On Monday, I was, as usual, in a rush to get out of the house so that I could make my train, which happens to be the latest possible train I can take and get to work at what one would deem "a reasonable hour." For me, lately, this is 10 a.m.
I threw on a pair of freshly washed and folded khaki pants (apparently I'm dressing down these days), slipped into some flip flops and hauled ass out the door.
We have two cars - Jim's Jeep Grand Cherokee that is on its last axle and my shiny new Nissan Versa SL. The "SL" is important because it enables me to retain some sense of dignity as I drive around in what your average car rental company would no doubt deem a "sub-compact economy" vehicle.
They have been named Dumpy and Zippy, respectively.
Well, Dumpy is so decrepid that it isn't trustworthy enough to make the daunting saga to New Jersey, which is where Jim's sucky job is located these days. So Jim drives Zippy to the bowels of America known as the Dirty Jerz, and I drive Dumpy for a grand total of 4 minutes to the train station.
The point is, I hop into Dumpy at 8:09, with only 7 minutes left until my train arrives, and I feel something on my thigh. In my pants. I assume it is a renegade dryer sheet, or perhaps a couple because I like my clothes extra soft and fresh. In any event, I can't just leave it there - it's like, bulging through my pant leg. So I reach into my pants (awkward!) and fish out not a dryer sheet, but a pair of wayward underwear.
The underwear were clean and clearly had just gotten trapped in the pants during the raucous drying cycle.
Now was the time for quick decision making. There was not enough time to run the underwear back into the house. I considered stuffing them into my bag, and then decided against it, because today would be the day that I tripped and fell and my underwear came flying out of my bag (note: this day has happened on many occasions), or the day that the NYPD decided the shifty girl clutching her bag to her chest should be selected for a random search in the subway.
I decided to leave them in Dumpy, shoving them behind the center console for the day. I then made a mental note to bring them into the house when I arrived home that evening.
Sadly, my mental notes leave my consciousness as quickly as they are posted these days.
This is why on Wednesday, I was again frantically flying out to Jim's car, running late again. He followed me out to grab (rescue?) a few items from Dumpy's clutches before I drove away and was digging around in the back seat.
"Adrienne, are these your underwear?"
(Cringe)
I tried to explain what they were doing there as succinctly as possible.
"Yeaaahhh. Caught in pants the other day. No time to run inside. Forgot." Pause. Then,
"Would you mind bringing them inside for me?"
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
The idea about the pizza neck pillow was a good one
So I'm not sure what's gotten in to me today, but rather than feeling angry and sullen as I typically do on a Monday, I'm feeling quite silly. Exhibit A, e-mail chain from 5 minutes ago:
Me: Maybe its a post-lunch sugar low talking, but when will the Girl Scout cookies be available for consumption?
Superior: No [sic] not for a few weeks.
Me: Okay, it's probably better to have a cooling-off period anyway.
I have asked a colleague to keep tabs on me in case I have a spaz attack of jocularity.
I saw Mike Birbiglia at his off-Broadway show, "Sleepwalk with Me" Saturday night, and I realized that (1) he is a comedic genius and (2) I sort of love him, except that I accidentally said that out loud on Facebook, and now he is my Facebook friend (pity-friending if ever there was one), so now he's maybe AWARE, and he's very possibly scared of me now.
After the show, I was telling Jim how much I was amazed by not just the things he says, but by his delivery, which is so much of the funny. And then I was all fired up, like, "I want to be a comedian, so people will laugh at and/or fall in love with me, too" which is really true, except that anyone will tell you that I'm not funny in person except when I've fallen down. And I was telling Jim how I want to write funny things in nonfiction book form, but I have some concerns. Like, it's funny to tell stories about your family and loved ones, because they're inevitably bizarre, and I have this fear that said loved ones would not appreciate the humor and would hate me forever and ever amen.
I would tell the story about how just a few short weeks ago, Jim was trying to install a new Pur water filtration knob on our sink because we're tired of recycling water bottles, what with all of the walking out to the recycling bin and the depositing of the bottles and whatnot. Except that he couldn't get the old piece off. He was cursing up a storm, red in the face, getting me involved by bracing my hand against the faucet thing while he wrenched it with a...wrench. Being from the Midwest, the best I can describe this so that normal people understand is that he was being very Long Island about it. Eventually he got so pissed that he stormed off to Home Depot to get some WD-40 because by God, we were going to have clean water. And it still didn't work, and that's when things really got ugly. And as a bonus, now our faucet was in pieces and spraying water in such a manner that we could have had a very competitive wet t-shirt contest on a daily basis.
The end of the story is that Jim had been trying to unscrew the piece by turning it the wrong way. He had been tightening it the entire time. You see, Jim never learned "righty tighty, lefty loosey" like me, and America. He learned something like, "piece of sh&#$^ballsI(@*#%mother*(*&%^q&@#$WHYTHEF*&%$*$*(&T#$^($#untilitleaksoutyourundercarriage."
The point is, I don't know if Jim would be pleased to know that I'm posting this seriously humiliating and demoralizing story that would make your average man cry. And I only have, at last count, maybe 2 readers to share in the shame. And I don't want to have to pre-clear everything, because that's not as fun, but I'm sensitive to these things, and I'd probably preface everything with, "Is it okay..." as in, "Is it okay if I include the part about the leakage?" But if I ask nicely, please say yes.
Me: Maybe its a post-lunch sugar low talking, but when will the Girl Scout cookies be available for consumption?
Superior: No [sic] not for a few weeks.
Me: Okay, it's probably better to have a cooling-off period anyway.
I have asked a colleague to keep tabs on me in case I have a spaz attack of jocularity.
I saw Mike Birbiglia at his off-Broadway show, "Sleepwalk with Me" Saturday night, and I realized that (1) he is a comedic genius and (2) I sort of love him, except that I accidentally said that out loud on Facebook, and now he is my Facebook friend (pity-friending if ever there was one), so now he's maybe AWARE, and he's very possibly scared of me now.
After the show, I was telling Jim how much I was amazed by not just the things he says, but by his delivery, which is so much of the funny. And then I was all fired up, like, "I want to be a comedian, so people will laugh at and/or fall in love with me, too" which is really true, except that anyone will tell you that I'm not funny in person except when I've fallen down. And I was telling Jim how I want to write funny things in nonfiction book form, but I have some concerns. Like, it's funny to tell stories about your family and loved ones, because they're inevitably bizarre, and I have this fear that said loved ones would not appreciate the humor and would hate me forever and ever amen.
I would tell the story about how just a few short weeks ago, Jim was trying to install a new Pur water filtration knob on our sink because we're tired of recycling water bottles, what with all of the walking out to the recycling bin and the depositing of the bottles and whatnot. Except that he couldn't get the old piece off. He was cursing up a storm, red in the face, getting me involved by bracing my hand against the faucet thing while he wrenched it with a...wrench. Being from the Midwest, the best I can describe this so that normal people understand is that he was being very Long Island about it. Eventually he got so pissed that he stormed off to Home Depot to get some WD-40 because by God, we were going to have clean water. And it still didn't work, and that's when things really got ugly. And as a bonus, now our faucet was in pieces and spraying water in such a manner that we could have had a very competitive wet t-shirt contest on a daily basis.
The end of the story is that Jim had been trying to unscrew the piece by turning it the wrong way. He had been tightening it the entire time. You see, Jim never learned "righty tighty, lefty loosey" like me, and America. He learned something like, "piece of sh&#$^ballsI(@*#%mother*(*&%^q&@#$WHYTHEF*&%$*$*(&T#$^($#untilitleaksoutyourundercarriage."
The point is, I don't know if Jim would be pleased to know that I'm posting this seriously humiliating and demoralizing story that would make your average man cry. And I only have, at last count, maybe 2 readers to share in the shame. And I don't want to have to pre-clear everything, because that's not as fun, but I'm sensitive to these things, and I'd probably preface everything with, "Is it okay..." as in, "Is it okay if I include the part about the leakage?" But if I ask nicely, please say yes.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Train Ride to Disturbia
Oh dear God. I've found my "thing."
I've figured out that most everyone has a "thing," as in "it's my thing." With my friend Sean, it was feet. With my friend Kristin, it was wrists. Something that just totally skeeves you out to the point where you are overcome by the shakes and you will do almost anything to get away from it.
My thing, I figured out not too long ago, is touching knees with strangers. This was discovered in one fateful LIRR ride when I found myself seated opposite a very large male whom I did not know in a face-each-other-four-seater.*
*On re-reading this sentence, I've decided that perhaps I should have started with, "Dear Penthouse..." Alas, it is not that kind of story.
Anyway, there's this very awkward "where do my knees go" thing that happens. Unless you are seated across from a Chinese gymnast - this hardly ever happens, and also, see Penthouse letter - then either (1) your knees both go in-between his knees, (2) you spread 'em, classystyle, and his go in-between, or (3) there's an interlocking your-knee-my-knee-your-knee-my-knee thing. This last one, IMHO, is the most uncomfortable.
Because of the reasons elaborated above, I generally refuse to sit in the face-each-other seats.
Jim prefers them, because he uses his laptop on the train. There is no room for this in the regular seats.
So on nights when Jim and I ride the train home together, he tries to get this one face-each-other-five-seater and he lets me pick my seat, which I literally process in a statistical, methodical manner so that I pick the seat that is least likely to encite a person to sit across from me, or so that if necessary, Jim could scoot over and share knees with me. If we get on the train, and someone is in our multi-seater to begin with, I will go sit somewhere else - or even stand - while Jim sits there. That's how much I hate other people's knees.
Well tonight, someone sat right across from me. Fears, meet Realized. He was a very large-statured douche, who put his dong in my face while he put his bag on the overhead rack, and then sat down and spread em'. So I spent the entire ride with my knees pressed together and up on my toes because his feet and knees were EVERYWHERE. I kept looking at Jim, who was sitting next to me, mumbling, "Oh my God, oh my God" under my breath.
Oh but then.
He takes out his cell phone, and - SERIOUSLY - places it between his legs. Not on his lap or on his leg. UNDER HIS BALLS. Between his fat thighs. But really UNDER HIS BALLS. The balls were flopped over the phone.
OH MY GOD.
And then he fell asleep.
And all I could do was wait. Wait for the ringing, which would be followed by him being startled, and grinning, and then more knee touching.
SKEEVEY!
I've figured out that most everyone has a "thing," as in "it's my thing." With my friend Sean, it was feet. With my friend Kristin, it was wrists. Something that just totally skeeves you out to the point where you are overcome by the shakes and you will do almost anything to get away from it.
My thing, I figured out not too long ago, is touching knees with strangers. This was discovered in one fateful LIRR ride when I found myself seated opposite a very large male whom I did not know in a face-each-other-four-seater.*
*On re-reading this sentence, I've decided that perhaps I should have started with, "Dear Penthouse..." Alas, it is not that kind of story.
Anyway, there's this very awkward "where do my knees go" thing that happens. Unless you are seated across from a Chinese gymnast - this hardly ever happens, and also, see Penthouse letter - then either (1) your knees both go in-between his knees, (2) you spread 'em, classystyle, and his go in-between, or (3) there's an interlocking your-knee-my-knee-your-knee-my-knee thing. This last one, IMHO, is the most uncomfortable.
Because of the reasons elaborated above, I generally refuse to sit in the face-each-other seats.
Jim prefers them, because he uses his laptop on the train. There is no room for this in the regular seats.
So on nights when Jim and I ride the train home together, he tries to get this one face-each-other-five-seater and he lets me pick my seat, which I literally process in a statistical, methodical manner so that I pick the seat that is least likely to encite a person to sit across from me, or so that if necessary, Jim could scoot over and share knees with me. If we get on the train, and someone is in our multi-seater to begin with, I will go sit somewhere else - or even stand - while Jim sits there. That's how much I hate other people's knees.
Well tonight, someone sat right across from me. Fears, meet Realized. He was a very large-statured douche, who put his dong in my face while he put his bag on the overhead rack, and then sat down and spread em'. So I spent the entire ride with my knees pressed together and up on my toes because his feet and knees were EVERYWHERE. I kept looking at Jim, who was sitting next to me, mumbling, "Oh my God, oh my God" under my breath.
Oh but then.
He takes out his cell phone, and - SERIOUSLY - places it between his legs. Not on his lap or on his leg. UNDER HIS BALLS. Between his fat thighs. But really UNDER HIS BALLS. The balls were flopped over the phone.
OH MY GOD.
And then he fell asleep.
And all I could do was wait. Wait for the ringing, which would be followed by him being startled, and grinning, and then more knee touching.
SKEEVEY!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Please stand by, Kate and Leo
I finished "Revolutionary Road" by Richard Yates this morning. Yes, the one that's now a movie. No, I have not yet seen the movie.
It was a somehow both coolly elegant and profoundly devastating. I recommend it wholeheartedly.
It was a somehow both coolly elegant and profoundly devastating. I recommend it wholeheartedly.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Jobby Jobs
I truly believe that I may have too much going on, electronic-social-networking-wise, to keep up with any of it. I forgot about this blog for a solid week. Luckily I'm the only one who reads it, so the disappointment lies solely with me.
I was thinking the other day about past employment, things I used to do to make a buck so I could buy men's jeans and pad thai and whatever else I used to be into. The list wound up sort of interesting. From first job to most recent:
1. Office clerk, Mr. Lincoln's Campground, Springfield, IL. Besides checking people into campsites, I also sold them RV toilet parts, drove around in a golf cart and filled propane tanks.
2. Retail slave, The Limited Too, Springfield, IL. I sold $40 toddler-sized suede bib overalls and mastered the folding board.
3. Retail slave, The Gap, Springfield, IL. Transferred my skills to adult-sized clothing.
4. "Summer helper," IL Dept. of Natural Resources, Springfield, IL. I did this for several summers during college. Answered the phone, did some data entry, but mainly amused my co-workers and went out to lunch at northside pubs.
5. Server, Damon's - The Place for Ribs, Springfield, IL. The barbeque sauce smell has only recently been purged from underneath my fingernails. I was not good at this job.
6. Lab Assistant, Biology Dept., UIUC. I transported bags of fly larvae, cockroaches and more complex dead animals from one campus building to another and set them up for students to stab. I inhaled a lot of formaldehyde. I proctored exams and got in fights with my boss, Carla, who was evil. I also fed the myriad salt and freshwater animals in the lab, including a spastic pirahna named Petey, and cleaned their tanks when it was necessary.
7. Student Manager, Catering and Intermezzo Cafe at Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, UIUC. I served a lot of disappointing microwaved dinners to patrons of the arts and intentionally botched the slicing of many multi-layer cakes so that they could be consumed by my co-workers and me in the kitchen. I also bartended at intermission and for private after-show events and managed catering events as well. I gave a glass of champagne to Leslie Nielsen and worked with some really great people. We created a lot of new and tasty sandwiches and cocktails in a collaborative effort.
8. Law Clerk, K&M - Chicago. Ah, the first career-relevant job. I mastered the art of filing discovery documents and motions in the Cook County courts, breezed past receptionists to judges' chambers and once shuttled multiple boxes of something via a hand truck across the Loop. I also once hand-delivered a $12 million dollar check.
9. Office Assistant, JMLS Career Services. I answered the phone a few times. No one came by at night, because the night students already had jobs.
So yeah, fun, right? And now, after all that, I am gainfully employed as a Professional, or so I am told.
I was thinking the other day about past employment, things I used to do to make a buck so I could buy men's jeans and pad thai and whatever else I used to be into. The list wound up sort of interesting. From first job to most recent:
1. Office clerk, Mr. Lincoln's Campground, Springfield, IL. Besides checking people into campsites, I also sold them RV toilet parts, drove around in a golf cart and filled propane tanks.
2. Retail slave, The Limited Too, Springfield, IL. I sold $40 toddler-sized suede bib overalls and mastered the folding board.
3. Retail slave, The Gap, Springfield, IL. Transferred my skills to adult-sized clothing.
4. "Summer helper," IL Dept. of Natural Resources, Springfield, IL. I did this for several summers during college. Answered the phone, did some data entry, but mainly amused my co-workers and went out to lunch at northside pubs.
5. Server, Damon's - The Place for Ribs, Springfield, IL. The barbeque sauce smell has only recently been purged from underneath my fingernails. I was not good at this job.
6. Lab Assistant, Biology Dept., UIUC. I transported bags of fly larvae, cockroaches and more complex dead animals from one campus building to another and set them up for students to stab. I inhaled a lot of formaldehyde. I proctored exams and got in fights with my boss, Carla, who was evil. I also fed the myriad salt and freshwater animals in the lab, including a spastic pirahna named Petey, and cleaned their tanks when it was necessary.
7. Student Manager, Catering and Intermezzo Cafe at Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, UIUC. I served a lot of disappointing microwaved dinners to patrons of the arts and intentionally botched the slicing of many multi-layer cakes so that they could be consumed by my co-workers and me in the kitchen. I also bartended at intermission and for private after-show events and managed catering events as well. I gave a glass of champagne to Leslie Nielsen and worked with some really great people. We created a lot of new and tasty sandwiches and cocktails in a collaborative effort.
8. Law Clerk, K&M - Chicago. Ah, the first career-relevant job. I mastered the art of filing discovery documents and motions in the Cook County courts, breezed past receptionists to judges' chambers and once shuttled multiple boxes of something via a hand truck across the Loop. I also once hand-delivered a $12 million dollar check.
9. Office Assistant, JMLS Career Services. I answered the phone a few times. No one came by at night, because the night students already had jobs.
So yeah, fun, right? And now, after all that, I am gainfully employed as a Professional, or so I am told.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Man
This morning, I boarded the 7 train at Times Square and sat down. I then proceeded to watch two cops give two different people tickets for passing through the inside car doors to the next car. This is apparently malum prohibitum. Note that the train was not moving. It typically sits at Times Square for several minutes because it's the first stop on the line.
Normally I'm all about the NYPD enforcing "quality of life"-type laws, but do these cops really have nothing better to do than give a ticket to a person passing safely between two cars of a stationary train?
Normally I'm all about the NYPD enforcing "quality of life"-type laws, but do these cops really have nothing better to do than give a ticket to a person passing safely between two cars of a stationary train?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Because I am awesome
I fell - hard - in the snow on my left hip/backside region about half an hour ago while walking downhill, carrying a box of Christmas decorations to our cellar.
The fact that I fell is not surprising. The fact that it didn't happen sooner is.
But nothing broke in the box.
Nothing broke on Kitch.
Just a very large imprint to remind me that I should not have skipped the gym today.
The fact that I fell is not surprising. The fact that it didn't happen sooner is.
But nothing broke in the box.
Nothing broke on Kitch.
Just a very large imprint to remind me that I should not have skipped the gym today.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Satisfaction
I was chatting with my sister the other day, which is among my favorite activities. She was very sweet in telling me that she is super proud of my weight loss and keeping-it-off efforts over the past 16 months or so. 53 pounds is admittedly a lot of weight to lose, and while I have more to go, I'm fairly happy with the way things are progressing in this regard. Anyway, my sister also told me that it was impressive because I hadn't just dieted, it was, like, a "lifestyle change."
Hmmm.
Is this true? I guess it has to be, right? I'm following Weight Watchers, which has been great, if for no other reason than because it makes you so aware of what you're actually eating. In sticking to the plan, more or less, I've had to make decisions and exert a little willpower and in the meantime, I'm eating foods that not only have fewer calories but are also good for me. And I'm exercising more, which makes me want to exercise more, which is also good for me.
This would all be much easier, of course, if I could reprogram my brain and taste buds to truly, truly enjoy ridiculously healthy foods. I wish that I could walk into a restaurant and actually prefer to order the mesculun greens with grilled chicken over the veal rollatini with proscuitto and extra cheese. Or that a simple fruit parfait would be preferable to a large cannolli or piece of pecan pie.
These people allegedly exist. They claim to abhor the sugary goodness of a fountain Coca-cola because "it's too sweet." They claim to adore the taste of raw carrot sticks such that the thought of a saltier or more fatty snack just doesn't appeal. They have no reason to order anything with butter, mayonnaise or cheese because they just don't like those foods anymore.
I will never be one of them. Yes, I enjoy fresh produce and simply prepared meals. But I also enjoy decadent foods and desserts.
I will never walk into a Dunkin Donuts and not want to order a glazed donut or a coffee cake muffin. I will always prefer fried chicken to grilled. I will always prefer a regular Coke to a Diet Coke. And to me there is nothing better to wash most anything down with than a tall glass of ice cold whole milk.
And I'm okay with that. Because every once in awhile, it's like a super-duper treat. Not eating those things on a regular basis and feeling better about myself (and better in general) is preferable to eating them all the time and being a big fat catastrophe.
Hmmm.
Is this true? I guess it has to be, right? I'm following Weight Watchers, which has been great, if for no other reason than because it makes you so aware of what you're actually eating. In sticking to the plan, more or less, I've had to make decisions and exert a little willpower and in the meantime, I'm eating foods that not only have fewer calories but are also good for me. And I'm exercising more, which makes me want to exercise more, which is also good for me.
This would all be much easier, of course, if I could reprogram my brain and taste buds to truly, truly enjoy ridiculously healthy foods. I wish that I could walk into a restaurant and actually prefer to order the mesculun greens with grilled chicken over the veal rollatini with proscuitto and extra cheese. Or that a simple fruit parfait would be preferable to a large cannolli or piece of pecan pie.
These people allegedly exist. They claim to abhor the sugary goodness of a fountain Coca-cola because "it's too sweet." They claim to adore the taste of raw carrot sticks such that the thought of a saltier or more fatty snack just doesn't appeal. They have no reason to order anything with butter, mayonnaise or cheese because they just don't like those foods anymore.
I will never be one of them. Yes, I enjoy fresh produce and simply prepared meals. But I also enjoy decadent foods and desserts.
I will never walk into a Dunkin Donuts and not want to order a glazed donut or a coffee cake muffin. I will always prefer fried chicken to grilled. I will always prefer a regular Coke to a Diet Coke. And to me there is nothing better to wash most anything down with than a tall glass of ice cold whole milk.
And I'm okay with that. Because every once in awhile, it's like a super-duper treat. Not eating those things on a regular basis and feeling better about myself (and better in general) is preferable to eating them all the time and being a big fat catastrophe.
Is that sarcasm I detect?
I would LOVE to work this weekend, and Monday too, especially since I've spent just shy of 4 hours a day this entire week commuting to and fro so that I can sit around with nothing to do.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Enough
To those New Yorkers who insist upon whining about the (admittedly) frigid temps outside, please shut up, unless you were actually in the Hudson River this afternoon.
Talk about a miracle. That pilot is like, a superhero.
Talk about a miracle. That pilot is like, a superhero.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Novel Theory
Listen up, imaginary female readers.
I have a theory that if a boy spits (as in, for no reason, on the street) with your knowledge and within reasonable proximity to you, he's not interested in you romantically.
So.
I am watching Rachel Maddow, with whom I do not always agree but respect for her smart wit and simple, conversational tone. She seems like a genuinely reluctant celebrity who just wants to engage her friends and any randoms that might happen by in a practical and passionate political discussion.
I have on one of my more random post-work-sloth ensembles tonight, namely a XXL navy blue Illinois long-sleeved t-shirt, a grey ESPN logo pullover, brown pajama pants that have pink stars all over them, the black dress socks I wore for my commute today and my sock monkey slippers.
It is 9:45 p.m., and I am torn. I have been home from work for all of an hour, which was basically spent de-frocking and emerging as a sloth, washing my face and eating a bowl of blueberry Special K for dinner. I so want to slump down ever so slightly on the couch, pull up my red blanket and gently fall asleep within about 4 minutes. But that gets ugly when Jim wakes me up at 1:45 a.m. to get me to go bed, and I am some evil version of myself so I yell at him, because at 1:45 a.m all tones are hostile and all statements are accusations. So I really should get my ass up and just go to the comfort of my bed. But I'm just so warm and slovenly here.
I have a theory that if a boy spits (as in, for no reason, on the street) with your knowledge and within reasonable proximity to you, he's not interested in you romantically.
So.
I am watching Rachel Maddow, with whom I do not always agree but respect for her smart wit and simple, conversational tone. She seems like a genuinely reluctant celebrity who just wants to engage her friends and any randoms that might happen by in a practical and passionate political discussion.
I have on one of my more random post-work-sloth ensembles tonight, namely a XXL navy blue Illinois long-sleeved t-shirt, a grey ESPN logo pullover, brown pajama pants that have pink stars all over them, the black dress socks I wore for my commute today and my sock monkey slippers.
It is 9:45 p.m., and I am torn. I have been home from work for all of an hour, which was basically spent de-frocking and emerging as a sloth, washing my face and eating a bowl of blueberry Special K for dinner. I so want to slump down ever so slightly on the couch, pull up my red blanket and gently fall asleep within about 4 minutes. But that gets ugly when Jim wakes me up at 1:45 a.m. to get me to go bed, and I am some evil version of myself so I yell at him, because at 1:45 a.m all tones are hostile and all statements are accusations. So I really should get my ass up and just go to the comfort of my bed. But I'm just so warm and slovenly here.
Aged
I was trying to guess people's ages on the 7 train this morning. Luckily for everyone involved, this is a game I play silently, in my head. But it reminded me of a fascinating conversation I had with Jim's uncle on Christmas Day.
Jim's uncle is telling me that he recently came across a picture of Jim and me from probably 5 years ago and saying that he "couldn't believe it." So I play along, as I am wont to do, and I say something like, "Why, did I look exactly the same as I do now?" And then he looks at me sideways and exclaims, with gusto, "No! You looked so much younger! I didn't even recognize you! I had to ask (Jim's aunt) who was in the picture with Jimmy!"
Ouch.
So it seems I have aged, in a mere 5 years, to the point that I am unrecognizable.
I can't wait until I see him next. He'll probably ask me when the baby is due.
Jim's uncle is telling me that he recently came across a picture of Jim and me from probably 5 years ago and saying that he "couldn't believe it." So I play along, as I am wont to do, and I say something like, "Why, did I look exactly the same as I do now?" And then he looks at me sideways and exclaims, with gusto, "No! You looked so much younger! I didn't even recognize you! I had to ask (Jim's aunt) who was in the picture with Jimmy!"
Ouch.
So it seems I have aged, in a mere 5 years, to the point that I am unrecognizable.
I can't wait until I see him next. He'll probably ask me when the baby is due.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I love this Kate Spade bag
Monday, January 12, 2009
On Having Very Little to Do
Things are distressingly slow at work. There's only so much political and celebrity gossip one can read in a day, only so many times I can check my favorite sites for updates and (!) comments. I've reviewed all of the red carpet looks from the Golden Globes, and all I have to say is that I have a girl crush on Kate Winslet and that Marisa Tomei made me sad. They say that only boring people get bored, so I guess I qualify. Feeling much better after 5-day sinus attack, though. Just a little sniffle here and there.
Resolutions (TBC) -
(1) Write more.
(2) Bitch less.
(3) Cook more.
(4) Eat less (or at least the same) so I can lose remaining ~ 20 lbs.
(5) Keep the house a bit more tidy.
(6) Do something very un-Kitch-like.
(7) Sleep in longer stretches.
Short-term resolution: Resist dark chocolate-covered almonds in the Beaver. Walk to Penn Station tonight at a good clip. I miss exercise, stupid sinuses. Then I'm all over Gossip Girl and The City.
Resolutions (TBC) -
(1) Write more.
(2) Bitch less.
(3) Cook more.
(4) Eat less (or at least the same) so I can lose remaining ~ 20 lbs.
(5) Keep the house a bit more tidy.
(6) Do something very un-Kitch-like.
(7) Sleep in longer stretches.
Short-term resolution: Resist dark chocolate-covered almonds in the Beaver. Walk to Penn Station tonight at a good clip. I miss exercise, stupid sinuses. Then I'm all over Gossip Girl and The City.
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