So, this has been quite the hiatus I've taken from blogging. Although, not really -- I do actually blog on a biweekly basis for the lil hometown paper I was talking about. If I had a static link for it, I would post it, but since I don't, I'll try to remember to copy-paste the entries here -- because they are Hi-Larious. Actually no, but they tend to be entertaining.
Right now I'm enthralled with the second season of Nip/Tuck. My newest television addiction since the WGA strike (its helpful that my roommate owns all seasons on DVD). I'm mildly shocked that they're allowed to show this much graphic sex and surgery on basic cable. And since when can we say "shit" on tv? I never got that memo.
Other then that-- '08 has been good to me this week. I dropped a hundred and fifty bones on clothes in the past two days. I didn't go out drinking at all this weekend, which was actually kind of nice (particularly now that I don't have any money after all the clothes buying).
I start an eight week run of shows at iO tonight. While I am very excited about this opportunity, I am also straight terrified. The forms that my team has concocted are interesting and kinda awesome, but at the same time they aren't quite ready for performance. I'm hoping that we'll figure out a way to cheat for now until we get a chance to figure everything out.
One of the cats in my house peed on my amazing Pier 1 chair. I'm super distraught about it although my Mom is confident that the smell will come out with some Nature's Miracle treatments. Also one of the windows in my living room is broken... our apartment is pretty much falling apart.
I'm considering putting on clothes and starting the day, but I think instead I'll finish this season of Nip/Tuck, read more of Franny and Zooey and wait for the message I'm waiting for.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Friday, November 30, 2007
every year it gets a little harder
Three years in a row, baby. This year looked bleak until about uhh, 3 hours ago when I finished. Seriously I do not know how I got this done. It's pretty fantastical considering I work at least 60 hours a week between two jobs, have rehearsal, classes and what might be considered an active social life.
But I did it. I got it done. Just barely at like 7:30 I finished all my words. I decided to go to one of the nanowrimo social events which was a first for me. And it was actually kind of awesome. When I finished my 50,000 everyone applauded for me. That's all I want, is some one who knows what's like to be like, "yeah, you're awesome" and I got 15 people to do it. It made it just that much more worth it.
This years thanks go out to:
Tierra and New Orleans. I've never hung out with a group of strangers who were more interested in hearing about this. Plus, for some reason in New Orleans I was able to wake up every morning at 9 AM and start writing, even if I had been drinking until 3.
My new papason chair. It might be the best writing chair in the world.
My roommates, for being there.
And as always, McKim, even though she dropped out, she was still there supporting me all the way when I needed it. Its you and me in '08, C.
Listen, every time I write a novel I get a little more awesome. Time for Christmas!!
Monday, November 12, 2007
I think I'd rather be a social dragonfly...
My life has gotten a little bit out of hand. In a good way, lets be honest, but in a, "I spend too much money and my liver is about to give out and seriously I just need a nap" kind of way.
Since the first weekend in October, I have been out every single Friday and Saturday socializing, taking unflattering pictures, drinking copious amounts of beer and deciding that the people I'm friends with might be the best people in the midwest.
Its fairly lovely, and yet also really really tiring. The past two weekends especially have been crazy. Not the kind of crazy I put in a blog, although I have to apologize to all my friends who I call every Sunday and talk about all the of the drama. Gross. Thanks for still loving me.
This blog doesn't really have a purpose except I'm totally not going anywhere in my NaNoWriMo, which sucks because I really want to prove to myself that I can have a crazy social life and write a 50,000 word novel. Everyone who I talk about the book with thinks that it sounds awesome. Which makes me hope that Courtney and I can pull it together to get this done and sent out to people.
Annnnd, that's really it. 9 days until NoLa, and 39 days until Home for Christmas. I'm so deliciously excited. What I'm more excited about is maybe not going out on Friday, and buckling down to kick out like 6,000 words which won't get me close to catching up, but will be a nice start.
Since the first weekend in October, I have been out every single Friday and Saturday socializing, taking unflattering pictures, drinking copious amounts of beer and deciding that the people I'm friends with might be the best people in the midwest.
Its fairly lovely, and yet also really really tiring. The past two weekends especially have been crazy. Not the kind of crazy I put in a blog, although I have to apologize to all my friends who I call every Sunday and talk about all the of the drama. Gross. Thanks for still loving me.
This blog doesn't really have a purpose except I'm totally not going anywhere in my NaNoWriMo, which sucks because I really want to prove to myself that I can have a crazy social life and write a 50,000 word novel. Everyone who I talk about the book with thinks that it sounds awesome. Which makes me hope that Courtney and I can pull it together to get this done and sent out to people.
Annnnd, that's really it. 9 days until NoLa, and 39 days until Home for Christmas. I'm so deliciously excited. What I'm more excited about is maybe not going out on Friday, and buckling down to kick out like 6,000 words which won't get me close to catching up, but will be a nice start.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
How time trickles and flies...
So I've been in Chicago for a year now. Which seems crazy. I totally remember this time last year when it was hailing and I was thinking I had made a terrible mistake.
I haven't quite decided if that's still true. It hasn't been terrible. The weather has made me want to pull my hair out but I've made some amazing friends and so crazily rekindled some old friendships (seriously, if you had told me a year ago that I was going to reconnect with someone I went to camp with, I would have called you crazy to your face). I've experienced some awesome things: Circus class, break dancing, lollapalooza... I've finally decided what is important to me in life and what makes me happy.
I've been doing improv for 10 months now, and even though sometimes I feel burnt out by the fact that I've done it every week for almost a year, I still get excited by getting up there and doing scenes. I had a really great audition yesterday, and even though I probably didn't get it, the audition made me happy.
I am stuck in a rut when it comes to my job. I have good days and bad days. I know its not what I want to be doing, but I get paid enough to keep me happy and by happy I mean, I make enough money to buy stuff.
...like a Devin Hester jersey.
The football thing is crazy. This has been a trying beginning of the season I still love the Bears but they're making me pretty sad right now.
Right now I'm sitting in my Godmother's house which is gloriously circular; sitting on the same couch, eating the same pizza. This time, I'm so hungover I want to die because I went out dancing until 4 in the morning with some of my newest favorite people. In 2 hours I have to play soccer, which is going to be rough.
I just re-read this entry and realized I might still be drunk. Anyway, happy 1 year anniversary to me. Go bears.
I haven't quite decided if that's still true. It hasn't been terrible. The weather has made me want to pull my hair out but I've made some amazing friends and so crazily rekindled some old friendships (seriously, if you had told me a year ago that I was going to reconnect with someone I went to camp with, I would have called you crazy to your face). I've experienced some awesome things: Circus class, break dancing, lollapalooza... I've finally decided what is important to me in life and what makes me happy.
I've been doing improv for 10 months now, and even though sometimes I feel burnt out by the fact that I've done it every week for almost a year, I still get excited by getting up there and doing scenes. I had a really great audition yesterday, and even though I probably didn't get it, the audition made me happy.
I am stuck in a rut when it comes to my job. I have good days and bad days. I know its not what I want to be doing, but I get paid enough to keep me happy and by happy I mean, I make enough money to buy stuff.
...like a Devin Hester jersey.
The football thing is crazy. This has been a trying beginning of the season I still love the Bears but they're making me pretty sad right now.
Right now I'm sitting in my Godmother's house which is gloriously circular; sitting on the same couch, eating the same pizza. This time, I'm so hungover I want to die because I went out dancing until 4 in the morning with some of my newest favorite people. In 2 hours I have to play soccer, which is going to be rough.
I just re-read this entry and realized I might still be drunk. Anyway, happy 1 year anniversary to me. Go bears.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Allow me to clarify...
So, I don't really have time to write a blog, and its too hot to have a laptop on my lap anymore, but I want to declare something:
Accutane doesn't make you a murderer.
So, let me catch you up, there was a Chicago dermatologist who was brutally killed a few years ago. They recently found the killer who was apparently a disgruntled accutate patient and wanted to get revenge for having a little mind warp on the drug.
As someone who did a full-term accutane cycle I can say for sure that yeah, it makes you kind of crazy. It makes your skin reptilian in nature and kind of makes you a little nutty.
However, the father of the murderer is saying that his son (who KILLED someone in cold blood) is a VICTIM in this case and has shipped him off to the West Indies so he won't be arrested.
I call shennanigans.
Yes, accutane is a scary drug to take, I waited almost two years until I was in a good, healthy place in my life before I even considered it. And then I was told over and over and over the potential side effects. I filled out forms and carried a sweet VIP accutane card (which still lives in my wallet if you ever want to see it). I knew the first time I took the pill that it was going to be a bumpy road.
And it was.
The first 48 hours I was on it I felt like I was on a mild hallucinigen. I wrote my mom an e-mail from work that caused her to call me and say, "Go home. Right now. There is something wrong with you."
I read the e-mail later and totally agreed, it's barely in English.
The rest of the 6 months I was on the drug I was constantly on guard. When I broke down into crazy crying jags I made sure that I knew a roommate was home. I kept my spirits up as much as I could. Kept in constant contact with the outside world, never let myself get too much in my head.
Because I knew I had done this to myself. If something happened to me, it was my fault.
Which is EXACTLY the case with this guy. His father was a doctor for chrissakes. I mean, everyone who has ever condsidered taking the drug knows what it can do. For me, it made me addicted to chapstick. ADDICTED. Like, I went through a burts bees stick every week and a half.
I am not comparing this to murder, I am just saying...the consequences of taking this drug are soley on the shoulders of the patient and his family. He was on it for two days. Had he made it past the looney-tunes 48-hour mark with a supportive group of people, I feel that the outcome would have been different.
And to the father who is making himself look like a jerk on TV (and right after the amazing bears-packers game to boot), I say, to shame, sir.
There is one victim and that is the gentle old doctor (my roommate was a patient of his and says that she has never met a better, more kind and thoughtful doctor). You hiding your son away so he doesn't have to face judgement for the crime he did, is ridiculous.
....I'm sorry this is my first (deeepressing) blog entry in over a month, just watching the news made me angry. Its like the story of pit bulls. Not all pit bulls are evil...they're trained by humans to react the way they do. Accutane does make you a little crazy, but you are duly warned before the pills ever touch your lips. Don't make this about a good medication with some sobering side effects. Make it about the family that didn't care enough to make sure their son was okay...
Accutane doesn't make you a murderer.
So, let me catch you up, there was a Chicago dermatologist who was brutally killed a few years ago. They recently found the killer who was apparently a disgruntled accutate patient and wanted to get revenge for having a little mind warp on the drug.
As someone who did a full-term accutane cycle I can say for sure that yeah, it makes you kind of crazy. It makes your skin reptilian in nature and kind of makes you a little nutty.
However, the father of the murderer is saying that his son (who KILLED someone in cold blood) is a VICTIM in this case and has shipped him off to the West Indies so he won't be arrested.
I call shennanigans.
Yes, accutane is a scary drug to take, I waited almost two years until I was in a good, healthy place in my life before I even considered it. And then I was told over and over and over the potential side effects. I filled out forms and carried a sweet VIP accutane card (which still lives in my wallet if you ever want to see it). I knew the first time I took the pill that it was going to be a bumpy road.
And it was.
The first 48 hours I was on it I felt like I was on a mild hallucinigen. I wrote my mom an e-mail from work that caused her to call me and say, "Go home. Right now. There is something wrong with you."
I read the e-mail later and totally agreed, it's barely in English.
The rest of the 6 months I was on the drug I was constantly on guard. When I broke down into crazy crying jags I made sure that I knew a roommate was home. I kept my spirits up as much as I could. Kept in constant contact with the outside world, never let myself get too much in my head.
Because I knew I had done this to myself. If something happened to me, it was my fault.
Which is EXACTLY the case with this guy. His father was a doctor for chrissakes. I mean, everyone who has ever condsidered taking the drug knows what it can do. For me, it made me addicted to chapstick. ADDICTED. Like, I went through a burts bees stick every week and a half.
I am not comparing this to murder, I am just saying...the consequences of taking this drug are soley on the shoulders of the patient and his family. He was on it for two days. Had he made it past the looney-tunes 48-hour mark with a supportive group of people, I feel that the outcome would have been different.
And to the father who is making himself look like a jerk on TV (and right after the amazing bears-packers game to boot), I say, to shame, sir.
There is one victim and that is the gentle old doctor (my roommate was a patient of his and says that she has never met a better, more kind and thoughtful doctor). You hiding your son away so he doesn't have to face judgement for the crime he did, is ridiculous.
....I'm sorry this is my first (deeepressing) blog entry in over a month, just watching the news made me angry. Its like the story of pit bulls. Not all pit bulls are evil...they're trained by humans to react the way they do. Accutane does make you a little crazy, but you are duly warned before the pills ever touch your lips. Don't make this about a good medication with some sobering side effects. Make it about the family that didn't care enough to make sure their son was okay...
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Not quite as fun as sexy.
So, according to the backs' of several buses in the Chicago area, "Syphilis is back."
Which is weird...
Because I don't really remember it leaving.
Which is weird...
Because I don't really remember it leaving.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
A crazy id-rant re: traveling.
I have to get on vacation...I guess, technically, because I am not at work today, I am on vacation, but there is nothing relaxing or enjoyable about being in an airport. Nothing.
I take that back -- flight delays are a wonderful excuse to start drinking at 10:30 in the morning. My Granny said I should, and really in this matter, I feel she is correct. If you arrive at the airport only to find you'll be sitting there for the next 4 hours, a drink is really just the beginning. Then you need chocolate cake for breakfast, and overpriced airport internet.
Seriously, on airline delays catering to the six-year old inside me is something that is non-negotiable. I eat everything I want, buy whatever I want and have no qualms about being a uber-bitch when things don't go my way.
Obviously, I know that whatever is happening out there on the tarmack or in the air or whatever isn't the woman-standing-at-the-gate's fault-- but she's the one in front of me, and while that totally sucks for her, I have to assume that she is fairly compensated for dealing with nutters like myself.
People-- do not fly jetblue. I'm not kidding. Jetblue is pretty much the airline you turn to when you want everything possible to go wrong. Delayed flights? sure. Luggage that may not be where you are? you betcha. Non-negotiability when it comes to getting on your connecting flight? Hellz yes.
I know that there are somethings that they can't control-- like, thunderstorms and flooding and whatever and I'm fine with that. While I think that maybe airlines shouldn't be such pussies on occasion-- whatever, if there's a tornado, it's probably for the best that we're all still on the ground.
However.
If I am asking you to hold my connecting flight for FOUR minutes so I can RUN to the connecting gate so I don't have to SLEEP in the AIRPORT, then I feel that is a request you should honor. Seriously, I don't feel that its out of line for me to be like, "Please call the ticket counter at JFK tell them that I once clocked in at 12 seconds for the 50 yard dash and so will be there a minute after the flight is supposed to take off, if everyone can hold their horses for less time than it takes to stow your luggage and buckle a seatbelt, then everything will be fine."
"I'm sorry ma'am, jetblue doesn't have a policy for that."
eat it jetblue.
*it now looks like my connecting flight is delayed as well, so I should have enough minutes to make it-- but I'm not holding my breath about it.
Seriously, why is it soooo complicated getting to the east coast. I can not remember an instance in the past 8 months where I didn't have a problem getting to the right side of the country. Why is that? What is the beef between the midwest and the east coast that makes it flippin' impossible to get between the two without some major meltdown.
Okay--- I need some sort of food before I go on a rampage.
I take that back -- flight delays are a wonderful excuse to start drinking at 10:30 in the morning. My Granny said I should, and really in this matter, I feel she is correct. If you arrive at the airport only to find you'll be sitting there for the next 4 hours, a drink is really just the beginning. Then you need chocolate cake for breakfast, and overpriced airport internet.
Seriously, on airline delays catering to the six-year old inside me is something that is non-negotiable. I eat everything I want, buy whatever I want and have no qualms about being a uber-bitch when things don't go my way.
Obviously, I know that whatever is happening out there on the tarmack or in the air or whatever isn't the woman-standing-at-the-gate's fault-- but she's the one in front of me, and while that totally sucks for her, I have to assume that she is fairly compensated for dealing with nutters like myself.
People-- do not fly jetblue. I'm not kidding. Jetblue is pretty much the airline you turn to when you want everything possible to go wrong. Delayed flights? sure. Luggage that may not be where you are? you betcha. Non-negotiability when it comes to getting on your connecting flight? Hellz yes.
I know that there are somethings that they can't control-- like, thunderstorms and flooding and whatever and I'm fine with that. While I think that maybe airlines shouldn't be such pussies on occasion-- whatever, if there's a tornado, it's probably for the best that we're all still on the ground.
However.
If I am asking you to hold my connecting flight for FOUR minutes so I can RUN to the connecting gate so I don't have to SLEEP in the AIRPORT, then I feel that is a request you should honor. Seriously, I don't feel that its out of line for me to be like, "Please call the ticket counter at JFK tell them that I once clocked in at 12 seconds for the 50 yard dash and so will be there a minute after the flight is supposed to take off, if everyone can hold their horses for less time than it takes to stow your luggage and buckle a seatbelt, then everything will be fine."
"I'm sorry ma'am, jetblue doesn't have a policy for that."
eat it jetblue.
*it now looks like my connecting flight is delayed as well, so I should have enough minutes to make it-- but I'm not holding my breath about it.
Seriously, why is it soooo complicated getting to the east coast. I can not remember an instance in the past 8 months where I didn't have a problem getting to the right side of the country. Why is that? What is the beef between the midwest and the east coast that makes it flippin' impossible to get between the two without some major meltdown.
Okay--- I need some sort of food before I go on a rampage.
Friday, July 27, 2007
As seen on some other website.
Hey all, just so you know, I now am a professional-volunteer blogger for the Frederick News Post. A classy publication if I've ever known one. Please feel free to read my super-cheesy intro blog and leave me commets. Also feel free to read it 8 or 9 times a day, as they count the hits and once I get 1,000 hits I win a new stero system, or perhaps Jamsport bookbag! Just like on a vintage Nickeloden game show! Sweet!
Anyway the link is right huuuur: In The Middle- Rachel's blog for the average Frederick-tonian.
My personal dream is for one of the TwOP legends to read these incesent, poorly spelled ramblings and give me a job doing what I was born to do-- recapping tv shows.
We can dream can't we?
Also-- Just so everyone is aware of my thoughts on the finale of the Harry Potter series (since everyone knows I am the foremost expert in Harry Potter in pretty much the entire universe): I was disappointed by the bright pink bow JK Rowling tied on everything because I found it to be to sacchrine-y for what has always been a wonderfully realistic (if fantasy) writing style. Also (SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!!!!) the saddest part for me was when Hedwig died. I fucking loved that Owl.
Anyway the link is right huuuur: In The Middle- Rachel's blog for the average Frederick-tonian.
My personal dream is for one of the TwOP legends to read these incesent, poorly spelled ramblings and give me a job doing what I was born to do-- recapping tv shows.
We can dream can't we?
Also-- Just so everyone is aware of my thoughts on the finale of the Harry Potter series (since everyone knows I am the foremost expert in Harry Potter in pretty much the entire universe): I was disappointed by the bright pink bow JK Rowling tied on everything because I found it to be to sacchrine-y for what has always been a wonderfully realistic (if fantasy) writing style. Also (SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!!!!) the saddest part for me was when Hedwig died. I fucking loved that Owl.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Oh Holy Balls
So, my blog moved.
Sorry about the sudden randomness of it, but it had to be done.
I was sitting in my boss's office trash talking the girl that just got fired, discussing scenarios for when I inevitably see her out at the bars. I figured there wasn't much she could say about the job and the guys that I didn't already know until my boss dropped this little number.
"Oh, and we read your blog."
The mental anti-lock breaks skid and gave me a little internal whiplash.
"Uh...I'm sorry, what?" was my oh-so-eloquent reply.
"Yeah...we've been reading it since before you started working here. It's hilarious."
I guess there comes a time in every young blogger's life when this happens. Particularly now that for some ungodly reason when you google my full name my blog is the first thing that comes up. This is no longer the case, thankfully.
What was shocking about the whole conversation that followed (aside from the fact that not only does my boss read my blog but the OWNERS of the company- aka the guys who sign my paycheck read it as well) is how positive he was about it.
I guess its good that I don't really talk about my job on this blog (or the other one either for that matter, I guess I'm subconsciously smarter about this whole internet fad than I thought). But even the things I did say about, he agreed that they were all true and said that even if they weren't, we all need to vent just as long as after the venting we do our jobs. THEN as if this whole conversation could have gotten any more surreal he dropped a few more bombs on me including:
He would try to "make" my blog by saying what he thought were quotable, clever things. And he was super disappointed that he never made it.
He would occasionally quote my blogs BACK to me to see if I would catch on. He was surprised that I never did. I'm not, as I pretty much write this crap then forget all about it.
Then he went on to tell me that he thought I really had missed my calling and that I should totally be writing for a living. I explained that I was flattered, really, but that you don't actually make any money from just sitting at your desk and posting blogs. He said I should defiantly write a book, or maybe like a one-woman show or something for teenagers... and as I watched him paint the picture of my Author-ly future I waited to wake up from this crazy dream.
I didn't though. Instead I went back to work and immediately changed the URL of this monster and tried to figure out what was necessary in order to make sure that this business never happened again.
I recognize that when you put something on the internet you're doing just that -- putting it out there for the world to read, but I feel like out of all the ex-boyfriends and family members and various people I've shit talked in the past-- the one group of people I don't want inside my head are the people I work with. I've done a great job at keeping them at least arm's length away and knowing they read my blog just made me feel naked and exposed. Although, they said they liked it/thought it was hilarious/whatever so I guess that's good.
And I'm sure they'll find it again. They're all pretty smart guys and I'm sure D will make sure that he doesn't let it slip this time that they're on to me. So for when that inevitable moment occurs I just have to say: Hey D-- you crazy Mexican-- you finally made my blog. Congratulations.
Sorry about the sudden randomness of it, but it had to be done.
I was sitting in my boss's office trash talking the girl that just got fired, discussing scenarios for when I inevitably see her out at the bars. I figured there wasn't much she could say about the job and the guys that I didn't already know until my boss dropped this little number.
"Oh, and we read your blog."
The mental anti-lock breaks skid and gave me a little internal whiplash.
"Uh...I'm sorry, what?" was my oh-so-eloquent reply.
"Yeah...we've been reading it since before you started working here. It's hilarious."
I guess there comes a time in every young blogger's life when this happens. Particularly now that for some ungodly reason when you google my full name my blog is the first thing that comes up. This is no longer the case, thankfully.
What was shocking about the whole conversation that followed (aside from the fact that not only does my boss read my blog but the OWNERS of the company- aka the guys who sign my paycheck read it as well) is how positive he was about it.
I guess its good that I don't really talk about my job on this blog (or the other one either for that matter, I guess I'm subconsciously smarter about this whole internet fad than I thought). But even the things I did say about, he agreed that they were all true and said that even if they weren't, we all need to vent just as long as after the venting we do our jobs. THEN as if this whole conversation could have gotten any more surreal he dropped a few more bombs on me including:
He would try to "make" my blog by saying what he thought were quotable, clever things. And he was super disappointed that he never made it.
He would occasionally quote my blogs BACK to me to see if I would catch on. He was surprised that I never did. I'm not, as I pretty much write this crap then forget all about it.
Then he went on to tell me that he thought I really had missed my calling and that I should totally be writing for a living. I explained that I was flattered, really, but that you don't actually make any money from just sitting at your desk and posting blogs. He said I should defiantly write a book, or maybe like a one-woman show or something for teenagers... and as I watched him paint the picture of my Author-ly future I waited to wake up from this crazy dream.
I didn't though. Instead I went back to work and immediately changed the URL of this monster and tried to figure out what was necessary in order to make sure that this business never happened again.
I recognize that when you put something on the internet you're doing just that -- putting it out there for the world to read, but I feel like out of all the ex-boyfriends and family members and various people I've shit talked in the past-- the one group of people I don't want inside my head are the people I work with. I've done a great job at keeping them at least arm's length away and knowing they read my blog just made me feel naked and exposed. Although, they said they liked it/thought it was hilarious/whatever so I guess that's good.
And I'm sure they'll find it again. They're all pretty smart guys and I'm sure D will make sure that he doesn't let it slip this time that they're on to me. So for when that inevitable moment occurs I just have to say: Hey D-- you crazy Mexican-- you finally made my blog. Congratulations.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
No. The other one...
I have what maybe the cushiest gig ever. I have been taking classes at, pants down, the best improv school in all of Chicago (if not the US\World). These classes are not cheap... but some very nice person tipped me off to the opportunity to do a work study program. Basically I work for 5 hours a week and in return I get free classes.
People, this is a sick deal. I know that they are doing it because it means that they get free labor but at the same time I am doing it because I get free classes (all in all, after interning for 4 sessions I will have saved over a thousand dollars --- which is a LOT of shoes).
Most interns work as ushers during the shows. They show people to their seats, play bar back, clean up after the shows, and try to deal with drunk idiots for five hours one night a week. I, however, sit in a lovely purple office with lots of fast internet and easy access to a vending machine, where I answer phones, take reservations and try to come up with cute and funny answers to the same seven asinine questions I get asked every time the phone rings. I work 3-8 which means I can go out the night before and have enough time to lose my hangover as well as go out after work and not have to meet up with everyone after they're all already totally wasted.
I can wear whatever I want and eat during my shift. My friends who have classes on Saturdays stop by and hang out with me. I get to play on the internets and send text messages and make a dent in all the books and magazines I have stacked up next to my bed. Occasionally important people from around the theatre stop by and chat with me.
Like I said-- sweet gig.
Here's the rub-- one of the gals who runs the theatre is ALSO named Rachel. She is absolutely crazytown but one of the funniest/awesome people ever (check out her blog here). And not only do we look kind of similar (in that way that all girls who are short-ish with brown hair look the same) we apparently have idential phone voices. This would be a compliment except for the fact that it means one out of every five phone conversations goes like this:
Rachel: "Thank you for calling iO, This is Rachel. How may I help you."
VIP on the other end of the phone: "Hey Rachel, its [insert famous/important person name here] can you do me a favor? [insert something I've never heard of said in a beyond-rapid pace]"
Rachel: "...[pause].... This isn't Rachel Mason."
VIP OTOEOFP: "Oh. Uh..."
Rachel: "Sorry."
...Yes that's right. At least once a week I apologize for my very existance.
People, this is a sick deal. I know that they are doing it because it means that they get free labor but at the same time I am doing it because I get free classes (all in all, after interning for 4 sessions I will have saved over a thousand dollars --- which is a LOT of shoes).
Most interns work as ushers during the shows. They show people to their seats, play bar back, clean up after the shows, and try to deal with drunk idiots for five hours one night a week. I, however, sit in a lovely purple office with lots of fast internet and easy access to a vending machine, where I answer phones, take reservations and try to come up with cute and funny answers to the same seven asinine questions I get asked every time the phone rings. I work 3-8 which means I can go out the night before and have enough time to lose my hangover as well as go out after work and not have to meet up with everyone after they're all already totally wasted.
I can wear whatever I want and eat during my shift. My friends who have classes on Saturdays stop by and hang out with me. I get to play on the internets and send text messages and make a dent in all the books and magazines I have stacked up next to my bed. Occasionally important people from around the theatre stop by and chat with me.
Like I said-- sweet gig.
Here's the rub-- one of the gals who runs the theatre is ALSO named Rachel. She is absolutely crazytown but one of the funniest/awesome people ever (check out her blog here). And not only do we look kind of similar (in that way that all girls who are short-ish with brown hair look the same) we apparently have idential phone voices. This would be a compliment except for the fact that it means one out of every five phone conversations goes like this:
Rachel: "Thank you for calling iO, This is Rachel. How may I help you."
VIP on the other end of the phone: "Hey Rachel, its [insert famous/important person name here] can you do me a favor? [insert something I've never heard of said in a beyond-rapid pace]"
Rachel: "...[pause].... This isn't Rachel Mason."
VIP OTOEOFP: "Oh. Uh..."
Rachel: "Sorry."
...Yes that's right. At least once a week I apologize for my very existance.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
boo, Paris Nails, boo.
Just a heads up: This post is g-ross. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Right now I am soaking my left foot in warmish-hot water in which epsom salts have been dissolved. Its about 95 degrees outside and not much cooler in my bedroom. My body isn't quite sure why I'm so mad at it. Today has been quite the terrible day as far as my body is concerned. Long pants for the first time in a month (jeans no less!), sneakers for the first time in two months and now, a hot bath made specifically for my left foot as the rest of me sits around sweating and wondering what exactly it did to make me so goddamned angry at it.
Oh body. Its not your fault.
Remember a mere week ago when I extolled the virtues of my first mani-pedi in a long while. How I celebrated my girlyness and vanity (if you don't remember, it was only two entries ago...scroll down. I'll wait...).
That was before I got the oddest sensation in the big toe of my left foot. It was this sharp tingling. I ignored it for awhile because I have foot problems all the time and all those years of breaking toes and twisting and whatnot I figured it would go away in time. Well, a few days went by and I started waking up in the middle of the night due to the pain. Things had gotten out of control. I was in Maryland at the time and my sucky-balls insurance only works in IL and besides, it was a Sunday so I went to the next best thing to a doctor. I went to Lizzie. It was handy that I was sitting next to her in bed at the time.
She confirmed my fears... it was an ingrown toenail. After being totally disgusted I took more advil than my liver probably cared for me to and waited until I got back to Chi-town to make an appointment with a podiatrist.
I explained the situation to my boss so he'd pity me and give me the afternoon off for my appointment. He did what he does best and told me horror stories about the pain and the bleeding and the general life-alteringness of this procedure.
It took 15 minutes.
No joke. I was in and out of the office in about the time it takes to watch a tivo-ed sitcom. I walked back into the office (not that I wanted too, I just thought it would be better to go back in that afternoon than have to get up early the next morning) with my big old bandaged toe (and flip flops no less. That paired with my general hobo-ish exterior yesterday pretty much confirmed all the reasons I'm sure I'm going to die alone). Everyone in the office was dutifully impressed by my pain tolerence as was I (forgetting convienently the face contortions I had performed while the doctor was anethsetizing my foot, prompting him to say, "Holy cow. Are you about to have an anyurism?") until of course, the lidocane wore off and my body suddenly realized I had paid someone to chop off a significant portion of my toe nail.
Okay, lets back track.
Back in the day. My toenails were very important to me. Kind of like callouses. When dancing on pointe, it is crucial that your toenails be cut in such a way that when you're balancing on them they don't start cutting in to the skin. As it makes the whole balancing in a tiny box of wood a whole bunch more uncomfortable.
Anywho...the pain started about an hour and a half after the surgury. People, I was about to go back to the office and be like, "Put it back on!" because the pain of the ingrown situation was way less dire than the post surgury "Hey that's why we have toenails in the first place!" pain.
I took about 12 more advil and felt bad for myself. The pain was gone once I took the bandage off but the totally disgustingness of what it looked like and the realization that I had to wear actual shoes in 90 degree heat I took some more advil and continued to feel bad for myself.
Then with the feet soaking I considered burning Paris Nails down. The nail place that started this whole charade is on my shit list for realz. I mean, is it kosher for me to walk in there and be like, "YOU BROKE ME. I want my money back!"?
Also, I promise this is the last post about my feet.
Right now I am soaking my left foot in warmish-hot water in which epsom salts have been dissolved. Its about 95 degrees outside and not much cooler in my bedroom. My body isn't quite sure why I'm so mad at it. Today has been quite the terrible day as far as my body is concerned. Long pants for the first time in a month (jeans no less!), sneakers for the first time in two months and now, a hot bath made specifically for my left foot as the rest of me sits around sweating and wondering what exactly it did to make me so goddamned angry at it.
Oh body. Its not your fault.
Remember a mere week ago when I extolled the virtues of my first mani-pedi in a long while. How I celebrated my girlyness and vanity (if you don't remember, it was only two entries ago...scroll down. I'll wait...).
That was before I got the oddest sensation in the big toe of my left foot. It was this sharp tingling. I ignored it for awhile because I have foot problems all the time and all those years of breaking toes and twisting and whatnot I figured it would go away in time. Well, a few days went by and I started waking up in the middle of the night due to the pain. Things had gotten out of control. I was in Maryland at the time and my sucky-balls insurance only works in IL and besides, it was a Sunday so I went to the next best thing to a doctor. I went to Lizzie. It was handy that I was sitting next to her in bed at the time.
She confirmed my fears... it was an ingrown toenail. After being totally disgusted I took more advil than my liver probably cared for me to and waited until I got back to Chi-town to make an appointment with a podiatrist.
I explained the situation to my boss so he'd pity me and give me the afternoon off for my appointment. He did what he does best and told me horror stories about the pain and the bleeding and the general life-alteringness of this procedure.
It took 15 minutes.
No joke. I was in and out of the office in about the time it takes to watch a tivo-ed sitcom. I walked back into the office (not that I wanted too, I just thought it would be better to go back in that afternoon than have to get up early the next morning) with my big old bandaged toe (and flip flops no less. That paired with my general hobo-ish exterior yesterday pretty much confirmed all the reasons I'm sure I'm going to die alone). Everyone in the office was dutifully impressed by my pain tolerence as was I (forgetting convienently the face contortions I had performed while the doctor was anethsetizing my foot, prompting him to say, "Holy cow. Are you about to have an anyurism?") until of course, the lidocane wore off and my body suddenly realized I had paid someone to chop off a significant portion of my toe nail.
Okay, lets back track.
Back in the day. My toenails were very important to me. Kind of like callouses. When dancing on pointe, it is crucial that your toenails be cut in such a way that when you're balancing on them they don't start cutting in to the skin. As it makes the whole balancing in a tiny box of wood a whole bunch more uncomfortable.
Anywho...the pain started about an hour and a half after the surgury. People, I was about to go back to the office and be like, "Put it back on!" because the pain of the ingrown situation was way less dire than the post surgury "Hey that's why we have toenails in the first place!" pain.
I took about 12 more advil and felt bad for myself. The pain was gone once I took the bandage off but the totally disgustingness of what it looked like and the realization that I had to wear actual shoes in 90 degree heat I took some more advil and continued to feel bad for myself.
Then with the feet soaking I considered burning Paris Nails down. The nail place that started this whole charade is on my shit list for realz. I mean, is it kosher for me to walk in there and be like, "YOU BROKE ME. I want my money back!"?
Also, I promise this is the last post about my feet.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
green underwears.
So, everyone has a favorite pair of jeans. They're the pair you buy, perhaps on a whim that you end up wearing three or four times a week until they literally decompose on your body. You stress out every time you wash them because it screws them up for like three days. Yeah, those pants. The day those pants die is a dark, dark day for everyone.
My jeans are from American Eagle. I bought them on a whim (isn't that always the way?) the day before I left for Nantucket the summer after my junior year of college. I then wore them every day for pretty much the next two years. They're the most perfect pair of jeans. Super comfortable and yet almost trendy enough to pull of wearing to a bar when you're just not feeling up to the tight, sexy jeans (uh, I guess I should have mentioned I wear jeans every day. No joke. I own -- seriously-- at least 20 pairs that I wear on a regular basis). Anyway, I got complimented on them pretty much every time I wore them and they looked good. I was a happy girl with a good looking ass.
Time passed and at one point a little hole began to form on the back right hand pocket. Right in the top inside corner. I still wore them a lot because I always have cute underwear on and I don't really have any shame Then something tragic, that I've managed to block from my memory, happened and the entire pocket started to rip off, right at the seam. I began to panic and rushed to my neighborhood American Eagle, naturally they had completely redone their denim section (STOP doing that! You're ruining lives, AE). The jeans did not exist anymore. I asked for a similar pair in their new denim line. The brain trust girl in the mini skirt was of no use to me so I went home and was sad. Then I had one of those minutes where I remember that there are people starving all over the world and some people have no pants at all.
So I decided to mend them. People, I am not a seamstress. In fact in the womanly arts I pretty much fail across the board. I can't cook or sew or clean or be submissive and docile...so me trying to mend denim was pretty laughable, but I did it. Then they got shoved to the back of my drawer for awhile because I thought they needed a rest (which they did), I got a new favorite pair (my first sevens) then another new favorite (probably my Polo Ralph Laurens-- although at this point I really like most of my jeans-- and I have three pairs waiting to be hemmed that will become favorites, I have no doubt).
So last week things at work went balls crazy and I found myself working late and (worse) worrying about work while I was doing the fun 20-something things that should be dominating my mental space. By the middle of this week, I had completely stopped caring about what I looked like at work, basically coming in and running around like a kid off her ritalin and then going home and passing out. I also hadn't done laundry in about three weeks. On Thursday morning, what did my comatose fingers find in the back of the drawer? The favorite jeans. I needed something to be happy about so I threw em on with a fairly long tee-shirt (as the corner hole was still fairly obvious-- though I was impressed with my pocket-seam hemming abilities.
Doodley-doo, off to work I went. The day was nothing short of ridiculous with the running around and the long stretches of time spent staring at a computer screen, trying not to cry. About mid-day I had my third potty break (I'm doing this new thing where I try to drink 2 quarts of water a day and that with the gallons of diet coke really run right through me) and I notice that the seams were starting to kind of stretch and the hole down the seam was getting a little bigger. I yanked down my shirt and went about my day.
At the end of my day (that was supposed to end at 5, but actually ended at 7) I go to the bathroom and once again look at my jeans/handy work. Either my butt grew three sizes that day or the running and the stress were apparently a match for my sewing because the hole was ENORMOUS. Like we're talking six inches, right across my rockin' ass. None of the guys in my office (now its me v. 5 guys all day every day-- its kind of the opposite of fun) mentioned anything about it, which was nice of them. Because seriously it was like every nightmare I had in high school, a giant hole and my green underroos (that ironically enough said Drama Club on them) sticking out for everyone to see.
I thanked my lucky stars that I had had the foresight to carry a messanger bag. I grabbed a men's tee-shirt that covered a little more of my heinie (although had my company's logo on it, which was pretty embarrassing the entire way home) and then I spent my walk to the train/home making sure that the messanger bag was artfully placed directly over the giant hole in my most favorite pants.
...Which I'm still not going to throw away. Nope. You can't make me. They're getting washed now, I'll figure out what to do with them when they're clean. A pair of denim, assless chaps perhaps?!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
a moment of silence, please
There comes a day in every young-ish girls' life when she realizes that she is never going to dance on pointe again and she can finally do something about those nasty callouses. Ladies and gentlemen, for one young(-ish) girl-- that day was today.
Today I let some poor defenseless Asian girl shave 22 years of callouses off my feet.
Let me explain (now that you've had a chance to vom all over your keyboard)-- I was/still am one of those kids who refused to wear shoes in the summer. I spent my summers running around barefoot-- not just in the grass, sand and concrete but also cobblestones and broken shells of Nantucket (seriously, the road outside my Grandmother's house on Nantucket is literally made of broken oyster shells. And I would run and skip up and down that thing like I was walking on pillows). To this day-- the most you can expect out of me during the summer months is flip flops. And I have been known to walk around many a large US metropolis totally barefoot, which is not only hard on the tootsies, but a good way to get the foot herpes.
Not only am I a filthy hippie when it comes to footwear, I've also spent a majority of my life trying to keep my feet from throbbing due to the turning and balancing and jumping I did on them (not so much anymore). I remember vividly one of the "older girls" limping into Dee's with her pointe shoes on, cursing the Gods that told her that shaving off her callouses during a pedicure was a good idea. She was in pain for the next four months. After that I swore I would never let anyone near my callouses, particularly when I started doing a lot of barefoot work.
Anyway, my feet were getting to be pretty bad news. I kept putting off getting a pedicure because I don't really like the idea of people touching my feet and it seemed kind of silly since I didn't have any reason to get a pedi. Also there was a secret little part of me that hoped that maybe I would some day shed fifteen pounds, gain some strength and a massive amount of flexibility and become a dancer again. Although, if the past three years are any indication that's probably not going to happen. Although I did bust out some serious foutes at the bar this weekend (barefoot, obvi)...I think it was time to put the dream in the scrapbook and try not to have such crackwhore feet. The salon across the street has $30 mani-pedi specials during the week and I have a bar mitzvah to look hot at this weekend (not to mention a fiesta del tragedy) and work is making me want to kill myself, so I went for it.
I'm not gonna front, it was pretty g-ross looking at like 22 years of foot skin peeling off (Oh, I'm sorry-- were you eating?!) but my feet feel really nice and they look kind of attractive, like attractive enough for me to allow someone else to look at the bottom of them.
While I was getting all pampered I kept thinking about Courtney's post about nail salons-- I have no doubt that the poor girl was bitching about absolutely filthy my feet were.
Anyway, I'm a whole new girl.
Oh, and Reason number 349023420345721 why I should NEVER, EVER get a manicure EVER-- Because it takes me LESS than a HOUR to totally fuck up at least one of my nails. Seriously, I had been home for twenty minutes before I screwed up my thumb nail. Does anyone know if I can just go into a random salon and ask if they'll fix it?
Today I let some poor defenseless Asian girl shave 22 years of callouses off my feet.
Let me explain (now that you've had a chance to vom all over your keyboard)-- I was/still am one of those kids who refused to wear shoes in the summer. I spent my summers running around barefoot-- not just in the grass, sand and concrete but also cobblestones and broken shells of Nantucket (seriously, the road outside my Grandmother's house on Nantucket is literally made of broken oyster shells. And I would run and skip up and down that thing like I was walking on pillows). To this day-- the most you can expect out of me during the summer months is flip flops. And I have been known to walk around many a large US metropolis totally barefoot, which is not only hard on the tootsies, but a good way to get the foot herpes.
Not only am I a filthy hippie when it comes to footwear, I've also spent a majority of my life trying to keep my feet from throbbing due to the turning and balancing and jumping I did on them (not so much anymore). I remember vividly one of the "older girls" limping into Dee's with her pointe shoes on, cursing the Gods that told her that shaving off her callouses during a pedicure was a good idea. She was in pain for the next four months. After that I swore I would never let anyone near my callouses, particularly when I started doing a lot of barefoot work.
Anyway, my feet were getting to be pretty bad news. I kept putting off getting a pedicure because I don't really like the idea of people touching my feet and it seemed kind of silly since I didn't have any reason to get a pedi. Also there was a secret little part of me that hoped that maybe I would some day shed fifteen pounds, gain some strength and a massive amount of flexibility and become a dancer again. Although, if the past three years are any indication that's probably not going to happen. Although I did bust out some serious foutes at the bar this weekend (barefoot, obvi)...I think it was time to put the dream in the scrapbook and try not to have such crackwhore feet. The salon across the street has $30 mani-pedi specials during the week and I have a bar mitzvah to look hot at this weekend (not to mention a fiesta del tragedy) and work is making me want to kill myself, so I went for it.
I'm not gonna front, it was pretty g-ross looking at like 22 years of foot skin peeling off (Oh, I'm sorry-- were you eating?!) but my feet feel really nice and they look kind of attractive, like attractive enough for me to allow someone else to look at the bottom of them.
While I was getting all pampered I kept thinking about Courtney's post about nail salons-- I have no doubt that the poor girl was bitching about absolutely filthy my feet were.
Anyway, I'm a whole new girl.
Oh, and Reason number 349023420345721 why I should NEVER, EVER get a manicure EVER-- Because it takes me LESS than a HOUR to totally fuck up at least one of my nails. Seriously, I had been home for twenty minutes before I screwed up my thumb nail. Does anyone know if I can just go into a random salon and ask if they'll fix it?
Sunday, June 03, 2007
true.
I don't normally repost other works of genius directly into my blog, but I was reading at my internship yesterday and came across this passage in a fantastic book that everyone should read.
"Unrequited love was, at that period of my life, the only kind I seemed capable of feeling. This caused me much pain, but in retrospect I see it had advantages. It provided all the emotional jolts of the other kind without any of the risks, it did not interfere with my life, which, although meagre, was mine and predictable, and it involved no decisions. In the world of stark physical reality it might call for the removal of my ill-fitting garments (in the dark or the bathroom, if possible: no woman wants a man to see her safety pins), but it left undisturbed their metaphysical counterparts. At that time I believed in metaphysics. My Platonic version of myself resembled an Egyptian mummmy, a mysteriously wrapped object that might or might not fall into dust if uncovered. But unrequited love demanded no stripteases."
Yes.
Okay, back to my screenplay that is way harder to write than a novel.
"Unrequited love was, at that period of my life, the only kind I seemed capable of feeling. This caused me much pain, but in retrospect I see it had advantages. It provided all the emotional jolts of the other kind without any of the risks, it did not interfere with my life, which, although meagre, was mine and predictable, and it involved no decisions. In the world of stark physical reality it might call for the removal of my ill-fitting garments (in the dark or the bathroom, if possible: no woman wants a man to see her safety pins), but it left undisturbed their metaphysical counterparts. At that time I believed in metaphysics. My Platonic version of myself resembled an Egyptian mummmy, a mysteriously wrapped object that might or might not fall into dust if uncovered. But unrequited love demanded no stripteases."
Yes.
Okay, back to my screenplay that is way harder to write than a novel.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
In case you aren't already...
I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but I have a huge, huge writer-crush on Eugene Robinson.
I'm bad about reading the paper these days, mostly because I don't really have any feelings beyond contempt and disdain for the papers of Chicago. I never even got really good at reading the New York Times. Something about the fact that there are NO comics in the Sunday paper (which costs 5 bones, btw) always turned me off to NYT, I mean, seriously?! what is the point of a Sunday paper if it doesn't come with a kickass Style/Arts section AND Garfield/Slylock the mystery solving fox.
The Washington Post is one of those ridiculous things that my Mother's family gets all "old-money" about. My great-grandmother used to get it shipped to her in Conneticut, even though it was normally 2 days late (rendering it pretty useless) and on Nantucket (when it would come when ever it felt like it, as most things on Nantucket do).
WaPo (as I so lovingly like to call it) was always around when I was growing up, I didn't normally read anything beyond the Front page and the style section until High School. I do remember that my Mom, because she was wicked and mean, made me dig through the A and B sections for weekly Current Events projects in Elementary School while all my friends got away with using articals from The Frederick News Post (which, while my Mom is now v. important over there, continues to be a rather shoddy excuse for a newspaper, relying mostly on Wire copy for anything that didn't happen in a 217-zip code).
Anyway, the best feature besides the Style Invitational on Sundays is anything written by Eugene Robinson. I don't care if you agree with what he says or you think he can get kinda preachy (because he can), everthing he writes is thoughtful and written in a way that even if you don't know anything about the topic he's discussing you can walk away with an opinion on the matter, and whether or not you agree with what he says doesn't seem to make a difference to him. He just wants you to know what he thinks (hence an Opinion column). He also has the ability to write well on pretty much anything, while he does write a lot of politcal stuff (something you would expect from a DC writer) he also waxes poetic on subjects such as The VA Tech Shooting, Kanye West , and even American Idol.
With each topic, he displays a sound knowledge of both sides of the coin as well as firm stance in his own beliefs. He basically rules, and if you aren't reading him at this point... you probably should.
I'm bad about reading the paper these days, mostly because I don't really have any feelings beyond contempt and disdain for the papers of Chicago. I never even got really good at reading the New York Times. Something about the fact that there are NO comics in the Sunday paper (which costs 5 bones, btw) always turned me off to NYT, I mean, seriously?! what is the point of a Sunday paper if it doesn't come with a kickass Style/Arts section AND Garfield/Slylock the mystery solving fox.
The Washington Post is one of those ridiculous things that my Mother's family gets all "old-money" about. My great-grandmother used to get it shipped to her in Conneticut, even though it was normally 2 days late (rendering it pretty useless) and on Nantucket (when it would come when ever it felt like it, as most things on Nantucket do).
WaPo (as I so lovingly like to call it) was always around when I was growing up, I didn't normally read anything beyond the Front page and the style section until High School. I do remember that my Mom, because she was wicked and mean, made me dig through the A and B sections for weekly Current Events projects in Elementary School while all my friends got away with using articals from The Frederick News Post (which, while my Mom is now v. important over there, continues to be a rather shoddy excuse for a newspaper, relying mostly on Wire copy for anything that didn't happen in a 217-zip code).
Anyway, the best feature besides the Style Invitational on Sundays is anything written by Eugene Robinson. I don't care if you agree with what he says or you think he can get kinda preachy (because he can), everthing he writes is thoughtful and written in a way that even if you don't know anything about the topic he's discussing you can walk away with an opinion on the matter, and whether or not you agree with what he says doesn't seem to make a difference to him. He just wants you to know what he thinks (hence an Opinion column). He also has the ability to write well on pretty much anything, while he does write a lot of politcal stuff (something you would expect from a DC writer) he also waxes poetic on subjects such as The VA Tech Shooting, Kanye West , and even American Idol.
With each topic, he displays a sound knowledge of both sides of the coin as well as firm stance in his own beliefs. He basically rules, and if you aren't reading him at this point... you probably should.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Hurrah!
I got cast in an improv troupe last night. Details are sketchy at this point, but it looks like I'll be performing at bars and various other venues around the Chicago area...I'll be doing short form instead of long-form which is kind of a step sideways for me (Long form works totally different mind muscles and that's what I've been doing for the past 6 months, although on Nantucket we did short form and that was only a year ago).
Anyway, this makes me very happy as not only will I be performing improv (something I've been increadibly anxious to do since I started classes), I will also be getting paid. To do improv. Off the top of my head I can't think of anything else in the world I've wanted more than this.
Anyway, this makes me very happy as not only will I be performing improv (something I've been increadibly anxious to do since I started classes), I will also be getting paid. To do improv. Off the top of my head I can't think of anything else in the world I've wanted more than this.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Its the end of the world...
People...the apocolypse is upon us.
My dear Mother, Comfort Cougar [redacted] has finally joined the 21st century and purchased a cellphone.
Seriously.
She was the last holdout...in the entire universe. My crazypants Granny had a cellphone before Cougar did. And now C is the proud owner of a pay-as-you go tres cute flippy phone. Although she refuses to give out the number, because she's kind of a tool like that.
Also. Bagels come in squares now.
The world is really about to explode.
My dear Mother, Comfort Cougar [redacted] has finally joined the 21st century and purchased a cellphone.
Seriously.
She was the last holdout...in the entire universe. My crazypants Granny had a cellphone before Cougar did. And now C is the proud owner of a pay-as-you go tres cute flippy phone. Although she refuses to give out the number, because she's kind of a tool like that.
Also. Bagels come in squares now.
The world is really about to explode.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
100th post
So...I've been trying to decide what this, my 100th post should be about. There are a few thoughts that have swimming around, but the emo factor of this blog is already reaching a dangerously high level, so I've decided to give a little sample from my mental salad bar instead of bitching about all the things that are going wrong.
1- 100 Posts. That's pretty awesome. I'm guessing that about 40% of them are entertaining. The rest are pretty much drivel and the above-mentioned emo crap.
2- H, the cousin I mentioned in the last post who recently got hitched, is apparently knocked-up. Hahaha. I kind of win.
3- I have yet to try that KFC stoner-bowl-of-awesomeness. But I really want to. Except for the fact that once I try one, I'm probably going to want them all the time. And my eating habits are disturbing/disgusting enough without bringing fake-chicken and a bowl of starchy-carbs into the mix.
4- I just ordered a sample of $37 soap
5- I am so glad that I am now on the winning side of the Mac/PC ads. Sometimes I just want to hug Bunny the laptop forever and ever.
6- Since living in Chicago I have received some of the nicest compliments ever including my level 2 iO teacher telling me that I reminded her of herself at 22. Considering she's pretty much everything I want to be at 30, I can't think of a better indication that I am on the right track.
7- I think I like the show Brothers and Sisters so much because it reminds me of My Mom's family, except they have way too many boys. And we've managed to stay away from dating political figures.
8- Can someone explain fake-bake tanning to me? Like, if I need to be super-tan by the 2nd weekend in June when should I start going to the sketchy tan place next door?
9- I haven't seen one of my roomates in 3 weeks. Its not that I don't like her as a person, but its been kind of nice not having negotiate bathroom time.
10- Why do I feel the need to eat immediately after going grocery shopping?
1- 100 Posts. That's pretty awesome. I'm guessing that about 40% of them are entertaining. The rest are pretty much drivel and the above-mentioned emo crap.
2- H, the cousin I mentioned in the last post who recently got hitched, is apparently knocked-up. Hahaha. I kind of win.
3- I have yet to try that KFC stoner-bowl-of-awesomeness. But I really want to. Except for the fact that once I try one, I'm probably going to want them all the time. And my eating habits are disturbing/disgusting enough without bringing fake-chicken and a bowl of starchy-carbs into the mix.
4- I just ordered a sample of $37 soap
5- I am so glad that I am now on the winning side of the Mac/PC ads. Sometimes I just want to hug Bunny the laptop forever and ever.
6- Since living in Chicago I have received some of the nicest compliments ever including my level 2 iO teacher telling me that I reminded her of herself at 22. Considering she's pretty much everything I want to be at 30, I can't think of a better indication that I am on the right track.
7- I think I like the show Brothers and Sisters so much because it reminds me of My Mom's family, except they have way too many boys. And we've managed to stay away from dating political figures.
8- Can someone explain fake-bake tanning to me? Like, if I need to be super-tan by the 2nd weekend in June when should I start going to the sketchy tan place next door?
9- I haven't seen one of my roomates in 3 weeks. Its not that I don't like her as a person, but its been kind of nice not having negotiate bathroom time.
10- Why do I feel the need to eat immediately after going grocery shopping?
Monday, April 23, 2007
Something blue
So it's been a slow day here at [redacted as it turns out my bosses do know what a blog is] and I'm trying to keep myself from falling asleep directly on my keyboard so I'm trolling the internets and I found the e-mail Cougar sent me with the pictures from my cousin's wedding in it that I never really bothered to give a good look too.
For the sake of brevity and my fingers, I will refer to the bride as my cousin although H (the bride) is not actually my cousin, she is my first cousin once removed (aka My Mom's cousin, aka My Grandmother's brother's kid) but she is exactly my age (we're 4 days apart) and her dad is actually my grandmother's half brother and she's actually adopted so we'll just call her my cousin.
I've spent the past 45 minutes looking at her pictures and I keep having these waves of various emotions; jealousy, sadness, contempt, disdain, immaturity -- I'm pretty much like my own Pandora's Box over here.
We weren't particularly close growing up. She's always lived in CO, we met for the first time when we were 12 and had a great time of it, then saw each other maybe 4 or 5 other times ever but our family is fairly close-knit and I've always felt quite the bond with her, particularly because I've always felt that my older cousin (who is 4 years older than I am) found me annoying and always picked being a "grown-up" over hanging out with me and the next in the line of succession is my brother (4 years younger) so I never really had anyone to be close to (and on the other side of the family I'm the oldest, and then its 4 boys, then 'Bear-- so that's fairly useless in the bonding department). I've always felt like H and I were on the same wave-length, being that we were the same age. Granted, she went half way across the country for high school, dropped out of college and did that whole "growing up early 20's" thing a little differently than I did, but different strokes, right?
Anywho, she is married now. Cousin H with whom I had a matching mint green chenille Gap sweater and who once convinced me that we could dye my hair in a bowl of tea now has a husband. Something about this sentance doesn't really compute in my brain. Looking at her pictures isn't really helping because instead of thinking, "Wow. H's wedding, sweet." I'm thinking, "Oh look, H got someone to take pictures as she had a pretend wedding." Which is really twisted and bizarre on my part, but how I'm feeling. Can you imagine waking up next to the same person for the rest of ever? I mean, obviously in this millenium, that's not really the way it works, but I feel like were I ever to take that giant plunge, I'd want it to be for keeps. Except, the idea of "keeps" is crazytown to me.
I just feel like the future is coming at me quite quickly these days. Although after looking at her pictures I found myself at the jcrew.com wedding site, which if you've never been, is like a big old scoop of crack-cocaine. I would stay away from the flower girl/ring bearer page unless you want to have a big old pang of uterine hurt. But while I plan the wedding, its still a total hypothetical to me.
I just feel like the future is rushing up at me.
I had a moment at Gap last weekend as I breezed past all the maternity stuff I alighted on this dress and had a biological clock moment of, "Oh WOW that would look so cute if I was pregnant and glow-y" and I left the store in a haze of dreamy, "maybe it would be kind of fun to be pregnant" clouds when halfway down the block my brain slammed on the breaks and went, "Hold the fuck up. After you're pregnant for nine months you have a BABY that you have to live with and provide for and love for the rest of your life." While this is a fairly obvious statement to most people, it was the first time I had ever really pulled it all together.
Little black maternity dresses maybe cute and weddings maybe a beautiful and expensive game of dress up but they still seem so grown-up to me and yet, not distant. Does that make sense? I feel like I'm on this bridge to grown-up-hood-dom and its kind of terrifying in a very pretty flowers and sparkles kind of way. Its the ultimate strange man with candy. "Hey little girl, I have a pretty white dress and some crab cakes for you. All you have to do is get in my van. Permenently."
Yikes.
I also have no idea why all of a sudden at 22 and a half this has suddenly become a huge thing (seriously, people, I find myself thinking about babies and weddings and buying houses and all that shit all.the.time). Maybe its because other not-so-fun parts of my life have started speeding up. I had a nightmare about health insurance last night (wtf?), I realized I need my job, and when I look into the horizon and think, "where will I be in 5 years?" the empty road isn't a gleeful adventure as much as it is a stomach-dropping-to-your-shoes terrifying exercise in procrastination.
For the sake of brevity and my fingers, I will refer to the bride as my cousin although H (the bride) is not actually my cousin, she is my first cousin once removed (aka My Mom's cousin, aka My Grandmother's brother's kid) but she is exactly my age (we're 4 days apart) and her dad is actually my grandmother's half brother and she's actually adopted so we'll just call her my cousin.
I've spent the past 45 minutes looking at her pictures and I keep having these waves of various emotions; jealousy, sadness, contempt, disdain, immaturity -- I'm pretty much like my own Pandora's Box over here.
We weren't particularly close growing up. She's always lived in CO, we met for the first time when we were 12 and had a great time of it, then saw each other maybe 4 or 5 other times ever but our family is fairly close-knit and I've always felt quite the bond with her, particularly because I've always felt that my older cousin (who is 4 years older than I am) found me annoying and always picked being a "grown-up" over hanging out with me and the next in the line of succession is my brother (4 years younger) so I never really had anyone to be close to (and on the other side of the family I'm the oldest, and then its 4 boys, then 'Bear-- so that's fairly useless in the bonding department). I've always felt like H and I were on the same wave-length, being that we were the same age. Granted, she went half way across the country for high school, dropped out of college and did that whole "growing up early 20's" thing a little differently than I did, but different strokes, right?
Anywho, she is married now. Cousin H with whom I had a matching mint green chenille Gap sweater and who once convinced me that we could dye my hair in a bowl of tea now has a husband. Something about this sentance doesn't really compute in my brain. Looking at her pictures isn't really helping because instead of thinking, "Wow. H's wedding, sweet." I'm thinking, "Oh look, H got someone to take pictures as she had a pretend wedding." Which is really twisted and bizarre on my part, but how I'm feeling. Can you imagine waking up next to the same person for the rest of ever? I mean, obviously in this millenium, that's not really the way it works, but I feel like were I ever to take that giant plunge, I'd want it to be for keeps. Except, the idea of "keeps" is crazytown to me.
I just feel like the future is coming at me quite quickly these days. Although after looking at her pictures I found myself at the jcrew.com wedding site, which if you've never been, is like a big old scoop of crack-cocaine. I would stay away from the flower girl/ring bearer page unless you want to have a big old pang of uterine hurt. But while I plan the wedding, its still a total hypothetical to me.
I just feel like the future is rushing up at me.
I had a moment at Gap last weekend as I breezed past all the maternity stuff I alighted on this dress and had a biological clock moment of, "Oh WOW that would look so cute if I was pregnant and glow-y" and I left the store in a haze of dreamy, "maybe it would be kind of fun to be pregnant" clouds when halfway down the block my brain slammed on the breaks and went, "Hold the fuck up. After you're pregnant for nine months you have a BABY that you have to live with and provide for and love for the rest of your life." While this is a fairly obvious statement to most people, it was the first time I had ever really pulled it all together.
Little black maternity dresses maybe cute and weddings maybe a beautiful and expensive game of dress up but they still seem so grown-up to me and yet, not distant. Does that make sense? I feel like I'm on this bridge to grown-up-hood-dom and its kind of terrifying in a very pretty flowers and sparkles kind of way. Its the ultimate strange man with candy. "Hey little girl, I have a pretty white dress and some crab cakes for you. All you have to do is get in my van. Permenently."
Yikes.
I also have no idea why all of a sudden at 22 and a half this has suddenly become a huge thing (seriously, people, I find myself thinking about babies and weddings and buying houses and all that shit all.the.time). Maybe its because other not-so-fun parts of my life have started speeding up. I had a nightmare about health insurance last night (wtf?), I realized I need my job, and when I look into the horizon and think, "where will I be in 5 years?" the empty road isn't a gleeful adventure as much as it is a stomach-dropping-to-your-shoes terrifying exercise in procrastination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)