actually, supposedly it's hard to stop a "trane", which is a slogan I never really understood.
But, it's hard to stop a blog too, I suppose. Especially since everyone has one.
My husband has been out of the country dealing with visa issues for the past 2 months, so I am living my former life, aka Lily the bachlorette (except there are no roses involved). It really means Lily leaves her towels all over the floor, doesn't take out trash until it stinks, and watches Law and Order until I have memorized the exact ratio of salt to pepper hairs on Sam Waterston's head. It has its moments of feeling quite liberating, but with a recent run in with a black widow, and a severe stink bug infestation, I am starting to understand why marriage was created in the first place. The point is to marry someone who will do all the things you don't like to do. I bring to the table a fairly advanced set of culinary skills, and willingness to vacuum (only with a Dyson). He cleans everything else, kills bugs, takes out trash, fixes things, builds things, and unclogs the drain when my hair builds up. I think its even stevens.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
"Woman wants to be a comedian because stranger on Facebook called her funny"
No, this is not an article from the Onion. It's my real life ambition to parlay my humor into some sort of lucrative book deal, TV show, or reality series. Not radio, I don't have a face for radio.
I get my daily affirmations from my gay best friend that I'm, "funny", "witty", "hysterical", but isn't that what a gay best friend does? It's pretty much in the contractual agreement between a straight woman and a gay man. He will stroke my ego by telling me I'm pretty and funny, and I will never judge his sexual escapades. Ever.
But that's not quite enough, unless your gay best friend happens to be a producer for E! (and if so, could you send him the link to my blog?). So how does one break-thru? How do you take a series of really funny musings and make a Chelsea Lately? And can someone please take that formula and transform me into a pop icon sensation? No, seriously, I've got a 10 year reunion coming up, and need a cool job title.
Speaking of! My High School reunion committee, comprised solely of graduates who never traveled outside a 5 mile perimeter of the school's football field, have decided to host a reunion picnic. Kids, volleyball, and watermelon. First, I hate all 3 of the aforementioned items, but secondly, when did reunion become about families? Reunions are for reminiscing about who you lost your virginity to, that time you got suspended for smoking pot in the bathroom, and who got morbidly obese since senior year. I won't be attending my reunion, instead I'll be drinking a dirty martini at my favorite bar, and toasting the fact that I don't have kids, and weigh the same as I did when i wore my cap and gown. In the word's of the great Charlie Sheen, "I'm winning".
I get my daily affirmations from my gay best friend that I'm, "funny", "witty", "hysterical", but isn't that what a gay best friend does? It's pretty much in the contractual agreement between a straight woman and a gay man. He will stroke my ego by telling me I'm pretty and funny, and I will never judge his sexual escapades. Ever.
But that's not quite enough, unless your gay best friend happens to be a producer for E! (and if so, could you send him the link to my blog?). So how does one break-thru? How do you take a series of really funny musings and make a Chelsea Lately? And can someone please take that formula and transform me into a pop icon sensation? No, seriously, I've got a 10 year reunion coming up, and need a cool job title.
Speaking of! My High School reunion committee, comprised solely of graduates who never traveled outside a 5 mile perimeter of the school's football field, have decided to host a reunion picnic. Kids, volleyball, and watermelon. First, I hate all 3 of the aforementioned items, but secondly, when did reunion become about families? Reunions are for reminiscing about who you lost your virginity to, that time you got suspended for smoking pot in the bathroom, and who got morbidly obese since senior year. I won't be attending my reunion, instead I'll be drinking a dirty martini at my favorite bar, and toasting the fact that I don't have kids, and weigh the same as I did when i wore my cap and gown. In the word's of the great Charlie Sheen, "I'm winning".
Friday, February 25, 2011
The plight of the over educated stay at home mom
Soap Box time!
It has recently been thrust into my face that women are staging "nurse-ins", mommy support groups for attachment parenting, and discussing how best to have a marsupial baby. These women were normal, rational, human beings who held productive jobs until having their little bundles of joy. They are now militant lactavists, home school teachers, and self proclaimed pediatricians who know "vaccainations will lead to autism". So what made these once, rational, normal people go off the deep end? Babies. Okay, maybe not babies, but a combination of no work and all baby makes mom a dull person. It's reverse feminism gone hay wire! Of course, they have the right to stay home (if their husband earns enough $ to afford them this luxury), but they start to believe they know more than all the professionals do about raising a child. They know more than the school districts, so they often opt to school at home. If--heaven forbid--they enroll in public school, they are often chastising teachers for hours via email (their weapon of choice)and telephone calls about why Mackenzie or Jaquin (new wave mom's have a flare for non traditional names) didn't get an A in arts and crafts.
These same mom's also take aim at anyone who dares to challenge their status quo. Experts say to vaccinate? New age mom says "no"! Experts say to breast feed first 6 months of life? New age mom's nurse until baby (or toddler) says "no"!
New age mom's are also taking up old fashioned hobbies, like knitting, sewing, baking, and the art of scrapbooking. Prior to baby they had no desire or interest in any of these activities, so why now? Is it because they think this will make them the ideal mom? The ideal wife?
I want to start my own trend of progressive parenting. It will start by hiring a surrogate, followed 9 months later by hiring a wet nurse.
It has recently been thrust into my face that women are staging "nurse-ins", mommy support groups for attachment parenting, and discussing how best to have a marsupial baby. These women were normal, rational, human beings who held productive jobs until having their little bundles of joy. They are now militant lactavists, home school teachers, and self proclaimed pediatricians who know "vaccainations will lead to autism". So what made these once, rational, normal people go off the deep end? Babies. Okay, maybe not babies, but a combination of no work and all baby makes mom a dull person. It's reverse feminism gone hay wire! Of course, they have the right to stay home (if their husband earns enough $ to afford them this luxury), but they start to believe they know more than all the professionals do about raising a child. They know more than the school districts, so they often opt to school at home. If--heaven forbid--they enroll in public school, they are often chastising teachers for hours via email (their weapon of choice)and telephone calls about why Mackenzie or Jaquin (new wave mom's have a flare for non traditional names) didn't get an A in arts and crafts.
These same mom's also take aim at anyone who dares to challenge their status quo. Experts say to vaccinate? New age mom says "no"! Experts say to breast feed first 6 months of life? New age mom's nurse until baby (or toddler) says "no"!
New age mom's are also taking up old fashioned hobbies, like knitting, sewing, baking, and the art of scrapbooking. Prior to baby they had no desire or interest in any of these activities, so why now? Is it because they think this will make them the ideal mom? The ideal wife?
I want to start my own trend of progressive parenting. It will start by hiring a surrogate, followed 9 months later by hiring a wet nurse.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Why I'll never write a memoir, and more chatter from a procrastinator
I'll never write a memoir because A. I have a deep seeded fear that no one would buy it. Well, my mom would buy it, but I don't know that I would want her to read it. and B. I would never finish it.
Not unlike this blog, I like to start things, and not finish them. I read Chelsea Handler, Candace Bushnell, Cosmopolitan, and think, "Hey! I could do that!". But I don't. So what do they got that I don't got? Higher education? More life (bedroom) experience? A greater sense of humor? Doubtful. But they all have one thing in common, they can finish something that they've started. One day there will be a market for the unfinished memoirs of a woman who is known for nothing of particular importance, and my story will finally be heard.
That's the thing about blogging, and the internet in general; everyone is a celebrity. You can have 1200 friends on Facebook, 800 followers on Twitter, 700 friends on Myspace--oh, wait, no one cares about Myspace anymore--well, you get the point. So how do we distinguish between someone who should be relevent, and someone who is irrelevant (see also, the entire cast of Jersey Shore)?
Unfortunately, the internet has not become sophisticated enough to filter out all the people--and information--that are considered useless. Perhaps we should all wear numbers (no, not like Nazi Germany) that signify our importance, or whether or not we're interesting? Think of how much easier dating, relationships, working, living would be if we knew how to weed out the unimportant, irregardless people in the world? On a scale of 1-10, 1 being the most useless human being on the planet, and 10 being someone, like, really smart, where would you rank yourself? And would you rank high enough to have your own blog....
Not unlike this blog, I like to start things, and not finish them. I read Chelsea Handler, Candace Bushnell, Cosmopolitan, and think, "Hey! I could do that!". But I don't. So what do they got that I don't got? Higher education? More life (bedroom) experience? A greater sense of humor? Doubtful. But they all have one thing in common, they can finish something that they've started. One day there will be a market for the unfinished memoirs of a woman who is known for nothing of particular importance, and my story will finally be heard.
That's the thing about blogging, and the internet in general; everyone is a celebrity. You can have 1200 friends on Facebook, 800 followers on Twitter, 700 friends on Myspace--oh, wait, no one cares about Myspace anymore--well, you get the point. So how do we distinguish between someone who should be relevent, and someone who is irrelevant (see also, the entire cast of Jersey Shore)?
Unfortunately, the internet has not become sophisticated enough to filter out all the people--and information--that are considered useless. Perhaps we should all wear numbers (no, not like Nazi Germany) that signify our importance, or whether or not we're interesting? Think of how much easier dating, relationships, working, living would be if we knew how to weed out the unimportant, irregardless people in the world? On a scale of 1-10, 1 being the most useless human being on the planet, and 10 being someone, like, really smart, where would you rank yourself? And would you rank high enough to have your own blog....
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Space Invanders
No, this is not a war of the worlds, post-apocalyptic blog post. This is a blog about the GIGANTIC, MOMENTOUS decision to move in with your boyfriend or girlfriend. Or, more specifically, moving in with me.
I am an only child, and have never had to share a room with a sibling, dying grandmother, or any other relative. I use this as my Freudian explanation on why I prefer to live alone, and will sacrifice larger living accommodations, cable television, and meals out in order to live alone in my one bedroom apartment. I don't have any particularly odd living habits that would make me an undesirable roommate (at least according to me), I just like the quietness that living alone affords me. Okay sure, sometimes there is naked time, or bizarre beauty rituals, but mostly I just like to relax watch 3 hours of Law and Order (thank you TNT), and go to bed at an hour traditionally reserved for the elderly.
Which is why, I am a little nervous about allowing my boyfriend--the love of my life--to move in with me. Sure, he's wonderful, generous, witty, loving, romantic, and generally the most special person to me in the world...but will he remain this way when he moves in? Yesterday we spoke on the phone and he was rattling off a short list of things he will be bringing with him into the apartment. 1. Clothes. Okay, I realize this is considered a staple for most people, but I view each shirt that he brings as one less hanger and one less square inch of closet space. Shoes. Okay, one pair should be sufficient. Any additional pairs will be banished to the dirt basement in my apartment (sorry in advance for the spiders). Bicycle. Fine, this can stay outside in the shed. PlayStation 3. YIKES! A PlayStation 3 signifies that the apartment is no longer MINE, but is now OURS. There is no mistaking the PlayStation as a joint asset, this is strictly for his amusement, and although there are less healthy electronic addictions (say, Internet porn), I still have some reservations. Mostly that he will be content to spend hours on the sofa, gain a pot belly and master grand theft auto #17.
But ultimately it is the unknown in our relationship that excites me the most. I look forward to this next "journey" that we are about to embark on, and I welcome it...just so long as it keeps the toilet seat down.
I am an only child, and have never had to share a room with a sibling, dying grandmother, or any other relative. I use this as my Freudian explanation on why I prefer to live alone, and will sacrifice larger living accommodations, cable television, and meals out in order to live alone in my one bedroom apartment. I don't have any particularly odd living habits that would make me an undesirable roommate (at least according to me), I just like the quietness that living alone affords me. Okay sure, sometimes there is naked time, or bizarre beauty rituals, but mostly I just like to relax watch 3 hours of Law and Order (thank you TNT), and go to bed at an hour traditionally reserved for the elderly.
Which is why, I am a little nervous about allowing my boyfriend--the love of my life--to move in with me. Sure, he's wonderful, generous, witty, loving, romantic, and generally the most special person to me in the world...but will he remain this way when he moves in? Yesterday we spoke on the phone and he was rattling off a short list of things he will be bringing with him into the apartment. 1. Clothes. Okay, I realize this is considered a staple for most people, but I view each shirt that he brings as one less hanger and one less square inch of closet space. Shoes. Okay, one pair should be sufficient. Any additional pairs will be banished to the dirt basement in my apartment (sorry in advance for the spiders). Bicycle. Fine, this can stay outside in the shed. PlayStation 3. YIKES! A PlayStation 3 signifies that the apartment is no longer MINE, but is now OURS. There is no mistaking the PlayStation as a joint asset, this is strictly for his amusement, and although there are less healthy electronic addictions (say, Internet porn), I still have some reservations. Mostly that he will be content to spend hours on the sofa, gain a pot belly and master grand theft auto #17.
But ultimately it is the unknown in our relationship that excites me the most. I look forward to this next "journey" that we are about to embark on, and I welcome it...just so long as it keeps the toilet seat down.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Airplane Culture.
My boyfriend recently told me that while flying I should get into "baggage" mode. He went on to explain that while traveling you should consider yourself as a piece of luggage, not as a human being, and will therefore be far less excitable when the unexpected happens during your journey. I am, by nature and nurture, an excitable creature so this task was incredibly daunting. But, Paul is a rational person and I value his opinion, so I thought it was worth a try. However, mere moments after hanging up the phone with him, I was approached by a man of about 30 at the airport bar. Surely, even the finest Luis Vutton suitcase does not get hit on while rotating on the carousel belt. I was out of baggage mode, and concentrating on how to look busy with merely a pen and a boarding pass. Airport bars, in truth, repulse me to the very core of my being. The clientele are mostly lonely men travelers desperate for female companionship, and women like myself trying desperately to avoid them. I would like to think that a band of gold on my left hand would prohibit this sort of thing from happening, but I've been told that this does little to deter men on the prowl. What is it about airports that intensify a feeling of sexual desire uncontrollable by social guidelines? Is it the friendliness of airlines staff upon check in? Is it the build up of anticipation while you wait to pass airport security? Or is it simply the idea of being beside a total stranger for 7 hours on an international flight in coach where the only thing separating you is a nylon seat belt? Baggage mode or not, it is simply impossible to ignore the emotions that are in an airport. The joy of seeing a loved one, the sadness of leaving someone behind, the frustration in a delayed or canceled flight, and even the excitement of a casual encounter in a men's bathroom.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bon Voyage
Today I read about a young man in the UK who is blogging about his battle with cancer, several months ago there was a woman blogging about the last 90 days of her life before committing suicide, and here I am blogging about...nothing of particular importance. Okay, i'm not dying, not suicidal, and perhaps this is evident because I have only had 17 hits on my blog. However, tomorrow I am traveling to Spain with my best friend of ten years, and the trip is shaping up to be a great one. My life is interesting, because it is my own. Plus, if you read on, i'll give secret diet tips on how to loose weight...it's called the no food diet and it's compliments of theonion.com website.
Ciao.
Ciao.
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