Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?

Prompt: Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

Two things happened this year that made me feel alive, two things that are opposite sides of the same coin, really. I got married in September, a day full of happiness and fun and love, and then my grandma died in October and there were days of sadness and family and, you guessed it, love again.

When I think about both events, spending time with friends in the days before the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the day itself, and a month later, the last time I saw Grandma, the visitation, the funeral, the days of confusion, I tend to focus on specific moments, the most important flashing through my mind in quick succession.

My grandma couldn't come to the wedding, but she was present that day. The pastor surprised us all by taking a moment to remember her during the ceremony, and I concentrated on blinking away the tears that quickly formed in my eyes. I sat next to my great-aunt, my Grandma's twin sister, after the ceremony and she held my hand, told me how the pastor's words had touched her, and we sat for a quiet moment together.

The wedding ceremony itself was a blur. My feet hurt, my arm was tired from holding the bouquet, and my cheeks already ached from smiling and laughing. We were so happy, walking out into the church foyer after the ceremony, holding hands, hugging friends and family, taking a giddy ride to the reception.

The reception was...I don't even know. There was Twister and dancing and there were fake mustaches EVERYWHERE, there were cupcakes and soft pretzels, and a bottle of wine and Hogwarts being passed around on the dance floor. I danced with my family and old friends and new friends and did I mention Hogwarts? I walked arm in arm to the bar (naturally) with my dad to get a drink, grinned at my parents dancing with their best friends, delighted in seeing my sister dance with mine. If the wedding ceremony was a blur, the reception was even hazier, a crazy whirligig of fun, if you will (™ Xander Harris), a funhouse ride swirling us about in an uncontrollable dance, finally spitting us back out at my parents' house for more celebration.

There was a moment, though, at my parents' house, that my dad and his brother and sister and I stood in a huddle in the kitchen, arms around shoulders, friends and family eddying around us. I don't remember who said it or how it was said, but someone made reference to how much fun Grandma would have had and how much she'd been missed that day, and we stood there, all bittersweet smiles and aching hearts, until we were swept away by the general merriment of the night. We didn't know she would be gone in a month. How could we?

The days of her visitation and funeral passed in a similar blur, but with more tears. My eyes were swollen from a week of crying and still my body had more tears, my high-heeled feet hurt, my heart hurt, and all I wanted to do was hide. But, as always seems to happen, those times when you want to run and hide are exactly the times you can't, and so I went to the visitation, made small talk with almost-strangers and kept my eye on my family, gravitating to whoever might need me most. I went to the funeral, jumped up to read when it was my turn, and spent the rest of it with my eyes forward, tears streaming down my face, holding Joe's hand, my other arm around my sister's shoulders.

It was a sunny autumn day, brisk but not cold, as we gathered around the graveside to say our final goodbyes. I tried not to stumble in my heels. I smiled at my sister, put a rose on other family plots, hugged a crying cousin as we walked away from Grandma one last time. I felt too alive that day and all too human.

We went to my parents' house after both the wedding reception and the funeral, my entire family gathered, joyous to be together, missing those not there, and all of us grinning and crying and laughing, just grateful to be alive and loving each other.

one more sad

Last week was a weird one, I must say. I worked Monday and Tuesday and had the rest of the week off. My company does a lot of things wrong but they do bereavement leave right. Not sure what to make of that.

I went to volunteering on Tuesday night, something I was more than a little worried about, as it is a group for grieving children. I worried about bursting into tears as soon as I walked in, but it was actually the perfect place for me to be. Which in hindsight is a big, fat DUH but my foresight is absolute shit.

I saw my family almost every day last week, which was good, but also cried a lot, which was not so fun, actually. I held it together for most of the viewing, even though I had to go hide in the kitchen (under pretense of water-getting) a few times, and I held it together not at all on Friday at the funeral. I did manage to read this:

The thing about having a grandma is that you think she’ll always be there, because she’s always been there. From the moment you’re born, she’s with you, cheering you on and letting you stay up too late and pretending not to notice when you swipe a peppermint from the candy jar when your parents aren’t looking. She’s just as proud of you for graduating as she is that you didn’t fall down while walking across the stage. So when your grandma dies, you feel it instantly. That person who used to let you win at board games and who totally believed you when you said you were going to grow up to be Mary Poppins is gone.

The hardest thing about losing someone you love is the realization that you’ll never see them again. That all of the memories you have of that person are it, there will never be more. You realize how very little time we actually get and you wish, desperately, for more.

We must remember that the memories we have of Grandma are ours forever. We might feel like we’re losing them or that we don’t have enough of them, but the memories we have of her are like puzzle pieces and each person in this family holds different pieces of the puzzle. Late night card games and camping trips, watching Disney movies over and over and sleepovers on New Years Eve, walking up to Lincoln Park and feeding ducks at the pond, chocolate martinis and Happy Birthday Jesus cakes. We all hold these memories and when we tell stories about Grandma, we’re putting the puzzle pieces together. We’re a family of storytellers, a family that can’t get together without telling stories of times past, and as long as we can share our memories of Grandma, she’ll always be with us.

But only because the eulogies were first and especially only because I ran up to the mic before anyone else got a chance to make me cry. After I sat back down, though, all bets were off. TEARS. EVERYWHERE. But I suppose that's what funerals are for, really, so...whatever.

I feel very whatever lately. Very blah. Very other words for depressed. Things are getting back to normal, I suppose. We watched Chuck last night and walked Max and laughed about stupid things and I read my book and went to sleep and had crazy, crazy dreams.

Which I expected, as I have been having some wicked crazy dreams lately. I've dreamt of zombies at least four out of the past seven nights. The other night, I dreamt that I was in that movie Skyline. Have you seen the preview? It looks pretty run of the mill alien-movie until the last shot, which is of lots and lots of screaming people being pulled into spaceships by a beam of light. Freaked my shit out, that did. Anyway, some other people and I were running from this light, obviously, and we took shelter in a house. Someone realized that the light couldn't pull up people with dyed hair (what?) so we all dyed our hair. Mine was dark, dark black, like Evil!Willow black. We went outside to test it but mine didn't work, the light still came and I started getting pulled away and that's when Robert Downey, Jr. flew over in his Iron Man suit (minus the helmet) and saved me, which was pretty awesome because Robert Downey, Jr. is totally on my list, only I woke up before I could dream-cheat on Joe. Oh well, maybe next time.

(I love you, Joe!)

Anyway. I don't know what all the zombie/alien dreams say about my psyche right now and I don't want to know, thank you very much, I just wish they'd stop.

I am, however, totally OK with the Robert Downey, Jr. dreams. HINT HINT, UNIVERSE.

I need your good thoughts. Also, your money.

We lived next door to my dad's mom until right before I started third grade, when we moved into a bigger house across town. While we lived next door (which was a street away from where Joe grew up, btw), she used to baby-sit me after school. At some point, I don't remember when because I'm old now and those memories are fuzzy, my Granny moved in. Granny was not blood-related to any of us, but had raised my Grandpa and so she was family. I think that's how family works.

Granny died a few years after we moved, and my grandma moved into the condo that Joe and I are now renting. Life hasn't been very fair to Grandma, and yeah, yeah, I know life's not fair but that's not going to stop me from being pissed off about it. Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born. He was only 46. When I was in college, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She beat that and was diagnosed with diabetes. And a few years ago, doctors found a cyst that was pushing on her brain, causing confusion and other physical problems.

I remember being relieved when I found out that it was a cyst and not a tumor. But now I think, "fuck that cyst," because it has been nothing but a pain in the ass (brain?) ever since it turned up. It's required two of the same surgery, a shunt, and a temporary-turned-permanent stay in a variety of nursing homes. And the surgeries? They seemed to work at the time but she's been in a spiraling state of confusion ever since. She became paranoid and was sometimes mean. Sometimes funny mean, like when she threatened to punch my dad in the gonads, but other times mean mean. Mostly she was just confused. She sometimes thought she was back in her childhood home. She thought she had more than one room at the nursing home and always insisted that we take her to it.

She did have moments of complete lucidity, where she was all there, all Grandma again, and she'd make a joke or tell a story from when my dad was a kid. My sister and I visited once, and I spent the majority of the visit pushing Grandma's wheelchair up and down the hallways of the nursing home because she insisted that we go to her "other" room and no amount of me telling her that there WAS no other room was going to dissuade her. We spent a good hour exploring the halls and we never found it, of course, but when we got back to Grandma's room, she looked me square in the eye, all there, and said, "You're a good kid." I laughed it off, as I do whenever anything gets too serious, and made a comment about how I hadn't been a kid in a very long time. Then we talked about the new Where the Wild Things movie.

That's the last time I remember seeing the Grandma I grew up with. Since then, she's only gotten worse. She was recently moved to a home that specializes in Alzheimer's and dementia patients. I won't go into details, but she's been a handful, to put it mildly, and this was primarily the reason she couldn't come to the wedding.

Last weekend it reached epically bad proportions, as her doctors try to find a balance in her medication. They need to keep her calm without over-medicating her. I haven't seen her yet in the new home but I imagine it's not good, as my parents have forbidden me or any of the other grandkids to go see her without one of our parents. She's not eating. My parents couldn't wake her up when they visited last, she was so over-medicated. So. It's bad. I feel stupid and naive for thinking it would ever get better.

This coming Saturday, I'm walking in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K Walk in honor of both my Grandma and Aunt Kathy, both breast cancer survivors. I've done a pretty piss-poor job raising money, so if you can find it in your hearts (and wallets) to make a donation, I'll be your best friend. Or say really nice things about you on the internets. Or write a post about anything you want. Hopefully not one as sad face as this one, though, I had to take a lot of DON'TYOUCRYRIGHTNOW breaks.

find a happy place FIND A HAPPY PLACE

My teacher in fifth grade was named Mrs. Wolfe. It was Mrs. Castrejon the year before who nurtured my love of writing, but it was Mrs. Wolfe who nurtured my love of storytelling. I loved Mrs. Wolfe, idolized her, really, and to this day she remains one of my favorite teachers. I think of her every now and then, usually when I read a book that makes me cry, and I realize that sounds INSANE but hold your horses, I'll explain.

Every day, after lunch and recess, Mrs. Wolfe would pull out an old stool and place it smack dab in the front of our desks. She'd then pull out a book and read to us. I don't remember how long she used to read, sometimes it seemed longer than others, but I always wanted it to last longer, especially if we were in the middle of a good book. At the time, I couldn't understand how some people could just STOP reading in the middle of a book. I couldn't think of much else when I was reading a good book and so would race to finish it so my brain could rest. Not much has changed since then.

I always knew we were in for it if Mrs. Wolfe put a box of tissues near her. She'd cry through the sad parts, even though she'd read most of these books to all of her many classes in years past. And I'd sit in my chair, struggling not to cry with her, because what if no one else was crying OMG SRSLY. This is why I still read books I think might make me cry in the privacy of my own home, which is why when I read the end of The Dealthy Hallows, I found myself alone in bed, working my way through a box of tissues and putting the book down every few minutes because I COULDN'T SEE THE WORDS THROUGH MY TEARS. But I digress.

I don't remember the names of all the books she read over the course of the year, but I do remember the saddest moment in all of those books. For the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the book, and for once, Google was of absolutely no help. But I have faith that one of you might have read the same book as a kid and, who knows, maybe it stuck in your mind as well.

WARNING: this is like the saddest thing ever. What I'm saying is, Heather Anne, you might not want to read this.

OK. So. There's this boy, I think he's 12, and he wants to join a big dog sledding race in Alaska. I think he needs to win money or something to keep the family home or farm or igloo or whatever. So he joins this sledding race with his trusty pet dog who is the best and smartest and bravest dog ever and all the other people in the race are these grown ass men with their grown ass sledding dogs and they all make fun of the little boy because they are all big meanie poopheads.

The race is really hard and the boy and his dog have many adventures and problems but they make it to the end of the race. It's them against this other guy who wins like ALL the races and the boy and his dog are in the lead! They're going to win! AND THEN THE DOG FUCKING DIES RIGHT BEFORE THE FINISH LINE.

It is the MEANEST! STORY! EVER! you guys. What the shit is that? So of course, in class, we're all crying because THE DOG DIED and stories where the dog dies are the saddest stories of all. But it gets worse. The man who was about to come in second to the boy and the dog before THE DOG DIED, the man who wins all the races all the time, stops his sled, picks up the dead dog and carries him over the finish line and then I DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS.

I hope I didn't just traumatize you. I think I traumatized myself all over again. Anyway, does anyone know what that book was? Because I want to write a mean letter to the author.

an era is defined as a significant period of time!

It is my long held belief that any life event, big or small, can be related back to Friends. So a few months ago, when Heidi and I decided that we'd both be moving in with BOOOOYYYYS once our lease was up, of course I thought of Monica and Rachel. The parallels are obvious. Monica is a nutso control freak and Rachel is fun and will let you borrow her clothes. I will let you all draw your own conclusions as to who is who.

Heidi and I have lived together for four years now, which blows my mind because the time? Flew by. I know it sounds cliche, but it's true. When we were in college, and it came time for everyone to leave FOREVER, we found it too hard to acknowledge that we were all moving so far away from each other. We reveled in denial and, instead of saying anyone was leaving for good, we simply said they were going to the grocery. They'd totally be right back. It didn't always work and usually ended in tears, but we tried, you know?

So, once again, it's time for Heidi and I to go to the grocery. I'm moving out this Friday.This Friday! It's so soon. I can't really think about it without getting teary which is a problem if I'm, you know, at work. I've lived with quite a few roommates and Heidi is HANDS DOWN the best one I've ever had. Way better than the one I had freshman year, who smelled like an ashtray and used to lock me out so she could have sex with her boyfriend. Heidi will let you borrow her clothes, no questions asked. She'll happily eat cheesecake and cupcakes for dinner with you, and is always ready to watch The Office over a glass of wine. She'll even go with you to meet a stranger from the internet so you don't get axe murdered. And. And! She'll almost always be smiling, no matter how shitty her day was. She has a much better attitude than yours truly and that is a true story.

This is quickly turning into a sapfest, and we can't have that, no we can't, so instead I bring you Heidi and Jennie's Greatest Hits:

On not getting rabies

On (bravely) killing bugs

On books being true (always)

On laughter, the best medicine

On pain

On hot guys, and wasting time

On difficult choices

On roadtrips

On buttsex and Full House

On sickness

On poo

On getting accidentally drunk

On geography

On cooking

On not setting the apartment on fire

On (sister) doin' it for themselves

On engagements

On marriage and Nanomonkeys

On being different, so awfully different

On bags of semen



:-(, you guys, just :-(

I'll be up in the gym just WORKIN' ON MY FITNESS*

I had been doing really well with the whole working out thing, until Monday because I started to feel like poo because my mom gave me her germs, which is sweet and all, but really I wish she'd kept them all for herself. Because that's the kind of daughter I am, I will make that kind of sacrifice. Anyway, before the sickness, I was alternating between running and stuff in the fitness room and doing Jillian's 30 Day Shred.

I managed to move on to Level 2 of the Shred, even though most of the time it made me want to die, but I started to get really bored. I was tired of watching Jillian flirt with Natalie and fawn over Anita's abs. I didn't want to listen to her tell me about how she was making big promises, and that's why she was torturing me, or that she wanted me to feel like I was gonna die (the hell, Jillian?) because I was BORED. I was getting so bored that, since I had the DVD memorized, I was doing it without the aid of the DVD while I watched something else. And I was still bored! Also, tired.

So I bought a couple of her other videos. They're both about 50 minutes long (counting warm up and cool down) and so I figured they might be easier than the Shred. The Shred is only 25 minutes long, so I thought the intensity would be more spread out in the longer videos. This is similar to my theory that tinier animals and people are meaner than bigger animals and people because the evil is more concentrated. (See: little yappy dogs VS. big sweet dogs.) Never mind that I came up with this theory as I was explaining to my friend how scientists had cloned an elephant, but like a collie-sized elephant, and it was really cute but also really mean and would try to poke people with its tiny tusks and it wasn't until I was halfway through my explanation and she was staring at me like I had three heads that I remembered that I had read about this IN A WORK OF FICTION, not on the news. But I still think my theory makes total sense.

Anyway. I did one of the videos last night and now I'm afraid to do the other one. My new heart rate monitor watch said I burned 700 calories, which I really doubt is true but you know? I have never sweat so much in my life and today my entire body feels like I spent the night throwing myself down the stairs over and over so maybe it was accurate. There were moments when I actually cried out, "THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE, JILLIAN!" She for realsies tried to kill me. Toward the end, she was all, "now we're going to do mat work" and I was like, "yay, lying on the floor!" but that was the worst part of the whole workout! You guys, SHE IS EVIL. It's because she's so tiny, see, THEORY VALIDATED.

*yeah, I just quoted Fergie SUCK IT

woke up today, to everything gray

I am in A Mood but I'm working really hard to get out of it. I always get really cranky on Mondays because I'm upset that the weekend is over, even though it happens EVERY WEEK, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now. You'd be wrong, though. As it is, I'm struggling not to punch my coworkers in the face just because they have the AUDACITY to speak to me. I keep thinking, "snap out of it, Crankypants," every time I get all snarky with someone in my head, and really, it's the thought that counts SO BACK OFF.

It makes it even harder (heh) to get back to work when the weekend was such a good one. We visited Lampl and Jon on Friday, since they are soon leaving us for sunny Florida, and although the night started off innocently with margaritas and burritos at Chipotle, it soon moved to buying random beer at the grocery (WARNING: do not buy beer just because it has Bigfoot on it and you think it'll be funny because it tastes like . . . well, Sasquatch ass) and ended with a lot of screeching into the microphone during Rock Band and a late night run though Taco Bell. I knew things were not going to end well when it was my turn to sing and I realized I was seeing two sets of lyrics, and so I had to squint to make out the words to Any Way You Want It. I mean, luckily, I know most of those words ANYWAY (you want it) so crisis averted. I ended up singing it twice, for some reason, and I'm still not sure how that happened.

Needless to say, I did nothing productive on Saturday and ended up lying around in my pajamas for most of the day lamenting the fact that OH, I AM NOW SO OLD. I look forward to celebrating getting even older next weekend with the Reds and giant beers. So I will be spending much of next Sunday in my pajamas being completely unproductive, is what I'm saying.

Me fail English? That's unpossible!

Firstlies, take this quiz. I missed the first question (DAMMIT) but got the rest right. Thank you, Kat, for sharing this quiz and ALSO for telling me to wear red today for good luck. So far, so good. My red shoes are squeaky, though. What's that about? We have to wear these work badges around our necks on lanyards (much like the freshman leashes we wore our keys on in college . . . what?) and I also have this token on mine that bangs into my badge every time I take a step. So when I walk it's like, "smack smack smack" unless I hold onto my badge so the badge and token stop banging each other FOR FIVE SECONDS OH MY GOD. Anyway, today I'm squeaking when I walk and my badge and token are banging and it's all very loud. My point is, I can't sneak up on anyone at work, which is unfortunate. I'm very good at sneaking. And then jumping out! And scaring! Ask Joe. This one time I think I almost made him pee his pants a little because I jumped out from the dark and went "AHHHHH!" It was like that time Derek Zoolander went into the coal mine. You know? YOU know.

Now it is time to completely change subjects. Heidi's family had a memorial service for her grandpa yesterday, and I spent the majority of it pinching myself to take my mind off of crying. Someone once told me that if you're about to cry and you pinch the fleshy part of your hand between your thumb and forefinger, it will make you stop. I don't really know if it works but I kept doing it yesterday. Of course, then I wanted to cry because I was pinching myself, but whatever. Give Heidi all your hugs! Now!

Good news, everyone! Tam's grandpa is on the mend. That doesn't mean you can stop thinking good thoughts. Oh no. Think MORE good thoughts. They're working.

Also, happy birthday to three-hole-punch Steve. Congratulations, my friend. Today you are a man. (I don't know)

I feel like I did a lot this weekend. I think because both Friday and Saturday nights I was out PAST TWO IN THE A.M. Amazing, yes? It's like I remembered I'm not 80 and also that bars stay open that late. Even more amazing is that I was not drunk at ANY of these bars and I didn't fall down at all. That is both amazing and unprecedented. We saw some bands Friday night (and met Sad Captain) and on Saturday, while we were waiting for Heidi and her coworkers to finish their bowling tournament (you heard me), we sat in a dark corner of a busy bar, drinking Miller Lites, listening to a not-terrible rock band, eating cheese con queso, watching two men and a woman play grabass with each other in front of the dartboard, and trying to figure out how to turn on the flash on my camera phone. That last one was an EPIC FAIL but the rest worked out quite nicely. Last night, my parents fed me dinner and my mom gave me a billion pieces of kitchenware. I spent a great deal of last night reorganizing the kitchen to make room for the new dishes. This means I now have a lot of stuff to either put in storage or give to Goodwill. I'm leaning toward giving it all to Goodwill. Except for the fish plate. Lampl would kill me if I got rid of the fish plate. Do you like how I'm being all enigmatic about the fish plate? No? OK.

In other news, this week on The Collective, we're supposed to write about embarrassment and failure. I'm having a hard time narrowing down which embarrassing story to tell. Sigh.

This is more random than usual. I'm sorry. Wait. No. I'm not sorry at all.

WARNING: there is disturbing hooha talk ahead. I mean it. Turn away now.

Thank you all for the kind words yesterday. I knew I could count on you guys.

Now, it's time to talk about the gyno. I know, how excited are you? So. I went to the gyno this morning, because what better way to start the week than by letting someone you don't know very well shove a cold piece of metal into your hooha and poke around with giant Q-tips. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. I think sometimes men wonder why women complain about going to the gyno and HERE IS WHY.

First, you walk in and they weigh you. I'm really OK with this. The part I have a problem with is that they then measure you and SOMEHOW I've shrunk a quarter of an inch from last time I was in. Or I was wearing thicker socks last time. Or I was standing up straighter. I don't know. But I do know that 26 is probably too young to start shrinking.

Then they take you to an exam room, where they point out the lovely frock you'll be wearing. The nurse is all, "make sure the gown is open in the back and put this white sheet over your lap." The white sheet is for privacy while the doctor gropes you. You'll see.

So you change into this gown, making sure to leave the opening in the back, and cover your business with the white sheet. You wait and wait and wait and, if you're like me, you're just getting to a good part in your book when the doctor walks in and is all, "How's life? How often do you do it? Have you ever been pregnant? When was the first day of your last cycle?" It's like an exam you haven't studied for PLUS ALSO an interrogation. There are even hot lights shining on you. Sure, they're shining on your lady parts, but whatever.

After some chit-chat, the doctor tells you to lie back and put your arms over your head so she can feel you up and make sure your boobs aren't bad-lumpy. And then she yells at your for not giving yourself monthly breast exams. My doctor also likes small talk, but instead of talking about the weather, she'll talk about how her kids go to Catholic school and one day they came home and said they'd had a discussion about abortion in religion class. And you just smile and nod and try to pretend she's not kneading your boob like a bunch of dough.

Now comes the big show. The stirrups come out and she's all, "scoot down here . . . a bit more . . . that's it . . . relax your knees," and it's very uncomfortable, except you're kind of distracted because SHE'S STILL TALKING ABOUT ABORTION. And then, with some gentle words ("oh boy, this part is never fun") she violates you with a piece of metal. Good times. Now is when she switches subjects a bit and starts talking about how she really liked that Mike Huckabee and you bite your tongue because you are in a VERY. COMPRIMISING. POSITION. and she could do you permanent damage. Eventually, she finishes and you think it's all over, but then she feels your ovaries or uterus or whatever. From the inside. Yeah. I've heard some gynos poke you in the butthole or something, but mine doesn't do that. If she did, I'd poke HER in the butthole and see how she likes people messing around down there.

See? I told you not to read this. That'll learn you.

If I advance any higher in this company, then this would be my career. And well, if this were my career I'd have to throw myself in front of a train.

I often worry that I'm not a good enough person. I think I'm a good person, despite all the cursing and the talk about punching babies. After all, it's mostly all talk. I'd never punch a baby in the face, unless I traveled back in time somehow and punched Baby Hitler in the face, but he's totally asking for it. No, I don't worry that I'm not a good person, I worry that I'm not a good ENOUGH person. I worry that I'm not living up to my full potential, and that, even though I volunteer a couple days a month, I feel like I could be doing more for people.

I got kind of bummed this morning. It's becoming more and more obvious that, once we've converted all of our software and our company is officially taken over by the new one, my job will be all but obsolete. The thought of not having this job anymore doesn't really depress me, the thought of having NO job depresses me. This job is not as challenging as I thought it'd be when I started, or maybe I've gone as far as I can here, so the whole losing-my-job thing would be a good thing. Except, that not-having-any-money thing would kind of suck. And finding a new job has been a lot harder than I thought it would be. I mean, HELLO, why do they not recognize that I have super awesome skills (not just mean internet-surfing skills) and ALSO I would entertain them with funny stories and sarcastic comments on a daily basis, MUCH like a class clown. Or court jester. One of those.

A lot of the times, I think about doing something and then come up with a long list of reason why NOT to do it. I would like to stop this. The next time someone says they're having a James Bond movie night and I have a math test the next day (wtf?) I'm going to say, "Fuck the math, I'll be there." And the next time I see a job and think, "That sounds awesome, but I'm not sure I'm qualified," I'm going to say, "Fuck the qualifications, I'm applying anyway."

If they call me for an interview, though, I'm going to try not to say fuck in front of them.

fake it til you make it

I had to take a math test this morning. And then I got a flu shot. BEST. DAY. EVER. There was also an aptitude test (not attitude, unfortunately) and that part was fine. "What letter comes next in this sequence?" they asked. "Q!" I shouted. The test administrator asked me not to shout during the testing process. Then during the math portion, he asked me to stop crying and throwing things.

I was in all the smart math classes in school, but I never really understood what I was doing. I have a good memory so I'd memorize how all the homework problems were done, and then I'd skate through the tests with my sweet memorization skills. But I had no idea WHY you multiplied the square root of your butt by X. It's sort of like when you teach a little kid to swear. Sure, they can pronounce the words correctly but they don't know what they're doing. And unless you show them how, they'll never know how to combine those swear words for maximum hilarity (see: poohead buttshits).

Last night, I missed watching James Bond (in Blu Ray, which is apparently better than HD, but I wouldn't know, wah wah) because I needed to go over the test math problems they'd provided. These are the text messages I sent as I tried to work the problems:

I can't do math and I'm getting frustrated! (this was to Joe, who edits math textbooks, and who came over to help me when I threatened to cry)

I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST TOMORROW AND I CAN'T REMEMBER ALGEBRA.

Math is a fuckstick.

And as I sat there with my head in my hands, trying to set the fake test on fire with my eyes, I was reminded of all those weeknights my dad would sit with me and help me with my math homework. I'd get frustrated then, too. I get frustrated with anything I can't do perfectly right away THEREFORE I get frustrated a lot. Here is how most of those evenings would go:

Me: UUUGGHHHH! THIS IS STUPID.
Dad: What's wrong?
Me: I can't do this problem!
Dad: Let me show you how to do it.
Me: I don't need help!
Dad: Jennie . . .
Me: Fine.
Dad: See, you do this and this and blah blah blah the answer is 6.
Me: I don't get it AND I'M NEVER GOING TO USE THIS.
Dad: Yes, you will.
Me: Math sucks.
Dad: I know.
Me: Waaaaaaaaaah.
Dad: Try this one.
Me: OK.
Dad: There, see, you did it.

And then I'd try another one and start crying when I couldn't figure it out. I felt confident that I'd never, ever need algebra again and I would yell and yell about that instead of actually doing the problem, while my dad would explain that YES, YES I WOULD NEED ALGEBRA STOP BEING SUCH A WHINY BRAT. It turns out we were both right (about the math part, only my dad was right about the whiny brat part). I haven't really needed math since college. Until now, when I needed it this morning AND IT WASN'T THERE. Plus, they wouldn't let me use a calculator. What kind of fucked up shit is that?

Bell out of order, please knock

Apparently Tamara did not like my last post. In fact, I believe she might have suggested that it was the worst post ever. And, yeah, it was short and not thought out at all, but at least I wasn't listing things I carry in my purse, right? Right. In any case, Tamara is bored at work, and since she was kind enough to blog for me today over at The Collective, the least I can do is babble to the Internets for a while.

It probably won't surprise you to hear that I was sort of a weird kid. A weird kid who grew up into a genuinely weird woman (or, as my mom calls me, "a unique mind").

My mom also likes to remind me that, when I was little, I had a Southern accent that no one would explain. I grew up in southwest Ohio and, while it is a bit close to Kentucky, it's not close enough for Southern twang to seep in. I don't remember how or when I lost it, but I wish I still had it. I love accents of all kinds, but the Southern accent is the friendliest of them all.

Like most kids, I liked to play "pretend" during recess, but instead of playing House or School, I liked to imitate Babs from Tiny Toons or pretend I was Peter Pan (the girl version, of course) and climb to the top of the jungle gym and jump off. I never ended up flying, though. I tried a lot of different things in my attempt to fly. I stood on one end of a teeter-totter and had my friend push down on the other end. My thought was that, if he pushed down hard enough, I've propel through the air and soar into the clouds. What happened was, I fell backwards off of the teeter totter and hit my head on the ground. It was sort of exactly like what happened when I tried to run down the Slip 'n Slide. I used to try flying off of swings, too. You know, you'd swing as high as you could and then jump when you reached the highest heights, but I always crashed back down to Earth. My most unsuccessful attempts at flying usually involved an umbrella. I thought that since Mary Poppins could take off from the ground and fly with an umbrella, I could do it, too. But since I was an amateur, I jumped off of stuff while holding an open umbrella, so I'd at least already be in the air. It never worked and I was always disappointed. Even now, I can't believe movies would lie to me like that. I mean, I cannot tell you how many times I tried clicking my heels three times, but it never took me home. I tried it just this morning and it still didn't work. Hasn't stopped me from trying, though.

You know, on the old mariners maps, the cartographers would designate uncharted territory by writing "here be monsters."

We watched the most depressing movie ever last night. Not as depressing as Gone, Baby, Gone, but still depressing. Maybe depressing is the wrong word. It was more like . . . I don't know, one of those movies that makes me lose all faith in humanity. Sort of like . . . Gone, Baby, Gone. Hmm. Maybe depressing IS the right word.

Anyway, the movie was Cassandra's Dream and it made me lose more faith in humanity than even Match Point did. Thanks, Woody Allen! Oh, and just as a warning, HERE BE SPOILERS:

So. There are these two brothers, right? Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell. Ewan McGregor is a man-whore who wants to be all rich so he pretends he's all rich in an attempt to get into this Kate Beckinsale-y woman's knickers. Colin Farrell is a drunk who is addicted to gambling and in one night loses 90 THOUSAND POUNDS. Yeah. That's right. They have a mysterious Uncle Howard who is loaded and they decide to ask him for lots and lots of money. Which is totally cool with Howard, but he wants a little something in return this time. Nothing big. He just wants them to kill this guy who is going to testify that he is a rotten, rotten bastard. Easy, right? So, I'm thinking, "Hey, they probably won't kill that guy . . . they're not very smart, but they seem like nice boys." I should have known better. I didn't think that one dude was going to kill Scarlett Johansson either, but he totally did. People are bastards.

Anyway, so they definitely kill that guy. And Colin Farrell starts going a little crazy because I guess murdering someone isn't something you just forget about. He starts drinking and taking pills and talking about going to the police, causing Ewan to freak out more than a little. It was at this point that I looked at Joe and said, "Ewan's going to kill his brother, isn't he?" AND THEN HE TOTALLY STARTS PLANNING TO KILL HIS BROTHER. I don't like it when Ewan McGregor is a rat bastard. He ultimately stops himself from carrying out his MUUUUUUURDER plan, but then they get in a fight and both die anyway. THE END HA HA HAPPY FUN TIMES

You wait 'til next year's chair catalogue comes out and find someone who's still alive

On Saturday, I went to Ikea with one objective: to find new dinnerware. Also, cups. Also, a toothbrush holder. Oh, and also maybe a picture to hang in the living room.

I did not find any of these things. Well, I found some little juice glasses. And some cards with rubber duckie faces on them that cost more than the juice glasses. All in all, I waited in a 900 foot line to buy three things for a grand total of $14.00.

Ikea, I am not impressed. I LOOOOOOOVED Ikea when we went to the one in Schaumberg. I wouldn't shut up about it. Here, let me show you the not shutting up. However, when we went to the Ikea in Schaumberg, I wasn't looking for anything in particular. I just gazed in wonder at the array of household crap laid out before me. This leads me to believe that Ikea is a much more pleasurable experience when you're NOT actually looking for something. Or the Ikea in West Chester just sucks. Either way, I was sort of bummed UNTIL . . .

I realized that we'd be driving through Mason. And Mason is where McAlister's Deli is. I used to get McAlister's all the time when I worked in Mason, but there aren't any of those around Dayton because Dayton hates me. Anyway, I knew it was off a certain exit, but I couldn't remember exactly where it was because I am directionally handicapped. We got off the exit and it went something like this:

Me: I don't think it's on this road.
Joe: OK, we'll find it.
Me: It might be on this whole other road.
Joe: Let's just keep driving.
Me: OK. I don't see it. Hey, there's Ruby Tuesday! "Gooooooodbye, Ruby Tuesday . . ."
Joe: Are those the only words you know?
Me: . . . NO. "Who could something rain on you?"
Joe: Um, no. It's, "who could hang a name on you?"
Me: Whatever. Do you see McAlister's?
Joe: No. Let's drive through this shopping center.
Me: OK. I don't see it. Where is it? I don't see it.
Joe: Do you just want to go to Ruby Tuesday?
Me: Yeah, OK.
Joe: Let me turn around.
Me: OH MY GOD THERE IT IS!
Joe: What?
Me: Look! Look! McAlister's! Across the street!
Joe: You scared the crap out of me.
Me: Sorry. BUT LOOK!

Then I got sweet tea and it was good. The end.

I felt a great disturbance in The Force

I have some bad news. Really bad. You should probably sit down. I got to work today at the same time I always do, checked my work email, and then went to see if it was my turn on Scrabulous. And . . . oh god . . . it was GONE. JUST GONE. NO MORE SCRABULOUS. I guess it's because Hasbro hates me and wants me to cry all day long.

You guys, I am a mess and not just because of the Scrabulous loss. I came back from Put-in-Bay with a wicked sunburn, a huge bruise on my knee and no recollection of obtaining it, and a blister on my hand from burning it on the oven. This is why I shouldn't try to cook. People only get hurt, and by people, I mean ME. Also all the people who get food poisoning. Then yesterday, I tried to tune my guitar and a string broke and whipped me on the wrist. It hurt. You may be asking yourself, "why is Jennie tuning a guitar?" or maybe even, "Jennie has a guitar?" and the answers are, "because an out of tune guitar sounds like shit," and, "yes, I do have a guitar." I bought it my senior year of high school because I thought teaching myself to play would be easier than it was. Also because it was blue. It turns out, teaching yourself how to play the guitar is NOT easy. I think I was hoping I would just pick up the guitar and magically know how to play. Like I'd be the Rainman of singer-songwriting. Alas, I am not. So, recently, I got a book to help teach me and yesterday was the first day I actually TRIED to do anything and then a stupid string broke. AND THEN (no and then!) I realized that I haven't changed the strings since I got the guitar. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it wasn't like I was playing it or anything. So. Moral of the story? I need new strings.

After I broke my guitar, I decided to go running and I almost died. I know I say that every time, but a combination of very little sleep this weekend, spending too much time in the sun, the HOT HOT HEAT and HUMID HUMID, um, HUMIDITY, and the fact that I haven't run in weeks meant I seriously for real almost fell on the sidewalk and died. I know this means I need to start running in the morning before work, but waking up that early makes me die, too. This is really a losing situation any way you look at it.

can you tell me why you have been so-o-o-o-o saa-aaa-aaad?

Today sucks, you guys. Remember a long time ago (on a blog far, far away) when I explained why Tuesday was the worst day of the week? Well. Allow me to explain again, because I'm too lazy to go back and find that post. See, Monday automatically blows, because it's Monday and you're tired (well, I'm tired) and cranky and busy catching up on work, but you EXPECT that from a Monday. Where do you think "looks like somebody's got a case of the Mondays," came from? Also, has anyone ever said that to you? Someone said it to me once and I punched them in the babymaker.

Anyway. Wednesday is sort of awesome because it's Hump Day, meaning the week is half over and also you get to say "hump" a lot. Thursday is almost Friday, which makes it easier to get through PLUS ALSO The Office is on. Friday IS Friday and most of the time I'm so happy on Friday, I'm all, "I want to have your babies, Friday." True story. Saturday and Sunday are self-explanatory, although Sunday sort of sucks because right around 6 o'clock is when the end-of-the-weekend depression starts sinking in. But it's still not enough to ruin the ENTIRE day.

Tuesday, however, oh Tuesday. Tuesday is just there. It's too blah to hate it with any real sort of passion and it drags on and on until I have to poke myself in the eyeballs just to stay awake.

Today sucks particularly hard, because not ONLY is it Tuesday, but I didn't work yesterday so it feels like Monday and so it's sort of like Monday and Tuesday have formed an unholy alliance and their main objective is to make me jump out the window. I did accomplish a lot this weekend, though. I wrote some articles, helped my grandma and great-aunt turn 70 (they didn't need much help, it turns out), drank a lot of beer and wine, ate my weight in cookout food, read two books and ONE OF THEM I read in less than 24 hours (my skills, do they frighten you?), made some new friends, and Heidi and I finally beat Rayman. When we finished it, I wandered around the apartment for a while, wondering what to do with myself because it felt like my life's goal had finally been reached. I considered making a new life goal, like climbing Mt. Everest or something, but instead I just started another book. I'm trying to push this other book out of my mind, partly because I HATED IT but mostly because, between that book and a conversation I had over the weekend, I have not been able to turn off my brain. Seriously, it won't shut up. Which meant I couldn't sleep last night which means I'm way tired and all THIS means that today sucks. And now we have come full circle. The circle of suck. It's beautiful, yes?