Nested

Ms. ___ started listening to Christmas music the day before Thanksgiving this year. Usually she waits until the day after. It's a tradition, not just for her, but for the whole country, she thinks. Radio stations set this tradition perhaps. Or was it her mother? Either way, it works. Thanksgiving sneaks up on you just as you were enjoying fall, and then you can't believe you're hearing "Silver Bells" and there are Christmas lights on the main streets. But this year she didn't really enjoy fall. She didn't really enjoy summer, come to think of it. She is not in despair over this, however; she is looking forward to Christmas. One might think she has a negative outlook on things because nothing, not a thing, has worked out for her since ... well, she can't even recall the last time something great happened. Years ago. When she made lots of friends and got a better desk and fit into all her old skirts and still enjoyed cocktails and appetizers nightly. That was a good time. For a while after that, things didn't get terribly worse, until recently, but nothing got better. Indeed, she doesn't have that much reason to really be looking forward to Christmas this year. She has no gifts that she is excited to give to anyone, nor is she expecting anything. Nor does she want anything. What could she need? Only things she can't ask people for. You can't wrap up an MRI.
As much as she is looking forward to Christmas (which is a lot), she is equally fearful of the depressing time when it's all over. That empty feeling; she still remembers that feeling from childhood the day after a birthday. The disbelief in how one gets through 364 more days until that special feeling again. She's trying to plan for that dark, cold time now. But she just looks at more cookie recipes instead. Maybe she will just eat cookies every day every time she feels lonely. She's done it before and knows they are better friends than most of the ones she has. Oatmeal, chocolate chip, peanut butter. And her. Of the four of them, she's definitely the Miranda.
On a nice, slow walk home a few nights ago, she very much enjoyed listening to Christmas songs through her ipod shuffle (a gift from last year, it still has the songs her brother put on it: Christmas songs, Kenny Loggins, some Beatles, and Alicia Keys. He thought she would enjoy her; she does, but she's sick of it now a little bit.) On the night of this walk home, George Winston was playing the piano through her earphones and it was pleasant outside, not windy at all. It was dinnertime, according to most of the families she [spied] through the tall windows of million-dollar brownstones. Strings of light twinkled the shiny new of early-December-decorations, but were still not as bright as the moon, which was full, and brilliant. It was a perfect walk. Once she realized this she began to get sad. Tomorrow would probably get colder.
She keeps making cookie dough and freezing it. Four different kinds in tinfoil in her freezer. She doesn't want to bake them yet.
Something needs to happen, and she needs to make it happen. But she's paralyzed by this holiday season; you can't start something new when everyone's about to have a week of vacation! She'll wait. She's also having a hard time leaving her apartment. [Her bed, somedays.] Perhaps ... perhaps if you spend Christmas with no one, you can pretend like it hasn't happened yet. She'll need more freezer space.

The Cougher

All through the movie she did this hack-cough thing. But it wasn’t a cough, it was like she was getting a tickle out, but it was all phlegmy and sounded like a fart. And she would glottal it, a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-hem. I can’t write how it sounded, that doesn’t look at all like how it sounded. But when it first happened, I remember being impressed that she gathered so much before the ‘hem’. If I was telling you this story out loud, it would be easier. Point is, it wasn’t just your average clearing-of-the-throat. And then she started doing it every two minutes. Sometimes it was twice in one minute. If she sniffed, I knew a mouth fart was coming. Otherwise, it was about every two minutes. Once and a while, I would think “it’s been longer than 2 minutes!” and then I would wait, in a wishing but ultimately pessimistic manner, the way you do when a cd skips, and you hope it doesn’t do it again, and just keeps going, but you know that it will skip again, soon, and for a longer period of time, and you will eventually have to get up and turn it off, find out why it’s skipping. And so of course, she would mouth fart again. I never lessened in annoyance to it. And I started hating her more and more. She was also scarfing down popcorn, like eating it so fast, and never ever pausing. Maybe that was it; maybe she had a kernel in her throat. It’s also a very weird thing that people need so much food at the movies. I mean, we’ve all gone 2 hours without food before, and at the movies, we’re just sitting there enjoying ourselves. Not doing anything. Not burning a single calorie. Well, probably one, cause they always say like “you burn 11 calories frowning and 7 smiling” or something, so one of those is bound to happen in the course of a movie. But also it’s weird that people eat this popcorn, which is not a silent food; everyone can hear you chomping! And if you’re still chomping, like, an hour into a movie, don’t you feel like a pig? No one else here has to be eating right now. Why are you? This bitch was. And I just hated her and her fat desires and her fucking cough thing. And whenever she would cough, I would look at her with a stare that said “stop that and I hate you” and she never once acknowledged it; I still kept doing it every 2 minutes. A few times I said “shut up!” (okay, very quietly, but after I finished the words I couldn’t believe I had just said it out loud) and most of the times I would do my own cough, a quick “a-Hem!” to show her how quick and easy it can be, and effective if it’s that kernel she’s after. She didn’t care. Probably didn’t hear me over her eating.
And then, after the movie finished and I saw her in the hallway, dizzy from the sudden switch to light and reality, I thought in my head “I hate you.”
But then I realized she wasn’t really fat, and so I figured that maybe that popcorn was all she ate today, and that was why she was so hungry, and I couldn’t really picture her face making that cough/fart; I started to like her. So I said to her:
“are you at this movie alone because you’re single?” And she just stared at me—I didn’t blame her, it is what I expected. And then I said, “Wanna know why you’re single?” Again, she just stared. She has a great nose; really hard to picture the cough fart with such a feminine nose on top. And I continued: “It’s cause you do that coughing thing. C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. That a-aa-a—a-a-a-a-a-a—a-a-a-a-hem. It sounds almost like a fart. From your mouth. It’s gross and really annoying. And the thing is, I think you don’t even realize you do it. Do you realize you did that every two minutes throughout that whole movie? Very annoying. So imagine if some guy is trying to sleep next to you, you can’t fall asleep, you’re doing that a-a-a-a-a—a-a-a-a thing. Gross. Anyways, I think you need to realize you have this habit. I had a bad cold once in grade school, and always had to clear my throat, and then I just couldn’t stop. I cleared my throat all the time. But I didn’t know I was doing it. And then one day at dinner, my dad said ‘stop doing that cough!’ And I, you know, I looked to my mom, cause who was he to tell me I couldn’t cough! Mom! I have a cold, or something, I can cough right?! I didn’t even know I was! And she said “Yes, it’s so annoying Bethie, you need to stop that habit.” …. I know! And I didn’t even realize that could be a bad habit, but anyways, I thought I would share the wealth! And tell you. That you’ve got that bad habit, and you can control it, and then maybe get a date or something.”

And she said “And are you here alone because you are such a bitch?”

And I liked her even more. Maybe we could start going to movies together. Screw dates. I’ll eat some popcorn. She’s gotta stop with that cough though. So annoying.

hello, perfect job

Hi there, perfect job. It's me, still. Just waiting for you to call me back. Did you get my message? This morning? And the three yesterday? Oh, and the one on Friday. I'm pretty sure I left a message. You might consider me just "phoning it in," but when I don't know where you live, it's a little hard to do more than that. I could just go door to door; I could just try out some streets and start pounding, but that might be embarrassing or a waste of time, or many other horrible things that prevent me from even leaving my apartment. (I mean, honestly, sometimes I'm calling just hoping for your voicemail. Then we don't actually have to talk!, but at least I know I did called you.) But then there are times, like now, when I'm tired of playing games.
I would love to meet up perhaps Monday morning - or, wait, I was going to go to a Spin class on Monday morning. Well, I could do Monday afternoon, if you're free. Anytime -- anytime at all-- after one p.m. Or Tuesday morning would be great. Shit, actually, I'm going to be watching Gossip Girl and drinking on Monday night, so I might need to sleep in on Tuesday to get myself back on track. And then I like to go to the gym so I can Really get back on track. That way, I'm in perfect mental shape to hit up a new Perfect job. So, anytime after 2 pm on Tuesday would also work for me. Wednesday is out because I rented a Zipcar to shop at the outlets -- but that is job-related; I'll be getting work clothes (I need new things for fall!) - and I have to go to the outlets because I need to conserve my cash (no job!!), and everything I ordered on Bluefly is just too big in the waist and too small in butt (a continual problem for me, you have no idea, shopping is soooo hard). Online shopping is really convenient for a busy person for me, but when you have to return stuff, that just takes up a whole day-- printing out the forms and taping it up and dropping it off and all that stuff. Agh! I'm getting stressed just thinking about it.
I can also meet Thursday or Friday, anytime. Like between 12 and 12:30, would be great. And could you call or text me (I'd prefer a text) if you think I'm going to have to wait in your office for longer than, like, ten minutes? That would be great, cause then I could just come at that time, like 12:15, if you think I'm going to just wait those 15 minutes anyways. Super!
And I've attached my resume - I know my Theater major doesn't convince you of my marketing and publishing skills, but seriously, I went to a good school, and I'm sure you're going to get lots of applications from people who, sure, maybe they've been in the field, interning, or whatever, for years, but a lot of them probably don't have college degrees. And there's just something to be said about being a college graduate. I can really work under pressure. I mean, when you're hungover, on no sleep, have 2 hours to turn in a term paper you haven't even started, and you have to get ready for pre-game beer pong, you are dealing with pressure. I didn't have any term papers, as a Theater major, but we did have to memorize sooo much stuff, in a really short period of time, and, so, well, I obviously can remember whatever Excel shit you need me to learn. I've been emailing since 1997, when I was still in middle school.
So if you could shoot me back with an exact time we could meet, I'd really appreciate it. I'm very available. (Just text though, in case I'm at the gym or on the other line or something)
Thank you so very much,
Your Hopeful New Hire!

Derek

I like, shouldn't even be telling you this, but the thing is that i don't even know if there is a You, but I can only assume there is (I mean, I've learned from the past, and not much I ever do stays behind the scenes. People. Will. Talk. Soon enough.) - I'm like Julia Allison that way, so I'm guessing that pretty soon all of these will be looked at under a microscope. Which I will keep in mind, and edit accordingly, but what is a blog if i can't dish a little bit and be myself? I'm sure you would see through it if I just, like, talked about good movies or the new fall line or something. Which I will do. But right now I'm fucking obsessed with what derek said. And his name isn't derek, I know better than to use real names. But derek almost is ruining this story, because I knew a derek in high school who was disgusting (isn't that so awful when someone gross ruins your idea of a name? especially when it's a pretty name. And like, your friend or aunt names their baby that name, and you're like "it's pretty, it's a pretty name, but I knew someone years ago with that name, and they were fucking disgusting, and that's what i think of when i look at your infant." The name Emily. I think it's really pretty, but there was this loser girl that smelled so bad and never did anything about it I knew in grade school, and I could never name my daughter that. Or even a dog. Such a bummer.)
Anyways, okay, his name is Doug. (it's not doug, but that's better than Derek. Sick)
So he was getting long sleeved t-shirts for our group for the breast cancer walk (Support, People! You know you know someone ... who knows someone). And he g-chatted me and said "what size do you want?" and I said "probably a small?" ... because, like, I'm thin, but I wasn't sure if there were like, tiny women sizes - you know how those cheap t-shirts are sometimes like all men's sizes so smalls are really big, or maybe they are women's and the smalls are like for children- and I'm 5'10" almost 5'11", so I don't want to have this obnoxiously small t at a breast cancer walk, you know? But I figure Doug can figure it out. So ... later on we were all getting drinks at some disgusting, like, bar that smelled like college and I was so not into it (the kind of place where you don't even think about ordering wine because you know it's like, 2 buck chuck or something, and it's been opened since the last asshole ordered a glass of "chardonnay or something" two weeks ago) (I got a gin martini, with a twist, you can't really fuck that up too bad, although the guy pulled the lemon off the rind to make the twist with his bare hands and so i almost gagged, but thought maybe the alcohol might kill some of his east village germs). Anyways. Doug says, "Brie, I still didn't get you a shirt yet" And i'm like "why, retard?" and he's like -- hold on, i'm going to write this out like a play:
D:"what size should I get?
Me "are you serious? I don't know! I don't really care, just get me a small or a medium or something!"
D:"really? don't you like, have long arms?"
Me: Um, I'm tall, but i'm not like a giant-freak. Tall girls are still size small. Hello, ... models!?
D: Well, I was going to get you an extra large.
Me: (laughing) ha ha
D: (serious)
Me: What?! you were going to get me a size extra-large?
D: Well, you're tall, and, I don't know, don't you want the sleeves to be long enough?
Me: Whoa, you are so freaking weird. Okay, girls do not care about sleeve length if it would mean that the torso is huge. Even girls who are size xxlarge would not want a guy to buy them an xtra large.

And it went on. Do you believe that? I would have died if he handed out all our t-shirts one day, and he had gotten me an extra large! Wow. I . Would. have. Died.

Doug. now that name is ruined for me too.

Numero Uno

It's not easy being me. I mean, it's easier than for other people. It's easier than for like, homeless people, or people with the bad shade of red hair (that would suck!), or immigrants or something. But I go through daily trials and tribulations, and I'm only human, and i have feelings, and I need to act on them. And I'm not using this blog as therapy or anything, but I just sometimes think I've got more emotions that I've got to let out than others, and as long as I'm already on bluefly, I might as well use the internet for self-healing. Thanks, guys!