1. My decision to start getting my jeans professionally altered has changed my life. This is not an exaggeration. I did it for the first time last fall, and I now I don't know how I ever lived before such things. I am a fairly short person at 5 feet 4. But the kicker is my incredibly, comically short legs. I am a Corgi in human form, just short, squat little stumps that support the rest of my body. If I could change one thing about myself it would be my legs. Oh what I would give to have someone, once, describe my long, luxurious limbs. This will never happen unless they invent some kind of non-invasive leg altering procedure, like the Botox of leg lengthening. I'm guessing that won't happen in my lifetime. And that's okay. But one of the things my comically short legs have necessitated is that I get my pants altered.
I tried to deny this for most of my life. Those pants that went a good 5 inches past the bottom of my feet were fine! I would just only wear them with heels, 7 inch heels. I don't know how many pants I bought contingent on me a) owning and b) being able to walk in sky high stilettos. This was not smart. But I was young and foolish. When the whole Gap cargo pants thing was in, it was almost like I was following a trend-the casual: care-free, ill-fitting trend that I made up in my own imagination.
I had jeans after jeans that were too long but which I never got altered. I wore them, because I was excited about my cool new Abercrombie jeans, which would never quite lose the scent of over-powering cologne and bitchiness. Who had time for such things as hemming? I needed to show those babies off at the MALL. I couldn't waste time getting my pants to actually fit me when there were Wet Seal trips to be made!
So as a result for years, I wore jeans that, at their bottom cuff, looked as though I had fed them through a paper shredder, then run over them with my car, then let them be tramped by a herd of wildebeests. I used to have to take scissors to my jeans every few weeks to cut off particularly long strands that had come apart. But still, I wore them. Oh for so long did I wear them.
But then on a crazy whim I took a pair of jeans to be altered. And when I picked them up, they were, well they were beautiful. It was like they had been made for me, because in a way they had. My tailor is sort of my hero now. She just nails it. No matter how intricate or distinct the seam is on the end of a pair of jeans, she exactly replicates it. It's like she's magic and has just figured out a way to shorten pants without ever having to cut into them. Maybe she is. Maybe I have found myself a magic tailor. That would be nice.
2) I am dying. Okay, fine that's a slight exaggeration. But that cold I talked about earlier. Well it's actually a nasty virus that is a distant cousin of the flu. And like the flu, this virus NEVER GOES AWAY. I remember when I got swine flu thinking that I would be sick forever. This was just my new state of being and I better get used to feeling like death all the time. And of course one day I felt better and suddenly the heavens opened up and angels sang and puppies danced and rainbows sprouted out of bags of skittles (isn't that how it goes?). Because normal, like the kind of normal I feel almost every day of my life and which I take for granted, feels like super-human strength after you've been sick for long enough.
And please let that day come soon. This semester is almost over. I was merrily on my way, could see the light at the end of the tunnel, felt so confident that the rest would be a breeze. And then that light was obscured by a giant train which ran over me multiple times. Now I am crawling my way toward the end. I am having to focus extremely hard on only thinking of one task at a time. Because if I let myself begin to think about the avalanche of work in front of me over the next 9 days, I will weep. I will weep and then I will start on yet another coughing fit that makes all of the veins in my hand bulge out so that I look like I'm 100.
So for tonight I'm not thinking of the 6 exams, 2 projects, one paper, and magazine section I have to somehow complete in a little more than a week.
I am simply crawling forward, repeating the mantra, "May 6th it will all be over", again and again like a crazy person.
But at least I have jeans that fit!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The best thing I've maybe ever seen.
Jersey Shore transcripts, in the style of Oscar Wilde. Just, watch.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Cold robots.
Lately I've taken to bragging about the fact that I never get sick. I was convinced that thanks to my new devotion to exercise and my generally healthy eating, I was an impenetrable wall to viruses.
Of course as soon as you start bragging about never getting sick, you...get sick. Right now I have a cold virus that has lodged itself at the bottom of my throat since Thursday. It's stolen my voice, my ability to swallow without pain, and my gym visits (and man has that made me CRANKY, I hadn't realize just how much I rely on exercise for stress relief until the ability to work out was taken away from me).
But here's the thing. Thanks to my newfangled science book learnin' (that's shorthand for a Bachelor of Science), when I get something as trivial as a common cold virus, I now know in detail what that virus looks like and how it operates.
This is not good for someone with a slightly oversize imagination.
I am currently picturing my throat and chest as the battleground for a robot invasion. Viruses are totally the robots of the human anatomy world. They're non-living, and yet they are incredibly intelligent and capable. To grossly over-simplify and probably mess up a few key facts, a virus pretty much moon-lands on your healthy cells, burrows its way inside of them, and then takes over the cell's own machinery-directing your brave, beautiful human cell to now make things like evil proteins for its own evil uses.
So right now there is an evil army of cold virus robots setting up a colony in my throat. They have in fact won the Battle of the Throat, defeating my usually stellar immune system, and have now set up vast encampments. There's even a mess hall and movie theater for the troops. That's how sure my cold robots are that they are not going anywhere anytime soon. They have sent out scouts to test out the front lines.
But, I am confident in my immune army. Because they are not non-living robots. They are instead wonderful, human parts that strive every day to protect me from virus robots. I am sure that there will be a brave push as my immune cells do what they do best-seek to eat and engulf the robots, and perhaps a Battle of the Throat Part Two.
And now that my immune system is wise to this particular kind of robot, they won't have a chance to take over again. My super smart immune system will spot one robot arm, and they will instantly zap it to pieces.
So yeah, this is a little peak into how my imagination works. This is why I can't watch zombie movies.
Of course as soon as you start bragging about never getting sick, you...get sick. Right now I have a cold virus that has lodged itself at the bottom of my throat since Thursday. It's stolen my voice, my ability to swallow without pain, and my gym visits (and man has that made me CRANKY, I hadn't realize just how much I rely on exercise for stress relief until the ability to work out was taken away from me).
But here's the thing. Thanks to my newfangled science book learnin' (that's shorthand for a Bachelor of Science), when I get something as trivial as a common cold virus, I now know in detail what that virus looks like and how it operates.
This is not good for someone with a slightly oversize imagination.
I am currently picturing my throat and chest as the battleground for a robot invasion. Viruses are totally the robots of the human anatomy world. They're non-living, and yet they are incredibly intelligent and capable. To grossly over-simplify and probably mess up a few key facts, a virus pretty much moon-lands on your healthy cells, burrows its way inside of them, and then takes over the cell's own machinery-directing your brave, beautiful human cell to now make things like evil proteins for its own evil uses.
So right now there is an evil army of cold virus robots setting up a colony in my throat. They have in fact won the Battle of the Throat, defeating my usually stellar immune system, and have now set up vast encampments. There's even a mess hall and movie theater for the troops. That's how sure my cold robots are that they are not going anywhere anytime soon. They have sent out scouts to test out the front lines.
But, I am confident in my immune army. Because they are not non-living robots. They are instead wonderful, human parts that strive every day to protect me from virus robots. I am sure that there will be a brave push as my immune cells do what they do best-seek to eat and engulf the robots, and perhaps a Battle of the Throat Part Two.
And now that my immune system is wise to this particular kind of robot, they won't have a chance to take over again. My super smart immune system will spot one robot arm, and they will instantly zap it to pieces.
So yeah, this is a little peak into how my imagination works. This is why I can't watch zombie movies.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A Charleston weekend.
I spent the weekend in Charleston and for the first time in months I did NO WORK the whole weekend. No studying. No online discussion postings. No freelance work. No play reviews.
Instead I ate oysters at a beautiful waterside restaurant. I had a bloody mary and the world's best burger out at Poe's on Sullivan's Island. I drank beer at three in the afternoon on a rooftop bar, with the whole city spread out around me. I went to a lovely party at mine, the loveliest of colleges, where I drank sangria and ate mini barbecue sandwiches and danced to a band underneath a canopy of live oaks and stars.
It was perfect. I miss this. I don't have weekends like that in Richmond. One because I have too much darn work to do. But also because I don't know if weekends like that exist anywhere else but Charleston. My friends and I kept saying how it felt like a wedding weekend-that carefree, giddy, joyful feel of every moment, even the most normal, being an extension of a big, old party.
Maybe I'm romanticizing it now that I don't live there, but in my memory, nostalgic as it may be, that WAS Charleston, every weekend. Everything is just a little bit brighter. I lived there for four and a half years, but it still felt like vacation a lot of the time-a succession of carefree moments cobbled together to form endless, unhurried days full of sand and cold drinks and the complete absence of stress. There was always time for a trip to the beach or a lazy Saturday morning brunch or a shopping stroll on King Street.
I miss my Charleston weekends very much. But at least I know that one of those weekends is always just a drive away.
Instead I ate oysters at a beautiful waterside restaurant. I had a bloody mary and the world's best burger out at Poe's on Sullivan's Island. I drank beer at three in the afternoon on a rooftop bar, with the whole city spread out around me. I went to a lovely party at mine, the loveliest of colleges, where I drank sangria and ate mini barbecue sandwiches and danced to a band underneath a canopy of live oaks and stars.
It was perfect. I miss this. I don't have weekends like that in Richmond. One because I have too much darn work to do. But also because I don't know if weekends like that exist anywhere else but Charleston. My friends and I kept saying how it felt like a wedding weekend-that carefree, giddy, joyful feel of every moment, even the most normal, being an extension of a big, old party.
Maybe I'm romanticizing it now that I don't live there, but in my memory, nostalgic as it may be, that WAS Charleston, every weekend. Everything is just a little bit brighter. I lived there for four and a half years, but it still felt like vacation a lot of the time-a succession of carefree moments cobbled together to form endless, unhurried days full of sand and cold drinks and the complete absence of stress. There was always time for a trip to the beach or a lazy Saturday morning brunch or a shopping stroll on King Street.
I miss my Charleston weekends very much. But at least I know that one of those weekends is always just a drive away.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Elevator of death.
Today after Biology I got on the elevator on the 6th floor of J. Sargeant Reynolds Community College.
I do this every day, to ride down to the 2nd floor library where I sit for an hour until my next class. But today when the elevator stopped on the fifth floor, instead of opening all the way, the doors ground and crunched and struggled their way to open about a foot wide.
My elevator partners and I looked at each other. This was not good. Some poor guy on the fifth floor stared confusedly in on us through the gap. Clearly he was not getting on this elevator. Clearly we were unable to get off. A great chasm opened up between us and him, us being officially in the elevator of death, him being outside where there was still sunshine and puppies and the hope of not plummeting to one's premature demise.
This scenario repeated again on the 4th floor, then on the 3rd. This was the busy ten minutes in between classes, and everyone needed to get on the elevator. Yet time and time again, our elevator moaned and shook and struggled to open up only a few inches. Then it would shut, make even more disturbing noises, and ramble its way to the next floor, where more confused students would look in on the poor suckers trapped in the doom cubby.
The two other girls in the elevator were understandably alarmed. We tried to hold the door open button as per the instructions on the elevator panel. We tried to pull the doors apart with our non-existent muscles. People from outside attempted to help us do this, but each and every time the elevator won. It would clank shut and continue its descent, the clanking and grinding metallic noises growing louder with each floor.
There were mainly two things going through my head at this point.
1) Do not think of that movie about the devil hanging out in an elevator. Do not think about that movie with the devil in the elevator. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THE DEVIL LIZ!
2) Holy crap. I could die in the elevator of J SARGE COMMUNITY COLLEGE! Think of the obituary. Ms. Jewett perished in a freak elevator accident at a local community college. She was last seen staring through the gap in the elevator before it plummeted to the basement in a hail of fire and explosions. There could not be a bleaker way to go. Okay fine, dying when you're pooping in a public restroom might be a bit bleaker, but just barely.
My more sensible friend took out the little phone in the elevator panel and dialed the number. Of course she was directed to some kind of call center. I'm kind of shocked it wasn't in India. I can just imagine the calls an outsourced elevator emergency center might field.
Spoken in a thick Indian accent.
"Hello, my name is Sue. How are you doing today? I am getting ready to celebrate Memorial Day with some hot dogs and beans and other American traditional foods here in America, where I am living, every day, not in India, nope. Can I interest you in a elevator protection policy for just .15 cents a day. For this low rate you will be protected in case of freak elevator death or dismemberment."
Spoken by person in probably by then exploding elevator.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
Our elevator emergency operator (fun job right?), was not in India sadly but she was most clearly not on the premises. She asked where we were. Once we reached the first floor, my BIO friend told her.
We were at the first floor, for about 30 seconds, as the crowd outside once again stared in at us. By this point there was a look of resignation in their eyes. Word had probably spread about the three girls in the elevator who were most likely going to die. Avert your eyes people. There's no hope for them now.
But then we began to trundle back upward. "We're at the second floor!" my elevator friend shouted over the phone. "No, the third now. No, the fourth!" And so on. It was not a good system. I imagined fire-men running up flights of stairs, reaching a floor ready to save the day, only to realize we were one floor up. And over and over again until they just gave up and went home, leaving us to continue our slow ascent and descent in the dark.
However, as fate would have it, once we reached the sixth floor and we're preparing for the elevator cable to just snap like a toothpick, the elevator opened up the entire way. My friend hung up the phone (sorry elevator emergency lady, you were helpful?) and we all raced out. I tried to warn the people gathered on the floor who were about to get on the elevator, but all that came out was "elevator...bad...PERIL." They looked at me like I was insane.
But what did I care? I was ALIVE. The possessed elevator had spit me out whole (although if this were a horror movie I would now be a) possessed myself or b) biding time until Death comes after me like in those movies with Devon Sawa). As I walked down the stairs (which are going to be the only mode of transport I ever take again in this building) I considered the previous five minutes.
This was one of those scenarios you think about from time to time. Hasn't everyone played the what if I got stuck in a clearly possessed/ evil elevator game? We like to think we'll be calm and organized in a crisis. But from this five minute mini crisis, I'm not so sure. It never got to this point, but if another few minutes had gone by, I may have started shoving my face through the gap in the elevator and screaming "OH THE HUMANITY!"
I'd like to think I'd be a leader or at least a team player in an emergency, but I honestly don't know. I may be the person who after an extended period of time stuck somewhere without food, mildly suggests, "so that whole cannibalism thing, not THAT bad right?" while picturing the people around me as giant cartoon turkey legs.
Would I be Jack or would I be that guy who got blown into the plane engine in the first episode of Lost?
Would I woman up if disaster struck, or would I pee on myself a little?
There's just no way to know. The one thing I do know is that today I sparred with the demonic elevator of death. And I won.
I do this every day, to ride down to the 2nd floor library where I sit for an hour until my next class. But today when the elevator stopped on the fifth floor, instead of opening all the way, the doors ground and crunched and struggled their way to open about a foot wide.
My elevator partners and I looked at each other. This was not good. Some poor guy on the fifth floor stared confusedly in on us through the gap. Clearly he was not getting on this elevator. Clearly we were unable to get off. A great chasm opened up between us and him, us being officially in the elevator of death, him being outside where there was still sunshine and puppies and the hope of not plummeting to one's premature demise.
This scenario repeated again on the 4th floor, then on the 3rd. This was the busy ten minutes in between classes, and everyone needed to get on the elevator. Yet time and time again, our elevator moaned and shook and struggled to open up only a few inches. Then it would shut, make even more disturbing noises, and ramble its way to the next floor, where more confused students would look in on the poor suckers trapped in the doom cubby.
The two other girls in the elevator were understandably alarmed. We tried to hold the door open button as per the instructions on the elevator panel. We tried to pull the doors apart with our non-existent muscles. People from outside attempted to help us do this, but each and every time the elevator won. It would clank shut and continue its descent, the clanking and grinding metallic noises growing louder with each floor.
There were mainly two things going through my head at this point.
1) Do not think of that movie about the devil hanging out in an elevator. Do not think about that movie with the devil in the elevator. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THE DEVIL LIZ!
2) Holy crap. I could die in the elevator of J SARGE COMMUNITY COLLEGE! Think of the obituary. Ms. Jewett perished in a freak elevator accident at a local community college. She was last seen staring through the gap in the elevator before it plummeted to the basement in a hail of fire and explosions. There could not be a bleaker way to go. Okay fine, dying when you're pooping in a public restroom might be a bit bleaker, but just barely.
My more sensible friend took out the little phone in the elevator panel and dialed the number. Of course she was directed to some kind of call center. I'm kind of shocked it wasn't in India. I can just imagine the calls an outsourced elevator emergency center might field.
Spoken in a thick Indian accent.
"Hello, my name is Sue. How are you doing today? I am getting ready to celebrate Memorial Day with some hot dogs and beans and other American traditional foods here in America, where I am living, every day, not in India, nope. Can I interest you in a elevator protection policy for just .15 cents a day. For this low rate you will be protected in case of freak elevator death or dismemberment."
Spoken by person in probably by then exploding elevator.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
Our elevator emergency operator (fun job right?), was not in India sadly but she was most clearly not on the premises. She asked where we were. Once we reached the first floor, my BIO friend told her.
We were at the first floor, for about 30 seconds, as the crowd outside once again stared in at us. By this point there was a look of resignation in their eyes. Word had probably spread about the three girls in the elevator who were most likely going to die. Avert your eyes people. There's no hope for them now.
But then we began to trundle back upward. "We're at the second floor!" my elevator friend shouted over the phone. "No, the third now. No, the fourth!" And so on. It was not a good system. I imagined fire-men running up flights of stairs, reaching a floor ready to save the day, only to realize we were one floor up. And over and over again until they just gave up and went home, leaving us to continue our slow ascent and descent in the dark.
However, as fate would have it, once we reached the sixth floor and we're preparing for the elevator cable to just snap like a toothpick, the elevator opened up the entire way. My friend hung up the phone (sorry elevator emergency lady, you were helpful?) and we all raced out. I tried to warn the people gathered on the floor who were about to get on the elevator, but all that came out was "elevator...bad...PERIL." They looked at me like I was insane.
But what did I care? I was ALIVE. The possessed elevator had spit me out whole (although if this were a horror movie I would now be a) possessed myself or b) biding time until Death comes after me like in those movies with Devon Sawa). As I walked down the stairs (which are going to be the only mode of transport I ever take again in this building) I considered the previous five minutes.
This was one of those scenarios you think about from time to time. Hasn't everyone played the what if I got stuck in a clearly possessed/ evil elevator game? We like to think we'll be calm and organized in a crisis. But from this five minute mini crisis, I'm not so sure. It never got to this point, but if another few minutes had gone by, I may have started shoving my face through the gap in the elevator and screaming "OH THE HUMANITY!"
I'd like to think I'd be a leader or at least a team player in an emergency, but I honestly don't know. I may be the person who after an extended period of time stuck somewhere without food, mildly suggests, "so that whole cannibalism thing, not THAT bad right?" while picturing the people around me as giant cartoon turkey legs.
Would I be Jack or would I be that guy who got blown into the plane engine in the first episode of Lost?
Would I woman up if disaster struck, or would I pee on myself a little?
There's just no way to know. The one thing I do know is that today I sparred with the demonic elevator of death. And I won.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Skirt blog.
I'm going to link to my skirt blog here, since this one felt really, REALLY good to write.
But before I link I want to explain something to any of my engaged/married friends who may read this and think I am taking pot-shots at them. 1) I think that if you read the whole essay you'll understand that I'm not coming from a mean spirited place. 2) I am not lumping all of my engaged/married friends into the category mentioned in this blog and 3) Some of this is exaggerated for entertainment purposes. I know this may shock any very truthful non-writers (or even some super anal, always truthful writers) but even those of us who are not James Frey may or may not "elaborate" on truths in our lives for comic or narrative effect.
If you read this blog and you think "Hey, that b*&*h is talking about me!": First of all, watch your language young lady! Second of all, another writerly thing to do: use details from life out of context.
Lastly, I know this blog makes it sound a lot like I'm complaining about having to listen to people talk about wedding and marriage related stuff. I'm not. I love a good wedding. I love HGTV as much as the next person. Please do not stop talking to me about this stuff. Just, as you'll see if you read this blog I keep yammering on about, keep in mind it is not the only topic of conversation anyone in the world might be interested.
Okay I know this is a lot of exposition, but as good as it felt to write this blog, the one thing I worried about is that it might hurt someone's feelings. I would hate for that to happen. This refers to a very general, non specific couple behavior that comes and goes from a myriad of people and places in my life. In no way am I writing about specific people.
If you still think I'm horrible, I'm sorry. Let me know and I will write you a haiku to apologize (haiku's being the only form of poetry I am capable of writing).
And now for the link:
http://skirt.com/lizj843/blog/survival-guide-singles-living-land-couples
But before I link I want to explain something to any of my engaged/married friends who may read this and think I am taking pot-shots at them. 1) I think that if you read the whole essay you'll understand that I'm not coming from a mean spirited place. 2) I am not lumping all of my engaged/married friends into the category mentioned in this blog and 3) Some of this is exaggerated for entertainment purposes. I know this may shock any very truthful non-writers (or even some super anal, always truthful writers) but even those of us who are not James Frey may or may not "elaborate" on truths in our lives for comic or narrative effect.
If you read this blog and you think "Hey, that b*&*h is talking about me!": First of all, watch your language young lady! Second of all, another writerly thing to do: use details from life out of context.
Lastly, I know this blog makes it sound a lot like I'm complaining about having to listen to people talk about wedding and marriage related stuff. I'm not. I love a good wedding. I love HGTV as much as the next person. Please do not stop talking to me about this stuff. Just, as you'll see if you read this blog I keep yammering on about, keep in mind it is not the only topic of conversation anyone in the world might be interested.
Okay I know this is a lot of exposition, but as good as it felt to write this blog, the one thing I worried about is that it might hurt someone's feelings. I would hate for that to happen. This refers to a very general, non specific couple behavior that comes and goes from a myriad of people and places in my life. In no way am I writing about specific people.
If you still think I'm horrible, I'm sorry. Let me know and I will write you a haiku to apologize (haiku's being the only form of poetry I am capable of writing).
And now for the link:
http://skirt.com/lizj843/blog/survival-guide-singles-living-land-couples
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Perfection.
Is there anything more beautiful than an Amazon box full of new, yet to be read, hardcover books? I could write a poem about this sight if I did such things. It's just raw joy and potential wrapped up in cardboard. By the way, in case you can't tell, I am on a massive memoir kick right now.
Bossypants.
It takes a lot for me to laugh out loud when I'm reading. Not because I'm some jerk who doesn't think anything in any book is ever funny. I just don't laugh out loud from books the way I do from movies or TV.
I'm a couple of chapters into Tina Fey's new book, Bossypants, and I have snorted, chuckled, guffawed, and Lizzed (see 30 Rock) my way through every word of it.
I thought while I'm reading it I'd do a little passage of the day to share the fun. Enjoy. And unless you hate hilarity, I strongly recommend you buy/borrow this book.
On getting her first period.
"A few months later, [my mom] gave me a box from the Modess company. It was a "my first period" kit and inside were samples of pads and panty liners and two pamphlets. One with the vaguely threatening title "Growing Up and Liking It" and one called "How Shall I Tell My Daughter?" I'm pretty sure she was supposed to read that one and then talk to me about it, but she just gave me the whole box and slipped out of the room...
I shoved the box in my closet, where it haunted me daily. There might as well have been a guy dressed like Freddy Krueger in there for the amount of anxiety it gave me. Every time I reached in the closet to grab a Sunday school dress or my colonial-lady Halloween costume that I sometimes relaxed in after school - "Modessss," it hissed at me. "Modessss is coming for you."
Okay fine, I have to include one more. I really hope this doesn't violate copyright. Buy the book for real!
On her first OBGYN exam (the whole book is not only about these becoming a woman moments I swear)
"Then she took out a speculum the size of a milk shake machine. Even Michelle Duggar would have flinched at this thing, but I had never seen one before. "What's that device f-?" Before I could finish, the nurse inserted the milk shake machine to the hilt, and I fainted. I was awakened by a sharp smell. An assistant had been called in, I'm sure for legal reasons, and was waving smelling salts under my nose. As I 'came to', the nurse said, 'You have a short vagina. I think I hit you in the cervix.' And then I fainted again even though no one was even touching me. I just went out like she had a hit a reset button. I'm surprised I didn't wake up speaking Spanish like Buzz Lightyear. When I woke up the second time, the nurse was openly irritated with me. Did I have someone who could come pick me up? 'Nope!' 'You're going to have to make another appointment. I couldn't finish the Pap smear.' 'WHY DIDN'T YOU FINISH IT WHILE I WAS OUT?' I yelled. Apparently it's against the law."
The times I lost my car.
I get lost in parking lots.
Fine, I said it. I confess. I've never told anyone before. It rarely happens when I'm with someone, because that person I'm with usually can locate a car in a parking lot.
Unlike me. Today for example. I went to Target. I parked. I walked inside and had a Target blackout. Then I came too outside in the bright sun with $100 worth of body wash, eye cream, adorable new unmentionables (Has anyone see how cute Target's lingerie section has gotten? No way am I ever spending more than $15 on a bra again), a tape recorder (The lady who checked me out asked if I was buying it to secretly record people. She didn't laugh like it was a joke. I stared at her for a few seconds, blinked, tried to awkwardly make it into a joke then started word vomiting about being a writer. As she scanned my new thongs. It was...awkward), and various other Target things that were not on my list but which were irresistible to me while under the spell of a Target blackout.
I strolled boldly forward into the parking lot, sure I was in the middle row, somewhere toward the back. I always start out this way, confident, sure that I will be able to find the car I parked less than an hour earlier. But after a few paces, I start to feel that nagging sense of disorientation. I laugh it off. My car is just up there, on the other side of the ginormous Suburban. Oh Liz. Such a worry-wort.
But then I get to the end of the aisle and no car. I avoid eye contact with the people around me and march to the next row of cars. Then I walk all the way back to the entrance. Still no car.
It is at this point that I feel that everyone is watching me. I can see their concerned expressions, like oh dear, "that poor girl must be either drunk or in the midst of some minor stroke." And still, no freaking car. I walk up another row, then another. I look around cars, between cars. I look under cars, as if I've lost a penny instead of a several ton piece of metal.
I try to act casual, like I decided to take a little post-shopping stroll. Oh don't mind me folks, I haven't lost my car, I'm just enjoying the beauty of asphalt on this nice spring day. I try to pretend that I'm actually heading toward the entrance, but then I realize I have shopping bags and that the rouse will not hold up. I see another woman with bags, looking around in seeming confusion. Yes! Someone like me. Maybe we can search together, form some kind of lost car support group. We can have a nice long hug, maybe go back into Target and get some Starbucks tea, regroup, then try again with our wits more firmly about us.
But the moment doesn't last. She finds her car and I suddenly hate her and her stupid hair. This is usually the point where I'm convinced someone has stolen my car. Never mind that it's a Thursday afternoon. Never mind that we are in the West End in a crowded shopping area in full daylight. Some culprit has absconded with my car. They decided against the BMWs or the Volvos or the Mercedes and headed straight for the nearly ten year old Ford Focus, broke in a window without anyone noticing, did that thing with wires to jump start it, and took off. And they did all this without any of the dozen shoppers around noticing.
It is usually at this point that I consider calling someone. But then I stop, because what on earth would that do? I'd expose my early onset mental deterioration to a friend or family member, and then what? They'd beam there to help me look? They'd offer moral support over the phone?
As I stroll up a row for the third time, I finally, FINALLY see my little car. I want to do a little dance and cheer, but I hold it in. I act cool, maybe glance around and chuckle. What can you do? Secretly I'm burning with shame.
This should not happen to a 25 year old right? I mean is this normal? Is this some kind of rare genetic disorder no one has discovered, a fragment of my brain that never developed?
I worry for the future. Because if this gets any worse, I may just have to start taking the bus.
Although then of course I could forget where the bus stop is.
Fine, I said it. I confess. I've never told anyone before. It rarely happens when I'm with someone, because that person I'm with usually can locate a car in a parking lot.
Unlike me. Today for example. I went to Target. I parked. I walked inside and had a Target blackout. Then I came too outside in the bright sun with $100 worth of body wash, eye cream, adorable new unmentionables (Has anyone see how cute Target's lingerie section has gotten? No way am I ever spending more than $15 on a bra again), a tape recorder (The lady who checked me out asked if I was buying it to secretly record people. She didn't laugh like it was a joke. I stared at her for a few seconds, blinked, tried to awkwardly make it into a joke then started word vomiting about being a writer. As she scanned my new thongs. It was...awkward), and various other Target things that were not on my list but which were irresistible to me while under the spell of a Target blackout.
I strolled boldly forward into the parking lot, sure I was in the middle row, somewhere toward the back. I always start out this way, confident, sure that I will be able to find the car I parked less than an hour earlier. But after a few paces, I start to feel that nagging sense of disorientation. I laugh it off. My car is just up there, on the other side of the ginormous Suburban. Oh Liz. Such a worry-wort.
But then I get to the end of the aisle and no car. I avoid eye contact with the people around me and march to the next row of cars. Then I walk all the way back to the entrance. Still no car.
It is at this point that I feel that everyone is watching me. I can see their concerned expressions, like oh dear, "that poor girl must be either drunk or in the midst of some minor stroke." And still, no freaking car. I walk up another row, then another. I look around cars, between cars. I look under cars, as if I've lost a penny instead of a several ton piece of metal.
I try to act casual, like I decided to take a little post-shopping stroll. Oh don't mind me folks, I haven't lost my car, I'm just enjoying the beauty of asphalt on this nice spring day. I try to pretend that I'm actually heading toward the entrance, but then I realize I have shopping bags and that the rouse will not hold up. I see another woman with bags, looking around in seeming confusion. Yes! Someone like me. Maybe we can search together, form some kind of lost car support group. We can have a nice long hug, maybe go back into Target and get some Starbucks tea, regroup, then try again with our wits more firmly about us.
But the moment doesn't last. She finds her car and I suddenly hate her and her stupid hair. This is usually the point where I'm convinced someone has stolen my car. Never mind that it's a Thursday afternoon. Never mind that we are in the West End in a crowded shopping area in full daylight. Some culprit has absconded with my car. They decided against the BMWs or the Volvos or the Mercedes and headed straight for the nearly ten year old Ford Focus, broke in a window without anyone noticing, did that thing with wires to jump start it, and took off. And they did all this without any of the dozen shoppers around noticing.
It is usually at this point that I consider calling someone. But then I stop, because what on earth would that do? I'd expose my early onset mental deterioration to a friend or family member, and then what? They'd beam there to help me look? They'd offer moral support over the phone?
As I stroll up a row for the third time, I finally, FINALLY see my little car. I want to do a little dance and cheer, but I hold it in. I act cool, maybe glance around and chuckle. What can you do? Secretly I'm burning with shame.
This should not happen to a 25 year old right? I mean is this normal? Is this some kind of rare genetic disorder no one has discovered, a fragment of my brain that never developed?
I worry for the future. Because if this gets any worse, I may just have to start taking the bus.
Although then of course I could forget where the bus stop is.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Mr. Anatomy
My Anatomy professor is a fabulous teacher. He makes everything interesting and makes sure we understand it. He doesn't use boring Powerpoints from the textbook company like all of my other community college professors. The man seems to know all of this excruciatingly detailed information on say, the different fibers in connective tissues, from memory. And he has a law degree. It simply boggles my mind that one brain could fit all of that information. Mine would have exploded. Or just waved a little white flag and fled out my ear canals. But while I do love my professor, he's somewhat of a character.
He has this tendency to liken anatomical terms to food. Our class starts at 11am and goes to 1:30. He might just be hungry. The consequence of all of this is I will forever associate adipose cells with cottage cheese (which makes perfect sense when you think of cellulite), mitochondrias to sausage links, and Golgi bodies to stacks of pancakes. He once went on a literally ten minute analogy using meat-loaf. I honestly don't even remember what the meat loaf was supposed to represent, because I was so mesmerized as he went ingredient by ingredient- eggs, spices, sauces, and made an imaginary meatloaf. I also left that class wanting some damn meatloaf.
He also has a tendency to go on tangents, long ones. He once spent fifteen minutes talking to us about skin care. I swear to God that in my notes there is this sentence. "Pat dry after a shower instead of rubbing dry." Followed by. "Shave with moderate pressure." This was on a chapter on skin, but still, quite a tangent nonetheless. This is also why we are on Chapter 6 of our text book. There are a little more than three weeks of the semester left. In my BIO class, where the professor speed lectures through the material, we are on Chapter 21.
He also seems to have a mysterious life that pulls him away suddenly from the class. Sometimes he'll leave for 10-20 minutes and come back looking unkempt and distracted. Other times he'll let us out an hour and a half early. Once he just missed an entire class. This has led me to hypothesize that he is some sort of community college version of Indiana Jones. Instead of fighting Nazis in Africa, maybe he battles mid-level bureaucrats in Fluvana (that's a place right?) But since he's a lawyer he also solves cases and stands up for the little guy and helps right the scales of justice! All in his class breaks without anyone knowing. And now I think I have a television pilot to go write.
Our professor doesn't put up with any crap. He tells people to put away cell phones. He chastises for lateness occasionally. Today he even shushed someone. I wanted to cheer, because I constantly want to shush people, and no one in community college shushes anyone usually. I honestly don't think anyone even has the energy.
But miraculously this man seems to have energy. He isn't defeated. He doesn't stare out the windows at the rain with a single tear rolling down his cheek.
And God bless him for that. Because if I were in his position, dealing with what he has to deal with, I would not only have stared out that window with a single tear, I would have also jumped through it to my death below.
The man is a hero.
He has this tendency to liken anatomical terms to food. Our class starts at 11am and goes to 1:30. He might just be hungry. The consequence of all of this is I will forever associate adipose cells with cottage cheese (which makes perfect sense when you think of cellulite), mitochondrias to sausage links, and Golgi bodies to stacks of pancakes. He once went on a literally ten minute analogy using meat-loaf. I honestly don't even remember what the meat loaf was supposed to represent, because I was so mesmerized as he went ingredient by ingredient- eggs, spices, sauces, and made an imaginary meatloaf. I also left that class wanting some damn meatloaf.
He also has a tendency to go on tangents, long ones. He once spent fifteen minutes talking to us about skin care. I swear to God that in my notes there is this sentence. "Pat dry after a shower instead of rubbing dry." Followed by. "Shave with moderate pressure." This was on a chapter on skin, but still, quite a tangent nonetheless. This is also why we are on Chapter 6 of our text book. There are a little more than three weeks of the semester left. In my BIO class, where the professor speed lectures through the material, we are on Chapter 21.
He also seems to have a mysterious life that pulls him away suddenly from the class. Sometimes he'll leave for 10-20 minutes and come back looking unkempt and distracted. Other times he'll let us out an hour and a half early. Once he just missed an entire class. This has led me to hypothesize that he is some sort of community college version of Indiana Jones. Instead of fighting Nazis in Africa, maybe he battles mid-level bureaucrats in Fluvana (that's a place right?) But since he's a lawyer he also solves cases and stands up for the little guy and helps right the scales of justice! All in his class breaks without anyone knowing. And now I think I have a television pilot to go write.
Our professor doesn't put up with any crap. He tells people to put away cell phones. He chastises for lateness occasionally. Today he even shushed someone. I wanted to cheer, because I constantly want to shush people, and no one in community college shushes anyone usually. I honestly don't think anyone even has the energy.
But miraculously this man seems to have energy. He isn't defeated. He doesn't stare out the windows at the rain with a single tear rolling down his cheek.
And God bless him for that. Because if I were in his position, dealing with what he has to deal with, I would not only have stared out that window with a single tear, I would have also jumped through it to my death below.
The man is a hero.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Bossy, unsolicited advice.
The last few weeks have been absolutely, 100% crazy. And since I just took on two new writing opportunities (which I am thrilled about btw) and since the semester is drawing to a close and piling on the exams/papers/projects, things are only going to get crazier.
I'm stressed. I'm overwhelmed. The caffeine intake has crept up.
And yet. I feel like I can handle it. No. I know I can handle it.
I know because things have changed since the last time I was in college, overwhelmed by school work and social obligations and internships. Back then, my way of dealing with stress was primarily heavy drinking on the weekends and popping a few "study aids" on a Sunday morning to get everything done. If you haven't been to an American college in the last ten years, this causal reference to "study aids" may shock you. Take a few moments to collect yourself.
Okay still there? Yes, around finals (and only around finals) I may have used some "study aids." My experience with "study aids" (legal ones mind you) was always the same. I would sit at my desk for 12 hours straight writing a paper or studying for an exam until I looked up and realized it was dark outside, I wasn't wearing pants, and I hadn't eaten or peed all day. I would then proceed to clean my entire apartment.
This wasn't healthy. In fact nothing about my routine to deal with stress was healthy. I began to eat worse, because I couldn't bother to go to Harris Teeter (I miss you Teeter!) to get food to cook. I relied mainly on delivery from Majestic Grill (this place delivered pancakes day and night, and that is why I loved living in a college town) and Papa John's. I ate chocolate covered espresso beans like they were candy (okay fine they technically are candy, but they shouldn't be!) I didn't see the sun for days at a time. My average nights sleep crept down to, oh, I don't know, about three hours.
It wasn't pretty. But this time, at this point in my life, my priorities have shifted a little. Namely I realize that instead of relegating nutrition, exercise, and sleep to the bottom of the pile when things get hectic, I need to keep them at the top.
I think we have a tendency to throw those things out when we're busy. We convince ourselves we don't have to sleep, don't have to eat anything not served from a cardboard box. I've done it, far too many times.
But that's so silly. Because at the end of the day, doing well at school or even work means diddly squat if you're not healthy. And I know some people might be rolling their eyes, all hmph, this girl doesn't know busy. Some of you might work full time, take full time classes, have 17 children, and do freelance consulting for NASA.
And if that's the case, well, if that's the case I really can't say anything. Go along your way. But for everyone else, I'm just going to be bossy and obtrusive for a moment. It's so much easier to deal with stress if you have a healthy foundation (sleep, good food, exercise-pretty simple actually). And I know we say we don't have time, but if you neglect those things for long enough you'll get sick or you'll feel sick and then your work is going to suffer anyway. If you keep neglecting those things, well, you'll probably die or one of your legs might fall off. And then it really won't matter.
I can deal this time around without resorting to Jesse Spano territory. An hour at the gym or at the grocery store or asleep means an hour less time to study and to work, but in the end it makes the work I do better because it's coming from a place of restfulness and vigor.
Instead of the sleep-deprived, hallucinatory, vacuuming the walls place of insanity that was my life for most of college.
I'm stressed. I'm overwhelmed. The caffeine intake has crept up.
And yet. I feel like I can handle it. No. I know I can handle it.
I know because things have changed since the last time I was in college, overwhelmed by school work and social obligations and internships. Back then, my way of dealing with stress was primarily heavy drinking on the weekends and popping a few "study aids" on a Sunday morning to get everything done. If you haven't been to an American college in the last ten years, this causal reference to "study aids" may shock you. Take a few moments to collect yourself.
Okay still there? Yes, around finals (and only around finals) I may have used some "study aids." My experience with "study aids" (legal ones mind you) was always the same. I would sit at my desk for 12 hours straight writing a paper or studying for an exam until I looked up and realized it was dark outside, I wasn't wearing pants, and I hadn't eaten or peed all day. I would then proceed to clean my entire apartment.
This wasn't healthy. In fact nothing about my routine to deal with stress was healthy. I began to eat worse, because I couldn't bother to go to Harris Teeter (I miss you Teeter!) to get food to cook. I relied mainly on delivery from Majestic Grill (this place delivered pancakes day and night, and that is why I loved living in a college town) and Papa John's. I ate chocolate covered espresso beans like they were candy (okay fine they technically are candy, but they shouldn't be!) I didn't see the sun for days at a time. My average nights sleep crept down to, oh, I don't know, about three hours.
It wasn't pretty. But this time, at this point in my life, my priorities have shifted a little. Namely I realize that instead of relegating nutrition, exercise, and sleep to the bottom of the pile when things get hectic, I need to keep them at the top.
I think we have a tendency to throw those things out when we're busy. We convince ourselves we don't have to sleep, don't have to eat anything not served from a cardboard box. I've done it, far too many times.
But that's so silly. Because at the end of the day, doing well at school or even work means diddly squat if you're not healthy. And I know some people might be rolling their eyes, all hmph, this girl doesn't know busy. Some of you might work full time, take full time classes, have 17 children, and do freelance consulting for NASA.
And if that's the case, well, if that's the case I really can't say anything. Go along your way. But for everyone else, I'm just going to be bossy and obtrusive for a moment. It's so much easier to deal with stress if you have a healthy foundation (sleep, good food, exercise-pretty simple actually). And I know we say we don't have time, but if you neglect those things for long enough you'll get sick or you'll feel sick and then your work is going to suffer anyway. If you keep neglecting those things, well, you'll probably die or one of your legs might fall off. And then it really won't matter.
I can deal this time around without resorting to Jesse Spano territory. An hour at the gym or at the grocery store or asleep means an hour less time to study and to work, but in the end it makes the work I do better because it's coming from a place of restfulness and vigor.
Instead of the sleep-deprived, hallucinatory, vacuuming the walls place of insanity that was my life for most of college.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Dear blog.
Dear blog,
I might as well come out and say it. I am cheating on you. My lover's name is skirt.com. He lives at http://skirt.com/lizj843. I've been with you, blogger, for almost four years. We've had some great times together. We've had some low-points. I'm fairly sure at one point there was a blog entirely about cheese. There have been some angry blogs, some drunken blogs. We've had our share of laughs.
But I had to shake things up a little. That is why I've taken a lover. It doesn't mean I'm leaving you. I would never leave you. You are my blog soul mate. But skirt, well skirt is fresh and new. Skirt makes me feel like a kid again, blogging for the first time. Skirt has a little spice, a little je ne sais quoi.
I wanted to be honest with you. No more working late again tonight blogger. No more "business trips." Let's be adults about this. I'm seeing another blog, and will be for the foreseeable future. I'll still be with you most days and nights, but every once in a while, you're going to have to do without me.
If you want to see another writer, I'll understand. But I do hope you'll wait for me.
Thanks for understanding.
Love,
Liz
I might as well come out and say it. I am cheating on you. My lover's name is skirt.com. He lives at http://skirt.com/lizj843. I've been with you, blogger, for almost four years. We've had some great times together. We've had some low-points. I'm fairly sure at one point there was a blog entirely about cheese. There have been some angry blogs, some drunken blogs. We've had our share of laughs.
But I had to shake things up a little. That is why I've taken a lover. It doesn't mean I'm leaving you. I would never leave you. You are my blog soul mate. But skirt, well skirt is fresh and new. Skirt makes me feel like a kid again, blogging for the first time. Skirt has a little spice, a little je ne sais quoi.
I wanted to be honest with you. No more working late again tonight blogger. No more "business trips." Let's be adults about this. I'm seeing another blog, and will be for the foreseeable future. I'll still be with you most days and nights, but every once in a while, you're going to have to do without me.
If you want to see another writer, I'll understand. But I do hope you'll wait for me.
Thanks for understanding.
Love,
Liz
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