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.

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.

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.

Ode to a clean room?

If KK can blog to a missing shoe, I can by all means blog to a clean room. Seriously. I moved into this house on August . . . 24th? Somewhere in there. I am proud to say that today, October 30, I have finally managed to move in. That is, my room is clean, and I have homes for all of my little knick knacks and I will actually sweep my room to get all the dog hair off the floor (that will happen tomorrow because tonight there is a party going on and I do not wish to interrupt it by walking into the room, grabbing a broom, and walking out . . . that would be awkward).

That said, I would have to venture that having a paper due on Halloween and having roommates who want to celebrate the night before is a good idea. I mean, if nobody was here, I'd be out in the living room watching tv. If I didn't have a paper due, I'd be out in the living room partying. But here I am, saving money and cleaning at the same time. Also, I have hung essential items on my wall, like my Moira pillowcase I got for my birthday when I was 4.

Speaking of that pillowcase. It was much to my chagrin that my beach towel was seriously worn when I pulled it out of the dryer this evening. You know how sometimes towels start to fray at the edges and they get all natty and sad? Well, this one is starting on the very unfortunate decline in that direction. This got me to thinking, I've had this towel since I was eight. It's about damn time. I am the biggest pack rat, I have a pillowcase from 4 and a towel from 8? I also use a bath robe my sister got when I was 10, have a hat I got when I was 11 hanging from my wall, and use a bed cover given to my parents before I was even born. That said, I hope that when I get married I get a huge trunk in which to put all these things. I admit it might be weird to have them as a part of my life once it is also somebody else's life, but I neeeeeeeeeed to keep them. Mr. Bear on the other hand, might just have to sleep with me and my husband. So, dear prospective men, I apologize. You can sleep with whatever you want (except another woman), just give me my bear.

I guess this is really an ode to life. That sounds better than an ode to a clean room. Well. I guess it isn't really an ode at all . . . But I like it.

Womanizer.

Why I love Gossip Girl. Because they mix sexy men and Britney Spears. It's like a gay club, but with more hope for a straight girl!

Rob Thomas

I just walked into my room and turned on iTunes for the first time today. First song that pops up is "Ever the Same" by Rob Thomas.

After tonight's "Always Sunny," you've gotta wonder if it's just a freaky coincidence? I think not.

This is Sinbad's house!

2:47 pm

As I sit in class, listening but not taking notes, I have to wonder if this could be the downfall of me as a student. Being a body in a class is not the same as being an active member. Then again, not being in class at all is very often what really gets me into trouble. Seriously, though . . .

I spent yesterday's Comparative Religious Ethics class drawing the letters "th" numerous times to see which way I liked it best. FYI, see the diagram to the upper left to see which I prefer. While the latter is more attractive, the former seems more natural. I like natural.

In my mass media class, I created a Fall 2k8 playlist and tried desperately to think of an appropriate name for it- which led to musings on happiness (see- yesterday's blogs).

In Critical Theory, though the feminism unit was intriguing, I spent the first ten minutes figuring out my own little bout of feminist writing (though it is not particularly groundbreaking, see below).

And now here I am in some meta mess. (The more I avoid it, the more I'm drawn to it. Perhaps from now on, it'll be known as the meta-flame and I'll be a Robbins-esque libidinous moth, trying so hard not to jump in head first.) Class is nearly over and my understanding of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood is very, very nominally broader.

So back to the question- is this a good thing or a bad one? Well, we'll continue this vein next class. Unless I find something else to write about. I probably will. Stay tuned at some future date for my humble insights into the romantic night I spent with Miss Maggie May.