teh boys

Now, sometimes (every few fortnites or so, apparently) I actually get the urge to write something, only to find there’s no computer nearby. So I’m starting  a new segment, cleverly called “Tuesday’s Moleskine,” because I have a moleskine (it’s black and fairly ridiculous), and sometimes I need to transcibe that bitch. See: tuesday morning at the airport.


“I am currently at the gate waiting for my plane to BALTIMORE whooo-yeah!! So, at this point you may be saying out loud to your computer screen, “Tuesday, this trip is getting a little redundant. It’s hardly the first time you visit Baltimore, and I’d thank you to get a hold of your fake enthusiasm, please.” Well, that shows how much youknow, because I’m actually inordinately, inappropriately excited! Yeah! Baltimore! Totally!

 OK, to be fair a large part of that is just being away from the towering, crazystrict presence of parents who don’t make any particular distinction between twenty and thirteen years of age (not, mind you, that I feel it’s worth moving out and like, paying rent to someone, especially when I have no steady income. Life is all about figuring out your priorities, and one of my big ones is to live comfortably, as much as that’s possible. Marry up*!).

 So I’m waiting for my plane to come. It only took me, oh, twenty minutes to attract the weirdos (ok, to be fair I have taken planes, buses and so on before without attracting any weirdos at all, so I guess I’m not going to go on a whiny rant about my (probably nonexistent) ability to attract weirdos. But let’s just say that I’m very delicate looking, very thin and sinewy but rather plain looking, in terms of attractiveness, and that combination (of seeming defenselessness coupled with possible self-esteem issues) attracts a lot of weirdos a certain kind of guy. Let’s just say before I decided to Not Date the inquirers weren’t exactly Prince Charming.

So, anyway, I have just set up my laptop when a guy, a bit overweight, late thirties to late forties (can you tell I’m terrible at guessing ages?), Haitian with the heavy accent to go along, sits across from me. No problem so far. I call up my dad to ask a question, and when I hang up HaitianDude leans over and asks to borrow my cellphone.

Now, sometimes I am rather paranoid, I can admit that pretty readily. So I hesitate to answer because I am having visions of him starting to dial and then making a run for it across the airport – which I will admit makes not much sense since he’d probably be tackled by security before you can say “Hey!” But paranoia isn’t supposed to make sense, so moving on I asked first if he was calling out of state or…? No, no, he assures me, not out of state. When I ask which area code (I realize this is a bit much, but after all I wouldn’t mind answering these questions were I the one asking to use some stranger’s very expensive, new looking razor cellphone), he explains, eventually, that he’s calling Haiti. To which I said, “Oh, it’s out of country. Yes, that’s much better.” Except the much-better part was in my head. So at this point I’m about to give up the phone, despite not being very comfortable, and I ask (yes, I was full of questions, I’m a very irritating person and you probably wouldn’t want to borrow a phone from me, because I am weird about things like that) about how long he would need: five minutes, he says.

Now maybe I’m just a terrible conversationalist (maybe, ha) but this seems like an awfully long time to be on the phone. Like, that’s a whole conversation with your lawyer or dad or something, not a quick check with someone like I assumed – I mean, I was a bit taken aback because I was assuming he’d say something like “thirty seconds” or “a minute”. At this point I start hemming and hawing some more, and then Guy very nicely guesses that I really don’t want to give up the phone and says “You can say no.”

So I say, “Yeah, sorry.” And smile all apologetically and go very quickly back to my ipod and laptop, because I have the strong sensation I have been a total bitch – which frankly I don’t mind being to someone I won’t ever see again. They’ll just be like “yeah, I ran into this real bitch at the airport” and that’s the end of that. So I put on my bitch persona, complete with headphones to block out further conversation.

 All that does not make him a weirdo, frankly it makes me a bit of a weirdo, if anything. But later, when he sits right up next to me and touches my arm and says, literally, “Do you know Jesus loves you”? Yeah, that’s when he makes my weirdo list. Will now retire the word “weirdo” from this post, btw.

 I say “Yes, I know.”

And he says “Do you?”

And I was like, “Yeah, really. I really, really, know. I am Christian.” And I was tempted to fish something Catholic-y from my bag but refrained in case he would then attempt to convert me to his particular denomination. And this conversation goes on for a goddam while, too – Jesus is great, Jesus loves you, give yourself over to Jesus, yes I agree, yes I have, and so on – and maybe I would have put an end to it a bit more abruptly were I not still feeling guilty over my non-phone-lending ways. Eventually he wandered off and has accosted (or, okay, from a distance it appears to be normal conversations but you know he’s out there pimping Jesus like nobody’s business) like three people since. Also, this is why Jesus gets such a bad rap – shit representation. Christians! Be cool!

 Other stuff going on around me includes: everyone has Dunkin Donuts coffees and bagels, which makes me glad I ate a lot otherwise I’d be wasting money on terrible, overpriced donuts, and there’s the most attractive gay boy sitting in front of me. Well, okay to be fair I have no idea what he looks like from the front, but his hair is so, so beautiful, a kind of layered medium brown that waves perfectly and goes down far enough that I can barely see a bit of pale, pale neck. And he’s wearing a lovely black shirt. He is like a vampire, and totally brings out the middle-school, medium grade lust in me. Yum, such delicate shoulders. I wish he would get on the phone again so I could listen to that beautiful, lilting voice encourage someone to finish their paper. Hmmmm.



*just kidding. No, really. If I end up marrying someone more well-off than myself I’d probably end up all resentful and insecure, like I’m the asshole mechanic husband with an inferiority complex who drinks because his junior partner lawyer wife makes more than he does. It’s just terrible of me! Oh well. A girl’s got to be able to take of herself, always, even when she currently isn’t – as long the capacity to do so is there. You gotta have backup. And so on. This was a pretty long footnote.”


I never really ever got around to finishing my bloggings of last year’s trip to Baltimore, but I’m feeling good about my writing prospects this time, because

a) it’s a much longer stay, three weeks and

b) I’m spending a good part of the day doing nothing, so I actually have the time

Until later,

– Tuesday


Ok, after the post on the short personality test, I had a looksee around the rest of the site. And I found this gem: Would You Have Been A Good Wife in the 30s? Gee, I dunno, would I??? Clearly, I had to find out.


Now, I admit, when I was younger I often dreamed of living in a previous era. This was before I had to consider issues of race and class and human rights and blah blah blah progress. Dresses! yay! I wanted to write books and be a kept daughter then a housewife with ohthechildren. Which, you know, nothing wrong with that, except it turns out that’s not really me at all. I mean, I don’t know, maybe if my home situation were different I wouldn’t mind just hanging around till I was twenty-something, and if I didn’t have so many issues with the other sex (and with sex!) I’d be a little more interested in finding That Guy. But circumstances being and having been what they are, I want nothing more than to get out of this house and into a small apartment somewhere, sans parents, boyfriend, and anyone else to depend on except for a roommate.

So, would I have been a good 30s housewife? Let’s find out in the most unscientific way possible. Now, the quiz is actually a check-mark list. Let me comment on my reasoning here:

  • You would ask your husband’s opinion before making a big decision or purchase. That’s just good sense!
  • You tell risque or vulgar stories. Always. Or, occasionally. I know a couple.
  • You would often remark on your husband’s strength and masculinity. My husband would probably not be very strong or masculine, so I guess not.
  • You smoke, drink, gamble, or use drugs. No. I don’t.
  • You keep snacks in the refrigerator that a man would like for late night eating. I keep snacks in the fridge that I like. Do guys like pudding?
  • You walk around the house in your stocking feet. I had to stop here for several seconds and be uncertain about what “stocking feet” are.
  • You are not crabby first thing in the morning. You wake up with a pleasant disposition. Yes! I am a morning person, strangely enough.
  • You wear red nail polish. Never.
  • You keep yourself dainty, feminine, and smelling nice. Uh, sure.
  • You use slang or profanity. Yes.
  • You are a good seamstress. You can sew your own clothes and clothes for the children. Hahahahaha!
  • You wear your pajamas while cooking. I substituted “houseclothes” for “pajamas” and the answer was yes.
  • You Would Make an Okay 1930’s Wife
    You have some of the attributes of an ideal 1930’s wife… but you probably didn’t intend it to be that way.
    You don’t buy into retro gender roles, though you do embrace your femininity at times.
    A 1930’s man may find you passable, but you probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

    Good to know.

    Actually, the interview went pretty well. There were awkward moments, but awkwardness has followed me around since I was a babe, and we’ve become quite comfortable with each other, so I was able to breeze right by them with a smile and a barely-there shrug.

    They say you’re supposed to stay comfortable and confident during job interviews. This is of utmost importance. The only thing is I’ve been told – several times – by various people – that “comfortable” on me looks suspiciously like “indifferent” or “frigid, sarcastic bitch”. So I made an extra to appear comfy without being cold, and interested without being vapid. I won’t be bothered if I don’t get this particular job, though, because I can always shrug it off as only my first real job interview and move on breezily to the next (and the next, and next, and next).

    Here’s how the thing went down: I get to the mall. I realize I have no idea how to find the specific doors I’ve been instructed to wait at and run into the bathroom and flail privately for a few moments. Then I decided I looked better with the shirt tucked in after all, adjusted pantsuit accordingly and calmly wandered over to the only other soul in the building (that I could see, anyway), glad to have come twenty minutes early, after all. I ask him where the south doors of Generic Department Store are, and he replies intelligently with, “Uh…” Now, immediately his New York (I want to say Brooklyn, but I don’t know why so will just leave well enough alone) is obvious, and I fall a little in love. He explained that he doesn’t actually work here, and I fall a little more in love even while stepping subtly away and taking note of any exits and potential weapons. Turns out he works at a different mall and was sent here for the morning by his company, and has no idea where he is or what he’s doing. I want to pat him on the head. He points me in the direction of a woman working in a nearby store and says that’s where he’s been sending everyone with questions. I feel a little sorry for the woman.

    But she was pretty knowledgeable and sent me quickly on my way, yay. It turns out I have to wander outside to find the Mystery Doors. As I get closer, I see two young guys Dressed for Success loitering, and figure I’ve made it, and that I’m not so special after all. One guy looks me up and down, raises an eyebrow and says “South doors are on the other side.” And then promptly bursts out laughing because apparently my face did all kinds of wonderous things. I remember to try and have some kind of control over my expressions.

    Now, I was expecting to be led seriously into a quiet and overdone office where an obnoxious middle aged man would ask me ridiculous questions (actually, I didn’t even get “what’s your greatest weakness”, for which I offer thanks and a nickle to the interview gods). Instead the group of hopeful interviewees outside the Department store swelled to about eleven youngsters and an older woman before an obnoxious-looking twenty-something opened the doors and let us inside.

    We were given a speech, check-listed off, handed applications which were mostly filled out already, and sat in the restaurant to be given another speech. Then a line of managers and such came wandering in – one for the each of us – and it was just like having lunch in a real, open restaurant with a friend. Who was interviewing you. Without food. While surrounded by other people being interviewed. Still, the chatter made things feel casual and I rather liked the format.

    Mistakes I may have made include:

    – Because I had already filled out an online application and send them my resume, I figured it would be redundant to bring another one. So I didn’t. I didn’t even have a pen (which was more of an accident and a sign I should have woken up the first time the alarm went off). So I got to watch with rising apprehension as people wandered into the waiting area clutching their giant purses and their fancy, transparent folders, cursing myself. When the twenty-something left us alone for some time before the sit-down I got to awkwardly say, “Um, sorry? Does anyone happen to have a pen..?” The answer is no, no one did (which I’m not sure I would believe, but there was a general shuffling around murmuring of apologies, so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt). Once we got to the tables, though, there were pens laid out waiting, and they never did ask for my resume or anything else so – ha, suckers. I win. Then I spoiled my win by accidentally stealing the pen they had provided when the interview was over, thinking we were only moving somewhere else and that I might need it. I know this was a mistake because my interviewer (who was a girl, score) looked at me a bit oddly when I took it.

    – A few of my answers to situational questions stretched reality. Nothing unbelievable, and I rather left it all a bit vague (which I know was a mistake in and of itself, because they want you to be specific, even if you’ve only worked for a couple of months near three years ago and don’t have any goddamn examples of that particular situation). I prefaced all my lies slight exaggerations with “Um. Let me think…”

    – My application says I’m applying to be a table busser. *headdesk* This happened a few weeks ago. I did apply to be a busser, yes, but I had planned to also apply to cashier and sales positions, and then Baltimore came up (much more about that later!) and I never got around to it. Fortunately, they did ask what other departments I was interested in, and I was quick to list children’s wear, women’s wear and yayjewlery.

    All in all, it went OK, I believe. I even remembered to smile and make eye contact and be at ease in general. The main thing I kept in mind though, as it occurred to me late last night, is that I’m simply a girl, a rather nice girl who will work for whomever she works for, and that all of my would-be interviewers, supervisors and co-workers are themselves only boys or girls or men and women of perhaps a little more experience but probably not too much more intelligence or goodness or whatever else it is that makes me rather intimidated by people sometimes. I had spent the night before looking at interview questions, answers and tips, and then decided that I would completely ignore all of that in favor of acting natural. The one piece of advice I liked was this: you are also interviewing them. Which I took to mean, “hey! department store! it’s not all about you!” I figure into this somehow too, not just as a tool used to stock merchandise, but as a (rather wonderful and witty) human being who wants to make some money and get along in life. Who’s looking also for the job that’s right for her. If they truly believe I’m too soft-spoken or not quite fashionable enough, then why in the world would I want to work there anyway – to have to pretend to be rather louder or more fashionable than I really am every day? Best to just let it go, then.


    Finally bought our mother’s day presents this morning! I say “our” because I’m buying on behalf of myself, my dad and my little sister, in exchange for not having to spend my own money. It’s a fair deal, I guess, and after all, if we’re going to be honest, I wouldn’t trust either of them with picking out a gift even if they had such an inclination.

     I found a tablecloth perfect for our stylishly rustic kitchen, marked down from fifty dollars to fifteen (!). It’s pretty and I’m pretty damned pleased with myself. My mother’s been discontened with the one we have for a while now, because it’s ugly and plastic and holey and permanently dirty-looking. 

     Then I wandered around for an hour or so of confused indecision, and I had a giant cinnamon pretzel. I usually have a cinabon, but the girl at the counter was kind of rude to me, and the the pretzel boy was so nice. In his little apron and his twelve-year-old haircut and guileless smile. And, he gave me like fifteen napkins, and so was obviously utterly and hopelessly in love with me. I mean, obviously. I’m not saying that he wasn’t nice to everyone in line; just that I put a spell on him and now he’s mine. The pretzel was also surprisingly good. Mmm, pretzel. Mmm, eye candy. 

    Later on, I bought these slipper-like things – well, the box calls them booties but that makes me think of babies and…I don’t want to think of my mom as a giant, forty-something baby. It disturbs me, frankly. The slippers are supposed massage and soothe your feet. I had to dig through thirty boxes to find one that was brown, and not pink or blue (again, with the baby theme!), and they cost about twenty dollars, marked down from some mystery price I never found out.


    I wanted to end this post, but I felt like it was incomplete somehow. I sat there puzzling over what was missing for a few minutes before realizing it was – the lack of pictures! I’ve become addicted to having picatures accompany every post. So I ran out and took some.

    These are the…slippers.

    This is our dining-crook, with the plastic cover thing we have now. It looks worse in person, I think. It’s torn and stuff.

    And the new tablecloth:

    In person it looks really nice. Textured, like. Ooh, quality.

    The picture of how it’s supposed to look on an actual table:

    Fits in with our crook, right? Right?? As soon as I got to the store I obviously completely forgot what our home looks like. It’s hard to tell from the pictures, but both kitchen and cloth have a kind of soft, worn, rustic feel to them. *shrug* Well, it’s returnable, anyway.


    I’m trying to figure out what sort of future you have planned out where being elected into student government office is of any importance whatsoever. All the future law office assistants, I guess, are out in full today. I was assaulted twice today by the vote-for-me crowd (three times, if you want to count the just-plain-vote people. And they were pretty annoying, so I do). The first table tackled me outside the library. The actual candidate was nowhere to be seen, even though her name is really stupid and she should hang around to defend it, but she’s put what looks like her grandmother and younger brother to work for her, so, ok. I got a sticker slapped on my chest (which may have really been an issue! Had I any boobs to speak of at all. Still, kind of rude). And a giant flyer. And a bagel offer (which I turned down, because, ew, bagels). And a tiny little lollipop which was actually enough to fully placate me. I even took off the sticker discretely and didn’t throw the flyer away till I rounded a corner.

    The second group didn’t even have any foodstuffs to offer. What the fuck is that? Also, I suspect the guy running is more joking around than anything, because his card says “the future is now!” and that can’t really be said seriously, can it? Still, he was there. And very tall. And kinda pretty. And he had a cute sort of smile when he said “vote for me?” “visit my website?” Not that I’m going to vote for him, even if it is a big joke, which would be great. Still, when I walked away I tucked the card into my pocket. Because I’m a big slut.

    Got our midterms back from bio lab, and I began giggling uncontrollably when I saw I had passed – with a high B that may become an A, no less. I was so resigned to a D – if I was lucky – that I must have gone into some sort of nervous shock. Don’t worry though, I’m pretty sure I didn’t come off as insane. Just obnoxiously smug.

    S’all good, tho’.

    And now, I love the T.A. even more than I did before. I just want to bundle him up in blankets and feed him cookies and chocolate milk forever. And no, that isn’t supposed to be dirty at all. This was seriously the most leniently graded anything I’ve ever seen. Which is good for me, but damn, I hope his supervisor doesn’t check up on what he’s doing. Questions that should have been marked wrong were given half and quarter points instead. Hell, questions that were marked wrong were then amended to half points, as though he felt sorry for students suffering through an exam they obviously did not study for.

    Then I wandered outside and saw it was raining thought “Oh, time for my car crash” because I get a ride with Patricia on tuesdays and Patricia is eighteen and, apparently, a real fan of speed regardless – I had the pleasure of discovering last week – the weather or driving conditions.

    Patricia and I had a lovely conversation in the car.

    “Damn,” she said as we passed the elementary school, “I hate school zones. I hate them, man.”

    Of course she does. “Oh,” is what I said outloud.

    “Last week I got a ticket here. I wasn’t even going that fast. These school zones are so stupid, you know? They make you go too slow!”

    “Oh.” I said. And then added, “The police don’t have much to do around here. They give a lot of speeding tickets.” Which was true enough, and I gave her some slack because the speed limit was fifteen miles and pretty frustrating.

    “I got a big-ass ticket.” She said.

    “How fast were you going?”

    “Like twenty miles.”


    “Yeah, I wasn’t even going that fast. I was going like twenty-eight miles.”


    “Yeah, it sucks. I’m always getting tickets. I’ve gotten like, three tickets before, you know? Always for speeding.” I was shocked, obviously. After all, we had only nearly-died five times in the three times I’ve driven with her.

    “The thing is,” she continued as we turned onto the main street, a twelve lane monstrosity, “I hate driving. You know?” I don’t have a driver’s licence, so I really don’t, but let her go on, “I hate it, man. Like, it makes me angry. Seriously, I get, like, serious road rage.”

    “People don’t go fast enough?” I guessed.

    “Yeah! Like, I just want to get where I’m going, you know?”

    And then she began texting someone. So I just watched the rain beat on the windshield for a while.

    In other news, I got a call back today from that store I’d been debating applying to – I sent the resume yesterday. I was in class and missed the call though. There was no message. And no email. I’m not sure I like how quickly they got back to me; I need time, people! There’s supposed to be at least a day or two of silence so I can wonder whether I had the wrong address, whether they had thrown my resume in the (virtual) trash and would never call ever, ect.. Whatevs. I’ll make a note to dress decently tomorrow in case I have to drop by or something. And I’m reminded again why I hate working. If only I didn’t love money so much.