Remembrances of Things Past

I just thought I'd update you on Situation: Nothing-- the on-going travails of my suddenly totally uninteresting life. While I was once the kind of person who could constantly enthrall you with my tales of The Time the Nurse Told Me That I Should Be in an Internment Camp Because of my Ethnicity, or The Time I Shared a Cigarette With a Homeless Guy Who Was Carrying a Stolen Ladder, I am now the kind of person whose everyday routine is pretty much the same, and sans racist nurses and ladder-toting homeless guys.

This is vexing to me, because I have always prided myself as the kind of person to whom interesting things often happened. This may be because I am cosmically preordained to have such interactions, or simply because I am too naive to avoid situations in which I may be forced into contact with, say, a speed-popping neighbor that tricked me into driving him to an acquaintance's house in order to beat the crap out of him (I thought we were just going to cash his tax refund!).

But as of late, the only interesting character with whom I have come into contact is Mark, a nice-enough guy with a three-legged dog that often accompanies me on walks with Che. I really don't know anything about him except that he seems nice, and his dog has three legs. I like to think that he's really some kind of drug kingpin, and that Pitch, the three-legged dog, turns into a battle-armored warrior dog at night. But really, I imagine Mark and Pitch just spend their evenings watching reruns of Evening Shade.

I guess the sad truth is that as you get older, you're less likely to run into zany situations. A stolen ladder becomes a three-legged dog. A racially insensitive, chain-smoking nurse becomes a guy that's maybe just a bit too into said three-legged dog. And an inadvertent evening spent as an accessory to a petty crime becomes an evening spent with Burt Reynolds in the shade.

You won't like me when I'm angry.

When I was in graduate school (which is a phrase I very much enjoy saying, because it reminds me of a time when I was actually a writer, as opposed to an auditor, which is still fine, but not quite as impressive), I went to a counselor named Etta who diagnosed me with an anger problem, which fucking pissed me off.

Because at the time, I did not see myself as particularly angry. It would make me mad, yes, when I would go to visit Etta and tell her I was doing very well that particular week, and she would say, "Okay, great! Let's talk about when you were nine and you were ugly and no one liked you." So maybe she got a skewed view of the situation. But that was more of an Etta problem than an anger problem.

But now I'm starting to wonder if maybe I really sort of do have an anger problem, at least lately.

At first I was just taking it out on passing traffic. Normally, I am a very friendly driver, and don't get stressed much if I'm running late or the traffic flow is moving slowly. But lately, I find myself leaning forward in my seat, kept in place only by my strap, ready to leap through my windshield and throttle those people who do not feel it necessary to abide by the speed limit, or who turn without their signals on. I also get angry at cute license plates and cars with ribbon magnets on them, because I feel if they really cared about their particular causes, they would man up and put a sticker on their car, rather than a removable magnet.

I've also become more of an angry person at work-- that person that you don't really want to go near, because they might launch into a diatribe about how it might be wise to give employees more than four days' notice that they're going to change the health insurance.

And Ashley got an earful of something I was angry about the other day-- I don't remember what it was, but I was pretty super pissed.

So one of my New Years' Resolutions this year (and I do make them early, in order to get used to the idea of sticking to them) is to become less of an angry person. Since I don't know how I got angry in the first place, this might be sort of difficult, but I'm definitely going to try, because I don't particularly enjoy it, and it certainly doesn't make me the best party guest for the holidays.

Perhaps I should call Etta and find out what she thinks about it. But she'd probably just refer me to her feeling wheel and then tell me to buy myself something nice, which generally seemed to be her approach to mental healing.

Two ways to end a pity party

I was having one of those shitty days, which I have about once a month or so (or, for about a six-month period while I was in graduate school), during which I feel that no one likes me at all, and that my disappearance would have about as much effect on the world as the cancellation of "Family Matters" (which, I'm sure, at least a couple of you assumed was still on).

I don't really know what prompts these days, but I do know that a friend once told me (during my six-month bout with extreme self-perceived unpopularity) "If we were to organize a weekly 'We Love Kim Shable' party, you would wonder why we weren't throwing them twice weekly."

Rereading that, I don't know if I should have held on to that particular statement as long as I have.

All I know is, I was feeling totally unpopular and nobodyish, until I got home and two things happened:

1. My passport arrived two weeks earlier than the earliest they said it would. This makes me feel extremely important, as there are constantly stories on the news about people who applied for their passports in March and still don't have them. Of course, the ultimate irony in all this is that, since the time I ordered my passport back in May, Ben and I have changed our honeymoon plans to go to Mexico, for which I currently don't actually need a passport.

2. While walking the dog, Jeni and I saw a man in the street taking pictures of something with his cell phone. As we approached, we saw a gigantic black bird perched menacingly on the fence of the baseball field-- a buzzard, something I have never actually seen before in real life. We watched it for about five minutes, and were particularly enthralled when it hopped off the fence and began eating a dead squirrel in the road. Once we dropped Che off at the house, I ran back to try to take its picture, but it was already gone.

What does this mean? Is it a sign of some sort? A sign that I shouldn't be so down, because at least I get to sit on my couch eating Cheez-Its instead of scavenging for carrion? All I know is, it's a lot harder to feel bad about yourself when there's a three foot tall raptor hanging out outside your house.

The following activities were performed in my car between the hours of 5:05 pm and 8:15 pm yesterday, when I was caught in a really bad traffic jam on my way home from work.

1. Called Ben to find out the situation: overturned cement truck at E. 140th. Minor annoyance.

2. Called Megan to find out when I will be going to visit her and her husband and their new baby! Fun times! Too bad I'm not moving at all. Urge to pee rising.

3. Called Kelly to discuss the newest BNL release, which I had planned on buying when I got home. Not only was it beginning to look like I wasn't going to get home in time, but Kelly infomed me it's not even that great, anyway. Then, phone begins to die. Must hang up with Kelly. Distance traveled: 1.3 miles in 30 minutes. Urge to pee rising.

4. Called Ben despite dying battery. Began to cry. Not good. Cut off old woman to get in far right lane, which I have learned from the radio is the only place to be to pass the overturned truck. Looked forward to seeing truck in flames, with cement volcanoing out from every direction.

5. Listened to Blue Collar Comedy on Sirius. Blue Collar Comedy is not really that funny, so I listened to a CD I made to take to Wilmington. Upon three consecutive listens, decided that I really don't like the song "You Can Call Me Al." Who knew?

6. Sobbed uncontrollably for about 15 minutes for no reason. Urge to pee reaching deathcon-4.

7. Popped massive zit on cheek, only to discover too late that it was one of those zits that is filled with blood, which made me look like a crime victim and thoroughly freaked out the people in the lane next to me.

8. Did more crying. Wondered if a pack of travel tissues would absorb at least a little pee if needed.

9. Finally approached the location of the so-called overturned cement truck, only to learn that it had been removed several hours before, and that absolutely nothing remained to impede the flow of traffic. Immediately began going 60 miles an hour again. Cried over lack of flaming truck. Cried bitter, bitter tears.

Unfunny bop

So, I haven't been feeling very funny lately.

This scares me, because it makes me feel like I was only given so much funny, and squandered it all in my youth, so that by the time I have children, I'll be the mom who makes inane banter about cartoons that went off the air years ago and encourages my kids to join a social group like Scouts, but not even as cool as Scouts, more like Indian Princesses.

Not that there's anything wrong with Indian Princesses. If there even is such a thing. If not, I could found it, which would give me even more humorless crap to talk about.

I don't exactly know where my funny has gone, but if you read back over the last few weeks of blog, you'll see that it's been sadly lacking. Could it be due to:

1. This shitty weather, which went from blizzardy cold to unseasonably warm, causing the two feet of snow here to take on the consistency of florist's styrofoam-- the kind you like to touch at the craft store because it so willingly accepts thumb prints?

2. The presense of TiVo in my life, which makes it so I don't have to come up with funny things to entertain myself?

3. My slow but persistent transformation into The Bride, but not the cool ass-kicking bride from Kill Bill, but rather the kind of bride that wonders if post cards or magnets would make better Save the Dates? (We're leaning toward magnets.)

I don't know. But I am so unfunny right now, it kind of hurts. Do you guys still love me?

The way we were

I don't know if it's because it's thunderstorming right now, or because it's after midnight and I'm still not tired, but I am very melancholy right now. And very homesick for Wilmington. Now don't get me wrong-- I love Ben more than anything in the whole world, and I love Ohio, and all my friends here. But I was laying in bed just now, just about to fall asleep, and this image of Market and South Fifth flashed into my mind, with the fountain and the apartment building. And then-- and this is really lame, but whatever-- it was followed by an image of the inside of Morton Hall, that area where the vending machines are, and we would all hang out before night class started, or during break. And it made me really sad.

Okay, so I never wanted to be one of those people who gets on their blog in the middle of the night and writes sad, maudlin things about the way we were or something. But I really miss you guys. I miss Cedar's, I miss Martha's, I miss the malevolent juggler on the river walk.

And then this sends me down a whole other sad road of missing people from college, and high school, and summer camp, and basically missing every single person I've ever known, except for Mr. Kenik, the gym teacher who made fun of the way I ran. So right now, I am pretty much freaking out with missing.

Point is: I miss you all. Now let us never speak of this embarrassing outburst again. Tomorrow I will return with more snarky commentary on everyday life.

PS: Does that outfit make me look fat? Why didn't anyone tell me? And why are my boobs at my stomach? Oh, the horror.