Spectacularly Normal

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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

I have a tendency to unconsciously appropriate other peoples' affectations, leading me to say things like y'all.

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Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Why wouldn't it get worse, right?

Because it's one of those nights and technology is incredibly stupid I just managed to erase 70 photos I was really psyched to have captured on my new camera.

Don't ask.

Baby you're the best, but this is SO not cool

The night before we left to Georgia for the holidays, in the midst of transit strike insanity, John (my beloved computer geek) managed to spill some iced tea and fry the hard drive on my ibook. By accident. Of course. When we came back to New York (after buying Sophie a personal dvd player so that she could survive the 6 to 8 hours of awake time in both directions...did I mention we drove?) John took my poor dead little machine to Tekserve where it was properly dried and prepared for a new hard drive. Unfortunately, they wanted $400 for a new hard drive. We didn't want to spend that much, so we bought a new hard drive, with 10GB more memory off of ebay for roughly a quarter (or less) of the price. John (brilliant as he is) took the ibook apart (when I wasn't home to collapse from the site of it's bits and pieces scattered round the table) and installed the new drive. When he sent me an email from my up and running machine, I knew once and for all that I would love him until the day I died.

Tonight, at 8:13, my ibook froze. It then refused to actually turn on when I rebooted no matter how many times I prostrated myself to the Mac gods. When someone gets home from his business trip tonight, there will be hell to pay. Lucky for him I wanted to bitch about this asap, otherwise his computer wouldn't be functional at the moment either.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Uh, hello? Mom, is that you?

So, my mother and I (after years of just not really getting along or liking each other) have discovered the wonder that is communication via email. I'm guessing it's the extra time that my mother has to process my words before responding to them (okay, me too) that accounts for this phenomenon. I sort of feel like my mother finally hears me, whereas before it felt like she was trying to drown me out with her own version of my problems or, worst still, trying to convey how much less important they actually were than hers. Regardless, this new email correspondence is really rather nice. I actually look forward to hearing from her and she gets to "talk" to me every day, which is what she's always wanted in the first place.

This morning, after a series of emails exchanged between me and mom about the miracle/freak of nature that is our simultaneous long-distance water retention, my mother expresses the saddest, loveliest thought I've ever heard:

"If I think about all these pounds that I lost being on a diet throughout my lifetime, somewhere along the way I must have lost myself."

Thanks for surprising me mom.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Bad Bad Bad

Maybe it was just the PMS. Maybe it was the cold cold day. But what could I have been thinking when I ate half a can of pringles last night? I feel like absolute crap today. I feel like I need a major internal cleansing. And not just because of the unhealthiness of it...that's never stopped me from eating something I wanted...but because I could swear that my ass looks enormous today and I'd just as soon be in bed wearing pj's right now. I suppose I thought I was feeling more mentally fit to handle the indulgence, but clearly that's not the case. Being this girl is hard.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Stick a fork in me

FIRST of all, I don't like my job. Actually, I hate it. I try really hard not to be one of those complainy people about it, so I say things like: I love the people I work with; or, My boss is really ethical and that's a great thing; or, we have really pretty offices and unlimited soda of a limited selection. Ultimately, while my boss is very ethical, I don't even like most of the people I work with anymore and there's no caffeine free diet coke in the fridge ever and all of our laminate surfaces are starting to peel, so I've decided to just come out with it: my job sucks ass. I hate coming here everyday. I hate listening to everyone la-di-da along while they stop and chat in the hall making some sort of insipid comment about shoes or hair or their own clumsiness. I hate the twitch in my eye that I can't seem to get rid of (even with my new glasses) because I'm infront of the computer all fucking day typing up someone else's bullshit, which is clearly the most important bullshit to have ever been conceived since the dawn of time and yes, I am doing my best, but thanks for treating me like a total incompetent (who must have somehow obtained her snazzy college degree through the mail), that way I never get too swelled a head and think that I'm actually a part of something I have to come in and do everyday.


SECOND of all, if you are some dumb ass at the front of the line in the supermarket at the end of the day, when there are maybe 4 minutes left before the market stops its deliveries, be considerate to the people behind you who are rushing to get their cartfull of groceries up to the register so that they don't miss the aforementioned delivery cut-off and pay the extra dollar for the fucking beans you are dismayed to discover will cost you $3 instead of the $2 you were expecting them to. Do not be a total asshole and make the cashier (who is stupid and somehow new on the job even though she's been working there for the 6 years I've lived in this neighborhood) void the entire transaction (requiring her to very slowly...very slowly...walk to the customer service desk -because her job is so fucking demanding- and then very slowly walk back with some form to put through her register, which is a computer that she still doesn't have a clue how to use) , only to ring you up for a carton of milk instead. Then I'll have to buy half of the groceries I came for and take a cab home. I'll also have to kick you the next time I see your ugly face in the supermarket.


THIRDLY, I love you and I know you want the very best for me, but if I'm having a really shitty day at work (and pms to boot), please do not ask me if there's any shopping I'd like to do before we meet friends for dinner unless there has been some sudden windfall of money or unless Betsey Johnson is giving away her dresses in a private Irina sale, because the answer will always be: yes, I would LOVE to go shopping. And then I'll have to feel crabby that I can't.

Monday, January 23, 2006


Is it too much to expect a grown woman to clean her spray off the seat in a public restroom? I have this problem at work constantly and there aren't really that many women here, nor do we get a barrage of visitors and guests who might be less considerate and, therefore, responsible for the mess. Nor do we have that many stalls (only 4) in our one shared bathroom. The most amazing thing is that every few days our receptionist inevitably sends out these very emphatic emails complaining about the problem and I've never seen a difference. And who is it that can cover the whole seat in one go? I walked in there earlier today and just stood there in awe (and disgust). How is that possible?

You've already got cooties on your hands...that's why you wash them afterward...so just go ahead and clean up so that when my four year old daughter comes to the office I don't have to check each stall for the least offensive one to clean up.


Things that I miss:
1. the sound of surprise in your voice every time you looked at me or touched me and said: my god you're hot
2. Sunday brunches at Bombay Grill
3. sleeping into the afternoon and staying in bed all day to work off the hang-over
4. how much time it seemed we had and how slowly it passed
5. the separate world of your apartment
6. stealing extra time in my bed for sex on Saturday mornings by planting Sophie in front of the t.v., then trying to act normal when she came running down the hall
7. the giddiness that preceded an evening together
8. the privacy and space to wax my bikini line and paint my toenails the night before our dates
9. your delight that I painted my toenails
10. the awkward formality that we pretended to uphold even though we felt so natural with each other from the very beginning
11. meeting you for the first time

Things that are:
1. you know exactly how to touch me
2. I know where everything you can't find is located
3. I know what you need before you finish asking me for it
4. you understand when to just leave me be and never worry I don't love you enough
5. neither of us has to worry about shaving or trimming or waxing or primping, if we don't feel like it
6. I miss you too often, even when you're there because there is too much stuff and life and not enough time
7. a day spent in bed is like a blissful vacation
8. I can be as hungry as I feel whenever I feel hungry
9. you look hot even in a t-shirt and boxers and socks (just a little less hot than you do in a suit)
10. I've come to like your ugly grey pants
11. I've become fond of your ugly sandals
12. we make fabulous dance partners
13. I feel safe and confident
14. I love your family so much that sometimes I even miss my own

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Letter to my editor

Dear Sophie,

I'm really sorry that I've been such a total asshole lately. I know that telling you my meds have been off or that I'm dealing with my own "stuff" would be meaningless, but both of those things are true. I want you to know that my listlessness, apathy and general unavailability have nothing to do with you. I want you to know that I love you. That I love you more than anyone in the whole world. That I love you as big as the earth. I want you to know that mommies are people and have bad times too.

During this period of treatment, as I've struggled to "normalize" for the long-haul, you've never made me feel like I'm not really giving you enough. Like I'm ruining your childhood. You've never clung too hard or wanted too much. You've never been unreasonable or regressive. I feel like you've handled every moment of the last four months with such poise and patience and when I ask you for space, you give it to me. But I'm also aware that I'm outside of your world unless I let you into my own. I know that little (big) girls need their mommies and that my performance has not been up to snuff. You need more hugs and kisses. You need a tea party or two. We should be playing with dolls and making up stories and being ridiculous because in a few years you won't even want to be seen in the same car with me, much less admit to my being related.

I wish that you could see you like I do, even on my very worst days: your eyes lit with the world, your pouty mouth in constant motion. Everything is still a wonder. Every thought and idea needs to be expressed and explored. You are so curious and imaginative and narrative. You've already passed through toddlerhood into actual childhood, a place where the word poop makes you giggle uncontrollably for twenty minutes and you get into trouble at school for singing about tushies. It's an exhausting, unfamiliar place for me, and I want you to stay there as long as you can, but when you're thinking, your brow furrows and I know that soon enough you won't even be a child anymore and if I don't get my shit together I'll have missed it all.

I hope that when you're grown up this blog will be around and you'll have access to something I never did and that you'll understand something about your own mom that I never will about mine. I hope that when you're grown up this will fill in some gaps of interest, rather than create a missing person. I hope you grow up to be happy and it doesn't occur to you to look for answers or missing information. I hope that there won't be anything missing.

Most of all, I hope that when you're grown up you'll still feel the need to snuggle something against your nose to fall asleep.


Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Topamax is NOT your friend

Last night I made the decision to stop taking one of my meds. I've spent the last month living with a mouth full of pennies and a low-grade headache. Mood stabilizer? Who thought that was going to work out? Epilepsy wonder-drug? Maybe. Untapped migraine miracle cure? Perhaps. More like powdered satan packed into tiny tablets. Blech. So now I'll wait for my system to "equalize" (god bless you depakote) and hope that soon enough the urge to bite everyone's head off after 6pm goes away.