August 20, 2010
Facebook hazard #932
When someone you’ve been friends with for something close to a decade posts a status that reveals views repugnant to you.
Frankly, I’m kinda pissed. I’m not sure at whom, though. At this person, for pretending to tolerance all these years? Or at myself, for ignoring other personality characteristics that would, if acknowledged, allowed me to discern these views and fade the friendship appropriately.
Even worse, part of me suspects that I’m pissed because his views reflect poorly on me. Nobody likes to say, “Oh, yeah, he’s kind of a {misogynist, racist, homophobe, bigot, ignorant asshole who has apparently forgotten how to use the rational parts of our brains that make us human), but he’s otherwise an okay guy, so I’m totally friends with him. Well, maybe some people like to say that. I don’t.
And right now, as I’m thinking of him, I’m thinking of a whole list of things about him that annoy me and make me want to not be his friend anymore. And I wonder if this is the opening of my eyes to the way I’ve always thought about this person, and the whole friendship was a lie, or if it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Either way, back broken. Now, to unfriend, block, or hide?
August 19, 2010
It’s a good thing I can’t find my lamp.
Because sometimes, for absolutely no reason at all, even after you’ve been complimented, and you’re still sore from killer workouts, and you ate a superhealthy dinner the night before…
Sometimes, you get on the scale, and you see what, to most people (including some part of yourself that you cling to like a life preserver), are perfectly reasonable and healthy numbers. You see those numbers, and you wish you could just figure out how to go back.
So it’s a good thing you can’t find your lamp, because wishes should sometimes really not be granted.
August 13, 2010
634 blow jobs in 5 days… I’m really quite tired.
I just have to make it clear that I don’t want to hear about it anymore, I suppose.
Because the notion that I might actually care what thirtysomething versions of Regina George and Gretchen Weiners think of me is patently absurd.
But the notion that people are capable of developing an irrational hatred for you, specifically (not because you are a member of a class or group) is unsettling. And since I can’t do anything about it, I’d just as soon not know.
August 9, 2010
Nerditude
Yes, I am evil, and a total judgmental bitch.
But if you use the word “loose” where “lose” would be more appropriate, or if you claim to “pour” over a book, I will judge you and think less of you. Unless you’re actually causing liquid to leave a vessel at a greater elevation than the tome in question, in which case I apologize.
Also, my power came back on, Saturday morning. They *finally* disconnected the supermarket’s generator late last night, so I’ve gotten almost no sleep, and am therefore being even more harsh about this than I would normally.
But it’s kind of true.
August 5, 2010
Mascara
My workday beauty regimen is pretty basic – undereye concealer (thanks, DC-area-allergy embiggened dark circles!), the lightest dusting of blush, some powder (to soak up all that lovely humidity!) and mascara. Following the mascara, I wipe the edge of my upper eyelid with a Q-tip, as I’ve invariably managed to get mascara on it as well as my lashes.
This morning, on the metro, it was standing room only (as it has been for much of the summer, because they are running fewer trains on the Orange Line and we are thus packed like sardines in insufficiently air-conditioned cars). A petite girl stood next to me, clearly in the part of the car where petite persons should not stand*, as there was nothing for her to grab onto when the train lurched or shuddered.
And then she put on her mascara, as the train lurched and shuddered merrily along.
I couldn’t decide if I was more concerned, disgusted, offended, or impressed. And I seriously considered saying something, because putting makeup on, on the metro, is inappropriate to the point of being rude, in my opinion. Not to mention, it would have been totally gross if she’d poked herself in the eye with the mascara wand.
Am I alone in this?
*I would just like to point out that this part of the train isn’t exactly comfortable for taller people either, as our arms are above our heads for the entire trip. More poles, please!
July 20, 2010
I am a grown woman. I will not wear booties.
Not going to happen!
I will wear boots. I will wear shoes. I will wear low boots, or high shoes*. I will not wear something that could be confused, verbally, with something recently worn by my niece and nephew.
Seriously, people. Shouldn’t we insist that marketers treat us like adults, and come up with better names for adult footwear than “booties”?
Don’t even get me started on how they’ve managed to convince a significant segment of the female population that gladiator sandals, and variations on that theme, are even the tiniest bit attractive. Ugh.
*Though honestly, I probably wouldn’t wear any of the things currently described as booties, because I don’t see any reason to make my legs look stumpy or my feet look like hooves (lessons I learned in the eighth grade or so, the last time these things were allegedly the epitome of fashion).
July 19, 2010
Zen? Zen. Zen what? Zen we take care of ourselves.
You might think that a hyperindulgent weekend would result in one feeling terrible on Monday. You might think that six women in a condo 500 feet from tax-free outlet stores and .5 miles from a cocoa-centric spa would result in excessive purchases of clothing that would refuse to button the following week.
You might be wrong.
I’d been apprehensive about the weekend – I tend to feel gargantuan around most of my female friends anyway, as I am 3.5″ taller than the next tallest (who, it might be noted, wears clothes 3 full sizes smaller than mine), and they are all athletic and gorgeous. Not to mention smart and funny. Lovely and intimidating.
Also, I’d never been to a spa before. I signed up for one of the packages, thinking that the people who put these things together probably know a thing or two about producing enjoyable spa experiences. And we’ll talk more about the “rain shower” another time. But the massage? The massage induced the most blissfully languid epiphany:
I want to take care of myself.
I’ve had this body for kind of a while now, and I’ve hated it since I was six. For a while, I hated it passively, making it sit around on couches while I fed it all manner of junk food. Then I hated it slightly more actively, engaging in mild exercise while swearing off almost all foods, save a bizarre ritualized assortment of things I consumed only when alone. Then I hated it more damagingly, partaking of “tiny little flaming sticks of death” on a regular basis. And then I hated it a litte more responsibly, working out 4-5 times a week and eating more healthfully than I ever had before (though that’s not saying much). But I’ve never not hated it.
At least, not until somewhere in the middle of that massage, when it occurred to me that I didn’t. For at least 3 minutes, I not only didn’t hate it, but I loved it, and wanted to take care of it, rather than beat it into submission.
And this morning, I slept for an extra 45 minutes and neglected to put sugar in my tea. I also cringed at a few photographs from the weekend.
Baby steps.
July 16, 2010
My biggest grammatical pet peeve
Drivel. NOT dribble. DRIVEL.
For the love of everything that is good, please stop with the dribble. Please. Dribble is what gooey liquids do. Or it can be the portion of a gooey liquid that HAS dribbled. Or one can dribble a gooey liquid.
However, when one is talking about insipid communications? Banal verbal expressions? It’s DRIVEL.
Thanks.
July 15, 2010
Grey suede pumps and other miscellania
Thirty dollars plus shipping, people. For the perfect grey suede stiletto? I’ll take that. Alloy – the clothes are mostly in juniors sizes, but the shoes? Fair game, by my way of thinking.
I know this might draw a little heat, but I just feel it’s necessary to point out that nine times out of ten, the drivers in Northern VA who piss me off the most? Do not have VA tags. These people stop too far from the intersection, thereby failing to trigger privileged greens AND exacerbating gridlock behind them. Where they’re going is a secret to everyone including them, apparently, as they never ever use turn signals nor seem capable of merging into the appropriate lane before making a turn across multiple lanes of traffic. They go below the speed limit on roads where passing is not permitted, and insist on backing into parking spaces despite being really terrible at it. Really, they’re just IN MY WAY. For all that people from these various places try to claim that VA is a horrible, backwards place not worth visiting, let alone living in, they sure as heck spend a lot of time driving here, and it’s pissing me off.
Why yes, my Klonopin script DID just run out. Why do you ask? I’m just going to go stare at my pretty, 4½” heeled shoes for a while.
July 13, 2010
Those? The gloves over there? Yes, they’re off.
When I was in high school, I had an absurdly massive crush on this guy we’ll call Joe. Joe encouraged the crush, but never acted on it – impressive, since he was definitely a “bad boy” and I was ridiculously naive. Also, Joe started dating a girl whom I promptly began to hate. Haaaate. Really dislike. Solely on the basis of her relationship with him, because there wasn’t much else I could see to dislike. She was petite, with dark curly hair and big brown eyes – in a word, gorgeous. They had the same friends, the same taste in music. And all I had was a stupid crush.
One night, shortly after they’d broken up, she and I sat on my back porch and became really good friends. I was her maid of honor years later, when she married an entirely different sort of person, the sort who did NOT wind up pumping gas in size 40 coveralls. I’m lucky, because I’d said some pretty horrible things about her, when I thought I hated her. All superficial stuff, all just desperately trying to find a flaw so that I could hang onto some hope that Joe would break up with her and finally be free to see what he was missing with me.
I read *entirely* too much Sweet Valley High at that age. Which, I’ll explicitly state for emphasis, was FIFTEEN. Not mid-thirties. And I certainly never pretended to friendship where none existed.
I know I shouldn’t stoop. I really shouldn’t. But now that I’ve taken the gloves off, I’ll have to bend over to put them down at some point – I do hate just throwing things on the floor.
Seeking John Galt 