I’ve been reading a lot of OverHeard lately. It’s funny, snarkastic, and, really, I think I send them submissions at least once every couple of months. (Hello, my boss screamed across the entire office, “What’s the date today?” …on her BIRTHDAY. Dude, that’s funny!). They classify each post by “keywords.” (I, incidentally, do not. If someone wants to search in my blog, they can just use the damn search bar up there. Heck, I do.) One of the options involves whenever there’s a kid saying something funny. The classification? “Should have used a condom.”
Oh, dear lord.
While watching Cloverfield again (and damn, do I ever still love that flick), I got to thinking about classifications and labels and all the rest. I mean, we all do it, whether or not we mean to. Forever I had the email “the dancer chick” just because that’s what a lot of people would call me. High school, no matter what anyone says, is not the end of this stuff. I think it just gets more complicated…or, at the very least, more neurotic. (“Oh, that’s the half-Jewish, half-Persian/Italian guy who handles marketing in the southern US states that don’t automatically vote republican.”)
I’m even re-reading How to be a Canadian, since, you know, I am. And, really, having lived so many years…well, not here, I’m a little foggy on the details. Btw, to anyone who’s bored and would like a comical non-fiction (well, mostly) to pass some time away, have at this book. It’s hilarious. Probably will be more so if you actually know a Canadian or…you know…are one yourself.
I don’t really care about most of this crap, because I am who I am and—trust me on this one—I’m waaaaaay more mean about the things I call myself then anyone else could ever be. Unfortunately, that’s not good enough for most. Or maybe not good enough…but easy enough.
Lemme give you a “for instance.” When I start to spend time with a boy, my grandparents will ask if he’s my boyfriend. In my head, I’ll respond with anything from an “I suppose,” to an “Ew, not even if he paid me.” Usually it’s more of a “meh,” but since it’s hard for them to understand why I would have a guy at my place…sometimes for several days…without an actual—god forbid it—commitment. (Ha! Totally just shuddered. See, Lauren, I’m not TOTALLY cured!)
So, even though in my head I might just like a guy hanging around because he’s hot…or because he’s better company than my OCD…I say, “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend.” Come to think of it, I’ve actually done that to guys as well. “Suuure, you can call me your girlfriend, if that’ll make everything easier for you. It’s whatever. [beat] I’m just not going to call you boyfriend, okie?”
How convenient that, now when I get asked, my head says “I wish” and my mouth replies with either “just friends,” or an “I’m working on it.” So. Not. Fun. For. Ms.I.
In other news, I’m sort of all over the place with my life and my plans and this, that, and the other. I blame my parents, and god, but not in that order. Seriously, why can’t I just be decent at one thing? Just have an interest in one thing? Why for with the million and five options? (That’s right; you heard me, million and five. Just go with it, already.)
I’ve been asked to play baseball with the team again this summer…which I’m really not interested in doing beyond seeing the people. Plus I’d have to pay…and the whole paying to see friends seems a little excessive for me. Hold, let me rephrase: the whole paying to see friends that I could simply drive over to see in less than an hour seems excessive for me. I pay to see friends all the time, which is part of the reasons air carriers love me. And, come to think…I’ve never been asked to play baseball on a plane. Those bastards!
MGFM and I looked like we might be making a nice reconciliation there at one point…but besides storing some of his shit, it seems to be a rather stagnant situation. It sucks, because MGFM is nothing if not an injection of youthful exuberance and fun in my life. There again, I suppose I have enough to deal with at the moment without being Mom/Big Sis. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
I’m up in the air with school, mostly because of locations…the one I’ve been attending is closer to work…the other is waaaaaaay close to home. With gas now almost $5.36 a gallon here, the difference is considerable. Not going to lie, the idea of hanging out at the same school with BILL’s Bro and some of the guys I went to the track with a few weekends ago appeals to me. The biggest dilemma with this, is that University is not the one I’m currently enrolled in. And, even though I went through the whole application process last year…and was easily accepted, I have to reapply, with transcripts and everything. (Yea for more money down the drain!) Oh yeah…I have to do all this by Monday. Forgive me, but FUCKERS!
It would be nice if, just once, this stuff happened easily. Everything just falling into place without worries or whatever…I realize this isn’t realistic, but right now I’m dealing with: 1) trying to get my body/home in order, 2) completely redoing my career/finances, 3) finishing my degree, 4) publishing my book, 5) renewing my passport, and 6) trying to get at least 7 hours of sleep a night. Oh, also I like, like a boy. Badly.
Seriously, somebody throw me a bone, please…
Quote of the Moment: “I love how well I keep track of my own vagina.”
Soundtrack of the Moment: PussyCat Dolls, When I Grow Up
TV/Movie Quote: Road Trip: “What else am I supposed to do, stay here and learn?”