Skip to main content

Slow down.

Since I thought of a title for this post, I've kept thinking of that Radiohead song--"The Tourist"--and its refrain. Hey man, slow down. Lord knows I need to.

For one, this last week has been crazy as hell. Like, "whoa, that's fucking crazy".

Most of the week I worked mad hours into the night helping to get the store ready for Black Friday. One night, I started at 6pm and got out at 8am; I got to bed at 9:30 that morning and rolled outta bed around noon so I could be back at the store by 3pm; I got out that night at 3am. I think (?) I had a day off--oh, right, Thanksgiving! sigh.--before Black Friday. I got to the mall at 10pm Thursday night and didn't leave until 10pm Friday.

Yup. 24 hours.

So, what with the wack hours and sleeplessness, most of last week seemed to rush past me. I hardly spent any time with my grandmother and thanksgiving was simply a large meal between naps before work. I don't feel like that was particularly fair to anyone, but...I don't exactly feel bad about it. It sucks I skimped on one of my favorite holidays (and favorite grandmas), but...

Well, for one, I think I really proved myself (to myself, at least). Like, who knew this lazy sonuvabitch had it in him to work for 24hours?? Nevermind that he danced his lil ass off & high-fived his coworers somewhat gratuitously to keep everyone awake and pumped. Nevermind how hardcore he worked those fitting rooms--while instructing two new employees on the finer points of fitting room rocking--and outfitted every person he passed. So what if he was getting dizzy spells of exhaustion while folding down Macy's at the end of the day?? He got through that, too.

It's funny. I'm usually such a people pleaser--I not only need people's approval but my actions have often been driven by that need for approval. In this case, I really think I did it for myself. For the challenge of it, for the thrill and the good of it. The whole week I pushed myself to work as hard and be as awesome as I could because--why not?

I was actually surprised when my manager pointedly thanked me for how awesome and hardworkin' I've been the last couple weeks. Huh, turns out when I don't seek approval, I seem to find more of it? And, like, it feels more genuine cuz I wasn't fishing for it all along?? Who knew.

In other news, there's been a real slow down in traffic to this blog. This is unacceptable--though probably because I haven't posted much/any over the last couple days and everyone was busy eating/sleeping/footballin with their families. Still.

Lucas offered to put a banner for my blog on his site. All I gotta do is make said banner. I feel like that might bring me some hot, sexy traffic. Mmm....whoring myself out sounds pretty hot right about now.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…