Wednesday, October 23, 2013


I am forever having brilliant ideas I do not follow through on.

As I am at least a decade before my time, every dozen years or so, some other half-witted (but well-intentioned), like-minded spirit comes along and actually has the wherewithal to act on my initial schemes.

And it always works out well for them. And ruins my day.

Case in point? THIS FELLOW:

As the caption states, this young man has translated my middle school Halloween costume idea into a real money maker.

Naturally, I hate him for it.

While for most people - and likely this guy - dressing as a Port O' John marks the apex of creative endeavors, I could not and would not be limited to one snazzy shithouse. No sir!

I also had this idea - to do as Eleanor Roosevelt instructed and "Do one thing everyday that scares [me]." And write about it. I was totally gonna do this one. I even got a good head start: tackling my fear of loud noises by celebrating July 4th on the D.C. Mall, tackling my fear of needles by getting piercings, tackling my fear of death by skydiving. And then writing about it.

I did the first three. But I skipped out on the last one.

Which is where stupid Noelle Hancock comes in. Like me, Noelle lost her job. Like me, she set about to obey Mrs. 'velt and conquer her fears. But stupid Noelle actually wrote about it. And now "My Year with Eleanor: A Memoir" is all up in The New York Times. And my sassy ass is just getting around to blogging about it.

I'm sure there's some sort of lesson here. Something about having the temerity to follow through.

But I'm pretty sure I'm scared of being successful.

And I wonder what Eleanor Roosevelt would have to say about that.

*Image from The Oatmeal.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Personified Orphans

While most abandon the practice to childhood fancy, to this day I continue to personify inanimate objects.

Yesterday, while walking to brunch, I bemoaned the loss of some chopped trunk trees at the all-too-familiar Inman construction site. Like it was fucking "Fern Gully," I immediately felt the dual pain of loss and of being eviscerated at the waist - surely the pain the pines had felt at the moment of their demise.

But lest you think me lofty, or an "environmentalist", or - worse - someone who actually gives a damn enough to take a stand, let me assure you of my banal sociopolitical malaise by demonstrating that my personifying empathies reach far beyond just social causes to places like...Target.

When buying a face wash, blouse, or hair dye, I always - and I wish I were lying - feel a pang of guilt and remorse for the Noxzema, Isaac Mizrahi, or Cinnamon Apple option not chosen. As if it were the kid not picked for kickball, I give each still-shelved product a sad eye, a knowing nod. A feeble acknowledgement that I KNOW I hurt its feelings, and I'm sorry.

Maybe next time, my eyes say. Maybe if I had more expandable income, my nod placates.

But I know as I exit the store that the damage I've done is irreversible. That there are tears in the isle, poisoned memories in the heart, and holes in the souls (and soles) of those products not chosen.

Like Little Orphan(t) Annie and her ilk, the discards of my human life - and the lives of those who saw the trees to make room for the shopping malls that will house those items I pass over - wait, hopefully, for one among us to "pick" them, to deem them "worthy."

Someone to call them their baby. Maybe.