just call me seven


Some People Have a Way With Words, While Others… Erm, Thingy.

I am a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I don’t really know why, because I am not busy. It just seems like my to-do list is always a mile long, even if it’s only in my head and not an actual, physical, paper list. And I think about doing the things on it, and it makes me tired. So I don’t do it… but then I feel all lame because I didn’t get anything done. What is the answer to this problem? I feel like making a list is sort of like setting myself up to fail (I can’t even make a list without rewriting the whole thing once or twice because, I don’t know, not all of the list items are prefaced with a verb, or my R looks weird on that third line…), but I know that if I don’t have any sort of goals, I will ACTUALLY never get anything done. [Side note: When I type the word “anything,” I always type “antything” first.]

I finally got my hair professionally trimmed though (first time since August, when my talented cousin cut off my frizzy, limp cloud of curls)… so I’m happy about that. I trimmed it myself a while ago, and it looked pretty good, but then it wouldn’t stand up in the back anymore so I thought I’d have a go at trimming it again myself. This time it didn’t end up looking so hot, and I knew that I should have someone who actually knows what they’re doing fix me up before I did anything really stupid. So I went to this chick right here in my hometown, and got it all taken care of.

Earlier today Smalls and I were talking about my Christmas stocking. I was feeling it, and wondering at what one of the two things were… she said, “It’s your boyfriend.”

A couple weeks ago, I told Smalls to smell a cologne ad from one of my magazines… She said that it smelled like a boy, and I said, that’s kind of the point (it was Aqua di Gio, if you’re curious). I also said that while I appreciate guys who don’t wear cologne, and that in fact I usually prefer that they don’t, I wouldn’t mind one bit if my (still unknown) boyfriend wore it. Smalls asked if she could rip it out of the magazine… I said, “Ok… that’s weird. Why do you want it?” and she said that she
wanted to put it in my stocking. She said that since I didn’t get a husband for Christmas two year ago (yep, I put it on my list), that I could have a boyfriend in my stocking this year. She’s hilarious.

I said that no, this thing was bigger than my boyfriend (who, let’s face it, folks… is some paper-thin (I’m punny) homogenous model on the back of a cologne ad), to which she replied, “Is your boyfriend still in there?” I said, “He better be.”

To which my Mom replies, “I’ve been praying that God would bring you a boyfriend.” I love my mom. She always seems to know how I’m feeling about stuff… I know that she said that because she knows it’s hard that The Married One & The BFF are having a baby, and that The Croodler and The Quas are now declaring love (WTH?), while I stay at home with only two dates to show for my nearly twenty-six years of life, though I am the one out of all five of us kids whose childhood career ambition was to be a wife and a mother.

I just wish that I could find some other dream to pursue, grasp some other ambition, hope in some other objective instead of whining about my shattered dreams and sucking air that other people (people who are actively pursuing life instead of just cruising on auto-pilot) could use. Because, honestly, real people need to have goals and dreams and desires that don’t hinge on marital status. What kind of wife could I be to anyone if all I am is a wisp of an idea, a shadow of a woman, some empty vessel who has no forward motion to contribute?

I’m not sure if I’m making sense at all… it’s too late. I know that there’s more inside of me that I’d like to get out, but my words are flowing like… uh… something really slow. Not to mention I’m using the old computer, and everything I type shows up a second or two after I type it, so by the time I catch that I’ve made a mistake, I’m halfway done with the next sentence. Plus, just watching it makes me feel slow and tired. I will attempt to continue some other day with the pressing questions/thoughts that I can’t seem to elucidate at the moment.

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In Which I Lament My Purse-Snobbery.

I made a purse today. It’s olive green with a blue polka-dot lining. I like making purses, because I seem to be a little picky about what I expect a purse to be. It can’t be too small, but it can’t be too large either. If it’s a double strap sort of a thing, the straps have to be long enough to sling on my shoulder easily, but not so long that I feel like my purse is dragging on the ground. If it’s a long, sling-across-yourself type strap, it has to be pretty long, because I hate the classical-guitar-up-around-my chin feeling… I like my purse to hang at my hip, not above it. The problem with this is that every long-strapped purse is made for a size 4 tweener with no boobs. Let’s just say that this is in no way an accurate description of my body type, so I end up with a bandolier instead of a purse, and then I feel fat.
So the only viable option I can see is to make my own, unless I find a purse that has rings to which I can attach my one long-enough strap (which means that it has to be green, because that’s the color of my detachable strap). These are rare for some reason, plus a girl can’t always wear a green purse.
Another pet peeve I have is when purses don’t have enough pockets… the black hole that ensues from yet another bag with no pockets whatsoever is not conducive to finding my keys, answering my phone before the unlucky caller is sent to voicemail, or obtaining some lip balm to soothe my thirsty lips. But if there are too many pockets, I’m left searching each one frantically… was it in pocket #8? Or did I stash it in pocket #32? Gah!
I like unique purses… and I’m a sucker for pretty linings. I love the contrast of a staid exterior with a funky, colorful interior… maybe because that’s sort of how I dress. I wear jeans, a tshirt, and a hoodie every single day, minus the hoodie if it’s hot and my A/C isn’t up to the task, but if you could see my underwear (which you won’t– I don’t roll like that), you would discover that I’m not as boring as I look.