Archive for June, 2006

Wanted Ad

June 16, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Oh, wouldn’t the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at?” ~W.S. Gilbert

SBF seeks M or F with html knowledge for Blogger, Tickets to tonight’s Yankees/Nationals game, Medical Doctor with access to Ambien.

Likes: long walks on the beach, golden retrievers, thai food, ABBA, Grey Goose and being a pain in the ass

(I’m serious about the first two and if you really can get me some Ambien, I’d have to kiss you because until I sleep a solid 8 hours, you’re going to get shit like this.)

(Ok, so now I have tickets. Two. Wheeee!)

In your eyes

June 15, 2006 | Filed under: 10 years older, Humdrum

“The rain on my car is a baptism, the new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd, my assault on the world begins now.”- Lloyd Dobler

Dear Diary,
My name is HB (like you didn’t already know). And today, for the first time ever, I have discovered the magic and eternal optimism that is Lloyd Dobler. My only excuse for this sad state of affairs is that I spent most of 1989 as a five year old attempting first position in ballet and proper way to eat paste.

But now, I am schooled. I think I may even want my very own Mr. Dobler who deserves the same salutation as Mr. Darcy, because he’s just that awesome.

Despite that fatal flaw of my upbringing, I would like to take this time to mention that today I also made great strides in my social phobia. I managed to have a conversation, at a table, with actual adults in which everything I said didn’t come out like “skaislkjfusklityslkhfi…like…yeah…akdifhltish.” A conversation at a table with adults that I barely know and who most likely think I’m some crazy imposing child. But who cares? I smiled and was nice.

So, as you can see, today was a big day. Tomorrow? Dear diary, I have a crush and would like some new jordache jeans.

G’night,
HB

Franklin Covey

June 14, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Life is not long, and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” ~Samuel Johnson

Bri came to visit for work and to lavish me with alcohol. A well prepared young woman would have established a place to bring a visitor for some Grey Goose and conversation. I am not nor have I ever been a well prepared young woman.

I instead will frantically search WaPo express for a restaurant/bar lounge anywhere in the vicinity, close my eyes and point. Wherever my abnormally long finger happens to land, is the place to be. Because, I said so.

I live a rather humdrum life as somewhat of a recluse. Though I do go out, it’s usually to the same few places that are just there and good enough. Without the advent of open table and dc foodies, I would have a going out diet consisting of Chipotle and Chef Geoff’s. See? Ho hum.

There seems to be a bit of misunderstanding among those who don’t know me that because of what I do, that it automatically means that I know people and I know places. I hate it to break it to my many admirers, but I don’t know anyone and I shrug my shoulders when it comes to being decisive about where to go.

Sticking to what I know is what I do best. When I do diverge off the beaten path, it’s usually after strong suggestion from numerous knowledgeable individuals and extensive research into what I’m about to get myself into.

Come to think of it, I do this with everything that will take up a substantial chunk of my short lived life. I was the girl who had picked out a major and knew the exact colleges I wanted to apply to – with a spreadsheet and copious notes to boot – well before I took my PSATs. Peg’s only role was to write a check. I knew I was going to American before I applied to American. If (when, God willing) I apply to graduate school, I already have a concentration, the exact schools picked out, needed GRE scores, application dates and a thesis topic.

I plan quite well for future events and things to happen in 2009. But given something that is to happen tomorrow and I flail around like a baby bird and wonder which way is up. You can always tell when I’m unprepared for taking immediate action – which is like 99% of the time – I tend to get all panicky and then realize my ridiculous ways and say ‘fuck it. Don’t care.’

I let Bri do the pointing and maneuvering and we ended up at Ceiba; where I once again professed my love for Netflix and reasons for why I babysit more than the average person has ever babysat in their entire lives.

Yes, I know. I need to get out more.

Laissez-faire

June 12, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“It takes about ten years to get used to how old you are.” ~Quoted by Raymond A. Michel in The Leaf

In a momentary lapse of sanity and judgment and forgetfulness that I still had not started contributing to my 401K* and therefore might end up both alone and broke in about 40 years; I bought a Kate Spade bag in a sample sale.

While men may not give two shits about Kate Spade, unless say she started making beer, women know who she is. And women dress and accessorize for other women**. Which is something that I have no problem admitting: I could care less about what some guy thinks of my multi-purpose black leather Coach bag, but women can judge, so judge they will.

So, I bought the bag, but prior to buying the bag, I had to call Peg to get her advice. A $70 Kate Spade bag is ridiculously cheap and it was an investment of sorts. It’s a good and functional spring/summer bag that would be considerably nicer than the aforementioned black leather bag. It’s also cute and charming and screams “Hello world, Summer is here.”

Given that Peg regularly ignores my calls, when she finally phoned back, the bag had been purchased via check card because Credit cards are the product of the Devil and an evil capitalist society.

I told her the reason for my very important call and she asked whether or not I had seen the piece on the Today Show or some such shit and I said no. “Well today’s younger generation are too molly coddled by their parents. Why do you need my permission to purchase something? You all are too needy…” Blah blah blah, you get the point. Us Gen Yers (or whatever the hell we’re referred to now. I once heard ‘spoiled’) are too dependent on our parents.

My response to this was two fold. First, sophomore year, there was an incident involving a Platinum card and several shopping trips to Lucky Brand because new jeans are an emergency. Come to find out that new jeans are only an emergency if the ones you are currently wearing are packed with explosives and/or are currently on fire. Anyway, since that incident I’ve been cautious with how I spend. Two, and within that same vein, I just like to have my mother’s opinion sometimes. Is that wrong? I like the reassurance that something is an actual investment as opposed to frivolous spending. This is a woman who once yelled at me for not having a perfect coif and not having my eyebrows perfectly arched, because those are apparently necessities; even if one’s daughter cannot afford such necessities.

Ok, that may not have been the greatest example ever in life, but you get it. I ask because I MUST KNOW, because I’m unsure sometimes and I just want my mother to say “Hey, it’s ok to spend on yourself. Especially since you spend much of your time being puked and pooped on by children that aren’t yours. It’s ok to spend $70 on a bag”

I need affirmation on things. I need to know what’s ok and what is not. I need to know whether or not I’m writing well, if I’m doing a good job or if I should just stop asking. I need to know that it’s perfectly acceptable to spend my own damn money, however I choose because it’s MINE. ALLL MINE.

The other reason I ask my parents if it’s ok to do things? Because I’m just a wee bit afraid of letting go. I like having that safety net there and relying on someone who is a bonafide responsible adult – with like a mortgage and shit – to help me, even when it comes to the little things.

Of course one day, I’ll stop, but for now it makes me feel better. Is that so wrong?

*before I get emails and comments about how irresponsible that is, I did it today so everyone calm down.

**this leads to further discussion as to why someone on the metro stared me down, when she saw my bag from a ridiculously over priced shoe store as if to say “why would YOU be buying shoes from there?!” And yes, I am so over this. Or not.

In the Queue

June 11, 2006 | Filed under: 10 years older, Humdrum

Disclaimer: Word on the street is that in a year or so, I’ll want to kick the people at Netflix in their respective baby making parts, because I will no longer be a valuable customer to them, and they will in turn start sending me crap movies. Until then, I am basking in the glory that it is and have turned it into a lovely little masterpiece (HA!) for B4B. And Dagny just gave me this idea, bonus points/love/undying affection/whatever else you can think of, goes to the person who can name all of the movies that I have alluded to.

“Through the magic of motion pictures, someone who’s never left Peoria knows the softness of a Paris spring, the colour of a Nile sunset, the sorts of vegetation one will find along the upper Amazon and that Big Ben has not yet gone digital.” -Vincent Canby

I once owned a TalkBoy, which G and I would carry around religiously. We even brought it to Manhattan, the scene of Kevin McCallister’s latest caper, and carried it through FAO Schwartz. On that first trip to FAO Schwartz, I tried to play Heart and Soul on the floor piano like Josh Baskin but minus the creepy fortune teller machine to turn me into a 33 year old overnight.

Come to think of it, I never thought that I could turn a beast back into a prince, be a live pawn on a board game or that mermaids could learn to walk (but I did believe in mermaids). And yet, I will admit to clapping so that Tinkerbell could fly and seriously deliberating what would happen if my father shrunk us in a science experiment gone awry.

Garrett and I forced the padres to purchase a tree house, so we could conjure up imaginary meals and scream ‘Rufio’ at the top of our lungs. Our neighbors? Well, they were rarely seen and I’m quite sure that their eldest son was the perfect likeness to Sloth – bald head, giant fucked up eye and all - but finding him would never lead to any lost treasure. And sadly, Corey Feldman – hunk that he was – wouldn’t be there either.

To this day, I have a serious and unrelenting fear that a clown will murder me and that a psychotic, red headed doll will come out of its package and bludgeon me to death. If I could look those two up, I would, but I would like to sleep with the lights off tonight.

I was even most certain that my father, with the aid of latex and a body suit, could turn himself into a convincing – yet ass ugly - female nanny to care for us while my mother worked.

Just last night, my ice cold, tar black heart turned into a giant pile of mush; my eyes welled up with tears as I got that all too familiar lump in the back of my throat. If Noah and Allie could find each other again, then surely there is hope for me. Next week? I’ll believe and begin praying for a guy with a boom box (or I suppose an ipod or XM) and an ugly trench coat to stand outside of my window and profess his undying love for me.

Therein lies the beauty of a movie…that magic and power to make a small child believe that a baseball team will come out of a corn field (I was totally convinced) or that every girl will find her own Lloyd Dobler and live happily ever after.