There is no sense to any of the following but there have been too many small good things recently. Please regard the following post as a Whitman's Sampler, which my parents have bought one another for Christmas for maybe the past twenty years because they are adorable (the metaphor is also apt because most folks can find at least one thing they adore and abhor in a Whitman's Sampler--for me it's the Toffee Chips and Cherry Cordial, respectively). (Also I just looked up "Whitman's Sampler guide" and found this and that is why I love America.)
I. HOUSING
Now there is a word I do not miss from campus days of yore. It has been a time of doors, friends, namely the one with the sticky lock that leads to the aqua stairs that lead to my apartment, and the one to my bedroom that must be propped with an obliging rock, and the one that doesn't exist between living quarters and writing quarters and was replaced with some curtains by my mother. Also, previous doors: the screen door of the old apartment that taller folks than I propped so that we could tote my couch out, not once, but twice. The swinging door between kitchen and living room that I'm pretty sure has some petrified Pinto poop from his puppy days that I'm certain has since been painted over in Mind-Destroying White courtesy of the Bell Apartment Company, may their souls writhe in moral agony because they were meanies (except for Mark the Elderly Repair Man on His Customized Golf Cart--he was pretty legit).
In less ambivalent terms, I moved!
And now I reside in an apartment that is two years younger than the entire state of Oklahoma. Mull over that for a moment while you chew on your piece of wheat, then deduce: awesome!
Pinto and I went through a rough adjustment time, wherein he kept his nose a millimeter from my heels and it was not unlike being followed by a loyal elk or walking ottoman. Either way he posed a hazard. But he has finally acclimated, and now he delights in sleeping in his tiger-sized crate or chasing Hemingway, the six-toed cat that lives on the porch. Which leads to:
II. PORCHES AND OTHER INDEFINABLE SPACES
Guys, do you know about porches? I mean, do you know about porches?
Did you know, for instance, that you can lug your excruciatingly large and comfortable couch to a its semi-permanent home at a friends house at 4 p.m. or thereabouts and then spend approximately six hours sitting on a porch swing, simply swinging and shouting at the cars (and/or horse-and-carriages did you know Wilmington is magical because it is) for something like six hours afterwards? Did you also know you can gather to presumably watch Blue Velvet and instead spend another something-like-six hours on a porch drinking sweet tea and bourbon instead?
Did you also know that one minute on a porch swing has approximately the same effect as 1) strong shot of whiskey or 2) half a narcotic or 3) ten minutes holding a baby and/or sleeping animal in terms of how much better you feel afterward?
All of these things are true.
Sadly, I do not myself possess a porch, but my friends two streets over do, and so Pinto and I tromp over there with embarrassingly regularity. What we do there is a mystery to me, but it is much like a bar in its dark and tempting pull, where you know, should you dare to plant yourself on the stoop steps, you will be rooted for at least the rest of the day. This leads to:
III. SUMMER
Summer is over. My daily production of sweat would argue otherwise, but according to the good ol' planner, it's true. Classes start tomorrow, and my tuition is due, and I can't believe it, really. Here is the part where I get all sentimental and start pulling nostalgic conclusions from things, the old "this time last year" modus operandi which is foolish and not productive. But we'll put it this way: everything that happened last year has happened again, and this time with gusto! As in, I moved. I've made friends. I've eaten good food. I've gone on good walks.
And, last but not least, not at all, I threw an amazing party.
This party was not amazing by standards of previous parties I have helped coordinate (AHEM WAGNER AND VODKA AHEM). In fact, I'm sure some people did not have an impeccable time because my dog jumped on them in a moment of unfettered glee and maybe or maybe not accidentally kind of punched this person in the nuts. Or because I insisted they try the combination of Cheerwine (aka North Carolina Dr. Pepper, only flat) and Svedka. Or because they were sweating because it's hot in my apartment.
But! It was still amazing.
And it was amazing in the goofy way all parties are amazing--solely for being an amazing party. There were no kegstands or pot shots delivered by frat brothers from the next suite over, but there were a lot of people, and a lot of drinks, and a lot of lovely dresses, one of which was worn by me, and which, shall we say, did not go to waste that evening. And maybe I was washing cups for half an hour straight the next day and my three middle toes are still numb from the combination of cobblestones and heels, but all in all--worth it. Utterly and totally.
And this leads me to:
FALL: Hamilton, you have a lot to live up to when I grace your hill this October. Prepare now. Cake would be nice, but friends (!!!!) will do.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Saga of Size, Sighs.
This title is not meant as a pun (though it is a fine one), but rather as stakes to ground the flyaway tarps that are me trying to make my life into sentences. See also: that past sentence.
But first, Pinto.
I know, guys, I know, you're all out there rolling your eyes thinking Juh-heee-zus Rachel shut up about your dang dog already but whatever! I can't help it. He's my little fluffer nutter, and he is loved and revered by all who are fortunate enough to know him.
Also, he is a moose.
Both my parents have visited me this summer, and they have both said the same thing re: my moose dog: He's huge! To be fair, Penny, our Corgi, is small. Or, at least, not huge. As in, she is about 20 pounds, and Pinto is 50.
Now, as you will recall, I am actually somewhat retarded when it comes to numbers of any sort--my brain starts buzzing like the yogurt section at Wal-Mart and no matter how much I try to think, I can't really put 50 pounds, or 300 feet, or 7000 miles, in perspective. I'm certain whatever quadrant of my brain devoted to spatial reasoning was long ago taken over by Oasis lyrics.
Then there's the fact that I have been with Pinto since he really was just a wee little bean, so he hasn't sprouted so much as imperceptibly increased in the previous months. Ergo, to me, he doesn't seem like a big dog. He is not a little dog, yes--most of the time I just think of him as my little fluffer nutter.
Then we went to puppy school.
To be short, I think I now understand how mothers who get called about little Bobby's trip to the principal's office feel. Pinto is not exactly a star student. In fact, he's the equivalent of Roger from Doug--not the kind of dog you'd want to bring home for dinner. After our first class, I was pretty close to just sitting in the car and having a meltdown, but then I realized it was way too hot outside for such silliness, and, moreover, how silly it was to be so upset.
As my wisest friend Karlena J. Riggs put it: "Rachel. Seriously. You have to stop taking criticisms of your dog as a personal affront." (Karli also said, when I screamed OH LOOK IT'S A PIGGY at the Animal Actors show at Universal: Rachel. Seriously. You need to calm down.)
Pinto has a whole slew of little idiosyncrasies that make him a special case at puppy school: he is completely uninterested in the presence of food, so while the other dogs are happily heeling and sitting and staying, Pinto is dancing around so he can go make friends. Pinto's head is 90% mouth, so he likes to say hello with his teeth. And, I think, most tellingly, Pinto has a vice-tight grip on my heart because he was the only thing that stayed constant in the past 6 months, when I was completely alone and afraid and awkward--the other couples in the class (and they are all couples) have children, have houses, have each other.
I have my dog.
So that's why I never shut up about my dog, and why I crouch on the floor daily to look him in the eye regardless of the inevitable faceful of puppy breath, and why I sleep with him even though he vibrates the bed whenever he gets an itch, and why I almost crash my car every time I take him on a drive because I'm looking in the sideview mirror at his ears flying back and the unmitigated glee on his face.
And if that isn't a good enough explanation for you, well. Too damn bad.
So we went to puppy school for the second time yesterday (it's a 6 week course before he is "Star Puppy" certified), and we did a little exercise where we swapped dogs, a kind of canine musical chairs. And so I got to pet the 2 month old Shepard, and the little spring-loaded yellow mutt, and then I look over and Peyton's owner, a guy probably 6'5, muscled, imposing, is straining to keep Pinto in order.
That's when I kind of thought: okay. I guess he is a moose.
The good news is two-fold. Whenever we're out walking, absolutely no one fucks with me because I have a beast at the end of my least. Also, because I spend about an hour a day reeling him in from whatever squirrel/cat/interesting patch of monkey grass he is desperate to interact with, I am acquiring some legitimate guns. If my professional Scrabble career never takes off, I might start entering Arm Wrestling tournaments.
As usual, this post has been entirely about Pinto. But, briefly, there is also the size and the sighs of me.
Roll the drums and sound the trumpets, bitches, because I've lost 40 motherfuckin' pounds. Again, due to my inability to process any kind of abstract integer, I have no real idea of how much this is, but I do know this: I went to Ross. I scoured the racks. I extracted a slinky, teal-blue satin Calvin Klein number, thinking, "Oh, what the heck." I put that sucker on. I zipped it up.
And I looked good.
Which then, of course, inspired me to keep looking, and extracting, and zipping, and amaze-ing, and, of course, purchasing. So I'm down about a Benjamin, but my gigantic closet, weirdly located off the bathroom, is replete with a dozen new dresses. 5 of them are Calvin Klein. I wish I wasn't so proud of that, but I am.
And it is so, so, so nice to go through my clothing and discard not only what's too big, but what's cheap, what's worn, what's simply ugly because I can now go into a store and look through the middle of the rack, not the extreme end. It's a really awful phrase that I'm not fond of, but I have to admit, it's kind of true: Nothing really tastes as good as looking good feels. (Which, again, does not mean I don't eat, but that I only treat myself to a cheeseburger when I'm having my monthly Cheeseburger & Chandler night, where me and my detective novel pull up a stool at P.T.'s).
When I started typing this, I thought the 'sighs' in the title referred to all the sighing I've been doing lately, which is a lot--mostly exasperated, exhausted, between moving apartments by my lonesome (see the aforementioned budding gun show) and making novice's mistakes at the radio station and my dog's tumbleweeds of shedding hair that are overtaking the corners of my apartment--but I think I deserve some contented sighs, too. I have a semi-tan from spending days at the beach. I have a dog who does not shit on the carpet. I have five Calvin Klein dresses.
And, and, and! MAD MEN PREMIERS TONIGHT.
Glory hallelujah amen!
But first, Pinto.
I know, guys, I know, you're all out there rolling your eyes thinking Juh-heee-zus Rachel shut up about your dang dog already but whatever! I can't help it. He's my little fluffer nutter, and he is loved and revered by all who are fortunate enough to know him.
Also, he is a moose.
Both my parents have visited me this summer, and they have both said the same thing re: my moose dog: He's huge! To be fair, Penny, our Corgi, is small. Or, at least, not huge. As in, she is about 20 pounds, and Pinto is 50.
Now, as you will recall, I am actually somewhat retarded when it comes to numbers of any sort--my brain starts buzzing like the yogurt section at Wal-Mart and no matter how much I try to think, I can't really put 50 pounds, or 300 feet, or 7000 miles, in perspective. I'm certain whatever quadrant of my brain devoted to spatial reasoning was long ago taken over by Oasis lyrics.
Then there's the fact that I have been with Pinto since he really was just a wee little bean, so he hasn't sprouted so much as imperceptibly increased in the previous months. Ergo, to me, he doesn't seem like a big dog. He is not a little dog, yes--most of the time I just think of him as my little fluffer nutter.
Then we went to puppy school.
To be short, I think I now understand how mothers who get called about little Bobby's trip to the principal's office feel. Pinto is not exactly a star student. In fact, he's the equivalent of Roger from Doug--not the kind of dog you'd want to bring home for dinner. After our first class, I was pretty close to just sitting in the car and having a meltdown, but then I realized it was way too hot outside for such silliness, and, moreover, how silly it was to be so upset.
As my wisest friend Karlena J. Riggs put it: "Rachel. Seriously. You have to stop taking criticisms of your dog as a personal affront." (Karli also said, when I screamed OH LOOK IT'S A PIGGY at the Animal Actors show at Universal: Rachel. Seriously. You need to calm down.)
Pinto has a whole slew of little idiosyncrasies that make him a special case at puppy school: he is completely uninterested in the presence of food, so while the other dogs are happily heeling and sitting and staying, Pinto is dancing around so he can go make friends. Pinto's head is 90% mouth, so he likes to say hello with his teeth. And, I think, most tellingly, Pinto has a vice-tight grip on my heart because he was the only thing that stayed constant in the past 6 months, when I was completely alone and afraid and awkward--the other couples in the class (and they are all couples) have children, have houses, have each other.
I have my dog.
So that's why I never shut up about my dog, and why I crouch on the floor daily to look him in the eye regardless of the inevitable faceful of puppy breath, and why I sleep with him even though he vibrates the bed whenever he gets an itch, and why I almost crash my car every time I take him on a drive because I'm looking in the sideview mirror at his ears flying back and the unmitigated glee on his face.
And if that isn't a good enough explanation for you, well. Too damn bad.
So we went to puppy school for the second time yesterday (it's a 6 week course before he is "Star Puppy" certified), and we did a little exercise where we swapped dogs, a kind of canine musical chairs. And so I got to pet the 2 month old Shepard, and the little spring-loaded yellow mutt, and then I look over and Peyton's owner, a guy probably 6'5, muscled, imposing, is straining to keep Pinto in order.
That's when I kind of thought: okay. I guess he is a moose.
The good news is two-fold. Whenever we're out walking, absolutely no one fucks with me because I have a beast at the end of my least. Also, because I spend about an hour a day reeling him in from whatever squirrel/cat/interesting patch of monkey grass he is desperate to interact with, I am acquiring some legitimate guns. If my professional Scrabble career never takes off, I might start entering Arm Wrestling tournaments.
As usual, this post has been entirely about Pinto. But, briefly, there is also the size and the sighs of me.
Roll the drums and sound the trumpets, bitches, because I've lost 40 motherfuckin' pounds. Again, due to my inability to process any kind of abstract integer, I have no real idea of how much this is, but I do know this: I went to Ross. I scoured the racks. I extracted a slinky, teal-blue satin Calvin Klein number, thinking, "Oh, what the heck." I put that sucker on. I zipped it up.
And I looked good.
Which then, of course, inspired me to keep looking, and extracting, and zipping, and amaze-ing, and, of course, purchasing. So I'm down about a Benjamin, but my gigantic closet, weirdly located off the bathroom, is replete with a dozen new dresses. 5 of them are Calvin Klein. I wish I wasn't so proud of that, but I am.
And it is so, so, so nice to go through my clothing and discard not only what's too big, but what's cheap, what's worn, what's simply ugly because I can now go into a store and look through the middle of the rack, not the extreme end. It's a really awful phrase that I'm not fond of, but I have to admit, it's kind of true: Nothing really tastes as good as looking good feels. (Which, again, does not mean I don't eat, but that I only treat myself to a cheeseburger when I'm having my monthly Cheeseburger & Chandler night, where me and my detective novel pull up a stool at P.T.'s).
When I started typing this, I thought the 'sighs' in the title referred to all the sighing I've been doing lately, which is a lot--mostly exasperated, exhausted, between moving apartments by my lonesome (see the aforementioned budding gun show) and making novice's mistakes at the radio station and my dog's tumbleweeds of shedding hair that are overtaking the corners of my apartment--but I think I deserve some contented sighs, too. I have a semi-tan from spending days at the beach. I have a dog who does not shit on the carpet. I have five Calvin Klein dresses.
And, and, and! MAD MEN PREMIERS TONIGHT.
Glory hallelujah amen!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Saga of the Spooks.
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.
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.
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.
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