... I liked my job as much as this guy.
Heh. I guess we can all learn a lot from a Zamboni.
Maybe 2010 will have me smiling like that.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I wish...
... I liked my job as much as this guy.
Heh. I guess we can all learn a lot from a Zamboni.
Maybe 2010 will have me smiling like that.
The Secret Lives of Stuffed Toys
My mother asked me if she could get rid of my stuffed animal collection.
Is this the sort of thing that warrants more than a perfunctory thought?
YES. YES IT DOES.
Where do I start? It's so difficult to describe what these toys mean to me without having them here, in front of me. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I don't really care about them at all, but the truth is, they were just more comfortable in my parents' house, safely stowed in my closet, in a cozy nook in my closet. Under a blanket.
I swear, they like it.
Gah. My stuffed animals. Do I start with the fact that many of them were gifts? Or that they were my friends? Or that they were the only things that would listen to me, when I was a child, and even later, when I was an angst-ridden teenager who felt like NO ONE would ever understand me? I loved each and every one of them, and I still do, and now, now they'll be separated from each other and I'll never see them again. It's downright cruel, to be honest.
I feel like a complete nut-job for caring this much, but I am pretty sure that those stuffed animals were the reason I didn't grow up to BE a complete nut-job. You see, I projected every unpleasant facet of myself onto those toys, and they represented all the parts of me that I didn't like. There was Priscilla, the pink bunny who suffered from low self-esteem. She worried about not being liked so that I didn't have to. There was also the Bear Family, who hated the dark so much that they would cuddle up to me at night to keep them safe from the monsters (in the closet, not under the bed). Betsy the rag doll showed up during my adolescence. I'm sorry to say, she was suicidal, and lived on top of my curtain rod, constantly debating whether or not to leap. Ah, well. Teenagers.
I could go on and on about the secret lives of my stuffed animals, but that might make me seem a little crazy.
I have to call my mom and save my friends now. I can only hope it isn't too late. The bears might be okay, but those stuffed bunnies don't do well with change.
Is this the sort of thing that warrants more than a perfunctory thought?
YES. YES IT DOES.
Where do I start? It's so difficult to describe what these toys mean to me without having them here, in front of me. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I don't really care about them at all, but the truth is, they were just more comfortable in my parents' house, safely stowed in my closet, in a cozy nook in my closet. Under a blanket.
I swear, they like it.
Gah. My stuffed animals. Do I start with the fact that many of them were gifts? Or that they were my friends? Or that they were the only things that would listen to me, when I was a child, and even later, when I was an angst-ridden teenager who felt like NO ONE would ever understand me? I loved each and every one of them, and I still do, and now, now they'll be separated from each other and I'll never see them again. It's downright cruel, to be honest.
I feel like a complete nut-job for caring this much, but I am pretty sure that those stuffed animals were the reason I didn't grow up to BE a complete nut-job. You see, I projected every unpleasant facet of myself onto those toys, and they represented all the parts of me that I didn't like. There was Priscilla, the pink bunny who suffered from low self-esteem. She worried about not being liked so that I didn't have to. There was also the Bear Family, who hated the dark so much that they would cuddle up to me at night to keep them safe from the monsters (in the closet, not under the bed). Betsy the rag doll showed up during my adolescence. I'm sorry to say, she was suicidal, and lived on top of my curtain rod, constantly debating whether or not to leap. Ah, well. Teenagers.
I could go on and on about the secret lives of my stuffed animals, but that might make me seem a little crazy.
I have to call my mom and save my friends now. I can only hope it isn't too late. The bears might be okay, but those stuffed bunnies don't do well with change.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Guide to Shopping the Black Market
I bought Evan a roomba for Hannukah.
Not just ANY roomba, though. No, no. It's a roomba with personality, history, and an amusing story.
It all began when I realized that I had dropped the ball on shopping. I thought I had more time! Isn't Christmas 3 weeks from now? Oh noes! He's Jewish!
What's a girl to do?
THIS girl decided to avoid the lines at Target, the craziness of driving, and instead called up an old buddy who can best be described as "a guy who knows how to get stuff." He's the guy you want to know if you ever end up in prison or in dire need of a last-minute holiday gift for someone important.
He directed me to reply to a specific craigslist ad and say that I was friends with him. No joke. I've never done that before, but the guy responded amiably enough and immediately set up a time and place to meet.
As I waited at the designated corner, I caught a glimpse of a large box with legs walking toward me. No head, just a box and legs. As it turned out, I bought Evan a (possibly) black market roomba that day, from a midget. True story.
Happy Hannukah, sweetheart.
Not just ANY roomba, though. No, no. It's a roomba with personality, history, and an amusing story.
It all began when I realized that I had dropped the ball on shopping. I thought I had more time! Isn't Christmas 3 weeks from now? Oh noes! He's Jewish!
What's a girl to do?
THIS girl decided to avoid the lines at Target, the craziness of driving, and instead called up an old buddy who can best be described as "a guy who knows how to get stuff." He's the guy you want to know if you ever end up in prison or in dire need of a last-minute holiday gift for someone important.
He directed me to reply to a specific craigslist ad and say that I was friends with him. No joke. I've never done that before, but the guy responded amiably enough and immediately set up a time and place to meet.
As I waited at the designated corner, I caught a glimpse of a large box with legs walking toward me. No head, just a box and legs. As it turned out, I bought Evan a (possibly) black market roomba that day, from a midget. True story.
Happy Hannukah, sweetheart.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
boom.
Remember, remember, the 5th of November?
I remember quite a bit about this date, but the clearest memory I have doesn't even belong to me. It's the date that a Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament in 1605. No, I am not 404 years older than you thought I was, and I am not a time traveler. I'm not even a Guy Fawkes fan -- the man must have been a lunatic. No, I remember this date because of something I read as a child, and reread numerous times since then. V For Vendetta is, and will always be, so much more than "the one movie where Natalie Portman shaved her head." It is a time capsule. It is part of my childhood. Most of all, it's the reason I love comic books and my big brother, who no doubt, has also written about Guy Fawkes.
He has. But for reasons all his own.
I remember this line simply because it is the 5th of November.
I remember the 5th of November because Guy Fawkes made the world remember it.
I remember Guy Fawkes because of a graphic novel that Alan Moore wrote.
I remember the graphic novel because of my older brother.
I remember my older brother because I think I know what the 5th of November means to him.
He gave me the novel to read when I was far too young to understand the nuances and politics of the story, but I read it anyway, because, honestly, I read anything he gave me. Over the years I grew to understand the finer points of writing and the tremendous effort good writing requires. Every time I felt like I needed a reminder, I would go back to V For Vendetta, and I would be happy.
Recently, I discovered that I could get the same feeling from reading Bilal's writing, and the realization startled me. For years, I believed that my own writing was inspired by writers I could only admire and attempt to emulate from afar. While that might be partly true still, I will remember today as the day that I understood my greatest influence is my big brother.
Big Brother might always be watching, but my big brother will always be watching out for me.
Thanks for the inspiration, Bilal.
I remember quite a bit about this date, but the clearest memory I have doesn't even belong to me. It's the date that a Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament in 1605. No, I am not 404 years older than you thought I was, and I am not a time traveler. I'm not even a Guy Fawkes fan -- the man must have been a lunatic. No, I remember this date because of something I read as a child, and reread numerous times since then. V For Vendetta is, and will always be, so much more than "the one movie where Natalie Portman shaved her head." It is a time capsule. It is part of my childhood. Most of all, it's the reason I love comic books and my big brother, who no doubt, has also written about Guy Fawkes.
He has. But for reasons all his own.
I remember this line simply because it is the 5th of November.
I remember the 5th of November because Guy Fawkes made the world remember it.
I remember Guy Fawkes because of a graphic novel that Alan Moore wrote.
I remember the graphic novel because of my older brother.
I remember my older brother because I think I know what the 5th of November means to him.
He gave me the novel to read when I was far too young to understand the nuances and politics of the story, but I read it anyway, because, honestly, I read anything he gave me. Over the years I grew to understand the finer points of writing and the tremendous effort good writing requires. Every time I felt like I needed a reminder, I would go back to V For Vendetta, and I would be happy.
Recently, I discovered that I could get the same feeling from reading Bilal's writing, and the realization startled me. For years, I believed that my own writing was inspired by writers I could only admire and attempt to emulate from afar. While that might be partly true still, I will remember today as the day that I understood my greatest influence is my big brother.
Big Brother might always be watching, but my big brother will always be watching out for me.
Thanks for the inspiration, Bilal.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Guide To Being __________
Apparently, I'm not very original when it comes to my "decorating style." Sure, I have my fair share of IKEA-crap, but who doesn't? For what it's worth, I have gone to great lengths to make my spacious studio apartment homey, cozy, and reflective of who I am.
"Who I am," according to my mother's home decorating guide, is "eclectic." I have been labeled as "eclectic."
How is it possible to be labeled something that is essentially defined as "undefined?"
Then again, whenever I have to choose my "race" on a scantron sheet or at the DMV, I always end up filling in the spot for "OTHER."
"Who I am," according to my mother's home decorating guide, is "eclectic." I have been labeled as "eclectic."
How is it possible to be labeled something that is essentially defined as "undefined?"
Then again, whenever I have to choose my "race" on a scantron sheet or at the DMV, I always end up filling in the spot for "OTHER."
Monday, November 2, 2009
I win!
I recently won an award! You may have voted for me.
"Worst Friend Ever"
It's a little like winning the title for Miss America, but without all the crying and thanking. Okay, maybe a little more crying. I will be representing bad friends everywhere for one full calendar year, or until I stop being such a lazy bum.
Thanks for voting.
For the record, there isn't actually an award for being a bad friend, but if there was, I'm pretty sure I could have won it. Not responding to emails, text messages, voicemails -- these are minor and common things that we all do from time to time, and not necessarily deeming qualities of a poor pal. Not doing these things for six months is what it takes to win the illustrious "Worst Friend" crown, which is, by the by, made of old Big Mac cartons from McDonald's. Man, have I been lousy about communicating. And eating.
To all those who voted for me, I'm sorry. Since I got back from Ireland I have been keeping busy, but not with anything terribly involving. The seasons are rapidly changing and all I can think is, "Crap. I really need to call ______." And then I'll do laundry, or download music, or watch several hours of "Law and Order." There must be a bazillion episodes of that show.
The point is, I WON'T call or write anyone when I know I ought to. I do this for two reasons: 1) I'm a lazy bum and have been since I got back to Chicago and 2) because I'm a lazy bum who doesn't do anything except chores and watch "Law and Order," I feel like I don't have anything interesting to report. I would call it a vicious cycle, but it's too lethargic to be called vicious. It's a sloth-y cycle.
There's a silver lining to this poop-cloud of a post, though. As the title-holder for "Worst Friend Ever" I am making a promise.
I promise to lose this title as soon as possible. I will return messages in a timely manner, with enthusiasm and joy. I will make and keep plans. I will start doing interesting things again. I will, in short, get off my lazy ass.
Right after this episode of "Law and Order."
"Worst Friend Ever"
It's a little like winning the title for Miss America, but without all the crying and thanking. Okay, maybe a little more crying. I will be representing bad friends everywhere for one full calendar year, or until I stop being such a lazy bum.
Thanks for voting.
For the record, there isn't actually an award for being a bad friend, but if there was, I'm pretty sure I could have won it. Not responding to emails, text messages, voicemails -- these are minor and common things that we all do from time to time, and not necessarily deeming qualities of a poor pal. Not doing these things for six months is what it takes to win the illustrious "Worst Friend" crown, which is, by the by, made of old Big Mac cartons from McDonald's. Man, have I been lousy about communicating. And eating.
To all those who voted for me, I'm sorry. Since I got back from Ireland I have been keeping busy, but not with anything terribly involving. The seasons are rapidly changing and all I can think is, "Crap. I really need to call ______." And then I'll do laundry, or download music, or watch several hours of "Law and Order." There must be a bazillion episodes of that show.
The point is, I WON'T call or write anyone when I know I ought to. I do this for two reasons: 1) I'm a lazy bum and have been since I got back to Chicago and 2) because I'm a lazy bum who doesn't do anything except chores and watch "Law and Order," I feel like I don't have anything interesting to report. I would call it a vicious cycle, but it's too lethargic to be called vicious. It's a sloth-y cycle.
There's a silver lining to this poop-cloud of a post, though. As the title-holder for "Worst Friend Ever" I am making a promise.
I promise to lose this title as soon as possible. I will return messages in a timely manner, with enthusiasm and joy. I will make and keep plans. I will start doing interesting things again. I will, in short, get off my lazy ass.
Right after this episode of "Law and Order."
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Busy Bee Feels the Sting of Productivity
I got back from Ireland and my Grand Trans-Atlantic Adventure over a month ago and I have only NOW found the time to post something, anything, regardless of how trivial and whiny it may be.
Oh, and this might be a bit whiny.
To briefly recap:
I returned to Chicago on May 30th, full of life, energy and a new mission to improve my lot. By June 15th, my determination was fading amidst the chaos of working full-time at my tedious serving gig and my get-up-and-go seemed to have got-up-and-left.
I miss Ireland. I'm not gonna lie, I ADORE Chicago, and couldn't be happier about being back, but I don't miss the Chicago I knew when I left -- I miss the Chicago I know I could have. I miss the potential. Is that strange? To miss something that doesn't exist yet? Well, if it is, I'm not necessarily bothered by it as much as I'm bothered by the routine I've fallen into since I returned.
Sure, I've been busy, but with what, exactly?
Oh, and this might be a bit whiny.
To briefly recap:
I returned to Chicago on May 30th, full of life, energy and a new mission to improve my lot. By June 15th, my determination was fading amidst the chaos of working full-time at my tedious serving gig and my get-up-and-go seemed to have got-up-and-left.
I miss Ireland. I'm not gonna lie, I ADORE Chicago, and couldn't be happier about being back, but I don't miss the Chicago I knew when I left -- I miss the Chicago I know I could have. I miss the potential. Is that strange? To miss something that doesn't exist yet? Well, if it is, I'm not necessarily bothered by it as much as I'm bothered by the routine I've fallen into since I returned.
Sure, I've been busy, but with what, exactly?
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