Dear Potato/Apple/Carrot/etc. Peeler,
WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?! How on earth did you grow legs and walk out of the house? I would like to be as sneaky as you are. You'd be a great spy.
Now I know, you just want Thanksgiving off. But I do, too, and I'm working...
And I hear you saying, "Oh, Moira. People survived without peelers. Buck up, kiddo. Do things the old fashioned way."
And I say back to you, oh, you traitorous deserter, "Yes, peeler. I am bucking up indeed. And by that I mean using one of those little knives which boyscouts get to hack away the peels of my sweet potatoes and apples."
On tonight's menu: carved sweet potatoes and whittled apple pie.
Love,
MTP
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Turkey Day Tantrum, Un
Went to bed around 1 am.
Woke around 5 after a weird dream.
Couldn't sleep.
Go to Harris Teeter, arrive at 5:53 am.
Harris Teeter has no turkeys.
I repeat, Harris Teeter has no turkeys.
Mother of Turkeys, PRAY FOR ME! (Is there a mother of turkeys?)
Woke around 5 after a weird dream.
Couldn't sleep.
Go to Harris Teeter, arrive at 5:53 am.
Harris Teeter has no turkeys.
I repeat, Harris Teeter has no turkeys.
Mother of Turkeys, PRAY FOR ME! (Is there a mother of turkeys?)
If I were a boooooy...
Dear MTV,
You are the only person (entity? demon?) that I put on the same level as the dreaded palmetto bug when writing you scathing letters on my simple little blog. Know why? Because you consistently, consistently(!) get worse. At least with the roaches I know that they are disgusting and that is their nature. I am learning the same of you, MTV.
You would think that things couldn't get worse than "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." You would think that things couldn't get worse than "Made," which frankly, just makes me sad...
"I want to be made into a girl that boys will date." Ouch. Having pride or dignity might help you on the way, but you forfeited that when you signed up to make yourself out to be a total and complete (SELF-PROFESSED) loser on national television. Buck up, sweetheart. You aren't single because of your acne or your glasses, you're single because you don't think you're worth a boyfriend. [Ending my self-help/didactic nonsense now.]
Now we move on to what actually prompted me to make this post. "True Life." When watching this show, it needs to be noted that they don't make true life shows about people whose lives are enviable. They make it about people whose lives make you sad because they seem so horribly confusing/disproportionate/complicated that it will make you feel normal, no matter what.
This is terrible, MTV! I am watching this little gem right now. It is hurting me. MTV, do not exploit these people. They are young. They seem misguided (though I am trying really, really hard not to judge them). They are in search of something that they cannot reach (objet petit a?) and they want it so badly that they will put themselves out there to perhaps find a little bit of recognition and respect. Do not take the bait, MTV! It is morally reprehensible to take advantage of these people.
Oh, and any of these people, if you should happen to read it. Jeff! You are probably the world's worst boyfriend! Why are two girls fighting over you? Your personal sense of style even hurts me a little bit...
I think that'll be the end of my rant. But you deserved this, MTV. You really did. I think I'm going to change the channel now.
But yes, you better believe I will tune in on Sunday night to watch Britney. Laura and I danced around just thinking about it at work today. We are excited. If it wasn't for specials like this, I would petition to have you taken off air. Oh, MTV, I do a great job of staying away from you, but I do love Ms. Spears. How could you (again with this terrible verb) exploit my weakness. That's just rude.
Love,
MTP
You are the only person (entity? demon?) that I put on the same level as the dreaded palmetto bug when writing you scathing letters on my simple little blog. Know why? Because you consistently, consistently(!) get worse. At least with the roaches I know that they are disgusting and that is their nature. I am learning the same of you, MTV.
You would think that things couldn't get worse than "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." You would think that things couldn't get worse than "Made," which frankly, just makes me sad...
"I want to be made into a girl that boys will date." Ouch. Having pride or dignity might help you on the way, but you forfeited that when you signed up to make yourself out to be a total and complete (SELF-PROFESSED) loser on national television. Buck up, sweetheart. You aren't single because of your acne or your glasses, you're single because you don't think you're worth a boyfriend. [Ending my self-help/didactic nonsense now.]
Now we move on to what actually prompted me to make this post. "True Life." When watching this show, it needs to be noted that they don't make true life shows about people whose lives are enviable. They make it about people whose lives make you sad because they seem so horribly confusing/disproportionate/complicated that it will make you feel normal, no matter what.
This is terrible, MTV! I am watching this little gem right now. It is hurting me. MTV, do not exploit these people. They are young. They seem misguided (though I am trying really, really hard not to judge them). They are in search of something that they cannot reach (objet petit a?) and they want it so badly that they will put themselves out there to perhaps find a little bit of recognition and respect. Do not take the bait, MTV! It is morally reprehensible to take advantage of these people.
Oh, and any of these people, if you should happen to read it. Jeff! You are probably the world's worst boyfriend! Why are two girls fighting over you? Your personal sense of style even hurts me a little bit...
I think that'll be the end of my rant. But you deserved this, MTV. You really did. I think I'm going to change the channel now.
But yes, you better believe I will tune in on Sunday night to watch Britney. Laura and I danced around just thinking about it at work today. We are excited. If it wasn't for specials like this, I would petition to have you taken off air. Oh, MTV, I do a great job of staying away from you, but I do love Ms. Spears. How could you (again with this terrible verb) exploit my weakness. That's just rude.
Love,
MTP
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Don't you know, everything's all right, everything's fine...
I have a menu!
Yes, I know, Thanksgiving will not be the same this year as it was last year. I will not drink a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine with Krystina before no-call no-showing at work and then having a mental breakdown as Josh teases, "You're gonna get fired. You're gonna get fired."
I thiiiiink I am okay with that. As much as I do miss that pesky KMK and her little family, I am on this new kick where I try to be all healthy and not a total wreck at life, so I mean, this could be a good change. Anyway, Emily will definitely be here and that will be great. Aside from her I have a potential guest list of fifteen people. As much as I would love to host all of these friends, I know how Shucks people are... I am guessing I get between 5-10. (Whatever the case, it's all good to me!)
Anyway, on to the menu:
-Brined Turkey
-Roast Beef
-Mashed Red Potatoes
-Cornbread Stuffing
-Broccoli and Cheetos (We will see about this one... New York Magazine may have failed us all, here.)
-Roasted Winter Vegetables
-Sweet Potato Bake
-Dinner Rolls
-Apple Pie
-Pumpkin Pie
-Vanilla Ice Cream
Hope this is enough! Eeee..
Author's Note: This was the world's most ill-fated blog post. Half way through it, I got violently ill and then my computer shut itself down for no reason.
Yes, I know, Thanksgiving will not be the same this year as it was last year. I will not drink a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine with Krystina before no-call no-showing at work and then having a mental breakdown as Josh teases, "You're gonna get fired. You're gonna get fired."
I thiiiiink I am okay with that. As much as I do miss that pesky KMK and her little family, I am on this new kick where I try to be all healthy and not a total wreck at life, so I mean, this could be a good change. Anyway, Emily will definitely be here and that will be great. Aside from her I have a potential guest list of fifteen people. As much as I would love to host all of these friends, I know how Shucks people are... I am guessing I get between 5-10. (Whatever the case, it's all good to me!)
Anyway, on to the menu:
-Brined Turkey
-Roast Beef
-Mashed Red Potatoes
-Cornbread Stuffing
-Broccoli and Cheetos (We will see about this one... New York Magazine may have failed us all, here.)
-Roasted Winter Vegetables
-Sweet Potato Bake
-Dinner Rolls
-Apple Pie
-Pumpkin Pie
-Vanilla Ice Cream
Hope this is enough! Eeee..
Author's Note: This was the world's most ill-fated blog post. Half way through it, I got violently ill and then my computer shut itself down for no reason.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Update
This morning as I stood in the kitchen making some Earl Gray and devouring french silk pie, I heard a scream from where Kelly sat on the couch. I looked over and she had her legs up on the coffee stable and was glaring below her.
"Die, you little fucker. Die! Die! You little bastard, trying to crawl on me," she snarled.
For some reason this sounded familiar. Oh, right, because it was me on Sunday morning. I will once again petition the palmetto bugs to leave our humble abode.
Dear la cucarachas,
We know that it just got very, very cold outside. We know how much this cold snap really sucks. We know that you, little palmettos, might actually die in the cold weather. We are, sorry to say, okay with this. Your time is up, little buggies (big buggies...). We will see you next Spring? Looking forward to four or five months without you!
Fondly,
MTP
"Die, you little fucker. Die! Die! You little bastard, trying to crawl on me," she snarled.
For some reason this sounded familiar. Oh, right, because it was me on Sunday morning. I will once again petition the palmetto bugs to leave our humble abode.
Dear la cucarachas,
We know that it just got very, very cold outside. We know how much this cold snap really sucks. We know that you, little palmettos, might actually die in the cold weather. We are, sorry to say, okay with this. Your time is up, little buggies (big buggies...). We will see you next Spring? Looking forward to four or five months without you!
Fondly,
MTP
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Yet, if he said he loved me...
All weekend I kept thinking of things that I thought needed to be blogged about. This is pretty sad, if you think about it, because I am living my life and then while living it I am thinking it needs to go onto the Internet? Oh, Moira, you've really reached that point in your life. Even sadder is that very few of my brilliant ideas make it into this sacred little white box.
Mostly I just get distracted. My Mary Magdalene thing could, if I actually wrote it down, probably be a ten page paper. It's just this massive amount of passion and thought all mixed together, like a Blizzard at Dairy Queen, except that if you were to flip it upside down, instead of staying in the cup, it'd all fall out and then buzz around your head for as long as it wanted to until you took a Benadryl and went to sleep. But, do I write that in my blog? Absolutely not. Instead I post notices about my Thanksgiving get-together and then rant at bugs! Of course I do. Why on earth would I put down all the things I want to talk about when I could, instead, do an off-the-cuff blog that makes me late to work and bemoans a common household pest?
Anyway, I actually am going to blog about something I've been thinking about. Not because it is immensely important, mostly just because it keeps. coming. up. I can't get rid of it. And that's dang annoying. So here goes.
I'm ready for a relationship. I've been thinking I was ready for a relationship for a long time, but I think that for a long time I wasn't. I still carry a pretty hefty amount of baggage with me from past failures. But before, that baggage was the kind that got you stopped at airport security. There really was no way that I could move forward into... anything with it. But I couldn't let it go. Now that baggage has been checked. Look at all these tired cliches, I may have moved on emotionally, but you know I can't resist a really embarrassingly bad pun.
I've attempted to act on this relationship thing in a way that apparently isn't very intelligent. I wrote a note (originally to Chris) along the lines of, "Hey, I am ready for a relationship. Will you find me somebody? It would be really nice. Yeah, they'd have to deal with me, but I'm sure somebody must be up for it." Chris's reaction was so disheartening that I passed the letter along to whoever I could snag. Here are the answers I got, starting with the indomitable Mr. York.
Chris: (Laughing wildly, by the way. Loud laughter. Loud, loud laughter. Right in my face.) I'm sure there's somebody out in the world who would adore you. They're just not anywhere around here. [editor's note: thanks a bunch.]
Dave: I don't believe in dating. To set you up with somebody would be, in my opinion, a disservice. I would never do that to you. [editor's note: thank you, sincerely, for being more tactful than Christopher.]
Aaron: Yeah, I could probably find you somebody. I mean, I don't want to date you, but I'm sure somebody will want to. Give me some time.
Laura: Actually, there is this one guy... [editor's note: you get my biggest thanks, Red. You gave my petition thought and even came up with somebody. You rock.]
Then I realized that this is not the way to find a boyfriend. Begging your friends to find somebody who can tolerate you? Oh no, oh no, that just isn't love. Anna was telling Kelly this weekend that unless she wants to spend time with somebody, that she ought not make herself. That is to say, don't make yourself like somebody (or even pursue a relationship with them) just because they like you. It shouldn't need to be said, but to be quite honest, I think that's how it works in most cases.
My problem is that I am the pusher, not the pushed. I go after people, hard. It is neither subtle nor romantic nor any of the things it should be. And I shouldn't be doing it! I should be the one being pursued. I should hold out for somebody who actually wants to be my boyfriend. But what fun is that? I hate waiting. But it makes so much sense. Why, when somebody isn't jumping to date you, do we find it necessary to convince them to date us? They are not jumping. You will not be jumping later. It will be a big debacle. Don't go there, sister (or brother).
It sounds so sad to say "I have to wait for somebody who wants to date me..." but it isn't. Because there are a ton of people who I absolutely adore but don't want to date. And I know that there are plenty of people in this world who enjoy my company but wouldn't want to date me. And that's really cool and okay and normal. This whole waiting thing is just really starting to put me out.
Not only that, but then I realize that just because I'm not being a pusher doesn't mean I should be pushed. Say Mr. Wants-to-Date comes up to me and he tells me I am just the bees knees. Should I jump? Well, not unless I'm jumping. If I don't want it, I've gotta turn it down, and when I'm sitting here waiting for somebody to want me, I need to realize that I actually have some pretty high standards.
All the romantic prospects I've had lately have caveats. "He's a really great guy, but..." "No, I swear he's great, it's just..." "Most of the time we're totally happy!"
No more buts, boys (men?). Little Miss Moira will sit on her porch-a, smoking a cigarette. And she'll not be "waiting" on a single one of you. She'll be enjoying herself. Knowing that at some point somebody will walk by and jump. And she'll jump, too.
Sounds good, huh?
Mostly I just get distracted. My Mary Magdalene thing could, if I actually wrote it down, probably be a ten page paper. It's just this massive amount of passion and thought all mixed together, like a Blizzard at Dairy Queen, except that if you were to flip it upside down, instead of staying in the cup, it'd all fall out and then buzz around your head for as long as it wanted to until you took a Benadryl and went to sleep. But, do I write that in my blog? Absolutely not. Instead I post notices about my Thanksgiving get-together and then rant at bugs! Of course I do. Why on earth would I put down all the things I want to talk about when I could, instead, do an off-the-cuff blog that makes me late to work and bemoans a common household pest?
Anyway, I actually am going to blog about something I've been thinking about. Not because it is immensely important, mostly just because it keeps. coming. up. I can't get rid of it. And that's dang annoying. So here goes.
I'm ready for a relationship. I've been thinking I was ready for a relationship for a long time, but I think that for a long time I wasn't. I still carry a pretty hefty amount of baggage with me from past failures. But before, that baggage was the kind that got you stopped at airport security. There really was no way that I could move forward into... anything with it. But I couldn't let it go. Now that baggage has been checked. Look at all these tired cliches, I may have moved on emotionally, but you know I can't resist a really embarrassingly bad pun.
I've attempted to act on this relationship thing in a way that apparently isn't very intelligent. I wrote a note (originally to Chris) along the lines of, "Hey, I am ready for a relationship. Will you find me somebody? It would be really nice. Yeah, they'd have to deal with me, but I'm sure somebody must be up for it." Chris's reaction was so disheartening that I passed the letter along to whoever I could snag. Here are the answers I got, starting with the indomitable Mr. York.
Chris: (Laughing wildly, by the way. Loud laughter. Loud, loud laughter. Right in my face.) I'm sure there's somebody out in the world who would adore you. They're just not anywhere around here. [editor's note: thanks a bunch.]
Dave: I don't believe in dating. To set you up with somebody would be, in my opinion, a disservice. I would never do that to you. [editor's note: thank you, sincerely, for being more tactful than Christopher.]
Aaron: Yeah, I could probably find you somebody. I mean, I don't want to date you, but I'm sure somebody will want to. Give me some time.
Laura: Actually, there is this one guy... [editor's note: you get my biggest thanks, Red. You gave my petition thought and even came up with somebody. You rock.]
Then I realized that this is not the way to find a boyfriend. Begging your friends to find somebody who can tolerate you? Oh no, oh no, that just isn't love. Anna was telling Kelly this weekend that unless she wants to spend time with somebody, that she ought not make herself. That is to say, don't make yourself like somebody (or even pursue a relationship with them) just because they like you. It shouldn't need to be said, but to be quite honest, I think that's how it works in most cases.
My problem is that I am the pusher, not the pushed. I go after people, hard. It is neither subtle nor romantic nor any of the things it should be. And I shouldn't be doing it! I should be the one being pursued. I should hold out for somebody who actually wants to be my boyfriend. But what fun is that? I hate waiting. But it makes so much sense. Why, when somebody isn't jumping to date you, do we find it necessary to convince them to date us? They are not jumping. You will not be jumping later. It will be a big debacle. Don't go there, sister (or brother).
It sounds so sad to say "I have to wait for somebody who wants to date me..." but it isn't. Because there are a ton of people who I absolutely adore but don't want to date. And I know that there are plenty of people in this world who enjoy my company but wouldn't want to date me. And that's really cool and okay and normal. This whole waiting thing is just really starting to put me out.
Not only that, but then I realize that just because I'm not being a pusher doesn't mean I should be pushed. Say Mr. Wants-to-Date comes up to me and he tells me I am just the bees knees. Should I jump? Well, not unless I'm jumping. If I don't want it, I've gotta turn it down, and when I'm sitting here waiting for somebody to want me, I need to realize that I actually have some pretty high standards.
All the romantic prospects I've had lately have caveats. "He's a really great guy, but..." "No, I swear he's great, it's just..." "Most of the time we're totally happy!"
No more buts, boys (men?). Little Miss Moira will sit on her porch-a, smoking a cigarette. And she'll not be "waiting" on a single one of you. She'll be enjoying herself. Knowing that at some point somebody will walk by and jump. And she'll jump, too.
Sounds good, huh?
A point of clarification.
Dear Palmetto Bug,
You are vile. Really. I've been spending the past four years of my life trying to explain to people that you are not, in fact, just a really big german cockroach, but your own separate, entirely evil entity.
At The Elliott House I once published a whole pamphlet trying to explain to people your existence and the fact that it plagues, plagues, us here in Charleston. Nobody bought it unless they had already been plagued by you.
Well. Now you seem to be trying to get back at me. The other day when I stepped on one of you in my room I felt a little sad. I didn't want to kill you, palmetto bug, but you snuck under my bare feet and for that I was both sad and horrified (why would you do that!). But today. Today, when I was in the shower without my glasses on, a little groggy from the night before. Today when you crawled in my drain where my hair goes after I have shampooed the crap out of it, today was the last straw. Do not mess with me palmetto bug. When I pulled you out with my bare hand, wondering at first how a twig had gotten into my shower until I figured out what you really were, I was really, really mad.
It is November! Go away!
Love,
MTP
You are vile. Really. I've been spending the past four years of my life trying to explain to people that you are not, in fact, just a really big german cockroach, but your own separate, entirely evil entity.
At The Elliott House I once published a whole pamphlet trying to explain to people your existence and the fact that it plagues, plagues, us here in Charleston. Nobody bought it unless they had already been plagued by you.
Well. Now you seem to be trying to get back at me. The other day when I stepped on one of you in my room I felt a little sad. I didn't want to kill you, palmetto bug, but you snuck under my bare feet and for that I was both sad and horrified (why would you do that!). But today. Today, when I was in the shower without my glasses on, a little groggy from the night before. Today when you crawled in my drain where my hair goes after I have shampooed the crap out of it, today was the last straw. Do not mess with me palmetto bug. When I pulled you out with my bare hand, wondering at first how a twig had gotten into my shower until I figured out what you really were, I was really, really mad.
It is November! Go away!
Love,
MTP
Friday, November 14, 2008
Shucksgiving 2008
Dear anybody who might be in Charleston this Thanksgiving,
As I'm getting ready to head over to Kendall's for some vegan fare and wine, it made me think of a little get together I'll be having shortly in my humble abode.
We're doing Thanksgiving at my home and you are welcome. (Even you!) I'm calling it Shucksgiving seeing as, well, it'll probably mostly be a mass gathering of people who had to work at A.W. on Turkey Day and are thus stranded without their family and without their grandma's candied yams. I'm cooking. You're drinking. Bring a bottle or a six pack or just yourself and I will bring turkey and the rest. (And I will be wearing my sweet apron.)
Back to Mary Magdalene some time shortly.
As I'm getting ready to head over to Kendall's for some vegan fare and wine, it made me think of a little get together I'll be having shortly in my humble abode.
We're doing Thanksgiving at my home and you are welcome. (Even you!) I'm calling it Shucksgiving seeing as, well, it'll probably mostly be a mass gathering of people who had to work at A.W. on Turkey Day and are thus stranded without their family and without their grandma's candied yams. I'm cooking. You're drinking. Bring a bottle or a six pack or just yourself and I will bring turkey and the rest. (And I will be wearing my sweet apron.)
Back to Mary Magdalene some time shortly.
Monday, November 10, 2008
If Mary Loved Jesus . . .
I've been doing some thinking. I know, run and hide, right? The next few blogs might be a huge mess of thoughts with no coherence, and for that I apologize, but I think I need to get this out of me for my own benefit and to give you, gentle reader, some food for thought. Note: this blog will not be about faith/religion/Christianity except that in discussing Mary Magdalene and her relationship with Jesus of Nazareth (Jesus Christ, if your disposition so lends you to believe)-religion is inherent. Don't think I am spouting off on some religious topic that will offend you or reassure you. I am spouting off on love and that very well might offend you or reassure you. Now that our ground rules are established. . .
If Mary [Magdalene] loved Jesus, then how did that make her feel? The interest in Mary Magdalene is more massive than I realized. My Google search produced 1,760,000 sites in .21 seconds. Whereas I thought that the only people who really paid attention to her anymore were obscure ascetic monks out in the desert, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Dan Brown, there actually appears to be this magnificent interest in her. I told Caroline I was doing some research on her and the question came up, "Why?" "For me," I said. "Well, it's all conjecture, anyway," she stressed.
Fair. This is all conjecture, too. I used the word "if", didn't I? That said, the conjecture about Mary that I see on the internet has to do with her identity and what that meant to Jesus. Was she the same as Mary of Bethany, was she the same Mary that had seven demons cast out of her? Was she a prostitute? Was she the beloved disciple, apostle of the apostles? Did she marry Jesus? Did she and Jesus have babies? That's a lot of questions.
I have a lot of questions myself, but they all start out the same. If Mary loved Jesus . . . I will again make a distinction; the ramifications I seek to explore here are the ones that affected Mary, not those that would have affected Jesus. I mean, honestly, I'm in over my head as is, seeking to understand Jesus is so far beyond me that I feel heretical (or maybe just foolhardy) for even suggesting it.
When I was in class, I did a little outlining to try to figure out how to tackle what I think on the situation. Really, an outline. The last time I attempted to do anything of that sort was. . . never? But perhaps because I care about this personally, I want to sort things out before I put them here. So, with much ado, I bit adieu. Kind of a let down, no? But I think each bullet point on my outline is going to get its own individual post. I mean, it's a lot to digest, and nobody wants to sit and read a crazy girl's twelve page tract on Mary Magdalene all at once (if they even want to read it at all). See you tomorrow!
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Snapshots
Facebook advertisements always get me. Exhibit a is a joke. Rachael Ray's flat belly? Uh . . . Exhibit b is a gooood get. I love you, Daniel Craig. Be my baby daddy?
Where trouble melts like lemon drops...
Ladies and gentlemen, today will be a good day no matter what because I've already managed to do something I've wanted to do for a few weeks now. An autumn playlist. Playlists in the fall are always my favorite because there's something about this season that makes music stand out more. Don't ask me to explain because I don't understand it. Anyway, it's only 27 songs, one of my shorter lists, for sure, but it works. Enjoy.
Bon Mot
Bon Mot
- Israel Kamakawiwo'ole- Somewhere Over the Rainbow & What a Wonderful World
- Rolling Stones- Beast of Burden
- Britney Spears- Womanizer
- The Beatles- Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End
- Ben Kweller- Falling
- Bush- Glycerine
- No Doubt- Underneath it All
- Cat Power- Sea of Love
- The Cranberries- Dreams
- Coldplay- Fix You
- Rachael Yamagata- Letter Read
- Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, & Gillian Welch- Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby
- David Gray- Babylon
- Joe Dassin-Les Champs-Élysées
- Roy Orbison- You Got It
- John Legend- Save Room
- Rufus Wainwright- Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk
- Etta James- At Last
- The Cardigans- Lovefool
- Citizen Cope- Sideways
- Fiona Apple- Paper Bag
- The Flaming Lips- Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1
- Lauryn Hill- Can't Take My Eyes Off of You
- Oasis- Champagne Supernova
- Pete Townsend- Let My Love Open the Door
- Phish- Waste
- Sufjan Stevens- Chicago
Why dontcha do something?
Yesterday I wrote a little something as I spent my entire afternoon in the park. It fizzled out toward the end (which you will definitely see), but I like it anyway. The writing isn't genius level, and for that, I apologize. I was going to write more in here about love, but who am I to spout off about things I don't understand? Enjoy. . . (Or don't. Your choice.)
11/7/2007
1:29 PM
At the age of 21, I have it all. Money? Well, no, not that. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come graduation? Ah. . . no. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come tonight? I guess I don't really even have that. (But guess what? Neither do you!) But I still have it all.
I have a blanket in Marion Square. I have a trusty legal pad, a New Yorker magazine, a City Paper crossword puzzle, and a Dr. Pepper. I had the world's most delicious pita, but I ate that already. Sorry, pita, you didn't stand a chance.
Hadley's laying next to me, it's good to have a friend. The girls directly in front of me are having, oh geez, like the world's most vapid conversation as they lay in a busy city park wearing string bikinis. Hadley and I are both fully clothed. (Go us.) We are also not being distressingly vapid, at least not right now. Had is reading Cicero. It's good to have a (smart) friend.
I have eyes. Those are nice, too. People watching is the world's most under-rated way to spend any morning, afternoon, or night. If people watching was an Olympic sport, I think it's safe to say that I'd be a definite contender.
I have a gel pen. I love writing with gel pens because the words look so fluid and shiny. I am easily amused. . .
I have a picture of my parents in my wallet that makes me really happy. If I were to venture a guess, I'd say that they were, at most, 25, and that they probably had very little more than I do in terms of money/long term plans. But they look like they have it all. I actually love this picture so much that I feel guilty. As somebody who is very possessive of their emotions and experiences, I know that if somebody had a picture of me with my future spouse in their wallet, I'd probably think that they were trying to have my love. And I'd be sad. Or maybe angry. Hopefully my dad doesn't mind.
I have to work tonight. This breaks my little beating heart. I don't want to go home and change and trudge to Shucks. But as I said. . . no money. Oh well.
11/7/2007
1:29 PM
At the age of 21, I have it all. Money? Well, no, not that. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come graduation? Ah. . . no. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come tonight? I guess I don't really even have that. (But guess what? Neither do you!) But I still have it all.
I have a blanket in Marion Square. I have a trusty legal pad, a New Yorker magazine, a City Paper crossword puzzle, and a Dr. Pepper. I had the world's most delicious pita, but I ate that already. Sorry, pita, you didn't stand a chance.
Hadley's laying next to me, it's good to have a friend. The girls directly in front of me are having, oh geez, like the world's most vapid conversation as they lay in a busy city park wearing string bikinis. Hadley and I are both fully clothed. (Go us.) We are also not being distressingly vapid, at least not right now. Had is reading Cicero. It's good to have a (smart) friend.
I have eyes. Those are nice, too. People watching is the world's most under-rated way to spend any morning, afternoon, or night. If people watching was an Olympic sport, I think it's safe to say that I'd be a definite contender.
I have a gel pen. I love writing with gel pens because the words look so fluid and shiny. I am easily amused. . .
I have a picture of my parents in my wallet that makes me really happy. If I were to venture a guess, I'd say that they were, at most, 25, and that they probably had very little more than I do in terms of money/long term plans. But they look like they have it all. I actually love this picture so much that I feel guilty. As somebody who is very possessive of their emotions and experiences, I know that if somebody had a picture of me with my future spouse in their wallet, I'd probably think that they were trying to have my love. And I'd be sad. Or maybe angry. Hopefully my dad doesn't mind.
I have to work tonight. This breaks my little beating heart. I don't want to go home and change and trudge to Shucks. But as I said. . . no money. Oh well.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
That's my daughter in the water...
I don't blog about my family because, well, they've asked me not to in the past. And while I understand that, I will divulge this quick little conversation between me and my father from this afternoon. It must be admitted that this conversation is completely through text message. Yeah, my Abba is cool and texts me back when I am being weird. And I present: Moira's reaction to Connie's new car . . .
MTP: There is a Prius in our driveway. I can't believe you surprised me with one!
DTP: So that you finish the school year without incident - please do not take it. That would be grand theft auto.
MTP: Shoot, homes, you mean it's not mine?
DTP: No girl - not yours.
MTP: Dag, Davizzle, now I'm sad.
DTP: Go grab a 40 and chill.
You heard it. Best advice ever. From my father. Go grab a 40 and chill. Words to live by, folks.
MTP: There is a Prius in our driveway. I can't believe you surprised me with one!
DTP: So that you finish the school year without incident - please do not take it. That would be grand theft auto.
MTP: Shoot, homes, you mean it's not mine?
DTP: No girl - not yours.
MTP: Dag, Davizzle, now I'm sad.
DTP: Go grab a 40 and chill.
You heard it. Best advice ever. From my father. Go grab a 40 and chill. Words to live by, folks.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool.
I'm officially a boy. Last night we had this discussion as we watched the Pats game (sorry New England fans, that was rough . . .) at Tommy's. I watch football. I yell at the game. Chris and I had a discussion about which of my female Shuck's workers I hang out with. The answer would be: Sara. Seriously, I think that's it. Now if you look at the male co-workers, there's kind of a bunch of them.
Know why? Because I'm that girl. I am the girl who every male puts in their "friend" slot and forgets is a girl. I suppose I'm okay with this. I'd rather be friends with all my guy friends than be nothing at all. On the other hand, if somebody could at some point look at me and think, "You know? She's actually kind of date potential," that would be a rare treat that I would really appreciate.
To make things better, Chris said, "Well, you could be like Elisa, she is clueless about sports." Elisa is also gorgeous. Gorgeous girls don't need to worry about sports or drink lots of beer or anything because they're gorgeous. She also happens to have a killer personality that just doesn't involve football. Elisa happens to have told me many times that she thinks I am pretty. That's good. I like it when nice pretty people take pity on that girl and tell her she is attractive. I'll take it where I can get it.
No, this is not the world's biggest pity party. This is actually just a lead in to just another reason why I am that girl. I cut my own hair today. I've done this before. The first time was when Max and I broke up. I drank a few glasses of wine and went into our bathroom and hacked out some bangs. While they weren't exactly beautiful, they weren't exactly terrible. I have since been cutting my own bangs for about a year.
This time I went crazy, though. And here's why. In August I went to the salon where I used to go in high school. My old hair lady was gone, but the owner was still there and she went ahead and cut my hair. She gave me a great color, but the cut was something that made me kind of tear up a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean to say that I had a fit. I mean, she charged me 130 dollars for a cut that frankly, was not cute. She then tried to tell me that it was very chic and all the women in France were wearing their hair the same way. I tried to smile graciously, but I think she could tell that I was a litttttle bit sad. When I walked home that afternoon, my father eyed me from the porch,
"You cut your hair."
"Wednesday Addams would prefer not to discuss her hair at the moment."
"You don't look like Wednesday Addams. Her hair is longer."
Dave thought this was funny. I did not.
Long story short, I have come to this conclusion: getting your hair cut is a complete crapshoot. Even if you like your stylist, she could be having a day where her thoughts don't jive with yours and in the end, things get ugly. So, you could pay $100 for a haircut you love, or you could pay $100 for a haircut you hate. Why not just cut your own hair and if you hate it, at least it was free?
But cutting my own hair still kind of makes me one of those girls. Self-respecting pretty girls do not cut their own hair, even if it is on a whim and because it seems to make sense to them. Taking such a drastic risk with your own hands and scissors is just not a girl thing to do.
That said, I present my somewhat successful (and completely free) haircut. I may not be a master stylist, but I actually think it's an improvement upon some of the cuts of the past.
Know why? Because I'm that girl. I am the girl who every male puts in their "friend" slot and forgets is a girl. I suppose I'm okay with this. I'd rather be friends with all my guy friends than be nothing at all. On the other hand, if somebody could at some point look at me and think, "You know? She's actually kind of date potential," that would be a rare treat that I would really appreciate.
To make things better, Chris said, "Well, you could be like Elisa, she is clueless about sports." Elisa is also gorgeous. Gorgeous girls don't need to worry about sports or drink lots of beer or anything because they're gorgeous. She also happens to have a killer personality that just doesn't involve football. Elisa happens to have told me many times that she thinks I am pretty. That's good. I like it when nice pretty people take pity on that girl and tell her she is attractive. I'll take it where I can get it.
No, this is not the world's biggest pity party. This is actually just a lead in to just another reason why I am that girl. I cut my own hair today. I've done this before. The first time was when Max and I broke up. I drank a few glasses of wine and went into our bathroom and hacked out some bangs. While they weren't exactly beautiful, they weren't exactly terrible. I have since been cutting my own bangs for about a year.
This time I went crazy, though. And here's why. In August I went to the salon where I used to go in high school. My old hair lady was gone, but the owner was still there and she went ahead and cut my hair. She gave me a great color, but the cut was something that made me kind of tear up a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean to say that I had a fit. I mean, she charged me 130 dollars for a cut that frankly, was not cute. She then tried to tell me that it was very chic and all the women in France were wearing their hair the same way. I tried to smile graciously, but I think she could tell that I was a litttttle bit sad. When I walked home that afternoon, my father eyed me from the porch,
"You cut your hair."
"Wednesday Addams would prefer not to discuss her hair at the moment."
"You don't look like Wednesday Addams. Her hair is longer."
Dave thought this was funny. I did not.
Long story short, I have come to this conclusion: getting your hair cut is a complete crapshoot. Even if you like your stylist, she could be having a day where her thoughts don't jive with yours and in the end, things get ugly. So, you could pay $100 for a haircut you love, or you could pay $100 for a haircut you hate. Why not just cut your own hair and if you hate it, at least it was free?
But cutting my own hair still kind of makes me one of those girls. Self-respecting pretty girls do not cut their own hair, even if it is on a whim and because it seems to make sense to them. Taking such a drastic risk with your own hands and scissors is just not a girl thing to do.
That said, I present my somewhat successful (and completely free) haircut. I may not be a master stylist, but I actually think it's an improvement upon some of the cuts of the past.
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