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i had the weirdest dream/nightmare of my life last night. in it, i accidentally killed natalie portman. i didn’t want anyone to find out, and i didn’t want to get in trouble for it, so my solution was to cut off her head, hollow it out, and then wear it around over my head, pretending to be her. forever.
ugh. i completely creep myself out.
30 rock has been my new jam this past week. and by new jam, i actually mean that i use it as an excuse not to leave the house. ever. i realized tonight i might have to change this behavior when i found myself at 8 pm watching it, wearing pj bottoms, and the sweater i wore to work today, while nodding off and snacking on the “world’s biggest reese’s peanut butter cup”. i followed up this embarrassing behavior by coming upstairs to watch mtv’s jersey shore (so what guys, it’s monday, okay?) only to realize that the chanukah card my parents sent me was signed, “Love, Mom + “. yeah, you read that right.
instead of writing a paper, i decided it would be more fun to blog, although ultimately, less productive, in terms of how much shit i have to do in the next few days.
so my lovely boyf just moved in with me, bringing his cat, and the litter box that accompanies the cat. of course, my dog’s new favorite delicacy is now cat poop. we tried getting a box with a lid that the dog can’t get into, but since the cat is still getting used to it sometimes he still poops outside the box. actually, like right next to the box. jerk.
tonight we finished dinner and put our dishes on the table. we also let the cat lick them after we were done because we’re filthy. however, we do draw the line at the dog licking the bowls, and he was totally pissed about that, and left the room. five minutes later he came back into the room with something in his mouth and laid down in the chair with it, licking it. a smelly little brown ball.
yep, cat poop. the new rage.
when i bought my house, i dragged my lovely roomie jett along with me from our old house, which was great. another of our friends was supposed to move in as well, but ended up not being able to, which led to the great roommate hunt of 2008.
see, i have this thing where i don’t like to live with people who are already my friends. i need a certain amount of distance from my roommates so that i don’t strangle them or myself. it’s not them, it’s really me and all my funny little pet peeves, but this leads to a problem when looking for people to live with that are completely outside of my social circle.
our friend marly knew a girl who needed a room, and after multiple whack ass craigslist weirdos had looked at the place and talked to me about it, i was ready to consider the possibility of someone i remotely knew. phew, good thing i did, because this girl turned out to be jesi noe, who’s a doozy, but almost always in the best kind of way.
it’s her birthday tomorrow, and in honor of that, and her ridiculous behavior as of late, i thought i’d do a jesi noe appreciation post. hell, if i continue to update this thing, jesi noe stories might even become a regular feature…
example 1:
we were going to the record release show of a certain local band the other night, and i asked jesi if she was coming with us. she informed me she couldn’t come because, at volleyball last week she got drunk and followed the drummer around with a camera, taking pictures of his butt, because she decided he was really hot. unfortunately (and understandably), this completely weirded him out. oh well!
example 2:
jesi, jett, and i were all sitting around in jett’s bedroom one night talking about sex, and we went to google something and i typed in p-e-n-i-s. jesi says, “um, you spelled that wrong. it’s p-e-n-u-s” . turns out she also thought cock was spelled c-o-c-h. although, in her defense, i recently thought that men had one less rib than women because the Torah said so.
example 3:
i have a dog, sneakers, who rules, and who also sleeps in my bed with me every night because he is a spoiled little man. jesi is completely obsessed with him, because he rules so hard. last night i wake up at 3 am and hear drunk jesi standing in the hallway, calling out, “sneakers! where did you go? where are you?” repeatedly. so i yell back that he’s in my room and we’re sleeping because it’s 3 am. when i ask jesi if she remembers it in the morning she says, “no, was i naked while i was calling him? i think i was naked, did you see me?”
i think it started when i was about five, and i’ll never really be sure what exactly set it off, but i used to be afraid to go to sleep at night. i mean, i know this happens to most kids, but mine lasted for literally years, until about the time that i was 12 or 13. i remember laying in my bed, terrified to shut my eyes, completely unable to relax. and it wasn’t sleep i was afraid of, it was death and dying. it was nothingness, knowing that eventually i would die and there would be nothing, and i couldn’t feel or speak or be seen or present in any way at all, unless people remembered me. and that someday, those people who remembered me would die too, and there would be no record of my existance, no one who knew my name or that i was ever alive.
i used to lay there and try to figure out ways to become really, really famous, so that i wouldn’t be forgotten. i thought about all the famous people i’d ever heard about, hollywood actors and historical figures and writers and academics and politicians, trying to decide which kind of fame was the most enduring. once i figured that out, i’d know what i had to do to achieve it, and i’d never have to worry about nothing, about anonymity.
over time, the fear of sleep worsened into panic attacks as we learned about outer space in school. at some point, the sun will swallow the earth, and everything, everything will be completely meaningless. i couldn’t help but feel that no one would be remembered and then, really, what is the point of anything at all? and forget about trying to comprehend what it means when our ever-expanding universe begins to shrink again. even just typing that now makes me feel a little short of breath…
anyway, i guess the point of this is that i’ve spent twenty five years feeling alone in these fears, and like i’m pretty insane for having them. and then, when i was listening to this american life today at work, they had a whole segment on people with this same exact fear. meaning that i’m not the only one, and that it’s not so crazy if it affects all these other people too. it doesn’t make me less afraid to know that, but it does make me feel less alone, and i think that’s equally important to me, or to anyone.
I found this (rather long!) quote while reading through salon.com at work today, and it’s really just perfect. A reminder not to focus on the little things, not to get bummed out so easily, to remember that it makes life a lot easier to believe that everyone is doing the best they know how.
“I am a person in a human relationship, and I can say that when a person starts doing things I don’t like, at first I try to stop her. I can think up many reasons why my way is best. But what I find over and over is that when I am thinking of all the reasons my way is best, I am not seeing the person in front of me. I am seeing my reasons.
I love my reasons. I love my solutions. But here is a person before me that I love, and I am not seeing her. I am seeing the sponges in the sink and how they are not clean. Then I am in a relationship with the sponges. I am using the sponges against her, blaming her for the condition of the sponges. What an absurd position! So I think to myself, what if I were to die right there, standing at the sink insisting that the sponges be properly maintained? What if the world’s greatest philosophers were to look down and see me focused intently on the sponges while my life passes by? What if this little moment in time, never to be repeated, is all you get? What if this is it? I have wasted it. I have wasted this moment obsessing on the sponges, how they are gummy in the sink, how there is gunk in the strainer and on the sponges, little bits of butter, a flake of oatmeal. I die complaining about a flake of oatmeal.
Meanwhile, here is this beautiful woman before me, radiant and strange, mysterious and funny, limitlessly interesting; I am choosing to complain to her about the condition of the sponges, how they must be properly maintained for kitchen sanitation, and I am a fool. I am focused on the sponges. It is some kind of terrible joke.”
wandering around one of my personal favorite websites, jezebel.com today, i found a link to the following story: http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=bitch-evolved-girls-cruel
It’s basically the same old spin on how women use social aggression (gossip, cliques, etc.) while men use physical aggression (punching, kicking, etc.). And yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before and I’m not denying that it’s true, generally speaking. Women are socialized to use a different set of tools when dealing with aggression, tools that draw on traits that are considered feminine, like social interaction. Men are taught to use typically masculine tools like physical force to deal with their aggression.
My problem lies in the fact that the (male) author of the article titled it “The “Bitch” Evolved: Why Girls Are So Cruel to Each Other”. “Bitch”, really? Bitch, please! First, I don’t think it’s ever appropriate to refer to those belonging to a large demographic (over 50% of the planet!) as a “bitch” when writing for a nationally respected magazine, and I’m shocked that they would print something like this, even online.
Second, using that term only serves to further reinforce the stereotypes of women being socially aggressive to each other. The reader automatically starts out the article being biased with the image of a certain type of female burned into their mind. It’s completely leading, and hardly an example of factual journalism.
Third, it’s sexist and reactionary. Even the author acknowledges this when he says, “And if this little pigtailed girl is anything like the rest of her gender, in just a few years’ time she will unfortunately morph into an eye-rolling, gossiping, ostracizing, sarcastic, dismissive, cliquish ninth-grader, embroiled in the classic cafeteria style bitchery of adolescent female social politics. If that strikes you as misogynistic, rest assured it’s merely an empirical statement.”
Right, completely empirical! I’m sure all great behavioral scientists use the term “classic cafeteria style bitchery of adolescent female social politics”. Just because you couched your statement in big sociological words doesn’t mean you’re not a misogynist, buddy. Using words like bitch to refer to women and their interactions is a not-so-subtle attempt to hold them back. I don’t think anyone could argue that the term “bitch” was orginally coined as a derogatory phrase for women. And no matter whether or not you believe in the reappropriate of words, there’s no argument here that the intention behind this “bitch” is negative. The author’s blanket use of the term for all women who ever engage in social interaction becomes even more frustrating because there really exists no term for men that can equal it. Calling a guy a dick, an asshole, or a prick still pales in comparison to the forcefulness that “bitch” has been imbued with in our culture.
in light of the fact that there has been a lack of particularly amusing things at work (maybe in my life?) as of late, i figured i had nothing really worth posting about.
instead, i’d like to talk about my dog. specifically, walking my dog. even more specifically, what the fuck are people thinking when they see me walking my dog and try to discreetly get it to come pay attention to them?
seriously, that rope he’s attached to, it’s called a leash. meaning he can only go so far. so when you’re standing 15 feet away, clicking/whistling/softly calling, even if he does decide to pay attention to you, he’s not going to make it that far.
also, do you really think i don’t notice you trying to get his attention? averting your eyes from me while you whistle under your breath does not confuse me in the slightest as to where the sound is coming from. nor do your “surprised” expressions IF he tries to pull me your way.
it’s weird. stop coveting my dog’s attention please. i know he’s adorable; it just happens he’s also mine.
so, the synagogue where i work is offering a free introductory class on judaism to the public. and if you’re not already aware, religion always brings out the whack jobs. but the call i took today, has to be by far, the most insane.
the caller started out explaining that she was jewish, but non-practicing, and was interested in taking the class. i listened, half paying attention to her, half drifting off until i hear her say…
“it’s a shame i’m embarassed to be jewish these days. the jews are the ones responsible for wrecking our economy. i mean look at barack obama, look at his cabinet! he has david axelrod telling him about the economy, he’s jewish. and rahm emanuel, he’s jewish and on his cabinet too. and bernie madoff, well he just tops it all off.”
so just in case you had any questions, the jews are responsible for wrecking the current economic crisis. all three of them she mentioned. because you know, jews run hollywood, and the press, and apparently now the global market.
i went to a new gyno today who just happened to be male. it also just happened to be my first time ever seeing a male gyno. the thought of it flipped me out a little but i decided not to be a baby. after all, he’s a professional!
i’ll preface this story by saying that he was latin american, so he had a slight accent, and that i was a nervous wreck. as he was checking out my, um, ladybits, this took place:
dr: do you feel any pain?
me: um, no
dr: no pain, just pleasure?
me: (making this weird rough laugh/cry sound and freaking out) what? no, what did you say?
at which point i realized that i’m an idiot and he said PRESSURE, not PLEASURE.
