April 2006 Archives
I've always had weird, weird dreams. Like most people, my dreams don't linger with me for long, drifting out of my memory before lunchtime. But the really strange ones stay with me for awhile, sometimes even for years. I can still remember the worst nightmare I had as a child, where this tiny toy soldier came to life and hunted me and my siblings, who hid in a thatched roof to escape him. I can still remember one of my favorite dreams from high school, where the back of my closet opened into my very own private mall where everything was free for me.
Lately I've been dreaming a lot about my little brother.
He's not so little right now, but since he is 2 years younger than me, he's spent his entire life suffering and benefitting from my reign of terror. Sure, he wasn't allowed to choose the game we played, he never got to hold the remote, and any time he dared to disagree with me he was either physically or verbally assaulted. But at the same time, I was protective of my little brother. Generally, that was pretty easy to do since Patrick is a well-liked guy and always has been. Still, let it be known that if you say anything bad about him, I will make you regret it. I worked with a girl who was in his gradauting class who DARED to open her mouth about Patrick. I placed an immediate and irreversible Noratorium on her, and she got a whole new understanding of the cold shoulder.
The other night I dreamed that I was being held hostage in my basement by a man who claimed he had installed a safe in the wall for my father and was now going to rob us all blind. The entire dream revolved around me trying to keep Patrick from coming down to the basement, where my captor claimed he would shoot him if he tried to save me. This is the latest in a series of dreams where I'm trying to keep my brother safe in the most bizarre of situations.
One explanation could be that all dreams and naturally weird and messed up, unless everyone has dreamed that their closet is really a secret portal to a private mall. I think it's just my way of dealing with the stress of Patrick shipping out again for an undisclosed amount of time. It's weird not to be able to call him every day, and not just because he's one of the only people who can appreciate when I see someone walk into a plate glass window. It's weird to think that a kid who had the bedroom next to me for so many years, who kept me awake with his damn snoring even after our parents threw down the money to get his adenoids removed, is now going to be spending his nights in a distant time zone. Like the urge to kick his ass, the urge to protect him doesn't wane with the years. I won't be there to take care of him, but maybe he doesn't need me to anymore. Maybe my little brother is all growed up.
But just in case he isn't, and he is still the potato-headed, doe-eyed, nerdboy from my childhood, I want to say this: I'm going to miss you, Paddy.
On every channel tonight, the 10 o'clock news is talking about gas prices. They also mention the guy who tried to sky dive off the Empire State Building this afternoon, but mainly, they talk about gas prices.
Nothing could annoy me more. Except maybe when people whistle in enclosed spaces. Like an elevator, for example. Unless you're Bing Crosby, whistling is terrible anytime. But when I have to go 14 floors listening to you whistle to yourself while checking your Blackberry, I'm about to go into Punching Mode.
Anyway, each news team does the ubiquitous "man on the street interviews," where, invariably, everyone says, "This is terrible! Something has to be done about this. Someone should do something."
Excuse me, Joe Hummer H2, why don't you do something? Nobody forced you to buy a giant and garish automobile and move 50 miles away from your place of work. Just like bobody forced you to purchase that awful lime green polo shirt you're wearing with your reflective sunglasses.
In New Jersey, they are thinking about "taking active measures" to "solve the gas problem." After cutting to shots of beleaguered folks paying for their gas, they reveal these active measures:
1) Allow people to pump their own gas (I know, what? I guess in New Jersey you don't pump your own gas. Which might not be a bad idea seeing as how I have sprayed myself with gasoline several times. Once just because I wasn't paying attention and once because I thought I saw somebody I knew and yanked the hose out while still squeezing it).
2) Lower the speed limit.
Now, believe in or not, I'm no economist. In fact, I don't even have a degree in the stuff. But I'm pretty sure neither of those things are really going to bring us back to our heyday, when gas was so cheap we bought it just to pour it out in the streets, or to bathe our dogs, or to put a dab behind our ears to drive the men crazy.
Not that it affects me much, seeing as how I kissed driving goodbye almost a year ago, except for the brief driving lesson in Italy where Franco tried to teach me to drive a stick-shift in his 1989 pick-up truck on a winding mountain road. The lesson was brief and ended in extreme sweating and nervous crying. For both of us.
It just annoys me to hear people bitch about problems that "need to be solved" when they're really not doing anything to solve the problem for themselves. It would be like me complaining to my mother that I keep getting nosebleeds when really, like Ralph Wiggum, all I gotta do is stop picking the damn thing. But more than anything, I just want the local news to go back to tackling the real issues. Like a viewer's poll about the latest American Idol cast-off.
But Bruce Springsteen is kinda hot.
Definitely in my list of hottest singers/musicians ever. For the record, that list includes but is not limited to:
Dave Grohl--Drummers are automatically hot. Especially when they start singing awesome songs.
Anthony Kiedis--The only thing hotter than a recovering heroine addict is one with a body like this.
Conor Oberst--So small. So poetic. In the words of Gilmore, probably shakes constantly like a chihuahua.
Frank Sinatra--Harkens you back to a simpler time. A time when men were men and dames were dames and the evening wasn't complete without a highball (or nine), a ride in a private jet, and a high-stakes game of craps followed by dancing cheek-to-cheek.
Harry Connick, Jr.--He's like Frank Sinatra, only not as dead.
Lenny Kravitz--Yes sir, I want to go your way.
Mick Jagger--Breaks my cardinal rule: Any man of mine must have larger thighs than me. Then again, rules were made to be broken. Right, Mick?
Van Morrison--When my eyes are closed. And it's 30 years ago. And I'm high on all sorts of drugs frolicking through a field in Ireland.
Chet Baker--Oh, they're singing songs of love, but not for me. And not for us, Chet. Too bad.
Ryan Adams--Who wouldn't love a man who would tumble into a whiskey and cigarette haze after our break-up, pen heartbreaking songs about our lost love, and ultimately win me back with a killer record?
My boyfriend isn’t a big fan of blogs, mine or anybody else’s. “What is a BLOG?!” He’d scream while I typed on my laptop, denying him the chance to propose trades in his Fantasy Basketball League (also known as the League Dedicated to Driving Nora Insane). “Why don’t you BLOG about it,” he’d say when I reminded him that it is his only duty in life to do the dishes, “But first, tell me what a blog is. WHAT IS A BLOG?!”
Boyfriend is a private person. He isn’t pleased when I try to photograph his frequent nosebleeds, or when I tell his co-workers about the time in High School when I put mayonnaise on his brownie and he got so mad he chased me into a freshman Spanish class and shoved the brownie up my nose.
My life is a huge melting pot of friends and family. If you’re my friend, you’re going to be on a first-name basis with my mom, you’re going to laugh at my sister’s jokes, and you’re going to be terrified of my father. That’s just the way it goes.
My big sister started her blog years ago, back when the Internet was just for geeks and pedophiles. That’s how she met her husband, who built this site for me and another site for my big brother. Mom soon followed suit, followed, last week, by my little brother. A good number of my funny friends have blogs, too. This entire paragraph kind of makes me think I might be a loser, but whatever. It’s how we keep up with each other, entertain each other, and keep track of our own lives as well. And my friends don’t seem to mind my Mom commenting on their sites.
Boyfriend’s life is more compartmentalized. He booked a trip back to Minnesota for two weeks in June, a fact I only found out when I heard him booking the trip on his cell phone. “Oh,” he said, “I mean, you can come home if you want to. I mean, I can’t STOP you, can I?” How romantic.
So you can imagine how he feels about the fact that his sister, his brother-in-law, and his brother-in-law’s sister and I are all reading and commenting on each other’s BLOGS. He’s annoyed, he’s a little nervous. It’s the meeting of his two worlds. He doesn't know for certain that this isn't an indication of the end of the world. He doesn't know that the Earth won't split open and swallow him whole. All he knows is that somehow, through the power of the Internet, his girlfriend is somehow communicating with members of his family. PERHAPS even about him. We aren’t. At least not usually. But maybe that would bother him even more.
The solution, of course, would be for him to get involved. Maybe to read what all the fuss is about. Maybe to make comments and join the conversation. But probably not. Because for him, the Internet is about fantasy basketball and emails. And I never did tell him what a blog is, anyway.
It’s 1:30, and for the past 3 hours we have done nothing but eat bagels and watch Arrested Development DVDs, a gift from Gilmore, who passed through town yesterday with Jimmy. And by passed through town, I do mean sat at my apartment watching Arrested Development on DVD and eating soft-shell tacos. Jimmy had an interview with the New York City Teaching Fellows, and Gilmore, as usual, drove maniacally from Maryland to New York in The White Shadow.
There were big plans for this Sunday. Museums, shopping, a nice long lunch. But it’s cold and rainy and the last thing I want to do is put on pants with a waistband. In 18 1/2 hours I’ll be back at work. But for the next four hours, I’m glued to the couch.
This morning on the R train, a group of teenage boys asked me if the train stops at 5th Ave. It does, four stops after Steinway Street. Why would teenage boys want to get to 5th Ave? To go shopping, of course. I listened into their conversation, which was about how some new sneaker was coming out and they wanted to be the first four dudes at their school to have it. I was exposed to the high school boy shoe addiction a little bit during my high school days, when I first learned the concept that it wasn’t cool to wear shoes that were at all worn out. I wasn’t cool.
Anyway, they talked a little bit about how much money they’d saved up from their jobs, and about how much money they’d asked their mothers to give them. But what really caught my ear was when one of them sighed, “Man, I’m so excited to use my credit card. I got $800 to buy shoes. I’m buying them in every color.”
I live in a neighborhood that is, to be direct, not wealthy. Which isn’t to say that people here don’t have nice things. They do. Parked outside of shitty apartment buildings, there are plenty of shiny BMWs and Benzes. Most of my subway ride is spent listening to teenage boys show off their $200 cell phones. Like most people in America, my neighbors subscribe to the belief that not having money is no excuse not to have things.
After all, credit is readily available. It’s irresponsible, sure, but I almost understand it. Material goods seem to be The Great Equalizer in our society. After all, the girl from the Upper East Side and the girl from Nebraska can both wear Rock & Republic jeans, even if for one of them, those jeans cost the same amount of money as her monthly rent. The Investment Banker and the kid from Queens can both get Blackberries, even if one of them doesn’t have their phone bill expensed.
The kids on the R train were so excited about Visa’s generosity that they were blind to the fact that the $800 shopping spree would most likely gain so much interest that it would turn into a $2000 shopping spree. I know that SNL hasn't exactly been funny lately, but they were spot on with this skit.
Across all incomes and economic classes, the desire to have these name brands and material goods is overwhelming. Because it’s not just poor boys who want to have those nice things. Raise your hand if you’re a female with a college degree who is painfully aware of how she dresses for her entry-level job. If you truly care about the brand of jeans you wear and the purse you carry. If you tie a good percent of your self-esteem into the way you dress and the things you own.
Lest you think that I’m above it, let me just say that I’m recovering. The thing is, I never owned expensive things, I just owned a LOT of things. But I guess living in a 12x12 room will make you reconsider why you own what you own. I guess living in a city of so much wealth and so much poverty will make you wonder why people attach so much value to such arbitrary labels.
I never considered myself a feminist, perhaps because I had a hairy teacher who tried to force-feed me her agenda, who made me equate feminism with anger and ugliness. But now I see why she was so angry, and I myself am becoming incensed.
Wear a spandex body suit: Life on Mars, David Bowie
Drink a fifth of whiskey, smoke a pack of cigarettes, and light things on fire: Sweet Child of Mine, Guns N Roses
Grow my hair to my waist and dance in a field of daisies: A Case of You, Joni Mitchell
Put on a short skirt. And flirt. With a stranger: Out tonight, Rent Soundtrack
Make out with Paul Simon: Kodachrome, Simon & Garfunkel
Go back to college: White Houses, Vanessa Carlton
Run away to a far-off place. Or just turn up my iPod on the subway and pretend to be going somewhere: Holiday, Weezer
Make out with Bob Dylan. With my eyes closed, of course: Buckets of Rain, Bob Dylan
Shake it: My humps, Black Eyed Peas
Shake it drunkenly at 1928 Cleneay in Cincinnati, OH: Toxic, Britney Spears
Write poetry and love letters: Oh, You Are The Roots That Sleep Beneath My Feet, Bright Eyes
Time warp into the 1980s to hang out with Prince and other androgynous, eyeliner-wearing, spandex-clad men: Let's Go Crazy, Prince
Laugh hysterically. And shake it: Step In The Name of Love, R. Kelly
Write a letter to Gwen Stefani letting her know that she and I have so much in common and really should be best friends. Or at least go on double dates with David and Gavin: Simple Kind of Life, Underneath it All, and Running, all by Gwen Stefani/No Doubt
Take a bunch of hallucinogenic drugs and see what develops: Talking Shit About The Sunset, Modest Mouse
Drive around Lake Harriet drinking 32 oz. Diet Cokes and busting dance movies in Erin Mulcahy's now deceased 1994 Honda Civic, Magenta. May she rest in peace: Billie Jean, Michael Jackson
Have a baby and write really deep stuff about how getting knocked up outside of marriage changes your whole perspective on shit: Zion, Lauryn Hill.
Get really hyped up and punch someone in the face: Monkey Wrench, Foo Fighters
Ger really hyped up and punch someone in the face. But look hot doing it: Fighter, Christina Aguilera
I forgot my book and my newspaper at work today, which meant that my ride on the R train was spent blatantly staring at other passengers. First, I was stuck in the midst of a group of teenage Dutch tourists, all very badly sunburned and speaking gibberish. When the left the train, predictably at 42nd St-Times Square, I had a whole new group of people to stare at: The Urban Douches.
There's a lot of douche baggery going on in this city. Something about the tri-state area makes guys wax their eyebrows, hit the tanning beds, and live completely oblivious of the fact that their appearances and habits are a constant source of parody. I'm sure if they just pump equal parts estrogen and machismo into the water or what, but something about guys here makes them preen themselves like 14-year-old girls while inhaling steroids and putting up weight like cons.
I think that women, and not just bitchy ones like myself, are built with an innate Douche Detector. It's similar to the Terror Alerts on Fox News, only triggered by serious things, like bad cologne and rub-on tans. Today's observations yielded two specimens from different levels of douchiness. I post this not only for women whose Douche Detectors have faltered in the past, but for men who may have latent Douche Bag tendencies.
First we had the guy in the suit leaning against the doors ever so casually. Nothing wrong with him at first, until you notice that he's wearing his sunglasses in the subway. Not only that, he's wearing them backwards. As in, he's wearing his shiny metallic Oakley sunglasses resting on the back of his meathead neck. Douche Alert Level: YELLOW.
A few feet down we had the guy (and he most certainly was a guy, not a man and not a dude) who can only be described in the simplest terms. Gotti Boy hairstyle, which thankfully apparently has not spread west of New Jersey. Sideburns manicured to be sharp arrows ending along his jawline. A thick shiny gold chain rested on his waxed chest. But the real icing on the cake was the white satin shirt with sheer striping. Apparently this guy completely missed the popular Will Ferrell and Jim Carrey skit from SNL. The thing was, the longer I stared, the more sure this guy became that I was picking up what he was throwing down, when really I was just trying not to throw up in my mouth. Douche Alert Level: RED.
Last night was my first time at Madison Square Garden. I'd like to say that I was there with a bunch of middle aged ladies throwing my panties at Billy Joel, but I was watching the Knicks battle it out for last place against the Charlotte Bobcats.
I was excited to see another New York monument, but let me just say that the tickets were free, one of the benefits of having a fast-talking Russian as your former boss and current friend. The night was a double bonus for me, as I not only got to see all 5'9" of the NBA Dunk-Contest-Winning Nate Robinson in person, but also got to watch high school buddy Alan Anderson lead his team in scoring and condemn the Knicks to a record 59 losses this season.
Before the game I was sure to sneak down to courtside and scream, "ALAN!" at the top of my lungs. The look of surprise and happiness on his face when he realized that the screaming fan was the girl he dunked on during a girls varsity basketball practice was priceless. Yeah, that's right. I got dunked on. Now, with the exception of blind rage, I'm not usually all that open with my emotions, but there was something about seeing Alan warming up at the Garden that got to me. I honestly choked up like I was the Father of the Bride.
PMS? Maybe. Like I told everyone else who has already heard this story, and now has to read it, I just really love to see people achieve their dreams. I have the same amount of joy in my heart for Delane Cleveland (now a TV reporter), Cindy Althoff (now a weathergirl), Matt Lehman (now a radio journalist), and Chaz Kangas (now a bad-ass MC) that I do for Alan.
I'd like to someday join the ranks of these dream-reaching, goal-achieving Islanders. The problem is not that I don't dream. I do. I really do. But I dream so often and so erratically that I've found myself flirting with nearly every possibility without making a real commitment.
At ten, I was set on being an author. I submitted my "manuscript", "Alex and Gertie: Cabin Cats," to two of my uncles, who dutifully read all 32 pages of a story about my grandparents' cats. The plot twist was that the cats could talk. BUT ONLY TO EACH OTHER. Other than that it was just a story about cats.
At 12, I was interested in modeling and acting. It didn't work out because I don't like when people look at me. That, and I was in a wicked awkward phase.
At 17, I was like, "Oh, I am like sooo totally going to be a lawyer."
At 20, I was going to...well, I was going to be in college for two more years and then figure it out. But to be safe, I took an internship at a law office. And filed paper.
At 22, I was clueless and stressed. I started writing again, but not with the intention of reviving the cat manuscript. I applied to jobs in New York, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Phoenix, Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Cincinnati and Cleveland in any area of work that even remotely interested me.
Being a person who has spent 23 years living on a steady diet of day planners, the unknown was more than uncomfortable for me. Each day spent not knowing the next step I should take filled me with all sorts of anxiety. Most notably the kind where I deemed myself a failure and loser and contemplated sending my diploma back to Xavier University, to have them bestow it upon a more worthy person.
11 months and three jobs later, I've ended up living in New York and working in PR. I'm in a city I've always loved at a job that always seemed, for one reason or another, out of my reach. My job is demanding, rewarding, and stressful in all the ways that make me happy and satisfied.
I don't know why I was so worried in the first place. As my brilliant mother has pointed out umpteen times, everything works out in the end. I really should have taken her word for it, seeing as how she married my dad when he resembled George Harrison (in his mystical stage)
and somehow the two of them turned their young marriage into what can only be described as a Dynasty of Dipshits. All four of us have wandered and stumbled through life, and look at us, we're kick-ass! Not to brag, but we've got an Ivy-Leaguer, a hot momma, and a Sea-Bee to call our own.
Are my dreams fulfilled? I have no idea. But maybe that's the whole point. Maybe some people aren't meant for the steady climb or the linear plot. Maybe some people aren't meant to plan their work and work their plan. Maybe some people just have to keep it real and fall ass-backward into happiness.
Easter always reminds me of discomfort. The moveable feast was always a day where I had to wear uncomfortable tights, always a little too short for my legs, restricting my movements in their itchy, artificial-fibery way. To go along with the tights, I always had an awesomely awkward outfit.
What first comes to mind is the year my mother created outfits for my sister and me that included mint-green dresses printed with smal white lambs, and headbands with mesh poufs. It was Laura Ingalls meets Madonna. And not the Mother of God Madonna, but the cone-bra-wearing, Poppa Don't Preach Madonna. {Meggie, if you can find a photo of that Easter to post, DO IT for the love of GOD. Or for the love of whatever you hipsters worship. Indie rock? Veggie burgers?}
Of course, there was always this Easter, where I wore the outfit that my grandparents had sent me from their vacation in San Francisco.
If the colors throw you into a seizure or cause temporary blindness, I apologize. Please note, however, that I am wearing WHITE TIGHTS. What you don't see is that over the white tights, I am wearing neon orange socks and black flats. And if you're wondering what the shirt says, it reads "Italian Boys."
My first Easter away from home was spent in Lucca, Italy during the Spring Break of my semester abroad in London. That Easter was where I first met my Italians, where I first drank a straight shot of espresso, and where I first sat at a table of people I couldn't speak to. We ate like hell-ass bitch kings. A whole lamb was cooked in their wood-burning oven. Roast veggies and cakes and wine and wine and wine. A whole room full of Italian strangers insisting that I "MANGIA." A senile grandfather accusing me of having affairs with all of his sons, then extolling of the virtues of Mussolini's Italy.
Today is my second Easter away from home. There was no Easter basket and there will be no egg hunt. But the Easter Bunny did bring my flowers and I made him some pancakes. As for a feast, we did split a bag of peanut M&Ms. Happy Easter, bitches.
But if you wanna work out, you're welcome to join me at my $12/month gym in Astoria. I'm not sure what the official name of it is, but I refer to it as Average Joe's because at its best, that's what it is. If you're looking for cleanliness, shininess, or beautiful clientele you're better off joining the Gold's Gym across the street. But if you're just looking for a place where everyone around you makes you feel pretty and skinny, this is the gym for you.
I have only the "cardio" membership, which grants me access to the 2nd floor of the gym, where there are rows of empty stair machines and lines for the ten outdated treadmills. I prefer to frequent the unbroken elliptical machines right beneath the TV, because otherwise you won't be able to hear Seinfeld over the roar of Euro-Techno they blast on the gym speakers.
The "cardio" membership also includes aerobic classes, which I've never taken but often observed just to watch the teacher, an overweight elderly woman, demonstrate a move for about two counts and then clap her way through the rest of the 30 minute workout.
The weightlifting room, also known as the Manitorium, is what I imagine prison must look like. It's basically just a bunch of dudes in jeans and tank tops putting up huge amounts of weight and showing off their overly muscular barrel bodies. It's kind of hot.
In a lot of ways, Average Joe's is like an 80s time warp. Never in my life have I witnessed so much misappropriated spandex and so many inappropriate muscle shirts.
Note to women everywhere: just because they still sell spandex unitards doesn't mean you should spend your hard-earned dollars on them, let alone wear them to the gym. Unless you meant to wear an outfit that hightlights your flaws for the world to see, in which case you definitely found it. While we're on the subject, wearing a sports bra and spandex pants pulled up to your rib cage is another way to show off that awesome back fat.
Note to men: Nothing makes a girl want to barf (I mean really gag and heave) like seeing a greased up male body wearing a tank top. Does the presence of sleeves affect your workout so much that you absolutely must abolish them from your wardrobe? But it's not about the sleeves, is it? It's about the fact that you and the other dudes can compare and contrast your pecs while stealing furtive glances from across the weight room. It's cool, don't worry about it.
But the best part about my gym, besides the footless murals depicting men and women playing soccer, running, and even ice skating, is the signage. I'm talking specifically about a sign advertising self-defense classes. Taught by a 75-year-old man. Who is doing the splits across two chairs. The headline?
LEARN HOW TO FIGHT BACK! NEVER BACK DOWN FROM A KNIFE FIGHT AGAIN!
Yesterday, while rushing into my office building after lunch, I made eye contact with a 40-ish gentleman standing outside the building, talking on his cell phone. He looked vaguely familiar, and as I flipped through my mental rolodex during my elevator ride, it hit me. I had just shared a moment with an 80s icon.
If only I had had the presence of mind, I could have told him that "Mannequin" was a true cinematic masterpiece, and that I loved him in "Pretty In Pink". I called Ryan and Austin, two people who I assumed would share my enthusiasm for having recognized a former teen sensation. They shared no such enthusiasm.
I had a dilemma of a different kind on my way home from Minnesota, when I spotted Jeff Daniels coming out of the men's room in the MSP airport. I will forever regret the fact that I missed my chance to tell him that his explosive diarrhea scene in "Dumb & Dumber" defined my middle school existence. Perhaps I could have wowed him with my knowledge of Lloyd Christmas quotes and we could have quoted the film back and forth to each other and become fast friends. But I didn't and we didn't and we aren't. Such is life.
A while ago I posted a little something that illustrated how David will most likely turn into his father. Not just the good characteristics, like being really good with money, having an extensive knowledge of obscure sports facts, and an even more extensive collection of hawaiian shirts, but also the more questionable characteristics. Namely, this
This week it became apparent that I am turning into this woman sooner than I had expected. And not in the good way, where I could make a gourmet meal out of an olive, a chicken bone, six pennies and a bottle of mustard. Not in the way where I could mother four children while bringing home the bacon while accumulating an enviable collection of loud scarves. Not in the way where I could tolerate my husband howling, "where is my dinner?!?!" while walking a mentally retarded dog and slapping my sass-box teenage daughter. No, not in any of those ways.
Instead, I've begun to follow my mother's proud tradition of losing shit. Ever wonder why my mother has an endless stream of new glasses? Ever ponder over why she is wearing prescription sunglasses in the mall? She has no idea where her glasses go. They'll surface nine years later tucked behind a washing machine or under the seat of a car. It's not just glasses that she loses, but keys and papers and also her mind. This is a woman who took a full 2 years to recognize the sound of her own cell phone ringing in her purse.
Somewhere in the course of the past week I lost my wallet. I put the date of the disappearance as Monday, since that was the last time I made a purchase with my debit card. When did I notice the wallet was missing? Thursday. Thursday. I have no idea where it could have gone, since there were no charges made on any of my cards. I only know that somewhere between buying an avocado and walking to my apartment, the wallet disappeared and I took no notice.
If I start to drive erratically and listen to Jazz & Traffic radio while creating beaded crafts and oil paintings and cooking Sunday dinners for 12 people, we'll have conclusive evidence that I have indeed become my mother.
Compared to my boyfriend, who decides what he wants for dinner before going to bed the night before, who has memorized the menu at Olive Garden, and whose only shirts that aren't emblazoned with his High School and College logos were gifts from me or his sister, I'm a spontaneous person.
Secretly, though, I agonize over decisions. Seeing me in the shampoo aisle at Target you'd think I was contemplating the fate of the planet and not the future of my hair.
I don't know if it is a mark of my generation, but I think that many people my age are similarly paralyzed in the face of decision-making. So much of our lives have been planned out for us that when it comes to deciding our own path we are desperately afraid that we will make the wrong decision.
Momma always said that everything would work out for the best, and so far she's been right. I've gotten to live in four time zones, three states, three countries, and two continents. My teeth are straight. I have no college debt. I have all four limbs. I have intelligent, hilarious, loyal friends.
Still, I have those nagging feelings that whatever I'm doing, it may not be the right thing. Maybe my life isn't as perfect as it could be. Maybe there is something, or lots of thing, that are better out there. I could be smarter, prettier, skinnier, richer. I could have a larger apartment. I could have more shoes. I could be writing more often. I could learn another language. I could invent something, something really awesome. Okay, maybe not that last one.
And that's when my non-spontaneous boyfriend, the one who doesn't punch me, says things that make a lot of sense. You can live your whole life looking for perfection, and never find it. Just enjoy the journey. Even if your boyfriend wears tank tops occasionally.
"Nora, where are my tank tops? Seriously. If you threw them away I will punch you. It's hot and I want to wear a tank top."
Let it be known: Although the heat in our apartment cannot be turned off, it was cold and rainy all day yesterday, and the hot apartment could be cured by opening a window. Also, man tank tops make me cry.
Me: What is in your mouth right now?
Boyfriend: A toenail. Why?
Right now my sister and brother-in-law and their new baby are in California visiting my Dad. Tomorrow my mom will join them, followed shortly thereafter by my younger brother, on his last leave before taking off for Guam. What a nice little family reunion they'll have!
That's totally cool, guys. Don't forget to not call me and Austin. We're just the middle kids.
I used to pride myself on the fact that I didn't watch reality TV on network television. My reality was limited only to Vh1 Celebreality shows or equally vapid MTV programming. But The Bachelor? Forget it. If it's free, it's probably worthless.
Turns out I was absolutely right. Since cable was outrageously expensive without 4 roommates to split the bill, Apartment 9 has only 5 channels in english, made possible by this famous attena. I reasoned that without cable, there would be fewer programs to watch, and I would therefore watch less TV. False. I have since subjected myself to the following shows, and I hate myself for it:
1) Deal or No Deal: Dear Howie Mandel, please die. Sincerely, America.
2) The Bachelor: Dear American Women, you're sad and pathetic. Please consider mass suicide. Love, Me.
3) The King of Queens: I didn't watch this show the first time around, when it was called Everybody Loves Raymond and also sucked.
4) Miracle Workers: Sitting in my living room watching a blind man have his sight restored and a little boy have his spine straightened while Coldplay plays in the background makes me feel like I'm living in an unpublished Kurt Vonnegut novel. And I like it.
5) The Today Show: Katie Couric, you're terrible. I'm glad you're moving to CBS so I can get my worthless news segments without your plastic-surgery ridden face staring at me in the morning.
6) SuperNanny: If there is a more effective form of birth control than this show, I haven't heard of it.
7) WifeSwap: If you're an uptight southern man who doesn't like his woman getting all high-and-mighty and stepping outside of the kitchen, don't sign up for a reality TV program that ensures your wife will be replaced with some uppity hippie bitch.
8) Extreme Makeover: Home Edition: Also known as The House That Product Placement Built.
9) Beauty and The Geek: Another fine example of why the glass ceiling just isn't necessary.
10) American Inventor: This just makes me sad inside, which doesn't mean that I won't watch it again on Thursday.
No matter how many books I read, I think it's clear that I've lost the majority of my brain cells. Oh well, we had a good run.
Today I did my taxes. It only took me 40 minutes, so I'm sure I did it entirely wrong, but that's why I did it through TurboTax, so it could be somebody else's fault. It was kind of fun, though, in the same way that expense reports and excel spreadsheets can be fun. They're like homework. For 17 years I lived and breathed homework, so excuse me if a little part of me still wants to write a paper after I finish a book, or fill out little circles with a #2 pencil. David had fetched the instruction booklets from the library, and even though I never read instruction booklets, I did sniff this one to get a hint of that standardized test scent.
Part of my tax homework involved going down to the office on a Saturday to print my 2004 State Income Tax forms. Yeah, 2004. If you know me you know that I don't turn in anything late. In college, my papers were written days before they were due, and even if the professor granted an extension, I wouldn't need it. I would rather not turn something in at all than turn it in late, but apparently that's not an option when it comes to taxes.
I'm unsure as to how my 2004 state taxes went unpaid. I'll say this: it's my mother's fault. Well, not entirely. I guess she was part of The Great Telefile Debauchle of 2004, and therefore I was as well. Like others, her corner-cutting had repercussions, and she has since been fired from her role as official Accountant and Archivist for Nora, Inc. I wouldn't be a middle child if I didn't take this moment to point out that she lost her position as archivist when she threw away the following things:
1) My goose lamp
2) My Velveteen Rabbit framed poster
3) My winter jacket. In winter.
4) My red boots. Worn once. Quite hot.
5) My Beatrix Potter figurine (which she gave to my niece. Why? Because my niece is a baby and totally knows that she received a gift. Which was mine first, anyway).
So here I am, in the office on a Saturday, trying to figure out if I have to fill in lines 12-14 and how to calculate lines 33-38 and how on Earth anybody could do this for a living and not swallow a bottle of White-Out and end it all, when my phone rings.
It's Meggie. She's in California with Beatrix and Jeremy and she's so excited. She has news. She's pregnant again. my mind is racing with thoughts of another Wee Wilker with a face this cute. I can't believe it, I mean she just pushed out a baby! I'm not a doctor, but wow, that was quick!
And what a funny April Fool's Joke it was.