Tuesdays with Mommy

I had my weekly conversation with my mother tonight, lasting the requisite hour. The breakdown:

20 minutes: Ass-busting regarding choices (my future, my degree, my education, my friends, etc.)
18 minutes: Gossipy updates about the Jewish community ("You'll never guess who's wearing a wig now!")
10 minutes: Update on latest aches and pains ailing her
6 minutes: Yelling at my brother in the background
3 minutes: All of the things she has eaten today
3 minutes: All of the things she bought today

Some of the high points of the conversation...

"Goyem do the weirdest things." -Mom, reflecting upon the funeral services of a dead neighbor

"I went to the Macy's pre-opening day sale today and saw all the women from Hadassah. They gave us coupons for 15% off everything in the store, so of course all the Jews were there."

"You're killing yourself. Eat some meat. Your father will be happy. For pete's sake, you're killing yourself." - On my decision to not eat steak (as previously discussed)

Had I known my dietary choices would cause this much doemstic discord, I would have stopped eating meat while I was still around to enjoy my parents' anguish in person!

Random/modnaR

Long time, no bitch.

It's not that I haven't had things to complain about, but my new favorite hobby, sleeping, has been consuming much of my time. Pardon the abundant spelling errors in this entry. My new "blogger glasses" are too strong, making it very hard to focus on the keyboard and read what I am typing. Let's see...what's new up in hurrrr?

I have recently decided to eradicate all types of animal flesh from my diet. My reasoning is multi-faceted. The meat served in the dining halls is slightly lower than Grade F, not to mention the fact that the presentation leaves a lot to be desired. A big bowl of hardened meat that looks like pieces of tire in an unidentified brown sauce? No thanks. The fish served here is always served under the general heading "fish" with no specifics as to what type of "filet" is hiding underneath the neon...goop. What about the chicken, you may ask? Well, the chicken looks fine, but I like tofu better. Sooooo, no more meat for me. Father Dearest is convinced that this is why I had a cold last weekend, and then yelled at me for being a "careless hippie." I am so glad my family supports me.

In other news, I have developed a new reaction to anxiety and stress: vomiting. Go figure. Even if I don't actually throw up, I spend hours imagining what would happen if I threw up in the middle of class/on the sidewalk/in the elevator/etc, usually with other people present to witness my humiliation. I was meeting with a TA in a coffee shop, discussing an upcoing essay. All of the sudden, I pictured myself vomiting my recently-eaten banana all over the table, the TA, and myself. I quickly excused myself to the restroom, where I didn't actually throw up, but instead gagged for a few minutes. Put this in the "What is wrong with me?" file.

Poems shmoems

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Shut the hell up
Your poetry sucks

As a para-professional do-nothing, it is my job (yes, job) to watch Orpah on a pretty frequent basis. I'm not quite sure how I feel about her yet, but I watch her show anyway. The other day, a woman who had lost her son in an accident was on the Oprah couch, talking about how her life had changed since his death and all that jazz. Oprah asked her to read a poem she had written for the occasion.

I. Hate. Amateur. Poetry.

This woman's heart was in the right place, and I was touched by her attempt to honor her son. Nevertheless, I loathe, repeat LOATHE, when people write poetry on their own and somone convinces them that it's good enough to read out loud. Did you write a poem? Fantastic. Keep it to yourself. I won't think it's beautiful, I won't think it's moving, and I won't think you are a genius. Turn that poetry into prose? We're finally getting somewhere. Keep it as a poem? Don't waste time/oxygen reading it. It sucks and I don't want to listen.

That's all for now, kittens. Keep that hate mail comin'.

Formula for a first date

The least I could do before brunch was go to the gym. I'm glad I didn't eat beforehand, because I certainly would have thrown up my pancakes on the couple having a first date next to the rowing machines. The louder I blasted Justin Timberlake (good workout music...don't judge me) on my iPod, the louder their flirtatious banter got.

He made sweeping generalizations of the female gender, and then proclaimed her the exception. She giggled, batted her eyelashes, and then giggled some more (making her look quite intelligent, I might add). He made a self-deprecating remark, which she would then counter with an equally self-deprecating remark. Then, they both giggled, him a little more imp-ish than her. She talked about how hard it is to be single. He stared at her boobs. They agreed to meet for coffee, presumably to do the same things all over again, all while nursing 5-dollar lattes from Starbucks.

I wish them the best of luck. I have no doubt that I witnessed the beginning of a long and fruitful relationshit.

(NB: Had I thrown up, it would have been the second first date I ruined. The first ruined date was at a Japanese restaurant in St. Marks, where Loser Boy and I got wasted, and in the throes of a make-out sesh, kept knocking into some couple's table. They looked horrified, which was no doubt amplified when LB started yelling "FIST ME" instead of "pound it." I wonder if they went out again...)

I hate my life, Part 1

A conversation with a fellow Worker Bee:

Worker Bee: "Do you know what we use to clean the write board?"

Me" The 'write board?'"

WB: "Yeah, the write board."

Me: "Oh! The white board!"

WB: "How do I clean it?"

Me: "Use that bottle of rubbing alcohol over there."

WB: "The rubbing alcohol?"

Me: "Rubbing alcohol. In the bottle with the red top. Rubbing alcohol cleans the white board."

WB: "Ok, I'll go clean it now."

(Leaves the room, goes into the next room)

WB: "Hey Jess, do you know how to clean the write board?"

Apparently, my directions weren't explicit enough.

Baby daddies and Paint

Day 12 of our Construction Bonanza, and I am ready for the workers to vacate the premises for good. I don't care if my kitchen is sans one ceiling. Leave already! They have been messing with the plumbing, the electricity, and there is a fine layer of dust on everything I own, including my dog. I came home the other day and my bathroom had no water pressure. I asked the guy to clean the faucet, and he did...on his shorts. Now, I drink water from that faucet. If I wanted to ingest liquid that had come into contact with his crotch, I would have used his boxers as a coffee filter. The very worst part is that they don't show up for work until roughly 4 p.m. Then, they stay until midnight, leaving me to fall asleep to the lovely sounds of two adult men belting out "Paradise City" in an awkward falsetto while hammering up drywall and crushing Mountain Dew cans with their boots. I am throwing a party the day they finish (which appears to be in the very distant future).

And don't forget: K.Fed says to save your pennies. Do it.