Did you vote? If you haven’t, stop reading blogs and get out there. If you did, what was your experience? If you decided not to vote, why? I’m interested to hear your stories today.
Also, I’m so excited I could pop. It’s finally here.
All in favor
11.02.08
I voted yesterday. I was a panic attack waiting to happen on the way there, what with the Twitter tales of three-hour-long waits and broken pencils and other horrors. I will say that I drove around 4th St NW looking for parking for at least 25 minutes, around and around and then around once again, and at one point actually contemplated driving closer to home and taking Metro in. Just as they do in winning arguments with your mother, patience and irritation apparently pay off, because after stalking several slow old people who I just knew couldn’t be parked far from the building, I got a spot right out front. It’s the psychology degree; I can read people like they’re written in Helvetica.
Given that this city isn’t known for getting from A to B without going through Z, I really didn’t have high hopes for the voting experience. My impressions did not improve when a teenager, a boy no more than 14, opened the door for me with a shirt on that said VOLUNTEER. Because nothing says efficiency like kids texting and OMFGing over High School Musical 3 and the Jonas Brothers. They also had us writing on clipboards with pens attached to them by string, something that doesn’t scream exercising a right in your nation’s capital but instead SIGN UP HERE FOR THE ST. OLAF BAKE SALE.
I was wrong and I’ll be the first to say it. The whole process was ridiculously easy and I was in and out in 30 minutes max. There was a moment of confusion when I had trouble following the three-foot wide arrows plastered on the walls that pointed to the voting booths, but this was clearly due to my preoccupation with having left my Blackberry on the front seat of the car in my neurotic frenzy to park and get in the building and get out my ID that they didn’t even ask for. As if I had anything more important to do that day.
I was so excited to cast my ballot that I reviewed it five times before electronically approving it. I contemplated taking my camera out of my purse and snapping a shot of the screen, but I figured I was already treading on thin ice with fellow voters by not just going to an open booth as someone left it, because HELLO, the trained voting services volunteer did not tell me to do so, and for all I know your vote will not count should you make such an assumption, or worse, they may punish you by giving your vote to the other team and canceling your DVR. I lived in Florida for the 2000 election. I don’t mess around with voting.
So it’s done. My part, at least. I contemplated wearing my Obama paraphernalia on my trip to Texas tomorrow, but I’m not sure it will make the slightest bit of difference in those parts. I also have yet to figure out how to affix a shot glass to my lapel.
Frustration, not to be confused with desperation
10.29.08
I once knew a woman who zipped through labor with her second child. Out of nowhere, the pain was immense. “Bring me drugs,” she begged her husband. He shook his head no. She punched him in the face. “Bring me drugs!” she demanded. The nurse shook her head no. My friend had missed the window for the epidural, and she was going to have to deliver the 9-lb. baby without even a Tylenol. She didn’t have a choice. She grunted, and she pushed, and the baby made her way into the world successfully, but not without first breaking her mother’s pelvis. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
It’s kind of like this with dating. Not the messy parts about getting knocked up and breaking bones bringing spawn into the world, but the part about missing the window. Missing the bliss, missing the good stuff, missing the fix. There’s a point in life at which a woman realizes that she’s surrounded by novices who think they’ve got some kind of experience tucked into their Underroos. See, she’s missed that window on dating men; they’re taken and are being forced to mow lawns all across this fine land. Now all that’s left in the pool are boys, and despite their somewhat worn faces and crow’s feet, which they have and we never talk about, they’re still of a mental age of 15.
The difference between men and boys? I think of Paul Newman as a man. I didn’t know him, obviously, but he seemed to have had passions in his life. He likely called Joanne Woodward back after their first date and even during the tough times didn’t break up with her over email. Men remember conversations; they make a beeline for their chosen ones when in a room. They treat others with respect and apologize if for some reason they’ve neglected to. They can be incredibly idiotic, but they are worthy of love and respect and our time and attention. Boys can be in 35-year-old bodies, but they still subscribe to the 9th-grade version of dating, which as I recall involved something akin to making out after school and then pretending you didn’t exist when his friends were around. The 40-year-old boys don’t text or call dates back. They act as if the woman is certifiable when she calls them out on a broken date or an insulting text message or - gulp - a booty call. Boys don’t know the power of dancing to jazz just because she likes to or stopping to bring home her favorite bottle of wine. Women don’t want to be with boys.
Where are the men you don’t need an epidural to date?
365
10.26.08
I know it isn’t always evident, but I started this site as an outlet for writing. I wanted a place that would pull me to write, a spot of permanence where others might eventually read it. The hope was that the writing would improve, that there wouldn’t be the need for quite so many ellipses or pictures as the months and eventual years wore on. As with old yearbook photos, I don’t read my own archives all that frequently, but I do think the posts are generally better than when I started. That’s something, of course. There are fewer odes to bad music or fillers because I just needed to post something that day. A move in the right direction, I guess.
However, I’m finding that I need a little more structure in these parts. There’s something to be said for capturing bloggable moments, like the one on Saturday night when my best friend and I argued like old hags about which one of us had taken classical piano lessons for longer, all the while holding up the work of the adorable, barely pubescent bouncer at the Rock and Roll Hotel. It was a bloggable moment and it would have been fun to capture, but it’s really just a slice of time. I’m not as invested in those moments anymore, because they’ve been documented in some way already. When I’m not as invested, I don’t take the time to ensure that my writing is sharp, that it’s really worth my time and yours. It’s time for something new. Although he was really, really cute. And probably just out of high school.
Not to belabor the Twitter point, but when used deliberately it can provide you with a nice writing exercise. You’ve got only 140 characters to work with, and if you want practice in making a pithy statement, this is the place to do it (see examples other than my account, if you would). You’re forced to choose your words wisely, to pay attention to grammar that might slip in more crowded venues. Still, Twitter is the domain for telling others what fantastic beef jerky you ate after church and how the baby just vomited into the dog’s mouth. Improved essays the tweet does not make.
So I’ve been thinking for some time about doing this. I discovered the initative through Schmutzie and Palinode and have watched them from afar, in a stalking way now that I think about it, but nothing likely to involve a corvette and Zima and Dateline. There’s something to this, folks. There’s something to taking the time to craft these slices of people, often the most difficult to capture effectively, in such a small space. One of the posts I had the most interesting time writing and one that garnered the most reader response was a glance into the hypothetical futures of my post important relationships to date. It was meaningful to me, and I think my writing and the process behind it, if there is one, gained something from that.
It’s still an if, something I’m not sure I’ll pursue. Dedicating oneself to this kind of endeavor is akin to joining the gym for the year, only there are many people who’ll actually see if you make it to the treadmill. And, frankly, I’m guessing there will be some who come to see if you picked their treadmill to run on that particular day. There should be no worries about me abandoning the usual, the posts about kitties and boys and the contents of my refrigerator, all with a healthy dose of self-degradation. Still, there has got to be more.
I have been tagged for a few awesome memes lately, and there is a reason that I have not done them (although you are all lovely and I thank Al Gore every day for creating the Interwebs and its commenters, believe you me): there was a time that memes were *so* widespread on the Web - like chlamydia on college campuses, but with a less favorable prognosis - that I ended up writing a few of these every week. I wasn’t able to write both what I wanted to and keep up with this more fun part of blogging, so I swore off memes forevermore. You can check the archives; it happened sometime after Cheers was canceled and I discovered shapewear. So please know that I’m not being a bitch by not answering that tag, although there are likely a slew of other reasons you might accurately call me a bitch should you feel like doing so. Which I hope you don’t. At least not in front of the cats. Earmuffs.
Maxed
10.24.08
I’ve read before, mostly in tweetlore, that there are times when the Internet community becomes suffocating. I’ve been dismayed with blogging before, of course, and have at least once taken a hiatus from writing online because some in my real world could not respect boundaries. But for the most part, I find this community to be full of supportive and caring writers, with a few exceptions that will spiral and burn eventually given a low level of tolerance for such nonsense. These bloggers reach out when a writer they’ve never met is diagnosed with a daunting illness, they send money when another requests it for a social cause, they show up at happy hours when the wino sends out the call. The good clearly outweigh the bad.
Yesterday, I found myself overwhelmed by the community for the first time in a long time. I wasn’t suffocated, but I was overly reactive, and could have used an office with padded walls and a mini-bar. While on Twitter, a blogger used a term that I find not un-PC, but completely unacceptable, and I went into a ranting tailspin. There was no letting it slide; I was simply consumed by it for a time. My dismay then moved to politics and cliques until late afternoon when I lost touch again over the seemingly expanding divide of resources between mombloggers and other female bloggers. I ultimately admitted defeat and deflated like an unattended pan of Jiffy Pop.
Pressures in real life prevented me from being attuned to it, but I was clearly on stimulus overload. I chuckle at how easy it seems in theory to remove yourself from the pull of the online:
- 1. Close Web browser.
There it is. Even more simple than making ice water or opening a jar of pickles.
I’m thinking I need to leave the user’s manual open for reference. The constant reminder cannot hurt.
Twitter Me This
10.22.08
I’ve been using Twitter for a couple of months now and am able to provide critical analysis from a clinical psychology PhD dropout’s perspective. This should hit the scholarly literature any day now. Any day now.
Too much @tting back and forth on a single topic will serve to 1) alienate those tweeters, twits, twats (per @borneochica) who are following both you and the person you’re tweeting and 2) make you look a little like a tweet whore. A twore, if you will. It’s a little like passing notes really loudly in class while everyone is watching. Shelly, are you going to Sally’s party on Friday? Circle one: Yes No. YES! Me too. What are you wearing? My mesh pasties and my mom’s pink daisy dukes. AWESOME! Did you hear that Billy Goat is coming and HE IS SO IN LURVE WITH ME? ZOMG TTYL LYLAS!
Normal social graces do not apply on Twitter. People will reply to you for all to see, and most times people do not reply back. It’s commonplace for conversations to drop off in what seems mid-stream. People also don’t end threads or direct messages with some sort of closing, as you would in person. Given that I am my mother’s daughter, and all written communiqués are done in proper form and with the best penmanship, this is not something I generally observe. I’m the last one to DM or @ back. I’ve only realized in the last two weeks that it appears stalkerish. The restraining orders pretty much confirmed this.
Twitter is completely responsible for the success of Jillian Michaels’ 30-day Shred DVD. If it weren’t for word of mouth via the Interwebs, Jillian would be living in a trailer in Montana with one of the Greatest Loser dropouts. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Your own mother could be following your every tweet and you wouldn’t even know it. FYI: she’s one of the ones without an avatar.
The Twitterweb - or maybe my network (read: PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME MAIL TO CONVICE ME OTHERWISE) - is considerably more liberal than Provo, Utah. Or pretty much anywhere, actually, including the East Village.
The single girls are apparently the last to get porn followers. I’ve mentioned porn in my tweets, virtually inviting Ron Jeremy over for Pinot and pigs in a blanket, and still nothing. Nothing but naked crickets.
The Twitter bed is really, really small, like smaller than your grandma’s air mattress. I have yet to be six degrees from anyone. It’s more like two, no matter where you live in the country, which for me is not enough distance between me and Jesus. He really doesn’t need to be reading my porn tweets. Or my mom’s.
There is a good bit of good that can come from social media. Using the twin bed to your advantage, you can within seconds get the word out about an important cause or an event or your cat sitting on the piano keys. I’ve been thinking I’ll start something like Twitter Against Litter, to keep our highways clean, or possibly Twitter Against Litters, my personal crusade to neuter the feral cat population and the husband from Jon & Kate Plus 8. Maybe I’ll keep thinking.
Bachelorette redux
10.20.08
Although this post is more than a year old, three people have mentioned it to me in the last week (and pointed and laughed while doing so, which I also call Saturday). Those who have been to my place in recent weeks can attest to the fact that things are likely in a similar condition. Less vegetable mutilation, however. Baby steps.
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In scrutinizing the pictures of myself from BlogHer, I wanted to scream at how chunky I looked, how imperfect each and every angle seemed to be. I don’t own Photoshop and given that MS Paint doesn’t have a tool to trim ass (and chin) length, I think I’m going to have to take it upon myself to stop eating fries for breakfast (ok, it only happened once at BlogHer, but it was like NOON, people).
Problem is, I hate to grocery shop. HATE. DETEST. LOOOOATHE. The Safeway is a completely unsafe environment for the Kris, stocked with forty types of vinegar when I’m pretty sure we all know humankind needs only one, not to mention the infants and the toddlers and the teen boys with their hands flailing toward my highlights while mommy’s back is turned. It’s enough to make a woman order in every night. Or just not stock her fridge. Like ever. At all. Like really.
Behold today’s confession, folks: my refrigerator.
Now before you freak out and start calling the ugly people who protect cats from their neglectful, wino owners, let me offer that I was indeed out of town for five whole days last week. I wouldn’t have wanted anything to rot, particularly this:
Yep, see that clear container of soup on the middle shelf? Well, Grissom, that pretty girl used to be a Panera side salad. A co-worker didn’t eat it so I took it home from my company meeting in EARLY JULY. I’m pleased to see that the empty Tupperware to her left decided to keep her company. Wouldn’t want her to get lonely in there. And perhaps be attacked by a fifth of a green pepper. Moving on.
I HAVE A JOB. What in God’s name would make me think that I couldn’t afford to toss the last precious three milliliters of Pinot Grigio from my clearly well-fingerprinted glass? And when did I become an ER doc or mother of triplets or Carrot Top or someone else who might legitimately have a reason to be busy enough to put the IMPALED NIPPLE OF A CUCUMBER in the forefront of the fridge? Um, in such a rush to blog and file down your feet that you didn’t have time to remove the slicing implement, Kris?
And doesn’t it look like it got stabbed in the damn mouth? Like it was sassing the gang of condiments and one of them done gone and shivved him right in the piehole?
Ok. Kids, let’s stop this crazy sexual tension a la Maddie and David. You two have been making blue lips at each other since at least May. Whaddya say you scoot on in closer and get your parfait on? Can’t you hear them now, party people? “Yoplait or mine?”
I’ll be going now.
Hush, hush
10.17.08
There’s a container of brownies in the work kitchen and they’re calling my name. It’s not the normal kind of call that red wine makes, which is more of a low, slow Barry White type of call, with some really lovely and unexpected boyish undertones. It’s certainly not the same as the Milk Duds in the entryway. They are almost fratty; more than anything else, those guys catcall when I walk to the restroom. And it’s that kind of behavior that keeps me from eating any of them. That and the fact that you can always feel your pudge a little bit more when you’re walking. No, the brownies have the voice of the guy I once dated who I’d smartly toss and let back in only weeks later, in one of those truly healthy cycles of the singleton. The brownie’s call is one of sweet perfection, one of comfort, one that promises me a perfect match of goo and crumble. Unfortunately, they are just no good for me. So I wish they’d stop calling.
Notice that the yogurt in the fridge is mute. As are the celery and the apples. I hear absolutely nothing out of them.
