Overly Verbal

I do not currently possess the mental stability to write a proper entry, but would you just go look at this baby giraffe? (Yeah, there’s an ad you have to look at first, but the freedom to watch video of a baby giraffe isn’t actually free, people.)

I have this thing where if I had to be an animal, I think I’d be a giraffe. I’ve got funny knobby knees, and a really long neck, and legs that are all out of proportion with the rest of my body. And giraffes just don’t seem like they belong here, even though they clearly do. And how great a name for a giraffe is Margaret? And how weird a word is “giraffe”?

There is simply nothing I don’t like about baby giraffes. Nothing.

So on the train on the way home today (when I wasn’t sleeping), I watched the rest of Donnie Darko,* a movie which many people whose opinions respect have told me I would love. I didn’t love it, but I liked it just fine - the soundtrack was my favorite part. And I don’t think I’ll spoil it for you if I tell you that at the end, Tears for Fears’ “Mad World” is used to reasonably good effect. That song has always sort of haunted me (it’s the very end that resonates. Simple, really, but very, very good.**), and it really wasn’t the song I needed to get stuck in my head today.

(There’s a pretty good live version on their 2006 album “Secret World”, and while I generally don’t like live versions of songs that I already know and love, and while the original in this case is rather dramatically better than the live version, I’m still putting the live one on my iPod. )

But here’s something – having just seen recent pictures of the gentlemen in Tears for Fears, and having just seen two men that I’ve known for literally 20 or more years, I can say this – some people age better than others do, somehow become more handsome, fit better into their own skin, seem more themselves than they did when we were all younger. Neither member of Tears for Fears seems to be among those people. (I find that both kind of funny and kind of sad.)

And that’s all I’ve got. I’m tired from having stayed up too late talking, and feeling somewhat battered about the fact that I can’t figure out a good reason to move back to New York beyond “I really want to”, and struggling with the idea that “because I really want to” is a very good reason to do things indeed, except when it’s not, and you can’t know whether it’s actually a good reason or not until you’ve already done the thing in question. I’m also incredibly and recently cognizant of the fact that I am probably on the tail end of the sort of flexibility that lets you up and move to New York for no reason whatsoever. (I keep saying it over and over again, but I’ll say it once more – all I need is to make enough money for cat food, heat, and high speed Internet access. Otherwise, I have no real responsibilities to speak of.)

All I really know for sure is that my initial decision to move to New York was pretty much cemented when I went on a long, lonely walk in Central Park while it was gently raining and I felt as if I actually belonged somewhere for once, and that I spent a large part of yesterday afternoon on a long, lonely (three mile) walk up and down Park Avenue while it was gently raining. (And I felt as if I belonged somewhere. Again.)

Life is hard, and yeah, I probably need a psychiatrist, but I can’t afford one, don’t really believe in psychiatry anyway, think that probably all one needs is to have someone to whom you can say, “Can I be frank with you?” with confidence, knowing that that person will like you just the same after you’ve been perfectly frank, because if they haven’t been just exactly where you are (and likely they have), they’ll at least be clever enough to recognize that, well, life is hard, and we’re all just doing the best we can with what we’ve got. You should hold on to those people. (Okay, one needs that, and one also needs red wine. Lots and lots and lots of red wine.)

So this entry needs a nice wrapping up kind of ending, and I haven’t got one. I can’t write to a punch line when there’s not a punch line because the situation is developing, and I can’t figure out what the next step is, but I’ll probably have a better idea when I’m well-rested again, which is likely to be sometime after I’ve figured out what the hell I’m doing. Don’t hold your breath.
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* I watched the first 37 minutes on the train ride to New York, but I was sitting next to an older gentleman, and when it became apparent that our pal Jake was going to put his hand into his pants, I decided I could watch the rest of the movie later, when it wouldn’t potentially make my seatmate uncomfortable. Today I was sitting next to a standard issue hipster and felt confident that implied masturbation wouldn’t phase him.

** That, and the way he pronounces the word “nervous”. If you ask me, people don’t often enough consider enunciation.

As I sit in Penn Station waiting for a train, I am having a really, really hard time figuring out why I’m getting on a train to go back to DC, when I don’t want to. Just as I suspected, this trip has been one that will force me to come to grips with the fact that something has to be done about this disconnect between where I want to live and where I actually do live.

I am finding it tremendously difficult to be me this morning. (And I miss my kitty cats.)

Or, Yup, I Still Have a Blah-g.

I find this amusing. (I don’t know why I read DCist. I’ve surely got better things to do, don’t I?)

I want to listen to the new Joe Jackson album right this very minute, and I can’t,* because it isn’t being released until tomorrow. (I know it’s only the 28th day of January, but this is easily my most anticipated album of 2008.)

Otherwise, I’m feeling anxious. I haven’t left Molly and Mouse alone overnight before, and I’m getting on a train in the morning, won’t be back until probably late on Wednesday.** (I am so attached to the little ones that I’m having someone check in on them Wednesday morning to make sure they haven’t wrecked the joint. I briefly considered setting up a webcam to keep an eye on them, but then I remembered that my desktop computer is still not in working order. I gotta get on that.)

And I’m worried that this trip to New York is going to be the one that finally pushes me to decide that that’s where I really want to live, and that I will come home and be stuck in an intractable emotional state that will only be relieved when I turn my life upside down by moving back to New York.

Stranger things have happened.

And I’m a little distressed about work, too. Today I was faced with a situation that, on the face of it, seems perfectly lovely. A crisis brews, someone too busy to deal with the crisis but well aware of my calm, capable demeanor in the face of (what only seems like a) crisis (because people are bad at figuring stuff out) learns of it, and he says, “Stop telling me about it, and go tell Jennifer. She can fix it, I’m sure.” That’s great, right? People like me, think I’m smart, recognize my talents, et cetera. But I’m tired of being the girl who cleans up after other people, tired of being taken advantage of because I’m quicker and more clever than other people, tired of getting called in only at the last minute when I could have been involved from the get-go and not let things become a “crisis”. If I get a real job at this place I’m temping, I’m not sure exactly what my role will be, but if it’s going to be some sort of “Superwoman” damage-control type role, I’m not sure I’m in.

In entirely different news, I can’t figure out why I have “What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?” stuck in my head, let alone why I’m even familiar with that song. But I really, really wish it would stop.

So here’s what we should do - let’s hope that if I do take a cheap bus with free wireless Internet home (instead of the train, which direction I am leaning rather strenuously toward), I spend my time on the bus writing an interesting and engaging entry here, instead of looking for jobs in New York City.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.***

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* I could listen to Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson right this very minute if I had an extra 99 cents, which I don’t, but that’s okay, because I listened to 21 seconds of “Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow”, and it sort of sounds as if it sucks. Royally. I’m not that picky about dance music, will joyfully shake my ass to any number of Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears songs. And I love, love, love, Paula’s “Straight Up”. But if you’re going to pick 21 seconds of your new song to preview it, those should be the best 21 seconds, right? If that’s the best they can do, it doesn’t bode well.

** Here’s how short my trip to New York is going to be: I’ll get there in time for lunch on Tuesday, and be back in time to work half a day on Wednesday. Lameness abounds, but a whirlwind trip is better than no trip at all, right?

*** You know what I just almost did? I just almost wrote a macro so that I can stop typing “Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter”, and instead type “TYIA”. But I didn’t - I am not yet actually queen of the dorks, but I am really, really close.

So I’m knitting this sweater, right? I pick the smallest size, because I am small, but I have to make the sleeves 2 inches longer than the pattern says, because my arms are too long. Then when I’ve finished the sleeves, I work on the front, but it’s not until I’m completely finished with the front that I realize that this sweater is going to be way, way too wide. Sure, I knew how wide it was going to be, because the pattern said so, but while it was still being made it really did seem like it might fit. Of course, after I realized how large it actually was, I took out a measuring tape and measured some of my favorite sweaters, and they’re small. And then I thought about it, and realized that none of my other sweaters actually fit me – they’re all too big. So then I actually measured my body, and, well, I’m small. And “small” sweaters are supposed to be small, but I gave up and started all over again, smaller than “small”, in hopes that I will wind up with a sweater that actually fits me.

You know, lots of time that I spend by myself I spend either reading or baking or knitting. I like reading, because if you don’t like the book you’re reading, you can just take it back to the library and get another one. And I like baking, because if you do it right, you end up with something delicious. But I think I like knitting more than I like baking, because if you screw it up, you can start all over again, with the same ingredients you already have. If you screw up baking, it’s sort of wasteful. (Of course, it does occur to me now that if I spent more time baking, I might gain some weight, and be a normal-sized person. Maybe I’ll try that.)

Anyway, all that time last week when I was too busy knitting to write here? I have to do it all over again. Don’t expect me for about a week.

In other news, the cats are sleeping on either side of the couch, and that makes me happy, because they’re pretty friendly with each other, and I wasn’t sure this was gonna work. But Molly’s been here about a month now, and I don’t think she could be fitting in any better at this point. In fact, maybe I’ll get another cat. (Just kidding! Although I am moving swiftly toward my destiny on every other front, I’m not going to actually keep more than two cats.)

And it does look like I’m going to New York next week, for an extremely short trip. Much, much shorter than I would like it to be, in fact so short that it’s almost silly to go at all, but to see one, if not two people that you’ve known for approximately ever but also haven’t seen for approximately ever is just too good an opportunity to pass up. Plus, all the time on the train will be good for knitting. (Now see, there’s another reason to like knitting better than baking. You can’t bake on the train.)

It sure is cold outside.

Otherwise, I got nothin’. Maybe my blog-writing privileges should be revoked?

So, I guess it turns out that even if nothing whatsoever worth writing about happens to me, I’ve still got this space on the Web that needs to be filled with words every once in a while.

I’m knitting a lovely new sweater, and I’m really hoping that I don’t have to resort to posting pictures of my knitting on the Internet, although that would prove that I am in fact being very productive during those times when I hide under a rock instead of interacting with other human beings.

Besides wanting to stay inside to knit, there are other reasons not to go outside. Like the fact that tomorrow’s high temperature is going to be 26 degrees. (And because my food preferences are strangely tied to the weather, I think I’m going to have to make waffles for breakfast. You’re welcome to come over if you want.)

I am anticipating a couple of interesting events, like maybe a trip to New York to hang out with a couple of people I haven’t seen in a very long time. I’m even thinking I’ll take that cheapass bus again, but only one way. There ought to be at least a little blog fodder in that. And tomorrow I’m going to do my laundry. Who knows what wonders might be lurking in my laundry room? And maybe one or both of the cats will do something cute!

I hope you can find some other junk to read on the Internet in the meantime.

Homemade donuts do not age well. In fact, I’d say if you aren’t going to eat a homemade donut within a couple of hours of someone having made it, you shouldn’t eat it at all. I’m not sure what all is involved in putting preservatives into things, but I might just have to try that if I make donuts again, or else invite approximately eight people over to eat the donuts.

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I recently learned two new expressions, and I can’t decide which I like better:

He couldn’t lead a two-car funeral.

or:

That’s just putting perfume on a pig.

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There hasn’t been a public transportation encounter in a while, and this one almost doesn’t count, except it involves a bus stop. So I approach a bus stop this evening, and a huge guy is just emerging from his nice car, which happens to bear diplomat plates, so I say to him, “Hey! You’re parked in my bus stop!” He looks a little startled, then looks at me in a way that can only be described as ogling (but diplomatically), and says, “You want a ride? I’ll be out in six seconds.” So he has an Italian accent, and I resolve not to get into his car even if the bus isn’t there by the time he emerges, and then I turn around to see where he’s going. Lo and behold, he enters the “Camiceria Italiana”. When he came back out, my bus was not 50 yards from his car, but he wasn’t as familiar with the bus traffic on Connecticut Avenue as I am, so he said, “You’re still here?”, and I said, “Well, my bus is right there.” And I pointed, and he said, “Uh-oh”, and leaped back into his fancy car and pulled away. I could see through the window of this Camiceria that this store holds mostly shoes and shirts, but I checked with Goethe just to be sure, and he tells me it’s a shirt maker or the like. So,

Dear Italian Embassy,

Please see to it that the diplomats in your employ are not walking stereotypes. (Also, they should not park in my bus stop, since I don’t like walking in traffic.)

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter,

Jennifer

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Finally, I am having a hair crisis. If I were going to keep my hair extremely short, I would have had it cut before Christmas. But I’m letting it grow a little, and it’s past the week where it looks awkward, and now it’s in a place where it looks fine if I harass it into place, but if I don’t fuss with it I look like my mom. (My mom’s cute, though, so that’s okay.) I kind of want a chin-length bob, but I kind of can’t make up my mind. These are the things that keep me up at night, and sometimes I really do think it would be easier if someone could just manage my regular life for me so that I could sit around knitting and reading and trying to explain to Molly why it’s not okay to make heavy things fall from the bookshelf to the floor every single day, not only because Mouse is trying to sleep and doesn’t like loud noises, but also because one of these days she’s going to break something. Like one or more of her legs. She’s sweet, and I’m smitten, but she’s got to learn how to just sit still for a minute. Geez.

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Otherwise, I’ve got nothin’, except it looks like I’m going out on a date later this week. (In an Irish pub. I’ve already asked him whether he is inclined to doing things like ordering an Amstel Light when he could instead drink a Guinness, but I haven’t heard back yet on that count.) Here’s hoping I don’t have to mention that at all here.

Okay, so my blog should be twice as much fun now that I have two cats, right?

Here’s something I can’t figure out. If you have two cats, and they’re not both asleep, how do you photograph them both at the same time without one of them having demon eyes?

See what I mean?

(Speaking of photographs, I think I’ve mentioned before that I bought a camera that (while a major brand name) was exclusive to Walmart, because it was a) little, b) cute, and c) cheap. Sometimes I make silly decisions, but I love my little camera, and if all I’m going to do with it is photograph shopping carts and the cats, it’s perfect. Or it was, until it started malfunctioning. It doesn’t have a proper battery, but charges with a USB cable. So I plug it in, it charges just fine, shows a full battery, but then I can only take 5 pictures before the battery dies. This makes me sad. It cost less than $100 and is a year and a half old, but still. I took it apart to see if I can fix it myself, but I clearly can’t. So it seems to have a limited lifetime warranty, and I guess I could send it somewhere and have a better functioning camera sent to me, but I might want to consider getting a new camera. A pink one. That also takes video. And has a megapixel count greater than three. Does anyone have any recommendations?)

I did not have a single interesting thought today, although I did somehow manage to buy some yarn to make a sweater when all I really meant to buy was some toothpaste.

Why don’t you just go watch some video of a tiny polar bear? Everybody cool’s doing it.

Those sure were good sandwiches, but if one more person says to me “Those sure were good sandwiches” (thereby requiring my saying, “Yes, but I didn’t make them, I just ordered them”), I am going to give up and become an executive assistant – pardon me, Executive Assistant – and make my living declaring that the “signature sandwiches”, while exactly the same price as the “classic sandwiches”, are clearly the better value, except insofar as they cause high-level executives to spend time praising me for my sandwich selection abilities instead of doing anything even remotely like work. Sad thing is, even if I play my cards right, I probably can’t actually be an Executive Assistant, because it requires skills I sorely lack. (Such as the ability not to repeatedly say to high-level executives, “Yes, but I didn’t make them, I just ordered them.”)

Tuesday it was 70 degrees outside. Today it was much, much colder. You guys gotta stop driving your cars everywhere and start taking the bus, because you’re fucking with the environment (and yes, I realize that several warm days in any given January are not necessarily caused by global warming or whatever, but nevertheless, cars are bad).

I really enjoy literature. I mean, I like books just fine, but literature, by which I mean well-written books, books that tell stories that are interesting and engaging and about people I can care about even if they don’t exist, makes me really, really happy, and if for two days in a row I can come home from work, eat dinner, and then just sit and read a book, and then go to sleep, thereby avoiding any unnecessary contact with real human beings, I will be made happy. (But I do have to take occasional breaks to write down my selected thoughts, lest the Internet come to a grinding halt or something.)

I am really looking forward to making donuts on Saturday morning. (Or afternoon, if I let myself be swayed by the people who say, “You should come out more” and actually go out Friday night.)

Since Molly has arrived, I have been trying desperately to come up with a superlative that suits her. When Mouse was my only cat, I was constantly asking him, “Who’s the sleepiest cat?” or “Who’s the prettiest cat?” Needless to say, he always was, but even with Molly around, Mouse is still the sleepiest, and the prettiest, and the stretchiest, and the fluffiest, and the smartest, and my favorite. But Molly is most assuredly the youngest, and I feel better now that, even though she is not my favorite cat, she at least has a superlative all her own. (Okay, she’s also the stupidest, if Mouse is the smartest, but that’s not nice at all, is it?) (And rambunctious-est is not a word, but if it was, she’d be that too. Chases her tail for far longer than I think would be amusing, where I don’t believe Mouse has spent even a minute of his life chasing his own tail. Because he’s smarter than that.)

Finally, is the Reverend Al Sharpton ever going to just shut the hell up? He really, really, really gets on my nerves.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have some interesting thoughts.