Brain Dump

A friend of mine used the term "brain dump" in an email today. I thought this would be an appropriate title, as my brain is 'bout to take a dump in this post. I keep a running list of blog ideas in my BlackBerry notes, and I plan to cover a few of them now. I will hold off on "sesame street techno pants'ed" and "short shorts lotion no shower." Mostly because I have no fucking clue what either of those mean. Also because I think each of those might be awesome enough to need its own entire post.

Let's get this show on the road.

I moved again. For anyone keeping track, that makes seven moves in the last two years - three of those in the last six months. After all that moving, I think I've become quite the interior designer. Let me give you a little tour of my new place.

I went for the minimalist look in the living room. Notice the placement of the quilt-wrapped flat screen - right near the cable jack, should I ever decide to pay for cable. And rain boots right by the door are a functional addition to any home.

Now for the study. I haven't decided exactly how to use the study, so right now it's my art studio, home office and gym. What a useful room!

And here's where the magic happens, bitches. Notice the placement of the air mattress. That's some good feng shui.

Because I know you are wondering, yes, my design services are available to any interested parties.

Whatever, living alone is the best! I spent the weekend unbathed and singing to my iTunes in the living room. Another special treat is having my kitchen back. My kitchen. Nobody else's weird-ass food (mini cocktail weenies in a jar, beans, nasty Chili's leftovers) taking up space in my grill.  Now it's only my weird food. You see...

I went sugar-free (or at least really, really low sugar).

So these diet staples...

...have been replaced with this crap.

If you look closely, you'll see hummus, tofu, mozzarella, green tea, soy milk, fruits and vegetables. In the freezer I have gluten-free pizza and vegan chicken nuggets. Why, you ask? I had eight photos of desserts in my BlackBerry. Candy breakfasts are no joke with me - they're a real thing. If I'm not careful, I'll end up with the beetis.

Plus I jump at any chance to be a culinary pain in the ass. I was a vegetarian for nearly six years. My diet consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and Hostess cakes.

So I'm definitely planning a picnic dinner party like Grace Adler. Put down the organic goat brie cheese and return to the picnic area!

Since I have all this space, I've decided it's time to get a hobby. Do you even know how hard it is to find a Hobby Lobby around here? How can I be expected to choose a hobby with the Lobby? After browsing the aisles, I settled on drawing. Wah waaaah. Yeah, I know, boring, shut it. If the drawing doesn't pan out, I'll move on to my second and third choices: sword swallowing and bee charming.

So I guess my new sense of calm has somehow spilled over into my workplace. At our all-company meeting last week, I was awarded this:

Something about being a raving fan, yada yada yada. I got a scarlet letter. WTF. It is funny how this stupid little wooden R has washed a strange contentment over my professional life and alleviated the restlessness. Such a small recognition had such a pacifying, sedating effect. I'm fairly certain it's The Man trying to hold me back. Like drugs, those crimson wooden letters. They turn you into a lemming, and the next thing you know it's 30 years down the road. I ought to burn it, that evil voodoo witch letter.

But evidently, it also stands for "Retiree Bait." Check out my dating matches this week. No lie.

Um. I don't remember ever checking "Santa Claus" as my preferred body type. I can just imagine the third dude saying, "I've got a present for you, little girl. Just come sit in my lap." 

Brain elimination complete.

So I moved.

This week I moved again. I officially fit everything into my Subaru wagon. (That is, of course, not taking into account the fact thatI have belongings in a basement in Virginia and an apartment in New Jersey...and possibly other locations I've forgotten, which renders those items obsolete. If you aren't one of the two aforementioned holders, you may hereby adhere to the Finders-Keepers rule.)

First description of my new abode: shabby-chic. My roommate has lived in the house for more than 10 years, and she has transformed the tiny, (I'm guessing) 1950s home into a cozy hideaway - a combination of country (think quilts, embroidered quotes in frames, and vintage hats) and southwest (think boots, longhorn skulls and old farm doors). She is the composite of every stereotype of Texas girls; she has it all - the big hair, the tan, the makeup, the sugar-sweet twang. As far as I can tell, she holds the following near and dear to her heart: her family, rodeo, cowboy boots, and anything with rhinestones, sterling silver or turquoise.

But when I say it's cozy, I mean cozy. I am packed in my room like a sardine. And as I mentioned, I only own enough belongings to fit in my car. I was five minutes late to work this morning because I literally could not find anything to wear. This layout will call for some Inspector Gadget-esque innovation. Or I could just go to IKEA and let those Swedes figure it out for me.

Second description of my new abode: temporary. This is for many reasons...although there is a Cracker Barrel 0.2 mile away, which is almost reason enough to stay FOREVER. Refer to my previous post on living alone. I like it. When you read it, I guarantee you'll want to live alone too. I am also not sold on Texas, and I've had the East Coast itch ever since I left New Jersey. Also, the running situation in my neighborhood is abyssmal. I have an interstate practically in my backyard. This is problematic, since I signed up to participate in the Warrior Dash in two months. (See photo below. I'm trying to come with a bad-ass outfit.) At least I finally found the time to join a gym. (An aside: This is the best gym ever, and it's only $39 a month. An aside aside: If anyone wants a great money-making idea for the DFW metroplex, please invest in a kickboxing gym a la this place. There isn't one here, and people would flock to it.)

At least I got out of my former living situation. Picture all the strange individuals in North Dallas living under one 4,000 square-foot roof, with the Queen Weirdo as their supreme leader. It is (unbeknownst to me at the time I found the place) essentially a boarding house - the owner and four random tenants at any given time. Queen Weirdo lives downstairs in her lair - complete with a ginormous canopy bed draped in animal print (what else?), fuzzy rug, and motivational collage, including words like "sexy" and "blessing" - with her two little asshole maltipoos in baby clothes (what else?), which she feeds lambchops for dinner every night. The four tenants live upstairs, two to a bathroom. As the months passed, stranger and stranger tenants moved in.

Queen Weirdo informed me that someone would be moving into the room adjacent to my bathroom - a male occupant this time. I had been sharing with an unemployed, chain-smoking female cruise singer in her 50s who couldn't pass the Texas teaching exam after three attempts and so finally moved to a retirement community in Florida to live with her parents; and then a female community college music student from Brazil who, at 35, didn't know how to hold her liquor and would blast horrid rap music, get sloppy and make out with the other (male) roommates.

"He is really cute," Queen Weirdo told me. "I mean, gawd, not for me...but for you..."

Queen Weirdo is 55 and dating a 32 year-old chubby private pilot who lives 2,000 miles away - a former tenant (what else?). So I was more than a little thrown off by this comment. I was also beyond uninterested. I finally met the person I was sharing a bathroom with - after a couple of days of seeing organic oatmeal shampoo in the shower and Tom's toothpaste on the sink. "Leland" was divorced, 50 if he was a day, his gray hair in a butt-cut. He began leaving his door open all day and all night (about eight feet from my door), and he moved his bed right by the door, and he would sit there all the time, so that he could watch me coming and going. I had to assume he was unemployed, since I never saw him leave the house.

Yeah Queen Weirdo, you found my dream dude: an old, crusty, divorced, unemployed, hippie, psycho-killer. Also, I'm moving out.

So I guess a Cracker Barrel-adjacent cottage in the hood is looking more chic than shabby.