5 Things That Embarrass Me About Me

This is what happens when you objectify Barbie.
This is what the internet was made for, really: Self-obsessed confessional blog posts. OK, that or porn, but I don’t really get the obsession with porn. My husband found this very amusing, until I tried to find that scary old nude of Demi Moore and wound up infecting our computer with a virus.

“How can you not know how to find porn?” he asked, as if it were the part of the TV movie in which he discovers that I never learned to read.

“I am from New England,” I said with great dignity. “We are born wearing plastic underpants like Barbie. Also, we do not have nipples.”

But anyway, I’ve gotten off-track. My actual point is that there are several things that I am embarrassed to disclose about myself, and that I will now do so on the internet for all of us to pick apart. So basically, let’s party like it’s 2003, I guess. It’ll be fun!

  1. I am almost always completely obsessed with a TV show. It’s just one show at a time, because I am a serial monogamist. I start out by watching it, and then add it to my Netflix Instant rotation, and then devolve into this pathetic creature who has to follow tumblrs and livejournals dedicated to the show, generally one couple on the show in particular. Right now, that show is Parks and Recreation and that couple is Leslie and Ben. I am so obsessed with these two that it might become a problem in my marriage if it weren’t for the fact that Ben Wyatt is basically my husband in a skinny tie. I haven’t yet started writing fan fiction for my favorite series, but it doesn’t sound anywhere near as insane as it once did, so get ready for that stage of my spiral into insanity.
  2. There are many words I can’t spell at all, including “embarrass,” which I always have to look up. I am an editor.
  3. I’m such a socially awkward penguin, I can’t do almost anything of a physical nature with any kind of grace or skill. This includes, but is not limited to, dancing, running, skating, standing still for long periods of time, riding a bike, driving a car, and walking upstairs without stumbling over a riser and falling flat on my face. Fortunately, no one ever wants to go dancing, or to get some exercise, or to take a long ride in a car in which the various drivers present should switch off. Oh, wait, that actually happens all the time.
  4. Similarly, I have no sense of direction, and am clumsy. If you go camping with me, I will get lost and then fall in a hole. It’s one of the few things you can depend upon in this inconstant world. I have actually done this twice in my life, despite only having gone camping maybe ten times ever.
  5. I am fickle. I need to travel to new places on a semi-regular basis in order to not be a bitch to everyone around me. Actually, they don’t even need to be brand-new; they just need to be a place where my things don’t live.

    With all this in mind, you’d think the holidays would be a lot of fun for me, as long as I don’t get lost on the way to dinner. Still, there’s always the possibility that someone will ask you to dance, jog, or drive.

    Image: Fark


The Return of Ma Smash

Ma Smash has pointed out that she hasn’t had much airtime lately on the old blog, and I have promised her that I will remedy this. In return, I was allowed to stay in her house all weekend long and to help her drink all of the wine she had.

How much wine was that? Well, let’s just say it was twice as much wine as we needed, as evidenced by the fact that we decided to call my sister on speakerphone and tell her, at great length and volume, how drunk we were.

Meg, who had given birth a week before, was not impresses with our behavior. Nor was she impressed with our singing.

Oh well. Can’t please all of the people, all of the time. Come to think of it, perhaps we should have poll: How many of you readers out there in the ether would enjoy having a drunk phone call from me and my mom? Take this poll:

I Should Also Mention, While I’m at It…

…that my severance check arrived today and was 300 dollars less than I was expecting, due to a tax issue that none of us were aware of. Two minutes before this, my husband discovered that he wasn’t going to receive any more unemployment.

What does one do, in such embarrassingly trendy despair? Yell at travel agents, apparently and drink a bottle of champagne to toast the end of the world.

The Internet Is for Complaining

I’m on hold with Expedia right now, because their POS website doesn’t work. It wouldn’t let me add my husband’s name to our trip, which I think we can agree is a problem, because TSA tends not to take your word for it when you tell them that you meant to fill out your traveling companion’s name.

Then I got someone on the actual phone to book the trip, and while she was lovely, she clearly could not type. Because when my itinerary arrived, my name was spelled J-E-N-N-E-F-E-R.

Well. I’ve known some Jenifers in my day, and a few Gennifers. I have never, not once, met anyone named “Jennefer.” I don’t even think that name exists. What makes it worse is that she spelled it out, and I swear she spelled it right. Either that, or I was so intent on listening for the two Ns that I didn’t hear the E instead of the I.

Either way, I’m now on hold while a customer service rep is trying to get a hold of the airline so that we can go see my sister and her new baby without TSA agents deciding that we’re spies or something.

I understand that none of this is actually important. But some days it really does feel like all the little shitty things are banding together into a giant shitty thing Voltron in order to take us all down.

The New Uniform

I suddenly realized that there’s absolutely nothing to stop me from dressing entirely in silk kimonos, or giant iridescent caftans with hula girls on them, or Victorian nightgowns. I didn’t really have a dress code at my old office, but now I really don’t. I can get a head start on becoming that awesome old woman I intend to become.

I thought of this because I was looking at all my clothes hanging up in the dressing room, which is what we call the tiny room next to our bedroom because we’re embarrassed to call it the Room Full of Boxes We’re Never Going to Unpack. Anyway, I was in this room, looking at my clothes, and I realized that I have a lot of really beautiful things in really beautiful colors. I have bright pink sweaters and grass-green dresses and a pair of tights with neon stars printed all over them.

Pictured: Awesomeness

I wore these things on my birthday or when it was probably going to be a particularly rough day at the salt mines. The rest of the time, I wore ten-dollar pants and old t-shirts and sometimes a cute, professional-ish dress or two.

I’ve spent the past two weeks hanging around the house in yoga pants, and I love them, but I think I might need to break out some of these fun clothes. It’s time for a new uniform.

Image: The Paris Review

I Shall Build an Army of My Own. A Robot Army. A Robot Army Made Entirely of Lady Robots

The first thing we’ll do is devise unnecessarily long titles for everything we write.

I need the distraction right now. As anyone who reads my blog or Facebook page already knows, I’ve been pretty upbeat since the layoff. I’m still me, however, so now and then I get anxious.

The last two days in particular have been nervewracking. I had a bunch of invoices to send people, and while I’m very (very, extremely, very) grateful to have clients to bill, I’m not someone for whom paperwork is an easy thing.

I feel like paperwork wants to get lost, and so far, I’m not getting any proof that this isn’t the case. Fax machines refuse to send W9s; mail goes astray. When they unravel the genome completely, they’ll find that this is carried on the same allele that makes it impossible to find my way back out of a doctor’s office I’ve just entered, provided we’ve turned a corner and opened a door. Maybe it’s some sort of physical world problem: directional dyslexia.

As if I weren’t anxious enough, I also have a meeting on Tuesday with the lovely people down at Unemployment, and I’m not sure how to explain what I’m doing. I sort of want to show them my schedule of work, perhaps in a colorful chart-type format, and hope that it sinks in that I’m probably going to be hitting them up for about two days a week in benefits, for the shortest amount of time ever. (This is assuming that my clients don’t drop me for being unable to persuade a fax machine to work.)

The people at employment yell at you in the security line. They confiscated Adam’s money clip, which his dead grandfather had given him, and threw Madeleine’s cupcakes into the trash in front of her, and said, “Now they’re TRASH.” If they treat me this way, I will lose control of my bowels and laugh at the same time. Now we’ll who has paperwork to fill out, Jimmy.

Paperwork, ugh. It plagues me from every angle. My biggest secret shame today is that I mixed up two invoices, and sent the wrong one to the wrong person. She was very understanding, but it did not look professional. (And, OK, no: the real worst is that as soon as I typed this, I realized that I’m doomed to get about about nine comments telling me that I’m using the wrong software to organize my invoices. And that I should also get a real job.)

Anyway, my point is that I am somewhat anxious. But still way less anxious than I was on my best day in an office. Also, weirdly, way more productive. I bet I’ll even get the hang of invoicing someday. Anything is possible, people!

robot army
Here I am, with my army of lady robots.