Another quick thought before I get to work



I absolutely hate the feeling I get sometimes when I look at some pretty, popular friend's myspace or facebook or flickr and they have all sorts of comments from people reaffirming their pretty popularness. It's this slightly sick, slightly sinking feeling that lets me know I will never be as pretty, never be as popular, NEVER ever, not even if somehow I managed to surpass the pretty, popular friend's friend count, because while I might be mesmerizing and exotic and all the other adjectives that describe someone people want to sleep with but are slightly afraid of because she might really, you know, she might really tear them apart when she says she wants to tear them apart - well, I might be dangerously sexy, but I will never be wholesome or pretty like a dirty blonde girl-next-door.

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As I sit in my slightly chilly studio apartment that used to be a porch, I can't help but think that if I ever live somewhere that is properly insulated and weather-proofed I wouldn't know what to do with myself. The fact that I plan to make a career of darting all over the world every few years makes living spaces with well-regulated temperatures a slim possibility, so I don't really have anything to worry about.



Tomorrow is a big, busy day for me, and I still have some things to finish before bed. I have to be awake at 5:30 tomorrow morning, 5:45 at the latest (!!). On the upside, it's finally chilly enough I think I can break out my new wool suit without overheating. Rock.

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IMG_3105
Originally uploaded by bonheath

Here I am as Amy Winehouse. The wig actually stayed on much longer than I thought it would.

Friends and parties





When did I get 227 friends on facebook?? Who ARE these people? The thing is, I have actually met all of them in person. And 227 is really only a partial list. It kind of starts to boggle the mind, the thought of all the thousands (millions?) of people I've met in only 24 years.





Last night I went to Athens for a Halloween party. A few pictures were taken of costumed me at the beginning of the night, and once I have them I'll try to remember to post one or two here. I'm bad about photo posting, though, as you probably already know. I'm also bad about taking photos; it's not really something I do. My personal philosophy is if I have time to take photos I'm not using my time wisely enough to have the maximum possible fun. (Does that sentence even make any sense? No? Well, I'm blaming the hangover.)





I rode back to Atlanta with a girl I didn't really know, but who knows lots of the same people I know. While her boyfriend slept in the backseat, we talked about first marriages and boys who play games and self-esteem and depression and all those other things only two girls who hardly know one another can talk about in a car in the middle of the night. Many of my favorite conversations have occurred with virtual strangers, because neither of us has anything to lose by revealing all. We can say anything.





I made it into bed by 5, and woke up at 1:30 this afternoon. After showering and grabbing a cup of coffee, I met up with CV. I'd hardly seen her the past two weeks and was glad to finally have her all to myself again (yes, I totally got best-friend jealous when she and dude got together a few months ago, but as she says, she's "phasing him out," so my jealousy has waned.) We were supposed to be studying, but instead talked about the hottie coworkers we have mad crushes on and what's been happening in our lives. It was the perfect post-party afternoon.

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Another tv night



The problem with my real-life Jim is I don't have four seasons, plus the years of backstory, for our feelings to develop and grow for one another.



TV night makes me think thoughts like that.

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Ladybugs and crying



First, the ladybugs:

Why do I keep finding ladybugs in my apartment? What makes them want to come here to die?



And on to the crying:

With the new season, Grey's Anatomy is good again. 'Good' means I'm crying and sniffly by the end of the episode. I watch Grey's so I can get everything out with a good cry. The past two episodes have delivered splendidly. Also, I love the recent addition of the old guy intern. Brilliant!

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You know that I'm no good



I thought I'd been so clever when I decided to be Amy Winehouse this year for Halloween. In the past week, though, "Easy Amy Winehouse costume!" articles have been everywhere. Since the thought of dressing up in a costume advocated by the likes of Ellegirl disgusts me, I've got to come up with something new, and fast.



I can't think of anything else, though. Would it be totally lame if I went ahead and did the Amy Winehouse costume anyway? I've been dying for an excuse to wear a beehive for years.

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Correction + My own personal Jim



I made a mistake in my previous post: It wasn't Thanksgiving last year that was bizarro, it was Christmas. I get my winter family holidays all confused sometimes.





Also, since I was sick on Tuesday, today was my first day working with the new guy at work. It took 16 months, but it's finally happened: I have my own personal Jim Halpert. Swoon! The other two people who work in our end of the office were stuck in a meeting for nearly four hours this morning, so I had him all to myself. We talked about our favorite places to get a beer, I showed him the powerpoint presentation I was working on (he was a really good sport about it, which means he has no clue how much of his immediate work future will involve the horrible powerpoint), and he told me about living in France without a cell phone.





"It was fantastic," he said, "not having a cell phone. I had already been there two months when I went to the movie theatre, and just as the movie was starting I had a moment of panic where I thought, 'Where's my phone? I have to turn it off!' And then I remembered I didn't have a phone."





We were both sitting rather close together in front of my computer at this point. He smelled fantastic, and I felt myself drifting dangerously afar from professionalism. I very nearly murmured, "Tell me more about the movie theatres of France" in a seductive whisper, but I managed to regain my composure just in time. Instead, I jumped up from my seat and blurted, "Have they shown you where the copy machine is yet!?" He said no, so in order to save face for my poorly transitioned question, I gave him a tour of the entire office.





Later, at lunch, he proved even more endearing. A coworker was explaining how in the morning's meeting one person gave grades to various soundbites in a video script they were reviewing: One phrase might be an A+ while another was only a B. Feeling saucy and extremely nerdy, I said, "Did the grades follow a normal distribution?" The joke flew completely over the head of the coworker, but he laughed immediately. (Ok, so it sounds kind of lame in the retelling, but it totally worked in the moment. Really.)





And all I can think about is a certain mmmarilyn who warned me, way back in March, to be careful not to find the man of my dreams in the weeks before going off to meet my destiny...

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Midterm



It's midterm week, and on top of all that craziness I spent all of Monday night up sick with the stomach flu. Thankfully it was one of those 24 hour bugs, and I'm feeling mostly human again now. I also have a very strong lead on a very awesome internship for the spring, which has further bolstered my spirits. Also, Thanksgiving is only five weeks away! My west coast aunt and I are in charge this year, which is something of a relief considering the twilight zone episode that was Thanksgiving last year.



And if it doesn't rain at all in the next few months, us north Georgians could be out of water in 90-120 days. Literally. As in, turn on your faucet and nothing comes out. And there are no more lakes. Or rivers. Because there is no water. Thankfully I'll be gone from this place in less than 90 days, so I should have water for the rest of my stay here. But the rest of y'all are screwed.

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Wistful



I've been feeling wistful in general lately, not just when I wear a hat. The weather was finally truly fall-like when I woke up this morning. It felt good to snuggle under my comforter and hit snooze.



The (hot) (young) new guy at work starts on Tuesday. He should help distract me for the next two months. Just two more months, people, and then I'm off to finish my college career...by living in a dorm. Ok, so I'll be doing other things besides just living in a dorm (like studying and interning and whatnot) but it's the living in a dorm that gets me. I absolutely abhorred dorm life the first time I did it (back in 1999-2000), but I was a much less...tolerant person then. Plus, I was a bitchy 16-year-old. I'm hoping things turn out a little better this go round.



All sorts of people are coming into town for Thanksgiving this year. I'm taking the whole week off because I can.

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Did you have fun in the Eighties?



Before my Spanish professor arrived in class today, my classmates and I were discussing...oh, who knows what exactly. The point is, somehow the decade known as the Eighties came up, which prompted one 18-year-old girl, dressed in skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a Sponge Bob Square Pants t-shirt, to muse, "I wish I'd been around for the Eighties. They look like they were fun." Here she turned and looked directly at me. "Did you have fun in the Eighties?"



"I was...five," I said, very appalled, and suddenly feeling like maybe I should go to CVS immediately following class to buy some Clairol to cover my gray.



Even more appalling, I had said, not 30 seconds before this, that I was 24. 24, people! That's only six years older than Ms. Born in 1989. I guess 18-year-olds these days can't do basic arithmetic.



My horror grew when the professor arrived and announced we should get into pairs and compose a paragraph about what Atlanta was like 20 years ago.



"Who grew up in Atlanta?" la profesora asked.



I was the only one to raise my hand.



Ms. Born in 1989 raised her hand. "Excuse me, Señora, but what if you weren't born twenty years ago?"



"Well, use your imagination. Atlanta was very different in 1987, right, casetheplace?" La profesora gave me a knowing, middle-aged wink.



I was now officially the old lady of the class who could remember how Atlanta was back in the olden days of 1987.



Fantastic.

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If I had to choose



I wore my new wool cloche hat today because I figured if I waited until it actually got chilly enough for me to wear a wool hat I'd never get around to showing it off. Cloche hat + asymmetrical bob + wide-leg pants = fabulous. The effect was very early-30s talkie.



When I wear a hat, I get a slightly wistful feeling that we no longer wear hats as a society. (Sorry, baseball caps do not count as hats.) There is something about a hat that adds a finished touch to any outfit and makes a woman look dressed. Men benefit from hats as well; they add just the right amount of sophistication and swagger to a suit.



Although if I had to choose between a society where hats are de rigueur and a society where a woman can be CEO or president of the United States, I guess I'd have to go with the latter.

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This pretty much sums up how I feel about Sarah Silverman.

A new rule



I have a new rule: If my couple friends want to hang out with me as a couple, they must bring me a date.



I'm serious. For the past year and some change I've been a very good sport about hanging out with couples. But my good sportedness is starting to run out. I'm only in Atlanta a few more months, and I refuse to continue being a fifth wheel for what little time is left - or worse, the only uncoupled single in a room full of couples. I think a string of disappointing set-ups is preferable, or at the very least different.



I've warned several couples of the implementation of this new rule this week, and the feedback has ranged from unhelpful to really unhelpful: "I don't know any single guys"/"The two single guys I know you can't stand"/"We never think of you as a fifth wheel!"



Ok, I understand all that, but really y'all, this isn't about you. This is about me. I refuse to spend another meal seated across from a couple while the seat next to me holds nothing more than my handbag.



You have been warned. New rule goes into effect...now.

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Passport photos



I keep thinking I'm going to go back and try to catch y'all up on my life, since I haven't been blogging regularly like a good little casetheplace, but then I get overwhelmed trying to think about where to begin.



So let's let the recent past remain a mystery.



I had new passport photos taken Monday. I thought I'd go to the place downtown rather than near my house since I could do it in between classes. I was pleased I'd made this decision when I saw the hipster hottie behind the counter. While I waited in line, I made up a whole little story in my head about how he was studying photography and played bass in a band and was a man of few words who saved all his self-expression for his art. I was glad I'd taken the time to comb my hair and reapply my lipstick.



The hipster hottie took my photo, but was unable to print it right away.



"Can you come back for it in a little while?" he asked.



"Yeah, I can come get it when I get out of class at 4:30."



"Oh, you go to school at..."



"Yeah."



"Me too."



I walked out of the store feeling warm and tingly, like I'd just had the best flirtation of my life (yes, things are that bad in my love life...shut up.).



When I came back a few hours later, there was no line, so I walked right up to the counter, right up to the hipster hottie.



"May I help you?" he asked politely, not a bit of recognition in his eyes.



Well. Guess who stopped being hot?



His hottness level plummeted to an even further low when he told me the photo he'd taken earlier had been accidentally erased and he would have to re-shoot.



My hair was, of course, uncombed at this point, and I was pissed that what was supposed to be a time-saving experience had turned into a time-wasting annoyance.



As a result, I revised my made-up story about the former hottie: His band had broken up, he took horrible photos with no focal point, and he didn't talk much because he had nothing going on upstairs.



I did manage, eventually, to get out of there with two correctly sized passport photos.

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