Dear One Tree Hill,
Where have you been all my life? I'm sorry I just now found you but believe me, I will be making up for lost time with the sweetest loving you've ever had.
(That means oral. Lots of it.)
Love,
Me
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
At Least I Didn't Have To Pay For Gas
So, on Friday I drove Gige from Fresno to LA.
How can I do that whilst still in Chicago you ask? Do I have a robot replica or the ability to time travel?
I wish.
Nope, what happened was: she called, we started shooting the shit and all of a sudden it was three hours later. When she said, "Oh man, I knew I'd hit traffic at the Getty", I seriously considered the fact that the hour we spent totally silent while I cleaned my apartment and she, I don't really know what she was doing (singing along to Maroon 5 mainly), was probably not necessary.
But at least now when someone asks me what I did over the weekend I can say, "Took a road trip" instead of the usual, "Put on some flannel pjs and settled in with my new best friend (my space heater), and some dinner (half a box of chocolate covered oreos)."
How can I do that whilst still in Chicago you ask? Do I have a robot replica or the ability to time travel?
I wish.
Nope, what happened was: she called, we started shooting the shit and all of a sudden it was three hours later. When she said, "Oh man, I knew I'd hit traffic at the Getty", I seriously considered the fact that the hour we spent totally silent while I cleaned my apartment and she, I don't really know what she was doing (singing along to Maroon 5 mainly), was probably not necessary.
But at least now when someone asks me what I did over the weekend I can say, "Took a road trip" instead of the usual, "Put on some flannel pjs and settled in with my new best friend (my space heater), and some dinner (half a box of chocolate covered oreos)."
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Why I Always Have A Ding Dong In My Purse
Anyone who knows me knows that I eat pretty consistently throughout the day. Roughly every two hours. According to my mother I was like this as a baby, and while she cursed and prayed that I get over it soon so that she can get a full night’s sleep, I never did. I no longer wake her up to breast feed me at three am, but the sentiment is still the same.
When I don’t eat my blood sugar drops and my personality vanishes and is replaced by something that can only be described as ‘from the underworld’. Crying and or screaming usually ensues as a form of notifying myself, and the world, that I HAVE NOT HAD ANYTHING TO EAT SINCE BREAKFAST. A frequent response to my crying at a boyfriend for making the bed the wrong way, or screaming at my mother for putting my laundry in the dryer, or hysterically ranting to a friend that the nail lady made this one crooked, this one is crooked! is typically: When was the last time you ate?
And oh, how in those moments I hate that question. I loathe it. I want to send daggers flying across the room at anyone who deigns to even think that I might need food to calm me down, when can’t they just see, can’t they see that it’s the fact they bought corn tortiallas! Corn! Instead of flour! The horror! The humanity of this awfulness has absolutely nothing to do with my FOOD INTAKE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Then after storming away and letting the full psychotic-ness sink in, I will eat a banana or some crackers with cheese and suddenly . . . suddenly the little girl from the Exorcist leaves my body and I’m my nice (somewhat) likable self again. I smile sheepishly at my friend, bat my eyes at the boyfriend, hang my head in front of my mother, and slowly daisies dance out of my mouth singing, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I guess my blood sugar was a little low. I’m incredibly sorry I yelled at you, I’m such a jerk. Can I wash and detail your car for you?” Or better yet, if I’m still in the process of regulating from demon to a human again, almost there, I might say, “Oh wow. I’m sorry about that. Why didn’t you tell me to eat something?”
Luckily for me I am surrounded by people who also suffer from hypoglycemia, so when I have a meltdown they don’t stare at me in shock while rapidly dialing the police, because I’ve seen them in similar positions. We’re not all the same, that’s for sure, generally there’s a shorter temper than usual when we haven’t eaten in a while, but it doesn’t always go down like that. Well, my mother . . . my mother is just like me (not in reverse of course). But my sister, she snaps meanly and then gets quiet. Disturbingly, alarmingly quiet that is scarier than actual yelling. Gige usually just starts crying immediately, about anything, and I find it much more easy to handle than the yellers because I can just calmly steer her away from the restaurant that’s taking too long, towards a bench and hand feed her french fries. Gabi handles the question of “Have you eaten?” much better than me and while I’m sure she’s wishing she has a shotgun to blow a hole in my face for asking such a stupid fucking question, she wishes this quietly, says “No” and then drives us to the nearest Del Taco, and I’ve known her long enough to know, we do not speak until halfway through our burritos.
And once we feel better, we all hug and laugh and love each other again because we know what it’s like.
So thanks to all the boyfriends who have put up with us, and all the mothers who set down a plate of fruit in front of us despite the threat it could possibly be thrown at their heads. Thanks to the friends who call just to share how they almost started sobbing in the line at Trader Joe’s because it was moving too slow, and thanks to the friends who still love us when we’re making those calls.
It’s nice to know we’re not that hormonal. . . we just need some pizza.
When I don’t eat my blood sugar drops and my personality vanishes and is replaced by something that can only be described as ‘from the underworld’. Crying and or screaming usually ensues as a form of notifying myself, and the world, that I HAVE NOT HAD ANYTHING TO EAT SINCE BREAKFAST. A frequent response to my crying at a boyfriend for making the bed the wrong way, or screaming at my mother for putting my laundry in the dryer, or hysterically ranting to a friend that the nail lady made this one crooked, this one is crooked! is typically: When was the last time you ate?
And oh, how in those moments I hate that question. I loathe it. I want to send daggers flying across the room at anyone who deigns to even think that I might need food to calm me down, when can’t they just see, can’t they see that it’s the fact they bought corn tortiallas! Corn! Instead of flour! The horror! The humanity of this awfulness has absolutely nothing to do with my FOOD INTAKE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Then after storming away and letting the full psychotic-ness sink in, I will eat a banana or some crackers with cheese and suddenly . . . suddenly the little girl from the Exorcist leaves my body and I’m my nice (somewhat) likable self again. I smile sheepishly at my friend, bat my eyes at the boyfriend, hang my head in front of my mother, and slowly daisies dance out of my mouth singing, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I guess my blood sugar was a little low. I’m incredibly sorry I yelled at you, I’m such a jerk. Can I wash and detail your car for you?” Or better yet, if I’m still in the process of regulating from demon to a human again, almost there, I might say, “Oh wow. I’m sorry about that. Why didn’t you tell me to eat something?”
Luckily for me I am surrounded by people who also suffer from hypoglycemia, so when I have a meltdown they don’t stare at me in shock while rapidly dialing the police, because I’ve seen them in similar positions. We’re not all the same, that’s for sure, generally there’s a shorter temper than usual when we haven’t eaten in a while, but it doesn’t always go down like that. Well, my mother . . . my mother is just like me (not in reverse of course). But my sister, she snaps meanly and then gets quiet. Disturbingly, alarmingly quiet that is scarier than actual yelling. Gige usually just starts crying immediately, about anything, and I find it much more easy to handle than the yellers because I can just calmly steer her away from the restaurant that’s taking too long, towards a bench and hand feed her french fries. Gabi handles the question of “Have you eaten?” much better than me and while I’m sure she’s wishing she has a shotgun to blow a hole in my face for asking such a stupid fucking question, she wishes this quietly, says “No” and then drives us to the nearest Del Taco, and I’ve known her long enough to know, we do not speak until halfway through our burritos.
And once we feel better, we all hug and laugh and love each other again because we know what it’s like.
So thanks to all the boyfriends who have put up with us, and all the mothers who set down a plate of fruit in front of us despite the threat it could possibly be thrown at their heads. Thanks to the friends who call just to share how they almost started sobbing in the line at Trader Joe’s because it was moving too slow, and thanks to the friends who still love us when we’re making those calls.
It’s nice to know we’re not that hormonal. . . we just need some pizza.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Nachos Are A Balanced Meal To Me
Because I live alone I don't cook as much as I would if I lived with someone or if I was near someone who wanted me to be cooking for them. My dinner usually ranges from nachos to toast then back to nachos. Because I'm creative.
But I was feeling rut-y so I decided to cook-cook. Turkey and artichoke stuffed pasta shells with arriabata sauce. Oh yeah, I don't fuck around.
$37 dollars later (Bottle of celebratory wine included - as opposed to regular night wine. This one is different because I'm cooking before I drink it.) I set off to cook. After burning myself on the oil in the skillet and setting off my smoke alarm, all while maintaining a conversation with Gige, I got things handled.
I, for some reason, also used every single fork and spoon I own whilst making this dish. I have no idea what I was doing with them, or how the were applicable in this dish. It was like sleep walking but with using utensils and without sleeping. Or walking.
You can't tell from the picture below, but it turned out pretty good. It was way too much work for just me so I'll probably never do that again (unless you come visit and then I'll cook and burn myself for you to no end!), but now I can say I've done that.
But I was feeling rut-y so I decided to cook-cook. Turkey and artichoke stuffed pasta shells with arriabata sauce. Oh yeah, I don't fuck around.
$37 dollars later (Bottle of celebratory wine included - as opposed to regular night wine. This one is different because I'm cooking before I drink it.) I set off to cook. After burning myself on the oil in the skillet and setting off my smoke alarm, all while maintaining a conversation with Gige, I got things handled.
I, for some reason, also used every single fork and spoon I own whilst making this dish. I have no idea what I was doing with them, or how the were applicable in this dish. It was like sleep walking but with using utensils and without sleeping. Or walking.
You can't tell from the picture below, but it turned out pretty good. It was way too much work for just me so I'll probably never do that again (unless you come visit and then I'll cook and burn myself for you to no end!), but now I can say I've done that.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Fracture Spoiler!
It's snowing as if it's trying to impress me right now.
I am not amused. You know what would impressive? Sunlight. Sunlight would be impressive, you know, so I don't become jaundiced.
My advisor just canceled our meeting. He left a message for me that simply said, "Hey Amy . . . I'm gonna pussy out on you. It is just nasty out and I don't feel like leaving my house. You should stay home too."
I love when people in charge of me use 'pussy' as an adjective.
Ooh! Also, Becky and I decided that if I can't make it home for the voting in November she's gonna take my driver's license and vote for me. I trust her judgment. But then I realized if she gets caught that's some serious fraud. I'm not really sure what kind of fraud, criminal? Federal offense? I know nothing about the legal system except that double jeopardy means you can't be tried for the same thing buuuuuut if it's attempted murder and then you get off (Sir Anthony Hopkins) and then pull the plug Ryan Gosling is gonna get you for ACTUAL murder! I love crime dramas. It's a good thing I didn't go into law or I'd be standing up forcefully yelling:
"Objection!"
"On what grounds this time Ms. Stern?"
"They tried to pull this buuuuullshit on an episode of Medium once, but it didn't fly because it was her twin sister! She was still dead."
"Overruled. Is that all?"
"I think I've made my point."
But the more I think about it the more I'm willing to risk her imprisonment and eventual prosecution for my right to vote. After all, it would be so fun to watch.
I am not amused. You know what would impressive? Sunlight. Sunlight would be impressive, you know, so I don't become jaundiced.
My advisor just canceled our meeting. He left a message for me that simply said, "Hey Amy . . . I'm gonna pussy out on you. It is just nasty out and I don't feel like leaving my house. You should stay home too."
I love when people in charge of me use 'pussy' as an adjective.
Ooh! Also, Becky and I decided that if I can't make it home for the voting in November she's gonna take my driver's license and vote for me. I trust her judgment. But then I realized if she gets caught that's some serious fraud. I'm not really sure what kind of fraud, criminal? Federal offense? I know nothing about the legal system except that double jeopardy means you can't be tried for the same thing buuuuuut if it's attempted murder and then you get off (Sir Anthony Hopkins) and then pull the plug Ryan Gosling is gonna get you for ACTUAL murder! I love crime dramas. It's a good thing I didn't go into law or I'd be standing up forcefully yelling:
"Objection!"
"On what grounds this time Ms. Stern?"
"They tried to pull this buuuuullshit on an episode of Medium once, but it didn't fly because it was her twin sister! She was still dead."
"Overruled. Is that all?"
"I think I've made my point."
But the more I think about it the more I'm willing to risk her imprisonment and eventual prosecution for my right to vote. After all, it would be so fun to watch.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
This Is Probably One Of Those Things I'm Supposed To Keep To Myself
You know that whole thing when you're leaving a voice mail that says - To send your message with normal delivery press blah blah blah? (Except it doesn't actually say, 'blah blah blah' it says 'one' or 'pound' or something, but if it did say 'blah blah blah' I think more people would be pushing things and more excited about leaving voice mails. "Why'd you pick up? I wanted to hear your sassy answering machine." "You called, so I picked up." "Stop being attentive!") They only have normal or urgent delivery sending, but no in between. I don't know about you all but (despite my blood sugar related mood swings) I don't usually crazily vary between normal or URGENT! (Usually.) Why can't they have a middle ground, or something less extreme like: I'd like to send my message with Super Delivery! And then when my - Oh you have a new voicemail - thing comes through on your phone it plays the theme to Superman, or Jem.
Or like, I'd like to send my voicemail with Hate Delivery. If you're mad at someone it'll just have Danny Glover saying, "Fuck you!" Ding! You have a new voicemail! DG-"Fuck you! I'm too old for this shit."
Or Scary Delivery and it'll just play the Ghostbusters theme song. Which isn't so much scary as it is rad but whatever, you get what I'm trying to say.
The possibilities are endless people. ENDLESS!
Ah grad school . . . thanks for driving me so insane that this is what I'm thinking about before breakfast. My mom is probably really proud.
Or like, I'd like to send my voicemail with Hate Delivery. If you're mad at someone it'll just have Danny Glover saying, "Fuck you!" Ding! You have a new voicemail! DG-"Fuck you! I'm too old for this shit."
Or Scary Delivery and it'll just play the Ghostbusters theme song. Which isn't so much scary as it is rad but whatever, you get what I'm trying to say.
The possibilities are endless people. ENDLESS!
Ah grad school . . . thanks for driving me so insane that this is what I'm thinking about before breakfast. My mom is probably really proud.
Monday, February 04, 2008
I Haven't Seen The Light Of Day in a Week, But. . .
82 pages? Done.
Two acts? Done.
Finished my play? Fuck yeah!
I'm gonna go sleep for a week.
Two acts? Done.
Finished my play? Fuck yeah!
I'm gonna go sleep for a week.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
You Know How I Know I'm Feeling Better?
Because last night I had a half a glass of wine!
My wine glass is the size of a very large soup bowl, so your definition of 'half' and my definition of 'half' might be a little different. But that's ok. Don't judge me . . . lest ye be judged!
I don't know what that really means, 'lest ye be...' Like, don't throw glass stones or don't live in glass houses if you're gonna throw . . . I don't know, something like that.
It's sort of pirate-y, and I'm a fan of the sea robbers. This morning I yelled, "Arg me matey!" at my couch. "You be a sight for sore eye*!" And then, "Parlay wench!" at my landlady when she asked me for rent. She is severely not amused with me.
I probably should cut down to a quarter of a glass until my tolerance gets built back up.
*Sore eye, singular, because I'm obviously wearing a patch.
My wine glass is the size of a very large soup bowl, so your definition of 'half' and my definition of 'half' might be a little different. But that's ok. Don't judge me . . . lest ye be judged!
I don't know what that really means, 'lest ye be...' Like, don't throw glass stones or don't live in glass houses if you're gonna throw . . . I don't know, something like that.
It's sort of pirate-y, and I'm a fan of the sea robbers. This morning I yelled, "Arg me matey!" at my couch. "You be a sight for sore eye*!" And then, "Parlay wench!" at my landlady when she asked me for rent. She is severely not amused with me.
I probably should cut down to a quarter of a glass until my tolerance gets built back up.
*Sore eye, singular, because I'm obviously wearing a patch.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Gangrene or Amputation?
So, I had to go meet my professor this morning across town, which normally isn't a problem because I like to get out of my apartment once a week or so, and this gives me a good outing and excuse.
"What? You want me to come to the pub tonight? I can't. I went out on Friday."
"Wasn't that at 9am?"
"Yes."
"To meet and talk about your work?"
"Yes."
"That's not going out."
"That depends. That all depends."
But today. Oh, holy hell, today made me wish I went to the pub all day, every day.
It was snowing pretty hard when I left this morning, so much so that it took me and another dude about five minutes to open the door to the outside since it was snowed shut. Sign #1.
Since it was still snowing pretty hard they hadn't plowed our streets or sidewalks yet. Sign #2. But I kept going, because I thought, "Hey! Now I can say I walked a mile in the snow to get to school. Hey girl! Yeah you on the corner! I'm walking in the snow." She didn't care. And also, I've decided that you all need to go apologize to your grandparents for rolling your eyes, or scoffing, or throwing small little oranges when they told you about walking uphill in the snow both ways. It sucks.
Then it took my bus FORTY MINUTES TO PICK ME UP. Sign #3. And here's a fun little fact - when they don't plow, you can't really tell if you're stepping into something solid or not, so I stepped in about a billion ice puddles, thus rendering my feet numb and horrified at me for a total of about two and a half hours. I actually thought about taking off my shoes and socks, once I was safely on the el so that I could warm them up with my hands and try to bend over far enough to breathe on them, but I didn't want to be "that girl", so I just prayed the limit on frost bite was three hours of not being able to move your toes, not two.
As if that wasn't all awesome enough, I started laughing hysterically when the bus driver closed the doors ON MY LEG and then casually began to DRIVE AWAY. Sign #4 (I have no idea what the sign's are for anymore, but I'm gonna keep labeling things willy nilly. Attention span be damned!) Luckily I was so cold I didn't even realize what was happening for about half a block before I looked down and started crescendo-ing into, "Hey . . . hey, that's my leg. Uhm, excuse me? My, uh . . My leg? MY LEG! MY LEG IS STUCK IN THE FUCKING DOOR!!! For the love of god stop the bus! STOP THE BUS AND FREE MY LEG!!!" Then I started laughing and crying from laughing and the bus driver skipped all the rest of the stops to drop me off at mine.
Good man, sir. Good man.
Once home I inspected everything and my leg is fine, and my toes are all working. Now. So, I'm pretty happy about that. And I will seriously be rethinking this whole "meeting my professor to work on my thesis" thing. It's turning out to be pretty dangerous.
"What? You want me to come to the pub tonight? I can't. I went out on Friday."
"Wasn't that at 9am?"
"Yes."
"To meet and talk about your work?"
"Yes."
"That's not going out."
"That depends. That all depends."
But today. Oh, holy hell, today made me wish I went to the pub all day, every day.
It was snowing pretty hard when I left this morning, so much so that it took me and another dude about five minutes to open the door to the outside since it was snowed shut. Sign #1.
Since it was still snowing pretty hard they hadn't plowed our streets or sidewalks yet. Sign #2. But I kept going, because I thought, "Hey! Now I can say I walked a mile in the snow to get to school. Hey girl! Yeah you on the corner! I'm walking in the snow." She didn't care. And also, I've decided that you all need to go apologize to your grandparents for rolling your eyes, or scoffing, or throwing small little oranges when they told you about walking uphill in the snow both ways. It sucks.
Then it took my bus FORTY MINUTES TO PICK ME UP. Sign #3. And here's a fun little fact - when they don't plow, you can't really tell if you're stepping into something solid or not, so I stepped in about a billion ice puddles, thus rendering my feet numb and horrified at me for a total of about two and a half hours. I actually thought about taking off my shoes and socks, once I was safely on the el so that I could warm them up with my hands and try to bend over far enough to breathe on them, but I didn't want to be "that girl", so I just prayed the limit on frost bite was three hours of not being able to move your toes, not two.
As if that wasn't all awesome enough, I started laughing hysterically when the bus driver closed the doors ON MY LEG and then casually began to DRIVE AWAY. Sign #4 (I have no idea what the sign's are for anymore, but I'm gonna keep labeling things willy nilly. Attention span be damned!) Luckily I was so cold I didn't even realize what was happening for about half a block before I looked down and started crescendo-ing into, "Hey . . . hey, that's my leg. Uhm, excuse me? My, uh . . My leg? MY LEG! MY LEG IS STUCK IN THE FUCKING DOOR!!! For the love of god stop the bus! STOP THE BUS AND FREE MY LEG!!!" Then I started laughing and crying from laughing and the bus driver skipped all the rest of the stops to drop me off at mine.
Good man, sir. Good man.
Once home I inspected everything and my leg is fine, and my toes are all working. Now. So, I'm pretty happy about that. And I will seriously be rethinking this whole "meeting my professor to work on my thesis" thing. It's turning out to be pretty dangerous.
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