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.


In Which I Reveal My Jealousy of My Younger Brother.
29 November 2007, 10:53 pm
Filed under: I Hate Being Single, I Never Sleep... Ever., I'm a Jerk

I really like the name Emma. There’s something sweet and simple and pretty about it. I have loved it for a long time… other names come and go on my (way-too-long) list of possible someday baby names, but this one has remained for years. (O Married One and The BFF: I hereby stake claim to the name Emma, though I be yet unmarried and highly unlikely to have a child anytime soon. I may have relinquished That Other E Name, since how can I name a child That-Which-Its-Soon-To-Be-Cousin-May-Very-Well-Be-Named? …But for the love of all that is nice, leave me Emma.)

The Croodler and Pippy and I just finished watching the A & E version of Emma, which is what brought all this to mind. I am infatuated with romantic stories from that era, be they in movie or book form, in part because it’s refreshing to absorb a story that tells its tale plainly, and isn’t rampant with innuendo or swearing.

That is all for tonight; I was up way too late last night reading, like an idiot. When am I going to learn how to go to bed on time? Alas, tonight is not that night, but at least it’s earlier (by a good three hours at least!) than last night.
Sweet dreams.

(Speaking of dreams, the last three nights I have had at least one dream that I’ve remembered upon waking. This never happens to me. It’s really strange. It’s not bad, it’s just weird. I’m wondering if it’s going to continue…)

In Which I Ramble… Forever.

You’d think with all the turkey, pie and pickled things I ate today that I would be sleeping like a log. Alas, it does no good to think about it… because I can’t sleep. It’s almost two in the morning, and here I sit, having made this new blog, lamenting my lack of sleep to the world. Or to whomever reads this. Or to myself… who knows.

There are a lot of things on my mind that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to articulate. It is two in the morning, you know… but here are some random facts about me to get this blog thingie going:

Babies love me.

I love that.

It makes me feel like “The Baby Whisperer” or something.

Unfortunately, I have none of my own.

I am soon, however, to have a niece or nephew.

I’ve only been on two dates in my life.

One was a “friends-only” date.

The other, I can only describe as a disaster, the consequences of which (namely, awkwardness) are still in evidence to this day, despite the protests of the guy involved. (I don’t care what you say, Mr. J… it is awkward, and you know it.)

I am a Christian.

I am the oldest of five children.

I have moved back in with my parents.

This feels somewhat like a step back, since I’m 25 years old.

I am aware that lots of 25-year-olds live with their parents.

That doesn’t negate the fact that it feels a little lame sometimes.

My brothers are like the meat of a sandwich… my sister and I are the bread.

Not to say that my brothers ARE meat… just that they’re the middle of our particular sibling sandwich.

This is long.

If you don’t like it, stop reading.

I like to think that I am witty.

I know for a fact that I have “actually always had a rather extensive vocabulary, not to mention a phenomenal grasp of grammar and a superlative command of syntax.”

I like to quote movies.

Ten points if you know in which movie that quote occurs.

I am sarcastic.

I laugh loudly, at all the wrong times and places.

Hence, I get glared at sometimes.

Which makes my inner rebel rise to my defense, telling myself that I don’t care what people think of me.

But really, I do.

I worry about many things

I worry that I’ll never get married

I worry that people think I’m annoying, and put up with me only because it’s the right thing to do.

I worry that my hair will never be anything but poofy.

I worry that I’m not actually saved.

When I was little and anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same: I’m gonna be a mom.

If you asked me the same thing today, I’d probably give a more roundabout answer… but it would, if you could get past the walls I’ve erected to protect my heart, be the same answer.

I work at home, for my parents’ business.

I make… the opposite of bank.

But that’s ok, because I don’t have to pay rent or buy groceries.

And I only work 15 hours in a week, plus or minus a few.

I work on salary, so if I get it done really fast, it’s like I get paid $30+ per hour.

But I usually dawdle.

Because I’m lazy.

And I get sidetracked reading other peoples’ blogs.

And checking my myspace.

And joining groups on facebook.

And following rabbit-trails on Wikipedia.

And taking pictures of myself.

Because, as it happens, the only person who can take a good picture of me is… me.

Not because I’m such a great picture-taker.

I’m not sure why it is.

Maybe I feel less insecure when there’s no one else around or something.

Either way, I always look like a dork when someone else is on the other side of the camera.

Which isn’t saying much, since I pretty much look like a dork all the time.

And I dress like a hobo.

At least I am pretty sure other people think so.

I don’t care; I’ll wear what I want.

But pretty please… will you still like me?