Awkwardly Social

I’m pretty sure this was 5th grade. I definitely remember rocking this hair style in Mr. Sudan’s class. Mr. Sudan is one of the first teachers I had that got me. (Aside from Ms. Morse. Ms. Morse taught “Gifted” and if ever I hated to be a smart kid it was when the “gifted” children were removed from regular class and sent to the “Old High School” by bus, to work on projects that were supposed to help us use all of our collective brain power. Mostly, I just was happy to be away from school and in a deserted old run down asbestos filled high school. That school still holds so many weird boarding school fantasies for me. We used to get ‘therapy’ in the gym. Wow. Thinking back on it, there was this guy named Eli (I think?) who I had a HUGE crush on. He had blond curly hair. God, I bet if I could find my diaries from back then there would be some hearts and curlicues around his name.) Anyway Mr. Sudan used to read to us, and we were required to journal every day. Once a week he would read our journals (weird? I don’t know) and comment on them. I guess I owe this blog to him in a way. Little did he know that one day I would be writing about my period and my boobs on the magical internetical device and that people would be able to read it and comment on it. (My uterus says, “What’s up, assholes? You bitches ready for me yet?”) I wonder what he’s up to now. It was in his class that I wrote a poem that got published in some Yavapai County youth thing. There was a big awards dinner. I wore a dress. I will find that poem and print it here. Just to show you where all this raw talent began. All this… and I rocked a mullet, not to mention the panda shirt. (If only that were the only horrible shirt I wore back then… Trust me. It wasn’t.)

Last night I was feeling very much like a naughty little brat who right before being sent to her room stormed off and slammed the door.

Around this time of year I usually get sick, so a case of the grumps I guess is par for the course.

I had to go to the grocery store, which was bad, but wasn’t as bad as it’s going to be tonight. I’m still unsure if when Waller’s mom told me to bring a vegetable dish, she meant a sweet potato dish, or was she thinking more of a salad or a green bean casserole. Is a sweet potato a vegetable? I thought it was more of a tuber.

When the holidays come around I get the urge to listen to my Sesame Street Christmas record from the 70’s. If you didn’t have this record when you were a kid (maybe you were Jewish?) you were totally missing out. There’s skits and songs and it makes me super happy. So I listened to that while playing Civilization. Aruru! That song was on the B side of the record and I usually just skipped it and went right to The Night Before Christmas skit, but now, it’s one of my favorites. I google it and it’s impossible to know whether or not I was listening to an Axis of Evil lullaby. I’d like to think I was.

I forgot to mention that during our cleaning frenzy on Sunday, I, with the help and guidance of Allie, fixed our shower. It used to feel like you were being spit on by an angry and dehydrated seal. Now it feels like you are actually being bathed with real and true hot water. It’s an amazing transformation. And for that I am thankful.

. A bookshelf full of books that get to be cracked this weekend.
2. Ac@d-my scr-eners. (love. love. love.)
3. A boyfriend who gives me my space.
4. A smoke free 2 weeks.
5. Old friends popping up (hi Lauren and April!)
6. Friends in general.
7. Red wine.
8. mmmm…. red wine.
9. my super cool family.
10. my shower!
11. TiVo.
12. hors d’oeuvres
13. Movie theaters with reserved seating
14. Movie theaters with hot dogs
15. Movie theaters in general
16. Wednesday as Friday
17. bloggers
18. readers
19. did I mention red wine?
20. love.

Falalala la la la la.

I’m feeling a little scattered. Either deal with it, or don’t read. Your choice.

There’s a sweet guy who manages our building. He fills the candy machine that dispenses my magic non-smoking pills that normal people call Peanut M&Ms. Yesterday, on my 3rd trip to the machine he commented on my sweet tooth. I told him to go to hell. Actually, I only did that in my head, but I totally thought it. When he commented again today, I really did kind of tell him to mind his own beeswax.

I need a little more me time than I’m getting, I think. At what point is there too much me time?

In theory I’d like to be a person that can keep to a schedule. In practice, I’m shit at keeping to a schedule. Ever since I was free from the chains of a class schedule, I’ve found that the only thing I can do on a regular basis are things that absolutely give me a paycheck. Other things, like writing that may someday in the future lead to something that resembles a paycheck, in no way make me want to stick to a schedule.

I’ve been watching a lot less TV. I still catch an hour or two of prime time, but I don’t really watch the Entertainment Tonights and Access Hollywoods anymore. I’m kind of off my MTV viewing pace, and A&E hasn’t been on in months. I don’t really miss it. I don’t know. I guess I never really liked it in the first place.

My how slowly this three day week is going.

I might bake me some cookies tonight. I might not.

I have to brave the grocery store today. I hate the grocery store around Thanksgiving. It makes me want to die. Or throw a tantrum. Or kick old people and puppies.

So, why is it that a large appliance always breaks right around the holidays?

Yesterday afternoon, Allie and I were uncharacteristically cleaning. I was working on the bathroom, Allie had the kitchen. Things were going well. Louie fixed the oven. There was joy across the land.

That is until Allie took a phone call and Louie returned to the tv and I walked into the kitchen to hear water spurting out. Our hot water heater was spewing hot water. Everywhere. Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure it had never done that before. I’m also pretty sure that it isn’t one of the standard features we just hadn’t used yet. So, naturally, I started yelping, “Help, help, anybody! Please help!” No one answered. So I ran through the apartment yelping. Everyone sort of looked at me like, “Whatthefuck?” Add to this, our light bulb has been burnt out in the refridgerator room for about 3 months. Louie fumbled in the cramped space and figured out how to stop the spewing and the landlord was called.

Enter handyman who doesn’t speak a lick of English. We figured out through sign language and sheer frustration that the water heater was going to need to be replaced. But we weren’t really sure if that was going to happen. Ever. So we sort of all looked at each other and the handyman took off. Thankfully, he did return. He replaced the heater. And made Allie help him carry the old one down the stairs. Allie totally deserves a full batch of cookies. That I can now make. In our working oven!

To make matters even better, I came home to a revamped refrigerator room. Normally you walk into this little cubby and you have about a foot of room to manuever to the fridge. Then you can open the door a crack, reach in with one hand and peer in with one eye to make sure you don’t touch anything moldy. But no more! Allie cleaned the whole place out! You can walk in there. You can dance! I love to walk and dance by the fridge. It’s true! And now I can. Also there is no large appliance spewing water, so that’s an added bonus.

I ate about 20 pounds of food yesterday. And drank a bottle of wine. All delicious. Resulting in a total food hangover this morning, which will only be cured by eating leftovers tonight! Thanks to Lena and Zach for hosting.

Put your pants back on, Louie is still my boyfriend. This is about something much more serious than my love for the Louie.

My love for Target.

I mean I love Louie, but I might, in a battle to the death between Target and Louie, gasp and cry when Target loses. Because Target would definitely lose, sort of like the way Joaquin lost in Gladiator. You hate him because he wants to do dirty things with his sister, but you also sort of love him because… god, he’s Joaquin and we almost know for a fact he doesn’t beat up hotel clerks with telephones the way Russell does, and so therefore even though he wants to do dirty things to his sister, he’s still a better person in my book, because A. One is real life. and B. the other is acting. And anyway, back to the main subject, I can’t shop at Target anymore.

This isn’t one of those vague threats that I throw out there everytime I return from Target with $100.00 in purchases when really, all I needed was shampoo and toilet paper but came home with lip gloss, a pair of pants and twenty other things I needed way less than toilet paper and incidentally I forgot to buy the toilet paper. No, this is because Target has made it a-okay in their company policy for pharmacists to refuse to give Plan B (the ‘morning after pill’) to women based purely on the pharmacists’ religious beliefs. So say, a girl gets date raped. She gets a prescription for Plan B, goes to her trusted pharmacist, and… welllllll he’s a Christian and believes that the morning after pill is killing babies. That girl will be referred to another pharmacy. That’s not so bad you say, but seriously, if you were date raped would you want to travel all over town looking for a pharmacist who isn’t clucking judgementally at you because you want to take the medication your DOCTOR PRESCRIBED FOR YOU!? No. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t want to go to three different pharmacies. You would want to take the damned medicine lay in bed for a day and not have to be humiliated by some dude that has a high horse and he’s sitting way up there on it, holding the medicine out of your reach.

So listen Target, come to your senses. Let the pharmacist go work somewhere else, like say…. oh, I don’t know, the Pope’s Personal Pharmacy, Vatican City Branch. I’m sure he’s not getting date raped and his condom isn’t breaking (because we know how he feels about condoms!), and since he doesn’t have daughters, he doesn’t need to worry about even stocking Plan B.

To read more, you can go here, or here, or for funny commentary here.

I love this kid.

Here are two cures for filling the boredom you find when you can’t smoke a cigarette.
1. Peanut M&Ms. (I know I’ve mentioned it before, but it totally begs repeating.)
2. I don’t have a second one. Usually, I just go for the M&Ms.

We have this new tradition with my circle of friends, it’s called “Practice Thanksgiving.” Usually a week or so before Thanksgiving we get together with a roasted chicken, lots of side dishes, and sometimes games. This way we can hang out with our friends, have a holiday feast, and not really feel guilty about not spending it with our families. I love it.

In addition to Practice Thanksgiving, we’ve been invited to real Thanksgiving with the Wallers. I’m super excited about it. I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving in some time.

The past couple of years here in LA the holidays have felt lonely. My mom came for Thanksgiving last year, and my dad for Christmas, but it wasn’t the same. (I had an excellent time with both, and our non-traditional celebration was great, but sometimes you just want someone to make turkey and fill your wine glass.) My big ol’ house in Camp Verde wasn’t filled with random relatives. It sat empty. My aunt used to come over and give us some fun craft to do while she and my mom made thousands of Christmas cookies and bars. My sister and I would busily cut felt and carefully use the flaming hot glue gun while the house filled with the enticing smells of anise, vanilla, cinamon and sugar. My filthy apartment in LA just doesn’t have the homey vibe that I look for in a holiday gathering place. It’s cold, over stuffed with random furniture, the lighting doesn’t make sense and it’s always, always got some empty box sitting around waiting to be thrown out, or some pile of receipts that needs to be gone through. My sister’s new house, while lovely and filled with Christmas decorations, just doesn’t feel like home for me yet. It’s going to take a while to get my sense of home back, I’m glad my friends are here to help me find it, at least momemtarily, for the holidays this year.

I need suggestions for a Christmas mix! Hit me!

Smoking made me a nicer person. I had a longer fuse.

Now I’m a straight up short-fused, anger ball. I’m really scattered right now. I’m having a hard time holding it together.

It’s 8:00AM and I’m already dreaming about a margarita. With salt. On the rocks. Tequila shot chaser. And a bar fight.

Or… a long run wherein my goddamned iPod doesn’t fucking crash.

Or… maybe a huge hot fudge sundae.

Or… how about a bloody steak with horseradish and mashed red potatoes.

But really, what I really want is a cigarette.

It’s been seven days.

Today is the 29th Annual Great American Smokeout.

It’s so funny, I have this vague recollection of being a kid and seeing some ad on TV about quitting. I was so sanctimonious when I was a kid. If I could time travel, I’d totally go back (when I’m in a super bitchy mood, like now) and tell myself to stop gloating. It would totally freak my young self out. (Also, I’d advise myself against the mullet haircut, and kissing Travis Wester. With tongue. I just threw up a little in my mouth.)

The peanut m&ms are helping.

I just started a new audio book because I’ve had it up to here (indicates ceiling) with Dan Brown. And this new one might be even worse in terms of quality, but better in terms of listenability, because…. wait for it…. it has sound effects. There’s an explosion in the text, and explosion on the SFX track. Awesome.

I don’t think I’m going to finish the Dan Brown book because I’m pretty sure he’s going to save the Vatican, I have no idea who the villain is, but I bet my sister does and she can just tell me. And, honestly, it is so badly written, that if I were physically reading it, I would have been done with it days ago. But hearing someone else read it to me has become torture. TORTURE! So much so, that I listened to it while running last night and almost threw my precious iPod against the bleachers because it was pissing me off so much. Though, I think listening to a book on tape might be the way to go with my runs on the track. Kills the monotony.

And now. To bore you even more, scrap booking! Cooking! and… diapers!

Just kidding. But if anyone has a good veggie dish they can recommend for Thanksgiving dinner, please e-mail me. I’m thinking of bringing green bean casserole, but that might be too white trash. And, while I don’t like to deny my roots, sometimes you have to rise above. (Though I love me some green bean casserole.)