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.

I 
ate 
someone's
garb. 

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.  

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.

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

jacketless

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... 
will 
this
ever 
end

and i ask you once again...

when will you return?

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:

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.   
 

pathetic, sloth-like slumber... loathing winter...

Today's post is inspired by the following lines from 30 Rock.  Yesterday I got home from my Sunday evening ritual with Sara at Camp Tall Turf around 10:00pm and realized I hadn't watched an episode yet.  30 Rock might just be the only thing keeping me sane this winter.   

Liz: Work is awful. Everyone’s snippy and tense.
Jack: Well the lack of sun makes people depressed. It’s called “seasonal affective disorder.”
Liz: Oh, is that where the word “sad” comes from?
Jack: What? You think “sad” is an acronym invented by psychologists?

I'm currently blaming my cynicism on the below zero temperatures, lack of sunlight and the salt that's ruining my new boots.  This weather leaves me buried beneath my covers for several of my waking hours each day.  I don't think I have ever spent this much time sitting in my bed watching sitcoms and videos on youtube and thinking about the misery that comes with winter.  I sit there fantasizing about riding my bicycle and sweating or going for a run in shorts and a tank top.  I nostalgically look at photos on facebook from warm days gone by either from last summer or my previous life in Latin America, where 'cold' never dropped below fifty.  FIFTY!!!!  That's like 54 degrees warmer than it was yesterday when I got out of bed.  That's ridiculous.

While complaining to my mother about how terribly awful my life has become she gave me two options.  "Shelb, you either need to start exercising more or get some anti-depressants to get you through the winter."  The last time I took those pills I walked around like a zombie and cared about nothing.  I stopped taking them and swore I'd never take them again.  It was like they took all of my powers to think and feel and turned my insides to mush.  I don't know what's worse... being apathetic about everything or believing that I have nothing to live for except 30 Rock and wine.

So I opted for exercise.  I'm crazy enough without the pills.  Today I got up at 4:55am and went to the gym.  I hate spinning on a stationary bicycle in a room with a bunch of sweaty smelly people I don't know and there's nothing worse than running around in circles on the track.  But, it will release some serotonin in my brain and I keep telling myself that it will lift my spirits, just wait for it.  I will leave this pathetic sloth-like slumber before spring hits, I promise.  I'm going to listen to Tom Petty now and think of flowers and sunshine and palm trees.

stories that shouldn't be funny but almost always are... [cuentos diarios]

So I work with refugees.  I do things like call AT&T to set up phone service for people without an identity, fill out DHS and Social Security Applications and help volunteers understand that it's nearly impossible to meet all the needs of a foreigner and succeed in helping them become self-sufficient within the six months the government gives us to do so.  I make doctor's appointments and call Medicaid and sometimes pretend I have an accent and say my name is Ahmed.

The refugees come from many different countries, speak many different languages and come from a variety of social and economic backgrounds and have anywhere from no education to masters and doctorate degrees.  So to say the least, every person that comes seeking refuge is very unique.

Now, working with people that do not speak English and who come from cultures much different than ours, makes for some interesting encounters.  At this point, so much unbelievable stuff happens on a daily basis, that the un-ordinary or unusual, has become to me, ordinary and unsurprising and often times, terribly amusing.  

Here are a couple of stories my co-workers and I find highly amusing but at the same time slightly disheartening...

- A guy who works an hour south of here got so lost on his way home that he ended up in Chicago and slept in his car parked in a gas station.

- A lady didn't understand what the "do not disturb" sign on the door meant at her new hotel cleaning job and subsequently walked in on an "intimate" situation.  She was mortified and I think quit the job. 

- A while back we received a call from a landlord stating a concern that people were cooking up roadkill and that a resident had reported their dog missing.

yes, we do have these posted in the restrooms at our office

more to come...

falling and alleged copulation and drunkenness... [some lady]

I was out with some co-worker friends the other night, partaking in happy hour, when I received a text from some lady who claims to be my mother.  I no longer have the text, as I accidentally erased it and my mother claims to have lost it on her phone but here is what I can remember:

"Shelb, I hope you are not out having sex or getting drunk because I just fell down the stairs backwards while trying to move some furniture.  Your sister isn't answering the phone either and if I have to call an ambulance they won't even be able to get in here because there's stuff in front of the door.  So you need to call me pronto before I'm dead."

I discovered the text several minutes after she sent it.  Please don't think less of me but it made me laugh uncontrollably for a few minutes before I was able to text her back, all the while picturing her lying with her head towards the bottom of the stairs and trapped between the wall and some piece of furniture.  I was neither intoxicated nor... well, we all know I wasn't doing the latter.  

This is what I imagined:

So I called her, still laughing and asked if she was ok.  She of course thought I was drunk because I was laughing and we all know that I only laugh when intoxicated.  She also did not understand what was so funny.  Anyways, this text was affirmation that I need to document as many of the conversations that I have with my mother as possible.  A friend asked if we communicate outside of facebook because she finds our conversations so entertaining that she doesn't want to miss out on any of them.  Sorry, but yes, we do interact outside of facebook.  I'll try to document some of it, not only for your entertainment but also for my own.