Scatterbrained
I can't call this "Random Thoughts on a Tuesday" because that's Minnams's thing, but that's pretty much what it is. My brain's so fuzzy right now that I can't shape a substantive story or thought or diatribe about anything, so a few tidbits floating through my head:
-- Even though I'm much braver about spiders in the workplace than Minnams is, I hate, hate, hate when they appear inside our house, particularly, like this morning, when they appear in the shower. I have a secret fear that I'll somehow ingest a spider and it will lay eggs in my body and I'll be like a science-fiction story but real. I'm sure I first internalized this during a sixth-grade slumber party or something, you know, when people tell stories about the guy who was on drugs and thought he was an orange and started peeling himself and he died? There must've been a spider one once, although I don't remember it, that I just can't shake.
-- I am completely obsessed with ill-fitting formalwear that exposes women's back fat. It's truly extraordinary; how does a skeletal woman like Renee Zellwegger appear to have back fat in her wedding gown?! Who knows; maybe I had it in my wedding gown, too, but I really scrutinized myself in the bridal salon during my fittings to try to protect against it, because it's really unattractive. Maybe Renee had too much of the Southern comfort foods at their ultra-casual rehearsal dinner. I don't know. I still can't believe she married the guy who sings "You Think My Tractor's Sexy," which I discovered on the radio in Miami in I think January 2000. It was my first rental car ever, on my first big solo business trip ever, and it was so liberating to drive down the highway singing this country song at the top of my lungs.
-- We had this bizarre ceremony at work today to honor the people who've worked here for 10, 15, 20, 25 and 30 years. It's a lovely tradition, actually, where the president says nice things about each person, and they can all make some remarks and they get cash and prizes, essentially. But before they're allowed to return to their seats, they have to receive congratulations from a lineup of about 10 senior staff members, who are seated on a riser as though they're junior high kids at the spring concert. This is the totally weird part of the event, because there are all of these awkward hugs exchanged, and the man-hugs, and the not-sure-which-cheek-to-smooch conundrums (conundra?), and it's just a freaking train wreck. If nothing else, this is my incentive to leave before I hit ten years at this place.
-- My car door had been squeaking madly for about three weeks; when I got in yesterday morning, after not having driven for almost a week since I was out of town, no squeak!! Thank you, Smelmooo, for working your magic, and for such a thoughtful gesture.
-- For my train ride back from D.C. last week, I got the new short story collection that David Sedaris edited. I of course spent the train ride sleeping and reading Star magazine (what is up with the new Lindsay Lohan?! Horrifyingly emaciated and blonde. Someone pointed out that the hair is Hillary Duff-like, and I've got to agree; I don't think I'll even be able to stand watching her on SNL this weekend), but I read Sedaris's introduction in the train station and a handful of the stories yesterday. I just so enjoy his writing (and, so far, his reading selections, some of which are by authors who visited the Living Writers class I took in college, which I just adored because it introduced me to great writers like Amy Hempel and Carol Shields, who was supposed to be our last speaker of the semester, but it was right when she got really sick, so I never got a chance to meet her, which makes me so sad. She was just a beautiful writer, and every time I read her work I want to cry because she died too young).
Sedaris's story about going to speech therapy as a child is one with which I completely identify. I was taken out of class once a week to go to a trailer, where I worked on my lisp with a therapist who had me place a Cheerio on the tip of my tongue to encourage its proper placement on the roof of my mouth. Scarred, scarred, scarred by this whole experience, and to this day can't eat Cheerios. Anyway, reading this collection makes me want to start writing again, or maybe just to become a more voracious reader of the writers I love.
-- Even though I'm much braver about spiders in the workplace than Minnams is, I hate, hate, hate when they appear inside our house, particularly, like this morning, when they appear in the shower. I have a secret fear that I'll somehow ingest a spider and it will lay eggs in my body and I'll be like a science-fiction story but real. I'm sure I first internalized this during a sixth-grade slumber party or something, you know, when people tell stories about the guy who was on drugs and thought he was an orange and started peeling himself and he died? There must've been a spider one once, although I don't remember it, that I just can't shake.
-- I am completely obsessed with ill-fitting formalwear that exposes women's back fat. It's truly extraordinary; how does a skeletal woman like Renee Zellwegger appear to have back fat in her wedding gown?! Who knows; maybe I had it in my wedding gown, too, but I really scrutinized myself in the bridal salon during my fittings to try to protect against it, because it's really unattractive. Maybe Renee had too much of the Southern comfort foods at their ultra-casual rehearsal dinner. I don't know. I still can't believe she married the guy who sings "You Think My Tractor's Sexy," which I discovered on the radio in Miami in I think January 2000. It was my first rental car ever, on my first big solo business trip ever, and it was so liberating to drive down the highway singing this country song at the top of my lungs.
-- We had this bizarre ceremony at work today to honor the people who've worked here for 10, 15, 20, 25 and 30 years. It's a lovely tradition, actually, where the president says nice things about each person, and they can all make some remarks and they get cash and prizes, essentially. But before they're allowed to return to their seats, they have to receive congratulations from a lineup of about 10 senior staff members, who are seated on a riser as though they're junior high kids at the spring concert. This is the totally weird part of the event, because there are all of these awkward hugs exchanged, and the man-hugs, and the not-sure-which-cheek-to-smooch conundrums (conundra?), and it's just a freaking train wreck. If nothing else, this is my incentive to leave before I hit ten years at this place.
-- My car door had been squeaking madly for about three weeks; when I got in yesterday morning, after not having driven for almost a week since I was out of town, no squeak!! Thank you, Smelmooo, for working your magic, and for such a thoughtful gesture.
-- For my train ride back from D.C. last week, I got the new short story collection that David Sedaris edited. I of course spent the train ride sleeping and reading Star magazine (what is up with the new Lindsay Lohan?! Horrifyingly emaciated and blonde. Someone pointed out that the hair is Hillary Duff-like, and I've got to agree; I don't think I'll even be able to stand watching her on SNL this weekend), but I read Sedaris's introduction in the train station and a handful of the stories yesterday. I just so enjoy his writing (and, so far, his reading selections, some of which are by authors who visited the Living Writers class I took in college, which I just adored because it introduced me to great writers like Amy Hempel and Carol Shields, who was supposed to be our last speaker of the semester, but it was right when she got really sick, so I never got a chance to meet her, which makes me so sad. She was just a beautiful writer, and every time I read her work I want to cry because she died too young).
Sedaris's story about going to speech therapy as a child is one with which I completely identify. I was taken out of class once a week to go to a trailer, where I worked on my lisp with a therapist who had me place a Cheerio on the tip of my tongue to encourage its proper placement on the roof of my mouth. Scarred, scarred, scarred by this whole experience, and to this day can't eat Cheerios. Anyway, reading this collection makes me want to start writing again, or maybe just to become a more voracious reader of the writers I love.
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