I’m Not Cut Out For These Clean Streets.

I’m bored.

Out of my mind.

As in Spent-Two-Days-In-My-Jammies bored.

As in Looking-Forward-To-A-Trip-To-The-Grocery-Store bored.

As in Actually-Cleaned-The-House-A-Little bored.

The problem?

I hate the suburbs.

A lot.

Last week man found me in our bedroom staring at my computer and blubbering like a psychotic quietly weeping all over a torn tissue.  I’d been ruminating over photos of my old neighborhood, of the coffee shop where I hung out, of a  street that I could navigate with my eyes closed…

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, handing me a new tissue to replace the one I’d demolished.

I remained silent.  Well, unless you count the mewling.

“Well…?”

“I…” I began, but lost my nerve. 

He stared at me.  Stared through me.

“Baby, I love you, and I love our life, and I’m so glad I’m here, but…”

“But what?”

Then, with all the emotion of a guilty spouse divulging the excruciating details of a torrid indiscretion, I pulled in a deep breath and blurted out the following words:

“I-I-I H-haaaate the Sub-bur-bur-(choke)-burbs!”  And then begin to sob.

The confession hung in the air between us for what felt like forever.  He stood in heavy silence as I blubbered and bawled over and over again “I hate it!  I hate it so much!  I’m so sorry, but I hate this town!”

I watched, helpless, as he pulled a screwed up face.

He got all tight lipped, like I’d just fed him a lemon.

His eyes watered.

Then he began… To laugh.  Hysterically.

“FINALLY!” He chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye, “I’ve been waiting a year for you to admit you hate it here!”

“W-what?” I sniffled, coughed, wiped.

He sat on the bed beside me and wrapped his arm snugly around my shoulders.  Respectfully he tried to contain his giggles.  Thanks.

“Baby, nobody in their right mind likes it here.  I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with you because you keep saying you like it here.”

“I lied.”  Sniffle, wipe, weep. “I didn’t want you to think I was going to up and leave someday.”

“Oh, Baby.. I wouldn’t think that!”

Thanks.  Not only am I bored, but I’m boring and predictable to boot.  Not to mention stationary.  I feel better by leaps and bounds now.

After he graduates, we’re moving.

The Secret Failed To Mention That The Dishes Can Be Mystical…

I’m as happy as happy can be!

Well, I’m as happy as happy can be, having completed her set of Pier One place settings. 

We can now have two friends over for dinner, and have matching salad bowls, appetizer plates, dinner plates and coffee mugs to serve them with.  That is, provided mom sends me the other two sets that are sitting in her storage facility in Jersey.

Aren’t they just adorable?

They’d discontinued the pattern on the big serving tray, and it was the last one in all of existence (I swear!) marked down to $26, so I picked that up as well.

Now we can eat our Domino’s pizzas in class, baby!

And now for the sentimental back-story…

My mom started buying me this set when I gave up on my treacherous party girl life and moved into a quiet little apartment by the shore.  She provided me with a set of two, because she said that according to The Law Of Attraction, a single woman should always keep two of everything.  It attracts to her home a romantic dinner for two.

So I sat in my quiet apartment eating Chinese take-out off of my adorable plates, wondering who was coming for dinner.  I’d admire the quaint little rooftops and palm trees, imagining what a place like that would be like.  I pictured myself walking hand-in-hand with someone in this neighborhood—exploring storefronts and kissing at the crosswalks. (I know.  Stay with me.  I’m getting to my point!)

Then Man came into my life and I wound up here in New Orleans.

As we were putting the new set away tonight I told him about the Law of Attraction thing and why my mom bought me two place settings. 

Then I got online to send her a picture of something.

I found this photo I took of the French Quarter from atop the Sheraton downtown….

 

I was thinking something a little more tropical at the time, but… We’re only one climate up from rainforest, and we do have palm trees, so I’m callin’ it a win.

Okay, enough of the mush.  Regularly scheduled snappy blogging resumes tomorrow!

I’m a Misunderstood Comic Genius.

On the short list of things I never thought I’d find myself doing in my life, sitting outside of a Best Buy in the middle of the night with 200 of the same closest friends I celebrated the big win with, as well as a man in an oversized dog suit (Apparently his name is “Gumbo.”) was nowhere to be found. 

Next time I’m about to nag Man that we don’t go out together enough anymore, I’ll be sure to remember this night.

So why, you ask, am I parked on my tushie on the cold pavement walkway outside this electronics superstore?  Well, as it turns out, the New Orleans Saints have released something of a “greatest hits” DVD of this past season, and if Man doesn’t get a signed Blu-Ray copy of said disk he might cease to exist.  (Frankly, I thought he’d already seen all these “highlights” having watched Every. Single. Game. But what do I know?)  Hence: me and hundreds of other women’s Mans sitting outside, exposed to the elements and subject to various remixes of “Stand Up Get Crunk” for the next two hours.

No offense, Who Dat Nation, but I think we should start seeing other people.

Especially since none of you seemed to find my incredibly clever quip about Scott Fujita funny.

Man to The Random Fan to His Left:  Nobody seems too broken up about the loss of Fujita around here.

Me Cutting In Before Random Fan Could Answer:  I don’t see what the big deal is.  You can pick up a sack of Fujitas for 3.99 at Taco Bell.

*crickets*

Screw you, it was funny!

There Wasn’t Even Room For J-E-L-L-O!

I’m currently having 75 kinds of conniption fits and one panic attack.

I’m trapped in a dressing room, stuck in a dress, and I’m pretty sure someone’s going to have to call for the Jaws Of Life to get me out.

I’m not kidding you, I’m trapped in a dress.

This is so embarrassing.

Let me back up a little, since it seems I have nothing but time, standing here struggling against the world’s most stubborn zipper, my arms hopelessly pinned at my sides from trying to wrestle the whole set-up over my head…

Have I mentioned?  This is So.  Embarrassing.

Man and I recently made plans to go to the Video Game Symphony (What?  It’s culture!  Sort of.) with our two friends in April.  No sooner had we acquired the tickets than I decided I needed a new dress. I think.  What does one wear to a Video Game symphony, anyway?  My thoughts turned to this adorable black-with-white polka-dot vintage number with the most delicate spaghetti straps and layered flowy skirt.  Not too formal, not too casual, would look perfect with my leopard shoes and a little cardigan.  Perfect.  I want it.

After dinner, Man and I came to the store, where he agreed that it’s a perfect dress for the occasion and I should try it on.  I know I’ve, um, grown a bit, since moving here but I’m pretty sure that I can diet and get into my old size by April.  Right?  Perhaps I should try it on just to see how much growth I’m working with.

So I found myself a discreet little dressing room in the back (In case there was grunting and heavy breathing involved, which it turns out there is.  A lot.) Against all my better judgment, I zipped the zipper and wrestled the whole thing over my head, struggling harder than I thought I would with the breast area (Seriously, designers?  Women have boobs. Design accordingly.),  and that brings us to my current situation:

Trapped.  In a dress.

Have you ever seen a cat get itself stuck in something like a bag or a blanket?  You know how it goes into a total panic, then sits quietly for a moment before going back into a total writhing, scratching panic?  That’s me right now-- torn between relenting to the situation and determined to get out of it without having to wobble out of this dressing room with this thing stuck around my mid-section and admit defeat.  I got the stupid thing on, there’s got to be a way to get it off!

Perhaps if I get it turned around and position this hopelessly frozen-in-place zipper in front I can reach under the skirt and free myself.  I’ve been in here a long time, Man’s going to come looking for me soon.  What if he brings the dressing room attendant with him?  They’re going to come knocking on this door any second now and see the ridiculous situation I’ve gotten myself into!  The attendant and my boyfriend are going to have to work together as a team (Team Fat Girlfriend!) to get me out of this garment, and I’m going to have to move back to Jersey, then crawl into a little hole and die.  I’m just going to die!

Speaking of die, I suddenly can’t breathe so well.  Oh!  My!  Gawd!  I’m about to suffocate and drop unconscious on the floor of this dressing room.  Now he’s really going to come looking for me.  They’re going to find me stuck in this dress, the bodice halfway between front and back, turning three shades of red and un-effing-conscious on the floor! 

I think I’ve hit my panic button again, because—like the cat in a blanket—I’m struggling as if my life depends on it…  Which it feels like it does.

*pop*

What was that?

That’s nice.  I’ve just snapped one of those delicate spaghetti straps clean off.

*pop*

There goes the other one.

Pardon, but are you fucking kidding me?

It seems that the broken straps have given me the space I need to reach under, undo the zipper and take the first reasonable breath in what seems like 20 minutes.  This is what it must feel like to be freed from a hungry, squeezy snake.  I sit on the little bench and catch my breath.  Now I feel like crying.

Instead, I find myself starting to chuckle.  If this isn’t blog-worthy, I don’t know what is.

I do my best to put this dress on the hanger and emerge from the dressing room (Victorious?).  I can feel my face burning as I hand it back to the attendant, then grab Man by the hand and lead him out of the store like the place is on fire.

“Didn’t you like it?”  He asks.

“No.  Let’s just go.”

“You wanna try on another one?”

“No.”

“Where are we going?”

GNC.  I left that store and went straight to the other side of the mall to GNC where I spent my dress money on appetite suppressants.

I know.  Don’t look at me like that. 

They Had Me At "Passion Purple"

Ladies and Gentlemen(man), I have no will power what-so-ever!

No, I'm not talking about the fact that I just inhaled what was left of the Cookies and Cream ice cream. (I found a cookie deposit in the middle and it was all over from there.)

Yesterday I made this grand declaration that I wasn't going to buy a new computer until my blog had 500 followers. My reasoning was that by 500 subscribers I could consider myself a "serious blogger" and thus justify the expense. Also, I figured by 500 I would have found the *ahem* balls to try having something of mine published, possibly signed up for a writing class or two, maybe join a writers' club... Ya know, things that might put a shiny new laptop with all the specs to good use.

No such thing happened.

What did happen was Man and I decided to scrap the Valentine's Day Do-Over and stay home last night. We stayed in a hotel in The Quarter for The Superbowl, then we stayed at the same hotel in The Quarter for Mardi Gras, so we both kind of just wanted to sleep in our own bed for a while.

I didn't know it was humanly possible to grow so bored with the constant need to celebrate.

So we stayed home and it was an incredibly relaxing evening sitting quietly in front of our respective electronic addictions: Me my computer and him his PS3. Then he comes to me with a proposition. Seems his laptop has, as you guys put it yesterday: "Shit the bed" or "went tits up." It's dead and he wants to get a small netbook for taking notes in class. However, he can't bring himself to buy a new machine unless I do too. I tell him I'll go to Best Buy with him, but no promises. I need to stick to my word! What would my readers think of me if I cracked the very day I made the deal?! I can't be a wuss about self control anymore!

...

My new laptop will be shipped to the store March 2nd.


I had to order it special because it's "Passion Purple."

Serious blogger, indeed.

The Lethargic Housewife of Jefferson Parish

There's a pile of laundry and a clogged coffee maker with my name on them, but I can't seem to conjure the energy to bother with either. First of all, I'm kinda hoping "Old Brew-ey" is on its last legs so I can justly purchase one of those fancy-pants compact coffee shop machines with the attached milk steamer and bean grinder. Secondly, the idea of leaving the cool comfort of central air to venture into the garage where we keep the laundry machines makes me want to die.

Somewhere on my myspace page exists a blog where I made fun of people for warning me about the suffocating Southern heat. (Here.) I thought I was so cool back then... Literally.

Guess what?

They were right.

It's fucking HAWT down here.

Last week my beloved and I were sitting outside when he announced to me that a heat wave was coming. Coming?!?! I said. You mean this isn't it? Ninety-Seven degrees later I saw what he meant. I thought I knew humidity living by the ocean. You don't know jack about humidity until you've experienced it around a swamp. Good Lawd! I didn't know alligators could pant. (For the record the only place I've seen a gator since I moved here was at the zoo.)

In Louisiana the sun doesn't simply rise in the morning. It marches forward and demands recognition. It sits square on your shoulders, slapping you in the face declaring "I! Am! Sun!" over and over again until your brain loses the ability to process any cognitive thought other than fantasies about ice storms or rolling around on a bed of Popsicles.

The neighbors have a beautiful in-ground swimming pool. My first intention when I came here was to befriend them for the sole purpose of gaining invites to pool parties and such. However, they've been out there every day this week playing shitty music. Maroon 5? I'd rather burst into flames.