Projecting My Ridiculous Insecurities

I returned home last night after almost two weeks on the East Coast at my parents house. It was a week of drinking wine, napping, making fun of each other and board games. All around a good holiday and great family time.

When I got home I came home to a pissed off cat (she does not like it when I leave) and an empty fridge. To be honest, it wasn't empty. What it did contain was rotting left overs and sour milk. So I ventured out to a Deli around the corner from me to get some take out. Whenever I order take out or delivery I usually order enough for two meals. It's my own warped form of multi-tasking. I reason with myself that if it's delivery and I'm paying for the delivery I'm actually saving money. I'm not sure how I'm justifying it when it's take out. Anyway, I order a bit of food. The last time I was there when I told the guy that it was To Go, his comment was "I assumed you weren't eating it all yourself." Except that I was.

Tonight when he handed me my order he said something about getting a workout on my way home. I assumed he was referring to the size (and the content) of my order. I'm pretty sure I blushed and was about to make some reference to "we" (we being my imaginary dinner partner so he wouldn't think I was eating all that food by myself). Then I realized he was actually referring the weight of my order, as in, the bag was heavy. (Not me)

I need to relax.

And enjoy my mozzarella sticks, my brownie, my chili mac. yum.

Rerun

I think it warrants a repeat...this was almost two years ago.  I was telling my family this story and it stills cracks me up.  I was, of course, kidding when I made the comment.  It was something I said frequently.  In addition, I would affect a vally girl accent while saying, but still someone quoted me.

Word of The Day

Time with my family made me think of this word. Can't imagine why:

Wisenheimer

Main Entry:

wi·sen·hei·mer

Variant(s):

also wei·sen·hei·mer \ˈwī-z^ən-ˌhī-mər\

Function:

noun

Smart Aleck

Etymology:

²wise + -enheimer (as in family names such as Guggenheimer, Oppenheimer)

Date:

1904

Do your mother a favor...

My mother called me last night. She read my latest story, and this is what she had to say: "Can't you write anything happy? Do your mother a favor and write something happy."

Ugh. Mothers.

I didn't sleep last night. Not at all. I packed (last minute) did some tidying up in my apartment, explained to my cat that I will be gone for 10 days but that I am coming back and someone is checking in on her (yes, I am a crazy cat lady, I don't usually like to advertise that, it's my dirty secret) and then suddenly it was time for the cab to pick me up (4AM thank you very much).

I hate people who hum along with their iPod on the el. That was me this morning. Well, I haven't slept. I didn't realize I was doing it until I opened my eyes and saw the looks. Oops.

Then I was in line behind a Romanian family of 6. yes, 6. They opened a special lane for them. Thank you TSA for family lanes.

Then I actually got on my plane. One of the only flights not delayed. I sat in my chair and watched them de-icing the plain, thinking Is this a good thing? when they announced we were deplaning because of mechanical difficulties.

WTF

I am trying to use my time wisely. But I ask you, why am I TRYING to write something happy?

Ugh. Mothers.

Sometimes I write more than the random blog post

My second published piece titled Molting is part of the current edition of Poeticdiversity.

My first published piece Doors Closing was on Failbetter this summer.

What was surprising to me is that I just googled my name and "Doors Closing" and came across this blog review of my story, which gave it 4 stars. I had no idea it was out there. Now I really do feel like a writer.

It's beginning to smell a lot like winter

I love the smoking ban. I LOVE the smoking ban. I remember my first morning after the New York smoking ban. I woke with a hangover complete with headache, nausea and fuzzy teeth. But my hair smelled like my shampoo. My coat, well my coat had a whisper of a smoky smell from earlier pre-smoking ban nights but it didn't need a febreeze fogging in order to wear it to lunch.

How quickly we adjusted. Even my smoker friends. Until it was as if we had always stood in bars with out smoke, as if we never had to do that dance to dodge the ends of strangers cigarettes being waved around too close to the backs of our heads, as if smokers always snuggled outside of bars puffing quickly whilst missing their drinks sitting back at the bar.

Than I moved to Chicago. And I knew smokers. I was spending time with writers. Not just writers. Writing students. There's something about an MFA that ignites cigarettes. I re-adjusted to smoke in bars. To frebreezing my coat after a night out. To burning eyes, the smell, the thickness of air in bars.

And then it happened in Chicago. THE SMOKING BAN. And it was a beautiful thing. But there's something I've been noticing lately. The smoke covered things. Horrible things. Disgusting things.

People fart. A lot. Walk through a crowded a bar and breathe deep, the pungent smells will assault you. The greater the crowd, the greater the risk of crop dusting. In the summer it's not as noticeable, maybe because we spend the summer drinking on patios or near open windows. But now that winter is here and windows are shut tight and doors kept close, there is no escaping it. People fart.

If only we could have a farting ban.

It's a {Bleeping} Valuable Thing - the week so far

what a week....

Embarrassing

I started to read the complaint. It's juicy Romance Novel addictive. And horrifying. And embarrassing. And bleeping insane.

Hot

I have a big time crush on Patrick Fitzgerald. It started after the Scooter Libby trial when I saw him at the taping of Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. And after his press conference Tuesday it grew even bigger. He's all kinds of hot when he's steaming mad and full of righteous indignation. And you know, making the world a better place.

Just Straight Up Creepy

Caught this on Dr. Phil yesterday. And all I could do was think, ick. That is NOT a baby. That is a doll. There's this thing called reborning. They are dolls that are made to look like real babies. A woman on the show has two nurseries, one for the girl dolls and one for the boy dolls. It's just creepy.

You can teach an old dog new tricks (at least this old dog)

Friday night, once again I got all fancy with makeup and high heels. The heels were ridiculously high and a size too big. Gel inserts and socks didn't make up for the extra room. The slush on sidewalks didn't help either. This blogger could only take tiny steps, slowly. Now, you might be curious, why would someone buy shoes that are a size too big? Some of you are already guessing the answer. Because they were on sale. And cute. And Tahari. And yes, they are uncomfortable, too big and awkward to teeter around in. But I still love them.

I came into some unexpected money, which since I'm unemployed went to bills. But I haven't been able to shop in, I don't know, several months, I decided to treat myself to one frivolous purchase. I found myself holding a shoe that was cute, high heeled, a size too big and on sale. But I put it down. The occasional uncomfortable impracticale shoe is one thing. But I'm attempting not to stock a closet full of them. At least not until I get a real paycheck.

You Get Me...You Really Really Get Me.

Maybe you are comfortable with who you are, secure in your “You-ness” and confident in how you are perceived by others. Me. Well, I am and I’m not. I am a complex mess of insecure and overconfident, but that’s more than a blog post, that’s a whole book of exploring essays and possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars in therapy. But this weekend two things happened that made me realize that sometimes people get me. Really get me.

One was a conversation I had on Friday night. It was a brief, in passing conversation. With someone who, when I met him this summer, nicknamed me Legally Brunette. I am ditzy. This I know. I have never pretended to be anything else. But I am also smart. And sometimes I don’t know which side of me people see. I assumed calling me Legally Brunette was a nod to my ditziness. Which didn’t bother me. I myself like to mock my ditziness. But on Friday night (actually it was probably more like Saturday morning because I’m guessing it was close to 1AM) the aforementioned friend said something to the effect of “Sometimes I feel like I need to be prepared to have a conversation with you.”

I asked, all insecure and freaked out, “What the hell does that mean?”

And he responded, “Why do you think you are Legally Brunette?”

I assumed it was my ditziness. He then explained (and I am paraphrasing because this was late into Friday early into Saturday after many a vodka) that like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde people probably underestimate me not realizing that I am actually surprisingly smart.

It took awhile for my late night pickled brain to process words and thoughts and I wasn’t feeling so smart swimming through my inebriation but I took away a whole new appreciation for being called Legally Brunette.

The other surprising moment came in the form of a gift. It started on Tuesday when I was out in the netherworld known as The Suburbs. A friend and I were weaving our way up and down the aisles of a Home Goods when we across a wooden box that was a replica of a typewriter.

I said “When I get a job, (I start many sentences with this. I have already alloted my first several paychecks to shopping sprees at Zara, a dresser, plane tickets- both domestic and international, shoes, a decorator, various outings around Chicago, dubious investments in jewelry. All and all anything from the practical to the ridiculous. It’s not quite as insane as my If-I-won-the-lottery list, but the When-I-get-a-paycheck list is growing) I want to find an antique typewriter.”

Many of my fellow SAIC writing program friends had one, my parents have one. I want one. Not to use. To look at and imagine what if I was Hemingway or Capote clacking away brilliant things on a typewriter. My friend made a face and I assumed it was a there she goes again that weird writer girl look.

Then Saturday afternoon she showed up at my door with a typewriter. An antique typewriter. It had belonged to her neighbor's grandfather. The neighbor used in it college to type all her papers. Apparently my friend had already been planning on giving it to me as a belated birthday gift.

She gets me. Really gets me.

Twittering Too Much

Twitterific

Unemployment means a lot of time available to waste. And for me, I waste on it online and watching tv, usually simultaneously. I have become a news and blog junkie. And twitter is not helping. At all.

At first my tweets were from friends. One is a college friend who tweets every thought. No matter how mundane. All day long I read about how he can’t find a folder, has a meeting, is eating a cheese sandwich for lunch, found the folder, ate a dorito that fell on the floor, is on a conference call and ready to go home for dinner.

Then I progressed up to tweets from Obama, the Adler planetarium, Buzz feed, until I moved on to full on obsession with gawker.com, daily intel, chicago tribune, npr news, cnn, politico and other obsessive twittering.

News and gossip galore.

This morning, from four difference sources, I got a tweet on the 533,000 lost jobs.

What fun.

One can be TOO informed.

I wish I could sleep like my cat

aren't you jealous? doesn't she look cozy?

High Brow Flatulence

The best, the BEST thing about this article is that it is the #4 most emailed story on the nytimes.com website. (dailyintel)

SCIENCE / ENVIRONMENT | December 04, 2008 As More Eat Meat, a Bid to Cut Emissions By ELISABETH ROSENTHAL Farm emissions are being discussed during international talks on a new treaty to combat global warming.

Most Emailed 1. The 10 Best Books of 2008 2. College May Become Unaffordable for Most in U.S. 3. Episcopal Split as Conservatives Form New Group 4. As More Eat Meat, a Bid to Cut Emissions 5. Vermont Town Turns to College in Bid to Guide Change

Shaving Your Beard Gets You A Cabinet Nomination

Was it my imagination, or did the Chicago news anchors pretend to be surprised that Bill Richards got a nomination? On ABC they pointed out that he had been his competitor at one time. Did they forget that he endorsed him too? Wasn't it a forgone conclusion that he'd be somewhere in the Obama Administration?

Am I missing something? Is there a reason this nomination wasn't part of the Economic Team?

And I'm really curious why now the nominees get to speak? When the Economic Team was announced they stood behind our Prophet President Elect and nodded and looked pleased with themselves and smiled. Or am I remembering the press conference wrong? (seriously asking, I'm not being rhetorical) If I am remembering this correctly, is it that the number crunchers can't speak? Or I wondered if our future Secretary of State wanted to speak and so they set a new precedent.

side note: I thought it was kinda cool that he broke out into Spanish. Take that Pallin and all your "Real Americans"

And could you love Obama any more than when he goes off script and riffs? Calling himself a mutt, mocking Mrs. Reagan and her séances and then today bemoaning the loss of Richards beard. I mean, honestly, I LOVE him.

Word of The Day

While the stories I write are short, the stories I tell are long. I've been called chatty and loquacious. My conversations have been described as elliptical (lots of tangents and extraneous details but EVENTUALLY I get to the point). I now have a new word for my wordy speak:

Prolix

Main Entry:

pro·lix

Pronunciation:

\prō-ˈliks, ˈprō-(ˌ)\

Function:

adjective

Etymology:

Middle English, from Anglo-French & Latin; Anglo-French prolix, from Latin prolixus extended, from pro- forward + liquēre to be fluid — more at liquid

Date:

15th century

1 : unduly prolonged or drawn out : too long 2 : marked by or using an excess of words

synonyms see wordy

— pro·lix·i·ty \prō-ˈlik-sə-tē\ noun

— pro·lix·ly adverb