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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.


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.





The Male Mystique.

17 Oct

I don’t get them. Males. Guys. Men. Boys. I admit this openly and plainly.

Scenario #3,056: A guy laughs at your silly jokes. He actually listens to you. He marvels at all the things you have in common. He accompanies you to a movie or two. He visibly enjoys being in your company. He generally makes you feel like the Prime Ministress of Awesome. Your spidey sense pulls at you. You wonder if something is afoot. You get that weird, tingly feeling around him (which is not impending cardiac arrest, apparently). You realize that you look forward to being around him all the time. Quite naturally, then (and it is natural, because this is how women are: you notice something and you want to talk about it), you take a deep breath and decide to approach him about what you’ve noticed, a bit excited about it, hopeful, not ignorant of the signs.

And he shatters it all. 

Hey, I’m sorry if you thought this was something more. We’re just friends. I’m not ready for that. 

Scenario #5,000,001: A guy laughs at your silly jokes. He actually listens to you. He marvels at all the things you have in common. He accompanies you to a movie or two. He visibly enjoys being in your company. He generally makes you feel like the Prime Ministress of Awesome. Your spidey sense pulls at you. You wonder if something is afoot. You get that weird, tingly feeling around him (which is not impending cardiac arrest, apparently). You realize that you look forward to being around him all the time. Quite naturally, then (and it is natural, because this is how women are: you notice something and you want to talk about it), you take a deep breath and decide to approach him about what you’ve noticed, a bit excited about it, hopeful, not ignorant of the signs. However, you decide against approaching him, not wanting to somehow disturb the force, not wanting to ruin whatever this is. You rather hope that as it goes on, he will take the initiative and come to you to discuss what he’s noticed.

And he shatters it all.

Hey, I would love for you to meet my fiance. Are you free this evening?  

Friendly Advice #718: You shouldn’t have said anything. You should have waited for him to come to you.

Friendly Advice #3: You should have said something. You shouldn’t have waited for him to come to you.

Do you see? Isn’t it obvious why I live in utter confusion? How does one muddle through the whole Math class feel of the menfolk and relationships and the whole silliness of platonic and whether to accept that I don’t even have this level of communication or constancy with my closest friend, but I do with you, but we’re just pals, and that makes no sense, and oh, but you do have feelings for me, but how would I have known because you didn’t say anything and oh, ok, you were waiting for the right time, which was a year later, when I’ve grown cobwebs and bitten my entire nail bed from the anxiety of it all, and…and…

When I was in college, I waited until the last minute to fulfill my Math prerequisite. Not for a lack of trying, but none of the classes were working for me and the beauty of college was walking out of class whenever I wanted, which I certainly took advantage of when it came to Math. Nevertheless, if I wanted to graduate, I needed that credit. I went to my advisor, who highly recommended a professor with a long record of helping students like me. I went to his class, convinced that it wouldn’t work, not for someone who had struggled and fought with Math for so long. I had no expectations of passing or getting it. Oh, but it did work. And I did pass. And I did get it. Even better, it was one of the best classes I ever took. Why? I understood what he was teaching, solely because he made sure that his students knew how to get to the answer. Patiently. And that’s how I learn. Everything fell into the place, once I knew how to get there. I passed with an A, by the way, in case you wondered why pigs were flying in 2000.

My point in relating that Mathy blast from the past can be summed up by something a friend once told me: “[Girley], when you find that right person, it won’t be confusing. You won’t have to guess. Everything will fall into place.”

Contingency Plan #1 and Only: until we reach Everything Falling Into Place, I’m intent on taking everything at face value. Whatever it is, it is. (Or will be, will be.) I will ask no questions. I will do no guesswork. I won’t ask random strangers if that twinkle in his eye was meant for me. No phone call, no hanging out, no nothin’, will mean anything until whoever he is tells me exactly how he feels. (That’s right, folks, he has to tell me. May be old-fashioned, but that’s me, unapologetically.) If it’s right, it’s right, and things will fall into place. 

Until then, I can’t allow the Male/Relationship Mystique to make me crazy (well, crazier). I refuse to continue to pull out my hair over these affairs of the heart.

rain=brussel sprouts.

6 Sep

I detest brussel sprouts. My feelings about rain, then, are obvious.

However, because we’re all about self-psychoanalysis on here, and because gritting my teeth each and every rainy day (and subsequently ruining my teeth, in the process?) is getting old, I need to figure out why I’m so anti-rain.

(It will rain all week. All week. I seriously considered finding a therapist.)

Is it the clouds? I’m in love with the sun. I’m in love with light. I’m in love with a shiny, sparkly day, and when that is stolen away from me because of those voluminous things that hang above my head, I gets angry. And so, so sleepy. The clouds invariably steal my energy. And my will to wake up and be an active participant for the day.

Is it the black sky? The sky was meant to be blue. Or coral-y and golden and pink, as the sun is setting. Those are the only hues I will accept. I cannot accept the foreboding and queasiness that come with a black sky. I naturally want to hide under the covers and stop thinking about stories I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

Is it the umbrella? Kudos to the inventor of the mighty umbrella. Thanks for that. Unfortunately, the umbrella rarely works for me. I struggle with it because I’m sugar and cannot melt, which means the rain cannot touch one part of my skin, but I never succeed in my struggle. Small or large, the umbrella usually gets blown every which way by the wind, which gets me wet, which gets me angry, which has me shaking my fists at the heavens. (I do this mentally, as directing fists toward the sky does not bode well in public.)

Is it the mood? It gets me down. Enough said.

Is it the memory? I went for a walk one day. It was sunny and beautiful. At the beginning. Moments later, the sky turned black, the voluminous clouds appeared above my terrified head, and I.was.drenched. Literally, I was heavy with rain. Worse, as I slowly made my way back home, I was repeatedly splashed with puddles from the nearby street, courtesy of drivers that threw caution to the wind and were driving like mad. (And clearly gave no heed to hydroplaning, not that I wished that on them or anything…)


This brief list has done nothing for pychoanalysis. I hate the rain even more. I am reminded of why I grit my teeth, why I think of brussel sprouts and every other cursed thing, why…

But, for the sake of positive thinking (since I do that negative thinking stuff so, so well)–

Flowers grow.

Dry, rough ground is saturated.

The animals on the ground need a shower, too.

The sound  of rain (when I’m safely inside, or trying to fall asleep) is simply amazing and does wonders.

Um, thinking of more…

There are plenty of awesome songs about rain, which is a good thing. One of my favorites:

“Laughter in the Rain,” Neil Sedaka. Soft rock goodness.

Cute raincoats, which is always a plus.

Despite my little cold heart, there’s something kind of romantic about walking in the rain with your beloved other, I guess. I mean, I would have to be fully covered, but I get it.

So, there are six great things about the rain, which outnumber the five facts things I listed in the beginning. Not bad. I can’t be blamed, however, for shaking my fists at the sky as this rainy week progresses, though.

For my readers, what do you particularly enjoy about the rain? Or do you even enjoy the rain?

there’s a footprint on my heart! there’s a FOOTPRINT on my heart!

2 Aug

Because that’s what crushes are, right? In the end, your heart is crushed, dusty from the outline of the shoe that stamped all over it, you’ve eaten your entire daily caloric intake in one meal, and you’re alternating between man-hating tunes from Alanis Morrissette and tear-inducing tunes from every other lady singer. (Here’s to you, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, Tori Amos, and Joni Mitchell.)

No one can understand love who has not experienced infatuation. And no one can understand infatuation, no matter how many times he has experienced it.
~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic’s Notebook, 1960
I thought my first crush was in the fourth grade. He was the spitting image of Michael Jackson, so naturally, I was quickly moony-eyed over the boy. However, my mother believes that my first crush was this guy:
Little Ricky Schroder. (He will always be little Ricky to me, always.) Apparently, as we watched The Champ, my mother says that I walked up to the television and placed my hand right on little Ricky’s televised cheek, stroking it. As far as little Ricky being my first crush, the jury’s out on that one. I may have been trying to comfort little Ricky and his tear-streaked face, being that The Champ arguably has the saddest ending of all time. (Watch it if you dare.) I don’t know if it was a crush then (I was about two years old at the time)…but it became one years later, when this show came out. Sigh…

Infatuation Love – a wildly misunderstood although highly desirable malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain, causes eyes to sparkle, cheeks to glow, blood pressure to rise and the lips to pucker.

From the Michael Jackson look-alike to the thousands that came after, my journey down Infatuation Highway was filled with the usual impossibly long gazes, imagined gazebo weddings, smiles in my direction that propelled me straight to the moon, love letters stuffed in hall lockers (yes, I did that), and so much more. In the end, when reality and heartbreak would invariably finally set in, I would caution myself to never do it again. To let it all go. To stop it. To straighten up and fly right. To open my eyes. To stop essentially breaking my own heart, being that I always knew what the finale would be. To, to, to…until the next crush.

It’s so easy to be infatuated with someone but hard to find that someone who will catch you.
For a long time, however, I did keep to my promise. I was crush-free for a while. It was freeing. It was also utterly boring. So is that it, then? Are crushes a way to keep the old brain occupied? Rather than silence and boredom, do I long for the distraction of a crush? 

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.Edna St. Vincent Millay

Or is it less about boredom and more about that feeling? There may be a footprint on the old aorta in the end, but my goodness, that feeling in the beginning. The giddiness, the butterflies in the belly, the simple sight of that person, the sweetness and craziness of it all—it just feels awesome. After all, it really has nothing to do with the individual, does it? It’s not love. Love is real. Infatuation is celluloid/matinee idols/8 year-old co-stars of The Champ/boys who may be jerks but are super cute/who grow up to be men who may be jerks but are super cute/so on and so emptily forth. But nothing beats that feeling, does it?

Cinderella didn’t love the Prince. She loved that shoe. – Kitten Heel Marvel

So what is it? What motivates me to break my own promises and allow the stars to fall right back into my eyes, when the outcome is pretty much unavoidable? Is it the distraction? The feeling? Footprint on the heart, remember? Infinitely crushed, bloated, angry because of Alanis, crying because of Joni? What is it?

The essence of love begins when infatuation ends. – Anonymous


Bedingfield, Redux

6 Feb

Natasha’s pretty popular, but I’m not sure if people are aware of her older brother, who had a few hits under his belt some years ago. There’s one particular song he recorded, entitled “Gotta Get Thru This.” I’m addicted to this song. It makes me want to learn how to breakdance. Being that this has never been a real, burning desire (I’d like to master simply dancing to the beat), the song is that powerful. It’s catchy and kind of weird and just cool. His voice is the right mix of nasally and strong, which only makes the song more addictive to me. I just love it.

Click away –

Why do staff meetings make people so sleepy? Or is it just me?

More later, if I’m lucid following that staff meeting. However, if I do hit my head after falling out of my chair and somehow develop amnesia, I hope I recall exciting memories that never happened, like vacationing in the French Riviera and lunching on the River Seine. And answering to the name “Duchess.” Or “Countess.” Or “Lady.”

–Lady Girleygirl



Sincerely, Taj

Dear World, I have stuff to say, so get cozy. Here, I've got cupcakes.

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