Yesterday I called up the temp service I used to work for and got me a J.O.B., thus removing my anxiety about being jobless. It's a nice cushy desk job they put me in - one where I can wear nice shoes and sit in the air conditioning all day long. Collating and binding are still the same as they ever were. The boss here is just like any other boss. I am working.
The thing about temp jobs, though, is that there is always some awkwardness about workload. How much do they expect of me? What am supposed to do here when I don't have any more reports to type up? I try to keep myself busy and ask if anyone needs anything, but there is still lag time.
And in that lag time I obsess. My access to super speedy internet feeds the sickness, sending me to Expatica and consulate sites and EuroDisney.com. I think about what I might look like in a Minnie Mouse costume. While I am considerably more comfortable in my climate controlled, rolly desk chair at the front of the office than I ever was slinging coffee in 100 degree weather, I can think of nothing but leaving the country.
I need a distraction, to be sure. I thought I would have a current job search to take my attention from looking for a future job, but now I'm gainfully employeed again and I keep recounting (over and over and over) the bizarre dream I had this morning, wondering what it means.
I decided to just do it. I got on a plane and flew over to England. Why England, I don't know. And it was no England that probably exists outside of Mary Poppins. When I touched down over the lush green marshland, I was greeted by a handsome Frenchman - he was some character out of one of the older versions of Romeo and Juliet, I think, complete with tights and windswept Fabio hair. He took my hand and led me to where all the other nannies were kept. All of us were dressed in victorian style maid garb, and each nanny was assigned a bunk bed, a la army barrack.
"Hello!" they said, "You're just over from America?"
"Yes," I replied, "But I didn't bring any sheets or blankets! I didn't know I would need them!"
I settled into my top bunk anyway, anxiously awaiting the first day of work. I asked if I could still work on my tourist visa alone. They agreed that it was fine. They were all there on tourist visas too. Then the handsome Frenchman fell in love with me. The End.
I wake with this bizzaro land swimming through my head and I wish I could stop thinking about it but I have nothing to do. A report comes back and I revise it in fifteen minutes - thirty because Microsoft Word is retarded and I can't format the table on page four.
And so I start talking to myself because there's no one else to talk to. (Oh yeah, I'm that person in the office.) I try to read blogs or check my email or "window shop" for that new swimsuit I still have not purchased - anything to keep me from
losing my shit thinking about making this dream happen. How, how HOW, DEAR GOD HOW!!!?????
You know what most people's answer's seem to be? "Well, you could just get married."
And I'm all - SERIOUSLY? Cause that's a GREAT IDEA.
I think, on my way home, I will stop off and get a lobotomy. That should do the trick.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Yesterday I called up the temp service I used to work for and got me a J.O.B., thus removing my anxiety about being jobless. It's a nice cushy desk job they put me in - one where I can wear nice shoes and sit in the air conditioning all day long. Collating and binding are still the same as they ever were. The boss here is just like any other boss. I am working.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Because I like panicking, I have decided that it would be healthy to add another anxiety to my current list (which include things such as joblessness, more joblessness and being broke.). I call it learning to speak French.
("Oh Toto! I don't think she's speaking English anymore! [And here come the Wheelers!]")
Remember yesterday when I said I was reading David Sedaris' "Me Talk Pretty One Day" to avoid doing things I say I want to do? (It was painting by the way. I succesfully avoided it by getting out my charcoal instead.) Well, as I crawled into bed to read some more, I reached the part where he begins to go to French School. And it scared the living sh** out of me. 'Cause, according to David (we're totally on a first name basis) the French expect you to speak French on the first day of class. And I'm all "Merde! Je suis Americaine! Je ne pas comprend Francais!"
Which roughly translates to "American school has let me come as an idiot! WHY CAN'T YOU??!"
And so I am going to spend this afternoon listening to my French tapes, and have them in right now. (Repeat after me: Tu fume pa tros?) I might even go down to the school bookstore and buy some French workbooks. (Il faut de tu.) Because David made French class sound like THIS:
As I've mentioned before, I speak toddler French. I am starting to be able to read it, and I can almost follow a conversation if the people speaking go really slowly (C'est une question de gout. Question de gout, extactement.) but for the most part I still sound like a stupide Americaine when I open my mouth.
(Oui, Oui. Je les ai fait precuire sinon... parce que ca... Il fait les tremper et les cuire.)
If I was asked a question and required to answer in French, I would be able to answer "I like cats, and I am very hungry." Past that, I would certainly begin to cry. I am imagining the blank international stares right now.
And the sound of crickets. (J'ai oubilie la bouteille....Please, repeat after me.)
I want to avoid this if at all possible. I keep telling people I am going to take a class or something, so that I know how to get along to begin with. But I haven't done it. (Be careful, do not break the line. Try again. Et puis alors, a ce moment-la, on...) As you may have noticed.
But I do have a very nice collection of flash cards - 1001 FLASH CARDS! Speak in a week! - several French translators bookmarked on my computer (which make for very entertaining translations), a full french / english dictionary, a conversational french book, one cassette tape set and two French CD's found inside a rental car (not a complete set). I also still have the Frenchman's copy of La Quatrieme Main, which turned out to be a very bad way to learn French, indeed.
I will continue to immerse myself in the English version of this language. Then, with any luck, I will be able to say on the first day of French School "J'aime l'aventure, le voyage, en rencontrant les nouveaux gens et en mangeant de bons aliments. Je déteste quand les gens sont hypocrites et parlent le pauvre français."
Which loosely translates to "I'm from America. Feel free to ridicule me in whatever language you speak, as I clearly only know one. We're all like that; it's really okay."
(This is the end of Step 6. This is the end of Tape 1. Please continue on Side 1 of Tape 2.)
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I am doing anything I possibly can to avoid doing the thing that I say I want to do. These things include:
- the dishes.
- pouring a glass of wine.
- fussing over the lighting next to my desk.
- taking family photos for my neighbor who's brothers are in town.
- reading the parts of "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris that concern themselves with his trip to France.
- reading blogs.
- cleaning out my pores.
- trying to get the cat back in the house.
- making dinner.
- doing the dishes from dinner.
- obsessively checking my email.
- WRITING THIS BLOG.
I want to, I really do. I promise.
Instead I am reading blogs. I have just caught up on my current ritual reads and my Google Reader says I still have three hundred and seventy-three to go. And I want to read them all. I want to comment and be a good social blogger. But three hundred and seventy-three? That's like a weeks worth of blog reading. And so I will probably mark them all as read and start over.
But it's not because I don't love you, because I really truly do.
Today I realized that I am driving myself batty trying to figure out how to get to France. I want it so badly. So I'm over here cooking up plan B, which may look something like going over on a tourist visa first, meeting people, making contacts and then coming back to get my work visa (once I've secured a job in France). This plan will cost me in the neighborhood of 2,756 bucks in airfare alone. (Thats two round trip tickets from Austin to Paris, in case you're counting.)
Did I mention I don't have a job???? Right. Yes. There's that.
So I am proposing to throw a little fund raiser for myself. Something in the vein of a rent party? I'll get a job too, obviously I'm not crazy enough to think I will be able to live without one for much longer, but in order to make this trip a reality I think I need some help! I want to do something for ya'll, in exchange for your generosity (which I know will abound!) and so I'm wondering what the heck you might actually want that I can give you. Any ideas?
Would anyone be interested in a silent auction of my artwork? Perhaps the highest bidder gets a personally commissioned piece in any medium? Does anyone need ghostwriting done? Bloggy slave for a day? Maybe I could get some big names to come over and play with us. A cocktail party in Austin??? I know at least one person who would come for that. Maybe some combination of things??
Help me think outside of the box, because I like that way more than sweating bullets. Or
whoring myself on the street waiting tables. As I've said in the past, I'm pretty sure I was born without the gene to work a "normal" job. I can do it and all, but before long my body rejects it like a bad liver transplant.
What do you think? Talk to me, I'm all ears!
(But not near as cute as that.)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I am posting for all those who read and expected a post from me today, with pictures. Except I forgot the camera cable at the Frenchman's house, so there's that. But it would suffice to say that despite my body being basically broken, we had a great time and we're both fully exhausted now.
Things that are wrong with me, since Saturday:
- Riding to Big Bend I realized that I had a urinary tract infection (UTI). In the bathroom of the little mexican restaurant, I cursed and wondered if it would be a good idea to turn back to civilization. I decided, no, I've been wanting to see Big Bend since I moved to Texas and I'll be damned if my body says otherwise. We stopped off and got me some AZO Standard, and I peed bright orange (but I did pee!) for the rest of the weekend.
- Somewhere around mile 3 (just after we saw a black tailed rattlesnake) of our 12.5 mile day hike, my inner thigh cramped up, a pain which then repositioned itself somewhere near the joint of my hip. I spent the next 9.5 miles trying to "tough it" through the pain. I took some advil near the end (why is there an uphill when you are supposed to be heading down??) and decided to opt us out of a short hike on Monday morning. I'm just too whiney for that.
- Too Much Information Alert! - My body refused to take a bowel movement for the whole trip. By Monday I actually took a laxative because I was so bloated with painful gas. It didn't work until this afternoon.
- In the car on the way home my body remembered it hat a UTI and then added to a yeast infection. For those of you who know me, you know that this is pretty common (the yeast infection). Add to it the wacky list of other things my body stirred up and one might wonder that I had any fun at all.
But I did. The views were amazing. The time spent with the Frenchman was sweet (as in we spent almost every minute together for three whole days and he didn't want to seriously maim me and I didn't want to stab him.). The little white corvette didn't break down (but threaten us, oh how she threatened us!). And now I am home, recovering with a full prescription for all that ails me and a dirty smelly house of cats to keep me cool.
But the pictures, OH the pictures. I promise I won't forget.
Friday, May 23, 2008
I write another blog post. Sorry about that! But this is where I have been the last week:
(Only less slightly less blurry.) I'm kind of balls to the walls on it. Things at work started to get a bit hairy and make me feel sorta desperate about staying here. The family I was very interested in, in Paris, decided to choose a girl who already has her visa and I cried a little about it. Then I re-upped my ante and went full speed ahead to make this thing happen.
Meanwhile, back at the coal mine, the hairy got down right ugly and my boss decided to take personal attacks on me. In a public forum. Using profanity. And so I walked out. Because, maybe I'm too much like my father, but I won't stand to be verbally beaten in front of my peers for too long before I break.
This time was surprisingly diplomatic on my end. I expressed as calmly as possible (despite wanting to throw myself across the table and throttle her) that I didn't appreciate being called out by name in front of every one at the weekly meeting, and that if she had a problem with me to speak to me directly, in private. To which she replied, spitting fire, "Don't tell me how to run my meetings." Then I realized that I'll never be the kind of person who can take it up the ass like that. I would rather take one for the team.
Because someone was going to get fired that night and I figured I have the least to lose. I'm moving to PARIS, remember?
The truly unfortunate thing is that those people still have to spend every day with her, breathing the new improved fire-wrath of the dragon lady. I looked into filing a complaint against her behavior - because is it really legal for people to be treated that way?? And oh yeah, it is. Texas is a right to work state. And that means that, unless your employer is discriminating against your age, race, gender, sexuality blah blah blah then they can treat you however they want and fire you for any reason and you can't do a damn thing about it. So cool, this Civil Rights Act of 1964. It's almost as great as what feminists did for us forward thinking women back in the 70's. (I mean, we didn't really want to stay home with our infant children, did we girls?)
I digress. The point is I am jobless again. I thought this would cause me a great deal of anxiety but the truth is I find that I am blissfully happy about it. Not the zero income thing, but the realization that it's time in my life to stop slinging coffee. I get to move on, and that's tres cool.
I have put my feelers out for local summer-time nanny jobs and after this weekend I will throw the search into high gear. But for now, the Frenchman and I are going camping. As in "eight hours away from here, lets sleep on the ground and I really hope it's not one of those places with public showers and flushing toilets" camping. I haven't been tent camping in several years - and the last time was to the beach, so does that really even count? Camping, y'all. I'm goin' back to my roots and shit.When I get back I will probably smell bad, but I'll post the photos to share. For reals this time.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
It's summer in Texas. That means it's already ninety degrees during the day with equal amounts of humidity. For a white girl (and I'm talkin' like I am a reflective surface in the sun) summer time in Texas means that she can no longer wear her requisite blue jeans to cover her skinny legs. Strike that - I could wear the jeans, but I would also then die of heat stroke. And I'm not even being dramatic.
So I bought some minis. Traditional minis like my mom wore in the seventies, complete with a danger zone hemline that dares me not to wear panties. (I did, though, don't worry.) I wore the mini into Target, wherein I remembered that dressing in certain things warrants certain looks - like the other day when I wore the tank top my boss bought us all that reads "I Heart Pie", forgetting that innuendo might cause a man to gawk or perhaps call out clever things like "I'll have a piece of your pie baby!" from his masculine display of a Toyota Tundra. Walking around a suburban superstore baring my legs up to my neck caught the stare of every other woman in the store. Their husbands and boyfriends looked too, I'm sure, but it was the women that I noticed.
What caught my attention was the look of utter disapproval that registered across their faces. Having been on the other end of that glance before, I found it terribly disconcerting; I knew what had just gone through their heads. "She's not really wearing that is she?" Or, from the more conservative "That's disgusting."
Because that is the way that women think of each other.
I did my best to not fidget, because then you let on that you can't handle the skirt, but I couldn't help pulling on the hem as it rode dangerously north on my hips. I wanted to feel light and breezy, not trashy. I picked out the skirt because I really liked it, because I want to enjoy it for a summer.
And then I thought - why shouldn't a women bare her legs? Why is a woman's body considered so indecent? It made me think of the way that little girls in some African villages are subjected to breast ironing, with the intention that their delicate little lumps will not become something that might temp a man. These girls aren't given a choice, and then when their breast finally do come in, they are hideous and misshapen. Why should we bare that, instead of being proud of what was given to us by nature?
I left Target holding my head determinedly high, for the little girls in Africa and the soccer moms dying to shake it. There is no shame in what we are given.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Working backwards to Tuesday, my last post: Here I am on my weekend again and this time THE PHONE IS OFF. After last weekends "call in" debacle and then working six days straight (which is just not in me, I'm not that dedicated of a worker) I opted to be completely unavailable. My phone is dead, gee damn. And does anyone want to work my Sunday morning shift?
The Frenchman came home Wednesday and it was all "Yay!" and wouldn't you like to know! We got to his house and popped a bottle of champagne, ordering Mexican food online while he dumped the entire contents of his two week trip on the dining room floor. We looked at his photos from the Alps and - how sexy is a man who climbs THIS:
I swoon. After the bottle was kicked we slept like tired little babies cuddling their favorite pink cookie. When he drove me home in the morning, we found my neighborhood looked a bit like the mess he'd made in the dining room. Apparently, while we were safely south in the land of LUV a tornado had near missed my apartment. The trees took it the worst.
I felt all at once blessed and a bit cheated that I had missed the excitement. I like a good storm. Reports of this one were of orange lighting and green skies. Podunk Colorado didn't have tornadoes, so this is all kind of cool sounding to me.
My neighbor didn't think it was that great when the tree fell on the roof above her bedroom, however, so I guess it goes without saying that a storm like that should be taken seriously. Here is the crazy maintenance man trying to cut the remainder of the branch that damaged our roof:
But He Didn't Die, So It's Okay from Juliet Pennay on Vimeo.
Doesn't seem safe, does it? Don't worry, he lived.
Today I offered to do the funky France laundry for B, and I'm going to prepare a tuna with a caper vinaigrette and lovely asian pear and jicama salad for the barbecue we're hosting tonight.
There are plenty of reasons to celebrate this weekend. Tomorrow I will find out if I have one too, in the form of a family to go to in France. ...I'm not afraid to celebrate early, though. There's always a reason for champagne!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Like -----> <------ THAT close, seriously. To having a job in France. In f-ing Paris. I won't divulge details because I believe firmly that talking to much a bout a situation before it manifests fully jinxes it. Even if it doesn't, I don't want to take any chances. Just...you know...cross your fingers and say your prayers and light your magic wands and shit. It's so close.
In other news, B is coming home TOMORROW. In fourteen hours and forty five minutes, not that I'm counting.
I work in the morning, but I can't force myself into bed just yet. Even though I went night swimming with a work friend. We soaked in the hot tub till we were fully pruney, talking about life and death and the apocalypse. We ate bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon, washed it down with chocolate and Dr. Pepper and relaxed our bodies in the chlorine. But I am not tired. I am a mess with thinking about this massive change I am embarking on, and the myriad of changes that will follow it.
And, of course, making my self as lovely as humanly possible for a man I've not seen in two and a half weeks. It's crazy what absence does to a person. ...Everything except make them change the sheets, that's what.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I joke that I have toddler french. I can express that I am hungry, hot, cold, or tired, but that's about my limit. ...Well, I suppose that I'm a toddler with a filthy sailors mouth who spends a lot of time in the bedroom. Unfortunately dirty french is hard to slip into a conversation. Not to mention I doubt I'll go far as an Au Pair with that sort of tongue.
So, I thought I might should learn some lullaby's to sing to the smaller kids I would watch and in my search I found this site. And I was all "Heeeeeyyyyyyyyy! This is how they teach kids to speak in France! I talk like a (dirty) French kid... I should USE THIS!"
And so I fully intend to print out and learn each song on that page. Look for me about - I'll be the one singing Frere Jacques in the bathroom stalls at the bars.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Right, exactly. Because when you're a little drunk the posts suck.
I woke up this morning a little rough around the edges, TOTALLY craving a big fat salty brunch. Where for art thou, salty brunch? Then I remembered - it was in the 20 dollars I spent in Dos Equis last night.
(This one's for you Pascal! ...And so was the one after that. And the one after that...)
Then I looked at my tan line again and tried to figure out how I'm going to even that shit out. It's really only red on the tops of my thighs and my lower stomach.
So I decided that I needed to do this MEME, sent to me by Two Cuckoos Nesting*, um, yeah, like two months ago. Sorry ya'll, I'm not so good at the follow up.
Here are the Rules. This one is actually pretty tough if your a blogger who divulges all her personal information on the regular. Even more so if you have already done it a couple of times:
1) Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog
2) Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3) Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4) Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Okay, here goes. A random photo meme:
I sent this blurry box all the way to Germany. And then Germany sent it all the way back. Because I didn't put the zip code in the right place. Oh and they totally opened it too. This was my friends CHRISTMAS GIFT. I F-ing LOVE customs.
This plant is dying, and I am letting it. Now, don't get me wrong, I never had no problems with Nanaw, and when she died I was really heartbroken for C and I loved that crazy peace lily like it had come from my own grandmother's funeral. But this year it just started dying and no matter how many times I cut it back it won't seem to revive and so I think it's a sign. Not to mention that isn't having your exes dead grandmother's peace lily outside your front door some kind of bad ju ju? Anyway, I told one of my friends I was letting it die, in order to replace it with something prettier and she replied "Boy, I'm glad I'm not one of your kids!" To which I replied, "EXACTLY."
Until last night when I decided to wear them, this shoe lived right here in my bathroom all alone. It's mate was no where near it, maybe in the living room or something, and I have no explanation as to why. It lived there for at least two weeks.
These are my two favorite cameras. I never use them because they take film and I am cheap. But I will never ever sell them because I love real live photographs so much. One of my favorite things to do when I visit my mom is to go through her huge tupperware bins of pictures. I've seen them all a hundred million times, but it never gets old. I can't imagine what my children will look at if I don't start printing some pictures. Digital will just never feel the same; but I love instant gratification, so I guess it has it's place.
After my power went out and I had to throw out all of my food I did not replenish my refrigerator. Instead I ordered take out until I was broke. And then I wondered why I couldn't have a real breakfast this morning. Notice to the right, two rolls of undeveloped 120 film. I don't even remember what's on that, which is why I switched to digital, I guess.
This is laundry is all clean. It has been on my couch like this since Thursday when I washed it and left it there. It will remain there for another day at least.
This is what I had for breakfast. The coffee was brewed of course! I don't just go around eating ground coffee. Pfft!! Silly! I very much like this combination, except the cookies were a little stale and I am completely out of silk soy creamer so I drank my coffee black. Someone needs to take me grocery shopping I think!
So, I don't feel like tagging seven people (I'm lazy! What can I say!) so I charge you - the readers! - to try this one out. If you have a digital camera you should do this with photos its way fun. Also...if you try this one let me know! I love to read these.
*I've also added them to my blogroll, because I realized I forgot a couple of people the other day. Also check out MgFgTg. I love me some funny British men.
Dudes - I always mess up the time change math between here and Paris. Always. Like just now I texted thinking "oh yeah it's eight there at least if he sort of wakes up it won't be too unreasonably early". And then I looked at the ol' Paris time clock on my Dashboard and realized its only seven. Cause baby can't do math.
And ya'll, I promise I won't be awake at 7 am. Not if I can help it. So, sorry dear Frenchman, for the too early text. The bars aren't closed here. That's all.
So, yesterday and today as it were (it's 2 a.m. so it's technically saturday, right?) are my first TWO DAYS OFF IN A ROW since forever and ever ago. When I woke this morning I decided that today was the day for social engagements and delight and F all the other stuff on my list (like cleaning the house!). So after some leisurely chat on the internets, I joined KT at her apartment complex swimming pool for still more leisure.
This place is pretty fantastic if you are looking for a real cool place to relax and enjoy the delicious summer sun. It has a separate pool for wading, one for water volleyball (if you like that sort of thing) and one to "swim" in, all connected by shallow little chlorinated streams and complete with a waterfall. It also has an absurd ratio of beautiful people loitering around it, offering up things like beer, junk food and sun tan accelerator. I had on sunscreen first, but now I have a ridiculous tan line because I "accelerated" my tan, and apparently only on the front. How cute.
After the appropriate amount of toasting had been achieved, I went out to meet some girls from the 'hood for an official "girls night out". When I say girls from the 'hood, I am referring directly to the girls with whom I used to hang out at C's shows. I always enjoyed them but it was never something I pursued because there was an element of anti-social in that relationship.
As I suspected, they were warm and hilarious and accepting. It was MC, throwin' a ho down for her sister Suzi-Q, and it was delightful. Not even the requisite "talking about how the ex cheated on you and everyone knew it (Oh yeah, and he was with someone when you started dating, yo!)" could bring me down. I mean, lets be serious for a second: I knew that already. Deny all you want kiddos, a woman always knows. As I told Biddy: A woman can smell another vagina on her mans breath. It ain't rocket science!
So we had some beers, some pizza and a cab ride down to the Parish to enjoy Supersonic Uke* where I had another moment of "DUDE! HOW DID I MISS THIS?" Because let me just say, any band who can write a song on a Ukelele called "Poopy Mary" scores HUGELY in my book. (Vulgar ALWAYS trumps taste in the humor department, doesn't it?)
Follow that by Pong and I couldn't feel my feet in the pointy yellow pumps I was rockin'. I couldn't even hang for the rest of their set, I was so tired, so I put my yellow shoes in a yellow cab and headed on home.
Tomorrow I fully intend to leave my house for nothing. No, don't even try. I really have no intentions to do more than wash the corvette, eat, sleep and write. Unless you are going to brunch. And then you should save me a mimosa.
*I feel I should put some links in round about here, but I got nothin', sorry. I tried to take video, but it just turned out dark and choppy. I guess that's what happens when you try to video something while drunk.
Friday, May 9, 2008
And then I had one of those "Aha!" moments. Except it was more like "SHIT, REALLY??"
Because I finally picked up my nuts and said something out loud to express my disapproval about the state of the union, and GUESS what I found out. I'M DRAMATIC.
Not only that, but I'm apparently bad with the follow up to the drama. So it went something like:
"Wahhhh, I am so bummed out about XYZ (maybe my boyfriend??? Hmmm.)"
And they went
"Oh NO! What an asshole for making her sad."
And then I got over whatever it was and returned to the oogly googly land of love. Except I forgot to tell anyone about it. Not that I need to tell everyone about everything in my life but the follow up to serious drama should occur, I think. So they all had NO IDEA that nothing at all was wrong and just kept thinking I'm hangin' on to a bad one.
I was all "Really? I made it seem like THAT? SHEEEEEET."
But the real aha here is that I shouldn't be so vocally dramatic in a very small space with a dozen menstrual women. I knew that, like, SO long ago, but I always forget. Silly me.
As for the other part I think it is also remedied by not talking so much about myself in public. My friends get me. My coworkers might not and have their own issues. I guess that it is the best part of being an imperfect, loving human being. Er something.
Meanwhile, the Frenchman comes home in five days!! It has already been agreed upon that we will be going completely MIA immediately. And maybe there was some mention of attacking each other at the airport.
And I. Can't. WAIT.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
I generally don't think talking about your job on your blog is a great idea because you can sometimes get fired because of it. So I won't. Cause I need to make rent next month too.
Instead I will tell you about a very toxic place I've heard about. I've never been there. I've only heard about it. It's mythical, like shoe making elves, and yet it makes me incredibly angry just to think about its non-existence.
Don't get me wrong, I LOVE me some shoe making elves. I just get the distinct feeling that they are leaving the nails a little long on the inside so maybe peoples feet are starting to bleed from walking. Maybe not on purpose, I don't think that the elves are malicious. Just...not paying attention or something.
So here we are, in this weird black clouded mythical shoe making land. And some people I've heard of suddenly start feeling a little bit like that time in the third grade when they were sent to the school counselor because the teachers thought she cried too much. In fact, here in shoe land they have "jokingly" labeled her "the crier". And she doesn't find it all that funny, especially considering that she is going through certain huge chemical changes and also what the hell is wrong with being an emotive person anyway?? Didn't she spend a whole lot of time and money in therapy just to feel okay with the fact that she f***ing feels?
This makes her feel insecure, and makes her regress so that she feels she needs to be "accepted" by the other shoe makers. In a terrible bad way. And that's crappy enough, you know? But to add insult to injury, the shoemakers have been taking assault on her boyfriend too. They're just being protective, I try to tell her, because they've seen her crying over him one day, but then I hear that they tell her things like "Well, he's got an expiration date" and "After he leaves..." and "You know you need to keep your options open cause he'll be gone soon" I can't help but feel like they are sort of trying to poison her and obviously have no respect for the actual emotion that she has for him (let alone whatever he might feel for her?). I mean, are they really that bitter/jealous/jaded? REALLY? Because who says things like that? To a person they "care about"?? It's almost as if they'd never met him, and they'd never seen how ridiculously giddy she gets around him and shit - how many times has this been a topic of conversation when she's not present? That's seriously messed up!
I think about all of this in regards to this person I know and this strange mythical place I've never been (only heard about) and I get so damn mad that I start to stomp around and my voice gets shrill when I talk about it and I am forced (STRAIGHT FORCED) to have a hamburger delivered to my house, paint my fingernails this new shade of pink and listen to country music (and not the good stuff, either) JUST TO FEEL BETTER.
And people - I don't want to be forced to listen to country music, just to feel better. But what do I tell this person I know who has to keep going back to that crazy place and is starting to feel like if she's not very very careful it might really dangerously suck the energy from her. Or maybe worse. Maybe it will turn her into one of them.
Ya'll, I seriously DON'T want to see her turn into one of them.
I woke up hungover with Aunt Flow clawing at my uterus. With the new schedule change at work I knew I would be giving up my day off. I had mentally planned for some painting, a few international calls to the French people I want to work for, starting to write my book pitches and maybe doing some laundry. Maybe.
Whatever, the schedule change means I get two days off in a row so I won't complain too much. But I found out this morning I was completely out of tampons.
Well shit. I have to go get tampons, right? And, really, I need to get a new international calling card so I can call my future employers without having to ask them to speak English and call me back.
So I went to the Walgreens. In the Corvette. I figured that being out of tampons classified as an emergency. Never mind that there are three convenience stores within walking distance. I mean, I'm bleeding.
Just so you know, I'm actually terrified of the Corvette. I wasn't until I tried to drive it with a very nervous Frenchman sitting in the passengers seat. And the second gear is kind of an asshole, and I stall out on hills sometimes, but I thought "I have to overcome. It's an emergency." My uterus agreed.It actually wasn't too bad, but I definitely got told by traffic flagger to calm down. I may have been yelling at traffic a bit. This would have happened if I hadn't been driving something that was just begging for me to go.
You know, I've definitely made fun of the Vette - it's got a sort of ghetto je ne se qua. But I wouldn't say no if the Frenchman want to just give it to me when he left. I'm just sayin, its kind of the perfect hero to my emergencies.
Don't worry baby. I aired the tires and put it right back in the garage. :)
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Oh yes, it's back.
Um, okay so it's going to be a bit of a lame one since I was thirty minutes late for work yesterday and I shouldn't do that again! Pfft! I'm so silly sometimes.
What you need to know is that I updated my blogroll. No shit! I feel like there are more that I need to put on there, but well, whatever. It's a miracle that it happened to begin with. Oh, and Salty? Have I told you lately that I love you? I owe you a serious email!
Okay, three minutes I need to bitch: Why is it that GOOGLE (as in "We created a new verb" Google) cannot get their shit together. It's all SLOW and DODGY and MESSED UP. Gmail? A joke. A complete joke. I can't keep Gmail open without it slowing down everything else I'm doing. And I totally just updated my Operating System and freed up a bunch of memory and EVERYTHING.
And I won't even START about how lame it is that I have to upload photos one by one to Blogger. LAME! Even MYSPACE has a big ol' uploader for photos. Then I have to DRAG them to where I want them? Double lame.
Seriously, I think all the Blogger bloggers should sign a giant virtual petition to ask Google to get their shit TOGETHER! Or else I'm going to over to Wordpress, yo.
I totally mean that too. Totally.
Monday, May 5, 2008
How wonderful are my friends and family, people? Thank you to Biddy and Sister L for some great guest posts. And doesn't Sister L need her own blog? She thinks she isn't funny enough. LAWDY LAWD, what she don't know! Fabricated Goddess, of course absolutely I do not appreciate how amazing my big sister is. Does the little sister ever really get it? Probably not, I think.
In the meantime I am coming out of this drug haze and it feels something like THIS:
It's going away, slowly. Slowly. Slllloooooowwwwwllllllyyy...
Thankfully, I'm feeling emotionally decent. There are some minor annoyances (such as all the strong amazing women in my life stubbornly remaining in relationships with DOUCHEBAGS [you know who you are!]) but I can deal with them on a mostly even pitch. I've even complied a list of things I love especially for you, the internets.
My new passport.
Isn't it the most glorious, magical and disgusting display of Patriotism you've ever seen?? Too bad you can't tell what country I'm from. I guess I can't use the "I'm Canadian" line I've heard so much about. And thank you, George W., for making it easier for me to travel abroad. Cause people really LOVE us these days.
Cats on backpacks.
...On bikes. This one is cleverly named "cool cat".
My itty bitty record player.
See how the rainbow reflects in the shiny record? It makes me infinitely happy. No C, you may never ever have it back. Sorry.
Because even though he's on a mountain using ice picks to make his way up a glacier as we speak, I can't stop thinking about how amazing he is, and how lucky I am to have found him.
(I know, gag, right?)
(And low light photos that are actually in focus! [Not that you would know since Blogger INSISTS on rotating this photo for me. Thanks for that Google. Seriously? You suck.])
Songs with whistling.
Especially Peter, Bjorn and John. Writers Block is such a great album. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
The new and improved Pandora. I think they've finally figured out that formula so I don't have to babysit the player. It also makes me warm and fuzzy.
What's on your list for warm and fuzzies? And please don't show tell me about your dryer lint, cause that joke is so lame!
Friday, May 2, 2008
Do you know when you have officially become a Mom? Not when the screaming being is ripped from your uterus. Not when they latch on to nurse for the first time and certainly not when they look at you with their first smile. No people, you do not officially become a mom until the day you look down at your shirt and realize that there is a huge smudge of baby poop on your boob and you don’t even flinch and then you turn to one of your older children and see that they have a booger and choose to grab it with your fingers and wipe it on your pants so that they don’t get embarrassed when their friends see it and all this while you are inspecting the bleeding cut on the foot of your third child. Yes, it is all real.
Do you know how to tell when you are really in love? Not by the tingling in your belly when glancing at your love. Not by the eager feeling you have when you anxiously wait to see him again. No, you know you are truly and ultimately in love when you are willing to not only pick his underwear up off the bathroom floor on a daily basis, but sometimes even peel them out of his pajama pants. Daily. You can also tell by the fact that after a day filled with baby puke, poop, booger sucking, making beds, folding laundry and other glamorous tasks such as toilet scrubbing , you still want to be close to the man whose sperm started it all, even if it is only to fall asleep.
Do you know how to tell you are a good sister? Not by the continual out pouring of thank you cards and hugs. Certainly not by the constant email replies and “I am thinking of you” notes sent. No, you will only truly know you are a good sister when you are asked to guest blog and you do it, with minimal complaining.
Posted by Sister L at 11:14 PM
Hey Peeps! Biddy here! The lovely Ev asked me to come in and distract y'all with my attempt at being funny...
first, let me just say OMG I'm an author on SIX blogs. yes, six blogs people. that's gotta be borderline insanity.
so, i was thinking about doing a "best of biddy" post...you know, one where i could lead you to posts such as: vandalizing bossy pictures, or the one where i tell you i'm a retard who can't even bathe without some sort of disaster, or the whole catholic disaster, or even a cooking tutorial or two. i could tell you that i steal babies and dogs, or that i rarely wear make-up. we won't even get into the fact that i'm the worlds best (worst?) bossy stalker. i could show you my tattoo with a stretch mark right through the middle of it, or my roller coaster track of a spine, or my neighborhood, oh and let's not forget my BALD SPOT! I could tell you that it's MAY and I still have my Christmas Tree up. i could even let you know i'm bat crap crazy and a walking pharmacy. i could tell you stories about burning my vuh jay jay, or even maiming it...
i could tell you about my career as a crime scene sketch artist.
yeah, i could tell y'all ALL OF THAT. but, this is Ev's blog. not mine. and it's all about HER, so I won't tell you any of those stories :-)
instead, i shall make you laugh. or at least attempt to. and this blog is Ev's so I'll tell you a story about her. hmm let me think...
ok, well, since Ev and I have decided we're the same person in 2 bodies, technically i can tell you a story about me and you can pretend it's about Ev. K? Except for The Frenchman. He has to pretend this story is actually about me. oh wait, it is about me...oh god i'm so confused...
so, today i submitted myself to ancient chinese torture.
ok, it was really acupuncture. but ancient chinese torture sounds so much cooler.
I've been having major back issues since october. i've had steroid epidurals to treat the 2 herniated discs in my lower back. i've been to my HOT chiropractor a million times (i think we might be commonlaw married by now). i've had a few massages. i get a monthly pedicure. all of this (except the pedicures) were to attempt getting some relief from this excruciating back pain. the pedicures are because i can't stand for my toes to not look cute.
anyway, last week, i decided to try acupuncture. i've never done it before, but i've heard good things about it. there's just one problem: i seriously hate needles. when i was a kid, it took every staff member in the doc's office AND my mother to hold me down long enough to give me a shot. we won't even get into how many people it took to get an I.V. in me. I've grown up and quit kicking and screaming when I have to get a shot, but I still cry. yep, i'm 23 and still cry when i have to get a shot. pathetic, i know.
where was i? oh, ok...so i live in a smallish town. there's not exaclty an "acupuncture" section in the yellow pages. so, i went to handy dandy switchboard.com and typed in acupuncture in abilene. the first name on the page sounded fairly american, so i called. yes, sometimes i'm racist. get over it. the doc is also a chiropractor, so that made me feel better too. I made the appointment for today (had to wait for payday) at 8.
i was nervous. really nervous. i went in this morning, sick to my stomach thanks to nerves (i think). that and i was pissed because i had a hard time finding the place. the address says buffalo gap road. too bad it's actually on south danville. argh!
anyway, i filled out all the "we're not responsible for paralyzing you" paperwork, then they took me to the
broom closet back exam room and told me the doc would be in shortly.
he came in, introduced himself, we talked about the procedure and where i was hurting etc. then he handed me a gown and told me i could leave my undergarments on (thank goodness) blah blah blah. he walked out of the room, and i started to undress when it hit me. sonofabitch, aunt flo is in town. uh huh. how embarassing. this guy is gonna have a lovely view of my niagra falls absorbency just-in-case pad. thank GAWD i didn't have on period panties. i probably would have bolted had i had on period panties.
we talked while he inserted 42 needles into various places on my back, butt, legs and feet. some of them i felt, most of them i didn't. during this process i asked him what brought him to abilene from dallas (it's usually the other way around). he told me he had only planned on being here a few years, and 14 years later he was still here. i asked him if he had kids (assuming that was the reason he stayed). he replied "no. i don't have any kids. i'm not married either"
to which i say with WAY too much enthusiasm "REALLY!?" HAHA sooooo casual, Biddy. good one...leave it to me to get all excited because the doctor putting needles into my back just told me he's single. so, the rest of the time i was there i'm laying there thinking "ok he's a doctor and he can't date a patient. but he only wants to do this 3 times so what if i give him my number after my third appointment? then i wouldn't technically be a patient anymore. he's kinda old but i bet he's younger than he looks. if we got married he'd probably want to have kids right away. oooh and i could be a stay at home mom...wait...why has he never been married? what's wrong with him? he's kinda cute. not as cute as my awesome chiropractor, but cute..." etc etc...
he hooked the needles up to the electro stimulator thingy and told me to tell him the second i started to feel the currents. well, i was too busy picking out wedding flowers and cake toppers in my head and didn't say "when" until it was
frying my insides a little strong. of course, then i was embarassed so i didn't tell him.
about 10 minutes into the electric shock therapy, my left boob started hurting. My readers have all heard the woe's of my boobs, but for you Ev readers, i'll just say the things are HUGE GINORMOUS MONSTROSITIES covered in GARGANTUAN. so, laying on the giant mounds of boobage is not an easy task. also? i have restless leg syndrome. i needed to move, but i had it in my mind that i probably shouldn't move since there was 42 needles in me and 15 of them were currently electrocuting me. of course, the more i tried NOT to move, the more I needed to.
so, i moved a lil bit. and of course, one of the needles moved and it didn't feel so great. so i moved back the fraction of an inch and it was ok. but my boob still hurt. and it was getting worse. it felt like 10 dull horse vaccine needles were being shoved into a one by one inch spot on my poor boob. i tried pushing up on my forearms to take some of the weight off. that helped but i couldn't hold it for long.
My future husband came in to check on me right about the time i was pleading with god to speed up the rotation of the earth so i could get off the table. "how are you doing in here?" he asked, being all professional because even though we're in love he couldn't show it in the office. "oh..just f-f-fine! my back is heating up where the needles are. is that normal?" "yeah, that's just part of the electrostimulation. ok, well, you are officially half way done"
my eyes started watering and i think i may have mumbled a curse word or two...or ten...
by the time i was
and he wants to see me next week, the lil devil.
you better believe i'll be looking a hell of a lot better next week than i did today!
i got off the table, massaged my poor boob, got dressed and took my hair out of the knot it was in and fluffed it as well as i could. i'm such a loser...
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Now, let me set the record straight. OF COURSE I didn't mean that ya'll weren't reading my blog! Each one of you who check my blog every day, DUDE, I TOTALLY NOTICE. And that's why I keep writing!
No, what I was tryin' to say, cause I was being all bitter and sad, was that my current boyfriends do not read my blog. Even C, he was vehemently against reading it while we were together, even after I assured him I don't air our dirty laundry on there anymore. Well, I guess maybe that's not entirely true, which is maybe why my current boyfriends don't read! I try to leave the gory details out. It's not fair to them, or you really, cause you're only getting like a tenth of the full picture, but whatever. I suppose that is the nature of posting you life on a blog.
ANYWAY. Rest assured that I love you all, my readers, and that the Frenchman is being very kind to me even in far away Franceland. 3 a.m. posts generally paint things in a bad light, I've discovered.
Which is why, after some consideration and after having a full on nervous breakdown in front of all the customers at work while making a cappucino, I decided to invite Myself to guest post while I'm all weepy and boring. Ya'll don't need to hear the whole sob story, and Miss Biddy is really very funny. Way funnier than me.
Any other of you bloggers (or non bloggers!) who would like to send a bit of a post while I am in sadland, please feel free to shoot me an email. Evolving Revolver would love to have you!
I woke up to talk to the Frenchman at 8:oo (Thanks Baby! It was wonderful. :) But, um, yeah, please be sure to not recount your eve with your ex, kay? Yeah, thanks. Merci!) and then I went back to sleep. I dreamt of pink roses and soft, small orange peace lilies. I was picking them carefully off a shelf in a busy convenience store. I chose several and brought them to my nose, then I woke with a jolt to
"NO! OH NO! Juliet!"
"What?" I hollered from my bed. My door was open and my neighbor was calling me from the upstairs balcony.
"Blue killed a bird!"
I flung myself out of bed, because you know how I feel about birds being killed in my garden.
There in front of my apartment Blue was crouched over a twitching brown Mourning dove.
Then I realized I had awoken with a fresh set of the spins. No more pills to pop. This is the beginning.
So I am going to go buy expensive homeopaths and weird under-the-tongue tinctures so that I can possibly maintain some semblage of humanity without going straight crazy and calling the Frenchman to accuse him of cheating on me with the ex he broke up with for a reason. I still talk to my exes. Why should I play hypocrite? Oh, right, because my brain chemistry is getting straight F****ED right now.
Copies of the Depression Phone Tree are being made. Crazy tinctures will be imbibed. I will survive!!! And come out smiling, damnit!
Meets at 12 a.m. and doesn't disband until dawn. It sets its table with wine and cigarettes and then serves up a hearty helping of anxiety, sadness and fear. No one can chat with a smile at the Midnight Supper Club. There is a lot of bad T.V., and sometimes Internet porn.
Did you know that only my ex boyfriends (and their new girlfriends, apparently) read my blog? I have no real explanation for that. All I know is that when certain someones are in certain far away countries and I am diving off my anti-depressants, I would sure love some looky loo at my free out pourings. It would make me feel all warm and fuzzy. Everyone I know forgets that I can see very clearly who does and does not look at my page. I don't get that many readers. It's not that hard.
It's just because it's three in the morning that I'm bitter. Did you also know that I am ALWAYS awake at three in the morning? I almost never sleep through it. I want to, lord knows I do. Especially when there is no one to call at three in the morning. And the people you do call, I'll be damned if they answer!
So I end up telling it to the Internets instead: "Hey! The Internets! I'm feeling real insecure and kinda down and a little bit scared about my situation and I wish you were here to pat my back and tell me it's all going to be okay! And gawd DAMN, the Internets, how hard is it to type a little email back??? I mean, you can do it when you're drunk - I usually do! Stop being such a fecking self absorbed jerk, ya'll. A woman's hurting here."
Again, with the no response. I mean shit, what's a girl have to do - bleed??? Oh, calm down, I'm not bleeding yet. I just wish I had a bit of a friend who was awake at three a.m..
Funniest thing is I know plenty of people who can't sleep, just like me. And yet we never call each other. I mean, cause what if that person who's usually an insomniac was suddenly able to get three hours of sleep? You don't risk taking that away.
Instead we all kinda sit like weird, antisocial loners staring into our respective glasses and pretending there is no one else at this dinner. But seriously kids? How many lives would get better if they knew I was here to talk to, every fecking night at three a.m.?
That's ten a.m. France time, if anyone's counting.