State of the Union: Presented by Microsoft Paint

When we last left our heroine....she was very flattered her blog had received over 7,000 views.....but still, she was having a hard time focusing, and was instead enjoying the rewards of playing with Microsoft Paint...

It was October, the wonderful autumn season. Her roommate had brought home a carved jack-o-lantern, and she wanted to get in on the fun...

Her self-esteem was suffering due to mosquito bites making her look like that poor tribute who got stung to death by tracker jackers in The Hunger Games....

Also she seemed on track for a solid Bad Hair Month....

The man she pined for at the office continued to be wonderful but clueless....

All you need to understand the following picture is thus:
The brown cube hiding my lower half is my desk.
His legs are blue lines because they are skinny jeans.
Yes, that IS a lightning bolt.



And the writing was slow. She's working on some projects. But her focus is off. Except for this blog. You're welcome, I guess?

Tabula Rasa

After taking Latin in school for about seven years, I can read most diplomas and the sides of old buildings. Every once in a while I can even drop a phrase like I am some kind of wise old owl with a little extra insight into the goings-on of the world. Yeah. I'm like the most useless member of the Avengers. I don't just veni vidi vici you guys, I amo amas amat like a boss, and when that gets old, I jump on my bike and am like ad astra, per aspera bitches! I'm like episodes of "Rome" and "New Girl" got together and had a baby.

This was my textbook in sixth grade. No jokes.

(Yes. Kids who took Latin are just that cool.)
(Perhaps not. I image searched "Latin is cool" and got a bunch of pictures of young hispanic dudes making obscene gestures and scantily clad ladies. Then I searched "Ancient Latin is cool" and was offered images of old, broken rocks. Damn it.)

Quick, everyone look over there!

I've been ruminating on a particular phrase lately...Tabula Rasa, or the "clean slate."

If you run and Google "tabula rasa" you'll find a lot of interesting writing on the idea of the mind as a clean slate ready to be imprinted with ideas and the origins of modern psychology. But what I'm focused on is more of a clean slate, as in starting over...beginning again.

About an hour ago I asked the interwebs what the best cities for "starting over" are. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting. But I know how I currently feel, which is utterly shattered and exhausted, and ready for life to suck a lot less. I'm thinking that change - big, mega, awesome change - could be just the catalyst I need. Interestingly, a lot of people have also been interested in cultivating their own clean slates, and multiple articles popped up, pegging cities with high rates of employment, nice atmosphere, low crime, and single people (which I, who basically have the mindset of a romantic comedy, didn't even think of). Places in Maine, Virginia, New Hampshire, Nebraska and the Dakotas popped up. Some looked very pretty. But....I think New York and London have ruined me a bit. Even though I am feeling very very very ready for a new life (I'm on the verge!) nothing on those lists seem quite as good. For me anyways. Where the dickens am I supposed to go? San Diego sounds better by the day. I can envision myself heading west, which I couldn't years ago. Maybe Nashville, even? I hear good things. Or like a small coastal town. Downsize everything. I've stayed East so long for my parents, but I'm pretty sick and tired of it. Obviously I'd love to head back to Europe, but nobody is ponying up any visas for my mad Latin skillz, so that seems to be a dream on the perpetual back burner. I wish I had more answers, but right now there seem to be only questions.

durate et vosmet rebus servate secundis - Virgil

Carry on, and preserve yourself for better times. 

The Sea, The Sea

Two recent weekends, I have found myself staring, hypnotized, into the Atlantic Ocean.

View from hotel, Virginia Beach

Disclaimer: I don't have any particularly elegant turns of phrase or insights into the wonders of the ocean. All I am is a person who is kind of obsessed. I hadn't really put it together until I was flipping through the pictures and videos on my phone, and SO MANY (like 1 in 8) of them were images of the water. Who does that? It's like fish porn. Aquaobsession. I can't explain it. But none of the pictures or videos are good enough. Nothing can quite capture the magic of being...actually, physically being...by the waterside. And I think that's why I keep trying. Maybe it's not about being able to relive the sights, or smells. I'm trying to capture a feeling.

I know I am not the only one who can sit contentedly for hours upon end, staring out at the ocean, watching the waves and listening to the soft explosions it makes upon the shore. It's soothing. It's rhythmic. There's a reason that "ocean waves" comes installed on pretty much every machine ever designed to make sleep noises. And then there's that smell....salt ocean water smell. Clean and fresh and like a hit of pure joy. One of my exes used to say I felt this way because my parents were in the Navy...wherein I gently had to remind him that the Navy and Pirates are two separate organizations with occasional overlaps in policy.Yar.

 Same view, slightly stormier (and about 25 degrees colder)

Interestingly enough, I do know some people who are deathly terrified of the ocean. This is also a viewpoint with merit, and funnily, another reason why I find the ocean so incredible. It is fucking DEADLY and filled with some scary shit. Just as much as the sea is this incredibly beautiful part of nature, it is also strong and unpredictable and can end your life rapidly. (See: Drowning, Tsunamis, Sharks, Jellyfish etc.) Drowning is, I imagine, one of the scariest ways to die. All that intensity aside, though, I still worship the seaside. I love the beach even more when it is stormy. Maybe I just think of the ocean as having qualities I admire in a person - fascinating and calming, but also strong and bad-ass. Perhaps I love the sea so much because I want to be like it when I grow up. Old and wise and salty. I seem well on my way.

Newport, Rhode Island

"You're Still My Little Girl"

 So...due to a whole bunch of reasons (A family situation...also I'm very, very tired and covered in agonizingly inflamed mosquito and spider bites) I didn't really process that yesterday was Monday, so I forgot to post. Here you go. I'll have nicer things written later, but right now I'm cranky as fuck, this is all you get.

Growing up is a lot of stupid shit.

(If I ever become famous, I'm sure saying something so broadly dumb will haunt me. But it's true.)

I find one of the most difficult things to come to terms with as I get older is the changes in the relationship you have with your parents. Now, obviously, mine came a lot sooner than planned, but in the cycle of life, we frequently must become the care-givers for our folks when they can't do it for themselves. The problem is, that as we take on these new responsibilities (and the hard, heavy emotions that come with them) our parents still think of us as their babies.

And trust me, if I could have stayed a sweet little girl for a much longer period of time, I would have. It sounds very appealing. Especially now.

But I can't so I didn't. It doesn't stop my mother from sometimes saying the exact same things to me as she did when I was 7, 10 or 16 years old. It comes purely from a place of love, protection and concern, which is always why I feel like such a dick when I snap at her. I never mean to.

I realized this has been in the forefront of my mind due to an old cleaning lady who works in my office building. She's 69 years old, got this crazy thick Boston accent, and is just inappropriate enough to make me hugely uncomfortable all the time. Every time I see her, she's got to tell me about some relative of hers whose birthday it would have been today, or how she misses her "granbabies" or something stupid her daughter did. Then she tells me she's too old for this job (I concur), coughs with her mouth open on my desk, makes a comment about all the celebrity "queers" - usually in earshot of one of my gay coworkers- and slinks away. Last time I saw her she loudly said one of the guys who works in the mailroom looks like a pineapple. I'm assuming this is simply because he has dreadlocks.

Here's the deal.

I'm sorry she has to be doing a thankless job at that age. I wish she didn't. That really sucks. I don't know anything about her life before, but she tells me that she used to live hard and make stupid decisions. Talks about ex-husbands and smoking and drinking all day and staying out all night. She tells me men are pigs and I look very pretty without makeup. I don't know what to believe!! She's very brusque and intense. Also, she leaves her mouth open when she's done talking, like when my cat leaves his tongue outside of his mouth after yawning. Close that thing up.

But the part that bothers me most....she calls me "baby" or "babygirl" or "pumpkin" whenever she sees me. I KNOW. It's so stupid. It's harmless. But I am 30 goddamn years old.I am a professional. I am not a baby. I am not a pumpkin. I am not a pumpkin baby. IT PISSES ME OFF.

FUCK YOU PUMPKIN BABY. YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

(Disclaimer: I am one of those women guilty of sometimes calling her boyfriend "babe" but I don't think that's in the same league. It's not infantalizing. It's not condescending. I don't think so anyway.)

I'm so cranky I should probably stop posting. I bought some hydrocortizone for the bites, but....damn it I feel so hideous and horrible. Also more people at my office are getting laid off. This is not my week. I kind of want to cry. BUT I CAN'T BECAUSE I'M NOT A GODDAMN BABY.

Sports Are NOT A Clue

First of all, let us take a moment to acknowledge that the Washington Nationals are in the playoffs and that is kind of cool and miraculous. DC sports teams are notoriously (endearingly?) shitty, with a knack for blowing huge leads and players who don't deliver. So, yes. Go Nats. Woo.
(Maybe now people will stop ask if the W on my baseball cap stands for Walgreens.)

I am a heterosexual female who enjoys watching sports. I'm not particularly die-hard over any teams or players, though I have dated men who are, and I in turn began to care about them too. But yes. A straight lady who likes sports. Not that big a phenomenon. So why (this is a legit question) am I SO STUPID to repeatedly use "liking sports" as a litmus test for a man's sexuality? I AM STUPID. And wrong. Granted, none of the gay men I socialize with are particularly into sports, but if I learned anything from watching Season 1 of Smash, it's that gay dancers can also be really into the Knicks. Also that Bollywood is terrific. But that's neither here or there. That kind of thinking is narrow, close-minded nonsense and I'm as guilty of it as the next person.

But I heard my work crush talking about the playoff games this morning with his friend Smokey (who I have thus Christened because he takes a smoke break every 20 minutes or so) and my heart skipped a beat and hopes swung back into the "maybe he isn't" category which is silly, stupid, and most likely incorrect. Just because he enjoyed the game doesn't mean he automatically likes ladies. It's like those statements I was always terrible at during high school math class. (It's logic. I fail at basic, simple, monkey logic.)

Take my own idiocy and use it against me.

All straight men like sports (False)
To like sports, one must be a straight man (False)

To really hammer home how delusional I've been I will share with you a story about yet another crush I had about 5 years ago. I don't even remember his name now. Michael? He came into the gym where I worked (I used to toy with dreams of being a personal trainer and specializing in recovery physical therapy - more on that another time) and every day he'd be so sweet. He'd smile and ask how I was doing, and always turn around to smile at me again as he made his way up the stairs. I was smitten and all my co-workers knew. Whenever I was on the gym floor itself, assisting one of the PTs, I'd see him running on the treadmill and watching ESPN. I had no idea what he did for a living, or anything about him other than he had a nice smile and liked watching ESPN.

You know where this story is going. He wasn't straight. Michael? Kevin? No I think it was Michael. That sounds right. Michael wasn't straight. But I didn't know that until he told me. And he didn't tell me until I'd swallowed a lifetime's worth of shyness and run after him on my last day of work (remaining as ever the consummate professional) and told him I liked him and wondered if he'd like to go out sometime. Obviously I took all my dating tips circa 1992. "Wanna go out?" Gah. Embarrassing. That was definitely one of those moments where the idea of bursting into flames was really appealing.

So after Michael politely (and awkwardly) told me that he was gay I slunk back to work and found my coworker R waiting with open arms for a hug. He said "I've gotta give props for what you just did. That took balls. That was cool. Sorry he's gay." I laughed and accepted the hug. Because R was right. At least I tried. I put myself out there (based on completely stupid logic) and ended up looking like a grade-A idiot. It was pretty humiliating in the moment.

But at least I tried.

What Is Lady Swagger?

A few days ago, I was in the ladies room, making myself look presentable again after housing a Hot Pocket for lunch (this grace and beauty can be all yours, fellas) and I saw one of my quiet Asian co-workers from accounting doing a thorough job of brushing and flossing her teeth over the sink. It was precise, dedicated - almost like a ritual. I see her there pretty much every day around 2pm, and I smiled at her and said.

"I wish I took as good care of my teeth."

She nodded and smiled. For reasons inexplicable (filling the awkward void) I continued:

"I mean, it's paying off because you've got such a lovely smile."

"Oh thank you" she said, blushing now.

As I washed my hands, I thought to myself "Damn girl, you've got lady swagger. You're charming as fuck. You got it going on. You are nice and people like you. You're like a lady George Clooney."

Hella Smooth.

Then I started cracking up because that's such a ridiculous thing to think.

So if you saw me yesterday, in the ladies room, I was saying silly things, then washing my hands, smiling and laughing to myself. You can order my straight jacket in a size medium (I've got broad shoulders).

At first I thought "I wonder what it would be like to put my brain in a man's body for a day. I think I would be crazy charming, and kind and smart, and SUCH a good listener and ladies would love me. But then I'd be me, so I'd be a gay man. (At last!) And then the ladies would be sad because yet another charming man would not be interested in them. So that's not good."

But I think that kind of rakish charm, that wily (!) wit, the smoldering self-satisfaction and carefree sexual bravado hasn't really been defined for this generation of women. We don't have that kind of role model, at least none that I can think of. Can you? Seriously. I'm willing to listen. There is no lady equivalent to Clooney now, just as there wasn't to Cary Grant then. No lady Isaac Hayes. No lady Ryan Gosling. Why can't we ladies be the slick bachelorettes, who are so full of charisma that the internet makes memes about us?!? We wouldn't worry about our weight or our relationship status. We'd just be living. We'd be working for the weekend. And it would rock.

I want to embrace and embody the spirit of the Lady Clooney. I think it can be done. It requires a certain self-confidence, a sense of humor, a heightened awareness of yourself and others. It is a manifest of charm, intelligence, and a kind of devil-may-care, I-own-my-bad-decisions kind of attitude. I think if I could really cultivate this within myself it would rock my world in the best possible way. Who couldn't use a little more self-confidence? (Answer:John Mayer)

Now, the important thing to emphasize here is that Lady Swagger doesn't mean dropping all the great aspects of femininity and suddenly acting like some Rat-Pack (or Brat-Pack) reject. I think we ladies would be loathe to give up our feminine wiles (!) in favor of purely masculine ones. It's finding the balance that is the trick here. For example, today I am rocking a cute tank top and a slim-cut, very feminine blazer with some rockstar black jeans to work. I. Look. Fly. End of story. I feel pretty and powerful, and I've gotten some admiring glances. The thing is, I don't let any of this change my normal behavior. I'm still saying please and thank you and trying to inspire feelings of good will and cheer around me.

I don't think Lady Swagger is all surface. It's not just bravado. It's owning up to every part of yourself and being supremely satisfied with the person staring back at you in the mirror. Yes, frequently I am an idiot. I screw up. But none of those realizations have to detract from the fact that I am cool and charming and sexy and awesome. Or at least I try and tell myself. Lady Swagger, Jamestown. Lady Swagger. Get some.

All this being said, I'm working really hard to keep this from becoming sad emo teenager blog. The backslide continues and I'm still feeling like a big emotional clusterfuck right now. Like, this morning started off with being upset over missing P (it's just going to get worse over the holidays, so if you want to jump ship, the time is now) but then I had a massive upswing when I found out that my beloved friend D just BOUGHT A BAR in London and now I just want to go visit him and reap the rewards of having a friend with a bar. My life will finally be like Cheers. That and I miss D. But the bar is kind of huge and wonderful news, seeing as he's been talking about doing it for years and now he has. Wow. Awesome.

Controversial Praise?: Seth Macfarlane

My friend C and I used to play this game called "Controversial Shag" in which we'd name celebrities that we find attractive that other people might consider to be horrible, horrible decisions.

(The best round we ever had was with Richard Hammond from Top Gear - what is it about little mousey men with a love of fast cars that is just so damn cute?)

Anyways, Seth Macfarlane, creator of Family Guy, American Dad, The Cleveland Show and Ted, RISD graduate, accomplished musician, and general bazillionaire nerd fanboy has been popping up on my radar a lot recently. He did an OUTSTANDING job hosting SNL, had the only moment of genuine surprise and fun at the Emmy awards, and has apparently bagged himself the super-hot girl (who, come on Seth, is a bit too young for you but well done anyways) who plays the Khaleesi on Game of Thrones. If this were VH1, I'd say Seth Macfarlane is having the best couple of weeks ever.

When word came out that he was dating yet another 24 year old (he's 38), many simply reiterated what they already suspected: he's an emotional adolescent with no talent, too much money, and a gross taste for young women.

I respectfully disagree.

Ok, I will say I think dating girls in their early twenties when you're in your late 30s is not my favorite kind of behavior. But it happens. And I'm pretty sure that every pretty 20something he dates also knows that he's a well-connected, enormously wealthy man. He's also wildly intelligent, darkly funny, sings well, and is handsome. It's not like he's some disfigured cave troll just leeching onto supermodels.

What I really admire most about Seth Macfarlane is the fact that he seems to really love what he does. And he works a lot. Voicing multiple characters in several shows, you get the impression that this guy is living out his dreams. He gets to have fun, do what he trained to do, and make cash hand over fist making people laugh with inappropriate jokes and seemingly out-of-nowhere pop culture references. I think American Dad is genius. I also think Family Guy: Blue Harvest was one of the funniest things I've ever seen. People call Macfarlane a douchebag because he makes a lot of the same jokes. So what? More often than not, they're FUNNY. He seems pleased with his success? Good, he should be.

I love my life! (He seemed to say)

I know many people will consider my praise a bit ridiculous. C'est la vie, eh? (French/Canadian)