I biked over to the Post Office only to find that they did not have my package and it would be there “tomorrow” which is what they told me YESTERDAY and I’m not sure why it wasn’t just delivered to the apartment complex’s main building, like every other package ever. I like Where’s Waldo, but not when it involves me, the Post Office and my package.
I would really like mac n’ cheese right now. I feel like the fact that I want cheese and noodles at 930 in the morning is an indication of something deeply wrong with me.
My ears do not like the cold. They are very cranky with me after the bike ride to/from campus/post office.
I worked out in my slippers this morning. I have mastered the fine line of lazy athleticism, or maybe just laziness.
I have been pretty lax lately in my Tumblr-ing, but I’ve been a busy lady! But propped on the couch with a pulled quad muscle and no work tonight, I thought I’d just say, I’m still alive! Just class, work, soccer (casual indoor league where I made my muscle unhappy) and the occasional shenanigans.
I have thought of a few things I’d like to post about, maybe over the weekend I’ll knock some of those out. But I am tired and cranky and in pain, so I’m going to watch some Scrubs before getting down to homework (and hopefully some sleep!)
An old(er) series (2008) wherein Michael Stipe is asked a variety of questions, including several about his lyrics. Interesting read and journey inside the mind of an artist (and a bona fide weirdo, but a loveable one).
And my personal note on R.E.M. breaking up: It’s always sad, especially with a band I happen to really love, but a band that’s been together 20+ and through quite a bit (including incredibly successful and incredibly awful albums) knows when it’s time to quit. And I admire that.
I used to hate candles. Well, that’s probably not entirely accurate. I just didn’t realize understand or enjoy their purpose, especially when I got them as gifts. When I was 11. I still am wary of them; I personally think they’re over loaded with fragrances that send me into a headache-fueled rage whenever I am in a candle store or section (similar to walking into a Bath and Body Works, ergh.) I prefer more natural smells to, say, “Vanilla Icing.”
BUT on a whim the other day, I bought a few little candles (candles! They’re expensive!) at Target, with the scent “Autumn Rain” and their smell has been pleasantly filling my room the last day or so. So today, after getting home from class, I climbed under the blankets, put on some music and lit one, and though I wish the room was a little darker (which generally I wish the opposite in our apartment, hah), the smell (which I really like, but admittedly is slightly reminiscent of guy’s cologne) is pleasant and it’s somehow making my tiny bit of lazy time nice as I see the wind move the trees outside.
(or using it as a derogatory word for another girl)
I don’t get offended by a lot of words. Frankly, you could go up to my face and call me a slut and I’d just be like ‘no I’m not, I stay home mostly and watch Food Network and maybe you should call me a creepy shut-in instead.’ That shit rolls off my shoulders, and it never pushed me into a lecture and a rage every time I heard it thrown at another girl. However, the thing with the word ‘slut’ as an insult is a little more complicated then just a word. An ‘oh I’m drunk so I’m going to insinuate that this sister wears a lot of thong underwear and has sex in rooms that have toilets in them.’ And you don’t have to be an outspoken ‘zine feminist to see that it’s kind of a shitty word to use when you want to be cruel to somebody. It basically means that a girl has more sexual partners than is deemed ‘appropriate’ in non-caveman society, and it deems that her clothing choices make her appear to be a ‘sexual object.’ Sexual object of course-unless in Cosmopolitan magazine with a rose in your business skirt loins-is a bad thing. Which also kind of means that girls HAVE a limit in the kind of sex they can or want to be having. Which is fucking stupid, and it’s definitely backwards, and just because you or I don’t want to use our vaginas as much as somebody else doesn’t mean she’s going about it the wrong way. When you are intent on hurting somebody, and you call a girl a slut, you’re fucking yourself over. You’re putting your box in a box. You’re making a noose from pearls and wholesome American Betty Crocker baked goods. So stop it.
Oh I forgot, not that this is anything important or super noteworthy, but I was all about it, ‘cause I’m vain. So. You know. Yesterday at work (I feel like that’s how most of my stories begin nowadays, ergh)…
some lady, while at the end of the transaction, stared at my face for approx. 6 years and asked me what kind of mascara I use. To which I replied that it’s some sort of generic kind, L’oreal something, and it’s blue and gold. She looked disappointed and I shrugged. She was like, “Cause your eyelashes…are like, wow. Ridiculous.” I think ridiculous in the good way.
It’s funny, I actually sort of enjoy compliments like that, because honestly most of the time I figure people aren’t paying attention, and eyelashes are such a minute aspect of the whole face. Still nice to hear though.
(BTW for this post, I googled “eyeballs,” which I don’t recommend, because eyes are kind of freaky.)
And in mounting evidence to support my coolness...
I bought a jean vest (I almost put “jean jacket vest” or “sleeveless jean vest” but I’m pretty sure that’s redundant) that looks pretty much as follows:
Not really a good reason except it was ten bucks and I’ve always wanted one, for whatever reason. Maybe because I have an overwhelming desire to be Bruce Springsteen 25 years ago. Or I like impractical clothing. Whatever. I will post a picture when I figure out a way to wear it that doesn’t look like I beamed in from an episode of Boy Meets World or some other 90’s sitcom where jean material was overwhelmingly favored as a clothing option.
In losing a friend, I have seen how many friends I have that do care about me and are there for me. If you’re reading this, your friendship is appreciated and I love you. So fortunate to have great people on my life, though it’s unfortunate that I had to lose a friend to realize it.
I sent you a message, against your wishes. But to contain the grief at the loss of such an valuable friendship and not at least try to let you know that I will feel the loss immensely, is not possible. That’s selfish of me and I accept that. I accept that I am selfish and I want you in my life. But I’m not asking for that, because I want you to be happy. But goddamnit, all I’m asking is you accept my words as a tribute to the meaning you gave my life and know that there will be a scar, from where I’ve had to dress and cover, and will eventually have to coax my skin to stretch and pull to cover the hole you’re leaving. This is not guilt. This is me telling you that you’re important. Regardless of if I no longer get the privilege of you in my life.
So just know: I am sorry for any pain I caused. That can not be undone. But know that in my actions, fighting alongside my selfishness, there was, there is love.
My words aren’t coming out as smooth as I want them to, but I guess I’m at a loss for them.
I have to go to work and feel like I’ve just been slapped in the face. Not the best time to receive news that someone you deeply care about doesn’t want you in their life anymore. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Some of the claseses I’m currently taking I’m less than excited about, because they’re more science based or less involved in the aspects of speech-language pathology that I really enjoy. However, a class that constantly gets me motivated for my future is Stuttering. At some points in the class, I get so overwhelmed with emotion, particularly empathy, that I feel like I might want to focus on stuttering in my job—but I know that there’s so many more classes to take that deciding now would be premature.
To clarify—I do not nor have I ever stuttered. However, when I was younger, and at some points still—I am overcome by incredible shyness and to a degree, social anxiety, where I have a lot of difficulty interacting with people normally. It was, and upon rare occasion—is to the point where I freeze up and can’t think of anything to say. Like I said, I have never stuttered and certainly don’t equate my social anxiety with stuttering, but I definitely empathize with the deep desire to communicate but having severe difficulties actually expressing one’s self. So when my professor, Dr. Ramig, discusses his own difficulties with stuttering or we hear about or witness other children or teens struggling with stuttering or being passed over or ignored in class because of their inability to communicate in a quick and efficient manner, I empathize deeply.
And today, as he has in the past, Dr. Ramig has communicated the necessity of SLPs having counseling skills as well. And it truly makes me happy to know that I will potentially be the confidant and therapist for people who are struggling, be it with stuttering or any other speech or communicative difficulty. I guess, bottom line, both from an empathetic view and a desire to help others’ perspective, I am really, really excited for the potential change I can bring in peoples’ lives.
As I may have told some of you at some point, any guy that sees the connection between my tattoo and the Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker’s logo I will instantly marry (his consent really is nonnegotiable). Most people don’t comment on my tattoo period, but no one ever asks if there’s any sort of connection.
LAST NIGHT AT WORK (CAPS because of EXCITEMENT)
Me: Derp, derp. Here’s your change, blah blah.
Decently Attractive Male of Indeterminable Age But Probably 22-29: Thanks. Oh, does your tattoo have something to do with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers?
Me: Derp. Der….*stunned silence, now staring open mouthed.* Uh…yeah. Wow. Yeah.
DAMIABP2229: Oh that’s awesome.
Me: I….You…I….You’re, like…the coolest person I’ve ever met.
DAMIABP2229: Hah, thanks.
Me: No, really. No one’s ever asked me that before. You’re awesome.
DAMIABP2229: Well that’s an amazing tattoo.
Me: Derp. Thanks.
And then he walked away, never to be seen or heard from again. Oh well.
I’m briefly interrupting my own homework process to rant/discuss something that probably no one else cares about. Which is fine, this tumblr/blog is an entirely narcissistic production. Anywho.
So this article (http://www.xojane.com/fashion/good-news-girls-t-shirts-courtesy-target) discusses the positive messages found on a few Target shirts, stating, “Play like a Girl, Beat the Boys” and “You Wish You Hit Like a Girl,” though nothing incredibly controversial, refreshing in light of recent shirts from Forever 21 and JC Penney that read, “Allergic to Algebra” and “I’m too pretty to do math so my brother has to do it for me,” respectively. The author of the article is not blind to the fact that these shirts are not problematic, but is merely appreciated some shirts that give girls some sort of positive message.
Here are the problems I picked out while reading through the article:
1. Is it okay for girls to be athletic, but not math and science oriented? Still? Granted, these are two different brands and marketing campaigns, but when have you ever see a math-positive or science-positive shirt geared towards a young girl, unlike providing the opposite, which promotes a complete disinterest. But I have seen shirts before and in fact had one once upon a time that said “Girls kick butt.” Are there only some instances in which it is acceptable for women to own their feminine power?
2. Why is it that girls can’t be awesome in their own right? That is to say, why can’t girls more often be awesome without it being a direct challenge to the boys? I mean, granted, it does challenge the stereotype in place but it creates a competitive sense instead of merely saying, “Boys are pretty cool, but girls can do some pretty kickass stuff too.”
I know I’m reading what may seem like far too much into a simple child’s shirt. But those slogans are representative of a larger, all powerful culture that subtly yet effectively shape their senses of selves.
All that being said, where do I get the grown up size of the shirt that says “You wish you hit like a girl”…?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. then I put him back, but he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside remembering all the times you’ve felt that way, and you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway, get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself, like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now, moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful and so disappointing because we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and out through your shoes.
it’s been a tough fight worth fighting as we all drive along betting on another day.
during my worst times on the park benches in the jails or living with whores I always had this certain contentment- I wouldn’t call it happiness- it was more of an inner balance that settled for whatever was occurring and it helped in the factories and when relationships went wrong with the girls.
upon looking at the album covers on my wall, that I have a man’s ass and a man’s package, both right next to each other (for reference, Born in the USA and Sticky Fingers, respectively). I feel a little creepy. But not enough to move them around.
Also: the caffeine may or may not have kicked in. Weeeee
Okay, so anyone that knows me fairly well knows I’m not into celebrity news or gossip; I frankly find it a waste of (fucking) time. However, in all the headlines and new bits and pieces flashed across the top, bottom and sides of seemingly every website, this little gem caught my attention:
"Well, it’s a situation where Jon may be accepting of mediocre for his kids and working a regular job. I want the best for my kids and the best opportunities not unlike every parent. I think that to be a good parent is to work as hard as you can and give them the best opportunities in life, and this has provided that.I think at this point, the best opportunity for all of us would be me continuing on TV as a way to provide for my kids. Something that’s exciting and challenging for me has been TV, and I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”
—Kate Gosselin (of Jon & Kate Plus 8 fame…for those not in the know, she had a show on TLC with her then-husband and her 8 kids, which I think? included two sisters—twins?—and then sextuplets, which basically just followed her gross-ass mom mullet around as she bitched about life with eight kids. Or something. I didn’t watch it).
So she and her husband split awhile back, and he recently said, in lieu of her show (I guess just Kate Plus 8??) ending, that she should try to get a normal job to provide for the kids and establish some normalcy in their lives. To which she responded with the above quote.
To which I responded, aloud, to mysef: “Bitch, please.”
To elaborate: 1. What a selfish woman. Whether you like it or not, motherhood is about sacrifice, and I think most people would agree that continued exposure, be it as an entire family or just with their mother on television, is probably not the best lifestyle for those kids. I mean, I don’t have kids so I don’t like to hem and haw about what’s “good for the kids” because I obviously don’t have a clue. However, even if you take that element of the argument out, the fact that she is claiming to “do it for the kids” is a pile of horse shit. She says in the very next sentence that she enjoys doing television, and while I’m not going to make the argument about whether or not a life in television is good or bad for her children, pretending that it’s any better than any other job and primarily for their benefit is just silly.
2. The use of “mediocre” and “regular.” Two issues here: a) Most of the people that watched your show are working the jobs you deem as “mediocre” and “regular” and in fact, that’s the premise of reality television, or at least in some circumstances, is the capacity of an individual to relate to the person on screen, despite their unusual or extraordinary circumstances (more the case with something on TLC, versus, say, any sampling of hot-people-partying reality shows). So the fact that you look down on the people you’re supposed to be relatable to AND the same people that kept you on t.v. for this long is ungrateful and kind of stupid.
b) WTF is wrong with a “regular” job? I certainly don’t see anything “mediocre” about working to provide for your family. In fact, that’s downright honorable and respectable. I may contradict myself on my earlier point here, but I mean, whatever means you choose to produce and provide for your family—as long as you’re choosing to do so is the important thing. I guess the distinction I make and the distaste I have with her preference to stay on television is that it appears to be selfishly motivated AND she acts as though it’s far better than having any other sort of job.
I’m not totally sure why I wasted my time ranting about someone I don’t care about, other than the general pedestal that we tend to put celebrities (faux and otherwise) and celebrity-related jobs on—as though that makes them better people than any parent working their ass off to support their family. /rant
"I’m glad you’re comfortable now. You’re so funny!"
A girl I work with said this today, reflecting upon how quiet I was when I first started at work, and other than soaking up the small ego boost of being called “funny”, I truly was glad— I think that people often get the wrong perception of me because they don’t know me, due both to the judgments we make about others and the facets of my personality.
I am pretty darn shy at first when getting to know people; groups are often difficult for me, the super timid girl I was when I was younger tends to come out in full force, and I keep my mouth shut and tend to observe everything around me. However, once I begin to feel more comfortable, once I feel that it’s okay to be myself, the real Shelley comes out, and it’s such a relief when people want to get to know me.
But wait a tick— it’s never that easy. People don’t always want to get to know you. Perhaps that’s because they’ve had a taste of your personality and they don’t like the flavor, or perhaps it’s because they’ve summed you up without getting to understand you.
Everyone makes snap judgments—being around people constantly, at work, at school and just out in the world, I may bristle at a rude customer or passerby, but maybe I misinterpreted their words, or they were stressed and frustrated about something not remotely related to me. Do I take it personally? Sure! But have they given me a second thought? Most likely not.
Assuredly, the same is thought about me in some instances—that I was rude to a customer, or to another cashier somewhere, or a friend is hurt by words that didn’t have the bite they sounded like they did, though I would be horrified to know that I had that effect on someone. I do know that I need to be more aware of the disconnect between my words and their intended meaning and the meaning that falls on others’ ears. However, I find it ironic that I’m sure most (MOST) people would be upset to know they’re being perceived in a certain way, though they certainly make conclusions about other people in the same way they’re being judged. I know I do—I have a wide array of flaws, but I pride myself in being honest (not brutally so), forthcoming and willing to talk and compromise. Though I do enjoy sarcasm and like humor, I very rarely use words to intentionally hurt people—and when I do, I tell them, I don’t weave any sort of intricate veil. That doesn’t mean I won’t be polite about it, but I am not one of those people who, when is asked, “What’s wrong?” replies with “nothing” when it’s very clear that something is. I am too emotional for that.
I’ve gotten off track! My point is this: maybe I—maybe a lot of us—should try living by the Golden Rule more often; I know that I don’t like being judged prematurely, so I should spend less time doing so to others. Because it is so, so refreshing when people decide to get to know me, and it’s so great, in this instance, to be wrong about someone.
That doesn’t mean I want advice on how to better make friends; I’m doing what I can based on my schedule. It doesn’t mean that I want reassurance that moving to a new place is hard, that it takes time; I know, and that’s fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes, I wish I had friends texting me, “What are you up to?” or “Let’s go out tonight” or even “Let’s study”—or someone to send those texts to.
Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that I am super fortunate to have had one of my best friends move with me—she’s amazing. But I think she can attest to how I feel—a desire to feel less like a stranger, less new, and less alone.
I’ll get there—I know there will be people who will find me to be awesome for who I am. Admittedly, there’s a small part of me—the super shy kid still cowering beneath—that’s afraid that I’ll never make friends, though I mostly know better. However, until I have those moments where I feel wanted and needed, when it’s been a long day with minimal sleep and emotions particularly high, goddamnit do I wish I had friends.