Jairus' Daughter

On Holiday

When timing and/or finances prevent an actual physical getaway, I highly recommend taking a vacation from yourself.  It's easy—just do something you would never think of doing as your normal, everyday self.  You can start small, maybe changing one habit or routine.  Once you get the hang of it, you'll enjoy the freedom of cultivating a complete alterego.  I guarantee, the feeling is just as good (if not better) than frolicking on one of these tropical beach resorts you hear so much about on TV.  And it doesn't result in sand in your shorts.  Remember, what you get out of it depends on what you put into it.  So get out there and be somebody else!

Brainfood

Studying is hard.  I know, studying is hard for everybody, but it's really hard for me.  My body rebels against it.  However, I have found that the information goes down better with some goldfish.

I'd like to upgrade to digital.

Have you ever tried to remember something—an experience, an image—but the more you focused on it, the fuzzier it became?  Maybe memories are like records.  The details are etched into the vinyl, but upon extensive replaying, they wear out.

Why Unisex Salons Are a Bad Idea

Based on personal experience.

In a unisex styling salon, a creepy 40-pushing-50-something male relationship counselor with a raunchy sense of humor can effectively hit on any woman in the room.  He has a captive audience; she may want to leave, but she can't until the blowdry.

In a unisex styling salon, women with short haircuts can be mistaken from behind.  This can precipitate ill thought out and embarrassing comments such as, "Frances, is this your son?"

In a unisex styling salon, a handsome exchange student from France may appear without notice.  Despite knowing enough French to carry on a shy and alluring conversation, one may be loath to do so when her towel-dried fauxhawk is dripping down her face, causing her makeup to streak and clump.  And so is lost an important opportunity for promoting international relations.

Warning

If, at 2 or 3 in the morning, you listen to this, you will have very vivid dreams about these.  If you find this in any way disconcerting, you can always check out one of these.

The Games We Play

Sometimes I do things without realizing it or knowing why.  This is one of those things.

Whenever I get food from the kitchen and take it up to my room, I pretend that I am sneaking food to a P.O.W.  And I wonder if he would like the French bread pizza/Lean Cuisine chicken and green beans/turkey sandwich and potato chips.  I think he would.  He'd probably be glad to get it; he probably hasn't eaten anything all day, or all week for that matter.  But what if this is his regular food?  What if he gets one French bread pizza every day and that's it?  That would be torture.

I'm sure I have other things that I do, vestiges from my childhood.  And when they bleed through into conscious thought, I will write them down.

Do you do any weird things?

Frustration

I am not a dramamonger.  Those of you who know me, can I get a witness?  The problem is... those who don't know me.  I try to explain myself; they misunderstand; I explain harder; they run screaming...  Et voilà, drama.  I don't create it; it just follows me around.

We're subsistence partiers.

There is nothing to eat in my house.  Seriously, the contents of the pantry are totally wack.  Shelves and shelves of paper/plastic products and condiments.  I'll give you a detailed list:

2 packs of napkins
2 rolls of paper towels
1 bag of foam cups
2 bags of paper cups
5 bags of plastic cups
6 boxes of teabags
6 packets of flavored coffee
3 packs of coffee filters
1 bag of marshmallows
1 box of granulated sugar
1 box of powdered sugar
3 boxes of sugar packets
3 sets of plastic utensils
9 stacks of paper plates (plain white, solid-colored, animal faces, and Happy Birthday!)
3 boxes of plastic garbags bags
1 Swiffer mop

There is the odd jar of spaghetti sauce or can of tuna, but that hardly counts.  If a natural disaster occurred today and buried our kitchen under tons of dirt/ash/lava/rubble/nuclear waste/whatever, archaeologists would unearth it thousands of years from now and think that we survived by hosting parties where other people brought the food.

Confession

I love to swear.  The way my mouth surrounds the word and attacks it with such biting determination--as if the word itself should be twice as long and I just chopped it in half.  It's the feel of freedom, of defying social constraint, of abandoning the version of myself that everyone else sees and thinks they know.  The stupid part is... I can only do it when no one else is around.

I also flip the bird to inanimate objects.

Problem du Jour

I AM NOT FUNNY!!  Dangit.  I want so desperately to be funny.  To have readers the world over frequent my site and giggle their problems away for a minute or two.  Like I do.  On other people's sites.

I am, at most, clever.  And that's on a good day.  And I can't remember the last good day.

The sad thing is... I used to be funny.  Or at least, approaching funny.  Like, give the girl a few months/years to find her voice and she'll be frickin' hilarious.  But my finding-my-voice time was reappropriated to grad school and became finding-what's-left-of-my-sanity time.  Blog took back-burner status right next to sleep and personal hygiene.  I'm lucky I can write in whole sentences.  When I want to.

So, is there hope?  Will I regain my sanity/sense of self/creativity?  Will I ever be... funny?  Ask me again in a year.  Right now, I have to go shower.

Caffeine Overdose

Ok, I have reached my dating saturation point.  I have a date with a different guy every night this week.  It's like all the planets aligning, only the planets are people and the galaxy is my calendar.  So far it's been pretty fun; I just don't know how much more I can take.

Just to give you some perspective, and to dispel any notion that this is a lifestyle for me, I have more dates lined up this week than in the past 2... 3... 4 years.  Whoa.  Rather than spread them out over time, I'm getting them over with all at once.

To what do I owe this sudden influx of interest?  Do I dare say?  Well, anyone likely to give me an earful already has.  My secret:  match.com.  Hallelujah.  I figured, at this point I could afford to invest a little in my social life.  And the payoff has been well worth it.  I have met some fabulous, attractive, educated, together guys (in public places, of course).  I knew there had to be some out there.

However, the name of the game these days is "Too Much of a Good Thing."  It can be exhausting to keep fielding correspondence from new faces, to remain ever in first impression mode.  I said I would stop when my subscription expires (which is the end of this month), but I am considering ending my run sooner.  I just don't know which I want to obtain more:  my peace or my money's worth.

***

"Take your ear plugs out
Hear what the birds have to say" - Fruit Bats

Everybody's talking/writing about Hurricane Katrina at the present time, and you may or may not be tired of hearing about it.  However, I can guarantee, in all the conversation there is on the subject, you haven't heard what I'm about to say:

I don't care.

I want to care.  I really do.  I just don't.  And it's not because it's far away.  Not because it doesn't affect me.  Not because I'm racist and all the people suffering are black (please, note sarcasm).  Generally, when some significant event or situation arises requiring a emotional response, that's when my faculties fail me.  I don't seem to have such a problem caring about insignificant stuff.  Perhaps I have a neuronal defect:  if an emotion is too big or too strong, it can't get through.  A survival mechanism for the 21st century.

In any case, I don't want to you to think that I use my failure to feel as an excuse not to help.  I did my part and gave to the relief effort.  I donated out of apathy.