….cause we all know how ironic the name of this blog was getting, amirightoramiright?
…Currently in transit to Chicago!
What up, four hour layover in NYC?
Oh. Don’t feel too bad for me, kiddies. I’ve got Season 5 of “Gilmore Girls”, “Elf”, and “Roman Holiday” to tide me over
Cannot wait to be in Chicago already. I have so much to write and talk about, that I feel like a drunken Russian man who has had far too much vodka. At 12:32 in the afternoon.
I know. Classy.
I have no idea what I’m going to do once I make landfall in Chicago, but I’m thinking a few of the following are definite must-dos:
1. Not get mugged. (I’m wearing a shirt that says “Hairy Otter” and a picture of an otter Harry Potter on it. I think that will help my case a little bit.
2. Possibly sneak into the Harper Library at UChicago
3. Get acclimated in the hostel I’m staying in for the next few days. Hopefully make friends with a bunch of swedes, as that seems like what you normally do in a hostel.
4.Cause a raucous i.e. gallivant around Lincoln Park, Millenium Park, Grant Park, and/or see Second City (and have my Mary Tyler Moore “You’re gonna make it after all” moment of glory.
5. Scrap all ideas for #4 and just sleep. And try and get a job. ‘Cause I totally got scarred today in JFK by having to buy a $10 sandwich as that was the most reasonable thing.
Le sigh. What a hard life I lead.
I’ll see you when I see you!
P.S. New Blog (‘cause, come on. This one is getting wayyyyy to ironic for its own good.) =
Listen, readers. I really have been trying to figure out alternate blog topics to ramble on about, and I really have been wanting to make other tags in my “blog tags” larger than the “creep” and “dork” tags.
Really. I promise. With bunion cream and dentures on top.
This topic in general is pretty ironic, given the fact that I was lurked on by multiple geezer men at the beach yesterday. It only affirmed my plans to get myself to the nunnery! Ophelia-style.
Second City, we’re going to be BFFs SO SOON (4daysbutwhoiscounting?)
But unfortunately for me, I don’t have a sassy gay friend to keep me from having weird (does anyone else have these?) crushes on older dudes.
To each his own?
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I made a mental list of old man crushes of mine that I’d be totally cool with giving up eating excessive amounts of garlic and the nunnery in order to woo. Don’t hate, appreciate. Like I always say, feel free to cringe.
Come on. I don’t even think I have very many guy friends that don’t completely want Stephen Colbert’s bod. If you don’t agree with me, you might just be a terrorist; a Love Terrorist.
Man, that would’ve been such a good name for a love song in the ‘80s.
This, I could have seen coming. I grew up watching “The Jerk” and “The Three Amigos”, all of the movies in “Father of the Bride” series, and reruns of SNL from the ‘70s.
And I’ll admit, I always wanted Steve Martin to be my father and he’d play me lullabies on the banjo and perform stand-up on a whim, and be an all-around “wild and craaaaazy guy” when I was growing up.
But I can say in all seriousness that if I was alive during the ‘60s and ‘70s I would have most definitely wanted Steve Martin to be my male companion and I’d sit on his lap, and most likely try to seduce him.
Maybe it’s because they were playing “The Graduate” tonight that I reflected on the first time I saw the movie and how it launched my big-time crush on the gray fox that is now Dustin Hoffman, my all-time favorite actor. Seriously. I have such a crush on D. Hoffman that I have “Dustin Hoffman movie nights” with my best friend.
Which does not exclude the comedic gem of the movie “Tootsie”. If this movie doesn’t cheer you up, then you can join the people who don’t have crushes on Stephen Colbert, you Love Terrorists.
Why yes, I AM trying to seduce you, Mr. Hoffman.
Noooooot gonna lie. I’ve totally had a crush on the Boss since the age of eight. STRAIGHT UP COMMITMENT RIGHT THERE. And I definitely wanted to be Courtney Cox in the “Dancing in the Dark” video. Desperately.
And if the fact that I wanted to name my first cat “Springsteen” and get him black leather kitten-pants and teach him how to meow “Thunder Road” by heart doesn’t prove my point, then I don’t know what will.
And that’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to enjoy the rest of my night either Photo-shopping my face over the wives of these strapping old men, or ogling Andy Samberg on SNL.
I’m not sure which one is better.
Okay, so maybe this makes me a total hypocrite due to my prior post about my desire to not date until I’m thirty, but…
I can’t lie. If someone asked me out by reciting the lines of “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon I’d definitely say yes.
If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me
You can call me Al!
Come to think of it, if a guy ever decided to propose to me and and all my craziness I don’t think I’d say yes unless he asked me to “be his body guard” and for him to be “my pal Al”. Extra brownie points if he asks me to be the Chevy Chase to his Paul Simon.
BUT NOT UNTIL I’M THIRTY.
P.S. 10 days until Chicago. Not that I’m counting or anything…
Oftentimes when I come home from school and intermingle with friends and family friends I nearly never know how on earth I’m supposed to dodge that one, lethal bullet:
“So, ya got any boyfriend yet?!”
I’ve usually tried to figure out some witty response or something uncomfortably awkward so that the conversation can be steered towards something more neutral and less embarrassing, like table linens or what kind of air freshener they use (Hopefully, “eau du Febreeze”).
I usually stick to the following replies:
“Eh. I had one once, but he fell off a cliff and died on impact.” (My brother and I both use this one, actually. Thanks, “Happy Gilmore!”)
“I was dating this one guy once, but then I found out he was actually a…she. AWK-WARD!”
“I have many friends that are boys, so kind of you to ask. Wanna play Mario Kart with us?”
But when it really comes down to it, I’m just not as fixated on dating and guys as I was in high school. It’s just not that important to me. I’m not even all that skilled at giving a crap about what certain text-message/facebook replies mean and in what context, looking up the zodiac sign of my ideal mate, or if I chew a certain flavor of gum because the guys in “Seventeen” magazine say it makes a girl “TOTALLY KISSABLE!”.
And that’s not to say it’s due to the fact that I’m in anyway uncomfortable with myself or feel that I’m going to die alone amongst cats and fur-covered muu-muus. Far from it. Even though I oftentimes make jokes about becoming a spinster or a nun, due to the evident tumbleweeds that blow through my love life. Heck, I embrace the fact that when I wake up (and even up to several hours after I wake up) my hair STILL defies all laws of Hair-odynamics.
Really. We need some scientists over here to figure out why on earth I can go to sleep with wet hair and wake up next morning with the closest thing white girls get to Jheri curls.
And besides I really like the way I look when I wake up in the morning. It’s probably my favorite part. And I don’t think “Ew, gross” when I look in the mirror like a sad percentage of girls my age do. I usually do more of “Hey, how you doin’ ”, because who doesn’t like being woken up by an impression of Joey from “Friends”?
And I embrace any form of flatulence. Either caused by me or anyone else. To be honest, I usually give high-fives for either.
So in short, I’m really daggone comfortable with myself. And I’d be totally okay with not dating until I’m thirty. Or whenever, but it really doesn’t need to be now. Actually, I’d love to not date right now. I embrace date nights with myself anyways. Home cooked dinners with myself ( I make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sammich. Why, thanks, self! No problem, self! You’re the sweetest, Mackenzie. I’m so glad I met you, Mackenzie…)
Which isn’t to say I’m some bra-burning feminist screaming to the high heavens about Freud and chauvinism. No. I’m just interested in so many other things that dating is the last thing on my mind. You see, I realized today when I made a mental 1 year plan of my life while talking Chicago-talk with mother dearest.
My rough plan is to take enough classes at Second City so that I can audition to be apart of their conservatory, some acting troupe, or any other acting/writing opportunity that comes my way in some mysteriously magical fashion.
But if it doesn’t, what do I do? Which is where I pretty much realized that no, at that point I wouldn’t pack up my bags and go bee-line it back to school to go a more reliable and clear-cut route.
(Also, if you were wondering. If I ever did go back to school it’d probably be to become a veterinary science major, so that I could become a bear trainer. No lie. That’s the only reason why I’d go get schooled.)
Freedom would taste too much like being able to get a gyro at 3 a.m. when you could only get gyros on old people time (4:30p.m., as in dinner at New College). Yaknowwhatimean?!
Yeah, I’m probably pack up my bags and move to Prague. ‘Cause I can. And I’ve always wanted to go to Prague. And I could teach English and learn Czech and all of my high school linguistic-dork dreams could come true, finally.
So in short, I’m kind of a big old bag of crazy. And I’m not expecting any guy to be able to ready for all this jelly. And that’s fine. ‘Cause I’m my own best friend. Really. I’m moving too fast in way too many different directions all at once for anything that even the most romantic part of me isn’t screaming out in pain. (And if you were wondering, I do have my chick moments and have most definitely planned parts of my wedding. Cake. First Dance. And the groom is wearing a monocle, jacket with coat-tails, and a top hat with a cane. Oh, and a string quartet playing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey will play me down the aisle, by the way.)
And I’d much, much rather focus on having an awesome job that I love and will be there for me indefinitely. And anyways, I make daggone good grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches AND I’m good at watching movies without giving away the end…to myself.
And besides, by the time I’m 30 Andy Samberg will be 42 and the fact that we have a 12-year age difference won’t be so weird to society.
I wish I was joking.
Oh, to uncover you
Your claw submerged under sediment, tar, your own words
And I would have you, preserved in amber
And copies made to be overpriced at science centers.
But you are not some majestic, rampant saber-tooth tiger
You outran the towering of dirt, heat, and time.
Your large talons scratched out of the debris unscathed.
And I was left with only a rusting trowel,
A go-get-‘em attitude, and a fading, worn-in cap.
As eons passed , I have found nothing,
Only twisted, dried out weeds, and
Not even a fang to string around my neck
Or a foot to keep for good luck, for more discoveries to come,
Of more missed glances to report by kerosene lamps on crumbling parchment
I could’ve uncovered you
Been the face in front of flashing, intoxicating lights
Beneath large exclamations of bolded text to be read by proud relatives.
If only you had been so gracious,
To allow the welcoming hands of time, pressure, and clay
To imprint themselves upon you, in the places where I could not.
My tool kit, all the while, glinting in the sun, in my eyes
Chiseling away chunks, in waiting to find that something
An arm, a tooth,
A something, an anything.
Even if it was the quarter out of your pocket.
Like any nineteen year old growing up in the age of youtube, twitter, facebook, or as a stand-up comedian I saw last week said eloquently, “YouTwitFace”, it’s easy to see how voyeurism is everywhere.
Or rather, we’re all creepily looking into everyone’s lives, lurking their Facebook pages, which have come to be today’s version of silently creeping through your ex-boyfriend’s air-vents.
But really. I’m not exempt from this trend. I mean, really. You’re talking to the girl who has a blog-tag with the word “creep” on it; a tag that is ENTIRELY TOO LARGE AND NOTE TO SELF: I SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT?!
And although I’m no Humbert Humbert (…or am I?!), I do find myself creeping as well as admiring other atypical voyeuristic things on that glorious thing called the internet, most notably the “What’s in your bag?!” photo collection.
Yeah. Sorry if I made you lose an hour or two of your life. Too. Daggone. Fascinating.
Which leads me to, yes, the contents of MY purse. My purse, like my mind, is a pretty terrifying place to be at times, but sadly my purse does not have The Beegees and Vampire Weekend as the soundtrack. Not going to lie.
Behold, my purse that swallows up junk like it thinks it’s Mary Poppins’ purse. That due to my lack of girliness, I did not even realize was a vintage Coach bag until a week after I bought it at a thrift store. Figures.
And the junk that I
put force into it. Now, not all of it fits in there at once, but all of this finds its way into my beloved purse from time to time. I occasionally sit on it to make it fit. Kiiiiind of.
Two, count ‘em TWO (out of the six?!) Burt’s Bees lip glosses I own, the most sinister-looking hair clip ever, eau du Febreeze (<3), and matches from a seedy comedy club in Sarasota. Just to pull it all together.
NERD ALERT, I repeat, NERD ALERT! Books and journals. Yup, those are two super hipster Moleskine journals (one planner, one journal chronicling Chicago plans), ANOTHER journal (chronicling other thoughts of a nineteen year old girl. So it’s mad deep, of course), “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint Exupery (a.k.a. the book that is the equivalent of a “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Peter Pan Complex edition” to me), and “The Salmon of Doubt” by Douglas Adams, my author crush that I had a book-date with tonight.
Yeah. I love pens that much. The purple sharpie pens are my favorite, but don’t tell the other 40 (?) pens and highlighters that.
And that’s that!
What’s in YOUR purse? Tongue of dragon? Tooth of Wolf? Your cousin’s inhaler? Dog treats?! Come on, I AM a voyeur.