Wednesday, April 29, 2009


The other day my horoscope told me it was a good day to buy a computer.
Uh . . . what? I know horoscopes are not specific to me, that they encompass all of the Aries category (or just all of any category. Any category at all. Baseball gloves if they must.) but I usually like to pretend they only apply to me - as if some psychic is out there channeling what my day is going to be like and then sending me an email every day to let me know I should be grateful for someone close to me, or try to take things easy, or be brave with my new venture. (And I am. I'm always brave with my new ventures. The other day I got my burger cooked medium instead of medium-well and I was brave about it. It turned out awesome.) And I'm actually really happy with these vague descriptions because I can morph them into my life and a part of me starts thinking the thing is actually, totally talking to me. Directly.

But it has it's downside too because if I read my horoscope in the morning and it says something like, "Things won't go your way today", I get totally devastated. I'm not really sure I was going to leave the house at all, so how could things not go my way, but somehow I'm sure I'll be devastated nonetheless and it ruins my morning.

But. . . But! If the horoscope is gonna get all specific on me, and out of the blue say something like, "You should buy a computer today", then I Have No Idea What To Do With Myself! I can't trust that. That can't be morphed into anything resembling my life! Clearly I'm not going to go out and buy a computer, and I can't even pretend computer meant ice cream Snickers bar (though if it did it would have been dead on). So now my faith in those suckers are completely gone until they start getting vague again. So vague it could possibly even apply to my cat if I want it to.

In other news my walls are melting off due to an insane amount of water damage.

When I mentioned it to my manager she just sighed and said, "I know. I'm sorry," and walked away. As if her horoscope had said, Someone will tell you their apartment is falling apart today - there's nothing you can do about it so relax and take some time for yourself. A bubblebath maybe.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Mystery Bulb

This weekend I went to a party at my friend's house where we were all supposed to dress like we were in Jr. High. Since I couldn't find my head gear or suddenly contract a crippling case of acne and self-consciousness about being two feet taller than all my teachers, not to mention the boys (my jr high boyfriend once stood on a chair to dance with me at our spring fling - very hot), I ended up wearing a jean vest with capped sleeves and a DARE button. The weird part was when I was traveling to my friend's house, no one seemed to notice the vest. Like not even a second glance, and I was prepared to start defending myself all over the place, but it was as if the denim vest was perfectly normal outer wear. I think this means I can wear it again, like for real.

My other favorites were one of my friends had actual pumps - those shoes with the little basketball on them that you squeeze and it fills some sort of air chamber with power. She'd be in the kitchen mixing drinks and stop suddenly to say, "Wait. I need to pump up."
Then my two other friends who showed up as goth (I miss that look) and a dude with a tight necklace, and a visor. It was awesome, especially because I don't think guys can get away with necklaces anymore unless they're Italian. Or Gabi's boyfriend.

When I went to make my final drink of the evening I started pouring and all of a sudden a lightbulb popped up along with my ice cubes. The cup had never left my hand so it's not like someone could have dropped it in there as a joke, and I looked around shocked, as if it had fallen from the ceiling, or like maybe I had just won something. But it hadn't fallen, and I didn't seem to be getting any sort of prize so I did the next logical thing and checked the 2 liter Sprite bottle. There wasn't anything lightbulb-like in there, and I tried fitting the thing back into the bottle to see if it could have even squeezed out of there but it couldn't. I found goth and necklace guy on the balcony and after just a few moments of thinking about it, it was decided that the surprise lightbulb fell out of the ice dispenser on the refrigerator. Sure enough, that's what it was. Thank god for them, because I was certainly never going to figure that out. I would have gone through a whole weird leprechaun scenario before I got to something logical like it coming from the fridge.

And that's probably why I never made it on the debate team in Jr. High - because "Maybe it was magic?" just doesn't hold up when you're trying to win an argument, no matter how tall or awkward you are.

Monday, April 13, 2009

I'm Taking The Stairs From Now On

I got stuck in my elevator last night with a guy who was delivering food to someone in the building. At the first slight shifting of the little cabin we were in, I reassured the delivery guy this always happens and he shouldn't worry about it, we'll be fine. He nodded and occupied himself by reading the writing carved into the elevator door, whispering the words to himself as he scanned down, "Dear Coont?"

"Oh," I said correcting him. "It's cunt. Dear cunt face."

"Dear cunt face," he continued. "Fuck you." I nodded and shrugged like, What are you gonna do? Elevators, am I right! But before he could laugh along with me the elevator started shaking and knocking back and forth. We weren't just stuck, we were stuck and now the elevator felt like it was having a seizure. I reassured him again that this was totally normal, there's no need to panic, it does this all the time. But he was getting sweaty and I was getting nervous and the thing would not stop rattling it's ass off, and after about a solid minute the dude hunched into a little ball in the corner and covered his head with his hands.

"I don't know if that's really going to help anything," I said. He ignored me and just stayed hunched, and after a moment, so as not to feel rude, I crouched in the other corner next to him. The shaking stopped and after a few minutes he decided it was safe to take his arms down from around his head and look around - Yep, still in the elevator. He told me we could always eat the food he was supposed to be delivering if we were in here for too long and then before I could answer, he proceeded to rip open the plastic bag and devour an entire egg roll in a single bite.

"Yeah, I don't think we're gonna be in here that long. . ." I started, but he was digging into the fried rice with such wild abandon that suddenly I started to get nervous. What if we were trapped in here for a long time? This guy was eating all of our rations! How was I supposed to survive? "Slow down," I said. "Maybe you should save some." He stopped and looked down at the food.

"But it'll get cold."

The man had a point.

Plus, if I didn't start eating, he was going to eat it all and then later I'd be forced to eat him because I'd be more hungry than him, and he'll be all plump and full of won tons, and I'd be tearing into human flesh for my own survival and peeing in the corner and none of that sounded fun at all so I grabbed a container and started eating the chow mein with my fingers, and he nodded at me like, this is how we're gonna make it.

That's when the rattling started up again and he began wildly shoveling rice into his mouth as if it would pad the blow when we hit eight floors of cement below us. But we weren't plummeting. The rattling this time was just the doors being pried open by my landlord and her husband who stood there staring at the two of us, hunched together in a corner, our mouths full of Chinese food, and our fingers covered in soy sauce.

"We were trapped in here for a while and got hungry," I tried to explain.

"You were in there for five minutes."

"Well, he freaked me out," I said standing up and made my way out of the elevator. "It felt longer."

The delivery guy got up and stepped out of the elevator. We both stood there awkwardly as if we should hug goodbye or something. Instead he just handed me the menu and walked away. I almost yelled out, "I'll always remember you!" but I didn't because my landlord was still standing there (judging me). And because I'm pretty sure I'll get stuck again, and if I'm lucky maybe the next guy will have pizza.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

You Know How I Know I've Been Watching Too Much Alias?

Not because I've seen the first three seasons in the past week (that thesis is coming along swimmingly, thanks), but because I've been waking up every night at 4am and momentarily questioning James's identity. I freak out and gasp when I see him sitting on top of me, convinced he's a spy in a very good disguise, until I wake up a little and realize he really is a cat, a cat with claws in my stomach, and then I spend a moment whispering my thoughts to him about how I can probably make it to the bathroom without being in the cross hairs of some sniper rifles if I just duck and roll through the hallway past the open windows. I'm usually too sleepy to roll, so I just shuffle really fast and hope they're thrown off by the state of my hair to actually fire on time.
"I've got a shot, I'll take it on thre-what the crap is on her head?"

I know Lent is over this weekend, but I didn't give anything up, so I'm extending it this year and giving up Alias for a month, quick before I start demanding an eye scan on my friends to prove they are who they say they are. I thought about asking them personal details like, "What did we do on Monday?" Ate and drank. "Oh yeah. Well, what did we do on Friday?" Ate and drank. "You're good. You're real good." - but clearly that won't work, so no Alias it is. No more for a month.

After I finish just this one more episode.

Monday, April 06, 2009

Cookie Time (*sung to the tune of the song 'cookie time' from the 1989 hit Troop Beverly Hills)

I had a birthday recently - a birthday in which both my parents asked me how old I was going to be.
Uh. . . you birthed me. You made me (thanks again for getting that vasectomy reversed Dad!) and then I was born 7 months later, you of all people should remember how old I am! Then they both went into some weird laughing thing and my mom said:
"Oh honey, you expect me to remember something from thirty years ago? I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
"Twenty-nine! You can't remember something from twenty-nine years ago you mean."
"I'll love you no matter how old you are."

Like that makes it better. She's always giving me love. How about some money? Or some Girl Scout cookies? I told Bub that all I wanted for my birthday was some Girl Scout cookies shipped out to me because for some reason I cannot find a Girl Scout here to save my life. I've even internetted where they would be selling them, but then snow storms hit and apparently it's not "safe" to set up a booth in such "dangerous" weather. Can't they get a badge for selling in the elements?

Anyway, Bub's response to my birthday request was, "Why don't you get your own?"

Oh. Well, happy birthday to you too.

"Didn't you just ask what I wanted?"
"I'm not getting you that. Go to the store and find some little girls in green."
"Whatever. Mom and I are going to the movies, think about what you want and call me later."
"Fine, have fun. I'll talk to you la-"
"I love you."
"Aw, I love you t-"

She hardly ever says I love you first. Not because she doesn't, but because I'm much more of the gooey sister. Sometimes I'll say it if I know she's at work because she'll always say it back, but doesn't like to have anyone hear her so she'll just sort of mumble it really fast then remind me later not to make her display affection when other people are around.

So, I didn't get any Girl Scout cookies, and I still haven't caught up with those elusive little suckers, but when I do I'm gonna buy every box they have, I'm gonna tell them they deserve extra patches for being so wonderful, and then I'm going to ship a box to my mom and my sister, but not until I've taken the biggest, fattest sharpie I can find and written, in really big letters all over the box, I LOVE YOU TOO.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

A Lady Cop Friend Told Me If I Blogged Again She'd Have Anyone I Wanted Arrested. The List Is Shorter Than I Thought.

James has decided my chair is now his chair, and my food is now his food. He has been sitting in my favorite chair the past few days. A chair I had been trying to teach him the wonders of for the previous eight months, but he would have none of it! Not when there's a cupboard under the sink to be sleeping in! But now . . . now, that it's cold (Again. Cold again. We'd been having a really nice warm spell [the high 40s people!] and then Sunday I woke up and the land was covered with snow. Before I was could register what I was looking at my brain was like, "Oh shit. Someone moved the island, we're back in time to Christmas." But then I looked around and realized that lump under my covers wasn't Richard Alpert, it was my printer and some buckets of pencils I'd stashed there in the middle of the night because James wouldn't stop playing with them and the only way to make him think they've disappeared is to cover them with a blanket.)

Anyway, it's cold out and he discovered the chair is poised perfectly close to the heater so he won't let me sit in it. Screw the cupboard, he's got cushions instead of plastic bags to lay on now.

And it doesn't stop at the chair. My food is now his. He stole the chicken breast I made for dinner the other night, stole it right from under my nose! He practically shouted, "Look over there!" picked it up in his mouth and trotted off with it so he could eat it in his cozy new chair! He's cute, and I burned the chicken so it's ok. For now.

In other news, 7-11 has gotten mighty used to me showing up at all hours of the night demanding to know where the coffee filters are, and if they have and drano (for the morning) in a very flattering combo of over sized men's flannel pj bottoms (Thanks to Gige having a if-we-go-to-Target-we-buy-half-the-store rule. Best rule ever. Aside from if-I-give-you-a-look-don't-ask-me-what-I'm-trying-to-say-to-you-
tell-you-later-about-how-I'm-pretty-sure-I-just-saw-her-nipple rule), a t-shirt I stole from my brother that has Luc Robatille on it, a paint-splattered hoodie from 1998, and Uggs. I know they're getting used to it because when I showed up this morning to buy a bottle of wine I expected a "It's 9am, why are you buying wine?" but instead I got:
"Oh my gosh, Emily?"
"Yes?" they all think my name is Emily no matter how many times they check my id or I say, You know, it's actually Amy.
"Emily, you look so . . . nice? Wow. Look at your hair, see Roger, I told you she's not balding."
"All I did was take a shower and put on some mascara guys."
"Well let me tell you something Emily, you do that more ok? You do that, I'll see if my son will go out with you."

That's nice. His sixteen year old son.

I slunk home slightly depressed. Not because the 7-11 guys think I can only get a sixteen year old, but because when I was laughing about it in my head thinking about how I would tell them I can't date him I'm like fiv. . . no ten . . . no . . . oh god. I'm old enough to be his mother. His very young, High School dropout, we like to hang out at the same bars mom - but still. Old enough to be his mom.

From now on, I'm shopping at CVS in the middle of the night. They never offer me dates there.