Archive for August, 2006

The error of my ways

August 29, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking.” ~Earl Wilson

Things started to go down hill around 3 PM when my allergies suddenly went into full drive. Spare me the ‘What the fucks?’ because I don’t even know. Who the hell gets allergies in the fall? FALL. Fall is for happiness and apples, not an allergy to dying leaves and humidity. And then I got all obsessive, natch. And then I went home.

Upon my arrival home I attempted to open the door quickly and in a huff and lo, the door, it was not only locked but dead bolted. While I appreciate the gesture for someone to come through and fix the walls, light fixtures and bulbs in my apartment, I have no dead bolt key. Which as you can see, would be a most excellent thing to have at that moment because no one wants a pissed off, obsessive woman locked out of her apartment. But like I said, I appreciate the very nice gesture of protecting my favorite IKEA mirror and Smashbox eye shadow from burglars. Of course in my haste and generally sour demeanor I called Peg and may have used a few choice words – because it’s all her fault, everything is, even when it isn’t, it is – and then hung up on her.

We are on a roll here people.

Here would be an excellent time for us to play a fun little guessing game: Remember the time that I wrote a few not so nice things about my leasing office? Did I mention that that first paragraph, with much of the not very niceness, was in the WaPo Express*? Did you know that the people who work in my leasing office read the WaPo Express? Did I ever let y’all know that while in San Ho, the head of my leasing office told me that from that point on I could only conduct business with them from outside of their “shabby offices”?

Yeah. Oh yeah.

Did you know that most people on the planet are considerably nicer than I? And that when I called the head of my leasing office – who is very nice and has pretty hair – about being locked out, she was nice enough to drive back to her office at 7:30 PM (DC traffic is also a bitch, and driving four blocks can take upwards of 20 minutes)? Then she was pleasant to me. PLEASANT! While I stood in her office gnawing on my nails and silently praying that she wouldn’t call me an evil whore with poor sentence structure. Then she gave me my keys and I cried. I fucking cried my entire way home because she was nice and I wasn’t and I deserved to be locked out and possibly punched in the head.

Earlier today, I was informed that I can be intimidating and scary. Or at least that’s how I can come off; as if I would jam a pen in someone’s eye. I was slightly taken aback by that statement and became mildly annoyed, though thankfully the person who brought the latter to my attention, called me on my bullshit and I felt sheepish and departed the conversation. What I’m saying is that I can be mean. Really mean and a straight up bitch, especially via the written word. Honestly though I’m not. You can even ask actual real life people who can tell you that I’m not at all mean but instead shy and quiet and rather pleasant and fun to be around. I suppose that now that I know that people think me intimidating and scary, I feel terribly. Especially when those that I’ve made vitriolic remarks towards and/or about are nothing but nice in return.

In short: I suck. A lot. Annnnnnd now would be a fantastic time to head on up to Martha’s Vineyard where I will be until Monday evening. I promise to return a little bit nicer and a lot less bitchy. Well that is if Peg allows me into her house, cause you know I like to share the bitchiness with all.

*It’s a shorter version of the Washington Post. It’s also free and given out by all of the metro stations. I don’t read it, because I walk to work in the morning.

A little bit dramatic

August 27, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

If you’re craving some new material: Go here

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“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” ~Alfred Hitchcock

Contrary to what might across via the written word, I am not all that dramatic. Unless that is I’m alone and well, we’re just not going to go there right now, point is; I don’t do drama. I do not like drama, I do not like to get involved with drama, and if one so chooses to give me any sort of gossip pertaining to potential or ongoing drama, I get my gossip, smirk, and then move on.

In some ways this is most fortunate. It means that I’ve spent a majority of my life only worrying about myself and really not giving a fuck about others. The bad part of this is that I’m always the last to figure shit out and am usually found walking around aimlessly. I’m often the last to discover that Jane is sleeping with Joe or that John just seriously fucked up. I have a friend that compares me to Massachusetts Avenue: At times moving somewhat quickly, but far more often than not, at a stand still where nothing. gets. through. I’ve been compared to the slowest fucking road on the planet and far from the information super highway that I need to be in order to succeed.

What can I say? It’s just that at times, I don’t care. Whatever drama that so happens to cross my path is usually brought on by my own carelessness and stupidity or that I’m mildly interested in why Beth is fighting with Sara because I enjoy being entertained. Period. Lately on my adventures in perusing the interwebosphere, I’ve read interesting things of various events that have transpired thus some caustic and somewhat vitriolic language used to describe one’s feelings about themselves or others. On the one hand, I’m scrunching my brow and thinking ‘What the fuck did I miss?’ and then I – at times – inquire. On the other hand, though it doesn’t involve me, should I also feel this way? Or really, should I care. Obviously if it has nothing to do with me, I shouldn’t, but still there’s a slight pang of wondering what the hell is going on.

I’m pretty sure that Peg spent much of my childhood wanting to beat me due to my incessant nosiness. Everything was for adults only: Little pitchers, big ears and all that bullshit. I suppose I can understand it now. Most things going on that have nothing to do with me so I should stay out. Furthermore, I just don’t deal well with the drama. And honestly the thought of dealing with more shit than I already have to deal with gives me hives. So that’s it. I shouldn’t get involved in other people’s shit because I’m too selfish and have my own crap to deal with. But damn, a girl does need the occasional nugget of gossip to keep things going, because entertainment at the expense of others is still good entertainment.

Cortland, Macintosh and Tweed

August 25, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it’s all right.” ~Maya Angelou

I’m homesick, ridiculously so at that. Another one of those rarities that tend to just sneak up on me and much like my current infatuation, it’s been eating at me and bumming me out. The last time I felt this way, I was standing on a street corner (in my best clear heels, no less) between Goya and Sol, crying to Peg that Cortes – motherfucking – Ingles didn’t sell shoes above a size 10 and what kind of motherfucking store, doesn’t sell shoes above a size 10. That pretty much sums up the conversation in which I was adamant about being brought back to a normal fucking place that has shoes above a size 10, a fine place called AMERICA. Of course I stuck it out, learned my lesson and was cliché as hell about leaving. But at the time, I was in pain and the task at hand seemed daunting. In hindsight I can say “Who was that girl? That girl who felt forced to be in a beautiful, wine friendly country? The hell?!”

I don’t feel nearly as strongly about it as I did then. I’m not across the Atlantic and technically, I could go up to Upstate New York this weekend if I really so desired to have my will to live sucked out of me, via the New Jersey Turnpike. It’s ridiculous how I feel so close to it now and please don’t believe the bull shit that I have always loved Albany, NY with every soul of my being. But it’s like that with most people and their respective hometowns. While living there, I wanted to kill myself every other day and what kind of God makes Winter last from the beginning of November to May? Of course the second I left, I was all ‘Upstate NY is the shit and winter rocks my world.’ Umm, yeah.

It’s just that it’s Fall. Fall means tweeds, apple picking (the title up there are my two favorite types of apples. You learn that sort of shit when you live in Upstate), Adirondack foliage, hot chocolate at football games, long underwear under a Halloween costume, Woodbury Commons sales, apple cider donuts, newness and that smell. The smell of fall gets me every time. It makes me weepy and longing for my mother’s house and hiking and the simplicity of things. And though it rarely happens, right now I’m aching for that, yearning for just a solid week at home.

Come November when it’s a balmy 67 degrees on Election Day and this winter when I don’t have to think about shoveling a damn thing, I’ll appreciate living here and knowing that I got exactly what I wanted, so really, can I complain? During my next venture home, I’ll be slapped with the painstaking reality that I can’t just go out and enjoy four glasses of wine and get home via my own two feet or a metro and that there’s not a damn thing to do while you’re there. But for now, until I can finally get home again, just allow me to miss it.

The one I’ve always wanted to write

August 24, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.” ~James Michener

It always drives me crazy when people write posts obviously stating a secret or exciting news of some sort and then say that they can’t discuss the excitement until later. These people seem to think that their lives depend on witholding this information or perhaps they are CIA agents? Perhaps they have a secret potion to transform my Bobbi Brown lipgloss into a solid so that I wouldn’t have to fear losing it with my luggage? Who knows? It’s just infuriating. Loathsome if you will.

But God, wouldn’t it be great if I had something that I wanted to share? Something that’s making me smile and go a little overboard with the Malbec. Yeah it would be. Maybe I do have such a thing, maybe I don’t. You’ll just have to stay tuned, sucka.

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And before y’all start to play guessing games, the object of my amuesement is aware of my existence but still thinks I’m pretty much nothing, hell, he probably hates me . And anyone who suggests pregnancy must be a big believer of immaculate conception.

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In the event that you don’t get enough of me already: Huzzah!

Sexual Cache ™

August 22, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” ~Sylvia Plath

A while back I used the term “Sexual Cache ™” when Sweet asked if I had anything to contribute to a story she was writing. Of course when the time came for me to put out, I came up short. I’m only reminded of it now because I’ve been stricken with the ennuiparapsychosis again and while the doctors do expect me to make a full recovery, right now it’s pretty bad. Therefore sex! Sex always makes people happy! Sex is exciting! Sex will make me less boring!

In fact many months ago, someone else mentioned that a lack of writing about Sex! makes for a boring blog. I commented that I never speak of Sex! and questioned whether or not that made me boring and insignificant. Thankfully the answer was no, though some might disagree. Since this email exchange I’ve often thought about whether or not it’s something I want to get into on here, given that I’m not anonymous and it’s a hell of a lot more entertaining to hear me discuss it in person. Especially when I exaggerate the word ‘labia’ and then shriek or whisper ‘blowjob’ to my dining companion at TenPenh, because we don’t speak that way at TenPenh.

Anyway reading this over now, maybe I’ll hold off on the sex talk, because a) It’s just not all that exciting and b) Telling the story that involves me exaggerating ‘labia’ for dramatic purposes, is so much more entertaining via the spoken word. So for now, you’re stuck with ennui induced writings and if you’re lucky you’ll get to read about the cat that Peg demanded we get and then she made him disappear. Like one day he was there and the next day he wasn’t and she had no explanation for it, other than “He’s gone.” As you can see, I’m still a little sensitive about the cat issue, but it’s either that or sex or ennui. Your choice.