So, instead of changing the station on my XM radio today, I decided to keep on this song which I usually find quite annoying. But after a long day--and an even more exhausting week--I actually enjoyed hearing some of the lyrics. Not that I find the song pretty or quality listening at all, but just have a read:
What you gon’ do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?
I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. (Check it out)
Now, if everyone can imagine those little lumps--they really aren't so lovely. At least mine aren't.
26 January 2006
Cross
Sorry for those of you that are offended by this. But really, if you live/hang out with your S.O. ALL the time, is it really necessary to blow off others so that you can spend MORE time with them?
If you live with them, if you sleep with them, if you see them more than 6 times a week, if not at least 2 times a day, perhaps you should try hanging out with someone you haven't seen in, oh, YEARS.
Thanks for listening.
If you live with them, if you sleep with them, if you see them more than 6 times a week, if not at least 2 times a day, perhaps you should try hanging out with someone you haven't seen in, oh, YEARS.
Thanks for listening.
22 January 2006
Conclusion
So the weekend winds down and we prepare to face another week. What did I do this weekend? Well it started off atypically. Is that even a proper sentence?
Friday night I was looking forward to hanging out with two important friends: close ones from my UMASS days. One is really good about keeping in touch. And it doesn't matter the place or how long it's been since we've last hung out, we always seem to pick up where things left off. And I hate saying that b/c it's so unoriginal, but it's exactly how I feel. I noticed a ring on a necklace around her neck as we spoke at the bar before most people arrived, including my other friend. But I didn't ask any questions because with this particular friend, there is always a story--and most likely it's a sentimental one--and most likely it's a sad one. Aside from our mutual friend (her best friend) getting struck and killed by a car my freshman year at UMASS and having that memory follow us around to this day, her father died of cancer several years ago. Three to be exact. I know it's three because she blurted out, while we sat drinking Corona's out of paper bags (the bar's name is The Liquor Store and I found this quite amusing!), that the anniversary of her father's death was that very day.
I have a solid fear of death and while inebriated one time, I told this friend she was so strong because although she mourned him, she and her mom are closer than ever, and she can open up and discuss his death like that--just as she shared it with me that night. She even told her roommate she was there for her as her father had the exact same type of cancer. I admire my friend that she can be so open and honest and just so experienced--if that's even the right word--at death. I have had people who I was very close to die, but when a parent does, to me I feel the devastation will be all the more unbearable.
This entire sad story aside, my evening was atypical because the bar we went to turns into ho-bag night. All of the 19-year olds with fake IDs wear tube tops and straighten their hair, layer on the greasy fake tan makeup, and think that they're now ready for the action. And you can't forget the mechanical bull. If I wasn't driving that night, I would have downed a couple shots and tried it out myself. The best part are the macho-looking guys who jump on the thing (which mind you is surrounded by a Playskool-colored-rubber-pool-looking-thingy) and then fall off seconds later--either because they're drunk or because they truly didn't hold on. That thing goes pretty fast!
So I was out really late which is also not one of my fortes. That and the fact that I always wear incredibly uncomfortable shoes when I go out on weekend-nights since they would be the ones that look best with the pair of jeans I select.
And no, I wasn't wearing a tube top. So what's the conclusion of my story here?
Friday night I was looking forward to hanging out with two important friends: close ones from my UMASS days. One is really good about keeping in touch. And it doesn't matter the place or how long it's been since we've last hung out, we always seem to pick up where things left off. And I hate saying that b/c it's so unoriginal, but it's exactly how I feel. I noticed a ring on a necklace around her neck as we spoke at the bar before most people arrived, including my other friend. But I didn't ask any questions because with this particular friend, there is always a story--and most likely it's a sentimental one--and most likely it's a sad one. Aside from our mutual friend (her best friend) getting struck and killed by a car my freshman year at UMASS and having that memory follow us around to this day, her father died of cancer several years ago. Three to be exact. I know it's three because she blurted out, while we sat drinking Corona's out of paper bags (the bar's name is The Liquor Store and I found this quite amusing!), that the anniversary of her father's death was that very day.
I have a solid fear of death and while inebriated one time, I told this friend she was so strong because although she mourned him, she and her mom are closer than ever, and she can open up and discuss his death like that--just as she shared it with me that night. She even told her roommate she was there for her as her father had the exact same type of cancer. I admire my friend that she can be so open and honest and just so experienced--if that's even the right word--at death. I have had people who I was very close to die, but when a parent does, to me I feel the devastation will be all the more unbearable.
This entire sad story aside, my evening was atypical because the bar we went to turns into ho-bag night. All of the 19-year olds with fake IDs wear tube tops and straighten their hair, layer on the greasy fake tan makeup, and think that they're now ready for the action. And you can't forget the mechanical bull. If I wasn't driving that night, I would have downed a couple shots and tried it out myself. The best part are the macho-looking guys who jump on the thing (which mind you is surrounded by a Playskool-colored-rubber-pool-looking-thingy) and then fall off seconds later--either because they're drunk or because they truly didn't hold on. That thing goes pretty fast!
So I was out really late which is also not one of my fortes. That and the fact that I always wear incredibly uncomfortable shoes when I go out on weekend-nights since they would be the ones that look best with the pair of jeans I select.
And no, I wasn't wearing a tube top. So what's the conclusion of my story here?
20 January 2006
Medium
Some time during my life, I became a "medium." I gained weight from when I was a size 4 and am now a size 8. Maybe that's large, but in any event, I like to think it's medium.
I used to be right up there with the best students in high school--mostly A's and lots of effort, but then AP History and Calculus killed me. I was medium, or better known as average.
I get up in the morning and put on clean clothes, ironed if they're wrinkled, and moisturize, apply minimal makeup, brush my hair--but I don't go the whole 9 yards. Sometimes I don't dry my hair, so it looks OK, not great. And sometimes, I wear jeans during the week to work (because I can) instead of getting done up to match the job that I'm supposed to be doing (right now!)...
And when I go to the gym, sometimes I race through my strength training part of the work out, or cut the cardio short--or don't push myself, resulting in a mediocre workout intensity.
I cut corners, I get lazy, I whine and complain. And I feel "medium" when it comes to these posts. I feel like I can't be me because certain people are watching.
There are very few people who know about this because if more knew and if I shared my thoughts with my friends and family and colleagues (gasp!), I'd feel limited in my sharing.
But I already do. I've already got people letting me know that they "get me"--but it's funny because I don't even get me. I don't get any of it.
And yet with the few people that see this--and even fewer (read: nobody) who comments, I still feel this safety by writing only little mind jolts. I write about petty law school fears and white wedding dreams. I write but it's not the same. But I'm not quite sure what it's supposed to be.
And for someone who was an English major and someone who worked with books and supposedly edited them, I feel like a fraud. I feel like I really don't know what I'm doing. And it's not just with the writing. It's with so much in my life. And this unknown and this ambiguous path has caused me to be a "medium" who tries to take it day by day.
I used to be right up there with the best students in high school--mostly A's and lots of effort, but then AP History and Calculus killed me. I was medium, or better known as average.
I get up in the morning and put on clean clothes, ironed if they're wrinkled, and moisturize, apply minimal makeup, brush my hair--but I don't go the whole 9 yards. Sometimes I don't dry my hair, so it looks OK, not great. And sometimes, I wear jeans during the week to work (because I can) instead of getting done up to match the job that I'm supposed to be doing (right now!)...
And when I go to the gym, sometimes I race through my strength training part of the work out, or cut the cardio short--or don't push myself, resulting in a mediocre workout intensity.
I cut corners, I get lazy, I whine and complain. And I feel "medium" when it comes to these posts. I feel like I can't be me because certain people are watching.
There are very few people who know about this because if more knew and if I shared my thoughts with my friends and family and colleagues (gasp!), I'd feel limited in my sharing.
But I already do. I've already got people letting me know that they "get me"--but it's funny because I don't even get me. I don't get any of it.
And yet with the few people that see this--and even fewer (read: nobody) who comments, I still feel this safety by writing only little mind jolts. I write about petty law school fears and white wedding dreams. I write but it's not the same. But I'm not quite sure what it's supposed to be.
And for someone who was an English major and someone who worked with books and supposedly edited them, I feel like a fraud. I feel like I really don't know what I'm doing. And it's not just with the writing. It's with so much in my life. And this unknown and this ambiguous path has caused me to be a "medium" who tries to take it day by day.
18 January 2006
Name
So I've never titled one of my pathetic crap posts before, so I figure, hell, why not be unoriginal and title this babble today?
I have a lot to write about now, but whenever I see the limiting borders of the this site, I sort of freak out and clam up--similar to the presentations that I give at work. But that's another sob story.
And yes, I'm at work now.
I've recently realized that my job isn't creative ENOUGH. I mean, it is a little bit, and it's more legal than anything (let's not talk about the law career aspirations now), but I think that this is what's missing from my life. So I may just go home and knit a scarf, but that won't satsify the desire to really work hard and be CREATIVE. It's sort of bizarre b/c it all circles back to what's going to happen this fall when I'm not enrolled to attend school and I'll no longer be the person I've been for the last 26 years--yikes!
Where is this GOING? Ugh. I have to get back to work so I'll just have to fix this later.
I have a lot to write about now, but whenever I see the limiting borders of the this site, I sort of freak out and clam up--similar to the presentations that I give at work. But that's another sob story.
And yes, I'm at work now.
I've recently realized that my job isn't creative ENOUGH. I mean, it is a little bit, and it's more legal than anything (let's not talk about the law career aspirations now), but I think that this is what's missing from my life. So I may just go home and knit a scarf, but that won't satsify the desire to really work hard and be CREATIVE. It's sort of bizarre b/c it all circles back to what's going to happen this fall when I'm not enrolled to attend school and I'll no longer be the person I've been for the last 26 years--yikes!
Where is this GOING? Ugh. I have to get back to work so I'll just have to fix this later.
15 January 2006
As the stout woman ran from stemware at the Vera Wang display over to her desk, she said, "Go with your gut." But it isn't like it sounds. I mean, who has trouble selecting anything Vera Wang? It was what she said afterwards that made me think: "You're going to have this for the rest of your life." This didn't alarm me, cause me to break into sweat, or make me the least bit nervous; it was the future that I was more focused on. I mean, when my kids and their kids and heaven knows, their kids, come over for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or just to see grandma--or great-grandma--these could be the very glasses--the very plates--that they eat off of. Now mind you, I won't be quick to let any small fingers scoop up the fine dishes and crystal that we select for our registry, but it's the whole idea that these plates and other such staples of the home will be around for years to come. Or at least I like to think that they will be. I mean, I have my Nana's dishes--all the china, even the silver--the entire package--right in my cabinet! Of course, I get bub's questioning, "Why do we need to register for china if we already have a bunch of stuff we hardly use?" And it's the simple, because some day, some young couple like us will store our plates away for some special occasion, and when they're ready to dust off the memories, they will be ready to reminisce.
And on that note: Tom Brady, you poor thing! Even winners lose!
And on that note: Tom Brady, you poor thing! Even winners lose!
14 January 2006
So I feel like even before I figure out what happens with the entire law school thing, that I'm not sure what I'll do when I hear either way:
Of course, I'll be really proud of myself if I get in somewhere. And I'll be disappointed if I don't get accepted to at least one school.
But then there are the other dreams. Of course they're way too premature to post here, but maybe I'm OK with not going back to school at this time because there are so many other things I want to do.
I'm still half-asleep, but I will share this: I'm going to London! LBF, here I come!
Of course, I'll be really proud of myself if I get in somewhere. And I'll be disappointed if I don't get accepted to at least one school.
But then there are the other dreams. Of course they're way too premature to post here, but maybe I'm OK with not going back to school at this time because there are so many other things I want to do.
I'm still half-asleep, but I will share this: I'm going to London! LBF, here I come!
11 January 2006
06 January 2006
I had so much to write about yesterday evening. But I had no time.
And tonight I am so tired. I mean it's only 10:41 as I write this, yet my eyes are closing quickly. But maybe that's because I still have the drops in my eyes and the large-pupils-look from my visit to the eye doctor.
I've known him since I was in second grade. My mom loves to tell the story of when I first went to see him and asked if some day the thickness of my eyeglasses would result in a look similar to wearing framed Coke bottles. I realize this makes no sense whatsoever, but it does get a rise out of everyone who's heard it all before.
He asked me what was new and looked at my finger, so I figured it was a good a time as any to share my news. It wasn't his genuine congratulations or the way he said "I wish you all the happiness" before we parted ways late this afternoon that gave me the warm fuzzies, it was as I was sitting in the waiting room all alone before my visit that I felt impatient and irritable. I heard the secretary ladies, all apparent friends, laughing and yelling, bidding one another a good night. I wanted to bid them goodnight and enjoy my weekend too. And it was then that the kind, gentle, weathered man who is my eye doctor, walked by and lit up as he said, "Hi _____________. It's so nice to see you." I knew it wasn't fake; how many times do I see this man a year? And at twenty past five, he wasn't in a rush to end his day and begin his weekend.
Again, this is my eye doctor, not some long lost acquaintance, but some how I feel like I'd be sad on the day he announces his retirement, sad if he ever moved away, sad if he was sad.
And as I looked up on his office walls as he wrote out scripts for lenses and glasses as he has done many years before, I was proud.
So Dr. Fraoili, this one's for you.
And tonight I am so tired. I mean it's only 10:41 as I write this, yet my eyes are closing quickly. But maybe that's because I still have the drops in my eyes and the large-pupils-look from my visit to the eye doctor.
I've known him since I was in second grade. My mom loves to tell the story of when I first went to see him and asked if some day the thickness of my eyeglasses would result in a look similar to wearing framed Coke bottles. I realize this makes no sense whatsoever, but it does get a rise out of everyone who's heard it all before.
He asked me what was new and looked at my finger, so I figured it was a good a time as any to share my news. It wasn't his genuine congratulations or the way he said "I wish you all the happiness" before we parted ways late this afternoon that gave me the warm fuzzies, it was as I was sitting in the waiting room all alone before my visit that I felt impatient and irritable. I heard the secretary ladies, all apparent friends, laughing and yelling, bidding one another a good night. I wanted to bid them goodnight and enjoy my weekend too. And it was then that the kind, gentle, weathered man who is my eye doctor, walked by and lit up as he said, "Hi _____________. It's so nice to see you." I knew it wasn't fake; how many times do I see this man a year? And at twenty past five, he wasn't in a rush to end his day and begin his weekend.
Again, this is my eye doctor, not some long lost acquaintance, but some how I feel like I'd be sad on the day he announces his retirement, sad if he ever moved away, sad if he was sad.
And as I looked up on his office walls as he wrote out scripts for lenses and glasses as he has done many years before, I was proud.
So Dr. Fraoili, this one's for you.
04 January 2006
So we sat around talking at lunch. And the whole wedding subject came up. This one girl I work with who is highly dramatic and pretty cracked kept saying over and over again how pretty my dress is. Actually, she used much stronger words like the b-one and the g-one. But see I'm even embarrassed to be posting about such things b/c I just can't believe that I get to wear THAT dress.
So you better hope you can see me at my wedding. It'll be the talk of the town!
And yes, I'm aware that I sound really full of myself right now, but hey, isn't this my day? :0) That's what I thought!
So you better hope you can see me at my wedding. It'll be the talk of the town!
And yes, I'm aware that I sound really full of myself right now, but hey, isn't this my day? :0) That's what I thought!
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