Aspirations Of Greatness

Barf Central

2005-06-17T06:05:00.000-07:00

Oh, come on!! Why is it every time I go to check the news (albeit Yahoo! news) there is a headline to the effect of, "Cruise Declares Everlasting, Undying, Insane Love For Holmes" or "Cruises Proposes To Holmes With Gigantic Diamond On Top Of Eiffel Tower, Ensuring An Eternity Of Wedded Bliss?" Give me a break. Barf.

On one hand, I find this Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes thing to be completely nauseating. Not to mention, age aside, who goes and changes her religion for a guy she's really only known for a few months? (Hey, it's my blog, I can be judgemental if I want).

On the other hand, I am self-aware enough to realize that this might be because I am just the teeniest, tinyiest bit jealous.

NOT because I want Tom Cruise for myself--am I alone in thinking his teeth are too big? And I'm sorry, but his remarks about Brooke Shield's post-partum depression--being a celebrity does not give him the right to comment on something he has NO idea about on national TV, or a magazine, whatever it was. Insufferable self-righteousness--barf again.

Sorry, I'm wound a little tight today.

BUT...

...it would be nice to be proposed to, don't you think? Sigh.

what would they think...

2005-05-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

What would the people at my gym think if they knew what I was listening to? There I am, running along on my treadmill, feeling kind of bad-ass because everyone else is either walking or schlepping on the stairmaster, boppin' along in my own little world. What would they think if they knew:
1) the only thing keeping me from dancing while I run is the fear of losing my balance and falling off the damn thing;
2) 'Man in Motion' is on the mix CD I made to motivate myself, and it gets me every time.

flip flop season

2005-04-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

It's my favorite time of year. Toenails painted a happy (but not ostentatious) pink, toes wiggling with absolute glee on a bed of soft rubber.

What cruising with the top down is for motorists, flip flops are for feet.

Hurray!

Once the temp hits 50 degrees, gone are the socks!

And I've neglected my poor blog all winter, and the two or three people who actually were reading it have undoubtedly moved on to follow more consistent bloggers. Apologies, apologies!

Sox of Red

2004-10-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

LOVE those Red Sox! Nuff said.

shopping carts and creativity

2004-10-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

no, the two aren't connected, other than in that they have both been on my mind in recent days.

that car has serious issues

have you ever gone sixty miles an hour in a shopping cart? well, neither have i, but that's what it felt like driving the Suzuki Grand Vitara while my own beloved Ford Escape was in the shop for plastic surgery (had a run-in with a Toyota Highlander on 6A in Dennis--not my fault, though. the driver of the tractor-trailer who almost hit the Toyota, which is why the Toyota cut across my lane, was given a citation. i have the worst luck sometimes).

The Suzuki, despised by my entire family except my dad who defends it fiercely, became my mode of transport for a week. Since the last time I drove it, when my even more beloved Toyota 4-Runner was totaled--again, not my fault--things have gone down-hill big-time. My brother had been driving it, and God knows where, because it feels like the wheels are going to fly off at any minute. Ever bump and crack in the road reverberates through the seat and steering wheel. I hit a pothole, and the car tried to jump the sidewalk--the wheels seem to operate independently of each other. Hence the nickname, The Shopping Cart.

I thought I was pretty clever for coming up with that.

and now, for my next trick...

so here i sit, procrastinating when i should be writing. writing something else, that is. aside from the fact that i am at work and should be writing about supermarkets and restaurants, i also should be writing the short story to end all short stories--the one that will get me into a graduate writing program at the likes of Brown, BU, or Emerson.

the problem is fear, that much i know. i'm very good at starting stories, but when it comes to developing them, i freeze. i have a trunk full of half-finished stories and ideas for stories, but not much to show for all my years of struggling. i start, and then i come across something someone else has written, something so cohesive and perfect that i am stricken with the knowledge that nothing my jaded little brain comes up with can ever be that good.

why am i applying to a writing program then, you might ask? good question. i love to write. it is in my bones, and always has been. and i hang on to the thin hope that someday i will coax greatness out of my fingertips, that a combination of nurturing my inner creative child and developing my skills in a Master's program will help me conquer my fear of failure. to be just a mediocre writer is somewhat terrifying to me.

the pressure i put on myself is both necessary and disastrous at the same time. well, maybe more disastrous than necessary.

So that's where a degree from Vassar will get you: glowing with great dreams but afraid to tackle them because you KNOW how many other people are out there with more talent and dedication than you have in your little finger.

it's a vicious cycle, this fear and self-sabotage.

A success amidst struggle

i baked an amazing, beautiful, and delicious apple pie, if i do say so myself. i even made the crust, and did that criss-crossy thing over the top. maybe i should give up writing and become a baker.

deep dark secrets

2004-09-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

is it really awful that i am secretly willing a hurricane to come up here to the Cape? i'm not asking for a category 4 or anything--just enough to knock down some trees and kill power for a few days so i don't have to go to work. we could use some excitement around here.

call yourself delicious

2004-09-03T05:41:00.000-07:00

"if you are what you eat, then eat a Jimmy Dean sausage and call yourself delicious."
brilliant, i tell you.
i watch too much tv.

Watermelon Caper

2004-08-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night...no, ok, it was a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I headed to Stop & Shop on my lunch break to pick up a watermelon for dinner at my boyfriend's house. Little did I know my very existence was to be placed on the proverbial line.
Entering through the automatic doors, I strided toward the produce section, confident I would find the perfect melon and be on my way in a matter of minutes. But my quest was not destined to end so simply.
"Pardon me," I addressed the produce guy, who was unloading strange green vegetables that looked like butts. A type of squash, I would later learn via the Internet. "Do you have any whole watermelons?" All I saw were quartered melons, and I wasn't inclined to carry juggle four separate pieces in order to obtain the one complete fruit I'd been sent for.
"Yeah," he replied. "Over by the doors."
Only slightly embarrassed that I hadn't noticed the large cardboard bin before, I wheeled my cart back to the front of the store and peered over the edge of the carton, which was only about a third full.
Looking back, I realize this is the point at which I should have realized the limitations of my short arms (not abnormally short, but in proportion to my body--I'm only 5' 4'') and sought help. But, determined to do the deed myself, I surveyed the selection, made my choice, and leaned forward.
It was just beyond my reach.
I leaned a little further, then further still, until I was balancing on my stomach on the edge of the box, feet off the ground, almost upside down. I prayed and prayed that the flimsy cardboard wouldn't give way (thank God I didn't eat that brownie yesterday). Just as I was about to grab hold of the elusive fruit, I found myself in a rainstorm of keys, pens, sunglasses, and other sundrie items from my purse, which I had left unzipped. So, abandoning the watermelon for the moment, I went after my possessions. I spotted the keys first. I realized I would have to shift around the melons in order to get at them, so I grabbed the nearest one and started hurling them to the far side of the bin. But alas, one was rotten, and my hand sunk through the mushy rind.
Keep in mind, this whole time I am balanced precariously, in my nice work clothes, on the edge of this hot tub-sized bin.
Ending #1: Disgusted by the rotten fruit, I lose my balance and fall head over heels into the box. Rotten melons burst apart under my immense weight, staining my clothes and making me smell like week-old garbage that has been left on the porch in August. Unable to climb out on my own, I yell weakly for help, but no one hears me. So I stack the melons as best I can and climb up and out, over the side. Forgetting my quest in my extreme humiliation, I return to work, only to be sent home because I smell so horrid. My boyfriend's family refuses to feed me because I have neglected to bring the dessert, and I live in shame forever after.
Ending #2 (what really happened): After much exertion and dirtying my shirt, as well as giving everyone in the checkout lines a nice eyeful of my bum in the air (good thing I've been working out), I manage to reclaim my personal items and wrestle a watermelon out of the bin. I bring it to my boyfriend's family's house, making sure to recount my trials and tribulations so they will appreciate it properly.
The End. True story.

the virgin blog

2004-08-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Ode to dunkin donuts iced hazelnut, regular:

beside me on the desk,
condensation sweat
dripping
onto work i'd rather not do--

like a clear plastic cup of heaven.