Category Archives: Misguided attempts at holiday blogging
Last year I posted a blog entry at the end of January to depict my photographic journey of 2011 , and while no one read it including myself, there was something gratifying about commemorating all of the non-moments in my life at once. So I’ve decided to do it again for New Year’s Eve.
I can only hope you have found a better way to spend New Year’s than reading amateur WordPress blogs. But on the off chance that your life is as uneventful as mine, enjoy! Or at least pretend to.
At some point in January I decided that cleaning my purse was easier than dealing with arthritis in my shoulder the rest of my life. I photographed my efforts and now have concrete evidence that at any given time I can be found carrying items ranging in unimportance from detached bra under wires to opened and unusable tampons.
Oh. And that’s my foot in the corner. Not typically found in my purse.
While this photograph mostly represents my narcissism, I am including it because it also represents the beginning of a long and disappointing journey known as “Lena’s 2012 employment history.” In 2012 I held 4 different jobs ranging from coffee shop waitress/concubine, receptionist in an administrative office at a college, front desk receptionist at a hotel, and admissions representative at a tech school. Who says college is a waste of time?
During the last week of February and first week of March, I volunteered in the Dominican Republic. I can’t make this funny. It was one of the most profound, fulfilling experiences of my life and I feel extremely lucky to have had it. Plus I got hit on a lot there…score?
After convincing everyone in my office to buy raffle tickets from a student organization trying to save a sick llama, the universe had my back and helped me win this wine basket.
This is without question the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. Or at least that is what I told the student who brought it to our office.
“This looks like a whore house.”
My mother, as I dried my clothes in her kitchen.
This was my Bob Dylan vinyl collection back in June. I have since added five more. For Dylan geeks the total includes: Times They Are A-Changin, Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringing it All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, John Wesley Harding, Greatest Hits Vol 1&2, Nashville Skyline, New Morning, Before the Flood, Blood on the Tracks, Desire, At Budokan, Street Legal, Empire Burlesque, Real Live, Modern Times, Bootleg Series Vol. 4 (Live in 1966), and a VERY rare bootleg recording from the mid 60’s.
In July I was Freshly Pressed and it brought me greater pride than any other accomplishment of my life, including birth and learning how to read.
I’m not sure if you heard, but there was this thing called Hurricane Sandy. Because I’m unbalanced and deeply afraid of heavy wind, despite the relative mildness of the conditions in my area, I thought it necessary to relocate my mattress into the living room where there are no windows, but quite prevalent feelings of being locked in a dungeon. Don’t even tell me this was overkill!
I am a high/existential bee. I also throw great parties and enjoy practicing calligraphy in my free time.
She was drunk again, smiling and laughing in his orange face. He was contemplating a murder-suicide.
Pumpkin love between me and my boo.
Pun INTENDED. Hehehe.
Someone take away my blog.
My boyfriend and I are in some ways the same person, hold the genitals, or however I can more discretely put that. Nevertheless we are into things like all natural soap-making and even more into talking about how it makes us better than everyone. This is an example of how.
So we sort of like each other.
“Do you love me even when I’m crazy?”
“I love you especially when you’re crazy.”
I can dig that.
Both of our tongues are sticking out. Need I say more?
Being better than everyone we meet is exhausting, as evidenced in this handmade “basket” of handmade products given to our families for Christmas. Soap, lip balm, air fresheners, jam, and inconceivable arrogance.
I…I don’t know what is wrong with me.
You know you’re 1/4 Italian when after a lifetime of cooking a traditional Christmas Eve family recipe you still have no idea how to spell what you are making. You know your mother is 1/2 Italian when she tells you she will disown you if you share the recipe.
“I can’t see the TV, there are too many presents in the way!”
…First world problems?
There is currently a gigantic ice sickle in my freezer. I think I will keep it and use it as a weapon when a heroin addict inevitably returns to my apartment in search of the former tenant.
So long, 2012! Howdy, East Orange.
The girl with no (public) resolutions, but many (private) disappointments
They say that you know you’re gaining weight when black guys start hitting on you.
I’m not sure if anyone says this.
But I know I am gaining weight because aside from black guys hitting on me and the self-abusive conversation I have with myself each morning about the progression of my third trimester (I’m not pregnant), I recently got a speeding ticket. I know that is not a measurable factor here, but I have never been ticketed in the past. This is typically what happens when I get pulled over:
I lean out the window and ask, frantic and alarmed:
“IS EVERYTHING OKAY?!?!?!”
As if I am being pulled over to counsel him on marital troubles or American Idol voting techniques. He replies something about a child chasing a ball, and no crossing guard around, and federal imprisonment. I sigh, relieved, and hand him my license, unable to find my insurance or car registration.
After about 12 minutes of probing questions, among other things 😉 I am asked to avoid schools zones and any properties containing live, white children, and detour through the ghetto anytime I want to drive recklessly.
But unfortunately that only works when your body is not protruding past the restraint of your seat belt and your eyes aren’t being forced back into their sockets by pounds of cheek and eyebrow fat. Therefore I maintain that the only explanation for my receiving a ticket is the blubber effect. Definitely not the driving 53 in a 25. No. That can’t be it.
I’m blaming my weight gain on a number of factors, most of which I will not have the time or patience to tell you about. Here are three I can stomach. Hehehe. I’m so clever.
1. My ever increasing American guilt. Perhaps it is my preference to radical liberal politics over false patriotic conservative politics that results in the inordinate amount of time I spend each day mourning Middle Eastern people I will never meet. Not just because they’re dead. But mostly because they’re dead. This leaves me depressed and anxious and forced to resort to binging on food no Middle Eastern person would ever eat. Not just because they’re dead. But, really, mostly because they’re dead.
2. Sushi. When eaten by Japanese people or bulimic teenagers, sushi can be very healthy. But when eaten by an American woman at a Chinese buffet 10 minutes away from her house, once a weekend, sometimes twice, depending on how much she hates herself that day, it is not good. It is embarrassing. Not quite a “legitimate rape” comment, but definitely a “binders full of women.”
3. Co-workers birthdays and other work-related food-oriented events. Every day in my office someone is either turning 50, hitting menopause, or inviting a politician to tour the school, all of which are equally disgraceful and handled with mass quantities of food. Even when I am trying to eat healthy I am bombarded with oatmeal cookies, or cheddar cheese slices, or Halloween candy hoarded away in my desk drawer. There is no escape!
I realize this doesn’t sound like a Thanksgiving Day post yet, but allow me to explain. My obsession with my weight sounds a little insecure. But I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m grateful that I am insecure and in a constant state of emotional anguish. Why? It keeps me from being a dick.
If you know anything about me, you know that the leading cause in my life is asshole prevention. If I lost weight and became confident and hot, I’d become even more self-involved and arrogant than I already am, and before you know it I’d be someone really evil like Kourtney Kardashian.
So to sum this whole thing up, this Thanksgiving I am grateful for many things.I am grateful for insecurities that keep me grounded. I am grateful for police officers that don’t tase me. I am grateful for the black guys who hit on me. I am grateful for my sister who is a registered dietician who will help me lose weight again. I am grateful for my boyfriend who I never talk about but exists quite fully in my life. I am grateful for the new wiper blades on my car. But lastly I am grateful for this, taken from the Facebook page of a person I actually know:
Doesn’t get much better than that.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I hope you are all grateful for something (me).
The girl who last year was thankful for assholes, but this year is thankful for mouths. Ew.
On this day, last year, I reluctantly turned 23. I welcomed my inevitable aging with 2 bottles of Arbor Mist and FX reruns of Superbad, followed by fits of crying and my now infamous Waffle House date. I wasn’t going into 23 with dignity if I could avoid it. Well, ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to tell you that after 365 days of fighting against this change, I have prevailed. As of today, I am no longer 23.
I’m not going to lie to you; 24 doesn’t feel all that different, aside from my overwhelming desire to kick back in some orthopedic shoes and watch my programs for a few hours. I’m actually feeling relatively decent about getting older. My biggest bitch is knowing that I am slowly inching my way toward an age where I will be too old to get away with my lack of life plan on account of being “young and exploring options.” That alone upsets me more than death or any amount of Rhianna remixes.
So to avoid that penetrating reality one more day, this is my plan:
- Wash dishes
- Walk downtown and buy a scone
- Feel bad about buying a scone
- Eat the scone anyway
- Consider bulimia
- Go to my mom’s house where she, my sister, and brother will be hanging out for an obscenely long period of time because we are way too close and somewhat unhealthy
- Weep tears of gratitude for each present I receive because I’m emotionally unstable and incredibly charming
- Compose a mental list of goals to be completed while 24, knowing full well that no matter how much I do, the very idea of turning 25 makes me want to use my small intestine as a noose
- Go to bed happy
If anyone’s got his/her shit together, it would be me.
Now, last year in order to commemorate blossoming into my new age, I reflected on my 22nd year and compiled a list of 22 accomplishments. Using that logic, one might expect a list of 23 accomplishments, however being that I was kind of lazy and unmotivated this year, there’s a good chance it will stop at 6. Let’s see how far I can get:
- Started www.thegirlwiththeblog.com; which really, barely counts as an accomplishment if we’re being honest.
- Volunteered in the Dominican Republic
- Made $800 selling Christmas cookies
- Gained 15 pounds eating Christmas cookies
- Lived with my mom for 7 months
- Spent 24 hours on the courthouse steps for Occupy Nashville
- Gained an appreciation for the 40 hour work week through periods of unemployment and current over-employment
- Met one of the best friends ever from Murfreesboro, Tennessee 🙂
- Increased my credit score despite consistently late student loan payments
- Watched every Republican Presidential Debate
- Moved into my own apartment again
- Doubled my record collection
- Discovered Breaking Bad, Mad Men, and Parenthood. I should probably be embarrassed by watching this much TV
- Like a fat Samantha Brick, been unjustifiably hit on more in my life than ever before
- Saw Titanic in 3D
- Developed an obsession with tights and stockings
- Reached 150 pages in my novel
- Realized an emphatic hatred for touch screen technology
- Was traumatized by my New Year’s Day horoscope that said I will struggle in love for the next 14 years
- Have become significantly happier since last year
- If my blog viewing stats page is correctly, hopefully made 30,000 people laugh. Or at least 12
- Most recently, met someone pretty awesome 🙂
- Came up with 23 quasi-accomplishments for this stupid list
That took way too long. Next year I’m using some form of intellectual Ex-lax to speed up this process. Or maybe I should just do more cool shit. Whatever.
The girl who is now 24 and still childishly obsessed with birthdays
This makes my mother nervous; my blogging about her. I told her it will only be mildly humiliating, to which she responded with a giggle, then a sigh, then a blank stare, then an assertion that no one reading is a God so who cares. Right.
But since I am writing this for Mother’s Day, it is probably best that I don’t do anything so offensive the she decides to revoke my dowry (what?). Instead I decided to honor my mother, by highlighting three of the personality traits she passed onto me during labor, with three of my favorite quotes.
- “She’s destroying my world.”
– my mother, referencing Molly, our 6 pound shih tzu.
The Drama – Always too hot and never cold enough, my mother passes her time getting “seriously depressed” by driving past a Pizza Hut she had lunch at once in 1987 and speaking in long-winded, passionate diatribes before saying things like “I’m not even that upset about it.”
2. “She looks like she walks around with a 24/7 yeast infection.”
– my mother, referencing Cynthia Nixon from Sex and the City
The Inappropriateness – You wouldn’t know by looking at her, but my mother can out talk a sailor most days of the week. She’d never admit such a thing, but the words I have heard her use in reference to power struggles with Molly, the 6 pound shih tzu, have been so shocking, I could only reply with a gasp and a trip to the fainting chair. When you call her on such things, reminding her that her language/comments/general thought process is highly inappropriate she throws her head back and laughs joyously before muttering the phrase, “I’m only teasing.”
– my mother, referencing her life.
Restlessness – Beekeeper, woodcarver, guidance counselor, chocolatier, dried flower florist, field biologist, children’s book author, lawyer, college professor. All career paths my mother has considered…in the last two years.
All in all, she’s f***ing nuts, in a way well within her control. But if she were not her, I would not be me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama Bear!
The girl you pushed out the easiest
Valentine’s Day is the festering sore of non-religious holidays. I’m not just saying this because I am single this year (correction: that is the only reason I am saying this) but rather because Valentine’s Day is the one holiday everyone sort of wishes didn’t exist, but still has to acknowledge. Kind of like herpes. That’s it. Valentine’s Day is like the herpes of non-religious holidays; you can pretend it doesn’t exist, but at the end of the day, you still have scabs on your nether region.
For whatever reason, women take this holiday very VERY seriously. I’m not excluding myself from this. Before I was a used-up, jaded, old hag, V-Day held a special place in my heart, now reserved for Arlo Guthrie vinyl records and that green cake icing that comes in a tube. Each year, on February 13, my sister and I would sit on my bed in our nightgowns, braiding each other’s hair and harmonizing to “When You Wish Upon a Star,” discussing the love we were bound to discover the coming day, through some romantic, male-orchestrated gesture involving skywriting and the performance of a Lifehouse song. Actually that never happened. But for those who don’t know, Lifehouse songs really f***ed me up.
Needless to say, VDay is very important to most women. It’s not so much because we actually think it’s an important holiday but more because there will always be that one guy dating that one girl we secretly hate, who very openly shares how romantic her boyfriend is
on Facebook, posting pictures of the hand-sewn teddy bear given to her for Valentine’s Day. Forget the fact that over-the-top Valentine’s Day gestures are generally compensation for sub-par bed play and yet-to-be disclosed homosexuality, on February 14th all that truly matters is how big the gesture is and how many people know about it.
So to help all the fellas and ladies (I don’t judge) who have a demanding, over-bearing woman expecting something grand for this worthless consumerist holiday, I am going to provide five romantic ideas to woo your gal.
1. Write her a poem. Here’s an example.
Rubies are red,
I can’t afford either,
When I’m paying for you.
OH YEAH. Girls eat that shit up. I should know. I’m a girl, despite what you may read.
Just kidding. There are no transvestite rumors about me.
Use this. She’ll dig it.
You don’t have to mean it. No one ever does. If you really want to blow her mind, do it with a tattoo! Nothing says “I love you” like a permanently emblazoned question, personal enough to result in divorce, impersonal enough to be used next year on someone else.
3. Get a love tattoo
Along the lines of the creepy proposal, you can’t put a price on an even creepier love tattoo, except maybe your dignity. You could go for the traditional first name tattoo if you want to be a pussy about it, but if you really want to make an impression go for the ultra-intense portrait or first name acronym tat. For example, if a man were going to get a tattoo of my name, I would suggest the following:
L – usciously
E – ndowed
N – oble
A – ssociate
Associate? That’s right. Anything else would be too big a commitment.
4. Cook her dinner
Ok, I know what you must be thinking. “Damn, bitch, now I gotta cook for this skank-ass honey?” and to that I say, “you’re white, stop talking like that.” Yes, you have to cook for her. I know this is an overwhelming prospect since she will inevitably find out that you know how to cook and therefore may expect it to happen more often. If that idea frightens you than I suggest that you cook something so inedible she will be hospitalized. Not only will that ensure you will never have to cook again, but hospitals are filled with unaccounted for flower bouquets waiting to be seized by you.
5. Break up with her…then take it back
For all you stingy SOBs out there, this is the cheapest, easiest option, requiring little effort, and excessive cruelty. Convince her it’s over. You’re tired of “Dancing With the Stars” and sharing a toothbrush. You don’t need a man cave you need a man grave if you’re going to stay one more day with her! (use that line, it’s golden!) Once she is a blubbering mess, cradle her in your arms and tell her you will take her back. She will be so happy to have a boyfriend again, she won’t even care that you didn’t get her anything for Valentine’s Day. If the plan backfires and she ends it with you, at least you don’t have her name tattooed on your ass.
If you don’t like any of these ideas, that’s probably a sign that you’re a decent human being. Whatever.
Good night and good luck.
Happy Valentine’s Day all you happy people doomed for divorce and alimony payments.
The girl who just wants somebody to love, Jefferson Airplane style.
In my family, giving thanks is a pressure-packed experience. No matter which side of the family I am visiting, I feel unreasonably burdened to announce some profound reason to be thankful, that will on one hand encapsulate my intelligence, wit, and probability of getting to heaven, and on the other, not come off as cliché, mind-numbing, or worst of all “hack.”
You may be asking yourself, why? Why, Lena, are you concerned with coming off as a holiday hack? The entire purpose of giving thanks on Thanksgiving is to make up for a full year of not appreciating anything or anyone in your life. No matter what you claim to be “thankful” for, it is going to sound original and unique, since nine times out of ten it’s the first time you acknowledged it this year. And to you I say, true.
But this year, I am visiting my Dad’s side of the family. They are thoughtful, they are insightful, they excel at games like Taboo and Scattegories. They aren’t going to be impressed if I say I am thankful for NBC’s hit show “Parenthood” airing Tuesdays 10/9 central, or the giant one pound container of Sabra hummus now being sold at Wal-Mart. They will scoff. They will throw strawberry jam in my face and ham loaf in my eyes as they laugh me out of my grandparents’ house and into the cold, icy, atmosphere of a world where people say thanks for stupid things and Mitt Romney is a Presidential frontrunner.
But I don’t want to be in that world. Not when there are other options, like gracious appreciation and Ron Paul. No. This year I am going to blow their minds with thanks that are so original, so poignant, so “non-hack,” they will have no response other than to weep tears of joy for the fact that I exuded such wisdom during the fifteen seconds of floor time I have when going around the table. Don’t believe me? Read on, suckers. Tell me this doesn’t make you cry:
Lena’s Thanksgiving Speech (to be read verbatim) at Thanksgiving Dinner
Family, friends, and relatives I only see once a year. We have all gathered here today, to show our appreciation and our thanks, on this loveliest of all fall holidays. I am sure you are all anxiously awaiting the unveiling of my reasons to be thankful on this Thanksgiving 2011. So please, kick back, take a load off and put the load right on me, as I regale you with unnecessary descriptive detail of the number one thing I am thankful for this year.
This year I am thankful for:
Yes, I said it. Assholes. Not physical assholes, but euphemistic assholes. The kinds who speed up to pass you and then proceed to drop 15 miles below the speed limit for 9 miles of one lane traffic just to be, you guessed it, an asshole. The kinds who you haven’t talked to for several months or years but email you at random just to tell you that you misspelled something in your Facebook profile just to be, you guessed it a condescending asshole. I think you grasp my meaning.
But the thing is I have come across a lot of assholes this year; and not just petty, douchebag types as described above. The assholes I know, don’t mess around when it comes to being an asshole. They are real, serious, no-nonsense, “I act like this year round, go swallow some lighter fluid if you don’t like it,” kinds of assholes. Assholes who give buckets of rotten fruit as gifts to people recovering from heart attacks. Assholes who get involved with you just to have their girlfriend text you a few weeks later. Assholes who leave their wife and screw around with someone else while their wife pays for the mortgage, debt, and marital costs on her own. Assholes who go to the doctor, just to ensure one more day of being an asshole. I think you grasp my meaning.
The only explanation I have for the abundance of assholes I know in my life, is that I too, am probably an asshole. But that is another issue, for another holiday. Probably Easter.
On this holiday, Thanksgiving, I say I am thankful for assholes. I am thankful because, if it were not for the assholes in our lives, we would not have any ability to appreciate all of the non-assholes we know. Because of them, we always have someone worse to compare our friends, family, spouses, and co-workers to, who will make those freeloading jackasses seem like a good deal.
So this Thanksgiving, don’t give thanks for your mediocre husband. Give thanks for your previous asshole boyfriends who messed you up so much you are willing to settle and even be thankful for some second-rate toolbag, instead of someone awesome. Don’t give thanks for your obnoxious but reliable friends. Give thanks for the asshole people you knew years ago who lowered your expectations so far that you are willing to tolerate some boisterous loser instead of someone fabulous. In short, give thanks that the people in your life, aren’t as bad as the assholes who aren’t.
So? Tears of joy? Tears of Rage? Tears of boredom? I don’t care! Because you know what? I have achieved the impossible. For the first time, in all of my years, my Thanksgiving thanks is NOT going to be hack! It is going to be interesting! Funny! Insightful! In desperate need of censorship! Regardless, I have fulfilled my duty, now it is time you fulfill yours.
“What are you, dear readers, thankful for this year?” I ask aloud in bemused wonderment. Could it be me? The girl with the blog? I doubt it. I’m the only one thankful for assholes. But share with me and share with the world. Or don’t share at all. I don’t care anyway.
The girl who is thankful she managed to cleverly make two references to The Band in one blog posting.
PS: Find both references and I will think life is a carnival.
PPS: I just made three.
PPPS: Happy Thanksgiving, Holla.