Repeat if Needed

On smiling anyway

I tell my mom: there will come a time (and that time will be sooner than you think) when you will see a picture of yourself from a day at the park or a dinner celebrating a birthday of a child that's growing up far too fast and you will look at yourself and think that you should never have been allowed to stick your hand in front of your face or grimace or turn your back to the camera or demand to be deleted or cropped out because you will notice that the edge of your face is different than the face you are experiencing at the present time and you will want to remember the feel you had then and the way your skin moved and how your eyes lit and your hair shone.  You will wonder why you hadn't allowed the cameras then because now (NOW!) you couldn't possibly out-do that pretty girl who was you (maybe 5 years ago, but also maybe a month ago) and you will wish that you had that reflection of a different time and a different day because it is not how you remembered it and you are not how you remembered you.

I tell my niece: "I will take you for ice cream when you get your report card, we can get the weird bubblegum kind you like and I promise that I will look away when you save the gumballs in a separate paper cup (provided by the teenager behind the counter for this very disgusting purpose) and I will praise you and tell you what a good job you did and I will ask you to not forget the lowest grade because you are bigger than the sky and you don't have to stop because it seems hard, there are days when everything seems hard and we get through them somehow, maybe imperceptibly but always on the power of our own might and the courage of our trying another day."  And you will tell me that you earned these grades, here, that the lowest is low, that you're not sure if the ice cream offer is still on the table because am I good enough?  "You will always be good enough because you will always be you and when you think back on the day you earned your biggest medal, you are exactly how you remembered you."

On 1944

Several weeks ago, I hit the Treasure Island Flea Market.  This is a new thing for me, the habitual flea-marketing, and it is highly recommended that you DO NOT FOLLOW MY LEAD.  Because the reality is that I've found many lovely things, but holy crap, once you start you CANNOT STOP.  I have this gorgeous set of 7 glasses which I THOUGHT were for champagne except it turns out that I was way too excited and they probably aren't for BUBBLY, but rather something more dessert-like.  A trifle or something?  I don't know what that is, but I think it requires a set of flat-bottomed pretty glasses.  I have gorgeous brass shelving now and vintage picture frames and scarves and a hairspray cover and several other things which are LOVELY but also UNNECESSARY and THINGS I SPEND MY MONEY ON FOR NO REASON.

Essentially, going to the Flea Market is the equivalent of going to Target with bonus detergent needs and less credit card usage.

The nice part about heading to the Treasure Island Flea is that it is new and not overwhelming and the prices are fantastic.  I love Alameda Point and it's close, but it is very large and elaborate and sometimes overwhelming.  For example, I'm seeking a new drink cart.  Last month at the Market I found about four and each of them were unique and lovely and excellent, but how do you CHOOSE?  And then when you DO choose and you head BACK, how do you control the sadness that comes from THE LADY SELLING IT FROM UNDER YOUR NOSE FOR $20 LESS THAN SHE QUOTED YOU?  This is just the way it goes.

(Standard tangent: I also spent quite a bit of time at flea markets as a kid because there was a period where my father sold large plants of some sort to a very specific type of flea-market-patron.  The location was a flea market by day and a drive-in at night.  During the day, my mom would buy us plastic beauty sets which included a headband, barrettes and earrings.  She'd open the packaging, break and discard the earrings and give us the rest to play with.  And then my sister and I would sit on the tailgate of the plant truck and swing legs and wait.  I only remember going to the movies once, to see E.T.  The same sister HATES E.T. and is absolutely TERRIFIED of anything E.T. related to this very day.  We drove a 1972 Cadillac and if you know anything about 1972 Cadillacs you will know that there is a small attachment installed in front of the rear window with two small red lights in a small hood of plastic that lights up when you step on the brakes.  My sister became convinced that the brake light WAS E.T. and he EXISTED and he LIVED IN THE CAR with us.  Yeah.  E.T.)

Back to Treasure Island Flea.  I'd gone with a few work friends and while they were scouring racks of vintage clothes I came upon a frazzled wicker basket with a stack of old black and white photos.  MY DREAM.  

I don't have many old photos of anyone in my family.  There are one or two of my mom's parents, both who died years before I was born.  A handful of my Mom.  One or two of my father's side of the family, in particular some sort of military shot of my paternal grandfather which is VERY COOL, but feels odd to like so much considering the EMOTIONS of the situation.  (Family drama.  You know.)  Given this, I went through the basket and waved my friends on while I picked out a handful.  4 for $1!  That's free, basically.

It became apparent that many of the photos were from one family and I fell in love with the story of one little boy who was featured in many of the photos.  I've got him in lederhosen.  I've got him a bathrobe tied with a rope. As a baby posed in the backyard in front of a clothesline lined with sheets.  He just seems like a sweet kid, loved and happy.  So I grabbed quite a few of him, mixed in with some lovely portraits and cute kid shots.  

It wasn't until I got home that I realized my cute kid had a sister.  And he must've really liked her.

I'm sad that the photographer missed their whole right sides, but it's almost sweeter this way.

Even better, check out how darling they are in 1944.

I love them.  

As I joked upon leaving, as my friends listed their treasures and gushed over the fab wicker chair they'd scored, I didn't just get STUFF.  I GOT ANCESTORS.

On sweet details

Some favorite detail shots from a cozy, sweet, and wonderful wedding in Santa Rosa.

With beautiful flowers by Emily.  Second shooting for the great Leah.

On ridiculous thoughts which I apply to myself but not others.

One of the major thought processes that severely hinders my ability to write is worry.  Look,  I know that this isn't some major breakthrough.  EVERYONE worries about their writing, whether it's concern over whether anyone will read it or care, etc or whether they have inaccurately formed sentences that make them seem as though they shouldn't have progressed past the seventh grade.  In fact, that sentence I just completed kind of makes me think the latter.  The reason is likely because (as one college professor sweetly pointed out to a class she obviously thought was full of baboons) I went to public school and at my Public School we didn't learn the correct way to formulate sentences.  Actually, this may or may not be true.  I can't really tell you.  Because I don't remember.

Here are the things I remember about elementary school:

1. We had a library full of Macintosh computers, from the time I was a kindergartner until I left for middle school.  We were in there all the time using them and we played educational games (not just Oregon Trail!) and as I got older we used them to type papers and Learn.  Just not about writing.

2. I used to constantly check out two books from the library.  The school library's choice was something called Black Magic and I have no idea what it was about or who it was by, but it had a green and white cover and I read it several times.  The second was from the real library and it was a black and white photography book about the New York City Ballet.  I checked it out so often that my 3rd grade teacher suggested that perhaps I was indicating an extreme desire to dance (I was).  I started lessons a few months later, but the difficulty was not only that ballet classes were ridiculously expensive and completely unsustainable financially.  The REAL difficulty (to me) was that my sister hated them.  And (while this would likely shock many parents now - including that SAME sister) my mom had no motivation to take ONE kid to an extra-curricular activity when she had TWO to watch.  That was just faulty math when I was a kid.

3. When I was in fifth grade I started putting on puppet shows for the second graders.  I was a traveling show, complete with several different voices and some sort of costume/puppet house set-up.  I don't know.

I'm sure there are a few more things I remember, but what I'm getting at here is that none of these things involve sentence structure.  I'm pretty sure that that the only reason I know what a noun is is because I loved Mad-Libs and you can't just pretend to know what these things are when you're standing in front of an older sister demanding an adjective.  I should have taken more college English, but I AP tested out of having to take it at all and then I didn't study for my GMAT and only got a decent score because of my higher Verbal and Written marks and LOOK, THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD MAKE YOUR KIDS DO WORKSHEETS.  I will read the shit out of every book I get my hands on, but I can't promise that the book review will even be readable.  I suppose I'm getting at this: I'm a nerd, I likely only know how to loosely construct a halfway decent sentence because I grew up reading about a chapter book a day and I'm comfortable with, yet anxious and sad about the fact that I'm no writing genius.

Look, I've probably lost you by now.  But here is where I'm headed: I am not worried that people are judging my writing, I'm worried that readers are judging my THOUGHTS.  Because Every Single Thing I write could literally come with a disclaimer that reads: Prone to hyperbole!  Recognizes the gray in all issues, but takes a stance when writing because it's an easier way to tell a story!  This is not a direct reflection of your writing or your thoughts or maybe not even the VERY STORY I'M TELLING because editing changes everything!

So, there's that delightful bit of neurosis.  Whenever I read anyone else's writing, I have the fuzzy filter in the back of my head where I realize that hey!  This person is three dimensional!  This person is not capable of giving me every detail or thought or intention!  And that means it's a snapshot, not a novel and THAT'S OK.

Well, I hope that's out of the way.  Internet, I promise that I am never writing anything that is comprehensive.  There are many sides and details and all that.  You're smart, Internet.  I'm sure you knew this.

And I will leave you with a story: A few years ago, I moved cross country from San Francisco to New England.  My mother is allergic to technology, both because it's completely foreign and because she kind of actually thinks the computer is going to radiate her.

Some time before I left, I bought her a PC and set aside a few days to at minimum teach her how to email.  I am NOT exaggerating when I tell you that mouse skills alone took a full day to master.  However, by the time I left she was able to Google, email and check on-line banking.  I am wicked proud of these skills, which she still possesses.  Sort of.  She still DOES these things, but they're usually preceded by her clicking on her browser and then whining about how the new page doesn't pop up IMMEDIATELY because WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG?  For someone who still goes to the payment center to pay her energy bill, I'm surprised at this hasty attitude.  It IS that Louis CK skit.  IT IS GOING TO SPACE.  GIVE IT A MINUTE.

(A quick aside.  (I know I do this a lot.)  When I lived away and was in school I frequently used GTalk to communicate with my fellow classmates, requiring us to amuse each other with status updates when we couldn't speak in class.  If your mom is newly learning to use a computer with her fresh Gmail account, it is wise to not make some completely unnecessary joke about syphilis.  I'm sorry, Mom.  I never had syphilis.  Promise.)

Last week my mom was trying to forward an email to her niece and it's taking SO LONG (probably 4 seconds, but I wasn't in the mood for details and clearly neither was she).  After several minutes where she READ ME THE GMAIL INBOX, I asked her what she was really asking me.  HOW COULD I SOLVE THIS FOR HER?  WHAT WAS SHE GETTING AT?  I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE PROBLEM.

And this is when she tells me that she wants me to sign out of the internet because I'm probably responsible for making it go slower.

Ba-dum ching.

Wedding Peek

Jas and Rich

St Thomas, US Virgin Islands

May 2011

 
 

An (Almost) Very Cliche Sunday

It's odd when things happen that shake up your normal routine.  You may remember that Kevin's dad is extremely sick, so while he's with his family sorting things out, I have a lot more spare time.

Sundays aren't usually a big day, they're more hang-around-the-house-reading-magazines-type days, with a little Bill Maher for flavor and some hours at the gym to erase any Saturday night popcorn-with-coconut-oil guilt.  It's not that I can't find a myriad of things to do on my own, it's more that the longer you go without creating your own agenda, the harder it is remember how to construct a day that involves only things you want to do.  Also, I'm lazy.  The things I want to do involve magazines, tv and popcorn (see above).

But since it's been beautiful and I wanted to take advantage of some of the heat (90!), I decided to take the 50mm 1.8 (that has been used once, and I hated it) out for a spin.  And I still hate it.  I'm not sure if it's just the focus I can't stand, or if it's the fact that it's fuzzy even when in focus, but it's not for me.

The reason that I spent years taking photos (extremely happily) of inanimate objects is that nobody really cares.  I like that.  I am uncomfortable with people watching me shoot, I'm shy about having a camera out in public.  I don't want to take pictures of people because they might see me, hell, these FRUITS and VEGETABLES were owned by a FARMER and maybe he didn't WANT me to take a picture of them.  I have issues.  That one flower shot up there?  I only have it because my girlfriend knew the vendor and distracted him with Tomato Talk so that he wouldn't see me.  

 

Fortunately, I have no qualms about standing in a large group of people who are memorizing a scene with the help of their various iPhones and other photographic equipment.  This kid?  How old do you think he is?  Seven?  Eight?  PLAYING BACK UP DRUMS FOR HIS SAX-PLAYING DAD.  And I don't mean one song, I mean whole SETS.  And sometimes his sister (who you can sort-of see way up in the top left corner) would sing.  There was a mom about who was part of all this, but I don't remember what she did because THE KID WAS PLAYING DRUMS.  WELL.

And then I went to Target and bought bottles of VitaminWater to the point where I started to feel like I was on Extreme Couponing.

***

Could I have included a wider wange of ethnic food in my afternoon experiment?  I decided that i was going to try to make my own bubble tea/boba.  (I honestly have no idea what the official name of this drink is.  I think it is bubble tea, and the tapioca pearls THEMSELVES are called boba, but it's a little bit inexplicable and doesn't really matter.  Also, I should note that the likely reason I was naturally ten pounds (fine, FIFTEEN pounds) lighter when I lived on the East Coast was the absence of bubble tea, decent Mexican food or Tillamook cheddar.)

The process is not altogether complicated, you make a shit ton of iced tea, and then you make THAT tea into sweet tea with condensed milk (I also used 2% milk and Splenda because the thought of tea sweetened with ONLY condensed milk is a bit nauseating to me).  The tapioca pearls get boiled for a few minutes and then you somehow figure out how to take boiling hot tapioca balls and boiling hot sweet milk tea and mix them together into a cold drink.  This is the part where I failed.  Still looked pretty and tasted delicious, if warm.

***

A few months ago, the lady who works the register at my work cafe discovered that I speak Spanish.  It's not that I HIDE my spanish, but there's no need for me to be bilingual at my current job anymore and I'm often buying food with coworkers who DON'T speak spanish and I just am uncomfortable (recurring theme!) with making anyone feel left out of a conversation- especially a conversation that SOUNDS impressive and filled with anectodes, but is likely mostly about how warm the weather is and is her son still sick from last week.  Needless to say, she has no such qualms.

I do mind, honestly, but what am I gonna do?  Short of answering in English and translating when other people are around it's not as though I'm going to confront this woman about which language she prefers to communicate with me in.  Oy.  Let me get to the point.

I haven't seen my dad in... 17 years.  Give or take.  This is more than half my life and YES, I do know that I have now made this reference TWICE in the last (and only) four blog posts of this blog's life but that is just how it goes when there is a Spanish-speaking lady story.  STICK WITH ME HERE.  Spanish-speaking people always want to know where your spanish is from and so I always tell them that my mom is mostly Spanish and my dad is from Mexico.  And then they ask where my family lives and I tell them that my MOM lives right near me and I LEAVE IT AT THAT but, more often than not, those assholes say "and your dad?"  This does not seem like rocket science, but if I don't mention my dad it's probably because I don't want to talk to you about where he is or isn't.  The cafe lady experience was no exception, with the added bonus of her APOLOGIZING to me and telling me that it was TOO BAD and that maybe SOMEDAY I WOULD SEE HIM AGAIN.

Look, Lady.  I am not going to have an extended conversation with you about this.  I am not going to tell you anything else, but you have now just made a non-topic into both an obvious annoying issue and a chasm between any sort of future conversation between us.  I'm not talking about my father because I really don't care.  I know that's hard to understand.  I know that maybe I seem normal and well-adjusted and you think that must mean that I had a happy life full of picnics and see-saws.  

Fine, I am normal and I am well-adjusted and I have had a happy life, but I can assure that it has nothing to do with my father and when I see him and when I do not see him.  This isn't a story about immigrants who have given everything up because they wanted their family to have a better life.  I am not the heroine in some story about beating the odds and giving speeches and thanking a parent for the devotion and love and dedication to my future.

The next day, the Lady brought it up AGAIN.  And even worse, she excused the guy, she said "hey, look, I was thinking about your father and I think that maybe it's just hard sometimes, maybe he hasn't been able to get his papers and that's why you haven't seen him, but I hope you will soon."

My dad has "papers".  In fact, it's probably the reason that he married my mom.  It's not the papers that are the problem.  It's the fact that if he were ever to USE those papers to work in the United States or visit again he would be working for years to pay off the money he legally owes my mom for raising four daughters without support.  But let me be clear: that's not even the POINT.  If he was around, I would not be the same person.  And I mean that in the bad way, the way where you know with certainty that you had two paths and you lucked the fuck out into the one where you went to college and DIDN'T get married at 19 (like your Mom did) because you thought that was the only way out of a sad, abusive home.  I saw enough of my Mom treated like shit, thank you very much.  17 years of peace and not worrying about someone else's anger schedule or disappearance or mental state.  17 years of not being pushed into trusting someone you know you can't trust and you can't rely on and you shouldn't even like because adults aren't supposed to act this way and they're not supposed to scare you.

If this sounds like something I think about, it's not.  At all.  I literally don't think about it unless someone asks me about him or wants to hear the story of the last few months I saw him (it's kind of a good story).  It's not that I block it out or that I have "learned to cope" (even the SOUND of it is grating), it's that I really and truly do not have any emotion about it that is not pure happiness and relief.  And like most happy and relieving things, you tend not to think about them in day-to-day life because they're just pleasantly there, humming behind all of things you have and love and are.  In explaining this to a girlfriend who met her dad once when she was very young, this is not a rare thing.  She is not SAD that her dad wasn't there, there is no biological longing for a father, HER father.  There's just... nothing.  Nothing- laced with the realization that anyone who ISN'T around probably was better off NOT being around.  We really, really LIKE our nothing.

***

I know many wonderful fathers.  Amazing, perfect, glorious fathers.  All around me.  My brother-in-law and my two nephews who think Daddy fixes everything.  My best friend with three boys who jump on him and bop him on the head and try to take him down with Nerf balls.  SO many excellent examples of people who really SHOULD be around, whose families depend on their love and abilities.  People who aren't perfect, but try to be everything and hope it will be enough every day.  

Thanks for being good dads, guys.  It matters, it really, really matters.  

(My mom was a good dad too.)

* If you are my friend and you know me in any sort of real-life way and you have asked about my father- FEAR NOT!  It's not that I have blanketed all inquiries into the annoying column, I understand that people are interested and seriously, the story is pretty great (underwear! pickles! ditches!).  It's more that if you are the REGISTER LADY at the CAFETERIA who also EXCUSES my father for his LONGED-FOR ABSENCE, I... may not be thrilled.

Before I got home at quarter of nine, before I got delayed with buying a skirt at the Salvation Army for $3.99 so that i could change out of my too-big jeggings for a pedicure, before I ate these tacos at Chipotle, I had plans. Big plans.

You never know where to start when you pick up blogging again after any sort of absence. That's why people look back at their first posts years later and wonder who that person was that thought anyone cared that they were going to be sharing thoughts with the world in their own little space (and that's probably almost exactly what 75% of people said in their first blog post. It's my own statistic. And I'm sticking to it.)

So I was just going to start somewhere. I was going to come up with a funny story about something that happened. Or I was going to make something amazing for dinner and write about the recipe and photograph everything after I finished wiping down the table top and making things look shiny and delicious all at the same time. But you know what they say about thinking things out in advance, they often don't work. (I have a sister, and if you ask her- this shit works. When we were in 7th grade she had some one-page ditto that outlined all these goals she wanted to have and where she wanted to go to college and the craziest thing is that she DID ALL THAT SHIT. She also spent years hoarding Martha Stewart Wedding magazines and pretending that she wasn't planning her dream wedding-- even after I caught her planning liquor budgets down to per-guest levels-- and when she got engaged at an age far too young in our neck of the woods she PULLED OUT A BINDER and said to her poor, wonderful fiance: "listen up, sucker, we have shit to do.") But I am not that great at plans, as evidenced by the fact that I'm sitting here and I did none of the things that seemed like great ideas just 5 hours ago. (When the school gave me the same ditto that they gave my sister, it is highly likely that I wrote something about how I was going to go to college and also probably be a trapeze lady in the circus and definitely be married by 23 since any age beyond that would be old and awful and SERIOUSLY VERGING ON COMPLETE SPINSTERHOOD. And then, if it was not collected in a timely manner by the teacher or the counselor or whoever looked at those goals, I would probably have used it to wrap up a leftover half of a Twix bar. That's the type of goal-setting I do.)

One of my brother-in-laws tells me that I somehow have an ability to make the things that I want happen by magic. Actually, I think he really means that I am materializing wants based on the law of attraction, but I don't really respond well to people saying flattering things about me (because the mindfulness implied in that statement is a really huge positive, don't you think?). I'm awful at compliments, I'm shifty about niceties. It's not that I don't appreciate it (oh boy, do I EVER appreciate it), I just never know how to respond and I'm shy (I suppose?) and I get uncomfortable. Very, very easily. So, what I'm getting at is that I apparently am not WANTING writing enough to get it done. And the only way to get to constant streams of ideas and concepts and energy is through it.

(Note: now that I'm thinking about it, I've gotta work on this goal thing. It's probably why I persist in this strange state of sort-of chubbiness. And why I STILL haven't opened that trading account. If you ask people who care about these things (NOT ME), they might tell you it's also why I'm sort-of single and I DIDN'T get married at 23. While most of the lovely people in my life tend to delay commentary unless directly asked, my mom has offered up ideas about sperm donors and one of my favorite male friends insists that I SHOULD have gotten married-- on the East Coast, no less-- at 23 because now I'm FAR TOO OLD AND MY OPTIONS ARE JUST GONE. (P.S. THANKS FOR THAT.)

Yes, it's far too early for bucket lists and deep discussions about life. Especially since when I think about my previous blogs topics they range from activities in Wisconsin (which I have never visited) to Britney Spear's manny to sleuthing out hotel soap in Montreal. GETTING DOWN TO THE SOUL, is what I'm saying. I'm ok with being frothy. I'm ok with being serious as monocles.

Today's lesson: versatility.

1/6/2011

- The best part of getting a new phone is not, in fact, that I can answer text messages more than 38% of the time.  It's not that it's shiny and new and fast and smart. 

It's that I no longer have to see my old boss's name in my phone.

Now, my old boss was not a bad guy.  There is no doubt that I've had better managers, but I've also had worse.  We'll just call it a style miscommunication. There you go.

See, my old phone prioritized my numbers by the people I called the most.  Given the fact that I called the man several times a week (and often several times a DAY), the guy showed up at the top of my call list, just below my mom and best friend.

And as we all know, it's not the guy that bugs me.  It's the digital reminder that I HATED my job, that I made a bad choice, that I had to admit that I wasn't who I wanted to be and didn't know how to get out.  I called this guy so much, I tried SO hard that even 6 months after I quit the guy wouldn't drop off my most called list. 

I suppose that's a pretty great metaphor for how easily the shitty stuff sticks.  And the great stuff-be cause there is SO much great stuff- does that stick?  Not so much.  Does pleasure ever do the same thing- sit in your stomach in its opposite impression of dread and anxiety?  Remind you that you are a nice person, a fun person, a person whose experiences will add up to big things and kind things and great things that will matter to some people, however small or large that number might be?

I can't wait to see which contact takes this guy's place, this banner of my glaring perceived failure and inability.  What will it mean to gain a sister in that spot, someone who calls me to ask if I'll make the cake for the birthday this weekend?  Or my closest friend from back East with more calls about work and exciting places to travel to together? 

Sorry, old boss.  It's not personal.

- It's my last few weeks on campus.  Walking from the parking lot, too far away, a big styrofoam Dunkin' Donuts cup warming my hand (even though it is MAY and it's not supposed to BE like this in MAY, do you HEAR me, NEW HAMPSHIRE?) and I'm hitting the fork where two ramps lead me in the same exact direction and all of a sudden it occurs to me: I had officially lived longer without a dad in my life than I had with one.  And that was good.  It was better than good.  It was like erasing the genetic code with time and easing strong memories into the sour childhood corners I didn't really stop to think about, but nevertheless existed with their skinny, glossy cobwebs of unhappiness.

But I don't think about that long.  Because, really, who cares about that?  I haven't.  It was just a thought, a reminder of the good that happens along the way.

I'm in the first place that is ever truly mine.  I'd spent the last several months in a drafty apartment that was way too big for me, living on my laptop and eating student ramen, pulling numbers and words and answers out of pure air.  I had a candy bowl I had stocked once with three bags of candy: Nerds, Skittles and Mini Milky Ways that were barely consumed because I've learned that while I like to BUY candy and LOOK AT candy and EAT candy, I leave it alone if it is sitting there in it's luxurious and plentiful bowl.  (This is not a financial or health lesson that I LEARNED or TOOK anywhere, because 20 yards behind me in the kitchen there is a drawer of lollys and Fun Size Bars and Scharfenberger chocolate.)  I had a yellow rug in a bright red room, fireplaces painted with scenes of Maine by some hippie who lived in the space a few tenants before me, house centipedes with beady eyes that stared at me from the top of the radiator and gave me countless heart attacks.

The house was old, on the river, and when Spring came I didn't just get loads of magical light, I got wasps.  They lived in the walls, sitting around playing Poker in the winter and strategizing with their blueprints about how they would be sure to emerge INSIDE my apartment instead of the great outdoors where they belong.  And when there are wasps in your house, there is no hope.  You don't swat a wasp from the inside to the outside.  You don't use those toxic jet spray cans in the kitchen where you make little pink cupcakes (with sprinkles!) for your broke classmates.  You put on pajama pants tucked snugly into Ugg boots, a long-sleeved blouse over rubbergloves, a scarf wrapped completely around your head until you have an eye-sized space to examine your prey.  And you stand in front of that buzzing effer and you gather up your damn courage (and usually this takes you ten minutes, because you have courage, but good LORD, it is deep inside, especially this courage to attack that damn bug who will leak it's death fumes deeper into your apartment to alert all his asshole poker buddies that they should take note, get revenge on that loony girl with the ugly footwear) and you will wrap up that advertisement promising $3 packages of chicken on newsprint and you will WHACK THE HELL OUT OF THAT WASP.

And it will be YOUR place.  And you will win.

 

2010

Via Sundry, new and improved (shiny!) version.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?

Half Marathon: Hawaii.  Quit: a job I was sabotaging and couldn't stand for one more day, a friend who only took or gave guilt.  Started: a new job, one I hesitantly acknowledge that I love.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?


I am one of those non-believers/haters of New Year's resolutions.  Resolutions have turned into a bit of a joke, the opportunity to laugh at the next thing you will half-laughingly embrace for 8 or 9 days before it becomes the thing you couldn't take for another day, much less February 1st. 

But I believe in changing yourself, improving who you are, deciding on a Tuesday that beginning Wednesday you will be more or less or better or stronger.

And so, I guess I'm hoping to do a few things different.  Signed up for Biggest Blogging Loser with She Like Purple.  Being kinder to myself about the things I love to do.  Remembering.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?


My sister: another sweet baby boy to round out the ratio.  My best friends: a 27 week old little miracle with sparkly blue eyes and huge, oxygenated lungs.

4. Did anyone close to you die?


No.  Thankfully, no.

5. What countries did you visit?

Mexico- my very first trip to a touristy spot.  Which I enjoyed very much.  Beaches- who knew?

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

Work happiness.  This seems to be undeniably on the right path.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

Sept 5- a half marathon finish on the beach, ox-tail soup, mall dancing, bad HBO movie.  A banner day.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Becoming unemployed.  And then getting entirely, irritably, PREDICTABLY depressed about being so damn unemployed.  But calming down about it anyway and allowing the job I wanted to just happen.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Could I please just FINALLY be a LITTLE bit of a faster runner?

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Yucky knees from running and the continuation of the world's worst immune system.  But nothing major or unmanageable.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

A couch.  For the first apartment I've ever lived in when where it's my couch.  Where I sit.  With me.  (And friends.  When they're there.  But other than that, just me.)

12. Where did most of your money go?

Being unemployed.  Gets expensive.

13. What did you get really excited about?

I'm really playing out this new job thing, but The Job.  Sincerely, a top 3 choice- and has been for over 10 years.

14. What song will always remind you of 2010?

Sadly: "Teenage Dream"/Katy Perry.  Happily: "Teenage Dream"/Glee.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:

– happier or sadder? Happier.
– thinner or fatter? Thinner, I think.
– richer or poorer? Poorer in my pockets, richer in my heart.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?


Used my fantastic camera more.  Traveled more.  Had more champagne.  More tea and Splenda.  Playing with all the babies in my life.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?


Useless outings.  Holding on to the job I hated out of pride and anger.

18. How did you spend Christmas?

As always, with all the family (minus the sick niece and brother-in-law) at my mom's.  Eating the tamales we made a few weeks ago. (New Old Mexican tradition!)  Pumpkin bread.  Mom's cheesecake.

19. What was your favorite TV program?

Glee.  Seriously.  Yes.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?

That Steinbeck one.  Specifics muddied, but still great.

21. What was your favorite music from this year?


Kate Miller-Heidke.

22. What were your favorite films of the year?

There were actually quite a few, but nothing over popular or new besides Inception and Harry Potter.  'Arry Pottah!

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

29.  Nordstrom Rack, shitty mexican, delicious cake.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Being able to enjoy unemployment, as everyone kept telling me to do.  But really, who can ENJOY knowing that they're not getting a paycheck?  Certainly not anyone with a few responsibilities and a dwindling bank account.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

With the new job came new clothes happy.  Casual-er, fun-er, better.

26. What kept you sane?

The library.  DVR.  Running (still hate it).  Friends (Informal!).  Love.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.


There is nothing you want to do that you cannot do.  x1,000,000