Monthly Archives: October 2014

On bad days…

“People usually don’t have bad days. It’s not the entire day that’s bad. If they think back on it, it’s just pieces of the day, and all the extra time they spend focusing on that piece – that’s the bad part.”

I heard that yesterday. I’m paraphrasing here, but I hope you get the point. Actually, I hope that you are as blown away by that statement as I was. I mean, sure – some rational/logical part of my brain was already aware of this. But when I’ve already convinced myself that I’m having a “bad day,” that rational/logical part of my brain is conveniently ignored entirely. So it was nice to get a reminder, y’know?

I’ve got an acquaintance who has a tendency to be super-negative. Like, all the freaking time. Now I know that I’m not necessarily shooting rays of sunshine out of my own ass 24-7, but hearing this person just dwell dwell dwell on the negative day in and day out is downright exhausting. One day, after hearing her make yet another negative comment, I snapped.

“From now on, for every negative thing that comes out of your mouth, I want to hear you say two positive things.” I desperately wanted to continue: To tell her that she was bringing me down and making me angry and I wanted absolutely nothing more than to smack her in her pouty, pessimistic face. But I held back.

She was upset by what I said, and I guess I can’t blame her. No one likes being called out on their own shenanigans. And my outburst didn’t really end up changing her outlook on life. But that doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned the idea altogether. In fact, this is a challenge I’ve since issued to several others: For every negative thought you have, think two positive ones.

It’s hard, man! I’ve tried it myself. But it works, if you let it, to remove little Fun-sized pieces of Bad from the Snack-sized pieces of Bad from your Full-sized day, which really wasn’t all bad to begin with.

That metaphor was terrible, and hurt my brain a little.

…but speaking of candy:

Let it go? Let go? Something like that.

My recent Facebook status:

frozen copy

I was surprised by the number of “Likes” for this particular post. Seems I’m hardly the only one concerned with the endemic Elsa-itis going around.

I’m racking my brain and trying to recall Halloweens from my past: what costumes did I choose? What costumes did my friends choose? I’m having a REALLY hard time here. Did we dress as characters from the current popular movies and cartoons? I honestly don’t know. Actually, I can only really recall two costumes I ever had:

In second grade, I was a “punk rocker:” one of those costumes-in-a-bag from Kmart. I don’t know what, exactly, made it “punk,” per se, but the costume consisted of a pink foil wig, pink lamé skirt, pink star-shaped sunglasses (PIMP!), and some sort of top with a bunch of glittery stars and shit on it. Oh, and a cardboard microphone that rained glitter down upon everything in a 10′ radius (actually, the entire costume rained glitter down upon everything in a 10′ radius. I’m sure my mother was super pleased with this phenomenon).

Side note: I genuinely wish I still had this outfit, but in my current adult size.

My point is that this getup wasn’t some sort of Licensed Character (though maybe it could have been considered a cheap JEM knock-off? Who knows). It was just a generic costume. I wasn’t trying to pretend I was part of Siouxsie and the fucking Banshees or anything. I was just a “rocker” – woo! – and that’s all I needed.

The following year, I was a monster. Again, this was a costume-in-a-(terribly smelly plastic)-bag (complete with that plastic-hanger-snap-top that ALWAYS broke IMMEDIATELY). It was just a neon green rayon (incredibly smelly) sack that I put over my head (I think it might have had sleeves?). The face was gigantic, and featured a big red tongue hanging out of the monster’s mouth. I freakin’ loved that one, people, but for some reason I felt the need to tell everyone that I was Slimer from Ghostbusters, because just saying I was a “monster” wasn’t good enough.

I guess my parents are lucky that it took me nine years to jump on that pop culture Halloween bandwagon. If only the parents of all these 4 year old Elsas had it so good.

Second side note: This year I briefly entertained the idea of going as Penny from Inspector Gadget, but I don’t think ANYTHING can beat this chick:

Popper, apartment B

The temperature inside my apartment was a glorious 65 degrees Fahrenheit when I awoke this morning. After I was able to extricate myself from a cocoon of quilts and blankies, I shut my open windows and curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. It was divine, this coolness. My favorite kind of morning.

And yet, as I sat there on the sofa reading about Ebola, I heard a peculiar noise. It was almost as if…
No. It couldn’t be.
But… wait…

It was!

It was the sound of a running air conditioning unit. My neighbors were – are – running their air conditioning.


In the few years I’ve lived in this particular unit, I’ve noticed that there is only a very brief time – Late December to early January, perhaps? – that these neighbors do not have the AC running. Through my powers of deduction and reasoning, I’ve come to a conclusion:

They must be penguins.

You laugh, but for serious: Do you know where penguins come from? Have you ever been inside of a penguin exhibit at the zoo? It’s cold, man.

And also: I cannot tell with 100% certainty which apartment is running their air, and there are a handful of folks in this particular building I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Who knows who (or what?) is living in, say, apartment B?

Penguins. They’ve got to be fucking penguins.

Of course, other possibilities crossed my mind:
Their windows are painted shut.
They have terrible breathing difficulties and must use the AC.
They’re allergic to the outside.
They can’t figure out how to turn off the air.
They use the spare bedroom as a sauna / reptile room / greenhouse and must aggressively cool the other rooms due to the residual heat.
The apartment is otherwise kept warm by the piles of money they burn (because, seriously, their electric bill must be ASTRONOMICAL).
They like to hang meat in the living room.
The place is being used as an amateur morgue.

Of all these hypothetical scenarios, I keep coming back to my original thought: They’re motherfucking penguins. They live in a happy little ice castle one apartment below. Their furniture is carved from ice, and the place is filled with gratuitous ice-slides, because duh: penguins sliding around all over the place is THE CUTEST THING EVER. Oh, did I mention these are cute penguins? No creepy DC-villain penguins here. Also: no overwhelming fish smell a la The Penguin & Puffin Coast at the Saint Louis Zoo (day-um, Gina: that place reek). Instead, I think they like to order take-out. Maybe pizza’s their thing. The Domino’s guy shows up with their delivery, and they open the door, and he peeks in and sees this magical penguin playground. Best delivery gig ever. Only maybe they tip him in ice-money. Worse yet: maybe they have to pay in ice-money. Have you ever tried to run a Diner’s Club card carved from ice? It don’t work. But it’s okay. Because they’re penguins, man.

Motherfucking penguins.

No, no, no, no, no: Terrifying.

No, no, no, no, no: Not these penguins. Terrifying. 

Side note: Do you know The Penguin’s real name? Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. Can you think of a more perfect name? Nope, me neither.


Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes: Much better.

it’s been awhile, eh?

Welp, here goes nothing.


I got nothin’.

No wise sayings. No witty quips. No random anecdotes. People ask what I’ve been up to these days, and my answer reeks of blah: “Eh. Working. Hanging out.”

Except my life has been anything but blah. A lot of things have happened, particularly over the last three months. And yet: I’ve had little-to-no inspiration to write about any of it.

At least, to “publish” (as it were) what I’ve written (privately) about any of it. To say that life is just flipping fantastic right now would be a flat-out lie. But to say that things are just utter and complete shit would also be a gross exaggeration.

This leaves me torn, and not in a Natalie imbruglia, laying-naked-on-the-floor kind of way. Do I go into detail about the not-so-fun things that have happened lately? Do I use this space to just rant and bitch about the things that are making me angry? I’d rather this whole thing I’ve got going to be something folks read for pleasure, not for an update on What’s Pissing Julie Off Today.

Though I guess that could also be entertaining, eh?

Okay, now I’m re-reading what I’ve written and cringing, because I’ve just become that person I absolutely DESPISE: the one who alludes to things but never explains them. You ABSOLUTELY know the type: that one dumb bitch who goes around sighing REALLY FUCKING LOUDLY until someone asks her what’s wrong and she’s all like “Oh… *sigh*… nothing…” and then some equally dumb bitch is all like “No, really? Are you sure? Are you okay?” until Dumb Bitch 1 bravely pours out her fucking heart about how her cousin’s in jail and his baby mama can’t make rent and this is COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY HER PROBLEM NOW because, like, sometimes she’s gotta watch his baby and, like, LIFE IS FUCKING HARD.

I’ve actually got several posts written and saved. Very much pouring-my-heart-out kind of stuff. I might eventually post them, once I’ve got things far enough in my rearview mirror to think about them objectively.

Until then, I do apologize for the lack of posts. I’ll try to come up with something soon.

Oh! But here’s this. It made me laugh: