Thanks

Life has been crazy in general and Thanksgiving didn’t go well. For that reason I think it’s more important than ever to cornball out and remember what I’m thankful for.

My family, which is in the midst of a lot of crappiness and instability right now, but we’ll get through it and be better for it. Well, that, or I’ll snorkel in chardonnay and wait for the sweet release of death.

The four members of my not-really-my-family-but-basically-my-family, who have always been hugely important to me, but especially lately.

My friends, who are so awesome that sometimes, like tonight, I don’t know what I did to deserve them. Especially one in particular. I’m not sure how I got so lucky as to find her.

My job, which has been insane, but the plus side to that has been that my normally stoic boss is heaping me with praise. I’m enjoying it while it lasts.

My front right tire, which went flat on Wednesday in the parking lot of work, and not on the highway.

My school principal, who threw his tie over his shoulder and changed it so that I didn’t have to wait for Triple A. (A gesture that, unbeknownst to him, will earn him a tin of Crate and Barrel sea salt caramels when he gets to his desk Monday morning. I’ll talk more about those morsels of unspeakable deliciousness at a later date. A friend reminded me that I once described them as Jesus in candy form, but that’s a little tacky and clearly not something that would ever come out of my mouth.)

My checking account, which has not been hurting for awhile thanks to all the extra work.

My upcoming third date with a boy I might really like. (Although I’m a little afraid that he’ll end up being a serial killer because I wrote about it here.)

My La Mer body cream, Benefit’s Mr. Frosty which is the makeup equivalent of a full night’s sleep, and the fact that a friend recently told me that I’ve perfected the smoky eye. (I may be having a cheesy moment, but I’m still the same materialistic, superficial girl that I usually am.)

(Bonus: The fact that my dad once looked at a La Mer display at Bloomingdale’s and, while I swooned and slathered it all over me, said, “What’s lamer?”)

My blog, which is a blasty blast to write, and that you are kind enough to read.

My bed, which I’m about to crawl into and not come out of for 12 hours. Which of course means that I will not be there when Kohl’s opens at FOUR IN THE MORNING. What the eff, people?

Josie’s On A Vacation Far Away

YouTube is like online porn. It’s interesting for a minute, and then you just feel dirty. This is why I prefer Skinimax. (Which I just finally re-subscribed to, yay! I mean, I don’t watch that.)

But anyway, YouTube just brought this back into my life, so I can’t hate on it too much. This may be the greatest song ever! Okay, that’s an overstatement. And since you all know my love for 80s soft rock, I basically have no credibility left to say something like that. But it’s about to be a long weekend (a lo-oo-ooong weekend contending with crazy relatives), and we’ve all been working too hard and could use something fun. Am I right or am I right? Put this on and rock the eff out like I did. Because if dancing in front of your laptop is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Cry For Help

A random sampling of the crap that’s strewn around my office at home: Aveda carribean therapy body scrub, CDs (Liz Phair, Kings of Convenience, The Innocence Mission, and an old boyfriend’s demo from 2001), books books books, lamps, suitcases, and a Rosacea: Are You At Risk? pamphlet, presumably from a dermatologist. And a MILLION OTHER THINGS.

This room is out of control and has been for-freakin-ever. I don’t know where to start. I suspect there’s a lot that can be thrown out, but mostly I just see Things That I Don’t Know What The Hell To Do With, like a perfectly good clock radio or a purse somebody gave me that I don’t like. God, I’m turning into one of those people, aren’t I? They’ll be digging me out of here someday with the jaws of life.

Funny enough I’m actually pretty organized in most other areas of life. I just let this one spot become completely out of control. It’s to the point now where it’s totally distracting and unnerving and too much time has gone by and I’m just not doing anything about it. I’ve had friends who have tried to just organize the room for me, or at least clear a path, and have reinforced the idea that, yes, most of the stuff is crap that I should just throw away, particularly if I haven’t needed it or missed it for two years. But, but… but! Maybe I’ll need it someday! And how do you just throw away a framed picture you had in your first apartment or a pin that says “Dated The Groom”? Okay, the first step is admitting you have a problem.

Any born organizers who can offer suggestions? Or tough love-distributors who can encourage me to take advantage of this long weekend and STOP PROCRASTINATING ALREADY?

Even the word “procrastinating” makes me want to lie down and take a delightful nap. I have a sickness, people.

FAQ For The Single Girl

Hi guys. It’s me, Red, your date for Wednesday night. I’m sorry for not giving you a Friday or Saturday like you asked. But until I know whether or not you’re going to talk like a Muppet or try to lick the back of my throat, I gotta reserve primetime for my friends. Anyway, you seem to have a lot of questions for me, and I feel like the answers that I’ve been giving have been a little dull. So I figured I’d give you this list of Frequently Asked Questions and let you decide if you’d like the date to continue or not. If you want, you can hit me up when you’re done. I’ll be at the bar.

Him: So what are you looking for in a relationship?
Me: I’m looking for the kind of guy that I can sit with in an awkward silence and then finally I’d clear my throat and he’d say, “What was that?” and I’d say, “What was what?” and he’d say, “Oh, I thought you said something,” and I’d say, “Oh, no, I just cleared my throat,” and he’d say, “Oh.”

Him: So do you have a type?
Me: No, not really. I find that once I get to know someone and enjoy their personality, they become much more attractive to… okay, I can’t even keep a straight face for this one, I’m sorry. I like guys who are six feet or taller and look like they should be linebackers. This means I like bouncers. Bartenders, too. Also firemen. God, I’m like obsessed with firemen. The other day I was at work and the fire alarm went off and the first thing I thought was, “YES!” Seriously. I didn’t think, “Save the children.” It was like, “Number one, put on lip gloss. Number two, don’t worry kids, you’ll see mommy and daddy again someday in heaven.” Anyway, I realize this is probably weird for you because you said you’re five foot eight, which really means you’re five foot six, by the way, we’re onto you, and you have the build of an Ethiopian child getting by on a bag of rice that costs seven cents a day. Incidentally, I’d like to know where they buy their fucking rice, because the Near East brand that I like goes for at least a few bucks and it only lasts for a meal or two, maybe only one if you’re cooking for more than two people. So anyway, don’t feel too bad about yourself, because it’s not like I rule guys out because they’re not my exact physical type. I’ve dated plenty of guys who aren’t big and tall. I just don’t like to have sex with them. In fact, I have a special title for them: Guys I Went Out With Once. No, I’m kidding. If we hit it off, sometimes I call them Friends. I jest, seriously. I’m a jokester. At the end of the day, I know I’ll probably end up with a dancing hairless midget just so all my friends can be like, “Ha ha, remember when you used to like real men?” So, you know, there’s always a chance for you. I mean, it’s really, really small. We’re talking like “shot in hell” territory, but still. You can hope for it. Hope is a beautiful thing.

Him: I have a dog. Do you like dogs?
Me: Gah, fuck me. No, I mean, that’s great. That’s fine. Dogs are just another one of God’s beautiful creatures. I would never say that I hate dogs. Some of my closest friends have… no, okay, fine, I fucking hate them. I don’t want to hurt them or anything, don’t get me wrong. We coexist peacefully. But my whole thing is that they can’t, well, they can’t wipe their asses, you know? So basically it’s like having a naked person who has never wiped their ass in their entire life climbing all over you and your furniture. And you have to feed them and clean them but when you get older they don’t return the favor. And don’t even get me started on cats.

Him: So do you like your job?
Me: Yeah. I mean, sure. I like it in the way that I like wrinkle cream, you know? Since I need it I’m glad that I have it, but I’d really prefer a world where the need for it didn’t exist. I’d also prefer a world where the lady at the fucking discount liquor store didn’t look at me and then not ask for my license even though there’s a ginormous sign right next to my head that says, “IF YOU LOOK UNDER 30 WE MUST ASK FOR YOUR IDENTIFICATION.” So basically she’s taking $15 of my money, giving me a subpar shiraz, and calling me a hag with her EYES. Bitch.

Him: So what would be your perfect day?
Me: My answer is supposed to involve a hike, right? Or a picnic? Fuck that. So, okay. I wake up because my phone rings. It’s someone calling to tell me that work is closed for the day. No, wait, it’s just closed for me because I’ve been working so hard that they’re giving me the day off. In fact, they’ve named the day in my honor. I turn over to shut off my alarm clock and see that Jason Varitek is asleep next to me. Happy Red Day! Fourteen hours later we get out of bed. I find that I’ve lost twenty pounds and gained skin pigmentation. I step into my insta-ready machine and five seconds later I’m showered, dressed, and accesorized. Also, drunk. As for the rest of the day, does it matter?

Him: So why are you single?
Me: Because it’s a lot more fun than being in a relationship. Most of the people I know who got married in their 20s are divorced or have restraining orders now. And most of the ones who didn’t seem miserable or bored out of their freakin’ skulls. And some of my single friends aren’t much better. I mean, these are bright, intelligent, funny, successful women who, with a few exceptions (and thank GOD for the exceptions) talk about their weddings as though it’ll be their passport to happiness and not a very expensive party in an uncomfortable dress after which they score copious amount of Crate and Barrel flatware, which is something to consider, I admit. I mean, I know that life isn’t a fucking variety show. I’d like to meet someone, and all the stuff that eventually goes with that. But I guess I never really understood why there’s such a rush to give up being young and having fun for sitting on a couch with some guy who is nice enough but who you basically need to hand cue cards to in order to engage in a semi-intelligent conversation. I hope I end up with a guy on the couch, don’t get me wrong, but the ones who have auditioned for the job so far haven’t exactly made the cut. And I’ve said it before, no hard feelings, best wishes for continued success, I hope they dance. But in the meantime I’d rather actually enjoy my life than lament the lack of someone I probably haven’t even met yet who isn’t going to make me deliriously happy unless I was happy before I met him. I mean, um. Why am I single? The leprosy, I guess. I find that it really hinders me sometimes.

I Understand That You Have A Curriculum To Follow, But “Sarah Plain and Tall” Sucks As Much Ass Now As It Did 20 Years Ago

Here’s what: I’m not going to make it in the public schools. I love that I decided to work in one right after grad school. There are a lot of things to like about this kind of work. It’s grassroots, in a way; you’re in the trenches and here’s a kid and he needs help right now. A lot of people who do my job and work for hospitals or clinics spend all their time diagnosing kids and writing twenty page reports that the parents then slide across the table to me, palms upturned, because they don’t know what the hell any of it means. I like that there’s no ivory tower in my job. And of course, the kids are awesome and hilarious every day. But most importantly, I can wear hoodies to work.

At the same time, schools are schools. The great teachers are, well, great, and make anything seem possible. The bad ones still complain incessantly, use photocopied workbook pages to “teach,” and run out the door at 3. I’m lucky enough to have amazingly fantastically smart coworkers, who are hysterical and lots of fun to boot. But none of that stuff is even a factor anymore, really. At the end of the day I’m just stretched too thin and I’m not able to do my job the way that I want to. Trust me, I know everyone’s stretched too thin at work; I’m not one of those “I’m just SO BUSY” bellyachers. In general I’m one to just get ‘er done and not complain about my caseload, which is why my boss reacted with wide eyes today when I told her that I’m maxed out.

The past couple months have just helped me realize that it’s time to move onto something else. For awhile I was thinking that I’d eventually be an elementary school principal, but that would require teaching regular ed for awhile and I’m not sure I want to do that. As much as I love the kids, I don’t really see myself as a classroom teacher. Now I’m leaning more toward being a director of an early education program somewhere. And I’d like to teach some grad school classes in speech pathology, which is really where my heart is (and my master’s). What can I say, I love talking.

Of course, I’m still in my school job until June. I’m starting to consider other options, but I’ll never regret starting where I did. Especially when I leave and that $15,000 pension goes right into Sephora my savings account.

Turkey With A Side Of Batshit Insane

Two of my family members have been circling each other in the ring for a few weeks, and it finally culminated in a huge fight on Monday. I’ve since heard from both of them and have tried to be as neutral as possible, which, I know, is totally annoying for the person who’s angry. You want the person that you’re venting to to sympathize and validate your feelings, but it’s awkward to be caught between two people who mean so much to me, and I’m not sure what to say to either of them. It doesn’t help that they’re accusing each other of acting the same way, even using some of the same words to describe each other. I’ve heard “unbalanced” and “sick” a few times, and they each think that the other one needs to be medicated. At this point I’d be happy to pick up prescriptions for both of them.

It reminds me of that scene in Scream when two of Neve Campbell’s guy friends run up to her, each of them shouting at the same time, trying to convince her that the other one is the actual killer, and she finally says “Fuck you both” and slams the door. (I just watched that movie on Sunday, if that helps you understand why the hell I referenced it.)

To a point, I can see where both of them are coming from because both of them have handled this whole thing poorly. Neither of them are very mature when it comes to managing conflict in general, although I feel bad saying that because managing conflict maturely is very difficult. It’s tough to rely on logic when you’re furious and hurt, and it’s easier for someone who isn’t directly involved to see the whole thing clearly. I get that.

I should clarify that one of the people involved isn’t technically in my family, but she’s been like family for a long time. The other person involved is my mom, who told me today that by continuing a relationship with the non-family person that I’m being disloyal. She wants me to end my relationship with a woman who’s been like a sister to me, her husband, and her two kids (both of whom, by the way, are my parents’ godchildren). Bam. Emotional blackmail, anyone?

Honestly, though, it’s been hard for me to get behind my mom, and I feel guilty for even saying that. I love her, of course, and there are lots of great things about her. But her issues have only gotten worse and more exagerrated over the years. I usually just back down from any kind of conflict with her because it’s never worth it. All it takes is a quick flip of the switch and she becomes completely unhinged.

Here’s an example that illustrates it pretty succinctly, I think: A few weeks ago she told me that I needed to cut my hair because I “need a real hairstyle” because I’m “not 21 anymore.” I chose my words carefully, because it takes very little to set her off. I told her that what she said hurt my feelings and that I did, indeed, have a real hairstyle, even if it wasn’t the one she wanted me to have. She proceeded to yell, hang up on me, and then send several emails telling me how cruel I am and that it’s a huge mistake for me to kick her out of my life. Yeah. So you can see why I avoid conflict with her at any cost.

So, now, an ultimatum of sorts. I can’t help but think that the person who makes you choose sides in a situation like this isn’t concerned with you at all; they’re just being selfish and childish. I’m not going to terminate any relationships, and I can already guess what adjectives my mom will throw at me when she finds that out. That’s not even really my concern. My concern is that she seems to be getting progressively more unstable, and her behavior has been steadily chipping away at our relationship. I already feel like I have to walk on eggshells around her, and now this. Part of the problem is that I’m not one to throw down the gauntlet; I’m much more in the “can’t we all just get along?” camp. But I’m probably like that because I’ve learned that any sort of conflict between my mom and I just leads to me ultimately being blamed, so what’s the point?

Wah wah wah, mother issues, how original. I guess I just want everything to go back to being normal, although maybe it never really was. There’s always some of that, in any family. You have to pick your battles, deal with the crazy, and try to focus on the good over the bad. At least that’s what I try to do. I’m okay with relationships with family members not being perfect, because that’s too much to expect and anyway I’m nowhere near perfect myself. I’m really sad that both of these people that I love have decided that they can’t be a part of each other’s lives anymore. It will have a huge impact on everyone involved, and I hope that somehow they’ll reconsider. But at the same time I need for that issue to be between them and not involve me. I guess I just feel like I’ve had a lot of crazy thrown at me lately and I’m getting tired of dealing with other people’s neuroses.

I mean, come on, my own neuroses are being neglected here; I’ve hardly had any time to ply them with alcohol and promiscuity.

Hungry?

A lovely blogger wrote about what her last three meals would be if she were on death row. I like this assignment because it distracts me from thinking about what the hell I did to end up sentenced to death. Was it stealing from Sephora? Because I’m not sorry, you guys. I’m going down swinging.

Breakfast: The shiitake mushroom omelet from Hank’s Place in Chadds Ford, PA, with Frank’s red hot sauce, of course. And a few bites of the granola-crusted french toast from Johnny’s Luncheonette, a diner near me.

Lunch: A chocolate fribble from Friendly’s. It’s an old school favorite, and I need to save room for dinner.

Dinner: Roasted butternut and cider soup with pumpkin seed oil and creme fraiche from Sonsie, black and white truffle mac and cheese from Chillingsworth, baked goat cheese and bread from Dali, and Umbagog mud pie from The Balsams. And enough Cakebread chardonnay to make the lethal injection seem like a hiLARious way to go.

One Small Step For Me, One Giant Leap For Red Sox Nation

One of the givens about going out with a born and bred New Yorker is that the trash talk is flying all night. But I think I had the last word during our ride home on the T.

Me: I’ll sleep with you if you denounce the Yankees.
Him: WHAT? No.
Me: Okay.
Him: Well…
Me: Mmm-hmm?
Him: I mean, they maybe weren’t the best team this season.
Me: That’s true.
Him: Is that good enough?
Me: No.
Him: They, um…
Me: Maybe you could start by listing all the teams you can think of that suck.
Him: Okay…the Washington Senators, the Brooklyn Dodgers…
Me: Teams that suck, not teams that no longer exist.
Him: …um…the Yankees.
Me: What about them?
Him: They suck. They suck, okay? THE YANKEES SUCK.

There’s a guy sitting across the aisle from us wearing a Sox hat. Now he’s staring right at us, wide-eyed, and he says simply, “That. Was. AWESOME.”

As A Wise 19-Year-Old Once Said…

I’m reading this really hilarious book called Mortified. It’s a collection of people’s awesomely horrible diary entries from back in the day. Great concept, huh? Too bad I have so much fodder. Once when I was 12 I scrawled “I need to have a blow job” across a page of my diary because I thought it meant making out.

I’ve carted stuff home from my old bedroom in my parents’ house before, but this time around I had to take every last thing because they’re moving. I found a few journals that I started halfheartedly in college, and ohmygod. These entries were written during my sophomore year, during which the random picture above was taken. I’m the one in the front row with the ugly shoes and hair that was red without the help of a colorist. I’m at least glad that I got in on the end of the sweater-wearing undergrad era; nowadays it’s required that all college students be semi-naked and on The Real World. There aren’t any dates on the entries because time did not define me.

“justin got an apartment. it’s so cool. you have to get in thru a bulkhead which is maybe weird but he is the first person i know to have an apartment! i said i loved it and then we went inside and had a fight. i hate having a boyfriend. he is such a fucking woman.” (I hate being right about these things.)

“…and when we got there i took off my dress because it was too PINK and then i was like can i just wear flannel pjs?” (Ahh, a glimmer of the current me.)

“…and then this guy in a scream mask jumped on me and i frrrrreaked out and everyone thought i was kidding but i was actually kind of scared. and then jared was like, your sugar ray CD is in the bathroom and i was like THAT IS NOT MINE and he didn’t believe me and i was annoyed. he needs to shut up, i’m so sick of his talking talking and knocking on my door and he totally SMELLS, ryan and i both die when his door is open. so peter made his drinks with water instead of absolut.” (I think I was actually drunk when I wrote this. Actually, maybe I’m drunk now.)

“i love college. except for the classes and the bullshit sometimes.” (I love my 30s. Except for the job and the bullshit sometimes.)

Say What?

Mark: I found something out and you’re the only person in the world who would care.
Me: Let’s have it.
Mark: You know “Physical” by Olivia Newton-John?
Me: Of course. [I had her records when I was little. One of them opened up to a full-body shot of her on the ground wearing exercise gear, of course, and tons of eye makeup, which my dad didn’t like for me to wear when I was six, for whatever reason. I used to open up the album and lie next to it, trying to pose like her. I mean, for not hours or anything. I just liked… oh, never mind.]
Mark: You know that line “Let me hear your body talk”?
Me: Uh huh.
Mark: Well, it’s really “Let me hear your BAWDY talk.” Like dirty talk.
Me: You’re right, I’m the only person who would care about that. I love it! Bawdy. It’s sort of adorable and Australian.
Mark: I thought so too.
Me: You’re really good at correcting song lyrics for me. Remember how I thought Color Me Badd were saying “tick tock get up stop” until you came along?
Mark: I know.
Me: And you also taught me that Michael Jackson was not warning me to “be careful who you do, because a life becomes of you.”
Mark: How the hell did that make sense to you?
Me: Well, I thought the message was that you shouldn’t sleep with just any girl, because she could get knocked up, and then a life has become of you. I guess I figured he was trying to be a little poetic.
Mark: That’s pretty deep for Billie Jean.
Me: I see that now.