What is your fatal flaw?

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I drove 45 minutes to the mall yesterday and treated myself to new black Levi’s, black tights, that chambray shirt with a lacy back, a lacy mint dress, two lacy shirts, a new bra, and black shoes…all mostly for work. I have to be presentable, you see.

That drive was the longest amount of time I was in the car since I drove 12+ hours to move here in February. It helps me clear my mind and keep perspective. There’s something about moving and singing along really terribly to music so loud your rear view mirror trembles.

I finally know my way around the city.

Everything I’m writing now (on my iPhone, like a fool) is nonsense.

Hi / I’m here / I’m alive / Sorry don’t hate me

I received a paycheck and finished training since my last post. You are reading a working woman’s blog. I am now a front of house guest liason slash host slash receptionist.

THE SCENE: me (little, blonde, pale) in a navy blue shirt dress that drapes off of my fragile bones, black flats, and grey striped tights. All around me: swankier types, all much taller than I. I greet them in the hallway as they hang up their coats. I squeak, “Hello! Welcome! How are you! May I check you in! Reservations tonight?” in my pseudo-assertive voice. I do so. I guide them to their table, giggling along the way. I ask them about sparkling water. I smile all night until my face hurts. I drink a glass of champagne and then, I go home.

It’s been wonderful getting out of the house and talking to strangers. It makes me want to write more and it makes me cherish my alone time (which, as I said, in a house of 10 people… is few and far between).

Though I haven’t been furiously writing this last week, I am currently in the middle of Everything is Illuminated… and I dig it. I’ve been taking my time reading it because of this fact. I am a notoriously fast reader. I saw the film years ago, but a re-viewing will take place once I complete it.

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Which brings me to my next topic of Guys Who Talk to Me in Coffee-shops When, Like, I’d Rather They Didn’t

THE SCENE: I’m wearing that same damn dress with those same damn tights. I’m sitting at a tall, skinny table that seats 8 people. In order to not appear incredibly awkward (or creepy) I stare straight down (through?) the pages of my book or at my perfectly crafted latte, but the man who sits down in the empty seat next to mine still for whatever god-awful reason asks, “How’s the book going?”

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This is friendly. I understand. I’m not a complete wench. I oftentimes ask strangers what they’re reading just because I’m an English nerd and I sincerely wonder, but… how… is it going? I wanted to say, “Er. Well, I’m reading it,” but instead I made some sort of tiny talk about how Jonathan Safran Foer is, allegedly, an asshole. This comment  prompts an older gentlemen to look straight into my eyes from above his silver Macbook Pro and we talk about Ernest Hemingway for a bit, since Ernest Hemingway is everyone’s #1 asshole author response. I then discuss how I can appreciate the genius of an artist who is an asshole, that I regularly expect it, but I just like it when authors are good people. Like Harper Lee.

I never delved into the fact that this sentimentality is based upon my creative writing degree and if I ever do anything that is worth a damn, that is published on paper, I would want people to say, “Oh, she was hilarious! Charming! Warm! And, if I may be so brazen, damn attractive!”

In closing:

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I’m working!

(Im)patiently Waiting

To hear back about:

  • My play
  • Poems submitted to online/print publications
  • Two internships

Sometimes I wish the Internet didn’t exist. I have Gmail on my iPhone and yet… I still check for emails 30759283957832957295723 times a day!

Oh, how romantic the days of running outside to the mailbox/to greet the mailman must have been.

You knew if you had mail, you knew if you didn’t. I could get information about any of these things at any time of day! It’s exhausting.

This, aside from training at my new schmoozy restaurant gig, is what has been occupying my time as of late. Also, making mediocre dinners until I can drag myself to the grocery store. Also, also hearing my boyfriend and his brother holler at the TV while they play Super Smash Bros. on N64.

It’s a glamorous life I lead.

Come On, Feet

Things are starting to look up for me, anonymous Internet. I have successfully unpacked all of my belongings (which consist of books, books, books, clothes, clothes, a wok, coffee cones, and teapot) and have been lazily coexisting with my new roommates, le stinky boyfriend included. It’s been a nice break and starting over feels phenomenal. I have never lived outside of Michigan before and I feel more out of my element than I maybe (probably) let on sometimes.

EXAMPLE SO YOU KNOW THAT I AM SERIOUS: when I go to a bar… even though I usually just want whiskey and ginger ale, lezbehonest… I have no idea what to order. I don’t know the Maryland micro-brews like the back of my hand! I don’t have a favorite stout or IPA from a certain place and I never knew a person to drink Yuengling until I got here (AND I just had to Google how to spell the damn thing). I don’t want Baltimore bartenders to judge me. But why should I give a shit? Oh, but why does anyone ever give a shit?

Instead of just growing a back-bone and picking something to drink when the aforementioned intimidating bartender(s) ask, “Do you want something to drink?” I squeak, “I don’t know.” What? I hate people like me.

In other news: I had a nice interview at a great restaurant today that seems promising. I will be going in for a “working interview” sometime next week where I will shadow someone else and hopefully everyone will decide that they like me enough to hang out/work with me 30-40 hours a week. I’m pleasant at work and I like working, so I’m more excited than nervous, which is superb.

HOWEVER, my writer’s block has been a dark lady beast of the night that will not let me accomplish anything whatsoever. It is no fun combating writer’s block while searching for employment and learning my way around a new city. It is no fun combating writer’s block, ever.

Blah blee bloo blah. Writing this blog makes me feel way too self-important, but there it is. Here you are. Where am I?

Tomorrow is Saturday. I’m going to brunch and I’m going to get an Irish coffee and get my writer-girl dress and blazer on. Productivity and creativity are the names of the game!

Come on, feet.