'N' is for Neville, who died of ennui

I plan on doing great things one day. In the meantime, I have a job. And a 401k. And a blog.

An Open Apology/Good-Bye

 The blog is over.  I'm sorry I it took two months for me to admit it was true.  Thank you for reading.  Thank you for supporting me while I experienced the (hopefully) worst job of my life.  Instead of blogging  I will be taking my show on the road, doing open mikes around Chicago.  Maybe one day you'll run across some girl on stage, reading material directly from this blog.   And hopefully it'll be me. 

Good- bye.  Thanks again.  It was great fun. 

posted by: serenaluchang at 07/31/05 17:56 | link | comments (26) |

Camping Confessions

Confessions

 

• I don't know what the M keys on calculators actually do.  No idea.  I think I was sick the day my math teacher explained that in school.  And whenever I accidentally hit one and the little "m" appears in the upper right hand corner of my calculator it scares me.  Because I think it means that the rules of math no longer apply and back is front and night is day and I'm going to balance my check book and think I have enough money to buy those cute shoes when really I'll be 12 dollars in the hole.

   

• My first ever concert was Richard Marx.  At the Indiana State Fairgrounds.  And.   He.  Rocked.  I heard a Richard Marx song on the radio the other day, for the first time in years, and I remembered how much fun I had at that concert.  I bought a lighter just so I could hold it up during the encore.  Lame?  Yeah.  Also kind of awesome?  Hell yeah. 

   

• I'm about to post an excerpt from an e-mail baby sister sent me.  And I'm not asking permission first because she has a crap-tastic summer job that makes her wake up at 4 am every day and she'd yell at me if I called her and woke her up to ask permission, so I won't.  Background: baby sister works at a gym.  She is making like 8 bucks an hour to sit behind a counter and great guests and fold towels and look pretty.  And it's starting to get to her.

The members, oh let me tell you about the members. "Excuse me miss, are you a personal trainer" My interior dialogue- No I'm not a fucking trainer. Why do you asses keep asking me that? Have any of you ever seen me train? Has anyone ever even seen me in work out cloths? NO! No, mother fucker, you've only  seen me in nice dress attire because that is what a person wears when they are a secretary! I'm a fucking secretary! That's why I'm sitting behind the front desk right now talking to you. What I actually say- No sir, I just work behind the desk. "Miss you're out of towels" Interior- No m.effer I'm not out of fucking towels, the gym is. And ya know what, the gym wouldn't be out of towels if lil' bitch members like you would stop using like 12 every time you come. What I say- Ok sir, I'll check the back room and see if we have any stored there. "So what do you think of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes dating" Interior- I do NOT want to touch your penis. I do not find your slicked back gray hair, power suits, or plastic smile attractive, so you need to stop talking to me and leave the gym. If you want a girl my age go find an Abercrombie and Fitch employee. Girls who shop there are sluts, so one who works there would most likely be a double plus whore. What I say- nothing, I just stare.

I'm totally going to invite baby sister to contribute to this blog.  The hate is strong in that girl, and while I'm not hating my job I figure she can help fill in that aspect.

Camping

Over Memorial Day, I went to Wisconsin.  Paul's family all pitched together and bought a piece of property up there, slapped an RV on it and deemed it the offical family vacation spot.  I've been there once before, when Paul and I had been dating for about two months.  He decided it was time to introduce me to the family, and what better way to do it than during the six hour car ride up to the property and the two subsequent days of sharing a tiny RV?  Bascially, I was real quiet during that trip because I don't know these people, I don't know camping, and I didn't know we weren't going to shower for two days and then go to a casino.  It was a time.

This time I was much more relaxed.  I came prepared with books (for the boredom part) and wet wipes (for the stanky ass part).  I learned how to chop wood with an axe (let the weight of the axe do the work; don't expect to use any of your arm muscles the next day), how to fish (bait the hook, read your book while it bobs, wait for someone else on the boat who's actually paying attention to tell you when you have a nibble and then get frustrated at you when you take so long putting your book down on the one dry spot in the boat that the fish is gone: repeat), and how to shoot a pellet gun.  Paul and I had great fun knocking down cans and pretending we were assassins in the woods. 

On the drive up to Wisconsin, Paul and I decided we were hungry and wanted to eat.  Paul decided that, as it would be my turn to drive after lunch, he would like to stop someplace that served beer.  We ended up at a place called Shooters, that advertised itself as a family restaurant.  We we went in, the only family there was playing the slot machines located in the bar.  Actually, the only people in the whole place were in the bar, so Paul and I went in there too.  The place was wood panelled with dark carpet, no natural light, and several stuffed deer butts mounted on the wall.  We ordered some cheese curd (when you're in Wisconsin you have no choice) and settled in for a nice lunch.

And then the guy behind us started losing his mind.  Every time he won on the slot machine, he started yelling.  YELLING.  Like, someone was attacking him/he was about to attack someone. I looked around the bar and saw that no one else seemed to think this was weird so clearly this guy was a regular, everyone was used to it and I should get used to it to.  But it was hard.  So hard.  Because he kept WINNING.  And YELLING.  And he was sitting right behind me and I had to pretend that he wasn't there and eat my cheese curd and it was creepy.  And then Paul pointed to the menu, which sported this restaurant's motto on the cover.  "Party Capital of the Universe."  Paul didn't even finish his beer and we left. 

 

posted by: serenaluchang at 06/06/05 23:44 | link | comments (55) |

I wrote this post one week ago

I have been trying to post for a  solid week now.  For whatever reason, my blog post page would not load.  Would not load no matter how much I begged/threatened.  It wouldn’t load on Evan’s computer.  It wouldn’t load on Paul’s computer.  It wouldn’t load using AOL, Mozilla, or Internet Explorer.  And I was trapped, unable to post, feeling like a horrible blogger.  But now it works.  Thank Jesus.

 

My nail polish is blue.  The old ladies at work did not know what to do with themselves today when they saw it.  They asked me why I was wearing it.  I told them because I thought it was kicky.  They said, “kinky?”  I said, no, kicky.  They said they loved that word and would incorporate it into their vocabularies right away.

 

Secret Enemies

 

 

Secret enemy is a term introduced to me by my friend, Emily.  Emily found that, in certain situations in life, you find yourself coming in daily contact with a person that you can’t stand.  It won’t be that person’s fault: just something inherent about them that makes you want to foil their plans.  You just assume they’re up to no good.  Because you don’t like this person and don’t want to pursue any kind of a relationship with them, you don’t talk to them.  Most times you don’t even know their name.  You never acknowledge them, but you notice them, and every time you do you wish you had the wherewithal to plot their downfall. Thus, secret enemy. 

 

I currently have two secret enemies.  Both of them go to my gym.

 

Secret Enemy #1

 

Is a man.  When I first started going to this new gym, he noticed me immediately.  And smiled at me.  It was a broad, toothy smile, one where his face was full of recognition.  Because, apparently, he thought he knew me.  But, clearly, he doesn’t, so I just looked the other way because I didn’t want to embarrass the man.  Except, the next day I went to the gym it happened again.  Saw me, gave me a big, toothy “Hey, there you are,” smile.  And I once again quickly looked away, because I don’t know him.

 

The third time it happened I started to get pissed.  Clearly, this man knows that he does not know me.  If he hasn’t figured that part out yet, he should be able to figure out that at the very least I do not know him.  But he continues to smile at me, that kind of smile where, if I show the faintest flicker of anything reciprocal he will come over and talk to me. And I can not let that happen.

 

Explanation: I’m angry at the gym.  It’s the angriest part of my day.  Because I just got done with working and I’m tired and hungry and I don’t wanna work out but I’m forcing myself to because I know it’s good for me and I’ll feel better afterwards but it’s not afterwards it’s right in the middle of the red-face, sweaty, angriest part and the last thing I want to do in that moment is make a new fucking friend. 

 

A decent person would have quit smiling.  But he is not decent.  He is a creepy skank.  It has been three months and the bitch has yet to see me and not try to engage me in a smile.  He thinks that if he just keeps smiling I’ll eventually smile back and then he can come over and talk to me and we’ll get married and have skank babies.  But that will never happen.  I will never smile back at him and I swear, if he ever tries to talk to me I’m gonna smash him in the face with my Nalgene bottle.  Because why does he think he gets to smile at me?  Seriously, it’s creeptastic and I don’t see him doing to anyone else and is it because he thinks I’m cute and who the fuck cares if he does because I’m not in the mood to have a creep laser focused on me.  And I bet he thinks he’s being nice, but he’s not.  Because he has creeped me out enough that if I ever find myself alone in the parking lot with him I’m gonna have to pre-emptively attack him with my Nalgene bottle, just in case he’s ½  as creepy as he seems. 

 

Secret Enemy #2

 

Is a lady.  Also at my gym.  I first noticed her in the locker room, where she was with a friend.  They were talking about their fitness plans and then I heard her say this:

“I’m such a pig.  I ate a salad and a Lean Cuisine for lunch today.” 

 

And with that line, my hatred was formed.  She then stood in front of the mirror, compelling her friend to look at her belly fat and agree that it was totally gross.  Except she didn’t have any belly fat, but her friend sort of did and you could tell her friend was very uncomfortable with the “belly fat is worse than death” tone of the conversation, except psycho diet girl would not let up. 

 

But apparently her starvation/horrid bitch diet plan is going well, because I saw her parading around the locker room in her underwear the other day, examining herself in front of each and every mirror, looking pleased each time.  Good for her.  Maybe I’ll hook her up with the creepy smile guy so they can have secret enemy babies.

posted by: serenaluchang at 05/30/05 23:20 | link | comments (12) |

Argh

Evan and I held auditions today.  And they sucked.  Because we need to cast six people in this show, and that is exactly how many people showed up.  And one of them sucked.  And one of them had major scheduling conflicts.  And not enough of them were girls. 

So we have placed a frantic call to some actor friends to see if they can come through for us in a pinch, but if they don't Evan and I have to decide what to do with this show.  Cut out all the lady sketches?  Cast myself as one of the ladies, thus creating a weird situation where I am directing/acting simultaneously?  Say "fuck it" and not do the show altogether and instead use the theater space we have rented as a forum to read aloud my greatest blog entries? 

We do not know.  I suppose we should have done more recruiting for actors.  But I put an ad on craigslist and everything. 

The worst part: when it became pretty obvious that no one else was showing up, one of the actors auditioning was thoughtful enough to ask me, "Is this all the people auditioning?"  And because I didn't want to let him know that he and everyone else there were automatically in the play because they showed up, I lied.  I told him that we were having more auditions later today.  With other people. 

Then he asked me what time, because his friend had wanted to audition but couldn't but would be able to stop by in the evening.  And then I had to say, "Um...yeah...it's a, um, closed audition.  But, yeah...we'll call you if we'd still like to see him."  And that was powerful awkward.  Powerful. 

A note to the kids: don't lie.  Because then people ask you follow-up questions and you feel like an ass. 

The best part: a young man auditioned for Evan and I that I immediately got a huge non-sexual crush on.  Like, I don't want anything to do with his junk, but I do want him to bring me cookies and show me pictures of his childhood.  And I felt kinda guilty about this, but then I showed Paul all of the headshots of the auditionees and, when he came across the picture of this same dude, he exclaimed, "He is adorable.  He is an adorable man.  I just want to pinch his cheeks."  So Paul and I decided, if the play goes on, we will be adopting this young man as our new, non-sexual boyfriend.  We will tossle his hair and take him to concerts and try to make him date one of our single friends so as to take the creepy edge off the whole thing.

posted by: serenaluchang at 05/16/05 00:58 | link | comments (14) |

What I Did This Weekend

Received a brand new nickname

 

A transcript of part of a call I took Friday afternoon (as best I can remember):

 

Customer: You know, you have the smoothest phone voice I have ever heard.   Really, it sounds like a tape recorder.

 

Me: Thank you.  I’m not a tape recorder, but thank you.

Customer: But seriously, your voice is so smooth.  Like a robot. 

 

Me: Thanks.  (laughing) I am an actual person.  

 

Customer: Well, you have a very nice voice.

 

Me: Thanks.  And thanks for calling.  Bye. 

 

Customer: Bye, my robot love.

 

So from now on everyone must refer to me as “my robot love” for at least a week.  Because it is funny.

 

Fought with people who work at Dunkin’ Donuts

 

Friday evening I stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts on my way to Paul’s house.  I wanted a caffeine pick-up and it’s always much easier to wake Paul up if I have a cup of delicious Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with me for him (for those who don’t know, Paul works nights, which means that on his nights off I get to leave work and then wake up my boyfriend so we can go play.  It also means that if he goes out drinking after work, I get drunk-dialed at 12 in the afternoon.  Have you ever talked to drunk person on the phone while you’re at work?  It makes you feel like one of you is doing something very wrong, but you’re not sure who.) 

 

So I go to the drive-thru and I order a regular coffee for Paul and an iced coffee for me. Because I’m a lady and it was hot outside.  And then I pull forward and give the Dunkin’ Donuts dude my money and the Dunkin’ Donuts dude presents me with two regular coffees.  A transcript (as best I can remember):

 

Me: No, I wanted one to be iced.

 

Dude: (Handing me the coffees) Yes.

 

Me: (Not taking the coffees) No.  One should be in ice.  On ice. 

 

Dude: (Still handing me the coffees) Ice.  Yes.

 

Me:  There should be ice on the coffee.  In the cup.

 

Dude:  (Confused) Yes.

 

Me: Um…cold?  One should be cold.

 

Dude: Oh! Cold.  OK.

 

So, I don’t know what he thought “iced” meant, but I’m glad I had more than one word indicative of ice in my vocabulary.  Dude came back with one coffee iced, gave both coffees to me, and asked me for my money.  I told him I had given him my money.  He told me no, he needed the money.  I pointed to the place where my money was clearly sitting, by his elbow.  He said, “Oh!”  and took it, giving me my change.  Then I told dude I would probably need a straw for my iced coffee, as it was either that or lap it out of the top of cup.  He said, “Oh!” and gave me 12 straws.

 

The very next day, I am again at the same Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru.  I am there to get coffee and one doughnut for my trip to Indianapolis to surprise my mommy for Mother’s Day.  At the drive-thru, I tell the Dunkin’ Donuts lady that I would like a regular coffee and 1 doughnut.  I tell that I would like the doughnut to be strawberry frosted.  A transcript (as best I can remember):

 

Lady: Do you want two doughnuts?

 

Me: No, just one.

 

Lady: But it comes with two doughnuts. 

 

Me: I would only like one, please.  Just one.

 

Lady: OK.  (pause) We’re out of strawberry frosted.  What other kind would you like?

 

Me: Oh, chocolate frosted would be OK.

 

Lady: OK, pull forward.

 

So I do, and I pay her and she hands me my coffee and a bag with my doughnut in it.  Only, after I’ve pulled away from the window, I notice there are two doughnuts in the bag.  One chocolate and one strawberry frosted.  Conclusion: the Dunkin’ Donuts lady used subterfuge to trick me into revealing to her my second doughnut choice.  I don’t know how difficult it must be on her end to sell only one doughnut, but there must be some complex paperwork shit involved for her to resort to such trickery.

 

Inadvertently saw a high school play

 

When I got to my parents’ house in Indianapolis my mom was outside, gardening.  I drove up, jumped out of the car and ran across the yard to her, yelling, “Happy Mother’s Day!”  She was, of course, surprised and excited to see me.  And we hugged and it was nice and then she said, “I’m going to kill your father.”  I asked why and she said, “For not telling you.”  I told her that dad didn’t know that I was coming, and asked what she thought he should have told me.  My mom got a “wow, you’re not going to want to hear this” look on her face and said, “That we’re going to Merriville tonight.”

 

For those who don’t know: Merriville is a town just one hour south of Chicago on I-65.  It is also two hours north of Indianapolis on I-65, which means that I drove right past this town when I was 1/3 of my way home to surprise my mommy. 

 

Turns out a woman my parents went to high school with is a high school theater teacher out there and she was mounting a production of a play she and my dad had been in together when they were in high school.  And, since I had come down to spend time with my mommy for Mother’s Day, I had no choice but to get right back in a car and drive two hours north to go see this play.

 

When we got there, we went backstage to see my parents’ friend before the show.  I could see all the kids in their stage make-up and costumes and, when they saw us, they all got very excited.  Apparently my parents’ friend had told them that the guy (my dad) who had been in the play with her thirty years ago was coming to see it, and they all thought that was terrific.  And maybe it was because my dad showed up in a suit jacket, but as soon as they realized who he was the kids started showing him the kind of respect usually reserved for actual theater critics.  “Oh, I hope you like it,”  “I’m so nervous that you’re here,” “I hope my accent is good enough.  I’ve been practicing for a while,” “I can’t believe you actually came!”

 

And I suddenly realized: this is Waiting for Guffman.  These kids thought my dad actually was some sort of theater critic.  Or at least someone very important and learned in terms of theater.  After the show, they all rushed over to him: “We saw you laughing.  Did you like it?  I watched you through the curtain when I wasn’t on stage, and I saw you smiling.  You did like it, didn’t you?”  I mean, these kids were ignoring their own parents to make sure that my dad enjoyed the show.  He assured them that he thought it was quite good and they were relieved.  And then, they asked if they could take pictures with him.  Swear to God.  My mom and I just stood back, making “is this really happening?” faces at each other.  My dad is going to be in some kid’s high school scrap book.

 

Learned I was having auditions

 

Because I am directing a play.  A play written by Evan and starring whoever it is we cast in these auditions we have next week.  I will be sure to tell you all about them as soon as they are over, but in the meantime I have to remember how to audition people.  I did direct in college, but that was like four years ago and fucked if I can’t remember a single theater warm-up.  Your homework: leave examples of theater warm-ups in the comments.  Extra-credit: also leave a title for Evan’s play.  It is a collection of sketches he wrote, knit together by monologues given by a crabby old man.  The current working title is “I took off my shirt to teach you a lesson.”  I know.  We can do better. 

posted by: serenaluchang at 05/09/05 01:39 | link | comments (19) |

Lights, Panties, Gas, Snapping & Chad

Lights and Panties

The florescent light above my desk at work decided to flicker today.  Flicker a lot.  It was like “Joe vs. the Volcano”.  Horrible.

I also showed my underwear at work today.  Because who knew my new pants would stretch out during the day and start riding lower and lower until I was pulling my shirt down over my butt every other minute?  I certainly didn’t.  And it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been wearing a thong.  But I was, and that means that if one of the 50-year old ladies I work with saw it she now thinks I am whore.  A dirty prostitute whore. 

A Cautionary Tale

So Paul went out the other day to get his car washed.  He went to one of those self-operated car washes, were everything you could ever want/need to clean your car is available in vending-machine form, including a car vacuum and shampoo and even fresh new car scent.  Paul decided that the new car scent sounded pretty spiffy, so he paid his 50 cents and sprayed it all over the inside of his car. Then he hopped in his car and took it through the car wash and only when the wash was in full-swing, with soap and water spraying all around him, did Paul realize he used a bit too much new car scent.  In that it was now burning his lungs and causing him to have an extended coughing fit.  Where it was hard to breath.  And that he couldn’t crack a window, because of the soap and water.  And that he was going to die in a car wash.  He told me he almost just left the car.  Got right out into the soapy car wash, just to get some air. 

I got in his car many hours after the incident, and the new car scent was still potent enough to make my lungs burn.  We drove to dinner with the windows down, even though it was 36 degrees. 

New Friends

On Friday, I was talking to one of my new work friends.  He mentioned that his lady was going out of town for the weekend and that he had nothing to do.  I mentioned that my friends and I were going to a cheap/awesome comedy show and that he should come.  He said that it sounded cool and he would. 

So he shows up and we watch the show and have a good time and then decide to go to another bar that is a short drive away and, since he has not been drinking yet, it is decided that new work friend will drive. 

And we get in the car and I start to give him directions to the bar we decided to go to.  Because he lives in another neighborhood and he didn’t mention he knew the bar and I figured he didn’t because it isn’t an incredibly well-known establishment.  And we’ve been in the car for ten minutes and are coming up to the last turn before we get there and I say, “You wanna make a left here,” and he says, in a very short tone, “Hey, I’ve lived here all my life, baby doll.  I know where I’m going.” 

So, yes.  This is my new work friend.  Who I have been hanging out with for a total of one hour, the longest amount of time we have ever spent together.  And this upsets me because, clearly, we are not on snapping terms yet.  Maybe if it was the sixth month of our friendship and we were in hour 6 of a 9-hour road trip, I could understand being snapped at.  But it isn’t, and we aren’t, I don’t understand at all.  Why not just go with a pleasant, “Oh, I know the way,” or, “Thanks.  I can find it from here”?  This was the very last direction I gave him in a long series of directions.  Why not stop me the first time?  Why let it continue?  Because, really, passive-aggressive and snappish aren’t qualities I look for in a new work friend. 

He did immediately apologize for being so short, but I am still suspicious.  I can’t be hanging out with folks who are going to yell at me whenever I do something I had no way of knowing was wrong.  He is interesting and smart and funny, but the snapping really needs to be kept in check. 

In Response To A Voicemail Left For Me By Chad

 I did not know that about James Joyce.  He is even dirtier than a dirty prostitute.

posted by: serenaluchang at 05/02/05 22:04 | link | comments (14) |

Incomplete Sentences

The Current Fantasy

Is that this will become a weekly blog, with me posting every Sunday evening.  This is a good plan because it lets you know when to expect a new post and it also has a high liklihood of actually happening becuase I never want to go to sleep Sunday night and am always searching for some wonderful excuse to stay up late and not get enough sleep and be a big ol' bitch at work Monday morning.  I may post more often, but I will not post less unless I first give notice complete with a detailed explanation and a list of penances I plan on performing for being such a bad blogger.

This Weekend

Was interesting for me.  Evan went out of town, which is always a little tricky.  Not that Evan leaving town is a problem...the problem is that historically I don't do well sleeping in a house by myself.  There are many reasons for this.  I've always been a nervous person, I had trouble sleeping when I was little, and my apartment was once broken into while I was asleep.  The bad robber people left without taking anything once they realized the apartment was, in fact, occupied, but it was still scary as fuck.  But the good news is that this weekend, for the first time in a very long time, I was able to fall asleep in my apartment by myself.  Of course I had the lights on and the tv on and I slept on the couch but, still, it was progress.

So I'm asleep Saturday morning when I hear this sound.  It sounds like someone is tearing my front door off of its hinges and it scares the crap out of me.  Before I'm even fully awake I start yelling.  Not a girly scream, mind you, but an "I'm going to kill you as soon as I get my eyes open," kind of a gutteral yell.  So I'm kind of embarrassed when I do open my eyes and realise the noise was just caused by some things falling off a high shelf in the coat closet.  I bet it startled the hell out of the neighbors. 

I told this story to my sister and she laughed.  She asked me if I remembered the time I almost killed her when she came home from school early.  I had no memory of this event, so she reminded me.  I had just come home for the summer from college and she got out of high school early.  Apparently, she had a little trouble opening the front door of my parents' house and fumbled with her keys for a bit.  When she did get the door open, she says, the first thing she saw was me running down the hall at her at top speed, like I was going to tackle her.  She was startled and, as soon as I recognized her, I stopped.  She asked me, "The hell?" and I responded, "I thought you were trying to break in." 

Panic

Is what I felt yesterday when, walking to my car, a familiar man in a car honked at me.  He then stopped and, rolling down his window, said hello.  It took me a second to figure out who the hell this familiar man was.  And then I realized: it's my new boss.  At my new job.  He was driving through my neighborhood, saw me, and decided to say hi.  We chatted for a bit about our weekends and it was all very pleasant. On the surface.  Underneath, however, I was in a panic.  "What am I wearing?  Shit.  Pajama bottoms.  My coat covers most of them.  What do I have in my hands?  Any whiskey bottles?  Condoms?  Could anything about my outward appearance get me fired right now?"  Because, when you're walking to your car on a Saturday afternoon you really don't plan to run into your boss.  And I usually don't do/carry things that could get me fired while walking to my car, but you never know.  Today could have been that day I decided to get rid of the body.  Just my luck.

The Kool Aid Man

Is now wearing pants.  Has anyone else noticed?  In the latest commercial he still comes bustin' through a fence to spread the joy of kool-aid to all, but he's wearing a pair of dockers as he does it.  Why?  What does the Kool-Aid man have to cover up?  Does the Kool-Aid man have junk?  Since when?  He used to be smooth like a Ken doll.  I wonder what changed. 

 

posted by: serenaluchang at 04/25/05 01:11 | link | comments (18) |

• I have drank two glasses of rum.
• I have not been on the internet in two and a half weeks.
• I just received a call from tickledspirit.
• Who told me about the 39 comments.
• I have not read these comments yet myself, as a result of the crushing guilt.
• This guilt is the same that has kept me from going on the internet for two and a half weeks.
• Because I do not know what to do with my blog.
• The blog was based on misery: now I am not so miserable.  What to do?
• Write about sunshine and puppies?
• I should post because I want to.  I have not wanted to for a while.
• I feel guilty for not having wanted to post.  Like I’m neglecting my baby. 
• I think I’m going through a phase.  A phase where I associate my blog only with feelings of failure.  “I should post today”… “Maybe tomorrow”… “I’m the worst blogger ever”… “Maybe no one will notice”
• Clearly, you did.
• The blog is not over.  But it can’t be the same way it was before.  That way does not work for me.  I need to re-purpose the blog. 
• Maybe become a political pundit?
• No Child Left Behind sucks.
• That is not the way either.
• Paul just told me he has secretly been reading the blog for the past year.  He also told me he won’t read it anymore now, because his reading it might keep me from writing about boys I used to make out with.  Which it very much would.
• The deal: the blog will continue.  I will need another week to think about how to re-purpose it, but it will continue. 
• And thank you for noticing/worrying/caring.  I will not go away for so long again without warning. 

posted by: serenaluchang at 04/22/05 00:34 | link | comments (11) |

Evan

 

Evan has turned down the job offer.  Mostly because it would involve managing people (which he’s never done) and working late every night (which he doesn’t want to do) and not actually writing anything (which is the whole point).  But he’s not quitting.  Not yet.  Gotta get that letter of recommendation first.  Gots to.

 

Easter

 

I spent Easter weekend at my parents’ house.  Paul came with because the boyfriend and the parents gotta spend quality time together.  Gots to.  The best part was that my parents just bought a treadmill, so I could actually work out a bit when I wasn’t eating massive amounts of home-cooked food (chocolate chip scones=mom’s specialty).  The worst part was that my parents squeezed the treadmill into a corner of the basement, very close to the wall.  So close that, even with the clippy emergency thing attached securely to your shirt, you would be half-way through the wall before the clip thing was pulled out enough to actually turn off the machine.  Now, I am a clumsy person.  As such, I did not get the best workout possible, as I was too scared to let go of the handrails even for a moment.  This is why I rock the elliptical machine: they are much harder to fall off of.

 

After brunch on Easter morning Paul went downstairs to take a nap and I went to the kitchen to spend some more quality time with my family.  Two of my family members were talking:

 

Family member #1: You know, in Catholic school they hit students.

 

Family member #2: Really?

 

FM #1: Yeah.  I had a friend who wouldn’t stop talking in class so he got hit across the mouth.  Knocked him out of his chair.

FM #2: If I went to Catholic school they wouldn’t hit me.

 

FM #1: Yes, they would.

 

FM #2: Then I’d hit them back.

 

FM #1: If you did that, they’d all be on you.

 

FM #2: I’d hit them all back.

 

And, listening to this, I decided it was time to leave.  Because all of a sudden I was 16 years old and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of that house.  I ran downstairs and woke up Paul and told him we had to leave.  It was hard to explain why, exactly: “Because I just overheard a conversation so powerfully annoying that it will be pissing me off for weeks to come?”  Luckily, Paul has a family too and he understood.  So he drove me straight back to Chicago , playing Johnny Cash for me most of the way to calm my nerves.

 

Spring

 

Yesterday it was 70 degrees in Chicago .  70 goddamn degrees.  I’ve always thought the first day you can walk outside without a jacket is a magical day.  It’s a day that should be spent having sex with relative strangers in flower-filled fields and performing other assorted fertility rituals involving nudity and fields, none of which I can think of. 

 

In college, the first day of warm weather was always celebrated by skipping class and lying in the grass, although everyone was fully clothed.  The occasional drum circle would pop up, and everyone would cheerily wave to the professors the classes they were currently skipping as the professors walked past.  Instead, though, I spent the day inside.  At work.  And by the time I left it had started to thunderstorm.  Stupid spring. 

 

A stand

 

Evan invited me go see the latest Woody Allen movie with some other people on Saturday.  And I considered it for a while.  I like Evan and these other people.  I like movies.  But then, I had a revelation: no.  I don’t want to go.  I don’t like Woody Allen movies.

 

I feel like I should, though.  I comedy.  I own many of early comedy books written by Woody Allen.  But I’ve never liked his movies.  Ever.  Even Annie Hall.  Especially Annie Hall.  Never found it funny or emotionally compelling in any way.  In fact, I dislike Annie Hall.  That is scary and exhilarating to say out loud: I dislike Annie Hall.  It’s like blasphemy.

 

I feel the same way about Bruce Springsteen.  I have no idea what all the fuss over him is about. 

 

As always, please spell-check your angry, profanity-laced comment before posting. 

 

posted by: serenaluchang at 04/01/05 00:10 | link | comments (41) |

A series of statements

 

My "ergonomic" office chair is killing me.  It's designed to force me to sit in the proper way so that my spine aligns with the stars, but I don't want to sit that way.  It's not comfortable.  So I rebel against the chair and sit the way I want to and my back has never hurt more.  I know I could probably just give in and sit straight with both feet flat on the floor but I don't wanna.  I wanna slouch and cross my legs.  Stupid chair. 

 

I have the day off of work, so I decided to try running.  I've been going to a gym for over two years but I've never tried running outside before.  I figured, it's like the same thing, right?  Except, no.  Not at all the same.  Running outside hurts.  And it's cold out there.  And people look at you.  And your shoe keeps coming untied.  And your cheap-ass arm radio won't hold a signal for more than a block.  And you try to tell yourself it's the gym and just keep going, but then you realize that at the gym you get to drive home while out here on the streets you're going to have crawl home on the dirty, dirty sidewalk.  I quit early, and it still took me a very long time to catch my breath.  Those of you who run outside: much respect.  I'm going back to the gym.

 

Recently, I was telling my friend Jo about a phenomenon I briefly read about where, when one animal of a species learns a new skill suddenly all the other animals in that species know it.  Like it’s magic.  This phenomenon has a name I can't remember, but I was telling Jo what I could remember about it because I thought it was really cool.   Jo's response: "If that's true, then how come I don't know how to freebase?" 

 

Evan has a choice to make.  He is my long-time roommate, and he has been toiling at an unpaid internship for almost a year.  He loves his internship, but recently he has begun considering quitting it completely so he can pursue his comedy interests.   But then, the worst thing ever happened: his internship offered him a job.  As the manager.  Of the whole office.  Evan is torn.  Of course, there is a steady pay check and benefits and prestige and power and the challenge of a new job and all that jazz, but then there's the dream of writing his own material and doing his own shows.  And he can't really do both.  Either option is scary and challenging, but for completely different reasons.  Evan has given me permission to put his dilemma in the form of a blog poll, as long as I let you all know it will have no basis no whatsoever on his decision.  Go ahead.  Throw away your vote.

posted by: serenaluchang at 03/25/05 14:52 | link | comments (16) |

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