Thursday, June 30, 2005

Trippy, drippy, dippy hippies
Apologies in advance to those I might offend, but I really don't like the freaking hippies. Or yippies, trustafarians, neo-hippies, whatever the Birkenstock and patchouli-wearing, Phish-listening, dope-smoking, daddy's BMW-driving, no shower-having crowd is called these days.

The granola crunchy crowd just rubs me the wrong way. I was never a hippie, being that I wasn't born until the whole mess was OVER, hate tie-dye anything, and think a hairbrush and a tube of lipgloss can do wonders for one's disposition. But if I had been a hippie and ran across one of these little imposters, I think it would PISS ME OFF. Real hippies had a social conscience, they had beliefs, they were serious about peace, love and understanding. Forgive me for making broad generalizations, but this new breed is vapid, self-absorbed, lazy, and (I'm about to channel my late grandmother here...) devoid of character.
"They wanna save the earth, but all they do is smoke pot and smell bad." ~Eric Cartman

The facts: "Free love" is no longer an option. Living off of your parents while in college does not constitute "independence." And talking about how great it would be if "everyone in the whole world could just love everyone else" in between tokes isn't going to make that dream come true. Get a clue, get a job, or (please for god's sake) go somewhere else so I won't have to ignore you when you sparechange me on the street.

In case you think there isn't a scientific basis for my opinion, check out some hippie-ness online. In these forums, there are 5,400 messages in the "Marijuana" forum, but only 1,394 in "Politics." And that's just one example. I was skeeved out enough by the whole mess that I didn't stick around long enough to figure out how many "hey can I buy pot on the Internet" or "I'm broke give me money" posts there were.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

That's way too LOL for me.
As much as I hate the term "LOL" (actually, I use it as shorthand for a truly geeky-in-a-bad-way person, as in "he's just not my type...he was all LOL and sh*t"), it would be appropriate to say I LOL'ed* for about an hour this morning watching video on this web site. I heard about CryingWhileEating.com on NPR's Day to Day yesterday. The concept: People crying while eating various food items. And they film themselves doing it. Crying. And eating.

I'll be sending in my own clip soon. Something like the following...
Kelly
What she's eating: A Spamwich.
What she's crying about: Not knowing who her real friends are.

Sob.

*I promise to never use this term again, except in conversation with Michael who like totally gets it.

Monday, June 27, 2005

She's baaaaaack...
I have successfully completed my week off without too much work worry or withdrawal. A couple of days in Hilton Head playing golf shopping the outlets, then four days of stripping wallpaper and painting. I have a freshly painted kitchen and bathroom to prove it. It was a sh*tload of work, but entirely worth it because they look marvelous. Thanks to Al for her help (and entertainment...once the paint fumes started to kick in and she lost her usually impeccable grammar skills).

So I'm back to work with many things crossed off my to-do list and the satisfaction of having tackled my biggest home project to date. Still, I think my next vacation should be spent at a spa retreat getting massaged by hot young boys named Juan and Raoul, and drinking vats of very good red wine.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Episode #78: In which she fills the endless hours...
Today officially marks the first day of my week-long vacation. I haven't taken a week's vacation in about five years. It's not like I'm a workaholic or anything, at least not in the usual sense. When I left the corporate world to freelance in 1999, I had what amounts to a two-year long vacation (sleeping in every day, out 3 and 4 nights a week, working when I felt like it). When I managed a newspaper, I would have loved to take some time off, but the long weekend here & there was the most I could take and not have to deal with some disaster upon my return (or field phone calls on my cell the whole time I was gone). Now that I am working as editor/writer for a publication I love, I have been negligent in scheduling time off because it doesn't feel like work to me. But since the company I work for pays me for two weeks off every year, I thought I'd be stupid not to take advantage of it. It's also a good test for me, as I do have a hard time thinking about non-work related topics.

On this momentous week off, I'm not traveling (unless you count a couple of days in Hilton Head visiting the sister and now-six-month-old nephew), so I had to make a to-do list to keep myself from going stir-crazy, watching TV around the clock, and taking six naps a day.

First, I'm going to strip the preposterously hideous wallpaper in the kitchen and bath that has been shouting ugly since we moved in (seriously, it's "80s calling, they want their walls back" bad...borders and all). Then I'm going to paint them - Summer Tomato in the kitchen, Sour Lime in the bath. If you know me, you also know this is a project that I would normally HIRE someone to do. Be impressed.

I think that might take the week, but just in case it doesn't I also have a two-page list of errands I've neglected (a pile of clothes to take to have altered, ordering contact lenses, firing my shrink, writing thank you notes for CHRISTMAS gifts, transferring credit card balance to a lower interest card, calling the cable company to see if our monthly bill would go down if we had fewer than FIVE HUNDRED movie channels, and so on).

I'm already having work-withdrawal.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

The funny thing is...
Even when you stopped allowing the men in your life to break your heart, the thing that surprised you most was that it could still be broken — by Life, by Loss, by Things Outside of Your Control. Sometimes they didn’t just leave you and go somewhere else; sometimes they really left you and everything else in this world. When that happened, there was no ex. There was no second act, no breakup sex, and no opportunity to wait for him to come crawling back just so you could turn him away one last time.

Instead, you were left begging under the weight of the Universe, asking Providence for one more chance, calling Fate at three o’clock in the morning to sob your heart out. You did what a lot of girls do; you tried to move on. You went out nearly every night, hoping to run into Divine Intervention, or even Chance or Fortune—you weren’t picky then. But no matter how alluring, no matter how charming, no matter how hard you tried to conceal your desperation, you brought evening after evening to a close with Grief.

[don't freak out. i haven't gone off the deep end. this is part of a short story i am working on that wanted to get out for while, take a stroll around and see what's happening out there before we get back to work. sometimes, you just have to let them do their own thing.]

Thursday, June 09, 2005

That not-so-fresh feeling...
In honor of Viv's recent menstruation-related post, I felt the burning need to put in my 2 cents. But not without mentioning these first. Tampons, yes. Pads, sometimes. A cup to poke on up there to catch the flow, which I will then have to remove, rinse, and reinsert? Um, no. She likes her tampons because she doesn't have to wash them when she's done. The Diva Cup site says it isn't messy. So tugging something out of your vagina that may or may not be filled with blood, pulling up your pants with one hand, trudging to the sink to give it a wash, and trudging back to the toilet to reinsert...they really think it's not going to look like the shower scene in Carrie in there? Plug it up, I say. Plug it up!

Periods, and talking about them, don't embarrass me. I have a stash of tampons in my desk at work, in the glovebox of my car, and in my gym bag. I have no qualms about saying, "I canceled my waxing appointment today. Oh, why? Surfing the crimson wave."

I never really liked the euphemisms for menstruation foisted upon me as a self-conscious teen: "Aunt Flo," "Monthly Visitor," "The Curse" (I really hate that one) or the whispered (usually from a preposterously old family member), "My Lady Days." And, as I told Viv earlier, I once had a stepmother who called it "Falling off the roof." This is the same stepmother who called her son "it" until he was 4, called me by my sister's name until, well pretty much until dear old dad moved on to the next slutty real estate agent, and she called bourbon "breakfast." Suffice it to say, I've yet to meet anyone else to use that "falling off the roof" phrase. Crazy bitch.

Other than demurely whispering that I had my period, or alluding to crippling menstrual cramps so everyone would get the picture, I leaned more toward the descriptive: "Riding the cotton pony," "flying the red flag," or - when I wanted out of gym class, "girl trouble." For four years, I don't think the coach ever figured out if 1)I had my period, 2)had somehow managed to get a girl "in trouble", or 3)if I myself were in the kind of trouble that would require either an abortion (as long as it was legal), or coat hanger (if not legal). Regardless, I spent gym class reading Ayn Rand and smoking cigarettes behind the field bleachers.

I love my period for many reasons. It's fundamentally female, and therefore feminine. In my early 20s, often intoxicated and not all that smart, P-E-R-I-O-D spelled relief more often than not. No matter how assertive (translation for men: "overtly aggressive bitch"), no matter how successful in the workplace, no matter how many hours spent in meetings and negotiations and corporate climbing that can make you feel vastly androgynous, there was that time at least once a month when I could pull down my underwear and see my girly-ness in all its wonder.

Let's stop being embarrassed. We bleed, for the better part of our lives. If we didn't, we would't have all of these cool hormones that make us all cute and curvy, nor would we be able to produce offspring. I say we become like the Playmates from the Planet Playtex: Fearless and unapologetic.

Let's take the taboo out of tampons. Wear them around your neck, stuff your pockets full, staple them to the walls of your office. A friend, caught unawares, asks you for a tampon? Tell her to go long and make that thing soar. Stand up at the table and announce, "Pardon me while I adjourn to the ladies' room so that I may change my TAMPON. I shall return."

Join me ladies. There shouldn't be anything that happens so naturally and also be so unmentionable at the same time. Period. Period. Period. Exclamation point.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

I’ve never done that. I would never do that. And shame on you for suggesting it.
About three years ago, my friend Al taught me how to play the “Never Have I Ever” drinking game. For someone who prefers to keep a little distance between my spotty past and the Perfect Me I am today, it’s not a stellar idea to get me intoxicated and entice me to tell the truth, albeit in a discombobulated way. I think I might have been the only one on the planet over 20 and under 30 years old who hadn’t played Never Have I Ever before. And even before I slammed five margaritas, the rules confused me. I might have even ‘fessed up to things that I didn’t actually do.

Regardless, Al and I are still friends. Because she’s smart and nice and funny and not because she knows things about me that could ruin my life should they be made public.

Shall we? You know the drill. Grab the beverage of your choice (or a shot glass and bottle of anything over 90 proof if you’re not a weenus) and play along.

Never have I ever...
* Wanted to backhand someone just for saying “um” one too many times.
* “Accidentally” lost someone’s email because I didn’t feel like responding.
* Pretended to like children because daddy is a hottie, or felt my heart leap with joy when I found out he only sees them every other weekend.
* Lied to someone I was in love with.
* Kissed a friend’s boyfriend.
* Left an event and pretended I had another to go to, when I really just wanted to get home in time to watch something on television.

Your turn. You wouldn’t let me drink alone, would you?

Saturday, June 04, 2005

My Slumbering Heart...
I went here Friday night to see one of my favorite bands in the whole world, Rilo Kiley. Despite it being an all-ages show and that I fell somewhere in between the high school students and their moms who picked them up after the last song, I had a good time. And they put on a hell of a show. I had forgotten how much I love to see live bands. It makes me feel like I woke up happy when I didn't even know I was sleeping.

Here's some Rilo for that boy I used to know and dream about sometimes...
And I've become just like a chemical stress
Tracing the lines of my face for
Something more beautiful than is there
I've barely been gone
and I'm not a failure
I swear
I wish you could see it from over there
I've got a lot over here without you
I've barely been gone
gone
dreaming

Thursday, June 02, 2005

I almost believe that they're real...
One of my daily blog reads: My friend Claire has the coolest photo blog ever. She's one talented shutterbug.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Because I'm a philistine...
Our annual arts festival has taken over the city. I welcome it. I love it. I look forward to it. I just wish we could have cultural events like this all year round because it's damn hard to crunch a year's worth of culture into a little over two weeks.

I get as much exposure to the festival as I can, but not so much that it cuts into my copious down time. I attend some performances, but cut out during intermission if my attention wanes at all. In other words, I treat a $75-a-seat play just like I treat a $2 movie: If I'm not entertained, I'm gone. That doesn't always go over well with the person or persons with whom I attend a show, but when have I ever been preoccupied with how other people feel? Deep down, I might be a yahoo, but I figure getting my art on half time is better than not getting my art on at all.
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