| Scuffedendron. |
[May. 28th, 2008|08:47 pm] |
I ran out of room on my prehistoric ipod today and decided to delete some of the textual crap that's been on there since 2004. Here's one thing I found, under the word file named "pupperson."
name for puppy: scufferson
scuffy
scuffers
scuffenator
scufferino
scufferoni
scufftacular
scuffenstein
scuffalisa
scuffenie
sws is our house
scuffles
So. SWS is our house? I feel like that must've been code for something, but I also feel like maybe College Lindsey was a bigger moron than I'd previously made her out to be.
Another thing is that very recently, Greg and I walked behind a little kid with one of those "my backpack is actually a puppy" backpacks, and I carried on a long conversation with Greg as if I were the small child. In that conversation, I referred to the backpack as Sluffy. As in, "Mom! Mom! Is Thluffy back there thtill? Mom, make thure Thluffy's thtill on me. Make thure Thluffy doethn't fall off."
Obviously my firstborn will be named S(c/l)uff(suffix). Scluffuffix maybe. |
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| Immediately thereafter: Livejournal entry. |
[Jan. 17th, 2008|09:23 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  irritated | ] |
My whole life can be summed up in one succinct timeline. As follows.
First: I desperately want to play in the snow with someone.
Excruciatingly long period of time after that: Season dictates there should, by all accounts, be a lot of snow around, but there is, inexplicably, none.
Then: The person with whom I want to play in the snow leaves.
One day later or sometimes that SAME DAY: Heavy snowfall.
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| Foreign Baby sums it up. |
[Jan. 2nd, 2008|09:56 pm] |
Definitely the worst part about being out of shape and gross is how grossly difficult it is to turn the big unshapely gross truck around and become healthy and ungross. Because it's like, unless I have some major epiphany wherein I think, "My gosh, that's it. It's so easy to get healthy!" then it's not going to happen. I know this is true because I actually HAVE had those moments, probably upwards of fifteen times in the past year or so, and they've each wrought brief, hourish periods of hopefulness and determination, and then quickly dissolved into periods of annoyance and cryishness when the train has made me an hour later than it's supposed to and then it's too fucking dark out to run, or there's a shooting scare on our block and it's too scary to run, or I join a gym and then we move and then I'm too poor to run, or I have to work Saturdays and then go drink and then I'm too drunk to run, and the next day too lazy to run, and then eventually I'm basically just too effing out of shape to run and then I hate myself. But yet I know that, in theory, the epiphanies work. They worked in stupid college. Where I had a part-time job and no obligations and had to write like a paper a week if I was unlucky, and also had unlimited access to the fieldhouse. So maybe epiphanies and resolve have less to do with success than just plain stupid circumstance.
On a related note, why is jumping rope so hard? It's jumping. Over a rope. That I am just pretty languidly swinging in circles. Why is it so easy for the first 20 jumps and so nearly impossible for the remaining 30 or whatever paltry number I can muster? Why can't I breathe anymore? I tried doing it without the rope, just jumping, and it's the simplest thing ever.
In conclusion, here are things that suck:
-Grossness
-Epiphanies
-Circumstance
-Trains
-Obligations
-Breathing
-Ropes
Things that don't suck:
Foreign Baby saying Happy New Year, and
Cutest everrrr and also taking up too much space on livejournal. |
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| Babies make me crazy. |
[Dec. 12th, 2007|07:51 pm] |
The cruel irony of where I work is that it gives me all sorts of things to write about (well, mainly just babies) but we don't have the internet. People comment on this all the time, like when they say, "Can I just email you the information?" and I have to say, "Well you could, but we don't have the internet!" I've started getting more hostile in my responses as well, because why not? Now I say, "I'd love to do that, but yeah, we don't have the internet for some reason. I know, what's up with that? Whatever." New York has given me a more extensive vocabulary and has made me way more sophisticated. But yeah, my bosses don't want us to have the internet because they're afraid we'll ignore the children and check our email all day, which is silly because now I just play solitaire and read books I've already read. At least with the internet I'd be learning. As opposed to trying to memorize The Catcher in the Rye in its entirety Which I did yesterday. It actually flows very well.
One thing I wanted to write about was how babies scream. Scream with delight. Babies are hardly ever screaming with anguish or annoyance where I work, except for the one time when I picked up a baby's sock after it fell off, and I said, "Big sock, little feet!" and she looked at me and cried so hard that she had to miss her class and the one after it, and now I don't look at her any more. Which is rough because she's way cute. But yes, babies are frequently screaming joyously, and it makes me wish I were allowed to do that. I mean, I never like anything as much as they like hearing "Oye Como Va" played terribly on the oboe, but I might be able to come up with something. If it meant I could scream in short staccato squeals. And sit there unsteadily, kind of in adorable blob form, always very close to falling backward, with really chubby legs that don't quite allow me to move them enough to reach forward and touch the duck puppet I so desperately want to play with.
Wow. |
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| Hey babies hey babies hey. |
[Nov. 7th, 2007|07:28 pm] |
Well there is one thing.
Definitely the hardest thing about this job is going to be the actual hanging with the babies part. So yeah, the best thing and the hardest thing are in fact the same thing, and yeah, both of those things are pretty laughably easy, but here is the thing. I really like squeezing and making faces at babies. I like getting them to smile or drool or kick and flail with glee. I'm pretty good at doing those things, too, but only when it's just me and baby in the area. When baby's mom, or baby's nanny, or my boss, is around, I mostly just stand there like a tool. I'm fine talking with the guardians in front of the babies; that's simple. It's just that talking to babies, or sometimes worse, toddlers, requires a lot of self-esteem that I do not have. Babies aren't required, or physically equipped, to answer when you address them. So when I talk to a baby on my own, and he doesn't give me any major response, then I'm like, "Well that's okay, you're a BABY silly, you don't have to engage me in conversation!" But when I address a baby in front of others, and I get vague stares in response, then basically it's a snubbing. And toddlers are sometimes good, because they can talk, but that makes them potentially even worse, because if they CAN talk and they're often very chatty, and then I suddenly go over there and the toddler looks at me like, what the fuck are you doing? Then that is kind of ouch.
So what I'm saying is, babies need to consider others. Specifically, me.
Also I was about to say that it's amazing that babies grow up with any real senses of selves, given that for the first two years of their lives they're all fawned over, and catered to, and center of attention at all times, and then it's all yanked away and they're expected to grow up and forget when everyone loved them simply for existing. Wow, it's incredible babies don't develop extreme self-esteem issues later in life! Oh wait. Babies grow up to be regular people. People are fucked up. OHHHHHHHHH. |
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| And I came here for comfort. |
[Nov. 1st, 2007|11:29 pm] |
I'm worried about Foreign Baby's mother.
What is going on here, lady?
Your child is becoming unrecognizable! You are losing her.
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| Brought to you by my passing a girl with a guitar this morning. |
[Oct. 25th, 2007|09:02 am] |
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I've decided that should I ever find myself single (not going to happen, okay) I will not devote my time to bettering myself in any way, like physically or mentally or anything that seems, well, very hard. Instead I will buy myself a guitar and a guitar case, and I will from that point forward only walk around with the guitar strapped to my back, because everyone with a guitar case automatically looks a thousand times more awesome. Even if they are maybe sobbing and/or very ugly. Then when, inevitably, someone, guy or girl, asks me about the sobbing/ugliness/guitar on my back, I can swing ALL the conversations around to the fact that, hey, my boyfriend just broke up with me and all I have to show for it is his guitar, for he was in a band. Do I know how to use the guitar? No. Could you teach me, new friend/possible boyfriend? You could? Well thank you, that is terrific. You couldn't? That's okay, let's go get coffee and talk about how awesome guitars are and how crappy people are. Would you like to build on this relationship further? That's great, then, that it will be based on the foundation of a lie, because I have always wanted that for most of my relationships, and this will be a neverending source of boredom-killer for me in the future, when I regale you with stories of my terrible boyfriend, who was in a band and who abandoned me, har har, and all those crazy things he used to do. Oh, lies. Oh, guitars. Oh, yes. |
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