Momomama
Tomorrow is the big day. I am, I believe, finally becoming a woman. That's right, my mom and I are venturing into the world of the military/industrail/bridal complex with a foray to a little place called
Mariella Creations. Oh yes. I even have an appointment. I am incredibly nervous about the whole thing, and suspect the neck pain (which has lessened, SLIGHTLY. Either that or I am used to it...) was caused by making said appointment. Last night I racked my closet for a pair of underwear with an actual ass that are not a pair of the dreaded "period panties." I spent ten minutes trying to decide what heel height I might want to wear on a Saturday over a year from now. I worried that jeans and a tshirt are not acceptable bridal salon apparel. I am also excited though. I love the idea of someone picking clothes out for me to try on (That's that part I hate about shopping, going through the racks.) I love that my mom and I are going to have lunch beforehand. And I am looking forward to seeing what I look like as a pretty pretty princess. Even though I have no intention of getting a pretty princessy gown. But I gotta try one, you know? Yeah.
The thing about my excitement and my stress? I think it is lame and unfeminist and too girly and untrue to my principals, and I don't even think THAT makes much sense. Which stresses me out more. Which in turn makes me feel guilty that this is already becoming such a big deal. And then I get pissed of for feeling like I am
supposed to feel any way at all. Sometimes it's hard to be a woman....
I really had nothing to say, I am just throwing you a bone. But you knew that.
I am about to admit what a loser I am: I am unbearably excited about the premiere of the Amazing Race (4!) tonight - the only reality show which rewards intelligence. And the only show on which I would I ever be a contestant. (Take that Bachelorette casting agent!) 8pm will find me cracking a cold one in front of the tv, putting my feet up, unplugging the phone, and gagging the dog.
My neck hurts. I woke up at five am to a piercing pain, and it has not been right since. If I hold head my head forward and look down, it does not hurt, so I try to avoid that. Instead I have been relaxing my shoulders slightly and holding my head
as if there was something balanced on top of it. This cause a soft pins and needles tingle followed by an outright shooting pain. I love it. Especially when my arm gets all tingly. When I tip my head back, it is worse, and I can't look over my right shoulder. All my manuevering is making me giggle, because it reminds me of the time Alana and I were out with her then boyfriend and he was experiencing the neck pain. Because, unlike me, he was no masochist, he insisted on doing the only thing which made it feel better. And that was to shake his head. No no no no no. I, of course, insisted on telling him not to be so negative. Over and over again. no no no no no no no. I guess you had to be there.
Yesterday, Bill and I did what our president does when he wants to get in touch with the common man and cleared some brush. I don't know about feeling in touch with the common man, but I am definitely more in touch with my arm muscles. My favorite part was watching Bill tie a rope to the trees he cut down last fall and then cheering as he used the truck to haul them across the lawn. It made me want to go watch monster trucks.
Tonight is the Faculty Show, or as I like to refer to it, the
Annual Humiliation of Faculty and Administrators by Those Who Love Them Most, The Students. Not that I don't like it. I actually enjoy getting tipsy with my boss and flashing some thigh at those excited and frightened seniors. It is just that the hats and the boas and the fishnet stockings bring out the best in the students. I just thank my lucky stars that I am no one's Don or Favorite Teacher and Object of Fantasy and that no one feels the urge to yell "Martha, I love yooouuuuuuuuuuuuu! Martha! I wanna *&^% yoooooooooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuu!" like they do at the people with tenure. See, forsaking academics for fundraising WAS a good idea.
From Sarah Lawrence College's Senior Lecturer, Michael Moore, to the 500+ in attendance (including me) to you, dear reader:
1. Try to recapture in your life the way you felt before you went to school, when you were a little kid and even failure was rewarded.
2. Don't believe these lies: "There's someone for everyone," "You can't fight City Hall," "One person can't make a difference."
3. Give up refined sugar and refined flour.
4. The reason the Right is in charge of everything, even though the majority of Americans are liberal on the issues, is that they are angry and they get up erlier in the morning. "The see dawn. The only time anyone on our side sees dawn is when they've been up all night."
5. Oprah should run for president because she has good politics, her heart is the the right place, and she'd have everyone, even liberals, exercising at 6 am, and reading a book while they do it.
I am a snob. I shouldn't get annoyed when people pronounce Aunt "ANT."
That is all.
My co-worker keeps insisting that it was okay to mention me (not by name, thank god) to the casting person from "The Bachelorette" who just called. Because Sarah Lawrence girls are the perfect candidates for the show, of course. Let me know if you want her number. I won't tell anyone.
Ever since my dad intimated that proper mastery of the drop by, the pass and beep, the finger wave and the head nod could earn me public office, I have become obsessed with the idea of winning an election. I have been elected a few times in my life: as class correspondent for SLC, as Treasurer of the Institute of Latin American Studies Student Association, and as Class Artist and Best Laugh in high school (let me add that I also won most changed since freshman year AND most likely to succeed, but our class advisor decided I could only have two awards.) And I know the last example was not an election per se, as there were no duties attached. Now, I just need to decide what office. I used to think Senator! But since I am basically lazy and can only stand so much schmoozing, and also because I value my free time, I have lowered my sights from United States Congress to local government (the locality being my future home in the Adirondacks). My dad suggested school board. I decline. I am currently considering Town Supervisor, which is actually a full-time job, and would entail dealing with a lot of wahoos. I think a better choice would be judge. Currently the town of Wilmington has two judges...the back brace wearing, guitar playing Judge Greenbud and Stephanie, who smokes generic cigarettes and has a very cute girlfriend. If I were judge, I would wear my robes all around town, and let my friends off easy on the speeding tickets. I would not use my position to get myself a spot sitting in with the local blues band (Greenbud, I am looking at you.) Start practicing your "your honors" now, folks!
I have too many keys on my key chain. This causes a lot of noise, fumbling and deep sinking into the pocketbook, and ruining the line of all my too-tight pants. There are too many keys, but there are none I can get rid of. I have thought about dividing, but I am afraid I will forget them if I have more than one set.
An inventory:
Car Key: I have two and the oen that is not on the ring is in the drawer of my dining room table. I can't get into this drawer, because it is on the long side of the table that is pushed up against the wall. Once, I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft of my building, so now I have a "rational) fear that I will drop them down a storm drain when I am getting out of the car with lots of crap in my hands. I also have a fear that I will lock the key in the car at a parking garage in the city. So I now separate it from the rest of my keys before I even pull into a garage (usually at a high speed going down the West Side Highway.) That way I will be able to get on a train, go home, get into my apartment, move the table, open the drawer, get the other car key, get back on a train, go back to the garage and open the door. I suspect, however, that garage attendants have stashed away various and sundry door unlocking devices.
Keys to Mom's Apartment (2): There are two keys to my mom's place. One for the deadbolt and one for the doorknob. She only uses the deadbolt and so that key was once marked with a black sharpie "TOP." The ink has been rubbed away and now the only way to tell which key is which is by looking for two tiny black smudges in the ribby texture of the top of the key.
Office keys (2): DO NOT DUPLICATE 350 and 340. 350 is my office key. I never lock my office. I don't know why, I probably should. I also have a bad habit of leaving my purse in plain site on my chair when I leave for a meeting. No matter how many security alerts we get about stolen purses and lap tops, I can't be bothered to lock my office. Besides, if I locked my purse in the office, I would have to carry the keys in my pockets and thus the ruining on the line of my too-tight pants mentioned above. 340 is a pretty useless key. It's to the outside door of my building. Which is handy thing to have, except for the fact that 99.999999999999% of the time the front door is locked, the alarm is on too. And if I open the door and just walk in, the alarm will go off fairly soon thereafter. This will be followed by a secuity coming by to a.) berate me b.) flirt with me c.) turn off the alarm or d.) all of the above.
Mailbox key: I remember bending this key when using for something other than unlocking my mailbox. But I can't remember what it was I was doing. Somewhere in my apartment is another one of these keys, and two keys for the previous (and much more architecturally pleasing and historically appropriate) mailboxes.
Apartment Keys (2): Like the office keys, I have one for my actual apartment and one for the building. This is my only set, which means if someone is visiting, it entails lots of buzzing in and arranging to meet one another. Everytime Bill is in town I think of making a set, and then forget. The outside key gets me into all of the buildings of my complex, which enables me to cut through on rainy nights. It also gives me access to all of their garbage, which came in handy when I was furnishing my place. My apartment key looks so benign next to the long and pointy building key. This benigness contrasts with the fact that the lock on my door is evel. It can not be unlocked. If I shut my door, it is locked. No compromise. Once I am in my apartment, I can turn the latch, but this doesn't seem to lock the door any more, if just makes it harder for me to get out. Because of this, and the fear that the dog might knock the door shut if I leave it open, leads to the ruined line of my pants when I have to walk across the hall to drop the garbage down the cute. (I have to have the keys in my pocket, for fear of dropping the keys down the chute.)
Key to the camp: I like this one best. One key, one lock. Simple. The door opens. Plus, you have to consciously lock the door behind you, so there's no chance on lock outs. (Though once, the screen door latch broke and it took an hour of McGuyvering with a stick, a nail and a piece of twine for me to get inside.) No significant other has ever given me "a key" before. Bill gave me the key on a Friday, and by Sunday, he was referring to the Camp as "our place." This key is the only silver key on my key chain.
I have many more keys at home, and there are three I recently took off this key chain: the key to Alana's old apartment in on Burns Street in Austin, the key to the house Leigh and Kelly rented in Austin before they bought their house, and a key to someone else's Austin home. If you think it might be yours, let me know.
A belated mother's day dedication, based on conversations I had or did not have with the mothers, mothersofmothers, and mothersinlawtobein my life.
To my mother, to whom I did not speak. I have never been so happy not to talk to my mom on Mother's Day. Every day my mom seems to discover more of her bad ass self. First, she impressed me with the ballsy move of vacationing alone. Then she did it again. And now, now she's off on an Elderhostel in San Francisco, which means she has a stranger for a roommate for the next WEEK and not even I, her big mouthed daughter, would have the guts to do that. Way to go Mom! I hope she's not some old biddy with ugly grandchildren and that she doesn't have to do the fake, "how cuuuuuuuuuuuuuute" thing. I missed talking to her, but she must be having fun!
To my grandmother, who squealed with delight when I told her that Bill might be joining me at my cousin's graduation next month. Squealed. Have you met Jane? We do not squeal like a pig. Unless, apparently, we are talking about boys.
To Emily, who had just rid the house of her granchildren (Bill's nieces and nephews...) She was exhausted and at 7:30, had not even started the crossword puzzle yet. Which sucked for me, because while I like her a real lot, I wasn't just calling to say happy mother's day, but also to figure out the answer to "Unfinished Kipling Work About a Future Son-in-Law." I knew I could count on Emily, though, because she called me back twenty minutes later and said...with no hello..."The Man Who Would Be Kin. Good luck on the rest! Going to bed now!" and hung up.
I love the Adirondacks, and I can't wait to be living there, but there is one facet of small town life that I can't quite get into. It's the dropping by that happens so often. When Bill and I are at the Bunkhouse, at least one person will drop by per day, more in the summer. (And by dropping by, I don't mean coming to stay as a paying guest, I mean someone from town just wandering to have a chat.) It happens a little less at the camp but two or three times a week would not be an exaggeration. When I was up last weekend, I had plans to go for a walk. Bill's friend Rachel had told me about a nice route to take, but I was unclear on the details. Bill suggested that if her truck was in the driveway, I should stop and ask. Uninvited? I couldn't do it. And I LIKE Rachel, and want to be friends with her. The other thing I can't do? The old pass and honk. People up there do it all the time, this beeping at friends' houses, even when the friends are not outside. In the past two years, I have managed to eek out exactly one beep. I will be a social pariah up there, mark my words.
Alana does not know how lucky she is. Why is she such an ingrate? For wasting the chance for the blog entry of a lifetime. She gets to hang out with Gallagher, he of the body gags, and she can't even get it together to write about it. I would be ashamed to call her my friend, except for the fact that I am not. And also, her entries are USUALLY ten times better than mine! But still, lazy is as lazy does, and today, Alana is lazy.
Confession
I always think of myself as a nice person, as a pacifist, a do-gooder, if you will. Up until today, I had one memory of doing something really REALLY mean. And that was when I offered Ali the piece of pizza that fell on the floor (she didn't know it had been sullied) during a break in rehearsal for our 8th grade play, "The Adventures of Tom and Huck." But just now, I saw a certain last name and remembered the most horrible thing I have ever done. I was in the 5th Grade. My stepsister, Kate, had a friend named Melanie (who had this last name I just saw.) Kate and Melanie had a falling out. It was the end of the school year, and I must have already been on summer break, because I was at my Dad's in new Hampshire. Apparently, Melanie had one of Kate's shirt, and was refusing to return it. Kate asked me (though at the time I would have said MADE ME...) to call Melanie anonymously, and demand the shirt back. My threat was this: Give Kate her shirt back, or I will come to school on the last day and beat you up. That may be a direct quote. The plan was for me to scare Melanie into doing the right thing, but in the meantime, I scared the crap out of myself. Melanie was a whole year older than me, and probably twice as big! I was just a skinny little girl who wanted to sit on the porch with a Little House on the Prairie book. On Kate's last day of school I was so nervous that I felt sick. The shirt had not been returned. So I went to school Kate. (I think we told our parents that I wanted to see what the school was like.) It was a grey and chilly day. Kate and I walked and my step brother Dan rode his bike. I just knew I would not be able to fight anyone, so I was relieved when melanie did not show up for school that day. I didn't even think about the fact that maybe Melanie did not show up because she thought that she was in for an ass kicking. If only Melanie had known that my plan to beat her down included running like the wind down the hall if I saw her coming, grabbing Dan's bike, and pedaling home.
Yesterday's
Daily Poll question was about hysterical and also irrational fears. I can't remember what lame answer I gave, but it should have been this: Whenever I drive to Bill's, I MAKE myself take the Taconic Parkway. And everytime I do it, I get this feeling utter dread and excitement when I arrive at that curve - the curve that comes right before you see
this freaky shit. Someday I will stop, but being up close and personal with the giant head might sort of take away the thrill of seeing it up on the hill.
Usually my dreams are pretty straightforward. And I think this one must be too, but I am just not getting it. Last night I moved into a new apartment. It was gorgeous, two levels, all new, a porch, built in bookcases. I only became suspicious about the price (after I moved in mind you) when I saw the DVD player/stereo/plasma screen tv that came with the place. I decided I had better find out the price, before I finished cleaning out my old place. I went outside and was confused by the setting. The apartment was built onto the house I grew up in, but it was also on Town Lake in Austin. When I found my real estate agent (also known as M. Night Shyamalan) he told me it was only $400 more than I pay now. I spent the rest of the dream trying to figure out if I could swing it. With my checkbook. How boring! Meanwhile I could have been hanging with M. Night, getting the dirt on Joachim.
You know what I think is weird? That there is a fish Dolphin (aka mahi mahi) and a mammal Dolphin. I just don't get it.
