You know those days when you're all "La la la, all hell is breaking lose but I'm really managing to to hold it all together," and then you're wondering where to pick up your medal? I thought I was having that day yesterday. Productive day at work? Check. Quick workout? Check. Spending some quality time with Liz at her house while having some vino? Double check. I got home late, hopped in the shower and was ready to move on to the next thing on my checklist before bed: my nightly phone convo with Geo.
But what is that? Geo's in the middle of something and will call when he's done? Okay, I'll just try and relax and chill out. That shouldn't be a problem, right? RIGHT?!
Oh, crap. It IS a problem. With the unplanned 20 minutes to myself before bed, I end up losing control of all my emotional functions and coping skills. I over-think things, stress out, worry, worry, worry, and make a mental and physical list of things I have to do for work/wedding/weekend and then panic because there's no way I can do anything about these things at 11 p.m.
At the height of my little panic attack, Geo makes the mistake of calling me back on time and looking forward to a pleasant conversation.
KABOOOOOM!
I unleashed all my worries and frustrations three seconds into our chat. I was panting, choking on rapid breaths, pacing around my apartment while tasking him with things like "plan this wedding" and threatening to move to Alabama just to nag him at a closer distance. I was talking nonsense and babbling like an idiot for who knows how long. Then I defiantly (in defiance of exactly WHAT I had no idea) set a reminder for today to schedule a massage in an attempt to relax, only to remember this morning that massages stress me out. Ugh.
As is generally the case, I woke up this morning with a panic hangover. My fists were sore from being clenched in my sleep, my head ached with the millions of stupid little issues I crammed in there right before bed in the hopes that I could figure them out in my dreams, and I had forgotten about why exactly I had blown up the night before. In the light of day, all the Things To Do seemed doable.
Although, that feeling lasted for oh...........20 minutes before I found myself rushing out the door, late for work, and regenerating a new To Do list. Top of that list? Learn to enjoy massages and then schedule one every week so I can calm the eff down and stop panic-attacking all over Geo. Anyone got any other tips for avoiding emotionally nuclear meltdowns?
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
BFFs
As many of my devoted readers will know, I have very high standards but only when it comes to very odd things. Like, I'll basically drink any wine that comes in a bottle (or box...or brown paper bag...or old milk jug) but I am perpetually on the hunt for the perfect pair of black heels because I have never found them. But one of the other things on which I have very high standards and a strong opinion is celebrities. Not just celebrities in general, but celebrities that I would like to be friends with. Now, I'm not in any immediate position to befriend anyone more famous than, say, the woman who has worked in the cafeteria at work for, like, ever (and who, I'm pretty sure, hates me anyways) but it would be foolish of me to let my guard down and lower my standards just because it is highly unlikely that I'll ever even MEET a famous person.
So I've really been on the lookout for who I may want to be friends with in Hollywood. I got some great scouting in last night when I was watching all my soon-to-be best pals at the Oscars. And in the blink of an eye, I found my new best friend: Jennifer Lawrence.
It happened so fast, you guys. It was like, one minute I'm snoring away because Seth MacFarlane was a snoozefest, and then next, minute I'm buying BFF necklaces and braiding BFF bracelets. It had nothing to do with her amahhhhz dress or her modest interview style or even her Oscar win. It all fell into place when she tripped running up the stairs to accept her Oscar. She tripped! Stars! They're Just Like Pharon! Anyway, I've decided that she is the greatest and I've made some adjustments to the list of the top 8 famous ladies I would probably be best friends with if I ever met them, cause I bumped her to the top o' the list.
* JLaw
* Mila Kunis
* Melissa McCarthy
* The girl who played Britney Spears' pregnant friend in Crossroads (and also B-Rabbit's ex in 8 Mile)
* Kat Dennings
* Mindy Kaling
* Sarah Silverman
* Jessica Simpson
The bottom 8 remain unchanged (these are people who are not BAD people like a Kardashian or a Lohan, but are more like people that are probably okay but are likely too annoying or high-maintenance to ever consider befriending, famous or not):
* Chelsea Handler
* Lady Gaga
* Rihanna
* Taylor Swift
* Reese Witherspoon (I know, I don't entirely understand this one either, but there's something about her that makes me think she's never made a mistake and therefore cannot be trusted.)
* Zooey Deschanel
* Jennifer Lopez
* Anne Hathaway (Why couldn't she have stayed as non-over-hyped as when she was in Princess Diaries?!)
Great. Glad we got that squared away.
So I've really been on the lookout for who I may want to be friends with in Hollywood. I got some great scouting in last night when I was watching all my soon-to-be best pals at the Oscars. And in the blink of an eye, I found my new best friend: Jennifer Lawrence.
It happened so fast, you guys. It was like, one minute I'm snoring away because Seth MacFarlane was a snoozefest, and then next, minute I'm buying BFF necklaces and braiding BFF bracelets. It had nothing to do with her amahhhhz dress or her modest interview style or even her Oscar win. It all fell into place when she tripped running up the stairs to accept her Oscar. She tripped! Stars! They're Just Like Pharon! Anyway, I've decided that she is the greatest and I've made some adjustments to the list of the top 8 famous ladies I would probably be best friends with if I ever met them, cause I bumped her to the top o' the list.
* JLaw
* Mila Kunis
* Melissa McCarthy
* The girl who played Britney Spears' pregnant friend in Crossroads (and also B-Rabbit's ex in 8 Mile)
* Kat Dennings
* Mindy Kaling
* Sarah Silverman
* Jessica Simpson
The bottom 8 remain unchanged (these are people who are not BAD people like a Kardashian or a Lohan, but are more like people that are probably okay but are likely too annoying or high-maintenance to ever consider befriending, famous or not):
* Chelsea Handler
* Lady Gaga
* Rihanna
* Taylor Swift
* Reese Witherspoon (I know, I don't entirely understand this one either, but there's something about her that makes me think she's never made a mistake and therefore cannot be trusted.)
* Zooey Deschanel
* Jennifer Lopez
* Anne Hathaway (Why couldn't she have stayed as non-over-hyped as when she was in Princess Diaries?!)
Great. Glad we got that squared away.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Return Policy
Returning clothes is probably the worst thing ever. I mean, you should be able to be like "Well, this garment didn't meet my standards," and have that be that. But no. That is NOT that. Instead, you have to go through a billion questions:
"Did you pay for this with a card or with cash?"
"Is there something wrong with it?"
"Is there something wrong with you?"
It's very intrusive! And still, these register people are acting like you are murdering their unborn children when you are all "I need to return this."
Returning things should not be an issue. But I HATE returning things. And today I had to return a pair of jeans that had the world's most painful scratchy plastic thing that was sewn into the thigh seam. I had a few problems, though:
1) I had worn the jeans
2) I had lost the receipt for the jeans
3) I had torn the tag out of the jeans
So, I needed to get ready for a battle if I wanted to return the hellish jeans. Here's how you prepare to make a questionable return.
The first thing you need to do is put on relatively clean clothes that make it look like you are not a homeless person. Pile on a bunch of jewelry so that you don't look like you're the kind of person who would try to return worn clothes unless absolutely necessary.
When you are putting your To Be Returned Clothes in a bag, always remember to put them in a bag that is one level nicer than where you are going. Returning to Gap? Slap 'em in a Banana Republic bag. Making a return to Walmart? Go ahead and toss those garments in a spare garbage bag you find on the floor of the movie theater.
Once you have your fancy clothes on and fancy bags together, go ahead and stroll confidently into the mall for your return.
Approach the register person with confidence. "I have this terrible pair of jeans that has given me a scabies-level rash on my leg."
Fight the urge to elaborate. Then, inevitably, elaborate:
"Yes, I know that you can't find the tag, but I cut the tag out because I thought that's what was itchy, but it wasn't. I emailed your corporate offices to find out if this return was legit, considering I had cut out the tag and worn these jeans, and they assured me that a brief convo with a level-headed store manager would fix everything. I'm so sorry about this, I feel just terrible for finding these pants unsatisfactory. I shop here ALL the time and even worked in this store in high school, so I totally know that returning worn clothes is really not cool, and I'm not the kind of person who would normally do this and I'm really not trying to get away with anything, I just can't wear the jeans because they are the worst things on the planet. I'm so sorry. "
After you're finished with your monologue, start sweating while the girl looks at the pants, then back at you. Then at the pants, then back at you. Pants, you. Pants, you.
Here's where I would normally break down in tears in and yelp, "Argh! I just can't stand these damn jeans! They itch so bad that I tried to gnaw my leg off at the thigh! Please give me my money back!" But do not do this. Play it cool.
If you are faced with a doubtful register girl who is all "Hm, I can't find the receipt in the register. Are you SURE you bought them on this card within the past x days?!" Do not say: "Yes, I'm sure because I have no other card because I don't have enough MONEY to have another card or to carry cash and I bought them on that day because I was in Madison and wanted to show off for my friends by buying jeans I didn't even try on. GUH!" Instead, just say "Yes, I'm sure." Then let them do the work.
When all is said and done, you'll walk out of the store with your money back and your defective jeans tossed in a pile to be returned to the corporate offices. It will not have been easy, but it will have been worth it.
"Did you pay for this with a card or with cash?"
"Is there something wrong with it?"
"Is there something wrong with you?"
It's very intrusive! And still, these register people are acting like you are murdering their unborn children when you are all "I need to return this."
Returning things should not be an issue. But I HATE returning things. And today I had to return a pair of jeans that had the world's most painful scratchy plastic thing that was sewn into the thigh seam. I had a few problems, though:
1) I had worn the jeans
2) I had lost the receipt for the jeans
3) I had torn the tag out of the jeans
So, I needed to get ready for a battle if I wanted to return the hellish jeans. Here's how you prepare to make a questionable return.
The first thing you need to do is put on relatively clean clothes that make it look like you are not a homeless person. Pile on a bunch of jewelry so that you don't look like you're the kind of person who would try to return worn clothes unless absolutely necessary.
When you are putting your To Be Returned Clothes in a bag, always remember to put them in a bag that is one level nicer than where you are going. Returning to Gap? Slap 'em in a Banana Republic bag. Making a return to Walmart? Go ahead and toss those garments in a spare garbage bag you find on the floor of the movie theater.
Once you have your fancy clothes on and fancy bags together, go ahead and stroll confidently into the mall for your return.
Approach the register person with confidence. "I have this terrible pair of jeans that has given me a scabies-level rash on my leg."
Fight the urge to elaborate. Then, inevitably, elaborate:
"Yes, I know that you can't find the tag, but I cut the tag out because I thought that's what was itchy, but it wasn't. I emailed your corporate offices to find out if this return was legit, considering I had cut out the tag and worn these jeans, and they assured me that a brief convo with a level-headed store manager would fix everything. I'm so sorry about this, I feel just terrible for finding these pants unsatisfactory. I shop here ALL the time and even worked in this store in high school, so I totally know that returning worn clothes is really not cool, and I'm not the kind of person who would normally do this and I'm really not trying to get away with anything, I just can't wear the jeans because they are the worst things on the planet. I'm so sorry. "
After you're finished with your monologue, start sweating while the girl looks at the pants, then back at you. Then at the pants, then back at you. Pants, you. Pants, you.
Here's where I would normally break down in tears in and yelp, "Argh! I just can't stand these damn jeans! They itch so bad that I tried to gnaw my leg off at the thigh! Please give me my money back!" But do not do this. Play it cool.
If you are faced with a doubtful register girl who is all "Hm, I can't find the receipt in the register. Are you SURE you bought them on this card within the past x days?!" Do not say: "Yes, I'm sure because I have no other card because I don't have enough MONEY to have another card or to carry cash and I bought them on that day because I was in Madison and wanted to show off for my friends by buying jeans I didn't even try on. GUH!" Instead, just say "Yes, I'm sure." Then let them do the work.
When all is said and done, you'll walk out of the store with your money back and your defective jeans tossed in a pile to be returned to the corporate offices. It will not have been easy, but it will have been worth it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Oh, Pharon
Today, a dear, loverly, awesome lady pal of mine had a baabbbbbbbbby! Gross! Amazing!! I'm so ecstatic for her and her hubby and can't wait to meet the beautiful little lady!!
As I was reflecting on the good news, I turned on the boob tube and saw that my OTHER friend's boyfriend showed up on a network television show.
Earlier this week, Prinna started a new job, Madeline got engaged, I found out another one of my friends is preggers, Claire is packing up to move to stupid Suck Carolina (South Carolin-ass? Haven't figured out that nickname yet) and my dad recently wrote plans for a movie before breakfast one morning.
Last night, I was napping on my couch and woke up with my foot in an old Lean Cuisine container.
Oh, Pharon.
I really felt like I was getting it together this past week or two. I've been working out, watching documentaries, unwrapping bricks of cheese BEFORE I eat them and this weekend, I even hung up my coat instead of tossing it casually onto a pile of garbage. I had so many tally marks in the Win column, I thought I couldn't lose.
Then on my way to the gym on Monday (wait, did you guys catch that I've been working out? 'CAUSE I HAVE. And I hate every sweaty minute of it), I remembered that I had run out of windshield wiper fluid. I looked dejectedly at the snowy/salty/dirty windshield and you guys? I SPIT ON MY WINDSHIELD. What?! In what world is THAT the appropriate solution?
What is happening to me? I mean, I've washed my hair, like, EVERY DAY this week (almost). I have been wearing clean, matching socks. I woke up before noon without needing an alarm all weekend! I thought I was finally becoming a grown up. Instead, I think that all I've done is replace my normal skills at common sense with the far more difficult skills of looking presentable in public and learning to walk on a treadmill and watch TV at the same time, without laughing out loud.
I guess I'm not surprised that all my efforts at acting like an adult were significantly (and easily) overshadowed by the achievements of actual adults. I mean, it was either that or falling asleep on top of old food containers while watching Futurama on Netflix. Guess I was right on both accounts. Win?
As I was reflecting on the good news, I turned on the boob tube and saw that my OTHER friend's boyfriend showed up on a network television show.
Earlier this week, Prinna started a new job, Madeline got engaged, I found out another one of my friends is preggers, Claire is packing up to move to stupid Suck Carolina (South Carolin-ass? Haven't figured out that nickname yet) and my dad recently wrote plans for a movie before breakfast one morning.
Last night, I was napping on my couch and woke up with my foot in an old Lean Cuisine container.
Oh, Pharon.
I really felt like I was getting it together this past week or two. I've been working out, watching documentaries, unwrapping bricks of cheese BEFORE I eat them and this weekend, I even hung up my coat instead of tossing it casually onto a pile of garbage. I had so many tally marks in the Win column, I thought I couldn't lose.
Then on my way to the gym on Monday (wait, did you guys catch that I've been working out? 'CAUSE I HAVE. And I hate every sweaty minute of it), I remembered that I had run out of windshield wiper fluid. I looked dejectedly at the snowy/salty/dirty windshield and you guys? I SPIT ON MY WINDSHIELD. What?! In what world is THAT the appropriate solution?
What is happening to me? I mean, I've washed my hair, like, EVERY DAY this week (almost). I have been wearing clean, matching socks. I woke up before noon without needing an alarm all weekend! I thought I was finally becoming a grown up. Instead, I think that all I've done is replace my normal skills at common sense with the far more difficult skills of looking presentable in public and learning to walk on a treadmill and watch TV at the same time, without laughing out loud.
I guess I'm not surprised that all my efforts at acting like an adult were significantly (and easily) overshadowed by the achievements of actual adults. I mean, it was either that or falling asleep on top of old food containers while watching Futurama on Netflix. Guess I was right on both accounts. Win?
Monday, February 18, 2013
Vent
I have this really bad habit of wanting to have a very hardcore opinion on things that I have no knowledge of. I told my friend Claire tonight that I wanted to write a blog on stay-at-home moms, bone marrow, film-making or getting high traffic levels to a blog written by scatter-brained young ladies. She casually pointed out that I know nothing about any of these topics, so I reluctantly decided to abandon them. But how many things do I really understand enough to write about?
It got me thinking: Why would people read this blog? I mean, I know everything about celebrity relationships and Lil' Wayne lyrics, but I have hit a plateau, ya'll. There is only so much you can write about hating the Kardashians and Angelina Jolie before people are like "We get it. You hate fame-whores and vampires and love everyone who rhymes anything with Tunechi. What's next?"
A few weeks ago, I decided to stop trying to write blogs five times a week. If I'm being honest, it got way too hard to develop creative and funny blogs that were not offensive, and that I was proud of, that many times a week. Especially knowing that it wouldn't go much further thanthe ones and twos millions of people who tune in every day. I got discouraged. I got frustrated. I wanted people to be all "I have GOT to share this blog. She really gets it/has no idea what she's talking about." But there is very little sharing. Still, that's not even the hardest part.
It's been hard because people started reading way too much into some of the posts. I'd like to think I don't dump on anything on this blog (unless you are a Kardashian or one of those amorphic Jolie-Pitt children) without purpose. I'd like to think that every night, I spend some time pulling my act together enough to promote things like my use of cat gates or my love of Gypsy Sisters on TLC (OMG. BEST SHOW EVER.) But it's getting really difficult. It's getting hard because I would like to think that people read this blog and recognize that I enjoy writing from my own perspective and that every one, and every topic, is fair game because I'm a person who - like everyone else - has opinions. I have just chosen to put those opinions online. But there is increasing pressure not to offend people, which is hard, especially because I thrive on judging and disliking anyone who does things I don't understand, which has proven to be amusing to lots of people.
I'm not sure what to do here. I've gotten to the point where everything I want to write (see above list of things I simply refuse to understand) runs the risk of mildly offending some people. Part of me is very sensitive to this. The other part of me is very INSENSITIVE to this. How long can I just write politically and personally correct material? I read an interview with Lena Dunham's dad recently, where he said "Anyone who is making anything interesting isn't making it for their parents." In my interpretation of this quote, I don't just think it applies to parents. As it relates to me, it has more to do with anyone I know in real life who is like "Was that blog about me? Why would you say that about me?" It's not fair. To me. I want to complain about people or situations as much as I want without any sort of repercussion. Is that so hard? I mean, I would never target a person in my life specifically, but no one is perfect and chances are there are things about people, who I love, that are imperfect and prove to be great blog fodder. Don't people have the same sense of humor about themselves that I have about myself? Lighten up!
I think this is maybe the difficulty that women, and maybe men (I don't know, though, since I'm not a man), have when it comes to sharing themselves with the public. They aren't allowed to offend anyone, but they are supposed to be funny, entertaining and interesting. That's effing hard, you guys. It's really crazy hard. Plus, I simply HAVE to stop only making fun of myself, because it's starting to pummel my self esteem. And it is my firm belief that people who read this blog should try and grow a thicker skin. If I can talk nonstop about how I'm overweight and neurotic and insane and still not be offended, the least you can do is not get offended when I talk about reasons x, y or z why you may or may not also be crazy.
That's all. Sorry for the vent. But this is a blog, and it's mine and yeah.
It got me thinking: Why would people read this blog? I mean, I know everything about celebrity relationships and Lil' Wayne lyrics, but I have hit a plateau, ya'll. There is only so much you can write about hating the Kardashians and Angelina Jolie before people are like "We get it. You hate fame-whores and vampires and love everyone who rhymes anything with Tunechi. What's next?"
A few weeks ago, I decided to stop trying to write blogs five times a week. If I'm being honest, it got way too hard to develop creative and funny blogs that were not offensive, and that I was proud of, that many times a week. Especially knowing that it wouldn't go much further than
It's been hard because people started reading way too much into some of the posts. I'd like to think I don't dump on anything on this blog (unless you are a Kardashian or one of those amorphic Jolie-Pitt children) without purpose. I'd like to think that every night, I spend some time pulling my act together enough to promote things like my use of cat gates or my love of Gypsy Sisters on TLC (OMG. BEST SHOW EVER.) But it's getting really difficult. It's getting hard because I would like to think that people read this blog and recognize that I enjoy writing from my own perspective and that every one, and every topic, is fair game because I'm a person who - like everyone else - has opinions. I have just chosen to put those opinions online. But there is increasing pressure not to offend people, which is hard, especially because I thrive on judging and disliking anyone who does things I don't understand, which has proven to be amusing to lots of people.
I'm not sure what to do here. I've gotten to the point where everything I want to write (see above list of things I simply refuse to understand) runs the risk of mildly offending some people. Part of me is very sensitive to this. The other part of me is very INSENSITIVE to this. How long can I just write politically and personally correct material? I read an interview with Lena Dunham's dad recently, where he said "Anyone who is making anything interesting isn't making it for their parents." In my interpretation of this quote, I don't just think it applies to parents. As it relates to me, it has more to do with anyone I know in real life who is like "Was that blog about me? Why would you say that about me?" It's not fair. To me. I want to complain about people or situations as much as I want without any sort of repercussion. Is that so hard? I mean, I would never target a person in my life specifically, but no one is perfect and chances are there are things about people, who I love, that are imperfect and prove to be great blog fodder. Don't people have the same sense of humor about themselves that I have about myself? Lighten up!
I think this is maybe the difficulty that women, and maybe men (I don't know, though, since I'm not a man), have when it comes to sharing themselves with the public. They aren't allowed to offend anyone, but they are supposed to be funny, entertaining and interesting. That's effing hard, you guys. It's really crazy hard. Plus, I simply HAVE to stop only making fun of myself, because it's starting to pummel my self esteem. And it is my firm belief that people who read this blog should try and grow a thicker skin. If I can talk nonstop about how I'm overweight and neurotic and insane and still not be offended, the least you can do is not get offended when I talk about reasons x, y or z why you may or may not also be crazy.
That's all. Sorry for the vent. But this is a blog, and it's mine and yeah.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Seven Up (Pharon Square Edition)
I had a mayjah headache this morning. Did it have anything to do with the keg of light beer I drank last night at Kim's birthday last night at a dueling piano bar? Perhaps. Let's not split hairs, though. At any rate, I spent the day recovering by watching an entire series of this British documentary called Up (first ep is called Seven Up). Here's the gist: back in 1964, these people were all "Let's make the world's first reality show. We'll film a bunch of 7-year-old British kids from a variety of backgrounds. Then, every seven years, we'll meet back up with them to see what's new in their lives. THRILLING." Turns out? It was very thrilling. So thrilling, in fact, that I watched the entire series in less than 24 hours. It starts in black-and-white and evolves as technology (and fashion) evolves. By the last episode, it is basically indistinguishable from modern reality shows. It was full of twists, turns, dramas, marriages, kids, divorces and one guy who may or may not be schizophrenic. It is AWESOME and I highly recommend you check it out on Netflix posthaste.
It got me thinking. I wish I had had a thick documentary-style video library of my upbringing. In retrospect, I know that it was a darn good one, but I was a pest. I had a desperate need for attention. My voice was like adorably small nails on a very hilarious chalkboard. At least, that's how I remember it. Let's take a look back, shall we?
7 Years Old: When we first meet Pharon, she has an aggressive bowl cut and is obsessed with the social life of her older sister, Padrin. She is desperate for attention and wants to be discovered as a child model at the mall. For the past 3 summers or so, Pharon has been wearing this little shorts/collared shirt number with Blondie comic newsprint pattern all over it. Apparently, she hasn't grown in quite awhile. Anyways, her best friend Claire lives next door. They play Barbies and Restaurant and House. Pharon is very bossy over Claire, perhaps because she gets bossed around on a daily basis by her two older sisters and older brother. When her mother makes her clean her frighteningly messy room, Pharon makes Claire do it while she eats peanut butter and fluff sandwiches on her bed. When she listens to music, it is probably all Disney songs. She has no interest in boys, other than her desire to be included in their group as a token tomboy. She quit swim team because a particular boy she may have liked was on her team and she couldn't handle the pressure of being a bad swimmer in front of him. I'm pretty sure she wants to be either a professional soccer player or a TV star when she grows up.
14 Years Old: Holy adolescence, Batman. Pharon is unruly. She has fallen desperately in love with boys and has perfected the skill of writing notes and folding them into clever shapes, which she would tuck in the lockers of the boy she liked. Her mousy brown hair is growing out quite nicely, but you can barely see beyond her zits and enormous glasses to notice. She is still roughly the same height, has bones sticking out of her freakishly skinny body and enjoys wearing body suits purchased at The Limited Too. She is surprisingly well-rounded and she plays soccer and the flute. How cultural and very European of her. This year, she developed her love of writing after realizing she was pretty good at it. She listens obsessively to Garth Brooks, for some ridiculous reason, and has an insane (and confusing) crush on Harry Connick Jr. When we last checked, Pharon wanted to be model.
21 Years Old: Pharon is in college and goes to a liberal arts school where she majors in English, to the surprise of no one. She is still desperate for attention, but has learned to get it by writing strong essays and piercing her eyebrow. Her love of boys has taken a back seat to her love hanging out with friends, eating Pokey Stix at 3 a.m. and finding new ways to write about Jagermeister in poetry class by likening the dark evil liquor to government or shoes or something. Pharon listens to NSYNC and boy bands and tries to convince herself she has good taste in music. She insists on wearing pleather pants for some reason, which are far less comfortable than you could ever imagine. Upon graduation, Pharon plans on getting a job immediately and being a famous writer by 25.
28 Years Old: Pharon is not a famous writer. Not yet, anyway. She's worked loosely in publishing at a company where she feels underpaid and unappreciated. In her spare time, Pharon likes to sell her belongings on craigslist and hang out with the boys with whom she lives after a serious mouse-related trauma a couple years prior. All her hobbies went out the window once they got cable and she started living with some guy named Geo. Her taste in music has improved considerably and she has a working knowledge of every relationship in the hip hop community, as well as a new-found respect for Britney Spears and the Pixies. Because of her ever-changing body, Pharon has 100 pairs of jeans and nearly as many pairs of sky-high heels. She would love to get a job that involves writing, but is fairly certain such a job does not exist. She has decided to start something called a blog, with which she hopes to change the world.
What will happen in the next seven years? Will cars fly? Will our thoughts be controlled by Apple products? And, most importantly, what will Pharon be listening to and wearing?! I guess we'll have to wait to find out.
It got me thinking. I wish I had had a thick documentary-style video library of my upbringing. In retrospect, I know that it was a darn good one, but I was a pest. I had a desperate need for attention. My voice was like adorably small nails on a very hilarious chalkboard. At least, that's how I remember it. Let's take a look back, shall we?
7 Years Old: When we first meet Pharon, she has an aggressive bowl cut and is obsessed with the social life of her older sister, Padrin. She is desperate for attention and wants to be discovered as a child model at the mall. For the past 3 summers or so, Pharon has been wearing this little shorts/collared shirt number with Blondie comic newsprint pattern all over it. Apparently, she hasn't grown in quite awhile. Anyways, her best friend Claire lives next door. They play Barbies and Restaurant and House. Pharon is very bossy over Claire, perhaps because she gets bossed around on a daily basis by her two older sisters and older brother. When her mother makes her clean her frighteningly messy room, Pharon makes Claire do it while she eats peanut butter and fluff sandwiches on her bed. When she listens to music, it is probably all Disney songs. She has no interest in boys, other than her desire to be included in their group as a token tomboy. She quit swim team because a particular boy she may have liked was on her team and she couldn't handle the pressure of being a bad swimmer in front of him. I'm pretty sure she wants to be either a professional soccer player or a TV star when she grows up.
14 Years Old: Holy adolescence, Batman. Pharon is unruly. She has fallen desperately in love with boys and has perfected the skill of writing notes and folding them into clever shapes, which she would tuck in the lockers of the boy she liked. Her mousy brown hair is growing out quite nicely, but you can barely see beyond her zits and enormous glasses to notice. She is still roughly the same height, has bones sticking out of her freakishly skinny body and enjoys wearing body suits purchased at The Limited Too. She is surprisingly well-rounded and she plays soccer and the flute. How cultural and very European of her. This year, she developed her love of writing after realizing she was pretty good at it. She listens obsessively to Garth Brooks, for some ridiculous reason, and has an insane (and confusing) crush on Harry Connick Jr. When we last checked, Pharon wanted to be model.
21 Years Old: Pharon is in college and goes to a liberal arts school where she majors in English, to the surprise of no one. She is still desperate for attention, but has learned to get it by writing strong essays and piercing her eyebrow. Her love of boys has taken a back seat to her love hanging out with friends, eating Pokey Stix at 3 a.m. and finding new ways to write about Jagermeister in poetry class by likening the dark evil liquor to government or shoes or something. Pharon listens to NSYNC and boy bands and tries to convince herself she has good taste in music. She insists on wearing pleather pants for some reason, which are far less comfortable than you could ever imagine. Upon graduation, Pharon plans on getting a job immediately and being a famous writer by 25.
28 Years Old: Pharon is not a famous writer. Not yet, anyway. She's worked loosely in publishing at a company where she feels underpaid and unappreciated. In her spare time, Pharon likes to sell her belongings on craigslist and hang out with the boys with whom she lives after a serious mouse-related trauma a couple years prior. All her hobbies went out the window once they got cable and she started living with some guy named Geo. Her taste in music has improved considerably and she has a working knowledge of every relationship in the hip hop community, as well as a new-found respect for Britney Spears and the Pixies. Because of her ever-changing body, Pharon has 100 pairs of jeans and nearly as many pairs of sky-high heels. She would love to get a job that involves writing, but is fairly certain such a job does not exist. She has decided to start something called a blog, with which she hopes to change the world.
What will happen in the next seven years? Will cars fly? Will our thoughts be controlled by Apple products? And, most importantly, what will Pharon be listening to and wearing?! I guess we'll have to wait to find out.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
XOXOXOXOXO
You guys, it has been A DAY. A rough day, if I'm being honest. Nothing bad in particular happened, but you know those days when you just feel like you are in a pair of pants that are just barely too small while people spit shards of glass at your face and try to make you do math in front of an audience while it's 15 degrees too hot? That's how I felt. I was all stressed out, frustrated and weepy and I just couldn't pull myself together. I turned off my phone, shut down my computers and took a mental holiday for a couple hours after I got home from work.
When I got home, there was a package at my door. And it hadn't even been stolen yet! (Yeah, there's a thief in/watching my building who is stealing people's packages. I ordered a swatch of fabric which was delivered yesterday, and thought it would have been a majorly hilarious middle finger to the thief. "Way to steal an effing piece of green cloth!" Jerk.) Anyway, I looked at the package and saw it was from Kate Spade. Well, technically it was from Geo. And I knew immediately it was my Valentine's Day present.
I knew this because I told him what I wanted and repeatedly reminded him to get it for me. Silver heart necklace? COME TO MAMA. (I'm not a terrible girlfriend, BTW. I got Geo a pretty baller gift too.)
Right after I got the package, I got a call from Geo telling me to cheer up and he said I could go ahead and open up the box, even though I was going to TRY and wait until actual Valentine's Day to open it.
I started feeling better immediately. Like the phone call and necklace were kryptonite for the tight-pants-glass-eye-hot-public-math scenario. Oh, Valentine's Day...how I love thee. In the past, I have never really cared all that much for this so-called Day of Love. Cupid freaks me out and I'm pretty sure he's just shooting people with diabetes in the form of an arrow and box of chocolates, Valentines are cheap, perforated excuses for postcards and the whole damn day revolves around giving presents to people in an attempt to bribe them into loving you. Romantic? I think not.
But this year I will embrace Valentine's Day. Hey! Since Geo's all the way in Alabummer spending the holiday with his buddies having a golf weekend, would YOU be my Valentine this year, dear readers? Can we have a virtual smooch-fest and dance to Etta James in dim lighting while feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries and tangling up our arms to drink champagne? Then afterwards we can give each other My Little Pony valentines that say things like "Let's Naaaaaay-ver be apart, Valentine!" and eat those disgusting conversation hearts. It'll be fun, guys! And you don't even need to buy me jewelry! (I mean, you CAN, but you don't HAVE to.)
Anyway, I hope you all have a loverly Valentine's Day full of smooches and candy, and zero shards of glass spit in your face! <3 nbsp="">
When I got home, there was a package at my door. And it hadn't even been stolen yet! (Yeah, there's a thief in/watching my building who is stealing people's packages. I ordered a swatch of fabric which was delivered yesterday, and thought it would have been a majorly hilarious middle finger to the thief. "Way to steal an effing piece of green cloth!" Jerk.) Anyway, I looked at the package and saw it was from Kate Spade. Well, technically it was from Geo. And I knew immediately it was my Valentine's Day present.
I knew this because I told him what I wanted and repeatedly reminded him to get it for me. Silver heart necklace? COME TO MAMA. (I'm not a terrible girlfriend, BTW. I got Geo a pretty baller gift too.)
Right after I got the package, I got a call from Geo telling me to cheer up and he said I could go ahead and open up the box, even though I was going to TRY and wait until actual Valentine's Day to open it.
I started feeling better immediately. Like the phone call and necklace were kryptonite for the tight-pants-glass-eye-hot-public-math scenario. Oh, Valentine's Day...how I love thee. In the past, I have never really cared all that much for this so-called Day of Love. Cupid freaks me out and I'm pretty sure he's just shooting people with diabetes in the form of an arrow and box of chocolates, Valentines are cheap, perforated excuses for postcards and the whole damn day revolves around giving presents to people in an attempt to bribe them into loving you. Romantic? I think not.
But this year I will embrace Valentine's Day. Hey! Since Geo's all the way in Alabummer spending the holiday with his buddies having a golf weekend, would YOU be my Valentine this year, dear readers? Can we have a virtual smooch-fest and dance to Etta James in dim lighting while feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries and tangling up our arms to drink champagne? Then afterwards we can give each other My Little Pony valentines that say things like "Let's Naaaaaay-ver be apart, Valentine!" and eat those disgusting conversation hearts. It'll be fun, guys! And you don't even need to buy me jewelry! (I mean, you CAN, but you don't HAVE to.)
Anyway, I hope you all have a loverly Valentine's Day full of smooches and candy, and zero shards of glass spit in your face! <3 nbsp="">
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