Last Chance.

Last chance to weigh in on whether I should add something stupid to my already packed schedule. The schedule wherein I have less than one day off a week. The schedule wherein I don't have time to poo. The schedule wherein I wish I had more time to work so I could afford more heat later on. The schedule wherein I don't have enough time to both attend class and do the work for it. The schedule where it's as if the reply button on email doesn't exist.

I'd like to write something. Maybe. Mayyyyyyyybe. Maybe. Something in the area of what I used to write,long ago, when the world was young. Not as young as it was during my ill-advised poetry and long skirts period. I'd like to spend some time finding out if fiction doesn't make me throw up anymore. Not that it actually did- more like a cringing constipation more than anything else. And only while editing.

People have been telling me that I'm somewhat nonshitty at the writing thing. Pretty much since I left Bennington, I've been launched into this bizarre world where

1. Everyone thinks I'm stupid (Coworkers, certain professors customers, strangers, monkeys, cavemen...) and theorizes that I'm lazy.
2. Everyone thinks I can, maybe, write (Some professors, strangers, boyfriend, some customers, lemurs, pirates...) and theorizes that I'm lazy.

I fucking hate it when people think I'm stupid. I can deal with being plain. (Which, basically, I am.) I'm not pretty. But I get the benefits of being pretty that would be important to me...so I'm fine with it. But I'm so tired of being 'stupid'. My boss laughed at me the other day, for putting the iced tea in the fridge (actually, she did, and I saw her). "That's just the kind of thing she does!" Glee. Bonding. I die.

My coworkers don't understand, either. I can help them with essays for school, totally push the team around at Trivia night. They've heard about my grades...and yet, it's known that I'm a dim bulb. Totally flaky. Totally dumb. Doesn't get it. I'm so tired of being the comic relief. I can take some of the blame myself. A lot of the reason people think it's ok to openly admit that they think I'm stupid is because I do so myself. It's my schtick, as much as misogyny is. As much as self-deprecation used to be.

I wonder why I run myself down in public about the things that bother me most. When it was my looks, they were my running joke. Now, when it's my intellect, I put on the dunce act. It hurts me so much. I actually want to quit my job, find one I'd be good at. I love my coworkers, but I desperately need to get away from them. But since I can't do that, I'll have to find a way to do something I'm good at on the side, or at least work on something that clicks for me.

My work at school doesn't help. People who've gone to real colleges wouldn't understand. An A at Umass means virtually nothing. Praise on a paper means virtually nothing. It means competence, not excellence. It means a serviceable, grammatical, spell-checked series of paragraphs graded by an objective, accessible rubric and aligned with attendance and extra credit. I don't want to go on being extraordinarily good at being noone in particular.

So maybe I'll write something.

Stop me now.

What the food in my fridge says about me (in bed)

Inspired by an article on Nerve .

In my fridge, right now, belonging to me:

Diet Coke (two liter, flat)
Eggs (one left of a six-pack, Eggland's Best)
Peanut Butter (Teddy)
Jam (Strawberry, smuckers, low sugar)
Hummus (real old- I should toss it out)
Frozen spinach (store brand, two packages)
Butter (store brand, one stick)
Mayonaise (Hellmans, in the upside-down bottle)
Nonfat Milk (Store Brand)
Chai Tea Concentrate (From work)
Sweet Potato (one)

First of all, just looking at that list, you can tell that this is a woman. And I am. And a young woman, probably. Definitely without a family. Definitely busy. All true.

Peanut Butter and jelly suggest that I'm childlike, innocent. Perhaps irresponsible. And I certainly am irresponsible. The long-left hummus certainly would support the hypothesis that I don't like to deal with the consequences of my actions. I leave leftovers way too long. There are many things in my fridge that will probably just spoil before they're eaten. I think I've never finished a package of eggs or quart of milk. I only bought eggs because I was baking brownies. I can't even make an omlet (or spell one). I certainly can't make scrambled eggs.

It also seems like I only eat things that can be spread on bread. That's just a phase I'm going through. I'm very contrary, actually. The more people tell me that giving up carbs, going lo-carb, cutting out bread, cutting out pasta and potatoes and all the wonderful beige, taupe, and tan foods that have sustained civilization for centuries is a good idea...the more I just want to gorge myself on sourdough, rye, pumpernickel. Anything sour. Anything soft. Anything with chew and flake and lovely crust. Sandwiches are just pretense for me, at this point. I'm in it for the bread. Bread and butter, bread and jam, bread with sliced tomatoes, bread with coffee, bread with tea...

I get into these things. It was pasta a while ago. Sandwiches (sammiches) before that. Pie always. I'm compulsive and obsessive, but I've got no sense of commitment. I can't commit to any particular brand of insanity. When I was four it was egg salad, which I haven't had since. I'm in general suspicious of those nominal salads- chicken, egg, ham...

I love the Teddy and Smuckers, though. The low-sugar (no artificial sweetener, either) strawberry jam is just like the inside of a poptart. Warm, on toast, it tastes like pie and sunshine. Cold it tastes like fruit. It's slightly sour, which is wonderful. The teddy is just greasy enough to make me feel like a child; it seems like the only females in this country who still know the sinless joy of buttery chins and slick fingers are under eight. I know I was. But fuck it. I likes m' senshul pleshures.

I use mayonaise for two things only: tuna sandwiches and refinishing furniture. I think that says enough. I'm so fucking crafty. And so finicky. I'm seriously difficult. Nobody knows the multitude of food rules I have. And food is such a small part of life. I won't eat a hawaiian pizza. Not for anyone. Not without pulling the toppings off, at least. It violates rules. I won't eat rice. I have to move the ham from one side of a McDonald's breakfast sandwich to the other side, before I can eat it. Rules.

I actually like nonfat milk more than regular. It tastes better to me. Some people say that this means I don't like milk. I also don't like water. So deal with that. I'm such a lazy drinker. I hate fluids. I get tired of drinking them. I'm into straight espresso, liquor instead of beer, and dehydration.

I used to eat a lot of pasta. Now I eat a lot of things I used to eat on pasta. It's not a low-carb thing, it's a lazy thing. It's also a set-my-bathrobe on fire thing. I eat dinner late. I cook dinner late. I do both of those things tired. Microwaving works well with my lifestyle. And I like spinach. I really do. I mostly put garlic and parmesan cheese and salt on it. Sometimes I mix it with canned tomatoes, which are the reason I don't have scurvy. The sweet potato goes along with the spinach. I can bake it when I get home from work. It's filling. I also put garlic, parmesan cheese, and butter on it. A lot of people put maple syrup and honey and shit on sweet potatoes. That's so fucking against my rules, I can't stand it.

So what does it say about me?