my pants are unzipped under the desk.
so, last week i invited a former professor of mine to take a walk through the permanent collection because i had questions about some of the african art we own. i taped the conversation in order to transcribe everything she said because (a) she's one of the most thorough scholars i've ever met, (b) i have a very bad habit of hearing the wrong information when i'm intimidated and (c) the information will make its way into an exhibit during february 2007. today i finished the last of my listening / typing.
let me just apologize to everyone i know for my irritating speech and mannerisms. i'm not as funny as i thought i was, nor am i engaging. i'm full of shit most of the time and i interrupt constantly. dr. janzen is refined, quiet, thorough, brilliant and german-accented. i am apparently a total know-it-all, crass, loud and nasally without an ounce of anything interesting to offer when faced with an expert. my new year's resolution will encompass shutting up more and chilling on the gross way i talk like i'm from encino valley.
other work-related new year's resolutions:
wear less things around my neck
take only what i need from central supply (as opposed to 25 packs of post-its)
stop fidgiting when people are talking to me
be on less committees
limit high-lighter colors to 2 per document
empty the hole puncher more as to not jam it as often
stop smelling the air and wincing so visibly
listen more
wash my sweater more often
stock tampons in my desk
stay committed to drawing more portraits of annoying patrons
really save my pennies in that one jar for united way
*thanks for the b-day music, andy...xo
woman:
what did he look like?
man:
well he had brown hair but with, you know,
the face of a redhead.
ok, last week i wore a skirt i wear all the time, the only difference was that i wore leggings (tights i cut the feet out of because real leggings are too thick in my o) underneath.
i was leaning over the mat cutter and trish, my co, after passing me a couple times said, "uh, hey...you might want to pull up your skirt." well, ladies, good tights come with their own built-in "underwear", meaning i wasn't wearing any, and when i reached around back feeling for the waistband, all I touched was nylon, then more nylon, and then finally, found my skirt hanging out halfway below my ass. basically trish got an amazing view of my bare ass through sheer, black tights.
then tonight, in a completely different skirt, i stood filling gas, and after standing in line to pay, as i walked to my car, my back felt really cold, and i started to pull my sweater down. my hand again brushed against something smooth. i instinctively felt around for my skirt and found it had migrated halfway past my ass again! everyone (mostly guys) at BP saw my black ass hanging out the top of my skirt.
WTF!
how come i can't feel things slipping? what is happening? why can't i feel my ass anymore? i feel it when i touch it but not when my skirts are falling off. what is going on.
today during a meeting i looked under the table at my socks and felt instantly sad. they're my least favorite "no show" anklets (below the ankle) because (1) they're really stretched out and bunchy and (2) they're that color of grey that white socks get when they've been laundered with darks. my skirt had cat hair in the folds and my converse are losing their looks. also, my hands, my nailpolish is halfway chipped off and because it's black it looks even worse than ever. i felt like a teen sales associate at hot topic crashing a librarian's rare book party. tonight, before going to bed, i looked at my sally hansen nail polish removal system (the one with the foam insert with three bowling ball-style finger holes), looked at my nails, and turned out the lights. i think i'll go one more day because I bought new socks tonight.
i wonder who'd know a delicate way for me to tell my hairstylist just to let me leave after the blowdry.
i go to an aveda concept salon which means: head massage, neck rub, coffee, wash, coffee refill, cut, dry, coffee refill, finishing touches, style, coffee refill, make-up touch-up, pay, tip, coffee refill, leave. for some reason, it's hard for me to understand how someone can visualise a great cut, execute it, but then style it so gay i can't make eye contact with anyone at the counter or in the parking lot on my way out.
she gets so excited about adding height to the top and sides and using her spiral curling iron that i just sit and take it, as if it's my duty to shut up and let her play and improvise with her new creation because she spent an hour and a half laying foundation. to make matters worse, her fellow bossy-booted co-workers stared at me blankly with a hint of lock-jawed bitchiness, like, "ohmygodyourhairiscompletelygay."
i immediately drove home and washed/restyled. how is this possible? how can i go in with a photograph of ashlee simpson's hair from three years ago and exit looking like this?
last night i had the crap scared out of me.
jak and drew had been talking about a haunting in the former rectory of a local catholic school (most pure heart of mary--the one i attended from 5th to 8th grade), and decided to drive by the building on our way to applebee's. i'd never heard of it.
me: what. how do you know this.
jak: it's in that book haunted kansas.
drew: everyone knows about it.
me: how come i haven't and i went to school there?
drew: (in automated, monotone) uh oh--tammy's out of the loop (makes robotic hand chops in the air)
me: shut it. who's this ghost.
jak: i guess a man and his pregnant wife stopped by late one night looking for a place to stay and the nuns took him in. later on he hung himself. sometimes you can see his ghost in the windows.
me: what. when did this happen.
jak: in the 70s.
we drove to the rectory. it's a three-story brick building next to the elementary school that used to be for clergy but is now used for the 7th and 8th grade classes. most of the windows were dark, but occasionally one would have a light on, and drew, who was in the back seat, was barking observations: what's with that window. what's with that exit sign. what's moving over there. we rounded the first corner and scanned the north side of the building. dark windows. a few yellow lights. we crept around corner two to the back of the place, where window screens were sort-of falling out and trash bin silouhettes rattled on a loading ramp. it was around 10 PM, and completely dark out except for the full moon.
when we rounded the south side, there were two rooms with lights on. nothing. nothing. then there it was. on the second floor stood a figure and at first i though we were looking at its back. it's shoulders were slack and its head was down, as a body would appear if it were...HANGING??? now i know how i react to seeing a ghost. it's not crazed or nervous. my immediate reaction is one of disbelief and i respond fairly calmly.
jak: there he is. look you guys.
drew: do you guys see that? what the fuck is that?
me: what. what the hell is that? do you guys see what i'm seeing?
drew: you guys it's staring right at us. look. it's facing us. oh my god. it moved its hands a little.
me: (agitated) you guys?!
jak: (makes nervewracked sound) i don't want to be here anymore.
me: you guys that's fucked up. we all saw that right? we have to drive around again so i can take a picture of it if it's still there. oh my god.
jak: i don't want to.
me: pleeeeeeeease. that's fucking unreal.
so, around we went. north side. back side. south side. window.
me: holy SHIT. i can't look. you guys is it there?
jak: yes.
me: i'm too afraid to look. drew take a picture of it.
drew: no.
me: oh my effing god. i can't look. ok. (squinting) nnnnnnnnn....ok. there. oh my god. look. look at that.
i took three more pictures. below are the two good ones.
*this ended up being a joke.
it's actually a statue of a saint. but seriously.
would you not have crapped your pants? oh my god.
Do you remember your first flight? Where did you go? Why?
Submitted by Laurel.
yes. switzerland. i was three and my dad had a medical conference in bern. i remember eating reindeer stew in a restaurant at the top of a mountain accessable only by cablecar.
