Just Real Quick

I love DC. I love being here. I love watching the people walk around. I love the sidewalk cafes. I love sitting on a patio, sipping my vodka drink and watching people and talking to the boy. I want to come back.

Whitey McWhiteville

Twice in the past two weeks, I've been to Cullman to visit a friend. Cullman has got to be the whitest place on Earth. Seriously, folks, I can't remember a time I was surrounded by so many crackers. To be honest, I didn't really notice at first, because I am white, but as I was remembering the town's history (or what I imagine to be its history), I started noticing the complete lack of diversity in the place.

It's strange to me, and it makes me glad that I live somewhere that has lots of people from all over the world. Unfortunately, most of them are engineers, which limits the interaction potential (no offense, engineers!), but still, this town has people from all over the world.

So fare well, Cullman, and I'll see you again at Christmas.

(Apologies for the short post - I've got to board my flight to DC now.)

Please Meet My New Best Friend

Now before you get excited, you should know that I'M NOT ENGAGED. This ring is Momma's, and I've loved it since the first time I saw it. I've told her countless times that I want this ring. I love the setting and the shape of the stone so much, so, so much.

This weekend I'm headed to DC for a conference, and Momma said I could borrow it for the time I'm there. But here's the truth...she will never see this ring again. I'm going to sneakily try to keep it. So do me a favor, and don't remind her that I have it, OK?

Father's Day

As those of you who know me or who are regular readers know, I have Daddy Issues. (And there's a story there too, but it's not fit for print, but HAWT!)

Today, as I was lounging about in bed on a Sunday, as I am wont to do, my phone rang. The caller ID said it was a call from my apartment complex front gate. OK, I figured, I'll answer it, because if nothing else, it's always fun to tell someone that I won't buzz him in.

But, oh, no. It was my father. "I'm here," he said, and I replied, "I'm not up yet, not ready for company." My heart was pounding out of my chest. "OK," he said, and I thought that was the end of it. Two minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I freaked for a second, then got up, found a robe, and answered the door. Of course it was him, and I stood in the doorway as he looked around my head, trying to scope out my apartment. Now, my place wasn't that tidy today - dust, a carpet that's begging for a vacuuming, other evidence of my occasional bad lifestyle choices sitting out - so I did my best to block him. I just didn't need a conversation on how I live today.

He asked for a hug, which I begrudgingly gave, and he handed me a few a bucks, and left.

It was weird, and it took about thirty minutes for my heart to calm down, and I REALLY REALLY need for this to not be a portent of things to come. Don't drop by my place without warning, ever. Especially if you're related to me.

(There's more I want to say, but since the things I write on the Interwebs are eternal, I'm going to have to give it a pass. If you want to know more, email me.)

The Anger Of A Woman

There's been three different inspirations for this post: 1) A spoken word discussion by Henry Rollins, whom I love love love, 2) The most recent episode(s) of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and 3) My own experience.

Rollins once spoke of the purity of a woman's anger. I can't remember the whole story, nor can I link anywhere where you can hear it, but the gist was this: A woman's fury is pure, eternal, and fatal. I think he joked about seeing globes hanging from a woman's windshield in her car, and the woman driving saying that those globes were so-and-so's ovaries.

Yeah.

Watching both episodes of the big fight on Real Housewives, I thought about how the men witnessing them reacted. To wit, they really didn't. I think that when men watch women crawl in and get ready for war, they know better than to try to interfere. This could be because it's hot to watch women fight, or because they know much better than to even try to cool the situation. If I had to guess, I'd say both are equally true. But know this, men: DO NOT INTERFERE. It won't end well for you.

Yeah.

There are women in the world that I don't like. Period, full stop. About 99% of them I can manage, forgive, ignore, whatever. Yet there's maybe five women still alive whom I have no interest in knowing. At least two come from my high school years. While I'm twenty years older, and at least five years more wise, I don't want to forgive their (perceived) slights, nor am I considering "getting over it". It is what it is, and honestly, folks, there's a good chance that I dislike them because they remind me of me. That's fine. I get the message. But no. I can live with dislike.

(Wanna know what bothers me? That those women may not remember me, or if they do, remember from where the animosity arises.)

Letter To My Landlord

Dear Landlord,

I'm only calling you landlord because calling you professional community management corporation is too big of a mouthful for me to handle.

The emergency message I left for you a half-hour ago wasn't a joke. I really do live in apartment #XXX, my name really is Christine, there really is water running from my upstairs neighbor's apartment into mine, and my phone number really is as I gave it. So get a maintenance person over here with a quickness, or there will be repercussions.

This isn't the first time that water's leaked into my apartment from theirs. No, I believe we had this conversation about a month ago. This isn't the first time I've had to call you about anything, to be honest. There was the uber-worm that it took me three (3) phone calls to have removed. There's been the spider problem, which has details that I care not to share here, but REALLY? You let a man into my apartment without forewarning and there was a Skinemax moment involved? There was the light switch malfunction that it took two calls to get resolved.

I realize that I'm a bad tenant, what with my paying rent on time for the past eighteen months and calling you for assistance only when I really needed it. Oh, and for the record, I am fully aware that I live in the "low-rent" section of the complex, so clearly my concerns are less than important.

But let's revisit the consequences. You may not be aware of this, but I am an attorney by trade. An attorney who paid a whole lot of attention in both my property and real estate classes. An attorney who's got just enough free time to wrangle my way out of this lease. Oh, and I do want out. I really do.

So get someone to pay attention to the water leaking into my apartment, NOW! If not, the drywall will collapse, and I will get a rather prurient view of the college-aged boys who live above me. And none of us want that.

XOXO,
C

Two-Second Kvetch

When you call me back to ask if everything's OK and my response is that you've got enough to worry about and don't need to carry mine, and then you ask again if everything's OK and my answer is that I don't have anything sharp in my hands, maybe you should reconsider saying, "OK, call you later".

Yeah. 'Cos I'm a woman.

The Webs Are Everywhere

Lately, I cannot seem to escape the hoard of spiders that have taken over the apartment. I've called the exterminator - I'm pretty sure he just sprayed scented water - and now it seems that I have to wage this war alone. Or as alone as I can be while talking on the phone and squealing like a banshee to whomever's hapless ear I've got.

Via, this gem:


Funny Motivational Posters



I don't know if I'm getting less reactive to those terrifying wonders, or if it's the liquid courage I had, but it's getting easier to smash the nasty little buggers. This news should cause great relief for those innocent, pure baby ears into which I've been hollering. In fact, the other day, as I casually looked down, saw a spider (which was trying to hide on my dark brown rug - HAH! Foiled again!), grabbed a couple of Kleenexes, and inflicted a swift death onto the scourge of my apartment, I remarked oft-handedly about what I'd done, and my jabbering partner replied, "But where was the screaming?"

Progess, people. It comes in the form of arachnid carcasses.

Maybe I Didn't Read The Memo

It would appear that I'm getting older. I've noticed, along the way, that my knees sometimes feel squishy (technical term) and that they sound like Rice Krispies (thanks, John!) when I bend them. I've seen a few wrinkles grow around my eyes, and if I were to ever get Botox, it'd be for the deep crease that's near my right eye. But I've never felt "unpretty" or old. In fact, I've enjoyed the ride, the experience and (hopefully) the wisdom I've gained along the way.

So what's changed? I read a book, Swapping Lives, I've started watching She's Got The Look, and my sister called tonight. It all seems to create a soup where I'm supposed to feel that I'm losing my looks. I don't think I am. I still love the parts of me that I loved when I was younger. My eyes, my cheekbones, the curves of my body...they're still there, and more so, they're becoming more defined as I take better care of myself. Some things are even better! I wax my eyebrows now, and believe you me, that makes a world of difference.

For the record, I am 36. Does this mean I've lost my fashion sense or that I'm reminiscing about my glory days? Does this mean that I'm supposed to have done these things?

Here's what I miss about my 20s: The incredible sense of self-assurance. The knowledge that the world would open its secrets to me. The complete understanding that I would achieve every one of my dreams.

Here's what I don't miss about my 20s: The incredible sense of self-assurance. The knowledge that the world would open its secrets to me. The complete understanding that I would achieve every one of my dreams.

I like knowing that I'm flawed. I like having humility. And, truth be told, not all of that 20-something girl is gone. I like her remnants.

Gee-Argh!

All of you who blog: Don't you sometimes wish that you could write about the people in your lives? You know you can't, because this little social experiment is about you, and as it turns out, most people don't adore being discussed online.

But still, it's killing me to not react to the conversations I've had today. Maybe if I could find a way to make it all about me (I know, right?) I'd totally write.

Suffice to say this: my friends and the boy have all of my support, which is why I don't always tell them what I really think.

Somebody's A Busy Little Bee

Went to bed at 4. Got up at 10. Have prepared five resumes/cover letters to send. Have done some research about consumer protection. Have researched companies associated with such. About to shower and get pretty. Have 2:30 meeting. Will spend rest of afternoon cleaning up writing sample with boy.

Sweet Christmas! Has anyone seen me? The lazy me? Who's this new girl?

Sundays Are For The Lazy

I could not have been lazier today. I woke up around 8, went back to sleep, talked to the boy at 10 (rare - we never talk that early!), went back to sleep and dreamed that the boy destroyed my apartment, and then stayed in bed to watch movies.

I watched The Breakfast Club for the approximately 1000th time. Why do I love that movie so much? Is it because it reminds me of my mouth? Is it my long-standing love for John Hughes movies?

Today I decided that when I lived in California and did my first two years of high school, I was Allison, the basket case, and when I moved to Alabama and did my last two years, I was Claire, the princess. Weird, huh? Such a diametric opposition. Huh.

The other things I learned, while watching Strange Days, are that Strange Days is not a good movie, Angela Bassett freakin' ROCKS, and the actor I always reference as the slightly odd-looking character actor is actually Richard Edson. So nice to have a name for a face.

Oh, Yeah, THAT'S Why

Momma's in California visiting my siblings. I was invited to go along, but declined because I was supposed to be seeing the boy, but also, and a bit more importantly, it would involve visiting my family.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my brother and my sister. My sister and I are pretty close, my brother and I aren't as close. I think this is because I'm more like my brother than my sister, so I don't need to talk with him as often. (Yeah, that's the nice reason. But there's really no point in delving any further than that on this public forum, is there?)

My siblings don't particularly get along, and there's been a rift between them that's going on just over two years. This is sad, but there's nothing I can do about it, except for when they finally decide to get over it, I can knock their heads together for ruining my law school graduation. (This thought satisfies me more than it should.)

Anyhoo...

In the course of trying to figure out who's ferrying Momma from my sister's place to my brother's place, a tiff has arisen. It astounds me that a car ride can create strife, but heck, this is my family after all, and we're special.

My sister called me today to vent her frustrations, and I can see why she's upset. There was a time, not that long ago, that I would have immediately called my brother and try to broker a peace. But this isn't my fight, and I don't want to be in it, and I don't want to have a twenty-four-hour conversation on hurts from the past, and in my attempt to protect myself, I have most likely annoyed my sister with my refusal to get involved.

There's A Reason They Call It A Marathon

Last night, the boy and I were on the phone for (a record, a stupid) about seven hours. Yeah. Seven freakin' hours, because apparently the amounts of time we talk each day aren't clearly enough. (Honey, I absolutely love that we talk that often.)

We, after a bit of conversation, ended back up on the topic of my father. (Yea!!) The boy finally ended up asking me again, and again, and again, about what I needed from my father. After numerous answers, none of which were true, I finally came up with the truth:

I need him to know what he did wrong without me bringing it up.

Those of you who know me in real life know already what I say about my father. You also know how proud I am, in general. So I would never feel comfortably about explaining the issues that we have.

I also know that my father will never do this, and I will never get resolution. Yet, I think it's OK to forgive from afar, without the dramatic, never-ending, painful conversations.

Do you think I'm wrong?