That’s What Sisters Are For II

During what I’m sure was a fascinating conversation about books with a friend, my sister sent me a text needing to know the name of an author.  He’s a new friend so naturally she is trying to impress him.

Sister: Who wrote Unbearable Lightness of Being?

Me: Milan Kundera. Quit trying to show off.

Sister: I’m not biatch. We were talking about books.

Me: Since you are on the subject of books, have you mentioned that you’ve read the Twilight series about 5 times? Hee hee.

No reply.

That’s What Sisters Are For

While I was chatting with B on ichat, I remembered my new infatuation with the Smart Car and decided to ask my sister’s opinion since she was sitting near me reading a book.

Me (to Sister): I think I want a smart car. Would you make fun of me if I got one?

(Sister looks up from her book and smiles at me sympathetically)

Sister: Til’ my throat was sore.

Me: I see.

The Stone Age

I don’t smoke . . . anymore, but when a certain friend’s roommate offers you a hit from his pipe, you do not say no. It’s rude.  So I smoked last night for the first time in over a year.  When you haven’t smoked in a long time and then smoke with a seasoned smoker, expect to be stoned after just one hit. Because number one, your tolerance goes waaaaay down and number two, well, he’s going to have “the good stuff.” I was not expecting to be stoned after just one hit. But I was. So was Jen.  We giggled about the fact that we were so stoned after one hit.  We giggled as Jen played  with the French dictionary application on Roommate’s iphone.  The iphone would say the words out  loud and we would repeat the words and giggle.  I have never wanted to learn French so bad in my entire life.  

Going to bars is also an entirely different experience.  You go to a bar to drink. You drink to relieve inhibitions.  Smoking does not release my inhibitions.  It does quite the opposite, in fact. It makes me super paranoid and self conscious about things like the fact that I said I was “stoned” and do kids nowadays still say “stoned?” I know during the stone age when I dated stoners (for their sense of humor?) I would say “faded.” Is “stoned” the “radical” of slang? Is it outdated? Oh my God. I am such a nerd. Do I look fat? Sit up straight! Is EVERYONE staring at me? Do they know I’m stoned?  And things of this nature. My inhibitions were intact despite the two Millers and Stellas in my belly.  Even when I danced. I hate that. Dancing was specifically designed for this purpose–the word “dancing” and “uninhibited” go hand in hand for crying out loud. I danced with my inhibition shoes on for a bit then we took off to Proof where  I used the wall as moral support as I waited for Tiff and Jen to use the bathroom.  Then we made our way to the patio outside and purchased some hot dogs wrapped in something and topped with red and green peppers. My mouth watered and I subconsciously told myself that these were in fact soy hot dogs (or maybe Tiff told me this?) because I am a vegetarian who cheats. Frequently. So we left Proof, which from what I could tell was only on our agenda so we could buy these “soy” hot dogs wrapped in fake bacon, and made our way to the AM PM. Finally. The only reason why I ever smoke. To appease my munchies and fall asleep.  I trailed behind in silence, I imagine. The details are hazy at this point and when I am not fully present, I am mute.  Tiff purchased some Cheetos for me which I munched on all the way back to her place. Upon arriving back at Tiff’s, I chowed down on my “soy” hot dog and was half way through when I realized that A, this is no “soy” hot dog and B, this thing is SPICY! My mouth was on fire. Letting my instincts guide me (as I was mentally absent) I proceeded to shove ice cubes into my mouth to get rid of that unpleasant burning in my mouth as questions from the living room filled my ears “what are you doing over there?” I don’t even remember if I answered. The worst part is that I woke up and couldn’t tell if I was still high or still drunk.  MAN, B is going to be sooooooooo disappointed in me.  Sorry B! I heart you.

F/U

I once temped for a company where a majority of my secretarial duties evolved into picking up the slack of a coworker with A.D.D. tendencies.  Everyday I would attend to a stack of papers with post its on the top giving me his agenda for the day. You know, work that he was supposed to do weeks ago.  Work that other persons in his same position were somehow completing on time, all on their own.  I would wonder why it was okay for the secretary to do his work and I was annoyed with how much work he tried to pawn off on me.  Of course, I got through it because I knew it was only temporary and he was a nice guy.  I don’t entirely have  bad feelings toward that place either. The occasional memory makes me giggle, but in an uncomfortable way, the way the early days of The Office makes you laugh.  Specifically, I’m thinking of one special agenda he gave to me one sunny afternoon when he finally showed up for work.  On top of the usual stack of papers was a phone list with a post it that said “F/U.”

“F/U” is better known as “follow up.” As in “please follow up with the client’s on the phone list I have provided.” But to write the whole thing out would take much too long and it isn’t the guaranteed way to confuse someone for 2.5 seconds or until you take the time to explain that indeed you did not just tell the temp to fuck off.

Thank you, my former “superior” (as you would have referred to yourself, I’m sure) for giving me the shortest, laziest, funniest post it I have ever received.

Local Natives

Tiff sent me this link on You Tube of the Local Natives (formerly Cavil at Rest) doing a Simon and Garfunkel cover…

Sigh*

I can’t be mad at these boys. Why would I be mad you ask? Well, that’s easy. They’re musicians.  Musicians were put on this planet to make girls swoon while staying just out of arms reach (for most of us, that is).  Seriously though, they’re extremely talented musicians with a unique musical style and just great style in general. Check them out…

Outside of The Bubble With No Pants

I usually don’t get to work until about 10:00. It’s 9:49 and I haven’t left yet. Why? Because I decided to wash ALL of my jeans last night and subconsciously conspired against myself to forget to put them in the drier until 9:30 this morning. I don’t have any back up jeans so I’m sitting hear waiting for them to dry. Good thing my bosses are freaking awesome and won’t mind such a “my dog ate my homework” excuse.

I feel like an idiot.

Fortunately, they’re not in the office right now wondering where I am because they’re out and about doing boss things (don’t worry I’ll tell them later). One of my bosses will actually be out of town for two weeks on a top secret mission that he can’t tell me about until he gets back. It is boggling my mind. WHAT could he possibly be doing for two weeks? And why does it constitute traveling to some mystery country? And WHY is it TOP SECRET?!

And please, get your head out of the glorious cinema world. It’s nothing illegal.

Ugh.

I LOVE secrets and not being a part of them hurts me in ways that I can’t describe. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but it’s different when you don’t know you’re being excluded from a juicy piece of information. How can you desire to be inside the bubble when you don’t even know you’re outside of it?? Precisely, my Three Readers, Precisely. You can’t. Because you don’t know. But I’m standing right outside of this bubble that both of my bosses are inside of and I can see them in there being all secretive so I just put on my head phones so that they know I’m not trying to listen. I play it off like I don’t care even though I DO!

Oh well, he’ll tell me when he gets back.

The Talk

Hey Blog

How are you?

Awesome. I’m glad. Well you look great. Hey listen. We need to talk.  I’ve been thinking… something’s changed. I feel different.  

I don’t know why. I just do. I’m not sure what it is.

What? No, no. It’s nothing you did. It’s totally me. I’m just going through this transition period of my life.  

No I have not been thinking about starting other blogs. You’re the only one for me.  

What are you talking about? I totally made eye contact with you when I said that.  

Are you kidding me? I haven’t spoken to that trampy Myspace blog for months. It was meaningless blogging. It never meant anything.

Of course, I appreciate you. You really listened to my adventures this summer and you totally helped me get through my break-up, but how do we know that this wasn’t just a summer thing?

I’m sorry. No, don’t get mad. I didn’t mean that.  You’re a huge part of my life. I think about you all the time. YES, I’m think about you even when I’m not blogging.

No–sigh. I’m not ending it. I guess– shoot, I don’t know what I want anymore.

. . .

Let’s be honest with ourselves, the honeymoon period is over.  The newness has expired.  We are knee deep in married life, you and I.  We are too old for grape juice and too young for wine.  

I don’t know what we should now.   

Take a break?! Now you’re just being silly. That’s silly. Quit being silly! 

Yeah I know that’s what I was getting at, but when I actually hear you say it–well, it just sounds ludicrous. You sound like a crazy person.

. . . 

You know what?

We are going to take this like champs. We’ll get through this. You and I are a team. 

Do you feel better now? 

Good. I’m glad. I feel better too. Now how about you run along and fetch me some sexy new ideas! Good Blog.

Nothing To Say

Really? Nothing to say? Really? Are you fucking kidding me? Maybe I just had nothing to say to you.  Didja ever think of that?  I am a fairly quiet person. I’m not that talkative. Don’t take it personal. My shyness/quietness is not a personal attack against you, King of the Self-Absorbed.  Don’t let it boggle your mind too much. You’re too busy for that anyway. Maybe you should quit trying to validate your insecurity by talking about other people.  Maybe you and Frenchie-Poo should jump off your pedestals and walk down here with the rest of us.

Messy Room

By Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!

His underwear is hanging on the lamp.

His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,

And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.

His workbook is wedged in the window,

His sweater’s been thrown on the floor.

His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,

And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.

His books are all jammed in the closet,

His vest has been left in the hall.

A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,

And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!

Donald or Robert or Willie or–

Huh? You say it’s mine? Oh, dear,

I knew it looked familiar!

 

Remember this poem? I had to memorize it once for a third grad assignment and recite it to my teacher while she recorded it.  My room is messy… and when I attempted to clean it a few moments ago, I thought of this poem… and then sat down to blog.  Here’s my version:

 

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!

Her VS bra is hanging on the lamp.

Her bathrobe is there in her day sofa chair,

And the chair becoming quite mucky and damp.

Her Macbook is wedged in the window,

Her cardigan’s been thrown on the floor.

Her Office DVDs are beneath the TV,

And her Frankie Bs have been carelessy hung on the door. 

Her shoes are jammed in the closet

Her Uggz have been left in the hall.

A puppy named Roxy is asleep on her blanky

And a See’s Candy wrapper has been stuck on the wall.

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!

Bella or Roxy or Jenny or–

Huh? You say it’s mine? Oh, dear, 

I knew it looked familiar!

 

Alright. Back to cleaning.

 

 

 

 

 

My Sentiments Exactly

The Esoteric Whale