Home sweet home

So, I don't exactly live in a "classy" neighborhood. When I give people directions to get to my apartment, I usually say something like, "Across from the Rock n Roll Ralphs, then turn left at the Russian foot doctor's office (seriously.), then past the abandoned field. If you hit the building that still has Christmas decorations and a blow up Santa Claus, you've gone too far." It's not that I particularly MIND living adjacent to Prostitute Alley, but just once I'd like to be able to walk around my block without the fear of a kidnapping.

Anyway, the building itself could certainly be worse (and I know, as I've lived in many terrible apartments in my day). In the course of living here, we've had our tires slashed and a someone stole a jalapeno pepper I was growing off my balcony. I'm more upset about the pepper.

There's a sign next to our dumpster (which is in our parking structure) that says, literally, "No digging through the dumpster." It looks like a no smoking sign, with a dumpster diving stick figure man with a big X through him. Classy. Awesome that no one can get to the dumpsters unless you live there, so this must have been a tenant problem, and apparently, this was a big problem that required a professionally-made sign. I wonder if there are websites that cater to this sort of thing. Apartment management companies across America are like, THANK GOODNESS, we finally have a place where we can order those "please don't steal mail from the outgoing mail box" signs. FINALLY.

So this is really gross, but the neighbor above me (or possibly across the courtyard; thus far my detective work has proved unsuccessful) BELCHES more than any human I've ever encountered in my life. It's disgusting, and I don't even really want to talk about it, except to say that if you combine that with his constant, hacking cough, he is officially on my List (I have many lists, actually, but this particular one is Gross Neighbors I Will Kill One Day). Maybe he doesn't know I can hear him, but I can, and every time I do, I want to die a little. Or kill him. Either way.

The other weird thing? So a few weeks ago it was PERFECT weather, to the point where even I wanted to go outside (and I hate nature. Especially because it's hard to watch TV outdoors). So I had this brilliant plan to knit on my balcony (I'm making dishcloths!! Because no one can have too many dishcloths. It's not like you can buy them at the dollar store or anything. Nope! I'm spending a month on this fucking dishcloth that has thus far cost about $5 worth of yarn.)

Anyway, I sit on my balcony and start getting all knitty when all of a sudden I hear the loudest, screamiest, painful lady-having-sex noises I have ever heard in my life. Turns out, it was coming from my next door neighbor, whose sliding glass door was WIDE OPEN and a few feet from my balcony. I swear, it was the loudest thing I've EVER heard. Louder than the burps, that's for sure. And they had sex about 6 times, I'm not even kidding. First of all, that's physically impossible. And secondly, close the fucking door? It was ECHOING through the courtyard. I mean, maybe they're exhibitionists or something, in which case, GOOD THING THEY JUST MOVED IN, as that's the one type of neighbor I'm missing in my personal hell of bad neighbors. All we need is a crying baby downstairs, a barking dog to the left, and we're set.

But now I'm in a pickle. Do I stay on the balcony and knit, being that lady in Shakespeare in Love who is creepily fanning herself outside of slutty boy/girl Gwyneth Paltrow's room while she's getting it on with whichever Fiennes brother is unwrapping her ample chest? Or do I retreat back into my apartment, far away from the sex noises, closer to the TV and the couch and my pajamas? I think you know the answer to that question. And I still haven't finished the dishcloth.

And the winner is...

Now that I've graduated and I no longer have grades to measure my worth, I've noticed that I tend to get a little braggy about my past scholastic achievements. I've gotten pretty good about slipping these facts into my conversations, like how I won a state silver medal at the Texas Science Olympiad in Rocks, Minerals, and Fossils identification. I'm always surprised when people laugh at me about this--I fully expect them to celebrate the same way my parents did at the award ceremony--but I guess that's the price I pay for not being best friends with geologists.

Anyway, when I was in school, I was in Horizons, which was the Gifted and Talented Program. In fifth grade, we had these enrichment programs where we had to stay in from recess twice a week and do things like learn to play chess and create our own restaurant from concept to execution and serve it to all the teachers. You may not be surprised to learn that I THRIVED in this environment; in fact, it was my restaurant concept, menu, and music that was used during our weird recess lunchtime service. (In case you were wondering, the theme was Under the Sea, and we served SUB sandwiches--get it?--and we played Little Mermaid songs and Yellow Submarine.)

One day, our teacher took us asied to have Talk. She told us that we had to stop telling the non-Horizons kids about all the cool stuff we were doing during recess, because they were getting jealous. I felt really bad. It was sad they didn't get to play chess with us, but I guess that's the price you pay for being less gifted. (I can say that, because as a less gifted athlete, quite literally in the slow kids PE class, I didn't miss recess one bit. My skills were better used planning fake restaurants than getting hit in the face during foursquare).

I recently recounted this story to my husband, who proclaimed me the biggest nerd on the planet. To counter this, I explained how the other kids were jealous of our awesome fun. He patted me on the head sadly and said, "Sweetie. They weren't jealous. The teachers just didn't want you to get beat up for being a nerd." WHAT?? OMG, he was right! Normal people don't think that kind of thing is fun, nor do they consider anyone bragging when they say they're forced to stay indoors and play chess instead of kickball. Somehow, to me, this was Jealousy Material. Instead, it was just another item on the Bully List of why they should kick my ass. Or, I should say, because I'm a girl, it goes on the list of reasons why they should pretend to be my friend and then make fun of my bangs behind my back. Either way.

So, the real question is, why do I measure my achievement in this way? Probably because I'm completely empty inside. But really, I think it's just hard being a grown-up, in a field where you're either wildly successful or eating the 5/$1 pasta from Ralphs every day. Maybe that's true of all professions. But either way, I could really use at LEAST a certificate of participation at this point.

X Files is better than you

So, if you knew me in high school, you knew I was OBSESSED with the X Files. I mention it now and again, but if you go to Houston right now and peek at the room I occupied 99% of my life, you'll see the walls are COVERED in X Files pictures. Where did I get these pictures, you may wonder? The X Files Official Magazine. Which I received monthly because of my membership in the Official X Files Fan Club. That's right. I'm not even embarrassed to admit this. It's not something I should be embarrassed about. In fact, YOU should be embarrassed for NOT being a member.

Not only did I get these awesome magazines every month, but I also had a membership card that deemed me member of the club. I carried it around in my wallet, though I'm not sure why. I sort of felt like an FBI agent, maybe? Like some scary alien shit would go down, and I'd whip out my laminated X Files Fan Club ID Card, and just totally manage the hell out of the situation.

So, now that the second movie is coming out, I'm overcome with emotions. I semi pursued writing in a secret attempt to one day write for the show, which I assumed would air throughout the course of my lifetime.

I suppose that's all for the best, though, that I'm not an Accomplished Screenwriter yet and didn't write the movie. I'm a Shipper, which means I want a Mulder and Scully hookup more than I ever wanted my own hookups, which is something I really don't have time to get into in this blog. Let's just put it this way-- Mulder and Scully porn wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, and I don't think I'm alone in saying this. But I digress. Anyway, if I wrote the X Files sequel, it would sort of just be a romantic comedy, wherein they get into some hilarious complication of who is picking up the dry cleaning, and Mulder is supposed to but he forgot because he was busy creating some sort of romantic surprise, and she thinks it's for another girl, and then he reveals the plot, and they laugh and laugh and then make out for the other 99 minutes of the film. And I wonder why I'm not a paid screenwriter yet.

I hate the word, but even I admit I'm not "fierce"

Ok, confession time. I don't know how to dress myself. I mean, I know how to GET dressed, but for the life of me, I don't know how to put together a proper outfit that is 1) in style, 2) fits me well and 3) is weather appropriate.

1) As mentioned earlier, I read fashion mags like they were going out of style. Which, by the time they arrived in my mailboxes, they sort of already had? But I always read them for make-up and boyfriend tips only, and I'd skip over the clothes pages immediately (like the way I skip over the book section in Entertainment Weekly.) Because if my eyes did wander to those pages, I would see "Steal this look! Shoes by whoever, $1300" and my mind would explode. As an avid Old Navy/Wal-mart shopper, I couldn't fathom this at all.

The other problem is that when I'd go shopping with my mom, and I'd want to buy some red shoes or whatever, she'd say, "What will that go with?" And I'd realize, nothing, so I'd switch them for some lovely black shoes. See, it somehow never occured to me to buy NEW styles and colors of things, I'd only coordinate with my existing clothes, so for my entire life I ended up with blacks, blues, and whites--sensible things that would blend seamlessly with my other blacks, blues and whites.

Also weird? I don't really own jewelry, because as a girl my mom somehow convinced me that jewelry was something Boys Buy Girls. Though she's super feminist, she never told me I could buy my own jewelry. Our conversations went something like this--"Mom, can I have this locket?" "Lockets are things boys buy for their girlfriends. When you have a boyfriend, you can have one." She didn't mean it in a threatening way, but I took it that way, fearing that I'd grow up to be an old maid with no lockets whatsoever.

2) As far as clothes fitting me well, I at least have a lot of sense not to buy things that don't make me look fat, which includes bubble dresses, baggy pants, and tight pants around the thighs. I've actually subconsciously been buying clothes to hide by butt and thighs, because, I have what someone once told me is a "ghetto booty." Apparently, that's compliment. Apparently, people like ghetto booties. Those people do not include me. As a young girl, I was horrified by my own ass, and was convinced that when turned to the side, I look like a centaur. Yes, this is what I thought about at the age of ten, so it's probably no wonder I had no one buying me any lockets.

3) Weather appropriate clothing is just something I'm realizing I don't plan for. I don't understand what fits in what seasons. I have two categories of clothes-- Sweaters and Not Sweaters. Which works fine considering I'm only either Hot or Cold, and I carry around my giant sweatery jacket every day anyway, regardless of weather. One day, I'll understand the meaning of "IT'S SPRING!" time to break out the...sling backs? I confess, I don't even know what that is.

Now, before you go on saying, "Oh, I don't know what you're talking about, you dress cute!" You can save it. I know it's not true. I figured this out when people started giving me clothes for my birthdays. Not gift certificates FOR clothes, because I can't be trusted. I know I have a problem. And one day I'll hire a Tim Gunn-like guru to go through my underwear and shake his head sadly. Or, if any of you, kind readers, would like to take pity on me and help me buy clothes, that's totally fine. Shameless begging! In return, I'll teach you the special skills I possess--how to memorize Full House episodes and how to order a cheaper omelet at IHOP.

They're not rags, they're valuable forms of literature

So I love the Oprah Magazine. Maybe more than any magazine I've ever read, and this says a lot, because the majority of my reading material is magazines and blogs. I spent most of my teenage years pouring over Seventeen, Teen, and when I got a little older/more interested in smut, Cosmo. Well, maybe Cosmo reading wasn't until college, because I think my mom would have found it a bit too "adult" (meaning, every SINGLE issue involved a list of the best ways to have sex, and then every three months they would compile THOSE lists into a much larger list. I'm not sure who they were fooling with this. Sort of like how I imagine bridal magazines to be--the same 15 articles every four issues, because most people probably don't subscribe to those magazines indefinitely, and thus won't recognize the repetition. Unless you're a bridal freak, in which case I'm not sure you'll mind).

Anyway, Teen and Seventeen were wonderful because my mom didn't really care about fashion and I didn't have a big sister, so I had to have a jr. beauty editor at Teen teach me how to apply eye liner in their How to Get Smokey Eyes section. The pictures were never helpful, but they did encourage you to buy a lot of different products, and this is why I own 70 shades of eyeshadow.

So the thing I love about the Oprah Magazine is that though it is geared toward 50 year old women, I somehow find it very specific to my life. Just when I was wondering how to dress myself, the Oprah beauty editor explained that you should buy clothes that fit you properly. You might thing I'm joking, but this was sort of valuable knowledge to me. Additionally, they always have these random successful 50-something women detailing how she ate really healthy/worked out/quit email for a month and what happened as a result--it always includes some Greater Life Lesson they discover, which usually aren't that great but are only tangentially related--and this is how I operate. I'm always getting myself into these new kicks, from eating healthy to decluttering--only no one pays me to do these things or really cares about the Lessons I Learn as a result. (Well, maybe you do, fair reader(s), but that remains to be seen).

The other great thing about the magazine is the Letter from Oprah at the beginning. She always ties all the sections into the theme of the month, which I appreciate because I love synergy. Sadly, though, there's always one section that doesn't quite fit, and Oprah (and her writers) never seem to master a way of cramming it in. It'll be like, "This month is all about financial freedom! In Beauty, we'll be showing you how to look great for less. In the money section, Joann Schmo teaches you how to TAKE CONTROL of your budget. And also, we interviewed Denzel Washington. Here's to escaping debt! -Oprah!"

I have a love/hate relationship with Oprah (I like her now only because I hate Tyra so much, and somehow they have an inverse relationship so that I can only like one at a time). But there's nothing I love more than a fake letter from her introducing magazine topics. Nothing.

Coffee flavored is the worst, but that's another topic entirely

Okay, so there's nothing I find more confusing than Pinkberry. For those of you not in the know, Pinkberry is this popular frozen yogurt place in LA. And I use the term "frozen yogurt" loosely, because it's since been discovered that it's probably not yogurt at all. I learned this and was disgusted. Apparently, it doesn't have the right amount of bacterial cultures per ounce. And I'm not sure why LESS bacteria cultures in my food grosses me out, but it does. I want more bacteria, dammit! They refuse to publish what IS in it, but I suspect it's some sort of powdered mix from Asia that they freeze. Yuuuum.

Despite this, I can't stop eating there.

Ok. So the taste. It is horrifying. Like...really cold sour cream? But with the consistency of ice cream, with random fruit and chocolate toppings on top. It's like, possibly the worst thing you've ever tasted in your life. And yet, I want that taste in my mouth at all times. It's something I've tried to understand for several years, and can't even begin to formulate what it is about it specifically that makes me obsess about it so crazily. But seriously, sometimes it is all I think about.

On the wall at Pinkberry, they used to list all the great things this food does, like clears skin, prevents colon cancer and improves digestion, until they got in trouble when it was discovered that obviously it doesn't do anything. I mean, Cap'n Crunch is one of there toppings, which must be a carcinogen on it's own. Still, I've managed to secretly believe all they've told me, and I pretty much convinced myself that Pinkberry is the healthiest food on earth. And I'm sucker for anything that claims to clear your skin. I will buy it like nobody's business. The acne aisle at Target sort of frightens me, because if I'm not careful I will load up ten carts full of products and run off to wash my face.

Anyway, another weird thing about Pinkberry is that you can't take pictures of it. At all. A guard stands there, telling you not to take a picture OF THE STORE. Now, I'm not a picture taker by nature, but randomly, one time someone from high school visited me and the only place I could think of to take her was Pinkberry. And for some reason we wanted to commemorate this trip, even though I hadn't spoken to her in six years, so we decided to take a picture. And we were rebuffed.