Lindy Loo bestowed upon me the Honest Scrap Award, which means she tagged me on a blog meme. (I feel oh-so-2005!)
Once awarded, thank the person that gave it to you, list 10 honest things about yourself on your blog, pass the award on to 7 other bloggers and don't forget to let those 7 bloggers know you've chosen them.
1. Last night I feel asleep while fantasizing. (Not about sex, but about the colors I would knit sweaters.)
2. I can't stand when cats and dogs have crud in their eyes. Sometimes I will secretively wipe it out--or not so secretively.
3. When we are in production at work and I'm walking through the empty theater and backstage, I feel lucky to have such a cool job.
4. When we're not in production for a long stretch of time (say 5 months), I really miss being busy and I get stir crazy.
5. I prefer to match my underwear to my outfit.
6. I worry too much about life instead of just living it.
7. I have always been a writer but I have always had incredible difficulty ending a piece of writing. It's usually abrupt and hasty. Is this a metaphor?
8. I'm a great speller but bad at pronouncing words.
9. I'm very critical of myself and others, but I admit--I have nice handwriting.
10. I might use my asthma as an excuse for not exercising more.
Tagging S and Kewp - my other blogger friends have been tagged already!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
not the mama
I decided--with confirmation from friends--that my wallet was a "mom wallet." As in, I could see my mother carrying the same sort of bland, burgundy pocketbook, with stretch marks from copious receipts and coupons for cat food. Thus, it was not cool to pull it out of my purse at a bar, or even Target for that matter.
For a few years now, I have been mildly preoccupied with not appearing "mom-like." I got my hair cut last week and have since been orbiting my head with an array of hair products and gadgets to combat what I fear is a suburban mom 'do. I have better things to do with my time, honestly.
I'm not sure what exactly precipitated my concern about not looking too (stereotypically) motherly. I fear looking like a mom and the attendant assumptions more than I fear actually being a mom. A few years ago I decided when/if I become a mother, I would get a tattoo, as if that would somehow ward off being typecast.
The inherent fear of being typecast could be the root of my mommy discrimination. I have always existed slightly out of the mainstream, or at least historically this is what my peers and/or I have determined. So to be aiming for something that is so very conventional and expected of women--motherhood--is rather uncomfortable. It's an itchy feeling.
But that superficial itch just can't compete with the biological itch of my one ovary, longing to get rid of one of those eggs it's been harboring for the last 30 years. (Suck it up, honey, you've still got a while.)
In the end, should I procreate, once I am in the thrall of a child, it probably won't matter as much to me what sort of wallet I carry. But, for my sake, I hope it does.
.
For a few years now, I have been mildly preoccupied with not appearing "mom-like." I got my hair cut last week and have since been orbiting my head with an array of hair products and gadgets to combat what I fear is a suburban mom 'do. I have better things to do with my time, honestly.
I'm not sure what exactly precipitated my concern about not looking too (stereotypically) motherly. I fear looking like a mom and the attendant assumptions more than I fear actually being a mom. A few years ago I decided when/if I become a mother, I would get a tattoo, as if that would somehow ward off being typecast.
The inherent fear of being typecast could be the root of my mommy discrimination. I have always existed slightly out of the mainstream, or at least historically this is what my peers and/or I have determined. So to be aiming for something that is so very conventional and expected of women--motherhood--is rather uncomfortable. It's an itchy feeling.
But that superficial itch just can't compete with the biological itch of my one ovary, longing to get rid of one of those eggs it's been harboring for the last 30 years. (Suck it up, honey, you've still got a while.)
In the end, should I procreate, once I am in the thrall of a child, it probably won't matter as much to me what sort of wallet I carry. But, for my sake, I hope it does.
.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
if i twittered...
this is what I would have said today:
- Fucking mold spores.
- I fear when I'm sixty, my shoe collection will only contain Easy Spirits.
- My mother is bringing me 3 pounds of cheese tomorrow, so, yeah, I'm busy that night.
- My life would be infinitely better if my apartment had more crown moldings.
- Is it wrong to listen to Moby while working at an opera company?
.
- Fucking mold spores.
- I fear when I'm sixty, my shoe collection will only contain Easy Spirits.
- My mother is bringing me 3 pounds of cheese tomorrow, so, yeah, I'm busy that night.
- My life would be infinitely better if my apartment had more crown moldings.
- Is it wrong to listen to Moby while working at an opera company?
.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
potent quotables
"I think wearing leather pants would be like having giant fruit roll-ups wrapped around my legs."
- BiGHuNk57
"This is Goosey Lucy. She's really into cats." - my former roommate introducing me to his friend.
"It actually made me decide finally that I don’t like Diablo Cody. I think she’s like a spaghetti-o feminist." -Lindy Loo
"Oh, so, he's cheap too. I guess I should have realized when you said you met on a free dating web site." - my mom, referring to BiG
"I seriously don't get how lesbians find the Indigo Girls so hot." -Lindy Loo
"Bitch needs her sleep!" -my boss, about me
"They're like Romanian violinists--all crazy." -co-worker, about IT people
"I mean, hell, he has a bidet." -my friend S on the merits of her boyfriend
.
- BiGHuNk57
"This is Goosey Lucy. She's really into cats." - my former roommate introducing me to his friend.
"It actually made me decide finally that I don’t like Diablo Cody. I think she’s like a spaghetti-o feminist." -Lindy Loo
"Oh, so, he's cheap too. I guess I should have realized when you said you met on a free dating web site." - my mom, referring to BiG
"I seriously don't get how lesbians find the Indigo Girls so hot." -Lindy Loo
"Bitch needs her sleep!" -my boss, about me
"They're like Romanian violinists--all crazy." -co-worker, about IT people
"I mean, hell, he has a bidet." -my friend S on the merits of her boyfriend
.
Friday, September 11, 2009
of parents and lady parts
I was talking to my parents on the phone today. Both of them. At the same time.
Because even though I live ten miles away and talk to them several times a week, they felt the need to both be on a phone, like it was 1944 and I was making that rare, expensive call home from 1,000 miles away. (Although, sometimes it is better that they are both on the phone, to avoid hearing my mother yelling in the background, trying to make it a three-way conversation anyway--and I realize, I DO THE SAME DAMN THING.)
I told them I had talked to my doctor about getting another ultrasound (NO, not for detecting babies, for detecting things that have taken up residence in the space my left ovary once occupied).
"Oh, is it a transvaginal ultrasound?" my mother asked unnecessarily.
"Um, yeah."
Which is apparently the natural segue into her asking if I examine my breasts every month.
"I bet Dad is really excited to be talking about vaginas and boobs this morning."
"Yeah, it's a little much for only having had one cup of coffee so far," he replied.
"'Transvaginal' is really not something one should handle on only one cup of coffee," I said.
"I'll ask your mother what 'transvaginal' means later."
"You do that."
.
Because even though I live ten miles away and talk to them several times a week, they felt the need to both be on a phone, like it was 1944 and I was making that rare, expensive call home from 1,000 miles away. (Although, sometimes it is better that they are both on the phone, to avoid hearing my mother yelling in the background, trying to make it a three-way conversation anyway--and I realize, I DO THE SAME DAMN THING.)
I told them I had talked to my doctor about getting another ultrasound (NO, not for detecting babies, for detecting things that have taken up residence in the space my left ovary once occupied).
"Oh, is it a transvaginal ultrasound?" my mother asked unnecessarily.
"Um, yeah."
Which is apparently the natural segue into her asking if I examine my breasts every month.
"I bet Dad is really excited to be talking about vaginas and boobs this morning."
"Yeah, it's a little much for only having had one cup of coffee so far," he replied.
"'Transvaginal' is really not something one should handle on only one cup of coffee," I said.
"I'll ask your mother what 'transvaginal' means later."
"You do that."
.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
a streetcar named bizarre
Somehow it is much easier to eff up public transportation in countries in which I speak the language...like America, for instance.
My latest PT bumble was in Portland, OR (home of Babymama). I got off the bus a stop early, a stop farther away from the train I needed to take to my Aunt's house. No biggie. Ask the average clean-cut hipster on the corner.
"Just keep walking three blocks and you'll see it," he says.
Not 30 seconds later, a nearby homeless man cheerfully volunteers, "You looking for the train? Just keep walking three blocks."
"Oh, thanks," I reply.
"I'm wearing a bra," he says, lifting his sweatshirt to reveal satiny black soft cups perched on a pasty white chest. He felt he needed to share this fact with me, clearly, so I thought it best to play sympathetic therapist.
"Oh, that's cool," I said mildly.
"You know, for shits and giggles," he explained.
"Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?" I replied.
***
Frankly, I'd much rather have a homeless man show me his lingerie than proclaim that "Satan's gonna get yer ass," as one said to me last year. I guess that's the difference between Portland and Cleveland.
.
My latest PT bumble was in Portland, OR (home of Babymama). I got off the bus a stop early, a stop farther away from the train I needed to take to my Aunt's house. No biggie. Ask the average clean-cut hipster on the corner.
"Just keep walking three blocks and you'll see it," he says.
Not 30 seconds later, a nearby homeless man cheerfully volunteers, "You looking for the train? Just keep walking three blocks."
"Oh, thanks," I reply.
"I'm wearing a bra," he says, lifting his sweatshirt to reveal satiny black soft cups perched on a pasty white chest. He felt he needed to share this fact with me, clearly, so I thought it best to play sympathetic therapist.
"Oh, that's cool," I said mildly.
"You know, for shits and giggles," he explained.
"Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?" I replied.
***
Frankly, I'd much rather have a homeless man show me his lingerie than proclaim that "Satan's gonna get yer ass," as one said to me last year. I guess that's the difference between Portland and Cleveland.
.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
i just wrote a whole post about alcohol
Unlike most college students, my weekends in college were not spent cultivating a taste for beer. There was the occasional rendezvous with peach or peppermint schapps, so when I started drinking legally, I would sheepishly sidle up to the bar and squeak out a request for a "Sex on the Beach" or "Amaretto Sour."
At least I knew I was lame. But I was dork enough to continue ordering frou-frou drinks, honoring my tastebuds over hipness.
After college, I developed a taste for wine, and, just like that, I felt I was finally an adult. It didn't taking getting my first "real" job or moving into my first apartment or getting a cat. No, it took a frickin' glass of wine. Sometimes when I have a glass of wine at a nice-ish restaurant, I still get a twinge reminder "I am an ADULT, drinking wine out of a WINE GLASS! How did I get here?!"
With wine, I now had something else to order at a bar. It was liberating. Except at dive bars. Then it was about as liberating as wearing a Lacoste sweater to a Metallica concert. Why couldn't I just be comfortable swilling can after can of PBR?
I tried beer. I made an honest go of it--and by honest go, I mean I took sample sips of friends' beers. I could handle beer; it just didn't interest me. I couldn't fathom drinking enough of the swill to get drunk--and isn't that point, my friends?
So, wine, with the additions of Cosmopolitans, fruity martinis, and vodka tonics to my repetoire. (I also don't recommend ordering a "Cosmo" at a dive-y bar. It's been more than once that the bartender hasn't known how to make it. I underestimated the influence and reach of Sex and the City, clearly.)
I just figured I'd always be that occasional alcohol outlier--the pretentious nerd who orders wine at the corner bar. Eh, I was becoming ok with that.
But I've turned a corner, my friends.
It started with Strongbow. Good stuff, apple-y. But expensive and not always available. Then I tried an Indigo Imp pale ale (proudly brewed in the Cleve, natch!) and I immediately drank the whole damn thing. And then I drank it again.
One night, I stopped at a bar to meet some friends and I had limited time, so--flush with confidence of my Indigo Imp drinking success--I just poured myself a beer from their pitcher. It was Bud Light. And it wasn't that bad.
I know you true beer drinkers will wince at that, evoking the gods of microbrews, stouts, and lagers. But I'm telling you: It's progress. I can blend in with "regular folk." I can embrace my blue collar roots of unschooled palates and meager paychecks.
If I go to an unfamiliar party and someone offers me a can of beer, no longer will I say, "No thanks, but perhaps you have some Sauvignon Blanc?" That is victory.
.
At least I knew I was lame. But I was dork enough to continue ordering frou-frou drinks, honoring my tastebuds over hipness.
After college, I developed a taste for wine, and, just like that, I felt I was finally an adult. It didn't taking getting my first "real" job or moving into my first apartment or getting a cat. No, it took a frickin' glass of wine. Sometimes when I have a glass of wine at a nice-ish restaurant, I still get a twinge reminder "I am an ADULT, drinking wine out of a WINE GLASS! How did I get here?!"
With wine, I now had something else to order at a bar. It was liberating. Except at dive bars. Then it was about as liberating as wearing a Lacoste sweater to a Metallica concert. Why couldn't I just be comfortable swilling can after can of PBR?
I tried beer. I made an honest go of it--and by honest go, I mean I took sample sips of friends' beers. I could handle beer; it just didn't interest me. I couldn't fathom drinking enough of the swill to get drunk--and isn't that point, my friends?
So, wine, with the additions of Cosmopolitans, fruity martinis, and vodka tonics to my repetoire. (I also don't recommend ordering a "Cosmo" at a dive-y bar. It's been more than once that the bartender hasn't known how to make it. I underestimated the influence and reach of Sex and the City, clearly.)
I just figured I'd always be that occasional alcohol outlier--the pretentious nerd who orders wine at the corner bar. Eh, I was becoming ok with that.
But I've turned a corner, my friends.
It started with Strongbow. Good stuff, apple-y. But expensive and not always available. Then I tried an Indigo Imp pale ale (proudly brewed in the Cleve, natch!) and I immediately drank the whole damn thing. And then I drank it again.
One night, I stopped at a bar to meet some friends and I had limited time, so--flush with confidence of my Indigo Imp drinking success--I just poured myself a beer from their pitcher. It was Bud Light. And it wasn't that bad.
I know you true beer drinkers will wince at that, evoking the gods of microbrews, stouts, and lagers. But I'm telling you: It's progress. I can blend in with "regular folk." I can embrace my blue collar roots of unschooled palates and meager paychecks.
If I go to an unfamiliar party and someone offers me a can of beer, no longer will I say, "No thanks, but perhaps you have some Sauvignon Blanc?" That is victory.
.
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