Monday, February 28, 2011

really important things to tell people

I just want to sit in the same room with this man.


the back counter & after office hours

This afternoon I took a guy to a doctor's appointment and while sitting there in the waiting room for two hours, I slipped into a high fructose corn syrup coma.

I can't help it.  I gave into the brown sugar frosted pop tarts on the back counter at the office.  I literally thought it was the end.   

Who the hell brings a box of generic pop tarts for a snack?  

Me.  I would.  That is exactly what I do with the shit-food that somehow finds it's way into my hands and I want to get rid of.  I just put it on the back counter and it vanishes.  The social workers devour it.


After my HFCS coma, I stopped by an elderly Burmese lady's house to show her where her grand daughter would catch the school bus in the morning.  We don't understand one another very well, so I drew a picture:

Then I called the interpreter.  Seriously, sometimes I don't even know what I am doing.

So then I went to the office and found it completely desolate.

A. Dream. Come. True.  

One of my ten office mates was packing up when I sat down.

My face looked something like this:

The second she got out the door I cranked up the music and had an amazing last hour of work.  I danced in my chair and sang out loud.  I think I listened to the following song on youtube about 19 times, of which I have my cousin Linda to thank.  

Monday, February 21, 2011

on my honey moon, with myself... because i married myself...

So I think my life has completely taken a 180 in the last 72 hours.  Let's recap what happened.  On Saturday my mom insisted on bringing over a couch for my non-existent living room.  On Sunday I bought some fabric with one of the bestest (Yes, that's a word. Spell check just doesn't know it yet) friends I've ever had in my whole life.  And today I came up with the single most brilliant idea of all time.  Forget words, let me take you on a picture tour of how these three days changed my life and made it exponentially better.

Exhibit A:
Half of my bedroom was transformed into a living room.  John Tesh said that doing stuff in bed besides sleeping makes you fat and depressed.  I've noticed.  Here's to a living room, eternal happiness and fitting into more of my clothes.
Exhibit B:

I think I went to the fabric store 11 times before asking Liz to help me pick out something I would like.  I liked the finished product so much I slept in the tub last night.  Maybe not really but I am in love with my shower curtain.
Exhibit C: The Honey Moon Suite
The world's smallest living room, that was next to never sat in, was converted into the cutest, quaintest sewing room in the universe.  I am the luckiest girl in the world.  Who would have thought you could fit sunshine, plants, storage and a sewing machine all in a closet sized compartment. And amazingly enough, you can still iron clothes in there too.
Please, don't ask me why it took me six months to do any of the above three things.  I have no answers.  Here's to a future full of relaxing moments with myself and others in my pseudo living room, not looking at an ugly plastic shower curtain and being able to sew somewhere besides my dark, cold and gloomy basement.

Monday, February 14, 2011

in retrospect... dicker and deal blind dates & being hit on by 50 year old men...

The following texts were sent by my mother on Friday afternoon:

mama: shelb?
mama: hey do you wanna go on a blind date?
mama: his name is juan gonzales (this is not his real name)
mama: he works for the FBI
mama: i'm serious he showed me his ID
me: huh?
mama: he's good looking
mama: he has muscles
mama: he's a nice guy ok
mama: i thought he was salim's relative but he's not arabic, he's latino
me: would you freaking stop hyper texting and consolodate some of these texts i can't keep up
mama: hold on he's going to send you his picture
me: whaaaaaat?!!?
FBI: [picture]
me: mama, seriously? are you kidding me?
mama: what?  he's even christian
me: oh my god.  where are you?
mama: dicker and deal
me: ok this conversation is over

Dicker & Deal
In order to really understand what's going on in the above conversation, besides the fact that my mom met some random man who works for the FBI and tried to set me up with him, you need to understand something about Dicker & Deal.  Imagine a 50+ year old woman who doesn't drink but loves to barter and resell things.  AKA - my mother.  So instead of going to the local pub and having everyone there know her by name, she goes to the local 2nd hand furniture store, where Freddie, Salim and only God knows who else greet her by name and give her blankets when she's sick.  I kid you not, about 5 times out of 10 when I call and ask where she is, she's at Dicker & Deal.  I imagine her bored in her townhouse, looking around for something she could convince them to give her 20 bucks for, just as an excuse to visit her boyfriends at D&D.  The men there know every intimate detail of my life by now I'm sure and their dying wish is to either date me or my sister.  When I told my sister that mama was trying to set me up with some guy she met at Dicker & Deal she frightfully says, "OH MY GOD you are not going to date anyone from Dicker & Deal!!  I will disown you.  Does he have all of his teeth?"

Founders & Being Hit on by 50+ Year Old Men
I've been trying not to care that the only men that seem to find me remotely attractive these days are the same age as my mother.  I went to Founders last weekend because the bands that were playing peeked my interest.  The place was of course, packed and after standing there for about 45 minutes I turned to Anya and asked if it was ok we leave... "my ankle hurts," I said pathetically.  I never heard the band play but when I approached the bar to pay our tab I overheard a few grey haired men, who probably had grand children, make comments about my appearance.  After I dismissed one of their attempts to make conversation, I hear one ask if the other had caught my name. And then of course the, "curly hair is so cute," comment followed.  I b-lined it for the door and grabbed Anya on my way out.

next time this happens... they will all be getting my mother's phone number...

end of story  

awesome sundays & writing love poems...

So yesterday was Sunday!  We all know how much I love Sundays.  Last Sunday the ladies decided it would be fun to start writing poems and sharing them at our blissful Sunday tea meetings.  This was a good, less intimidating and inexpensive alternative to taking a creative writing class, as I had planned to do during my college-less season.  At first, I was a little scared to share my poem since Linds and Libby seem to be seasoned writers who wrote awesome poems, and I, simply am not.  Our first assignment was an "address" poem.  After figuring out what that meant, I came up with the poem found at the end of this post.  I think this is going to be a fun little experiment in writing.  Today is valentine's day so I will dedicate this poem to my valentine and lover.   

does anyone else find cupids creepy?
mourning glory

i’ve forgotten how it feels
the warmth of your embrace
the sensation of your breath
forming goose bumps on my skin

i’ve forgotten how it feels
to walk peacefully and freely
swinging my arms and dancing
to the sweet music you once played
just for me

i dream of you at night
walking, talking, biking
feet in the sand
your warmth fills me to the core
while lying beneath you
beads of sweat forming on my skin

we walk barefoot
and eat ice cream
a slightly less pale complexion is revealed

i awaken to a cold
and bitter reality
nostalgically thinking of days gone by
tears fill my eyes
as i bury myself beneath the covers
i wonder... 
and i ask you once again...

when will you return?

Sunday, February 13, 2011

being pretty and suitably loveable...

Over the course of the last three decades I've wondered if I'll ever be pretty enough for someone to find me attractive.  Will I ever be thin enough.  Will the physical flaws go unnoticed long enough for someone to get to know the real person beneath this freckled and imperfect skin.  

I don't know where all of these thoughts came from.   I imagine the nasty comments I heard on the all boys soccer team I played on in elementary school and the fact that I didn't make the fuck list compiled by a group of guy friends I had in high school contributed somewhat.  But I don't want to give them too much credit. 

We have talked this topic to death, but are still so consumed by it.  We try to convince ourselves of the truth... beauty comes from within... beauty is found in intelligence and strength and creativity, all the while still worrying about how we might look in that dress or if our makeup has accomplished its task at making us more desirable, more pretty.  To be honest, I've felt much more attractive over the last couple of years than the previous 27.  I don't know if it's because I lost a few pounds and gained a little confidence or if it's my new haircut or the fact that more people have paid some interest in getting my phone number.  I'd like to think it's simply because I've grown to love myself a little more.  I've come to the conclusion, that I don't even care so much about becoming pretty as I do lovable, not for the sake of someone else, but for my own.  And that, I believe is something we can all attain.

This blog post was inspired by the following video:

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

one more reason to marry myself... or so i thought...

The answer to so many of my questions was found today in the following sketch...

Though I did actually hear a man once say that he found his ditsy girlfriend's airheadedness endearing, I'm choosing not to sacrifice my intelligence in order to be more approachable.  Another man once stated, in the form of a question, how difficult it was to talk to women.  Confidence and courage are actually attractive traits.  Why would intelligence and a strong will not be considered attractive as well?  We all have our flaws.  Let's try to understand one another... or just marry ourselves.