Can I get a job as a reality show reunion host? I feel like I could navigate the dangerous waters of unresolved screaming matches, plastic surgery rumors, and relationship squabbles. I have no problem asking tough questions—questions like “are you faking cancer?” and “is your marriage legit or just a publicity stunt?”
I would not be great on the other end of the couch. I don’t add much drama and am pretty straightforward. But that would make me all the better as a host. I would remain calm and even-tempered, even as a 100 pound 45 year old woman in sparkly stilettos yells about how a frenemy didn’t serve her preferred alcohol at a cocktail party—the ultimate sign of betrayal.
Today I met someone named Loki. He wasn’t a supernatural being from another dimension, preoccupied with taking over Earth to spite his adoptive father and brother. He was a poodle. Some great things about Loki were:
- He had a huge black and grey mane of a curly hair.
- He was super chill and wasn’t fazed by all the people bustling nearby.
- He really liked me.
He was great and hopefully we see each other again next week.
Yesterday I survived a huge crowd. I hate huge crowds. They make me anxious and stress me out—something about being herded in one direction with a large mass of people.
I was in line to get into a soccer game. Usually I’d plan to arrive once the line had died down, so I could avoid the rush, but today they were giving out t-shirts and Dave wanted one. I sacrificed my sanity and in we went.
The chaos of the entrance drove me crazy. There were people everywhere and no one to make sure that we got through in the order in which we arrived, which meant the swag was running out. It was ok in the end; we got shirts (though three sizes too big) and our team won the game, but it wasn’t a great way to start to my afternoon.
This endeavor combined two of my greatest anxieties—crowds in close quarters and chaotic activities that aren’t meant to be chaotic. And yet, I made it through with only a minor emotional breakdown. I’m putting it in the success column.
I’m always falling asleep on the couch. I can be watching a murder mystery, laugh-out-loud comedy, or bomb-heavy action movie; it makes no difference. I’ll still be snoring quietly in the corner. I can’t help it. First, my couch is super comfortable. Second, I keep my living room at an excellent temperature. And third, I’m tired.
Last week, Dave and I watched the Avengers movie twice because, despite all the explosions, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. He tries to get me to hold it together, but I say I’m just giving him the privilege of really digging deep into a story. Figure out the background plots, catch the inconsistencies.
In that way, my sleepiness is actually a gift.
I don’t understand fancy cocktails and I never know what to order at a classy bar. Even worse than a classy bar is a really hip one. If there’s reclaimed wood on the walls or bookcases full of classic novels, I’m gonna be lost.
Sometimes I can fake it if they have a straightforward menu, but there’s always something in the ingredient list that I don’t know—liquor distilled in a Brooklyn basement or a mixer made from an Ecuadorian fruit. I think, to solve the problem next time, I’ll just duck-duck-goose it and see what I get.
It’s fall, my favorite season. The trees get beautiful and I can wear oversized sweaters. I like the feel of a gigantic sweater. It’s like you never left your bed, which is my goal on most days.
My perfect fall outfit: boots, tights, a huge sweater, and a big scarf. What more do you need? Nothing. That was an unnecessary question for the sake of emphasis.
We have these miniature libraries in our neighborhood. They’re tiny, painted houses that sit on wooden posts at the end of someone’s yard or a street corner. People fill the libraries with books they no longer want and other people pick through them, deciding on their next read.
It’s a great system. You can help out a neighbor and get rid of something you’re finished with, all while promoting the worthy cause of literacy. I recently picked up a novel that I’d read in 6th grade. I remember liking it then, but not much else. In reading it again, I saw what I’d enjoyed the first time. There was a spunky young girl, a layer of injustice, and a bit of a thrill. So basically, my life.
I’m a little bit afraid of social media. I don’t like that it will spring upon me someone that, in real life, I would never again encounter. I’m comfortable with the fact that people move in and out of my life, and I don’t feel like I need to go backward and find those lost ones.
In a particularly jolting pseudo-interaction, a boy from middle school sent me a friend request and I found out he was a porn star. In the abstract, I don’t feel like I have a problem with porn stars, but this kid was creepy. He wanted so much to be cool in middle school and it turns out he didn’t get any less desperate. I really didn’t want that knowledge in my head, but, thanks to Facebook, it was forced into my brain.
Luckily, my subconscious has saved me from the particularities of this memory. I can’t remember his name or his face, but the fact that this weird, sad kid from middle school became a weird, sad porn star stuck. Also that he wore an oversized gold chain.
I saw my neighbor on the metro this morning, but I pretended I didn’t. I kept walking, left my headphones in, and opened up my book. It’s not that she isn’t friendly or that I don’t like her. She is very nice and I do, actually, like her. It’s just that I wanted my own time and didn’t feel like spending the energy it would take to continue a casual conversation for twenty minutes.
I’m not sure if she saw me, but if she did, she was playing the same game—a game I respect. A game that says, “I refuse to be sugary and pleasant even when society and chance tell me I have to be.” A game that says, “The most polite thing I can do right now is to not say anything.” That part of the game is one I play a lot.
The world would be easier if we could all be satisfied by sitting alone, politely ignoring one another.
Today was Columbus Day. I celebrated by staying home, going grocery shopping, and taking a walk. At my last job, we didn’t get Columbus Day off, because there was no celebrating of genocide. Not that I’m against that. We can all agree genocide is the worst, right? Let’s just build off that foundation.
Since I hate genocide but like days off, I think we should replace all the holidays that celebrate genocidal maniacs with people worth honoring. We can start with changing Columbus Day, as many cities have done, to Indigenous People’s Day. But I say we don’t stop there. We could go big—International Peaceworkers of the World Day—or small—National Pleasant Coworkers Day. I want holidays for puppies, hummus, and water balloons.
It’s hard to get a new holiday to catch on, so we’ll all need to really get behind it. I figure if we can stand behind a colonialist murderer, we can stand behind a whole bunch of really kind, thoughtful people. And if that’s not enough, we can supplement the day with gifts and mashed potatoes.