"I really hate her. I called her the C word, and you know I never use the C word. I hate her for screwing him up. Think about what we could have been if she hadn't been involved?!?"
"I know..."
"You know what happened? There was one bag left in the store, ONE, and I wanted to buy it. But she swooped in and bought it first, took it home, and beat the shit out of it. Then you know what she did?"
"........?"
"She RETURNED IT! She returned my bag! And now what am I left with?"
"A broken zipper?"
"What? YES! A USED BAG WITH A BROKEN ZIPPER! She's evil! I hate her!"
"Well lets not absolve the bag completely..."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think the bag was that well made in the first place."
"Yah. I thought it was a Birken... but it was... H&M..."
"Do you need another long island?"
"What the hell do you think?"
Friday, March 30, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Irregular Regulars
Many mornings on my way to work, I get hives as I'm about to approach the building... figuratively mostly, but on the really good days I actually see a pock or two. In all honesty, driving off the nearest cliff is often more appealing than going to my bullshit retail job. But since I'm "only 23" and "in transition" this is supposed to somehow be okay... but I digress.
Being a 'Book Bitch' does have its moments of glory. I do like getting to see all the new releases before the public, I like making a mental list of all the books I want to purchase and/ or read, and I really like getting paid to read the New Yorker and flip through Vogue when its quiet. And believe it or not, I have come to enjoy some of our "regulars". Like, for instance, the Wee German Man, about 85, who comes in twice a week-- once to buy a German newspaper and once to buy Penthouse. He is a poster boy for Viagra. When I ask him how he's doing he always replies, "Its too soon to tell," and then shouts "No pennies!" when I hand him his change. Some other goodies are the elderly couple who regularly purchase the Nudist magazine, the 55 year old man with a wife and kids that could easily be on the cover of Town and Country; he comes in with the family to buy Dr. Seuss and romance novels and without his family to buy gay porn. And then there are the Discount Divas, always dripping in diamonds, who come in with heinous Vera Bradley bags and expired coupons and will fight to the death for their 15% off a $5 book. Oh, it is an exciting life I lead.
And those, my friends, are the good days.
Being a 'Book Bitch' does have its moments of glory. I do like getting to see all the new releases before the public, I like making a mental list of all the books I want to purchase and/ or read, and I really like getting paid to read the New Yorker and flip through Vogue when its quiet. And believe it or not, I have come to enjoy some of our "regulars". Like, for instance, the Wee German Man, about 85, who comes in twice a week-- once to buy a German newspaper and once to buy Penthouse. He is a poster boy for Viagra. When I ask him how he's doing he always replies, "Its too soon to tell," and then shouts "No pennies!" when I hand him his change. Some other goodies are the elderly couple who regularly purchase the Nudist magazine, the 55 year old man with a wife and kids that could easily be on the cover of Town and Country; he comes in with the family to buy Dr. Seuss and romance novels and without his family to buy gay porn. And then there are the Discount Divas, always dripping in diamonds, who come in with heinous Vera Bradley bags and expired coupons and will fight to the death for their 15% off a $5 book. Oh, it is an exciting life I lead.
And those, my friends, are the good days.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
We sat in the cozy Italian bar, wrapped up in rich colors and surrounded by warmth. We sat, watching the snowflakes fall, sipping lattes and savoring chocolate cake. As I studied your face, something was different. We told ridiculous stories about lives that do not make sense, jobs that don't pay, and politics that don't mesh. And we laughed-- wholeheartedly. And as I looked at you I realized that I was not just being heard, I was being listened to for the first time in an eternity. And somehow, that look, that moment made all the difference.
Friday, March 16, 2007
How Does it Feel?
Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kiddin' you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin' out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him do you want to make a deal?
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You never turned around to see the frowns
on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kiddin' you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin' out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him do you want to make a deal?
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You never turned around to see the frowns
on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Random Reflections (or Why I'm a Psycho)
Whenever I am going through a "hard time" I immediately cut myself off- my normally extroverted self becomes freakishly introverted and I do everything in my power to disappear. On occasion I may reach out to some old soul for some clarity, but the majority of the time I lean on no one but myself. There is absolutely nothing chivalrous about it, its simply how I am most comfortable- very rarely allowing anyone to get too close, and keeping even my closest friends a firm arms length away.
A lot of the time it comes down to that hideous word "vulnerability"-- BLLEECH!!! I have a physical reaction just to see that word on paper. I loathe it- conceptually and otherwise. Someone once told me "you are incapable of letting others see you when you are vulnerable" and I actually shuddered and threw up in my mouth a little.
If all the worlds a stage at my worst moments I am one helluva player, slapping on a smile and cheery disposition when it feels like my insides may explode. This dangerous game of self preservation can be exhausting... exhausting and never-ending. Though it is a role I choose to play, I feel like Jerry Seinfeld- eternally locked into this version of myself.
Perhaps it has something to do with being the oldest child- being the strong and independent one; or maybe it is my Geminian tendency to keep my relationships more superficial and less personal. Though I am all too happy to be the 2am phone call for my friends, I hardly ever reciprocate. It has nothing to do with my friends and everything to do with my own neurosis.
Difficult as times may be, I despise empty reassurances.Phrases like "it'll all work out" and "everything happens for a reason" make me wanna vomit. Sometimes you just want to hear "yah, that fucking sucks" and "what the fuck is wrong with the world?" I may be an optimistic idealist, but sometimes life sucks. So just say that... that, and "lets go get a god damn pint!"
A lot of the time it comes down to that hideous word "vulnerability"-- BLLEECH!!! I have a physical reaction just to see that word on paper. I loathe it- conceptually and otherwise. Someone once told me "you are incapable of letting others see you when you are vulnerable" and I actually shuddered and threw up in my mouth a little.
If all the worlds a stage at my worst moments I am one helluva player, slapping on a smile and cheery disposition when it feels like my insides may explode. This dangerous game of self preservation can be exhausting... exhausting and never-ending. Though it is a role I choose to play, I feel like Jerry Seinfeld- eternally locked into this version of myself.
Perhaps it has something to do with being the oldest child- being the strong and independent one; or maybe it is my Geminian tendency to keep my relationships more superficial and less personal. Though I am all too happy to be the 2am phone call for my friends, I hardly ever reciprocate. It has nothing to do with my friends and everything to do with my own neurosis.
Difficult as times may be, I despise empty reassurances.Phrases like "it'll all work out" and "everything happens for a reason" make me wanna vomit. Sometimes you just want to hear "yah, that fucking sucks" and "what the fuck is wrong with the world?" I may be an optimistic idealist, but sometimes life sucks. So just say that... that, and "lets go get a god damn pint!"
Friday, March 9, 2007
Little Miss Missing
Dublin at sunset. Dance parties with Ann. ISE. Girls nights. All-nighters in 1937. Research. Seminars. Being foreign. Brunch at Juice. The smell of a real pub. Connemara. Running by the ocean. Guinness. Hoping for the future. Philosophical conversations. Solving all the problems in the world by noon. Gender debates. Mr. Brightside. Bloody Marys at Cafe en Seine. Paris. Travel. Afternoons in the Cafe. The chaos of Grafton Street. Walking O'Connell arm and arm with Ann in the wee hours of the morning. Fretting over essays and dissertations. Planning great adventures. Having a meaningful purpose. Feeling fulfilled.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Come on, Get Happy!
I have been in a royal funk for over a week- completely miserable to the point of unbearable for all those around me. A lot of this can be attributed to being so overwhelmed and stressed out with my life circumstances that I can hardly breathe and never relax. In an attempt to turn things around, I am channeling Judy Garland (her song- not her drugs) and creating a massive to-do list to be completed by this weekend; not all chores, but just things that need to be done and will have a positive effect so I can start next week off on the right foot. (Yah, it may only be Wednesday, but trust me, this week is shot.) *Sigh* I need a do-over.
X Get up to date with applications
X Complete French Workbook
X Update workout routine (new inspiration? Triathlon? Marathon #2?)
Email Jill at Amnesty
X Update UN application
X Go through shoe pile in closet
X Sort remaining Sallie Mae issues
X Visit Grandmom
Foreign Service Exam application
Complete Bosnia/ War Crimes Tribunal Article
X Paint Nails
X Update Magazine Subscriptions
X Re-organize desk
X Work on script
Make-up/ Wardrobe Analysis- make list
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
~William Congreve
The tears began to fall before I could even hang up the phone; big ol' crocodile tears which quickly transformed into heaving sobs. It was the phone interview from hell and I had just barely survived.
I have been fortunate enough as of late to have a number of "positive prospects" in the works in terms of the grand ol' job search, but this one, this interview I had high hopes for. It was for an international women's organization -- on paper the perfect fit. Apparently, the ogres at this particular organization like to eat their own. My friends, it was not pretty.
The worst part about it is that it had nothing to do with me. I knew my shit before the interview and I know it now. I could have told her everything about rape as a weapon of war, female genital mutilation, female trafficking- ask me anything! The problem was this She-beast was a fucking bitch- a fucking bitch who clearly did not read my resume before she called.
I don't know why it hurt so much or why I was so upset-- I would never want to work with someone so blatantly rude and condescending, anyway. But her cruel words stung like a slap in the face, and after a very hard couple of weeks, I lost all faith in this awful fucking process, and that half-hour of hell catapulted me into a dark emotional hole that I have yet to find my way out of.
I have three words for that beast:
Your. Fucking. Loss.
~William Congreve
The tears began to fall before I could even hang up the phone; big ol' crocodile tears which quickly transformed into heaving sobs. It was the phone interview from hell and I had just barely survived.
I have been fortunate enough as of late to have a number of "positive prospects" in the works in terms of the grand ol' job search, but this one, this interview I had high hopes for. It was for an international women's organization -- on paper the perfect fit. Apparently, the ogres at this particular organization like to eat their own. My friends, it was not pretty.
The worst part about it is that it had nothing to do with me. I knew my shit before the interview and I know it now. I could have told her everything about rape as a weapon of war, female genital mutilation, female trafficking- ask me anything! The problem was this She-beast was a fucking bitch- a fucking bitch who clearly did not read my resume before she called.
I don't know why it hurt so much or why I was so upset-- I would never want to work with someone so blatantly rude and condescending, anyway. But her cruel words stung like a slap in the face, and after a very hard couple of weeks, I lost all faith in this awful fucking process, and that half-hour of hell catapulted me into a dark emotional hole that I have yet to find my way out of.
I have three words for that beast:
Your. Fucking. Loss.
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