PSA #1,001

A friendly reminder to keep my sanity, and hopefully yours, too.

I had a bit of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the home decor section of Target the other day, which consequentially led to me running out of the store. (I usually try to look less like a shoplifter, but I didn't have the brainpower to care.)

Before my graceful exit, and I heard a little boy ask his mother, "what's wrong with that lady?"

She lied to him, because she said "nothing."

What she should have said was, "Well Timmy, that is what happens to people in a recession."

Happy Monday.

As the score stands: Th: 1, E: 0.

I surrender. I'm taping a napkin to a stick from my backyard and I'm waving it furiously at Team Thursday. I'll go quietly, I swear. Just please, don't put an assault rifle to my forehead.

Yes, I do realize that it's only 2:30 in the afternoon, and that there is still a lot of day left. But I'm throwing in the towel now. Why, you ask? Because I ventured out into the world today to accomplish things, to be productive, and I almost died. Metaphorically, I guess. Well, I actually could have died. (Thanks only to the light blue minivan with a Jesus fish on the back that cut me off in a feeble attempt to make a right-hand turn into the Sonic parking lot. Was that necessary? It wasn't even Happy Hour yet...)

So my day got off to a slow start, because I hate the grocery store. I really do. The parking lots are always littered with pedestrians, meandering aimlessly around; some, in my opinion, with the sole intent of getting in your way. Then you have to push around those bulky carts and the aisles are never wide enough. Oh, and also, a big 'eff you' to whoever's idea it was to rearrange everything inside the store. I know you have signs, but I don't want to read them. I want to go to the bread aisle and you know what I want? I want there to be mother-effing bread there. Not asian cuisine. Not vitamins, and absolutely not organic juice.

Why else do I hate the grocery store? Because everyone is always in the way, and no one moves. Like, lady with your three kids, all I want is some shredded cheese. But I cannot get to said cheese because 1. you have a giant shopping cart with half a car attached to it to house two of your three miscreants. and 2. where's your third one? The one that you aren't watching because you're debating over oven-roasted turkey and smoked turkey? (Which taste the freaking same, by the way) Well, miscreant #3 is making a tower of cheese right in front of the spot where I would like to be standing. So I finally get to the cheese, and I reach OVER the child, and you know what? I even say excuse me. And what happens? The kid looks at me like I'm in his way. And then the mother looks at me like I'm gonna steal her stupid kid. Do I look like someone that wants a kid that talks to himself and annihilates the cheese section of the refrigerated aisle? I don't, I swear.

So I get through the store. My shoulders are tense, my frozen foods are melting, and the decibel level of soccer mom chatter and their offspring's shouting makes my brain feel like it's going to collapse upon itself like a dying star. I get to a checkout line, and I wait. The old gentlemen in front of me is buying twenty cans of tuna, and wants to pay in change. I kid you not, there wasn't a single paper bill involved in his transaction. The checker is disgruntled, and takes it out on me, because I am neither old or threatening in appearance. (You never know what those old guys are capable of. They've been to wars. The closest I've ever come to violence was walking through East Oakland around twilight.)

So she's a bitch to me. And I'm so flabbergasted about the carts, and the small aisles, and the cheese kid, and the bean thread where my bread used to be, that I completely forget to say paper instead of plastic. And lovely Miss Stink-Eye has already bagged everything, and if I ask her to re-bag it, I honestly believe that she would stab me, right there in the middle of checkout stand 14. So I pay with my debit card, and she asks me, with a classy roll of her death-stare eyes, if I want my receipt. Seeing as how I just gave her sixty dollars that I will never see again, yes, I'd like proof that I got something for it. And at this point, I want to flip out. Because she exhales, pointedly. Are you kidding me, woman? Is it really the most awful thing any one person has ever done to you, to ask you for a receipt? You don't have to add up anything, you don't have to print it, all you have to do is reach over, with just one hand, and grab the pre-cut receipt from it's printing vessel and give it to me. I can see how my presence has taxed you to no end. My eternal apologies.

So this is why, with my makeshift flag, I am surrendering to Thursday. You win. I tried, I failed, and I know when to give up on saving the ship and just float around on a door. But you'll be back, Thursday, and we shall duke it out again. I'll be ready for you, next time. Count on that.

8 AM doesn't make anyone look good.

When my parents bought our house back in 1995 (or maybe it was 1994? Years were irrelevant to me back then) I'm sure they weren't thinking about how horrible the entryway really was. On the contrary, they probably thought it was beautiful. Giant open windows, centralized staircase, perfect for interior decorations during the holidays, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. A lot of you probably agree, we do have a lovely house. But this is why the entry way is horrible: there is no where to hide.

The picture on the right is the stairs up to my room, or as I like to refer to it, my "wing" of the house. I can say this, because I am the only one that ever uses these stairs anymore. (And it's not just because I live in the Thibeaux Estate by myself, just so you know.) But the downside to the location of my wing is that I have to cross the open flooring at the top of the stairs to get to it. Again, it's not the I mind the walk, it's that I am totally exposed to anyone with an assault rifle at my front door. I'm as good as dead. And what's worse? Anyone trying to sell me something, or save me, can see that I am home.

This is when my guilt reflex kicks in. Something you should know about me: I don't answer the door if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't answer the house phone if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't listen to messages that aren't pertaining to me (unless it's a message about one of my brothers, preferably from a teacher, and hopefully he's in trouble. They never got in enough trouble, in my opinion.) and I absolutely do not get the mail unless I think something for me is coming. These are the facts. However, just like my situations with the mailman, I hate to lie, and I feel guilty when someone knows that I'm avoiding them. My mother did not raise me to be rude to strangers. (I came up with that habit all on my own, I'm proud to say.)

So this is why our entryway is horrible. They can see me. All of them. So I am forced to go, unwillingly, to the door, and I am forced to unlock it, and then, I have to talk to people I don't know about things I don't want, or don't care about. And my conversations have gone like this:

Two men, in suits, walk up to my door. They ring the doorbell once. Wait approximately thirty seconds, and then knock. And I think: I fucking heard you.

I open the door.

Guy #1: Hi! We're from the Christianity Mission Team and we were wondering if you had a minute to talk to us.

Me: Um, a minute, sure.

Guy #2: Are you skipping school today? he laughs.

Me: No, I've graduated college, but thanks. I don't laugh.

Guy #2: Oh, well, good for you! What do you do?

Me: I'm an audio engineer.

Guy #1: what is that?

People don't get what I do for a living. Honestly. Not even my family, really. I have a half-hour speech, explaining all the types of things an audio engineer does. Like sound reinforcement for live concerts, (which gets the response: So you're a musician? No, no I am not.) audio for film and TV (which gets the response: Oh like the lights and stuff? No, more like the sound and stuff.) and the ever popular music recording (Oh, so like you make CD's? Well no, but you're getting warmer.) Most of the time, I just don't feel like having that conversation. So I have taken to going with what all my non-audio friends and family tell other people who ask them what I do.

Me: I do something with computers.

Guy #2: Oh, cool! So, is this your house?

Me: Well, since I'm standing on this side of the door, and you're on the outside, I'm going to go with yes. What the fuck kind of question is that? No, no I actually broke in just a few minutes ago, and I'm about to rob these people blind, but I figured I had a few moments to talk with you guys, so here I am!

Guy #1: We have some documentation we'd like you to read, just about our mission and what we do, does anyone in your home speak spanish?

Me: I think our maid does. But she's only here once a week, and I think she's Catholic.

Guy #2: And how is your relationship with God?

Me: ...Solid.

Guy #1: And do you think that when the time comes, you'll go to Heaven or Hell?

Me: Hard to say, really. What about you? Heaven or Hell?

Guy #2: he's a little taken aback by my tone, because at 8:30 in the morning, I don't want to think about going to hell. Heaven, I'd say.

Me: Really? If you say so.

Guy #1: You know, there is always time to ask for forgiveness, He is always willing to welcome back the lost.

Me: Well, I know where I am, but the next lost person I see, I'll make sure to give them your flyer thing. Thanks!

And the door closes, and I walk back up the stairs, over to the television, and watch several episodes of Judge Hatchett. And every single time, I vow that I will buy curtains for those windows, or find an invisibility cloak.

Maybe I'll just put a sign on the door:

Don't like Chinese Food,

already have a lawn service,

already have a maid,

found Jesus,

and don't support anyone: neighbors or otherwise.

best wishes,

eleanor

an awkward list

Things that I think are awkward:

+ Walking out to the mailbox as the mailman is pulling up. What do you say? He already saw you walking, and there's very little else around a mailbox to pretend you were going to do. So you just have to keep walking. And then he looks at you, because he's a mailman and he's disgruntled, and you say what? Thanks for my mail that technically I could have gone and retrieved myself from the post office, but I didn't because I have this brick box? Those four minutes are the worst.

+ When the person at the front desk of the gym says "Have a nice workout" and you react instinctually with "you too." and then you're like wait, fuck, nevermind. You work at the gym, you're not here to work out, and you tricked me. Asshat.

+ The person that walks into an empty movie theater and says the line, "Man, we're never going to find seats!" Also, I'm that person.

+ When you're at a concert, and you accidentally spill beer on a stranger. You can't really SAY you're sorry because it's loud. So you just make the hand movements you would make with your apology, and they just stare at you, looking violated. And they don't look away, so you're just staring at each other. Then you get pissed cause you know what, fuck you, girl. It was an accident. So you gesture a retraction of your apology with a shrug.

+ When you're at a baseball game and you realize that all the seats around you, that were filled with people, are all empty. Then you see the people who were sitting next to you, several rows down and away.

+ When you're in your car at a red light, and a classic song from your youth comes on. And you sing along, and you're reveling in the nostalgia, and so you start dancing. And you turn your head to look at the person in the car next to you, just to see if they're as happy as you are. And it's a cop. and he's laughing at you. Also, he's writing something down. And you left your license at home. Shit.

a moment of silence, please.

Today, Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez was traded back to the Texas Rangers after not even an entire season with the Houston Astros. Talk about a slap in the face for the 2009 Houston Astros roster, as this trade is symbolic of the death of the team's chance at the post-season.

I am a Pudge fan. Veteran catcher, and the best offensive catcher Houston had acquired in years (no offense, Brad, but let's be honest.) As I will be attending tomorrow's game, I have vowed to get drunk in honor of the beloved gold glover.

Also, this trade begs the question: Why the hell do we still have Matsui?

craft[y].

Firstly, I'd like to say that you all suck for not answering my question. Go ahead and keep your internet anonymity, see if I care. It's not like I'd stop writing even if you stopped reading. I often talk to myself, anyhow - so blogging to myself would just be an extension of an already-in-progress habit.

I have been quite crafty the past few days. I kind of had to be, since my lack of creativity not only reached the realms of my writing, but also caused a block of anything artsy what-so-ever. I would just lay out all my supplies in front of me and stare at them thinking, "wow, look at all this nothing. I think I'll watch Family Guy."

But I'm back now! And boy howdy does it feel good. I've updated my 22 book, after finally finding my desired supplies. (Christian Education store, surprisingly. However, in the process of finding these cards, I got a stuffed monkey thrown at me and I got squeezed out of the bulletin board borders section. Don't know about you, but I for one had different expectations of the cliental of a Christian Education store. I should note however, that the monkey throwing was by children, and I don't think they were aiming for me, I just got caught in the crossfire.) But regardless, I saw, I gathered, I conquered.

I've also been working on a mini-book entitled, "She's Gonna Make It After All." It's going to be more of a long-term thing, documenting different adventures and progress on my road to what could be considered a career. I've started out with my day of Clair Global and Green Day - where I met with the Systems Technician and Front of House Engineer for the current Green Day world Tour. What a day that was! The book was created by Elise and to anyone on this planet that hasn't checked out her blog and Etsy store, you're missing out. She's fantastic.


I got the photos printed at Kinkos today, along with several other ones for #13 on my 22 list, "Create a frame photo and art wall collage." I am super, SUPER excited about that one. I was super excited thinking about it this morning, and then super excited on my way to Kinkos, and as I was walking from my car to the shop, my mind was buzzing with different sizes for which photos and how many prints, and then BAM. Literally, BAM. Because, and do not ask me how because I cannot tell you, but I walked right into a sign-repair truck parked plainly in front of the store. And of course I hit my head on the only object protruding enough from the truck to hit ANYTHING, and it happened to be an aluminum ladder, so not only did I blatantly walk into a giant repair vehicle, but I slammed my forehead into a very loud piece of metal. And of course all the worker guys, I believe there was about seven, maybe eight, were standing around in close proximity to the truck, so they all saw me; saw me hit the truck, heard my head hit the ladder, and then heard me say, "How the fuck did I not see that?"

I was talking to myself, obviously, but one of them decided to answer. "I have no idea, ma'am." Another guy asked me if I was all right, although I don't know how he managed to get the words out since he was laughing so hard - and a third one asked if I was sure that I was just drinking Redbull. I was ready to shoot back, "Um, it's 11:30 am, douchebag," until I remembered that I have been drunk before at 11:30 am. So for me to act as if his statement was so far out of character would be a lie, and I don't like to lie. So instead, I walked briskly into the store, where I then took a surreptitious glance at my head in a reflective surface to see, indeed, that a bump was forming.

I printed my photos. I tried to stall and wait for these guys to leave so I could walk back to my car in peace. But I should have known that with my luck, the sign they were repairing was the Kinkos sign. Strike three. I lose. So I walked back to my car, but not before laughing off a few more "are you okay?" and "How's your head?"s.

Was it worth it? Yes.

Will I be finding a new Kinkos? Absolutely.

Maybe I care, or maybe I just want comments. Who's to say?

From inside my well-air conditioned room, the world looks beautiful outside. Sadly, I live in Houston, Texas and therefore I know in my heart that if I step outside, there's about a 86% chance that the humidity will suffocate me. So I am opting to remain blissfully ignorant and just observe through the windows. (There is a bird shaped smudge on my window, just another reason that maybe the Aviary species should have an equivalent to the ATC.)

The clear blue skies and green grass just begs the question: What makes you feel clean? And shut up to the five of you who just said "soap" or "a shower" or some snarky answer like that. You know who you are. What I mean to say is, what makes your soul feel fresh, alive and free? Everyone has something in this world that makes their hearts feel a little lighter, that gives them the sense of internal rejuvenation. For me, it's days like this (however I would prefer a little NorCal summer weather to accompany it: ahh bay breeze and gentle sunlight) but I digress. I'm interested to know, anyone who reads this, what gives you an overwhelming sense of "can do, will do, want do?"

Here's mine:

+A long drive, with no destination.

+Riding shotgun with one of my dearest friends, chatting, laughing, mostly laughing.

+A great soundtrack. (A little "Bottom of a Hill" by Terri Hendrix, "Say" by John Mayer, and definitely something really silly and nostalgic like "Spice Up Your Life" by my childhood heroes, the Spice Girls.)

+Frequent, random stops with photos.

+Completed with the moment where you both say "stop the car" at the same time, and you know that you've made it to where you were going.

So let's make this a collaborative effort! What makes you free?

the 22 list

Blogging about Not Blogging. It's artsy, get it?

Accidentally, I swear, I took a break from my blog. I was just so busy living life. (Fine, I just didn't have anything to say. Call me out, why don't you?) I tried to write, I really did! Unfortunately, I got stuck in this pattern.

1. Write Something.

2. Think it's funny.

3. Re-read what I wrote.

4. Realize it's not funny.

5. Highlight, delete, and repeat.

You're welcome, by the way. I saved the entire blogosphere from unleashing some pretty trivial, unfunny details of my very latent creative streak. Then I saw Julie & Julia the other night, which totally inspired me to blog again. I was amped. I came home from the movie, literally and technologically rejuvenated! I sat down in front of my computer, opened up a browser window and put my fingers on the home keys. (it's all about the ASDF JKL;) And I wrote. And it was awful.

Because about three paragraphs in, I realized that I didn't have much to blog about.

It's like when people update Facebook statuses about exactly what they're doing. "So-and-So is doing laundry and then taking a nap!" What the hell. Do I care that you're just another normal, boring person like me? I do those things, too. Facebook statuses should be either inside jokes (preferably between your friends that don't have Facebook accounts so absolutely no one gets them), quotes taken completely out of context, song lyrics (but don't put quotes around them, so only the scene people know what you're talking about), or finally, really badass stuff that you do that people would be jealous of. Like "So-and-So is getting on her private jet to go to Italy where people will just throw money and fancy shoes at her." Because Facebook is for stalking, and no one will want to stalk you if all you do is watch Maury and go to the gym.

Which brings me to my original point. No one wants to stalk me, or read the blogs I was writing, because my life has been exactly that. Watching day-time TV and going to the gym. (Who wants to guess which happens more often?) I finished my internship at Dallas Audio Post, I'm back from Vermont, and valiantly unemployed. And since being unemployed goes best with being uninsured, I'm that, too. So I do my best to stay inside, away from germs, fast-moving vehicles and sugary beverages (also, only a few feet away from a toothbrush at all times.) So what do you write about when that's your life?

Clearly, you write about how you don't have anything to write about. I could divulge to all my readers (and by all, I mean Shevvs and my mom. Just kidding, I don't know if my mom reads this) about the things I've been up to - what is keeping me busy. (I'll give you a hint: Real Housewives of Atlanta marathons, and alphabetizing everything that can be put in alphabetical order.) Still want to be me? Of course you do.

So that's my situation. Next blog: Why Batman is my favorite superhero, and why Aquaman sucks. (Anyone want to counter?) I need a job.

Inquiring Minds NEED to know.

Here's my question: What is it about my personality that inspires men to make fun of me?

Ever since as far back as I can remember, the men in my life have shown affection by a near-constant tirade of teasing. Relentlessly. Up until middle school, the problem that most boys had with me was that I was "too girly." I wanted to play baseball, but I was "too girly." (Even though I was better than half the boys on the team, but we won't call anyone out on that one.) I wanted to hang out with my older brother and his friends, but I was "too girly." (Looking back, this translated to: We don't want to run the risk of losing Duck Hunt to a girl, so you just can't play at all.) But all the while, my friends were guys. Like TJ White, who was my best friend up until I moved from Lafayette, Louisiana to Spring, Texas. He was the only one who stood up for me when our impromptu games of tag got a little too rough, although he was quick to deny it to anyone who would listen. (I remember there being a ditch, a lot of mud, and my mom was PISSED.)

Then, Middle School happened. My guy friends were still my friends, but now I was no longer "too girly," I was "one of the guys." Ah yes, the sweet, sweet victory. Right? Well, I thought it was for at least a little bit. Girls were jealous of me because I knew how to talk to the boys, and blah, blah, blah. Well that lasted for a whole three months. Suddenly, the boys started talking to me about the girls who were talking to me about the boys; it was like a never-ending game of hormone-ridden ping-pong. These girls, the ones that liked me because I was the gateway drug to the mysterious world of teenage boys, told me how jealous they were because boys only tease girls they like. I should have called bullshit right away. Because I knew that Matt Davis liked Haley H. And I knew that Haley thought Matt was cute, but she had her eye on Graham Williams (who by the way, strutted. Like, honestly.)

Yet, I was happy to register on their radar. And that is the way it was through high school. My uncles teased me. (Like the time I maybe crashed my Uncle Steve's motorcycle into my Uncle Jerry's house, maybe then tried to say I had no idea how the tire tracks got up the wall. Bad lie, in retrospect.) My cousins made fun of me. (Okay, so I don't like bugs. Is it necessary to chase me around with them and then call me a wuss? No. Cause I'm a freaking girl, remember?) Two brothers, both messed with me non-stop. The guys at school, the guys at work, and how did I try to combat this? I did what anyone would do, I sought them out.

I like what I like. Sports, technology, audio engineering. Shockingly enough, guys like these things, too. So I hung out with boys in high school, then I got a job where 75% of the employees were male. Then I went to a college that was 90% male. I chose a profession that is male-dominated. Because throughout the years, I guess I just got comfortable with being "that girl." The one girly-girls can't figure out. Still, I want to know: What is it about me? Men I don't even know can see it. Like a lion can smell fear, men can smell a target for mockery.

I guess this will just have to be the way that it is. I will always be the first one blamed when something breaks. I will always be the first target when men have an issue with women, and I will always be reminded of the time I ran a motorcycle into a house. (Okay, that last one might be fair game.)