In elementary school, it was pretty standard to let your "friendship book" make the rounds. I'm not sure if these books are popular in American classrooms, but they are a staple of German ones. The bulk of the entry was focused on answering questions about your favorite things, but there was generally space provided for a message to the book's owner. I remember asking my mom what to write in that space, and she dictated the "True Friends" line to me. I don't recall exactly why (or maybe I'm in denial about how unimaginative I was), but I wrote the same little rhyme in every one of the books that I was given. At the time, I was embarrassed and annoyed because I felt repetitive and corny, but in retrospect, as cheesy as it was, the quote was completely accurate.
So thanks, Mom!
"True friends are like diamonds, precious and rare; false friends are like autumn leaves, found everywhere."
I am really lucky in that I have quite a few true friends, many of whom I rarely see. Whenever we do see each other, though, it's the same as it ever was, in the best way. You know who you are, and you mean the world to me. (Plus, if you're reading this blog, there's a pretty good chance you're on that list. I appreciate your patience with me and with my ridiculous ramblings.)
Happy Birthday, Vera, my precious and rare diamond friend.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Fumez-vous?
Dear Diary,
Until recently, there were few things that could comfort me as effectively as smoking a cigarette. When I'm worried, paranoid, stressed, sad, or otherwise laden by negative emotion, nothing gives me the same relief as that initial inhalation of tobacco. Even the act of swiftly drawing a cigarette out of my pack releases the first sense of placidity.
Not to worry, I'm fully aware of the health risks, and as soon as I could find an adequate substitute for that breathtaking (pun intended) exhilaration of my addiction, I always planned to quit. Perhaps the reverse will happen first, though.
Allow me to explain: A few minutes ago, I was idly flipping through the channels, when I came across an informative show on TV. Numerous beauty and style experts were glitteringly presenting the facts of being fabulous. Stunning accessories and perfectly-applied make-up paralyzed my thumb mid-channel change, and I was left with no choice but to listen carefully to the expertise being doled out. Let's face it, I could use some assistance in being more elegant, despite the indisputable glamor of my sleepwear (handcrafted by my grandma and the envy of all who've seen it).
Right when I tuned in, they began exploring the villainy of smoking and its history in Hollywood. The emergence of Mad Men, along with its depiction of pre-anti-smoking 60s American life and thus its portrayal of characters indulging in my favorite sinful yet sexy "bad" habit, has broken the taboo of including cigarettes on the no-longer-so-small screens in our American living rooms. The contributing opinionators commented on the differences between the sensuality demonstrated by female characters when smoking and the masculinity of the male smokers' approach. A barrage of images of actors through the ages turned my TV into a strobe light and left my hand reaching reflexively for my pack.
Just after experiencing that unparalleled sensation of peace, I was jolted back into insecurity as my eyes focused on the cigarette clamped between my greedy fingers. To my wide-eyed horror, the image I was registering was not of a dainty, tantalizing, feminine hand with outstretched fingers, dangling a cigarette lazily and indifferently. No. Instead, my hand could easily have been replaced by Clint Eastwood's or some other manly man's.
How am I supposed to smoke in public, now that I know that I smoke like a man? No wonder men never approach me when I'm outside smoking. They must think I'm either a maneater or simply a man. What a crappy situation. Yes, yes, I know it would be good for me to quit, but I need a cigarette more than ever now, yet I can't smoke one for fear of being judged by onlookers for my cowboy-esque mitts, manhandling the cigarette. Maybe if I start smoking Virginia Slims?
Can you spell conundrum?
For the time being, I'll be hiding in my car, parked behind some trees because I refuse to smoke inside my house, and I need to decompress.
Withdrawal-endangeredly yours,
ChainsmokerInHiding
Until recently, there were few things that could comfort me as effectively as smoking a cigarette. When I'm worried, paranoid, stressed, sad, or otherwise laden by negative emotion, nothing gives me the same relief as that initial inhalation of tobacco. Even the act of swiftly drawing a cigarette out of my pack releases the first sense of placidity.
Not to worry, I'm fully aware of the health risks, and as soon as I could find an adequate substitute for that breathtaking (pun intended) exhilaration of my addiction, I always planned to quit. Perhaps the reverse will happen first, though.
Allow me to explain: A few minutes ago, I was idly flipping through the channels, when I came across an informative show on TV. Numerous beauty and style experts were glitteringly presenting the facts of being fabulous. Stunning accessories and perfectly-applied make-up paralyzed my thumb mid-channel change, and I was left with no choice but to listen carefully to the expertise being doled out. Let's face it, I could use some assistance in being more elegant, despite the indisputable glamor of my sleepwear (handcrafted by my grandma and the envy of all who've seen it).
Right when I tuned in, they began exploring the villainy of smoking and its history in Hollywood. The emergence of Mad Men, along with its depiction of pre-anti-smoking 60s American life and thus its portrayal of characters indulging in my favorite sinful yet sexy "bad" habit, has broken the taboo of including cigarettes on the no-longer-so-small screens in our American living rooms. The contributing opinionators commented on the differences between the sensuality demonstrated by female characters when smoking and the masculinity of the male smokers' approach. A barrage of images of actors through the ages turned my TV into a strobe light and left my hand reaching reflexively for my pack.
Just after experiencing that unparalleled sensation of peace, I was jolted back into insecurity as my eyes focused on the cigarette clamped between my greedy fingers. To my wide-eyed horror, the image I was registering was not of a dainty, tantalizing, feminine hand with outstretched fingers, dangling a cigarette lazily and indifferently. No. Instead, my hand could easily have been replaced by Clint Eastwood's or some other manly man's.
How am I supposed to smoke in public, now that I know that I smoke like a man? No wonder men never approach me when I'm outside smoking. They must think I'm either a maneater or simply a man. What a crappy situation. Yes, yes, I know it would be good for me to quit, but I need a cigarette more than ever now, yet I can't smoke one for fear of being judged by onlookers for my cowboy-esque mitts, manhandling the cigarette. Maybe if I start smoking Virginia Slims?
Can you spell conundrum?
For the time being, I'll be hiding in my car, parked behind some trees because I refuse to smoke inside my house, and I need to decompress.
Withdrawal-endangeredly yours,
ChainsmokerInHiding
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Accidental Saboteur
Dear Diary,
You may be the only friend I have left. I don't even know if I can be my own friend. How could I possibly show loyalty to myself when I failed to show loyalty to my team?
I don't know how it happened. Honestly, the last thing I would want to do is bring any misfortune upon my team. It's raining down on them now, though, and it's all because of me. This morning when I got dressed to go to the game, I put a lot of thought into my outfit. Last time I went to a game, you may recall, it was the pre-season opener, and it was still hot out. I wore my netted jersey without anything underneath it, and that did not go over well. As comfortable as I was temperature-wise, I was equally uncomfortable with people giving me the stink-eye for being overexposed and under-dressed. Anyway, lesson learned: wear something underneath the jersey.
I thought I was brilliant and perfectly attired because I managed to find a very sleek, rather discreet top to wear beneath my Cooley jersey. I was so distracted by my inflated sense of success that I failed to consider the ill-chosen socks!!! I did not wear my fluffy fuchsia, individual-toe socks!!!!! Instead, I wore regular old, boring, no-luck, white sucks. Not only did my beloved team lose, but the game wasn't even interesting. Frankly, it's unacceptable that I didn't notice my oversight until we were exiting the stadium. There's really no excuse. I should have recognized the clearly unusual circumstance of the Redskins losing. It never happens when I'm wearing my lucky socks, certainly not when their magical powers are within the vicinity of the game. (Their potency is undeniable when it's within a mile of the field. It's true.)
On my way down the ramps to the parking lot, I overheard a very disappointed fan discussing their lack of luck, and it hit me like the beer can would later hit my hood (and my window and my bumper and my side mirror...). It was only then that I looked down, pulled up the leg of my jeans, and spotted the bland white of my crappy socks. Of course, I immediately stopped everyone, so I could apologize. I made my mea culpas to all who were in my immediate presence, but I soon realized that was simply insufficient. I started to race around the ramp, grabbing any burgundy-and-gold clad individuals I could, apologized profusely, and promised to do penance.
Little did I know that retaliation would be swift. Before I could even finish my round of guilt-ridden "sorry"s, I began to realize that, not unlike me, these Redskins fans meant business. They were not happy with me. Not at all. I hastened along my path to my car, but I couldn't get there fast enough. They weren't physically abusive despite their verbal hostility until I was actually in the car, an unexpected display of kindness. The Redskins sticker on my bumper did little to assuage the ferocity of the crowd's rage, so, as I told you before, my car quickly became the target of many, rather varied stadium parking lot objects. Everything from beers cans and bottles to orange cones, chicken and steak bones to souvenir cups, everything imaginable and some unimaginable items were hailing down on my bewildered (probably because I accidentally tried to take off from fifth gear) coupe.
The most shocking part remains that my entire group of friends were leading the pack. In fact, they were the ones who punched out my window. They said it was to get inside, but then why spit on my seat and dump out the last dregs remaining in various beverage containers?
To be clear: I'm not complaining. I deserved every bit of the punishment. In fact, when I got home, I went inside and grabbed the most pungent foods and the most artificially-colored drinks to pour all over the interior of my car. Also, rest assured, I've rid my drawers of all other socks. There remains but one pair. I will either go without socks, or I will wash them daily. Either way, this will not happen again.
Most humbly yours,
WorstFanEver aka TheReasontheRedskinsLost
p.s. I'm drafting a letter of apology to Rexy and letters of confession to the sports newscasters. It's time they stopped blaming him and pointed the finger at the responsible party.
You may be the only friend I have left. I don't even know if I can be my own friend. How could I possibly show loyalty to myself when I failed to show loyalty to my team?
I don't know how it happened. Honestly, the last thing I would want to do is bring any misfortune upon my team. It's raining down on them now, though, and it's all because of me. This morning when I got dressed to go to the game, I put a lot of thought into my outfit. Last time I went to a game, you may recall, it was the pre-season opener, and it was still hot out. I wore my netted jersey without anything underneath it, and that did not go over well. As comfortable as I was temperature-wise, I was equally uncomfortable with people giving me the stink-eye for being overexposed and under-dressed. Anyway, lesson learned: wear something underneath the jersey.
I thought I was brilliant and perfectly attired because I managed to find a very sleek, rather discreet top to wear beneath my Cooley jersey. I was so distracted by my inflated sense of success that I failed to consider the ill-chosen socks!!! I did not wear my fluffy fuchsia, individual-toe socks!!!!! Instead, I wore regular old, boring, no-luck, white sucks. Not only did my beloved team lose, but the game wasn't even interesting. Frankly, it's unacceptable that I didn't notice my oversight until we were exiting the stadium. There's really no excuse. I should have recognized the clearly unusual circumstance of the Redskins losing. It never happens when I'm wearing my lucky socks, certainly not when their magical powers are within the vicinity of the game. (Their potency is undeniable when it's within a mile of the field. It's true.)
On my way down the ramps to the parking lot, I overheard a very disappointed fan discussing their lack of luck, and it hit me like the beer can would later hit my hood (and my window and my bumper and my side mirror...). It was only then that I looked down, pulled up the leg of my jeans, and spotted the bland white of my crappy socks. Of course, I immediately stopped everyone, so I could apologize. I made my mea culpas to all who were in my immediate presence, but I soon realized that was simply insufficient. I started to race around the ramp, grabbing any burgundy-and-gold clad individuals I could, apologized profusely, and promised to do penance.
Little did I know that retaliation would be swift. Before I could even finish my round of guilt-ridden "sorry"s, I began to realize that, not unlike me, these Redskins fans meant business. They were not happy with me. Not at all. I hastened along my path to my car, but I couldn't get there fast enough. They weren't physically abusive despite their verbal hostility until I was actually in the car, an unexpected display of kindness. The Redskins sticker on my bumper did little to assuage the ferocity of the crowd's rage, so, as I told you before, my car quickly became the target of many, rather varied stadium parking lot objects. Everything from beers cans and bottles to orange cones, chicken and steak bones to souvenir cups, everything imaginable and some unimaginable items were hailing down on my bewildered (probably because I accidentally tried to take off from fifth gear) coupe.
The most shocking part remains that my entire group of friends were leading the pack. In fact, they were the ones who punched out my window. They said it was to get inside, but then why spit on my seat and dump out the last dregs remaining in various beverage containers?
To be clear: I'm not complaining. I deserved every bit of the punishment. In fact, when I got home, I went inside and grabbed the most pungent foods and the most artificially-colored drinks to pour all over the interior of my car. Also, rest assured, I've rid my drawers of all other socks. There remains but one pair. I will either go without socks, or I will wash them daily. Either way, this will not happen again.
Most humbly yours,
WorstFanEver aka TheReasontheRedskinsLost
p.s. I'm drafting a letter of apology to Rexy and letters of confession to the sports newscasters. It's time they stopped blaming him and pointed the finger at the responsible party.
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