...things change.
Big changes. Send bourbon. Send flowers. Send money (please, send money). Send a straightjacket, because I might be doing something crazy.
I have to go through the proper channels and tie up some loose ends. But then I'll spill.
Send money. Seriously.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
what you (don't) wish for
Even the most grounded and least materialistic person can get a little crazy after registering for their wedding. And I'm not that person--I'm a little shallow, I like stuff maybe a little too much. So you can understand that after playing with the websites and the fancy gun-thingy at Pottery Barn and Kitchens, Etc. and planning imaginary kitchens and living rooms and bathrooms and picking out towels and shower curtains and knives, I had a pretty concrete list of things that I wanted. And once I'd picked them, once I'd placed them in my future linen closet or pantry or bathroom, I HAD TO HAVE THEM. When you get that registry gun in your hand, things change real damn quick from "Oh, that's cute" to "If I do not own that, I will die. Just die."
When you register for a wedding in the dot.com world, the great controversy is To Look or Not to Look. In the months before my wedding, I had boards and comps to study for, a job, class, volunteering, and job searching. So of course I looked--how else would I put off all of the responsibility, the stress? I spent hours watching my registry, wondering who'd shelled out for the ridiculously expensive duvet cover and what I would do if nobody bought me the griddle pan ("how will I make hamburgers?"). One of these hours, I noticed a few things under the "purchased" category that were not on my "requested" list. Concerned, I scrolled down for further examination and I found that two stainless steel utensil canisters had been purchased for me.
Utensil canisters? What the eff? I didn't ask for utensil canisters. I wanted towels. And a pizza cutter. And vases! Stainless steel? Are you kidding me? Furious at whomever would have the GALL to assume that they could go off of my registry, I speed-dialed my sister and unleashed a vent that in absolutely no way took into account someone's generosity in purchasing me a gift in the first place, that entirely ignored that it is, in fact, the thought that counts.
She laughed at me. This may have had something to do with the fact that it was, in fact, she who had purchased the canisters, as I found out to my complete chagrin and humiliation at my bridal shower a few weeks later. But the canisters went into my kitchen in my first apartment, and they're in my kitchen now, and they're both filled with spatulas and wooden spoons and whisks and the pizza cutter that I finally did get. I couldn't live without those canisters--they keep my tools compact and clean and close at hand and they go fabulously with my stainless-steel appliances. Many of my wedding gifts--requested or not--have long since gone into storage, victims of the space-race constantly taking place in my miniature metro home. But those canisters will be on any counter I have for the foreseeable future, because (as my sister, in her older and wiser way, knew) a girl can live without a griddle pan, but every kitchen needs a place to put the spatulas.
The moral here is that sometimes it's the things you don't ask for that end up meaning the most. Whether it's the thoughtful gift or the unforeseen life event, it's often when life veers off of our carefully planned route that the scenery is most rewarding.
I didn't ask for career dissatisfaction. I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I took the perfect job for my skills and talents and interests. I saw myself, just a few years hence, heading up the advising division of a major university or leading the student services department of a community college. And I would excel at either of those things--I'm that good at my job. It came as a shock to me, this realization that I no longer enjoy nor even, really, care that much about education. Don't get me wrong, the core issues are still important to me; I care about access and equality and the sociology of education. It's just that now I'd prefer to read the headlines on cnn.com instead of devour the textbooks and engage in lengthy discourse. It's faded from a passion to a passing interest. To answer the arguments I've already heard, it's not just these particular students or this particular school or this particular job. I'm a counselor, I'm trained in analysis and exploration and the one thing I gained from my degree was a high level of self-awareness and I know in my heart after well over a year of careful consideration that this promising career path is no longer mine.
If you've not yet experienced your existential crisis, let me tell you, it's not a lot of fun. It's terrifying, pushing 30 (am I too young to be pushing 30? I feel like you can say that when you're less than 3 years away) and having no idea what you want to be when you grow up. It's frustrating, having so many skills and yet none that are in demand for anything other than what you do. It's annoying, having a career crisis in the middle of a frickin' recession. And it's exhausting, trudging to work every day and doing your very best--because that's all I know how to do--even when you hate it, when it makes you gnash your teeth and blink away tears all at the same time. No, I didn't ask for this.
But I'm so very glad it's happening. Not on the micro level, because it sucks and I hate it and I whine all the time and I cry and maybe annoy everyone around me especially Rachel who bears the brunt of my angst. But in the grand scheme of things, on the whole, this is good for me. I've had to look at myself, hard, the kind of self-examination that makes you squirm a little like when the doctor asks you how much you drink. There's nothing like a job crisis to make you examine your goals, your priorities, your deep down hopes and fears. You learn a lot about yourself when you're trying to convince someone else you're good enough for their job. And job interviews all over this crazy little city have taught this country girl that she might get honked at or get lost or arrive forty minutes early, but she'll get there and even she can drive in DC (with the help of the Verizon Navigator system, that is). Even better, I've had to find ways to enjoy myself, define myself, outside of work: volunteering, socializing, travelling, learning to knit. My life is fuller and richer now than it would be if I was only my job and the best thing of all is that I've learned to appreciate just how much I have going for me.
Rachel told me the other day that, outside of the job thing, my life is just about perfect and I have to agree. Though I wish my sister and her wisdom and canister-buying weren't so far away, my family is close and supportive (even if not always within two hours' drive). My marriage is happy, my animals are healthy, I've got a cute little house in a cute little city and I live next door to the gym. Most importantly, my hair is looking absolutely adorable lately.
So, to whomever or whatever has chosen this time and this place for my identity crisis, right now I'm cursing you. Right now I'm angry and sad and frustrated and so, so tired of the whole damn thing. But someday, when I'm back on track, I'll appreciate the journey just that much more for having overcome these obstacles. This crisis, the lessons I've learned, they will be my stainless-steel canisters: way more useful than I ever imagined, and always just in arm's reach in case I need them.
And you thought I wouldn't end on a cliche.
When you register for a wedding in the dot.com world, the great controversy is To Look or Not to Look. In the months before my wedding, I had boards and comps to study for, a job, class, volunteering, and job searching. So of course I looked--how else would I put off all of the responsibility, the stress? I spent hours watching my registry, wondering who'd shelled out for the ridiculously expensive duvet cover and what I would do if nobody bought me the griddle pan ("how will I make hamburgers?"). One of these hours, I noticed a few things under the "purchased" category that were not on my "requested" list. Concerned, I scrolled down for further examination and I found that two stainless steel utensil canisters had been purchased for me.
Utensil canisters? What the eff? I didn't ask for utensil canisters. I wanted towels. And a pizza cutter. And vases! Stainless steel? Are you kidding me? Furious at whomever would have the GALL to assume that they could go off of my registry, I speed-dialed my sister and unleashed a vent that in absolutely no way took into account someone's generosity in purchasing me a gift in the first place, that entirely ignored that it is, in fact, the thought that counts.
She laughed at me. This may have had something to do with the fact that it was, in fact, she who had purchased the canisters, as I found out to my complete chagrin and humiliation at my bridal shower a few weeks later. But the canisters went into my kitchen in my first apartment, and they're in my kitchen now, and they're both filled with spatulas and wooden spoons and whisks and the pizza cutter that I finally did get. I couldn't live without those canisters--they keep my tools compact and clean and close at hand and they go fabulously with my stainless-steel appliances. Many of my wedding gifts--requested or not--have long since gone into storage, victims of the space-race constantly taking place in my miniature metro home. But those canisters will be on any counter I have for the foreseeable future, because (as my sister, in her older and wiser way, knew) a girl can live without a griddle pan, but every kitchen needs a place to put the spatulas.
The moral here is that sometimes it's the things you don't ask for that end up meaning the most. Whether it's the thoughtful gift or the unforeseen life event, it's often when life veers off of our carefully planned route that the scenery is most rewarding.
I didn't ask for career dissatisfaction. I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I took the perfect job for my skills and talents and interests. I saw myself, just a few years hence, heading up the advising division of a major university or leading the student services department of a community college. And I would excel at either of those things--I'm that good at my job. It came as a shock to me, this realization that I no longer enjoy nor even, really, care that much about education. Don't get me wrong, the core issues are still important to me; I care about access and equality and the sociology of education. It's just that now I'd prefer to read the headlines on cnn.com instead of devour the textbooks and engage in lengthy discourse. It's faded from a passion to a passing interest. To answer the arguments I've already heard, it's not just these particular students or this particular school or this particular job. I'm a counselor, I'm trained in analysis and exploration and the one thing I gained from my degree was a high level of self-awareness and I know in my heart after well over a year of careful consideration that this promising career path is no longer mine.
If you've not yet experienced your existential crisis, let me tell you, it's not a lot of fun. It's terrifying, pushing 30 (am I too young to be pushing 30? I feel like you can say that when you're less than 3 years away) and having no idea what you want to be when you grow up. It's frustrating, having so many skills and yet none that are in demand for anything other than what you do. It's annoying, having a career crisis in the middle of a frickin' recession. And it's exhausting, trudging to work every day and doing your very best--because that's all I know how to do--even when you hate it, when it makes you gnash your teeth and blink away tears all at the same time. No, I didn't ask for this.
But I'm so very glad it's happening. Not on the micro level, because it sucks and I hate it and I whine all the time and I cry and maybe annoy everyone around me especially Rachel who bears the brunt of my angst. But in the grand scheme of things, on the whole, this is good for me. I've had to look at myself, hard, the kind of self-examination that makes you squirm a little like when the doctor asks you how much you drink. There's nothing like a job crisis to make you examine your goals, your priorities, your deep down hopes and fears. You learn a lot about yourself when you're trying to convince someone else you're good enough for their job. And job interviews all over this crazy little city have taught this country girl that she might get honked at or get lost or arrive forty minutes early, but she'll get there and even she can drive in DC (with the help of the Verizon Navigator system, that is). Even better, I've had to find ways to enjoy myself, define myself, outside of work: volunteering, socializing, travelling, learning to knit. My life is fuller and richer now than it would be if I was only my job and the best thing of all is that I've learned to appreciate just how much I have going for me.
Rachel told me the other day that, outside of the job thing, my life is just about perfect and I have to agree. Though I wish my sister and her wisdom and canister-buying weren't so far away, my family is close and supportive (even if not always within two hours' drive). My marriage is happy, my animals are healthy, I've got a cute little house in a cute little city and I live next door to the gym. Most importantly, my hair is looking absolutely adorable lately.
So, to whomever or whatever has chosen this time and this place for my identity crisis, right now I'm cursing you. Right now I'm angry and sad and frustrated and so, so tired of the whole damn thing. But someday, when I'm back on track, I'll appreciate the journey just that much more for having overcome these obstacles. This crisis, the lessons I've learned, they will be my stainless-steel canisters: way more useful than I ever imagined, and always just in arm's reach in case I need them.
And you thought I wouldn't end on a cliche.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
in case you'd forgotten that i'm a big screaming liberal
Sometimes I forget how angry the Bush administration makes me. How sneaky and evil and awful they are. But reading on cnn.com about John Cusack's new movie (about the widower of an Iraq casualty) reminded me...
"First-time director James C. Strouse's script came Cusack's way at just the right moment. Angry that the Bush administration had banned media footage of coffins coming home bearing soldiers killed in Iraq, Cusack had been looking to tell the story behind one of those coffins.
"I thought it was the most brazen, cowardly, egregious political act I'd seen in my lifetime," Cusack said in an interview. "Do you think that's going to stop anything? Do you think if you don't show the coffins we won't find out?""
I'm not so good with the words. Sometimes I have to find famous people to say it for me.
"First-time director James C. Strouse's script came Cusack's way at just the right moment. Angry that the Bush administration had banned media footage of coffins coming home bearing soldiers killed in Iraq, Cusack had been looking to tell the story behind one of those coffins.
"I thought it was the most brazen, cowardly, egregious political act I'd seen in my lifetime," Cusack said in an interview. "Do you think that's going to stop anything? Do you think if you don't show the coffins we won't find out?""
I'm not so good with the words. Sometimes I have to find famous people to say it for me.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
knit 1, purl 2, kn...aw, hell
Today I was going to post a picture of my first six inches of real knitting. The first six inches of a scarf, in fact, purple with a lighter purple stripe and I actually had the stripe.
These six inches of wool represent three solid days of staring until I am cross-eyed, of trying and unravelling and trying and unravelling and looking at books and buying different needles and trying again.
Despite my luxurious new sheets (Overstock was having a sale) and my soft warm blanket and the fact that my bed is now a cocoon of heavenly refuge against the bitter bitter cold gray winter, I have stayed up late, til all hours, knitting and knitting and unravelling and knitting and knitting.
Last night, as I listened to Studio 60 and stared intensely at my needles, Callie, frustrated and furious with the loss of her rightful place in my lap and fed up with the tantalizing twitch, twitch of the yarn, leapt up onto the couch and tore into my skein of purple yarn, pulling and biting at the thread that ran up to my scarf work. A scuffle ensued, and when I finally removed her claws from my thigh and surveyed the damage, I realized that my knit work was so tangled, pulled out of shape, with loops slipped out and yarn too tight, that it was beyond my almost non-existent repair skills.
I spent the rest of the night unravelling my scarf, leaving me with roughly NO completed knitting to show for three straight days of practice, and wondering why on earth I took up a hobby so clearly incompatible with my family reponsibilities (i.e., sole source of feline entertainment).
These six inches of wool represent three solid days of staring until I am cross-eyed, of trying and unravelling and trying and unravelling and looking at books and buying different needles and trying again.
Despite my luxurious new sheets (Overstock was having a sale) and my soft warm blanket and the fact that my bed is now a cocoon of heavenly refuge against the bitter bitter cold gray winter, I have stayed up late, til all hours, knitting and knitting and unravelling and knitting and knitting.
Last night, as I listened to Studio 60 and stared intensely at my needles, Callie, frustrated and furious with the loss of her rightful place in my lap and fed up with the tantalizing twitch, twitch of the yarn, leapt up onto the couch and tore into my skein of purple yarn, pulling and biting at the thread that ran up to my scarf work. A scuffle ensued, and when I finally removed her claws from my thigh and surveyed the damage, I realized that my knit work was so tangled, pulled out of shape, with loops slipped out and yarn too tight, that it was beyond my almost non-existent repair skills.
I spent the rest of the night unravelling my scarf, leaving me with roughly NO completed knitting to show for three straight days of practice, and wondering why on earth I took up a hobby so clearly incompatible with my family reponsibilities (i.e., sole source of feline entertainment).
Friday, January 19, 2007
maybe if i'd gone to finishing school instead of graduate school
Of all of the challenges I have faced as an adult, navigating money and relationships and identity and societal responsiblity, the most difficult has got to be getting a haircut.
I know this seems silly, especially given all of the uberangst I've been spouting here lately. But anyone who's changed towns in the last ten years or so of their life knows what I'm talking about--the search. The dissapointment. The fear. The disasters.
When I lived in Charlottesville I had a great stylist, one I found after years of searching for a hairdresser who would not automatically chop off all of my hair just because it is fine and limp. When I moved up here I had to embark upon a two-year epic search, because most of the salons up here are pretentious, overpriced, crowded, inconveniently located, and pretentious. Also, they are a little pretentious. I found a great place in Pentagon City, but unfortunately my experience there was financed by a generous donation from the parental units and after that expired I couldn't afford to go back. This whole ordeal has meant that I've often gone months and months, in one case almost a year, without haircuts for the past three years. While I'm loving the long hair thing, I'm not crazy about this raggedy-ass thing that accompanies that practice and so I need to step it up and get a haircut. Last time, I tried out Elizabeth Arden, as their haircuts aren't actually any more expensive than anyone else's around here, and I really really liked the girl who cut my hair and I kind of want to go back but I'm scared because I was totally outclassed there.
I knew I was in trouble when there was an elevator to get to the salon. It was a private elevator, so I stepped in and pushed the button and, on the way up, tried to arrange myself in a pose that expressed class and confidence and the idea that I was totally comfortable in a day spa. I think it would have worked, too, except that the door opened behind me and the receptionists all got a really great view of my ass in its carefully arranged pose. Flustered, I stumbled over to the front desk, where the tall drink of water taking my name had to bite back a giggle when she asked if it was my first time there.
She walked me back to the waiting area, where there were cookies and apples and tea and water and all kinds of other things and I got a little confused because, like, did I have to pay for the buffet? No? Okay, then, I'd like a glass of water. Except I felt a little silly since the area was clearly self-serve, but she seemed to take pity on me and I suppose it made her feel better to pour me a glass of water. Or perhaps she was afraid that I would knock the whole kit and kaboodle over. Water in hand, I followed her to the changing area, which was a large closet full of smocks and a thin little curtain on the rod separating the closet from the larger confines of the waiting room filled with strangers. And then, she left me there. Alone. And confused.
I stood there for a few minutes, trying to look--in case anyone came through the curtain--as if I knew what I was doing. But I didn't, because I'd never taken my clothes off for a haircut before. I was wearing a sweater, so I figured, okay, that could come off, and I carefully hung it up and stowed my bag, a process that ate up at least three minutes of stall time. But my shirt, hmm. I mean, well, hmm. Okay. So I should be wearing a smock. That much was clear from the pile of them in the closet. But am I supposed to be wearing a smock OVER my shirt, or INSTEAD of my shirt? Another four minutes went towards careful evaluation of the smocks, in an attempt to determine how shirt-like they were. The answer: completely ambiguous. Some ties that could have been the front or the back, but otherwise just sort of drapey black things that offered no more, but no less, coverage than your average hospital gown.
Surely, if I were supposed to take my shirt off, the curtain would offer more privacy? That's good. Let's go with that. Right. I didn't see any other half-naked women wandering around there. Except it was quiet and to be honest I didn't see any other women wandering around there at all. Perhaps because they all knew where they were supposed to be. Perhaps because they knew where the good water was. I've no idea. All I know is, I finally determined that my shirt would stay on and the smock would go over it and I emerged, flushed and victorious, from the dressing room only to find the hostess still waiting for me with a questioning, slightly scornful look on her face. She asked me if everything was okay, a question to which I found the answer quite obvious and so refrained from saying anything other than an ambiguous "mm," which she could have taken to mean of course, I am completely at home here or no, you idiot, I'm clearly out of my league and should be taken out, shot, and dragged to the nearest Hair Cuttery.
When Heather finally came out to collect me for my haircut, she greeted me with a smile and a concerned, "Are you okay with your shirt?" I did not know what that meant and, thrown by the possibilities which included did you mean to leave your shirt on, you utter moron? and the less likely just making sure you're not one of those freaks who likes to take their shirt off, I got all dry-mouthed and flustered and reached for my water, which, of course, I had left in the dressing room.
Perhaps I'll just see how long my hair can grow before it just gives up and starts cutting itself.
I know this seems silly, especially given all of the uberangst I've been spouting here lately. But anyone who's changed towns in the last ten years or so of their life knows what I'm talking about--the search. The dissapointment. The fear. The disasters.
When I lived in Charlottesville I had a great stylist, one I found after years of searching for a hairdresser who would not automatically chop off all of my hair just because it is fine and limp. When I moved up here I had to embark upon a two-year epic search, because most of the salons up here are pretentious, overpriced, crowded, inconveniently located, and pretentious. Also, they are a little pretentious. I found a great place in Pentagon City, but unfortunately my experience there was financed by a generous donation from the parental units and after that expired I couldn't afford to go back. This whole ordeal has meant that I've often gone months and months, in one case almost a year, without haircuts for the past three years. While I'm loving the long hair thing, I'm not crazy about this raggedy-ass thing that accompanies that practice and so I need to step it up and get a haircut. Last time, I tried out Elizabeth Arden, as their haircuts aren't actually any more expensive than anyone else's around here, and I really really liked the girl who cut my hair and I kind of want to go back but I'm scared because I was totally outclassed there.
I knew I was in trouble when there was an elevator to get to the salon. It was a private elevator, so I stepped in and pushed the button and, on the way up, tried to arrange myself in a pose that expressed class and confidence and the idea that I was totally comfortable in a day spa. I think it would have worked, too, except that the door opened behind me and the receptionists all got a really great view of my ass in its carefully arranged pose. Flustered, I stumbled over to the front desk, where the tall drink of water taking my name had to bite back a giggle when she asked if it was my first time there.
She walked me back to the waiting area, where there were cookies and apples and tea and water and all kinds of other things and I got a little confused because, like, did I have to pay for the buffet? No? Okay, then, I'd like a glass of water. Except I felt a little silly since the area was clearly self-serve, but she seemed to take pity on me and I suppose it made her feel better to pour me a glass of water. Or perhaps she was afraid that I would knock the whole kit and kaboodle over. Water in hand, I followed her to the changing area, which was a large closet full of smocks and a thin little curtain on the rod separating the closet from the larger confines of the waiting room filled with strangers. And then, she left me there. Alone. And confused.
I stood there for a few minutes, trying to look--in case anyone came through the curtain--as if I knew what I was doing. But I didn't, because I'd never taken my clothes off for a haircut before. I was wearing a sweater, so I figured, okay, that could come off, and I carefully hung it up and stowed my bag, a process that ate up at least three minutes of stall time. But my shirt, hmm. I mean, well, hmm. Okay. So I should be wearing a smock. That much was clear from the pile of them in the closet. But am I supposed to be wearing a smock OVER my shirt, or INSTEAD of my shirt? Another four minutes went towards careful evaluation of the smocks, in an attempt to determine how shirt-like they were. The answer: completely ambiguous. Some ties that could have been the front or the back, but otherwise just sort of drapey black things that offered no more, but no less, coverage than your average hospital gown.
Surely, if I were supposed to take my shirt off, the curtain would offer more privacy? That's good. Let's go with that. Right. I didn't see any other half-naked women wandering around there. Except it was quiet and to be honest I didn't see any other women wandering around there at all. Perhaps because they all knew where they were supposed to be. Perhaps because they knew where the good water was. I've no idea. All I know is, I finally determined that my shirt would stay on and the smock would go over it and I emerged, flushed and victorious, from the dressing room only to find the hostess still waiting for me with a questioning, slightly scornful look on her face. She asked me if everything was okay, a question to which I found the answer quite obvious and so refrained from saying anything other than an ambiguous "mm," which she could have taken to mean of course, I am completely at home here or no, you idiot, I'm clearly out of my league and should be taken out, shot, and dragged to the nearest Hair Cuttery.
When Heather finally came out to collect me for my haircut, she greeted me with a smile and a concerned, "Are you okay with your shirt?" I did not know what that meant and, thrown by the possibilities which included did you mean to leave your shirt on, you utter moron? and the less likely just making sure you're not one of those freaks who likes to take their shirt off, I got all dry-mouthed and flustered and reached for my water, which, of course, I had left in the dressing room.
Perhaps I'll just see how long my hair can grow before it just gives up and starts cutting itself.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
hello winter
This week has been just a little crazy at work. Like, students returning to school crazy. Like, hours and hours of appointments and answering questions and standing at the front desk like a secretary in inappropriate shoes crazy. So I have not blogged. Which, if you'll remember, I warned you might happen.
I keep forgetting that I'm blogging again--it was so easy to fall out of the habit--and so I never have that much to say. I used to notice things and record them in my head ("I am going to blog that so hard!") but I don't anymore, I just note things and grumble about them and move on to the next frustration or observation or amusement.
But a few things:
1. It is freaking cold outside. How did this happen? I was so thrown off by the global warming we were experiencing, so grumpy about the Christmas in Miami situation we had going on, that I completely flaked on remembering that it would, eventually, get cold. And it did, all at once and overnight. Fortunately, I have never been so prepared for the cold weather: I have my winter coats hanging on the peg by the door, my gloves and scarves organized by color in the foyer. By COLOR, people. I am going to kick winter's ASS this year!
Except that this morning I ran out the door half barefoot and left my gloves on the shelf. It was a damn cold morning, y'all, and it's hard to kick winter's ass when you have a quarter-share in flakiness and a half-ownership in sleep-deprived.
2. I have worn jeans to work every day since I got my "raise." There is no stated dress code in my office, but for the past two and a half years I have done my best to be pretty and professional and sharp (without wearing skirts). I have watched with interest as others in my office, those of the older ilk, have shown up in jeans, in sweats, in shorts, in ratty t-shirts and never received a sideways glance. I have watched with concern as my younger coworkers have worn tailored, attractive denim and been chastised and slammed with passive-aggressive snide remarks. And now that I'm doing my best to be on my way out, I'm going to challenge the status quo and wear jeans until someone says something.
Besides, they say you should dress for the job that you want, not the job that you have. And that's what I'm doing.
3. Eleanor is going to teach me to knit on Saturday, since my massive intellect and multiple degrees have proven inadequate in conquering that particular learning objective. I will finally have a reason to sit upright while watching TV! New Years Resolutions all over the place!
Did I ever tell y'all that I read in a magazine that when you watch TV, you are one step away from death, metabolically speaking? Seriously, like with only sleeping in between the two. I am going to learn to knit and then watch those calories torch!
4. Today I had to stand at the front desk, helping students, for three straight hours. For two of those hours there was a box of Entenmann's doughnuts six inches from my hand. I didn't eat a single one. Not even half of one. Give me a medal.
I keep forgetting that I'm blogging again--it was so easy to fall out of the habit--and so I never have that much to say. I used to notice things and record them in my head ("I am going to blog that so hard!") but I don't anymore, I just note things and grumble about them and move on to the next frustration or observation or amusement.
But a few things:
1. It is freaking cold outside. How did this happen? I was so thrown off by the global warming we were experiencing, so grumpy about the Christmas in Miami situation we had going on, that I completely flaked on remembering that it would, eventually, get cold. And it did, all at once and overnight. Fortunately, I have never been so prepared for the cold weather: I have my winter coats hanging on the peg by the door, my gloves and scarves organized by color in the foyer. By COLOR, people. I am going to kick winter's ASS this year!
Except that this morning I ran out the door half barefoot and left my gloves on the shelf. It was a damn cold morning, y'all, and it's hard to kick winter's ass when you have a quarter-share in flakiness and a half-ownership in sleep-deprived.
2. I have worn jeans to work every day since I got my "raise." There is no stated dress code in my office, but for the past two and a half years I have done my best to be pretty and professional and sharp (without wearing skirts). I have watched with interest as others in my office, those of the older ilk, have shown up in jeans, in sweats, in shorts, in ratty t-shirts and never received a sideways glance. I have watched with concern as my younger coworkers have worn tailored, attractive denim and been chastised and slammed with passive-aggressive snide remarks. And now that I'm doing my best to be on my way out, I'm going to challenge the status quo and wear jeans until someone says something.
Besides, they say you should dress for the job that you want, not the job that you have. And that's what I'm doing.
3. Eleanor is going to teach me to knit on Saturday, since my massive intellect and multiple degrees have proven inadequate in conquering that particular learning objective. I will finally have a reason to sit upright while watching TV! New Years Resolutions all over the place!
Did I ever tell y'all that I read in a magazine that when you watch TV, you are one step away from death, metabolically speaking? Seriously, like with only sleeping in between the two. I am going to learn to knit and then watch those calories torch!
4. Today I had to stand at the front desk, helping students, for three straight hours. For two of those hours there was a box of Entenmann's doughnuts six inches from my hand. I didn't eat a single one. Not even half of one. Give me a medal.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
half off
So...
if you've spoken to me at all in the past year, you know that my New Year's resolution #1 is to Get A (New) Job. In that effort on Sunday afternoon I curled up on the couch under a blanket with a Diet Coke and the Sunday Washington Post.
Because I am concerned with the environmental hypocrisy involved in not reading the GIGANTIC Sunday paper (see resolution #2, reduce environmental footprint) and because the Want Ads scare me with their inherent frustration and fury and causation of general feelings of inadequacy and desperation, I stalled a little by reading the other sections of the paper first. Including the Magazine and the comics and all of the stuff in the shiny blue wrapper in the middle, which is where I made the most amazing discovery.
Coupons!
I vaguely remember my mother clipping coupons, back in the day. I am not sure why this trait did not pass itself on to me, unless it was like football in that it was such an integral part of my childhood that I repressed (repulsed?) it and avoided it entirely until I was roughly 25. Maybe I secretly associated coupon-clipping with trailers and pink velcro curlers and aprons and other affectations of white-trash housewifery (how many people did I just offend? Six? Eight? Moving on.) Whatever the reason, I've never paid much attention to coupons unless they were of the "banana republic sale" variety. So imagine my surprise when, rifling through the two coupon sections of the Post, I found page after page of discounts on items I BUY EVERY WEEK!!!
I mean really. Fifty cents off of Lean Cuisines! A dollar off of my favorite toothpaste! Two dishwasher detergent packages for the price of one! People, you can SAVE MONEY if you just cut out these little pieces of paper!
Completely distracted from the Get A (New) Job mission, I eagerly and diligently cut out coupon after coupon (only, of course, for products that I already buy. I'm no dummy), arranged them in order of my grocery store aisles, and promptly forgot about them when I got up to go grocery shopping. I'm still new at this.
What I really want now is one of those little accordion-style coupon wallets. Does anyone know where I can find one of these? And, also, some pink velcro hair curlers?
if you've spoken to me at all in the past year, you know that my New Year's resolution #1 is to Get A (New) Job. In that effort on Sunday afternoon I curled up on the couch under a blanket with a Diet Coke and the Sunday Washington Post.
Because I am concerned with the environmental hypocrisy involved in not reading the GIGANTIC Sunday paper (see resolution #2, reduce environmental footprint) and because the Want Ads scare me with their inherent frustration and fury and causation of general feelings of inadequacy and desperation, I stalled a little by reading the other sections of the paper first. Including the Magazine and the comics and all of the stuff in the shiny blue wrapper in the middle, which is where I made the most amazing discovery.
Coupons!
I vaguely remember my mother clipping coupons, back in the day. I am not sure why this trait did not pass itself on to me, unless it was like football in that it was such an integral part of my childhood that I repressed (repulsed?) it and avoided it entirely until I was roughly 25. Maybe I secretly associated coupon-clipping with trailers and pink velcro curlers and aprons and other affectations of white-trash housewifery (how many people did I just offend? Six? Eight? Moving on.) Whatever the reason, I've never paid much attention to coupons unless they were of the "banana republic sale" variety. So imagine my surprise when, rifling through the two coupon sections of the Post, I found page after page of discounts on items I BUY EVERY WEEK!!!
I mean really. Fifty cents off of Lean Cuisines! A dollar off of my favorite toothpaste! Two dishwasher detergent packages for the price of one! People, you can SAVE MONEY if you just cut out these little pieces of paper!
Completely distracted from the Get A (New) Job mission, I eagerly and diligently cut out coupon after coupon (only, of course, for products that I already buy. I'm no dummy), arranged them in order of my grocery store aisles, and promptly forgot about them when I got up to go grocery shopping. I'm still new at this.
What I really want now is one of those little accordion-style coupon wallets. Does anyone know where I can find one of these? And, also, some pink velcro hair curlers?
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
breathe easy
I really really really want to join the ranks of the righteous and be one of those people who disdains material Christmas gifts, choosing instead to dedicate their resources towards bettering the world around them. They shun the shallow and the selfish, the consumer-driven greed-fest that Christmas has become in so many ways. And I agree wholeheartedly with the principle and I want, badly, to act on it. There are two reasons, however, that I still actively participate in the present-fest.
First and foremost, I’ve tried it. People seemed unimpressed. And I’m so desperate for positive feedback and avoiding the WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME middle-school flashbacks that I can’t go through that again.
Second, my Christmas presents this year so significantly improved my quality of life I’m not sure I can express in words how cool they are. For all-time greatest present, it is not, as you might suspect, my awesome new video ipod (I can watch TV! On the metro! Working out! Whenever I want! My life is complete!) or the warm winter coat (brr, baby, it’s FINALLY cold outside, but not inside my toasty new parka with the pocket and earphone vent for my awesome new ipod). Instead, it’s this random little eye pillow with the um, herbs and such in it.
It doesn’t seem like much—a silk pillow filled with beads? seeds? hulls? I do not know, and aromatic, pungent even, with the scents of peppermint, eucalyptus, spearmint, and other odd things you would think wouldn’t be very soothing. I cannot believe I have gone my entire life without this. You see, I am allergic to cats. And I have two. Well, three, currently. I keep the allergies under control with Zyrtec, but every night in that hour between when my Zyrtec wears off and I take the next one, I get sniffly and stuffy and my eyes get all watery and I have a little trouble breathing just at the time I want to get to bed.
So every time this has happened since Christmas, I have stretched out in bed and laid this little eye pillow over my face and suddenly, I can breathe. The sniffles and the stuffy and the watery is all gone, and everything clears up. I love it. It is a lifesaver.
Remember that new identity I was talking about? How I don’t know what or who I’ll be in a year? I mentioned vegan and lobbyist and student and really, the possibilities are endless. But I tell you, this eye pillow thing is really tilting the scales in favor of naturopathic, incense-burning, charm-wearing hippie.
First and foremost, I’ve tried it. People seemed unimpressed. And I’m so desperate for positive feedback and avoiding the WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME middle-school flashbacks that I can’t go through that again.
Second, my Christmas presents this year so significantly improved my quality of life I’m not sure I can express in words how cool they are. For all-time greatest present, it is not, as you might suspect, my awesome new video ipod (I can watch TV! On the metro! Working out! Whenever I want! My life is complete!) or the warm winter coat (brr, baby, it’s FINALLY cold outside, but not inside my toasty new parka with the pocket and earphone vent for my awesome new ipod). Instead, it’s this random little eye pillow with the um, herbs and such in it.
It doesn’t seem like much—a silk pillow filled with beads? seeds? hulls? I do not know, and aromatic, pungent even, with the scents of peppermint, eucalyptus, spearmint, and other odd things you would think wouldn’t be very soothing. I cannot believe I have gone my entire life without this. You see, I am allergic to cats. And I have two. Well, three, currently. I keep the allergies under control with Zyrtec, but every night in that hour between when my Zyrtec wears off and I take the next one, I get sniffly and stuffy and my eyes get all watery and I have a little trouble breathing just at the time I want to get to bed.
So every time this has happened since Christmas, I have stretched out in bed and laid this little eye pillow over my face and suddenly, I can breathe. The sniffles and the stuffy and the watery is all gone, and everything clears up. I love it. It is a lifesaver.
Remember that new identity I was talking about? How I don’t know what or who I’ll be in a year? I mentioned vegan and lobbyist and student and really, the possibilities are endless. But I tell you, this eye pillow thing is really tilting the scales in favor of naturopathic, incense-burning, charm-wearing hippie.
Friday, January 05, 2007
An Open Letter to Banana Republic
Dear BR,
I love you. I do. Your website is not only bookmarked in my Explorer, it's the first thing that comes up when I type in "b" in the search bar. I long ago dropped the "Republic" and now affectionately refer to you as "Banana," as if we were old friends. And we are, we are old friends--I still have shirts from you that saw me through more than one frat party (remember that time I put a glowstick in my bra and pulled on the soft black turtleneck sweater over it? everyone couldn't stop staring at my chest. and i did that on PURPOSE. i thought it was FUNNY. man, was i DRUNK). Everything I'm wearing right now is from Banana, in fact, except my shoes.
The thing is, though, old pal, that the reason that I'm able to dress in head-to-toe Banana is because my mother bought me this sweater, the jeans were on sale, and I got the necklace at the outlet. Like many, many twenty-somethings in the DC Metro area who pay $20K a year in rent and $8 a bag for grapes at the grocery store, I cannot just stroll into your retail store and plunk down $100 for a sweater. It's not in my nature and it's not in my budget, and I hate you for this. You are overpriced, and you are a tease, and you have forgotten your roots.
You used to be affordable and friendly. You used to be no better than your preppy-basics relative Gap. Remember that? Don't lie. I know it's almost as embarrassing as my glowstick bra, but it's part of your past and there are those of us who remember where you came from, before you got a couple mentions in Vogue and InStyle and got all overpriced and wannabe-couture.
I have reached my limit of frustration with you. I am tired of searching your sale page and finding that I can't even afford your half-price leftovers. Yesterday I fell in love with a wool knit slouchy handbag on the sale page. I love that bag. I want to marry it. I want to put my whole life in it and carry it around everywhere I go, even in the summer, even to the gym; I want to still have that bag when I'm eighty and I need it to carry around my spare teeth and my calcium pills. But this bag is sale priced at $120 and OH MY GOD that's reduced from $278. Almost THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a bag that isn't even leather. It is KNIT. What is woven into this bag--antioxidants? The pope's hair? Does it rub your back when you are tired? Does it block telemarketers? I do not understand. How can a purse cost three hundred dollars from a store that used to have a fake Cuban guy in a straw hat greeting shoppers and handing out coupons at the door?
I cheat on you with unabashed, shameless abandon now. Most of my clothes come from Old Navy or H&M. But I miss you, Banana. I want you to come back to me. If you started making clothes I could afford again, I'd even put a glowstick in my bra. Just for you.
Kisses and couture,
Kate
I love you. I do. Your website is not only bookmarked in my Explorer, it's the first thing that comes up when I type in "b" in the search bar. I long ago dropped the "Republic" and now affectionately refer to you as "Banana," as if we were old friends. And we are, we are old friends--I still have shirts from you that saw me through more than one frat party (remember that time I put a glowstick in my bra and pulled on the soft black turtleneck sweater over it? everyone couldn't stop staring at my chest. and i did that on PURPOSE. i thought it was FUNNY. man, was i DRUNK). Everything I'm wearing right now is from Banana, in fact, except my shoes.
The thing is, though, old pal, that the reason that I'm able to dress in head-to-toe Banana is because my mother bought me this sweater, the jeans were on sale, and I got the necklace at the outlet. Like many, many twenty-somethings in the DC Metro area who pay $20K a year in rent and $8 a bag for grapes at the grocery store, I cannot just stroll into your retail store and plunk down $100 for a sweater. It's not in my nature and it's not in my budget, and I hate you for this. You are overpriced, and you are a tease, and you have forgotten your roots.
You used to be affordable and friendly. You used to be no better than your preppy-basics relative Gap. Remember that? Don't lie. I know it's almost as embarrassing as my glowstick bra, but it's part of your past and there are those of us who remember where you came from, before you got a couple mentions in Vogue and InStyle and got all overpriced and wannabe-couture.
I have reached my limit of frustration with you. I am tired of searching your sale page and finding that I can't even afford your half-price leftovers. Yesterday I fell in love with a wool knit slouchy handbag on the sale page. I love that bag. I want to marry it. I want to put my whole life in it and carry it around everywhere I go, even in the summer, even to the gym; I want to still have that bag when I'm eighty and I need it to carry around my spare teeth and my calcium pills. But this bag is sale priced at $120 and OH MY GOD that's reduced from $278. Almost THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a bag that isn't even leather. It is KNIT. What is woven into this bag--antioxidants? The pope's hair? Does it rub your back when you are tired? Does it block telemarketers? I do not understand. How can a purse cost three hundred dollars from a store that used to have a fake Cuban guy in a straw hat greeting shoppers and handing out coupons at the door?
I cheat on you with unabashed, shameless abandon now. Most of my clothes come from Old Navy or H&M. But I miss you, Banana. I want you to come back to me. If you started making clothes I could afford again, I'd even put a glowstick in my bra. Just for you.
Kisses and couture,
Kate
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
old lame song
I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who are unique, different, renegade even. I want to go against the grain, do my own thing, raise my beer and yell out “It’s My Life” at a Bon Jovi concert and actually mean it. But at the end of the day, I’m not really all that different than any other married twenty-something professional woman trying to make a go of it in this rat-race, expensive little metro I reluctantly call home.
In that vein, instead of a self-righteous and high-minded blog about how New Years resolutions are passe and trite, how self-improvement should be a constant and it’s irrational and arbitrary to pick the first of the year to make a fresh start, I’ll start off my blogging re-entry with a long and boring post about my run-of-the-mill and ever-so-common resolutions.
1. Get a job. A new one, that is. One that doesn’t make me grit my teeth in boredom and frustration; one where I’m appreciated either by the people for whom I work or by the constituency I serve, be that people or animals or the environment or social justice or bookstore customers. I’ve decided that thankless jobs can be rewarding if your supervisors appreciate your efforts, and jobs in which your supervisors ignore or (worse) deride you can still be enjoyable if you’re working for something that matters to you. My current job fits neither of these descriptions, and it’s time to buckle down and make a change. Enough of the bitching already. Get ready, world—here comes my resume.
2. Reduce my enviromental footprint. I did an online quiz recently (www.myfootprint.org) and learned that if everyone lived like I do, we would need 4.5 planet earths. I’m pretty sure this is a lower number than average given that I take public transportation daily, but there also wasn’t an element that factored in my bizarrely high level of garbage production. I do not know WHY we fill up our gigantic trash can every week. I do not know HOW we manage to produce such a freakishly large amount of crap every day. What I do know is that everything, everything we depend on is a finite resource and if the annoyingly warm winter we’re experiencing is any indication we are causing environmental chaos at an alarming rate. I do not wish to have to move to Canada just to escape tropical Christmas weather, so I am going to do whatever little tiny things that I can to try to stem the tide of ecological destruction that our country seems so intent on pursuing. I will begin with a more consistent recycling effort, swing through some of those fancy flourescent light-bulbs that last a million hours, and perhaps end up with all-natural home cleaning products. I have more research to do. But perhaps I will save one or two trees for your children to enjoy.
3. Save money. I have never suffered any delusions that I am anything other than white trash with money—thanks to my hard-working husband I live in a tax bracket far removed from where I would be if I depended on my own dumbass choices. Because we are comfortable, it is easy to get TOO comfortable and forget that the gravy train may not always run on time. This year alone I’ve gone to some 20 concerts (Bob Dylan being the high point, Rascal Flatts being the low), fled the country twice, bought a massive TV, and developed a first-name relationship with the friendly Lebanese Taverna takeout people. However, given that I’m looking for jobs in non-profits, our poverty alert is constantly at Orange and (cross your fingers for me!) right now is hovering at Red. It’s time to start acting like a grownup and begin socking it away for that day hopefully soon when I make absolute crap money and love it.
4. Learn to dance. I do not know how to make this happen. But if anyone has any ideas, I’m open to anything that will allow me to get through the Summer 2007 wedding gauntlet (five and counting!) with at least a little flair.
There are others, of course, too personal for the internets, but that’s a start. Maybe by the end of this year I will be someone entirely new—a hippie, a vegan, a lobbyist, a student. Maybe I’ll be all kinds of broke. Maybe I’ll be lighting candles with rolled up dollar bills. Sometimes I wish I could see into the future: maybe I’d’ve worked a bit harder on my 2006 resolutions if I could look ahead and see that I’d be the same person, sitting on the same couch, bitching about the same problems, one year in the future.
Probably not.
At any rate, here we go…
In that vein, instead of a self-righteous and high-minded blog about how New Years resolutions are passe and trite, how self-improvement should be a constant and it’s irrational and arbitrary to pick the first of the year to make a fresh start, I’ll start off my blogging re-entry with a long and boring post about my run-of-the-mill and ever-so-common resolutions.
1. Get a job. A new one, that is. One that doesn’t make me grit my teeth in boredom and frustration; one where I’m appreciated either by the people for whom I work or by the constituency I serve, be that people or animals or the environment or social justice or bookstore customers. I’ve decided that thankless jobs can be rewarding if your supervisors appreciate your efforts, and jobs in which your supervisors ignore or (worse) deride you can still be enjoyable if you’re working for something that matters to you. My current job fits neither of these descriptions, and it’s time to buckle down and make a change. Enough of the bitching already. Get ready, world—here comes my resume.
2. Reduce my enviromental footprint. I did an online quiz recently (www.myfootprint.org) and learned that if everyone lived like I do, we would need 4.5 planet earths. I’m pretty sure this is a lower number than average given that I take public transportation daily, but there also wasn’t an element that factored in my bizarrely high level of garbage production. I do not know WHY we fill up our gigantic trash can every week. I do not know HOW we manage to produce such a freakishly large amount of crap every day. What I do know is that everything, everything we depend on is a finite resource and if the annoyingly warm winter we’re experiencing is any indication we are causing environmental chaos at an alarming rate. I do not wish to have to move to Canada just to escape tropical Christmas weather, so I am going to do whatever little tiny things that I can to try to stem the tide of ecological destruction that our country seems so intent on pursuing. I will begin with a more consistent recycling effort, swing through some of those fancy flourescent light-bulbs that last a million hours, and perhaps end up with all-natural home cleaning products. I have more research to do. But perhaps I will save one or two trees for your children to enjoy.
3. Save money. I have never suffered any delusions that I am anything other than white trash with money—thanks to my hard-working husband I live in a tax bracket far removed from where I would be if I depended on my own dumbass choices. Because we are comfortable, it is easy to get TOO comfortable and forget that the gravy train may not always run on time. This year alone I’ve gone to some 20 concerts (Bob Dylan being the high point, Rascal Flatts being the low), fled the country twice, bought a massive TV, and developed a first-name relationship with the friendly Lebanese Taverna takeout people. However, given that I’m looking for jobs in non-profits, our poverty alert is constantly at Orange and (cross your fingers for me!) right now is hovering at Red. It’s time to start acting like a grownup and begin socking it away for that day hopefully soon when I make absolute crap money and love it.
4. Learn to dance. I do not know how to make this happen. But if anyone has any ideas, I’m open to anything that will allow me to get through the Summer 2007 wedding gauntlet (five and counting!) with at least a little flair.
There are others, of course, too personal for the internets, but that’s a start. Maybe by the end of this year I will be someone entirely new—a hippie, a vegan, a lobbyist, a student. Maybe I’ll be all kinds of broke. Maybe I’ll be lighting candles with rolled up dollar bills. Sometimes I wish I could see into the future: maybe I’d’ve worked a bit harder on my 2006 resolutions if I could look ahead and see that I’d be the same person, sitting on the same couch, bitching about the same problems, one year in the future.
Probably not.
At any rate, here we go…
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