More than this
Monday, May 29, 2006, 1:27 PM
Sometimes I wish I was anonymous so I could write the things I really want to write.
Bare all without fear of consequence or embarrassment.
I have a hilarious story about Friday afternoon and the maintenance man, how I began the day yesterday and how I ended it, but there's no way I can share those things because I'm of the easily embarrassed type and because people who know me are reading.
Now don't let your dirty minds run amok. I didn't have sex with him. Besides, I have a rule about having sex with a man: I have be in love with him first. (I think I should modify it a bit more to include the part about how he should also be in love with me, but ... then again, maybe not.)
I'm not interested in writing the uncensored bare-all offline. How boring. No audience with which to share the laughs, no hit meter to provide the proof that what I've written interests anyone but me, no commenty instant gratification.
I'm a horrible writer. These things shouldn't matter at all. That they do probably spells out the reason why I'm still struggling as a writer. I can't even think of a title for this post because like usual, I'm all over the place, no cohesion, no structure.
That's like, whoa. Deeper than I wanted to go.
Still, I know writing [the hilarious and embarrassing thing I unhinged-like feel compelled to write publicly] won't solve any of the world's ills, let alone mine, won't make a difference in someone else's world, and probably wouldn't fill me with any more fruity flavor than writing this now. Most blog entries are a fleeting thing, like feelings of the moment are. We write what we are meant to write and then we're busy living life again. Love doesn't really last and people come and go from your life.
I wish I'd forget about it.
I've thought of starting over anonymously more than once. I can't really do that, though, because I know a few of you would be disappointed and so I'd take those few of you with me (which would blow my anonymity and keep me from writing the thing with the thing in the thing so I could face you the next time we traded smiles), or I'd have to maintain two blogs.
I'd rather go to the dentist than do that.
I tried writing more than one blog once back in AOL Journal Land and, well, that was a complete flop and made me feel like dung heap failure. Life is tough enough without those pesky feelings. So is writing. So if I'm going to do any extra of it, it should damn well be on the novel I've been working on since the age of 32.
I can't wait for tomorrow's pep talk.
I got off work today at 1:00 in early anticipation of Memorial Day. That's how it works where I work--we get off early on a Friday if there's a holiday on Monday.
Have you ever noticed how a short day drags into what seems like a nine-hour kind of day? I suppose it's because so many people are already off on vacation, whether it's by body or mind, so there's not a lot of work going on. But next Tuesday is looming in the back of my mind, so I'm industriously leaping hurdles, scanning for potholes and roadkill so I'll have the turtle's confidence and determination going on when the rabbit approaches on Tuesday.
Because I know he will, that wascally wabbit.
Anyway, back to the idea of me getting off work at one ... I decided to pop into a clothing store I've been wanting to check out for a while now. I love their window displays. So far they've done flowers (artificial, although I thought they were real at first), tin foil, white satin, and red velvet. Classy, classy, classy.
But surely they can't be outrageously expensive, I reasoned. I mean, the flowers aren't real, and they probably use generic tin foil for the silver window display because everyone knows 150' of Reynolds wrap costs your left pinkie. And the shop is next to a space that has been vacant for months, so business probably isn't heavy. Right?
So I ventured inside today. The shop is manned by beautiful men, smiling, radiant, friendly, beautiful men. And I like these kind of men just as much as the next girl, but I don't think I was ready for the idea of a gorgeous man telling me that maybe I'm not a not a size five anymore. Not that that that mattered once I saw the price tag on the filmy pink dress (with the empire waist and floaty handkerchief hem). Three. Hundred. Fifty. Dollars.
"Let me know if you'd like to try anything on or if you'd like me to get you anything," one of the guys said.
I started babbling. "Oh, I'm not here to buy anything. At least not today. I just want to look. I pass by this place every day." Blah, bleurgh, sputter, help me.
"What do you mean you've never been here?!"
"I'm here now." And I'm dying. Dying.
I wander down the racks of clothing, all of it gorgoreous and just my type. I'm looking at the price tags without trying to be obvious about it. The delicate flowing tops and dresses with curved necklines and empire waists are just the type of clothing I've been looking for ... and they're way out of my price range. How can I justify spending over $200 on a shirt? Or $450 for a dress I'd have to buy a new pair of shoes for?
I wander over to the shoes. Gorgeous satiny shoes, sparkly shoes, sexy shoes. There's a friggen leather bow tie on the back of one of the three-inch high heels. I wish I could wear something like that without risking life and limb. Some of the shoes are almost flat and look wearer-friendly. And then I spy the Mary Jane ballerina shoes with ankle-to calf laces. They come in cream and tan, black, red, white. If you're willing to fork out $375 bucks.
Guess I'll stick with my Mary Jane sneakers. I have a white pair, a black pair and a pink pair, and I bought them at Kohl's for $20 each. There weren't any nifty flower or tin foil window displays, but I've never been what you'd call a Material Girl.
I'm a Whimsey Girl.
Bitching online about co-workers
"Some workers have been fired for revealing confidential information. Others have been let go for openly griping about their co-workers or bosses, potentially poisoning their relationships with colleagues."
God knows there have been plenty of times I've wanted to sound off about my work environment and co-workers, but I don't air dirty laundry here because I'm not anonymous. (It'd be a bad idea even if I was anonymous.) I can't even share the industry in which I work because it's entirely possible that one of my co-workers will stumble across my blog ... and what would a co-worker think if I wrote that I thought more than one of them were backstabbers, thieves, liars, children to be managed, or psychotic?
They would probably think I was referring to them. Wouldn't you?
As for me, I would probably be thought of as unprofessional, immature and lacking in self-respect, not to mention that I'd also feel horrible personally at being caught.
Mistakes of Monday
1. Decided not to unwrap a fresh bar of Ivory, thought I could make do with the thickish sliver left behind. I lost five minutes of morning time trying to make enough soap lather (which is why I was five minutes late to work).
2. Ate 1-1/2 cups of rice for lunch. God. I love rice. God. My poor tummy. Too much for lunch makes you want to roll instead of stroll. And let me say here and now that I miss the naps I was forced to take as a kindergartoner, and I think the general population should re-visit napping practices and that the president, governor, mayor, CEO, whomever, should pass new nap laws. We all know that six-year-olds don't need naps.
I think the general workforce should be given a one-hour's nap time. Most people won't nap the entire time because they'll be thinking of deadlines, filets done medium well, the obnoxious way Bruce snores, how many calories might be in a bite of a Trader Joe's dark chocolate candy bar, or sex in unlikely places, but all the average adult really needs is a 15-minute nap. Anything more than that makes you feel like you've been beaten with a wet rag.
3. Drank too much coffee. Felt none of the giddy caffienne-ish side effects, only made numerous visits to the john, where afterwards I bared my coffee-furred teeth in the mirror.
4. Opened an umbrella inside of a building. It was wet (it was raining today) and it needed to dry off, so I opened it in the kitchen where I work in the hopes that the kitcheny workplace would confuse whatever bad luck might be craving my hide.
5. Found out how swiftly bad luck kicks one in the ass when I arrived home to find that my kitchen pipe had burst and entirely soaked the kitchen and part of the living room carpet.
I must finish my wine now.
Girl at medium large
Like you might expect in a wonderful weather city jam-packed with beautiful people, my walks to and from work are usually filled with some sort of adventure. (Lotta people = lotta schstuff.) Today I dug my camera out of the bottom of my bag to snap the aftermath of a mild car accident, two MINI Coopers, my feet next to a newspaper with the word suspense on it, and other various shots of the streets hereabouts. I haven't figured out how to neatly insperse photos with text here at Blogger, or I'd show some more crappy photos. As it is, I think I'll only be uploading one photo per entry. Signs of WeHo.
The WeHo sign o' the day is my reflection in a store window. Enjoy. Squint if you like.
On my walks to and fro, I see lots of woofballs. Today I stopped two men (both cute, but it wasn't them who stopped me in my tracks) to ask what kind of dog was prancing at their feet. As they were walking along, the little black squirt on four legs was darting off the sidewalk into the grass and once, up the ramp of one of the cafe restaurants I pass.
"He's a mini Doberman Pinscher, but he thinks he's big," the guy holding the leash said.
I bwahahahahed in the face of that ill-disguised warning and bent down to the jumbo-sized Budweiser beer can dog. "Hey, sweetie," I cooed and let him him sniff my hand. His nose was dark and wet and I wanted to squeeze his muzzle, or pull a whisker. What a cutie! I've never seen a wee Doberman Pinscher. Sure wish I'd had the camera out then. What's wrong with me?
Later on during my adverturesome walk, a man parked alongside the road stepped out of his car and said, "This guy just hit my car."
At first I thought he was talking to me, but then I saw the cell phone pressed to the side of his ear. No one wears ear rings here, they wear cell phones. So I walked on and after I passed his and the other car edging (poorly, I guess) into the space behind him, I turned and snapped a photo. Just in case, you know? But I suck with a camera. The photo would never be admitted as evidence in a case of law.
I'm keeping my day job.
Things that aren't so awesome
Do you know how difficult it is to keep your mouth closed while (exerting yourself) trying to remove a glass bowl that covers a lightbulb on the ceiling? Even worse, can you imagine the horror of dust and insect carcass on your tongue?
Cell phones in the bathroom
Most people understand that one's on-the-john time should be a private experience, but every once in a while, there's someone in the bathroom who makes a call or gets a call ... and then there are two people privvy (hah!) to my tinkle party. I've started flushing the toilet like a maniac when this happens, though, and you know what? It's kinda fun.
Cigarette butts on the sidewalk
Especially if I see lipstick marks. Makes me want to hurl. Makes me wish smoking was legal only in one's home, since so many smokers apparently are also litterbugs. Let 'em litter in their own homes, dammit.
Mail after 6:00 p.m.
I've arrived home around 5:30 to find the mailman still disbursing mail. Sometimes he hasn't even shown up yet. Which means I get my goodies (and bills) a day late.
People with teeny ear drums
Because they cain't hear so good, I get to hear what they cain't. Like ... a stereo-sound car engine roar game, or the glorious sounds of Live Orgasms in Concert (that was fun ... and I only know what the hell it was they were listening to because they weren't chit-chatting, they were laughing and talking about it like everyone had to know).
Okay, I might've had my ear pressed to the wall on that one.
Things that are awesome
TNT had a Rocky marathon on Sunday and something just wouldn't let me move on with my day. Maybe it was Stallone's brown eyes, pecs or the way he says Adrian, but whatever it was had my buns doing time beneath the sheets for hours.
Here in WeHo (izzat what they call it? well, it's what I'm going to call it), people love walking their doggies. I see them everywhere. Pugs (my favorite), shephards (poor suckers in this weather), taco bell dogs (my second fave) and little puff balls. I never look at people anymore. I look at their dogs and grin back.
Jamie, Jack and Stench!
They're back, they're back, they're back! They're crude, annoying, brash and funny as hell and I can't believe I missed them as much as I did, but when I heard them this morning, my funny bone laughed. You guys rule!
Weft hair extensions
A girl at the office came in today with fresh hair extensions and blew all of us away. And now I want them, too. I should really get my eyes examined and a new pair of glasses, as well as a new contact lense prescription, but do you think I will?
Oh no. I'm becoming a product of my environment.
My next door neighbor arrived home two days ago from a two-week absence. He's got a big head and tiny ears and he doesn't know how to close a door normally, not to mention that he runs in and out of his apartment like he's a seven-year-old. Con. Stant. Ly. I wish I was exaggerating, but I bet he's gone in and out of his place today at least ten times. And a little while ago, after a particularly loud door slam, I'd had more than enough. Apparently I was going to have to remind him that he's a human, not an ape, and that he lives among other humans, not apes. But there was no one inside his apartment to answer my knock. I've got the door slams pegged now, though. The really loud slams are him going buh-bye. The milder ones are him arriving home.
Lucky me, though, because he came back later and cranked up his sound system, which was even more annoying than the door slams. I wanted to bash his head in between two cymbals. Instead, I pounded on the door. (I had to pound because I wouldn't have been heard otherwise.) In the doorknob were his set of keys. I thought about taking them down the hallway, out the door and tossing them into the trash bin. He's lucky I didn't. Anyway, when he finally comes to answer the door, I see this gorgous red fabric hanging from the ceiling behind him. He has as neat an apartment as I do. Who'da thunk someone so dense would have a sense of style?
"Your keys," I say, pointing at his door. Since he's ruined part of my day, I don't mind making him feel like an idiot. He grabs them out of the door and looks at me with little eyes. He's annoyed.
Bully. Take a number, pal.
"I'm your neighbor. Can you keep the noise below a dull roar." I don't ask. I demand. One of the perks of this place is that they don't condone noise.
My neighbor feeds me an excuse about how he's doing a tradeshow, which he seemed to think would make me feel chastised and/or enlightened about noise coming from his place. And I'm pissed because I didn't interrupt him to say that I didn't care what he was doing, only that I cared about him shutting the eff up. And because I didn't think to say: What? You're doing a tradeshow in your STUDIO apartment? NOW? Part of me wants to go bang on his door again, just so I can say these things and not wish I had for the rest of the night.
Do I really have to take every Sally, Dick and Jane aside and remind them that walking around like elephants, slamming doors and cabinets and playing loud music after 9:00 p.m. makes them a damn nuisance? Last I knew, noise enforcement wasn't my job. I don't mind the trombone player or the stereo sounds of a Gameboy coming occasionally from the next apartment, but I'm not above being a bitchy pain in someone's ass if I have to be.
And I was. And it was fun.
I don't feel like messing with the formatting. Just ... blah.
Okay, so, yeah. It took me this long to hang up the wooden circle curtain and the fabric curtains. The Vons grocery delivery guy did a double take on Monday night. He wanted to know if I was an interior designer. Haw. I know he was pulling my leg as hard as the guy who asked if I was an actress.