This morning I woke at eight, gobbled some raisin bran, and started walking. I trotted down Fullerton past Sheffield, then took the El to Armitage for no real reason -- it's not a far walk, but the air was fairly mild, so why not? (I almost stayed on the train for an elevated tour of Chicago, but past experience has taught me that halfway through the trip, I'll get antsy to return home.) Four Kraftwerk-lookin' indie rockers stood on the platform with me; they were thick-spectacled, pale, and thin. I felt instantly uncool for wearing my purple pajama top under my coat, even though they wouldn't see it. Indie rockers make me nervous.
When I was younger, I slipped into punk rock because I didn't (want to) fit in with mainstream culture. Now that I'm out of that scene, I still don't fit in with what I see, and so that makes me feel nicheless. If only bookish awkwardness would come into fashion. Then I'd be more popular than honey.
By the way, I have bypassed three big bargains in as many days. And I didn't buy a thing. Low-priced consumerism, I shall still triumph over thee!
Okay, so here's my clever Christmas present mentioned in passing below. My squirrely (but ultimately human) friend is getting thinner and thinner with each passing day. At this point, it might not be a bad idea to force-feed him lard-slicked Bugles in hopes of fattening him up. He says that he doesn't have time to eat, and that he'll make up for it later. When "later" is, your guess is as good as mine. So I went to the Jewel on Southport and bought three bags of groceries. Then I stayed in on Friday and cooked like crazy: pasta in sun-dried tomato pesto, rice and beans, spiced couscous, vegetable pie, and so on. Each dish got its own Glad Ware container, which promptly went into the freezer. See, the plan is that Squirrely Chum can reheat each dish and have a home-cooked meal in minutes (tm)! Unfortunately, after all this cooking --always after the fact do I remember these things-- I recalled that S.C. has a small refrigerator and an even smaller freezer. Ugh.
(Did you notice all my street name-dropping today? It's called LOCAL COLOR. ha ha ha.)
When I was younger, I slipped into punk rock because I didn't (want to) fit in with mainstream culture. Now that I'm out of that scene, I still don't fit in with what I see, and so that makes me feel nicheless. If only bookish awkwardness would come into fashion. Then I'd be more popular than honey.
By the way, I have bypassed three big bargains in as many days. And I didn't buy a thing. Low-priced consumerism, I shall still triumph over thee!
Okay, so here's my clever Christmas present mentioned in passing below. My squirrely (but ultimately human) friend is getting thinner and thinner with each passing day. At this point, it might not be a bad idea to force-feed him lard-slicked Bugles in hopes of fattening him up. He says that he doesn't have time to eat, and that he'll make up for it later. When "later" is, your guess is as good as mine. So I went to the Jewel on Southport and bought three bags of groceries. Then I stayed in on Friday and cooked like crazy: pasta in sun-dried tomato pesto, rice and beans, spiced couscous, vegetable pie, and so on. Each dish got its own Glad Ware container, which promptly went into the freezer. See, the plan is that Squirrely Chum can reheat each dish and have a home-cooked meal in minutes (tm)! Unfortunately, after all this cooking --always after the fact do I remember these things-- I recalled that S.C. has a small refrigerator and an even smaller freezer. Ugh.
(Did you notice all my street name-dropping today? It's called LOCAL COLOR. ha ha ha.)
Labels: chicago
It's Friday night, and I am working on a secret Christmas present for one of the people closest to me. I'd love to say what it is, because it's really clever, but this person reads this EVEN THOUGH DARLING YOU KNOW DEEP DOWN I WISH YOU WOULD NOT, and so I'll have to wait until a few days from now to share. Really clever, if I do say so myself (and I do).
The Darling Buds are oohing their way through my stereo just like they did eight years ago. I remember hiding their record from my parents because its title, Erotica, would probably make them think I was having sex. There is very little in the world that mortifies me more than the thought of my parents thinking I'm getting it on at any given time. I'm sure that anxiety, coupled with nine long years of Catholic school, has contributed to my awkward attitude toward anything beyond hand-holding.
Now is also a good time to mention that my kind parents gave me Tocca perfume for Christmas, and they also picked out the matching laundry wash. It smells heavenly, and I don't think that many women wear it (it's not CK-ed out, y'know?). So on Christmas Eve I unwrap the box, and my mom announces, "That's for washing your LINGERIE! [turns to my father, uncle, aunt, and grandfather] Annie bought some really pretty French LINGERIE before she left New York!" Cheeks aflame, feeling twelve again, I urged my mother to zip the lip -- but not before hissing, "There's a reason they're called unmentionables!" Mother still does not understand why I wanted to shove myself under the couch and just die. She says I'm overreacting.
Lately I have felt a cautious happiness, and I like it although it threatens to crush me. I can't break down my self-instilled walls (or talk about anything emotional without regressing into a joke or, in this case, a little Youth of Today fingerpointing in front of the monitor). So I take long snowy walks by myself and remind myself that such walks are enjoyable whether taken accompanied or alone.
In addition, I have been feeling absolutely beastly during the past two weeks. My self-image has nosedived, and I look like goshdamn Beezus Quimby. Some horrid skin trouble has surfaced, and I am pasty with red splotches. Completely unalluring. My overbite makes me look like Mr. Ed, and one look at my chinny chin chin causes passersby on the street to shout, "It's LENO TIME!" I mean, look at that chin! If you will also notice, I did not do that dumb trick you see so often on the web: brightening your face in Photoshop so that you are noseless, flawless, and radiantly gorgeous. No, that is me, plotzing at work, in my piggy-pink-faced glory.
Of course, tomorrow I might wake up and think I am the most beautiful, loveliest creature since the inimitable Audrey. And I'll prance around in front of the full-length mirror, doing a little cha-cha while grinning at myself. Again, this probably seems like hyperbole, but I do enjoy dancing around ("teenage dance party," I call it) when I'm in a happy mood. I mean, I know I'm not ugly, but doesn't everybody have those days? Except mine come in waves of weeks. I go through fortnights of feeling charming, then gross, and then back again.
New Year's Resolutions:
The Darling Buds are oohing their way through my stereo just like they did eight years ago. I remember hiding their record from my parents because its title, Erotica, would probably make them think I was having sex. There is very little in the world that mortifies me more than the thought of my parents thinking I'm getting it on at any given time. I'm sure that anxiety, coupled with nine long years of Catholic school, has contributed to my awkward attitude toward anything beyond hand-holding.
Now is also a good time to mention that my kind parents gave me Tocca perfume for Christmas, and they also picked out the matching laundry wash. It smells heavenly, and I don't think that many women wear it (it's not CK-ed out, y'know?). So on Christmas Eve I unwrap the box, and my mom announces, "That's for washing your LINGERIE! [turns to my father, uncle, aunt, and grandfather] Annie bought some really pretty French LINGERIE before she left New York!" Cheeks aflame, feeling twelve again, I urged my mother to zip the lip -- but not before hissing, "There's a reason they're called unmentionables!" Mother still does not understand why I wanted to shove myself under the couch and just die. She says I'm overreacting.
Lately I have felt a cautious happiness, and I like it although it threatens to crush me. I can't break down my self-instilled walls (or talk about anything emotional without regressing into a joke or, in this case, a little Youth of Today fingerpointing in front of the monitor). So I take long snowy walks by myself and remind myself that such walks are enjoyable whether taken accompanied or alone.
In addition, I have been feeling absolutely beastly during the past two weeks. My self-image has nosedived, and I look like goshdamn Beezus Quimby. Some horrid skin trouble has surfaced, and I am pasty with red splotches. Completely unalluring. My overbite makes me look like Mr. Ed, and one look at my chinny chin chin causes passersby on the street to shout, "It's LENO TIME!" I mean, look at that chin! If you will also notice, I did not do that dumb trick you see so often on the web: brightening your face in Photoshop so that you are noseless, flawless, and radiantly gorgeous. No, that is me, plotzing at work, in my piggy-pink-faced glory.
Of course, tomorrow I might wake up and think I am the most beautiful, loveliest creature since the inimitable Audrey. And I'll prance around in front of the full-length mirror, doing a little cha-cha while grinning at myself. Again, this probably seems like hyperbole, but I do enjoy dancing around ("teenage dance party," I call it) when I'm in a happy mood. I mean, I know I'm not ugly, but doesn't everybody have those days? Except mine come in waves of weeks. I go through fortnights of feeling charming, then gross, and then back again.
New Year's Resolutions:
start writing novel, or at least short story
stop buying clothes; maybe one pair of blue jeans, but no more treating self! even if incredible, 90% off bargain!
stop swearing like a trucker; aim for saucy, not surly
more rock, less talk.
