Sunday, February 22, 2004

Old Navy whore

I get to wear jeans to work everyday, which I think is pretty rad, but right now my three pairs are in a sad state. One pair has a ripped belt loop, an unfortunate by-product of me pulling them up with too much gusto. Another pair ripped at the seams right near the calf, no explanation for that one. And the last pair has a hole in the back pocket from my manly wallet. After summing all that up and realizing that I look like a big ol' slob I figured it was time to do some shopping. And since I've been called the official Old Navy whore more than once I gave in; there's nothing like a trip to the ON when cash flow is low.

The problem with Old Navy is the same reason that it's so swell... it's friggin cheap. Not just inexpensive, but also not the best quality. Mom always said you get what you pay for, that's why I'm never surprised when that thread I pull on actually makes the hem in the sleeve fall out, or when I realize the side seam actually does make the shirt twist in unflattering ways, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. The problem that always irks me though is the size of the pants, so inconsistent. My sister had a good point; they cut all the jeans in a stack, so inevitably the top pair will be a much more snug fit than the one in the bottom of the pile of 20. (Now I'm starting to feel morally obligated to consider the slave labor it probably took to make these pants and I feel a little guilty for shopping there.)
At Old Navy I can be as thin or as fat as I want to be... depending on the luck of the draw... I can fit into jeans that range 4 sizes. And once I find a pair I like I know it's impossible to buy more than one of the same thing, because the next pair I pick up of the same size probably won't even get over my thighs. And, yes, I know that this should not even be a consideration, because apparently it is very un-hip to buy in bulk. If buying two of the same kind of jeans in one purchase is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
I recently had an extremely unsuccessful trip to Old Navy, maybe the first time I've left empty handed. I must have tried on 12 pairs of jeans, none of which fit me. What was even more annoying than the jeans, however, was this eight year old boy who was clearly not in his element, being ignored by his mother and older sister. To clarify, the boy was not annoying, the ignoring of the boy is what got to me. I can't blame the boy, even I get bored in Old Navy, and I have a mission when I get in there. He just kept popping up wherever I wanted to go. I tried on a jacket and when I found a mirror to see how it looked, there he was, against the mirror as if the cops were ready to frisk him. He was looking at himself with one eye right up against the mirror and then began to lick it. Disturbing. Apparently I was the only one who noticed this. I went to grab more jeans that I had no chance of fitting into, and there he was again, thrusting his arms into a stack of denim and imitating a fork lift. Only I noticed when the pile of jeans ended up on the floor. He ran. I was waiting in line for the dressing room, there he was yet again, running in circles with an unopened bag of Cheetos. Who was he with anyways? Then the answer was clear...
He was with the woman who couldn't find her daughter, and in her quest thought it appropriate to jam her head over the top of every changing stall to see which one contained her offspring. I was not amused. Every time she violated someone's privacy she would cackle and say "oh, yooooou're nooooot her!" I luckily made it in after she had done her rounds.
I finally got in there and as I wondered why I even bother to try on any of these clothes, I heard the pitter-patter of the wayward eight year old followed by a loud POP. It was the bag of Cheetos... the time had come, he was hungry. Unfortunately the luck of the bag was not with him tonight, because right after the pop came a shower of Cheetos, right underneath my dressing room stall door. I looked down and saw the floor littered with his delicious fried snack. I felt sad for the little guy, because, gosh darn it, these were his Cheetos, his last chance to chase away the boredom. What happened next made me realize that there is nothing that can come between an eight year old and his Cheetos. No sooner had those crispy orange bits landed under my door than a tiny hand began to search for them, feeling his way from Cheeto to Cheeto. He didn't try to scoop them all up at once, what he did was downright dainty. First he got the ones closest to him, clearly a little shy about reaching under the stall, using only his thumb and pointer finger. One at a time, a Cheeto would disappear, immediately followed by some crunching. He got a little more bold with each morsel, it wasn't long before he almost reached my feet. It was as if the floor of my stall had become a buffet table. I first thought that I should grab his hand and say "gotcha! You shouldn't have your hands in other people's stalls. And by the way this floor is filthy, don't eat those" But then I realized that he had probably witnessed his mother feeling free and easy to look into any stall she felt like, so why should he stop? I also realized I was sans pants at this moment, so that probably wasn't the best time to address the boy. Then I figured that I might help him out a little and scoot all the tasty bits a little closer to his hands, but that would just make me an enabler. So instead I just pushed all the Cheetos to the furthest corner of the stall because he really shouldn't eat those things off the floor. He grabbed as many as he could, and finally gave up. I heard him root around the almost empty bag for any remaining tidbits.
When I exited the stall there he was just sitting there, like a prisoner of Old Navy, defeated, Cheetoless. As I gave the attendant the mound of clothes that would never fit me, I looked back. Just as I suspected, he lost no time getting into the deserted stall, foraging in the corners, desperate to find all the orange stragglers. His mother and sister down the end of the dressing room, fighting about how tight those pants looked.
See, Old Navy clothes don't really fit anyone.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

a day trip to San Diego for work does not a vacation make

I started my day with a healthy sized panic attack so my head would hurt just right for an hour flight and an all day outing at a beach (scouting a location). It ended pretty well, with a sunburn on my nose and a seat in first class, compliments of my "feeling sorry for me" boss. Usually work doesn't stress me out this much, but today just pushed me over the edge and I kind of lost it. Phone calls to my sister and mother, pre-boarding the migraine flight, helped to take the edge off, but on a scale of 1 - 10 I give this day a 2.
I guess not having control over where I want to live or what I want to do for a living have worn me down to an emotional pulp that led to a sob fest in the ladies room at SFO... at 7:23am. It's been a long time coming and putting on a happy face just didn't fit into my repertoire today, come to think of it, it hasn't fit any time in the past 2 weeks.
By the end of the day I gained some sort of control over my private emotional outbursts and I was able to be quite productive. I never shed a tear or shouted at any of my co-workers, but now I'm left wondering when my next breakdown will be and how I will handle it. Chances are I'll take it out on Alex, which is the worst because he was really the coolest today. He gave me rides to and from the airport, when he really should have been studying for a mid-term. He also got me dinner and understands that I'm going to have to watch crappy reality TV without him tonight and that I'll probably blab about it before he even gets a chance to watch the tapes.
So now I will go and eat my fatty-fatty-fat-fat burger and fries and numb my brain with the wonders of television. I also got a package from my sister (I get one every month) with lots of fun things, including my tiara that she borrowed. I think will put my tiara on and pretend I am princess of my couch.
There, I feel better already.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

10 things that made me look like an ass

Stress from my job is setting in, the insomnia caused by the stress is catching up with me. And while I know I'm not supposed to lie in bed thinking about why I can't sleep I lack the energy to actually get up and do stuff. When it's 3am nothing really seems appealing. Reading isn't fun and cooking is just out of the question. Knitting is okay, but then I have to turn the TV on. Before I know it, one crappy Lifetime movie rolls into something equally as mind numbing on the Oxygen network and I can't seem to surrender to the exhaustion within. So between the hours of 3am and 5am I've resorted to thinking of how I would design my dream home . I have had some very excellent ideas, most of which I forgot immediately.
Since I've been kind of like a walking zombie for the past week I've done some interesting things during the hours that I am supposed to be "functional":

* used the key fob for my car to open a door in the office, then walked into door, perplexed at why it didn't open.
* spilled coffee from travel mug down both sides of my mouth. while the coffee was running down my face onto my shirt I was thinking "Why won't that stop?", without ever moving the cup.
* attempted to spit chewed gum into a wrapper while driving. Missed. Then, while still driving, tried to clean gum off seats of new car, only making it worse.
* listened to an entire song by Hootie and the Blowfish
* got out of the shower, realized I forgot to wash my hair, got back in the shower to wash my hair, then couldn't remember why I was in the shower again.
* put wallet in back pocket and then spent the next 25 minutes freaking out about where I could have lost my wallet.
* carved a face on my lunch kiwi with a plastic knife and then became attached to it, vowing I would never eat it.
* had overwhelming and inexplicable paranoia that every car in the lane to the right of me was about to swerve into my lane.
* sang along with a Sugar Ray song.
* realized that the pen I was holding in my teeth was the one I picked up in the conference room.

Because of all the things listed above (and you bet there were more) I was deathly afraid of my tap class last night. If I was as bad as I was last week (as you can read below) - pre Hootie and the Blowfish episode - what would happen this week? Then when I walked in and realized I was half the class I almost had an anxiety attack. As it turns out I do much better in a smaller group and no one had to fear the return of Frankentap (name courtesy of Wil).

Tuesday, February 03, 2004


I thought a lot about the whole boob thing yesterday and all the things I wanted to say about it. But then I realized that everyone thought about it and everything that's going to be said has been said. So now everyone is over the incident, especially me. I think I was over the whole thing after we watched it for the 11th time (in slow motion) on TiVo (courtesy of Max and Julianne). About 4 times of watching the "wardrobe mishap" cleared up how intentional the act was, around time number 6 it had lost it's novelty and shock value and I would say that sometime around # 8 is when depression set in.
11 really pushed the envelope, but we had to be sure. Of what? I don't know.
Everyone at work had it pictures up on their monitors within 20 minutes of their arrival on Monday morning. Not me though, I was extremely busy... not only did I have to change my desk calendar but there was a wall calendar that needed my attention as well.

Last night I had my worst tap class ever. I don't know what happened, but there were definitely a few moments where I thought I might have to run out of the room in sheer panic. The first thing that threw me off was my embarrassing rendition of a stamp within the first 3 minutes of class. It's pretty obvious what it should be, you just put your foot down ... keeping your ankles loose, let your heel fall first. easy, like walking. Easy until the teacher said "think Frankenstien". Apparently I thought about him a little too much and tried some bad method acting to actually be Frankenstien. Picture this: a bunch of people watching me walk across a dance studio as if brooms were shoved up each of my pant legs. Add a puzzled look on my face which is slowly turning red. Is what you picture starting to look like me being a really big ass in front of the rest of the class? Swell, then you've got the idea. I stomped across the floor wondering why I felt so stupid, until the teacher laughed while telling me to not forget to bend my knees. If my memory serves me correctly (and I might be exaggerating a little here) I had my arms straight out like a fucking zombie and my eyes looked like something out of the Thriller video. And then I shouted "aaaaggghhhhh..... frieeeeend.....frieeeeend!" scaring all the small children in the karate class next door, sending parents into a frenzy with torches to chase me from the village.

My confidence was pretty much shot after that.

He singled us out for some exercises which resulted in me further making an ass of myself. At one point I just walked over to the corner and said "I'm out". I think everyone breathed a sigh of relief with my retirement; who wants to dance next to a freakin' monster?