When I study something asinine, I triumph – or – I SO SMART WHEN STUFF IS DUMB!

There are some courses in the land of business where I find myself doing as good of a job – or better – when I’m winging it. My ability to bullshit is one of the best, most finely-tuned tools in my arsenal. So I don’t do the reading.

Oh, sure, doing the reading wouldn’t be a detriment to me. It might, in the long run, be a good choice. (I think my professors would advocate that it would, in fact, be a better plan.) But taking the time to read three chapters and two articles on organizational change – a topic which is, at most, theoretical drivel? Yeah, I don’t have time for that useless nonsense.

And since I have the ability to not read yet participate, do a skim-scan of the reading during the first four minutes of class and pull the buzzwords and main points, convince the professor and my groupmates that I’ve totally got my shit together, and act as if I’ve been practicing these jackassward management philosophies for years… why not?

Reading back, that sounds really snotty, like I’M SO SMART I DON’T NEED NEW KNOWLEDGE NYAH NYAH. That’s not what I meant. There are courses where I MUST read. (Business law, anyone?) It’s just when, um, stuff is real dumb, I can fake it.

Oh! Oh yes! I am fascinated by you, organizational theory! Oh, OH GOD! I CAN’T HANDLE THE BRILLIANCE! Oh OH CHANGE MANAGEMENT! I LOVE YOU! YES I AM TOTALLY PAYING ATTENTION YES I SWEAR YES YES YES YES RIGHT THEEEEEEERE!

THE LEFT HAND DOESN’T KNOW WHAT THE RIGHT HAND IS DOING

I hate gladiator sandals. I think they are hideous, foolish foot-stumpifiers and that ladies who are not eighty feet tall are not assisted by havin’ em on their feet. I am five-foot-five and not a rail-thin lady. I mean, I’m not a complete lardass, by any means, but I have a little extra poundage and wearing weirdly strappish flats is not particularly flattering for this average-sized woman. (I’m a size twelve, sometimes a fourteen, aimin’ for a size ten by the end of summer, just by the way. In case you’re interested, or picturing me as an Extreme Blimpo McGee. I swear. Why would I lie?)

Anyhow, gladiator sandals. I spend my days standing next to a classy lady who happens to be five-foot-nine AND perpetually wearing heels, for a total of FUCKING TALL. If I don’t join her in heels-land, I come up to her shoulder. Not cute!

Gladiator sandals are TOO strappy, and in a totally weird way.  Completely bizarrely set up, and unNECESSARY!  We have regular sandals!  Slip-ons!  Flip-flops!  Do we really need more options for sort-of shoe-ish foot coverings?  We’re just not satisfied!  Consumerism!  More more more!  ALSO not cute!

But you know what is cute?

I am glad about these.  HA, get it?

This pair of bronze snakeskin-lookin’ gladiator sandals I bought from Target.

Goddamnit.

-mym

Oh, and also.

June 29, 2008

I finished my exam about twenty minutes ago. 

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

-mym

BFF.

June 29, 2008

Some things about my BFF.

  • Yesterday, I had her convinced that I steal hymnals from churches.  (I don’t.)
  • She thinks she’s flabby.  (She’s not.)
  • She needs to take her car in to the repair place ’cause he’s breaking a little and I’m worried that it’s going to rumble apart at the seams or jump forward of his on volition and get her into an accident and that would ruin my whole day.
  • She’s sitting at a table behind me on a first date with a guy she met on the internet, and she seems to be enjoying herself reasonably well.  We are pretending that we do not know each other.  (We do.)  This guy is be-bearded – not unattractively so, but… sort of more mountain-mannish than her usual type.  (See: my previous treatise on type.)  If either of them had exceptionally excellent eyesight, they might be able to see that I am BLOGGING ABOUT THEM OMG.
  • I’m pretty sure that, according to the bible, she’s the Devil’s Whore.

Forever and ever to the glory of Jesus our Lord and Savior ’til the end of time and the beginnings of new time and the light everlasting and the footsteps of kittens yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Amen.

-mym

Expectations are high.

June 27, 2008

I have completed about 45% of my exam, due Sunday.  I am going to bed.  If I need to stay up all night tomorrow night, I will.  If that is the case, it will be my first all-nighter.  I hope that I can manage to keep myself on track tomorrow, instead.  That would give me about three hours on Sunday for final proofing and catching previously unseen issues. 

I always do this, and it’s always fine, but it always feels like now, this is the time I will have fucked it up, you know?  And it could be.  It’s easier than I thought it would be and it’s harder than I expected.  Both of those things give me the anxiety.

I’m extra nervous for two reasons.  One: my professor thinks I get it.  And I do, in class – but also, I have the book open and I’m extremely quick at finding the relevant chapter and, subsequently, the right answer.  Also my logical reasoning is pretty strong.  But I feel like she’s probably expecting a stellar showing from me. Yikes.

Two: My wonderful boss-lady said to me that she expects that if anyone can pull it off, it’s me.  She keeps saying things like that and, first, I don’t think she fully means them.  Sigh.  But secondly, I do want to impress her.  She’s going to ask me what grade I got in the class, and I don’t want to have to lie.  Because, did I mention?  This exam is worth 80% of the final grade.

 

And I update my blog.  Oh, me.

-mym

Peter said we could come and stay with him, my wonderful boss-lady and I. He helped us to make up the large bed and the futon both, and I let her have her choice. She asked, hopefully, if she might sleep head-to-foot with me, like a sleepover? I said no, she had too many other things to worry about. Let’s just go to bed. So we did.

When I woke, she was just getting up from the other side of the bed where I’d been sleeping. I said her name, second syllable raised in wonderment, like a question. She turned to me, and looked as if she was about to say something, but instead her eyes filled. She put her hand over her mouth and turned to leave the room but tripped over her nightgown. I scooched to the end of the bed, leaned down and took hold of both of her feet.

It’s okay, I said. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.

——————————

The divorce proceedings were taking place in the conference room here, at work. The heartbroken woman asked me to sit next to her, so I did. The five lawyers came in first, and one of them asked me – is it necessary that all of these people be present? (In addition to me and the heartbroken woman, there were two of the pastor’s sons from my church, Peter again, a tall man from government affairs and my business law professor.) So I asked the pastor’s sons to leave, and Peter if he wouldn’t mind waiting outside, as we still needed a chair for the soon-to-be ex-husband. As Peter walked out, the soon-to-be ex walked in. He was drunk and red and stumbling and angry, and he sat next to me and put his hand on my thigh. I pushed it off. He put it back and added a creepy caress of sorts. I pushed it off and told him not to fucking touch me. Suddenly everyone in the room was screaming and I was trying to get the lawyer’s attention that he was FUCKING TOUCHING ME and the heartbroken woman stood and ran from the room.

I went to find her. She was at school, in the nurse’s office, huddled under the covers on a cot. I walked in – the nurse was gone – and sat next to her, but when I put my hand down on the chair, I jabbed myself with a syringe. OUCH, I said, involuntarily, and plucked the needle from my hand. The heartbroken woman pulled the covers back. It looked as if she’d been napping. She yawned.

Is it over? she asked. Tell me it’s over.

I ignored her question said that I had to get back to work. She asked if she could come with me.

I walked through the hall, down the stairs, through a set of double doors and into a classroom full of young students. They screamed my name in excitement – my first name – and I said, “Don’t you need to be calling me Miss?” A pair of curly-headed tawny twins wearing glasses said, “We’re so glad you’re back! We missed you so much! We’ve been waiting for you.”

The heartbroken woman sat at the piano and played quiet Chopin as I taught the children a dance.

How it is tonight.

June 26, 2008

I am a ridiculous girl when it comes to lady-crushes, in that I am only interested in women who are twice my age*. I know, what? But they are always classy, beautiful, statuesque, elegant, lovely, sophisticated women. Intelligent, authoritative… completely deserving of a lady-crush. Even if I wasn’t of the persuasion that appreciates ladies, I would have lady-crushes on these women. Age isn’t anything but a number, I hear. But still, twice my age is kind of an intense difference.

Man, thinking about this, it’s been the case for celebrity crushes, too. My main celebrity lady-crush is the incomparable Alison Janney. Oh, my gosh, Alison Janney is so incredibly sexy. CJ Cregg, holy cow. You can run my press corps any day. Hee! No, that’s silly. I take it back. Plus, you’re a fictional character. But picture Alison Janney and you’re picturing a pretty decent stereotype of the sort of woman to whom I find myself attracted – tall, strong features, classic beauty. (Was that the correct usage of whom? I bet Alison Janney could tell me.)

I’ve been watching the L Word and there’s this one introductory sequence that is also indicative of my attraction to the older woman.  Watch this – let it load, and then immediately after the previouslies – (1:00-3:10) you’ll see what I’ma talking ’bout.  Not so much Helena of the strappy-shirt and weird low cup-bra, but beautiful, elegant Isabelle the concerned therapist.  (Full disclosure: this clip involves both swearing and lady-kissing.  But you could probably open the video and watch it on silent for a minute to get an idea of what I’m talking about.)

Why does it matter, you are asking yourselves, what sort of ladies this Yvanka has an interest in?

Honestly, I don’t know.  It doesn’t really matter at all, but for that I know all of my friends’ typesGlitterPaintPony usually likes the slim, pale, nerdy, funny boys, though she has been known to branch out.  SaucyGrrl of No Woman’s Land liked emotionally unavailable boys with one particular name, ’til she met her husband and went off the market.  Cat enjoys the company of – again – nerdy boys who play vids.  I like tall, elegant women.  So there that is. 

Just, you know, another step towards equality.  Girls talk about boys, I might talk about… more girls.  Thar ye be.

Oh, how is this relevant to the title?  Yeah, I thought you might ask. 

I might have developed a little crush on my professor.

She might be sixty.

I know.

-mym

 

 

*but for a single outlying experience last fall, which I simultaneously regret and cherish.

Are you sad?

Do you feel lonely?

Yes.  Yes and yes and yes yes yesyesyes.

I’m sorry that my foray into blogdom has been just so damned depressing to read.  Hell, I don’t even want to read it, and it’s mine, and usually I have a sick fascination with the crap I create – like some sort of egomaniacal self-obsessed festival of pride in self.  But you know what?  Ain’t proud.  Ain’t too proud to beg, either, for your indulgence in one more sad-news depression post.

Someone I love, very much, is having her heart broken.  No, that’s not quite right.  She’s had her heart broken, piece by piece, for twenty years, and the last little bits have now cracked off and she can barely tell you about it.  And it sucks.

Today, I got so mad about the whole situation – her shitty husband being ultimate shitty shitty shitterson, that is – that I wanted nothing more than to have the go-ahead to go punch him in the throat.  That’s right, I’ve moved up from the level of anger where I wanted to blowdartgun him in the neck and kick him in the junk a bunch of times.  I want him to feel like he can’t breathe for a minute.  GOD IN FACT I am so mad about the way he’s treated his faultless, generous, kind wife that I am posting things on my blog that are really terrible and require a disclaimer:

Dear everyone, especially the police, there is absolutely no way in the entire world that I will ever have the guts to do something like go to this guy’s house and punch him in the throat.  And if I tried, you can be damn well certain he would stop me because he’s fucking HUGE and fucking SCARY and I am really just not all that big or gutsy.  So I will be glad to testify to the deservedness of this man’s throat-punch, should it ever occur, but I am telling you right now that I didn’t do it.  I don’t even know that I could reach his throat for an effective punch, anyhow, and I’m sure forensic science will be able to prove that if and/or when I’m suspected of the assault and this blog post doesn’t count as evidence of an effective disclaimer (which, according to my law class… no, it doesn’t).  I would have to, like, knee him in the balls first to get his throat within effective punching range.  Which he would also deserve.  But again: not brave enough for that shit.  Plenty rageful, but not brave.  Or strong.  Or willing to endure the subsequent lawsuit and bear the related costs.  So, it seems this stupid, stupid man will remain un-punched in the throat.  Even though he deserves it.  FUCKER.

Okay, so we’ve gone from sad to mad!  That’s good, I can work with mad.  Sort of invalidates my post title, however. What drug can I shill for calming the rage?

-mym

Rain check.

June 26, 2008

There are so many things that I want to do that I have to put off, always tomorrow.

I want to go see a movie, get my nails done, go for a long walk.
I want to write a card, made a necklace, copy a poem and give it to a friend.
I want to take voice lessons again. I want to present a recital.
I want to audition for a show, and get a part in a show.  I want to perform in a show.
I want to play the mandolin.

I want the time to do little household things, like my laundry.  I want to clean out my closet and my cedar chest and donate my old prom dresses to donatemydress.org and get rid of all of that goddamn sheet music for songs I will never sing or teach again.  I want to de-clutter my life.  I want to clean out my car and recycle all of those old glass bottles.  I want to go and visit Grandma’s grave.  I want to have coffee and catch up with so many people – Jer, Anna, Squeezebean, Mrs. Bryant.

I want a vacation – to take an afternoon off, by myself, and drive as far as my little Subaru will take me.

I want to take a ceramics class and learn to make beautiful things like this.

Point Defiance Slip

Confessions.

June 25, 2008

As per Glitter Paint Pony.

  1. This morning, for breakfast, I ate a greek-style strawberry yoghurt that stayed out in the car for almost two hours, only kept cold by the slow freeze leeching from the thawing Trader Joe’s vegetable masala patties.
  2. I bought Nordic Berries because they taste good and now I am worried about potentially overdosing on tasty child vitamins because I want nothing more than to go out to my car, where they live, and eat a handful.
  3. I have an exam – a big exam, worth 80% of my grade – due on Sunday, at 5pm. I have not started. And I will probably do a better job for having waited than I would have done otherwise.
  4. I spend hours of my day on Gmail chat instead of working, but it seems legit because some of my colleagues are on Gmail chat and my lovely boss-lady knows that I use it to bespeak them about work-things.  Sometimes.  But mostly, not.

Dust.

June 23, 2008

Dust
Rupert Brooke

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world’s delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath—
When we are dust, when we are dust!—

Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We’ll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun
And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air,
Will speed and gleam, down later days,
And like a secret pilgrim fare
By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
One mote of all the dust that’s I
Shall meet on atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind,
Warm in a sunset’s afterglow,
The lovers in the flowers will find
A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
So high a beauty in the air,
And such a light, and such a quiring,
And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They’ll know not if it’s fire, or dew,
Or out of earth, or in the height,
Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher….
But in that instant they shall learn
The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow,
Until the darkness close above;
And they will know—poor fools, they’ll know!—
One moment, what it is to love.