out though, I touched a nerve and she had basically been mad at me for months about things I had said to her in the past. On top of it, she told me she had been questioning our friendship since February. IT IS JULY! Maybe mention this to me IN FEBRUARY!
The problem is that she turned this on me and made me feel like a bad friend. And that is what upsets me the most. I am a good friend. And I am not a bad person. I am who I am and I’m not going to apologize for it. It’s taken me 30 years to like who I am and I am not going to change that or regress back into high school.
I’m not sure what to do. I feel like a true friend wouldn’t do this to you. I also feel like if there were issues there, she’s got to discuss them with me. She’s a licensed therapist, she should KNOW THIS. I am not a mind reader and just because I don’t hear from you, that doesn’t mean I know that you’re mad at me for something. Especially when you are still reading my blog and commenting. (That’s why I blocked her. If I’m such a bad friend and you want nothing to do with me, then why are you still reading? I don’t think you get the right to be in that part of my life then.) (Yes, I know this is childish.)
The fact is I haven’t talked to her in awhile. I don’t feel like life is all that different without her in it, nor do I really miss the friendship. If that had been the case, I think I would be more upset about recent events. I know I will end up making up with her because we share mutual friends and I AM a good person and a good friend.
But I’m not really sure it is worth it. And that I won’t be going through this same crap with her in few months down the road.
*Depeche Mode. And I picked it, the writer didn’t.
July 15th, 2008
I don’t mean to be negative here — I mean, far be it from me to squash someone’s dreams or anything — but I fail to see a) the appeal of America’s Got Talent, because seriously, how can anyone care what David Hasselhoff thinks about anything, much less your TALENT; and b) if I hear ONE MORE TIME about the “inspirational” contestant for next week — an opera singer, surprise, surprise, who lost his voice and is now RAISING IT UP on America’s Got Talent, for chrissake — I might throw myself squarely out the window. I also don’t see how being freakishly flexible is a TALENT. So you can put your feet behind your ears and lick your own ass. BIG DEAL.
I also don’t understand sprinkles – jimmies, if you’re in New England — and I only bring this up, because a multitude of you mentioned it during last week’s cake batter ice cream discussion, and I have to ask: What’s the appeal? It’s a teeny waxy thing that brings NO FLAVOR. NO FLAVOR AT ALL. I was also perplexed by those of you who mentioned its place in cake batter ice cream, because when was the last time you got sprinkles in cake? (Note: am not talking about chocolate crunchies in ice cream cakes, for those are heavenly, and I don’t know why.) I’m saying it: down with sprinkles, especially the rainbow variety. BLEAH.
Incidentally, we finally decided on a trip for our fifth anniversary later this summer, after literally booking and canceling at least three separate trips all over the country and, in some cases, OUTSIDE the country. I never thought I’d miss anything about Florida, but I DO miss the vast availability of a variety of relaxing spas within driving distance. We went on a fair amount of weekend getaways, each lovelier than the previous and while New England is full of idyllic pastoral vacations, I, uh, live in Vermont. I know this makes me spoiled, but my whole life is one big bucolic vacation, complete with old farmhouse, quaint small town, nearby swimming holes and ample antiquing. And for a host of reasons, not the least of which is that Burlington airport isn’t exactly rife with direct flights to exotic locations — as in, anywhere we went other than Boston or Cincinnati would add a FULL DAY to our travel — we wanted to drive. And also, did I mention I wanted a spa?
So ah, we’re headed to Canada! We’re starting in Montreal — a mere two-hour drive! — to start with a very soothing stay at a spa and later, perhaps hitting Quebec City, Mont Tremblant and maaaybe Toronto and points elsewhere in the wilds of Quebec and Ontario. And I’ll gleefully take suggestions from eastern Canadians.
Incidentally, in proof that I choose my battles poorly, I fought like hell to get Adam to take the dog out this morning, promising that I would take his afternoon shift. Ha HA. Guess who was SO SORRY SHE DID THAT when it was pouring down rain all afternoon and evening? Also, wore the most pathetic raincoat ever, that did nothing but absorb the water, leaving me more waterlogged than our kitchen sponge? Yes, those extra five minutes in bed were totally worth it.
Happy Monday! I’m about to pass out in a puddle of my own drool, and I sincerely hope I don’t drown in it.
*Morrissey. Plus, those far off places really aren’t so far at all.
July 13th, 2008
O-kay! Who’s excited to hear both the grossest thing in the world AND the most delicious discovery I’ve made since the now-maligned Salad Ballroom?
While preparing the garbage for ah, garbage night (what else?), I noticed that not only was it stinkier than usual, but it … well, how do I put this? Something WHITE fell from the lid when I lifted it and when I looked down, I was greeted with the worst of all outcomes: TEEMS OF MAGGOTS. And I’m sorry, I can’t get it out of my head. It was … it was EPIC in its TEEMING TEEMINESS. They moved! They wriggled! THEY WERE EVERYWHERE. They … wait a second, why is Fairuza Balk hovering over me screaming about Manon? THIS IS NOT A GIFT FROM MANON.
The culprit was a chicken carcass that escaped from its plastic bag that I’d put it in for this express purpose — maggot AVOIDANCE, that is. I … I’m sorry for telling you about this, it’s just that apparently I can’t stop. I think I’m hoping that the more I talk about it, the more the memory will fade. I’m sharing with you, you see. SHARING.
This is also a PSA to let you know that Googling is not only bad when you have a medical condition (Did you know a headache can be a sign of an aortic aneurysm?), but Googling “Maggots in trash” will result in the kind of horror stories that will have you bleaching your entire house from top to bottom, then promptly dipping your body into a vat of some kind of GERM-KILLING ACID, because duuuude, there were endless stories of people … people who had MAGGOTS IN THEIR STOVES. IN THEIR STOVES. AND THEY COULDN’T GET THEM OUT.
(Guess who took apart her entire stove at midnight? Three guesses! )
(Also, I think that maggots in your stove maybe implies a low level of cleanliness that mercifully, I have not sunk to. I mean, right? Tell me I won’t be infested! TELL ME!)
Now who’s ready to talk about ice cream? Who? YUMMY, right? Well, if you can bear to read these two things separately, I’ll tell you that there are few things I find more mystifying than a person who doesn’t like ice cream. I married one of those people, and it remains a constant point of contention (“Let’s go out for ice cream!” “Nah, I don’t feel like it.”) The only thing I like more than ice cream is cake, and I can’t even talk about cake and ice cream TOGETHER.
Which brings me to … Ben & Jerry’s Cake Batter ice cream. Have you had it? Have you DIED? Because I did and I died. Yes. It’s yellow cake batter flavored ice cream that actually TASTES like cake batter and (oh I can barely type this without salivating) it has a CHOCOLATE FROSTING SWIRL. And it is actually frosting, not chocolate ice cream. It’s FROSTING. SWIRLED IN CAKE BATTER.
And finally, we’ve been eating out this week, because GOOD GODDAMN, it’s too hot to cook (someday remind me to tell you about the Night of the Chicken in the Blazing Heat), and Adam was forced to order something off the menu called the “Hot Gobbler”. It’s vaguely dirty is it not? And do you think they KNOW? Further, why are restaurants so determined to embarrass their guests when they order dinner?
*Iron & Wine.
July 10th, 2008