I find it peculiar when mundane things define my life. When the crossword is replaced by a stupid SuDoku in the newspaper...when I have to stoop to eating plain English muffins because the plaza cafe closed before I could get butter or peanut butter or jam...when the lack of notifications on facebook infuriates me...
BUT THEN: when something exciting happens, such as putting on a animal print dress to attend a ritzy event by default, getting picked up over tomato cheese soup in a cup, and thought of something less that straight for the third time in one week, then I am happy.
I hate to be forced to ponder the lame-ness of my life. This over-analysis is such a flaw in myself; but I find I only ponder the lame-ness when my life is indeed lame, and actually, when a broader perspective is taken, my life is not lame at all. So as long as semi-entertaining things happen, or as long as I make them happen (i.e. frequenting a parlor on West Leonard, buying a Woodstock T-shirt, pretending to be British...) I'm a pretty damn content person.
On the ironic flip side...when these 'exciting' events do occur, sometimes I miss the routine things. I miss my morning coffee from the Keurig, I miss my large double bed all to myself, I long for a day full of nothing. And visa versa. It's this horrible circular pattern that I maintain: either catastrophic events or simple pleasures make life all worth it to me. I don't know if this is due to my particular frame of mind and mood on any given day. But.
There are days I want to lie in a bed that's not my own; to have a totally irregular weekend, full of both nothing and everything, back and forth; where I eat at strange times and sleep at even more odd intervals; where I meet people I don't know, and can say and do whatever I want.
And then there are days when I want to wake up at 7:35am, dry off from the steamy shower with my yellow towels, wear the jeans I've had since sophomore year of high school, go to work and do absolutely nothing productive, not pay attention in class, and then go home, eat a toasted cheese, fiddle around of stumbleupon, hardly talk to anyone, and go to bed between the green jersey sheets of my double bed, the venice canal poster not even catching my eye.
And then there are days when I want to GO out and DO things and SEE things and be someone totally new; someone full of hot air, vibrant and self secure and strangely friendly yet standoffish...and I want to be alone and with others all at the same time.
I think. I might be like....tri-polar.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Well this is new
Grand Rapids. It's been a hypothetical eye sore imposing on my life all the time I've lived here. The dread that ensued when school started back up again, or even just returning after a weekend from home...dirty, corporate, dull. So many times I've said "I'll be ok as long as I don't end up in Grand Rapids..."
But..............
Artists preparing for Art Prize in the crispy autumnal atmosphere. Hispanic Festivals where man-ish Che Guevara bracelets were purchased. Parking garages and steam curling out of man holes, the homeless man who smokes and holds a conversation with the friend only he can see; the white-haired parking lot attendant who knows and waves at me every day with a jolly smile but I've never talked to; chalk art under the bridge; swing dancing in Rosa Parks, amidst the beams of light that pop out from the Circle's holes; a man in the river creating a heart out of mere rocks; a man smoking a pipe, blazered and be-wrinkled, watching the man in the river; a indistinguishable figure playing guitar on the side of the river; profs at the janky Burger King who know the burger-flippers; bus drivers who hit on the cashier girls at said BK; the Varnum building, the shiny DeVos Perfromance Hall; Sanchez tapas and MoJos dueling piano bar; crosswalks and irate drivers; rows of hot cars parked along the side of the road; college kids who look like they're lost in Costco, trying to find their mother without looking like losers; women who take their lunch break to walk together, wearing tennis shoes with their business casual attire; the 1913 room waiter, debonair as hell, giving directions to a smiling middle aged blonde, who's obviously late for something; a random band and potential birthday party gone sour at Rosa Parks; couples dressed to the 9s, holding hands, in love beneath the brick and glass sided sky; never-ending Fulton street, loitered by white trash bag-holding pedestrians; the Bitter End manager, black and rotund, kicking out unwanted customers at 2am; the run-down gas stations converted into free parking; the austerity of the river....the bridges....the buildings......
The distaste that's festered in my very soul for you, Grand Rapids, somehow is being pushed aside. It's been replaced by a black hole of adoration and appreciation for you---something that must have been there alongside the hate for you all along, but is only now surfacing, coming on stronger than anticipated, arising as the most surprising of feelings.
Somewhere along the way, I've fallen into deep like with you.
But..............
Artists preparing for Art Prize in the crispy autumnal atmosphere. Hispanic Festivals where man-ish Che Guevara bracelets were purchased. Parking garages and steam curling out of man holes, the homeless man who smokes and holds a conversation with the friend only he can see; the white-haired parking lot attendant who knows and waves at me every day with a jolly smile but I've never talked to; chalk art under the bridge; swing dancing in Rosa Parks, amidst the beams of light that pop out from the Circle's holes; a man in the river creating a heart out of mere rocks; a man smoking a pipe, blazered and be-wrinkled, watching the man in the river; a indistinguishable figure playing guitar on the side of the river; profs at the janky Burger King who know the burger-flippers; bus drivers who hit on the cashier girls at said BK; the Varnum building, the shiny DeVos Perfromance Hall; Sanchez tapas and MoJos dueling piano bar; crosswalks and irate drivers; rows of hot cars parked along the side of the road; college kids who look like they're lost in Costco, trying to find their mother without looking like losers; women who take their lunch break to walk together, wearing tennis shoes with their business casual attire; the 1913 room waiter, debonair as hell, giving directions to a smiling middle aged blonde, who's obviously late for something; a random band and potential birthday party gone sour at Rosa Parks; couples dressed to the 9s, holding hands, in love beneath the brick and glass sided sky; never-ending Fulton street, loitered by white trash bag-holding pedestrians; the Bitter End manager, black and rotund, kicking out unwanted customers at 2am; the run-down gas stations converted into free parking; the austerity of the river....the bridges....the buildings......
The distaste that's festered in my very soul for you, Grand Rapids, somehow is being pushed aside. It's been replaced by a black hole of adoration and appreciation for you---something that must have been there alongside the hate for you all along, but is only now surfacing, coming on stronger than anticipated, arising as the most surprising of feelings.
Somewhere along the way, I've fallen into deep like with you.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
There's a lake here? What?
I went to the beach the other day. Never in my life have I lived somewhere in which I had to drive 2 horrible hours to get to a beach, where said beach is only accessed by descending a flight of 100 jankity stairs.
Living in Leelanau county nearly my whole life, beaches are on the same level as the rest of the world. You can park and walk directly onto sand. There's no risk of falling on to the beach from a cliff above; there isn't the wind tunnel created by the barren surroundings.
You drive along and look out at eye level and AHHHH there's a beach! A wavy watery entity skid upon by Hobie Cats and water skiers and seagulls. There's a downtown directly across from many beaches, complete with speedo-wearers and ice cream eaters. You can't get this when you gotta travel ages to get to the middle of nowhere before going to the beach.........
I prefer my northern Michigan beaches to your Western Michigan ones any day....
Living in Leelanau county nearly my whole life, beaches are on the same level as the rest of the world. You can park and walk directly onto sand. There's no risk of falling on to the beach from a cliff above; there isn't the wind tunnel created by the barren surroundings.
You drive along and look out at eye level and AHHHH there's a beach! A wavy watery entity skid upon by Hobie Cats and water skiers and seagulls. There's a downtown directly across from many beaches, complete with speedo-wearers and ice cream eaters. You can't get this when you gotta travel ages to get to the middle of nowhere before going to the beach.........
I prefer my northern Michigan beaches to your Western Michigan ones any day....
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
You'd think working in a spa, I'd have exquisitely manicured hands and feet, smell like lavender and mint all the time, and just really really love the simplicity of the job.
Apparently, this romantic picture of the spa atmosphere is a crock to the highest extreme. No, not apparently. It IS. That one day of spa management study in Commercial Recreation really screwed me over. Sure, a spa is idyllic if you're the once participating, and not the one running the damn thing. It offers relaxation and pampering solely if you're the one putting up the insane amounts of cash to do it.
Don't get me wrong...this summer hasn't been ruined by the spa...the stupid stupid spa. But it sure opened my eyes to what I DON'T want to do with my life. The artificiality, the customer service, the monotony and the upset customers---get me outta there.
I want to sit in a room. Preferably alone, or with maybe one person, since I might get lonely, but that person would have to be really really really quiet...like a sleeping ninja. A room with chic furniture that no one ever sees but me and the ninja, and stacks and stacks of papers that need editing and proofreading. Stacks that I can liberally throw on the cutting room floor; things I can mutate and criticize and change as I wish. Then when the bloodbath of words is over, I can go home to my quiet house in the middle of nowhere but next to somewhere, with a lake view and gorgeous sunsets and a heated infinity pool...and not think about my job at all, except when I see my finished work in publication.
So long spa. We had a good run, but it's time for me to break up with you.
Apparently, this romantic picture of the spa atmosphere is a crock to the highest extreme. No, not apparently. It IS. That one day of spa management study in Commercial Recreation really screwed me over. Sure, a spa is idyllic if you're the once participating, and not the one running the damn thing. It offers relaxation and pampering solely if you're the one putting up the insane amounts of cash to do it.
Don't get me wrong...this summer hasn't been ruined by the spa...the stupid stupid spa. But it sure opened my eyes to what I DON'T want to do with my life. The artificiality, the customer service, the monotony and the upset customers---get me outta there.
I want to sit in a room. Preferably alone, or with maybe one person, since I might get lonely, but that person would have to be really really really quiet...like a sleeping ninja. A room with chic furniture that no one ever sees but me and the ninja, and stacks and stacks of papers that need editing and proofreading. Stacks that I can liberally throw on the cutting room floor; things I can mutate and criticize and change as I wish. Then when the bloodbath of words is over, I can go home to my quiet house in the middle of nowhere but next to somewhere, with a lake view and gorgeous sunsets and a heated infinity pool...and not think about my job at all, except when I see my finished work in publication.
So long spa. We had a good run, but it's time for me to break up with you.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Some decisions...
There are some situations in which a lot of thought it required. Research, comparative or not, plus much contemplation and assessment---like if you're going to buy a BMW, or a Nook, or even Crocs online.
But other decisions don't require much thought. A comforter for your new apartment...a vegetable peeler...a room fan. Just buy it already. Don't listen to raving customers, or ones who bash the very existence of the product. Do you like how it looks? Is it well-priced? Does it say it'll do what you want? Good. Buy it, dammit.
But other decisions don't require much thought. A comforter for your new apartment...a vegetable peeler...a room fan. Just buy it already. Don't listen to raving customers, or ones who bash the very existence of the product. Do you like how it looks? Is it well-priced? Does it say it'll do what you want? Good. Buy it, dammit.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Warts, shots, and latex gloves...
Have you ever analyzed a word to the point it sounds like a non-word? You say and think and ponder it as a word apart from its definition so darn much that it sounds like foreign jibberish.
Some words are just gross in nature without over-analysis. Like wart. It just sounds nasty the first time. It sounds even nastier when combined with its meaning. Grotesque beings have warts. Toads sport warts. Diseased unhygenic people are covered in warts. Little kids who pick noses have warts.
Worse than having a wart is having a wart frozen off. They tell you it'll hurt, and it does, and they tell you it'll blister, and it does. They don't tell you how big the blisters will get or how much they'll hurt or how disgustingly they will ruin your aesthetics. They don't tell you you'll feel like someone who got in a fight with a rabid feline, only satiated by your hand flesh. They don't tell you people will look at you like you're a leper. But in 2 to 3 weeks, you may or may not have any warts left.
To top off the wart removal situation, which topped the having warts situation, working at a bakery with bandaged hands raw from recent removal is just about as fun as eating sandpaper with no hands. Especially when the raw flesh is present on parts of the hands that bend a lot...and have a lot of pressure applied to them...and are easy to knock on things. This is just the best experience ever. You should try it yourself.
To make it all even more enjoyable, the tetanus shot on your arm in fine now, but they tell you it'll make you wish you were armless tomorrow, and your blisters from the warts probably will be worse and Tylenol will be your main source of comfort.
They just don't tell you. That it'll hurt to even type this out.
Some words are just gross in nature without over-analysis. Like wart. It just sounds nasty the first time. It sounds even nastier when combined with its meaning. Grotesque beings have warts. Toads sport warts. Diseased unhygenic people are covered in warts. Little kids who pick noses have warts.
Worse than having a wart is having a wart frozen off. They tell you it'll hurt, and it does, and they tell you it'll blister, and it does. They don't tell you how big the blisters will get or how much they'll hurt or how disgustingly they will ruin your aesthetics. They don't tell you you'll feel like someone who got in a fight with a rabid feline, only satiated by your hand flesh. They don't tell you people will look at you like you're a leper. But in 2 to 3 weeks, you may or may not have any warts left.
To top off the wart removal situation, which topped the having warts situation, working at a bakery with bandaged hands raw from recent removal is just about as fun as eating sandpaper with no hands. Especially when the raw flesh is present on parts of the hands that bend a lot...and have a lot of pressure applied to them...and are easy to knock on things. This is just the best experience ever. You should try it yourself.
To make it all even more enjoyable, the tetanus shot on your arm in fine now, but they tell you it'll make you wish you were armless tomorrow, and your blisters from the warts probably will be worse and Tylenol will be your main source of comfort.
They just don't tell you. That it'll hurt to even type this out.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Coconut...
Have you ever had coconut water?
Sounds delicious, does it not?
Associated with coconut are things like macaroons, pina coladas, and a romanticized desire to stick a hot pink straw into a coconut directly as to suck the sweet milk out, while lying on a sugar sand beach somewhere.
Well...
Coconut water is super nasty. Despite all the vitamins it provides and the deceivingly adventurous and exotic idealistic images it demonically plants in minds of those who have not fallen to it's grotesque-ness, coconut water is more or less like drinking unfiltered, cloudy city water from a run down rusty faucet in the Bronx. And if you're lucky, they'll have tried to mask the flavor with artificial and hardly sweet pineapple and citrus flavors that taste like candles. MMMM.
So the next time you see coconut water on the Target shelf market down to $2.08---there was a reason for the discount, and please forgo the temptation to live on the wild side and stick with a Sobe.
Sounds delicious, does it not?
Associated with coconut are things like macaroons, pina coladas, and a romanticized desire to stick a hot pink straw into a coconut directly as to suck the sweet milk out, while lying on a sugar sand beach somewhere.
Well...
Coconut water is super nasty. Despite all the vitamins it provides and the deceivingly adventurous and exotic idealistic images it demonically plants in minds of those who have not fallen to it's grotesque-ness, coconut water is more or less like drinking unfiltered, cloudy city water from a run down rusty faucet in the Bronx. And if you're lucky, they'll have tried to mask the flavor with artificial and hardly sweet pineapple and citrus flavors that taste like candles. MMMM.
So the next time you see coconut water on the Target shelf market down to $2.08---there was a reason for the discount, and please forgo the temptation to live on the wild side and stick with a Sobe.
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