One of my big neuroses since I was small has been losing things. I remember at 3 years old leaving my Dewey Duck stuffed animal in the bathroom at DisneyWorld and never seeing it again. Another time, I left my cherished stuffed elephant in a booth at McDonalds on a road trip to the Ozarks and my poor parents turned the car around and drove an hour back to get it for me.
I normally don't leave things anymore. Every time I exit a public location I engage in a time-consuming ritual of pocket pat-downs, purse-rifling, and seat-checking to make sure everything I brought, down to the last lipgloss, is safely with me. That is why when I left my phone in a bar last night I was so shocked and appalled at myself that I am still not over it today.
The worst part about leaving my phone on the windowsill was not that I didn't realize it was gone until I got all the way home (I live 5 minutes away). It wasn't that my boyfriend had to drive me all the way back to the bar and come in with me to pick it up (he was extremely nice about it). It wasn't that I was so worried someone would steal it (Carrboro folk are very nice). The worst part, kids, was that the kind bartender found my phone and immediately tried to return it to me by calling the number I had labelled as "HOME," which wasn't my home at all but my parents' house in another state. To my horror, he was on the phone with my dad when I ran into the bar.
My parents already think I habitually lose things of value. This was not helpful. I guess I really should be eating my organic sea vegetables, or maybe I just shouldn't drink margaritas in public places.
April 23, 2010
April 20, 2010
F M er L
Embarrassment is fleeting. Ephemeral. The dissolution of your pride is forever. Last week I forgot my cell phone at home four critical and excruciating times (iPhones are addicting), leaving me without the ability to text/call/FourSquare/Twitter/Facebook/take pictures of hipsters. I almost left my home without a bra on (I'm not enough of a hippie to do that on purpose). I forgot to eat dinner twice and ate two dinners by accident once. I'm dizzy, I'm spacing out, and I'm losing my mind.
All of this was merely harmless bumblery until Sunday. I drove to the store to pick up some food for a friend's barbeque. My braking foot slacked off at a red light and my car glided into the rear of the car in front of me. There was no damage and we exchanged phone numbers before the light even turned green. Shaking, I pulled into the nearest parking lot and immediately jumped out of the car to see if I had scratched my car in the incident, slamming the driver side door behind me and locking myself out of the vehicle while it was still running.
My cell phone was locked in the car. I wandered into a Whole Foods and asked to use their courtesy phone. Because of 411's voice recognition software (WE MEET AGAIN, electronic woman...) it took me 30 minutes to simply obtain the number of Durham's AAA chapter ("You're looking for Triplay?" NO. What the hell is Triplay?). It then took 20 minutes for the woman on the phone to correctly spell my first and last name (no, just because it sounds eastern european doesn't mean it has no vowels). I also learned that just because you paid to be a member of AAA in 2001 doesn't mean you're a member anymore.
The worst part about locking your keys in your car while it's running is that you have to tell people about it to get help. I dealt with this by acknowledging the facts right up front. "Hi, AAA? I locked my keys in my car. It's running, and I'm a complete moron." "Okay, honey, are you in a safe place?" "I'm in a grocery store, but I'd feel much safer if I could crawl into a hole and die."
The best news is that when you lock your keys in a running vehicle, you get placed on Top Priority, even if you're not really a member of AAA. I sat on top of my car in the parking lot and mentally gave the finger to all of the people walking by and laughing to themselves about my predicament. "See that dumb lady? That's what happens to your brain if you don't eat your organic raw sea vegetables," the mothers told their children. My salvation came in a red pickup truck 10 minutes later and managed to unlock the door without making too many comments about how ridiculous I was. He didn't even charge me-- I'm telling myself it was because I'm so cute, but I think that AAA made a mix-up and told them I was a member. Bwahaha.
I didn't go to the barbeque. I went to another grocery store (I can never show my face in Whole Foods again) and bought 1/4 pound of chocolate covered ginger to stuff the sorrows down my esophagus. Let's remember what we learned from my experience:
1. Don't use the window locks on your car unless your keys are in your hand.
2. AAA memberships must be renewed.
3. People are nicer to you if you admit your idiocy upfront.
4. American cars are easier to break into than foreign.
5. If you think you're going to lock your keys in your car while it's running, make sure you have plenty of gas.
All of this was merely harmless bumblery until Sunday. I drove to the store to pick up some food for a friend's barbeque. My braking foot slacked off at a red light and my car glided into the rear of the car in front of me. There was no damage and we exchanged phone numbers before the light even turned green. Shaking, I pulled into the nearest parking lot and immediately jumped out of the car to see if I had scratched my car in the incident, slamming the driver side door behind me and locking myself out of the vehicle while it was still running.
My cell phone was locked in the car. I wandered into a Whole Foods and asked to use their courtesy phone. Because of 411's voice recognition software (WE MEET AGAIN, electronic woman...) it took me 30 minutes to simply obtain the number of Durham's AAA chapter ("You're looking for Triplay?" NO. What the hell is Triplay?). It then took 20 minutes for the woman on the phone to correctly spell my first and last name (no, just because it sounds eastern european doesn't mean it has no vowels). I also learned that just because you paid to be a member of AAA in 2001 doesn't mean you're a member anymore.
The worst part about locking your keys in your car while it's running is that you have to tell people about it to get help. I dealt with this by acknowledging the facts right up front. "Hi, AAA? I locked my keys in my car. It's running, and I'm a complete moron." "Okay, honey, are you in a safe place?" "I'm in a grocery store, but I'd feel much safer if I could crawl into a hole and die."
The best news is that when you lock your keys in a running vehicle, you get placed on Top Priority, even if you're not really a member of AAA. I sat on top of my car in the parking lot and mentally gave the finger to all of the people walking by and laughing to themselves about my predicament. "See that dumb lady? That's what happens to your brain if you don't eat your organic raw sea vegetables," the mothers told their children. My salvation came in a red pickup truck 10 minutes later and managed to unlock the door without making too many comments about how ridiculous I was. He didn't even charge me-- I'm telling myself it was because I'm so cute, but I think that AAA made a mix-up and told them I was a member. Bwahaha.
I didn't go to the barbeque. I went to another grocery store (I can never show my face in Whole Foods again) and bought 1/4 pound of chocolate covered ginger to stuff the sorrows down my esophagus. Let's remember what we learned from my experience:
1. Don't use the window locks on your car unless your keys are in your hand.
2. AAA memberships must be renewed.
3. People are nicer to you if you admit your idiocy upfront.
4. American cars are easier to break into than foreign.
5. If you think you're going to lock your keys in your car while it's running, make sure you have plenty of gas.
April 13, 2010
Random thought
All etymology aside, isn't it interesting how close the word contemporaries looks to contempt? And also, how the word "peers," when uttered in a particular sentiment, might sound like the word "pierce," as with a dagger? Not that this has anything to do with anything.
April 11, 2010
Just a thought
I have the notion that anything, anything, anything, no matter how innocent, can be creepy if you type it into Microsoft Notepad.
April 10, 2010
P.S.
The below posts make me sound like a rage-filled, negative little shit, which I often am (otherwise how would I write this blog?) but I'd like to clarify that my friends are more amazing, funny, cool, charming, unique, interesting, and talented than I could ever ask for, and my life is pretty sweeeeet -- because of them and in spite of interference from "normal" people. Whoopie!
I'm off to hang out with some of them now.
I'm off to hang out with some of them now.
People... people who bore people
Maybe you get the impression, reading this blog, that I'm not exactly like most people you might run into on a daily basis. Maybe I'm a little more neurotic, more observant, more narcissistic, more loquacious, more cynical. Maybe I have a unique perspective or even put new words and a new voice to things you've thought yourself. Or MAYBE if you don't have a good vocabulary or any sense of imagination, you'd describe me as "weird."
I was called weird in grade school, middle school, and high school. Then somewhere along the line, most people grew out of whispering behind my back about my "weirdness," and I guess I took that for granted because apparently I have to deal with it again now.
My boyfriend and I were having coffee on campus when we ran into a younger student from our program that he knows. He introduced us and we both said hello to each other before parting ways. The next day he heard from this student that she heard from other people in her year that I am "weird." Considering that I haven't even had a conversation with these jerks, I'm sort of pissed off about it.
1. Who meets someone's girlfriend and immediately turns around and calls her weird? I tend to associate that caliber of social ineptitude with autistic spectrum disorders and children under ten.
2. The individuals who are apparently referring to me as weird have, as far as I know, interacted with me one time. They crashed a party I hosted in my apartment, stood in the middle of the living room ignoring the other guests and drinking my liquor, and stared at me like deaf mutes when I smiled and greeted them. I guess I'm the strange one in that situation, but it's strange relative to the norm of inexplicable rudeness.
Thus, what I understand about the label "weird" is that I am a distinguishable personality from the indistinct mass of mounded flesh and Walmart clothing that makes up this group of students. I shouldn't feel offended, right? I should feel complimented that I'm not a boring, bland, uninteresting plebeian Ph.D student. But I'm still pissed off. If you're reading this, you lackluster potato-faced redshirts, why don't you kiss my ass? It's not my fault you put so much effort into being average that you didn't have time to develop a personality.
I was called weird in grade school, middle school, and high school. Then somewhere along the line, most people grew out of whispering behind my back about my "weirdness," and I guess I took that for granted because apparently I have to deal with it again now.
My boyfriend and I were having coffee on campus when we ran into a younger student from our program that he knows. He introduced us and we both said hello to each other before parting ways. The next day he heard from this student that she heard from other people in her year that I am "weird." Considering that I haven't even had a conversation with these jerks, I'm sort of pissed off about it.
1. Who meets someone's girlfriend and immediately turns around and calls her weird? I tend to associate that caliber of social ineptitude with autistic spectrum disorders and children under ten.
2. The individuals who are apparently referring to me as weird have, as far as I know, interacted with me one time. They crashed a party I hosted in my apartment, stood in the middle of the living room ignoring the other guests and drinking my liquor, and stared at me like deaf mutes when I smiled and greeted them. I guess I'm the strange one in that situation, but it's strange relative to the norm of inexplicable rudeness.
Thus, what I understand about the label "weird" is that I am a distinguishable personality from the indistinct mass of mounded flesh and Walmart clothing that makes up this group of students. I shouldn't feel offended, right? I should feel complimented that I'm not a boring, bland, uninteresting plebeian Ph.D student. But I'm still pissed off. If you're reading this, you lackluster potato-faced redshirts, why don't you kiss my ass? It's not my fault you put so much effort into being average that you didn't have time to develop a personality.
What can brown do for you?
NOT MUCH.
I had the most annoying experience with UPS this week. I ordered some bedding from Urban Outfitters and had to pay $10 for shipping. Urban Outfitters accidentally (?) omitted my apartment number on the shipping label, so when the package was delivered, they had to take it straight to the building office and leave it for me. Whatever incompetent debile working there at the time told them that I had moved out of the apartment complex and not left a forwarding address.
This baffles me, since I've been living here for two years and stop into that office all the time and make small talk with those ladies. Anyway, UPS had to take the package back and it experienced something called an "exception," which essentially means they are confused and plan to take actions that will completely inconvenience the intended recipient.
Instead of calling the phone number that I had associated with the billing and shipping address when I placed the order, UPS decided to call my parents' house. This, too, confuses me, because I'm not sure how they got the phone number. They reached my father, who couldn't imagine why I would be ordering anything off the internet and assumed UPS was some sort of scam artist targeting me and trying to squeeze my address out of him. He told them they would have to call me. They told him that I had to call their help line.
UPS's help line has one of those automated voice-recognition navigation systems employing a frustratingly peaceful woman's voice. You can choose from options like "track a package" and "send a package" and "shipping information," all of which require you to clearly state numbers and letters and words in a clear manner such that a robot can decipher your speech. So imagine me sitting at my desk in lab, running an experiment next to whirling and whizzing pumps and electrical equipment, enunciating a random stream of 8 billion numbers and letters into my phone, trying to maintain the emotional vigor of Al Gore. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Aaaaaand repeat.
This help line helped me learn that my "package has experienced an exception," and could I please "pick it up within 5 days at the UPS facility." What UPS facility? The one in my town? A quick phone call there told me that they only sold shipping materials and did not handle packages. In order to talk to a person, I had to play the old "I'm too stupid to use a phone" trick and nod mutely at the phone until a representative from customer service came on the line. Her advice? "Just go to the UPS facility to pick it up." WHAT UPS FACILITY? "The one nearest you."
After I extracted an address from this clueless peon, Google informed me that it was a 20 minute drive from my apartment. An hour of telephone runaround and 20 minutes of driving later, I had my stupid pillowcases. Thanks for nothing, UPS!
I had the most annoying experience with UPS this week. I ordered some bedding from Urban Outfitters and had to pay $10 for shipping. Urban Outfitters accidentally (?) omitted my apartment number on the shipping label, so when the package was delivered, they had to take it straight to the building office and leave it for me. Whatever incompetent debile working there at the time told them that I had moved out of the apartment complex and not left a forwarding address.
This baffles me, since I've been living here for two years and stop into that office all the time and make small talk with those ladies. Anyway, UPS had to take the package back and it experienced something called an "exception," which essentially means they are confused and plan to take actions that will completely inconvenience the intended recipient.
Instead of calling the phone number that I had associated with the billing and shipping address when I placed the order, UPS decided to call my parents' house. This, too, confuses me, because I'm not sure how they got the phone number. They reached my father, who couldn't imagine why I would be ordering anything off the internet and assumed UPS was some sort of scam artist targeting me and trying to squeeze my address out of him. He told them they would have to call me. They told him that I had to call their help line.
UPS's help line has one of those automated voice-recognition navigation systems employing a frustratingly peaceful woman's voice. You can choose from options like "track a package" and "send a package" and "shipping information," all of which require you to clearly state numbers and letters and words in a clear manner such that a robot can decipher your speech. So imagine me sitting at my desk in lab, running an experiment next to whirling and whizzing pumps and electrical equipment, enunciating a random stream of 8 billion numbers and letters into my phone, trying to maintain the emotional vigor of Al Gore. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Aaaaaand repeat.
This help line helped me learn that my "package has experienced an exception," and could I please "pick it up within 5 days at the UPS facility." What UPS facility? The one in my town? A quick phone call there told me that they only sold shipping materials and did not handle packages. In order to talk to a person, I had to play the old "I'm too stupid to use a phone" trick and nod mutely at the phone until a representative from customer service came on the line. Her advice? "Just go to the UPS facility to pick it up." WHAT UPS FACILITY? "The one nearest you."
After I extracted an address from this clueless peon, Google informed me that it was a 20 minute drive from my apartment. An hour of telephone runaround and 20 minutes of driving later, I had my stupid pillowcases. Thanks for nothing, UPS!
April 3, 2010
Apiphobia
I feel like I have often written about my fear of bees and wasps on this blog. This will not deter me from writing about it again today.
Several months ago, I was having recurrent nightmares about bees, which was odd because it was the middle of winter, and my apian nightmares typically don't start until spring. In my dreams, I returned home to find my bedroom infested with so many bees that they covered the wall like wallpaper, teeming on my bed and books, and streaming out of a gaping hole in the wall where they must have made their nest. The humming surrounded me, droning and and out of focus as I was charged with the task of blocking up the nest entrance myself with a clumsy, melting block of clay. All of my nightmares ended with me running from the bees, unable to escape the incessant buzzing as a dense cloud of insects followed me into oblivion.
Every morning I awoke exhausted and confused as to why my apiphobia was emerging so early in the year.
One night I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of a bee nightmare, and the terrifying hum of insects still penetrated my bedroom. In a panic, I patted my bedding and shook my head in case there were bees crawling in it. No? Then what was this humming sound?
I realized very quickly that it was my new upstairs neighbor, who is apparently insane, vacuuming at 3am. WHO VACUUMS AT 3AM!? Every night!? Needless to say, I don't have very much affection for my new neighbor. Actually, I despise her and her red-eye vacuuming, schizophrenic plant care schedule, and seemingly normal and pleasant interactions with me when we occasionally run into each other on the walkway. Anybody who makes me dream of bees is my instant and permanent enemy.
Keep that in mind, Jerry Seinfeld.
Several months ago, I was having recurrent nightmares about bees, which was odd because it was the middle of winter, and my apian nightmares typically don't start until spring. In my dreams, I returned home to find my bedroom infested with so many bees that they covered the wall like wallpaper, teeming on my bed and books, and streaming out of a gaping hole in the wall where they must have made their nest. The humming surrounded me, droning and and out of focus as I was charged with the task of blocking up the nest entrance myself with a clumsy, melting block of clay. All of my nightmares ended with me running from the bees, unable to escape the incessant buzzing as a dense cloud of insects followed me into oblivion.
Every morning I awoke exhausted and confused as to why my apiphobia was emerging so early in the year.
One night I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of a bee nightmare, and the terrifying hum of insects still penetrated my bedroom. In a panic, I patted my bedding and shook my head in case there were bees crawling in it. No? Then what was this humming sound?
I realized very quickly that it was my new upstairs neighbor, who is apparently insane, vacuuming at 3am. WHO VACUUMS AT 3AM!? Every night!? Needless to say, I don't have very much affection for my new neighbor. Actually, I despise her and her red-eye vacuuming, schizophrenic plant care schedule, and seemingly normal and pleasant interactions with me when we occasionally run into each other on the walkway. Anybody who makes me dream of bees is my instant and permanent enemy.
Keep that in mind, Jerry Seinfeld.
How To Neglect Your Blog
Greetings, strangers. I am a bad, bad blogger. I offer you this posting as a pittance and excuse for my long, long, long, long, long, long absence: How to neglect your (beloved) blog in 5 easy and sometimes enjoyable steps.
1. Become embroiled in ridiculous personal drama.
I didn't want to be tempted to write about it on the blog, and yet it was all-encompassing in real life so I had a hard time thinking about other things to write. Because time has given me space from my hysterical perspective on the entire situation, I will summarize it for you now: I dated a guy. I became extremely interested in his friend. Guy #1 got angry and told all my peers about my extreme personal details, making me extremely angry. Following this, there was a dramatic vacillation between taking the high road and gritty, soul-gnashing revenge for several weeks (months...?) until awesomeness of Guy#2 made me realize Guy #1 is totally irrelevant.
2. Develop a personal life.
... And by personal life I mean, have friends and a boyfriend. It's lame to say that I neglected my blog because I got a boyfriend. Really lame. I apologize. I am not one of those girls who only has interests in things until I'm not single anymore, I swear. But in my defense, I've also been going to a lot (a LOT) of rock concerts. So I come back to you a more experienced Elyse.
3. Become interested in other things.
In this case, it's been documentaries on Netflix (which I honestly could have been writing about, but would you really want to read it?), eco-conscious living, and my cat. I got a cat! Her name is Free Tibet Glasseater Twisby. I'm not really a crazy cat lady, but I have to say that she might be the best cat in the entire world.
4. Graduate school.
Need I say more? It exhausts me.
5. Be a lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, quasi-literate 24 year old.
Let's cut the crap. I'm a lazy little bitch. I sit around all weekend and overdose on documentaries, coffee, and emotional post-documentary crying spells. My only defense of this is that the documentaries give me emotional perspective, and the coffee keeps me from sleeping 15 hours a day. Okay? Okay?
Do you forgive me!?
1. Become embroiled in ridiculous personal drama.
I didn't want to be tempted to write about it on the blog, and yet it was all-encompassing in real life so I had a hard time thinking about other things to write. Because time has given me space from my hysterical perspective on the entire situation, I will summarize it for you now: I dated a guy. I became extremely interested in his friend. Guy #1 got angry and told all my peers about my extreme personal details, making me extremely angry. Following this, there was a dramatic vacillation between taking the high road and gritty, soul-gnashing revenge for several weeks (months...?) until awesomeness of Guy#2 made me realize Guy #1 is totally irrelevant.
2. Develop a personal life.
... And by personal life I mean, have friends and a boyfriend. It's lame to say that I neglected my blog because I got a boyfriend. Really lame. I apologize. I am not one of those girls who only has interests in things until I'm not single anymore, I swear. But in my defense, I've also been going to a lot (a LOT) of rock concerts. So I come back to you a more experienced Elyse.
3. Become interested in other things.
In this case, it's been documentaries on Netflix (which I honestly could have been writing about, but would you really want to read it?), eco-conscious living, and my cat. I got a cat! Her name is Free Tibet Glasseater Twisby. I'm not really a crazy cat lady, but I have to say that she might be the best cat in the entire world.
4. Graduate school.
Need I say more? It exhausts me.
5. Be a lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, quasi-literate 24 year old.
Let's cut the crap. I'm a lazy little bitch. I sit around all weekend and overdose on documentaries, coffee, and emotional post-documentary crying spells. My only defense of this is that the documentaries give me emotional perspective, and the coffee keeps me from sleeping 15 hours a day. Okay? Okay?
Do you forgive me!?
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