I made my bed; now I’ll lie in it

Sorry to everyone whose e-mails and phone calls [1] and whatever-elses I
haven’t returned. With three brief instances of exception, after
shutting down earlier last week, for the most part I’ve spent my waking
hours (12 p.m. to 7 a.m., am working on that as well) solely
not-coping. I’m, as of this moment, starting to try and clean up the residual mess.

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Accent + cell phone + mumbler = plan on repeating yourself over and over again

[re: Panera]

L: Ooh, yeah, they have the *best* soups.
P: I always get the French Onion.
L: Not a big fan. Their vegetable soups are really good, though. They have this one, a roasted red pepper bisque or something, that’s to DIE for.
P: Do they serve ’em in a strony?
L: Um… one more time?
P: Do they SERVE ’em in a STRONY.
L: Do they serve them in… wait, what? Yeah, you’re gonna have to say that again.
P: Min-e-stro-ne. You know, the soup with the beans and the vegetables? Do they serve it?
L: OH! I thought you were– I was trying to figure out what the fuck a "strony" was– I– oh, never mind.
[I laugh hysterically for about five minutes]
L: Yeah, no, no, they don’t.

Fado’s third prize isn’t porn. otherwise we might have put more effort into winning

Three of us met up for Pub Quiz last night. We didn’t keep track of our score, and we didn’t even place third, but never let it be said that there weren’t good times all around. Mary brought the awesome, I brought the majestic, and Sean brought the misogynistic undertones.

His haiku from the night (I told you I’d remember it, Sean):

Asian girl drivers
Stay off the god damn road please
Too many dead kids

My trivia performance may or may not have been affected by how sloshed I got on my "water on the rocks, straight up." Yes, straight up. If you can’t wrap your brain around that one, clearly, you are a novice at the boozing, and baby, all I can tell you about it is, it’s intense. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a lot of people at any given pub drinking it, which is cool. Not everyone can handle it. But me? Well, my mother has always been about the hydration, so you could say I was raised to hit the bottle.

Or whatever.

Pub Quiz = every Tuesday at 8:30 p.m. You should maybe definitely come and join in our unabashed having of the fun.

Notes on moving out

My landlord was pretty awesome, in that he fixed things if they needed to be fixed but otherwise left his tenants the hell alone. Rent was a few days late? Not a problem! Silverfish and spiders popping up? Someone would have sprayed the place two days later. Etc.

He liked *me* because I pretty much never called him. Apparently everyone else bitched and moaned about the hot hot summer heat that flooded our hot hot non-air-conditioned building. I assumed that since I was well aware of my place’s lack of AC when I signed my lease, my sweaty discomfort was thereby my *own* problem. Turns out I could have called him to complain and he would have bought a window AC unit for me. Instead, I just pranced around in my underwear, which in retrospect was definitely the more fun route.

Also, I apparently have a "winning smile." ::rolling eyes in disbelief::

But yeah. I puttied the gaping holes in the drywall caused by my stupid curtain brackets but didn’t paint them because a) the paint cans mysteriously disappeared from the back stairwell and b) the entire unit had needed to be repainted since before I moved in, anyway. Also, in my overzealous effort to remove the cat ledge from the windowsill, a wide strip of paint came off with it.

The Venetian blinds (old as fuck and I hated them with a passion) were a bit broken– one set in terms of functionality, another in terms of THREE SLATS HALF-BROKEN OFF– and then there’s the matter of vacuuming.

Let me just say this: it is *one* thing to have a vacuum cleaner that doesn’t pick anything up. It is *quite* another to have a vacuum cleaner that sucks up all the crap from the carpet, then surreptitously spits it back out when you’re not looking. Particularly helpful when you’re trying to get the (clean) cat litter that was kicked all over the place– and *especially* particularly helpful when you’re vacuuming one hour before inspection time– but in the end, the leftover messy bits were only noticeable if your face was six inches from the floor. [1]

My landlord came in that Tuesday morning, gave the place a quick once-over, then wrote me a check for my full deposit. He rationalized, and I quote: "Eh, they’re" (the new tenants) "guys. It’s clean enough for guys."


[1] These instances aside– let me defend myself and clarify that everything else was spotlessly clean. I’m not a slob, really.

And, I’m all out of Bartlett pears. AGAIN.

I just spent the better half of today doing yardwork– namely, picking up after my sister’s three dogs (one Siberian Husky, two American Eskimos).

The whole time, I kept wondering why the hell I was doing this. It wasn’t *expected* of me, and I wasn’t going to be compensated for it in any way. The most I would get from my sister, in fact, would be a surprised "Oh! Well, thanks," and then it would be back to the occasional, "Hey, you lost my spare house key that one time," and "But remember when you BROKE my air mattress pump?"

It’s a stupid thing: even still, I feel like I am constantly trying to please her, to apologize and make up for the fact that– quite simply– I was born 22 years ago, thereby robbing her of only-child status and shoving her into the unwanted territory of Big Sister Land. I still feel like I’m the bothersome, clingy little brat who was forever sneaking into her bedroom to borrow her books ("Babysitters Club" and the Christopher Pike books) and begging to sleep in her room with her that night.

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I have four unfinished posts sitting in other tabs right now

Brain. Shutting. Down. Need. Sleep. ::drool::

I had a great day, despite all the heavy labor and the no-sleep. I’ll write about it later. As in, after I’ve slept. FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR.

My anxiously anticipated phone call finally came in, by the way. Kipper is being shipped off to Apple to be fixed, by an actual Apple guy, with actual Apple tools, with actual Apple hardware, in an actual Apple environment. And he should be back "within 7-10 days." Meaning, by the end of the month. Good enough for me!

Men: what the hell is it that goes through your crazy brains? Explain to me this curious process of HOW YOU LIVE YOUR DAILY LIFE and WHAT DRIVES YOU TO MAKE THE CHOICES YOU DO. You all drive me nuts. I both adore you and despise you, simultaneously. I’m ridiculously boy-crazy right now. Based on some conversations I’ve had and/or witnessed, I’m apparently not the only lady feelin’ this here way. Which is too awesome for words.

Jewelry is rocking my world right now.


The secret lives of suburbia girls

I was pretty excited about this afternoon because:

  • I got the five-month-old bloodstains out the carpet!
  • With some weird unknown-name cleaner I found at Ralphs!

Also, I took out Typekey verification because it was irritating and Typepad finally set up CAPTCHA, which seems good enough to filter out the spambots. Though I guess only time will tell on that one.

Also also, the couch got sold this afternoon. I’m going to miss its microsuedey plushness, but whatever. It’s going to a good (ish? It’s PB, and PB is… well… PB) home with a friendly woman of Kiwi upbringing and her New Yorker boyfriend. So my couch will totally be in heaven there, it– much like its never-home now-ex-owner (me)– being a total sucker for accents.

Also^3, I went to Claire’s today because I’ve needed simple stud earrings for about 7 months now (I am so on top of shit). OF COURSE, I got suckered into the "Buy 2 Get 1 Free!" reminder, and it would have been bad enough had I just conned myself with earrings. Oh no. I had to get gravitationally sucked into the Black Hole of Stupid Rings.

The last time I did this? Exactly two years ago, minus two days. A coincedence… I think.


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THIS is what I’ve been saying for years

From The New York Times:

To hold someone’s hand is to offer them affection, protection or
comfort. It is a way to communicate that you are off the market.
(full article)

For a million various reasons, sex doesn’t mean that much to me. Which isn’t to say I whore my way through life– just that, if I *do* sleep with a guy, I don’t consider it to be a sign of future obligation or commitment. Sex isn’t indicative of a relationship; no more does it signify deep feelings of affection or attachment.

Conversely– it’s always been the little things that get me hooked, that make it hard to eventually accept the realization that he isn’t going to call me again, isn’t going to ask to see me again. Little things like playing with my hair, or small kisses on the curve of my neck, or light touches on my shoulder or arm.

Or holding my hand.

And all, especially, in the public eye.

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