It Is What It Is

The Closest I Will Ever Get to Jon Hamm

And the closest I'll ever get is having my '60s avatar courtesy of MadMenYourself.com next to the standard backdrop John Hamm avatar.

Sigh.

But, considering what stalking laws are these days, it's probably for the best.

The Eleven-Year-Old Working Girl

All children go through phases.

As a four-year-old, I spent a month wanting to learn anything and everything I could about ostriches. In the first grade, I would only take a jar of Vienna sausages for lunch each day. In third grade, I became obsessed with Divorce Court and thought playing an attorney on the show meant I would not have to choose between my goals of being a lawyer and an actress when I grew up. (Even my nine-year-old peers thought that last one was stupid.)

And, when I was in the fifth grade, I only wanted to wear little suits.

Sure, most kids have to be begged to dress up, but not me. I never had a naked phase where I ran around the neighborhood refusing to put on clothes, I never screamed in protest about taking baths and I didn't even run barefoot like my Montgomery cousins. I suppose my anti-norms-of-society feelings ran more towards inappropriate formal wear than getting back to nature or the wild. (If you're wondering where one even finds suits for pre-teens, trust me that in the early '90s, the Limited Too was full of them.)

I can still vividly remember the summer after fourth grade when I found a circular for Kids 'R' Us in the daily paper and saw my first miniature suit. It was black with a white pattern, and the child model looked downright jaunty in it.

I had to have it. And, unfortunately for everyone involved, it was only the first of many suits in my back-to-school wardrobe that year.

Which is Worse?

A) The fact that despite an M.A. (yes, it's in English, but still), the only job that's available, I'm qualified for and pays above minimum wage involves waiting tables at someplace called the Tilted Kilt.

or

B) The fact that I'm fairly positive this 29-year-old body couldn't get past the front door at the in-person-only interview.

or

C) That I'm far more bothered by B than A. (I know, I know, I'm angry enough at myself. I'd much rather be regarded for my intelligence than abilities than as a sexual object, but I still can't help but want a smokin' bod -- without diet or exercise -- and a seat on the Supreme Court. Oh, the conundrums of womanhood.)

Oxymorons

I am confused.

The other day, while visiting Crestline Village with my mom, I noticed a store named "Lazy Bags." The name alone gave me some trouble. What could a lazy bag mean? As a work-from-home gal, "lazy" got my attention, but the "bags" part just seemed to get in the way. Was it an all-purpose transport system? A means of toting children and/or pets? Some kind of deluxe travel pillow?

Then I noticed that the name of the store was in rainbow-colored letters. Could it be a gay-friendly boutique? And, if it was, "lazy bags" took on some entirely new connotations. (None of which I understand or make much sense mind you, but it seems like the possibilities should not be discussed here.)

The Problem With a Unicorn Collection

The problem with a unicorn collection is ... (Because, yes, I had one. When I was younger, my mother's decorator thought all children should have collections in their rooms. And if you ask a five-year old what her favorite animal is, you're going to get an answer like "unicorn." This is how I came to have a table full of porcelain unicorns until long after the acceptable age for such a thing.)

But, getting back to the point, the problem with a unicorn collection is that no matter how carefully you store the darn things, those horns are so delicate, they always break off.  

And that's how a grown woman ends up with a hidden box full of ceramic horses with stubs on their foreheads.

I never said I was normal.

Proof of a Dirty Mind?

This past Saturday, the SO (significant other) and I headed out for some quality time and yard sale perusing. After running by the farmer's market (aren't we fabulously young and hip? -- if you ignore the whole yard sale tour), our second stop was a large rummage sale at the local Catholic school.

Now, being that it was a Catholic school, you can imagine my surprise to look up and see the word "SEX" in huge red letters on the gym wall. I went to Georgetown after all; I'm familiar with how the Catholics feel about sex of the pre-marital variety and couldn't help but wonder why "no," "never" or "only if you're married" weren't posted nearby for the impressionable youth crowd.

I spent a good 30 seconds staring at the wall and wondering why, oh why, this would be what the priests and nuns chose to put there and another 30 seconds wondering why no one else was as taken aback as I was. Was a priest going to find me and reprimand me just for staring at the word?

Shame on You

As someone with an anxiety disorder, I tend to be more sensitive to media and news than others. Because of this, I keep an eye out for anything I might find panic-inducing. Even without my political leanings, I wouldn't watch Fox News because they seem to classify everything as "breaking news" and just the words "breaking news" kick start my brain into a downhill spiral of worry about what happened, where it was, whether or not anyone I care about might have been hurt, what's going to happen, how strong the foundation of my house is, who the known nuclear powers are, and on and on until I'm hunkered in the bath tub with my dog and a bag of Oreos preparing for the end of the world.

You can just imagine how exhausting that would be as a daily routine. (Which is why I didn't get much done in 2002, but that's another story for another day.)

I actually try to avoid most 24-hour news channels (Internet news is much better for me), scary movies and stories about single women killed in their beds by strangers because of the anxious thoughts that ensue.

Neighborhood Nicknames

When I lived in Washington, D.C., most of the Safeways (a chain of grocery stores) were known by certain monikers.

There was the Social Safeway (where you could not go looking at all frumpy or haggard because you were basically guaranteed to run into someone you knew; I even think local legend held that many encounters at the Social Safeway led to weddings), the Suburban Safeway (the most boring of them all, you never saw anyone other than a minivan-driving mom with her kids shopping here) and the Soviet Safeway (where you often had to wait in line for bread or milk). 

Even thought it’s been almost seven years since I lived in D.C., I still find myself assigning names to the places I visit most often.

First, there’s the Wild Wal-Mart. While all Wal-Marts have something of a “survival of the fittest” mentality (you don’t know what you’re capable of until Digiorno Supreme pizzas are on super sale), at the Wild Wal-Mart, all of the rules you thought you understood about human interaction go out the window.

I Drive Me Crazy

We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)

We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.

I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.

In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.

In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.

In the News

If you were referred here from another site, like Media of Birmingham or The Terminal, you might be looking for these stories: This One Time at Camp ... and/or Lauren. Thanks so much for visiting!