This morning, I had very serious thoughts about wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer. The official reason I will give for not wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer is that at 7:40 AM it was already 87 degrees outside, and that's a whole lot of clothing to be wearing on such a ferociously hot day. But because we're close, I'm going to level with you. It's cold in my office. Damn cold. But even sucking in, I couldn't get that blazer to button.
Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?
If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.
Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.
I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal.
Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?
If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.
Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.
I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal.
I want to tell you the story of how Facebook is evil. But there
is no time to do it justice at present. So without proper segue or
entertaining transition (which also require more time than I've got
right now), let me say, I've been getting a lot of junk mail from my
alma mater recently. Like, three letters a week. They want my money.
This simultaneously annoys and amuses me. Obviously, there is a
disconnect between the fundraising folks and the rest of the
university, because somewhere there has to be a record of the fact that
I graduated from their fine institution with a liberal arts
degree. I was a Spanish major, for pete's sake. What kind of financial
success do they think I could have possibly attained with that
extremely useful degree tucked under my belt? Unless we're reaching for
the stars and I became say, a United Nations translator, the most they
could be really be hoping for is high school Spanish teacher. And we
know there's no money there. Grossly underpaid teachers say, Heeeey.
It has just occurred to me that perhaps good old Brigham Young University counted on me staying Mormon all these years and they weren't anticipating that I'd blow my legacy on booze, coffee, and birth control. But, golly, aren't we glad I did?
That's rhetorical, by the way. And now we'll break for an important public service announcement.
Public Service Announcement:
If you're not watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, you're doing yourself a giant disservice. Like getting all your major crevices nice and clean, following the adventures of Neil Patrick Harris Evil Genius is just part of being a functioning, likable member of society. Throw in a little booze, coffee and birth control and you just might get to sit at the cool kids' table. I mean, no guarantees, but think about it.
It has just occurred to me that perhaps good old Brigham Young University counted on me staying Mormon all these years and they weren't anticipating that I'd blow my legacy on booze, coffee, and birth control. But, golly, aren't we glad I did?
That's rhetorical, by the way. And now we'll break for an important public service announcement.
Public Service Announcement:
If you're not watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, you're doing yourself a giant disservice. Like getting all your major crevices nice and clean, following the adventures of Neil Patrick Harris Evil Genius is just part of being a functioning, likable member of society. Throw in a little booze, coffee and birth control and you just might get to sit at the cool kids' table. I mean, no guarantees, but think about it.
Yesterday was not exactly the best day I've ever had. Among actual real people problems, my thighs were touching a little too much for my happiness, I hadn't gotten enough sleep, my apartment was dirty, and someone in particular was rising so fast to the top of my shit list that I was having fantasies about voodoo practices. Or murder-for-hire. I mean, by now I've watched enough hours of Law & Order to know how not to do it. Surely I'd be able to pull it off. But since I wasn't feeling creative enough for doll-making, and hiring a hit man turned out to way, way unrealistic in terms of my budget this month, I opted for a little friend therapy.
Lucky, lucky Ari got the full whinery tour.
"... and I really freaking hate So-and-So."
"I feel the same, except I hate everyone always."
"Wow. I only hate specific people on some days. But that's just because I have a recessive Mary Tyler Moore gene."
"Well put. So what do you anticipate the highlight of your day being?"
"I got nothin'."
"OK - let's do this together, because I have nothing either. Want to see the boys that broke my heart and then you can mock my hideous taste in utterly unworthy men? There are some gut-busting laughs to be had."
She wasn't kidding. My own list of unworthy men just makes me cringe, but hers - complete with photos of the subjects in what appeared to be the 2008 Mark Paul Gosselar Sportswear Collection - was truly hilarious. And god love her, just what I needed. Is it schadenfreude when you're laughing with love? I hope not. Because knowing that someone else has had it worse than you - man, that's the kind of gift that keeps on giving.
The ice cream cone I scarfed after lunch didn't hurt either. Except, obviously, with the thigh thing.
Lucky, lucky Ari got the full whinery tour.
"... and I really freaking hate So-and-So."
"I feel the same, except I hate everyone always."
"Wow. I only hate specific people on some days. But that's just because I have a recessive Mary Tyler Moore gene."
"Well put. So what do you anticipate the highlight of your day being?"
"I got nothin'."
"OK - let's do this together, because I have nothing either. Want to see the boys that broke my heart and then you can mock my hideous taste in utterly unworthy men? There are some gut-busting laughs to be had."
She wasn't kidding. My own list of unworthy men just makes me cringe, but hers - complete with photos of the subjects in what appeared to be the 2008 Mark Paul Gosselar Sportswear Collection - was truly hilarious. And god love her, just what I needed. Is it schadenfreude when you're laughing with love? I hope not. Because knowing that someone else has had it worse than you - man, that's the kind of gift that keeps on giving.
The ice cream cone I scarfed after lunch didn't hurt either. Except, obviously, with the thigh thing.
Tomorrow, this blog turns six years old. I think we should celebrate.
When I turned six, I got a new bike - a pink Huffy with a big, squishy seat and a kickstand that was not very reliable. I loved it (until, of course, it became clear that to blossom into a sleek, sophisticated woman I would require a ten speed with impractically slim tires and a seat that looked like a potential gynecological hazard). Come to think of it, the year of six was pretty fantastic, in general. I got a new sister, had Mrs. Clark for a first grade teacher (we made Stone Soup and were encouraged to color outside the lines, if we very well pleased) and a pair of purple and white Roos. The livin', it was easy.
Let us celebrate this Year of Six by playing my favorite party game*, Truth or Dare. I choose truth. Like always, I'll answer any question that isn't rude or obnoxious. Sometimes that answer may be, "None of your business, perv!" but hey, an answer is an answer.
Fire when ready.
*Fine, my actual favorite party game is Spin the Bottle, but you see the logistical nightmare involved in trying to play that with the Internet.
(P.S. I'm not answering/publishing them in order as some take more consideration. Also, I am feeling a little ADD. So, if your question hasn't shown up, keep checking!)
When I turned six, I got a new bike - a pink Huffy with a big, squishy seat and a kickstand that was not very reliable. I loved it (until, of course, it became clear that to blossom into a sleek, sophisticated woman I would require a ten speed with impractically slim tires and a seat that looked like a potential gynecological hazard). Come to think of it, the year of six was pretty fantastic, in general. I got a new sister, had Mrs. Clark for a first grade teacher (we made Stone Soup and were encouraged to color outside the lines, if we very well pleased) and a pair of purple and white Roos. The livin', it was easy.
Let us celebrate this Year of Six by playing my favorite party game*, Truth or Dare. I choose truth. Like always, I'll answer any question that isn't rude or obnoxious. Sometimes that answer may be, "None of your business, perv!" but hey, an answer is an answer.
Fire when ready.
*Fine, my actual favorite party game is Spin the Bottle, but you see the logistical nightmare involved in trying to play that with the Internet.
(P.S. I'm not answering/publishing them in order as some take more consideration. Also, I am feeling a little ADD. So, if your question hasn't shown up, keep checking!)
I need a body double. A body, brain and heart double, actually. Or three of them. One to sit in for me and go clickety-clack on the keyboard and produce useful workish material, another to go clickety-clack and produce useful bloggish material, and one (preferably with a valid driver's license) to run all nine thousand party errands left on my list, so that when Friday evening rolls around there is beer, finger food and an iTunes playlist of fun! and engaging! party tunes all wrapped up in a very tidy apartment lacking in any conspicuously unfinished shelving projects. Ahem.
If the body doubles venture were successful, I'd have time to flop down on my bed where I may privately make a mountain of a molehill and indulge in this woe-is-me feeling that's bubbling up in my anxious tummy. That's all I want to do. Lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. It's not that anything in particular is wrong, exactly. I'm just overwhelmed. I chalk it up to the fact that I've a lot to do in a short time and, more importantly, where matters of my heart are concerned, it doesn't matter how much rest I get at night, the very act of being awake is something of an effort.
If the body doubles venture were successful, I'd have time to flop down on my bed where I may privately make a mountain of a molehill and indulge in this woe-is-me feeling that's bubbling up in my anxious tummy. That's all I want to do. Lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. It's not that anything in particular is wrong, exactly. I'm just overwhelmed. I chalk it up to the fact that I've a lot to do in a short time and, more importantly, where matters of my heart are concerned, it doesn't matter how much rest I get at night, the very act of being awake is something of an effort.
« previous |
next »
