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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.

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.





Dear Insane Woman:

17 Jan

On the heels of you almost murdering me this morning with your green Honda Accord, just wanted to make mention of the following:

  • You saw the sour, oh-Lord-another-workday look on my face, I suppose? And wanted to put me out of my misery? Thanks, but no, thanks. Running me over with your car wouldn’t have accomplished, by any means, putting me out of my misery. Maybe a free wine cooler at a nice restaurant would have done that. Not a hit-and-run. (You so would’ve hit and run, lady. We both know this.)
  • Couldn’t you have waited a second or two for me to cross the street before pulling in? Your fender was thisclose to my ankles. Seriously. It would’ve taken 3 seconds, tops, for me to get across. I’m famous for walking incredibly slow and being allergic to any kind of rushing, but I do rush when cars are nearby. Promise.
  • So you sped up. So you almost killed me. Did you get to work on time? No, you didn’t. Admit it: you were still late. And you’re still ridiculous. So nothing came out of this morning’s activities.
  • You saw me turn around to cast a shocked, almost creamed glare in your rearview mirror. You saw it and you know what you did.
  • Like photos of this guy, I made a mental impression of your car and your black coat and your circa 1986 haircut. And I will remember you.
  • Thank you for reminding me that late DC drivers who are woefully dressed like any female supporting character from a mid 1980s movie will try to kill me, so I need to be doubly careful when walking to work in the morning.


Still Alive, thank you very much.

p.s.: Watch your precious backs, friends and readers. There are shoulder pad wielding lunatics out there behind the wheel, aiming their vehicles toward your sweet ankles.

To the Sweet Turning of Pages: An Apology

29 Nov

Stating the obvious and the thoroughly discussed: I love books.  I love how they smell. I love how they look. I love the feeling of a book  gently bouncing in my bag as I walk to and fromwork. I love flipping the pages. I love bookstores and libraries. I love, I love, I love.

Which is why I’m feeling guilty for what I’ve done. No book burning rallies or anything like that, of course. Worse.

I purchased this:

Barnes & Noble Nook Color - BNRV200

It was Cyber Monday, and I’m all about the deals, and I looked at the one my Sissie has and my eyes grew hungry and wanting, and…and…I lost my mind. I bought one. Me, who has long decried the advent of e-books and their ruination of actual books. Me, who realizes that these things largely helped destroy my beloved Borders Books. Me, with the narrowed eyes and the endless head shaking as I watch fellow metro riders pull them from their bags during our morning and afternoon commutes. Me, the obvious Book Snob. (I think the previous sentences prove that, don’t they?) I gave in. I gave in!

I won’t even begin to list the pros of the Nook (for a book lover, this is kind of great; I can buy books in seconds, I can borrow books from the virtual library; I’ll stop now) or provide an overview of the product. Suffice it to say that if there were a Book Altar, I would be sacrificing a sound animal for the purposes of atonement and forgiveness. Never mind that my guilt almost matches the giddy excitement I feel at the prospect of receiving my new purchase in the mail.  Ignore that last statement. Anyway, there you have it. My admission of guilt. Nevertheless, I don’t intend to give up on my actual books or my bookstores or libraries. The love and snobbery will most certainly continue.

My Face is Burning. And other Hot Topics.

3 Mar

First, let’s get the gratitude out of the way.

If I did not regularly get a facial waxing (yes, I said facial; I am Teen Wolf’s older sister, 30-something Wolfette, and as a result, I must tame the Fu Manchu/full beard that erupts on my face every so often), I would look like Madame Frida Kahlo’s invention to the left. I am very thankful to the artistes that re-fashion the jungle on my face into nice eyebrows and smooth, smooth skin.

That said, this mess hurts. I got a fresh waxing a few hours ago. Yikes. I’ve been waxing since my late teens, so it’s not my first time at the rodeo, BUT IT HURTS. And it’s so violent. Is there a way to lovingly and calmly rip hair off someone’s face? Somebody, please find a way.

In other news, I plan on making a trip to the museum this weekend. It’s only Thurstinkday, but I’m already making plans! (My love of all things museum has been discussed at length…)Me and a pal will be heading to the National Portrait Gallery on Saturday. Can’t.wait. A report will be provided on Monday, of course.

In other, other news, I’m apparently trying to usher in the weekend against its will. It’s not Friday, Kitten Heel Marvel. It’s not Friday. (Long sigh).


Take these Delusions of Grandeur and Shov…uh, Kindly Put them Away.

15 Feb

So, I’ve been on a tiny (well, not really tiny) sabbatical from the gym. I won’t go into why, per se. Let’s just say that the couch is really, really comfortable. And when you combine that oh so comfortable couch with a carton of ice cream, well, there you go. Anyway, I decided to stop being a baby and get back to exercising regularly. 

Last night began my weekly ritual: after work, I headed to the gym for an hour or so. And you know what? I enjoyed myself. (For the most part, I do enjoy exercise. It hurts, I complain, my limbs cry out for relief and said comfortable couch, but deep down, I like it. Yikes. Quite an admission. But it’s true…)

The delusions of grandeur came during the drive home: That was a good workout. But it’s really better to work out in the morning. At least that’s what I’ve read. Ok, here’s the plan: I’ll go to bed early, wake up at 5am and go the gym, which gives me plenty of time to get ready for work when I get back home. In fact, maybe I can do 5am workouts every other morning during the week. Shouldn’t be so bad. Good plan!

Here we go…

Delusion #1: This “waking up at 5am” business. I am sleep-deprived. Therefore, getting to bed at a reasonable time (Delusion #2: I’m a career night owl) and waking up bright and early to work out? Nope. I went to bed to early last night and slept right through the 5am wake-up call, mostly because my body needed that rest and will always need it. Not going to happen.

Delusion #3: This “waking up at 5am” business every other morning. See above. Ha! Ha!

Again, Ha!

In hindsight, I recognize that I was happy and excited that the initial plan came together, that I was able to get to the gym last night. I also recognize that this happiness and excitement led to promise-uttering/visions-of-leaving-the-house-at-dawn/crazy talk mania. In reality, I’ll stick to the evening workout routine and take advantage of weekend mornings where I don’t have to rise too early in the morning.

Reality is so much better than 5am.

Close the Door!

10 Jan

So I take this aerobics dance class, right? It’s pretty cool; I actually work up a sweat and kind of have fun (coming from a girl who once affected a slight limp just to get out of gym class, this is a triumph), so I do enjoy it. Last night’s class was interesting, however.

The fan was not hitting my particular section of the dance studio. Although it was becoming unbearable, I was fine. The woman in front of me was not fine and, despite this being completely understandable, she opened the door behind us to let in some air. Which then provided a view to the people exercising outside of the dance studio. Which meant that they could see us. Which meant that I could be seen. Which meant that certain worm-like dance moves designed to work the abs and hips were now completely visible to those prying eyes. Which meant that the truly curious could now stand by the door and peek inside. I resembled a sweaty, breathless lunatic with wild hair and an even wilder expression on my face. (Apparently, I begin the process of turning into a werewolf when I exercise). Every person that came by that door (and believe me, they came) witnessed this. That door remained open until the very end of class. As I walked out, in post-exercise pain and in post-visible-to-others embarassment, I caught the eye of one of the guys who had stopped by to gawk. Conversation that should have happened:

Me: What was with the staring? We don’t stare at you when you work out.
Him: I couldn’t help it. The door was open.
Me: Would you eat a jar of ants if the top was open?
Him: That’s not the same thing!
Me: It very well should be.
Him: Look, you looked kind of nuts and I wanted to see what was going on in there. Plus, I wanted to confirm that it was a real workout and not some kind of weird dance class.
Me: Well?
Him: Judging from what you looked like, I don’t know what to think.
Me: Let me assure you that, yes, it is a real workout class. It’s cardio and it can be rough. Just because you hear Shakira doesn’t mean we’re re-enacting one of her videos. Secondly, you can come inside and try it. Then you’ll understand why I looked that way. Third, you might want to concern yourself with the inappropriateness of your workout attire. That’s just not right.

And then I would have walked away, satisfied with my sassiness. Unfortunately, what did happen was a mean stare-down between he and I, after which I hobbled my way out of the gym. Whatever. I kind of want to blame the gal who opened the door, though. But I won’t. It’s the whole needing a scapegoat thing. All right, it’s her fault entirely.

Next week, I might move to the middle of the room. Turning into a werewolf seems to require a bit of privacy.



Sincerely, Taj

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

Fully Awake and Alive

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