Friday, April 29, 2011

A gift that keeps on giving.

I'm sitting in Starbucks right now (I honestly live here, the "baristas" asked if I was coming in to work on my research Paper...because they knew I had one due next week.  That's how much I live here ya'll.)  But I have to go purchase gifties for the lovely ladies at my Honor's Office and I'm sort of at a loss because I don't know what to get them.  

Background:  I love gift giving.   You know those people who say they'd rather give gifts than receive them, and you think in your head, "bullshit, you lying whore.   I know you're too selfish for that to be a true statement," ?   Well, I honestly like giving gifts more than getting them.  It's not because I'm not selfish, either--it's that I like doing things I'm good at.  And I'm damn good at giving gifts.

Let's reflect.   My first boyfriend (who turned out to be an absolute turd, p.s.) received for our first Christmas together, a 500$ Movado Watch, engraved with his initials, which ironically were PMS (should have been a red flag) , and mine.   I wrote in the card, "Time without you is time wasted."  (Gag, I know, what can I saw, I'm a romantic!)  I presented it on Christmas Eve not when we exchanged gifts, but by asking him to grab my purse off the coffee table, where the gift was lying conspicuously.  SURPRISE, YOUR GIRLFRIEND ROCKS!

And my awesome gifts are not reserved solely for my lovers either, I like to spoil my family.   My gifts to my mother are things I know she'd never get herself.   Pucci scarves, a Coach wallet, a pair of white and yellow gold earrings, facials, manicures, etc.  My sister always gets some kind of artsy thing; a book in Spanish, a coffee table book, some patchouli perfume.   I like to get Bob jokesy presents since he seems so serious but actually is hilarious.  I got him a Bonsai tree last father's day and the year before that a shirt that said, "I'm Bob [last name concealed to protect the innocent], Bitch" because I feel he needs to assert his authority as a patriarch.  Spoiling the people I love is something that brings me crazy amounts of joy, because they spoil me by allowing me to call them with my problems or to sing loudly to Celine Dion in the shower when I visit home.

And it's not just at holidays.  I like to do nice little things, picking up someone's favorite candy for them, or writing a note to tell them I appreciate them.    You know, just to be thoughtful.   I once wrote my mom a poem when she was having some job drama, when I was like 9, that said, "You're boss is so assy, you have a right to be sassy.  I think you should quit, because he is a shit.  LOOOOOOVE, Annie"   My mom was so impressed with my thoughtfulness and creativity she forgave my potty mouth.  

But anyway, after I just bragged about how badass and awesome I am at giving things to people, I am completely at a loss as to what to get for these people I've worked with for the last 4 years.   How can I possibly sum up all the experiences we've had, and how they've come to feel like my family, with a gift card to Applebees or an inspiration statue of a bird from Hallmark  (things I'm not seriously considering)?   And while they feel like my family, they aren't.   They're my employers... so things like T-Shirts for everyone that say "We're the Mother Fuckin Honor's Department" or personal items like, I don't know, lingerie or grooming items are inappropriate.   I was briefly considering a signed life-size cutout of myself, but after I got it made, I liked too much to part with it, so it's currently in my bedroom.

Another valid gift idea which doesn't apply in this situation...

Thursday, April 28, 2011


Kudos to those of you who caught the David Bowie reference in the title.    Those of you who didn't should check out the song.  Also once, I had a *love* dream about David Bowie in his Labyrinth pants, so I feel like he and I share a special understanding.
You remind me of the babe....What babe?  The babe with the power.  What power?  The power of vodoo.  Who do?  You do!  Do what?  Remind me of the babe.

Today is my last day EVER of class in college.   EVER.   Yesterday was my last day of work at the Honors Office... where I've worked for the past four years.   The times they are a' changing (Bob Dylan reference, its like mad libs for classic rock songs).   And I'll spare you my angst about it all, "Who am I?   What does it mean?  What's my purpose in the world?"  Blah Blah Blah.    How cliche.  I don't want to be the sad slow music scene in a rom com followed later by a "trying on different outfits" montage scene while I dress for an interview at my dream job, which I then land but it's not what I expected and I have to make tough choices but there is a sad-eyed cynical dude mail clerk who believes in me and helps guide me through it all.   Wow, maybe I should look into a career writing romantic comedy scripts, because that sounds like a pretty decent plot.    It could be called, "Please Mr. Postman," and Katherine Heigl and Patrick Dempsey would star.   I digress...

Hollywood has taught be anything?  Makeovers make you a better person.

The Honors office is throwing me a "goodbye" party, complete with white cake, my preference over chocolate.   I'm not going to miss the mindless hours of shredding that remind me of the Nixon White house, or the times I tried to look busy but was only looking at pictures (of myself) on facebook.  I am, however, going to miss Jill telling me that my outfit is "sharp" or Ramona and I ranting about Glenn Beck.   I will miss Dr. Murray giving me brain-teaser toys to play with and Dr. McCombe challenging me to identify the top-ten singles of all time, then berating me for my "angsty youth attitude" when I pick "Smells like Teen Spirit."

Also, college has been a blast.    I am the girl that says, "that's what she said," in class, publicly, in front of 35 strangers, or the girl who earnestly suggests that maybe the solution to Social Security is to send all those over sixty out on ice-floes.   College has been an excellent forum for me to shock my peers and amuse myself, which I will miss, because I'm told that in the real world if you say, "Professor, in summary, you're arguing that Hitler got his balls in a vice," you kiiiiiiiiiiiinda get fired.   In college you're colorful and full of youthful creativity, in the real world, you're an enemy to the bottom line.   Which speaking of Hitler, doesn't the "bottom line" sound OMINOUSLY like "the final solution"?   Not, obviously comparing the corporate America to the holocaust, but uh, isn't the imagery of  increasing profits maybe a teeeensy strong?   I digress....
Later, G-ma!

Nonetheless... it's time for me to turn and face the strange, c-c-changes... but I'm realizing, as much as I've PWC'ed (see my previous blog for a translation), I've enjoyed what college was.  And I'm going to enjoy what my future will be.   Holy fuckballs, if that isn't a brilliant line for a rom com, I don't know what is!

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Why can't we be friends?

Rest assured, for someone in my station, it's important for me to surround myself with people who like me genuinely and aren't using me for my connections.   Especially since, my connections exhaust themselves just shy of allowing me free refills at Starbucks even though I live there and know all the "baristas" by name and know also that they're called "baristas".  So basically anyone "using" me for that is aiming too low and probably is too much of a bottom-feeder to be my friend anyway.  But anyway, since my last two entries were odes of sort to my family, but just as man does not live on bread alone, Annie does not live by family alone.

My cup runneth over...

So, after a disastrous interview yesterday, in which I had to take a "logic and reasoning test" complete with sequences of letters that I was meant to see a pattern in, but since I'm DYSLEXIC it was a little difficult.   Also for this test I had to solve algebra problems.  It was like they called my high school teachers and asked which classes I sucked at.  Sorry, at which I sucked.  But anyway, I won't get a call-back from that job and I was bummed, so I needed to run off some stressed-out failure karma.  For that, I consulted one of my best buddies (and CERTAINLY my best workout buddy), Allie.   We ran and then she kicked my ass, or more exactly my abs, with this crazy, sadistic crunch-set.   Then we went to Kroger and bought granola.  Cool story.  Sorry, my point was, I can always turn to Allie, and she's my healthy, responsible friend that makes me work out.  But I have friends of all varieties and if Allie is my "healthy" body and mind friend, Katie is... well words can't really describe Katie.  But...

An actual file photo of me taking the "logic and reasoning" test 

Over Easter break I spent a lot of time with Katie, who I love totally and completely (mainly because she reminds me of myself and I'm egotistical like that...but nonetheless).  So totally and completely do I love this woman, that if I were even thinking about giving up on romance and giving into a tragic celibate lifestyle, I'd want to share it with her.   I'd call her up with a tempting offer somewhat like, "Hey Kate, You.  Me.   Spinsterhood.  In?"   I try to make my blog funny, but hers is way funnier than mine, and when I read it in class instead of doing whatever I'm supposed to be doing (I don't know, like, maybe, listening?), I snort and laugh and then have to pretend I'm coughing.  I'm pretty sure some people in my classes think I have T.B. because of this.

 So anyway, after yesterday's failure at being logical and reasonable (or just at retraining information from high school level algebra), last night I was in my typical state of P.W.C., which is an acronym I just made up, that means "Piss, Whine, Complain" and Katie sent me text messages.  But, and this is why I love Katie, her text messages instead of containing comforting platitudes (which don't work on me) were gems like, "I am not wearing undies and this shirt is see-through, Starbucks here I come," and, "I'm sorry.  But I'm going to be honest with you, the entirety of that conversation I was on the toilet losing a battle with my intestines."  Win!  How could I be blue when those little golden nuggets are coming through space to my phone?
Katie Rocks!

Also, I had drinks with my friend Chris last night.   We discussed the finer things in life, like how his brother-in-law's acting tape is tragic because his voice is high-pitched and feminine, how much we miss Zima, how the men on "To Catch a Predator" always bring wine coolers and condoms and then pretend they weren't trying to seduce children, and finally, how the old host of "Family Feud" was a total alcoholic lech that shouldn't have been allowed on TV, or near parks and schools.   You know, finer things.   He also ordered a well-tequila, neat.   Classy.   Seriously, who are these people I hang out with?!  And how could I have any more fun?   We also discussed briefly how he is currently working on photoshopping an iguana to look like Japan for Graphic Design class, and this again, made me laugh loudly, then snort, then try to cover it with a cough.  Seriously, I really think people are going to start avoiding me for fear of catching my case of Whopping Cough since I'm not smooth as this cough cover deal at all.

And to round out my friend-filled Monday, I went over to the lovely ladies of House 39.  I was happier thanks to the drinking and the stench of shame was almost off me.  BUT after a few conversations about Midge being a silly, chubby, baby and Jacqui being a silly, chubby adult...I was restored to full Annie happiness.   Its great to have friends.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Hungarian Nut Bread

For most people, a traditional Easter means Easter candy and a great meal complete with a honey baked ham.   For my family, it means my Grandma's traditional Hungarian Nut Bread recipe and Stuffed Cabbage Rolls with Sauerkraut and Sour Cream.   And just as odd as you think it is to have sauerkraut on Easter, that's how I feel about all ya'lls Honeybaked Ham.  For me, not having my mom's Hungarian delicacies on Easter would be like having pheasant on Thanksgiving instead of turkey.  Confusing.   Because, really, where the hell would you even get a pheasant these days--we don't live in Edwardian England.

So, freshly dressed in our Sunday best, back from singing what were intended to be joyous hymns as off-key funeral marches as per the wishes of our choir director at Mass, my mom and I chugged some coffee and got ready to roll out the Nut Bread, just as our ancestors did in the old country.

Refueling so I can live up to the tradition of my Hungarian ancestors--Those women are "strong like bull"
My mom pretends that she knows the recipe by heart, but she totally doesn't.   She also pretends its like a family secret and now it is in fact the recipe my Grandma used when my mom was little.  It used to be, however, that my mom used to buy Hungarian Nut Bread at Big Bear until it went out of business about ten years ago and then, with no other option, she got the current recipe off this Hungarian lady she used to work with.   This lady was actually Hungarian, so much so that she had the European attitude about hygiene and sported some chronic B.O. that my mom used to complain to me and my sister about.  Finally, she ponied up and asked my Aunt Charlane for my Grandma's traditional recipe.  And we've found out its the best.   But anyway, my mom and I consulted our generations old family recipe and got to baking.

This picture ACTUALLY was not staged.   That's  just how much concentration was needed.   Also:  Those are the Cabbage Rolls simmering in the Crock Pot with Sauerkraut.

After our recipe consultation, we whipped up some egg whites while my mom scooped out the dough to start rolling it out.   I love cooking with my mom, and it's even better now that she trusts me not to eat dough and doesn't have to scare me with declarations that doing so will give me seizures (my sister believed this until college when her roommate laughed openly at her when Jeanie scolded her for inviting epilepsy by eating brownie batter).
No seizures here.
At this point, Jeanie sauntered downstairs wanting in on the action.   Probably because it would seem to the casual observer, especially judging by this picture, that I'm my mother's favorite.  So my mom gave her the job of rolling out dough, which, you know, is about on her baking-skill level because even children roll out play-dough with out much error.  Also, fun fact, my sister didn't know whether "T" meant tablespoon or teaspoon and was equally confused by "tsp".  Hah!  Dumb.

So easy a child could do it...

The next step is spreading on a delicious egg white/walnut mixture on the rolled out dough and then wrapping it all up into a delicious roll loaf.  My mom always says the consistency should be that of a "baby's bottom."

We made two rolls, baked the hell out of those suckers and as they came out of the oven they looked like this...

They kind of conjoined at some point like those twins you see on TLC specials, but they are delicious nonetheless (Trust me, I've tasted).  Guarantee they're the perfect pairing for Cabbage Rolls, and that they're way yummier than Peeps (which are GROSS unless they're stale anyway).  Yep, tastes like heritage; ox carts, and gypsies, and Dracula and superstition.  That's where my people come from.

Saturday, April 23, 2011


Recently, the topic of children has come into my life more than it ever needs to.   My biological clock is not ticking...and if it were I'd hit the snooze alarm on that bitch.   But still, it's seeming like every time I turn around children are creeping and crawling and big, sticky, pudding-pop covered fingering their way into my conversations.

It started yesterday at Bob Evans with my friend Katie.   We were discussing MTV's show "Sixteen and Pregnant" and congratulating ourselves on graduating from college and not disgracing our parents with a little love-child sophomore year of High School.   I told Katie what REALLY freaked me out, is that once when I was loafing around on the couch at my parent's house, watching "Sixteen and Pregnant" I said to my Dad, "Oh my gosh, what would you do if I got pregnant?!" and he said, "Well now, I'd tell you that you're a 22 year-old and to start loading up on diapers."   Quarter-life crisis moment?   What used to be completely unacceptable is now okay for people in my age group, nay, even appropriate.  While being engaged in High School would have been so trash-tastic, now it's sort of  what people are doing.   A girl I used to cheerlead with in High School, two years older than me, who has been married for two years, is having a baby.   And since she's married and established, it's not an embarrassment to her friends and family, but a joyous occasion!

Katie and I both agreed that while such things might be ok for other humans, they're not on our agenda. Although we agreed sometimes it's totally fun to bobble a baby and sniff it's little head and then pass it off to the appropriate authorities when it poops, cries, or in any other way inconveniences us.  We felt the issue was resolved.   But then, later at home, when I was innocently facebook-stalking people, my sister sauntered into the kitchen and plopped down a magazine.  "Have you read about the tiger mom?" she asked.   I hadn't.   Apparently, this evil Chinese woman who is a law professor at Yale wrote a book about how she raised her kids, "the Chinese way"; barring them from sleepovers, television, or school plays, making them practice the violin for hours on end, and even returning a card her nine year old daughter made her saying, "next time you make me a birthday card I'd like you to put a little more thought and effort into it.   I reject this."   And my sister said, "Ok--I know you're going to think I'm terrible--but I kind of agree with her on the point that all Western kids are entitled and lazy.  It's out culture."    So I found myself defending the West's child-rearing practices... again, why am I even talking about children?
The exact and terrifying Magazine Jeanie handed me...

Finally, as if to top off a weird cosmic theme, Jeanie and I went out with three of her guy friends from High School last night, and as we were sitting around chatting, Jeanie's friend, Mike starts talking about a comedian who makes fun of his four-year-old daughter, saying things like, "she's a douchebag.  She made me late once because she refused to put on her shoes.  How is that ok!?"  And I interjected, "Well that makes sense to me.  I've been saying for years that kids are selfish.  Like, the day a kid asks me about my day instead of whining and demanding a juice box...What if that's how I interacted with other people?!"

Someone Else: "Oh man, I had the worst day, I'm so tired..."
Me: "Don't care.  Put on teletubbies, get me some graham crackers and while you're at it, clean up my excrement."

Yeah, I don't think so.

Anyway, my point, if I have one, is that, I dig kids.  I love how honest and unapologetic and real they are (like someone else we know, right?)   But I'm not interested in them just yet.  Because right now, I'd be a mom like Brit, or worse, like Tiger Mom and that's bad news for everybody.

Brit Brit: The Anti-Parent

Pretty Much Everything to Avoid...

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Sister Bonding

Growing up, my older sister used to tell me that I was an alien.   I had beamed in on a spaceship which now cleverly doubled as our mailbox,  kidnapped the "real" Annie from her bed while she slept, and taken her place in the family.   "Na uh," I said somewhat desperately, "that didn't happen!" Yes it did, she assured me,  the fact that I didn't remember any of it was due to some backfiring of the mind control device I used to manipulate the other Annie into taking my place in space...and it was only a matter of time before my parents realized I wasn't their real daughter.   Damn, I thought.  My sister had an answer for everything and I was powerless against her skills of persuasion.  For the next couple of months I would nervously fidget under the covers when I heard sounds at night, afraid that my sister was right and the noise was the spaceship mailbox, loaded with alien people ready to force me away from all that I knew and take me back to planet Zardock.

Despite this story, one of many in which my sister terrorizes me during my upbringing, my sister and I actually got along reasonably well.   We made up plays together in the basement, she defended me against bullies on the school bus with a mighty swing of her backpack, and we played pollypocket together on Christmas morning while we waited for 7:00am to come so we could wake up our parents without fear of punishment.   Yet as childhood passed, my sister and I had a rough period where we grew apart as we grew into our own people.  It's easy to see why we didn't get along--we're opposites in every way.   I'm short, curvy, and pale while she is tanned, lanky, and tall(er, no one in my family is ACTUALLY tall).  We look sooo dissimilar, once, in a bar, when we said we were sisters the bartender thought it was a stupid lie we made up to pick up guys.   I'm sarcastic and cynical (clearly) and she's a sunny "peace and love" hippie.  I care about how I dress and Jeanie thinks sweat pants with an LMU t-shirt would be an appropriate outfit for school, a date, or a meeting with the president.  And don't get me started on her Moroccan hippie "elopement". . .

But despite our differences I spent an awesome day hanging out with her today.   Through a series of events she's living at home with my parents for a while and I'm home for Easter break.   Usually both of us being home at the same time is a recipe for catastrophe, but as of last night when I got home from Dayton, it's been pretty harmonious.   Last night, we watched Archer on Netflix, then danced around the kitchen with my mom to an imaginary square dance.   This morning, she barged into my room, completely naked, and flailed around wildly, screaming at me to get up.   We had lunch with my mom and Aunt Charlane at a French restaurant and Aunt Charlane told us all a story about  how my Grandma used to get up early so she could sit on her condo balcony and oggle the Navy Seals as they did their  morning P.T.  Then Jeanie and I went shopping at Easton.  First, I tried to explain to her the ethical ramifications of stealing a belt because it wasn't for sale except as attached to a "hoochie-ass" dress.  Then, in Express we had a personal conversation in our shared dressing room about nudity--just as the sales lady walked up to ask if everything was okay.  Finally, we rounded out the day, by talking loudly in country accents at Forever 21, and complaining that all the cute clothes were in plus sizes, citing size discrimination (against non-plus size people, obviously). 

You know, just a normal day with my crazy, hilarious, hippie, sister. Who I love. 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Stew for One

Despite the conventional wisdom of "sleeping on it," or "waiting it out," I've found that for me, not expressing what I'm feeling with the speed of a gum ball popping out of a gum ball machine, is a recipe for stew.  And a stewing Annie is, unfortunately, also somewhat bitchy.

It started this weekend.  My wonderful bf did something that annoyed me, something small.  Normal Annie would say, "that hurt my feelings" but for some reason, I got the brilliant idea to "let it go."   My intentions were benign.  I love the guy and I figured, I'll just give him a break and forget about it, and we can go on having fun.   Except I wasn't fun.   I was a brat.  I shut down.  I was refused to speak anything but a monosyllable, one word, answer, because I was "letting it go."  And was afraid that if I spoke more I would word vomit and verbalize the evil little bit of hurt feelings that was kicking the back of my eyeballs, demanding acknowledgment.  And the problem persisted.   My bf picked up on my brattiness, didn't know where it came from, and poor guy, reacted by being nicer.  I mean, how rough do I have it with this guy?!  Yet was I placated?   No.  I was good and salty by now and hurt, too.   I thought, "Oh my gosh, is he only happy when I'm sad?!"  That wouldn't be good, right?  Yeah, but it wasn't the case.  He was just trying to cheer me up.

So keep in mind, by yesterday, I had been stewing about this for a good two days.   Instead of dealing with the reality of the situation, which was something small, in my mind I was chasing windmills, like a PMSing Don Quixote.  And the situation was becoming worse and worse, more hurtful and hurtful.  And then, as if I didn't have enough to deal with, Monday morning, I got a rejection letter from a job I had sort of been counting on. Sort of completely.  Even more troubling? My roommate was out of town and there was no one around to make sure I didn't hang myself with my bed sheet.

Everything's fine now...but last night was kind of rough. To cheer me up about my colossal job failure, my boyfriend invited me out to dinner.  I had a really brilliant strategy to never bring up my anger about the weekend to my boyfriend and "forgive and forget", but by two bites into dinner I was overflowing with things I wanted to say but hadn't (I'd had two days of planning out my argument passive-aggressively in the shower) and I was annoying myself, pretending not to be mad, when obviously I was, but then cryptically refusing to say what it in fact was about.   That's kiiiiinda not letting it go.  That's chinese water torture.  So we talked.  We had yet another discussion about our relationship (which my bf hates and I don't love but feel are necessary).  And something kinda awesome happened.  We were fighting...and I looked over, and I couldn't help it, while fighting I thought, "Oh my God, I am so in love with him."  Which melted my frigidity and helped me laugh and realize, yeah, shit's been tough, but it really ain't that bad.  

Main point?  I CANNOT let things go.   In other areas of my life that's called tenacity and it's a positive attribute that allows me to avoid procrastination.   In relationships, it might be most politely referred to as "pigheadedness" and less politely as "being a douchebag".   I'm not a perfect girlfriend, but I'm much more pleasant than when I'm being a self-righteous little crockpot.

Delicious for cooking, less productive in relationships.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Great Expectations

If not apparent from my last posting, I'm what some people might call a cynic.  And unfortunately, most cynics are also romantics, romantics who have been disappointed.   That's certainly true of me.  And since I'm also sort of self-involved and introspective (if you couldn't tell by the sheer fact that I have a blog devoted entirely to myself), I spent the better part of today thinking about who I am and what I really want.   And I realized I have some pretty great expectations.   Maybe that's why lately I've been feeling like things are a little less stellar than I expected.

Remember that feeling you got when you were little after your birthday party?   I used to start getting excited about my party by July (my birthday's in September) and I envisioned circuses, clowns, a four-tiered birthday cake, and Elton John serenading me with "Tiny Dancer" at my party (ok I didn't know who Elton John was then, but in hindsight that's what I should have wanted).  In reality I usually got pissy because I won "pin the tail on the donkey" but couldn't get a favor since it was my party and I needed to be a gracious host.  After opening duplicate presents and spilling juice on my new pink dress, I usually ended up sobbing into my dad's lap because it wasn't nearly as much fun as it was supposed to be.
I'll cry if I want to!
This theme has carried on.   I dreamed about my first high school dance--I had my eye on the hot boy from Young Life and I tried to nab him with, what I can only in hindsight decipher was meant to be flirting, and get him to escort me in my spangled gown.   What happened instead?   I wore a pretty bitchin' spangled gown but alas, instead of some hot christian man candy, I was reluctantly escorted by my platonic elementary school guy friend.  Who I'm sure was bribed by my mother, his mother, or a combination of the two.  

So here I am, about to graduate college with honors, young and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the world should be my oyster.   Instead I'd prefer if the world were my all-you-can-eat raw bar, preferably paired with a large bloody mary.
I see no downside...
So with graduation less than a month away, today, I asked myself,  "Annie, are you happy?"  And the answer wasn't what I wanted it to be (for those of you not big on subtlety, that means the answer was "no").   True, I could just be scared about graduating--the prospect of having spent a small fortune on college and ending up homeless and jobless, qualified only to fold sweaters at the Gap--and while that certainly doesn't make me want to dance the horah, I don't think that's really the problem here.   And as great as they are, for once I don't think the problem is my expectations.  I really empathize with Third Eye Blind, I do want something else, to get me through this, although unlike in the song, the something I want isn't crystal meth.  Although, that might be easier, because I'm pretty sure there's a meth lab juuuuuust down the street... and I can't put my finger on what the something else is that I want.  

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Marriage Advice

Firstly, calm down.  I am not bestowing marriage advice.   I am uniquely UNQUALIFIED for such a task (really, just ask my boyfriend).   Instead I'm merely relating how my Thursday morning began--a Q and A session with my Christian Marriage Professor's wife of 36 years.   Why, you might ask, am I taking a Christian Marriage class when I am a) not married  b) not engaged and c) not particularly interested in getting engaged or married in the very near future.   The answer, oh perceptive observer, is that I want to graduate college, and I needed a religion course, so I picked the softest, fluffiest one I could find.

Anyway, I'm kinda feeling like a terrible person as far as relationships are concerned, because due to a toxic cocktail of job stress, roommate stress, and pure, un-adulturated crazy, I may have been a teensy bit irrational and unfair toward my bf recently.  So, here I am, sitting in class this morning thinking, "wow, this wise older women will impart her relationship advise, and this will be a learning experience."   Oh no.  I swear sometimes, there must be a "Get Annie" focus group sponsored by the Universe.  So a question like, "what do you do when you have a fight?" is answered with, "Well, Bill and I never fight," and "how do you deal with small annoyances?" is dismissed promptly with "Bill never annoys me."  Great.  Obviously, your relationship is perfect and you are a better human being than me. Lessons learned?   Annie will soon have a very meaningful, very loving, very productive relationship... with a house cat.  Obviously, felines being the favorable option for bitter, harpy, shrews who are disqualified from human interaction.

So, while I am using hyperbole, I think this provides a meaningful glimpse into my life.   When I wake up in the morning, self-critical over the way I handle relationships, the universe puts a strobe light to my inadequacies.   So, for all those who have felt like this, that the Universe is out to get you, that just when you're down something comes to remind you that as down as you are, you actually should be feeling worse... I salute you.   Soldier on, my fellow drones.  As Katy Perry says, "Baby, you're a firework."  Also, remember; no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. See?  Who says I'm a pessimist?!

Me, in five years

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

My First Blog

People in my family are suspicious of technology.  My hungarian, gypsy grandma swears that going to the doctor makes people sick (which was true, perhaps, when consumption was a public health concern), my father didn't invest in DVDs until 2003, and my mom's demands only a cellphone "that makes calls".  So, in the grand tradition of those who probably would have labeled automobiles "a fad that can never replace horses", I am just now getting turned on to blogging, fashionably late to the dotcom party.  My decision is partly at the behest of my hilarious friend, Katie, who has an amazingly funny blog that I hesitate to even try to emulate. So, um, I'm not going to.

Let me be the first to say... I don't have much insight to lend to your life.    Frequently, the most exciting part of my day is discovering that I've gotten through it without dribbling spaghetti sauce or coffee on my shirt.  I don't have any special skills--I can't offer knitting advice or let you know the best way to find a car online--and while I'm a pretty good cook, my boyfriend still doesn't fully trust me not to burn the chili mac.   In the immortal words of Sandra Bullock in "Miss Congeniality," all I have is sarcasm and a gun. Minus the gun.  I do have a taser, which my then-boyfriend gave to me as a Valentine's gift instead of flowers.  Again, this is not going to be an insightful blog in the vein of Julie and Julia.  It might be closer in caliber to poetry written by middle school girls on the back of their notebooks.    But, if you're anything like me (I know you are, because if you're my ''follower" you are either a close personal friend or one that bestowed at least part of my DNA--Hi, MOM!), sarcasm goes pretty far.  So here it is, Confessions of a Cashew.   You're welcome, America.