I spent ten hours today at work cleaning things, hanging things up, and organizing things. It sucked. I am now in a terrifically crabby mood and have no interest whatsoever in cleaning my room, doing laundry, taking a shower, or not behaving like a bitch of Katherine Heigl-esque proportions. I will be glad when things are back to normal and I can practice and teach and that's that, without having to scrub anything with bleach or cover it in Con-tact paper.
I'm sitting in our stairwell, waiting for take-out Thai to arrive. A gloopy, greasy noodle-fest isn't exactly the best idea ever after a day of questionable food choices (Peppermint Bark Ingredients Jelly Bellies, anyone?), but cooking really wasn't on the cards at this point. I wish I didn't have to eat. I wish I could just think, I'm not going to eat, and then...actually not eat. I believe this is called "wanna-rexia". Naw, fo' reals. Google that shit. It's right up there with "drunk-orexia" (where you starve yourself all week to make up for the gajillions of calories you'll consume during the weekend's bender), "web-orexia" (where you go on the internets and tell everyone the best way to dress for protruding ribs while fawning over pictures of Angelina Jolie in her Jonny Lee Miller years), and "big-orexia" (which will be in the DSM V under "muscle dysmorphia", if you're interested). "Wanna-rexia", in a nutshell...when you wish you had the conviction and drive to starve yourself to death. I don't want to starve myself to death, I just want not to want things. And if I'm going to want things, I want to have the power to refuse them and do just fine without. If I can hammer a nail into my head and not die, why can't I not eat?
This is all very heavy for a Tuesday evening, but I suppose these are the things I am frequently thinking about. Aren't you glad my supposedly-above-average intelligence is being used to ponder such important, high-minded things? I know I am.
I wish our doorbell worked. I'm in the stairwell because the delivery person doesn't know the doorbell is purely for show, and will give up on getting my food to me pretty damn quick when I don't answer the door due to not knowing they're there. I feel like something of a tool sitting out here in my blue negligee. I'm not trying to be sexy, it's just too damn hot to wear actual clothes.
Ooh, a car door just slammed. Maybe that's the delivery guy. Maybe if it isn't, I'll bang my head on the wall until I pass out, and then dinner will no longer be an issue.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Second helping
Plenty of booze and nothing good on the interwebs makes for a talkative Iphy, it seems. Maybe I can make up for my massive poetic disappearance with two posts in one night. It totally works like that, right?
Roses was saying she's doing this whole journaling thing...Jebus, I hate the term "journaling". As Calvin put it, verbing weirds words. Anyhoot, Roses was saying she's on this whole kick where she writes a minimum of three pages every day in the interests of stimulating her creativity, or some such hippie nonsense. I don't know if I need my creativity stimulated, but according to the therapist, writing might serve to calm me down and prevent that vein in my forehead from getting any bigger due to rage and / or suppressed emotions.
Eh. Mostly I like a challenge. Three pages or a brief ramble in this ol' word-receptacle shouldn't pose that much of problem, right?
Pssht. Of course it will. I couldn't stick to a plan if I was lint and said plan was a dark-colored sweater.
Here are some things that are rattling about in my brain-pan.
1. Getting older. It's freaking me out. Wrinkles and veins and maybe grey hairs (but maybe they're just really light blonde? Or growing out of moles on my scalp? There's only been, like, two of the damn things...). The thing that bothers me most about my physically appealing qualities diminishing due to age is that it makes me realize exactly how much of my self-worth is based is being "appealing" in the first place. I never thought I was one of those girls who skated by on being pretty, but now that the pretty is apparently starting to fade, I've no idea whether or not that's the case. There was a whole thing on "Glee" about this recently. When the fuck did ageing become a topic for an after-school special? I don't know what to think about it all, but I know I'm morbidly terrified of being one of those women of a certain age who pack their sagging asses into skinny jeans, attempt to fill in their wrinkles with foundation, and desperately try to prove to the world in general that they're still sexually attractive, and therefore relevant. A sad old slapper, with nothing going for her. Jesus fucking lizard, if this is how I am when I'm in my late twenties, imagine how I'm going to be when I'm forty-five. Botox ahoy!
2. Possibly not maintaining my 4.0. Yes, I am a gigantic nerd. Thus far it's been all A's, all the time, but I think I might have got a B in that Abnormal Psych class, and it's pissing me off. I want to get a scholarship to the University of Where I Live, and having a perfect GPA will definitely help with that. I also want to prove to myself (and to the world in general) that I'm not as dumb as I look. Sure, having a perfect GPA from a city college ain't nothing to brag about (I believe the appropriate comparison is a midget winning a height contest), but it wouldn't hurt, right? Plus I work with poor little underprivileged children and I'm a poor little kind-of-underprivileged-but-definitely-foreign immigrant. Scholarship-giving assholes eat that shit up, from what I understand.
3. Boys. Myep. Despite the fact that I am a withered old crone, I will still refer to my paramours as boys, not men. It is bothering me in the dark recesses of my mind that the gentlemen callers who like me tend to be the kind I am generally unimpressed by, and I am yet to find any who are really worth the effort, ie. ones that I think are all that and a bag of chips and totally worth pulling out all the stops for. Since I'm basically a gigantic whore, no one can accuse me of being too picky, but really, this shit is getting ridiculous. Right now I'm doing a lot of texting with a guy named Guitardbot. Clearly, this is not his name or he would have cut his parents up and stuffed the pieces in the freezer as soon as he was old enough to feel shame and doubt, but this is what I shall refer to him as for the purposes of this epistle. Guitardbot gives good text. He is funny and flirtatious without being creepy, curious about my life without being disturbingly obsessive, confident without being a gigantic jackass, and fully prepared to laugh at most of my jokes without being afraid to point out the painfully unfunny ones. If I hadn't been raised as a staunch agnostic, I would light a candle to Saint Bridget Jones, patron saint of single women, to guarantee he is as awesome in person as he is in forty words or less.
Ugh. Pathetic much? Life will go on, whether or not Guitardbot is rad or loaded with suck-ness. Life will go on, whether or not I pair up and breed, or whether I'm a spinster for the rest of my life and my arms keep me warm on cold and lonely nights, to paraphrase Kimya Dawson. It's not like it matters. It'd just be cool to meet someone who was...well, cool.
4. My shoulder. I'm seeing a new physical therapist. Previously on "The B.S.A.S.O.Q.D", I messed up my shoulder around this time last year spotting too many hefty children and doing too much silks. It's gotten better and worse in the time in between then and now, but not better enough for me to be able to ignore it any longer. I'm doing lots of PT stuff that is very, very funny to look at, but appears to be helping somewhat. I need to keep it up and get this shit fixed. Constant pain is a total downer, yo.
5. Cher mamรกn. She's coming to visit. The day after tomorrow. Fuck it in a bucket with Mrs Luckett. (Mrs Luckett was my form teacher in years 8 to 10. She was a very nice lady and I hope I'm just like her when I'm in my 60's and working in a high school library somewhere.) What the hell am I going to do with my mother for three whole weeks when I have school and teaching and training and studying and gigs and so on? Can I just give her one of those Life Alert thingies and send her on her merry way to explore the White City? Am I meant to constantly supervise her every move? Am I REALLY not going to get laid for the next month? Because that's going to be an issue, for reals.
Ugh. I need to go to bed. I have to help finish up with moving at work tomorrow, and then set about creating a laugh-a-minute activity plan for the mater, as well as hiding all the sex toys, drug paraphernalia, and general accoutrements of my debaucherous lifestyle. I'm a fuck-up, and I know she knows I'm a fuck-up, but for the next two weeks we're all going to play a super fun happy game of Let's Pretend Iphigenia Is A Wonderful Daughter Who Spends Her Time Scrap-booking And Cross-stitching Pictures of Kittens. FML.
Roses was saying she's doing this whole journaling thing...Jebus, I hate the term "journaling". As Calvin put it, verbing weirds words. Anyhoot, Roses was saying she's on this whole kick where she writes a minimum of three pages every day in the interests of stimulating her creativity, or some such hippie nonsense. I don't know if I need my creativity stimulated, but according to the therapist, writing might serve to calm me down and prevent that vein in my forehead from getting any bigger due to rage and / or suppressed emotions.
Eh. Mostly I like a challenge. Three pages or a brief ramble in this ol' word-receptacle shouldn't pose that much of problem, right?
Pssht. Of course it will. I couldn't stick to a plan if I was lint and said plan was a dark-colored sweater.
Here are some things that are rattling about in my brain-pan.
1. Getting older. It's freaking me out. Wrinkles and veins and maybe grey hairs (but maybe they're just really light blonde? Or growing out of moles on my scalp? There's only been, like, two of the damn things...). The thing that bothers me most about my physically appealing qualities diminishing due to age is that it makes me realize exactly how much of my self-worth is based is being "appealing" in the first place. I never thought I was one of those girls who skated by on being pretty, but now that the pretty is apparently starting to fade, I've no idea whether or not that's the case. There was a whole thing on "Glee" about this recently. When the fuck did ageing become a topic for an after-school special? I don't know what to think about it all, but I know I'm morbidly terrified of being one of those women of a certain age who pack their sagging asses into skinny jeans, attempt to fill in their wrinkles with foundation, and desperately try to prove to the world in general that they're still sexually attractive, and therefore relevant. A sad old slapper, with nothing going for her. Jesus fucking lizard, if this is how I am when I'm in my late twenties, imagine how I'm going to be when I'm forty-five. Botox ahoy!
2. Possibly not maintaining my 4.0. Yes, I am a gigantic nerd. Thus far it's been all A's, all the time, but I think I might have got a B in that Abnormal Psych class, and it's pissing me off. I want to get a scholarship to the University of Where I Live, and having a perfect GPA will definitely help with that. I also want to prove to myself (and to the world in general) that I'm not as dumb as I look. Sure, having a perfect GPA from a city college ain't nothing to brag about (I believe the appropriate comparison is a midget winning a height contest), but it wouldn't hurt, right? Plus I work with poor little underprivileged children and I'm a poor little kind-of-underprivileged-but-definitely-foreign immigrant. Scholarship-giving assholes eat that shit up, from what I understand.
3. Boys. Myep. Despite the fact that I am a withered old crone, I will still refer to my paramours as boys, not men. It is bothering me in the dark recesses of my mind that the gentlemen callers who like me tend to be the kind I am generally unimpressed by, and I am yet to find any who are really worth the effort, ie. ones that I think are all that and a bag of chips and totally worth pulling out all the stops for. Since I'm basically a gigantic whore, no one can accuse me of being too picky, but really, this shit is getting ridiculous. Right now I'm doing a lot of texting with a guy named Guitardbot. Clearly, this is not his name or he would have cut his parents up and stuffed the pieces in the freezer as soon as he was old enough to feel shame and doubt, but this is what I shall refer to him as for the purposes of this epistle. Guitardbot gives good text. He is funny and flirtatious without being creepy, curious about my life without being disturbingly obsessive, confident without being a gigantic jackass, and fully prepared to laugh at most of my jokes without being afraid to point out the painfully unfunny ones. If I hadn't been raised as a staunch agnostic, I would light a candle to Saint Bridget Jones, patron saint of single women, to guarantee he is as awesome in person as he is in forty words or less.
Ugh. Pathetic much? Life will go on, whether or not Guitardbot is rad or loaded with suck-ness. Life will go on, whether or not I pair up and breed, or whether I'm a spinster for the rest of my life and my arms keep me warm on cold and lonely nights, to paraphrase Kimya Dawson. It's not like it matters. It'd just be cool to meet someone who was...well, cool.
4. My shoulder. I'm seeing a new physical therapist. Previously on "The B.S.A.S.O.Q.D", I messed up my shoulder around this time last year spotting too many hefty children and doing too much silks. It's gotten better and worse in the time in between then and now, but not better enough for me to be able to ignore it any longer. I'm doing lots of PT stuff that is very, very funny to look at, but appears to be helping somewhat. I need to keep it up and get this shit fixed. Constant pain is a total downer, yo.
5. Cher mamรกn. She's coming to visit. The day after tomorrow. Fuck it in a bucket with Mrs Luckett. (Mrs Luckett was my form teacher in years 8 to 10. She was a very nice lady and I hope I'm just like her when I'm in my 60's and working in a high school library somewhere.) What the hell am I going to do with my mother for three whole weeks when I have school and teaching and training and studying and gigs and so on? Can I just give her one of those Life Alert thingies and send her on her merry way to explore the White City? Am I meant to constantly supervise her every move? Am I REALLY not going to get laid for the next month? Because that's going to be an issue, for reals.
Ugh. I need to go to bed. I have to help finish up with moving at work tomorrow, and then set about creating a laugh-a-minute activity plan for the mater, as well as hiding all the sex toys, drug paraphernalia, and general accoutrements of my debaucherous lifestyle. I'm a fuck-up, and I know she knows I'm a fuck-up, but for the next two weeks we're all going to play a super fun happy game of Let's Pretend Iphigenia Is A Wonderful Daughter Who Spends Her Time Scrap-booking And Cross-stitching Pictures of Kittens. FML.
Remembering dead guys
So it's Memorial Day and we've got a wading pool set up on the back deck and the burgers are on the grill and we're in onesies and swimsuits and short-shorts and oh my fuckin' God, it's finally summer, finally! There was a massive thunderstorm yesterday that was basically like winter in the old country and that sucked ten different kinds of balls, especially taking the bus. But today was a public holiday and we moved all the junk from the Old Studio to the New Studio...it didn't take nearly as long as we thought it would, for some reason. Maybe because we had eleventy-one volunteers. Repetitive manual labor totally suited the mood that I was in today. Sweeping out the small space all by myself while listening to That Music You Liked in High School (aka the local alternative station) was pretty much just what I needed. There is a certain sense of accomplishment in looking at the place that was previously covered in multiple layers of crud and is now shiny-shiny clean with no allergy risk whatsoever.
I ate a burger patty raw while scoping music for Wednesday's act. Lounge music blows dogs for quarters, I will tell you that for free. What does not suck is raw hamburger. Squishy and delicious. I am going to carnivore hell.
I got a smarty-pants phone. It's a lot easier to send boys pictures of myself doing questionable things, but a lot harder to text-message for some reason. I also like being able to get directions on the fly. Anyone who knows me will tell you that my sense of direction is shoddy, at best. I blame the bumps to my head as a child. I don't know how I feel about being part of this whole technological revolution doo-hickey, but it's nice pretending to be Penny from Inspector Gadget when I need to know what that one place that serves sushi at four am is called.
Sunshine just called me on eating the raw burger patty. He asked if I was worried about e coli at all, and was slightly scandalized to learn that I like the texture of raw meat. He said he wouldn't have expected it. I have no idea what people expect of me. I tend to assume "epic failure" is the standard setting for people's ideas about the outcomes of my endeavors, but that's probably just me projecting. Whatev.
God, I'm going to miss Sunshine and Roses. They've been staying with us for almost a month now and they're going back to the magical land of Canadia tomorrow. I don't want them to leave. Roses is better at everything than me, ever, except I don't hate her for it, and I'm not sure why. I wish she lived here. I think hanging out with her would probably be good for me. Sunshine is...well, he got his nickname for a reason. He is an honest-to-God, mother-fucking, no-punches-pulled, jen-yoo-ein, ray of sparkly, sparkly sunshine. The guy says "Shut the front door!" when he questions the validity of whatever it is you're saying, for crying out loud. He cooks dinner and does dishes and fixes drinks with style and flair and panache. He gives you constructive criticism that makes you feel better than any compliment ever could. And he makes a lot of dick jokes. Le sigh. Why do all the cool people live somewhere that I'm not?
I miss Legs. She's back in the homeland, kicking proverbial ass and taking all kinds of names. She was such a good level of of comparison for everyone, from jeans to dance shoes to boys to box wine. Miss you, you mingy mingah-rangah. Binty fuck-shake!
Jesus, you can develop some decidedly confusing linguistics with people you're in frequent contact with. Senorita Fregoso would love that shit.
I ate a burger patty raw while scoping music for Wednesday's act. Lounge music blows dogs for quarters, I will tell you that for free. What does not suck is raw hamburger. Squishy and delicious. I am going to carnivore hell.
I got a smarty-pants phone. It's a lot easier to send boys pictures of myself doing questionable things, but a lot harder to text-message for some reason. I also like being able to get directions on the fly. Anyone who knows me will tell you that my sense of direction is shoddy, at best. I blame the bumps to my head as a child. I don't know how I feel about being part of this whole technological revolution doo-hickey, but it's nice pretending to be Penny from Inspector Gadget when I need to know what that one place that serves sushi at four am is called.
Sunshine just called me on eating the raw burger patty. He asked if I was worried about e coli at all, and was slightly scandalized to learn that I like the texture of raw meat. He said he wouldn't have expected it. I have no idea what people expect of me. I tend to assume "epic failure" is the standard setting for people's ideas about the outcomes of my endeavors, but that's probably just me projecting. Whatev.
God, I'm going to miss Sunshine and Roses. They've been staying with us for almost a month now and they're going back to the magical land of Canadia tomorrow. I don't want them to leave. Roses is better at everything than me, ever, except I don't hate her for it, and I'm not sure why. I wish she lived here. I think hanging out with her would probably be good for me. Sunshine is...well, he got his nickname for a reason. He is an honest-to-God, mother-fucking, no-punches-pulled, jen-yoo-ein, ray of sparkly, sparkly sunshine. The guy says "Shut the front door!" when he questions the validity of whatever it is you're saying, for crying out loud. He cooks dinner and does dishes and fixes drinks with style and flair and panache. He gives you constructive criticism that makes you feel better than any compliment ever could. And he makes a lot of dick jokes. Le sigh. Why do all the cool people live somewhere that I'm not?
I miss Legs. She's back in the homeland, kicking proverbial ass and taking all kinds of names. She was such a good level of of comparison for everyone, from jeans to dance shoes to boys to box wine. Miss you, you mingy mingah-rangah. Binty fuck-shake!
Jesus, you can develop some decidedly confusing linguistics with people you're in frequent contact with. Senorita Fregoso would love that shit.
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