Write like nobody is watching

When I went to bed last night, I had four followers. When I woke up this morning I had thirty. And yes, I did a little jumpy/flappy arm dance (it was a masterpiece). Everything was instantly made of kittens and sunshine and creamy custardy flan. My day was made perfect, and it was all thanks to Jenny Lawson, known to all as The Bloggess.

Yesterday after writing the epic tale of OWSR, I decided to indulge a random whim and send an email to Blog Jesus (not to be confused with Keanu Reeves Jesus or Jesus Lion). The email was as follows, with the subject line of I promise, if I wanted you to sell toilet paper for me I'd pay you:

Hi Jenny,

....or  The Bloggess, or My Ladyship the Princess of Germany (has that ever been settled officially?). Anyway, obviously I'm just another one of those peons who is probably just going to clog up your inbox and never be read. I apologize for not being Nathan Fillion. And yes I have just realized the whole first part of this email comes of as like, "ooh look at me I read your blog I bet NO ONE else ever does that and then quotes it back to you in an email." So yeah...sorry about that. 

Anywho I guess I am writing to you because you are awesome, and I kinda sorta maybe wanted you to possibly read my blog if you had a chance. Obviously I don't want you to promote it or anything because 1) who do I think I am? and 2) I've only posted four things so far, which is not much to promote. I just want to see if you think I'm funny at all I suppose. Plus it'd just be really super cool. I know you have to get these kinds of emails literally all the time, in fact mine is probably sandwiched between two shockingly identical ones. However, I figured what do I have to lose? 

But as an anxiety-ridden nineteen year old currently on jury duty while all her friends are at the beach, more disappointment would kind of suck. Ooh, guilt trip! That was uncalled for. So here's the link. Do with it what you will, oh mighty deity of blogging. 

So yeah, it was long, desperate and obviously trying too hard, but I actually managed to send it. And she read it. And clicked the link. And then read that too. And THEN tweeted my blog.

So now here you are. And about twenty seconds after I felt that first sense of elation, I realized that people will actually be reading things I write. AND THAT IS TERRIFYING.

But as it turns out, this was one of the rare times when The Crazy actually got overruled. Sure, I could freak out. I could panic about what I was going to write next, how quickly I would manage to lose all these new followers, or how I would probably become so powerfully uninteresting from now on that the Bloggess would issue a tweet-traction and then find out where I live and mail me a picture of herself looking disapproving. Like this pumpkin.

Disapproving pumpkin, why must you hurt me so? 

However, sane Bailey must be working out, because even though she is one-nineteenth the size of The Crazy she managed to muscle her way through to the forefront. And so, I’m not going to freak out. I’m just going to keep writing and hope you still find it interesting.

And at some point I’m going to figure out how to reply to comments, because I totally have some now (repeats flailing dance).

Sorry to interrupt with this non-humorous post, but I couldn’t just continue on without acknowledging my new readers or the reason for them. So if you still think I’m worth the shot, tune in tomorrow to find out when I found out a terrible truth about myself: that I am racist against blankets. 

In which I scare an old woman while she admires her groceries

I haven’t posted anything in awhile (which doesn’t matter much since the only person who reads this is my mom, but still) so there are a lot of things I could talk about right now.

I initially thought I would talk about my horrible day and how I get to spend the next five days on jury duty. But then I realized just how much I talk about my horrible days lately; how much time I spend complaining and moaning and proclaiming that I am going to burn the world down (an impractical but at times satisfying thought).

So instead of all that negativity, I am going to talk about something amazing. Something that managed to shake me out of my misery and make me smile.

I am speaking, of course, of Old Woman Spaghetti Reader (OWSR for short). Some context is needed I suppose. As I was riding home on the MAX today, lovingly cradling the whip-creamy remnants of my magical headache curing beverage, an old woman got on the train, wheeling in front of her a small cart filled with reusable grocery bags.

I glanced over as she took the seat next to me, and watched covertly as she pulled out a box of Whole Wheat Thin Spaghetti. And began to read.

Not glance; this was not a glance, not a casual once-over of her newly purchased pasta. She was engrossed in it as if it were her favorite novel. It was completely beautiful.

Now as anyone who has ever ridden public transportation knows, they tend to house a lot of strange people/things. So maybe a pasta-reading old woman doesn’t strike you as very interesting. But to me, at that moment, it was so mundanely absurd I couldn’t get enough. Of course, this all probably played out differently to OWSR.

My Thoughts: Oh my God, why is that lady reading that spaghetti? ALL OF THE FUNNY!

OWSR: Yes, lovely, I shall sit and leisurely examine my wonderful new pasta. Now that Mr. Jingles has passed on I can afford food for myself instead of sharing his Meow Mix.

Me: Ok, ok, she put it away. Calm down. Continue listening to music. *Commence lip synching, rock out* CHEESUS CRACKERS SHE JUST PULLED IT OUT AGAIN! What didn’t you see the first time old lady? What further secrets could you be decoding from that box?

OWSR: Oh gracious, the young lady beside me looks a bit manic, why does she keep furtively glancing at me and mouthing silent words? Is she having some kind of fit? Best to keep still so as not to provoke her…

Me: YOU HAVE OTHER GROCERIES! WHY AREN’T THEY GOOD ENOUGH TO READ TOO?

OWSR: …My my, oh goodness, she is definitely still looking at me. Stay calm, Estelle, you’re a strong independent lady. Just casually exit the train at the next stop.

 Me: Aw, she’s getting off at this stop. Wait, what just…HA! The wheel of her little cart-y thing just got stuck in the wheel of that stroller! No way old lady, that mother is not going to help you at all, yessss, struggle to awkwardly remove yourself before the doors close!

OWSR: Mr. Jingles watch over me, I’m trapped! Must escape lunatic girl who seems to have a strange attachment to that near-empty coffee cup!

Me: Caffeine-y goodness, you are a magical headache curing elixir! *Cuddles with cup* Bye weirdo old lady!!!

OWSR: *Runs away and never buys pasta or takes public transport again*

Hmm. I think my point got away from me a little in that reimagining, but I think what I was getting at is that no matter how bad you feel, how depressed or annoyed or angry you are feeling, there will always be tiny, wonderful things to pick you right up again as long as you are willing to see them.

I love you, Old Woman Spaghetti Reader. 

Hopscotch

Today I had an overwhelming urge that has become quite familiar to me since the beginning of my college career: I wanted to hopscotch. I wanted to hopscotch really badly. Right there, walking through campus, my legs felt the itch for the hop-jump one-two-legged dance of my childhood. I tried it. But it’s really not the same without the chalk outline and with a bunch of people milling around thinking you are a lunatic.

           

Maybe it was the cobblestones. They kind of look like hopscotch squares. Or maybe it’s the fact that my entire being is unwilling to let go of my childhood. I don’t see why things have to stop being fun just because we get older. Sure, we grow out of things, tastes change, but every once and a while if you get the urge to hopscotch or hula hoop or pretend the floor is lava, why shouldn’t you?

            

There are many things about me that haven’t changed since I was a child that probably should. I still play with my food. After I eat at a restaurant I still feel the urge to lay down in the booth (maybe I do sometimes…don’t stare! As if you never get sleepy after eating a lot!) If my roommates drag me to the grocery store when I don’t want to go I will stomp and whine and drag my feet while exclaiming “you aren’t my real mom!”

           

Is any of this acceptable behavior? Probably not. In fact if I remember right it wasn’t acceptable when I was younger either. Like hiding in clothing racks, pulling off price tags or stealing those stiff little plastic things they put in the collar of men’s shirts while at the store. But still I did them, with the unparalleled excuse that I was young and expected to learn better behavior.

            

I don’t really think that we would all be better off acting like children all the time. It would be ridiculous. And even I know that sometimes I possibly push the boundaries of appropriateness for someone my age. But does it really hurt anyone if while I’m walking down the street, just for a second, I jump a little? It’s not the same without those chalk lines. Trying to act childish won’t bring back my childhood.

           

So what’s the big discovery? What’s the life-changing epiphany? I don’t quite know. But I know I’m going to hop if I feel like it. 

Like Rob Lowe, if he was older and had a greasy ponytail

So the other night I was watching Megashark vs. Giant Octopus (you are jealous) with my friends. And then I was suddenly shocked, and not just by the amazing special effects and flawless acting. No, I was shocked to find that one of those talented actors was in fact Debbie Gibson!

“That’s totally that 80’s pop idol girl. I swear. What is she doing in this movie?!”

Collective response: “What the hell are you talking about?”

“No, seriously, I don’t remember her name but that’s her. I think she used to perform in malls or something. 

Google it! Do it now!”

As anyone who is a fan of SciFi original movies or is an avid follower of Ms. Gibson’s career know, I was of course right. Except maybe about the mall thing. That may have been Tiffany.

But that is not the point of this story, and neither is the fact that this movie taught me that if sharks are big enough they can jump high enough to eat airplanes. (I don’t know what airplanes ever did to Megashark, but whatever it was made him seriously pissed).

No, the point is that I was born in 1992. I only lived eight years of my life outside of this annoying 2000s era which there is really no good name for. So how was I possibly alive in the 80s?

Perhaps another example is necessary. Later during that same movie a character came on screen and I remarked that he looked like a really messed up Rob Lowe.

The response I got was dead silence.

“Guys? Rob Lowe? I mean, if Rob Lowe were older and had a greasy ponytail. Don’t you think?”

Then I realized that none of my friends knew who Rob Lowe was. HOW WAS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?  I came to the strange realization that I couldn’t remember a single thing that Rob Lowe had acted in. How did I know who he was anyway? Where did this knowledge come from? Doesn’t everyone just know? Finally I remembered.

“The Outsiders! Rob Lowe was in the Outsiders! Anyone? Oh geez, how am I even friends with you people?”

I had always thought I lived in a certain kind of world. A world where everyone knew copious amounts of random 80s information. But on this night my perfect little world view was shattered. There was no longer any logical reason as to why I alone held this knowledge. The only explanation is that I was born in the 90s but lived through the 80s.

I know it is a lonely path ahead of me. It will be tough. I will probably be alienated by people my age. Few of my references will be understood. But I can live this way.

As an Outsider.

…No one? Really? It’s such a good movie! Gah!!!

Just one of those days

You know the kind of day when you read blogs for hours and then finally decide you have to do dishes because you thought it would be fun to drink pop out of your water bottle, which it was but now your water bottle is all sticky on the inside and besides that cereal bowl has been on your desk for two days which is probably not sanitary?

So you walk to the lounge and the creepy guy who lives two doors away from you is in there and even though he doesn't talk to you or anything you hate that he is even around and then you feel bad because he really isn't doing anything, and it makes you contemplate your overly-judgemental nature for a second.

 But anyway it feels awkward somehow so you try to wash your dishes quickly but while you are standing there a muscle in your thigh starts twitching annoyingly and all you can focus on besides that is the inane conversation the girls behind you are having about cheerleading while for some reason standing on chairs.

And you finally finish washing everything and then you become strangely aware that the back of your shirt says "tackle the virgins" and you start thinking about how to explain that to someone else, except you can't remember what book you were studying when your teacher said that and by the time you sort of decide it was probably Farewell to Arms (even though that still doesn't seem quite right) you realize that no one around here cares or is likely to inquire about the back of your shirt.

So you walk back to your room and of course the really short girl in your hall who wears way too much eye liner who you see EVERYWHERE (like seriously a freakish amount) is there and smiles and says hi to you, which is off-putting only because you literally see her up to ten times a day and she has NEVER acknowledged you before.

So you say "hey" back, although it comes out weird and croaky because you have been silently reading blogs all day and not using your voice, and besides your throat is dry because earlier you drank all your water and then drank sprite, which made your water bottle all sticky and prevented you from getting any more water until you washed your dishes. But it makes it seem like you are really shy or didn't want to say hi to super-short-stalker-racoon girl so then you just feel like an idiot.  

And when you finally get back to your room you remember that both of your roommates are at study sessions because they, unlike you, are actually being productive today. So there is no one to tell your (actually rather uninteresting) story to and you can't watch Doctor Who to pass the time because your sister hasn't paid the Netflix bill, which you really shouldn't complain about because you've been using it extensively for free for months but you will complain about anyway because you feel like it.

Yeah, I'm having one of those days.