Awkwardly Social

My poor mother. She tried to raise us with, well, how do I say this, hippie food. We were members in a co-op. We ate whole wheat spaghetti. Carob chips. Fruit and vegatables. And, as a kid, I was a weird eater. I hated things like pizza. Who hates pizza? I did. I survived on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (organic, whole wheat bread) until I discovered that cheese was the fruit of the gods. Mmm…. cheese.

So recently, in response to the Louie, I’ve decided that I should eat breakfast. I haven’t eaten breakfast regularly since 1989. I’m not joking. Louie contends that if I ate breakfast, and stopped calling coffee with flavored creamer a ‘real meal’ that I wouldn’t be hungry by 11am. And if I’m not hungry by 11am, I won’t be cranky by 11:30am. I laughed when he first told me that breakfast was important. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Because A. of course it’s important! to the evil breakfast cereal companies and B. I barely have time to go to the bathroom in the morning much less eat breakfast. So this week is the beginning of the “Great Breakfast Experiment”.

This morning it was like I was in a horror movie when I peeled my orange. I actually gasped and dropped it. It was like I had peeled back the first layer of the devil’s child. I set it aside and toasted my toast (I still love whole wheat bread, my mom did something right I guess). And then glared at the orange. IT WAS BLOOD RED ON THE INSIDE! I held it up to my nose thinking maybe I had the tiniest grapefruit in the world. And I got only the faint, but telltale, smell of orange. I don’t know what is up with this orange, but I’m scared. So I set it down again and my toast pops totally freaking me out. Because I get jumpy around blood red fruit. I butter my toast and chew. Standing up. Because honestly, there is no place to eat in our apartment. Which is why I’m always eating in my bed. The orange, mocking me, sits half peeled on the counter. Next to the butter knife. I quickly picked up the butter knife and dropped it into the sink, because I can’t imagine what a blood red orange can do with a butter knife in its grasp. Finally, toast eaten, now ravenous (breakfast always makes me more hungry than no breakfast) I pick up the orange and finish peeling it. I took a bite from one of those tiny butt pieces. And no blood leaked out down my chin. In fact, this blood red orange was not juicy at all. It was next to tasteless. I put the rest into a baggie and sealed it up, thinking keeping it in the fridge overnight made it juiceless (shut up, I don’t understand fruit) and if I waited until I got to work it would warm up enough to get its juices flowing. I am here to tell you, I highly recommend avoiding blood red oranges. They are horrible. Scary, yes, but even worse, they are tasteless, and not juicy.

And. To top it all off. It’s 10:15am and I’m starving. Fucking breakfast.

Today is my sister’s birthday. I was going to cook up a sweet and sentimental poem for her ala “An Ode to My Pillow”, but today of all days, I have to actually blank at blank.

So. Tomorrow, she will get her poem. Today, she just gets a place holder blog entry.

I’m glad you were born Tavia!

Me: Was that the door-bell?
Allie: I don’t know I was screaming too loud.
Me: I think I heard the door-bell. Or was that our kicking surround sound? No. Door-bell.

Down the steps -

Me: (to myself) Who’s that hot guy? Standing on my doorstep? Oh shit. I’m not wearing a bra. Oh. It’s Louie! He’s seen me without a bra. Without a shirt actually. So, it’s fine.

Me: (aloud) Hi. We’re watching Alien vs. Predator. Don’t make fun of me.
Louie: You’re watching it!
Me: Yeah. Don’t make fun of me.
Louie: I haven’t seen it. I can’t believe you’re watching it.
Me: You wanna watch it?
Louie: (looking a little ashamed, but not as ashamed as I was admitting I was watching it.) Yeah.

Just popping in to say hi, so my parents don’t worry about me. I have an unhealthy [read: abusive] relationship with the phone and the returning of the phone calls that I’m sure will some day come back to haunt me when I have kids of my own. That is, if I ever accidentally get pregnant and decide to keep the baby, ’cause I just can’t see myself planning that kind of thing.

I’m still writing. This forced blog hiatus has churned out some major pages on the script and it looks like Monday we’ll have a draft done. [Did that sound like blah, blah, blah, blah?]

Yesterday I saw a black male (who appeared to be heterosexual, though, after I wrote that he was heterosexual I was all concerned that people would think I was judging books by covers and we all know how that ends up…) in a ‘dropped’ brand new Lexus blaring Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone.” His car was stopped right next to mine, in the facing traffic lane. I tried to not look right at him because I felt the giggles just bubbling up to the surface and I know I don’t like to be laughed at to my face. But I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I think he laughed too. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all.

People are turning thirty all over the place. It’s as if, I’m getting older…. Which can’t be possible. I do not know what the hell is going on, but it better stop.

I’m going radio silent for a little while. I’m sure I’ll be back, especially considering someone has to cover the event of the decade, Waller’s Super Sweet Birthday Party.

And you’ll have Allie keeping you company.

Don’t you. Forget about me. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t you.

For no particular reason, I’m having a rough day today. I’m trying my best not to wallow, but I’ve already cried at my desk. No one noticed, which is good.

I had to sign off iChat because I was being mean. And now I’m staring at the iChat icon and wishing it had the little black triangle under it and was bouncing.

Lalala. What’s this? Here in my pocket. I don’t recognize this fabric. What could this be-Ohmygod.

I totally just pulled out a pair of underwear from my jacket pocket. In front of people. And examined them. Because I couldn’t figure out what they were.

I had one of those horrible college flashback dreams last night. I had a term paper due the next day along with a presentation, had no topic, had done no research, and RK (a person I have known since I was 6) was in my class.

I had to search through my bookcase and find something to write 15 pages on. Nothing would do. It was like every mid-term and final paper experience in my life. Never picking a topic in time. Half assing it when I finally decided on something. Gah. Stressful. Add to that, RK was trying to get me to ‘like’ him all night.

I’m very, very, tired now.

Also, there was a weird part in my dream having to do with my boobs. R was out of the picture by then, but there was a lot of boob self examination going on.

Blech. They’re working in my office. ‘They’ smell. Sure, ‘they’ are manual laborers. But Jesus H. Smelly McSmellington. You are only one guy. It isn’t that hot out. Take a shower once in a while.

“Speaking of gay prostitutes: I went to the ballet this weekend, and this bulbous male dancer wore very tight, velvet shorty shorts with a see-through ‘top.’ It was totally a ‘top,’ not even a shirt.”

When I get an e-mail with a jem like that in it. I know that my friends, they are the awesome kind.

1. Speaking of gay prostitutes - what a segway (whatever, I don’t know how to spell it.)
2. “I went to the ballet”**** - who goes to the ballet anymore? not me, that’s for sure and I see that I’m missing out.
3. bulbous male dancer - wait. I have a visual.
4. velvet shorty shorts - gay prostitutes!
5. It was totally a top, not even a shirt - hehhehheh. top.

****You should totally go and read her post about it. No lie. That is some awesome analysis of modern ballet.