It's not you, it's me.

Blogspot,

I was going to write you a beautiful long letter and take you out to lunch and then to a nice pretty park somewhere sunny to have this conversation. But, fuck it. I'm dumping you for typepad. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Love,

Vanessa
www.aroomofonesown.typepad.com

It's not you, it's me.

Blogspot,

I was going to write you a beautiful long letter and take you out to lunch and then to a nice pretty park somewhere sunny to have this conversation. But, fuck it. I'm dumping you for typepad. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Love,

Vanessa
www.aroomofonesown.typepad.com

More general absurdity

There are times when I really think my life is not happening to me. I would be certain that someone is playing a joke on me but you just can’t make this shit up. I think my only hope right now is to write down all of the absurd crap that happens in my daily life because I’m beginning to think others might really enjoy a laugh at my expense.

There are days when I just feel like Sisyphus, destined to spend the rest of my life rolling a boulder up a mountain only for it to roll back down on me. It’s not the woe-is-me victim part that I’m relating to here. It’s the absolute absurdity of the action. What keeps me from playing the woe-is-me part is that I can laugh at this. There are times when I’m laughing and crying about it, but at least, somewhere in the chaos, there is laughter. And you know what? That’s MY damn boulder if I want to keep rolling it up hill, I will.

I’m sure I am partially, yet not wholly (I won’t go that far) responsible for creating that boulder. I can take ownership of it. Of course, I’ve not done anything truly heinous like Sisyphus and murdered houseguests, even though the thought has crossed my mind a time or two, so I think I’m still alright. I’m just hoping that each time that boulder rolls back down my mountain a little chunk falls off. I mean, it HAS to get easier. Right?

It's not just the cheescake, people.

I had a good solid moment of happiness this weekend and I’ve just going to live for it for a little bit. I had lunch with two of my best friends on Sunday and I have to tell you that it makes me wonder why I don’t take these girls shopping and buy them something nice instead of paying my therapist.

I think this was the first time the three of us had gone out somewhere together, just us, in a long time, which is sad since I’ve known Jen and Barbara for over a decade. Life just got busy, I moved to Scottsdale, we all got married and had kids and, well, shit happens. But now I’ve moved “home” to the West Valley and it’s a hell of a lot easier to see them. I’m jealous as hell that they can walk to each other’s houses and I’m still a 20 minute drive away.

I’ve been spending a good amount of my time lately feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in pissy crap that is going on in my life. I forgot that the doors to their houses are open all the time. I know that if I just show up they’ll let me in. They’re my home. It was always like this before. Every weekend we spent at each other’s houses and I don’t know why this stopped. Jen and Barbara have still done this for the past few years but I just stopped.

I’ve spent too much time sitting around my house feeling that because my husband’s never there or he’s sleeping, that I need to just sit there. I’m trying to learn how to make myself happy again. And I have to say that sitting in the Cheesecake Factory, laughing and having horribly inappropriate conversation with two of my best friends is very much a step in the right direction.

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer,

I would like you to know how much I resent the fact that you do not seem to understand that I am neither 18 nor 80. All I wanted to do today was get a simple, cute bathing suit in which I could loll by my pool drinking adult beverages. It's not like I'm seeking the Holy Grail here, people.

I went to four different department stores and one specialty store and I must say that I am quite flabbergasted at the selection you have displayed before me. It seems you have two ideas of what women who want bathing suits need. In looking at this season's swimming attire, I feel it is safe to assume you think I fall into either of these categories:

1) I am 20 years old and am really looking show as much skin as I can in order to convince some gentleman over the age of 21 to buy me cheap beer. I will quickly drink 2 and a half of these beers and act like I have a blood alcohol level of .264. The gentleman who bought me the beer will inevitably find this charming regardless of the fact that I just puked on his shoes. Because my daily budget for food is $3.87, I eat little enough to look really hot in this suit. Thank you ever-so-much for designing it.

2) My name is Myrtle and my grandson, Bobby, had to show me how to use this new fangled computer thing. It's good to see you recognize women whose bra size has gone from a 36C to a 36 Long. The skirt that covers every square in of my body is delightful as I have gained 65 pounds over the last 30 years. I like swimming dressed as a Mormon. Thank you!

Okay, news flash bathing suit people. I am 32. No one needs to buy me a six pack of Bud Light. I have enough money to buy very good wine and triple cream Brie cheese regardless of what I know it will do to my waistline, if I feel so inclined to do so. Despite bearing the cutest child that has ever lived, I have maintained a semi-cute figure and my breasts do not hang down to my waist. The girls like to look pretty and would appreciate anything that you could do to make them really feel special. I understand this may require you to use more than 2 square inches of cloth but just go crazy, would you! Also, this whole tankini thing is not fooling me. The tankini is the bathing suit version of the minivan and it ain't fucking happened here, buddy. I don't care if I did see one in this month's Victoria's Secret catalog. I know what you're doing. You are totally transparent. And, stop sending me Land's End swimsuit catalogs. I don't find the humor in that. At all.

So, please, for the love of God, go forth and design me a flattering bathing suit that is cute enough to make me feel even just the slightest bit sexy without feeling like people would wonder what the hell I was thinking. I can't see that this would be too hard. And lastly, if you continue to think that women really like brown bathing suits, I will hunt you down and maim you.

Sincerely,

Vanessa

Grab a box folks

I may be moving. I am not feeling the love from Blogspot. Typepad is wooing me. And I may just be persuaded. I am weak and of little restrainst. I will write Blogspot a tearful Dear John letter if it comes down to it. I will not feel guilty. It just doesn't seem meant to be. Typepad is just so pretty and seems to be all about ME.

I'll keep y'all posted.

Oh sweet Jesus.

The vintage Dior came today. I cannot even remotely stand myself. At all. I never, ever, want to take this off. Ever. Got that? Ever. I am so happy I could just die. I have been sitting here for the last hour, in the damn Dior, laughing to myself. Loudly. It might be the wine but I am sure it is just the glory that is this damn thing.

I am very happy right now. Very very happy. Oh so very happy.

Oh, the water

I love few things more than when you connect a memory so significantly to a song that each time you hear it you automatically go right back to that moment. Yesterday, I was driving to a function in Downtown Scottsdale and was fishing through my CDs in my car.

About three and a half years ago, I had taken a trip to Zihuatanejo, Mexico with my whole family. Mom, Dad, sister, sister’s then husband, me, my husband. It must have been about the third day we were there. My husband and Dad went on a fishing excursion and the rest of us decided to go out to a more secluded beach called Playa Las Gatas. You have to go downtown and hop a “water taxi,” which is basically a panga, to get there. We were the first ones on the beach and we found a nice spot at a beach restaurant and plopped our stuff down.

The owner’s name was Jorge and he had a very sweet 3 year old son. Apparently, Jorge’s restaurant partner had fallen very ill the day before and he was not able to go into town for his supplies. He needed a boat to come out and bring him things for the day. My mom, sister and brother-in-law had gone down the beach to do some shopping and I stayed back to hold down the fort. Jorge, not knowing me from Adam, asked if I could just keep an eye on his son’s whereabouts while he unloaded. I was happy to.

The boat pulled up. There was no one else around and Jorge’s son just sat on the beach near me, playing in the sand and shallow water. He knew his boundaries. The man who drove the boat had a radio on. It was playing Van Morrison’s And It Stoned Me. I just sat there in the shade, that gorgeous day, in that amazingly beautiful place with that as the only sound other than the ocean. It was perfect.

The CD I grabbed yesterday was Moondance. The second the song started I was there. I rolled down the windows despite the fact that it was scorching hot outside and turned it up as loud as I could stand it. I ended up sitting in a dirt parking lot off Scottsdale Rd. listening to the song three times, knowing I would give my right arm for that moment again. And to partially have it back brought me so much contentment.

I'm either very stylish or a French whore.

First, Ebay is bad. Very bad. I'm convinced they have somehow hypnotized me, are sending me subliminal messages though their website or at least have cast a strange spell on me luring me back to their site. Evil bastards.

I started the evening just looking for a poster of New Oreans. A nice print
either something large for my not-so-decorated bedroom or something smaller for my even-less-so-decorated master bath. I found these two great New Orleans Cabaret prints. Very vintage looking. See? Darling isn't it? They're very small. 8 x 10. My husband will shit. Simply shit. But it mentions chocolate and he has come up with NO suitable suggestions for blank wall space. And she looks very happy. Doesn't it make you want to stay out all night and then eat beignets with a huge cup of coffee from Cafe Du Monde?

Then, I just thought maybe I'll peek around at what vintage clothing they have. I now have a new obession. This is not good. Tonight, I won these little babies:

They're vintage Dior and fabulous. This is EXACTLY what I need, to start collecting vintage french lingerie. Good idea. My first thought was how great one of these would look hanging outside the door to my closet. My husband and I have separate closets so this could fly.

Then I started the inner struggle. Does this scream, "Wow, what stylish and unique taste!" or "Hi! Just call me Lady Marmalade!" I've decided against the latter and I could give rat's ass if anyone agrees with me. I reserve that right. Besides, you cannot deny they are absolutely gorgeous.

Just keep swimmin'

In the last few days I have run the gamut of every emotion I could possible have. It's not been pretty. It's not gonna be pretty for a while.

I guess the shoe finally dropped.

Absurdity at best

One of my many projects I've left out there unfinished is a Master's degree in Literature. Somehow, once I left teaching, I just couldn't seem to justify the time or the expense. Unless, of course, my main objective in life was to become a truly well-read bag lady. Then it would have proved useful and student loans would have certainly helped me along to my occupational goal. Instead, here I sit, in my nice big office with my nice big window which brings me to my point.

The whole thing seems quite absurd. My whole life just feels this way. I'm struggling to make sense of my life. I am the kind of person that needs to understand the big picture and what all the little components are that make up the whole. I understand that this is way too existential for a Monday afternoon. Still, I fascillate between believing in chance, that everything is just random, and in fate, that life is moving me in a certain direction.

I have happened upon jobs with the company that I'm at twice. I'm not sure if this is just who I am and what I do and who I know or that there's a reason for it. Maybe it's just dumb luck. I'm having the same thoughts about people that are in my life. There is a small number of people in my life that I feel connected to and are the type of people that give life to you instead of sucking it out of you. I've met most of them out of sheer chance. The fact that I have friendships like this is, of itself, interesting to me and it makes me wonder if there isn't a reason my path has crossed this person's. Trying to figure out what a person's purpose in your life is is like painting the side of sinking ship. An excercise in futility that just gets nothing accomplished other than wasting energy.

One of the books I studied during that degree program was Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. The entire book is a study in the absurd, unfortunately with little resolution. I crave resolution. I just want to understand things. I feel that if I don't, I'm just bouncing through life and not attaching much meaning. So, I guess I'll be my own absurd hero. Grab a can of paint if you want, I could use some help.