Archive for May, 2007

I totally live in upstate NY

May 31, 2007 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, This side of the Hudson

“Suburb:  a place that isn’t city, isn’t country, and isn’t tolerable.” ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic’s Notebook, 1966

1)    Yesterday on the radio:
Female Announcer: “The question is: If there was one celebrity you had to get rid of, who would it be and why?”

Random Male: “I’d get rid of Justin Timberlake”

Female Announcer: “You’d get rid of my future husband?? WHY??”

Random Male; “I don’t know. He seems a little gay”

That’s some great reasoning and logic there. This young man will do really well on the LSAT.

2)    I needed sour cream for a dip and had already changed into my pajamas: shorts and a Kerry Edwards t-shirt. Instead of putting on actual clothing like anything but shorts that went up my ass crack and a t-shirt that screams “WE LOST AND I OBVIOUSLY CANNOT GET OVER IT”, I decided instead to put on a really long sweater that went past the shorts a tad. So it pretty much looked like I was wearing no pants and just a sweater, I can’t recall if I even had a bra on. Either way, while I’m walking around Price Chopper looking practically pants-less, no one batted and eyelash at me. It’s like it’s normal here. I swear tomorrow I’m going to go grocery shopping in a belly baring halter top and silver eye shadow and again, NO ONE WILL CARE.

3)    Again, on the radio:

Announcer: “When you think of Beyonce, you think of body. This new song is called Get Me Bodied and it’s an exclusive”

What the fuck? Get Me Bodied is NEW and an EXCLUSIVE? Tomorrow they’re going to debut a little song called SexyBack by some new artist called Justin Timberlake. Oh wait, he might not be around anymore because “he seems a little gay.”

Other than that though, things are swell. Thank god for the outlet shopping and that Southwest flies to for just $39. Oh and we’re getting a Sephora sometime in the fall. I’m thinking really happy thoughts until then.

Sizeable issues

May 28, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island, Humdrum

“Self-respect is the root of discipline: The sense of dignity grows with the ability to say no to oneself.” ~Abraham Joshua Heschel

Yesterday afternoon I went into The Black Dog to pick something out for Noah. Now a) Having a Noah, is like having a niece or nephew or grandchild or something: I get to buy him all the ‘aballs’ and old man pajamas and things I just deem cute and play with him, all without any of the heavy lifting. And b) The Black Dog is one of the most overpriced places ever to grace God’s green earth. So if one doesn’t mind paying $27 for a t-shirt with a black lab on the front, then I say go for it. I swear that the cotton used for some of that must have tiny flecks of gold, especially after watching a woman shell out $150 for two sweatshirts and a bumper sticker.

While perusing the shelves, I noted that the children’s sizes were considerably cheaper than the adult sizes. Upon further inspection, I picked out a youth size large and hold it up to my chest and note that ‘Hey! This expensive piece of cotton that must be fresh from the gin, actually might fit me.’ And lo’ it did fit in a way that doesn’t show off a muffin top or compress my two boobs into a uniboob. I was pleased. Not only because I wear a youth size large, as I already do some shopping in the junior’s section, but also because I pulled the proverbial wool over the eyes of the Black Dog establishment and saved myself a whopping $4.50; which I then used to purchase my third clam plate. The latter was to celebrate that I could eat three clam plates in 72 hours and still fit into child size clothing.

I’m not exactly what one would call fat or obese, unless this was the seventh grade again, and then I’d be called far worse. But I’m not exactly a size 2 or a size 8 for that matter. As far as I’m concerned, I can easily run a 5K and slip into a dress from Anthropologie or Forever 21, so really, why worry? Especially since the Great Ephedra Disaster of 2005, I’m perfectly content in eating and working out and keeping the two at some sort of equilibrium so that I don’t feel like I might be in desperate need of stomach stapling each and every time I have a filet o fish.

My rationality on this subject only comes after near tears last week in the Target dressing room when a dress fit perfectly everywhere besides my boobs. Suffice it to say that the next size up made it look like I painted a burlap sack with pink stripes and added pockets to jazz the number up a bit. When I mentioned this to El Madre, she gave me that skeptical ‘uh, no you’re just fat with broad shoulders look.’ But really I am built like a linebacker – it’s really hot. Today at Banana Republic, while trying on a blazer, she finally believed that no, my boobs are just huge by remarking, loudly, “Wow, you’re boobs are huge.” Precious, I know.

That said and even with any respite logic, I still am harboring some sort of dislike towards myself. Even though I can shop with ease, I still feel like I could look better. For every item of clothing I purchase in a junior’s size, thus ‘cheating’ the man out of $10, there is a blazer or shirt that leaves a lovely gape between the 2nd and 3rd button. Or a slight pull at the shoulders when I lift my arms. Either way, I’m going to be pragmatic and say that something’s got to give, and for once it’s not my waistband. For even though I am perfectly content, I still feel like I could be and would like to be better.

With interest

May 24, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“Youth is a perpetual intoxication; it is a fever of the mind.” ~François Duc de la Rochefoucauld

When I was about 12 or 13, I ‘worked’ as a CIT at a day camp, primarily with a group of younger children aged five and under. During the evenings though, while waiting for parents, to arrive, we’d all sit on the playground. Hot and sweaty and drained from being in the sun all day long. One evening I was standing aside a play structure when one of the kids – a boy, about six who was small for his age, thus garnering attention from every adult within 10 miles, who of course excused much of his behavior – looked at me and the counselor standing with us and in all seriousness asked “Why is she so dark?”

He asked it to the counselor as if I wasn’t standing there and for the life of me, her answer hasn’t been retained as well as that initial wave of shock that came over me. Like being punched in the gut but by someone you couldn’t punch back. He was a child and she answered as best as possible something about how some people look different than others. And I was too busy standing there like an idiot with a buzz in my ears and unsure of what to say.

I wasn’t 23. I was 13. I couldn’t come up with a comprehensible explanation for a six year old because I was too busy being horrifically offended and young enough to still have been spared from people saying far worse. Young enough to not know the difference between general interest from a child as to the color of one’s skin and a crude adult. So instead of being able to answer with use of the word ‘melanin’ and ‘the only thing I could do was to feel hurt and frankly stupid. But worst of all incredibly different. Which at 13, as a female, there’s enough going on what with sudden growth of these things on your upper body and hair and what the fuck one does with a pink thing with sharp blades and well the advent of ‘Aunt Flo’; there’s just enough. There’s no need to say P.S. you’re black and you people notice. EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Children say things and notice particular things as they get older, which is unexpected. I’ve aged 10 whole years and yet there’s still a part of me that flinches when a child I’m babysitting, under the age of 10 says “I have a question.” It’s like the 13 year old inside of me thinks that the question will inevitably be the one thing that I don’t want to have to answer. Even though usually the question seems to be “How much hummus and cookies do you think I can eat before I throw up?” And that, my friends, is far easier to answer.

(inspired by this) 

I still maintain that it wasn’t my fault

May 22, 2007 | Filed under: La Madre, Oh The Stupidity You'll See

“The Act of God designation on all insurance policies… means roughly that you cannot be insured for the accidents that are most likely to happen to you.  If your ox kicks a hole in your neighbor’s Maserati, however, indemnity is instantaneous.”  ~Alan Coren, The Lady from Stalingrad Mansions

Last Wednesday, I was in a ‘minor’ fender bender. I place minor in quotes only because that’s if ‘minor’ means that big gaping hole where my right headlight once was. It’s still there, technically, but just a little off kilter. If by ‘off kilter’ I mean that it’s roughly six inches below where it used to be.

The normal reaction would be to question whether or not if I was missing an arm or any toes or whether or not my head was in the backseat after feeling the impact of a Murano vs. Sable. My mother, the wonderful woman that she is. She who is allowing me to live in her home even though I can probably afford to live alone and without her purchasing my groceries each week; responded differently. It was more of a shrieking noise and something about insurance and generally inaudible din. And then she asked whether or not I was still alive or if my shoulder was still properly in its socket.

How is it that mother’s, those who bore us and who nursed us along through life, manage to question the state of the vehicle or insurance premiums before wondering whether or not their child’s eyeball is still intact?

This is something that has always been and will always remain a mystery to me.

A minor case of homesickness

May 20, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” ~Charles Dickens

Before offering to pass me a joint, Neil asked how Upstate is treating me. It’s treating me like it’s red headed bastard stepchild who stole the neighbor’s 16-year-old son’s virginity after filling him up with Magic Hat and shots of vodka. I’ve already been in a car accident and from what I understand there are points involved and an increase in insurance and this must be the result of sleeping with the above 16 year old.

And with that, I made an impromptu meeting/overnight trip to DC - at my old office building which probably doesn’t help with the whole separation thing. During which I did my most favorite activity: randomly ringing people’s doorbells and just showing up; which is just something that I do. Only to be showered with hugs and baby kisses and wine and possibly singing selections from Rent. And perhaps a vodka tonic or two.

And it was all so, so good.

But since then – yesterday – I keep waking up and forgetting where I am and where I’m supposed to be. Though there’s something to be said for having two residences and two beds of my very own. I woke up from a nap this afternoon and briefly contemplated getting up to finish packing because I had to have a flight or something to catch to somewhere because I don’t actually LIVE here. But I do live here. In a small town where there are Targets everywhere but no Sephora and with my mother. But where things are significantly cheaper and when the washing machine starts dumping water all over the place, my father can be right over.

Yet it still doesn’t feel like home.