(This is where I go all Pollyanna on yer ass.)
1. Music: The xx, Pink, and Broken Bells are on heavy rotation lately. All making me smile.
2. Reading Material: issues of BUST magazine, the local daily newspaper, and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo are in my "currently reading" basket next to my couch.
3. My NEW COUCH! (photo forthcoming!)
4. Mog: Always, of course! He's been cracking me up lately with his vocabulary. Yesterday he picked up a stick in the yard and asked, "Mom, is this stick humongous?" And today he asked whether it would be "hilarious" if he took off his shoes and stomped in a puddle with his bare feet. (As it turned out, the answer was "Yes.")
5. My new spectacles. Finally, eyewear that fits my personality. :)
6. This skirt.
7. This silly person with the pleather hat.
8. This city.
9. My besties.
10. This television show.
So...that's me. Right now. How about you? What's your pleasure?
When I was younger I used to get teased about my hairy arms all the time and it bothered me. Well, that's not really true. I pretended like it bothered me, because it seemed like I was supposed to be bothered by the ribbing, but secretly, I mostly just enjoyed the attention.
On multiple occasions, I trimmed the unruly, curly, ridiculously long arm hair strands with a pair of pink and white safety scissors. It seemed like the thing to do.
Come to think of it, I was a rather strange kid. Probably the arm hair was only an outward sign of inner awkwardness, a feature for the other kids my age to latch onto, an easy target for lame jokes designed to make the teller feel better about him or herself. Kids seem to have a sixth sense about these things. They smell one another's vulnerability and they circle around the weak like a shiver of sharks eager for blood. This is the way it seemed to me. Then again, I was both awkward AND paranoid. :)
Not much has changed over the years...
I just don't cut my arm hair anymore. Let it grow. The longer, the better; the crazier, the better; the more untamed, the better.
It's who I am.
I feel myself standing at the precipice, vulnerable, wavering. Everything around me whispers that this is the moment. I must choose to either move on or wallow and stagnate. The pull of my bed and the covers that I could stretch over my head and disappear into is more than magnetic.
If I am to go on, I need to construct a new life, new routines, new deviations from the routines. I'm still standing with one foot in the past, rooted in a quicksand of memories and old dreams. If I'm to step onto firmer ground, it's very likely that only my foot will make it. Here is what will happen: with a great sucking noise, the mud will refuse to release my shoe and I must leave it behind. But I'm attached to that shoe. What happens if I move on without it? Does it sink and disappear? And what happens to my naked foot without that shoe?
Rachel, why the hell are you talking about shoes and black sucking muck? This makes no sense. And are you on a precipice or struggling in a quagmire? Cause it can't be both. For the love of god, woman, choose a metaphor and stick with it! What is your problem?
This is the problem.
The more I struggle, the deeper I sink.
I'm so completely casual all the time that my weekend clothes aren't really all that different from my weekday clothes! Jeans and a t-shirt, and if I'm cold (and I'm always cold), my bright green knee-high American Apparel socks.
This is rough because I LOVE to eat. But I suppose it would probably be comfort food like my mom's chicken and dumplings, or in a pinch, a Papa John's ham & pineapple pizza will do. With Cherry Dr. Pepper, of course.
Cereal. Unless of course, by "our time" you mean my own lifetime, in which case, I would have to say Velcro. Or Tang. God bless NASA.*
I will take a very long, very hot shower and then burrow into my bed with a good book and a box of Hostess Cupcakes. When I wake up from the sugar coma, I will probably write something or scrapbook, or both. Then I might go for a long drive down country roads with my windows down and blast my car stereo as loud as I want.
Coke, always and forever.
Plenty of Tori Amos.
What? Sport what? Huh? I don't understand the question. I thought a Jersey was a type of cow...am I wrong?
So there you have it. I'm back. ;)
*p.s. Neither Velcro nor Tang was actually invented in my lifetime. Sometimes I make shit up. I prefer to think this tendency towards fabrication makes me a storyteller. Some say "liar." But, whatever. ;)