I Decidedly Did NOT “Have It My Way” At Burger King

I usually drive when I go to New York, and NOW I KNOW WHY.

This weekend I decided to give the Chinatown bus a shot. At $30 roundtrip, the price was right. The idea of not having to remain conscious for the trip, pay for gas, or deal with parking was definitely appealing as well. Yes, they overbooked and I had to take a later bus than I had planned for, but the conversation that I had with an adorable third grader while in line pretty much made up for it. (You can’t not love someone who says, a minute after meeting you, “I have a High School Musical 2 sticker book. Do you want to see it?”)

Everything was mostly fine until we stopped at a Burger King in Connecticut for a bathroom break. I was walking back out to the bus when I saw it pulling away. The. Bus. Was. Pulling. AWAY.

My immediate solution to this problem was to point at the driver and say, “What? No!” This may be why I wasn’t cast in Speed. (”There’s a bomb on the bus! You need to keep it above fifty!” “What? No!”)

Then several other passengers came out behind me and said similar things in various languages. The driver noticed us and kind of waved us away, as if to say, “WHAT? Don’t bother me.” Then he started backing up, and it became clear that he had just been moving the bus. But, seriously? Would it have killed you to tell us ahead of time that you might need to drive aimlessly around the parking lot? When you move the bus, every single passenger thinks you’re stranding them at a Burger King in another state, and there is no one for whom that isn’t a terrifying situation. The plastic-faced king is scary enough. And I still don’t understand what chicken fries are!

And I know it’s probably just icing on the mentally unstable cake that we’re baking here, but since I was a kid I’ve actually had a recurring dream about missing a bus. It’s usually a school bus, and I have no idea why I periodically dream about it, but the fact remains. Now, nobody’s asking the bus driver to delve into my subconscious here, but I’m just saying, that little stunt in the Burger King parking lot is not exactly going to help me sleep well at night.

Aside from that, the rest of the trip was great: Friends (including Kate, who - plug! - has a hilarious new blog, as well as a dear blogfriend that you all know and love, DarrenMcITriedToConvinceHimToBlogAgain), dinner in Little Italy, homemade guac and blue margaritas in the West Village, ridiculously perfect weather, and the indisputable reality that New York is way too cool for me. And that I may never see a fast food place without having abandonment issues again.

Apparently I Will Not Be Teleporting Anytime Soon

I was actually starting to think that I had finally entered the elusive realm of the technologically savvy with my new Blackberry. I mean, when you can receive emails in your car, can the silver jumpsuit and flying car be far behind?

One of my high school friends is getting married in Denmark over the summer, which is another way of saying that I will not be attending the blessed event. Her little sister emailed that she’s putting together a montage of well wishes from friends, and asked if I’d make a “little video, just a minute or two.”

A video? With, like, a…uh…camcorder? I know I’m thirty years old and all but HOW DO I MAKE A VIDEO? Also, a minute or two is kind of a long time; after the five seconds it takes for “I love you! Congratulations!”, I may need to sing a song or something. And something tells me there is vast double chin potential. Whatever happened to registering at Williams-Sonoma? What says love more than a stainless steel panini press?

So, yeah, I finally realized that no matter how much I fool myself with portable communication devices, I’m just not living in the future that Marty McFly promised me. If you need me, I’ll be in the corner swaying along to Earth Angel and avoiding the Libyans.

That’s The Power Of Love. Can You Feel It?

(My cousin) Andrew: Okay, what are your coping strategies [for being with my family over the holiday]?
Me: Before I respond to any character attacks, I’m going to wait the amount of time that it takes to mentally review the lyrics to The Power Of Love by Huey Lewis in order to give me time to calm down and formulate a reasonable response.
Andrew: And what’s your response to, “I gave birth to you and you never loved me!”
Me: “Well, not NEVER.”
Andrew: Oh, I’m sorry. You just lost your inheritance. Now it goes to me.
Me: Shit, wait. Okay. “AHHHHHH…the power of love…is a curious thing…make-a one man weep, make another man sing…” I’m sorry you feel that way, mom. It works!
Andrew: Of course it does. I do it all the time. Not with stupid songs, though.
Me: What are you talking about? You don’t need no credit card to ride this train.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I mean happy holidays blahbittyblah.

Thursday, or Why I Spent The Night In A Best Freakin’ Western

I hope that The People Who Run Boston are more embarrassed than the time they mistook a neon blinking sign promoting a show on the Cartoon Network for a bomb. A few friends in neighboring states assumed it had to be a blizzard causing all the commotion on Thursday: “Heard about the snow! You guys okay?” Yeah, fine, cough, thanks. But, um, it wasn’t a blizzard. We got something like, what, 8 inches? It was sheer stupidity. When the governor tells everyone in the state to leave work at the exact same time, ridiculousness ensues.

When I first got on 128 I sucked it up, inching along, texting friends and assuming the traffic would break at some point because it always does. Then people started calling into radio shows with their horror stories (two hours to drive a mile! ran out of gas! windshield wipers broke!) and it became clear that nobody was going anywhere. Ever, it appeared. Seriously, I almost put a down payment on the ramp for exit 31B. Come visit anytime, you can’t miss it.

It took me three hours to drive seven miles, and a lot of other people had it much worse than me. Even at that point, though, I wasn’t even close to halfway home. I was also thoroughly rattled, especially when it got dark, and that’s probably saying something considering I’ve been a New England driver my whole life (the second half of it, anyway). The visibility was beyond shit (that’s one step below “poor”) and no one was in any particular lane because you couldn’t really tell where the lanes were. Cars were randomly abandoned all over the highway (did you ever fathom a time that you’d stop your car and GET OUT on 128?) and you couldn’t see them until you were practically on top of them. And when you tried to go around them, there was still THAT GUY behind you who tried to take it as an opportunity to pass you. I’ve flipped that guy off many a time but never had the reaction of just wanting to cry into my mittens out of frustration.

It was around that time, with a quarter tank of gas and a bladder that wanted to know when and for what reason I had turned on it, that I decided to get off the fucking highway. I had to put on my hazards and hope that the good people coming up behind me on the right would just assume I was about to break down and let me go, because I couldn’t even see whether or not they were giving me room or riding my ass.

When I got out of the Papa Gino’s ladies room, which I will now always think of as a tiny piece of nirvana in the town of Bedford, I got word that they had closed the portion of 128 that I needed to be on because a tractor trailer had jackknifed. Okay then. I looked up and saw…the Christmas star. Actually, a Best Western. And that’s where I spent the night. They had available rooms, food, and underground parking, and that was all I needed to know.

Once I checked in, I went to the bar before I went to my room, if that’s telling you anything. The general manager was filling in as bartender because the regular guy couldn’t make it there, and pretty soon the place was filled with people, all locals like me in the exact same boat. We made a group trip to the convenience store across the street to buy toothbrushes, then went back to the hotel, got drunk and watched the SNL Christmas special. What else could you do? Ultimately I was glad I got off the road; my cousin has a similar commute as mine and it took him six hours. I mean, if I had to do it over again I’d have called in sick that day stayed at work until late, but given the circumstances, my somewhat seedy and utterly surreal detour was a small price to pay for relative sanity. ($99, not including tax, to be exact.)

I went to work on Friday wearing the same clothes that I wore on Thursday, and no makeup, but then made matters worse by telling everyone exactly that when they asked about my journey, wide-eyed like I was Moses; most of them live within a mile or two of the school. And although I felt like a homeless person, everyone told me they’d never know the difference. Hmmm. Either they were being kind or I’m putting too much effort for naught into my regular morning routine.

P.S. Supergirl left work early and made it home before any snow had fallen. Of course she did. Granted, she’s seven months pregnant, so I can’t exactly begrudge her not wanting to mess around with inclement weather. But I mean, of course the only person more efficient than Supergirl is Superbaby.

Thanks

Life has been crazy in general and Thanksgiving didn’t go well. For that reason I think it’s more important than ever to cornball out and remember what I’m thankful for.

My family, which is in the midst of a lot of crappiness and instability right now, but we’ll get through it and be better for it. Well, that, or I’ll snorkel in chardonnay and wait for the sweet release of death.

The four members of my not-really-my-family-but-basically-my-family, who have always been hugely important to me, but especially lately.

My friends, who are so awesome that sometimes, like tonight, I don’t know what I did to deserve them. Especially one in particular. I’m not sure how I got so lucky as to find her.

My job, which has been insane, but the plus side to that has been that my normally stoic boss is heaping me with praise. I’m enjoying it while it lasts.

My front right tire, which went flat on Wednesday in the parking lot of work, and not on the highway.

My school principal, who threw his tie over his shoulder and changed it so that I didn’t have to wait for Triple A. (A gesture that, unbeknownst to him, will earn him a tin of Crate and Barrel sea salt caramels when he gets to his desk Monday morning. I’ll talk more about those morsels of unspeakable deliciousness at a later date. A friend reminded me that I once described them as Jesus in candy form, but that’s a little tacky and clearly not something that would ever come out of my mouth.)

My checking account, which has not been hurting for awhile thanks to all the extra work.

My upcoming third date with a boy I might really like. (Although I’m a little afraid that he’ll end up being a serial killer because I wrote about it here.)

My La Mer body cream, Benefit’s Mr. Frosty which is the makeup equivalent of a full night’s sleep, and the fact that a friend recently told me that I’ve perfected the smoky eye. (I may be having a cheesy moment, but I’m still the same materialistic, superficial girl that I usually am.)

(Bonus: The fact that my dad once looked at a La Mer display at Bloomingdale’s and, while I swooned and slathered it all over me, said, “What’s lamer?”)

My blog, which is a blasty blast to write, and that you are kind enough to read.

My bed, which I’m about to crawl into and not come out of for 12 hours. Which of course means that I will not be there when Kohl’s opens at FOUR IN THE MORNING. What the eff, people?

Cry For Help

A random sampling of the crap that’s strewn around my office at home: Aveda carribean therapy body scrub, CDs (Liz Phair, Kings of Convenience, The Innocence Mission, and an old boyfriend’s demo from 2001), books books books, lamps, suitcases, and a Rosacea: Are You At Risk? pamphlet, presumably from a dermatologist. And a MILLION OTHER THINGS.

This room is out of control and has been for-freakin-ever. I don’t know where to start. I suspect there’s a lot that can be thrown out, but mostly I just see Things That I Don’t Know What The Hell To Do With, like a perfectly good clock radio or a purse somebody gave me that I don’t like. God, I’m turning into one of those people, aren’t I? They’ll be digging me out of here someday with the jaws of life.

Funny enough I’m actually pretty organized in most other areas of life. I just let this one spot become completely out of control. It’s to the point now where it’s totally distracting and unnerving and too much time has gone by and I’m just not doing anything about it. I’ve had friends who have tried to just organize the room for me, or at least clear a path, and have reinforced the idea that, yes, most of the stuff is crap that I should just throw away, particularly if I haven’t needed it or missed it for two years. But, but… but! Maybe I’ll need it someday! And how do you just throw away a framed picture you had in your first apartment or a pin that says “Dated The Groom”? Okay, the first step is admitting you have a problem.

Any born organizers who can offer suggestions? Or tough love-distributors who can encourage me to take advantage of this long weekend and STOP PROCRASTINATING ALREADY?

Even the word “procrastinating” makes me want to lie down and take a delightful nap. I have a sickness, people.

FAQ For The Single Girl

Hi guys. It’s me, Red, your date for Wednesday night. I’m sorry for not giving you a Friday or Saturday like you asked. But until I know whether or not you’re going to talk like a Muppet or try to lick the back of my throat, I gotta reserve primetime for my friends. Anyway, you seem to have a lot of questions for me, and I feel like the answers that I’ve been giving have been a little dull. So I figured I’d give you this list of Frequently Asked Questions and let you decide if you’d like the date to continue or not. If you want, you can hit me up when you’re done. I’ll be at the bar.

Him: So what are you looking for in a relationship?
Me: I’m looking for the kind of guy that I can sit with in an awkward silence and then finally I’d clear my throat and he’d say, “What was that?” and I’d say, “What was what?” and he’d say, “Oh, I thought you said something,” and I’d say, “Oh, no, I just cleared my throat,” and he’d say, “Oh.”

Him: So do you have a type?
Me: No, not really. I find that once I get to know someone and enjoy their personality, they become much more attractive to… okay, I can’t even keep a straight face for this one, I’m sorry. I like guys who are six feet or taller and look like they should be linebackers. This means I like bouncers. Bartenders, too. Also firemen. God, I’m like obsessed with firemen. The other day I was at work and the fire alarm went off and the first thing I thought was, “YES!” Seriously. I didn’t think, “Save the children.” It was like, “Number one, put on lip gloss. Number two, don’t worry kids, you’ll see mommy and daddy again someday in heaven.” Anyway, I realize this is probably weird for you because you said you’re five foot eight, which really means you’re five foot six, by the way, we’re onto you, and you have the build of an Ethiopian child getting by on a bag of rice that costs seven cents a day. Incidentally, I’d like to know where they buy their fucking rice, because the Near East brand that I like goes for at least a few bucks and it only lasts for a meal or two, maybe only one if you’re cooking for more than two people. So anyway, don’t feel too bad about yourself, because it’s not like I rule guys out because they’re not my exact physical type. I’ve dated plenty of guys who aren’t big and tall. I just don’t like to have sex with them. In fact, I have a special title for them: Guys I Went Out With Once. No, I’m kidding. If we hit it off, sometimes I call them Friends. I jest, seriously. I’m a jokester. At the end of the day, I know I’ll probably end up with a dancing hairless midget just so all my friends can be like, “Ha ha, remember when you used to like real men?” So, you know, there’s always a chance for you. I mean, it’s really, really small. We’re talking like “shot in hell” territory, but still. You can hope for it. Hope is a beautiful thing.

Him: I have a dog. Do you like dogs?
Me: Gah, fuck me. No, I mean, that’s great. That’s fine. Dogs are just another one of God’s beautiful creatures. I would never say that I hate dogs. Some of my closest friends have… no, okay, fine, I fucking hate them. I don’t want to hurt them or anything, don’t get me wrong. We coexist peacefully. But my whole thing is that they can’t, well, they can’t wipe their asses, you know? So basically it’s like having a naked person who has never wiped their ass in their entire life climbing all over you and your furniture. And you have to feed them and clean them but when you get older they don’t return the favor. And don’t even get me started on cats.

Him: So do you like your job?
Me: Yeah. I mean, sure. I like it in the way that I like wrinkle cream, you know? Since I need it I’m glad that I have it, but I’d really prefer a world where the need for it didn’t exist. I’d also prefer a world where the lady at the fucking discount liquor store didn’t look at me and then not ask for my license even though there’s a ginormous sign right next to my head that says, “IF YOU LOOK UNDER 30 WE MUST ASK FOR YOUR IDENTIFICATION.” So basically she’s taking $15 of my money, giving me a subpar shiraz, and calling me a hag with her EYES. Bitch.

Him: So what would be your perfect day?
Me: My answer is supposed to involve a hike, right? Or a picnic? Fuck that. So, okay. I wake up because my phone rings. It’s someone calling to tell me that work is closed for the day. No, wait, it’s just closed for me because I’ve been working so hard that they’re giving me the day off. In fact, they’ve named the day in my honor. I turn over to shut off my alarm clock and see that Jason Varitek is asleep next to me. Happy Red Day! Fourteen hours later we get out of bed. I find that I’ve lost twenty pounds and gained skin pigmentation. I step into my insta-ready machine and five seconds later I’m showered, dressed, and accesorized. Also, drunk. As for the rest of the day, does it matter?

Him: So why are you single?
Me: Because it’s a lot more fun than being in a relationship. Most of the people I know who got married in their 20s are divorced or have restraining orders now. And most of the ones who didn’t seem miserable or bored out of their freakin’ skulls. And some of my single friends aren’t much better. I mean, these are bright, intelligent, funny, successful women who, with a few exceptions (and thank GOD for the exceptions) talk about their weddings as though it’ll be their passport to happiness and not a very expensive party in an uncomfortable dress after which they score copious amount of Crate and Barrel flatware, which is something to consider, I admit. I mean, I know that life isn’t a fucking variety show. I’d like to meet someone, and all the stuff that eventually goes with that. But I guess I never really understood why there’s such a rush to give up being young and having fun for sitting on a couch with some guy who is nice enough but who you basically need to hand cue cards to in order to engage in a semi-intelligent conversation. I hope I end up with a guy on the couch, don’t get me wrong, but the ones who have auditioned for the job so far haven’t exactly made the cut. And I’ve said it before, no hard feelings, best wishes for continued success, I hope they dance. But in the meantime I’d rather actually enjoy my life than lament the lack of someone I probably haven’t even met yet who isn’t going to make me deliriously happy unless I was happy before I met him. I mean, um. Why am I single? The leprosy, I guess. I find that it really hinders me sometimes.

I Understand That You Have A Curriculum To Follow, But “Sarah Plain and Tall” Sucks As Much Ass Now As It Did 20 Years Ago

Here’s what: I’m not going to make it in the public schools. I love that I decided to work in one right after grad school. There are a lot of things to like about this kind of work. It’s grassroots, in a way; you’re in the trenches and here’s a kid and he needs help right now. A lot of people who do my job and work for hospitals or clinics spend all their time diagnosing kids and writing twenty page reports that the parents then slide across the table to me, palms upturned, because they don’t know what the hell any of it means. I like that there’s no ivory tower in my job. And of course, the kids are awesome and hilarious every day. But most importantly, I can wear hoodies to work.

At the same time, schools are schools. The great teachers are, well, great, and make anything seem possible. The bad ones still complain incessantly, use photocopied workbook pages to “teach,” and run out the door at 3. I’m lucky enough to have amazingly fantastically smart coworkers, who are hysterical and lots of fun to boot. But none of that stuff is even a factor anymore, really. At the end of the day I’m just stretched too thin and I’m not able to do my job the way that I want to. Trust me, I know everyone’s stretched too thin at work; I’m not one of those “I’m just SO BUSY” bellyachers. In general I’m one to just get ‘er done and not complain about my caseload, which is why my boss reacted with wide eyes today when I told her that I’m maxed out.

The past couple months have just helped me realize that it’s time to move onto something else. For awhile I was thinking that I’d eventually be an elementary school principal, but that would require teaching regular ed for awhile and I’m not sure I want to do that. As much as I love the kids, I don’t really see myself as a classroom teacher. Now I’m leaning more toward being a director of an early education program somewhere. And I’d like to teach some grad school classes in speech pathology, which is really where my heart is (and my master’s). What can I say, I love talking.

Of course, I’m still in my school job until June. I’m starting to consider other options, but I’ll never regret starting where I did. Especially when I leave and that $15,000 pension goes right into Sephora my savings account.

Turkey With A Side Of Batshit Insane

Two of my family members have been circling each other in the ring for a few weeks, and it finally culminated in a huge fight on Monday. I’ve since heard from both of them and have tried to be as neutral as possible, which, I know, is totally annoying for the person who’s angry. You want the person that you’re venting to to sympathize and validate your feelings, but it’s awkward to be caught between two people who mean so much to me, and I’m not sure what to say to either of them. It doesn’t help that they’re accusing each other of acting the same way, even using some of the same words to describe each other. I’ve heard “unbalanced” and “sick” a few times, and they each think that the other one needs to be medicated. At this point I’d be happy to pick up prescriptions for both of them.

It reminds me of that scene in Scream when two of Neve Campbell’s guy friends run up to her, each of them shouting at the same time, trying to convince her that the other one is the actual killer, and she finally says “Fuck you both” and slams the door. (I just watched that movie on Sunday, if that helps you understand why the hell I referenced it.)

To a point, I can see where both of them are coming from because both of them have handled this whole thing poorly. Neither of them are very mature when it comes to managing conflict in general, although I feel bad saying that because managing conflict maturely is very difficult. It’s tough to rely on logic when you’re furious and hurt, and it’s easier for someone who isn’t directly involved to see the whole thing clearly. I get that.

I should clarify that one of the people involved isn’t technically in my family, but she’s been like family for a long time. The other person involved is my mom, who told me today that by continuing a relationship with the non-family person that I’m being disloyal. She wants me to end my relationship with a woman who’s been like a sister to me, her husband, and her two kids (both of whom, by the way, are my parents’ godchildren). Bam. Emotional blackmail, anyone?

Honestly, though, it’s been hard for me to get behind my mom, and I feel guilty for even saying that. I love her, of course, and there are lots of great things about her. But her issues have only gotten worse and more exagerrated over the years. I usually just back down from any kind of conflict with her because it’s never worth it. All it takes is a quick flip of the switch and she becomes completely unhinged.

Here’s an example that illustrates it pretty succinctly, I think: A few weeks ago she told me that I needed to cut my hair because I “need a real hairstyle” because I’m “not 21 anymore.” I chose my words carefully, because it takes very little to set her off. I told her that what she said hurt my feelings and that I did, indeed, have a real hairstyle, even if it wasn’t the one she wanted me to have. She proceeded to yell, hang up on me, and then send several emails telling me how cruel I am and that it’s a huge mistake for me to kick her out of my life. Yeah. So you can see why I avoid conflict with her at any cost.

So, now, an ultimatum of sorts. I can’t help but think that the person who makes you choose sides in a situation like this isn’t concerned with you at all; they’re just being selfish and childish. I’m not going to terminate any relationships, and I can already guess what adjectives my mom will throw at me when she finds that out. That’s not even really my concern. My concern is that she seems to be getting progressively more unstable, and her behavior has been steadily chipping away at our relationship. I already feel like I have to walk on eggshells around her, and now this. Part of the problem is that I’m not one to throw down the gauntlet; I’m much more in the “can’t we all just get along?” camp. But I’m probably like that because I’ve learned that any sort of conflict between my mom and I just leads to me ultimately being blamed, so what’s the point?

Wah wah wah, mother issues, how original. I guess I just want everything to go back to being normal, although maybe it never really was. There’s always some of that, in any family. You have to pick your battles, deal with the crazy, and try to focus on the good over the bad. At least that’s what I try to do. I’m okay with relationships with family members not being perfect, because that’s too much to expect and anyway I’m nowhere near perfect myself. I’m really sad that both of these people that I love have decided that they can’t be a part of each other’s lives anymore. It will have a huge impact on everyone involved, and I hope that somehow they’ll reconsider. But at the same time I need for that issue to be between them and not involve me. I guess I just feel like I’ve had a lot of crazy thrown at me lately and I’m getting tired of dealing with other people’s neuroses.

I mean, come on, my own neuroses are being neglected here; I’ve hardly had any time to ply them with alcohol and promiscuity.

Hungry?

A lovely blogger wrote about what her last three meals would be if she were on death row. I like this assignment because it distracts me from thinking about what the hell I did to end up sentenced to death. Was it stealing from Sephora? Because I’m not sorry, you guys. I’m going down swinging.

Breakfast: The shiitake mushroom omelet from Hank’s Place in Chadds Ford, PA, with Frank’s red hot sauce, of course. And a few bites of the granola-crusted french toast from Johnny’s Luncheonette, a diner near me.

Lunch: A chocolate fribble from Friendly’s. It’s an old school favorite, and I need to save room for dinner.

Dinner: Roasted butternut and cider soup with pumpkin seed oil and creme fraiche from Sonsie, black and white truffle mac and cheese from Chillingsworth, baked goat cheese and bread from Dali, and Umbagog mud pie from The Balsams. And enough Cakebread chardonnay to make the lethal injection seem like a hiLARious way to go.