If only I had believed in myself more than I believed in The Almighty Omnipotent Guidance Counselor when I was a junior in high school, I would have gone to college right away, majored in English and minored in Creative Writing, and written my book, and a hundred others, by the time I was thirty.
As things stood, my guidance counselor told me I needed something to fall back on, although I had straight As in English and noticed immediately that the sentence “You need something to fall back on” ends in a preposition and she was therefore wrong about grammar, anyway; nevertheless, I believed her, and went to travel school instead, so I could have a career.
Later, I got my degree in business, so I could have a better-paying career.
The first company that hired me after I got my degree, kept me for seven years, then told me they were eliminating my position due to budgetary constraints.
Fortunately, I knew how to write, so I sold guest-blogs at $2 a pop and freelance articles to websites and magazines, and earned enough money to carry myself and That Man of Mine across the country to Las Vegas, where we were able to find other work.
Fall back on that, bitch.
At this particular moment, the one celebrity with whom I would really like to have an in-depth conversation is any one of the Kardashians. Someone needs to explain to them that not everyone thinks they’re as fascinating as their daddy did.
If I could make a living doing anything, assuming I didn’t have to work for the chocolatey-brown truck company anymore, or that I wouldn’t be writing full-time (my obvious choice), I’d still want to be doing something with words. Maybe I could be a stand-up comedian, or a game show host.
My all-time very favorite dessert is this cake The Mom used to make called Hot Fudge Sundae Cake. We usually didn’t have it on my birthday, which fell too frequently during Passover (an excellent part of the reason I gave up organized religion), but there was usually an alternate birthday for which this cake would appear, and it was exactly as amazing as it sounds.
Of course, I am allergic to both chocolate and dairy, so I shouldn’t be eating that thing anyway. Fortunately, I live across the nation from The Mom, and she no longer bakes that ridiculously good cake, so there is no danger to me anymore.
Leaving chocolate and dairy out of the equation makes dessert really difficult. However, The Mom, who is more or less of a dessert genius, in case you hadn’t guessed, also makes this apple pie around Thanksgiving — spicing it up all medieval-like, as if it were mulled cider. It is, without question, the best fucking pie in the universe, which is why, when it comes to making apple desserts myself, I tend to stick to crisps or tarte tatin, which do not even try to compete.
For the past four years, I owned exactly one pair of jeans, and said pair got alarmingly more and more droopy, the more and more I worked out, and then more droopy yet as I lowered my carbohydrate intake in solidarity with That Diabetic Man of Mine.
When I nearly had an America’s Funniest Videos moment in the middle of the patio at work one Casual Friday, I made an executive decision to find out what size jeans I actually needed to wear, and went to le Mart du Wal. There, I tried on Lee Jeans, an actual brand, and found that I needed something like ten sizes smaller than the Droopy Drawers. I therefore bought two pairs of Lee Jeans that very day, a pair and a spare.
Hey, if they’re good enough for Mike Rowe, they’re good enough for me.
The next Casual Friday, I wore one of my new pairs of jeans, and male coworkers who are known only for talking to the pretty girls unless they have a technical question — well, they talked to me that day.
So I bought two more pairs of jeans, different brands but the same size, on eBay, and I look hot.
Every woman should own four pairs of hot jeans.
Furthermore, I never wear sneakers with jeans anymore. On me, it looks like it gave up. I wear heels, ballet flats, or boots.
As I said, hot.
My favorite flower, visually, is the rose. It’s complex, and soft, but with thorns … kind of like being in love.
I’m not crazy about the scent, except wild roses.
For scented flowers, I tend to like gardenia, which I find soothing. I don’t mind patchouli either. I prefer either of the above combined with something citrusy, or they seem cloying.
I think that the book that has most changed my life is probably Triple Jeopardy by Rex Stout. It’s just a collection of three mystery novelettes, and they’re not even Stout’s best work, let alone his best representation of Archie Goodwin or, by extension, Nero Wolfe.
When I was a tiny kid, I was afraid of that book because the cover had a dead man and a gun on it, and I assumed that the story inside would be equally terrifying.
When I got old enough, and the day was sufficiently rainy to warrant a completely new read, I took Triple Jeopardy off The Mom’s bookshelf, found a blanket and a cat, and settled into my special reading spot (behind the big chair in the living room, which was the closest thing to privacy I could get on a rainy day).
When I emerged a few hours later (the cat stayed behind; it had been bored by the book and began a marathon nap on the end of my blanket which, by necessity, also stayed behind), I wanted to be a writer like Rex Stout.
I’ll let you know if I ever achieve that, by the way.
My least favorite vegetable is canned peas, closely followed by peas in any other incarnation. However, I have found that I can tolerate frozen peas if they are combined in a recipe, though I would prefer to pick them out, and I actually like fresh peas and peapods.
Say again that I’m not openminded enough.
If I could take a nonstop first class flight to any destination, it’d probably be New Zealand, for the holidays.
I want to go to the beach at Christmas, just to see what it’s like not to be freezing that day.
I want to toast the New Year with cold beer.
I want to listen to tall boys talking with cute accents.
I want to go to Christchurch and Auckland.
I want to see what Peter Jackson sees.
If my fifteen minutes of fame included a stint on American Idol, I would probably sing Danny Boy as my trademark solo. I sing it well (at least in the shower), and one of the aspects of American Idol which I like the least is that it’s basically karaoke with delusions of grandeur. So I’ll be singing a capella.
They won’t know what to do with me.
Which is not at all unusual.
drinking: ice water
listening to: Savannah Outen, Fairytales of L.A.
nail color: royal blue with blue and white marbling. two incomes = professional manicure = yay