jamelah.net

Well. Here it is, the end of NaBloPoMo. How do I feel? Tired? Accomplished? Like my life finally — finally — has meaning? Not so much, no. But I did write a post every single day for an entire month, which is a somewhat monumental undertaking in the history of my lazily-maintained website, so there’s that, I guess. Now I don’t know if I’ll keep it up (since it’s become a habit), or if I’ll just go back to being a sporadically-interesting lazy ass. Decisions, decisions.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure how to wind all of this up for you, so I thought I’d just revert to my familiar standby catch-all: the numbered list. Here goes…

1. I have refrained from writing about this for a very long time, but hey, it’s day 30 of NaBloPoMo, so I might as well go out in a blaze of glory. My boobs have gotten bigger and I’m mad at them about it. Since I was 17 or so, they’ve been the same size, and I’ve been perfectly comfortable with them. I guess. I mean, I don’t want to give you the impression that I think about them all the time or anything, because I don’t. My attitude toward my breasts has always been mostly ambivalent, because, well, they’re there, but not, you know, too there. As they should be. But now, I guess they’ve decided that they were tired of not being too there, because, um, they’re apparently attention-seeking bitches. You know, if I were going to have a sudden growth spurt at age 27, I’d have been okay with waking up one morning and being 5′10″ instead of getting ready for work one day and realizing that hey, that shirt doesn’t button across the, uh, chestal region anymore. Bah.

2. So I’ve had this cold since Sunday and I’m a lot better and all, I mean, at least the very high fever is gone, but I have this horrible, unstoppable cough. I think I may be allergic to my office, because when I get there in the morning I’m feeling sort of okay but not great, but by about 10:30 or so, I’m coughing so hard I feel as though my sternum is going to rip through my chest (thereby stealing my boobs’ thunder, I suppose). For the past two days, I’ve had to spend a lot of time with my forehead resting on my desk while I work on hacking up my lungs, which is jolly good fun, y’all. And anyway, today the coughing has caused the most monumental headache I’ve ever had in my entire life. (Except for the one I had right after I got into that car accident with Cletus McGee and my top vertebra was jammed into the base of my skull, because that one lasted for 10 days and wins for all time.) But anyway, every time I cough, I feel as though my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head. I asked my mom if it was possible for me to cough hard enough for my eyeballs to pop out of my head, because it doesn’t seem that illogical, considering the fact that it’s possible for one to cough hard enough to break a rib. She just laughed at me, but I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’ve almost worked myself up into a state of total freakout about it. Comfort me.

3. I have a coat that is a wool/cashmere blend and I like to touch it. Today I put it on when I was leaving work, and when I got in my car, I sat there for a minute, rubbing the hem between my thumb and forefinger, thinking that you know, I’d kind of like to just wear the coat and nothing else. And then I had to change my mind, because there are times when I think things and I wish my brain just hadn’t even gone there. So then I write about them on the internet, naturally.

4. I was talking about this with Caryn last night, but I thought I would bring it to the rest of you. Okay, doesn’t the song “Love Shack” start with “If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says ‘15 miles to the Love Shack…”? It does, doesn’t it? Yes. It does. So then what? If I see a faded sign at the side of the road that says “15 miles to the Love Shack” then… what? I should go there? I should pull over, dial 911 and wait for assistance? I don’t know! BECAUSE THE SENTENCE NEVER FINISHES. It goes right from the “if” clause to “I’m headin’ down the Atlanta highway lookin’ for the love getaway.” And I know that I’m thinking about it too much, because really what I’m supposed to do is hurry up and bring my jukebox money, but I’m confused. How am I supposed to see the sign anyway? It’s faded and there’s glitter on the highway. I already have a headache because the coughing is going to make my eyes pop out, and this is not helping. Damn you, B-52s.

5. In closing, you know what’s a good time? Trying to get your dog to dance with you to that Gorillaz song “Feel Good Inc.” Especially in stocking feet on linoleum. Because you will be busting your slippery-footed moves and the dog will sit down, cock her head to the side, and look at you like, “What is wrong with you?!?” And then you can say “Come on, dog!” and she’ll go in the other room and lick her ass.

I have had this shirt since I was 13. It was too big then and I used to wear it with — oh, the shame — stirrup pants. It’s still too big, to be honest, but that’s just another reason why I love it so.

About six years ago when I was in Venice, the night when I made out with a random Italian whose name, as far as I can remember, started with the letter R, and my roommate (and wifey!) Emily held onto my purse (that I still had on my shoulder) the entire time I made out with him so I wouldn’t disappear off into the Venetian night with some random Italian whose name, as far as I can remember, started with the letter R, this girl slept over at our apartment because she didn’t want to go all the way back to her place and I gave her this t-shirt to wear to sleep in our fold-out dresser bed. Yes, fold-out dresser bed. Which means that it was a fake dresser with a fold-out bed inside of it. We also had plastic lawn furniture. It was a classy place. And anyway, when I handed her the shirt, she looked at it like “Uh…” and I said “Yeah sorry there are a lot of holes in it. I’ve had it since I was 13.” I believe she asked if I hadn’t been able to buy new shirts since I was 13, and I informed her that it was still perfectly good and I was going to keep it until it fell apart. How do I remember so clearly the events from a night (six years ago, mind you) when I was incredibly, ah, inebriated? Easy. Just because I can’t remember anything important ever, it doesn’t mean that the completely random crap doesn’t stick in my brain forever, because it does. Oh, it does. I even remember the dream I had that night: we were being chased by Gray Sweatshirt Guy and this girl Jillian helped us escape by driving a vaporetto, except it wasn’t a vaporetto so much as it was a really really big gondola. Seriously. I gave up trying to figure out how my brain works a really long time ago. It was for the best.

My point is that this incident was six years ago so it’s been through a lot since then. Every time I pull it off the shelf I wonder how much this shirt has to fall apart before I officially declare that it has fallen apart, and I’m not sure. Except I think that one of the sleeves has to fall off entirely. Or maybe both of the sleeves have to fall off entirely? Or maybe the shirt has to disconnect itself from its collar? I don’t know, though, because all of these things just make it sound like the shirt would be even more comfortable. I was going to say that perhaps at some point it will completely cease to exist and then it will be the most perfect t-shirt in the universe, like the ultimate Zen cotton experience, but then I changed my mind because I don’t really want to go there.

Do I have a point? Nope. It’s just that this is really a very good shirt, and honestly, if I’ve gotta write a post a day for 30 days then this had to happen at some point, right?

Exactly.

(Note: Not the same blue t-shirt mentioned in the post about wearing my bra outside of my shirt in public.)

They* say that sneezes are like orgasms, but you know?  I’m pretty sure that if I had just had three orgasms in a row, I’d probably feel a lot better than I do right now.

Lies, I tell you.  Damn lies.

*You know, them.

So, two of my very favorite people in the world (that would be Levi and Caryn) are getting married. (Bling!) I’ve known them both for a long time, since I was a 22-year-old drunken drama queen, to be exact, I’ve slept in both of their homes, we’ve had some poetry readings, partied like rock stars, and they both are very patient with me when I’m being a grouchy bitch (like that time when I found a bone in my chimichanga, which is not a euphemism, by the way). Also, HENRY JAMES!!!! Indeed. If there’s one thing in this world that I’m cynical about, then it’s love, yet having known them for as long as I have, they make it clear beyond any doubt that not only is love not an urban legend, it actually works. Even long-distance. So, congratulations again, you crazy kids. I’m ridiculously happy for you.

Anyway, now that they’re geting married, it stands to reason that there’s going to be a wedding of some sort (I vote for base-jumping, if I get a vote, which I’m sure I do not). So last night, I had a dream about the impending nuptials, but since I have a fever (I do! I went to the doctor yesterday and my body temperature is over 100 degrees. Every time I look in the mirror, I expect to see steam rising off of my face, which would be kinda cool, huh? But anyway, no, just face. Bah.) it was, of course, a crazy dream. Because you know what else is coming up? My 10-year class reunion. Whatever, high school. Maybe I’ll just tell everyone I invented Post-Its. Yeah.

So, in my dream, I was at the wedding reception, and I looked really cute, if I do say so myself. So much so that sleeping-me wanted to tell dream-me, “Nice going, hot stuff,” but I couldn’t because I was sleeping. (I seem to want to talk to myself while I’m dreaming a lot. Though if reports from others are any indication, then I do talk to myself while I’m dreaming a lot.) And I think Frank Sinatra is playing, which is good, because you can never ever go wrong with Sinatra. I’m about to have a piece of cake, because I like cake, and also eating cake is what one does at weddings, when suddenly, instead of Sinatra, R. Kelly was playing. Yes, indeed. “I Believe I Can Fly”. When the switch took place, I said something along the lines of, “What the hell is this? If we’re going to have R. Kelly at Caryn’s wedding reception, it had better be ‘Trapped in the Closet.’” (Seriously.) And then I looked over to my right, or perhaps my left, and standing there was the guy I thought I was like, totally, seriously, omigod, in love with during my junior and senior years of high school (and also my freshman year of college), and he was still so ridiculously cute that I felt awkward and 17. “I didn’t know you knew Caryn and Levi,” I said to him, and he said, “Who?” and I said, “If you don’t know them, why are you at their wedding?” He looked at me and said, “What are you talking about? This is the class reunion.” And I said, “But you weren’t even in my class.” And then he looked at me, sighed, and wouldn’t talk to me anymore, which means that it was just like being in high school all over again. Well, except I wasn’t wearing black.

Aren’t you so glad I told you about that? I’m so sure.

I should know by now not to write when I have a fever, since having a fever seems to do weird things to my brain and makes me generally incapable of doing or saying anything that makes any sense. Like this morning, I decided that I wanted some pancakes. You know, because you’re supposed to starve a fever and feed a cold or feed a fever and starve a cold, and either way I’m covered, so I might as well eat pancakes. Which means that I made the pancakes, anyway, and in the other room, I had the TV on, and it was on the E! True Hollywood Story about Meg Ryan, because, whatever, it was on. And I was making pancakes, which I think I’ve already told you, and in the other room, Meg Ryan’s mother was talking about how sad it was that they were estranged. And I thought, while making pancakes, that if I were famous (because obviously, the true measure of fame is being the subject of an E! True Hollywood Story), and also estranged from one of my parents, I really don’t think that them discussing my life on E! would somehow make me want to invite them back into my life. And yes, I know I used “them” instead of a correct singular pronoun, but you know what? When you have a fever, it’s okay to be a little gramatically lax. And I really think I’m allowed to make these rules, because, um, I said so.

Anyway, in other news, this made my day, because I hate Fergie. I have some thoughts on Fergie, especially concerning the song “Fergalicious” but I don’t know if I should unleash them on you today or if I should, I don’t know, take a nap, or something. Oh snap.

My aunt got sick on Thursday, and my mom got sick on Friday, and since I was perfectly fine on Saturday, I thought that I had been spared.  Of course I was wrong, because I got it today!  Lucky me! Woohoo!

How many times have I gotten sick this year?  Nine?  Whatever, I’m such a champ.

So, a little while ago, I had to take some DVDs back to the video store.  I was already in my pajamas, because it’s been that kind of day, and when I was getting ready to go, I thought, “You know, I can’t really take the girls out into public all unfettered like this.”  But then I thought about it some more, and I really didn’t want to put on a bra, because I’d have to take my shirt off, then put on the bra, then put my shirt back on, and that was just going to be a pain.  So, brilliant problem solver that I am, I came up with a solution.  Yes, I put on a sports bra (naturally, the one in closest reach happened to be red) outside of my t-shirt.  I didn’t look in the mirror or anything, but I had a feeling that wearing a red sports bra on top of my blue t-shirt was not really a fashionable choice, so I grabbed a hoodie, zipped it all the way up, and got in my car.  When I turned the ignition, my radio was on, and guess what it was playing?  That’s right.  Journey.  Did I turn the radio UP?  Indeed I did.  Did I also sing along in my loud, pretty much entirely tone-deaf way?  You bet.  And then, when I got to the video store, there were three boys around the age of 10 who were chasing each other around out front with — I’m not kidding — blowguns.

So, in short, my evening has been awesome.

Also, I made brownies.

(Note: the title doesn’t have anything to do with anything, except I have “Baby Got Back” stuck in my head today.  Maybe because I ate so much yesterday.  Oh my God.)

Hi.  Here is my post for today.  I’m writing it right now, but by the time you get to reading it, I’ll be done writing.  That’s pretty deep, huh?  I know.  It’s like magic.

Since I have just a few minutes until midnight, I have a feeling that I’m not going to get this post finished before it’s officially tomorrow, but I’m writing it while it’s officially today, I say it still counts. So there.

Now that I’m done using the bourbon for cooking purposes, I feel free to use it for drinking purposes. Mmmm, drinking. The sweet potatoes were fabulous, by the way, and I am a cooking genius. Just thought I’d let you know. I had dinner at my grandma’s house, which was the usual fun and mayhem, though my grandma didn’t once ask me when I was going to get married, which was oddly disappointing. Maybe she’s finally given up on me. How sad.

Anyway, here are a few conversational snippets and other things from today:

After dinner today…
Grandma: What happened to your face?
Me: It’s called a pimple.

At Stacy’s memorial…
Old Friend I Haven’t Seen In A Long Time: So, how old are you now, anyway? 22?
Me: Heh.
OFIHSIALT: 23?
Me: Bless you.

Also at Stacy’s memorial, there was a polaroid I’d taken of Stacy that she had written the following conversation on. So the conversation didn’t happen today, but I was reminded of it today, and that’s good enough for me…
Me: Don’t stick your boobs out.
Stacy: I’m not sticking my boobs out.
Me: Wow.

And there you go.

Today, Stacy’s dad gave me a DVD with this picture slideshow, which I watched when I got home. At the end was this interview Stacy had given when the Red Cross honored her for saving the lives of two little girls, which is a long story that I won’t write out right now, but it’s a really good one, and anyway, it was weird, suddenly having Stacy talking to me from the television. But it was good, too.

So it’s been a long day, but it’s been a good day. I have a bit of a Thanksgiving tradition, which involves writing a list of things I’m thankful for this year, and far be it from me to kill a tradition, because I am nothing if not traditional. I think if I say “tradition” or a variation thereof anymore, that word will cease to have any meaning whatsoever. Tradition. What a weird word.

(Full disclosure: I got up and did some stuff and now I’m back to writing. I may never get around to posting this.)

Anyway:

The Thankful List, 2006
– My family, especially my mother and grandmother, for teaching me again what strength means

– My friends, near and far (though unfortunately, mostly far), who put up with me and make me laugh

– My dog, who warms my charred, black heart on a daily basis

– My job, still, most of the time

– My car, which is still going!

– Sephora

– Beads, glorious beads

– Craft stores, not only for stealing being there to take all of my money, but for filling my head with all sorts of ideas of things to do that I never thought I’d ever want to do. Painting papier-mâché boxes? Who knew?

– Photoshop

– Jon Stewart’s horrible impression of George W. Bush which kills me every single time

– The magical, bubbly elixir known as Diet Coke

– Snickers. I know that’s lame, but seriously, Snickers has rescued many many days from complete dreariness with its chocolatey goodness

– Free review copies

– Discovering my magical ability to make anything out of construction paper

– Inside jokes. FRAAAAHHHHHHNCE.

Okay, that’s nowhere near a comprehensive list, but now it’s getting on toward 1 a.m. and I should really post this so I can go read that trashy romance novel fabulously deep and intellectually stimulating book that has completely stolen my attention.

G’night, Internet.

How long does someone have to be gone before she’s not your best friend anymore? I don’t know. What I do know is that at 5-ish tomorrow evening, my best friend will have been dead for exactly one year. It’s been a horrible year by any standard, and not just because of this, but also because of the fun at work and fun with my dad and fun with my health (and lack of insurance!). And my grandma has cancer. And I seriously want to go live in a cave most days. Yet I’m still here, bringing the… whatever it is that I bring. I’m not sure that there’s a word for it.

Anyway, her family is having a dinner for anyone who doesn’t have anyone to spend Thanksgiving with/memorial for Stacy tomorrow, and I’ll be dropping by there after eating at my grandmother’s house, and it should be… interesting. I’ll get to see a lot of people I hardly ever see anymore, which is at least partly what Thanksgiving is all about, so I’m looking forward to it, but I’ve also been dreading it, too. I know it’s been a year, but there are still times when I’m sure that I haven’t really dealt with this at all and I’m just going to lose it tomorrow. I guess I’ll find out, hm? And honestly, I don’t even know how to tell if I’ve handled the grief in healthy ways or if I’ve buried it so that it can be just one more thing that makes me the walking festival of crazy that I am. (You have no idea.)

Whatever. I’ll save it for therapy.

Over the past year, I have missed Stacy like hell. I have wanted to talk to her at least ten thousand times and tell her anything, really, and I know I can’t and it sucks. For lack of a better word. Stacy and I talked about life and work and family and god. We laughed and cried and ate bacon. Sometimes all on the same night. We talked about the really important things, like whether — from the perspective of a germophobe (which we both were, and I continue to be) — sex or kissing was more gross. I don’t find myself having impromptu Whitney Houston driveway dance parties with anyone else. In all ways, this girl remains irreplaceable.

So I guess that while I’m in this weirdly honest phase — enjoy it while it lasts, kids! — I’ll finally get around to writing the thing that has haunted me all fucking year and then maybe I can finally be done with it. Every day on my way to and from work, I drive past the house that Stacy lived in with her sister. Someone else lives there now, which doesn’t bother me like it used to. And anyway, on that day, it was snowing. Like crazy snowing. My office has a tradition of closing at noon on the day before Thanksgiving, and so on my way home, as I passed Stacy’s house, I saw her car in the driveway and thought that I needed to call her. I’d have said “What’s up, ho?” and then followed it with “We should date.” Stacy would’ve laughed and asked, “Did you say we should mate?” And I would’ve said, “No, not mate, we should date DATE.” It was tradition. And we would’ve set up a time to get together and then talked about some other crap and that would’ve been it. But instead of calling her, I went home, took a stupid picture, and did… I don’t know. Nothing. Probably. Yet it kept nagging me, all damn day, that I should call her. I wanted to tell her to drive safely. I wanted to talk. Just talk. And I didn’t call her. For no good reason, because now I know that there couldn’t possibly have been a reason good enough for me not to pick up the phone. Of course I couldn’t have known that then, but I did know. Some part of me knew, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it, and I have learned regret this year in a thousand different ways all because I couldn’t take a few minutes to say hello and I love you. It’s like a fucking cliche message straight out of a movie, but hell if it isn’t true — if you care about someone, always make the time to say so or you will be so sorry, over and over again, so damned sorry you won’t believe it.

So there you go, anyway. I still don’t feel better. But maybe.

Maybe.

Until tomorrow, when I will be more cheerful, I swear.