Sunday, January 31, 2010

Then We Came to The End.



I can no longer continue being an insomniac. It's 3 am. I'm multi-tasking on the computer right now (a little blogging a little facebooking) and this is what I hear on the TV in the background:

"If you don't want to get fondled, walk on the other side of the street."
"Why do you know this and why do you look so afraid?"
"Because I've memorized his penis."

I'm not following that up with any humorous banter. It speaks for itself. Granted, it's late night TV and I shouldn't expect much, but for some reason this is the last straw. I can't live this way anymore.

Tomorrow I am up at 9 am. 9:15. 9:30 final offer. I am taking the dog for a walk, feeding her, playing a little. I am eating a banana (not sure why, just seems nice), I am drinking a Propel. I am putting on a hot pair of leggings, the sports bra that doesn't flatten my boobs, the grey t-shirt made of heavenly cotton and my running shoes that are now being used as a door stopper. I am going to the gym. I am then going to do productive things. Like cleaning the back of my car. (God that sounds awful).

Wish me luck peeps.

You Close-Talking Son of a Bitch


Disclaimer: It was recently brought to my attention that the following post topic was discussed on Seinfeld and that it seems like I stole the idea and ran with it. I did not. I have never seen the episode of Seinfeld, or hardly any episodes of Seinfeld for that matter. But, if you have seen the episode I'm talking about, you probably don't want to read this because, well, it's not a new idea to you. So carry on. I have like 25 other posts for you to read.

I believe in something called personal space. Personal space is an imaginary bubble that an individual may claim as theirs. It extends about 2 feet from the body all the way around, to be exact. Most people I've come in contact with abide by the 2 feet personal wall and are very comfortable to converse with. However, there is a subset of society that tears through the boundary like there's no tomorrow: the close-talker.

Y'all know what I'm talking about. I'll set the stage for you: You go to a networking event after work. Some random who's actually wearing the name tag that you long ago decided you would never wear at work events comes up to you and starts talking your ear off. You engage in the conversation because that's what you're supposed to do at networking events. But you quickly notice that every 17 seconds, he scoots closer to you. You begin to panic. He's entering your personal space. No, no, no, no, no! Your mind begins racing with polite ways to exit the conversation without being awkward. None will suffice. You surrender. Only to notice that he moved closer again! Is he serious? Does he notice that your straining your neck backwards to keep those extra 4 inches to yourself? He obviously doesn't. Within minutes it legitimately looks like the two of you are going to go full out PDA in front of the entire group.

Now imagine the previous situation happening except the close-talker has coffee/pizza/beer/halitosis breath. Actually don't if you're anything like me. I just dry heaved.

You may be asking yourself why I'm writing about this at 2am on a Saturday night. Well, because I'm crazy first of all. But secondly, when left alone for long stretches of time, I begin to think about my life. Thinking about my life makes me think about the fact that I do not have a job. Thinking about losing my job makes me think about when I had my last job. Thinking about my last job makes me sick. Because my boss was a close-talker. He was also a lot of other things but I am trying to cut down the length of my posts so I'm not going there. But his close-talking got under my skin because not only did he not abide by the 2 foot rule, he pulled you closer when you tried to back away. Who does that?

I can't decide why close-talkers need to cozy up so much. Do they want to know what type of gum I'm chewing? (It's usually orange Stride by the way). Do they want to check out my complexion? (It's not very good lately by the way). Do they want to make-out? (Gross. I am going to stereotype here. I have never come in contact with a close-talker I found attractive). Are they hard of hearing? (If so, I am really sorry, truly. But there are really little hearing aids that are basically invisible these days. Invest). Or do they just have gigantic egos that feel most comfortable overpowering me by physically getting in my face? (Bingo).

I can't tell a close-talker to back up while I'm being assaulted by one in person. Because I'm too afraid. So I hope somehow they read my blog and get the point: I will gladly invite you in if I feel comfortable enough with you. Or if you have a piece of gum in your mouth. But other than that, please do not assume that I want to be able to see your nose hairs up close and personal. Back up. These two feet are mine. Thank you!

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Rocking Some New Gear



Maddie got a new hooded sweatshirt today that she absolutely loves! Or maybe just Mommy loves it. Either way, it's adorable.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Raving Lunacy



So guess what? I feel like knocking someone into a brick wall today. Actually, I really don't. I just said that because my Dad used to scare us out of bringing boyfriends home to the house with the statement, "If I don't like how they treat you, I'll knock em' through a brick wall." I never took it seriously. I mean, my dad looks like a life-size Ken doll. Seriously. He is 52 with a full head of really healthy blonde hair that combs over perfectly. Just like Barbie's boyfriend. Except his hair moves. When my sisters and I couldn't find our hairbrushes during our teen years (which was a lot for some reason), we would go grab Dad's off-limits comb. This comb is what gave Dad this perfect Ken hair. A few whisks through the front and he was golden. Without this comb, Dad was not complete. So if we stole the comb, Dad would yell at us and knock us through a brick wall. No, he didn't do that. He isn't that type. Mom is. But he made us find it and return it to its drawer in his bathroom or we were sometimes grounded.

Anyway, what I really feel like doing today is just throwing a temper tantrum. The kind that four year olds throw when their Mom takes away their toy or tells them they're not allowed to continue coloring on the walls. This has been brewing since I left for my trip to New York to visit my brother. The world has become darker to me for about 5 days to be exact. I do not like it. I am going to list what's bothering me because...I don't know why actually. Because if I don't, I'm going to knock this computer through a brick wall.

1. I rented a Rug Doctor (carpet shampooer machine thingy) for my apartment and it didn't take away the dead animal carcus smell that has been looming in my apartment since I moved in and threatening to take over.

2. When I returned the Rug Doctor, I smashed my finger into my car door and I think my nail is going to fall off and this hasn't happened since grade school when I fell on this big rock in my back yard. It hurt really bad and it turned purple and that made me sick.

3. I have been going back and forth with this one boy for months now and it never goes anywhere. One of us always freaks out and I even wrote a damn blog post about him saying goodbye and I lied people. Okay? I lied. I didn't say goodbye. He hurt my feelings. He gets under my skin. I like to pretend I am impenetrable but, guess what? I'm not. So, my feelings are hurt today.

4. I have become really bad at texting. I used to be the queen of keeping in touch via text. I prided myself on it. Now, every single person I have ever texted in my life has brought my lack of good texting to my attention. Apparently I never respond in time or I never respond at all and soon I will have no friends due to my inability to keep in touch.

5. Because I sit at this computer and type all the time now, my horrible back problems are becoming like, almost unbearable. I definitely have cancer. One time in high school they told me I might have cancer in my back but I did not. This is where the fear of back cancer comes from. However, I'm not sure back cancer is an actual condition. Either way, I'm in pain.

6. I never have any bottled water at my house when I'm thirsty. And I'm sick of it.

7. My complexion has changed and I'm afraid I now have to wear at least a little makeup everyday before leaving the house. This is what happens when you turn 26? Great. Can't wait for 30. And 40. At 50 I will no doubt have full-fledged adult acne.

8. My dog ran away for an hour today and wouldn't come in no matter how many damn treats I lured in front of her face. She's bothering me and I thought about letting her stay outside forever today until someone either took her or she got lost. That's horrible. Something's clearly wrong with me

9. I moved to this gorgeous apartment in August of last year. It's now February. I still have 4 boxes of clothes to put away in my closet and drawers and I think it's safe to say it's never getting done. This is just a small example of my procrastinating, lazy side that I absolutely despise.

10. Facebook isn't fun anymore. Either is late night TV. Should I get a job? Probably. I have been applying but have not received much positive feedback. That's another lie. I have received no feedback. This worries me.

That's all for today. I have a post about my trip to see my brother in the works. It is also in numbered list format. But, this insane one had to come out first. I feel so much better just letting it rip. I apologize for not being a nice blogger today.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

You're a Parenthesis



Are you jealous that I have a bootlegged DVD of the best movie out right now? (Besides Avatar, whatever that movie is. Apparently you need 3D glasses to watch it and for some reason I am instantly opposed to seeing it for that reason alone. I am against furthering technology. I still miss VHS tapes.)

Anyway, back to the point of my post. My dear friends, I own a copy of Up in the Air with THE silver fox of all foxes, George Clooney. A gift from my favorite freckle-filled face. Not quite sure why I deserved such a gem but I no doubt accepted it and am so excited to watch it again and again. Around 4 am a few days ago I popped this baby in and enjoyed every minute. It's light and sexy and entertaining. It rocks you emotionally without being over-dramatic.

After it ended (as the sun came up), I felt extremely emo and texted freckle-face to let him know how much it meant to me that he gave me this beautiful disc. You would have thought he bought me a Tiffany emerald cut the way my romantical feelings were flowing. I guess all I can say is that the film touched me and it's not even that deep. You wouldn't describe this movie as a "tear jerker." It just kind of sneaks up on you and hits that soft spot where your heart may or may not be, depending who you are.

Think Tom Cruise's character in Jerry McGuire but so much better. A fresher version. I'll make you a copy if you're nice.

Ryan Bingham: I thought I was a part of your life.
Alex Goran: I thought we signed up for the same thing... I thought our relationship was perfectly clear. You are an escape. You're a break from our normal lives. You're a parenthesis.
Ryan Bingham: I'm a parenthesis?
- Up in the Air

Final thought: How much does it suck when two people enter a relationship thinking they want the same things and exit it hating each other because one of them decided they wanted more, or less and nobody wins? Somebody said to me the other day, "I found the one, he was what I had been missing. He wrote me a letter after our first date and just said 'you're my puzzle piece'. We were married last week." How disturbingly cute is that? I have no idea how that story relates to being someone's parenthesis, but there's something about the fear of ending up someone's parenthesis that makes me want to someday find my puzzle piece.

Friday, January 22, 2010

a melancholy afternoon calls for adam duritz


these train conversations are passing me by
and i don't have nothing to say.
you get what you paid for but i just had no
intention of living this way.

i need a phone call.
i need a plane ride.
i need a sunburn.
i need a rain coat.

and i get no answers.
i don't get no change.
it's raining in baltimore, baby.
but everything else is the same.

there's things i remember. the things i forget.
i miss you, i guess that i should.
three thousand five hundred miles away.
what would you change if you could?

i need a phone call.
maybe i should buy a new car.
i can always hear the freight train.
baby if i listen real hard.

and i wish, i wish it was a small world.
cause i'm lonely for the big towns.
i'd like to hear a little guitar.
i guess its time to put the top down.

i need a phone call. i need a rain coat.
i really need a rain coat.
i really really need a rain coat.
really really really need a rain coat.
really need a rain coat.

~Raining in Baltimore, Counting Crows


Ever have one of those days where your mind is just as slow and delayed as it is on a rainy day, except it's not raining? Today is one of those days for me. Counting Crows "Raining in Baltimore" speaks to me on these kinds of days. I'm off to visit my brother for the weekend in New York. A change of scenery will do me good.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Light Dark


Black bird singing in the dead of night,
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Black bird singing in the dead of night,
take these sunken eyes and learn to see.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Black bird fly. Black bird fly. In to the light of a dark black night.
~ The Beatles

My friend sells life insurance for a living and has been forced to cold call hundreds upon hundreds of prospective clients via phone and in person. He believes to have found a way to get these people to trust him: talk about their favorite topic - themselves.

There are a majority of people who claim to grow extremely uncomfortable talking about themselves. We may call these special people "the guarded ones" (TGO's for short.) I am going to throw out a random thought regarding TGO's. You may agree, you may not. It doesn't really matter. I'm going to say that some, if not all of these people are just waiting for the right person to come along and actually ask them how they feel. For example, I wrote in my last post that I wear sunglasses sometimes because I want to keep the world out. Maybe I wear them because I want someone to tell me to take them off? Maybe we all need someone else to help us take down our fortresses.

Others of us have been burned after trusting someone else with our deepest darkest secrets. We then vow to never ever share our innermost selves with anyone again. We shut down. We become self-sufficient. Because we were burned once, we will never allow it to happen again. This is dangerous as well.

There are some times in life where you cannot get to the heart of your own matters. Sometimes you've gotta buck up and share your soul with another. If you were burned by one, who's to say there's not someone else who will welcome your truths with open arms? If there's no one around, there's usually pen and paper. Get it out. Blog it.

There have been times in my life where I have wanted so bad to scream out for help, to say "Hello people! Does anyone see me suffering here?" But I never actually let the scream out. I kept it all inside. I suffered alone and I began to sickly enjoy my own suffering. It became the norm. Until it hurt so bad I couldn't hold it in anymore.

I was only waiting for that moment to be free.

And guess what? That moment happened. But, before I could be freed, I had to actually sound the alarm and my cry for help was answered on May 5, 2007.

So I'm writing this post today for anyone who needs to get honest. About anything, anything at all. There is a light in that dark black night. I've seen it with me own two eyes.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Screw Diamonds. Sunglasses are a Girls Best Friend.


I am just not that into devoting my blog to fashion. There are far too many blogs devoted to Louboutins and Fashion Week and Vogue. Make no mistake, I am addicted to clothing just as much as the next chick. Certain shopping excursions have bordelined orgasmic. But I started this blog to talk about "more important things". However, sometimes my newest purchase is going to be really important. So I'm breaking my own blog rule right now. It's time to talk SUNGLASSES.

I work part time at Banana Republic on Main Street as mentioned in an earlier post (see 12:27 Wake Up Calls for the deets). We are closing down Monday (sad face). Everything is marked down ridiculously and I finally bought myself a new pair of sunglasses that I've been eyeing up for weeks, waiting to go on major sale (happy face)!

I love sunglasses for the sheer fact that some days I feel the need to build a wall around me and not let you in. This usually happens during certain times of the month. (TMI? I don't care). I have found that many women feel the same way. Take my sister for example, who rocks Juicy shades that are bigger than her entire face, no joke. Screw the fact that they protect us from killer UV rays streaming into our windshield and blinding us while we drive. Sunglasses are a crucial part of a woman's fortress.

So yay for bargain shopping and yay for Banana Republic and yay for me and my new shades! And yay for those of you who work full time. It's hump day y'all. I always loved Wednesday when I was one of you.

Last but not least, yay for my sister who helped me spell Louboutins correctly. Love you Krisbitch.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Studded and Sideways



I want your drama
The touch of your hand
I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand
~Lady Gaga

Everytime I hear Bad Romance by LG (which is roughly every 5 minutes if I'm listening to the radio whilst driving), I find myself loving the lyrics above. Something about the phrase leather-studded kiss in the sand makes me want one.

If I had to describe a leather-studded kiss, I'd go with a kiss from a rough-skinned man. A man who looks good rocking the 5 o'clock shadow. More importantly, a man who I don't mind rubbing my face against with a 5, 6 or 7 o'clock shadow. We don't necessarily need to be on the sand. I mean, at least not right now. I live in the Northeast, the weather is far too cold for beach rompings. I'd accept my leather-studded kiss from a man sitting on my couch, under dim lighting, watching American Idol or Real World D.C. Actually, I'm really in the mood to watch Sideways. I fell in love with this movie all over again last month when I ordered it On Demand three times. There's something about Miles neuroses that draws me in like its the first time every time. And his gentle voice that enunciates oh so perfectly. And the way he describes his beloved Pinot (and himself). And his over-the-top nerdy, needy, insecure, starving artist persona. And the scene where Jack gets completely owned by the oriental motorcycle chick who breaks his nose with her helmet when she finds out he's getting married. . . Ah I am the queen of digressing. . . Watch the movie and fall in love like I have. It's beautiful. Before I go back to Gaga, I must give credit once again to my James, who turned me on to Sideways years ago.

For now, there will be nothing leather-studded in my apartment other than my high-waisted belt from Banana Republic. And while it's on my mind, I will share with you my favorite scene from Sideways besides the nose-bashing-with-helmet scene. If you haven't seen this movie yet, it doesn't matter. You may relate.

Maya: You know, can I ask you a personal question, Miles?
Miles Raymond: Sure.
Maya: Why are you so in to Pinot?
Miles Raymond: [laughs softly]
Maya: I mean, it's like a thing with you.
Miles Raymond: [continues laughing softly]
Miles Raymond: Uh, I don't know, I don't know. Um, it's a hard grape to grow, as you know. Right? It's uh, it's thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It's, you know, it's not a survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and uh, thrive even when it's neglected. No, Pinot needs constant care and attention. You know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific, little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who really takes the time to understand Pinot's potential can then coax it into its fullest expression. Then, I mean, oh
its flavors, they're just the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and... ancient on the planet.

Whoever my leather-studded man is, I am going to let him in on a little secret. I will try very hard to be Cabernet, and on my good days I will be. But deep down inside I'm more like Pinot than I initially let on.

Late Night Snacking



I often find myself not being able to sleep after I write anything remotely heavy. So I eat instead of sleep. If anyone can tell me what's better than Italian Wedding Soup at 2 AM, please let me know.


James


James was always electric. When I would see him in the halls between classes, I remember thinking he didn't walk, he bounced. His head bobbed up and down, side to side, but you could only notice it if you looked very closely. His feet shuffled quickly and in between each shuffle, there was a tiny hop. Bounce. Plant. Start again.

His voice was that of an emphysema patient who continued to smoke rather than quit. But he was 14. It was quite alarming if you had never heard his voice before. James was tall, but not overwhelmingly so. He was skinny, scrawny almost. With big, tossled, golden hair. In other words, he looked like any typical 14 yr old boy who was in the middle of puberty. Except when he spoke, you jumped a bit until you got used to it. James was goofy.

He ran with the bad crowd, the crowd that pulled stunts like shitting all over the boy's bathroom floors on cue and having food fights in the cafeteria. There are some kids in high school who's strangeness becomes notorious and they are popular for it. James was blessed to be one of these types of misfits. Everyone knew who he was. His bizarre walk, voice and behavior was "cool." I am not sure James knew how to handle his fame but I am sure he was happy to be accepted.

James and I were in study hall together. I soon discovered that every time he looked at me, my face went red. I don't mean cute blushing cheeks. I mean, looked like I was holding my breath for 5 minutes red. Tomato red. Fire engine red. Embarrassing red. You get the picture. And James loved it. He laughed his emphysema laugh and basked in the fact that he made a girl change color. I know now that I my face reacted to James because when James looked at me, he saw me. He legitimately had me sized up with one look. Strangely enough, I felt the same about him except when I looked at him, his skin color did not change.

It was sophomore year when the letters began. We shared the same Math class and our teacher wore the same red pants everyday. These were not typical professional slacks. These slacks were a cross between the bottoms to a Santa suit and M.C. Hammer pants. They were awful. They were also worn by a 4 ft 9 woman with the same hair as my grandmother (an Aquanet beehive) and a lisp. This woman not only had no fashion sense, but she had no idea how to teach a class of rambunxious highschoolers. We were pretty much permitted to do whatever we pleased during class. So James wrote me a letter detailing these Santa Suit/M.C. Hammer pants and the beehive and the lisp. I had never read something so hilarious in my life. Every letter following this one was either overwhelmingly hilarious or shockingly poignant. They progressed to deeply emotional and loving. The kid could write. I looked forward to his letters each day and went to bed each night reading the one from that day. His handwriting was barely legible but I made out every word.

Naturally, I wrote back. Pages after pages of words I wrote. These were words that needed to be set free from my mind and put on paper. These words got me through each day.

We were caught many times passing our notes but our teachers didn't know what to do with us. They were used to picking up notes with short statements like, "We're getting high at 3 in the guys locker room" or, "your legs look hot in that skirt." Our letters were different. They were creative and bizarre, but mostly they were way too long for any of our teachers to sit through reading. So they reprimanded us and sent us back to our classes.

James was in love with me, or so he said. But I had been baffled by this word at an early age and was not able to comprehend it yet. I loved him as much as I was capable of and I even let him hold my hand. We even kissed a few times. But nothing more. I was very shy. In other words, I was a prude. But James never once dared to try anything. It's only now writing this that I am filled with deep appreciation for his respect for me.

James and I stayed up on school nights talking on the phone until the wee hours of morning. We could not get enough of one another. One time he confessed to me a particularly difficult memory. I sat in silence on my bedroom floor crying hysterically. These were words I needed to hear. I couldn't say it. "You too Adia?" is all he needed to say. I never answered. But he knew what my silence meant. We were bonded forever.

Sadly, I was a a very childish 14 year old girl and I broke off our little love affair when I became afraid of how "serious" I began to feel. In response, he found another girl that was more "experienced" than I. I became jealous. I begged for him back. He took me back. I became afraid again. I left him. He went back to the other girl. I became jealous. I begged for him back. He took me back. This cycle went on and on for months. I could not have him but could not leave him. Somehow, he still loved me even through all this nonsensical drama.
Eventually, James went through tons of girlfriends after me and I got over wanting him back. I was much more comfortable in the "best friend" zone. I swear it was mostly due to the fact that his love was so strong I could not compute it. This friendship continued on and off for years.

I am now 26 years old and have used the word love to describe my feelings for more than one man since James. I have learned not to run as quickly as I did when I was 14 and feelings became involved. I have become more willing to hold hands and kiss more than a few times. Sometimes, however, I still feel like that 14 year girl who was deathly afraid of it all.

When I think back to a time where my life felt real, I think of James and I in high school. Making each other laugh, staying up until 3 am sharing secrets, passing notes. I think about the years since then when James notes have turned into brilliant screen plays that have given me chills after finishing them. I remember the time I was bartending at a dive in college and James showed up with a copy of John Irving's most recent book just because he knew I was dying for it. There are some terribly sad times I remember as well but I can look back at them with a smile because they're not the present. Most of all, I think about the fact that I have never felt more loved than when I was loved by James. As childish as we may have been, there was something there that can't be touched.

James, you are still electric. I still think that you don't walk, you bounce. Your head bobs up and down, side to side, but I can only notice it if I look very closely. Your feet shuffle quickly and in between each shuffle is a tiny hop. Bounce. Plant. Start again. Your voice still sounds like an emphysema patient who has chosen to continue smoking rather than quit. But you are not a fourteen year old boy anymore. You are a man, a father-to-be James! I have no doubt you will teach your son to read, to write, to appreciate good music (Dylan and Springsteen). You will bring him to afternoon matinees for movies that he is far too young to understand. You will play with him and stay up watching him while he sleeps. I know you will write about him and send me your words that will make me cry. Most of all, you will love him. You will teach him what love is. And he will never forget it just as I have not. Thank you dear.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Doggie Day Photos As Promised.


{ Mad & I caught by her paparazzo followers }


{Debating which treat to choose. If you can't see the smile you aren't looking hard enough}



{After a long day devoted entirely to her, my baby is sleeping on the way home. Tough life}

Have your Cake and Eat The Batter Too


I am currently baking a cake. Last week when I attempted this, the cake was a disaster because Maddie ate a chunk of the corner and I had to cut that piece off, cover the rest of it in pink sprinkles and pretend I didn't notice that it looked amputated as I presented it to the people I baked it for.

Let's hope for better luck this time. I am a huge Sex & the City fan and have always related to Carrie's inadequacy in the kitchen:

"The only thing I've made in the kitchen is a mess. . .and a few small fires."

Thank God for cake batter though. I am absolutely addicted. It makes the entire process worthwhile. In fact, I just noticed I now have some in my hair. Is it wrong to suck on the piece of hair to get it out?

PS - Photos of Doggie Day will follow shortly. I'm having technical difficulties uploading them for whatever reason.

PPS - My tum tum hurts, no doubt due to my gluttonous batter eating.



I have a date.

Maddie and I are going out for the afternoon. Every so often I like to treat her to "Doggie Day." We visit all of her favorite parks, (Pretzel Park if there aren't any scary pit bulls and Little Dog Park on 23rd and Spruce). I walk her down Main Street so she can soak up all the attention she usually gets, and we end up at her favorite dog store "Doggie Style" where she picks out a treat. She especially deserves this date for all the patience she's shown me while I write for hours on end each day.

Pictures will follow when we get home!

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Au Revoir


I am not the type of woman that claims to get every man she wants. I have been lucky a few times in that area, but yes, I do know rejection. It's part of life and I can keep on keepin' on. But for some reason, you, you make me sad when you reject me. You make me wonder why. I waste time thinking about what exactly happened between us. I don't like this side of myself. It laid dormant for the past two years while I tried to force a key into a lock that didn't fit. Now that I'm not forcing that key, I'm forcing this one.

What makes me laugh about this situation is that I think the only thing that I actually like about you is your freckles. They look innocent. I replayed the time you said "girls are bad," in a southern accent many times. You said it jokingly but I knew you had been broken quite a few times by us. You also used exclamation points to end many of your texts and I dug it for whatever reason. You were kind of interesting. I've known you for a while and I just kind of liked your familiarity. That's all.

In the past I may have been addicted to the mysterious drama surrounding our mismatched chemistry but today I can't do it.

That's not how I'm built.

You have taught me that I'm not ready for keys and locks, not even a little bit. Especially ones that do not fit.

Goodbye.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

On the Real

I'm supposed to be at a surprise birthday party at Star & The Plow in Center City within the hour. This gives me great anxiety. The kind where you purposely refuse to look at the five clocks in your apartment so that you can tell yourself "time just got away from me" instead of "I purposely f'd around until it was too late to be fashionably late," when you just don't show up. The problem is, the party is for a friend that I actually love dearly. She's a gentle friend who I feel loves me no matter what. And I feel the same for her. So, I will go to her party and I will BS it up like no other.

My biggest complaint about organized social events is the artificial conversation. I have a really hard time forming sentences that I don't mean. You will completely understand what I'm saying (if you don't already) by performing the following exercise: Upon entering a party, count on your hand(s) how many times you say the phrase, "Hi, how have you been!?" in a tone of voice you didn't know you had and to people you could care less about.

Here's an example of my least favorite type of conversation. The words that come out of my character's mouths are not what they mean. If it it was socially acceptable to say how we felt at such events, then the parenthesized text would be closer to the truth:

"Hi A, how are you?!"
(Well hello! Finally! A girl from college who isn't fat or married.)

"I'm good! How are you B?"
(I am having daily panic attacks due to the fact that I'm single and the rest of you assholes are getting hitched.)

"Great, just great, thanks."
(Well, I'm waking up every night in cold sweats because I am marrying the meanest woman I know. Take the shirt I'm wearing tonight as an example. It was either this shirt or no sexy time when we get home.)


If only we could say what we mean and mean what we say, I'd have no problem showing up at every event I was invited to. And not only would I be on time, I'd be early.

A Case of You

I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

- Joni Mitchell, A Case of You

That's all for now.

Friday, January 15, 2010

And So It Goes...

I grew up listening to the greats, thanks to Daddy Dearest: Joni Mitchell, Elton John, Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Jackson Browne, etc etc etc. I was fascinated by lyrics and am still confused by people who listen to music without knowing what the singer is saying and/or having an opinion on it. If it were up to me, these people should be forced to listen to dead airwaves until I say so.

Anyway, there was this Billy Joel song that I obsessed over long before I should have. In other words, I was in about 5th grade and hadn't even had my first kiss. Yet, I heard these lyrics and I understood them probably better than I do today, after many first kisses and many last loves. I wrote the lyrics down on a hot pink index card and read them before bed, or when I was grounded and banished to my room. It was almost as if these words were my prayer. I can't say why. I can guess, but that would ruin it. To this day, sometimes when I'm bored, I find myself reciting them again, for reasons unknown. So HA, now you will read them too because...I said so.

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.

~Billy Joel

Mads is Mad


I lied. The addicted one is at it again. Surprise surprise. All I want to say is that I've been chatting about my blogging since I began last week and friends and family are excited and supportive. I even have a whopping five followers! One friend asks daily when I'm posting so he can read it. If that's not a monster stroke to the ego, I don't know what is. So, I will continue this blog because, well, the words keep coming and they're keeping me awake at night, and because I am enjoying the ego stroke. I haven't been stroked in a while. But that's a story for another time, maybe another place.

There is one person, creature, living thing, animal and loved one that does not, not even a little bit, enjoy my blogging. In fact, instead of stroking me, she's scratching me with her nails, biting me with her little teeth and yelling at me in the form of a distinctive and high pitched BARK. This is my precious, attention-whore, apricot color-coated, miniature poodle puppy Madeline.

Madeline and I are a two woman show. When I first bought her I was nervous about how we would mesh because I wasn't certain that my tiny apartment had enough room for two bitches. I had just moved out of the condo I shared with my ex and found Madeline at a pet store when I wasn't looking for a dog AT ALL. Upon bringing her home, I freaked out thinking, "I cannot take care of another living thing, I can barely take care of myself." But in time, while I learned to take care of myself, I have also learned to take care of her. Some days, I think she takes care of me. And our dynamic goes something like this: she is completely content following me wherever I go, even if it means sitting outside the bathroom while I'm in there, or ironing my shirt on the floor. And I am content having her right next to me at all times. Occasionally she wants a belly rub or to be held like a baby and walked around while I sing her sweet songs. (Or maybe I just do that because well, sometimes I just have the need to hold things like babies and and feel like a mother). Madeline's favorite past time is running. Sometimes when I bring her to the park and watch her do her thing, I can't stop smiling and laughing as I watch the freedom she emanates as she sprints across the field, forgetting anyone else is there (including myself when I try to leash her with no success). So we do daily trips to the park, we do TV together during the day, we do belly scratches sporadically, we do fetch across the apartment floor, and we do treats when I'm sitting on the couch and she's playing on the carpet with her toys and I am overcome with absolute love for my furball from heaven and feel the need to reward her just for being in my life.

Madeline and I are intertwined and we're comfortable with the dynamic of our relationship. That is, until last week when I began cheating on her with my computer. I have found myself typing for hours, forgetting that time has passed, time that Madeline is used to being hers and mine. But most of all, I have forgotten to show her how much she means to me this week and it's quite obvious that she is quite upset. The table my mac sits on is a high-top with a bar-stool type chair. In other words, to my 9 lb miniature poodle, it's like staring up at a sky scraper from the sidewalk down below. She doesn't enjoy craning her neck, trying to figure out what I'm doing. She doesn't like having to jump up to feel my leg or touch my arm. She wants me to get the hell down. To get my attention she's now doing things like taking the kitchen rug and attempting to rip it to shreds with her baby teeth. Or peeing on the floor next to me and gazing up at me as if to say, "look at what you've done to me." She's also completely wreaking havoc on her crate. I bought her a new comfy bed to sleep in while she's in there and she is having none of it. She has already ripped it out, propped it on it's side and barreled into it like a bull to a red flag. My baby is mad as hell and she's not going to take it anymore.

I haven't figured out exactly what the solution is but I think that if I continue blogging, I may have to take more time to show my lady more love. Because she lights up my life. She's my favorite friend, my favorite thing to touch, my favorite thing to come home to (and the only thing I come home to) and my favorite pillow to cry on. I love blogging like alot. Like a lot a lot. But make no mistake, I love Madeline more. I just keep forgetting to show her.

Gross.

Busy day. Here's a little self-sabotaging lie I tell myself on a regular basis: It's okay, you're already late, what's a few more minutes? For example, right now, I am 3 minutes late for something, realized a minute ago that I was two minutes late and decided to get on and blog about it because, well, that's how I roll. That's all for today. Mother May I sucked the life out of me.

Mother May I

When I was a child, I was addicted to earning my mother's love. I remember wanting to hug her all the time and getting the distinct feeling she didn't like me because she refused my affection. I never had enough friends because I was a loser. I was basically mentally retarded in Math. My nose was too big for my face and my body was fat. These were her complaints. I simply could not please the woman. Maybe I should have asked for a nose job for Christmas but I was apparently not that bright.

I spent the majority of my teenage years wondering how I could somehow fit into my own skin and growing into a space in my mother's heart. I was very confused on how to accomplish this, however. So I just lied to her. I told her stories that weren't true about what was actually going on in my life, because I knew she would not accept the truth. The truth usually was that I was hurt, had been betrayed, insecure, confused and afraid of the path I was on. Instead I told her about which boy liked me, what friends I was hanging out with that night and what outfit I had planned to wear. I told her everything was fine. It wasn't.
If I could go back and do things differently, I would have told her the truth long before now. Lies never breed love. Lies breed lies.

I also wish I could have reached out to her numerous times and hugged her, but my mother became even more against affection as the years passed by. She seemed to feel trapped, suffocated by someone's hands on her. I have always seen hugs as love touching love. I see them as warmth touching warmth. I see them as the intertwining of dreams. I see them as the deep breath you've been holding in all day but forgot to let out.

Today my mother and I are still strained. I still want to feel loved and she still doesn't do hugs. But for some reason, it's becoming okay. I have been finally freed by accepting the truths about myself and being okay with them. I needed her to tell me the things I couldn't find the words to tell myself. But I can say them now:

I am not the most beautiful girl in the world. I will never have lips like Angelina Jolie or curves like Scarlett Johannsen. I will always be at about a 4th grader's math level. I will always eat icecream at 3 AM when I can't sleep and I will probably never clean my bedroom. I will be afraid of alot of things and hold on to the fear for way too long. But I will survive like I always have. I will have really bad vices like picking my fingers. I will also be late for most appointments and will probably always have to go to bed with the TV on.

I also have some pretty cool virtues though like cool hair. It's perfectly straight and doesn't need any hair products. My eyes have a color that impresses me. Somedays I really dig my own personal style. My apartment is the only place that I have ever felt like the saying "Home is Where the Heart is" applies and I have completely made it my own. I can listen to a friend like no other. I will recite song lyrics to you if you're lucky. I will send really funny texts. I am a pretty good story teller. I can make one thing well: lemon peppered chicken. I am resilient. I will never give up on myself. I like my vocabulary. And I am always rooting for the underdog. I'm fun to make out with and I have a neat ear for good music. These are the truths that for some reason I either didn't believe or didn't see. Mom, this is me.

And Mom, if I could tell you anything it would be that deep down inside of you, someone beautiful is hiding. Someone you're so afraid of knowing. And I know you can't seem to let go of the past. I know you're angry. I also know you didn't mean to hurt me when I was a child. I know. I would like you to find peace, happiness, a little bit of serenity. And no, we don't have to be best friends, we don't even need to be friends. I don't need all that. But I'd really like that hug.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Words are like Weapons

I am addicted to the following post by Suzanne Finnamore, a writer I found upon stalking Augusten Burroughs' website, searching for his blog. He doesn't have one, but this woman does and I'm not quite sure how I got to her page but it wasn't a mistake. I just typed, deleted and re-typed about five different adjective-filled descriptions of this chick but some things are better left unsaid.

"I regret to say I cannot do a cartwheel; I've always felt bad about that. Nor can i stand on my head or touch the tip of my nose with my tongue or ride a unicycle. i have other useful and exhilarating skills; offhand i can't imagine one.

I don't play the bagpipes but just the sound of them is liable to make me weep, especially at a funeral or wake or wedding. i come unglued.

i know how to write, how to cook arroz con pollo and coq au vin, how to read really fast, how to bait a hook with a live worm without squirming, how to snorkel or hike or swim or stare into space for hours - mentally plotting out my latest novel or article - and forget Time and the outside world. i know how to raise a son, how to be friends with an ex, how to listen and how to survive in the business world without stabbing anyone in the back or swan diving off a high building. i know how to laugh really well, in fact i have a highly infectious laugh but not a cackle laugh or a nasal laugh. i know how to live, and not just survive. i consider living an art.

so i know about the existence of art as well, and its extreme importance. i believe love is an art as well. it may be that i see the god and the art in everything. therefore, i know how to be happy.

I think it's possible to be happy, it's impossible to be right. i choose happy: roller coaster jibe, warm rain Baptisms, irascible Eros, the sudden deluge, white lightning, the deadly fleet step of time at my back, screams and all. choosing now.

unhappy people are problematic: you can't take people's suffering away. that's the last thing i know, for now."

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

12:27 PM Wake Up Calls

Listen, my mind refuses to leave me alone with ideas for blog topics but I have gotta get gut honest real quick and let you in on a little secret of mine that is bothering me today. And has been since, well, it began.

I was laid off on November 13, 2009. I had been working for over 2 years in marketing for a commercial real estate firm. This job was challenging, enlightening, it kicked my ass into gear but most of all it made me sad. I had a very hard time with the dynamic and most of all, there was no room for my creative outlet which I have come to realize is what keeps me relatively sane. Dream job or not, being laid off was a bit of a shock. In other words, I cried in front of the President and had tears marks all over my face while I packed my desk up and had to leave the building. They were as nice as they could be and I knew it was nothing personal (there were a large group of us who got the boot after something weird happened to our stock) but I still felt cheated. This is a normal reaction I think, when one is summoned to a conference room right as they're about to dive into their warmed apple fritter and espresso chocolate truffle from none other than Starbucks (another addiction), told their being laid off, handed a check for their unused vacation days, and as they are ready to get up, are notified that they are being locked out of their computer by the IT manager as the conversation is taking place. Again, I realize this is standard protocal for a publically traded company blah blah blah, but man, it leaves no room for sensitivity to those who are being escorted out of the building without being able to finish their fritter. Catch my drift?

Moral of the story is this: Other than my part time hours at Banana Republic (which I love by the way), my life is an open book. A very BLANK open book. My daily planner is now being used as the place I stash my gum when I'm at a restaurant and the napkins are cloth. What I do most is (drum roll please)...sleep.

Yes, my friends, I stay up late watching HGTV, I binge eat Cheez-It 100 calorie packs at 3 AM, I text my fellow insomniac friend Ashley and have deep discussions about life until 4:30 AM, and then I sleep in until about 12:27 PM when my dog bites my hand because she's sick of waiting.

I've never been a morning person, but now I've reached the point where I completely bypass morning and wake up just in time for a nice lunch. I remember the days where I was laying out my work attire the night before, pressing it perfectly, picking the shoes to match and then waking up before the sun came up to get to work. What happened?

What happened was that left to my own devices, left with days full of nothing and all the time in the world, I have fallen into an addiction to late nights and even later mornings and I am kinda embarrassed.

Addiction


Addicted: to devote or surrender (oneself) to something habitually or obsessively.

A word I know very well. Let me explain. I have a problem with addiction. Whether it's learning guitar so that I can sing lead in the imaginary rock band I've conjured up in my mind even though I have a horrible singing voice, or my dog who lights up my life on a daily basis, chocolate truffle espressos from Starbucks or picking my cuticles, I'm usually all in on something.

Let me delve a little deeper and tell you the story of my addiction to this blog: My friend Kate (and fellow blogger, check out Velvet Cupcakes to see her stuff) was casually talking about her blog at work the other day. She even mentioned that another girl we work with blogged as well. I rememebered seeing my friend Elliot's blog a few years ago and being obsessed but doing nothing about it. But for some reason, Kate's description of blogging struck a chord deep down inside. And then when I actually saw her Velvet Cupcakes, I fell in love, very deep, all consuming love. Kate was basically writing a journal for the world to read. Plus she had really pretty pictures! I dug it. Personal expression in its most modern form.

Done. My mind was made up. "I'm Addicted" had to be created. And pronto, because I found myself unable to sleep that night while my addiction addled mind arranged mental lists of future blog topics. I planned to cover a plethora of addictions: music lyrics and how they relate to every aspect of my life, learning guitar, my human dog, living alone before you get hitched (yes that means no roommates), getting older, Augusten Burroughs' ability to change the way I see my childhood, men, women, texting, well-structured sentences, gum, and the list goes on and on. Oh, oh, oh and I almost forgot: "The Story of the Naked Ex" (Don't worry this one's going to hit the air waves very soon, it already has a working title and a slammin closing line).

Sadly, anxiety attacks began taking over during this brainstorming frenzy due to the fact that I couldn't actually get a start on any of them. GUESS WHAT? I didn't have the internet at my house and haven't since I moved in last summer. Yes my friends, I would visit Starbucks on the reg to get my google on. This was a problem. With a solution...

Naturally I had to call dear Dad and beg him to sign on to his internet because I'd already been to Starbucks twice that day and I had been getting the feeling that the baristas were sick of me. I gave him strict directions to sign me up for this new CLEAR internet service and order me a modem. This was clearly a desperate call for help. Dad is naturally alarmed and asks "Why?" I respond, "Because I need to write my blog." Dad asks in a confused voice "A blog? What about getting a new job?" I say, "Dad the blog is going to get me a new job." End of story. My father has learned by now not to ask me too many questions because he is not usually prepared for my answers. He understands my addictive behaviors.

My modem arrived today via Fed-Ex. We're in business people. All I owe now is $140 to dear Dad for signing me up and it's all mine! I am now connected 24/7, from my comfy couch, sitting next to my comfy dog, watching Sex and the City reruns or Celebrity Rehab while I blog like woah. Life is good.

So that's the story and I'm sticking to it. I'm crazy, addicted and can feel tiny literary wings on my fingers as I type. It's fabulous.

Here's to blogging. Here's to hoping you relate or atleast get a good laugh or cry about the sh*t I write. Here's to you if you actually care enough to read. You rock.

Last but not least, here's to addiction and the rest of you who know what it really feels like.