So I didn't die via a horrific U-haul accident. However, that does not mean my life has not been in mortal peril since then. I'm pretty sure I could've died yesterday...yet this time it would not have been in the name of female empowerment and independence (we'll pretend thats the real reason I opted to drive the Uhaul instead of admitting its because I'm cheap and stubborn)
Nope. This time it was a direct result of the always dangerous combination of friendly taunting by my peers and my own sheer curiosity that prompted me to try oysters. Now, I like food but I wouldn't consider myself a foodie by any means so my background knowledge on oysters was limited at best. Needless to say, I was more than a bit concerned when the plate arrived. Luckily, I got a quick tutorial on both how to eat them and the myriad of things you can put on them. (this should've been my first indication that I was in for a bumpy ride...if you need to put 19 different things on it to make it taste good, that's not a good sign)
So after my lesson in Oyster Eating 101, I had a loaded up, ready to go down the hatch oyster and 3 people staring at me in anticipation. No one ever wants other people watching them eat...especially something you have to slurp out of a shell but it had to be done so after several attempts (resulting in several instances of me chickening out), I finally just went for it.
ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I could try and come up for a colorful, adjective-ridden description for both how it tasted and how I felt about it...but I just don't know if words would really suffice. So for now, I'm sticking with ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I swore to myself I would never eat that again. I'd check it off my food list, pat myself on the back for being open to new things and then NEVER do it AGAIN...And, in true friend fashion, this is when the taunting begins.
"you can't just try one, Marie". All eyes are once again on me. I pretty much just got the adult version of "I double dog dare you" and the stubborn Irish side of me felt the need to rise to the occasion. So, like an idiot, I tried it again.
ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well I've done it twice and now, seriously, I will NEVER do it again...
"No Marie, its three strikes then you're out. You gotta do one more"- No way I don't think so
"I will pay you 20 bucks to eat another one"- No way I don't think so
"I will pay for your drinks for the rest of the day"- free alcohol for the day? hmmmm I guess I could manage just one more...
ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. In case you're curious, they do not taste any better the third time around either. All in all, I did learn a few things from this new food experience. My gag reflexes work expertly and were fully functioning by round 3. Also if the food you are about to ingest looks like a giant pile of goo in a shell and you have to cover it in 900 mystery sauces to make it edible its probably a no-go and lastly, and perhaps most importantly...make sure that you delete the pictures taken of you mid oyster-induced gagging.
Because if a picture is worth a thousand words, the ones taken of me are only worth one...and its ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I hate moving
The title is pretty self-explanatory. I hate moving. and yet, I'm doing it...AGAIN. It's been a little over a year since I made the BIG move from Florida back to New England. I settled into this apartment and swore I wouldn't move again for at least two years.
ooohhhhh self, you should've known better. You've moved every year since you started college many moons ago, why would this be any different?
So once again, I am packing my shit into boxes (and I have entirely WAY WAY WAAAAAY too much shit) and getting ready to move on Thursday...however, I do think this move will be different than previous years because I am not moving in/out of a dorm, I am not moving to a new state or even a new town. Oh no, I'm simply moving to a new street....2 streets away to be precise. While this may seem ideal to some and trust me, I'm super excited to be staying in my neighborhood, it's going to be the biggest pain in the butt I've ever experienced. for several reasons.
For those of you who are familiar with Boston, particularly the North End, we have a delightful summer tradition of "feast". Every weekend the masses flock to Hanover St to worship one Saint or another (and by worship I mean close down the largest street in the neighborhood in order to set up 93840923498324 fried dough, pasta and sausage carts while greasy Italian men from nearby suburbs try to hock all the cheap crap they couldn't sell at the flea markets). So, in true Marie-luck fashion, feast happens to start while I'm moving meaning Hanover St will be closed and the neighborhood will be ridiculously overrun with tourists, hardcore Italians and other general pains in the asses. Problem numero uno.
Problem numero dos lies in the actual apartment set ups. Holding near and dear to old school Boston architecture, both my current dwelling space and new digs feature spiral, walk-up staircases...and I do NOT live on the first floor (or the second for that matter). Have you ever tried shoving a couch down three flights of winding stairs only to bring it right back up a second set of winding stairs in a new building? When I moved in last time, my box spring was so jammed that we had to saw it in half and then re-bracket it back together once it was in my bedroom.
Problem numero tres is probably the most hilarious yet potentially fatally dangerous situation of them all. I looked to hire professional movers, however in reference to problem #1 and problem #2 it was going to cost me a small fortune to get someone to help me...and being the stubborn Irish shopaholic that I am, I just couldn't imagine parting with that much money for something that I've done so many times before. So I rented a U-haul instead....this is where the hilarity may or may not ensue. Being freshly single and moving mid-week, many of the strapping young men I would usually rely on are not available to help. I have enlisted the help of some gentlemen with muscles but they are meeting my roommate and I at our apartment. This means Jenny and I will be picking up the Uhaul and driving it to my apartment by ourselves. Now I realize many of you do not know me well. I suck at driving. a lot. I'm very much a fan of the words "oops", "shit", and "oh wow I didn't even see that there"....and this is when I'm driving my Toyota...not a 14 foot moving truck down the smallest, narrowest, winding-est (is that a word?) streets in the city of Boston. I'm contemplating leaving flyers on all my neighbors cars instructing them to park somewhere else for the day or else cross their fingers and say a prayer.
Needless to say this move is going to be horrible...but the end result will all be worth it. I will be gaining a new roommate, a much nicer apartment (heat included yaaay!) and be able to start saving money for the grad school I'm so desperately trying for...
stay tuned I will try and update this weekend post-move....if I'm not in jail for several hit-and-runs around the North End area. or dead.
ooohhhhh self, you should've known better. You've moved every year since you started college many moons ago, why would this be any different?
So once again, I am packing my shit into boxes (and I have entirely WAY WAY WAAAAAY too much shit) and getting ready to move on Thursday...however, I do think this move will be different than previous years because I am not moving in/out of a dorm, I am not moving to a new state or even a new town. Oh no, I'm simply moving to a new street....2 streets away to be precise. While this may seem ideal to some and trust me, I'm super excited to be staying in my neighborhood, it's going to be the biggest pain in the butt I've ever experienced. for several reasons.
For those of you who are familiar with Boston, particularly the North End, we have a delightful summer tradition of "feast". Every weekend the masses flock to Hanover St to worship one Saint or another (and by worship I mean close down the largest street in the neighborhood in order to set up 93840923498324 fried dough, pasta and sausage carts while greasy Italian men from nearby suburbs try to hock all the cheap crap they couldn't sell at the flea markets). So, in true Marie-luck fashion, feast happens to start while I'm moving meaning Hanover St will be closed and the neighborhood will be ridiculously overrun with tourists, hardcore Italians and other general pains in the asses. Problem numero uno.
Problem numero dos lies in the actual apartment set ups. Holding near and dear to old school Boston architecture, both my current dwelling space and new digs feature spiral, walk-up staircases...and I do NOT live on the first floor (or the second for that matter). Have you ever tried shoving a couch down three flights of winding stairs only to bring it right back up a second set of winding stairs in a new building? When I moved in last time, my box spring was so jammed that we had to saw it in half and then re-bracket it back together once it was in my bedroom.
Problem numero tres is probably the most hilarious yet potentially fatally dangerous situation of them all. I looked to hire professional movers, however in reference to problem #1 and problem #2 it was going to cost me a small fortune to get someone to help me...and being the stubborn Irish shopaholic that I am, I just couldn't imagine parting with that much money for something that I've done so many times before. So I rented a U-haul instead....this is where the hilarity may or may not ensue. Being freshly single and moving mid-week, many of the strapping young men I would usually rely on are not available to help. I have enlisted the help of some gentlemen with muscles but they are meeting my roommate and I at our apartment. This means Jenny and I will be picking up the Uhaul and driving it to my apartment by ourselves. Now I realize many of you do not know me well. I suck at driving. a lot. I'm very much a fan of the words "oops", "shit", and "oh wow I didn't even see that there"....and this is when I'm driving my Toyota...not a 14 foot moving truck down the smallest, narrowest, winding-est (is that a word?) streets in the city of Boston. I'm contemplating leaving flyers on all my neighbors cars instructing them to park somewhere else for the day or else cross their fingers and say a prayer.
Needless to say this move is going to be horrible...but the end result will all be worth it. I will be gaining a new roommate, a much nicer apartment (heat included yaaay!) and be able to start saving money for the grad school I'm so desperately trying for...
stay tuned I will try and update this weekend post-move....if I'm not in jail for several hit-and-runs around the North End area. or dead.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sorry for the lack of posts and updates lately. With school out for the summer, my routines have all gone out the window and trust me, this blog isn't the only thing that has felt the effects...my wallet and diet have as well (too many summer nights spent at the bars equals way too much time spent eating late night pizza which, consequently, leads to too many mornings spent in bed hungover, of course correlating directly with too little time spent in the gym)
can you see how well all the GRE studying is paying off?
can you see how well all the GRE studying is paying off?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
G.R.E is the devil
I'm a big dork.
I love going to school. I really miss being in college...and not just because its totally acceptable to get black out drunk on a Tuesday night or create a diet plan based solely on Ramen Noodles, McDonalds and cheese pizza. I miss college because I *gasp* enjoyed the classes.
Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't love all of them and I had my fair share of skipped afternoons and strolling in late, but for the most part I generally enjoyed learning "stuff".
Being in the education field, many of my professors told me it's best to wait on grad school until you have some field experience so you have some actual knowledge to back up all the crap in the book. So it's been a few years and it's time to roll out the red carpet for graduate school.
However, before I can picture myself submerged in the wonderful world of learning, Starbucks in hand, cute new academic wardrobe squarly set, I must overcome a couple obstacles.
Getting in being one. Taking the GRE being the other.
and this is where the whole "G.R.E. is the devil" idea comes into play.
I've been putting this test off for roughly 6 months now and I finally bit the bullet and registered for the end of August. This gives me approximately 2 months to study...so being being the stubborn and set-in-my-ways self that I am, I ignorantly skipped off to Borders to pick up some study books.
$59.95 later, I walked out with my two study guides the size of phonebooks, still feeling confident in my skills.
Until I opened the first one and tried to do the practice test...
holy.mother.of.hell. I. am. screwed.
16+ years of classes, exams and study sessions and I felt like a first grader studying for this.
So needless to say, the next two months will not be filled with visions of cardigans, corduroy and latte's on campus...instead, it will be filled with moments of absolute sheer panic, stress lines and random episodes of head banging against the table at the local starbucks.
stay tuned!
I love going to school. I really miss being in college...and not just because its totally acceptable to get black out drunk on a Tuesday night or create a diet plan based solely on Ramen Noodles, McDonalds and cheese pizza. I miss college because I *gasp* enjoyed the classes.
Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't love all of them and I had my fair share of skipped afternoons and strolling in late, but for the most part I generally enjoyed learning "stuff".
Being in the education field, many of my professors told me it's best to wait on grad school until you have some field experience so you have some actual knowledge to back up all the crap in the book. So it's been a few years and it's time to roll out the red carpet for graduate school.
However, before I can picture myself submerged in the wonderful world of learning, Starbucks in hand, cute new academic wardrobe squarly set, I must overcome a couple obstacles.
Getting in being one. Taking the GRE being the other.
and this is where the whole "G.R.E. is the devil" idea comes into play.
I've been putting this test off for roughly 6 months now and I finally bit the bullet and registered for the end of August. This gives me approximately 2 months to study...so being being the stubborn and set-in-my-ways self that I am, I ignorantly skipped off to Borders to pick up some study books.
$59.95 later, I walked out with my two study guides the size of phonebooks, still feeling confident in my skills.
Until I opened the first one and tried to do the practice test...
holy.mother.of.hell. I. am. screwed.
16+ years of classes, exams and study sessions and I felt like a first grader studying for this.
So needless to say, the next two months will not be filled with visions of cardigans, corduroy and latte's on campus...instead, it will be filled with moments of absolute sheer panic, stress lines and random episodes of head banging against the table at the local starbucks.
stay tuned!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
just a few things
Sorry I haven't posted in awhile- life's a bit hectic at the moment....
but two things that caught my attention:
1. the scandal at Gloucester High School- 17 girls pregnant in one school!? yikes.
2. I'm a notorious CNN.com stalker and they had a story about a man who lost 80 lbs eating just McDonalds and only two words come to mind: Not Fair.
I'll be back soon to write a real blog so don't stop checking in! :)
but two things that caught my attention:
1. the scandal at Gloucester High School- 17 girls pregnant in one school!? yikes.
2. I'm a notorious CNN.com stalker and they had a story about a man who lost 80 lbs eating just McDonalds and only two words come to mind: Not Fair.
I'll be back soon to write a real blog so don't stop checking in! :)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
you're so vaaaaiiinnn....
hooray for me I started working out again.
and I have to make a confession. I'm really ridiculously vain while I'm at the gym.
However, I promise you there is a rhyme and reason to this. its not purely empty shallow behavior, there is a motive behind it.
and it goes a little something like this...
I am not a runner. at all. ask anyone. If I were being chased by a mugger/kidnapper/murderer, I'd be screwed. I was never the person who went for long runs to "clear my head" or enjoyed the stabbing pain akin to 9,000 knives ripping apart your lungs. I never got that "urge" to just throw on some spandex and pound the pavement ad nausea. I was the girl driving by these people and shaking my head. Now don't get me wrong. I admire these people. Everytime my lazy, driving, bum drives past someone out for a nice longgg run, I think wow, good for them. and then i head home to the sanctity of my apartment.
As I've gotten older, I realize that gravity is only going to get meaner. I've never had good metabolism to begin with and I quickly came to the realization that exercise and I would have to bury the hatchet. I decided the best place to make amends with my inner hatred for running would be at my local gym. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves here kiddos, i'm willing to exercise (in an air-conditioned building with TVs on every piece of equipment), but I'm not gonna jump the gun. Like any good relationship, it takes time and lots of fostering to make this work.
So I joined a gym, a gym with treadmills. a gym with treadmills that have TV's attached.
and here is where the vanity sets in.
As I'm huffing and puffing my way through this routine, I am overtly aware of what I look like while doing this. My face gets red (thanks Irish curse), I sweat profusely and I'm pretty certain there's a fair amount of jiggle happening (I'll spare you the details of where). However, the other day the TV wasn't working on the treadmill so I was left to my ipod and the blank screen staring back at me. Suddenly, the light from the afternoon sun hit the screen and a my reflection filled the screen. it was me. a running me. a running me sans sweat, redness and jiggle. Instead, I had the perky ponytail thing going and I actually LOOKED like a runner. It got me really excited. So excited I ran an extra 8 minutes longer than I was planning on (which, hey, is a big deal for me!)
from that day forward, I've kept the tv off and I've stared at myself as I ran. It's way better than a mirror because its like the slightly blurred, hidiing-all-the-flaws version of myself. and you know what? it works.
So I will happily admit my vanity to the whole world. Yes, I stare at myself while I run on the treadmill.
but hey it works. try it!
and I have to make a confession. I'm really ridiculously vain while I'm at the gym.
However, I promise you there is a rhyme and reason to this. its not purely empty shallow behavior, there is a motive behind it.
and it goes a little something like this...
I am not a runner. at all. ask anyone. If I were being chased by a mugger/kidnapper/murderer, I'd be screwed. I was never the person who went for long runs to "clear my head" or enjoyed the stabbing pain akin to 9,000 knives ripping apart your lungs. I never got that "urge" to just throw on some spandex and pound the pavement ad nausea. I was the girl driving by these people and shaking my head. Now don't get me wrong. I admire these people. Everytime my lazy, driving, bum drives past someone out for a nice longgg run, I think wow, good for them. and then i head home to the sanctity of my apartment.
As I've gotten older, I realize that gravity is only going to get meaner. I've never had good metabolism to begin with and I quickly came to the realization that exercise and I would have to bury the hatchet. I decided the best place to make amends with my inner hatred for running would be at my local gym. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves here kiddos, i'm willing to exercise (in an air-conditioned building with TVs on every piece of equipment), but I'm not gonna jump the gun. Like any good relationship, it takes time and lots of fostering to make this work.
So I joined a gym, a gym with treadmills. a gym with treadmills that have TV's attached.
and here is where the vanity sets in.
As I'm huffing and puffing my way through this routine, I am overtly aware of what I look like while doing this. My face gets red (thanks Irish curse), I sweat profusely and I'm pretty certain there's a fair amount of jiggle happening (I'll spare you the details of where). However, the other day the TV wasn't working on the treadmill so I was left to my ipod and the blank screen staring back at me. Suddenly, the light from the afternoon sun hit the screen and a my reflection filled the screen. it was me. a running me. a running me sans sweat, redness and jiggle. Instead, I had the perky ponytail thing going and I actually LOOKED like a runner. It got me really excited. So excited I ran an extra 8 minutes longer than I was planning on (which, hey, is a big deal for me!)
from that day forward, I've kept the tv off and I've stared at myself as I ran. It's way better than a mirror because its like the slightly blurred, hidiing-all-the-flaws version of myself. and you know what? it works.
So I will happily admit my vanity to the whole world. Yes, I stare at myself while I run on the treadmill.
but hey it works. try it!
Monday, May 26, 2008
holy inappropriateness
I don't even know how to start this post off
okay let me first preface this latest addition by stating that over the course of this weekend, there have been:
1 toilet-cell phone incident
2 missing cameras
the most ungodly, ridiculously high bar bill I've ever been responsible for
a potentially stolen vehicle
enough margaritas, vodka tonics and beer to reverse the effects of global warming forever (if copious amounts of alcohol had any real effect on global warming to begin with, of course)
So with that in mind, I attended a bachelorette party Saturday evening. It started out innocently enough, 11 girls at dinner, a few margaritas, lots of gossip and an overload on the color pink. However, between dinner and the bars we had to make a pit stop.
to.
a.
drag.
show.
holy mother of god. Now please keep in mind this is being written by a girl who grew up in New Hampshire. I've never been to a strip club (well okay, once in Montreal but it was all of a nanosecond before we were escorted out because my friend touched the male stripper) and I've definitely never seen a drag show. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. To me, strippers, performers, drag queens, etc I feel very awkward about. Where do I look? What should my reaction be?
So we go to this place and the first performer is a dead wringer for Tila Tequila and I have to say, this girl (boy?) had a better body that 90% of real deal women out there which doesn't bode well for any girl's self-esteem level, especially after inhaling a full meal. The majority of groups there were bachelorette parties with a few random sketchballs throw into the mix (has anyone seen Boondock Saints? you know when Willam Defoe dresses up in drag towards the end in the most hideously awful outfit that clearly made him a winner in the World's Ugliest Woman competition? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was there. in that outfit)
So after a few songs in, I was a bit more comfortable. I could handle Tila Tequila the sequel. She wore sparkles, danced around and was generally entertaining.
And then the floodgates opened.
Next, out stepped one of the scariest man/woman I have ever seen. I only wish my words could accurately paint the picture for you. Let's just say this: picture a really angry, paunched-bellied Wesley Snipes wearing a sparkle blue "dress" that was fashion taped together in the front and held together on the sides by ONE PIECE OF STRING. Gone was the semi-adorable girlie girl singing songs and getting the audience involved. Wesley wanna-be was fierce. And not in the Project Runway, totally-fabulous way. More in the, I'm going to give you a high heel to the face if you don't give me enough dollar bills way.
To make matters worse, this one was a big fan of the pelvic thrusting and hip gyrating. There were moments where, as I stood with my hands covering my eyes, I saw my life flashing before me.
However, I do believe the highlight of my evening was watching as the dear dear Bachelorette got her lap dance from a 6 foot tall RuPaul type queen whose massive "curves" (or as one girl so affectionally referred to as "pooh bear body") were tightly encased in a FULL, HEAD-TO-TOE, LEOPARD LEOTARD.
Now please keep in mind. We are a group of former sorority girls. We wear pearls on a regular basis. We pop our collars proudly. We prefer our shots be fruity. So there is nothing more interesting/hilarious/shocking/creepy/did i mention hilarious? then watching one of our finest, classiest at all times, women getting grinded upon by this magnificent leopard leotard creature. Cover at the door $10. Vodka tonics $5. Watching one of your friends face turn a shade of scarlet as a 6 foot, 300 pound man dressed in full drag sits on their lap? Priceless.
All in all, I have to admit. It was an experience. Will I be trekking to Bay Village every weekend to partake? I think not. Was it a worldly experience that will add to the colorful tapestry of my life's experiences? most definitely. and perhaps I will even take a few make-up tips away with me.
okay let me first preface this latest addition by stating that over the course of this weekend, there have been:
1 toilet-cell phone incident
2 missing cameras
the most ungodly, ridiculously high bar bill I've ever been responsible for
a potentially stolen vehicle
enough margaritas, vodka tonics and beer to reverse the effects of global warming forever (if copious amounts of alcohol had any real effect on global warming to begin with, of course)
So with that in mind, I attended a bachelorette party Saturday evening. It started out innocently enough, 11 girls at dinner, a few margaritas, lots of gossip and an overload on the color pink. However, between dinner and the bars we had to make a pit stop.
to.
a.
drag.
show.
holy mother of god. Now please keep in mind this is being written by a girl who grew up in New Hampshire. I've never been to a strip club (well okay, once in Montreal but it was all of a nanosecond before we were escorted out because my friend touched the male stripper) and I've definitely never seen a drag show. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. To me, strippers, performers, drag queens, etc I feel very awkward about. Where do I look? What should my reaction be?
So we go to this place and the first performer is a dead wringer for Tila Tequila and I have to say, this girl (boy?) had a better body that 90% of real deal women out there which doesn't bode well for any girl's self-esteem level, especially after inhaling a full meal. The majority of groups there were bachelorette parties with a few random sketchballs throw into the mix (has anyone seen Boondock Saints? you know when Willam Defoe dresses up in drag towards the end in the most hideously awful outfit that clearly made him a winner in the World's Ugliest Woman competition? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was there. in that outfit)
So after a few songs in, I was a bit more comfortable. I could handle Tila Tequila the sequel. She wore sparkles, danced around and was generally entertaining.
And then the floodgates opened.
Next, out stepped one of the scariest man/woman I have ever seen. I only wish my words could accurately paint the picture for you. Let's just say this: picture a really angry, paunched-bellied Wesley Snipes wearing a sparkle blue "dress" that was fashion taped together in the front and held together on the sides by ONE PIECE OF STRING. Gone was the semi-adorable girlie girl singing songs and getting the audience involved. Wesley wanna-be was fierce. And not in the Project Runway, totally-fabulous way. More in the, I'm going to give you a high heel to the face if you don't give me enough dollar bills way.
To make matters worse, this one was a big fan of the pelvic thrusting and hip gyrating. There were moments where, as I stood with my hands covering my eyes, I saw my life flashing before me.
However, I do believe the highlight of my evening was watching as the dear dear Bachelorette got her lap dance from a 6 foot tall RuPaul type queen whose massive "curves" (or as one girl so affectionally referred to as "pooh bear body") were tightly encased in a FULL, HEAD-TO-TOE, LEOPARD LEOTARD.
Now please keep in mind. We are a group of former sorority girls. We wear pearls on a regular basis. We pop our collars proudly. We prefer our shots be fruity. So there is nothing more interesting/hilarious/shocking/creepy/did i mention hilarious? then watching one of our finest, classiest at all times, women getting grinded upon by this magnificent leopard leotard creature. Cover at the door $10. Vodka tonics $5. Watching one of your friends face turn a shade of scarlet as a 6 foot, 300 pound man dressed in full drag sits on their lap? Priceless.
All in all, I have to admit. It was an experience. Will I be trekking to Bay Village every weekend to partake? I think not. Was it a worldly experience that will add to the colorful tapestry of my life's experiences? most definitely. and perhaps I will even take a few make-up tips away with me.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
feeling introspective
sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together - Marilyn Monroe
I stumbled across this the other day. Its part of a quote from Marilyn Monroe and it really struck me as a powerful statement.
So don't mind me but I'm going to get a bit introspective slash philosophical in this post.
This statement resonates with me so loudly because I am a very by the book kind of girl. Some call it anal, some call it controlling. I like to think I'm just a planner...but it drives me absolutely insane if I have plans with someone and they break them, or when things don't go the way I had them mapped out in my head. I'm also one of those people who likes to have things organized ahead of time and will analyze everything (okay overanalyze. every detail. to the extreme.) For a long time the quote "life is what happens when you are busy making other plans" was well-suited for me.
In recent time, I've started to realize I need to accept life for the wonderful, beautiful ride that it is and stop trying to map it out like a bad family vacation.
I really started to break out of my mold the day I decided to move back to Boston by myself. There were moments where those closest told me it was a bad idea, that I was taking on too much, that there were too many questions marks and balls in the air to make this kind of move.
What it all really boils down to is security and Florida was a huge security blanket for me. Did I have a good job? yep. Good apartment? yep. Good prospects for my future? yep. Was any of it GREAT? I think not. At one point, I had to look at myself and my life and it was like a light bulb went off, why am I settling for good when I could be reaching for great? So I let the good things fall apart and I opened myself up to greatness which is an incredibly scary thing...especially because greatness does not come with a guarantee. That being said, I have never been happier. My new apartment is a fraction of the size and my job is ten times more difficult but its thrilling. I've gained more independence, met more fabulous people and learned more about myself in this past year than the past 5 put together.
I want to take this quote and tape it to my forehead. So when I start to stress out, I am reminded. People come in and out of your life for a reason, random things happen, you can't plan life's details.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I am standing on the edge of greatness, of "better things falling together", and I am going to do my best not to overanalyze or over plan it to death. Instead, I'm gonna make this my new mantra, look at myself in the mirror (so I can read the quote off my forehead of course) and sit back to enjoy the ride :)
I stumbled across this the other day. Its part of a quote from Marilyn Monroe and it really struck me as a powerful statement.
So don't mind me but I'm going to get a bit introspective slash philosophical in this post.
This statement resonates with me so loudly because I am a very by the book kind of girl. Some call it anal, some call it controlling. I like to think I'm just a planner...but it drives me absolutely insane if I have plans with someone and they break them, or when things don't go the way I had them mapped out in my head. I'm also one of those people who likes to have things organized ahead of time and will analyze everything (okay overanalyze. every detail. to the extreme.) For a long time the quote "life is what happens when you are busy making other plans" was well-suited for me.
In recent time, I've started to realize I need to accept life for the wonderful, beautiful ride that it is and stop trying to map it out like a bad family vacation.
I really started to break out of my mold the day I decided to move back to Boston by myself. There were moments where those closest told me it was a bad idea, that I was taking on too much, that there were too many questions marks and balls in the air to make this kind of move.
What it all really boils down to is security and Florida was a huge security blanket for me. Did I have a good job? yep. Good apartment? yep. Good prospects for my future? yep. Was any of it GREAT? I think not. At one point, I had to look at myself and my life and it was like a light bulb went off, why am I settling for good when I could be reaching for great? So I let the good things fall apart and I opened myself up to greatness which is an incredibly scary thing...especially because greatness does not come with a guarantee. That being said, I have never been happier. My new apartment is a fraction of the size and my job is ten times more difficult but its thrilling. I've gained more independence, met more fabulous people and learned more about myself in this past year than the past 5 put together.
I want to take this quote and tape it to my forehead. So when I start to stress out, I am reminded. People come in and out of your life for a reason, random things happen, you can't plan life's details.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I am standing on the edge of greatness, of "better things falling together", and I am going to do my best not to overanalyze or over plan it to death. Instead, I'm gonna make this my new mantra, look at myself in the mirror (so I can read the quote off my forehead of course) and sit back to enjoy the ride :)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I'm turning into an 7th grader...
They say that when you live with your pets long enough, you start to look alike.
I wonder if the same is true for your job?
I think I'm turning into an 7th grader. and not just any 7th grader...I am beginning to take on the tendencies and complexities of a middle school student here in inner city Boston.
It has been a transformation that crept on me ever so slowly. I was immune to it in September, slightly aware of their nuances by December. But now, it being almost June, I am fully engorged in the mentality of youth. It is starting to show itself in the smallest of ways....
first of which being my sense of humor. Being an only child and forced into private school for my entire education, I tend to have a more sarcastic sense of humor and never found slapstick comedy very funny. Until now. There have been several times where I have to stifle my laughter behind a stern look or "Hey X, stop that right now!". On the inside though, I am dying when X trips Y by stepping on his shoelace.
The second and more obvious aspect of my transformation is a more recent occurance. I have found myself, on more than one occasion, using their slang. and thats really sad when a fully grown adult uses the term "fer real dawg?" over a dry martini at happy hour. The first time it slipped out, I played it off like a joke, imitating my students, and all the while silently berating myself for such a slip of tongue.
But it happened again yesterday. The darling children of Boston Public Schools have a complex dialect used specifically for when someone is wrong or embarrassed and the term is "salted". Salted has originated from the base word "sauce" which, I've been informed, is so out now.
(for those who need a quick lesson, salted would be used in the following manner:
Student X: We have a test today
Student Y: No we don't
X: Yes we do you idiot
Y: No we mos def don't
X: Ms E____, do we have a test today?
Me: Yes we do, X
X to Y: oooooo salted!!!)
So yesterday I am mid conversation when I bet someone I couldn't complete a task. Upon completion of the task, I immediately turn and exclaim, "ooooo salted!". At this moment, I receive a look like I have 10 heads at which point I then try to explain the meaning of the word. I guess the meaning is lost outside of its natural habitat.
I only have 4 weeks left in this school year and then it is a blissful 2 months of sleeping in late, weekends at the Cape and general summer enjoyment. By the end of these 4 weeks, I will hope to walk out of here with some of my essence still in tact.
However, if you spot me walking down Newbury Street in a XXL white tee with my "jordans" looking fresh...please save me.
.
I wonder if the same is true for your job?
I think I'm turning into an 7th grader. and not just any 7th grader...I am beginning to take on the tendencies and complexities of a middle school student here in inner city Boston.
It has been a transformation that crept on me ever so slowly. I was immune to it in September, slightly aware of their nuances by December. But now, it being almost June, I am fully engorged in the mentality of youth. It is starting to show itself in the smallest of ways....
first of which being my sense of humor. Being an only child and forced into private school for my entire education, I tend to have a more sarcastic sense of humor and never found slapstick comedy very funny. Until now. There have been several times where I have to stifle my laughter behind a stern look or "Hey X, stop that right now!". On the inside though, I am dying when X trips Y by stepping on his shoelace.
The second and more obvious aspect of my transformation is a more recent occurance. I have found myself, on more than one occasion, using their slang. and thats really sad when a fully grown adult uses the term "fer real dawg?" over a dry martini at happy hour. The first time it slipped out, I played it off like a joke, imitating my students, and all the while silently berating myself for such a slip of tongue.
But it happened again yesterday. The darling children of Boston Public Schools have a complex dialect used specifically for when someone is wrong or embarrassed and the term is "salted". Salted has originated from the base word "sauce" which, I've been informed, is so out now.
(for those who need a quick lesson, salted would be used in the following manner:
Student X: We have a test today
Student Y: No we don't
X: Yes we do you idiot
Y: No we mos def don't
X: Ms E____, do we have a test today?
Me: Yes we do, X
X to Y: oooooo salted!!!)
So yesterday I am mid conversation when I bet someone I couldn't complete a task. Upon completion of the task, I immediately turn and exclaim, "ooooo salted!". At this moment, I receive a look like I have 10 heads at which point I then try to explain the meaning of the word. I guess the meaning is lost outside of its natural habitat.
I only have 4 weeks left in this school year and then it is a blissful 2 months of sleeping in late, weekends at the Cape and general summer enjoyment. By the end of these 4 weeks, I will hope to walk out of here with some of my essence still in tact.
However, if you spot me walking down Newbury Street in a XXL white tee with my "jordans" looking fresh...please save me.
.
Monday, May 19, 2008
P.S.
I just noticed I had four comments on my last post and I almost just said *yipppeeee* out loud. I promise I will write a new and exciting entry tomorrow.
pinky swear promise!
pinky swear promise!
So I just remembered why I stopped writing this blog last time around....
it's because I'm incredibly lame and really have nothing witty or exciting happening in my daily life. I just wrote an entire entry about my love for certain television shows.
Then I read it back to myself and realized I sounded like the ultimate creeper and decided I couldn't share just how much of a nerd I am with the whole world.
So I'll have to get back to you
it's because I'm incredibly lame and really have nothing witty or exciting happening in my daily life. I just wrote an entire entry about my love for certain television shows.
Then I read it back to myself and realized I sounded like the ultimate creeper and decided I couldn't share just how much of a nerd I am with the whole world.
So I'll have to get back to you
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I couldn't stay away forever...
So I'm back.
For now.
We shall see how long I can keep it up this time. I will admit though, I've kinda missed it. Even though there are only like 2 people who read this on a daily basis (those people being Caitlin and myself), I felt that my adoring public needed me. or at least the Facebook stalkers needed something new to peruse.
A lot has happened in the past 10 months...I moved to Boston, I'm almost finished my first year teaching inner city here, and I got a second job to support my habit (shopping, not crack- although I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say they are as equally addictive and dangerous).
I absolutely positively love living in the city. Despite the fact that my rent makes me want to cry and my apartment could double as a small linen closet in someone else's house, its all worth it. It's actually quite funny how I try to convince others (and namely, myself) about the amazingness (is that a word?) of my apartment by spinning each negative aspect into a "hidden luxury".
For example: 4th floor walkup? Great exercise for the butt, no stairmaster needed. No laundry in building? Fantastic! I'll save on my electricity bills! Astronomical rent for a place with no closet, yellow countertops and a gorgeous view into my neighbors apartmentl? How splendid! I'm doing my part for the economy while also learning fascinating things about human nature.
See? It's easy enough.
I live in the "Italian" section of Boston, well-known for its numerous Italian restaurants, pastry shops and old world charm (aka Paul Revere's House, Old North Church, the Freedom Trail). To me, that is sometimes code for creepy old Italian men who stare at you, ridiculously overpriced pasta and an unnerving amount of tourists who simply have no clue how to walk down the street. (Don't know where you are or where you are going next? Here's an idea: let's NOT stand in the middle of the sidewalk with a map the size of a billboard and spin around in circles, knocking the locals over with your fanny pack and camera bag.)
The perks are fabulous though. I'm within walking distance to any restaurant or bar I desire...and the nightlife is MUCH better than good ole Tallahassee, Florida. Although I must admit, while I don't miss Florida nightlife, my wallet does. Gone are the nights of penny pitchers, ladies free til 1 and $1 shots. They have now been replaced with ridiculously long lines everywhere past 10pm and drinks that cost $15 and come with a healthy side portion of sarcasm and/or self-righteousness. There have been many a Sunday morning where I've woken up to find I spent enough to feed and clothe a 3rd world country on vodka tonics and jager bombs.
Looking back over everything I've written, I can already see the differences in myself. It's been less than a year and I've already began the magical and personal transformation into the ever-loving, ever sought after, elusive, "Masshole" and I'm damn proud of it.
For now.
We shall see how long I can keep it up this time. I will admit though, I've kinda missed it. Even though there are only like 2 people who read this on a daily basis (those people being Caitlin and myself), I felt that my adoring public needed me. or at least the Facebook stalkers needed something new to peruse.
A lot has happened in the past 10 months...I moved to Boston, I'm almost finished my first year teaching inner city here, and I got a second job to support my habit (shopping, not crack- although I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say they are as equally addictive and dangerous).
I absolutely positively love living in the city. Despite the fact that my rent makes me want to cry and my apartment could double as a small linen closet in someone else's house, its all worth it. It's actually quite funny how I try to convince others (and namely, myself) about the amazingness (is that a word?) of my apartment by spinning each negative aspect into a "hidden luxury".
For example: 4th floor walkup? Great exercise for the butt, no stairmaster needed. No laundry in building? Fantastic! I'll save on my electricity bills! Astronomical rent for a place with no closet, yellow countertops and a gorgeous view into my neighbors apartmentl? How splendid! I'm doing my part for the economy while also learning fascinating things about human nature.
See? It's easy enough.
I live in the "Italian" section of Boston, well-known for its numerous Italian restaurants, pastry shops and old world charm (aka Paul Revere's House, Old North Church, the Freedom Trail). To me, that is sometimes code for creepy old Italian men who stare at you, ridiculously overpriced pasta and an unnerving amount of tourists who simply have no clue how to walk down the street. (Don't know where you are or where you are going next? Here's an idea: let's NOT stand in the middle of the sidewalk with a map the size of a billboard and spin around in circles, knocking the locals over with your fanny pack and camera bag.)
The perks are fabulous though. I'm within walking distance to any restaurant or bar I desire...and the nightlife is MUCH better than good ole Tallahassee, Florida. Although I must admit, while I don't miss Florida nightlife, my wallet does. Gone are the nights of penny pitchers, ladies free til 1 and $1 shots. They have now been replaced with ridiculously long lines everywhere past 10pm and drinks that cost $15 and come with a healthy side portion of sarcasm and/or self-righteousness. There have been many a Sunday morning where I've woken up to find I spent enough to feed and clothe a 3rd world country on vodka tonics and jager bombs.
Looking back over everything I've written, I can already see the differences in myself. It's been less than a year and I've already began the magical and personal transformation into the ever-loving, ever sought after, elusive, "Masshole" and I'm damn proud of it.
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