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 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.
July 7, 2010
Putting Out
You know what would make me happy? If people took more responsibility for what they put out there.
So if you want me to think you are capable, hardworking, intelligent, and worth my best effort, you should probably do things that are in line with those qualities. And not, say, continually engage in undermine-y, petty behavior. Yes, you are successfully telling me that you don’t like me. But you’re also telling me that you’re not adult or professional enough to work around that, even if I’m the best person to work on a particular task. And when you get all wide-eyed later, and say that you never suggested any such thing, bless my heart, I’m going to call you on it, and recount the ways in which you very much suggested all of those things.
And if you want me to think that you’re a pretty good human person, who is generally respectful of others and worth establishing a friendship with, you should probably do things that support that thesis. For example, you could respect my boundaries, and not try to foist your agenda on me when that agenda clearly conflicts with my boundaries. And when I call you out on it, you could admit to egocentricity and lack of consideration, at the very least.
And I, in turn, should take responsibility for giving the impression that I might be okay with a little foisting, (which I sometimes do by dint of being confrontation-abhorrent). And, remember that for next time, and be less confrontation-abhorrent.
June 21, 2010
Please, Go Away.
Don’t ever think about me again. Don’t ever think about anything that might lead you to think about me again.
Don’t come here and read what I write.
Don’t talk to people I know, and mention my name in an artfully casual manner, just to see what they might have to say.
While we’re at it, don’t say my name at all.
There has been a strong correlation between how much better my life has gotten, with less of you in it. Statisticians be damned, I’m going to go with causation on that one – so stay the fuck away.
You will never, ever, have the foggiest notion of what is actually going on in my life, if I can help it. So don’t ever start rumors about me in any capacity, because you will be wrong and I will hear about it, and it will just make me want to tell people the truth about you.
Truths like how you propositioned me while you knew I was in a serious, committed relationship – and while you were living with your then-girlfriend.
Truths like how you think that people are things you can barter – something you tried to do TWICE, though you thought I only knew about the first time.
Truths like how you’re willing to stab anyone in the back if you think it will get you laid.
Truths like how you’re willing to lie for the sole purpose of making others feel bad.
Truths like how you’re a shitty excuse for a person, and how absolutely nobody deserves to have you inflicted on them.
So, please stop reading. Close your browser, go elsewhere, and just leave me alone. Because I am a good person, and don’t deserve this bullshit.
And, kindly fuck off and die.
June 2, 2010
One of those days, eh?
I woke up, and managed to find my way to the gym, where Trainer had me do a LOT, and was suitably impressed by how much I was able to get done. Which was a good feeling, until I realized that the fact that my arms hurt as much as they did at the end of the workout, means I probably won’t get to use them tomorrow.
I made it out of the house twenty minutes earlier than usual, by design – walking across the various parking lots en route to the train, I reveled in crossing the white lines at a diagonal, unblocked by cars that were slowly trickling in rather than circling in frustration at the lack of spaces. Until, that is, a woman incapable of parking straight, and also incapable of looking around for pedestrians, backed up directly in front of me, and sat there for several minutes trying to figure out how to maneuver her car.
At the metro station, I just missed a train, and had to wait 6 minutes for the next one (WTF, Orange Line?). And when the next one came, it was completely empty – and bypassed my platform entirely. So finally, I got on the train – and managed to snag a seat.
It’s been one of those days where the possibility of a really good day is placed before me like a football, and then taken away at the last second. The worst that will happen is a bruised bum, and so the day won’t be a bad one… but I’m not sure it can be a good one when you find yourself relating that closely to Charlie Brown.
June 1, 2010
No Judging! Judge-Free Zone! Not to be confused with Snark, which is plentiful.
So, one of my best friends from college (DF) was in town this weekend, and it was totally awesome, for about eighteen billion reasons.
One of these reasons, is that she doesn’t judge. So when I start to experience a little of the Crazy, she hops into my crazy motorcycle’s sidecar and proceeds to guide me through the maze – she’s been there before, she knows the way out.
And so, when the Lady Voldemort reared her ugly head AGAIN, attempting to install herself as the new best friend of someone close to me, DF happily engaged in some damage assessment (which might have involved some online “research”), followed up with exactly the right amount of snark, reassurance, and white wine.
“Well, you know what they say, if you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.”
May 12, 2010
I don’t… get it.
And I am lucky as all hell, that I don’t get it. S.E. and I have had our differences, to be sure, and she’s hurt me more deeply than pretty much anyone else could, but she’s also loved me more fiercely. And I her.
So when I hear about other sibling relationships, I’m always somewhat confounded by those that aren’t particularly close, especially those where genuine animosity is present. It just doesn’t compute, on some visceral level.
How do you get to a point where you automatically assume the worst about someone who played with you as a child?
Okay – I mean, intellectually, I understand how some siblings really make any kind of amicable relationship possible. When interning for a J&DR court judge, I attended a divorce proceeding in circuit court wherein the soon-to-be-ex-husband was involved, amorously, with his soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law. So, yes. I understand it, where something truly heinous has been said or done.
But the stupid, penny-ante sibling rivalry crap? How does THAT happen?
I don’t understand how you let that get to you enough to where you get annoyed every time you think about your sibling. I don’t get how little nitpicky remarks that get made every time you see each other don’t become something you barely hear, something to ignore so that you can peaceably and genuinely enjoy family time.
Is this simply a situation where each sibling is really pissed off that they weren’t an only child? And even if it is, don’t you think that they could just treat each other like co-workers they don’t really like, or something, and be blandly civil when required, rather than sniping constantly?
Seeking John Galt 