Over-Analyzing Trivial Business

"Sister, you are about to become frighteningly jealous of my everyday life," Katsisch sneers.

"Lay it on me."

"So at work a couple of the guys play this game where they make top five movie lists like, favorite sci-fi, favorite westerns, favorite space movies," she drags out the sentence as much as possible, "favorite black and white movies created in the color era."

"I hate you so hard right now."

"I told them that you would be basically infatuated with the game."

"Please tell me you're playing."

"They totally let me play. I'm the only girl that they'll let play. And they think girls are stupid because we don't know movies," and of course my feminist buzzer starts ringing in my head, because those guys sound like a bunch of bullshit sexist fuckheads and I want nothing more than to aggressively prove that I know more shit than they do, and they will be seduced by my knowledge, charm, and natural hilarity, and then everyone falls in love with me because I am The Ideal Woman. "But that's really because no other girls want to play."

"Why would anyone choose to not play this game? Are people crazy? How do you win? Can I play via interweb or something because I like have to?"

"I told them that you would kick their ass at any and all trivial movie-related activities."

"Don't tell people shit like that man, because then when I make a mistake it's a waaaaaaay bigger deal."

"It's not like you're ever going to meet them."

"True, Sister." And then they will never know that they are in love with me. So much for my plan. "So give me one."

"A list?"

"Fuck yeah, give me one."

"Top five sci-fi."

"What kind of sci-fi?"

"Like...?"

"Like time travel? Or like aliens or space or technology or are you looking for all-encompassing science fiction?"

"I have no idea. Aliens."

"In outer space, on Earth, or both?"

"Space is not a requirement. You just gave me like seven more categories for the game."

"We must be specific. I take this shit seriously. Favorites or best?"

"Favorites."

"Flight of the Navigator, Alien..." I pause, for a few seconds, gazing in thought. "I need more time."

"In general we choose the category in the morning and hold court over lunch, so during the actual game you would have four hours."

"Maybe Repo Man."

"How have you not listed Star Wars yet?"

"Dude, I need more time. There are just so many. The Last Starfighter. Star Trek (lady boner). Starship Troopers. Basically anything with 'star' in the title."

"Five and only five."

"Evolution. Muppets In Space."

"Now you're just naming movies for the sake of proving you know the names of a bunch of movies."

"Okay, well maybe not Muppets In Space, but Evolution for sure."

"You're going to write a blog about this, aren't you?"

"Prolly."

"You are such a dork. Nobody cares about your blog."

"It's not like I walk around introducing myself as a Blogging Extraordinaire. I don't even like telling people about it."

"You talk about it all the time."

"You brought it up, you sneaky bastard. Plus sometimes you know, it's like I want to tell a story, but I don't know if the person I'm talking to has already read something I wrote and I'm just repeating myself like a jackass. So I gotta start half of my conversations with, 'Did you read my blog about fucking whatever' and move on from there."

"You just want everyone to read it. I'll bet you tell people about it at bars."

"I sure fucking don't. I'm embarrassed by it. I hate it when strangers find out I have a blog, because then a friend says, 'oh you have to read her blog she's so funny' and then people are like, 'what do you write about' and I'm like 'ummm...things I think are funny.' Because I don't want to talk about my inadequacies, and then I have 'funny' to live up to. So I have to mock myself incessantly until I'm comfortable, which makes other people uncomfortable. So basically my blog is a platform of insecurity and validation and a place for me to over-analyze stuff."

She stares at me. "Why don't you just stop over-analyzing?"

"If you stop breathing, does that make the thought of breath irrelevant?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Okay, just because I stop over-analyzing stuff doesn't mean I'm not going to crave over-analyzing stuff, and then I'm going to over-analyze my over-analytical nature. I've been like this for twenty-eight years, it's not like it started yesterday."

"Whatever. Just be clear about this: I was right, and you were wrong."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's Muppets FROM Space, and you said Muppets IN Space. HA! I WIN! I AM SOOOO BETTER THAN YOU!"

"Shut up."

...

CAPITAL LETTERS

YOU PEOPLE NEED TO STOP WRITING BLOGS BECAUSE I'M LIKE 200 DEEP ON GOOGLE READER AND YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF. WHY DO SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE ALL THIS INTERESTING SHIT TO SAY? STOP BEING INTERESTING AND CALM THE FUCK DOWN ALREADY. GOLLY. GIVE ME A WEEK OR SOMETHING.

...

I Would Throw A Good Search Party

I started making a list of tangible life goals, and so far they are limited to "puppy!" and "do not get hit by a train" and "who needs goals when Halloween is so close?" the second of which was inspired by the fact that on Sunday night I was on a train and we hit someone.

Last week, I decided to become a foodie. I figured, you know, I really like food. Like a lot. It is time for me to learn how to cook something delicious that isn't peanutbutter and jelly. Although, I fucking dare you out pb&j my ass, because I have chemical equations and shit to prove mine is more savory than yours.

I'm pretty sure that on my way home from the store I bounced through a fatty pothole.

You know when you're cooking something gutsy and lush, and it smells as good as the Food Network looks and words float behind your eyes, words you never use, like "sumptuous" and "resplendent" because really, this sauce? this spicy, harmonic sauce is sumptuously resplendent, and you're convinced pleasant accomplishment smells like this because even the stove is smiling, happy to simmer something so deliciously dreamy?

No?

Me neither.

The solution to cooking failures, of course, is cheap wine, sweatpants, and Battlestar Galactica. Which really made the night a success in the end, because you do not get much cooler than that, and if you dry yourself out with enough wine just about everything you eat after that tastes like Syrah anyway, so you know. Win.

Discovered my car with a flat, shreddy tire on Saturday, so that was peachy. I need to get it fixed by this weekend so I can drive for three hours to see Hot Mess Fraya.

And that is why I had to take the train out to the suburbs for the baby shower on Sunday, and why I was riding the train back into the city that night.

I had a book with me, but sometimes people watching on the train is more satisfactory than reading.

On Saturday night a couple of us went to a haunted house. I had to lead the pack through the fun, and Hanson clutched my arm the entire time, buried into my shoulder, while I reminded her to stone up as we approached every black corner. The best thing about haunted houses is watching people jump with raw, excited laughter. The corpses aren't real.

On the train, no one was excited, but we were all kinds of raw as we sat there locomotionless, pressing against the dark windows as cops with flashlights searched the tracks beneath us, looking for a body. A real body belonging to a real person who laid themselves across the tracks.

Every ten minutes or so the conductor would announce that it shouldn't be much longer, but they had yet to find a body so the search would continue. After an hour, the search expanded to included everything within a three-mile radius of our position. We waited some more.

In my brain, an impressive collective of passengers band together to scour the surrounding miles with torches. We are serious plainclothes investigators and heroes to boot. And in the shadows we find a deep, stalag-filled cave. Our numbers dwindle as the true spelunkers are whittled out of our troupe by a series of complicated puzzle traps, and eventually we slide into the drippy lair of a thin man in a top hat with an evil twirly mustache who hides a crooked sword in his spider-handled cane, and I defeat him in a battle of wits while my comrades liberate his prisoners from their cold, stone cells. And then our search party throws a Search-themed Party.

But we aren't allowed to leave the train. Stupid trainworkers. Ruining my fantasy.

I wanted them to find a mangled body. I wanted it to be someone I knew, but not well, so I could properly mourn and regret not taking the time to know them better. Those are the best people to die. Loved ones hurt, and strangers are eventually forgotten. Way it is.

I wanted them to find a living human being who jumped in the nick of it. I wanted them to find blood tracks leading into a forest, where the survivor lay panting with nonlethal wounds. I wanted it to be an elaborate prank, I wanted it to be a ghost, I wanted it to be a raccoon, I wanted it to be Ashley Judd because I can't stand her movies.

But they found nothing. We probably never hit anything at all.

But I was sure we did, because just before we suddenly slowed, while I was people watching and imagining Bradley Cooper taking pictures of a gruesome murder while Keanu Reeves and Dennis Hopper fight on the roof ("Yeah? But I'm taller."), and replaying that one episode of Homicide where Vincent D'Onofrio gets smashed between the subway and a platform and if they move him, he dies...

So all that is going through my head, and I wonder, If we were to hit someone on the tracks, would passengers feel the impact? and not fifteen seconds later the train comes to a surprise stop and I say out loud, to whoever, "Oh my god, I think we hit someone," and all these people look at me.

But they found nothing.

...

Why Can't I Just Play Along?

Because I've been obnoxiously defensive lately (I have to make fun of myself before anyone else does, when no one ever really cares, and they find this paranoia all too rotten and unsettling. It's also shockingly good for my complexion), today I went to a baby shower and hiked up my business to a new level of offense, and talked the entire time and hardly paid any attention to Mrs. Smith.

I wonder where this streak of insanity comes from? We're supposed to be celebrating creation and life, and all I do is sit and whine about being forced to play baby games, when in reality I should just suck it up and play along because we'll all be happier if we just make it fun instead of talking about how lame everything is.

It's outright rude of me to behave that way, brewing in discontent, blatantly wishing I was somewhere else. A good friend who is a good person asks me to take several hours out of one day of the year to celebrate the next stage of her life, and I act like a jackass.

It's not that I threw a fit, but I was just so critical, laughing and ridiculing everything. Why can't I just play along?

Baby showers and wedding showers and all that business are hard, because it means people have that next stage of progression. All it does is reinforce my own incompetence by not doing my biological duty to humanity. But it's not about me, I know. It's about Mrs. Smith and that basketball she swallowed, which I hear will eventually be a child.

It's not about me.

I have a selfish loathing when friends start families, because it means they aren't mine anymore. They never belonged to me, I know...but they just don't need me anymore. They don't need me nearly as much as I need them, and I don't think they understand how much I need them to survive.

They balance me. I'm a dry, slightly funny, slightly observant, plain girl who rambles on about unimportant things that no one ever really cares about or completely understands, but with them I have a part to play. I'm not a one-woman show. I can't do it on my own. I'm just not likable enough.

They have significant others, and they're starting families, and I will be the forty year old single woman at the bar getting drunk by myself, with no family, no career, a blog and a large DVD collection, rambling about how cool I was in college.

I've said that before, I think. That same line. It's a fear.

It means I have to make new friends which is FUCKING SCARY, because I irrationally crave acceptance and new people try to change me which just pisses me off. That or I should get my hands on a pony and dog and wander the countryside for the rest of my days. Which wouldn't be so bad, I think, because if there was enough countryside I could just wander forever. If I have no one around I can never feel brazenly inferior to everyone. Dissect that.

Be happy for people (saying something and embodying something are two different things). I am happy for Mrs. Smith, she is round and shiny and living her dream.

That's what it is. That's where the selfish jealousy comes from. It's because that they have something that they want.

It's because they have a dream in the first place.

My dreams are all fucky. Example: I'm living in a halfway house with a pet polar bear and a bionic bird, wearing a patchwork coat and goggles, hunting a blue gingham demon, and throughout the chase there is a goddamn leaky faucet that I turn off, over and over and over again - those are the dreams I have.

Of course there I things I want. I want to watch the next episode of Venture Bros. I want to make it to work on time.

But as of right now I have no dream to reach for. No matter what it is I will fuck it up, just like I fuck up everything else that I try to fix or accomplish. So right now...I guess my dream is to change my mind.

I've talked about all this before. I keep on writing the same blog entry, over and over again, saying it different ways, saying I need change, trying to change, and then snapping back into bullshit.

Dammit.

...

Sure, Nutella Tastes Good, But It Ain't No Peanut Butter.

Riding in the elevator down to the lobby, it occurs to me that I should have brought my wallet so I could get a bag of Cool Ranch after picking up the applications, and get two birds stoned at once. I'll just have to get it later.

With a tone the doors shift open, and I wince as my boots click on the granite floor. I feel like a villain. How does one hush the click of their boots? Glue cotton balls to the sole, soften things up a little. Like a metaphor or something. What does the sound of your shoes suggest about the tenderness of your soul?

What should my shoes sound like? A louder thud with a legato hum, one step slurs into the other with a sort of, I don't know...letter B. Each sounds like a "buh," loud and stretched, but squashy all the same. Maybe not squashy. Butternutty? Is that what my soul sounds like?

I love pushing through this revolving door, because each revelation is like saving the earth.

Rain. Rain should always be like wandering into the middle of a cool, invisible surprise party. One where I am the guest of honor. We're having a good time, getting into a little mischief, and we've gotten over the awkward small talk and have yet to enter blinding, drunken turbulence. From this moment on, I will try to live life like that.

Also:

Dear Me,

Stop eating Reese's pumpkins, fatty. Live life like that. Without all the peanut butter.

Love, Me

Will Reese's ever develop Nutella cupcakes? That could be delicious. But then I would have to eat two at once (one to cancel the other) because Nutella just makes me wish I had peanut butter.

"Hello, ladies," I say to the two smiling, elderly principals waiting for me in their car on the street. They hand me packages of school grant applications, and I thank them for beating the deadline, and they ask if I have an umbrella. I explain that I have bad luck with umbrellas, because sometimes I get drunk and give them to homeless people sleeping in boarded doorways. We say goodbye. As they shift back into the busy traffic I offer a wave, when a random angry-looking woman stalks up to me.

"This is the FUCKING BUS LANE," she shouts angrily, and flicks off the nice old ladies in the car before trying to stare me down.

I point at her and laugh, and keep on chuckling over my shoulder as I click back into the office building through the rain.

Today is a good day.

...

I Waterboard My Internal Conflict About Vacation Choices Until It's a Tortured, Irrelevant Mess

"Seriously. I'm going to Cancun. Me. Fucking look at me. I'm going to Cancun. Me. I am such a douchebag." I take a long drink from my beer mug.

Dainon shrugs. "What? Why? Why? Why does that make you a douchebag?" He's got that smirk on his face, you know, the one where people look at me like I'm a socially paranoid puppy.

"Well, I'm not twenty-one, first of all."

"Angela and I went two years ago. So what now? Are we douchebags?"

"Well, uh, whatever, you guys are a couple. It's only socially acceptable to go to Cancun on Spring Break or a romantic getaway. Duh."

"Who said...anything? Romantic getaway? I went with my wife."

I squint at him bitterly. "Yeeeeah, you guys totally did it when you were down there and you know it."

Angela, his wife, jumps in. "Rossi, honey, you are going to have a blast. Don't worry so much. Just bring plenty of bikinis. Our last trip I brought seven. I needed twice that."

"I don't even own a bathing suit. I should get on that."

Angela is baffled. "How can you...what?"

"You're a liar," Dainon interjects.

"You guys didn't know me when I was 30 pounds heavier," I snicker at them and cross my arms in defense, pretending that it wasn't a big deal when I was that overweight. "You'd prolly be thanking God, Ganesh and the stars that you never had to see that." (In retrospect, I prolly looked like eerily similar to Ganesh.) "I'm going to need SPF 200. But I might not even get a bathing suit," I flip over my forearm and push up my sleeve, proudly exposing not only my sweet tat, but the milky, alabaster skin beneath, "because I will totally match the sand."

Dainon cocks his head and furrows, wondering why my whiteness is so unacceptable, but Angela nods in agreement. "Yup, that's about right, you'd blend in with sugar." She grabs my arm. "Okay, in that case? On behalf of everyone who is naturally a bit darker, honey, please, promise me you won't get a flesh-colored swimsuit. 'Cause honey, that's just wrong. You might as well just lay out there with nothing."

"That's the plan." I joke about this now, but there is no way I'll have the balls to be all birthday suity.

"No matter what, you just do what makes you comfortable. Oh! You're gonna have so much fun, and you're going to meet people...let me tell you, Dainon and I met just the sweetest couple when we were down there. We hung out with them every day, went out to dinner and all that."

I am like scoffy magee. "Well, of course you guys found people to hang out with. You're like two of the friendliest, most accepting people in the world. I can't do that man, I'm a massive hater."

"What are you talking about? Oh, honey, you're no hater. I know haters, and you are not one." Angela laughs it off.

"Of course I am. Did you not hear me hatin' on Cancun?"

"Good point - she did do that," Dainon says, and does a cheap, bullshit imitation of me, "I'm not fucking twenty-one and I'm not in a fucking couple and Cancun is fucking bullshit."

"I hate you," I snap at him, and then pause to roll my eyes and point at my face.

"You're a hater," Dainon agrees.

"I never realized that before," Angela says with disbelief. "It all makes so much sense now. You are a hater."

"And I'm walking out of every single place that starts playing Jimmy Buffet."

"There are a lot of 'em."

"And I don't want to deal with all of the American assholes at the bars."

"Well, your resort is all-inclusive--"

"And I almost don't want to make friends with anyone 'cuz then I'm gonna feel guilty when I don't want to leave the resort and do their bullshit stuff."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Fucking Cancuny activities and all that business."

"You're there to drink on the beach, anyway."

"People will be all, 'Go to Chicken Itza' or whatever it's called. Like chicken. The place that looks like it's spelled chicken, but it's not and it looks like it should be, though."

Dainon just stands there unblinking, slowly shaking his head, watching my mind unravel itself.

"Oh, they'll all try to get you with that stuff," Angela explains. "When we were there, they were all, 'Let's rent jet skiis! Let's go snorkeling! Let's play beach volleyball! Let's see the ancient ruins!' and Dainon and I were like, Oh, no, you go on, I'm just going to finish off about twelve more of these frozen coconut things."

"Yeah, and everyone's gonna want to go to bars, go waterboarding--"

"Waterboarding?"

"Exactly, and I'm gonna be all, 'what if I don't want to go waterboarding?' and they're gonna be all, 'come on it'll be fun' and I'm gonna be all 'beach drinking is funner' and they're gonna be all--"

"Did you just say waterboarding?" Now Dainon is paying attention again.

'Yeah, you like can rent them at our resort."

"Waterboarding is available for rent?"

"Yeah," I shrug. "All non-motorized water sports--"

" And you will be...torturing war criminals with water inhalation?"

"No, it's like those kickboards---oohhhh, fuck."

"Is this the Spanish Inquisition?"

"Shut up, Dainon."

"Seriously, are you going to Cancun or Guantanamo?"

"I hate you so hard right now."

"You fucking hater."

...