Shit, guys. It's July. How did this happen? I am aghast, both at the passing of time and my inability to post consistently. I assure you, oh dedicated readers, it is not for a dearth of hilarious happenings, but rather my inability to sit down at my desk and type. See also: why I got the spooks.
The spooks are something like the heebie-jeebies, something like the willies, something like that giddy anticipation that happens when you dressed up two hours too early for Winter Formal and just kind of sat around watching TV in your dress trying to pretend everything was normal even though the evening held such, such promise, which of course was not capitalized upon, but which was, ultimately, still a really good time.
In short: Shit is happening!
I am in a weirdly liminal phase these days: I am boomeranging between dual jobs and dual apartments. The jobs are pretty nifty and not only because of the paychecks--I work at the radio station! This is so undeniably cool, and only really becomes tiresome when my blood sugar nosedives and my boss is trying to explain things about transmitters and routers and satellite feeds, which happened today, and which I remedied by sneaking away and wolfing down my lunch. A gal's gotta eat.
Speaking of eating! That is all my father and I did during his grand visit of the past week. Or at least, that was the majority of our activities: oysters and barbecue and donuts. Have I mentioned lately I fucking love this little city? Oysters! Barbecue! Donuts!
So my dad and I feasted like fiends and I still somehow managed to knock off two pounds. This is relatively small change in the scheme of things but perked up my day tremendously when I found out. More importantly, my dad showed up and was flabbergasted and told my mother over the phone that I was physically "a shadow of my former self." And people, I am currently wearing a pair of shorts. This pair of shorts does not stop at the knees (though it also does not stop at my heiny so don't get any wrong ideas). But I came downstairs on the day my dad arrived in said shorts, and I immediately prefaced: "I know they're too short" in hopes of waylaying any of my father's fatherly but unwanted criticisms about my appearance--which at one point were deserved because I was wearing a Wrigley's Gum t-shirt that I had cut up and refastened with safety pins. Granted, I was 13.
But my dad, in a totally non-creepy way, simply said, "Those shorts look pretty good."
In Richardson speak, this is tantamount to "DAMN, GIRL."
Which, again, was not creepy so much as it was pretty heartening. And my dad, who is the shit, was also completely fine with me leaving my number on the bill when we had our traditional Admiral's Delight Enormous Plate of Sea-Borne Deliciousness. I had also had 4 magaritas (including but not limited to some magnificent concoction called a Cactus Juice). The waiter in question had also been flirting mercilessly all night. And was tall. Which is about where my standards start and stop these days.
But, as I said to my wisest and wildest friend Karlena J. Riggs following her departure, it always astounds me how lonesome I get when she leaves. Likewise, today was tricky because, let's face it, I'm alone. And there's a certain thrill that comes with independence--little luxuries like leaving the bathroom door open when you're showering, making messes in the kitchen and not cleaning them up til the next day, etc.
But there's also a lot of trepidation, especially when you are also moving. I think I said to Pinto a dozen times today, "C'mon, let's go home." And then I realized I don't really know where that is right now.
My new apartment is not the place I posted about earlier, but it is on 4th street, and it is pretty amazing. Hardwood floors and fireplaces and a tub with a sloped back (thank the Lord) and, thank the Lord outside of parentheses, furniture. My dad came by and saw it, and I had some folks over following the tremendous fireworks display over the Cape Fear River, and everyone is duly impressed. My dad mentioned Stingo in Sophie's Choice, which shows how a) nerdy and b) awesome my dad is, because this is an apartment to write novels in! This is a place where a writer lives! I live here, ergo I am a writer!
But somehow it also cements the events of the past year, like the picture is finally developed after weeks sitting in the camera. I'm moving to a new place; I'm leaving the place I arrived in. When I got here, I thought I would be with someone; now I'm alone. The move is not so much a joyous affair--though I am excited--but really a reminder that my life is not what I ]thought it would be.
Point blank: I'm having to leave because I got left.
And this is not the venue to air the filthy, soiled, sodden and mildewed laundry of what went wrong with me and Rob. Suffice to say, I'll be glad to be away from the place we moved in to together.
So I'm over at the new place tonight, slowly moving my things--a box of books here, a bag of laundry there, the Where the Wild Things Are decals (which are totally on my new cabinets, and I should've known something was wrong when my ex kind of hated them, ha!), my stolen papa-san chair--and it's hot as hell inside there, and Pinto is kind of weirded out and acting strange, and I have no towels, no dishes, and this place has a strange old lady smell in the closet, and I'm more focused on whether my dog is completely overheating to really have an existential meltdown but it definitely crosses my mind--how I am alone here, and my family is 20 hours West, and how Rob left with no warning, and how I am living in a strange state and doing this crazy thing and this time last year we were on the road or riding roller coasters in Branson, and the year before that I was in Europe, and remember college? Jesus, I was in college last year, I am only 23, what am I doing what am I doing--
But, again, these thoughts are quieter than they've been in previous instances, and I safely drown them out (with a Red Stripe) and Pinto and I head back to the old place. But I'm still unsettled. I feel rattled. I still have the spooks.
Or at least, I have the spooks until I see the happy parade of ants marching from my front door--what used to be our front door--to Pinto's dirty food bowl.
At that point, the Antinator kicks in and I vacuum those fuckers up and spray down the baseboards with bleach and stand with my hands on my hips and tell those little six-legged shits who the hell is the goddamn boss.
Because the goddamn boss is me, goddammit.
At that point, friends, I realize I am over thinking things, as usual, and somewhere in here there is a great metaphor, something some Buddhist philosopher could say: When in plight, recall the ant, who toils only for a morsel of spare snack. Or: Be as the ant is, following the path of his brethren. Or: As ants are, so should you be; act with determination, perseverance, and worth.
But really, what I think is: fuck this place and fuck these ants and my life is going to rock so hard solely because there will be no motherfucking ants in it.
Which, I gotta say, is a pretty sure-fire remedy for the spooks.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Saga of Radioga.
Radio-ga = Radio + Yoga = what this post is about.
Guys! Hey you guys! Guys seriously! Listen!
I did yoga!
Why was this such a huge landmark for me? I don't know. Why was I so damn nervous? Probably because everyone was barefoot and all the employees were svelte and wearing those trendy flowy pants and the studio was actually a converted house and there were a thousand varieties of tea in the kitchen (most of which I could not pronounce) and oh yeah I'm about as limber as the Lincoln Memorial and oh yeah also fat.
Except not! Seriously! Okay maybe still a little. Enough that I am "stepping up" my efforts (as the young kids say these days) because when I hit fifty, I'm throwing the Skinny Soiree. Fancy dress will be mandatory. As will the shots. One shot per pound lost?
But the total's at 36. 36, you guys! That's a lot! I mean, it's close to 40, and 40's a pretty big deal as far as numbers go.
And, for the record, in case anyone out there in the miasmic cosmos of the internet is concerned, no, I am not gagging myself, nor starving myself, nor depriving myself. Pinto and I go on very sweaty walks daily. My refrigerator is packed with what my brother termed "chipmunk food." But I'm very much trying to establish behaviors that I can actually maintain--aka retaining beer as something I can have. And an aversion to the gym, or any kind of activity that requires a specific outfit (scuba diving?). I'm not doing 600 crunches per night, though I did try to do some push-ups last night out of a burning need to be rid of my twangers, which made me realize that I a) have no upper body strength but b) have some sad little muscles that were crying out, "Please! Use us!"
So. I went to yoga.
And it was awesome.
Okay, no, not entirely. It was pretty silly, actually. All the 'align your chakras' and 'breathe away your waste' and the silly windchime music--that shit I could do without. I've encountered far too many people who are so Zen'd out all the time they come across as doped, and I have always been a caffeine and cocaine type. That's just a figure of speech. Really. It is.
But damn, son! It was an hour of crazy stretching! And let it be known that this was not even Yoga 101, this was like, Rudimentary Yoga, this was Yoga you go to when you can't touch your toes. Which I can't, but someday, by god, I will.
And afterward, I felt like about a million bucks. I'm pretty sure my legs acquired an extra inch, at least (and if you've ever seen my legs, they need it). So I'm pretty pleased. Not pleased enough to actually buy a yoga mat yet or to start reading the teachings of the Upanishads, but enough that I think I'll sleep like a baby angel tonight because my bones are content.
So there's the yoga. The radio is this:
It is a sublime form of torture to listen to your voice over and over again for an entire hour, repeating the same humdrum weather report, trying to sound "natural," especially when you are weirdly insecure about your voice. I don't know why--I think everyone has a weird reaction to hearing themselves speak, but I especially cannot stand my own voice, by which I mean the actual sound of my speech, and not, of course, the hilarious witty things I say all the time which my brother Matthew is so jealous of and I don't care because he doesn't read this anyway the fucker.
I spent at least one solid hour--that's 60 entire minutes--non-stop recording a piece of copy for the radio today. Do you know how long that segment was?
A minute.
So I technically made my public radio debut tonight, and it was pretty surreal to stand in my kitchen unloading the dishwasher and hear myself stumble over the word "thunderstorms" from my kitchen radio, but it was also pretty goddamn awesome.
So! I work at the radio now, as the meek little Broadcast Intern. I love radio a whole, whole lot, but my love had a lot more to do with "listen to all this awesome music!" and not "listen to me!!!" So it's a weird transition, going from WHCL, which was all live, all silly, all college, to WHQR, which is all business, all pre-recorded, all professional and shit. In the long and sundry list of adjectives I'd pick to describe myself, "professional" is not one of them. "Hardass" and "go-getter" and "unintentional bitch" maybe, but not "professional."
But if you want a good laugh, and want to hear my foolish NPR voice, tune in tomorrow here at 6:30 p.m. Eastern Time. I snagged the daily half hour of staff-picked music, recorded it today, and it's going to be either the worst or best thing that's ever happened on a radio station on a Thursday evening.
And, again, as I always seem to conclude these posts: things are good. I was a camp counselor for a week and had more fun that I thought reasonably possible without the aid of mind-altering substances. Pinto continues to become hideously oversized, but he can also stay in the house alone all day without destroying anything, and he takes up too much of the bed but I forgive him because he's my dog (and, as my mother pointed out, he kind of saved my soul inadvertently just by being a dog and loving me unconditionally through the Very Bad Times of these past months). I made some badass enchiladas two nights ago. I'm moving downtown in a few weeks. My dad'll be here next week, which means the following: oysters, donuts, BBQ, and more oysters.
As stated previously: Damn, son!
Guys! Hey you guys! Guys seriously! Listen!
I did yoga!
Why was this such a huge landmark for me? I don't know. Why was I so damn nervous? Probably because everyone was barefoot and all the employees were svelte and wearing those trendy flowy pants and the studio was actually a converted house and there were a thousand varieties of tea in the kitchen (most of which I could not pronounce) and oh yeah I'm about as limber as the Lincoln Memorial and oh yeah also fat.
Except not! Seriously! Okay maybe still a little. Enough that I am "stepping up" my efforts (as the young kids say these days) because when I hit fifty, I'm throwing the Skinny Soiree. Fancy dress will be mandatory. As will the shots. One shot per pound lost?
But the total's at 36. 36, you guys! That's a lot! I mean, it's close to 40, and 40's a pretty big deal as far as numbers go.
And, for the record, in case anyone out there in the miasmic cosmos of the internet is concerned, no, I am not gagging myself, nor starving myself, nor depriving myself. Pinto and I go on very sweaty walks daily. My refrigerator is packed with what my brother termed "chipmunk food." But I'm very much trying to establish behaviors that I can actually maintain--aka retaining beer as something I can have. And an aversion to the gym, or any kind of activity that requires a specific outfit (scuba diving?). I'm not doing 600 crunches per night, though I did try to do some push-ups last night out of a burning need to be rid of my twangers, which made me realize that I a) have no upper body strength but b) have some sad little muscles that were crying out, "Please! Use us!"
So. I went to yoga.
And it was awesome.
Okay, no, not entirely. It was pretty silly, actually. All the 'align your chakras' and 'breathe away your waste' and the silly windchime music--that shit I could do without. I've encountered far too many people who are so Zen'd out all the time they come across as doped, and I have always been a caffeine and cocaine type. That's just a figure of speech. Really. It is.
But damn, son! It was an hour of crazy stretching! And let it be known that this was not even Yoga 101, this was like, Rudimentary Yoga, this was Yoga you go to when you can't touch your toes. Which I can't, but someday, by god, I will.
And afterward, I felt like about a million bucks. I'm pretty sure my legs acquired an extra inch, at least (and if you've ever seen my legs, they need it). So I'm pretty pleased. Not pleased enough to actually buy a yoga mat yet or to start reading the teachings of the Upanishads, but enough that I think I'll sleep like a baby angel tonight because my bones are content.
So there's the yoga. The radio is this:
It is a sublime form of torture to listen to your voice over and over again for an entire hour, repeating the same humdrum weather report, trying to sound "natural," especially when you are weirdly insecure about your voice. I don't know why--I think everyone has a weird reaction to hearing themselves speak, but I especially cannot stand my own voice, by which I mean the actual sound of my speech, and not, of course, the hilarious witty things I say all the time which my brother Matthew is so jealous of and I don't care because he doesn't read this anyway the fucker.
I spent at least one solid hour--that's 60 entire minutes--non-stop recording a piece of copy for the radio today. Do you know how long that segment was?
A minute.
So I technically made my public radio debut tonight, and it was pretty surreal to stand in my kitchen unloading the dishwasher and hear myself stumble over the word "thunderstorms" from my kitchen radio, but it was also pretty goddamn awesome.
So! I work at the radio now, as the meek little Broadcast Intern. I love radio a whole, whole lot, but my love had a lot more to do with "listen to all this awesome music!" and not "listen to me!!!" So it's a weird transition, going from WHCL, which was all live, all silly, all college, to WHQR, which is all business, all pre-recorded, all professional and shit. In the long and sundry list of adjectives I'd pick to describe myself, "professional" is not one of them. "Hardass" and "go-getter" and "unintentional bitch" maybe, but not "professional."
But if you want a good laugh, and want to hear my foolish NPR voice, tune in tomorrow here at 6:30 p.m. Eastern Time. I snagged the daily half hour of staff-picked music, recorded it today, and it's going to be either the worst or best thing that's ever happened on a radio station on a Thursday evening.
And, again, as I always seem to conclude these posts: things are good. I was a camp counselor for a week and had more fun that I thought reasonably possible without the aid of mind-altering substances. Pinto continues to become hideously oversized, but he can also stay in the house alone all day without destroying anything, and he takes up too much of the bed but I forgive him because he's my dog (and, as my mother pointed out, he kind of saved my soul inadvertently just by being a dog and loving me unconditionally through the Very Bad Times of these past months). I made some badass enchiladas two nights ago. I'm moving downtown in a few weeks. My dad'll be here next week, which means the following: oysters, donuts, BBQ, and more oysters.
As stated previously: Damn, son!
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Saga of My Life is Magical.
Yes, yes, in the vein of Fuck My Life and My Life is Average, I now present to you fine people who have so patiently waited for me to update this silly thing: My Life if Magical (MLIM).
Case in point: The small children next door. I think I posted earlier about this herd of tiny children that made instant buddies with Pinto, and how they were wondrous and made my day and kept asking if I had any candy (I don't, sadly). So yesterday after a particularly harrowing day of faxing my ex our move-out form because he left too abruptly to sign it (between that and the monthly checks and having to shove all the shit he left in corners where it is not visible to me, it's resembling a divorce more than a breakup) and sweltering in the 90+ degree heat and having a moment of pure undiluted absolute terror wherein I thought Pinto had finally discovered he's big enough to leap out the car windows (because he was in the backseat because he goes with me everywhere he's allowed and because I had to spend far too long in the copy shop trying to send the aforementioned fax), I go home and call Tulsa. The entire city. No, really, just my house, so I could relieve some stress to my mother (who has been remarkably understanding considering she was more in love with my ex than I ever was), but my father answers. And we're chatting, and it's nice, and then there's a knock on the door and I say I'll call him back and then!
THE TINY CHILDREN ARRIVE AND WANT TO PLAY WITH PINTO!
So we do, and they are again disappointed that I don't have any candy, and then they depart, and I call my father back and I'm all, "Never mind, my life is magical."
Case in point Redux: I went to Florida with my wisest dearest friend and her absurdly awesome parents and oh my god no one over the age of 6 should have that much fun at an amusement park. Here are ten tiny anecdotes to prove, once more, that my life is magical.
1. Orlando is full of alligators and fake British pubs, often right next door to each other. We saw a slew of gators at a mini-golf course right before we went and swung on the giant tall swing ride, identical to the one at the Prater in Vienna, only this one was better because there were at least 6,000 alligators down below our feet.
2. JURASSIC PARK. What more need be said? We rode the Jurassic Park River Adventure I think at least 19 times, not because it's particularly exciting or scary or even that good, but because every time we went through the giant gates and the theme music started playing, Karli and I got choked up. I kid you not.
3. HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. Yes, it exists. Yes, they will sell you a concoction called a Raptor on the Rocks. Yes, it is neon green and delicious.
4. RIDING ROLLER COASTERS AFTER HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. We decided that either this would be the worst idea (hangover, instant loss of buzz, vomiting) or best idea ever (most amazing roller coaster ride in the world). To be fair, we had ridden Dueling Dragons already a billion times--twice while being the only ones on the coaster and therefore automatic front row seats--and about 3/4s of the way through we both got pretty queasy, but I highly, highly recommend RWI (riding while intoxicated).
5. WOLVERINE. He said we giggled too much. This was true.
6. ALL THE JADED EMPLOYEES TRYING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME. On Dr. Doom's Fear Fall, we were privileged enough to experience some incredible improvised voice-over; I think usually they're supposed to cue up some pre-recorded ALL HAIL DOCTOR DOOM, but this guy began the ride with a simple "Uh-oh...Spaghetti-os." Needless to say I was too busy laughing to scream when the ride shot up into the heavens.
7. MY OVERPRICED FAKE SHARK TATTOO. Self-explanatory.
8. JURASSIC PARK. It was that awesome.
9. OUR 'SOUVENIR CUPS' = EASY WAY TO SNEAK BOOZE. Universal Studios has this crazy bar world that's basically a third park. Within this crazy bar world, there is something called Fat Tuesday's, aka The QuikTrip Lounge. Imagine a wall of smoothies of all colors and variety. Now imagine they are loaded with rum. Now imagine you dumped these into your souvenir mug. There you have it.
10. THE WOMEN IN THE HOT TUB AT THE HOTEL. Special props to them, because they were amazing and praised Jesus after every single thing. I told them I'd driven from North Carolina--they said "Praise Jesus for your safe arrival." I told them I was with my biffle Karli to celebrate her graduation. They said "Praise Jesus for her accomplishment." I said this hot tub sure is nice. They said "Praise Jesus, it takes the ache right out of my bones." Amazing.
Afterwards, Riggsie came back to old Wilmywood and we proceeded to have our own Senior Week, complete with shenanigans too insane to be recounted here, but needless to say they were amazing and we will never do them again. Four unrelated tiny anecdotes follow:
1. WE FOUND A ROOM OF REQUIREMENT. It was a karaoke bar. It appeared only so we could go down and wow the gathered patrons with our singing (Karli) and rappin' (me) skills. Seriously. I did the entire Jay-Z canon. I did. And we got to hold tiny dogs.
2. MIDNIGHT SWIMMING IN THE OCEAN. We saw Avatar outside at Carolina Beach, and afterwards, we hopped over to the actual beach and Karli leapt into the ocean. I stayed put. But it was still pretty fucking amazing.
3. KARLI READ BOOKS 2-6 OF HARRY POTTER. This is simply a feat worth recording.
4. WE ESCAPED. The details of this cannot be revealed. But I will tease you with these details: there was a bald guy named Willie involved. There was Shark Laugh. There was a hole in a screen, aka our getaway route. There was also this quote: "Karli I believe in you. If we were in Aladdin I would jump on the carpet." And I still mean it, to this very day.
In summation: My life is magical. I love my dog, I love the shorts I can now wear without feeling ashamed (though I did not realize how many bruises you acquire when you have a 40 pound puppy), I love that I'm beginning my radio job tomorrow, and I love you.
Case in point: The small children next door. I think I posted earlier about this herd of tiny children that made instant buddies with Pinto, and how they were wondrous and made my day and kept asking if I had any candy (I don't, sadly). So yesterday after a particularly harrowing day of faxing my ex our move-out form because he left too abruptly to sign it (between that and the monthly checks and having to shove all the shit he left in corners where it is not visible to me, it's resembling a divorce more than a breakup) and sweltering in the 90+ degree heat and having a moment of pure undiluted absolute terror wherein I thought Pinto had finally discovered he's big enough to leap out the car windows (because he was in the backseat because he goes with me everywhere he's allowed and because I had to spend far too long in the copy shop trying to send the aforementioned fax), I go home and call Tulsa. The entire city. No, really, just my house, so I could relieve some stress to my mother (who has been remarkably understanding considering she was more in love with my ex than I ever was), but my father answers. And we're chatting, and it's nice, and then there's a knock on the door and I say I'll call him back and then!
THE TINY CHILDREN ARRIVE AND WANT TO PLAY WITH PINTO!
So we do, and they are again disappointed that I don't have any candy, and then they depart, and I call my father back and I'm all, "Never mind, my life is magical."
Case in point Redux: I went to Florida with my wisest dearest friend and her absurdly awesome parents and oh my god no one over the age of 6 should have that much fun at an amusement park. Here are ten tiny anecdotes to prove, once more, that my life is magical.
1. Orlando is full of alligators and fake British pubs, often right next door to each other. We saw a slew of gators at a mini-golf course right before we went and swung on the giant tall swing ride, identical to the one at the Prater in Vienna, only this one was better because there were at least 6,000 alligators down below our feet.
2. JURASSIC PARK. What more need be said? We rode the Jurassic Park River Adventure I think at least 19 times, not because it's particularly exciting or scary or even that good, but because every time we went through the giant gates and the theme music started playing, Karli and I got choked up. I kid you not.
3. HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. Yes, it exists. Yes, they will sell you a concoction called a Raptor on the Rocks. Yes, it is neon green and delicious.
4. RIDING ROLLER COASTERS AFTER HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. We decided that either this would be the worst idea (hangover, instant loss of buzz, vomiting) or best idea ever (most amazing roller coaster ride in the world). To be fair, we had ridden Dueling Dragons already a billion times--twice while being the only ones on the coaster and therefore automatic front row seats--and about 3/4s of the way through we both got pretty queasy, but I highly, highly recommend RWI (riding while intoxicated).
5. WOLVERINE. He said we giggled too much. This was true.
6. ALL THE JADED EMPLOYEES TRYING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME. On Dr. Doom's Fear Fall, we were privileged enough to experience some incredible improvised voice-over; I think usually they're supposed to cue up some pre-recorded ALL HAIL DOCTOR DOOM, but this guy began the ride with a simple "Uh-oh...Spaghetti-os." Needless to say I was too busy laughing to scream when the ride shot up into the heavens.
7. MY OVERPRICED FAKE SHARK TATTOO. Self-explanatory.
8. JURASSIC PARK. It was that awesome.
9. OUR 'SOUVENIR CUPS' = EASY WAY TO SNEAK BOOZE. Universal Studios has this crazy bar world that's basically a third park. Within this crazy bar world, there is something called Fat Tuesday's, aka The QuikTrip Lounge. Imagine a wall of smoothies of all colors and variety. Now imagine they are loaded with rum. Now imagine you dumped these into your souvenir mug. There you have it.
10. THE WOMEN IN THE HOT TUB AT THE HOTEL. Special props to them, because they were amazing and praised Jesus after every single thing. I told them I'd driven from North Carolina--they said "Praise Jesus for your safe arrival." I told them I was with my biffle Karli to celebrate her graduation. They said "Praise Jesus for her accomplishment." I said this hot tub sure is nice. They said "Praise Jesus, it takes the ache right out of my bones." Amazing.
Afterwards, Riggsie came back to old Wilmywood and we proceeded to have our own Senior Week, complete with shenanigans too insane to be recounted here, but needless to say they were amazing and we will never do them again. Four unrelated tiny anecdotes follow:
1. WE FOUND A ROOM OF REQUIREMENT. It was a karaoke bar. It appeared only so we could go down and wow the gathered patrons with our singing (Karli) and rappin' (me) skills. Seriously. I did the entire Jay-Z canon. I did. And we got to hold tiny dogs.
2. MIDNIGHT SWIMMING IN THE OCEAN. We saw Avatar outside at Carolina Beach, and afterwards, we hopped over to the actual beach and Karli leapt into the ocean. I stayed put. But it was still pretty fucking amazing.
3. KARLI READ BOOKS 2-6 OF HARRY POTTER. This is simply a feat worth recording.
4. WE ESCAPED. The details of this cannot be revealed. But I will tease you with these details: there was a bald guy named Willie involved. There was Shark Laugh. There was a hole in a screen, aka our getaway route. There was also this quote: "Karli I believe in you. If we were in Aladdin I would jump on the carpet." And I still mean it, to this very day.
In summation: My life is magical. I love my dog, I love the shorts I can now wear without feeling ashamed (though I did not realize how many bruises you acquire when you have a 40 pound puppy), I love that I'm beginning my radio job tomorrow, and I love you.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Saga of Sweat.
I don't know how to title these things. But rest assured: it's sweaty here. And I couldn't love it more.
I think you know things are going well when it's your day off, you're still in your semi-jammies (see: the aforementioned bright yellow shorts which, I might add, were originally my father's and therefore probably at least 30 years old but far too hideous to be deemed "vintage") and drinking a pot of coffee and sitting on your back patio with your heat-exhausted dog and you realize you have "Summer of 69" in your head.
And you don't even like Bryan Adams.
So things are good. Things are preposterously good. And I have no idea how that happened but it is a welcome, welcome change.
Work at Ye Olde Censeless continues to trip by. I sit and count. I counted all the way to 1,000 the other day--not in one go, but cumulatively. This is definitely the highest I've ever counted. I suggested to my co-workers that we start counting like The Count from Sesame Street, and they all had a laugh and then probably secretly thought I was very, very weird.
Matthew commiserated with me on this while he was here; he works at the pink hospital where we were both born nigh on two and half decades ago. He's a surgical assistant or something like that--basically he holds people's guts and grosses all of us out because his dinner conversation consists of "So I was holding this colon today..." Anyway--apparently many, if not all, of Matthew's co-workers think he's weird. This is astounding to me, because my brother is probably the least weird person I know. But because he lives in Tulsa, and because he's 25 and not married with two children already, and he doesn't go to church or listen to country music or drive a pick-up (though he says he wants one), he is assuredly a minority. AKA a weirdo.
Which only tells me that I better stay where I am for a while, because if people think Matthew's weird--hoo boy, they're gonna institutionalize me. .
This is beginning to happen at my workplace. Like I've said before, the work is incredibly mundane, and once my coffee kicks in I start chattering. I chatter mainly about my dog, and how if I get another dog in the future I'm going to name it Potato, and how I think "Doctor" is a funny name for a dog, and how I might rename Pinto "Trotsky" because, well, he trots a lot. And also gets the trots. Not lately, thank god.
But I don't think of myself as odd, or at least no more odd than most of the folks I went to college with. It is kind of a reality slap when we're talking about books and I say I'm spending the summer reading Chandler and Chekov and Cheever, and the two-toothed lady with her gray hair piled on her head in a samurai top-knot with a cat sweatshirt on says, "Do you like James Patterson? I like that one lady--Janet Eva--Evan--"
"Evanovich."
"Yeah, her. She's great."
I haven't read a scrap of either of these authors, but I know their names because they're the brick paperbacks available beside the Orbit and Twizzlers in the check-out line at Wal-Mart.
But I am far too busy trying to keep the count in my head to have an existential meltdown about the futility of my chosen profession. (See above: the welcome, welcome change).
I did have a meltdown the other day, though, when I received some unhappy news during my lunch break, which I spend driving home, running Pinto around the block, delighting in his delight to see me, and then making a sandwich with guacamole that invariable spurts out and stains my dress as I'm eating it on the drive back (the lady at the gas station very kindly did not remark on the green glob of baby shit on my lapel, then handed me a paper towel to clean it up).
As it turns out, the landlord of the house I'm slated to move in to come August is not on board with having two big dogs living there--the first dog being Hank, the boxer, who loves nothing more than hugging and sleeping and very stoically allows my little Pinto to lick his jowls. The situation's still up in the air and I am crossing my fingers and quietly praying that I'll be able to keep Pinto, and I'm asking all of you to do the same. There's just no way I can find a new apartment, furnish it, and still afford to eat--and given all that's gone on this year, I'm not too keen on living alone.
Plus, this house! Pinto and I went on a walk in the neighborhood the other day, and good god, it's amazing. It's a house, for one. It's over 100 years old. It has a porch, and there are sidewalks and churches and big trees and a brick street, and it's within walking distance of the river and downtown and oh, lord, it's something to behold. And I've already dreamt of my room in that house, a room with only what I own (which is books and the stolen papasan chair only), and it's too accessible of a dream to just relinquish.
And I love my dog. I love my dog hideously. No one should adopt a dog because no creature has the right to monopolize somebody's heart like this. But I am extremely fortunate in that I have an immaculate family, and a brother who's visited and run with Pinto on the beach, and who's agreed to foster-uncle my mutt if worst comes to worst. And I've already run through the scenario in my head: if it happens, Pinto and I will have a glorious roadtrip to Oklahoma, and then I'll cry uncontrollably all the way back to the coast.
So all of you readers out there: pray or hope or knock on wood for me. I need to bank some karma on this one.
Two months ago, if I had found this out, it's guaranteed I would have been lying on the couch in a sweaty stupor thinking of escape plans and self-inflicted disasters. It would've undone me. But I don't know if it's the weather or my prescription or just a determined buoyancy in my soul, but I'm hopeful. I'm happy. I'm as much in love with my dog as I ever was.
We had an amazing, amazing day last weekend. We were out in the yard before his suppertime, before I went to see Iron Man 2 (which only confirmed what I already knew--I really love robots and guns and am therefore a 12 year old boy), and there were all these little children in the patio two gates down from me. They're squealing and pointing and saying "Look at the puppy, look at the puppy!" and Pinto's getting feisty and excited.
Next thing I know, Pinto is off his leash and running in circles and chasing sticks and basically exuding pure exuberance, and these little kids are all crowded around me and babbling nonstop and calling Pinto "Coco" and asking if I have any candy and pulling things out of my pockets and lassoing themselves around my legs when Pinto frolics after them. And it's absolutely amazing.
This is what I mean by joy. Everytime we go on a walk and I see someone drive by and smile, it makes me gladder than I could know. When we're downtown and some drunk frat boy bends down and proceeds to let Pinto slobber all over him, it makes me unabashedly happy. When we pass by the retarded woman who takes her staggering walks at the same time we do, her face lights up and Pinto's tail goes turbo and she slurs to me, "He's a good boy."
I've been accused in the past of being a sentimentalist. But I swear, my life makes me one.
So! If you want to see Pinto the Miracle Dog, and tell me if I look any different after losing 32.5 pounds (I KNOW RIGHT SHIT!), come see me. I'm here in this spacious apartment 'til August. Bring your swimsuit and some dollar bills for bars and your darling self, and we'll be all set.
I think you know things are going well when it's your day off, you're still in your semi-jammies (see: the aforementioned bright yellow shorts which, I might add, were originally my father's and therefore probably at least 30 years old but far too hideous to be deemed "vintage") and drinking a pot of coffee and sitting on your back patio with your heat-exhausted dog and you realize you have "Summer of 69" in your head.
And you don't even like Bryan Adams.
So things are good. Things are preposterously good. And I have no idea how that happened but it is a welcome, welcome change.
Work at Ye Olde Censeless continues to trip by. I sit and count. I counted all the way to 1,000 the other day--not in one go, but cumulatively. This is definitely the highest I've ever counted. I suggested to my co-workers that we start counting like The Count from Sesame Street, and they all had a laugh and then probably secretly thought I was very, very weird.
Matthew commiserated with me on this while he was here; he works at the pink hospital where we were both born nigh on two and half decades ago. He's a surgical assistant or something like that--basically he holds people's guts and grosses all of us out because his dinner conversation consists of "So I was holding this colon today..." Anyway--apparently many, if not all, of Matthew's co-workers think he's weird. This is astounding to me, because my brother is probably the least weird person I know. But because he lives in Tulsa, and because he's 25 and not married with two children already, and he doesn't go to church or listen to country music or drive a pick-up (though he says he wants one), he is assuredly a minority. AKA a weirdo.
Which only tells me that I better stay where I am for a while, because if people think Matthew's weird--hoo boy, they're gonna institutionalize me. .
This is beginning to happen at my workplace. Like I've said before, the work is incredibly mundane, and once my coffee kicks in I start chattering. I chatter mainly about my dog, and how if I get another dog in the future I'm going to name it Potato, and how I think "Doctor" is a funny name for a dog, and how I might rename Pinto "Trotsky" because, well, he trots a lot. And also gets the trots. Not lately, thank god.
But I don't think of myself as odd, or at least no more odd than most of the folks I went to college with. It is kind of a reality slap when we're talking about books and I say I'm spending the summer reading Chandler and Chekov and Cheever, and the two-toothed lady with her gray hair piled on her head in a samurai top-knot with a cat sweatshirt on says, "Do you like James Patterson? I like that one lady--Janet Eva--Evan--"
"Evanovich."
"Yeah, her. She's great."
I haven't read a scrap of either of these authors, but I know their names because they're the brick paperbacks available beside the Orbit and Twizzlers in the check-out line at Wal-Mart.
But I am far too busy trying to keep the count in my head to have an existential meltdown about the futility of my chosen profession. (See above: the welcome, welcome change).
I did have a meltdown the other day, though, when I received some unhappy news during my lunch break, which I spend driving home, running Pinto around the block, delighting in his delight to see me, and then making a sandwich with guacamole that invariable spurts out and stains my dress as I'm eating it on the drive back (the lady at the gas station very kindly did not remark on the green glob of baby shit on my lapel, then handed me a paper towel to clean it up).
As it turns out, the landlord of the house I'm slated to move in to come August is not on board with having two big dogs living there--the first dog being Hank, the boxer, who loves nothing more than hugging and sleeping and very stoically allows my little Pinto to lick his jowls. The situation's still up in the air and I am crossing my fingers and quietly praying that I'll be able to keep Pinto, and I'm asking all of you to do the same. There's just no way I can find a new apartment, furnish it, and still afford to eat--and given all that's gone on this year, I'm not too keen on living alone.
Plus, this house! Pinto and I went on a walk in the neighborhood the other day, and good god, it's amazing. It's a house, for one. It's over 100 years old. It has a porch, and there are sidewalks and churches and big trees and a brick street, and it's within walking distance of the river and downtown and oh, lord, it's something to behold. And I've already dreamt of my room in that house, a room with only what I own (which is books and the stolen papasan chair only), and it's too accessible of a dream to just relinquish.
And I love my dog. I love my dog hideously. No one should adopt a dog because no creature has the right to monopolize somebody's heart like this. But I am extremely fortunate in that I have an immaculate family, and a brother who's visited and run with Pinto on the beach, and who's agreed to foster-uncle my mutt if worst comes to worst. And I've already run through the scenario in my head: if it happens, Pinto and I will have a glorious roadtrip to Oklahoma, and then I'll cry uncontrollably all the way back to the coast.
So all of you readers out there: pray or hope or knock on wood for me. I need to bank some karma on this one.
Two months ago, if I had found this out, it's guaranteed I would have been lying on the couch in a sweaty stupor thinking of escape plans and self-inflicted disasters. It would've undone me. But I don't know if it's the weather or my prescription or just a determined buoyancy in my soul, but I'm hopeful. I'm happy. I'm as much in love with my dog as I ever was.
We had an amazing, amazing day last weekend. We were out in the yard before his suppertime, before I went to see Iron Man 2 (which only confirmed what I already knew--I really love robots and guns and am therefore a 12 year old boy), and there were all these little children in the patio two gates down from me. They're squealing and pointing and saying "Look at the puppy, look at the puppy!" and Pinto's getting feisty and excited.
Next thing I know, Pinto is off his leash and running in circles and chasing sticks and basically exuding pure exuberance, and these little kids are all crowded around me and babbling nonstop and calling Pinto "Coco" and asking if I have any candy and pulling things out of my pockets and lassoing themselves around my legs when Pinto frolics after them. And it's absolutely amazing.
This is what I mean by joy. Everytime we go on a walk and I see someone drive by and smile, it makes me gladder than I could know. When we're downtown and some drunk frat boy bends down and proceeds to let Pinto slobber all over him, it makes me unabashedly happy. When we pass by the retarded woman who takes her staggering walks at the same time we do, her face lights up and Pinto's tail goes turbo and she slurs to me, "He's a good boy."
I've been accused in the past of being a sentimentalist. But I swear, my life makes me one.
So! If you want to see Pinto the Miracle Dog, and tell me if I look any different after losing 32.5 pounds (I KNOW RIGHT SHIT!), come see me. I'm here in this spacious apartment 'til August. Bring your swimsuit and some dollar bills for bars and your darling self, and we'll be all set.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Saga of Papers.
I am a terrible blogger!
But then: who's surprised?
I think I started this blog assuming my day-to-day life would conveniently lump itself into mini-essays, all coherent, all compelling, all, hopefully, comedic. I know I ended up keeping a journal not only to sharpen my memory, as I have a bizarre terror of forgetting, but to make my days meaningful. As if there's some report that needs to be turned in every night to God or your conscience or Obama or whoever, and then it gets approved: "Yes, today was a good day. You have not wasted your time." Then it's stamped and put in an Interdepartmental Envelope and filed off somewhere in the Almighty File Cabinet in the Sky.
And here's what I've learned: That's a really unhelpful way to exist.
Which is probably a roundabout way of saying I think my life has shrunk to very, very small sagas. Like, miniature sagas. Microscopic. Which might not make for very interesting posts.
But here's the other thing I've learned: Happiness is not a war. It's not the C ensus, this monumental decennial undertaking that I'm pretty sure has single-handedly deforested all of Argentina. It's not concentrated meditation and struggle and willpower.
It's not making every day Tolstoy. It's making every day Post-Its. That's all you need. Post-Its.
(I'll be honest, even I don't really know what I'm talking about but I think it's right).
Post-Its.
So what have I been doing, inquiring minds want to know! I've been working at the C ensus, where I shuffle and paperclip and holepunch papers. So. Many. Papers. I don't mind, however, because the work is a kindly mix of mind-numbing and challenging because it involves numbers, which, as I think I've indicated before, I am real, real bad at. So while I'm matching AA Listing 4388 with BINDER LABEL 4388 with MAP POUCH 4388 with BLOCK LISTING 4388, arranging them in a nice stack, and holepunching that fucker like it's my job (see what I did there--it is my job), I'm listening to my yearlong backlog of This American Life. Which is great. Except I've run out of them, and I've only been working a week. The hours are long, the walls are taupe, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders feel like a towel wrung dry by the end of the day, but the people are incredible.
You cannot make these people up, they are so genuinely bizarre and wacky and wonderful. Like the lady who shares my desk is a terrible fiddler and lived on a llama farm. And the guy down the hall who is enormous and has the loudest, nasalliest voice ever heard which sends me into hysterics whenever he comes by to shout "HOW WE DOING DOWN HERE GUYS?!" And the 70+ year old man who moves as if he's about 40 and wears snappy paisley shirts and I think has a young son but definitely has skin that is neon pink in all weather. And the undergraduate who calls me "Girl" all the time and wears pointy witch shoes that she always kicks off under her table. And! The best! The old dude who sits in the back and reads books and when I asked him what he was reading--because I am a weird flirt when I'm in my work clothes--he showed me the cover, something all spectral and stylized called "The Path of the Way of the Righteous World and Universe In the Light of Good Days" or something that I assumed was Christian literature.
"Oh," I said. "What's it about?"
And do you know what he said?!
"Shamanism."
And then he proceeded to show me his copy of The Idiot's Guide to Understanding Einstein.
Do you understand that this man is real!? I didn't make him up! He exists! His name is Richard!
So I kind of adore that side of things, the insane cast of miscreants and oddballs who are working, albeit temporarily, for the government.
Pinto and I went on a hike and got lost in a forest, which was grand. Then we went to a reading and he charmed everyone--or annoyed the hell out of them, I don't know and don't care, ha!--and I read, which went over real well. I've lost about 30 pounds. I'm slated to assume an Editor position for the litmag here, which is exciting. I made a big old thing of stir fry and will never understand why I prefer leftover cold stir fry to good, just-cooked stir fry.
But that's really the most of it. I've got a busy summer that'll be packed with paychecks, partyin', and my papasan chair that I totally scored while driving through the neighborhood (it was on the curb and yes I scrubbed it down before deeming it my throne). My folks are both coming to visit, and hopefully Matthew will be back for a return trip, and OH YEAH I FORGOT I AM GOING TO FLORIDA WITH RIGGS AND THE RIGGS TO RIDE ROLLER COASTERS. No, really, I did forget that. That's what's happening nowadays--I'm more excited to take Pinto on his morning walk (a sweaty, invigorating affair where I wear a pair of bright yellow shorts and look totally awesome) than I am about an actual vacation.
And that, friends, is not such a bad way to be.
But then: who's surprised?
I think I started this blog assuming my day-to-day life would conveniently lump itself into mini-essays, all coherent, all compelling, all, hopefully, comedic. I know I ended up keeping a journal not only to sharpen my memory, as I have a bizarre terror of forgetting, but to make my days meaningful. As if there's some report that needs to be turned in every night to God or your conscience or Obama or whoever, and then it gets approved: "Yes, today was a good day. You have not wasted your time." Then it's stamped and put in an Interdepartmental Envelope and filed off somewhere in the Almighty File Cabinet in the Sky.
And here's what I've learned: That's a really unhelpful way to exist.
Which is probably a roundabout way of saying I think my life has shrunk to very, very small sagas. Like, miniature sagas. Microscopic. Which might not make for very interesting posts.
But here's the other thing I've learned: Happiness is not a war. It's not the C ensus, this monumental decennial undertaking that I'm pretty sure has single-handedly deforested all of Argentina. It's not concentrated meditation and struggle and willpower.
It's not making every day Tolstoy. It's making every day Post-Its. That's all you need. Post-Its.
(I'll be honest, even I don't really know what I'm talking about but I think it's right).
Post-Its.
So what have I been doing, inquiring minds want to know! I've been working at the C ensus, where I shuffle and paperclip and holepunch papers. So. Many. Papers. I don't mind, however, because the work is a kindly mix of mind-numbing and challenging because it involves numbers, which, as I think I've indicated before, I am real, real bad at. So while I'm matching AA Listing 4388 with BINDER LABEL 4388 with MAP POUCH 4388 with BLOCK LISTING 4388, arranging them in a nice stack, and holepunching that fucker like it's my job (see what I did there--it is my job), I'm listening to my yearlong backlog of This American Life. Which is great. Except I've run out of them, and I've only been working a week. The hours are long, the walls are taupe, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders feel like a towel wrung dry by the end of the day, but the people are incredible.
You cannot make these people up, they are so genuinely bizarre and wacky and wonderful. Like the lady who shares my desk is a terrible fiddler and lived on a llama farm. And the guy down the hall who is enormous and has the loudest, nasalliest voice ever heard which sends me into hysterics whenever he comes by to shout "HOW WE DOING DOWN HERE GUYS?!" And the 70+ year old man who moves as if he's about 40 and wears snappy paisley shirts and I think has a young son but definitely has skin that is neon pink in all weather. And the undergraduate who calls me "Girl" all the time and wears pointy witch shoes that she always kicks off under her table. And! The best! The old dude who sits in the back and reads books and when I asked him what he was reading--because I am a weird flirt when I'm in my work clothes--he showed me the cover, something all spectral and stylized called "The Path of the Way of the Righteous World and Universe In the Light of Good Days" or something that I assumed was Christian literature.
"Oh," I said. "What's it about?"
And do you know what he said?!
"Shamanism."
And then he proceeded to show me his copy of The Idiot's Guide to Understanding Einstein.
Do you understand that this man is real!? I didn't make him up! He exists! His name is Richard!
So I kind of adore that side of things, the insane cast of miscreants and oddballs who are working, albeit temporarily, for the government.
Pinto and I went on a hike and got lost in a forest, which was grand. Then we went to a reading and he charmed everyone--or annoyed the hell out of them, I don't know and don't care, ha!--and I read, which went over real well. I've lost about 30 pounds. I'm slated to assume an Editor position for the litmag here, which is exciting. I made a big old thing of stir fry and will never understand why I prefer leftover cold stir fry to good, just-cooked stir fry.
But that's really the most of it. I've got a busy summer that'll be packed with paychecks, partyin', and my papasan chair that I totally scored while driving through the neighborhood (it was on the curb and yes I scrubbed it down before deeming it my throne). My folks are both coming to visit, and hopefully Matthew will be back for a return trip, and OH YEAH I FORGOT I AM GOING TO FLORIDA WITH RIGGS AND THE RIGGS TO RIDE ROLLER COASTERS. No, really, I did forget that. That's what's happening nowadays--I'm more excited to take Pinto on his morning walk (a sweaty, invigorating affair where I wear a pair of bright yellow shorts and look totally awesome) than I am about an actual vacation.
And that, friends, is not such a bad way to be.
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