exceedingly depressed? seek doogie howser, m.d.
March 31, 2008
i was going to write some ultra depressing blog post about how if you cut open my skull and looked into my brain today, you probably would have seen something that resembled the weather; a giant raincloud. super uplifting days FTW!
however, i instead realize now that two things happened today that made me laugh exceedingly hard, so therefore my post takes on a sense of optimism.
what are these two things?
(a) at the end of tonight’s how i met your mother episode, barney stinson — played by a one neil patrick harris — has just been with a woman. he blogs about it. but what i heard when he opens his computer is that familiar doogie howser, m.d., theme song and my tv is filled with old school blue computer typing (where i can see the big rectangular cursor). to finish his entry for the day, he writes… “but i learned something about myself today (pause, smile in realization and chuckle to himself for dramatic effect) … i am awesome.” i was peeing. perfection.
(b) i coined the phrase “curly collars aren’t baller.” this is the perfect phrase for all the dudes out there who spend at least $30 on a collared, short-sleeve shirt but can’t invest in an iron to keep their collars in check. so what could be a yuppie pol shirt suddenly looks like how a piece of american cheese looks when it melts on a hambuger. aka greasy, warped, and delicious unnatural. love it.
MO = my new em oh (pun intended)
March 30, 2008
martin + osa is stupendous. like a hipper j.crew. but it’s not the clothes that made me an instant fan; it’s the “user experience” they’ve clearly established. or, at least are aiming to instill, considering it’s still a young shop.
i’d never been there until yesterday, when i was at tyson’s and ventured inward to discover (a) fucking great music (b) a scent called “cypress” that was so warming and calming that i instantly bought a terribly overpriced $28 candle and probably would have paid $50 for it (iii) dressing rooms that are huge and nicer than my bedroom (d) offerings of water or juice as i went into said dressing room (5) basic alterations, which includes shortening/hemming pants (the bane of my short-legged existence), for free, and (6) an environment of honey wood grains, great lighting, oh, and “cypress.”
when i checked out, i got $25 back (no strings attached) because i had spent $100. (i found this rad black shirt dress… with pockets, no less…). then the dude gave me two gift certificates to use on their new website — which, btw, lets me build outfits easily and, hey, they have free shipping, too. he gave me a bag that’s washable, placing my new shirt dress within. then he put my receipt in a stiff card and placed it, and my new-dress filled washable bag, in a larger shopping bag.
service can be less-than-stellar at lots of places — particularly at tweenie american eagle, which is M+Os parent company, actually — especially because i don’t give off the air of money most do who i postulate shop at this particular mall. so to have such an unexpectedly mind-blowing experience at some random place a musing julius told me about (after becoming a fan of the store in chicago) was a pleasant surprise to punctuate my saturday.
looks like i know where i’ll be shopping from now on.
ben folds; remaking ice cube and the flaming lips
March 27, 2008
ben folds‘ remains one of the best concerts i’ve ever attended. it was at wolf trap in the summer, we were seven rows back, and it was warm and the crickets were chirping and the volume was perfect and his music, as always, was impressive and rousing.
this dude isn’t all about just about melting my mind on the piano, though; no, i assure you. he also, i recently learned, takes rather explicit (or classically random) songs by other artists and musics them all up. consequently, i’ve never been so eager to hear ice cube’s suggestive “bitches ain’t shit” or the flaming lips’ humorous “she don’t use jelly” until mr. folds got ahold of them.
i can always appreciate when artists don’t take themselves too seriously; especially legitimate artists who arguably make the originals even better with their magical voodoo talents.
call me cupid
March 26, 2008
i’m like that chick on the millionaire matchmaker. if only i was running my life as a business, i’d be driving a bmw. damn.
so far, at least four of my ex-boyfriends have married the first woman they dated after me. i argue a fifth, but it’s hazy whether or not he had a chick in between. point is, i’ve managed to be asked, “where are we headed?” several times, and each time i’ve responded, “uh, not to the alter.”
i’m like dane cook in good luck chuck, except not a tramp or a seemingly average comedian (except for his kool aid skit, which cracks me up). i’m just not interested in marriage. it hasn’t always been this way. i’m open to the idea, i suppose — in theory, anyway — but it just overall terrifies me. the one time i did try exploring it, i realized sooner rather than later that i had been failing to ask myself questions like, “hey boner, is this what you really want?”
it wasn’t. i bailed.
i’ve only met one other person who shares my affinity for just *being* together because we *like* being together and don’t *need* to be categorizing ourselves and moving along some pre-determined social path to tax breaks and giving up all our individual hopes and dreams because it’s what supposed to be more important. this is how i see marriage for me, now. this is another reason i shouldn’t be married.
it’s not this way for everyone, thankfully. just me. so no, it’s not surprising that people i’ve dated marry their next partners. i get it.
on the drive back to va yesterday, my mom said she envied me because i had my whole life to buy houses and get settled, but i didn’t have my whole life to adventure and explore. it’s cool (maybe sad a little) knowing my mom wants to live vicariously through me. but overall it just further reinforces that following my gut is where i need to be right now.
plus after i’m done living in the south of france and trying out several different lives, i’ll be able to pick up all the thirty-something divorcees. hot!
so, anyway, i found out today that an ex is now engaged — rightfully so — and have formulated the following theories based on what obviously is an undeniable pattern of me setting up dudes and watching another woman knock them down (but they want it, so, it’s cool):
i am not marriage material. ha! whatevs. i’m awesome. but this does hold some water considering i don’t want to be married. go figure.
the dude wants to “win” me. he has a goal, he wants to get it. his mom is pressuring him. i don’t help him (or her, by extension) achieve that goal. he leaves to pursue the goal elsewhere and quickly realizes most other women actually want to be married with babies. game over.
i’m weird. i don’t care about jewelry. or fancy dinners. i don’t like seeing men cry (aka the “sensitive” man is not my style). i like sports. i drink beer. i build furniture. i laugh at my farts. i like driving fast (wait, some women like this). i enjoy sloppy joe. immensely. i take great joy in sleeping; equally great joy in pooping. i talk about it. this throws men off. they panic that they’re actually dating a dude. except with boobs. and not a dude.
in the end, i’m ok with this pattern. i have to be. to break it would only mean one of two things: (a) i’ve found someone i can’t live without, so all the sacrifices and social paths i talk about suddenly because absolutely moot, or (b) i date younger men not so in a hurry to find their wives, therefore we can terminate our relationship and allow enough time for him to date at least two women before settling.
is there another option i’m missing?
