In which Quiana cannot say/do anything right

Serious conversation means being honest with yourself and other people. Serious conversation means facing up to the parts of you that you can disguise under nail polish and pithy Threadless t-shirts and hundreds of useless facts and distant friendships. Serious conversation is all the shitty parts of being a grown up and none of the good parts like porn and liquor.

I had to have a horrible (read: serious) conversation with someone last night (the second part of a two part clusterfuck). The major problem with having a serious conversation is that I’m super not-good at conversing with other people about things that may hurt feelings or be important or change how things are right at this moment. (For those who don’t know me well, I am always ‘happy’ with things right now- even if I’m not- as long as I don’t have to risk any sort of change).

Last night I had to do the 'smart thing', as opposed to the 'dumb, crazy, short-sighted, stupid thing'- the tempting path of least resistance, which is always lurking.

I could even have done the 'mean thing'; which is second easiest and was nearly always my first choice my entire life. But that is not a good choice when you are busy trying to avoid making every chance meeting with Serious Conversation Buddy the most painfully awkward and gut wrenching moment of the week by doing the smart thing in the first place.

Most unfortunately, I had to do the 'smart thing' using only the arcane tools with which I came into this world- my word making abilities (“honed” by years at a well respected liberal arts college) and innate understanding of feelings. (Hint: not super skilled in either of these arenas.) So… that went poorly and left me with the feeling that I suck and will continue to suck (until I die).

So today I feel shitty. Predicted feelings in my Weekly Feelings Forecast: shitty through the midweek, but lifting into a heavy malaise in time for the weekend. Don’t forget your umbrellas, because it sucks out there. (This is probably my fault.)

RAAAAAAAAAAWWWWRRRRR!

Finally, National Geographic is covering the oft neglected Wild Thing.

Thanks for the link, Tom.

Just call me Debbie Downer.

I haven't been posting because I've been very busy and very grouchy. And I didn't want to be a downer, so I didn't write anything.

But I did something weird and maybe stupid and out of character (no, not another Norrissing): I googled my dad. And now I'm a downer, so brace yourselves.

My dad wasn't around when I was a kid. He wasn't really a deadbeat; the checks always came, but they were small and uncertain. I don't want to mischaracterize a man I barely know, but what I most strongly remember was the month that he called to tell us that we would not be receiving a check because he wanted to take my brother to Disney World and couldn't swing child support too. At that time we could barely swing food.

I can only remember two of his visits (maybe there were only two, I don't know, my memory is notoriously crap).

One was when he came out to Vegas on an unrelated-to-me trip and we went to Circus Circus and I showed him my awesome hoop shooting skills. I didn't know at the time, but I guess dad gambled a bit more than he should have on that trip and found himself in a very tight spot.

The other was when he told me he would come for my high school graduation. And actually did. My father was filled with promises when I was a child, but never came through on any of them- except this one. He showed up at my uncle's house while I was at the beach. No warning. I just received a call telling me to hurry over because my dad was there with my brother. He came to my graduation and was mad when I went to the all night party afterwards with my cousin instead of to dinner with him. He didn't understand that my Auntie had paid for me to go and that to me $60 was a lot of money. When I got home that morning he had already left to take my brother camping in BC. It was just another vacation to him. He didn't even leave me a voicemail.

So years later when I called him and told him that I couldn't keep announcing my life on fancy stationary and wondering if or when he would show, I was surprised when he told me he would buy a ticket right then and meet me in Tokyo.

The next day I raced to the library to email him back (because I'm an idiot) and found he'd created this whole vacation around visiting me. That he, his wife (number unknown), and my brother were going to come over for a vacation tour of Japan, led by that other kid of his, the who speaks Japanese. I told him no. I told him that I would stop over in Indiana on my way back to Philly in the fall. That we could talk and bond (because I'm an idiot). He was insistent. I told him I'm not a tour guide, or some thing to brag about, but never have to be responsible for. He got angry. And I never talked to him again, which considering I hadn't spoken to him in nearly three years anyway was not much of a big deal.

I'm sometimes embarrassed when people ask about my dad, but whatever. It is as though he doesn't even exist. So now why would I wait 7 years and google him?

I don't know. I think maybe I'm a crazy person.

I hope my Norrissing and this act of the bizarre are unrelated, although I can't imagine how they can be. I'm sure a psych major would have a field day.

But maybe this is just part of having an estranged parent. Maybe I'm just stupid and want to reconnect with someone who has never been good to me in order to suffer more abuse- that seems nice and girly.

Or maybe a secret longing to forgive him, that comes with the realization that we all make mistakes and it has been a long time.

Anyway, I feel dumb. Dumb for caring. Dumb for even contemplating something that is the first step to exposing myself to the possibility of being hurt again. Just dumb.

I did find him. His pictures on some sports website. He looks good; I'm glad. I guess he quit distance running and has re-devoted himself to competing at mixed martial arts (ala ultimate fighting). He has some impressive guns for a 50 year old.

Sorry SUCkers!

I am both sick and swamped at work. I spend most of my evening hibernating, Yogi-style.

But let me tell you a little story about unprofessional behavior. I totally cried at work yesterday. I had x-million things to do and my boss asked me to do one last completely useless thing and I said, "Ok. No problem," then I hung up the phone and burst into tears.

It was awesome.

Anyway, all is well, but crying at work is not how I like to roll... it just doesn't seem very gangsta.

Here is a quickie link dump for you.

Boy, 6, Tries to Drive to Applebees
Why, of all places Applebees? I guess he just loves there dusty sport memorabilia and potato boats.
I HATE Applebees, I have no idea why anyone would want to go there.

FBI Checks Bomb Report, Finds Pumpkin
Excerpt:
An FBI spokeswoman in Seattle, Robbie Burroughs, says four agents went to Casper's office.... He spent an hour with the agents showing them a pumpkin and another squash similar in size to pieces of the Hiroshima bomb. Burroughs says the agents left satisfied it wasn't dangerous.
I assume he means the pumpkins. Your tax dollars at work kids.

Jimmy Carter: U.S. Tortures Prisoners
Nothing funny here. An interesting read though.

Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

What made me think that it was a good idea to chase Resident Evil: Extinction with a couple episodes of Dexter before bed?

Because sleep is for losers.

All the cool kids like to sit bolt up right covered in sweat every half hour through the entire night.

I could watch every sexy show known to man before bed and I will still dream of ham sandwiches or staplers. But watch zombies and serial killers and I will actually dream about zombies and serial killers. There is no justice.

And on the issue of stuff I'm watching:
Dexter:Super Awesome. Nifty TV show about a scarily endearing sociopathic vigilante serial killer. 5 monkeys for being unique and thought provoking.


Heroes: Started slow but stick with it. It's like crack now. Delicious crack. 5 monkeys.

Resident Evil 3: Actually pretty decent. Especially if you're into naked chicks. Which I'm not, but I'm just saying that if you are, you will probably like it. There was actually a really scary thing in there that I wish I could spoil, (since nobody else will see the movie) but I won't.
1.5 monkeys for being a nice example of its genres. Plus .5 monkey for having that cute Israeli dude back from Apocalypse and an additional bonus monkey for introducing the most terrifying conceivable zombie ever. Grand total 3 monkeys.

In which Superman is kind of a dick.

Early in the week I had a crazy vivid dream.

It was the late 50’s, and I was on a farm in pedal pushers and a pony tail. I wanted to go to the big city, so I hitched a ride in the back of an old orange Ford pickup.

When I got to the city I went into this business/housing complex that was black and shiny and modern, but modern in the way that people in the 50’s expected the future to look. And as I was walking around men with clear, bubble-like helmets came and hijacked the building complex. The whole thing rose up from the earth bringing an inversed pyramid of dirt and broken pipes into the air with it. A clear bubble emerged over the complex and we were in space.

Luckily for me, as I was plotting my escape, a profoundly slovenly Cat Woman came skipping down the darkened hall. She was in black flat keds with scuffs, faded yoga pants, a ribbed black turtleneck covered by an off the shoulder Flashdance style sweater with yarn that was not evenly spun. Upon her head was a mask with crooked ears. She carried a long whip and together we somehow escaped back to Earth.

I ended up back on the farm. Large clear crystals were growing out of the ground quickly and violently. Clark Kent came over and ordered me to build his Fortress of Solitude. I picked up the heavy crystals and tried to build the fortress, but the crystals wouldn’t stick. They were like magnets aligned to the same poles. Superman, still dressed as Clark Kent: 50’s farm guy, came over and stuck two crystals together and looked at me like I was a complete moron, “See? Like this.”

“But they won’t stick for me…”

“That is because you aren’t doing it right.”

Then he walked away in disgust to the sound of my alarm.

Thought of the Day: Fast Cars and Fast Women

1. And by fast cars I mean lumbering SUVs. Yesterday when I was traveling home from the office a black Escalade merged into the lane to my right. And then immediately cut me off, as though I didn't predict that the Escalade driver would do that.
What is it about certain types of cars that are a window into the souls of their owners?
I'm pretty sure that my vehicle ('96 Merc. Sable) says 'I have two kids and think that King of Queens is hi-larious' which may or may not be detrimental to my theory.

2. And by fast women I mean uhm... fast women. Slate brought up lyrics to a Dar Williams song, with which I am familiar, but hadn't meditated on before (because while I went to Bryn Mawr, I am not a "Mawrter"). The lyrics go thusly:
"Now I'm in this clothing store
and the sign says 'less is more'
more that's tight means more to see
more for them, not more for me."
And I think that the end lyric, for me, is most important. It isn't that I lose something if I whip out my tits on Girls Gone Wild. (Although in terms of external judgments I undoubtedly would.) It is that I don't gain anything.
And the brand of selflessness that leads to random people masturbating is not the particular brand of selflessness to which I feel any allegiance.
Now if it involves being saucy towards someone towards whom I have intentions, that is a different story, morning glory. (RAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWRRRR)

3. Special Bonus Thought which will probably get me in trouble.
Last night I received an email from a friend notifying me that she was done with our fight and wanted to bury the proverbial hatchet.
To which I responded, "Sounds good. It is very kind of you to make the first advance."
But to which I wanted to respond, "What fight? Are we not talking or something?"
This is yet another event in a series of incidents in which someone thinks that we are super-buds and I think that we are acquaintances. Also this marks yet another time in which I have failed to notice someone's attempt to punish me.
Additionally, I hope this doesn't require an apology, because that is *not*going to happen.
If I recall correctly (and as I can surmise from the puzzling email contents) the 'fight' occurred when she made some ridiculous political generalization and I responded with a comment along the lines of "that is a sweeping generalization," followed by a "how did you arrive at that conclusion?" And may have chased that with something like (and I promise that this was more tactfully said, though I cannot remember verbatim), "this kind of knee-jerk reaction could be better dealt with through further consideration and research of sources outside of blatantly liberal biased, or non-existent (or found on the comedy channel*) sources."
Since when did being friends mean that you can't have intelligent discourse on the topics of the day? I don't watch American Idol so I'm up shit-creek for boring small talk. I would prefer to discuss important things, but not if the end result is that I am declared stupid or stubborn.
Is it crazy to ask someone to defend their beliefs? Furthermore, if you believe something, shouldn't you be able to say why?

*Not actually said, but was very much desired.

Good news!

The sky did not fall.

I did not turn into Tony Shalhoub, as I had initially feared.

In fact, all is well. It turned out that pie, Monday night TV, and knitting were the only things needed to perk me right up.

Now I can go straight back to my normal irrational fears of raccoons, squirrels, things with more than four legs, men wearing striped shirts and spiked hair who talk to me in bars, the government and its frustrating ineptitude, and becoming my mother.

And now for your viewing pleasure:
a highly sedated lemur

Foreboding

I have been just smothered in foreboding today. It is the sort of thing I associate with girlishness; perhaps because my mother is often struck with these sorts of feelings of clairvoyance that cause her to say such things as, "Oh I think I'd better drive down to wait while you have surgery because I have this very strong sense of foreboding about this...." As though a comment like this is supposed to make me feel -better-.

No, I don't think that I'm psychic, but my response to this feeling will still be to cower at home in bed with my stuffed bunny, Mr Bunnykins, and watch TV while eating tasty pie and waiting for the sky to fall.

On a related note, I am publishing an unauthorized reproduction of my convo about this subject with Paul (Paul italics, and I am bold, in general, but in this case in font as well) from this a.m. So read it ASAP in case Paul demands I take down this inflammatory and speculative hogwash.

I am feeling this deep sense of foreboding. Very nervous and frantic feeling. Is this silly?

Is this just a general sense of foreboding or is it over something specific? Personally I have been quite weirded out over a series of occurrences, so if you wanted to tell me that the fabric of space and time is collapsing around me... I would still think you were being silly but I would be placing an order of large container of Reality Glue. What kind of container would Reality Glue come in? My first thought was one of those paste jugs form kindergarten.

Foreboding of the variety that is not allowing me to make decisions, such as what kind of planner do I want or whether to go to Superbad tonight.

I would like reality to be kept in a very large rubber cement bottle. The kind with the brush. Reality bottles would be cumbersome and hard to open. I can picture some form of hijinx ensuing simply from trying to open a crusty old reality bottle. The smell of reality would also give me a headache.

Sorry to hear about the general foreboding. I find the general foreboding much more annoying than specific. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But in your case you would probably see that as a good thing, as long as it was in your size and "cute".

I've got my dad's eyes, my mom's chin, and my aunt's weird.

Example 1: My not-aunt Laurie and I were out shopping and she came across a square waffle iron and declared, “I’v been looking for a square waffle iron for ages! I can’t stand round waffles.”
“Yes,” I cried excitedly, “otherwise they are not conducive to proper topping distribution!”

Example 2: Later we were driving past a beggar just off of Union Square in San Fran and Laurie made her daughter roll down the window and give him 5$. We’d passed countless beggars and when we looked at her questioningly she responded, “He’s missing a leg.” This theory of giving is perfectly in line with my less delicately put theory on begging, which I call, “Show me your stump.”

Thought of the Day: Aligator Lizards in the Air Edition

Lately I've been wondering if I am a complete idiot. For the last month or so I have been completely forgetting to take my birth control and not even noticing. I promise that I am usually a very smart (and more pertinently extremely paranoid) person. Is my subconscious mind attempting to get me knocked up, or merely cranky and bloated?

Excellent theme song for next week's Cali trip (to be detailed shortly): Ventura Highway. I swear to you, America is a FANTASTIC band. Sadly I shall not be toting America with my as my ever-sucky iPod is broken, again. And Apple has the WORST customer service ever. Instead of 'Genius Bar' it should be called 'Smug Bastard Who Can't Actually Fix Apple Products With Anymore Skill Than Quiana Bar' although I understand that that is somewhat verbose. Anyone have an MP3 player that isn't part of the Apple conspiracy to sell an attractive but crummy product? (Incidentally, this description of Apple products also aptly describes every guy I dated in college.)

My birthday is stretching to an endless (and baseless) celebration of my awesomeness. Parties (Friday & today), cocktails (Tuesday), lunches (Tuesday & 2 weeks from now), dinners (previous Tuesday and tonight) with presents and mail pouring in from God knows where since last week. If this continues I am likely to get very stuck on me. Yet, I can't help but ponder why I'm getting all this good treatment, is this karmic make-up for my crappy past few weeks?

I've started watching the show Men in Trees and I really (ashamedly) like it a lot. On the surface it is a romantic comedy- under the surface it is a romantic comedy too. But it has fascinating things to say about human nature and gender. Leave it to a Bryn Mawr Girl to obsess of the portrayal of gender in a second string prime-time comedy.
But let me explain the plot! She is a dating coach who writes books about finding love, only to find out that her perfect life isn't what she thought it was. On a business trip to Alaska she finds out that her fiance is cheating on her and suddenly realizes that everything that she taught about dating and gender was probably completely wrong. After years of trying to teach women how to analyze and manipulate men, she finds she knows nothing about them- or about herself. A romance about learning to love yourself and about learning to love and understand instead of manipulate; this show is the anti-Sex in the City.

Last night I watched Mostly Martha, a German film (now remade by Catherine Zeta-Jones) about a chef whose life is dramatically changed by the presence of her orphaned niece. Now I know you are going to say that this has been done- but never so charmingly. I love movies about second chances and change. It had a tone for me like Dear Frankie or Schultze Gets the Blues. Watch it.
5 Monkeys. It was either tear inducingly awesome, OR I am being influenced by my out of control improperly pill-regulated lady hormones.

In my country, a lab-partnership is a sacred trust.

This weekend I almost caught my apartment on fire with my pants.
This is much more exciting sounding than it is actually exciting; however, I think that when the words pants and fire are involved, there is explaining to be done.
There I was dusting my apartment Saturday evening as I brushed past a dresser, upon which was a lit oil warmer and a few lit candles, a knob (I just wrote knob!!) caught in one of those irritatingly stylish holes with which jeans are festooned these days. The jeans tore both horizontally and vertically as I scrambled to both grab candles and keep the dresser upright.

In terms of fire related injuries, this is not my most humiliating. In junior high I was lab-partnered with a gentleman named Brandon. Brandon was generally incompetent, but this didn’t matter as I was only interested in my perfectly formed side-swept bangs. Well, it didn’t matter until one day when Brandon left our lab-station seeking me for help lighting our Bunson burner. Irritated, I stormed back to our station and I said, “You just squeeze the sparker,” and with that I struck the sparker and an enormous ball of flame erupted from my hand. Brandon had left the gas on for several minutes as he tried to light the burner with his inarticulate man-boy paws. My perfectly sculpted bangs and parts of my arm hair and eyebrows went up in a poof of foul smelling smoke which combined with the odors of our burning notebooks and textbooks tripping the fire alarm. Our young teacher ran forth with a fire blanket and as she saved us all from baking to death in our cinderblock building I touched the crinkled remains of my hair and it fell like dead leaves.

Spiders are total perverts.

Spiders just hang out in the shower. Are there more flies in the shower than the kitchen? Unlikely.
I think that the obvious conclusion is that spiders like to watch you bathe.
There you are all naked and wet, blinded by shampoo, and out of the corner of your eye you’ll catch that creepy crawly movement. So you search about you, but all you have is a million puffy sponges and a shampoo bottle. So you beat the spider to death with your shampoo. And then you're stuck. You can’t set the bottle back down without getting spider guts all over and there’s absolutely no way you’re washing it off in the shower and getting spider juice all over in the water swirling around your toes.
Disaster.

Welcome to the conspiracy, Grandma?

Many months ago my grandmother asked if I was still writing. I told her that I was informally writing a blog.

I told her this because I’m a complete idiot.

Of course she then wanted to read it, so I gave her the address and a disclaimer that I don’t pull punches on my blog and that she might not like everything there. And then she never mentioned it again.

Phone conversation last night:
Grammy: I finally read your blog.
Me: *Silence* (Sudden thought: Shit, did I use the phrase “I would totally hit that?” in my blog recently?) (Answer: yes, yes I did.)
Grammy: I didn’t know that you secretly watched Ugly Betty.
Me: Oh ha ha. Yea, it’s growing on me.

Call me crazy, but...

Is anyone else just a tiny bit curious about this sword collection? What if this guy has some really cool swords?

It's a shame I won't ever get to see them. I couldn't ever ask and if he approached me I would tell him that I have a boyfriend. But maybe there is something to see there.

I've been pondering this. All these people I live so close to are all going about varied and interesting lives. They collect things and play in bands and volunteer and play sports. They all have some thing that they are good at or intrigued by. So many people living unique and vibrant lives all clustered together divided by less than two feet of wood and plaster. Never really knowing each other.

All I catch are the snippets of conversation and the view through my window. I feel like it's a mystery to learn who they are by connecting little clues. It's also a bit like watching TV-- even the shape of the window is like a screen.

It reminds me of that movie, Rear Window.

Well hopefully not exactly. Although there is that sword issue.

Zombie Plague Alert Level Skyrocketing

Zombie Plague Alert Level was raised to yellow this morning when the creepy geometric rash escaped its square confines and popped up in other portions of my back and a renegade group- and it galls me to say it- under my right breast. These new groups do not seem to care for squares and are in any and every shape.

I cannot express my level of discomfort, but let me say that if I was a dude I would not have even made it into work today. There is no bra made by man (nor, I contend, beast) that can possibly work without touching my fiery and painful rash of damnation.

This is a rash of perhaps not biblical proportion, but maybe of biblical origin; am I being scourged by God? My guess would be that He's ticked about the cursing and the hating everyone and whatnot. Maybe hydrocorisone does not work on scourges. That would explain a lot.

I have now made an appointment to see my doctor today at 3. Undoubtedly, she will then become exposed and turn around and expose countless patients to my horrifying, but very gradual zombification.
Today I'm scratching my back... sometime next year I'm scratching yours.
With my teeth.

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

So, three days ago I got out of the shower and noticed that during the night I had scratched my back (or so I believed at the time) and a patch of it was red and swollen.
The next day the patch began to itch like nuts and I noticed that it was exactly square.
Yesterday I was displeased with life as I had been woken up by my own unconscious scratching of the patch.
Last night I was still waking myself up with the scratching to the point that I had to wear socks on my hands to prevent myself from irritating the skin further. I am driven nuts by this and am going to have to go and get some kind of stuff to put on it OR go to the doctor (which I HATE doing.)
The point that I meant to get to earlier is that I can’t determine why I have a square rash. My grandma thinks it is an allergic reaction—but to what? I am not wearing anything new or doing anything new (because I am boring).
My guesses:
Flesh eating bacteria.
Zombie plague.
WebMD has me convinced that I have cancer or hepatitis. I tried looking up my known allergies to look for something new. Interestingly, it noted that my latex allergy and my tomato allergy are connected as they both share a common protein. It also noted that it could be eczema, as that runs in the family too.
Also interestingly, it didn’t have any mention of zombie plague. I’m thinking government cover up.

Hulk Smash!

Last week I came home late at night, lugging my heavy laundry bag behind me. A drunk was puking in the alley as I put my key in the first security door and turned it. I turned the key and pulled the handle, then looked down at the keys in my hand. My security door key had broken off in the lock.
There I stood, between security door #1 and security door #2. Sighing I called Mon and she told me I could swing by her boyfriend’s house and snag his key. (Which I did after leaving a pitiful voice mail for my manager.)
The next day the manager called to tell me that he had slid my new key under my door. He asked, “So how did you break your key?”
I paused for a minute and said, “Hulk smash!”
Then he paused. “So it just broke when you turned it?”
“Yea.”

I’m not superstitious but…

Some mornings there is a hawk sitting on a light post over I-5 right after I get on the freeway. He is a good looking bird- by my standard; and he always makes me smile. It is amazing to me that some animals adapt to live in a man-made environment.
I look for him every morning.
Some mornings he’s just not there and I worry that he was hit by a car or some other urban danger befell him.
This morning he wasn’t there, but a crow was. I consider this a bad omen.

I am terrified of crows. During my study abroad I experienced some aggressive behavior from the birds. This worried my pastor who warned me that a student had been hospitalized after some crows randomly attacked him as he passed their errr… murder on campus. Thanks for the uplifting words, Pastor!

Abject public humiliation? Check!

May I just preface this story with the note that had three drinks? Three. Regular drinks- not super drinks, just normal drinks. On St. Patrick’s Day… and I’m Irish Cherokee.

Last night I woke up with horrible stomach cramps. At about 9 am I crawled forth from my home with what felt like the worst hang over I have ever had in my entire life (aside from this party my friend Terry had in college). We’re talking vomit, shakes, the whole mess. I had plans with my friend Dawn, omelets (oh sweet zombie Jesus), rummage sale and museum. I choked down the omelet and started to feel pretty good… until we got in the car and start the winding winding road around Lake Washington. Up and down, swirling, twirling, it must be muskrat love the horrible urge to… vomit out the window. One more time?

I think this warrants both repetition and further detail:

Pulling into the charity rummage sale to benefit the most exclusive private school in Seattle, I rolled down the window and vomited from a moving vehicle—at noon, on Sunday.

I am awesome.

I am gorgeous and beautiful and full of a certain mystique that fills the hearts of men with thoughts of both everlasting love and powerful (sweaty) lust.

In all seriousness though, I have almost entirely given up on drinking because these days, I have one drink and the next day I wake up with what feels like a horrible stomach flu. I am now quite concerned that I may have developed an allergy to alcohol, or maybe it is just my reflux. Maybe I should actually take the prescription meds for my stupid reflux.

Meh. I’d rather vomit down the sides of my friends’ cars.