Sunday, September 30, 2012

I've Got a Case of the Mondays

I miss you on Mondays because we eat and drink and breathe shared air for fifty straight hours until the bus rumbles me away from you and I'm all alone.

I miss you on Mondays because my body has to relearn the weight of its limbs without yours tangled in mine.

I miss you on Mondays because weekday workdays overflow with comedy GOLD and my texting thumbs can’t tap out the stories to you fast enough.

I miss you on Mondays because I’m stuck with just the food in front of me, when I’d rather fork tomatoes off your plate and steal the bubbles from your bubble tea.

I miss you on Mondays because I live weekend to weekend and the workweek just interrupts time that could be spent in your steady presence.

I miss you on Mondays because I can’t get enough of you. Because you make politics interesting. Because you laugh at my jokes. Because you don’t mock the lululemon poster in my bathroom. Because you bring me ice cream when I’m sick and wine when I’m happy and kiss me in public and tell me I’m beautiful.

Do you miss me on Mondays?

Monday, September 24, 2012

The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

I see you less and less in strangers. You used to pop up everywhere.

You were the passenger in the back of the bus with his face smushed against the window watching the asphalt rush by. You were the waiter at the restaurant with the too loud laugh and smirky smile reciting the evening specials. You were the friend of a friend at last Friday’s party, just in for the weekend and mixing drinks like a pro. I saw you everywhere, I saw you often, and my stomach would plummet each time.

Because I would want it to be you as badly as I didn’t.

I spent this weekend revisiting our old places with someone new. In case you're wondering, I experienced a kind of wistful déjà vu but none of the sadness I was expecting.

The scent of fried dough and buttery popcorn thickened the air while the vendors smiled blandly and methodically ladled food onto outstretched plates. My shrimp lay nestled in their bed of creamy grits, no different than six months ago. But this time around, I didn’t need any comforting from my comfort food.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Eyes Wide Shut: I'm Sleepwalking Through The Fall

After a whirlwind work week (oh shit, it’s only Wednesday?), my brain has reached epic levels of fogginess. I honestly don’t even have the attention span to read a thought catalog article in its entirety anymore. I can’t even begin to approach the nytimes and honestly, even gchatting feels like a chore.

You know you’re tired when, while perusing facebook, you forget what site you’re on and absentmindedly open a new tab on your browser: oh, hey facebook.

You know you've reached new levels of exhaustion when, as a non-coffee-drinker, you chug a latte for breakfast and experience not alertness but a fleeting non-asleepness. Your eyes droop heavily against the sugary caffeine buzz and all conversations (even those directly involving you) become irritating background noise. You discover you can’t focus on any one sentence but rather hear every sentence overlaid with every other sentence until they form a pleasing hum of garbled speech that sounds almost exactly like one of those sleep-inducing sound machines set to “level 1 – rainforest”.

You know you’ve hit the point of seemingly no return when you fall asleep sitting up in bed holding a tub of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate brownie fro yo at 7 pm and sleep undisturbed until 8 am when your alarm blares loudly and insistently for 15+ minutes. The tub of ice cream is now a tub of warmish brown syrup but your bed is miraculously stain-free thanks to a slumber that more closely resembled a coma.

I suppose this is typical of a Big Girl job. Business naturally ebbs and flows and every day can’t be a perfect nine-to-fiver. My goals for the next month are to not get sick, not gain weight, and pay my bills. Doable? I hope so... ZZZzzzzzzzz

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

You're Probably Just Fooling Yourself

Fantasy is nearly always better than reality.

In high school, I had a crush on a boy in biology class. He was cute and didn’t know it. He was left handed.

I remember daydreaming about his beautiful, artistic fingers and dying to know what matters of profundity they were forever producing in his marble notebook. Sometimes, when I snuck a glance in his direction, he’d catch my gaze and smirk - and then go right back to ignoring the teacher and furiously moving his pencil across the page.

He was kind of a punk. Or however punky one could be at a DC private school. His clothes were scruffy and grimy and usually involved some number of chains crisscrossing from a belt loop to a wallet to who knows where. His hair was greasy, teeth unbrushed, and he generally gave off an air of unshowered-ness, yet I was entranced, enthralled with this boy and his perfect artist hands.

He wrote poetry, so I wrote poetry. He cared about music, so I pretended to care. He liked to draw, so I signed up for an introductory art class. I wanted to become someone he could maybe love.

He complimented me once. It was Halloween. I went to school dressed as a goth, and I remember the prickling sensation of his unrestrained scrutiny.  Class dismissed. I stood to leave but he caught my arm as I walked out the door. We locked eyes. “You look hot,” he muttered.

And that was it. The fantasy imploded and his appeal utterly vanished. The cerebral, sexy, brooding man I’d dreamed up in my head was nothing more than a high school boy with a penchant for too-tight plaid pants and underwhelming personal hygiene. He was no artiste! He was but a mere mortal.

Fantasies seem to have a way of undoing themselves.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

10 Characteristics of My Anti-Dream Guy

1. Visible earwax. You’d be surprised how many guys haven’t figured out that this is a crucial part of general hygiene. I don’t care how you deal with it, just deal with it.

2. Dandruff. Head and Shoulders shampoo works wonders (or consult your physician today!). Oily white flakes make me gag.

3. Dirty teeth. Brush them. Even if you’re convinced you never have bad breath, brush your teeth. If I see sticky plaque build-up or food stuck for hours, you’re dunzo.

4. Poor grammar. Talking, texting, emailing – the medium of conversation is irrelevant. Figure out the difference between “to” “too” and “two” and “their” “there” and “they’re” or you're just going to come off as a dumb hick. Seriously, if you’re a college graduate and you haven’t nailed this down, you’re not worth my time.

5. The anti-texter. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If you like me and you’re compatible with me, you’ll respond to my texts with an appropriate and hopefully humorous message. (FYI I like gifs of animals having sex. Or pooping.)

6. Neck jewelry. A leather rope, a guido gold chain, a cross – Sorry dude, not for me!

7. Moodiness. You’re gregarious and exuberant one moment, sarcastic and sullen the next. DING. NEXT. I can’t deal with ups and downs. I don’t want to be a part of the rollercoaster ride that’s your idea of a Tuesday. Be one person. Preferably a happy one. Bipolar tendencies are exhausting.

8. Closed-mindedness. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. You’re not going to know everything. You will be wrong sometimes. And if you truly believe otherwise, then you’re an arrogant asshole. Buh-bye.

9. Wearer of speedos. Sorry impossibly sexy probably homosexual European beach goers – you are not my cup of tea. Put on a pair of oversized swim trunks like an Amurrrican and we can talk. Otherwise I’m just going to ogle the outline of whatever you’ve shoved into that banana hammock and debate your grow-er/show-er potential in my mind. Not conducive for a lasting relationship.

10. Cheater. Yes, we’ve all done it. Long distance relationships suck. College drama is fun. Make-up sex is the best. Yada yada yada. But come on guys… we’re past that. We are in our twenties now and trying to be better people. And if you’re not, well, go find a girl who doesn’t care where your dick’s been.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Making Things Happen in the Kitchen

Would you say your pesto is the besto?
Today I used my food processor.

I’ve had it since Christmas but always found the thought of unearthing it from its deep dark corner of the cupboard a bit disconcerting.

A work event this morning took me to a nearby suburb (at 5 am thank you very much) but when the health fair wrapped up and we stumbled into the sunlight, I had a chance to catch my breath and look around. We were standing next to a Korean Costco. Best. Day. Ever.

I’m terrible at decision making, so despite the abundance of exotic foods, I hastily grabbed a few things I recognized (Kiwis! Jicama! Basil!) and tried my best not to embarrass myself or offend anybody (it was like sooo many jokes waiting to happen).

I’d been craving pesto which I knew belonged in food processor land. So I went for it.

Turns out my Kermit-green chopping machine is pretty much the least threatening appliance in my kitchen (um, hello terrifying electric kettle that hisses at me when I just want to enjoy a nice cup of tea). The pesto was 100% delicious, easy to make, and the machine's blade stayed a reasonably safe distance from my fingers.

I wonder what else I’ve missed out on because it seemed too daunting to attempt on my own…

Right now I’m feeling immensely proud of this admittedly not-so-impressive pesto endeavor. But whatevs. Go ME!