Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Learning to ride a bike

Since the accident my only mode of transportation has been my beach cruiser that I've had since I was eleven. It is hunter green, and if I wasn't so lazy I would find a picture of it, or take one, to post.

I quite like riding my bike. I mean, I'm getting exercise, I'm going where I want to (for the most part), I'm not spending all my tips on gas, etc. The only part I don't love it the sweat. I'm okay with being sweaty, but not when I get to Borders or my chiropractic appointment, or work. Thankfully there are these things called "deodorant" and "body spray" that are small enough to carry with me everywhere. So, smelliness can generally be avoided.

Last week I rode from my house to Moe's on Hoadly Rd. I have no idea what that amounts to in miles. I didn't plan on going there, I was just in a bad mood and needed to clear my head (something I've needed to do a lot lately) and where I would usually go for a drive, I went for a ride. It was refreshing and wonderful. Yeah, it took about three times as long to get there as it usually would via car, but I felt awesome afterwards.

My biggest problem with not having a car at my constant disposal was the sense of freedom I thought I'd lost. But there's a completely different sense of independence that comes with riding a bike. It's all about you. You and the machine, but not a machine that your externally operating, a machine that you become a part of. You also become much more aware of your surroundings. I think I've developed a greater appreciation for my body. It's not something that I often think about. But, I have this awesome machine and when it's used, it can do anything. And then when you combine it with another machine, it's literally awe-some.

I wish we had bike lanes or more sidewalks, or wider shoulders, something. Lake Ridge is not very bike friendly. I've had quite a few people yell out of the SUV's for me to get off the road. But I'm not "in" the road. I'm on the shoulder, usually. I'm only in the right lane if there aren't any other options, and it's not like they can't see me. I mean, I'm not in their way, I'm not slowing them down. Perhaps if they knew what I know, they wouldn't be so quick to make an ass of themselves.

Today after my chiropractic appointment I dropped off some movies, went to the bank, and made a stop at our local bike shop. They are all in the same shopping center, how convenient! (so much more so than Manassas) And all within a ten minute bike ride away! I bought myself one of those obnoxious flashing lights, some lube and a rear-view mirror (to attach to my handlebar). I also ordered a basket for the back of my bike. I'm most excited about this. Hopefully it will mean less hauling junk in my backpack, or at least a lighter load.

Dude, if you don't have a bike, you should get one.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Up Against the Wall

I am in desperate need of a new journal, but I haven't found the right one yet and I'm poor and so I will write something not quite as personal here.

This week, most notably the past two days, has been a complete and utter mess. So what's a girl to do?

She calls the boy of her affection 2348394827 times, texts him just as much and listens as his friends ask her where he is. Only, she doesn't know, well she has an idea, but not one that she likes, and so she sulks - attempting to go unnoticed, but that is impossible. So she calls some more and no one picks up. Then said boy's friend asks for a ride. She obliges. She drops him off. She can't go home because she's not supposed to be here, but because her plans fell through she's desperate for a couch to crash on. On her way to said couch some idiot hits her in Adam's Morgan, but she can't help thinking that if she had been with said boy she wouldn't have been there or even have dropped off his friend, because she would have been with him. And then when she didn't go knock on his door she ended up at 18 and T in an SUV's way. She's not blaming said boy at all, she's simply thinking of all the ways, reasons, why that night went wrong. And she comes up with this - his complete incapability for using a telephone properly, the fact that he was drunk...and she knows she's over analyzing everything, each detail to the umpteenth degree, but at this point she's leaning against her car in a frequented intersection flipping the bird to each prick that drives by yelling out their window - And so she calls Couch to come pick her because that motherfucking idiot of a Georgia Peach didn't have sense to learn how to drive properly in the District and so her car is not drivable. So the tow-truck comes, she writes down all sorts of information, and thankfully has all the contact information of the wonderful witness - who saw the whole thing, but wasn't being obnoxious about it like that other dude who kept bugging the cops to let him write down what he saw. The car is towed away and she is all shaky and quiet, and completely calm when most people's reaction would be to flip out. She didn't. She didn't even tell that Georgia Peach how stupid she is, because by God, that Peach is a fucking twat. So Girl texts Affection and is further upset, and gives up, but knows that if he weren't passed out in bed (two blocks away) he would hold her and let her get mascara all over his Thomas Cook shirt, that he most undoubtedly would be wearing. So Couch takes her home - their home anyway - and she attempts to fall asleep. unfortunately prior to the smooshsmash she had begun to get a knot in her stomach, the kind that develops as a result of combining hunger, stress, and the ever-present ability to appear forlorn. This doesn't come completely on purpose, but it's not an accident either. She's going out of her way to rethink, and hope, and pray, that this most surreal of evenings was just a nightmare that she'll wake up from in the morning, and he will make her toast, and hand her a glass of cranberry juice, and everything else he does that for some reason despite his idiocracy make sher smile. But that doesn't happen. She shits and crys, on and off for the next five hours. How is it that most people, when they get sick to their stomach, they expel their anxiety through their mouth and she through her ass? And eventually her eyes hurt to much to keep them open, but not enough to close, and she calls that insurance agent and tells the Nice Lady what a horrible evening she had. And that Nice Lady, notes the quivering of her voice and takes a pause and asks if she's okay. And of course they both know she isn't but she says yeah, I'm fine anyway. Couch is still asleep and Affection is not going to respond to her text because he has no idea where his phone is. Eventually Couch wakes up and they get breakfast, a slow, tasteless one served by newly immigrated Ethiopians. And then they drive around in search of the lot with her car in it hoping to have it towed to a garage, but that doesn't happen and won't until Monday. So they go back to Couch's house and she gets her stuff and is dropped off at the Metro, and her parents will come to pick her up in Springfield. But she doesn't go straight there, she gets off at Dupont and walks the four or five blocks uphill to Affection's building. The lady at the desk is unable to reach him to let her up, but lets her anyway because she recognizes her. And when she reaches his door, there's a long pause between the elevator doors closing and her knuckles beating the old door. He answers, uses the bathroom and then joins her on his couch. They don't touch. Or sit next to each other. The silence infiltrates the tired morning walls, until finally they speak. Very little is to be said. He knows exactly what he did, there is no need for her to explain what an arse he is, he knows, and he knows well. And she still wants to be the girl on his arm, if only one uninterrupted, one unshared night a week. They agree that she is not being unreasonable, but she can't stay, she has to get back to the train. And he offers to drive her instead. Do you want to? Yes. And so he does. And little is said, and they attempt to be cheery, it works, slightly. They are both still walking on wobbly legs, but with time will stand up and this will all be behind them. This is one of those "bigger" things that he had told her would come up. He knows it's much bigger than he had anticipated. And he's thinking of how stupid he is, and what if she hadn't been able to reach anyone? What if it had been more serious? They keep these thoughts to themselves. Do you love me? Yes. Really? Yes. And he drops her off. Now give me a kiss. (she turns her cheek) You know, I love you, you make me mad, but I love you. And with that she shuts the door and walks down the stairwell to where her parents are waiting. They don't know any of this, just that Couch doesn't live with girls and that people should be in bed early in the morning. And when she gets home, still shaken and not quite awake to reality, she changes out of the previous night's clothes and goes for a ride to clear her head, and she listens to this
song on repeat. Somehow it suits perfectly, maybe a bit uncannily so.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

If you don't get it, you just don't get it

As you all know, I work at the Haircuttery. It's not so bad, I'm used to being around people with different views than I have, but I never bargained for what I've found there. I also know I'm a snob and consider my opinions and ways of doing things quite a bit higher than other's; but sometimes there is no reasoning with people (aka convincing them that they are wrong).

At work last week on a particularly slow day three of us were in the back "reading" Elle and Glamour magazines. In them there is an add for Skechers with Tori Spelling in it. She looks weird, especially in those adds. This began a discussion that led to me telling the other girls of my hatred for Sketchers. Usually I'm around fellow haters (with the exception of my mother who thinks they're wonderful looking shoes but bad on her back), but unknown to me I was in the presence of people who actually like Everything about Skechers. I tried to explain that they are cheaply made (of plastic), have that horribly huge S on them, generally ugly, etc. but there was no reasoning. Then one girl started complaining about her back - this particular girl is cheap, very cheap, and overweight. If you wear cheap shoes with absolutely no support and carry a few extra pounds, in addition to being on your feet at work everyday, of course your back is going to hurt.

I've tried to explain to her several times that she needs to get inserts, to which she replys, "I have. I've bought those Doctor Scholl's ones." No, I tell her, you need to see a podiatrist and get custom ones made. She then complains about how much that would cost, but she's considering getting back surgery!?!?!?!?! Three hundred dollars on something that could help you a lot and avoid the surgery or thousands of dollars on an avoidable surgery. This is the same girl who tells me that she knows losing weight would help her but she's just so lazy. She has told me that she is lazy. AGH!

Moving on/going back, that conversation led to us discussing trailors, and me of course in my typical nature telling everyone that I hate trailors, too. Trailors are generally crappy, trailor parks are gross, and the people that live there aren't usually much better. I feel I can say this because I've spent plenty of time (not lately) around/in trailors growing up with family in the south where a double-wide is the standard of living. Ms. Cheapy apparently grew up in a trailor, and was now offended. I almost felt bad... almost.

The other girl with us could see where I was coming from but thought that I was being a bit harsh (haven't heard that before). I love this girl, she is one of the sanest people that I work with, exceptionally talented and should be doing so much better than the Haircuttery. And then she had to drop thie awful bomb on me a few days ago when we were discussing music. She knows that I go to shows fairly often, and asked what my favorite band was/is - that she's heard of. I told her the Killers. Her's is Nickelback. NICKELBACK! She thinks that his voice is one of the best of today, and that Brandon Flowers' voice is whiney! Whiney!?

I'm not going to waste my time explaining why Nickelback is the worst band of all time (and Creed, and Korn).

please watch this

Friday, July 4, 2008

Happy Birthday, America!

I get a little bit too excited about the 4th of July. I get a little bit too excited about a lot of things. I get excited the same way a typical five-year-old gets excited about going to Chuck E. Cheese's and staying up past their 8:30 bedtime. Today I am five and America is 232.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

An address to the happenings of late

Dear Burt Reynolds,
These past few months have been a whirlwind of emotions for both of us. Probably you more than me, seeing as everything you're dealing with right now, I was dealing with three years ago.

I recognize that you hate me right now. I also realize how irrational you are being. I have never done anything to intentionally hurt you, you know that - even if right now you won't admit it. You probably think I was leading you on, but that doesn't make sense either because until this past Friday I had not seen you in person for almost a month.

Until this whole thing happened you didn't think I was a manipulative bitch, you thought that I was this really strong person who wanted to help you. I did, at the time, and maybe I got a bit carried away, I think you did too. Somehow I became this person that you wish you'd had all along. But you didn't want to date me, at least not seriously, that was understood from the beginning. You said that you weren't "in love" with me, which was fine because I wasn't ever "in love" with you either. I thought, about two months ago that our relationship may take a romantic turn, but it didn't.

You decided that you were going to move back home, see if you could work from there and come to the city maybe once a month. While you've been going home on the weekends, and I've been working seven days a week, my life continued. Besides that, though, it couldn't have worked out for us. You're too co-dependent and I just would have become your therapist, and that's unhealthy.

Now, you've told me, many times, that you feel completely out of control, that you hate who you are, etc. I've seen a few sides of you, Burt, I've seen the side that you should hate, but I've also seen the side that's so sensitive he can hardly bare it. I know that if we were to sit down and discuss this you would probably cry, and to avoid that you've sent me quite a few mean, even nasty messages. You probably don't want to cry in front of me because you're trying to be strong. But strong people aren't afraid of their emotions, they embrace them and experience them. They don't go to their room and hide while getting high with someone that doesn't have a clues what's going on in their life. Strong people don't hide.

In your efforts to have control of something and perhaps to make you feel a bit better about yourself you emailed me, texted me, and called me, and told me how awful you think I am, that I'm not "allowed" to talk to, hang out with, or pretty much associate with any of your friends. I'm not allowed to message them, and I suppose I should just pretend I don't know them if I see them. I'm not allowed to play softball with your company, and you've made it clear to them your hate for me.

I'm not one to do what other people tell me what to do, you should know that as well as anyone, so I'm not sure what you thought would be different. When I ran into a guy from your office on Friday, we chatted and he invited me out because they needed more girls, I have more experience, etc. I had also been told that you wouldn't be at the game yesterday, but somehow I knew you would, just to make sure I didn't play - and yet, I was still a bit surprised when I saw you yesterday.

You had the audacity to accuse me of stalking you. Wow. If I was interested in stalking you, I'm sure if wouldn't be that difficult, but, wow, no, that wouldn't happen. Don't flatter yourself. But that wasn't it, you told me that I needed help! Good, God! I need help? Burt, you're running in circles around things you wish would die, but you won't let them. I've had a lot of friends that were getting help, but never have I had one that needed it so bad, but wasn't getting it.

I should hate you right now. This is twice you've made a scene. This is twice you've done everything in your power at the time to belittle me and generally hurt me. I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you. I'm not going to try and fix this, this time like I did last time. I still care about you. And I hope for the best in all you do. You have so much potential, but you have a lot to work through before you can use it.

To each of you texts and messages, if I've answered, I've been very nice about it. I've told you that you're a great guy, to which you responded, "I already realize that. You just weren't good enough for me. I guess you realized that and that pretty much explains everything." I may not be good enough for you, but I'm not being juvenile, immature, etc. as you said I was yesterday. I'm upset that your victimizing yourself. I'm not pathetic, you're being petty.

I look forward to the day when you have successful band. Your first single will, without a doubt be a song about a past relationship that went awry. Maybe not about me, but I'll hear it and smile to myself. I hope you do the same when your then wife comes home with my book.

Good luck!