"Yes, hello, I'm calling because I'd like to exchange this life for a cooler one. I have my birth certificate, will that suffice as a receipt? I know it's been used but it's just not what the description said it would be. What's that? You want to know if this is an emergency? Uh, yeah, I'm pretty sure it is...I mean, it's my life and all. Excuse me? I am not out of line! I got this life and it did not turn out the way I expected, I believe that means I either get to return it or exchange it for one that doesn't suck...Alright...You know what? I've had about enough of your rude, condescending attitude! I want to speak to your manager!"
Worst. Customer. Service. Ever.
Really.
The people at 9-1-1 are total assholes.
Showing posts with label Complexes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Complexes. Show all posts
Monday, May 17, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Without Resolution
New Year’s resolutions remind me of tired Clinton/Lewinsky jokes that aren’t good enough to leave a stain (see what I did there?).
I used to make resolutions every year until I realized it’s all a part of society’s maniacal plan to turn us into productive, focused and disciplined individuals. By maintaining a steady routine, I’m able to break and reinstate every New Year’s resolution multiple times throughout the year, which means my resolutions are green because I recycle them year after year (Al Gore says it’s good for the environment). These recycled resolutions are:
1. Quit smoking (Or only smoke when I drink. Cocktail anyone?)
2. Lose ____ pounds (This year we are in the double double digits.)
3. Stop complaining so much (But it’s so hard!)
4. Eat healthier (These cookies are organic.)
5. Write more (Why not? No one reads this crap anyway.)
Usually I start the New Year off by attacking these resolutions with gusto for at least two days before I get bored and forget about them until March, but something about 2009 left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m not ready to face another year of the same resolutions. When I thought about changing my resolutions I was put off by the thought of anything coming before these five main goals, which I’ve become attached to over the years. Still, it’s like I keep hitting the snooze button on 2010. At this point, February is looking like a much better time to start working towards having Jenny McCarthy’s body by bathing suit season. But then I thought, “I can’t start on my New Year’s resolutions while people still have their Christmas lights up!” and because I live in Kansas City, this means I won’t get started on my resolutions until mid-March, maybe April (people really like their Christmas decorations here). But if I manage to accomplish one of those five goals this year, does it really matter when I start trying? Besides, January is the coldest, most depressing, uneventful month of the year and it’s hilarious to think I’m going to accomplish anything while I wait out this misery from the comfort of my couch.
For me, resolutions are like empty boxes wrapped in beautiful paper artfully adorned with ribbons and bows—meaningless, but nice as decoration. I won't be fooled into self-improvement this year just to set unreasonable expectations for myself and wallow in the disappointment of inevitable failure. So, to media targeting my guilt and feelings of inadequacy at the start of the New Year: Stop bombarding me with your resolution suggestions, top tens, anecdotes, advice and try reporting on something relevant, like how to shovel a driveway with a fork when everyone is sold out of snow shovels.
Maybe I’ll jump on the resolution bandwagon in June when everyone has given up hope and canceled their gym memberships, but for now I plan to focus on not bettering myself until I’m ready. So goodbye to 2009, I’m off like an intern’s blue dress and onto 2010.
I used to make resolutions every year until I realized it’s all a part of society’s maniacal plan to turn us into productive, focused and disciplined individuals. By maintaining a steady routine, I’m able to break and reinstate every New Year’s resolution multiple times throughout the year, which means my resolutions are green because I recycle them year after year (Al Gore says it’s good for the environment). These recycled resolutions are:
1. Quit smoking (Or only smoke when I drink. Cocktail anyone?)
2. Lose ____ pounds (This year we are in the double double digits.)
3. Stop complaining so much (But it’s so hard!)
4. Eat healthier (These cookies are organic.)
5. Write more (Why not? No one reads this crap anyway.)
Usually I start the New Year off by attacking these resolutions with gusto for at least two days before I get bored and forget about them until March, but something about 2009 left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m not ready to face another year of the same resolutions. When I thought about changing my resolutions I was put off by the thought of anything coming before these five main goals, which I’ve become attached to over the years. Still, it’s like I keep hitting the snooze button on 2010. At this point, February is looking like a much better time to start working towards having Jenny McCarthy’s body by bathing suit season. But then I thought, “I can’t start on my New Year’s resolutions while people still have their Christmas lights up!” and because I live in Kansas City, this means I won’t get started on my resolutions until mid-March, maybe April (people really like their Christmas decorations here). But if I manage to accomplish one of those five goals this year, does it really matter when I start trying? Besides, January is the coldest, most depressing, uneventful month of the year and it’s hilarious to think I’m going to accomplish anything while I wait out this misery from the comfort of my couch.
For me, resolutions are like empty boxes wrapped in beautiful paper artfully adorned with ribbons and bows—meaningless, but nice as decoration. I won't be fooled into self-improvement this year just to set unreasonable expectations for myself and wallow in the disappointment of inevitable failure. So, to media targeting my guilt and feelings of inadequacy at the start of the New Year: Stop bombarding me with your resolution suggestions, top tens, anecdotes, advice and try reporting on something relevant, like how to shovel a driveway with a fork when everyone is sold out of snow shovels.
Maybe I’ll jump on the resolution bandwagon in June when everyone has given up hope and canceled their gym memberships, but for now I plan to focus on not bettering myself until I’m ready. So goodbye to 2009, I’m off like an intern’s blue dress and onto 2010.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Words of Wisdom, or Lies Our Parents Told Us
1. “Your face will stick that way.”
Uh, no it won’t. I’ve made plenty of awesome faces before and I have not found a way to make my face stick in any of those positions. This was one of those parentisms that I heard at least once a day as a child. I was the kid who spent hours contorting her face and crossing her eyes in various unnatural ways to impress my friends and serve as entertainment during my parents’ dinner parties. Although it took me many years, I have finally perfected the one eye crossed look, so maybe “your face will stick that way” isn’t entirely untrue.
2. “The Boogieman isn’t real.”
Yes, he is. He lives in the dark corners of all my fears and anxieties, and one of these days he is going to pop out of the slightly ajar closet in my room and eat my toes.
3. “Only boring people are bored.”
I’m bored right now. Am I boring? Don’t answer that. When we were growing up, my sister and I had a babysitter named Faye who used to say this to us. Whenever I approached her with those fateful three words, “I am bored,” her answer was always the same, “Well get un-bored! Only boring people are bored!” Boring people might be bored a lot, but you know what? Super interesting and awesome people are bored a lot too because super interesting and awesome shit just doesn’t happen regularly enough to keep their attention. Ha, so there! Your move, babysitter, your move.
4. “Someday, you could be President!”
It’s 1992, an election year, and I am eight years old. One day, instead of going outside for recess, I stayed inside to make friendship bracelets (for my friends who were outside playing during recess, I guess?) and I started asking my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Englebright, about the presidents. I wanted to know specifics—what kind of toys do presidents like, do they watch TV, what are their favorite colors, do they carry guns or ninja swords? As my
teacher patiently answered all of my questions, she proceeded to tell me that just about anyone could be President, “You could even be the first female President,” she said. I remember thinking I must be infinitely special for her to tell me this until the next day when she decided to incorporate a lesson plan about Presidents (undoubtedly spurred by my questioning) and told the entire class, “Someday, one of you, any of you, could be President!” Seriously? Anyone? I was dejected. As I grew older I realized that my teacher was partially right, just about any asshat could end up as the President.
This is an old wives’ tale that I will forever blame for my perpetually dry hair. But guess what? Scientists discovered that, like most wives’ tales, this one was totally made up. These days, if I leave the house with dry hair, it’s abnormal. I see wet hair almost as a courtesy, like, “Hey, just wanted to share with you the evidence of my shower this morning. I realize my cleanliness, or lack there of, might be an issue some days, but not today!”
6. “_____ are just jealous of you!”
That group of 7th grade girls who spent a week putting fake love notes from the cutest, most popular boy in school in my locker did not do it because they were jealous of me. And I didn’t fail to get invited to the party of the year because the hosts were jealous of me. And I didn’t get laid off and spend six months searching for a job because someone was jealous of me. Seriously, thank god I was born with low self-esteem because otherwise I might be walking around acting like another Kardashian.
7. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”
I don’t know about you, but a mansion on the beach with a live-in gourmet cook and masseuse, a collector’s library of first edition books, and a little person with an Italian accent who brings me a frozen cocktail with one of those tiny umbrellas whenever I blow into a conch shell would make me pretty damn happy. Don’t get deep with me about this; complicating happiness with silly things like morals is so unnecessary. So, let’s be real: Mansion + beach + cook + masseuse + books + little person + tiny umbrellas = Happiness. You might call that shallow and materialistic, but I call it blissfully content — toe-may-toe, to-my-toe.
8. Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy
A part of my childhood ended when I suddenly I realized that all of these gift-bearing creatures looked a lot like my dad. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to have kids so that I can endlessly threaten them with, “If you don’t go to bed, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents,” even if it’s May. The Easter Bunny was always confusing to me because, why would a human-sized rabbit come to your house and hide eggs? As long as candy was involved, I didn’t question anything – but for the record, I always knew the Easter Bunny was a sham. (And, okay, so what if I still sort of believe in the Tooth Fairy?)
9. “Boys only want one thing.”
My dad used to say this to me during my teen years. “Now, remember, boys only want one thing, and I know this because I was once a boy too, even though that’s hard to believe now, I was, so I know. [Awkward pause.] Just don’t be stupid, okay?” While it didn’t take me long to figure out what that one thing was for sure, I think this statement is only half true. Now that I live with a boy, I mean, man, I’m pretty sure that there could be more than one thing that they want…I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
10. “Going to college will make you a better decision maker.”
Bullshit. Going to college did not make me a better decision maker. The only thing I learned in college was how to make really bad decisions, barely avoid the repercussions and then do exactly the same thing again the next weekend. Of course, in a really roundabout way, perhaps by learning to make bad decisions well, I did become a better overall decision maker. However, I doubt this is what my high school counselor meant while he was convincing us all to spend four years drunk, I mean, go to college.
12. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”
Whenever someone says, “I promise it won’t hurt,” just know that whatever it is will hurt like shit.
13. “You’ll grow out of this phase.”
Oh really? Well I am about to enter my 13th year of what a school nurse once referred to as my “awkward phase,” so this is obviously a lie. I’m guessing there are some things we may never grow out of, or, in my case, awkwardness is more of an unfortunate characteristic as opposed to a phase.
14. Almost anything said, seen or practiced in Sex Education classes.
No, a bird doesn’t bring me my period, and yes, I am pissed about it. Also, forcing us to practice putting condoms on bananas did nothing but provide us with unrealistic expectations, which would be met with massive disappointment later in life. Am I right? Of course I am.
15. “These are the best years of your life.”
This phrase was uttered by almost every adult I knew at one point during the course of my high school experience. I know they were telling me to cherish my youth, but the only thing I ever thought was, “Really? These are the best years of my life? Really? Great, I guess I’ll just quit now, while I’m apparently ahead, because if life doesn’t get any better than field parties and 6 a.m. detention for chewing gum in the halls, then I don’t care to go on.” I can safely say that my high school years were not the best years of my life and I doubt I will ever look back and feel differently.
What lies did you hear growing up? Tell me about them in the comments. Please. I'm not ashamed to admit that I live for comments - so don't hold back.
Uh, no it won’t. I’ve made plenty of awesome faces before and I have not found a way to make my face stick in any of those positions. This was one of those parentisms that I heard at least once a day as a child. I was the kid who spent hours contorting her face and crossing her eyes in various unnatural ways to impress my friends and serve as entertainment during my parents’ dinner parties. Although it took me many years, I have finally perfected the one eye crossed look, so maybe “your face will stick that way” isn’t entirely untrue.
2. “The Boogieman isn’t real.”
Yes, he is. He lives in the dark corners of all my fears and anxieties, and one of these days he is going to pop out of the slightly ajar closet in my room and eat my toes.
3. “Only boring people are bored.”
I’m bored right now. Am I boring? Don’t answer that. When we were growing up, my sister and I had a babysitter named Faye who used to say this to us. Whenever I approached her with those fateful three words, “I am bored,” her answer was always the same, “Well get un-bored! Only boring people are bored!” Boring people might be bored a lot, but you know what? Super interesting and awesome people are bored a lot too because super interesting and awesome shit just doesn’t happen regularly enough to keep their attention. Ha, so there! Your move, babysitter, your move.
4. “Someday, you could be President!”
It’s 1992, an election year, and I am eight years old. One day, instead of going outside for recess, I stayed inside to make friendship bracelets (for my friends who were outside playing during recess, I guess?) and I started asking my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Englebright, about the presidents. I wanted to know specifics—what kind of toys do presidents like, do they watch TV, what are their favorite colors, do they carry guns or ninja swords? As my
teacher patiently answered all of my questions, she proceeded to tell me that just about anyone could be President, “You could even be the first female President,” she said. I remember thinking I must be infinitely special for her to tell me this until the next day when she decided to incorporate a lesson plan about Presidents (undoubtedly spurred by my questioning) and told the entire class, “Someday, one of you, any of you, could be President!” Seriously? Anyone? I was dejected. As I grew older I realized that my teacher was partially right, just about any asshat could end up as the President.4a. “You can be anything you want to be.”5. “Don’t go outside with wet hair.”
I made it pretty far believing that this was true, and I’m sure this belief is directly related to why I still believe I'll one day be a ("real") writer, but that’s not the point here. Before I wanted to be a writer I wanted to be a veterinarian, before that I wanted to be a singer, before that I wanted to an actress, before that it was a Ninja Turtle, and before that it was a pony. I truly believed I could be all or any of those things. I wonder what my parents would have said if I came home and told them I wanted to be a pterodactyl, or a bulldozer, or…a “shovel”?
This is an old wives’ tale that I will forever blame for my perpetually dry hair. But guess what? Scientists discovered that, like most wives’ tales, this one was totally made up. These days, if I leave the house with dry hair, it’s abnormal. I see wet hair almost as a courtesy, like, “Hey, just wanted to share with you the evidence of my shower this morning. I realize my cleanliness, or lack there of, might be an issue some days, but not today!”
6. “_____ are just jealous of you!”
That group of 7th grade girls who spent a week putting fake love notes from the cutest, most popular boy in school in my locker did not do it because they were jealous of me. And I didn’t fail to get invited to the party of the year because the hosts were jealous of me. And I didn’t get laid off and spend six months searching for a job because someone was jealous of me. Seriously, thank god I was born with low self-esteem because otherwise I might be walking around acting like another Kardashian.
7. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”
I don’t know about you, but a mansion on the beach with a live-in gourmet cook and masseuse, a collector’s library of first edition books, and a little person with an Italian accent who brings me a frozen cocktail with one of those tiny umbrellas whenever I blow into a conch shell would make me pretty damn happy. Don’t get deep with me about this; complicating happiness with silly things like morals is so unnecessary. So, let’s be real: Mansion + beach + cook + masseuse + books + little person + tiny umbrellas = Happiness. You might call that shallow and materialistic, but I call it blissfully content — toe-may-toe, to-my-toe.
8. Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy
A part of my childhood ended when I suddenly I realized that all of these gift-bearing creatures looked a lot like my dad. Nevertheless, I can’t wait to have kids so that I can endlessly threaten them with, “If you don’t go to bed, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents,” even if it’s May. The Easter Bunny was always confusing to me because, why would a human-sized rabbit come to your house and hide eggs? As long as candy was involved, I didn’t question anything – but for the record, I always knew the Easter Bunny was a sham. (And, okay, so what if I still sort of believe in the Tooth Fairy?)
9. “Boys only want one thing.”
My dad used to say this to me during my teen years. “Now, remember, boys only want one thing, and I know this because I was once a boy too, even though that’s hard to believe now, I was, so I know. [Awkward pause.] Just don’t be stupid, okay?” While it didn’t take me long to figure out what that one thing was for sure, I think this statement is only half true. Now that I live with a boy, I mean, man, I’m pretty sure that there could be more than one thing that they want…I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
10. “Going to college will make you a better decision maker.”
Bullshit. Going to college did not make me a better decision maker. The only thing I learned in college was how to make really bad decisions, barely avoid the repercussions and then do exactly the same thing again the next weekend. Of course, in a really roundabout way, perhaps by learning to make bad decisions well, I did become a better overall decision maker. However, I doubt this is what my high school counselor meant while he was convincing us all to spend four years drunk, I mean, go to college.
12. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”
13. “You’ll grow out of this phase.”
Oh really? Well I am about to enter my 13th year of what a school nurse once referred to as my “awkward phase,” so this is obviously a lie. I’m guessing there are some things we may never grow out of, or, in my case, awkwardness is more of an unfortunate characteristic as opposed to a phase.
15. “These are the best years of your life.”
This phrase was uttered by almost every adult I knew at one point during the course of my high school experience. I know they were telling me to cherish my youth, but the only thing I ever thought was, “Really? These are the best years of my life? Really? Great, I guess I’ll just quit now, while I’m apparently ahead, because if life doesn’t get any better than field parties and 6 a.m. detention for chewing gum in the halls, then I don’t care to go on.” I can safely say that my high school years were not the best years of my life and I doubt I will ever look back and feel differently.
What lies did you hear growing up? Tell me about them in the comments. Please. I'm not ashamed to admit that I live for comments - so don't hold back.
Monday, October 26, 2009
I'm Super Busy and Important...
This title is true if it is opposite day, which it is not.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?
3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Dead Ducklings and Memory Reconciliation
When I see Candy Buttons (the multi-colored dots on a strip of paper) I think of the Philadelphia Zoo and riding a train for the first time. When I taste blood I think of the time my dad pulled out my first loose tooth. Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Condensed Soup reminds me of the pork chops my dad used to make that were essentially drowning in an indescribable, chunky, gray sludge, which we subsequently ate every night for what felt like a year. The deafening sound of cicadas makes me think of the summer we visited our second cousins in Sioux City, Iowa. The sweet rubbery smell of a My Little Pony reminds me of birthdays and Christmases. Green ribbons remind me of summer camp. Oatmeal makes me think of chicken pox. Big Red gum reminds me of long car rides. And dry ice makes me think of all the times my sister and I pretended to be witches or mad scientists.These are just brief instances, little snapshots of the past that pop into my head without warning. But none of the aforementioned memory triggers compare to the one I think of and recount most often.
(Note: The way I remember this happening might be different from what actually happened, so I guess you could say this is strictly from my seven-year-old point of view.)
It was newly summer, the end of the school year, and we were hosting a pool party for my second grade class. We lived in Powhatan, Virginia, a mostly rural (at the time) area, where it was headline news when the first stoplight was installed, and close encounters with wild animals and nature were pretty common. We also had a lot of animals of our own—or, as my dad would say, “it was a fucking zoo”—cats (which were endlessly fertile, thus a constant litter of kittens), pigeons, dogs, horses, rabbits, a couple goldfish, hamsters, guinea pigs, and ducklings were all part of our ever-growing brood. At the time of this pool party, the ducklings were the most new and exciting addition to our “zoo.” There were two ducklings, and during a forced break from swimming, I led a group of my classmates down to the ducklings’ cage, which was just beyond the pool, to show them these adorable, fuzzy, chirping creatures; however, when we reached our destination, there was nothing but an empty cage. I remember feeling panicked, thinking that it was my fault—had I irresponsibly left the door open? But, alas, this was not the case, for one of the ducklings lay dead on the ground—and it wasn’t in an ‘oops, it fell’ sort of way, it was in a ‘who done it’ sort of way.
I took off, searching for my dad, because surely he would know how to save the duckies. I ran up the side of our house screaming, “Daddy! Daaaad! DAAA-AAAD! HELP! SOMETHING’S HAPPENED TO THE DUCKS!” My dad, used to dramatic outbursts whether it was a dead baby duck or a dismembered Barbie, told me he would take care of it and to go back to the party. While he was problem-solving the duckling situation, I ran off to tell everyone about the tragedy unfolding, but I didn’t get far before I heard a few screams and my dad yelling. I ran around the pool and up to the side of the house where my dad had been, thinking someone must have found the missing duckling. But this was not the case, for there it was, the culprit of all evil, the monster, the murderer of my ducklings: a seven-foot long black snake with a large, duck-like lump just past its head (I’d say neck, but that doesn’t seem accurate). My dad was holding the monster by the tail as if it was a giant fish; he even had that proud predator smile, the one you see on fisherman in those 8” x 10” pictures encased in frames that have “Catch of the Day” engraved across the top. I was instantly horrified. I had seen, and likely tortured, many small garden snakes before, but I had never seen a snake as immense as the beast that ate my duckies. At this point my dad was too sick of the “zoo” to even entertain the idea of getting more ducks, and I don’t doubt that he experienced some sense of relief in their passing, but he still tried to make me feel better, telling me it was okay because the big, bad snake was dead now so I didn’t have to worry. He had to chop the snake into pieces with a shovel in order to fit it into the garbage. Then I ate a popsicle and went swimming.
Now my dead ducklings haunt me every time I go to a park with a pond, or when I walk my dog along the path in our neighborhood where ducks occasionally flutter in the puddles, or when duck is on the menu at a restaurant, or when someone mentions snakes. But sometimes it’s not even duck or snake-related, sometimes I’m folding laundry, or brushing my teeth, or writing a blog post. Perhaps it was the lack of resolution, the eagerness to move past the devastating murder of my ducklings, which has resulted in automatic playback of this memory. It was this weekend that I found out my dad’s version of this story is much different than my own, but that only seems to add to the trauma (I suppose it also confirms my ability to dramatize any event, as if I needed further proof).
Maybe resolution lies in the fact that my dad’s story is different than mine, even though in his version the ducklings are still murdered by a giant black snake, which he then killed (he confirms the whole chopping it up with a shovel part too), but he claims I wasn’t the one to discover the duckling homicide. Maybe the spirits of my duckies can’t rest until I do something to resolve their untimely deaths. Maybe I can’t rest until I do something to make myself feel better about their murders. I’ve considered a few options like, getting new ducklings and caring for them to adulthood (but that won’t work because my dog will surely eat them), or donating to a duck preservation society (but I’m practically a charity case myself so that seems unreasonable), or maybe I could buy a snake and turn it into a vegetarian before releasing it back into the wild so that it can teach other murderous snakes a lesson (but that seems to require a specific skill set, which I’m not really interested in acquiring).
I suppose a certain amount of unrest concerning this memory is inevitable. I guess I’ll just eat a popsicle and go swimming. Again.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sisterly Love
Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday
Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday
Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday
Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.
Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday
Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday
Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday
Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.
So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.
Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.
Monday, June 22, 2009
On Being Gracefully Challenged
I’ve never been anything but clumsy. My childhood was spent with skinned knees, broken limbs and an occasionally obscure wound—like the time I scratched my cornea and had to wear an eye patch for the whole summer. I can recount 25 years of clumsiness by mapping out my scars: the one that looks like the state of Florida is from falling on a gravel playground when I was eight, the one next to it is from college when I tripped down the stairs at the The Wheel, the line across my index finger is from the time I sliced it while chopping vegetables, and the one on my hip that looks like a thumb is from an unfortunate incident involving a Slip ‘n Slide.
It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.
I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.
I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.
Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.
When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.
Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."
It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.
I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.
I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.
Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.
When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.
“I fell off my bike and hurt myself!”I probably would have laughed at him if he fell off of his bike—falling is funny, I don’t care who you are, how you do it, or how hurt you get. And since I’m known for my clumsiness, I am used to being laughed at. You can always count on me to be the one to run into the sliding glass door because I didn’t realize it was closed, fall down the stairs while wearing a dress, or drop a tray full of drinks because my feet got in the way of my walking, again. On any given day, I have a fresh bump, bruise or cut to serve as evidence of my clumsiness and remind me of my painful lack of grace.
“What? Are you okay? Where are you?” Steve seemed flushed with concern, at first.
“I’m at home now but I am not okay. I think I’m going to have to amputate my knees…”
“Baby, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is! I can hardly move! And I fell in a puddle of crap that’s probably infecting my cuts now!”
“Hahahaha…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that…well, the thought of you falling off your bike is funny.”
“I know. Shut up.”
After the fall, I sent my sister this picture of myself to which her response was: “AHAHAHAHAHA! YOU ARE SO CLUMSY! YOU FELL OFF YOUR BIKE?! THAT’S HILARIOUS! HAHAHAHA!”It’s been three days since my biking accident and I’m still hobbling around. I really can’t remember the last time I was in so much uncomfortable pain. Every time I bend my knees it feels like I’m falling all over again and I’m beginning to see the bruises under the cuts, which makes me look like the pariah of the produce aisle—the bad apple no one will buy because it’s bruised, discolored and covered in flesh wounds. As I said, I used to skin my knees all the time as a kid—sure, it hurt, but I would be picking at the scabs a few days later. Clearly my bounce-back ability is not what it used to be, which makes me feel old.
Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Facebook Quizzes & Daily Horoscopes: A New Path to Self Awareness
I’ve stayed away from Facebook quizzes for many reasons, but to name a few:
1.) I’m too cool.
2.) The people who take Facebook quizzes are either 12 or 35.
3.) I don’t give a sh*t what animal you were in your past life, what color your aura is, or what dog breed you are—sorry.
But yesterday I surrendered to a quiz titled “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” I’m not sure what hooked me, but I think it was the possibility of being told that someone extremely likable, like Jennifer Aniston, or someone really hardcore, like Angelina Jolie, would play me in a movie. So I proceeded to take the quiz, which asked discerning personal questions like, “Would you go after another woman’s man?” and “Do you believe in true love?” and “How high maintenance are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”
My result was Debra Messing and this was the rationalization:
You are the class clown. Always trying to make others laugh. You have a genuiness about you that is obvious to all. You are the girl men leave their "arm trophies" for and are glad of it.
First of all, I don’t like Debra Messing. I put her in the same category as Hillary Swank: she is annoying, attractive only if you squint your eyes, and avoiding her only makes her appear more often. If you do see one of her movies it’s probably on accident because of a non-stop run on TBS, and even then you don’t really admit to actually watching the entire movie, only "parts of it." I mean, did anyone else see The Wedding Date? Enough said. But I am glad to know that I have a “genuiness” about me, that’s good, especially since I didn’t know “genuiness” was a word.
After “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” another quiz popped up called “What are you born to do?” and, given my current situation, it seemed wrong to not take this quiz. I was given seven questions—yes, just seven questions—to answer, which I assumed would then result in a solution to my ongoing question: what will I be now that I am a grown up? Here was the result:
I won’t even go into the countless spelling and punctuation errors in this quiz result—clearly the people creating these quizzes never passed an English class—but what the hell does this mean? This isn’t an answer to “what are you born to do?” I’m more lost after reading this than I was before I took the damn quiz! But at least it validates my ability to “make just about anyone like [me].” Obviously I don’t choose to utilize this skill on a regular basis, but it’s good to know that I have the ability.
I could see myself becoming addicted to Facebook quizzes the same way I used to be addicted to reading my daily horoscope. If you turn off the half of your brain that is meant for logical reasoning, then things like Facebook quizzes and horoscopes can be seen as ways to gather information about yourself; they are like insights into the future, ways to ease the pain of the unknown.
I used to read my horoscope everyday and it always ended up being true, except for when it wasn't. For instance, here is my horoscope for today, courtesy of yahoo.com:
I think I’m just going to go buy a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned about myself I got from a Facebook quiz and my daily horoscope.” At least then people will know that I am a self-aware individual.
1.) I’m too cool.
2.) The people who take Facebook quizzes are either 12 or 35.
3.) I don’t give a sh*t what animal you were in your past life, what color your aura is, or what dog breed you are—sorry.
But yesterday I surrendered to a quiz titled “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” I’m not sure what hooked me, but I think it was the possibility of being told that someone extremely likable, like Jennifer Aniston, or someone really hardcore, like Angelina Jolie, would play me in a movie. So I proceeded to take the quiz, which asked discerning personal questions like, “Would you go after another woman’s man?” and “Do you believe in true love?” and “How high maintenance are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”
My result was Debra Messing and this was the rationalization:
You are the class clown. Always trying to make others laugh. You have a genuiness about you that is obvious to all. You are the girl men leave their "arm trophies" for and are glad of it.
First of all, I don’t like Debra Messing. I put her in the same category as Hillary Swank: she is annoying, attractive only if you squint your eyes, and avoiding her only makes her appear more often. If you do see one of her movies it’s probably on accident because of a non-stop run on TBS, and even then you don’t really admit to actually watching the entire movie, only "parts of it." I mean, did anyone else see The Wedding Date? Enough said. But I am glad to know that I have a “genuiness” about me, that’s good, especially since I didn’t know “genuiness” was a word.
After “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” another quiz popped up called “What are you born to do?” and, given my current situation, it seemed wrong to not take this quiz. I was given seven questions—yes, just seven questions—to answer, which I assumed would then result in a solution to my ongoing question: what will I be now that I am a grown up? Here was the result:
I won’t even go into the countless spelling and punctuation errors in this quiz result—clearly the people creating these quizzes never passed an English class—but what the hell does this mean? This isn’t an answer to “what are you born to do?” I’m more lost after reading this than I was before I took the damn quiz! But at least it validates my ability to “make just about anyone like [me].” Obviously I don’t choose to utilize this skill on a regular basis, but it’s good to know that I have the ability.I could see myself becoming addicted to Facebook quizzes the same way I used to be addicted to reading my daily horoscope. If you turn off the half of your brain that is meant for logical reasoning, then things like Facebook quizzes and horoscopes can be seen as ways to gather information about yourself; they are like insights into the future, ways to ease the pain of the unknown.
I used to read my horoscope everyday and it always ended up being true, except for when it wasn't. For instance, here is my horoscope for today, courtesy of yahoo.com:
Daily Extended Horoscope for June 16, 2009 (Today)Right, so I guess this means I shouldn't post today...?
Libra: 9/23 – 10/22
Weigh your words carefully, as if they were diamonds. While it might be tempting to blurt out any ol' opinion that crosses your mind, erring on the side of caution is definitely the best measure at this time. That goes double for emails and any other written communications -- right now, it's all too easy for someone to misconstrue even the simplest statement and get hot under the collar about it.
I think I’m just going to go buy a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned about myself I got from a Facebook quiz and my daily horoscope.” At least then people will know that I am a self-aware individual.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My Reflection is Stalking Me
I’ve been really busy avoiding mirrors after realizing that my reflection doesn’t do anything to inspire me, in fact, it has the opposite effect because what I see is everything I don’t want to be (unemployed, unhappy, malnourished, out of shape, and desperate – the last one is what did me in). But apparently avoiding mirrors only causes your reflection to appear more often. From the sliding glass doors at the grocery store to the tinted car windows in the parking lot to the ceiling-to-floor windows of an office building to extra shiny silverware to the rain puddles on a sidewalk—everywhere I go my reflection follows.
I used to be one of those people who couldn’t help but gaze at their reflection as they walked past a storefront window. Call it vain, but it was more about catching a glimpse of how other people saw me, how I looked to the rest of the world. When I get dressed and stand in front of a mirror at home, I know what I see is different from what other people see because I have a mirror pose: I purse my lips, bite the insides of my cheeks, suck in my gut, jut out my right hip and put my hands on my waist. This pose is something I only do when I am alone and standing in front of a mirror, I never look like this in real life. As a result, catching a reflection of myself doing something other than my mirror pose used to be interesting (back when the reality of my appearance wasn’t so…so…sad?) because it gave me a more realistic vision of myself.
But given the current devastating nature of this realistic vision, I find accidental reflections torturous. The worst is when the dark outside turns the windows into mirrors inside—I can’t see beyond my reflection, but in the darkness outside I imagine someone starring in at me and wondering if I am aware of just how unattractive I look when I make that scowling face. Now I scurry around the house right after the sun sets to make sure all of the blinds are closed so that my house isn’t full of mirrors that people can look in through. It’s become clear that I could throw away every mirror in my house and still never go a day without seeing myself. Whether I am walking the dog, running errands or eating dinner, I end up face to face with my reflection, which always reminds me of some weird combination of Eeyore and Britney Spears during her (on-going) “rough phase.”
I suppose I could attempt to drag this post out into some snarky, pseudo-philosophical observation on how my path to self discovery led me to run away from myself, but I made a promise having to do with brevity, so...I won't. Instead, I'm just going to say that when you feel like shit, you’re going to look like shit. I am working on feeling less like shit so that I can stop running from my reflection (because continuing to run from my reflection might make me more vain than if I were to linger in front of it lovingly...plus, I hate running). That being said, don’t be surprised if the next time you see me I am wearing a blindfold and being led by a seeing-eye dog.
I used to be one of those people who couldn’t help but gaze at their reflection as they walked past a storefront window. Call it vain, but it was more about catching a glimpse of how other people saw me, how I looked to the rest of the world. When I get dressed and stand in front of a mirror at home, I know what I see is different from what other people see because I have a mirror pose: I purse my lips, bite the insides of my cheeks, suck in my gut, jut out my right hip and put my hands on my waist. This pose is something I only do when I am alone and standing in front of a mirror, I never look like this in real life. As a result, catching a reflection of myself doing something other than my mirror pose used to be interesting (back when the reality of my appearance wasn’t so…so…sad?) because it gave me a more realistic vision of myself.
But given the current devastating nature of this realistic vision, I find accidental reflections torturous. The worst is when the dark outside turns the windows into mirrors inside—I can’t see beyond my reflection, but in the darkness outside I imagine someone starring in at me and wondering if I am aware of just how unattractive I look when I make that scowling face. Now I scurry around the house right after the sun sets to make sure all of the blinds are closed so that my house isn’t full of mirrors that people can look in through. It’s become clear that I could throw away every mirror in my house and still never go a day without seeing myself. Whether I am walking the dog, running errands or eating dinner, I end up face to face with my reflection, which always reminds me of some weird combination of Eeyore and Britney Spears during her (on-going) “rough phase.”
I suppose I could attempt to drag this post out into some snarky, pseudo-philosophical observation on how my path to self discovery led me to run away from myself, but I made a promise having to do with brevity, so...I won't. Instead, I'm just going to say that when you feel like shit, you’re going to look like shit. I am working on feeling less like shit so that I can stop running from my reflection (because continuing to run from my reflection might make me more vain than if I were to linger in front of it lovingly...plus, I hate running). That being said, don’t be surprised if the next time you see me I am wearing a blindfold and being led by a seeing-eye dog.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Unnecessary Information Form
Please answer the questions below to the best of your knowledge, filling out each line using legible print and not that bulls%#t chicken-scratch you picked up sometime in college.
The Preliminary Questions:
I. What is your age in years, months and days? ___________
II. What is the number listed on the barcode under your refrigerator?__________
III. What is your full name as written on your Library Card? _____________________________________________________
The Questions That Come After The Preliminary Questions:
1. Please calculate your BMI (Booty Mass Indicator) using this formula: Weight / (Number of Twinkies You Can Eat) x (Number of Seconds Your Thighs and/or Arms Shake After You Stop Moving) =__________
2. Do you have a steady and reliable job? _________
- 2a. If you answered ‘No’ to the above question: Are you as worthless as that might imply?______
- 2b. If you answered ‘Yes’ to the above question, please tear up this form and throw it away, then go look in the mirror and repeat the following mantra to yourself no less than 25 times: “I am special. I am capable. I am [insert your name].” Once complete, please initial here: _______
- a. The glass is half full most of the time.
- b. The glass is half full all of the time.
- c. The glass is half empty.
- d. The glass is bone dry and I am f$%&ing thirsty!
- e. Other (please write): ____________________________________________
6. If you had one wish, what would it be? Please select from the below acceptable answers:
- a. The ability to fly
- b. The ability to be invisible
- c. The ability to read minds
- d. To be rich and famous
- e. Other (please write): ____________(note: the line is short because no one actually cares)
- Wearing “Muscle Shirts”
- Seasonal Body Odor
- Ass-Kissing/Kiss-Assing
- Nepotism in Bowling
- Stealing Bottles of Tabasco Sauce from Chipotle
9. Your weekday lunch typically consists of: (please select from the options below)
- a. Peanut Butter & Jelly
- b. Canned Soup and Toast
- c. Raw Pasta & Styrofoam
- d. Fast-Food Value Meal
- e. Other (please write): ____________________
- a. People should be judged based on their Scrabble skills. ______
- b. Little People are funny. What? They are! _________
- c. Living on Unemployment is acceptable as long as you appear productive. ______
- d. Christian Bale’s next role should be to play Rosie O’Donnell in a Lifetime biopic._______
- e. 20 percent of your life is spent filling out forms and that sucks. _______
Thank you for completing this Unnecessary Information Form. We trust that you answered all of the above questions honestly and to the best of your ability. Now you can hurry up and wait for a response, or try to busy yourself with something else in an attempt to forget that you just wasted valuable minutes of your life filling out a completely pointless form that will be used for nothing worthwhile. Please note that any of the information you provided will not be kept confidential, and will likely be mocked by anyone who has the ability to read. If this bothers you, or if you have any other questions, please direct them to the next person that hands you a form to fill out.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm Always Missing Out
When I was little, I never wanted to go to bed because I was afraid that I would miss out on something really exciting or important. This was especially the case when my parents would have parties or entertain guests. Knowing that other people were awake in my house while I was supposed to be asleep made me certain that something awesome was going to happen because I knew the most awesome stuff happened after the kids went to bed (R rated movies, card games, dancing, singing). Most of the time I would lie awake, imagining conversations and all the fun things that must be going on as I obeyed a bedtime, and it usually went something like this:
Adult 1: Which kid do you like the most?
Adult 2: Well, which one would you sell to the gypsies if you had to?
Adult 3: We should go hang out at the secret princess castle.
Adult 4: I heard the princess castle has a water slide.
Adult 1: I heard it has a giant bowl of candy that you can swim in!
Adult 2: Well, what are we waiting for? The kids are in bed!
Adult 3: Yeah! Let’s sell all of the kids to the gypsies go to the secret princess castle!
As a teenager, my curfew was a constant topic of debate. Eventually, I started to hear the phrase, “nothing good happens at that hour,” which infuriated me, because of course good things happened at that hour! My parents just didn't understand that my popularity was totally contingent on the things happening at that hour which I was missing out on because of a ridiculously early curfew, ugh!
In college, I watched the roles switch a little when my friend’s parents would come visit for a weekend. On more than one occasion, I helped a friend coax their drunk parent out of a bar and back to their hotel room, where the parent would then say something along the lines of “I don’t wanna go to bed—let’s go to the next party!” My friend and I would have to pretend that we were calling it a night so that the parent wouldn’t feel like they were missing out.
Now that I don’t have a bedtime, a curfew, or a parent reliving the glory days to babysit, I lie awake thinking about all the things I need to do in order to not miss out on anything, which usually goes like this:
Me: Maybe I should just get up and make a list or something.
Voices In My Head: No, you’ll be worthless tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep.
Me: It’s not like I have a lot going on tomorrow anyway.
Voices: Just try to close your eyes and see if you fall asleep.
Me: But my eyes won’t close.
Voices: Try harder.
Me: I think I am going to get up and write.
Voices: Nothing you write at this hour will be any good.
Me: Fine, then I am going to read.
Voices: But then you’ll just be reading about all of the stuff you’re missing out on because you're sleeping.
Me: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Voices: Keep searching for the cool side of your pillow...
I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never stop feeling like I’m missing out on something, which might mean that I’m never content with the immediate, and also that I don't get enough sleep. But really, what's so great about contentment and good sleeping habits anyway? I’d rather be plagued with exhaustion and the notion that I’m missing out, because maybe one day it will lead me to that secret princess castle with the water slide and bowl of candy you can swim in.
Adult 1: Which kid do you like the most?
Adult 2: Well, which one would you sell to the gypsies if you had to?
Adult 3: We should go hang out at the secret princess castle.
Adult 4: I heard the princess castle has a water slide.
Adult 1: I heard it has a giant bowl of candy that you can swim in!
Adult 2: Well, what are we waiting for? The kids are in bed!
Adult 3: Yeah! Let’s sell all of the kids to the gypsies go to the secret princess castle!
As a teenager, my curfew was a constant topic of debate. Eventually, I started to hear the phrase, “nothing good happens at that hour,” which infuriated me, because of course good things happened at that hour! My parents just didn't understand that my popularity was totally contingent on the things happening at that hour which I was missing out on because of a ridiculously early curfew, ugh!
In college, I watched the roles switch a little when my friend’s parents would come visit for a weekend. On more than one occasion, I helped a friend coax their drunk parent out of a bar and back to their hotel room, where the parent would then say something along the lines of “I don’t wanna go to bed—let’s go to the next party!” My friend and I would have to pretend that we were calling it a night so that the parent wouldn’t feel like they were missing out.
Now that I don’t have a bedtime, a curfew, or a parent reliving the glory days to babysit, I lie awake thinking about all the things I need to do in order to not miss out on anything, which usually goes like this:
Me: Maybe I should just get up and make a list or something.
Voices In My Head: No, you’ll be worthless tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep.
Me: It’s not like I have a lot going on tomorrow anyway.
Voices: Just try to close your eyes and see if you fall asleep.
Me: But my eyes won’t close.
Voices: Try harder.
Me: I think I am going to get up and write.
Voices: Nothing you write at this hour will be any good.
Me: Fine, then I am going to read.
Voices: But then you’ll just be reading about all of the stuff you’re missing out on because you're sleeping.
Me: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Voices: Keep searching for the cool side of your pillow...
I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never stop feeling like I’m missing out on something, which might mean that I’m never content with the immediate, and also that I don't get enough sleep. But really, what's so great about contentment and good sleeping habits anyway? I’d rather be plagued with exhaustion and the notion that I’m missing out, because maybe one day it will lead me to that secret princess castle with the water slide and bowl of candy you can swim in.
Friday, May 29, 2009
List-Making Therapy
I make to-do lists when I get overwhelmed or stressed out. But sometimes instead of a to-do list, I end up making a different kind of list; for instance, the Unemployment Pros and Cons list I referred to in yesterday’s post. Occasionally, the lists I make are humorous and just a way for me to articulate whatever frustration is plaguing me at the moment, such as: Things That Asshats Do to Become Asshats, Reasons My Sister and I Should Never Live Together Again, Why the Olson Twins Suck at Life, and 20 Endearing Ways to Embarrass Yourself (the last one could actually be 50 ways as I’m quite experienced in this realm). Anyway, below is one I wrote today and decided to share.
Things That Will Always Make Me Feel Stupid No Matter How Much Learnin’ I Do:
1. The Stock Market. Numbers, math, numbers, abbreviated words, tiny print, percentages, points, numbers, math, down, up…I’m already tired.
2. Insurance. This is what I know: I have a plastic card that has my name and a code on it and this is what lets me play $30 at the doctor’s instead of $3,000.
3. How to change my oil, or a tire—actually, I’m not even certain that I know how to replenish my washer fluid.
4. How to drive in the snow without causing an accident. Yeah, I have an SUV, but I’m from Virginia, so I don’t get it.
5. Mortgages. When I was little I thought a mortgage was something that had to do with funeral homes and cemeteries – oh, the irony! While I still don’t understand mortgages, I might one day, thanks to HGTV.
6. Taxes. Given one through five, I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.
7. Plumbing. No, seriously, from the disposal to the washer to the toilet—where is it all going, and why the hell does it make the basement flood?
8. Directions. I am directionally-challenged, so giving me compass instructions is pointless. If people don’t say things like, “hang a Louie and then turn at the sub shop with the space ship sign,” then I’m lost. I never know what direction North, South, East or West is in relation to where I am because I’m too busy concentrating so that my directional dyslexia doesn’t cause me to turn right when you just told me to turn left.
9. How to make a good pot of coffee. I blame a lack of patience for measuring portions.
10. This blog. I don’t really understand it. But if you do, please fill me in.
Things That Will Always Make Me Feel Stupid No Matter How Much Learnin’ I Do:
1. The Stock Market. Numbers, math, numbers, abbreviated words, tiny print, percentages, points, numbers, math, down, up…I’m already tired.
2. Insurance. This is what I know: I have a plastic card that has my name and a code on it and this is what lets me play $30 at the doctor’s instead of $3,000.
3. How to change my oil, or a tire—actually, I’m not even certain that I know how to replenish my washer fluid.
4. How to drive in the snow without causing an accident. Yeah, I have an SUV, but I’m from Virginia, so I don’t get it.
5. Mortgages. When I was little I thought a mortgage was something that had to do with funeral homes and cemeteries – oh, the irony! While I still don’t understand mortgages, I might one day, thanks to HGTV.
6. Taxes. Given one through five, I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.
7. Plumbing. No, seriously, from the disposal to the washer to the toilet—where is it all going, and why the hell does it make the basement flood?
8. Directions. I am directionally-challenged, so giving me compass instructions is pointless. If people don’t say things like, “hang a Louie and then turn at the sub shop with the space ship sign,” then I’m lost. I never know what direction North, South, East or West is in relation to where I am because I’m too busy concentrating so that my directional dyslexia doesn’t cause me to turn right when you just told me to turn left.
9. How to make a good pot of coffee. I blame a lack of patience for measuring portions.
10. This blog. I don’t really understand it. But if you do, please fill me in.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
No, it’s MY pleasure!
The other day I went to Chick-fil-A. Even though the line for the drive-thru was as long as the Nile, I decided to join the group and wait because actually going inside to order my food would destroy my rationalization for eating Chick-fil-A in the first place. You see, going inside to order would suggest that I had the time, patience and will-power to go against convenience and therefore should be opting for a healthier meal. Also, I don’t want to be seen inside a fast-food restaurant that tries to pretend it’s not really fast food. I mean, if you have “value meals” you’re a fast-food restaurant—let’s not dance around this fact by serving only chicken with “gourmet” sauce (which they forget to give you half of the time anyway) in order to justify ridiculously high prices. It’s as if they are saying, “this ain’t no McDonalds, but, um, it kind of is because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t eat here - now, let us bring in cows holding grammatically incorrect signs to distract you.”
I digress. Basically, I just wanted some nuggets. Chick-fil-A was sort of on my way home (I rationalized this too, by taking the long way), and thus the most convenient solution to my stomach eating itself. So, when I finally got to the speaker box with the menu to order my food I was ready, I knew what I wanted, I didn't have any questions, and so I was expecting a quick and easy transaction.
“Good evening! Welcome to Chick-fil-A! Would you like to try something from our healthy, low-fat menu today?” said an unnaturally chipper female voice from the speaker box.
Really? My rationalization got me this far, and now you’re going to use the ‘h’ word?
“No thank you,” I said.
“We have delicious fruit parfaits and fresh fruit smoothies now—”
“No, no, thanks. Can I just get…ummm…” I said, letting the ‘um’ drag on just a little too long as a punishment. “Yeah, uhhhh….I’d like some chicken nuggets, please.”
“Great! Would you like to make that a meal?”
“Ummmmmmm, yes, thanks,” I said.
“My pleasure! Would you like fries, salad, soup, coleslaw or a fruit cup with that?”
Her pleasure. Wow. Seriously? I wanted to reach through the speaker and grab this woman by the neck and tell her that this life is full of pleasures that don’t involve chicken and a drive-thru so stop acting so excited!
“Fries, well uhhhhhhhh…yeah, no, fries are good,” I said, wondering which of us was being more irritating at this point.
“And for your drink?”
“Diet Coke, please,” I said, because a fat-filled meal is not complete without a diet soda to wash it down.
“My pleasure! Okay, I have a chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke, will that be all for you today?”
I rolled my eyes at the second “my pleasure” and then recoiled, nervous that she was watching me on camera and plotting to poison my food.
“Yes, thank you—oh, wait, no, can I get some of that orange-ish, pink sauce…what’s it called? It’s like sweet and sour or something…” I said, now fully trying to antagonize her and break that annoyingly chipper disposition.
“Absolutely! A chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke and Polynesian Sauce!” she said.
“Yes, that’s it—Polynesian sauce. Thanks,” I said.
“My pleasure! That will be a billion dollars, please pull around to first window!” She didn’t really say it was a billion dollars, although that’s what I hear when the bill for one meal amounts to anything over five dollars at a fast-food restaurant.
When I get to the window a young, puberty-stricken boy handed me my order. As he ran my card, I looked for the cheerful woman taking drive-thru orders. I was hoping to find out that she was really a robot, or one of those automated voices that you get when you call your bank or try to pay your cable bill on the phone and they keep telling you to say things like ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘pay bill’ but they can’t understand you because they are machines. It turned out she was a real, live person and exactly as I expected her to be: young, pink cheeks, braces and curly blonde hair that revolved around her headpiece microphone like a halo.
“Miss? Miss, your card,” Petey Puberty was holding out my card and trying to get my attention.
“Oh, right sorry, thanks,” I said.
“My pleasure!” he said.
What a ridiculous thing to force your employees to say, I thought—“my pleasure.” Maybe I was just feeling grumpy, as I tend to get when I’m hungry, and so hearing this phrase four times in a row was too much for my bad attitude to handle.
As I drove away I thought about all the reasons it was not their pleasure. It was not your pleasure because it’s my food, which I am ordering for my pleasure. It was not your pleasure because you have to wear a stupid-ass visor and a nametag that you craftily decorate with stickers (which still doesn’t make it your pleasure). It was not your pleasure because I am the one who gets to enjoy the food and you’re the one who has to prepare it. It was not your pleasure because there’s not enough pleasure to go around, so stop trying to steal my pleasure and make it your pleasure, damnit!
In an effort to reclaim ‘my pleasure’ as my own, I opened my bag of food and reached for a golden, delicious waffle fry, but then I realized that something was terribly wrong—there was something missing…
Of course. They forgot the Polynesian Sauce.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Creative Jealousy That Drives Us
My Green Monster of Jealousy
It’s not that I don’t want other people to do well. It’s not that I am a naturally jealous person (wait, is it?). It’s not that I don’t have my own “thang” going for me. But when you are a Creative, and trying to make a living as one, jealousy seems to rear its ugly-ass head in the dumbest, most debilitating ways.
Just the other day I received an incredibly nice, and somewhat undeserved, message from a fellow writer who said she was jealous of my blog. I had to re-read the message five times before my brain was willing to comprehend what she was saying. This writer, a woman I have always admired and felt jealous of since the day I met her, actually said: “I was depressed all weekend because your blog is so much better than mine.” What?! Come again?
I will hold her message to heart for as long as my insecurities plague me (so pretty much forever), not because it validates my mad skillz, but because it validates the green monster of jealousy that I always thought of as my own private weakness. To realize that the people I envy for their talents and creations are also capable of being jealous of me is like finding out that Starburst sells packages full of only the Pink and Red flavors (oh yeah, I’m totally serious, hit up a QuickTrip near you).
Now I realize that jealousy is not just a disease of the unemployed. Although, since I’ve been unemployed, I have had ample time to peruse the online portfolios of the unemployed ad talent out there right now, and it’s enough to make anyone want to throw their portfolio in the trash and cry in a corner. It makes me wish that we could send all of this unemployed talent to an abandoned island and call it “The Lost Land of Advertising Fame;” there they could probably start a war, or at least convince people to join a war, and maybe win a shiny award for a really great Super Bowl ad. But since this is unrealistic, I am forced to compete with these people who ooze creativity from every pore while I sit around, oozing nothing but sweat, fear and envy. Given these circumstances, putting my rinky-dink portfolio out there feels like wearing a bathing suit made of bacon and then going for a swim in shark-infested waters. At this point, I’d have better luck trying to tap-dance my way into a job.
On a positive note, I have found that this type of jealousy and creative combat can be an excellent source of motivation, and thus I have started another blog, which will serve as my resume/portfolio/bio/pseudo-professional site. You’ll find the link in the side bar, and also right here. It’s not much because I haven’t done much (I mean, geeze people, I’m only 24 years old, which is practically 12…if you divide it by two), but if you have feedback, advice, suggestions, or other projects that will help me beef it up, and create seething jealousy among other ad talent, feel free to drop me a line.
In the meantime, I’m going to put on my big girl pants, which means a slightly nicer pair of sweatpants than those I slept in, and keep on truckin’, because I’m a ninja unicorn, damnit!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Blogony - From The Real Quinn
For months I've been agonizing over this blog: What will it be? What should I call it? What is the theme? Purpose? Direction?
I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.
There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)
Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:
1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!
Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.
I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.
There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)
Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:
1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!
Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.
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