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A Typo Artist
New Year's Day doesn't really do anything for me. I don't necessarily feel like it is a new beginning or a reason for resolutions. In fact, I feel anything but ambitious when I don't make it out of bed until 11am, with a raging headache, wondering how I got home the night before and who might have come with me.
However, I am thankful that so many people do think January 1st is a good day for new beginnings and such, because I do appreciate the sales on big ticket items and the fitness clubs that waive their initiation fees.
If I had one of those personal ads, this is roughly how it would read:
SWF not-so-desperately searching for the perfect man. Must be ambitious, well-educated, smarter than me, better looking than me, taller than me, more relaxed than me, wittier than me, and more confident than me. Must also make enough money to support himself, and save enough to retire at 32 and be a stay at home Dad. Must not be intimidated by the fact that I may make twice as much money as him. Must also have stellar taste in clothes and interior design, without being gay.
Mason is rarely understood. You may find him at a bar with a book in his back pocket, or at a bookstore with a beer.
He is cocky and selfish by nature, and yet somehow still charming, all without trying. He is loved by his girlfriends and their mothers even after he breaks their hearts. He falls in love with women, and girls, and books, and cities, all equally.
He possesses both the calm confidence of a Zen Buddha, and the violent outrageous passion of the brilliant young man he is.
He will either succeed famously, or die famously trying.
Support the Save Tara fund.
Donate so I have a Dooney and Burke bag to hit you with as I push my way selfishly through the metro. And new Steve Madden boots, which I will put up on your seat in the movie theatre.
Donate so I am able to go out and buy $9 martinis, get drunk, and go into work late and hung-over every day.
If you don't donate, I will no longer be able to make payments on my cute little Eclipse in which I'll drive recklessly and cut you off on the Beltway.
Please call now.
Meeting people online is so weird.
No matter how smart/witty/funny they sound, I can't help picturing a 37-year-old man in a StarTrek t-shirt, sitting in his parent's basement, eating a peanut butter sandwich and trying to think of charming things to type.
Or an obese agoraphobic in a stained undershirt sitting in a dark, smelly apartment simultaneously talking to me and two eleven-year-old girls, all the while contemplating whether he wants the canister of Vanilla or Chocolate frosting for dinner.
Or not a guy at all, but some desperate, beautiful blond.
In which case I might be ok with it.
Drea is semi- high society. She buys designer labels from Filene's Basement. She will not hesitate to talk trash behind her girlfriends' backs if they wear white after Labor Day or gain a few pounds over Christmas.
She will wear a blazer and jeans to the bar, and scoff disgustedly at the girls in skirts and low-cut tops. She'll scoff at them again when she leaves with a random guy and they leave with their girlfriends.
Drea would never carry last season's bag, but she would date her best friend's last boyfriend, as long as he makes more than $60K.
I take every opportunity to write. However, it's not enough anymore to write for my own enjoyment (or sanity, rather). I need to incorporate my writing with my livelihood. I want people to know that writing is a part of me, as is partying, klutziness, and cracking dirty jokes at inappropriate times. I will get up everyday and think, "what will I write today?-
Perhaps it's time I rethink my law school aspirations, and find a good school for journalism. However, this may also mean I will have to get up every day and think, "how will I eat today?-
Craigslist is highly underrated. It serves as a free advertising forum in nearly 100 major cities, for every commodity possible, from sex to iPODs to sinks.
My favorite topics to peruse are the
. These topics are overflowing with unrealistic, desperate pleas for human contact, both emotional and physical. I wonder how often, if ever, these kinds of postings get responses.
However, I must say that I once found a beautiful Asian inspired changing screen, a brand new IKEA bookshelf, and a dirt-cheap moving service to pick them up for me all within 15 minutes.
Marin is a beautiful, tall, confident woman. She would hardly be called skinny, but her muscle tone and her poise make her body the envy of many a female passerby.
Marin files her nails and reapplies lotion numerous times throughout the day, while simultaneously working on the biggest pitches of her career. She has not one worry-line on her face.
Marin has a serious boyfriend you'd never know about unless you asked her directly. Then she would simply say yes and offer nothing more. You'd never know if they got engaged, until you spotted the 2 carets on her finger.
Boy calls Monday. Wants to see me Friday. Says he'll call Thursday to make plans. He doesn't call Thursday, Friday, or Saturday for that matter.
He calls 2 weeks later. He misses me, wants to hang-out, blah, blah, blah. Wants to see me Saturday. Says he'll call Friday. He doesn't call Friday, Saturday or Sunday for that matter.
He calls 2 weeks later. He misses me, wants to hang-out, blah, blah, blah...the cycle continues.
I know why he does it: he's a guy. That's not my question. My question is why the hell do I keep answering his calls?
In my most recent move I was forced to leave my furniture. So I tried the Salvation Army to find an inexpensive dresser.
Walking in, the first thing I noticed was the stench coming from the living room furniture section, presumably from the dingy 70's-era green pull-out sofa-bed.
Moving to the back of the store, I spotted a few dressers that might match my tastes. However, they were scratched, damaged, missing handles, and very outdated. Not being intimidated by a fixer-upper, I checked the price. $150???
You will see no more old Lucky Brand jeans from me, cursed Salvation Army.
I have a serious tanning addiction. Skin cancer runs on my mother's side, and still I go, at least once a week.
I read articles in Cosmo about woman who can't go outdoors without 75 SPF sunblock. I see 50-year-old women wandering around the mall looking like old wrinkled leather bags.
Still I go.
I know it is my own fault, yet as I undress in the tanning booth, and spot the warning sign advising customers of the dangers of UV rays, I curse the salon for the guilt trip.
I pay you, damnit! Let me kill myself in peace!
So, I bought a top-o-the-line, full-size, 25--high air mattress. The mattress was a pretty blue, and had a velvet top, "Easy-Adjust"firmness, a built-in pump, side grooves to secure fitted sheets, and separate "box spring"and "mattress"air compartments. Woo-hoo!
I blew it up and tried it - pretty comfy. So I set my alarm and crashed on my new mattress.
I awoke at 4:30am on the hard floor with the deflated mattress wrapped around me like a collapsed tent.
The best thing about an inflatable mattress is you can deflate it, shove it in a box, and return it.
Please forgive us women if it seems we have been forgetting to return your calls, ignoring you, acting ungrateful, playing games, demanding gifts, or in general, being royal bitches more than usual.
You must understand, this is not our fault.
Between the latest fashions: pointy-toed 4"heels, fishnet stockings, and breath-constricting, belly-baring, low-slung jeans
"instructional"books: such as
Why Men Love Bitches,
He's Just Not That Into You,
Play or Be Played,
we're either irritable due to fashion injuries, or are merely being misled.
On the behalf of otherwise pleasant woman everywhere: many apologies.
Seriously, what's up with Wal-Mart?
First, those "self check-out"lines. I mean how many people do you think get away with an 18-pack of Charmin and The Inquirer?
And that guy at the door that greets people. Is he there just to annoy people so they don't hang around the entrance causing a draft or a traffic jam?
And what about these Super Wal-Mart's that carry everything? I don't know about you, but I don't want to buy tomatoes and poultry at the same place I get tires and car-batteries.
Don't even get me started on the Wal-Mart nail salons.
This is for real.
So I am trying to learn a new word every week. I randomly chose a word I don't know and try to use it at least once a day. This week's is,
the angle of inclination from the vertical of a vein, fault, or lode.
Here are some ways I may try using it:
"These Metro stairs are steeper than SoCal's hades!"
"Whoa, she must be wasted, she looks she she's on a hade."
"Bitch, I'll lay you out like a shallow hade."
"Hey baby, why don't we assume the position of a 0.0 hade?"
I dreamt of you last night.
I dreamt it was Christmas Eve and you came through the front door shaking off snow and shivering. We sat at the table and talked and ate cookies, like I did when I was ten.
You slept in a different bed with some random friends that had shown up. I woke you all early in the morning to open presents, but you said you had to leave.
I awoke from the dream before you left.
It's like awakening before death in your dreams...I think you do it because your mind just can't handle it.
On a night like this about 2 years ago, I sat in an all-night diner in the rundown manufacturing district of a little city in upstate-NY, with a boy I hardly knew. We traded stories over coffee and watched the truckers and strippers coming in. We sat long enough to watch his car disappear in layers of snow.
We watched the snowflakes fall through the haze of the street lamps to their unfortunate end on the grimy highway.
I fell in love with him that night, over a cup of cold coffee. And every time, over every cup, there after.
As a part-time bartender, I work with aspiring homeless degenerates. They come in late, if at all, and always have an excuse to leave early. Their eyes are always red and heavy with sleep, or lack there of. Most of them have a curious itch around the nose, which often turns up after prolonged visits with friends in the bathroom. They're out on the town six of seven nights, and sleeping every day until 2pm. Their friends are all bartenders and club owners. Most of them will tell you they're happy, but will never be able to tell you why.
Sometimes I consider calling. I don't, because there is nothing to say. I could tell him I would move there if he wanted me, but that's a lie. I could ask him to move here, but he never would, and I wouldn't want that. I could tell him I love him, but he knows.
Then I realize it doesn't matter what I say; just the sound of my voice would remind him of what he is doing 3,000 miles away from me, and that someday we'll find what we're both looking for in a similar place.
I'll see you there.
Today I walked by a man sitting on the sidewalk. He was wrapped in a filthy comforter that looked older than me. His lips were so chapped they were caked with dry blood. As I walked by him he mumbled some incomprehensible request for money or food. He smelled of cigarettes and vomit. His hand shook as he held out a paper Starbucks cup.
I forgot of him instantly when I noticed the cute, dark-haired 20-something up the street.
Now I sit here, warm and bored in my apartment, disgusted with the things I forget to notice. We're immorally numb.
The YWCA is a community-based organization. Part of its mission statement includes the words "to create opportunities for women's growth..."So, in my upstate NY hometown, the YMCA/YWCA offers reduced gym membership fees for low-income families and students.
However, in DC where the demand much higher, they charge $50/month; higher than many state-of-the-art downtown gyms. Numerous letters and pleas got me nothing.
But when a YWCA manager came into the bar and the cute blond bartender in the low cut shirt bought him a Bud, he gave her $25/month membership.
So I am off to the gym. Hey, whatever works.
Betty is the kind of girl who is annoying to look at. Her hair is fluorescent blond, besides her roots, which are darker than her flaky, cakey, eye lashes.
She'll complain about not losing weight while she strolls at a snail's pace on the treadmill flipping through Cosmo. Afterwards, she'll ask if you want to get Taco Bell.
Betty is a self-proclaimed "sex-pert-, and insists on giving you pointers any time you bring up your boyfriend.
At bars, she drinks Bud and makes ruthless comments about less-than-anorexic girls in bad outfits. She is a size 11 in last season's Gap.
Snow falls as I shuffle home. I lug a carry-all with a take-home project, and a heavy gym bag. I am walking to my own apartment, from the gym where I pay my membership, across the street from the firm where I work.
I think about the years I worked 40 hours/week waitressing, took 18 credit hours, and slept 4 hours every night.
Tonight, I am going home to shower and have drinks with a friend. I'll sleep 7 hours tonight, and tomorrow I will do some research on a summer trip to Italy.
This is where I should be.
Everyday I walk through the city - to work, to the gym, to the store - and I wear headphones. Yet no matter how often I do it, every time feels weird.
On the metro I feel like I'm in some character study indie-film. I am the main character and the camera is panning in, (surely I'm in deep, serious thought), and my headphones are the soundtrack.
Everyone looks different when you have headphones on. They look more interesting, more contemplative, less like the half-asleep, stuck-in-their-routines drones I usually see.
I suppose I look the same to them. They should get headphones.
This 100words project attracts an interesting breed. We are the people who talk too much and theorize constantly. We are the Jerry Seinfelds of the world, always asking, "What's up with those...-
Most of us are probably a little strange, and perhaps feeling like our thoughts are too weird to share with all the "normal"people in our lives, so we post them here, edited, for strangers to read and try to make sense of. As if that's more normal.
However, I am relieved to see there are other people who see the interesting and the "post-worthy"in everyday life.
At the gym I noticed a cute guy staring at me from his elliptical. I smiled and thought how impressed he must be as I finished my 7.5 min. mile. He was probably thinking about how nicely I would clean up for our first date.
He slowed his pace, then stopped and stretched and
. I slowed my pace, hoping this made me "more accessible."It must have worked, because he started over, put his hand on the side bar and said "I am sorry to interrupt, but you have a sock stuck to your back.-
Fucking static cling.
So, my friend calls to set me up on a blind date. I promptly reply that I don't do blind dates, so she agrees to send me a picture.
"He looks too old for me,"I say, "and I'm not into facial hair.-
"Come Tara,"she pleads, "its just a name date.-
"In DC that just means that you go on a date with a loser because he is someone's son. Get it? It's all in the last name.-
"Well where I come from, it's all in the pants, and he looks like the lacking type. Thanks anyway.-
Last night, some guy "accidentally"tossed his Blackberry in my direction. I laughed and gave it a little kick back in his direction. Apparently, this was an invitation for conversation.
He was at least 10 years older than me, slobbering drunk, and wearing a too-tight sweater.
"It broke,"he whined, handing it to me.
I shook it, pushed "Power,"and it lit up.
The man then proceeded to propose to me.
All I could think about is why is someone important enough to have to carry his Berry on a Friday night kneeling in a beer puddle at my feet?
On the evening news I caught a piece on the Iraq elections. The newscaster called the elections an "overall success.-
"There were only nine suicide bombers and 44 deaths.-
I turned off the TV. Maybe I cried. The news hasn't made me cry since 9/11.
Perhaps I cried because we are surrounded by so much violence that we consider the death of 44 people trying to uphold the simplest of civic duties a "success."Perhaps because news outlets are under such pressure by this autocratic administration that they have to report so inaccurately.
Perhaps because I've done nothing about it.
Today I am at work, and I'm about to freak out.
If I have to conduct one more piece of research so this firm can help some multi-million dollar corporation continue getting away with screwing people out of health benefits and insurance pay-outs...
Or address one more ass-kissing letter with some gaudy corporate seal on it to a Congressman who probably can't even read most of the words in it...
Or make one more list of failing firms we can steal clients from...
I'm going to stop and write this, and then go back to work like a fucking hypocrite.
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