BLOGGER TEMPLATES AND TWITTER BACKGROUNDS

Monday, November 26, 2007

The never-ending case of the Blahs...

Ugh. Have you ever had one of those time periods in which anything that might require effort is just a big No-no? When your body is heavy and stiff, you are dead-dog tired no matter how much sleep you get, and you can actually FEEL your brain inside your skull, and not in a good way? Maybe this feeling lasts a day, a week, a month or longer, but the whole time you want to tell people "sorry, I'm just not myself, I'm really not this lame/weird/comatose most of the time," because you've seen them looking at you like you've just flicked a booger on the wall. You know that feeling?

Ok, I've been in this state of existence for a few months now. This can't be normal. And, of course, the catastrophist side of me immediately goes for "You've got a brain tumor!" or "I need a COMPLETE life overhaul, NOW! Call the therapist! Buy all new clothes, furniture and move to a new country!" I can't write, I can't read, I can't play with my daughter or have a nice normal conversation with my friends. I scare new friends away, I'm pretty sure.

The stupid part is: I'm HAPPY. There's nothing in the world right now for me to be unhappy about. Handsome husband loves me. Daughter, while going through some admittedly annoying boundary-testing phase, is healthy, funny and smart and loves me and school. THIS IS NOT ME! I'm funny! I'm smart! I write really really well and have the most awesome novel in my head!

So, WTF?

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Random Things about me...

Ok, so my other blog is on MySpace. I was picked in a game of tag to come up with ten totally random things about me, so here they are:


1) I bump into things. Like, all the time. I am constantly bruised at the hips. Someone once told me there's a theory that people who bump into things are actually trying to affirm their reality and the reality of things around them. Ok. Sounds better than "I'm a clumsy dumbshit".

2) I love birds. The giant blue spruce in my backyard is nesting ground for a few pair of birds each year. Two weeks ago I watched a young robin get kicked out by his parents, and I've sat in my yard watching him learn how to fend for himself ever since. Now he's trying to learn his big boy song, and it cracks me up. He sounds like a teenager whose voice is changing.

3) I hate feet. Don't touch them, don't let anyone touch mine. I've never gotten a professional pedicure, that creeps me out. The only exception was when my daughter was an infant and I loved kissing her chubby little feet. Now they creep me out too.

4) I like the smell of dog breath.

5) The ocean is the most calming, life-affirming sound and sight ever. In my next life, I will live by the sea instead of a fucking desert with a pretend sea.

6) I hate shopping malls. Bad vibes. I will chew off my own arm to avoid going to the mall.

7) Metallica and other like-sounding heavy metal actually makes me throw up a little in my mouth when I hear it. My hubby loves Metallica and is teaching our daughter how to head bang and air guitar, which is quite alarming for me.

8) Even though I claim to be a Bitch, I am actually an annoying people-pleaser in most situations. I hate it and am doing my very very best to conquer it and be the Bitch Within when needed.

9) I am 1/4 through writing a book, which I seriously doubt I will ever have the guts to try to get published, even though I like it and others who have read it so far like it. I fear rejection above all things.

10) This is harder than I thought! I love to talk about myself, that's why I'm on MySpace. Now I find that there are all these other fascinating people. And I can't think of one more random thing to tell you. So there.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

I'm a People Watcher, Which One Are You?

I'm a people watcher.

In public, I love to see what people do, how they act, what they look at, etc. Admittedly, in the last few years most of my public gatherings have centered around children's activities, but I've found that there are a few constant Personalities that seem to pop up wherever a crowd gathers:

The Cackler: The person you can hear no matter where you are in a crowd. They laugh big, hearty laughs that sound as though a small animal is trapped in their throat. They don't actually ever say anything funny, but apparently EVERYTHING everyone else says is HILARIOUS.

The Sweet Old Man: He wears a baseball cap and fought in WWII. He usually chuckles at everything and is foggily clueless about what may actually be going on around him, but in a very sweet way. He might offer any random child a sweet from his pocket, not understanding why parents get all tense about it.

The Hens: They cluck. A lot. They might have come to watch a movie or a child's/grandchild's performance, but never actually see it as they chat chat chat the whole time. Much of their chatting is bragging about said child/grandchild who is desperately waving from the field/stage to get their attention. (I will admit to having hen-ish tendencies from time to time :O).

Mr. Serious: Everything is Serious. The world is one big CONSPIRACY and full of BULLSHIT. May or may not also be a Power Broker (see below) "Goddammit" is frequently heard uttered in their vicinity.

Power Broker: He's a busy, busy, very Important Guy. Cell phone, bluetooth, palm pilot, blackberry and/or laptop may be whipped out at any time. Most common gesture is the hand-up "oooh, just a sec, gotta take this" as he steps away from the crowd.

The MILF: She's hot and she knows it. Will not leave the house without perfect hair, lipstick and D/G shades, stilettos afoot. Pretends to be aloof, but knows EVERYONE is watching and admiring. Comes with or without optional silicone implants and bleach blonde hair. Child/husband is simply another accessory.

The Redneck/WT: Big people, may have many tatooes on various body parts, not all of which should be viewed in public. Mullets optional but preferred. Will give evil eye to anyone who DARES look at their cigarette in a less-than-condoning way.

The Stud: He's hot. He knows it. May or may not be compensating for something with the sportscar and big shorts. Will do everything in his power to hook up with the MILF.

The Social Butterfly: She knows EVERYONE. And MUST say "HI!" to all of them. Cross-introductions take hours but she does it. Big hair and capri pants a must. Has coffee/lunch with someone new every day and is on at least two committees for something.

Quiet One/Outsider: Usually sits slightly apart from the crowd, alone, often with a book or notebook and pen. May periodically try to join a part of the crowd by commenting on something they've said amongst themselves.

So: did I miss any?

Which one are YOU?

Which one do you think I am?

:)

Friday, July 13, 2007

Mars vs Venus? Try beef jerky vs. foccacia...

So, I've been married for 8 years. Had a couple (ok, probably too many) "serious" boyfriends before that. I wouldn't presume to say that I'm any kind of "expert" on men. Who can figure them out? It's like figuring out how to program a cell phone when the 100 page manual was written in English by someone who speaks only Taiwanese. Yeesh. I'm also no pro on the finer points of navigating a relationship. I mostly flounder about and hope I don't get mashed by any icebergs. However, I've come to realize some rather interesting differences between my fair sex and the taller, generally smellier one.

The Games We Play and Refreshments Provided:

I play Bunco. For the uninitiated: it's a dice game, played by a group of people, who are usually women from what I can determine, divisible by the number 4. It is played in groups of 4, rolling 3 dice and counting. . (For more on the exciting rules and procedures for Bunco, Google it. I don't have time to figure out a link for you...). We meet once a month, precisely on the 2nd Tuesday of each month, rotating houses so each girl has a turn hosting. Hosting mostly involves trying to find enough tables and chairs and madly cleaning your house all day.. At the beginning of each year of play, the group leader has a list for food and refreshment sign-up, so we each have to put our names down to bring food and/or a non-alcholic beverage to share at least one month out of the year. (She also has a spread sheet with our names, emails and phone numbers and what month we're hosting. She's so organized. Bitch.) The rest of us just bring whatever alcoholic beverage we want to get tipsy on. This is usually wine, either a merlot or a finer non-fruity white. Except for me; I show up with a Riesling or a hard lemonade sometimes. I'm no snob. If we can't make it one month, we call the hostess at least a week in advance, who has a list of potential substitute players whom she starts calling.

Whomever has the honor of being the one to bring an appetizer for all of us to snack on usually goes all out, spending most of a day on it. We've had home-grown tomato slices marinated in the finest olive oil and fresh basil, served with fresh mozzarella slices. Someone brought homemade egg rolls and pot stickers with 2 different homemade dipping sauces. On my turn I made, from scratch, foccacia bread and baked a homemade artichoke and parmesan cheese spread for it. Mmmm. Now I'm hungry. .

During the game, there is occasional squealing and sloshing wine all over if a bunco is rolled. We nibble on dainty snacks like shell-shaped chocolates or wasabi almonds and cheer for one another ( OH, yay! Look at you! You rolled two threes! You go Girl!). There are cute little signs on each table (you rotate tables if you win or lose, and it's different for each one) like: "Winners stay; losers stray". We play until about 9 or 10 pm, then hand out the money and cute-as-heck prizes to the winners and losers, then hug everyone and head home to our hubbies, who have hopefully been able to wrangle the kids to bed all by themselves.

Contrast that with my husband's poker game. Every few weeks or months, someone in the office says "hey, we haven't played for a while." Then someone volunteers their house for the next Saturday, usually without first consulting with his wife. They then start emailing the other "cool" guys in the office, trying not to let the "uncool" ones know. Sometimes there are 7 or 8 who say yes, sometimes only 4, which is apparently the minimum, but hey, they can fake it if they want to. Most of the time, most of them show up. Those that don't show occasionally call at the last minute. Or not. Whatever.

Food? Oh, yeah. Usually, the wives separately remind each of them that it's a nice thing to bring a little something with you when you are invited to someone's house. My husband, this past Saturday, took a giant bag of beef jerky. Which I bought for him at Costco when he called me from the office on Friday afternoon. Most of the others can sometimes scrounge up a bag of chips and some beer. One guy brings a bag of Swedish Fish every time. My husband told me that last time, one of the other guys brought a sleeve of saltines. Wow. (Just a note: they used to let the wives play, and we brought good food. But, I kept winning and am no longer welcome. It's boys-only now. Wussies.)

They then proceed to spend the rest of the night in someone's basement or garage, huddled around a hexagonal (I think? I've never counted the sides) table and smoking really stinky cigars and laughing way too loud and calling each other names like "pussy" and "mama's boy" and sending out challenges like "you ain't got a hair on your ass if you don't bet now..". Keep in mind, these are all men who work for one of the most powerful financial firms in the world and most of them have master's degrees in business and finance. But, put them in front of a stack of cards and their couth leaks out of every orifice.

Around midnight or one or two am, they start to think about stumbling home. Hopefully there has only been one fistfight and a couple of "yo momma/wife is so ugly" threats, and then they collect however much they've won or lost and they all leave as friends.

So, there you have it. I think I've finally cracked the biggest riddle of human history: Why are men and women so different? It's not planets; it's the way we play in groups...

Thursday, July 12, 2007


Hello, my name is Vanessa, and I am a Dork.


I've been doing some research, and most sources seem to agree that a Dork is someone who thinks they are Cool, or wants others to think they are Cool, but are hopelessly oh-so-not Cool. That's me, to a "T". (Some of you may be under the impression that "dork" is a term for a whale's penis. I have done some research and found that there are some sources that claim that is not the correct term for whale penis. So, I'm using it!)
I finally accepted my fate last week, after visiting my brother and his family.

My older brother was always the ultimate icon of Cool. Mr. Joe Cool. Big Man On Campus. SuperJock. Could grow a full mustache at the age of 14, had a steady girlfriend throughout highschool. Can make anyone laugh. Played college baseball. Met and married an also very Cool woman. They have Cool stuff, like ALL their stuff is Cool. Their daughters are Cool; one is even a cheerleader.

I've struggled with Coolness my whole life. Idolizing my brother, I followed him and his friends around, trying to make them laugh and include me. For that I got teased, punched and once told that I was adopted (more about my dorky gullibility in a moment). His girlfriend would occasionally humor me and let me tag along with them and her Cool brother and sister. Despite their help, I was still a Dork.

I was a jock in highschool; I played 3 sports. I was also on the newspaper staff and in AP classes. But I still never quite "fit in" anywhere; I was the one that everyone knew but no one hung out with. I was stuck in the middle. Not cool enough for the jocks, not smart enough for the nerds. (Nerds and Dorks are completely different things, btw.) But I tried. And generally just pissed everyone off. I couldn't for the life of me figure out WHY the cute football players wouldn't ask me out. (I had stick-straight hair and wore black when BIG BIG hair and neon were "In" in the 80's in Idaho) Being a muscular and vivacious jock, the nerd guys were afraid of me; they tended toward the pale, quiet girls with bad perms. I couldn't win.

College, well, I think I just tried too hard. No study group would have me. The cute guys would flirt with me long enough to get a lil' somethin somethin and my flawless lecture notes, then run for the hills.

You'd think that having been a Personal Fitness Trainer might have made me cool. Hangin with the cool gym rats. No, no, I scared them off too...



Why? Why? I have asked myself this question a million times over the years. Now, I think I may have my answer. Here's a brief list of the things that make me A Dork (capital A, capital D):

-I have an uncanny knack--nay-- a TALENT for saying the wrong thing to the wrong people at the wrong time. For example: In college, I had a roommate who was African American. Nice guy who rented a room from me. One night, while hanging out with his friends in the apartment, I passed on a joke that I'd heard earlier that had cracked up everyone around. I don't want to repeat it here, but let's just say it may have been a teensy bit racist. Which didn't even cross my mind before the punchline crossed my lips. Oy. He quietly moved out a few weeks later.

-I try too hard. I WANT people to like me. I NEED people to like me and will stumble over my pathetic self to ingratiate myself to them. I once took Christmas cookies to someone whom I had only met one time, but were so cool I wanted to show them how much I liked them. So there I was, on their snowy doorstep with a paper plate of homemade cookies, giggling madly and waiting for them to invite me in. Needless to say, I made the walk of shame back to my car. After shoveling their driveway.

-I LOVE NPR. For those of you who don't know what that is (and I"m SHOCKED), it stands for National Public Radio. Like PBS, it mainly consists of news and current events shows, science and tech roundups and jazz or classical music. All of my podcasts are from NPR.

-I don't have cable and I hate reality shows. 'Nuff said.

-I am not impressed by name-brand expensive clothing. Well, ok, I'll admit I might be impressed by it, but I sure as hell am not going to spend the money to have it. I can't understand spending that much money on clothes! I start to twitch just looking at price tags in boutiques and department stores. I hate the mall. I would chew off my own arm to avoid going there. I even have a hard time at the outlet mall, which I love. Sure, it's a great deal to only pay $150 for a Coach bag that retails for $500, but Holy Shit! 150 bucks for a freakin purse! NO! Or $50 for a t-shirt? ACK! I just cannot make myself fork over more than $30 for any item, unless it's a really nice gift for someone I love. And even then, I'm checking the clearance rack first. I will proudly brag about how little I've spent on something.

-I'm a stickler for grammar and spelling and punctuation. I can't text message because reading something like:" whts up sum ppl r gtting 2gether 2nite 4 drnks wanna cum" makes me nuts. And replying takes me 5 minutes as I spell everything out and punctuate. Just call me, for cripes' sake!

-I'm gullible. I'll believe just about anything someone tells me with a straight face. When we first moved in together, I remarked to my husband that his stoneware dishes seemed to dry in a short time. Deadpan, he says, "Yeah, I bought them just for that. They're fast-drying dishes." I totally believed him.

Now, here are a few things that you'd think might make me cool, but, sadly...

-I have a tatoo. Whoo! She's a wild one, how cool, right? I had wanted a tattoo for years, but wanted (in true dorky style) to make sure it was THE RIGHT ONE. Something I could live with forever, in a place that wouldn't end up looking like I had an oddly-shaped birthmark when things start to sag. On my 33rd birthday, I had a crappy Oh-my-God I'm Old! moment and grabbed the first thing I could find and had it needled on. The small of my back. My brother giggles and calls it my "whore-too". I can't see the stupid thing.

-I have an iPod. Filled with Erasure and NPR. I make people listen to it in my car, convinced that they, too, will LOVE it. No one rides with me anymore....

-I have a MacBook. Very white, very cool. And I can't figure out how to find anything on it. We converted from a PC and I am so very confused.

-I have a MySpace page. I have 54 friends, and I get quite a few friend requests each day. From people who either want to sell me something or who have not even read my page but want to up their friend count.

Ok, I'll wrap this up.

Despite all of this, I've decided to like me. Even if no one else does! :) I guess I like what I like. I will, however, continue to be aware and attempt to curb the "trying too hard" thing. Sadly, I can't seem to fix the filter that is broken, causing me to continually stick my foot in my mouth. Sorry in advance for all the stupid things I might say, or nonsensical comments I might leave. Trust me; in my head, they're really funny.

So, I'm instituting International Inner Dork Day!! Express your inner Dork!

Wow. So, um, here I am everybody! Yay!!! *curtseys to big cheers from adoring fans*....Oh, wait, do I actually have to WRITE something intelligible/intelligent?

Ok, well then. My name is Vanessa. I live in the lovely, lovely city of Salt Lake (and, no, I'm not one of THOSE). I am currently a housewife and stay-at-home mom, although I prefer the term Domestic Goddess and expect it to be used with reverence and awe. Just kidding.

My daughter is 5 going on 15 and my husband is handsome and hardworking. We've been married for 9 years (OI! How did that happen???), together for 11. I pretty much have the Ideal Life. Hm. So, why am I so bored and twitchy and looking for More? Maybe I'll find the answer here....

So, thanks for having me, hope we can chat soon!

PS. Just so you can get a feeling for my true blogging/writing style, I'll post a blog that I wrote yesterday on another, shall-remain-nameless blog that I run and am getting NO LOVIN from.

:)