Today, I went on a first date with a guy I don’t know very well. He told me to dress in formal attire so I assumed he was taking me to a nice dinner. He took me to his brothers wedding, and introduced me as “the one” to his entire family. FML
So, this is my favorite FML ever. Ever.
Not because it’s really all that bad. (I mean, seriously, some of the stuff people put on that blog is out of control.) But because it is awesome. There really are so many opportunities in life just to totally freak people out and unfortunately, most of them are missed. Stupid social norms. (I think I once had an entire list of things I wished I’d done to my freshman year roommate when we first met. Luckily, I think I covered the “freaking her out” bit when I hid in the closet at Halloween and somehow turned her goldfish collection into the most racist thing to come out of the south since Jim Crow laws. Oops.)
Anyway, I just love that this guy did this. When I meet guys it takes all of my self control not to do stuff just to totally freak them out. And that folks, is one of the many reasons I’m single. (Other reasons can be found in various other places in this blog.)
“Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.”—Graham Greene (via psychotherapy) (via quote-book)
I think I might have lived in this neighborhood too long.
Last night I got home kind of late. I actually don’t recall exactly what time it was, but I’m going to go with 2 a.m. because that seems like a fairly reasonable guess.
So, at 2 a.m. a cab dropped off me and three of my friends in front of my house. Just as we were getting out of the cab—like, literally, we’d only just opened the doors—there was a loud explosion and a burst of light just across the street.
I assumed fireworks. My friends assumed a bomb. Our driver cleared it up and pointed to where a car had run directly into a telephone pole across the street causing some kind of explosion in the power device at the top. Then, as we watched, the people in the car jumped out and ran away. They took off at a full sprint up the street and around the corner. My friends were yelling, but I was totally unphased. Just another day in the neighborhood, you know?
So, two of the friends left and it was just myself and Laura who came inside and were getting ready for bed. Laura, facinated by the drama outside the front door, was peering out of the windows and alerting me to everything that was going down.
"The police are coming!"
"Your neighbor just walked out! I bet he lost power! He’s wearing his pajamas!"
"They’re searching the car!"
My reaction, you might wonder?
"Laura! Turn the lights off! I don’t want the police coming over here asking questions!"
And then I put on my pajamas, grabbed my dachshund, and crawled into bed.
The lights were still on.
"Laura! Turn off the lights! I don’t want them to know we saw anything!"
"Are you serious?" Laura asked.
At this point, I think I might have actually tossed around the word “snitch” - making it abundantly clear that my knowledge of crime comes from two places: rap music and Law & Order. And making it obvious that I have been living in this hood for too long.
That’s right. It’s a sad day. Clifford Harris’ day to head off to the big house has finally arrived. I’m pretty sad about this as it means a serious dearth of new TI for the next year (and one day, apparently).
There are lessons to be learned here: 1) Don’t try to buy automatic weapons and silencers. Especially if you happen to be a convicted felon. 2) Assume that if you are singing about shooting people, the police might keep an eye on you. 3) The bodygaurd was the informant? So cliche Tip.
On the upside, prison seems to suit some people—particular rappers—really well. And he’s done this before. I think he’ll come out ok.
And now, for a “Happy 1st day of 366,” I have two small things to share:
So, I feel I should start this post off with a disclaimer: I love Donald Miller. It took me a long time to read his most famous book, Blue Like Jazz, but I had this weird thing about two years ago where I kept seeing it everywhere and so I finally read it. And then reread it. And then realized that if I could ever be a published author, this was EXACTLY the kind of thing I’d want to write. Then I read his other books. Searching for God Knows What changed the way I thought about God. And Though Painted Desserts convinced me to quit my job and travel to the South Pacific and Asia for two months. So, needless to say, his books tend to be influential for me.
This one was a little different. As I expected I would, I really enjoyed it. However, this book wasn’t written for me. Or for any girls for that matter. Miller makes it very clear that this is a book for guys- and specifically for guys who have dealt with growing up without a father. I am a girl who has always had a loving father who was very much part of the picture. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t plenty of things I found applicable.
Who will like this: Miller is funny. His stories make me laugh out loud as I read. I can’t imagine anyone not liking the way he writes.
Who won’t like this: It’s written from a Christian perspective. If you don’t believe in God, you might have some issues with it. On the other hand, Miller doesn’t write as a conservative Christian as I see it. I like that. Some people might not.
My favorite quote: It’s funny, in his other books, half the page has been filled with passages I’ve starred, underlined, and highlighted. In this book, it was more about stories. In fact, this quote is the only one I noted in the entire book: “If God was fathering me, and He knew exactly what I needed, then when I didn’t get something I wanted, I could trust God didn’t give it to me because it was not something I needed.”
Where to read this: Anywhere it is socially acceptable to laugh out loud at a book. Because you will.
To know before you read: As I said, this book is for the guys. Any girl reading it should be aware of that. Overall: Read it.
Anyway, so, my house, in addition to rats, hoodlums, and the combination of the two (hood rats), has a backyard. That was actually what sold me on it. A nice, big fenced in area, perfect for the world’s wildest dachshund.
However, I slightly regret this choice. Not because it hasn’t been anything less than a godsend for said dachshund (I open the door, she goes out and barks for hours on end, thereby making my neighbors, who all obviously own guns, want to come over and shoot me and then I let her inside). It’s brilliant.
Except for the whole “lawn maintanence” thing that was supposedly part of my lease. I’m fine with the occasional flower planting and totally down with tossing a little mulch in the beds from time to time, but my lawn mower and I have what some would call a seriously troubled relationship.
It began last July when I purchased it. I’d never owned a lawn mower before. So, after my first use of it, it seemed perfectly acceptable to me to fold it back up and shove it vertically into a tiny “shed” outside of my back door. Which is how gasoline leaked all over the back of my house and why it is purely through the grace of God I am still alive.
Inevitably, whenever I get out the lawnmower I go through a full half hour of trying to get it started. This generally involves me cursing at the lawnmower, then cursing at Rosie, then calling my brother (are guys born knowing about yard machinery? I suspect this is the case) and then cursing him. It’s a really uplifting experience.
So, last night, when it was time to mow the lawn for the first time in months, I was apprehensive. After all, the last time I’d used it I’d put the wrong motor oil in and the spark plug came off like 4 million times. Then, I’d left it sitting under the back steps with no cover for four months. I’m not a model lawn mower owner by any means.
Things went remarkably smoothly at first. Until we hit a patch of clover that would give kudzu in the jungle a run for its money on level of thickness. I literally had to mow approximately three stalks of clover at once and then the mower would shut off and I’d have to pull start it again, all the while yelling at Rosie to move out of the way and quit barking at the mower because she was going to get hit with flying clumps of clover.
Meanwhile, whenever the lawn mower would stop, I could hear rap music blaring from my neighbor’s house, where I could only assume the words “that crazy white girl and short dog are at it again” were being muttered.
I mowed my lawn though. Without having to call a member of the male gender one single time—and with minimal cursing. I really couldn’t be more proud.
On my work email today I have recieved 92 emails. (I usually don’t count, but I was in a counting mood today.) I’ve sent 56 emails.
Wondering how many articles I’ve written? Zero. Or edited? Zero.
Email sucks the life out of me. It’s like Twitter in that sense. I have a real love/hate relationship with it. (Not with Twitter. I’m still in the honeymoon stage with Twitter. I’m certain I’ll hate it soon enough. Besides, I’ve only “tweeted” twice today. When I start tweeting 92 times then I’ll hate Twitter.)
It’s a very bizarre thought for me to consider that all of 12 years ago I barely used email at all. (I used the internet for chat rooms. Which is really embarassing to think about now. Especially since it was my math tutor who turned out to be a child molester who introduced me to the concept of chat rooms… but that’s a story for another day.)
So, what did people do all day without email? I mean, if you’re at your desk and you can’t hit refresh on something and have new information immediately pop up in front of you, what exactly is the point of life? It’s 5:09 and I’ve gotten 4 emails while writing this. Maybe one of them will tell me the point of life.
I have been in two weddings in the last week. (This includes a total of one wedding beach party, three wedding brunches, two rehearsals, two rehearsal dinners, two beautiful ceremonies, two incredible receptions, and two Saturday nights that turned into very early Sunday mornings that involved me making some very regrettable “late night” food choices.)
In the last week I have had three people tell me about three other friends getting married.
I have had a good friend go into detail in a long conversation on future engagement plans.
I have been invited to one bachelorette party, one baby shower, and one wedding shower.
On my flight to the second of the two weddings, I sat next to a couple who looked like models coming home from their honeymoon. In the Bahamas. At the same resort where the couple from the previous week’s wedding had been staying. They said they’d seen them there. Then the guy unhooked the girl’s bra during the flight and we didn’t talk as much after that.
On the shuttle bus to the airport parking lot last night, another couple coming back from their honeymoon sat next to me. I told them that I’d been to several weddings recently. The girl looked at my left hand and said, “You’ll be there soon enough.” If I hadn’t been so exhausted from a little trip to a place called Taco Cabana at 3 a.m. the night before, I probably would have slapped her.
It’s not that I want to get married right this moment. In fact, I was happily living non-marital bliss until about 16 days ago. But, apparently life has decided I should be reminded every 0.5 seconds that I am absolutely, 100%, not married. And, while supposedly marriage involves things other than Champagne, parties, honeymoons, and bra-unhooking on crowded airplanes, after the last two weeks, I’m thinking at the very least there seem to be some benefits to the whole concept.
So good. Read it. That could actually be all I write in this “review,” but I suppose I can elaborate a little.
I loved this book. Partially because I love the way Kerouac writes and partially because basically my dream in life is to be a nomadic wanderer, happy to sleep every night under a different sky and spend my days discussing life with those whose paths cross with mine. (Unfortunately, while I dream of that lifestyle, my life tends to lean more towards Starbucks-loving, SUV-driving yuppie. Oh well.)
It is a beautifully written book though and captures the essence of a group of people and a generation I am largely unfamiliar with.
Who will like this: Dreamers, writers, travelers, readers, and anyone interested in history and specifically US history. Who won’t like this: People easily offended by drug use and sex. There’s a fair amount of it.
My favorite quote: This is SO hard. Half this book is now underlined and starred. I’m going to go with this one though: “They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won’t be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it flies by them and they know it and that too worries them to no end.”
Where to read this: On a trip. Definitely. To know before you read: Maybe do a little research on the Beat Generation? Overall: Best book yet this year.
As anyone who has read this blog, well, ever, knows, I’m a generally positive person. Well, that’s not entirely true. This is a generally positive blog. Ok, that’s true.
Anyway, I tend to not complain on here. I save my complaining for my friends and/or my dachshund. With my friends said complaining is generally done over my third gin and tonic on a Friday night and usually it involves the words “I give up.” With my dachshund the complaining is usually done during the 7 a.m. hour and it involves the words “why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”
Today, my complaining is hitting the blog. I’ll try to keep this to a minimum.
You know how sometimes it just seems like life hates you a lot? That was yesterday for me. And then other times it seems like life doesn’t really hate you, so much as simply enjoys torturing you? That was today.
There wasn’t anything huge. Certainly nothing to justify this kind of public complaining. My family and friends are all alive and healthy. I still have a job. I am in good health. Rosie still pees in the house and enjoys chasing rabbits in the sunshine. You know, all the major stuff is still cool.
It was just a lot of little things that one by one made me think that maybe today would be more fun if I just beat my head against a wall for the next 14 hours rather than bothering to go about my regular routine. Alas, the head beating option wasn’t available today.
I changed the look of my blog. Obviously. I haven’t decided yet if I actually like it so my apologies if future changes make it kind of confusing. Also, in a tragic turn, due to me having to delete the old HTML business, all of your comments are gone. Which makes me sad as those are one of the many things that makes this blogging stuff fun for me. So, write some more. And tell me what you think of the new look. I’m open to suggestions. I’m also open to hanging out more with people who write HTML code and can therefore make things like this a lot easier for me.
As I am headed to Charleston for a wedding for the weekend and my parents/usual dogsitters are in Atlanta to watch basketball, Rosie's favorite Aunt Katie took on the task of caring for her for the weekend. I made a dachshund drop tonight in Gastonia. When I got out of the car to let Rosie go to the bathroom before turning her over, Katie watched her go and then this happened.
Me:Look how good she's being Katie. One less time for her to go in your house.
Katie:Don't let her back into the car until she's wiped.
Me:Um. Katie. Dog's don't wipe.
Katie:You know, until she's scooted along the ground.
Me:Yeah, that's not going to happen. And that's not wiping.
And then next weekend I’m a bridesmaid in another wedding.
That weekend will mark the 7th wedding I have been a bridesmaid in. Isn’t there some saying about that “always the bridesmaid, never the bride?” Or something. Whatever.
I’m getting pretty good at the bridesmaid thing. Or at least I think so. I’m not so much with the speeches (I bailed at two of the last three weddings I was in), but I have the dancing and cocktails thing down to an art. Oh, and also I really love my friends so being in their weddings is fun.
Tonight I had to drive to my parents’ house to pick up my bridesmaid dresses (My current closet space allows for about a fourth of my clothing so 90% of my trips home involve trading out sweaters. The other 10% are for dachshund drops. I don’t know why my parents say they feel like I use them.). Anyway, so I was at home and my mom made a reference to “when you get married…” as she occasionally does. I don’t mind the occasional reference. After all, I’d like to get married one day. If for no other reason than to have someone else to blame for Rosie’s disciplinary problems. (And trust me, I’d do my best to blame them. Even if we were married when Rosie was 17.)
Anyway, she told me not to get up tight about my wedding when I got married. As I tend to be a little obsessive compulsive about things, I can see where she might be coming from. I told her not to worry. When I get married I intend to be barefoot, have a dachshund for my maid of honor, serve Chick-fil-A nugget trays at the reception, and have a DJ who plays strictly rap music.
Apparently, this was the first time I’d shared these plans with my parents. My dad’s response was to yell “no rap music!” and my mom’s was to point out that Rosie probably wouldn’t behave during any ceremony. I said we could feed her nuggets. She said there wouldn’t be any nuggets left by the end.
And so begins my wedding planning. It’s convenient I’ve yet to have met someone who could be a potential father for Rosie because I can see it’s going to take about 25 to 30 years to sort this all out. Maybe by the time I’m 60, my parents will be too old to care anymore and they’ll be cool with the nuggets and dachshund scenario. At least that’s what I’m hoping.
how much I want one of these machines. Although, if we’re going to be honest, Rosie hasn’t figured out the “sit” thing yet… or for that matter the “hush” thing… so I’m not sure why I think she’ll be able to figure out something as advanced as a ball-throwing machine. A girl can dream though.
Yesterday I went to tour a house to potentially buy. Not the aforementioned blue one, but rather a lovely lavender one in Dilworth. (Apparently I prefer houses in unusual colors.) I actually really doubt that I’ll buy a house, but after this weekend I have pretty much decided it’s time for me to move from my neighborhood.
I’ll be sad to do this because I love my little house. And I love Rosie’s little yard. And I REALLY love my four-minute commute. And my kind neighbors. But, it’s time to go. The top five reasons are as follows:
1) I’m almost positive there is a legitimate pimp living around the corner. I’ve been suspicious for awhile: cars coming and going at all times of the night, police at his house occasionally, police watching his house A LOT, and women who look like cracked out whores walking on his block at all hours of the night, were all signs that made me slightly concerned. However, after seeing three such women in the span of about 60 seconds on Saturday evening around 2 a.m., I feel pretty confident in saying that he is a pimp and business is booming.
2) My sweet 87 year old neighbor across the street came over to talk to me yesterday as I raked leaves out of my flower bed. She told me that apparently the police found a large bag of ammunition in the street drain in front of her house last week. I’m now concerned that Rosie saw whoever left it there and now needs to be put in witness protection.
3) I can see six for sale signs from my front door. I’m not sure if the block has cleared because of Rosie’s incessant barking or the pimp, but I think it’s time for me to follow suit.
4) There is a wild pit bull roaming the neighborhood. I saw what I can only assume was his owner also roaming the neighborhood at 2 a.m. on Saturday, chain swinging in hand as he looked for him. He did not find him. And I’ve since seen the pit bull twice in my front yard—probably looking for a little hot dog to munch on.
5) My neighbor behind me creeps me out. More than any of this other stuff. Personally, pimps, gun-wielding ammunition disposers, and chain-carrying drunks, while they are intimidating, don’t totally scare me. Because they’re not creepy. If they kill me, it will most likely be either an accidental stray bullet or a mugging. But the odds are against it. If my neighbor kills me, I have a feeling he’ll be wearing a dog suit and muttering “All work and no play…” while he does it. He has a staring habit. And a habit of hovering close to our property line after dark. I’m not cool with either.
So, it’s time to go. Mostly for Rosie’s sake. Another year on this block and she’d end up either a prostitute or pit bull snack.
When asked what “Gone With the Wind” was about in a 1936 interview quoted in the satisfyingly hefty Scribner trade paperback edition of 2007, Mitchell put it this way: “If the novel has a theme, it is that of survival. What makes some people come through catastrophes and others, apparently just as able, strong and brave, go under? It happens in every upheaval. Some people survive; others don’t. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality ‘gumption.’ So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn’t.”
I read this quote in this story in The New York Times this morning.
I’ve been meaning to set up a Flickr account for awhile. If for no other reason than to have just one more outlet for photos of Rosie. So I set one up tonight. For now, it’s just a bunch of random photos I pulled off my desk top. I’ll have more soon. And they’ll make more sense chronologically as well, considering most of these were taken almost a year ago. For now, there’s a picture of Everett with a monkey. So that’s something.