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sleep come free me.

20 Aug

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I’d really like to get that sleep, though. Please and thank you, whoever you are that has me awake.

extra, extra, read all about it: it’s not 1998.

7 Aug

You wouldn’t know it, though, based on the way I’ve been behaving of late.

In 1998, I was 20 years old. Back then, not only did I burn the candle at both ends, but I beat the candle up, trashed it like a rock star, and did it day after day without blinking. At that time, I balanced a full-time college schedule and two jobs, one of which I would head to after school and typically close for, not leaving until midnight or thereafter. After work was over, I’d head home and turn my attention to homework, sometimes staying up until 3 or 4 in the morning until everything was done. And that was just during the week. Ah, youth. (In case you’re counting, I’m presently a year older than this, and in about a month and a half, will be two years older. Let’s discuss that later, shall we?)

Apparently, though, I’ve been trying to relive the rock star days of yore lately, staying up until the wee hours of the morning and having the audacity to believe that I will 1) wake up on time the next day; 2) stay awake on the metro and totally not fall asleep and miss my stop in the process; 3) get to work on time, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for the day to come; and 4) remain energetic throughout the day, hardly wishing I could sob from fatigue and sleep all at the same time. The audacity, really. So, what’s the reason, you wonder? After all, those college/concert/party days are waaay over.

Wait for it…wait for it…

1. I’m a night owl.
2. The Golden Girls comes on at midnight and ends around 2am.

Feel free to commence with “you brought it on yo’self.”

I’m sleepy. Onwards.

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your standard, everyday torture chamber.

17 Jul

Some people call said torture chamber a “fitting room,” but I’d like to think that Merriam-Webster will soon come to the light and make the appropriate changes to their lexicon.

Because it is torture chamber, my friends. What else do you call a tiny room where every nook, cranny, and crevice is filled with the kind of unremitting fluoroscent lighting that showcases every inch of your now monstrous body, which seemed to morph into Jabba the Hutt territory during your journey from the clothes rack to the “fitting room”? What else do you call a room where none of the locks ever work, thereby increasing the potential that while you’re bent over trying to pull those jeans up your monstrous body, a mother and her child will walk by and see the horror of it all? What do you call a place where the person who inhabited it before you seemed to believe they were 90s-era Johnny Depp and therefore had the right to trash the place like a hotel room?

Say it with me, yes, yes: torture chamber.

Needless to say, I mostly avoid trying on clothes when I buy them. What? It’s true. To keep from bringing everything back because of fit or color or whatever, I just take forever in the store shop very judiciously. Which means I usually buy a size up. Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. The typical result with buying a size up is that I end up looking like a low-rent gypsy trying to be Stevie Nicks. So the point of this whole diatribe: despite the fact that going to the torture chamber is pretty much walking towards your own doom, I’ve decided to–gulp–try clothes on before I leave the store. Why?

1. It makes sense.

2. The buying and returning game has gotten fairly old, believe it or not.

So, yeah, I’ve been frequenting the torture chamber. It’s not half bad. Well, not really, but let’s not rehash the horrors, shall we? And to prove that I’ve been changing my ways lately (I’m not all talk, you know), here you go:

Bought this sassy dress, by the way.

Bought this sassy dress, by the way.

Bought this pretty blouse, too.

Bought this pretty blouse, too.

because i’m blue #3.

12 Jun

Jim Croce’s narrator’s girlfriend is cheating on him, and he sings his pain to a nameless telephone operator. You’re welcome.

because i’m blue #2.

11 Jun

Carole King on tap today. For me, this song pretty much causes a great deal of weeping while professing–with fists raised, no less–that this woman is one of the best singer/songwriters of all time. If you’re wondering, my blue is a bit less blue, due to the visit last night from a close, treasured friend. She certainly sweetly interrupted my plans to lay on the couch and watch NCIS.

I’m curious: what are your tried and true sad songs?

because i’m blue.

10 Jun

I’m down, you guys. Just a lot going on this little life of mine. Sigh.

What do you do when you’re blue? I play songs by my boyfriend and other sad song singers, all of which break my heart over and over again, because that’s how I medicate during times like these. I wallow. I cry. I lay placidly on the sofa and watch cheesy television.  That’s how it, the blue, comes out. And so, because I’m a sharer, this week of posts (yes, I plan on posting every day this week, because it’s not fair that I only did that for the sake of poetry, right?) will bring you clips of said sad songs. Nice to meet you, company–the name’s Misery. That’s the kind of gal I am.

First up, a little ditty by my boyfriend, one that quickly turns my eyes red. Oh, and guess what? Additional vocals are by Joni Mitchell, the Empress of Sad Songs. Enjoy. And sorry.

 

 

 

 

what have you been up to? who, me? yes, you.

10 Feb

It’s been a while, yes. I have no excuses, no. I’m going through that weird, are-we-still-in-winter lack of motivation, where I do nothing of the following: write, think, work out. Instead, I do all of the following: wallow, frown, eat. BUT, I’ve been eating quite well lately. Staying largely away from pastries and bagels (since I’m of the belief that I would shove an old lady out of the way for a blueberry bagel, this is pretty significant); balancing protein, fats, and carbs, whatever all of that means; choosing cereal for dinner from time to time. These are all good things, so I suppose I haven’t turned too much into a mid-winter lump. Don’t get me wrong, though: we have entered Lump Phase 1,000, for sure. More so emotional/metaphysical/mental/ lumpification. Anyway. A few other things I’ve been up to:

Apartment hunting. In Paris.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Falling for this guy. (See The Artist as soon as you can.) He’s French, by the way, to keep with the theme.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s about it, folks. Oh, wait: I’ve also been eating the following quite obsessively:

You were expecting French fries, weren’t you? To keep with the theme?

conversational snowflakes, and other such topics.

24 Jan

“Conversational snowflakes,” courtesy of a good friend of mine. I love it. Anywho, it was an interesting weekend all around, with plenty of topics for conversation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, it did snow, and there was plenty to say about it. It wasn’t the “just flurries” jive turkey that the weather quacks predicted. Certainly, it wasn’t the Snowmageddon situation that happened in these parts some years ago, but there was accumulation. Enough to keep me in my pajamas for the entirety of Saturday. And since I judge the seriousness of weather based on my having to wear sleepwear during the day, yes, it was something. Really, though? I feel that all of us on the mid-Atlantic and the East Coast (myself included) should stop being shocked at wintry weather. We are in the middle of winter, after all. Why do we open our mouths in surprise? Who do we shake our fists at the gray, snow-producing skies? Come, precipitation! We await you. Oh, and can I just say that pajamas all day are the best ever? The absolute best ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This will be a generalization. Sorry. Men? Are the above. I won’t go into much detail right now. Just trust and believe that they are, and the truth of that generalized statement was more than underscored for me this past weekend. What about the good ones out there, Kitten Heel Marvel? someone may ask. There ARE good ones! Perhaps. I don’t know any, though. No, no, I do, but they don’t count toward this argument. And I’m sticking to this argument like glue. Once I unclench my fists, perhaps I may let up. Until then? Ignore the obese cuteness of that creature and reflect on what I’m saying. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A haiku for my favorite sleepwear:

warm and flannel pajamas

on a winter’s day

i promise to keep you close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It really does make a difference, to have an assembly of friends and people who do the above for you. I’m fortunate and thankful to have such people in my life. I reunited with two of them this past weekend. They are a husband-and-wife team of inspiration and goodness. Just lovely. There are a few changes afoot in my life right now (all good, more info later), and to have those two people in my corner, cheerleading me on: what an inestimable treat.

So despite the snow and resulting ice, despite the presence of pigs, the weekend was filled with fuzzy pajamas and a personal, emotional boost for me.

How was your weekend?*

*I recognize that it’s Tuesday, and the past weekend may have retreated back in the hazy corner of memory, but try to remember? Please and thank you?

i will knock that needle out like a straight ninja. or…not.

16 Sep

So, this past weekend, I unfortunately had to be rushed to the Emergency Room due to a severe allergic reaction. All is well now, thankfully, although the doctors are not entirely sure what caused it. (Do they ever definitively know anything?) So I get to the ER and the fear begins. It’s unavoidable and unfailing. Antsy, heart racing, holding my breath against that weird scent in the air, that Thriller-like waiting room where the other sickies stare at you, greedy for your limbs, the patient check-in people who nearly froth at the mouth at the prospect of either draining you of money or condescendingly asking you if you have insurance, the whole thing. I hate it all. I secretly love the whole we’re-going-to-take-care-of-you vibe, but that’s better served within the cushy environs of a four-star hotel, not County General. Anyway. As a result of my steadily swelling tongue (what a terrifying feeling, by the way) and other allergy-related factors, I was quickly processed, taken to a bed, and my vitals were checked. After the doctor did her thing, she informed me, with a sad shaking of her head, that the nurse would come back in and give me medication through an IV. I’m still trying to imagine exactly how my face looked, because upon seeing my expression, she laughed and said, “never mind, never mind! We’ll just give you a shot in the arm.” So, replacing torture with…another brand of torture?  

I took a deep breath, sighed, and said ok, as if my reply meant anything. I was getting that shot whether I wanted it (hardly) or not (totally). Really, what was I going to do? I had no choice but to await my punishment for getting ill. (It’s all perspective, isn’t it?) Years ago, when I was promised a shot, my mother and father watched bemusedly as I weakly attempted to roll off the hospital bed and escape. Not now. My tongue was about to escape the confines of my mouth. I needed that shot. And so I closed my eyes and waited. When the nurse returned, she went to work. She pulled out the syringe. I nearly fainted, then busied myself with taking off my sweater to prepare my arm.

“Oh, no, hon. This shot isn’t going in your arm.”

Does this nurse know what the doctor told me? What kind of crazy communication skills are going on in this hospital? Why promise me a shot in the arm, which isn’t as bad as a shot anywhere else? Note to self: check options for malpractice suits. “Wh-wh-where is it going?”

“Either in your thigh or in your derriere. We need it to go into a muscle.”

I lifted up my dress and pointed toward my thigh, almost screaming that she was going nowhere near my poor tush.

That needle hurt like mad. I literally limped out of the room some time later, my thigh on all kinds of fire. Terrible, just terrible.

But people go through worse, which is the real perspective of the matter. Despite wanting to knock that needle out of her hand and jumping through some sort of plate-glass window to get out of the situation, I had to keep that in mind: so many people, a number of them close to me, have gone through much worse. A painful needle in the thigh was manageable, even though I wondered, mid-wince, whether she put some kind of Terminator-like solvent in me or something. Seriously, that stuff was crucially painful. But in the end, the symptoms abated, I slept the rest of the day away, and I was ok.

Moral of the story: Don’t get allergies?

Actual Moral: acquire ninja skills.

compliment, threat, same thing…?

17 Mar

So…

This morning, as I made my way toward the metro escalators, I noticed a woman adjacent to me, also heading for the escalators. Even more notable was the fact that she was looking directly at me, a sort of knowing smile/smirk on her face. At first, I wondered if we knew each other. We didn’t. Nonetheless, as we arrived at the top of the escalators around the same time, she said, “you look pretty today.” I smiled, thanked her, and continued to descend down the stairs.

I was completely rattled.

The following thoughts took over:

  • who was that woman?
  • do i know her? have we had a conversation before on the train?
  • she wants to harvest my kidneys.
  • i’m wearing a huge coat, a scarf, sneakers. i look pretty?
  • i look pretty TODAY? as opposed to the other days when she had seen me?
  • what was with that weird smile?
  • please, please don’t sit next to me on the train.
  • where did she go? she was right behind me and now she’s gone!
  • did I imagine that whole exchange?
  • maybe she thought she knew me…
  • who WAS that woman?

The end. (I refuse to psychoanalyze myself in this instance. I’m accepting my reaction. The woman freaked me out.) 

Signed,

Eternally Paranoid Girley

BJ & FE SCOTT

...LIVING THE BEST LIFE EVER!

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