I squint past the muddied snow drift blocking my home's walkway, an ugly stepcousin to the fleecy blankets of weeks before.
I curse swiftly at the hidden puddle that drenches my shoes through, my socklessness suddenly revealed to be the folly it is.
One gust of wind comes up and whips the fridgid air into my eyes and ears, rudely ruffling my hair and lifting up the hem of my jacket, a brisk frisk.
Then comes the rain, and with it the final straw.
One drop at a time, smearing mascara and weakening my resolve.
My tears fall with the water from the sky, and they are tears for summer.
I close my eyes to shut out the darkness and travel to another sunnier time.
I can feel the warmth of the sun beaming down at me. That welcomed stifling feeling from warm air and blinding light. Feel the crinkle of my toasted nose from a day in the sand, my tank top and flipflop straps holding on my clothing for modesty alone, not warmth. The concept of a jacket and scarf foreign and forgotten- sunglasses and bathing suits are easier to wear, and don't hang as heavy on your heart.
I smell that intoxicating cocktail of sunscreen, bug spray, and light beer- the only liquid essentials for a summer excursion. Our Lady, the sun, stays out to play all day long. Only taking brief respite in the shade of thunderstorms, welcomed to break the heat. The fireflies come out to show off, and we admire their displays. Every night ends a bit later with the tinge of satisfaction from fun well-had.
There is an ephemeral excitement, as if anything is possible and will come to be. In summertime, you can go anywhere, do anything, and there is much more weight in the meaning of "Friday." Our weekends are each vacations in miniature.
Cameras come out, stories and anecdotes are all shared on Monday around the breakroom microwave, each of us pining for another glorious window of possibility that will come after a few days of "work."
Smiles and jokes pass easier. There is a sense of light and shine in the world. Enthusiasm and exhaustion take turns, making the days and weeks and moments fly by, the thrilling speed adding to the magic.
I just have to remember that these days of winter will somehow pass, although maybe never fly, and there will be that first day I don't have to wear a jacket. I will buy a new sundress and get that first tan line. I will see the beach with its seagulls and seashells again.
and I will see the sun again.
She just likes to make an entrance.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Being a Grown-Up BLOWS.
I mean, come on.
I feel like all of my friends are just having an AWESOME time.
My bestie just called me from Disneyland, where it's HOT, (don't even get me started on the f$#%$ing weather. It's like 4 outside. Where are we, Wisconsin? No.) And she's going to go drink Boddington's and eat yummy desserts later with another friend. This is AFTER the weekend where she made magic and squishing noises with her MF unicorn- the high school crush all other guys will have to measure up to.
My other best friend just got to take MOTHER FRIGGING TRAPEZE lessons- that is, in between her Beatles' rockband sessions and hours of surfing.
Other friends are travelling, getting engaged, starting school, moving, going out, having babies, throwing parties, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum.
Wanna know what's going on with me?
I made pork chops last night.
and it was kind of a big deal.
...
...
...
are you shitting me.
Now, the problem is- I'm TOTALLY excited for everyone participating in the proceedings of AWESOME.
however- past the happiness, there is a twinge of jealousy.
and it makes my cubicle feel even more prison-like than usual.
You guys had better watch out, because I may SERIOUSLY go base jumping or join the circus or drop out of life and move to New Zealand to tend bar to catch up on all of the excitement.
Then again, I got to have leftover pork chops- and they were downright tasty.
I feel like all of my friends are just having an AWESOME time.
My bestie just called me from Disneyland, where it's HOT, (don't even get me started on the f$#%$ing weather. It's like 4 outside. Where are we, Wisconsin? No.) And she's going to go drink Boddington's and eat yummy desserts later with another friend. This is AFTER the weekend where she made magic and squishing noises with her MF unicorn- the high school crush all other guys will have to measure up to.
My other best friend just got to take MOTHER FRIGGING TRAPEZE lessons- that is, in between her Beatles' rockband sessions and hours of surfing.
Other friends are travelling, getting engaged, starting school, moving, going out, having babies, throwing parties, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum.
Wanna know what's going on with me?
I made pork chops last night.
and it was kind of a big deal.
...
...
...
are you shitting me.
Now, the problem is- I'm TOTALLY excited for everyone participating in the proceedings of AWESOME.
however- past the happiness, there is a twinge of jealousy.
and it makes my cubicle feel even more prison-like than usual.
You guys had better watch out, because I may SERIOUSLY go base jumping or join the circus or drop out of life and move to New Zealand to tend bar to catch up on all of the excitement.
Then again, I got to have leftover pork chops- and they were downright tasty.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Brain Rot.
And now, let's get into some of the head-shrinking BEHIND my jaded outlook on the dating scene.
It's actually pretty simple really- it's all a question of expectations management.
and I have failed SPECTACULARLY at this.
I have... the brainrot. In olden times it was thought women would get brainrot from reading too many novels. They would get ideas and hurt their poor little brains if they read romantic fiction.
I'm there.
The space between my ears is completely occupied with romantic and happy fluff.
(If you've met me- you know this. If you haven't- I'm slightly concerned that you would still be able to guess this about me from just seeing me from across the street.)
I could most likely recite every Disney princess movie- sing you every romantic ballad from a showtune in the 20th or 21st century, show you the poetry I wrote about my crushes from high school (mortifying.) I watch The Holiday and Enchanted on a seriously regular basis. I read romance novels for pete's sake. One of the final nails in the coffin? Twilight.
The countdown to New Moon's midnight release has begun.
I'm re-reading the books and drooling over the Vanity Fair pix of RPattz.
My tshirt is on order.
I gotta tell ya, even if it gives me the brainrot and therefore higher standards, I'm having too much fun to care.
It's actually pretty simple really- it's all a question of expectations management.
and I have failed SPECTACULARLY at this.
I have... the brainrot. In olden times it was thought women would get brainrot from reading too many novels. They would get ideas and hurt their poor little brains if they read romantic fiction.
I'm there.
The space between my ears is completely occupied with romantic and happy fluff.
(If you've met me- you know this. If you haven't- I'm slightly concerned that you would still be able to guess this about me from just seeing me from across the street.)
I could most likely recite every Disney princess movie- sing you every romantic ballad from a showtune in the 20th or 21st century, show you the poetry I wrote about my crushes from high school (mortifying.) I watch The Holiday and Enchanted on a seriously regular basis. I read romance novels for pete's sake. One of the final nails in the coffin? Twilight.
The countdown to New Moon's midnight release has begun.
I'm re-reading the books and drooling over the Vanity Fair pix of RPattz.
My tshirt is on order.
I gotta tell ya, even if it gives me the brainrot and therefore higher standards, I'm having too much fun to care.
Friday, November 6, 2009
The current dating scene is a sign of the apocalypse.
But seriously, if I ever have a chance of dating you- don't read this.
How long until I just retitle the blog that?
Interesting.
But I'm serious. The way that the genders are currently interacting has lead me to believe that our race could SERIOUSLY be at risk for extinction within a few generations.
think about it.
I feel like couples are waiting until later and later to get together, if they ever do, meaning that there are fewer reproductive years available for the women, that is if they go within normal windows, but women who have children older can be at higher risks for the health of the babies.
It is more common than ever before to have couples that just prefer to not have babies.
It is more common to have people that choose to just never be in a life-long committed relationship, married or otherwise.
doomed.
So now, let's move on to the TYPE of guys who are getting into the few relationships left that are generatin offspring to continue the friggin' genome.
DARWINISM NO LONGER APPLIES! To continue the species, the females usually look for the strongest, most virile speciman available. Typically the biggest, most able to provide.
NOT US- SCREW YOU, NATURE, WE'RE MODERN SOCIETY!
Look at the heart-throbs of today. Most of them are these diminuitive intellectuals who would look more at home in front of an X-BOX 360 with the casing off and a phillips head screwdriver in their hand than changing the oil in a soft-top, red, rugged Jeep. There is something to be said to be attracted to men with brains, because that is more important to survive in our world today, but these men don't necessarily look like wiry einsteins. And they are meant to be the shining examples of modern desires. Don't get me wrong, I love brains, but that's not the guy we're talking about. And for the love of God don't get me started on hipsters, indie rockers, and the fact that the male "skinny jean" even exists. **shudder**
Let's look at the everyman. Look at 'im. Go to any bar during a sporting event. They are barely evolved, stringy versions of our knuckle-dragging ancestors. There is a pecking order amongst their ranks based on levels of hygiene. Coordinating team jerseys for ease of recognizing other member's of one's tribe. Dribble down the shirt from imbibing too much beer. Glazed over look as the eyes slip out of focus trying to decide which big screen to focus on during commercials. And when their fellow warriors are on the path to victory? I dare you to distinguish the sound from that of a storming horde of gorillas. Roaring. Yelling. Maybe some more swearing. Charming.
Now for what should seperate us from the animals: romance.
**snort.**
Let's start with the premise of any of these neanderthals actually PURSUING a mate. Can you even picture it? yeah, me neither.
In times past, men actually WANTED women. It was considered a desirable thing to have a lady in your life, on your arm, and **gasp** even in your bed. And they worked to impress them, woo them, win them. Men held doors, gave flattering compliments, hell, paid for a beer. And this wasn't that long ago!
Go even further back. Musicians sang serenades. Gentlemen composed sonnets. Men gave flowers, trinkets, candies. Some fought wars, killed lovers in a jealous rage, cut off their own ears, (although I realize that's a slightly unreasonable expectation.)
We're sliding back into the primordial soup. This level of chase just doesn't exist anymore.
Let's go back to our gameday bar scene. Enter the female. She is coy. Also wearing the tribe's colors to camoflage into the tribe and catch the appropriate type of mate off-guard. She wears her jersey, but also her mascara; her warpaint. She is on the hunt.
No longer is her strategy that of an exotic hothouse flower. Before, women were to be approached, marveled at, and entertained if a man was given the pleasure of her company. Now, she must dirty her hands. She sheds her skirts for workpants and wades into the trenches. She must be beautiful, but also cunning. Flirtatious and deadly. Aloof, and yet utterly attainable. A lady on the street, but a freak in the bed, as it were.
In days of yore, an elaborate mating ritual of heavy-lidded eyes exchanging hot glances and stolen handclasps with whispered sighs is cast aside for the modern exchange. The stunning female must place herself within direct proximity of her target, lest he be required to leave his pod of companions to approach her across the playing field. She utterly ignored him for a solid hour, staring at his back when he's not looking, glancing away as he turns.
There may be a few meager exchanges of laughs or cheers if the team is winning, commiseration or beer swigging if they are doing poorly.
And then it happens- at the end of the game, and only at the end- the moment of truth.
Finally, there is direct eye contact. Our lioness offers a smile she hopes is inviting, but not-too-eager, just as she had practiced it.
Good sir, most kind gentleman, our modern romeo, Casanova a la 2009, receives her message.
He gives the most minute head-flip and gestures with his not-holding-a-beer-arm towards the exit.
They leave, and the rest is history.
Until the next morning.
She scrabbles into her clothes, furious with herself, pretending not to be.
He calls her a cab, which he mysteriously has on speed-dial.
She gives him that perfectly rehearsed smile, but this time it has a tremulous air to it that displeases him.
He says a few minor pleasantries, there is an exchange of information he has no intention of using, and she is whisked away by a yellow car in the rain as he looks for his professional team's jersey because now it's Sunday and the bar is almost open.
and this is on a successful venture.
Friggin poetry.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
How long until I just retitle the blog that?
Interesting.
But I'm serious. The way that the genders are currently interacting has lead me to believe that our race could SERIOUSLY be at risk for extinction within a few generations.
think about it.
I feel like couples are waiting until later and later to get together, if they ever do, meaning that there are fewer reproductive years available for the women, that is if they go within normal windows, but women who have children older can be at higher risks for the health of the babies.
It is more common than ever before to have couples that just prefer to not have babies.
It is more common to have people that choose to just never be in a life-long committed relationship, married or otherwise.
doomed.
So now, let's move on to the TYPE of guys who are getting into the few relationships left that are generatin offspring to continue the friggin' genome.
DARWINISM NO LONGER APPLIES! To continue the species, the females usually look for the strongest, most virile speciman available. Typically the biggest, most able to provide.
NOT US- SCREW YOU, NATURE, WE'RE MODERN SOCIETY!
Look at the heart-throbs of today. Most of them are these diminuitive intellectuals who would look more at home in front of an X-BOX 360 with the casing off and a phillips head screwdriver in their hand than changing the oil in a soft-top, red, rugged Jeep. There is something to be said to be attracted to men with brains, because that is more important to survive in our world today, but these men don't necessarily look like wiry einsteins. And they are meant to be the shining examples of modern desires. Don't get me wrong, I love brains, but that's not the guy we're talking about. And for the love of God don't get me started on hipsters, indie rockers, and the fact that the male "skinny jean" even exists. **shudder**
Let's look at the everyman. Look at 'im. Go to any bar during a sporting event. They are barely evolved, stringy versions of our knuckle-dragging ancestors. There is a pecking order amongst their ranks based on levels of hygiene. Coordinating team jerseys for ease of recognizing other member's of one's tribe. Dribble down the shirt from imbibing too much beer. Glazed over look as the eyes slip out of focus trying to decide which big screen to focus on during commercials. And when their fellow warriors are on the path to victory? I dare you to distinguish the sound from that of a storming horde of gorillas. Roaring. Yelling. Maybe some more swearing. Charming.
Now for what should seperate us from the animals: romance.
**snort.**
Let's start with the premise of any of these neanderthals actually PURSUING a mate. Can you even picture it? yeah, me neither.
In times past, men actually WANTED women. It was considered a desirable thing to have a lady in your life, on your arm, and **gasp** even in your bed. And they worked to impress them, woo them, win them. Men held doors, gave flattering compliments, hell, paid for a beer. And this wasn't that long ago!
Go even further back. Musicians sang serenades. Gentlemen composed sonnets. Men gave flowers, trinkets, candies. Some fought wars, killed lovers in a jealous rage, cut off their own ears, (although I realize that's a slightly unreasonable expectation.)
We're sliding back into the primordial soup. This level of chase just doesn't exist anymore.
Let's go back to our gameday bar scene. Enter the female. She is coy. Also wearing the tribe's colors to camoflage into the tribe and catch the appropriate type of mate off-guard. She wears her jersey, but also her mascara; her warpaint. She is on the hunt.
No longer is her strategy that of an exotic hothouse flower. Before, women were to be approached, marveled at, and entertained if a man was given the pleasure of her company. Now, she must dirty her hands. She sheds her skirts for workpants and wades into the trenches. She must be beautiful, but also cunning. Flirtatious and deadly. Aloof, and yet utterly attainable. A lady on the street, but a freak in the bed, as it were.
In days of yore, an elaborate mating ritual of heavy-lidded eyes exchanging hot glances and stolen handclasps with whispered sighs is cast aside for the modern exchange. The stunning female must place herself within direct proximity of her target, lest he be required to leave his pod of companions to approach her across the playing field. She utterly ignored him for a solid hour, staring at his back when he's not looking, glancing away as he turns.
There may be a few meager exchanges of laughs or cheers if the team is winning, commiseration or beer swigging if they are doing poorly.
And then it happens- at the end of the game, and only at the end- the moment of truth.
Finally, there is direct eye contact. Our lioness offers a smile she hopes is inviting, but not-too-eager, just as she had practiced it.
Good sir, most kind gentleman, our modern romeo, Casanova a la 2009, receives her message.
He gives the most minute head-flip and gestures with his not-holding-a-beer-arm towards the exit.
They leave, and the rest is history.
Until the next morning.
She scrabbles into her clothes, furious with herself, pretending not to be.
He calls her a cab, which he mysteriously has on speed-dial.
She gives him that perfectly rehearsed smile, but this time it has a tremulous air to it that displeases him.
He says a few minor pleasantries, there is an exchange of information he has no intention of using, and she is whisked away by a yellow car in the rain as he looks for his professional team's jersey because now it's Sunday and the bar is almost open.
and this is on a successful venture.
Friggin poetry.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Baggage
Baggage - Friday, Aug 14 2009
So I’m in Puerto Rico for my friend Luis’s wedding. And I’m so excited!
Right now, I’m lounging on the cushy bed with the balcony doors thrown open to let in the heavenly sunshine and the sound of the crashing shore, with the occasional squawk of some brightly colored bird.
In the same clothes I was in 27 hours ago.
Yes. They lost my luggage.
But somehow, that has made it more of an adventure. Sure, I can’t wear these white linen lounge pants and old navy tshirt to the wedding, so I may have to dash to PLAZAS AMERICANAS- the largest mall in the Caribbean to procure another dress to wear, but so be it.
I’m here. Not at work. And there are good people. And sand. And sunshine. and rum.
I feel like its much more piratical this way. When you were stranded on a deserted island after your crew mutinied against you, they didn’t toss you a suitcase to keep you well stocked. You had the clothes on your back and your guts to survive. And maybe a pistol with a single shot or a sword, (alas, I couldn’t carry these on. commies.)
Basically, I feel like a badass pirate because I’m surviving on the hotel’s free sample shampoos and the $7 resort deodorant I impulse bought.
wait.
that was just the bellman calling.
my suitcase is here.
THANK YOU DAVY JONES, FOR SENDING ME BACK MY THINGS FROM THE DEPTHS OF YOUR LOCKER.
xoxox,
Cap’n Mags
Friday, August 7, 2009
harebrained scemes
HOW BADLY DO I WANT TO GO TO THIS?!?!
So I've been daydreaming about travel and halloween costumes for the last few days.
PyrateCon is a BEAUTIFUL combo of the two.
I mean, check out this website!!
http://www.pyratecon.com/
IT LOOKS SO FRIGGIN AWESOME! In New Orleans? I love that city!
I suppose I'll have to add it to the list of events I'm currently scheming:
2009-
Puerto Rico Next WEEK! (so stoked.)
2010-
SXSW Music Festival in Austin- (CRUCIAL)
PYRATE CON in New Orleans, April (costume? got it.)
Comic Con in San Diego, July (IN COSTUME, duh. Still debating about what that'll be- SOO many options!)
World Cup in South Africa, July/Aug timeframe (with a whirlwind tour of Africa for about 2 weeks.)
2011-
Oktoberfest done properly in Germany
2012-
London Olympics.
Now all I have to do is teach myself how to save money and recruit enough friends to go with me to make these all happen!
...
...
...
...anyone?
Also, all donations are being accepted.
...
...
...
also, any ideas anyone would have about a job that would pay me to be an uberdork/world traveler are being considered.
**sigh**
It's hard out here for a
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
dancing
So I'm a big fan of SYTYCD and ABDC and all of those, so I consider myself to be at least an appreciator of the dance world, if not an afficianado. (If you don't know what these are, do yourself a favor. look them up.)
That being said- you all know I have an unnatural fear of becoming a crazy cat lady. My single status, proclivity towards being crazy anyways, and recent aqcuisition of this dude:
you're welcome.
Moral of the story:
I love finding shit on the internet that makes me feel like less of a weirdo.
That being said- you all know I have an unnatural fear of becoming a crazy cat lady. My single status, proclivity towards being crazy anyways, and recent aqcuisition of this dude:
Weasley and his "come hither" look.
all make me nervous.
That being said, I present to you the funniest thing I may have ever seen, and also my deepest fear in glassy full-photo published glory:
My dear friend Leah and I saw this bookstore at the Kennedy Center. And its real. And there are albums that go with it. And I fully recommend that if you have a free afternoon at work to do internet surfing that you dig deeper- its nuts. There is an entire underground movement and community associated with cat dancing. And these people are certifiably batshit crazy.
google that.
You may run across such chestnuts as at-your-desk purring techniques: "Now as you purrr, you'll become conscious that it's making your head vibrate. This is completely normal." **snort**
Tips and techniques about joining cat dancing classes, "After all, dancing with our cats is something we really have to do alone and you can feel rather isolated at times. " **ARE YOU SERIOUS?!**
or this.
you're welcome.
Moral of the story:
I love finding shit on the internet that makes me feel like less of a weirdo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
