Rampant Narcissism

aka I've Been Tagged!

Oh this is so exciting! I love things like this, ever since I was 14 and I got my first email address and shortly thereafter recieved one of those chain surveys that circulated around and around where you were supposed to answer such deep questions as Lipstick or Chapstick? Chili's or TGIFridays? Joshua Jackson or James Van der Beek? (For the record, both, neither, and always, always, always Joshua Jackson. James Van der Beek has the largest forehead I've ever seen and it is not attractive.)

So, I've been tagged by my very awesome cousin, Nicole (but I'll always call her Nicki!) Here goes:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

About me? Hmmm... my favorite topic!
1) I'm constantly experimenting with my handwriting. Although most would consider my natural penmanship just fine, I don't like it and I'm constantly trying to improve it by changing little things. The way I write one letter, whether I use capitals or lowercase, the size, slant, angle, etc. I'm always jealous of people whose wonderful handwriting seems so effortless.

2) I'm always reading something, and I have been since I learned the alphabet. Although I enjoy non-fiction, particularly biographies, current events, and analyses of pop culture, I hate cerebral fiction. If it smacks of pretentious intellectualism, I'm not reading it. What am I reading? Well... when asked, I wax poetic about Dickens and Austen and Eliot and Fitzgerald, and it's not a lie, I love all them. But teen fiction is my passion. I also love the Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley Twins (but not Sweet Valley High) and it's entirely possible that the book I have read and re-read most often is one that I got at a garage sale when I was about 10. It's called Malibu Summer and it's about a 15-year-old girl from Wisconsin named Amber who moves to Malibu to be a nanny for a rich family for the summer and falls in love with the handsome older son of the Hollywood producer she works for, whose name is Jason and who is in an advanced accelerated filmmaking program at UCLA. Only, see, Amber thinks she is in love with Brett, the producer's other older son by his first wife, but Brett is a little odd and emotionally stunted and it's not until the very, very end of the book when Amber is leaving Malibu the next day that she and Jason realize their love for each other, but Amber has to leave because she misses her family on the dairy farm in Wisconsin even though Madeleine, Brett and Jason's stepmother and the Hollywood producer's 4th wife, has already begged her to stay and help care for Kyle, the younger child of the producer's deceased 3rd wife for the whole year, going so far as to offer her tennis lessons and to fly her family out for the Rose Bowl. In the end, Amber leaves Malibu with the promise to return after graduation to go to college in LA because Madeleine and the producer have offered to pay for it, and because that way she and Jason can be together forever. Am I the only person to see the genius in this book? It's incredible! Go write something like that, Bret Easton Ellis, and then come back and I'll try reading your work again, you pretentious nitwit. Also, I wish I was Amber.

3) I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the hairdryer and the vaccuum cleaner. The person who invents a silent vacuum cleaner will have my undying gratitude. It's so loud! The only redeeming value to the ugly tile floors in my apartment is the fact that I no longer have to vacuum. As for the hairdryer, I solved the problem by getting one of those quiet dryers. Unfortunately, the quiet motor means it doesn't have much ooomph, which typically leaves my hair looking and feeling like limp macaroni, but that's a trade-off I've so far been willing to make.

4) I am obsessed with the modern Olympic games. Obsessed. It's almost frightening. For two weeks every two years, I sit glued to my television, deeply engrossed in events no one else has even heard of. (Men's Skeet Shooting? Watched it. Table tennis? Watched it. Luge, Rhythmic Gymnastics, Winter Biathlon? Once again, watched them all.) For two weeks I put my life on hold. I refuse to go out with my friends. I resent the fact that I have to go to work during the Judo finals. One year, I even briefly considered an attempt on a classmate's life after finding out that she had tickets to the opening ceremonies. I know. Sad but true. So, every two years, I get a real treat. The Olympics!!! There's nothing better than watching all the countries come together for good, friendly, quality competition...Yeah, RIGHT! But what is pretty sweet is making fun of the "cultural" aspects (anyone remember the "Child of Light" from Salt Lake City? or how about those creepy little oompah-loompah like creatures from Lillehammer?) Uh-huh, I thought so. And those great sappy biographies on the poor tortured athlete, usually from some dreadful communist country, forced to live and train solely for the glory of his/her country, and not even allowed to go home when his/her beloved mother/grandfather/significant other/pet turtle (take your pick) suffers a tragic and sudden death. Still though, there is something almost magical about gathering around the TV to watch the sparkle and fire of the opening ceremonies, to feel the awe at the lighting of the torch, to for just a few weeks forget our differences and enjoy the spirit of competition and camaraderie. Sure, we don't get the whole story. Tales of corruption and trouble spill out of Olympic Village at an alarming rate. But for some of us, the joy will always be there, the love, the excitement of children. That is perhaps the most important thing that the Olympic Games do for us. I know that it's cheesy, and there's performance art, and children singing, and obnoxious, arrogant athletes, and all sorts of things that I usually hate, but I can't help but love it. The Olympics- there's just nothing better.

5) I believe the world is split into two kinds of people: Condiment people, and no-condiment people. I am a no-condiment person. I tell people I'm allergic to mustard, but the reality is, I just think it tastes disgusting. I can only stomach mayo if it's in a salad (tuna salad, potato salad, etc) and sometimes not even then. I put salt and pepper on my green salad in place of any sort of dressing. The bigger issue, besides just condiment preference, is that I also prefer the world to be split in two. I like black and white, yes and no, right and wrong, 90 degree angles, compartmentalization, and never, ever chaos. As I get older, I see more and more how unrealistic this preference is, but nonetheless, I continue to chase the dream. Perfection is always, always the goal.

6) This is no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to travel. I love to experience other cultures. I loved my time as a student in London, my backpacking trips around Europe, and my summer service projects in Latin America. I believe that these experiences influenced my life in so many ways, introduced me to new people, cultures, and ways of life, gave me skills that have helped me in my professional life, and provided me with cherished memories. But every so often, especially now that I'm older, I start to crave a relaxing vacation rather than a non-stop action, always moving, as cheap as you can get it whirlwind tour. Rather than experience the true culture and people of the caribbean, would it really be so bad for me to just spend a week at an all-inclusive resort, sipping margs on the white-sand beach? No, it wouldn't be a real cultural experience, and I could never admit it to my adventurous and travel-snob friends, but can anything that involves free all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages and non-motorized watersports really be so bad?

7) I have exactly 3 special talents. They are: parallel parking (really, I don't get why so many people think this is so hard), reciting the alphabet backwards (ZYXWVUTSRQPONMLKJIHGFEDCBA. I've no doubt that this talent will serve me well, should a cop ever question my sobriety), and remembering names and faces. I never forget a name or a face. You're a friend of a friend? We haven't seen each other in 17 years? We only met once, it was at a party, late at night, and I was both drunk and distracted at the time? Doesn't matter. I'll remember you. In fact, this is often embarrassing, and many times I just pretend that I don't remember someone, because it is clear that he or she does not remember me, and it spares us both embarrassment if I just go along with the charade. But in the back of my mind, as we shake hands, I'm thinking, "Of course you're Muffy Carrington. We met three years ago at Evelyn Rileys wedding shower, when you were sitting on that old green sofa and wearing purple leggings and we discussed the weather and the fact that we both like white cake better than chocolate." Do you see how the level of detail that I am able to instantly recall brings with it large potential for mortification? And furthermore, why is it that I can remember ridiculous amounts of detail like this at the drop of a hat, and yet I have been missing my left sneaker for the last two weeks?

Wow! Clearly I'm a narcissist! So much to say about me! Um, so I don't really know many other bloggers, and I don't really know who takes the time to read my drivel, so let's just say, if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged! I want to meet you/know who you are, so leave me a message and start writing your own novel-length introduction, just like me!

(So this is pretty long... it sort of makes up for 3 weeks of blog-silence, right? No? Well, don't worry, I've got lots of catching up to do!)

Along Came Me (and my Furniture)

Yes, I am aware that the title of this post points to a heinously awful movie, one that not even a rom-com junkie like me even likes. Oh Jennifer Aniston, please get a better agent. You're talented. But I digress. The only reason I even bring it up is to (what else?) draw a comparison to my life. There's a scene in Jennifer Aniston's apartment where Ben Stiller looks around at the mess and the boxes and the general disarray and asks if she just moved in. She replies that she's been there for 2 years. And that is the situation I find myself in today.

Now granted, I've only been here 2 months. But the feeling is the same. I probably should have unpacked those boxes that have been sitting in the corner by now. I probably should not be sitting in a folding pink $8.99 Target camping chair watching a DVD on my laptop propped up on an upturned box while balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a saucer (not even a full size plate) on my lap. I probably should arrange things in a nice order in the closet and buy some of those nice collapsible fabric boxes to hold things on the top shelves. I should actually put my shoes on the shoe rack that I randomly put together one Saturday afternoon, but then got bored with the project before actually putting the shoes on it. And I should probably do all this before I start having visitors next week.

Apparently, my life is all about the panic. I've always been a deadline person. While I might have started a paper 3 weeks in advance, I inevitably finished it around 4 am the night before it was due in a nauseated haze of Diet Coke and Wheat Thins. Last time I was in the midwest, I nearly missed the bus to the airport because I was running through my parents' house throwing last-minute items into a half-empty suitcase 10 minutes before I needed to be boarding the bus. I've got to have that pressure.

I'm not really proud of that fact, and I'd like to change. I'd like to be the sort of person who does things in advance and then feels smug and superior watching other run around at the last minute like chickens without heads (what disturbing imagery. How did this become so ingrained in the American lexicon that we use it without thinking? Gross.) But when push comes to shove, I'm still the girl who only ordered a table, chairs, sofa, armchair, and TV this week so that when my visitors show up, they don't think I live in utter squalor. Beyond that, what's the point of having this nice apartment all to myself if I won't spend the money to make it comfortable? Ahh, money, my old nemesis. Your scarcity makes you always the root of my troubles. And the root of most of my neuroses, as well, come to think of it.

It's tough to shell out an entire paycheck on furniture when there is simply no convenient way to buy cheap furniture in this city. You could wander all day, from the Bronx to Brooklyn, and at the end of the day you'd be confused and angry and have aching feet.and still have barely been able to see anything in the few furniture showrooms that exist, still not be sure of what you want, still pay exorbitant prices, and still have to figure out how on earth to get it delivered. Almost everyone I've asked says that if you're looking for cheap, you're better off just picking something online based on the price and hoping for the best. And for me, even having done the research and decided what I'd like, there's this sinking feeling as soon as I click "purchase" that says "Are you even going to be living here that long? What if you move next year? Now you have all this furniture and extra stuff that you'll have to either sell (and deal with the hassle), dump (and feel like you just lost a ton of money) or move (and add to the nearly unbearable stress of the experience, especially in the city.)

Paralyzed by indecision and nagging doubts (two things that have not really been a problem for me in the past), it takes other people to make me move. So once the furniture arrives, we'll see whether I'll love it all and want to thank my visitors for forcing me to take the plunge, or curse them for sticking me with some ugly crap that looks nothing like what I saw online. I guess if worst comes to worst, I can always sell it on Craigslist... those weirdos will buy anything.