I'm moving in four days. WHAT???
That's kind of how my morning went. Today I started the daunting task of packing for NYC. For good. I have to keep remembering that it's not like I'll NEVER come back to my parents house, but I still don't want to leave them with all my shit. I mean, my bedroom is like a museum. I'm one person, I don't need most of knickknacks that are here, but something prevents me from throwing them out.
Cleaning out my childhood bedroom has been strange. There are so many things I've left in here to collect dust for four years and more, things I'm not sure I'm glad I kept--old diaries and love notes (including one terribly pathetic one I wrote to my high school boyfriend that never got sent, telling him how scared I was to go to college and lose him), and, believe it or not, old instant message conversations I for some cruel reason printed out and saved. I found strange old jewelry I remember wearing in elementary and middle school which offered many funny "what was I thinking?" moments. I found ticket stubs for The Village, Bridget Jones' Diary, Rent, and The Exorcism of Emily Rose, all from Sharon Cinema 8, the old crappy theatre the next town over. I found fortunes from fortune cookies, old pictures, some really old makeup (gross), wallets, etc etc.
But perhaps the funniest things I came across were the fictitious love notes I wrote to fictitious characters. I was quite the imaginative child, and I had a big literary crush on none other than Ron Weasley of Harry Potter fame. Enough so that I wrote him fake love notes. I so wish I was kidding about this one. There were several notes stored in a plastic baggie at the bottom of a drawer. Apparently my name was Ella Prewett, and I was an American witch (like Hermione but cooler), and Ron was my school boyfriend. I must have been eleven or twelve when I wrote these, all in my best cursive, all addressed to Ron Weasley, 5th floor bedroom, the Burrow, England. And the comedy doesn't stop there:
My Darling Ron,
I miss you so...these sticky summer days just make me think of you more and more (uhh...what does that mean???). I need you and your face never leaves my thoughts. I had a dream last night that you and I ruled a country. You were the king and I was your queen. If only it could really be that way. I know we were destined to be together. I am coming back next year (presumably to Hogwarts) even if I have to run away from this place. Please write back. I love you x infinity.
xoxox Ella
I mean honestly, where did I come up with something like that? I even had Ron writing back to her...an entire correspondence. Uber pathetic. I don't know whether to throw them out or keep them for posterity. I'm actually having a hard time with throwing out most things that should be thrown out.
There are certain things that will stay here or go to good will: my summer clothing, a couple old t-shirts emblazoned with my name and number from my sports days of high school (HC rugby stuff will come with me), things that have been in my drawers since I was in high school. Many of my books will either stay here or have to be donated (shudder). Lemon bear and blankie of course will come with me (wait am I almost 23? Is it time to give them up? maybe when I get married...or not...). Lemon bear and blanks got put through the ringer in college, each suffering a couple terrible incidents: blanks got chewed up by my doggie Tucker (I'm just thankful blankie didn't meet the same fate as most of my nice undergarments), and good ol' LB was the victim of some vom splatter. Poor guy.
Tomorrow's task: tackle all the crap under my bed, which will probably be more difficult than the dresser.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
anxiety
Tonight, at around 6 PM, I decided to go shopping. I hate shopping. I buy a lot of my clothing online...everything online is organized, you don't have to dig for size or search for color, and a lot of the time the website will recommend stuff to go with pieces you like. Mostly I hate shopping because I detest going to malls. Everything I wrote about in this post seems to have gotten worse. However, I'm moving to the big bad city and haven't really bought myself a good deal of clothing in a long time. I'm talking I own one pair of jeans, three pairs of flip flops, a pair of sperrys, a few sweaters and lots of t-shirts.Comfort, comfort, comfort.
So I drove off in my mom's car and I wasn't a mile from my house when I was struck with this awful, horrible, crushing feeling that I was never going to get back home. Like I was going to get in some sort of freak car accident and DIE.
I wish I was kidding. Then my mind, being my mind, extrapolated that pinch of anxiety to a near panic attack: I imagined what the evening news would say and the phone calls my mom would have to make to my siblings and my poor roommate stranded in an expensive apartment on the upper east side. I thought about the last half hour I spent with my mother, helping her make a buffalo chicken dip for her book club tonight. If I died, surely it would go to waste and book club would be canceled. The whole town would come out for my wake. It would be terrible. But worst of all, I would be dead.
By the time I pulled onto I-95 on my way to Providence, it was all I could do to stay on the road. I turned up the radio and just told myself to concentrate, concentrate. Luckily, the panicky feelings passed, though I was a little sensitive to anyone driving rather speedily within my sight range. I had made it to the mall and parked the car and entered the perfumed doorways before I started to feel panicky again.
Now this is a panicky feeling I cannot explain as readily as the death by fire-y car accident example, because no one was ever killed because they were shopping for sweaters. Shopping gives me an unexplainable anxiety. I feel perfectly fine in bookstores, could spend hours and hours perusing to my hearts content. There's something about clothing, like you have to get in and out as fast as humanly possible OR ELSE. But whats the or else? I can't quite put my finger on it.
I tried to ease myself into my sojourn by going to J. Crew first. I love J. Crew, but do most of my shopping there online. The store was so quiet. I could barely look at a couple of t-shirts (all of which had stunningly high price tags) before I felt a lump rising. I didn't want to dig around for my size, and I didn't want to cart anything around to a dressing room. I didn't want that nice girl folding corduroys to ask me if I needed any help. I didn't want to make anything match, or spend money on necessary accessories (because all of them are so cute, but so expensive!). Needless to say, I hightailed it.
It was down to the wire. I needed a pep talk or I was never going to buy anything. "Stephanie," I told myself, "you need some new clothes. This is not frivolity, you actually need to go into an office and look like a human being. Do you want to end up on What Not to Wear?" So I took a deep breath and ducked into Banana Republic. Still a little angst-ridden, I tried to calm down as I looked at some pretty skirts. I tried a skirt on, with a poorly matched (on my part) sweater thing, a cardigan and some jeggings. Bad. All bad. I wanted to cry, and leave. Instead, I forced myself to look more. Look for outfits. Stop looking at prices, I needed stuff anyway. And I succeeded! I felt a little better, and bought three (yes, three!) outfits.
On my way out of the mall I stopped at Borders. I deserved a little reward, after all, for surviving my near panic attack(s). Baby steps.
So I drove off in my mom's car and I wasn't a mile from my house when I was struck with this awful, horrible, crushing feeling that I was never going to get back home. Like I was going to get in some sort of freak car accident and DIE.
I wish I was kidding. Then my mind, being my mind, extrapolated that pinch of anxiety to a near panic attack: I imagined what the evening news would say and the phone calls my mom would have to make to my siblings and my poor roommate stranded in an expensive apartment on the upper east side. I thought about the last half hour I spent with my mother, helping her make a buffalo chicken dip for her book club tonight. If I died, surely it would go to waste and book club would be canceled. The whole town would come out for my wake. It would be terrible. But worst of all, I would be dead.
By the time I pulled onto I-95 on my way to Providence, it was all I could do to stay on the road. I turned up the radio and just told myself to concentrate, concentrate. Luckily, the panicky feelings passed, though I was a little sensitive to anyone driving rather speedily within my sight range. I had made it to the mall and parked the car and entered the perfumed doorways before I started to feel panicky again.
Now this is a panicky feeling I cannot explain as readily as the death by fire-y car accident example, because no one was ever killed because they were shopping for sweaters. Shopping gives me an unexplainable anxiety. I feel perfectly fine in bookstores, could spend hours and hours perusing to my hearts content. There's something about clothing, like you have to get in and out as fast as humanly possible OR ELSE. But whats the or else? I can't quite put my finger on it.
I tried to ease myself into my sojourn by going to J. Crew first. I love J. Crew, but do most of my shopping there online. The store was so quiet. I could barely look at a couple of t-shirts (all of which had stunningly high price tags) before I felt a lump rising. I didn't want to dig around for my size, and I didn't want to cart anything around to a dressing room. I didn't want that nice girl folding corduroys to ask me if I needed any help. I didn't want to make anything match, or spend money on necessary accessories (because all of them are so cute, but so expensive!). Needless to say, I hightailed it.
It was down to the wire. I needed a pep talk or I was never going to buy anything. "Stephanie," I told myself, "you need some new clothes. This is not frivolity, you actually need to go into an office and look like a human being. Do you want to end up on What Not to Wear?" So I took a deep breath and ducked into Banana Republic. Still a little angst-ridden, I tried to calm down as I looked at some pretty skirts. I tried a skirt on, with a poorly matched (on my part) sweater thing, a cardigan and some jeggings. Bad. All bad. I wanted to cry, and leave. Instead, I forced myself to look more. Look for outfits. Stop looking at prices, I needed stuff anyway. And I succeeded! I felt a little better, and bought three (yes, three!) outfits.
On my way out of the mall I stopped at Borders. I deserved a little reward, after all, for surviving my near panic attack(s). Baby steps.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
going no 'poo
Yesterday I was the Stop and Shop with my mom when we started talking about shampoo. I already hate showering (I think its a waste of time, water, etc. besides, I think it feels better to be really dirty and then shower so you feel extra clean), and I was telling her that you're only supposed to wash your hair two or three times a week. Now folks, I usually shower every other day, which I think is quite reasonable, so dont freak out! But my mother and my sister shower every day, sometimes twice. I know that most people do, but I just think its kind of a waste, I mean there are starving children in Africa and there's no clean water in India! That was a gross overstatement, but I think you catch my drift.
::steps off soapbox::
Back to the shampoo conversation, my mom mentioned that a very good friend of hers has gone what people like to call "no-poo." Legitimately, this woman my mom knows has not shampooed her hair (or conditioned) since July.
Interested, I flew right to my best friend Google and looked it up. Apparently your body will produce the right amount of oils and stuff to keep your hair looking its naturally best, with only one or two treatments of baking powder and vinegar a week. High five nature! Inspired, I called up my friend Annie, who sounded doubtful yet supportive (love ya, Ann) and then jumped in the shower ('cause I was a little smelly). My shampoo stared mournfully at me from the top shelf, but I resisted, and simply rinsed.
Alas, it took my hair about 6 hours to dry, probably because it was kind of greasy. And both Annie and our other friend Rose said no 'poo probably wouldn't be accepted in the real world, much less the NYC world I am about to enter. Oh well, my scalp was getting kind of itchy anyway. It was a nice thought...but I like my shampoo just the way it is.
::steps off soapbox::
Back to the shampoo conversation, my mom mentioned that a very good friend of hers has gone what people like to call "no-poo." Legitimately, this woman my mom knows has not shampooed her hair (or conditioned) since July.
Interested, I flew right to my best friend Google and looked it up. Apparently your body will produce the right amount of oils and stuff to keep your hair looking its naturally best, with only one or two treatments of baking powder and vinegar a week. High five nature! Inspired, I called up my friend Annie, who sounded doubtful yet supportive (love ya, Ann) and then jumped in the shower ('cause I was a little smelly). My shampoo stared mournfully at me from the top shelf, but I resisted, and simply rinsed.
Alas, it took my hair about 6 hours to dry, probably because it was kind of greasy. And both Annie and our other friend Rose said no 'poo probably wouldn't be accepted in the real world, much less the NYC world I am about to enter. Oh well, my scalp was getting kind of itchy anyway. It was a nice thought...but I like my shampoo just the way it is.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
joan > peggy
I'm sure for years to come, girls in the working world (sadly... I am not there yet..............) will classify themselves as either a Joan or a Peggy. Yes, I'm talking about the ever-popular tv show Mad Men (which I have been watching since season one, I'm no bandwagoner!). Destined to be the next show that is influential on fashion as Sex and the City, long gone will be the days we classified ourselves as Carries, Samanthas, Mirandas, or Charlottes. Of course we could widen the Mad Men terms and add a little Betty, but who wants to be a bitchy, coiffed ex Mrs. Draper? I'd so rather still be married to him, but without the cheating. You have to give her a little credit though, there was that one scene where Betty Draper, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, took a shotgun to her cranky neighbor's pigeons. Priceless.
Anyway, the contest really seems to be between Peggy Olson, the mousy, self-made copywriter, years ahead of her time but constantly trodden upon by her male bosses and co-workers, and Joan Holloway (more recently Harris), the sexy head-secretary with quite the past with, namely, Roger Sterling.
While I think most self-respecting girls would want to be like Peggy, a go-getter, a success story, and innovator, a role model for working girls everywhere, I still find my favor to be more with Joanie. Here's why:
1. She's always put together. She's stylish. She's beautiful. She's curvy and wears red lipstick. She doesn't walk, she sashes.
2. She keeps things on an even keel, and she's flexible. She always knows who to call and can whip together a last minute office party, or knows how to rearrange the table settings for a dinner party so her husband's bosses aren't offended.
3. She doesn't get all worked up unless it really matters.
4. She's in charge. She may only be a secretary, but hell, the company basically doesn't run without her.
5. You have to give it to her, she's sexy. We all wish we could be that sexy.
Channel your inner Joan with this ModCloth dress! I know I will...
Monday, September 27, 2010
lets sum up the summer
with one picture and one picture only:
jealous?
In other news, my super cute cousin Lindsay Jean (we share a middle name...no big deal) has entered the blogging world! Check her out...she's almost as funny as me! Tehe...love you Linnie!
ps...do I overuse ellipses? Am I what you would call "ellipses happy"? I just love them so much...
jealous?
In other news, my super cute cousin Lindsay Jean (we share a middle name...no big deal) has entered the blogging world! Check her out...she's almost as funny as me! Tehe...love you Linnie!
ps...do I overuse ellipses? Am I what you would call "ellipses happy"? I just love them so much...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
trials and tribulations in renting
As I have mentioned before, I am moving to New York. City. Yeah, I'm that cool (let's just forget about the fact that I don't have a job yet and I've spent less a total of than a weekend there...ever. I'm always game for adventure). Anyway, my sweet roommate has been doing the work on finding us an apartment and all those things, mostly because I'm on the Vineyard and that might as well be THE MOON. Not to mention you basically need to sell your soul to the devil in order to qualify as a renter.
Typical emails would go something like this:
"Dear Stephanie,
In order to rent the apartment you and your roommate are interested in, we need to see a color copy of your license, your social security number, your bank account number, the last five years of bank statements, your debit card and pin number, your dog's rabies tag number, your home address and a record of how long you have lived there, which bedroom your parents sleep in, where your siblings live, and the indentured servitude your first born child. Oh, and 5 grand. Cash. Dropped on the sidewalk at the corner of Madison avenue and HELL. Your roommate has already done this, so if you don't act in the next 10 minutes this message will explode and probably singe off your eyebrows. And you'll lose the apartment."
Alas, all information provided, lease agreements must still be signed. I came off the Vineyard yesterday, an entire season behind me (excuse me while I ride out this crying jag....), signed my life away on a lease with my dad the real estate lawyer pointing to the spots where my John Hancock was needed. I dropped the lease in a FedEx box at 4:30 for the 6:00 pick up. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was done! We had an apartment! I ended the day lusting after this delicious chenille bedspread from LL Bean, in buttercream of course (it will go so PERFECTLY with my blue fish quilt...) and envisioning what my room is going to look like.
This morning, the stupid leasing office calls my house and tells us that the lease is basically void because....I SIGNED IT. Apparently, because I have yet to land a salaried job, I am not on the lease and therefore was not supposed to sign it. Which to me is horseshit. I'm paying rent, my parents are co-signers, and I ruined the lease because I SIGNED IT??? So now that little puppy is on its little FedEx way back to my house (because in this world of technology and instant EVERYTHING, this lease cannot be faxed or emailed, noooo), so my parents can re-sign it, and then get on the FedEx road back to NYC in time for roomie to move in Saturday morning. GOOD GOD.
Typical emails would go something like this:
"Dear Stephanie,
In order to rent the apartment you and your roommate are interested in, we need to see a color copy of your license, your social security number, your bank account number, the last five years of bank statements, your debit card and pin number, your dog's rabies tag number, your home address and a record of how long you have lived there, which bedroom your parents sleep in, where your siblings live, and the indentured servitude your first born child. Oh, and 5 grand. Cash. Dropped on the sidewalk at the corner of Madison avenue and HELL. Your roommate has already done this, so if you don't act in the next 10 minutes this message will explode and probably singe off your eyebrows. And you'll lose the apartment."
Alas, all information provided, lease agreements must still be signed. I came off the Vineyard yesterday, an entire season behind me (excuse me while I ride out this crying jag....), signed my life away on a lease with my dad the real estate lawyer pointing to the spots where my John Hancock was needed. I dropped the lease in a FedEx box at 4:30 for the 6:00 pick up. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was done! We had an apartment! I ended the day lusting after this delicious chenille bedspread from LL Bean, in buttercream of course (it will go so PERFECTLY with my blue fish quilt...) and envisioning what my room is going to look like.
This morning, the stupid leasing office calls my house and tells us that the lease is basically void because....I SIGNED IT. Apparently, because I have yet to land a salaried job, I am not on the lease and therefore was not supposed to sign it. Which to me is horseshit. I'm paying rent, my parents are co-signers, and I ruined the lease because I SIGNED IT??? So now that little puppy is on its little FedEx way back to my house (because in this world of technology and instant EVERYTHING, this lease cannot be faxed or emailed, noooo), so my parents can re-sign it, and then get on the FedEx road back to NYC in time for roomie to move in Saturday morning. GOOD GOD.
Friday, September 17, 2010
No, I don't want to be your facebook friend.
So here I am, sitting in my hovel of a room in employee housing (my lease ended, don't ask) and have nothing really better to do than blog surf and facebook stalk. I've done so much facebook stalking that I have gotten frustrated with myself and have begun un-friending people.
I know that many people have this sentiment already: facebook is an all too present influence in our lives, which it is. Remember when we first got facebook, and it was like a competition to see how many friends you could have? Entering my freshman year of college I would get five or ten people a day I didn't know "friending" me simply because we were entering the college at the same time. But now I look at people who have eight hundred, nine hundred, even a thousand friends and I wonder how they have so many--or, even why they would want so many. I realized that it was because they would meet a person ONE TIME and friend them on facebook. And these people didn't say no because, let's face it, it's kind of awkward to say no. But then, there always comes that friend request: the person you know you're only going to know for a certain amount of time, the friend of a friend you met once, that guy who hit on you at that party your cousin threw, and you think to yourself: I don't really want to be your facebook friend.
So let's maybe follow some sort of etiquette. Here are some general guidelines:
1. If we met once, don't friend me. Especially if we were drunk during this meeting.
2. If we don't really ever have a chance of seeing each other again, don't friend me.
3. If you're dating my ex-boyfriend, or I'm dating your ex-boyfriend, don't friend me.
4. If we maybe kind of knew each other in high school, but didn't run in the same circles, don't friend me. It's been four years. I probably won't even see you at reunions (because there's a slim chance of my attendance, but more on that later)
5. if we happen to be tagged in a picture together, but we aren't friends in real life, don't friend me.
Simple enough, right? Don't be offended if people unfriend you. After all, what do I care what the townie chicks I went to high school with are doing anyway? I almost don't even care about some of the people I went to college with.
I know that many people have this sentiment already: facebook is an all too present influence in our lives, which it is. Remember when we first got facebook, and it was like a competition to see how many friends you could have? Entering my freshman year of college I would get five or ten people a day I didn't know "friending" me simply because we were entering the college at the same time. But now I look at people who have eight hundred, nine hundred, even a thousand friends and I wonder how they have so many--or, even why they would want so many. I realized that it was because they would meet a person ONE TIME and friend them on facebook. And these people didn't say no because, let's face it, it's kind of awkward to say no. But then, there always comes that friend request: the person you know you're only going to know for a certain amount of time, the friend of a friend you met once, that guy who hit on you at that party your cousin threw, and you think to yourself: I don't really want to be your facebook friend.
So let's maybe follow some sort of etiquette. Here are some general guidelines:
1. If we met once, don't friend me. Especially if we were drunk during this meeting.
2. If we don't really ever have a chance of seeing each other again, don't friend me.
3. If you're dating my ex-boyfriend, or I'm dating your ex-boyfriend, don't friend me.
4. If we maybe kind of knew each other in high school, but didn't run in the same circles, don't friend me. It's been four years. I probably won't even see you at reunions (because there's a slim chance of my attendance, but more on that later)
5. if we happen to be tagged in a picture together, but we aren't friends in real life, don't friend me.
Simple enough, right? Don't be offended if people unfriend you. After all, what do I care what the townie chicks I went to high school with are doing anyway? I almost don't even care about some of the people I went to college with.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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