I have only one more lurker fantasy to last me a whole post full of linkableness. Here goes.
You, 12 reader, are the biggest mystery of all. Day after day you click and read from wherever that is in Maine. If I think of Maine, 12 reader, I think of lobster rolls and craft shops and cozy bed and breakfasts. I think of windswept beaches and pebbles in the sand. In my imagination, 12 reader, you are the charming, sensitive proprietor of a wonderful gift shop that sells beautiful, one of a kind treasure. So enchanting is your shop that only the siren's song of beer and hush puppies next door can drag me away. But I will be back, 12 reader. I hope you will, too.
Months ago, when I first discovered my darling P she left me a comment that I really loved. She said, "You are my east, my west, my daily rest."
All this time, my blog has offered me refuge from my real life, and I can't tell you how much I have needed it. I tried to link to everyone who has ever been here and commented. Probably, I failed. But maybe I succeeded* in letting you know how much I appreciate all of you, lurkers and commenters alike. Thank you.
If I can find half an hour tomorrow, I'll re-address the subject of blog-love, which has lately been much on my mind. (Sort of).
(I love you).
*Did I fail? Make sure you clicked all the links... and if I really did, comment, and I'll get you next time.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
$1000 an hour
If I made that much money, perhaps I would have time to post today in a timely fashion. Alas, I do not, so I have to put off the post you thought you would be reading right now until I finish my extremely rewarding and fullfilling work.
(If only I had never gone to college. If only I had been blessed with a poor upbringing and a great ass. If only I had made better - oh, I am sorry -different choices. If only, if only, if only).
Post will go up around 10pm tonight.
(If only I had never gone to college. If only I had been blessed with a poor upbringing and a great ass. If only I had made better - oh, I am sorry -different choices. If only, if only, if only).
Post will go up around 10pm tonight.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Reader, part two
If you missed part one, scroll down.
I turn my attention now to you, Gravesend reader.* Oh, yes. You. I admit that you are not a daily reader, but when you do visit, you make up for lost time, for big and sure. In my imagination, Gravesend reader, you are a British schoolboy all grown up, working at a book shop most of your time and being smoking hot pretty much all the time. The first time you stumbled onto my blog, sitemeter clocked you at three hours. I assume that after that you went to get some lunch. But you know what happened next? You came back from lunch and read my blog for another three hours. The only reason I can think of for you to do this is that either a) you don't have a thriving legal career b) you don't have seven kids or c) you don't have seven cats, two dogs, and a baby. Or perhaps you need a hobby? Take up needlework, perhaps?
Alabama reader, I have no idea why you are so shy. Is it because you are a creative, sensitive type? Or perhaps you are thinking you would be the only southern girl? In my imagination, Alabama reader, you are a chic and sassy southern belle. No? Then perhaps you are a heroically smart teacher - or better yet, junior high school administrator. On the other hand, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe, if I really knew you, I would love you instead for your earthy manliness. Perhaps, Alabama reader, if I knew you, we could get drunk on your porch.
This, of course, is where I run into nine kinds of trouble. The imagining. The fantasizing. The internet-specific indulgence of a thousand ethereal sins.
More on this tomorrow.
If you are not linked and included yet, and you wish to be, comment. I have a list, but I don't want to miss anybody.
Have a clickable Wednesday.
*If you haven't read yesterday's comments, do. Welcome to non-lurker status, Cork reader Claire! Other lurkers, feel free to out yourself, but please believe me when I say you don't have to. I meant it when I said I cherish all readers, even those who don't comment. So lurk or de-lurk. It's up to you.
I turn my attention now to you, Gravesend reader.* Oh, yes. You. I admit that you are not a daily reader, but when you do visit, you make up for lost time, for big and sure. In my imagination, Gravesend reader, you are a British schoolboy all grown up, working at a book shop most of your time and being smoking hot pretty much all the time. The first time you stumbled onto my blog, sitemeter clocked you at three hours. I assume that after that you went to get some lunch. But you know what happened next? You came back from lunch and read my blog for another three hours. The only reason I can think of for you to do this is that either a) you don't have a thriving legal career b) you don't have seven kids or c) you don't have seven cats, two dogs, and a baby. Or perhaps you need a hobby? Take up needlework, perhaps?
Alabama reader, I have no idea why you are so shy. Is it because you are a creative, sensitive type? Or perhaps you are thinking you would be the only southern girl? In my imagination, Alabama reader, you are a chic and sassy southern belle. No? Then perhaps you are a heroically smart teacher - or better yet, junior high school administrator. On the other hand, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe, if I really knew you, I would love you instead for your earthy manliness. Perhaps, Alabama reader, if I knew you, we could get drunk on your porch.
This, of course, is where I run into nine kinds of trouble. The imagining. The fantasizing. The internet-specific indulgence of a thousand ethereal sins.
More on this tomorrow.
If you are not linked and included yet, and you wish to be, comment. I have a list, but I don't want to miss anybody.
Have a clickable Wednesday.
*If you haven't read yesterday's comments, do. Welcome to non-lurker status, Cork reader Claire! Other lurkers, feel free to out yourself, but please believe me when I say you don't have to. I meant it when I said I cherish all readers, even those who don't comment. So lurk or de-lurk. It's up to you.
Reader, part one
About six months ago, I was cleaning and alphabetizing my book closet, and I thought, as I sneezed and rearranged, that I have far too many books. Does having so many books make me something? A dork, a nerd, a librarian? Maybe just a reader?
Then for no particular reason, I put down my copy of Bronte's Villette, walked over to the computer, started a blog, and wrote this post. I put zero thought into the name of the blog or the tagline, and I had no clear idea why I was posting what I was posting or if anyone would ever read it. I didn't know if I would ever post again, either. Some days, as in recently, I have not had more than a few minutes to throw a picture at you and say I'd see you tomorrow. Other days I wrote thousands of words about why I hate it when people act like modern womanhood is so awesome. And still other days I have written nothing at all, either because I was in the Andes and out of internet range, or because I was so hung over or depressed that I didn't have the will to say "boo."
Six months later, the only thing remarkable about my internet diary is its tendency to attract smart, sensitive, gorgeous readers. If you click in here and read what I produce even a few times a month, this includes you. But it occurs to me that some of you might not be fully aware of the smart, sensitive, beauty of all of the others. Let's fix that, shall we?
I address here my lurkers, because I love them just as much as I love the rest of y'all, even though they have not told me who they are.
If you are my beloved Brazilian reader, you want to read my blog between seven and ten times a day. In my imagination, Brazilian reader, you are a dark and stormy princess living in a palatial villa. You sit on your hairless backside and eat candied walnuts all day fantasizing about marrying Prince Adam Heath Avitable, the Grand Duke of Florida Internet Excellence. I am sorry to tell you, Brazilian reader, that the Duke is already married and even if he were not, I recently caught him flirting with my beloved Magdalena Grand Duchess of Boston Internet Excellence. Be careful, Brazilian reader, who you fall in love with on the internet. Next thing you know you'll find two people you didn't even know you introduced totally making out with each other.
Then again, you might be my beloved Cork, whom I have named in my mind for the county in Ireland. Cork Reader, you probably recognize my left eye as pictured on this blog as about 90% Irish, as it is. In my imagination, Cork reader, you are a sheep farmer with a good strong jaw and adorable ears that stick out just a little bit. You virtuous and strong and you are married to a woman of such uncommon beauty and intelligence that you are half ashamed that you click into my blog every day just to hear me say the F-word, which to you, in all your innocence and virtue, is like porn. Well, Cork reader, it's the least I can do for you. You doubled my sitemeter continent count to 2 and you made me feel just a little more Irish. As if I needed that.
Or you might be my stoic Pennsylvanian. Snod reader, I think you know who you are. Yeah, you. Sometimes you desert me for months on end, but you always return with your comical domain and IP address and your stony silence. In my imagination, Snod reader, you sit at a desk all day running your hands over spreadsheets and longing for a better blog to read. May I offer, for your consideration, beloved Snod reader, science and candy? or how about haiku and babies? And if you were just too shy to ask, dear Snod, I can offer you Asian gorgeousness. Oh no, don't thank me. What are faceless friends for?
Canadian reader, I used to have this fantasy about you. The fantasy was that you were actually you, and you know, now that I think about it, I do have a newly minted lurker in Tokyo. Oh wait. I have confused myself.
What I meant to say, Canadian reader, is that even though I know Canada is big, please let all those other Canadian lurkers that I am ok with it. You all are an amalgam of Canadian goodness, kind of like Dagny Princess of Canadian Internet Excellence. Let her know, since you are leaving the house, how much I thrive on her grammatically perfect and syntactically judicious posting. While you are being cool like that for me, please let toss a letter in a bottle to Dan, a dad who is walking 78 miles to raise money to help parents who have recently lost a child. If you have ever given a stripper a dollar, get out of here and give a little something to Dan.
Of all my lurkers, Google reader, you are the only one who distresses me. Who the fuck are you? In my imagination, Google reader, you are holed up in your office in Mountain View, California, being the man and reading my blog either for your own amusement - or to bring down a mighty reckoning on me. Either way, your visits make me all shivery. Couldn't you just comment? Just to let me know that I am not, in fact, hastening the apocalypse?
There comes a time in every slavish gooey blog love linking post when a girl must realize that too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. This is therefore part one of three.
Now, if you are reading this and thinking "that stormy bitch didn't link to me"* - well, haven't you ever heard about saving the best for last? And if you are thinking "That bitch linked to me first - she must think I am not top tier" - well, did you notice that I linked to unequivocally fabulous people in this post? You didn't? Well then obviously you are a fool for not clicking every single link. Quit your crying, and get to work.
(I love you).
*If you wish to be included in part two or three, comment. If you like the folks you found here, link to this post and spread the word.
Then for no particular reason, I put down my copy of Bronte's Villette, walked over to the computer, started a blog, and wrote this post. I put zero thought into the name of the blog or the tagline, and I had no clear idea why I was posting what I was posting or if anyone would ever read it. I didn't know if I would ever post again, either. Some days, as in recently, I have not had more than a few minutes to throw a picture at you and say I'd see you tomorrow. Other days I wrote thousands of words about why I hate it when people act like modern womanhood is so awesome. And still other days I have written nothing at all, either because I was in the Andes and out of internet range, or because I was so hung over or depressed that I didn't have the will to say "boo."
Six months later, the only thing remarkable about my internet diary is its tendency to attract smart, sensitive, gorgeous readers. If you click in here and read what I produce even a few times a month, this includes you. But it occurs to me that some of you might not be fully aware of the smart, sensitive, beauty of all of the others. Let's fix that, shall we?
I address here my lurkers, because I love them just as much as I love the rest of y'all, even though they have not told me who they are.
If you are my beloved Brazilian reader, you want to read my blog between seven and ten times a day. In my imagination, Brazilian reader, you are a dark and stormy princess living in a palatial villa. You sit on your hairless backside and eat candied walnuts all day fantasizing about marrying Prince Adam Heath Avitable, the Grand Duke of Florida Internet Excellence. I am sorry to tell you, Brazilian reader, that the Duke is already married and even if he were not, I recently caught him flirting with my beloved Magdalena Grand Duchess of Boston Internet Excellence. Be careful, Brazilian reader, who you fall in love with on the internet. Next thing you know you'll find two people you didn't even know you introduced totally making out with each other.
Then again, you might be my beloved Cork, whom I have named in my mind for the county in Ireland. Cork Reader, you probably recognize my left eye as pictured on this blog as about 90% Irish, as it is. In my imagination, Cork reader, you are a sheep farmer with a good strong jaw and adorable ears that stick out just a little bit. You virtuous and strong and you are married to a woman of such uncommon beauty and intelligence that you are half ashamed that you click into my blog every day just to hear me say the F-word, which to you, in all your innocence and virtue, is like porn. Well, Cork reader, it's the least I can do for you. You doubled my sitemeter continent count to 2 and you made me feel just a little more Irish. As if I needed that.
Or you might be my stoic Pennsylvanian. Snod reader, I think you know who you are. Yeah, you. Sometimes you desert me for months on end, but you always return with your comical domain and IP address and your stony silence. In my imagination, Snod reader, you sit at a desk all day running your hands over spreadsheets and longing for a better blog to read. May I offer, for your consideration, beloved Snod reader, science and candy? or how about haiku and babies? And if you were just too shy to ask, dear Snod, I can offer you Asian gorgeousness. Oh no, don't thank me. What are faceless friends for?
Canadian reader, I used to have this fantasy about you. The fantasy was that you were actually you, and you know, now that I think about it, I do have a newly minted lurker in Tokyo. Oh wait. I have confused myself.
What I meant to say, Canadian reader, is that even though I know Canada is big, please let all those other Canadian lurkers that I am ok with it. You all are an amalgam of Canadian goodness, kind of like Dagny Princess of Canadian Internet Excellence. Let her know, since you are leaving the house, how much I thrive on her grammatically perfect and syntactically judicious posting. While you are being cool like that for me, please let toss a letter in a bottle to Dan, a dad who is walking 78 miles to raise money to help parents who have recently lost a child. If you have ever given a stripper a dollar, get out of here and give a little something to Dan.
Of all my lurkers, Google reader, you are the only one who distresses me. Who the fuck are you? In my imagination, Google reader, you are holed up in your office in Mountain View, California, being the man and reading my blog either for your own amusement - or to bring down a mighty reckoning on me. Either way, your visits make me all shivery. Couldn't you just comment? Just to let me know that I am not, in fact, hastening the apocalypse?
There comes a time in every slavish gooey blog love linking post when a girl must realize that too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. This is therefore part one of three.
Now, if you are reading this and thinking "that stormy bitch didn't link to me"* - well, haven't you ever heard about saving the best for last? And if you are thinking "That bitch linked to me first - she must think I am not top tier" - well, did you notice that I linked to unequivocally fabulous people in this post? You didn't? Well then obviously you are a fool for not clicking every single link. Quit your crying, and get to work.
(I love you).
*If you wish to be included in part two or three, comment. If you like the folks you found here, link to this post and spread the word.
Fall
I am liar. I never posted again yesterday. I worked from 7am until 11pm, and today doesn't look to be much different. But I do have great hopes of being able to publish the aforementioned mighty post, but much later. As in after I do a whole real lot more work. Sorry and stuff. I'll blog and read blogs again soon.
Another Iceland picture.
Another Iceland picture.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Fissure
We had a particularly rough weekend over here, so while I clean up several messes, you can look at this picture I took of a glacier (or a fissure in a glacier) in Iceland.
I'll mega-post later tonight.
I'll mega-post later tonight.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Sin of the Week, 3/9/08
Leaving aside the fact that I assaulted Some Guy with my breast the other day, and leaving aside the fact that I have been neglecting my job in the usual fashion, I have also to report that:
1) For the third week in a row, I canceled my tutoring appointment with my one and only paying student. And I canceled it twenty minutes before the appointment, so he was already on his way in from Brooklyn.
2) I might have (in my mind* only) called someone a retarded gorilla.
3) I haven't responded to all the awesome (and you have no idea how much appreciated comments) you leave on this here blog - in weeks.
4) You might without obvious unreason call me a newly minted drug addict. I have to take stuff to get to sleep at night. For a person who used to be able to sleep standing up on a moving bus, this is indeed a defeat.
5) I got ragefully jealous when I found out that Julie - my own personal internet friend who I talk to all day, every day - has been soliciting on her blog for additional internet friends. As if I were not enough for her. Supajewie, WTF?
Mighty Tribute Post goes up tomorrow. It was my original intention to mention and link to every person who has ever commented. I am still going to try. If you want to make extra certain that I get you in there, comment on the review post below. (I won't respond directly to the comment, probably, and yes that does make me a shabby blogger. But I will love that you commented and I will smear all kinds of gooey blog love all over you tomorrow. I hope that helps).
* Oh and I might have said it out loud once or twice to Julie on IM. But that totally doesn't count.
1) For the third week in a row, I canceled my tutoring appointment with my one and only paying student. And I canceled it twenty minutes before the appointment, so he was already on his way in from Brooklyn.
2) I might have (in my mind* only) called someone a retarded gorilla.
3) I haven't responded to all the awesome (and you have no idea how much appreciated comments) you leave on this here blog - in weeks.
4) You might without obvious unreason call me a newly minted drug addict. I have to take stuff to get to sleep at night. For a person who used to be able to sleep standing up on a moving bus, this is indeed a defeat.
5) I got ragefully jealous when I found out that Julie - my own personal internet friend who I talk to all day, every day - has been soliciting on her blog for additional internet friends. As if I were not enough for her. Supajewie, WTF?
Mighty Tribute Post goes up tomorrow. It was my original intention to mention and link to every person who has ever commented. I am still going to try. If you want to make extra certain that I get you in there, comment on the review post below. (I won't respond directly to the comment, probably, and yes that does make me a shabby blogger. But I will love that you commented and I will smear all kinds of gooey blog love all over you tomorrow. I hope that helps).
* Oh and I might have said it out loud once or twice to Julie on IM. But that totally doesn't count.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Sweater orb, anyone?
Yesterday on my way to the 7 train, I was in a serious hurry and in a rapturous debauch of New York City selfishness, I accidentally bludgeoned Some Guy half to death with my left breast.
Yes. That really happened. He was running up the stairs and I was running down the stairs and the train was getting ready to leave and I needed to make that train... so.
I smacked Some Guy in the face with my boob.
If you care to comment, please imagine getting bonked in the face with a whole bunch of sweater-orb -- and indicate your level of psychedness. I am afraid this guy have to endure decades of therapy.
Yes. That really happened. He was running up the stairs and I was running down the stairs and the train was getting ready to leave and I needed to make that train... so.
I smacked Some Guy in the face with my boob.
If you care to comment, please imagine getting bonked in the face with a whole bunch of sweater-orb -- and indicate your level of psychedness. I am afraid this guy have to endure decades of therapy.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Review and you
I love this image because my brother created it. It is man-centric (notice the boobs but also the baby is just born - wearing a hat, but no pants - winkle evident) but also is woman and baby positive. The image is full of love and boobs and winkle. It is not about anything else. Does anyone know where this image comes from?
I blog because a whole lot of what has happened to me in the last few years has been out of my control. Writing about it (or not) gave me a feeling of control. Also, it's fun.
Two people I love who you should go check out just because I said so:
Julie who has been my friend through many dangers, and Woodrow who says he will not be my internet friend anymore unless I turn off the spam blocker on my comments function. If you are not reading their blogs, you are a punk-ass. Get to it.
To the right you will find a new poll. It asks you to indicate whether (and what) you would like me to knit for you.
I am preparing a mighty tribute post for you, my readers. If you wish to be linked and included, please comment. (Lurkers: feel free to comment anonymously so you can preserve lurker status. I love you, too).
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Blog for sale
My blog is worth $24,146.14.
How much is your blog worth?
Obviosly, we don't blog for the money. Most of us don't run ads. Those of us who do don't make any money anyway.
I can think of a lot of good reasons for blogging, but before I tell you mine, I want to hear yours.
Click the comment button and tell.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Sparkle hour *updated*
Two nights ago, I scrambled in from wherever with a grocery bag full of frozen dinners. I might have had a bag from the liquor store and two weeks worth of mail under my arm. I can't remember. But I do remember very well that Angelo, my doorman, stopped me.
Now, when Angelo stops me, it is not a "hey, yo, what's up" kind of stop. It is a put your shit down and talk to me full stop.
So I put it all down on the desk and looked full-on into the blue eyes of the lovely sixty something year old Italian first generation off the boat Angelo. He reached across the counter and took my hand, as he always does.
"Baby," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"You know it has to stop," he said.
I said nothing.
"All this," he said, gesturing at seemingly nothing and everything, "It destroys you."
What do you say to that? I said nothing.
"Baby," he said. "You are not what you were. You used to smile and be happy. Now you are sad. Always."
"Well," I said.
"It must stop now," he said.
"Ok," I said.
"Yes?" he said.
"Ok," I said.
"You come to Brooklyn. I make you pasta. You will see how the world should be," he said.
"Ok," I said.
It is unlikely that I will go to Brooklyn and eat pasta with Angelo, but it would not be too far a stretch to say that the man basically owns me.
If you move to a building with a doorman, your doorman will know more about you than your own mother inside of six months. They don't need to be told you have a new boyfriend or a new job. They don't need a memo to learn that your dad is dying or you are going on vacation or that your last break up is haunting you. They know everything while they know nothing.
How do they know? They know because they watch you walk in and out of the building every day. The look on your face, the clothing you wear, the take out you order, the packages you pick up? These things tell all. The doorman knows because he knows.
And so while I could do without the strange sparkle in Angelo's eyes, I can do just as well with it. And it's ok that he calls me baby. He does, after all, own me.
Around here there are two times of day that I especially love. Sparkle hours A and B. Sparkle hour A happens at around 9am, when the sun hits the river just so and the whole thing sparkles. Today it is dark and stormy so it doesn't sparkle so much but has a certain charm, nonetheless. I would upload pictures of these events for you if blogger would cooperate, but it won't. I have been trying to upload the pictures for three hours. It is not working. It is not likely that my continuing to try will have any effect. So I am giving up.
OH LOOK! I got the pictures to load!
Have an excellent, sparkley Wednesday.
Now, when Angelo stops me, it is not a "hey, yo, what's up" kind of stop. It is a put your shit down and talk to me full stop.
So I put it all down on the desk and looked full-on into the blue eyes of the lovely sixty something year old Italian first generation off the boat Angelo. He reached across the counter and took my hand, as he always does.
"Baby," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"You know it has to stop," he said.
I said nothing.
"All this," he said, gesturing at seemingly nothing and everything, "It destroys you."
What do you say to that? I said nothing.
"Baby," he said. "You are not what you were. You used to smile and be happy. Now you are sad. Always."
"Well," I said.
"It must stop now," he said.
"Ok," I said.
"Yes?" he said.
"Ok," I said.
"You come to Brooklyn. I make you pasta. You will see how the world should be," he said.
"Ok," I said.
It is unlikely that I will go to Brooklyn and eat pasta with Angelo, but it would not be too far a stretch to say that the man basically owns me.
If you move to a building with a doorman, your doorman will know more about you than your own mother inside of six months. They don't need to be told you have a new boyfriend or a new job. They don't need a memo to learn that your dad is dying or you are going on vacation or that your last break up is haunting you. They know everything while they know nothing.
How do they know? They know because they watch you walk in and out of the building every day. The look on your face, the clothing you wear, the take out you order, the packages you pick up? These things tell all. The doorman knows because he knows.
And so while I could do without the strange sparkle in Angelo's eyes, I can do just as well with it. And it's ok that he calls me baby. He does, after all, own me.
Around here there are two times of day that I especially love. Sparkle hours A and B. Sparkle hour A happens at around 9am, when the sun hits the river just so and the whole thing sparkles. Today it is dark and stormy so it doesn't sparkle so much but has a certain charm, nonetheless. I would upload pictures of these events for you if blogger would cooperate, but it won't. I have been trying to upload the pictures for three hours. It is not working. It is not likely that my continuing to try will have any effect. So I am giving up.
OH LOOK! I got the pictures to load!
Have an excellent, sparkley Wednesday.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
lalalala baby
My internet service provider doth not serve me today. It took me an hour just to get this page to load. So I am not going to say much today. (Do I ever?)
Have I mentioned I am a hopeless insomniac? Have I told you how badly I need to either start getting to the gym every day or cut off my own brain from the main generator? I am a mess.
Tomorrow morning I'll tell you the one person on earth I permit to call me "baby." And why I permit it.
*airkiss*
Have I mentioned I am a hopeless insomniac? Have I told you how badly I need to either start getting to the gym every day or cut off my own brain from the main generator? I am a mess.
Tomorrow morning I'll tell you the one person on earth I permit to call me "baby." And why I permit it.
*airkiss*
Monday, March 3, 2008
Steeped happily in disaster
My girl LAS tagged me for the Book Meme.
Directions: pick up the nearest book. Open to page 123. Type the fifth sentence on the page.
OK.
"He sat slouched in a camouflage jacket with Velco closures, steeped happily in disaster."
Tagged herewith:
Uisce
Ki
Sizzle
Chelsea
Country Roads
Now, if you are tagged and you'd rather not be tagged, then un-tag yourself. I am well aware that some people are anti-meme. That's cool. Just move on.
If you were all like, Oh, pick me! pick me! then consider yourself tagged. I'll even tag you officially if you request a tag in comments.
Love and stuff,
Nina
Directions: pick up the nearest book. Open to page 123. Type the fifth sentence on the page.
OK.
"He sat slouched in a camouflage jacket with Velco closures, steeped happily in disaster."
Tagged herewith:
Uisce
Ki
Sizzle
Chelsea
Country Roads
Now, if you are tagged and you'd rather not be tagged, then un-tag yourself. I am well aware that some people are anti-meme. That's cool. Just move on.
If you were all like, Oh, pick me! pick me! then consider yourself tagged. I'll even tag you officially if you request a tag in comments.
Love and stuff,
Nina
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Sin of the week, 3/2/08
Leaving aside yesterday's confession regarding the wearing of someone else's pants - which I am doing right now - both the leaving aside and the wearing - I have some surprising things to report today about this week's shabby behavior.
The first is that for the first time in my life, I have had thoughts that might rightly be described as violent. I know this may come as a shock. Indeed, I am shocked myself. So i'll just get on with the business of humiliating myself by describing my recent violent thoughts (and occasional violent actions). (Yes, there was real violence, on two occasions).
One of the instances of fantasy violence involves work, so I can't describe in too much detail for fear that the one lurker I have (who happens to reside in a certain place that will remain unmentioned) could be my boss. So I'll put it this way: when you tell 80 people to complete a three part process by midnight on a specific day, you should (if you are me) expect only 38 of those people to complete it correctly. The other 42 will deviate from the directions between step 1 and 2 and nearly all of them will lie to you about it because they don't want to get a zero. The rest will contrive a narrative in which it is also somehow your (my) fault that they didn't follow the directions. By the time you have explained the directions again and again and again and again over your cell phone, which, by the way cuts out every two and a half minutes so that you have to start and stop that same phone call over and over and over again, you will be fiercely glad you live in a state such water-tight gun-control laws. In fact, there might be a provision in there that says teachers can't own firearms. I am in favor of it. Otherwise I might have been in jail by now. (The irony, of course, is that none of these miscreants lives within shooting distance. Awesome, no?)
A second instance requires no special description either because I think you all know that I threw a tuna fish sandwich against the wall the other day. Why did I do that? Well, it was disgusting, but more to the point, I had spent the remaining money I had left in the world to buy it. Why was I so short of cash? Because Panic once again, chose not to complete the paperwork to get me paid on time.
Last and finally, when I realized that my syllabus and most of my course materials were destroyed when my hard drive crashed the other week - well. After calculating the number of hours I did not have to replace all that work, I might have ripped the leg off my desk chair and thrown it at the wall. It hit the window.
It felt great.
I am not sorry.
What does this mean? I have never been like this before in my entire life. Never, ever have I wished harm to stupid people. I might have made just a little bit of fun, but I didn't want to bash their faces in for wasting my time and disrespecting the CONTRACT they signed when they entered my class. Never before have I been so childish as to throw food just because I hate it and I am mad at someone else. Never, ever have I destroyed my own furniture because I am so ever-loving OVER things sucking the ass crack of hell for no apparent reason. Never. I scare myself.
I am sure my childish fit-throwing is temporary, anyway, since as previously noted, I have never responded to stress in quite this way before.
If you care to comment,* leave out the part where you think I am dangerous and should be permanently stored in a padded room. Instead, put in stories of your own childish fit throwing. If you have ever broken your own toys, tell me today. I sort of need to hear it.
Happy Sunday
*Oh and by the way, yes. Yes, I know I have fallen off on responding to comments and visiting your blogs. I am working on it. I will be better to you all very very soon. Promise.
The first is that for the first time in my life, I have had thoughts that might rightly be described as violent. I know this may come as a shock. Indeed, I am shocked myself. So i'll just get on with the business of humiliating myself by describing my recent violent thoughts (and occasional violent actions). (Yes, there was real violence, on two occasions).
One of the instances of fantasy violence involves work, so I can't describe in too much detail for fear that the one lurker I have (who happens to reside in a certain place that will remain unmentioned) could be my boss. So I'll put it this way: when you tell 80 people to complete a three part process by midnight on a specific day, you should (if you are me) expect only 38 of those people to complete it correctly. The other 42 will deviate from the directions between step 1 and 2 and nearly all of them will lie to you about it because they don't want to get a zero. The rest will contrive a narrative in which it is also somehow your (my) fault that they didn't follow the directions. By the time you have explained the directions again and again and again and again over your cell phone, which, by the way cuts out every two and a half minutes so that you have to start and stop that same phone call over and over and over again, you will be fiercely glad you live in a state such water-tight gun-control laws. In fact, there might be a provision in there that says teachers can't own firearms. I am in favor of it. Otherwise I might have been in jail by now. (The irony, of course, is that none of these miscreants lives within shooting distance. Awesome, no?)
A second instance requires no special description either because I think you all know that I threw a tuna fish sandwich against the wall the other day. Why did I do that? Well, it was disgusting, but more to the point, I had spent the remaining money I had left in the world to buy it. Why was I so short of cash? Because Panic once again, chose not to complete the paperwork to get me paid on time.
Last and finally, when I realized that my syllabus and most of my course materials were destroyed when my hard drive crashed the other week - well. After calculating the number of hours I did not have to replace all that work, I might have ripped the leg off my desk chair and thrown it at the wall. It hit the window.
It felt great.
I am not sorry.
What does this mean? I have never been like this before in my entire life. Never, ever have I wished harm to stupid people. I might have made just a little bit of fun, but I didn't want to bash their faces in for wasting my time and disrespecting the CONTRACT they signed when they entered my class. Never before have I been so childish as to throw food just because I hate it and I am mad at someone else. Never, ever have I destroyed my own furniture because I am so ever-loving OVER things sucking the ass crack of hell for no apparent reason. Never. I scare myself.
I am sure my childish fit-throwing is temporary, anyway, since as previously noted, I have never responded to stress in quite this way before.
If you care to comment,* leave out the part where you think I am dangerous and should be permanently stored in a padded room. Instead, put in stories of your own childish fit throwing. If you have ever broken your own toys, tell me today. I sort of need to hear it.
Happy Sunday
*Oh and by the way, yes. Yes, I know I have fallen off on responding to comments and visiting your blogs. I am working on it. I will be better to you all very very soon. Promise.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
I am so in your pants right now
Dear Neighbor,
Last weekend, you and I did our laundry. I was the filmy troll with the enormous breasts. You were the cute thing with the glossy hair and the pink-trimmed sneakers. I give you credit, girl. You've got a great ass. But I still wouldn't want to be you - and it's not (only) because I am the one with the graduate degree and the additional one (or two) decades of rich, meaningful, soul-refining life experience.
I wouldn't want to be you, neighbor, because I know for a personal fact that no matter how well your week went, it was, in fact, a disaster. I know this because while your ass may be cute, it is not......
Well. I think you know.
Let me turn now to the painful subject of your laundry error. You hastily extracted your garments from the dryer without ensuring that the drum was empty. Otherwise, how could I have placed my own garments in that same dryer, hit the 40 minute low heat cycle, and six hours later extracted the wonder of your pants?
True, the error is half mine. I did not carefully examine the dryer to ensure that it was unoccupied. I did not think to clean the lint trap or add a dryer sheet, either. I, like you, was in a hurry. I am also at fault for not noticing, as I was folding my garments last weekend, that the inky black wonderous sweatpants with the extra perfecty-perfect waistband and the flattering drape were not in fact my all time favorite DKNY track pants. Your pants and my pants are similar. Just different. I folded your pants and put them in my closet. Right next to my other track-y sweat pant-y stretchy clothes. (Shut up).
Only this morning, a week later, when I reached into the stretchy pants pile and unfolded your wondrously comfortable pants - and applied them to my own ass - did I realize my error. Unfortunately for you, I also discovered that you are the owner of the dearest, bestest, coziest, cutest sweatpants ever blessed by Mary, Virgin Mother of God and Patroness of House-Pants.* I have never, ever in the history of gaining and losing the same ten pounds, ever felt the way I feel about this pair of pants.
To put it plainly, I am in love. And no, this is not drunken late night bar sniffed a little something can I take a hit off that sure you can grab my ass infatuation. Neighbor, this is solid, true, cold light of six in the morning just out of the shower uncaffeinated devotion. I am not crushing on your pants. I am in love.
I am right now, as we speak, wiggling around at my desk in their voluminous, fluffy, coziness.
Love.
I want these pants.
Now, technically, neighbor, I have your pants. See above re: wiggling.
What is bothering me, of course, is that I do not own your pants. I realize that it is trashy and in poor taste and maybe even a little bit hygienically ill-advised to even make the suggestion to follow herewith, but neighbor, I must own these pants. It is not enough to simply have them for a day. I want to marry them and wear them forever and ever and ever. Amen.
If you wish to enter into negotiations with me regarding the formal unification of me and your pants, please see the doorman. To prove your title, please identify the designer, the size, and the location and circumference of the one barely even noticeable hole. If you pass security clearance, the door man will give you my apartment number and you may visit me and your pants at your leisure. I will likely be wearing your pants when you arrive, which makes your bargaining position both better and worse.
I look forward to your visit.
(You are never getting these pants back).
Your neighbor,
Nina
*
Last weekend, you and I did our laundry. I was the filmy troll with the enormous breasts. You were the cute thing with the glossy hair and the pink-trimmed sneakers. I give you credit, girl. You've got a great ass. But I still wouldn't want to be you - and it's not (only) because I am the one with the graduate degree and the additional one (or two) decades of rich, meaningful, soul-refining life experience.
I wouldn't want to be you, neighbor, because I know for a personal fact that no matter how well your week went, it was, in fact, a disaster. I know this because while your ass may be cute, it is not......
Well. I think you know.
Let me turn now to the painful subject of your laundry error. You hastily extracted your garments from the dryer without ensuring that the drum was empty. Otherwise, how could I have placed my own garments in that same dryer, hit the 40 minute low heat cycle, and six hours later extracted the wonder of your pants?
True, the error is half mine. I did not carefully examine the dryer to ensure that it was unoccupied. I did not think to clean the lint trap or add a dryer sheet, either. I, like you, was in a hurry. I am also at fault for not noticing, as I was folding my garments last weekend, that the inky black wonderous sweatpants with the extra perfecty-perfect waistband and the flattering drape were not in fact my all time favorite DKNY track pants. Your pants and my pants are similar. Just different. I folded your pants and put them in my closet. Right next to my other track-y sweat pant-y stretchy clothes. (Shut up).
Only this morning, a week later, when I reached into the stretchy pants pile and unfolded your wondrously comfortable pants - and applied them to my own ass - did I realize my error. Unfortunately for you, I also discovered that you are the owner of the dearest, bestest, coziest, cutest sweatpants ever blessed by Mary, Virgin Mother of God and Patroness of House-Pants.* I have never, ever in the history of gaining and losing the same ten pounds, ever felt the way I feel about this pair of pants.
To put it plainly, I am in love. And no, this is not drunken late night bar sniffed a little something can I take a hit off that sure you can grab my ass infatuation. Neighbor, this is solid, true, cold light of six in the morning just out of the shower uncaffeinated devotion. I am not crushing on your pants. I am in love.
I am right now, as we speak, wiggling around at my desk in their voluminous, fluffy, coziness.
Love.
I want these pants.
Now, technically, neighbor, I have your pants. See above re: wiggling.
What is bothering me, of course, is that I do not own your pants. I realize that it is trashy and in poor taste and maybe even a little bit hygienically ill-advised to even make the suggestion to follow herewith, but neighbor, I must own these pants. It is not enough to simply have them for a day. I want to marry them and wear them forever and ever and ever. Amen.
If you wish to enter into negotiations with me regarding the formal unification of me and your pants, please see the doorman. To prove your title, please identify the designer, the size, and the location and circumference of the one barely even noticeable hole. If you pass security clearance, the door man will give you my apartment number and you may visit me and your pants at your leisure. I will likely be wearing your pants when you arrive, which makes your bargaining position both better and worse.
I look forward to your visit.
(You are never getting these pants back).
Your neighbor,
Nina
*
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