My Imaginary House

About a year ago a friend and I were fantasizing about moving to a beach house or buying a vacation home together when we're not poor, so hopefully in about a decade. At the time I found a house that's about an hour away from the beach in my mom's home town. It's pretty centrally located between several larger towns in Eastern North Carolina.

Recently I was looking at houses in that area again, and found that the same one was still for sale. It's been for sale for about two years, and I doubt anyone will scoop it up anytime soon. My mom's hometown is pretty decrepit. It had a textile mill and a Pepsi plant in the 50s and 60s, but once those moved the only industry left was tabacco, and that's not even as prominent anymore.

The median age in the town is 44 and about 50% of the population lives below the poverty line. The crime rate is close to twice the national average, though most of those crimes aren't violent.

My mom has told me that this is a terrible idea and that I don't have money anyway, though, "If you really want it I suppose you could buy out the owners."

About two years ago I interviewed several of my mom's relatives. I have a bunch of letters and copies of deeds and other similar documents, and have this outrageous idea to write a book based on my mom's dysfunctional family -- she's not exactly stoked about the idea, there were a lot of alcoholics, lots of infidelity, and a few of them dabbled in the Ku Klux Klan. Ideally, I'd like to do this in the house I'll buy there.

I'm going home next month for a visit and have plans to road-trip down to see the house with a friend. I figure if it's awful in person, then I can forget about the idea for awhile. But even if the house is terrible,   I'll find another, and moving there will still be part of my plan. After school and after I pay off my loans, hopefully I'll have a solid portfolio and will be able to freelance and can live wherever, including The Middle of Nowhere, North Carolina.

The more I think about my imaginary house, I think of who I'd like to be there. I've always been somewhat environmentally conscious, but I've become more-so and I'd like to have a home that's completely self-sustained. I want to make everything I eat, and put on my body, and use in my home. I want to bike the flat land around it, and I want to teach kids to read, and I want to be a girl scout leader, and to have strangers over for dinner.

The person who would live in that house is much better than I am now. She's more compassionate and less selfish, and patient. I know I don't have to live there to accomplish these things, but I suppose in my head once I've achieved all those things, I'll be able to make there happen, and maybe start something to lift up that wretched little town.

Childhood Ambition

When I was a kid my mom and I used to drive around after church each Sunday and go to model homes. My mom would see what was trendy and try to find something similar at yard-sales or discount stores. I would make notes, in my planner (because I had one of those, I bought it with birthday money), about what details I liked and what I thought was tacky. I never really liked the decor in model homes, but I did love bay windows and sunken living rooms and arched doorways.

My mom has always wanted a large house, one of those McMansions that she has spent so many years cleaning. But the realtors who were always present at model homes didn't know what my mom did. To them we were just some lady and her odd daughter taking notes. Between these homes and the ones I saw in coffee table books, I was set on being an Architect for a very long time.

My mom was raised really poor, and I think she's always been fascinated by what people with money look like and buy. It was important to her when I was coming up that I looked a certain way, not just because she didn't like my torn up jeans and band-tees or ragged hoodie, but because in her day I would have looked poor. It didn't matter that I fit in with most kids my age, it wasn't "nice." This was with all things. My brother once told me it bothered him that people assumed our family had more than we did because of the way my sisters and I were dressed. I felt similarly, our duplex seemed inadequate compared to all my friends' homes.

I kept my notes and would go home and draw a blueprint. The concept of designing an entire house didn't really hit until I was older, so I had all these drawings of my ideal room. When I was around ten my dad bought me Sierra Home Architect, a computer program that allowed you to design buildings. I didn't have video games, but I had that and I would spend hours designing my dream house (it would have an octagon foyer based my earliest designs). 

My parents encouraged this as much as they could, which included taking me to several of Frank Lloyd Wright's homes. I wrote my fifth grade SOL essay about Taliesin West -- I got a perfect 600. Three years later I was accepted into an engineering program at my high school and did that for two years before I realized how much I hated drafting in CAD and Visio. But I would still sketch things in my notebooks next to terrible poetry. 

I spent last year living by myself in a studio and didn't realize it for some time, but that was the first childhood ambition that came true. All those sketches of my ideal room were finally brought to life. A single room, arranged precisely how I had envisioned it. Split up into a bedroom area, a dining area, a living room area -- there was a system and it felt like more than just a large blank room. I think Frank Lloyd Wright would have approved. 

It seems so silly, but I spent the first two decades of my life just wanting a giant room to call my own. Then I had it, and wanted it somewhere else. 

Procreation Starts With Prayer

I spent the first eighteen years of my life learning about marriage and what a woman's role within those sacred confines means. My brother served a mission for the Mormon church and got married less than a year after he returned, as the Church encourages all Return Missionaries (RMs) to do. This was, and to my parents still very much is the ideal.

Recently I was discussing sleeping-bags with my dad, and he offered to buy me a new one. But I am very picky about these things and told him that I wanted a specific one, one that cost about three hundred dollars. His response was, "well I want you go marry a Return Missionary." This has become his response to my expressing most any desire. As the cliche goes, "it's nice to want things," and he and I want very different things for me.

My mother is more passive about it. She will call me and tell me about a former friend or acquaintance who is getting married, AND they're getting married in the temple, or they're having a baby with the person they married in the temple, or even "so-and-so has started dating someone, they are Mormon." That is great for them. I am so happy that someone else has found something that makes them happy, and that they found someone else who is also made happy by that same thing, but I'm not interested in being sent pictures from their weddings, or of their babies. 

One of my best friends from childhood got married almost two years ago. A girl I grew up with had her first kid about a month ago, with her RM husband. Another former friend got married last month and my ex-best friend is getting married next week. This means that they will all be procreating the entire time I'm busy avoiding responsibility, so for at least the next decade of our lives. Don't get me wrong, I like babies, but few that aren't related to me, and I imagine, if I'm not keen on their parents, their chances dwindle significantly.


Mom: "You know So-and-so's baby is due..."

Me: "That's great, but I really don't care."

Mom: "Well, I just thought you'd want to know."

Me: "Nope!"

Mom: "But you were close growing up."

Me: "No. We weren't. Mom, I am not interested in hearing about her or anyone else' wedding plans, dating lives, or pregnancies. They aren't a part of my life anymore for a reason."

Mom: "I can see now is not a good time, I'll let you go."

Me: "Thank God."

This did not stop my mom from sending me a picture message from a reception a week later.

Belated Mother's Day



My mom about my age.


For Mother's Day I went to church with my parents. It's simple and free and my parents take way too much pride in showcasing their spawn at church, it's not just them, it's a Mormon thing. Church, for me is like a role in a play that you were in in high school that you still remember all the lines to - it's just like that. I wear a sleeved dress with a relatively modest neckline, that goes down to at least my knees with modest heels. And lipstick, red lipstick (because other colors are useless) that my mother has implied is "inappropriate." It sends the wrong message to young return missionaries.

I went for all three hours. It's very strange going now, the congregation is mostly young couples not much older than me that already have multiple babies. It freaks me out, not because I don't like babies, they're fine, but because that could have been me. I could be the young mom taking a toddler to the bathroom while prgnant with another. I could be a stay at home mom, already, at 21.

My mom stayed at home until my dad retired from the Marines and my family moved from North Carolina to Northern  Virginia. She got a job at the local hospital doing administrative stuff and started cleaning on the side, as the hours at the hospital became more restrictive, she quit and expanded her cleaning business. She taught us to clean, all of us know how to clean a bathtub and a kitchen sink, and that all you really need is warm sudsy water and elbow grease. As a result I have little patience for people who have ever paid anyone to clean up after them.

My mom is the hardest worker I know. She's scrapy. She grew up with nothing, in a podunk town in Eastern North Carolina. She put herself through community college where she got a degree in court reporting, did that for a bit, worked at a hospital for a bit, worked in social services for a bit, and eventually married my dad, had five kids and started her own company. . She moved around a lot, all my mom ever wanted was her own a house. Her house, that she could fashion in any way she wanted. And she does.

My mom is familiar with others' good will, and as a result she exhibits that gratuitous excess. There is not a person who's situation she is not familiar with or unwilling to help. She's opened our house to those who need a place to crash, provided clothes, a shower, food, whatever is needed to those who need a helping hand. And she taught all of us what it was to work and to be compassionate, and to be nice - though, I am not always very nice, I'm working on it. And when I'm being a bitch she won't say the word, she'll fidget and warble unintelligibly, because she is a lady and ladies don't use that kind of language.

She doesn't get me. And most of the time I don't get her either, and sometimes that makes communicating with one another difficult, but this is something we both recognize. She didn't go out much at my age, and she certainly didn't kiss strangers and she lived close to her entire extended family until she got married to my dad who scooped her up and took her to California. She doesn't understand my restless nature, but she listens.

Savannah: The Prologue

A couple months ago my friend, E, suggested that we go to Savannah, Georgia because she was born in Georgia and wanted to go back one more time before she goes abroad for grad school - because she has no intention (mostly) of ever coming back to the United States. I'm down for most things, so I agreed to go. Her summer plans are still up in the air, she doesn't know where she'll be interning yet, so we decided it had to be in April. We went this past Saturday and got back on Tuesday.

My friend, K, lives with a bunch of my friends in DC. She's from the Pacific Northwest and had never been south of Richmond before this trip. I don't think she was fully aware of what she was getting herself into.

Jesus Waffles

I grew up in Norhtern Virginia, but I spent all of my childhood family vacations visiting family members. My mom's family is from East North Carolina, she grew up specifically in Kinston (it's off 41, close to Goldsboro, yeah...). My dad was born in Memphis and grew up between there and Phoenix. We're Southern. I have been to pig pickings. I can drop "y'all" without noticing. I am fine walking around in jorts without shoes on. There is a part of me that is instinctually Southern. I can't shake it. I used to hate it, but I know my family's history, and there's a lot to be embarassed about, but I understand it, and I can't change it, so I accept it and love it anyway.

I've also written about Fat People here before. And I enjoy making fun of people as much as everyone else, or maybe more than most, but I am unphased by the South. I have seen Confederate flags worn and displayed unironically, proudly. I know that there are still people that refer to the Civil War as the War Between the States, and that those people don't think that race had anything to do with it, it was, to them, a Big Government infringing upon states' rights. My personal opinons aside, I get it.

People are fat, and sometimes people wear shirts with Tweety Bird on them, or relatively offensive racial or sexist slurs, or something five sizes too small - that's a typical Southern beach town. All of that aside, they just don't care. No one can accuse them of being uptight, they're happy with who they are and they own it.

Christmas: Part 2

(My apologies for the delay between parts being posted, I've been sick and remain internetless. I'm working on that though - and by "working on that" I mean, I'm working on not being so poor.)

 

Archer is six. We let him stay up fairly late among all the bustle and visitors on Christmas Eve, it was of no matter, he was up at eight Christmas morning and ready to open presents. As we each made our way to the living room, we noticed that Laiene had not joined us. Joseph explained her fear of the dog, and I went upstairs to tell her that Biscuit had been put in the basement for the time being. She claimed to be jetlagged and to have a headache. I left apologetically and rejoined the rest of the family downstairs.

It was a small Christmas. We’re all grown now and gifts don’t excite us the way that they once did. I got a crock pot and a waffle iron while April got a toaster. Santa “forgot” Archer’s Packers helmet and jersey, but left a letter assuring him it would arrive soon via his elves at UPS. Archer is also the age at which it’s acceptable for him to express disappointment with his gifts – he did not like the array of books and crafts I got him; he made a blatant frown and questioned them. Apparently space origami and Nate the Great aren’t cool anymore. My bad.

My thrift store finds were better received. My dad seemed pleased with his framed picture of John Wayne, and my mother unsurprisingly forced a smile upon opening the painting I gave her. August’s welded peacock hangings apparently match her bedroom theme. April’s candles and salt and pepper shakers are at use. Steven (bro-in-law) filled his Migo mug with instant coffee. Joe seemed amused by his beer mug (he brews his own).

I spent the time after present opening attempting to find someone to take Biscuit, just for the day, just until we could find a kennel. While I was holed up texting people who had dogs in the area, August lost her cool and started yelling about how Laiene was being “irrational” and how Joe shouldn’t “allow his wife to behave that way” while stomping and slamming doors. Growing up, having holes in the walls wasn’t unheard of, but we’re adults now and there is now a hole in the newly painted wall behind the door of my old room. Additionally, the new latch has come loose.

I tried talking to August, but it was about thirty seconds before I was being “condescending.” I’m not sure why I even tried, there’s no reasoning with unreasonable people.

August and Laiene later apologized to each other and we all made our way to the Kennedy Center to see Shear Madness. The show was cute, a murder mystery, the babies slept through it (thankfully), we had a great time. We walked through the building afterward for dinner at the terrace restaurant (banquet hall). Dinner was delicious and the babies managed to stay quiet – somewhere, someone was looking out for my family’s sanity that day. Lord knows what kind of drama would have occurred with impatient parents and crying infants to deal with. It was the end of dinner that caused some friction. August and my dad have very similar ways of dealing with everything, they are both impatient and loud and have a complete disregard for causing a scene in public places. FUN!

August had asked for boxes for the leftovers and my dad wanted to leave them.

“This was expensive, I’m not going to waste it.” August began.

“It’s really not necessary…” My dad continued.

“Well, we’ll eat this later.”

“August…”

It’s getting heated, so I interject, “it’s not a big deal.”

“Do you think we look poor or something?” August quipped.

“Yeah, I suppose I do,” my dad said sorely. “Poor” is something my parents grew up in and have made every concerted effort to not appear that way in their adult lives.

“Well I’m not wasting it…” And she finishes filling the boxes with leftover lamb and mashed potatoes.

By the time we made it home the tension had settled, but I was close to losing my cool so I changed and made my way back into the city for a friend’s dance night – by myself. Though, I wasn’t really by myself, my friends were DJing and others had managed to escape their families too and we all celebrated the birth of Baby Jesus with shots. I spent that night dancing spinning, literally. Play me Blur, New Order and Arcade Fire – in that order, and I will spin forever. Christmas night was like that. After such a stressful series of events I needed that, the music, those people, that venue – DC.

I crashed at a friend’s house that night, and managed to make it to church the next morning.

Christmas: Part 1

(Read the previous post and this will all make more sense.)

 

I am the youngest of five children by eight years. Given that I had the house mostly to myself after the age of ten, save for those occasions when a sibling would move back home for a short period of time, I never had the house to myself when one would really like to have space – any amount of space, the holidays. Because my siblings range from eight to fourteen years older than me, the amount of space has gotten smaller as they have adopted significant others and started reproducing. There are fifteen people in my immediate family – FIFTEEN PEOPLE. That includes three spouses and five grandchildren – all of my siblings are parents. And I don’t have two parents, no, I have at best six, at worst nine. That is nine people who think that they know what’s best for me in this life. I am forever at the bottom of the totem pole.

I had to work Christmas Eve and spent as much time as I could at home, in my studio apartment, by myself, in solitude, before I had to face Interstate 95 and head North to the wasteland that is Northern Virginia. There were ten other people, including two infants, plus two dogs, waiting for me and I wasn’t quite ready to deal. When my mom called to see what time I would be arriving, I only told her that it would be later rather than sooner, I think she understood.

When I was a kid (though that’s relative, because I’m pretty sure the majority of my family still thinks I’m five) I always had to give my bed up to accommodate the adults. I would sleep on a pallet set out for me in my parents’ bedroom as my bed would be occupied by Joe’s girlfriend, August’s boyfriend, Uncle Keith, etc. It was never really a choice, I had no say in the matter, and I didn’t mind too much. I would create a nest of sorts between the pallet and the area that I could fit into under my parents’ bed. But I’m not five anymore, and I prefer beds. So when I heard that my eldest sister, August, wanted to put me on the couch so that she and her son could share the guest room with two twin beds, I was happy to hear that my mother refer to me as an “adult” – so Archer got to sleep on a pallet in my parents’ room.

This is how my relationship with August usually goes. We do not get along. We never have. She dismisses me as a human being and considers me to be pretentious, snobby, rude, condescending, spoiled etc. which is interesting, because we rarely speak to each other. I don’t think we’ve had a two-sided conversation in my entire adult life. This isn’t just my relationship with her, she has regarded my brothers as “detached” and “estranged.” Of all our siblings, August really only likes April. August and April are complete opposites – August made a point to be obstinate. August is more impulsive than I am and lives in a world with very few consequences. April lives for those consequences; she is cautious and has boundaries; she is the closest to what our parents hoped for in all of us. I am somewhere in the middle, not as reckless as August – I have a plan, and I’m doing my best to make what I want in this life to happen independently of say, oh, I don’t know, my parents; I’m not nearly as cautious as April, though. August is far left of everything, and April is far right (mostly), and because I’m in the middle, they both regard me as being much like the other.

So, I got to share a room with August, and her dog, Biscuit, an 18 month old, male Pitbull. Yeah. Now, we grew up with dogs, and there are only six months of my life that I remember not having a dog – that was the time between having to put one dog down and adopting another. Our sister-in-law, Laiene, is Basque (look it up, I don’t feel like explaining, but do not call her Spanish, ever), and she has never had a pet and is afraid of dogs. Sure, she’s been around my parent’s beagle/lab mix, Emmy, but she’s mostly deaf and blind now, and in no way compares to a puppy Pitbull. April had told August not to bring the dog, my parents had asked August not to bring the dog, and I didn’t have a say, because as I previously mentioned, we rarely speak, and Joseph and Laiene had no idea about the situation. So August brought her sweet, but unwelcome dog.

I arrived on Christmas Eve around 9 pm, followed shortly by my uncle Keith and his roommate David. My mom prepared some leftover spaghetti for them, and not me because there was not enough left over for me too so I had some leftover salad and bread. Keith isn’t a fan of crowds, none of us are, but he has a choice in the matter and only stayed for an hour or so before going home. We exchanged gifts and hug and made small talk upstairs while my dad and Joseph fell asleep in front of the TV – typical.

The amount of eggshells we tip-toed around that evening was unlike anything I have ever done. Despite my direct (read: blunt) nature, I do what I can to keep the peace, especially at home. I don’t need to partake in any more family brawls than necessary. I have learned this, and this is why when inundated by family, I tend to hide wherever I can.

Laiene’s family is smaller, and from what I can infer, much less loud and boisterous and generally not as confrontational as we are. I was able to talk with Laiene for a good while and meet my nephew Ibai (E-bi) for the first time. Ibai was asleep and Laiene was hiding from the rest of the clan. She is much more cool-headed and shy than the rest of us, though just as stubborn.

That night when we finally went to bed, August and I fell asleep discussing our respective love lives. I find it troubling that they seem so similar. We’re thirteen years apart. My life is supposed to be messy and busy and troublesome, but hers is even more so. I date guys that are closer to her age than mine, and she dates guys that are more age appropriate for me. I prefer something to balance my mess with something stable, and she manages to find something just as messy. So I listened to her, and I tried to tell her about my life, but it was useless. As soon as I began she claimed to be too tired to continue the conversation. Typical.

Christmas: The Introduction

There are a lot of people in my family and of the fifteen immediate members, eleven of us were home for Christmas this year. To make it slightly easier, let me introduce them. We’re really spread out and getting this many of us together is very rare. So here’s a brief outline of my family so that you can have a better understanding of the distance and age. We’re all over, everything, all the time. And we keep reproducing. Chances are you will eventually meet one of us and you may or may not develop an opinion of all of us based on that particular member. Don’t. We are the most grab-bag bunch of people to be called a “family.”

Mom – Annise (it’s French, but we aren’t) – 62

Dad – Leb (it’s Russian, but we aren’t) – 62

They reside in Northern Virginia.

Joseph – 35

Laiene (wife of Joseph) – 31 (I think, I’m not sure)

Ibai (E-bi, Joseph and Laiene’s son) – 4 months

They live in San Sebastian in Spain. Laiene is Basque. They met in DC about eight years ago.

August (changed as requested) – 34

Archer (August’s son) – 6

They live in North Carolina.

(Steven – 31, but he and his wife Lessa and their kids Ella and Rocket weren’t here this year so don’t worry about it. They live in Utah.)

April – 28

Steven (April’s husband, not to be confused with our brother or uncle named Steven) – 28

Olivia (April and Steven’s daughter) – 4 months (she is three days older than Ibai)

They live outside of Richmond, Virginia.

Getting Excited About Christmas?

Christmas is in five days and I still have the majority of my Christmas shopping to do. I'm poor, so I'm only buying my immediate family presents this year, and I'm getting them from thrift stores. My sisters and I all have an appreciation for the odd, unique, generally old things you can find, but the rest of my family won't be so easy. My mom prefers gaudy, new things a la model homes - that kind of gaudy. Everyone else isn't as picky and may not love what I get them, but will deal.

As picky as my mother is about what she wants, she's just as picky about giving us what she thinks we should want. For example, I need new clothes. The last time I went shopping was in September, I bought a (third) pair of black skinny pants, two plaid shirts and a red dress. With the exception of that dress (that I've only worn once) that became my fall uniform. Since winter has arrived I've modified it slightly by wearing tights under my pants and t-shirts under my button-downs. I keep it basic because I can't afford to dress better. My mother hates this, she's always telling me that I need to get some nice "slacks" and to let her know if I'd like anything from Talbot's, Chadwick's, Bowden, etc.

This summer she told me to email her some dresses I'd like, and she'd get me a couple. I sent the email, everything was around $50. She didn't like any of them and in return sent me links to dresses she thought I would like. They were terrible. And I didn't end up with any new dresses. THANKS, MOM!

So, the other day she and my dad were in Richmond and we were all at my sister's house, and when my mom goes to hug me, she very conspicuously looks at my shirt tag, and then makes this face. The corners of her mouth curve up and inward and she squints her eyes, it's terrible, but it's her "I'm up to something face"- because she hadn't already given herself away. I had been warned that my mom was planning on buying me a coral sweater set, so I told her very plainly not to. I would not wear it.

Last year I asked for an oversized, black, merino wool sweater. I got a black Merona (the Target brand) sweater instead. Not the same thing, but at least she tried.

I don't ask for a lot, but I am very specific about what I want. And as my mother has learned, and demonstrated this summer with the dresses, if it's not what I asked for, I would rather go without.

My sister April is smarter about her responses to "What do you want for Christmas?" She asks for practical gifts with very little specifications. This year she told me mom that she wanted a toaster, no particular brand, no specific color or size, just a toaster. Well my mom decided to get an expensive one, since it was all April had asked for. Then this conversation happened:

Mom: What else do you want? Something big? (Big, i.e. more valuable than a toaster)
April: Something that I can use the internet on...
Mom: ...
April: Like a netbook?
Mom: I was thinking a gym membership...

1. April has a gym membership.
2. My mom can be such a bitch.
3. April can fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes.
4. Could my mom be any more passive aggressive?

My mom thinks April is fat, and that I dress terribly. Ohdeargod, Christmas is going to be so much fun.

The presents that I have bought so far aren't great, I've definitely done better (with more money) in the past, but I'm doing my best to be inspired. And as cheesy as that may be I think I'm doing alright so far.

I am afraid of being reduced to only being able to shop at K-mart

My sister had her baby last Monday, the 23rd, and my sister-in-law in Spain had her baby last Thursday. I have a lot to say about this whole thing, miracle of life, and all that sappy shit, but it is a work in progress and I've been really busy with classes starting and pretending to have a life - i.e. doing what my mother refers to as "partying" and what I refer to as drinking too much and falling asleep in my friends beds, playing with strangers' hair (because I'm a cosmetologist and have mild OCD when it comes to hair and people that have good hair), and watching terrible tv. It's all very productive.

Anyway, if you've read my blog for long enough (or ever, really) you are probably aware of my prejudices towards fat and stupid people. And when those two things are combined I, well we just won't talk about it.

Yesterday I took my sister to K-mart. Yes, K-mart. She's on all sorts of meds still and isn't allowed to drive. She wanted some new shirts and nursing bras (SEXY!) but she didn't want to spend a lot of money on something that she probably won't be wearing for very long anyway. Really this was just a trip to reduce the frequency at which she has to do laundry. So K-mart, that godforsaken box with dingy lighting didn't have anything suitable. But they did have a lot of embroidered and bedazzled sequined sweatshirt-like things. The types of things that you only see morbidly obese people wearing. I used to think that only obese people bought that sort of thing, but then I looked at the sizes, they only had them in huge sizes - 1XL, 2XL, 3XL!

And to think, I have always wondered why larger people wore such ridiculous things as to draw more attention to how large they are. But it's not their fault! It's the only clothing they can buy in their size! I don't get it. Why can't they have a plain teal shirt without any sort of adornment? Why can't they have their elastic-waisted pants in normal denim washes? And surely it doesn't cost more to make something generic and basic than it does to make something that's tacky? And are people only that size within a certain income bracket? What is so wrong with the world that we've doomed large people to this fate?

So, as a result of yesterday, I almost feel sorry for all of these people who take up way too much space.

And because my sister was unsatisfied (thankgod, I'm not sure I could handle it if my sister was reduced to shopping at such a depressing place) we went to Target - another box store, but at least the clothes are cheery and blatantly rip off more expensive designers and has better lighting. Seriously, lighting makes such a difference.

On Being Christlike

My sister April and I are very similar in a lot of ways and quite opposite in others (politics, for example). Last night she came over and while we were downloading CD's to my computer to put on her ipod because her computer's disc drive is broken, we were Facebook stalking people(that we totally don't make fun of). YOU KNOW YOU DO IT TOO.

We are totally going to hell.

Anyway, upon seeing one picture:

(Someone thought that they were being creative. They thought wrong.)

Me: Do you see that?
April: The window treatment?
Me: Yes.
April: It's terrible.
Me: That's what they did at some church activity about living within your means.
April: Yeah, and the other roommates are too busy trying to be Christlike to tell them how bad it is.

We have given up on trying to be Christlike, I mean my sister is a Republican. And Christ was totally a Socialist (Hello bread and fish parable!). I'm a Libertarian, so I'm like halfassing the whole Christlike thing.

I apparently made one of my youth leaders cry after commenting on her dress. Another leader told me about it later. I would feel bad, but she totally dresses better now. Though, I have since learned to be more tactful. I think. I'm probably in denial about that.

267 Days

Yesterday, my brother and I took his wife to the airport and then drove back to my parents' house. He wanted me to go with him to a local bar and watch the rest of the Super Bowl. To me, going to this particular bar on a regular day is a horrible idea. It is infested with people I (we) went to high school with, they stayed in Lake Ridge and work out at Gold's Gym a lot because it is in the same shopping center as this bar and most of them think that they're the shit - despite the fact that they have done absofuckinglutely nothing with their lives. They still live in Lake Ridge for buddhasakes.

I love Joseph, and out of all my siblings we probably have the most in common, despite the fourteen (fifteen?) year age difference. But instead of being nice to him, I did something selfish, because nothing is worse than being stuck in the suburbs. Except for being surrounded by snow in the suburbs at my parents' house. So, I drove to DC because I had made plans with a friend. I then texted them to know when I was leaving, like I always do, but they didn't respond. Typical. Except they did respond. But during that drive my phone WOULD NOT WORK. It would not send text messages of make calls, despite having service. And so I arrived at said friend's place, or at least managed to find parking near by. And then I was flooded with text messages explaining how they had made other plans and could no longer meet me. Which is fine, except WHATTHEFUCK!?!?!

I contemplated just driving back to Richmond, but then my car got stuck, and I had left my shovel at my parents' and was stranded-ish. Awesome.

Thankfully, another friend was able to accommodate me. So I walked however far it is from Adam's Morgan to their house in Columbia Heights and watched the remainder of the Super Bowl there with a small group of people. Perfect.

Except for the Jameson. Ahh, whiskey. I can't resist, and after the previous hour of my life, I needed a drink. Or ten. Whatever.

Me: "I will be 21 in ten months..."

Grumpy Old Man: "Do you know how I know how young you are? You say things like that. Do you know how many days that is?"

Me: "No, I'm not that obsessed."

Third Party: "That's roughly three hundred days."

The remainder of the evening was spent doing the following:
Discussing the memory loss of our fathers
Discussing why Baltimore is a shit/awesome town
Discussing why Mark's house is better than Joel's house
Wondering how and why I'm friends with either of them
Almost knocking the glass top off the table, multiple times
High-fiving
Discussing my "Annapolis Lover"
Discussing the reasons why heroin is a bad idea
Encouraging my desire to not get married/have children before thirty
Making an ass of myself by "coming on too strong"
Texting things I should not have been texting
Listening to Jess' beautiful voice
Watching 'The Big Lebowski'
Falling asleep during 'The Big Lebowski'
etc.
I still have not really seen 'The Big Lebowski'. I need to see it.

like a pissed, seaside donkey

Between yesterday and today Northern Virginia and DC have accumulated as much as thirty inches of snow. Richmond got rain yesterday and some snow today. It didn't accumulate as much, but was nasty enough outside that my boss closed the salon today.

I thought about driving up last night, and then I thought better of it. And Chanello's (the awful, but delicious pizza place across the street from my apartment building) was open, and the remainder of a six-pack of Shiner Bock in my fridge, and Groundhog Day on TV - everything was point towards staying in. And I did, and I made it through my pizza in about twenty minutes, three of the five beers, the latest episode of The Real World DC, and two showing of Groundhog Day on Bravo. There was so much that coud have been accomplished during that time, but when the weather is shitty, who's in the mood to do anything?

But today. TODAY! Today, I had to make it to NOVA. My brother and his wife are visiting from Spain and I haven't seen them since August, and this may be the last time I see them before their baby is born. My sister-in-law is slated to leave tomorrow, so it had to be today. And I made it. In one piece. On interstate 95. In my shittyshitty Toyota (that is going to combust any day now). This was quite the feat, but a completely stupid thing to do. So stupid in fact, God at one point shouted at me to STOP! GO HOME! TO RICHMOND! in the way of me doing a complete 360 in the middle of the road.

Needless to say, I did not listen. But I came to a stop, watched the now on-coming traffic pass - all of two cars - collected myself, made a u-turn and continued on my way.

I am, as my mother says a "very hard-headed" person. And upon my arrival she shook her head and gave me a hug and told me how stupid I am. The rest of my family shortly followed suit. I did not tell them about the spinning incident. (None of them read my blog, so...)

Actually, first my brother, Joseph, told me to take my boots off because he didn't want to get his socks wet, and then he hugged me while explaining how I was going to help him shovel out a spot for my car. He's so sweet. He and I dug, and dug and moved most of a pile that he had made earlier today, all to accomodate my car and make room for a plow, just in case the plow decided to show up (it did).

My father's birthday was this past Thursday and Joseph's is this Friday, so we had all made plans to do birthday things this weekend. And then it snowed, so those plans went kaput. Instead we watche the remainder of a Western my dad had Tivo-ed and listened to him explain something every time he paused it - because we love him. This was followed by a spaghetti dinner, In the Loop and homemade cinnamon rolls courtesy of my very talented mother.

My dad words for the State Department and is a retired Marine. I have been trying to get him to see In the Loop since i saw the trailor months ago. I only saw the film myself a few weeks ago, but kept it was passt it's due date and only returned after I saw that Blockbuster had charged my card for it. It is a political satire about the United States' relationship with Britain. According to my father, people don't really use such coarse language, but according to to other "govvies" that I know, they do use it. My father enjoyed it, my brother, sister-in-law and sister all fell asleep and my mother busied herself with the rolls, only occasionally complaining about the language from upstairs.

Geneology

(This was written in reference to the Sunday and Monday of this past Labor Day weekend.)

I mentioned awhile back that I was going to write a book about my mother’s side of the family. This past weekend, well Sunday and Monday, I started it. The research.

Growing up our family would go on what my parents called vacation, but was anything but relaxing. We would drive around North Carolina in a beat-up Plymouth Voyager with fake wood paneling around the side and visit my mother’s relatives. I am the youngest of the children in my immediate family and extended family, so visiting was never something I looked forward to, as it meant that I would probably be in the way, be bored and only have dogs to play with. All of my relatives have dogs. Sure, we would have a couple days at the beach, but mostly not.

So, understandably over the years I’ve developed this negative feeling towards North Carolina, except for the beach. And there are two types of North Carolinians, Beach and Mountains. My mother comes from a long line of beach-goers. And her hometown of Kinston is only about an hour, maybe two, from the beach.

Kinston used to be an industrial city. They had cotton, tobacco, Pepsi and Coca-Cola plants, a t-shirt factory and were surrounded by farms. Today it’s a collection of tattered, wood boxes that are this close to falling over, drugs and gangs. But among all of the ugly you can see what used to be. All the tobacco warehouses are still intact, but with broken panes and graffiti, the theaters now house other businesses or are closed, the old high school that my mother attended is now an assisted living home and the people that do live there don’t give a damn about making it nice. Among all of this are larger homes that resemble doll houses that once belonged to the wealthy, but like everything else the paint is peeling and many remain vacant or condemned.

My mother has two older brothers, one of which she has asked to write their family’s history, or at least their personal story of the three being raised by their aunt and grandmother. He, like me was a journalism major and later earned a master’s degree in English and was one semester away from receiving his PhD in English Literature. He doesn’t want to do it. So, I am.

My mother has relayed stories of her childhood to me and my siblings over and over for as long as I can remember. And earlier this year her oldest brother was visiting in Northern Virginia and I stayed up until about two in the morning listening to them reminisce about their childhoods. All of it. The good, the bad, and the parts that they would probably like to forget. It was then that I decided to do it. I’m not sure exactly why, but it’s something that I’ve felt I’ve needed to do since then.

And this is coming from someone who up until six months ago saw no reason to go to North Carolina unless there was a birth, marriage or death in the family.

And let me tell you, my mother’s side is all about those three things. This weekend proved that more than ever. The Mills’ liked having babies - my great-grandmother had nine of them, they liked getting married and in most cases divorced and then remarried, sometimes a few times, and they were obsessed with dying. I found a life insurance policy that my grandfather and his two sister bought when he was twelve. TWELVE. Twelve years old. And it only cost ten cents a month for a $1000 policy. And then there were the pictures of dead people and pictures of all the flowers that were sent to the funeral – apparently this is a status thing. I don’t really get it. But I’m trying to.

I made my first stop my first-cousin-once-removed (my mother’s first cousin) Robert Earl’s house. He and his wife, Judy, have known each other since she was fifteen and have been married forever. I have never really had the chance to get to know them. Robert Earl is several years older than my mom and so they were never close. But because they’re family they have invited us to everything and we have done the same. I went to their daughter’s wedding when I was about nine, and I’m pretty sure I had never met any of them before. However, Robert Earl’s mother, (pay close attention, things are about to get confusing) Evelyn, I have very early memories of. She is one of those old relatives we used to visit all the time. Her house was awful. She had lived in it forever and instead of moving along with all the other’s to the non-black parts of town she stayed and bolted her windows shut. And didn’t have air conditioning and didn’t let her animals outside. And it all smelled so awful and we weren’t allowed to touch anything, nothing, except for of course that dry rotted couches that she had for forty years.

Robert Earl need a lot of encouragement and seemed very hesitant about giving me too much information. I get it, he doesn’t know me, and my immediate family has a reputation among our relatives as “the Yankees” given we’re from the DC suburbs and don’t know how to operate a tractor. So, he started off listing all these places he had lived. It was an incredibly long list, and I finally had to stop him because I don’t care about that, I care about what happened while he was living in those places, what made them memorable. He started to open up some, but Judy was willing to divulge more information than he was. Thank God.

I had made plans to stay with a friend in Greensboro, but then decided it would be easier to drive to Grifton rather than drive the next morning. I still got lost, but it was nice being done that night. I had picked up a bunch of stuff at Robert Earl’s including a trunk that belonged to my other cousin-once-removed-Marie’s father, my great-uncle Hubert.

I never knew Hubert. My grandfather was the youngest of the nine kids and Evelyn, was number eight. (If this does become a book, I should probably not worry about names and just number everyone.) Hubert is the one that has the most going on as of right now. I’m not so sure Marie was as excited about finding all this dirt on her dad, but we know that he had lots of lovers before and after he got married, had at least one illegitimate child, and was an alcoholic.

One of this first things Marie said to me was, “you don’t come from money. You know that, right?” Of course I know that. My mother has spent her entire life making sure that we all had everything that she never did. Mills’ were tobacco and cotton farmers from Ireland and Scotland; all the men were alcoholics and most were in the KKK and the women sobered them up and pretended not to notice when they were off fucking everyone.

It’s making out to be a pretty good story. And my mom grew up with it.

*Mom, before you email me berating me for not saying “nice” things and using the F word, please be aware that I am doing exactly what I told you I would to – telling the truth. And it’s not always pretty.

Steps to taking over the world

Yesterday my new roommate, Anthea, and I made a trip down to my leasing company's office to get her put on the lease.

I have not been involved with this at all until yesterday. My previous roommate, Jessica, moved out so dealing with the paperwork has been her deal. I wasn't aware that They would try to make me sign another lease with Anthea. We were under the impression that while sub-leasing was a breach of contract, that you could turn your lease over. So, Jessica was supposed to be able to have Anthea take it over.

Well, They "don't do that." And They are trying to make me and Anthea sign a twelve month lease that would push our move-out date to next August. Ugh. Apparently they only deal in increments of twelve months for all parties. Then another They informed us that we could sign an eight month lease for an additional $50 a month.

After talking to "my lawyer" aka Spencer's mom, and a my parents and a couple of others, I have been advised by all to go with what I was going to do anyway - not sign anything and not pay anything extra.

I spent last night and a good portion of this morning reading the Landlord Tenant Handbook for Virginia and my lease. And because they didn't inform us of all of their procedures for "if"-situations I am fairly certain that what they are doing is illegal. Dealing with things "as they come up" is hardly feasible.

And if our light fixture starts leaking again this month we are totally going escrow.

In other news, I called my cousin Robert Earl today. He is my mother's cousin and I will be interviewing him in early September. I am writing a book about my mother's side of the family. She has been asking her brother to do it for years but he doesn't want to. Understandably. Their side of the family has everything you love about Faulkner in it. All the uncles were in the Ku Klux Klan, alcoholics, infidelity, the whole thing. The aunts were all very polite women who cooked, cleaned and knew when to keep their mouths shut.

My mother keeps asking me if I'm going write "nice" things about her family, and I keep assuring her that I will write the truth. She is not comfortable with that answer.

the most important thing besides breakfast

I used to not understand why all my friends were down with hanging out with their families for long periods of time. I do now. I may still be the youngest and the butt of most jokes, but they really are all we've got. And it was wonderful seeing them yesterday. Ella's so tall, and loud and rambuncious. Archer is so quiet and timid, they are complete foils of each other.

Yesterday we all went to church, all of us. And because I forgot the dress I was going to wear I wore a hot pink Calvin Klein number that my mom "thought (I'd) like, but if you don't I can wear it" - it was a size too big and I looked like a giant Easter egg. I like hot pink, but not that much hot pink in one place, on one person.

Being at church is strange, there are so man new people and the old ones always ask about things they shouldn't. I just don't get it. I got asked if I was still going to church, and I'm not even going to walk around it, I'm not, but why would someone ask that when they know what the answer is and ruin a completely good conversation? The siblings, spouses and I left after the first hour to "help the Easter Bunny."

We played scrabble, team scrabble, except I'm not married nor do I have a boyfriend, so I was by myself. And I lost horribly, thank you Z, Q and J.

My parents came home with the grandkids about half an hour after we hid the eggs. Ella is very competitive and Archer isn't usually, but with some encouragement he caught up and even did the bragging song and dance when he found eggs that Ella had missed.

Dinner was relatively short, but fantastic. My mom told us how grateful she was to have all of us home and it was. It was really great. I see April and her husband Steven fairly often because they live in Richmond, too. But my brothers, hardly ever. Steven (my brother) is a pilot and he and his wife Lessa and their daughter Ella live in Arizona. I see Lessa and Ella more often than I see him because of his crazy work schedule. My other brother Joseph and his wife Laiene live in San Sebastain, Spain. I probably see them both twice a year, but hardly ever are they here together.

After dinner we sang April 'Happy Birthday' (her birthday was this past week) and played Loaded Questions. Have I mentioned that my family is big on board games? Because we are. I don't understand why people don't play them more often. When I get my apartment the eight-year-old in me is going to beg everyone that walks through my door to play Sorry!

Remember that movie 'Groundhog Day'? Yeah? Well...

Yesterday I spoke with both my sister and my sister-in-law about going to Kings Dominion today with the majority of my family. Each agreed that meeting when it opened (10:30 am) would be fine. So this morning when I left at a quarter after ten after waking up late and showering, I arrived to find that I was the only one there. April was still at her house in the West End and everyone else was about an hour away. I suppose I should have called someone to verify the time, but I already thought I was running late. And it wasn't so bad, I hadn't eaten anything yet and waited in Burger King. Everyone except April showed up around eleven thirty, because no one called her to let them know that they were getting close. My brothers cannot be counted on to plan thing efficiently, that's okay though, that's why they have sisters - three of them.

We had an enjoyable time. Ella, my niece is five and loves roller coasters, and my sister-in-law, Laiene (Lie-in-Ay - who is Basque) was at an amusement park for the first time ever. I'm not really sure how that is possible, she is thrity-one. I don't think I know anyone over the age of five, that has never been to one, but then I grew up a reasonable distance from three and she you know, grew up a reasonable distance from teh beach and the mountains. It was fun seeing her reaction in comparison with my nieces after we went on the Ricochet, the first ride of the day. Laiene was in shock and Ella couldn't wait for the next one.

I had to leave early to go to work. Lame.

After work, I parked and turned my car engine off, but leaving the radio on. But the radio didn't stay on. So I tried turning the car on. And it didn't turn on. I haven't checked the oil in at least three thousand miles and my car may need some more. Awesome. My phone is thankfully working again, but of course my car isn't. Seriously, every week! What is with the universe?

Instead of getting upset about it I watched some chick attempt to parallel park in front of me for a few minutes before I explained that she was doing it wrong. I don't know why people in Richmond don't know how to parallel park, it is not that difficult. I have spent a lot of free time at work observing the people setting out for happy hour attempt to park their SUVs on Main Street, it makes the time pass by faster, and is, you know, amusing. The chick explained that she'd never really needed to parallel park before and had just gotten her car. But the spot in front of me was huge andher car was tiny, and well, whatever, hopefully she gets it now.


Aside: The past four weeks have been absolute shit. I think I'm officially entering that stage of college where I stop shaving in an effort to consciously repel the opposite sex. Never in my life did I think this would happen. I have loved boys since I realized that there was an opposite sex, but lately they just keep pissing me off. Tonight I was discussing the way people communicate with a Myers/Briggs expert/consultant that comes into work. She didn't explain anything new to me, we mostly just bitched about how irritating it is when people don't seem to try to meet you in the middle when it comes to communication. Ugh, I don't want to deal with it anymore. There, I'm a stereotypical nineteen year old girl, and I hate boys.

Fuck my life.

Oh, Deary!

Oh, GEEZ! I haven't written in over two months! And if you know me (and presumably, you do) then you know that I am busybusybusybizzybuzzbuzzbuzzbuzz... I've been meaning to, I just haven't gotten around to it, because I know that once I start I won't be able to come back to it, I'll want to start over, and because of this writing blogs takes me forever. So, I try not write them unless I know that I don't have to be anywhere for a couple of hours, this is very rare.

So, let me give you the abridged version of my life for the past two months:
- I had a wonderful Thanksgiving and after tiring of my family was able to spend the remainder of it with my friend Couch as it was his birthday and I had made him a cake and a pie. I am an excellent baker.
-I had exams. I passed. That is all.
-I went to Sugar Mountain in Boone, North Carolina for Christmas with my family. It was relatively drama free.
--On the way there I almost hit a deer, it was huge, and when I stopped the lady behind me hit the back of the family mini-van. Everyone was fine, including the deer who just starred at me for a bit before running back into the woods.
- I was not born to "shread" - this was manifested in my inability to stand up on a snowboard for more than five seconds.
- I went to New York City for four days the week of New Year's. I will do it better next time. I did make a new friend though, he is Russian and thinks I'm silly. He is correct.
-I have been to a lot of shows and have been a part of dramadramadrama. I'll probably won't write about a certain encounter more than this right here because the last time I wrote about one 239842739 people read it (Hi, everyone!)
- As a result, I'm attempting to avoid it. I'm even being nice-ish, you all know how I feel about nice people (they are so boring) so I'm going more for the, "oh, she's fun!" girl.
-My love life has gotten more complicated, and up until this past weekend, I was hoping for something more than what it is, but I realized that it's just fine after all I'm nineteen, and I don't need a boyfriend.
-I got yelled at in the metro.
-Right after that I found an iPhone.
- I met an amazing woman at the Inauguration, she claims I "saved her life" (I will blog about the inauguration, I promise).
- I wrote a story. It will get published. And you will read it. And if you have anything to do with me and DC, you will read and go, "OMG,really?"
- My grades were crap last semester so I'm on "academic warning" (pre-academic probation) so I've been trying this thing called studying, I've always heard about it, but busied myself with other things.
-I've started going to the library, and I like it. I'm there right now.
-I have to blog for one of my classes everyday, so I may be posting multiple times over the next few days to attempt to make up for it. Some of them will have prompts, I'll tell you and you can skip those. I thought about creating a seperate blog, but I already have a ton of things to keep track of and it wasn't worth it.
- I am going to be famous by the time I am twenty-two, or at least published in something worth reading and/or have a TV show on Bravo or Style, etc. I'm writing the pilot now. And I don't know if you've heard this, but it's my theme song of 2009. Joel is going to be my personal photographer and replace Annie Lebowitz as resident at Vanity Fair when I take over there.

Dance Dance Dance

On Friday I had made plans to meet some friends in The City (DC, never Richmond) for lunch. Well that didn't happen. Instead I got stuck in Richmond for and extra hour because my dad sent tickets to my sister's priority mail - meaning because they weren't there when the "package" came and my sister and her husband both work, and I got out of class at eleven, I had to go pick up the "package."

I'm calling it a "package" because really it was a series of envelopes. Five to be exact. Five freaking envelopes for three measly tickets to Celtic Thunder, a show that my dad has supposedly picked out for my birthday.

My dad is incapable of making things convenient. He had sealed the ticketmaster envelope, put it inside a white letter envelope and put tape over all the seals, put that inside an orange padded (???) envelope and again put tape over all the seals and edges and corners but this time it was that horrible tape with the strings in it that makes anything impossible to open, then all of that into a cardboard envelope, and then into a large bag-like envelope. It took me about ten minutes to get through it all with the help of my keys. Then I had to drop two of them off at my sister's house.

I could go on about all the different ways my dad could have distributed the tickets to us in a more convenient way (a single envelope, for example, willcall...).

Then I texted my friends and told them I would be late, at which point they had to cancel because they were using their lunch breaks and had to be back at work. So I was pissed. And I got lost. Somehow, upon leaving April's house I got onto 295 South instead of North. So I took an hour long detour around Richmond. And on my way back through RIchmond a huge rock hit my windshield. It came from a bulldozer that was on a flatbed in the next lane about three cars in front of me.

This was not what I had planned for an enjoyable weekend.

I finally made it to DC around four. Ridiculous. And since everyone was at work, I went shopping. At Coup de Foudre, a lingerie shop across from E Street Cinema. I've known about this place for awhile and thought about going there before, but hadn't, mostly because it is very expensive. But, since I was feeling somewhat irrational, I figured why not. A good bra is an investment, right?

I spent approximately three hundred dollars in an hour. I bought two sets. And got refitted. And for someone who has sworn by Victoria's Secret since the seventh grade, I have changed my mind completely. Apparently lace can be supportive. AND! And they had pretty bras in my size (enormous). After wearing one for the past two days, I can tell you that it's already made a huge difference. They just feel better and if you're currently wearing a shitty, stretched out elastic band of a bra, reconsider.

Afterwards I decided that I needed something cute to wear to Sorted that night after Celtic Thunder, so I went to H&M. And surprisingly didn't find nearly as many things as I usually do. I only tried on three things. I ended up buying shiney, blue, shirt-dress. I'll admit, it came up kind of high on the sides, and I probably should have worn it with leggings (real leggings) or my black skinny pants, but instead I wore it with black hose and heels. I'm not really sure if I was wearing hose as pants, or a shirt as a dress, probably both, but whatever, I looked fabulous.

At this point I had not had anthing solid to eat all day, so I grabbed a smoothie from Maggie Moo's and headed to Baltimore. I got there at about a quarter to eight. I was feeling very irritable from having driven for about five hours that day and not having eaten anything. And I snapped ay my parents, mostly my dad for picking the most horrible birthday present earlier. I mean my parents have always been bad at birthdays. And every year, if I wanted anything to happen I had to plan it, except last year, when my mom decided to have a failed surprise party that turned into a roast. Anyway, no one has ever thrown me a birthday party and I resent that because I'm pretty good about birthdays. Anyone that knows me knows what a huge fucking deal they are.

I've digressed. When I told my dad all this, he said that it wasn't even for my birthday, which would mean that my parents didn't do shit for my big day. I didn't even get a fucking card. Or a cake, or candles. And aside from the movies that my roommate got me and the most beautiful roses you've ever seen from another friend, I didn't get any presents. My mom tried to say that the car was my present, but I reminded her that I would have gotten that anyway. My dad agreed and asked what I wanted. I had told them that I wanted accupuncture over a month ago, several times and each time I brought it up my mom said that our insurance wouldn't cover it. DUH! That's why it's a gift.

So after crying and being a total brat, April and Steven arrived and we took in the audience, a sea of sixty-five to seventy year olds, and waited for the show to start.

Celtic Thunder is like Disney on Ice for the elderly, but without the ice. The stage was set up to look like a rocky shore in a storm. The preformers were five men, and all the songs were chauvenist and trite. "...life is an ocean, love is a boat...I'm the captain, you're my first mate...we have our own crew..." Really, those were lyrics in one of the songs.

One of the guys was like fourteen and sang a song about pupply love, during which he waved around a shirt. Some girl, who was probably like twelve ran up to try and catch it when he threw it and completely missed. So sad, she's lucky no one knows who she is.

April, Steven and I spent the entire show laughing. It was so ridiculous. My mom kept nudging us to be quiet because we were "making a scene." I almost feel bad for possibly ruining the show for the people around us, but it was just so bad, so I don't. There wasn't anything "celtic" about it except for the fact that the guys were Irish and they sang Danny Boy, but that was it.

I left for DC as soon as soon as it was over. And after parking I changed into the aforementioned dress and hose in my car and was ready to dancedancedance. And I did, for at least three hours.

For those that aren't aware of my awful stage fright, dancing on the stage at a backstage dance night at The Cat is about as close to preforming as I will ever get. And I don't grind, I simply dance the way I would in my room, and since most of the people there don't know me and those that do, think I'm adorable (because I am), I am somehow able to completely let go. And that for me is very difficult. So I danced and danced. And at one point was offered a double shot of bourbon which I had to decline because you know, I was at the Cat and I'm underage (but bourbon is so good). Later when I was in towards the back of the stage, some girl grabbed my hand pulled me to the front of the stage. I had seen her grinding with another girl earlier and told her I didn't do that, she laughed and told me to "give them what they want." At this point I was very confused. She made me look out at the room. People were watching me. I mean, people that I didn't know. And for probably the first time in my life, I didn't care.

So I danced and danced and danced. And David wanted to dance with me. He was a very awkward twenty-eight year old who had no rythm. I danced with him, I danced with a lot of people. But Idanced with him for three songs. He was drunk and told me that I beautiful and that he wanted to kiss me. I explained to him that that would be inappropriate and that we could just dance. By the third song I was sick of him and told him that that was the last dance. He didn't like that and tried to continue dancing with me, so I pushed him away and explained that this was my song* and I didn't want to dance with anyone else.

Eventually it was over. I got asked for drugs, also a first. Apparently is was difficult for people to believe that I was sober.

What a crazy day.


* I am a much better dancer than that girl in the video, and I wish there was a better video for that song. This and this are both equally dancable and all are sad.

One day they'll read about it and be like,"how did we not know about this?"

Never in my life have I been as busy as I have been in the past few weeks, as in to the point where I think my head is going to explode if I don't take care of the things I've been neglecting because of said busy-ness.

The past six weeks I have been working two jobs (the Chiropractor and the Haircuttery), going into the city just about every other night/day, going to school (most of the time), and somehow sleeping. And the past two weeks have been even crazier because it's the end of the year and Eddas needs to be done. So, I've been busy.

Did I mention that I've been busy? Because I've been like sooo busy.

It's unfortunate that I have no tolerance for boredom. I think my parents would appreciate that, but because I don't I stress myself out and then crash and clean my room ( today).

I like being busy. There's always something to do, somewhere to go, people to meet, etc. Sitting at home does not appeal in the least. Perhaps if I had a place of my own, I'd have people over, throw dinner parties, pretend to have money, the usual; a las, I do not have any of the above and thus must make due.

My parents always freak out when I'm not home because they have this constant need to know what Amanda is doing, Where is she? Who is she with? Why isn't she home? Who are these people? Why don't we know them? Why hasn't she brought them by the house? etc. Then, to help them feel better they feel the need to call me every five minutes from midnight to whenever I get home. Sometimes I answer, sometimes I don't. I tell them where I'm going, and who I'm going with, but they still flip.

If you read my last posts you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

When I hear about my parents' youth, it's similar to mine, they went out with friends, worked a lot - wait, no, not according to my dad. If I try to tell my dad that he did similar things he says (I kid you not), "I was shooting people when I was your age in the jungles of Viet-nam, and on the weekends I was getting drunk at the local bar." Thank you Dad, that was most insightful.

My mom always went to the Ember's Club. I have no idea if this place still exists, but she always talks about it whenever I tell her about my escapades. And she was older when she went to it, all in all her experience is nothing like mine, not even close.

My dad on the other-hand, was a DJ, was in love with Ann-Margaret and is probably more like me than we're both willing to admit. It's a shame that he's "repented of his old ways" because if he hadn't then maybe we would "bond" over those similarities.

You're probably wondering what the hell this has to do with being busy. Everything.

I'm always on the go. Last week I went to two shows, was in the city four nights, and in a whirlwind of dramdramadrama. I know they had similar experiences and yet they don't want me to have them - or go "astray." Somehow music and venues have corrupted me, I think I've done it all on my own.

And today, I took a break. A much needed one before the busy-ness that will be the rest of this week really gets started.