Celebrity Look-Alike (part 3) Mrs. Beasley

The other day, I walked into work and my boss kept staring at me kind of funny. You know that look. The one that says you have broccoli stuck in your teeth. After a while, in the middle of a conversation about some microbiological thing, she leaped out of her chair and screamed, "MRS BEASLEY!!!!" I don't know who Mrs. Beasley is, so I just sort of turned uncomfortably in my chair to see if there was someone outside the door named Mrs. Beasley. No. Turns out, I AM MRS. BEASLEY. A doll. A creepy, old lady doll from the show Family Affair. Does she talk? I really hope not, because I don't know if I could handle the sad plummeting value of the real estate of me that has gone from Drew Barrymore (before braces) to Charlize Theron (once) to the bird guy from that sci-fi show to Kate Gosselin to a creepy freaky doll beloved by a sitcom child named Buffy (with a brother with a girl's name). I'm all out of surgery cards (stimulus), so I guess I'll just have to wait patiently for the tide to turn in the market and someone somewhere to tell me I look like, oh, I don't know, my grandmother (would do me just fine).

Of Anxiety and Happiness

Two totally unrelated emotional events today:

1. Sitting on the bus as it barrels through the streets of NW DC. The sun is shining. It's abnormally hot for October, but it feels good. I'm peeking through the window, thinking and texting in between the spindles of prayer that are seeping from my brain to the heavens. I see a man playing the trumpet but I can't hear him. He's homeless or at least slightly destitute. Another man in a business suit walks up to him, hand outstretched and I can see there's something in his palm...he slips it gently into the palm of the trumpet player. I think maybe it's a cigarette. The trumpet player smiles big, wide, overbearingly at the palmer and hugs him in an awkward hold. Words are coming out of his mouth now- these men are old friends. I imagine business suit gives trumpet a cigarette every morning. They are friends! I still can't hear the conversation, I'm just a bus observer, just like always...But then. Then. The suit walks away, shaking his head and smiling just as the bus rolls slowly past the trumpet. The trumpet is blowing hard, long notes. His cheeks distended like dizzy. A triumphal shout to his friend and the cigarette at 8 am. I can actually hear it and this makes me as happy as anyone.

2. New drug. New dread. Everyday at 1 o'clock, I think the sky is falling for about two hours. I can't think. I can't do much of anything except bounce my leg and blink. I've been taking the NSAID for three weeks and now I can bend, stand and jump without breaking. But this gross cloud of two hour anxiety is NOT working. I texted you once and asked if you were ok? Is something terrible going to happen? You said you were fine. I thought it was intuition. Turns out it was just the damn drugs. I guess I'm not a visionary afterall.

Stories I will probably tell my children Part 3

NINNY BETH GETS EVICTED

So my landlords are getting a divorce. It's a quiet sort of separation. We don't hear from them often unless we have a fly infestation (true story) or the air conditioning breaks down during the hottest week of the summer (true story). That's why the email we got at the end September was so alarming- NOTICE: 30 days to vacate. In this communication, the landlady expressed her sorrow at having to kick us out, but she needs a place to live and a home for her children. Are you kidding???? The letter was overly dramatic and cc'd the landman who happened to be at our house fixing the squealing dryer (true story) so I assumed it was a passive aggressive ode to divorce if ever such a thing existed. And it was. Turns out, she had no legal ground to stand on and we get to keep our lovely home at least until February when we may be booted out into the winter snow drifts of northern virginia (lie).























NINNY BETH FINDS JOY TUCKED AWAY IN A CUPBOARD AND THEN THROWS IT AWAY BECAUSE IT'S OLD.

NINNY BETH REUNITES WITH HER KOREAN ROOTS.

There was this time I saw Dai and Scott in Virginia!

We did as we always do: smile for the camera (cheese-uh), eat korean food from dubious vendors, buy tights that are made to look like skinny jeans and watch some serious b-boy action. All in the parking lot of a K-mart. I love

NINNYBETH AND THE CHLOES.

I got a new calling. I'm in the Young Women's Presidency and I have the charge to befriend the chloes. That's right. Two completely adorable blondies who flip their hair and exclaim "awwww, that's sooooooooooo Sweeeeeeeeeeet!" to everything you say. The best part about this is that I am once again reminded of how NOT cool I was at 14 (true story). But if you look at the chloe's hair and compare it to the picture of me on the right (don't get confused) you might see that was headed in the right direction (lie).

At any rate, it's back to mutual for the likes of me...young women values, charm bracelets and awkward teen angst. It's good for me. It's good for me. It's good for me.

Well, This Is Most Inconvenient, Indeed

How many times do I go to the bathroom in a day?
How many minutes after drinking a thimble of water do I need to use the facilities?
How often have I purposely chosen dehydration in fear of no discernable (or less desireable) toileting options?

If you know the answer to any of these questions, you will understand why the CLOSED (for one month) BATHROOMS ON THE SECOND FLOOR (my floor) of my workplace is distressing. NAY, unacceptable. There are a few reasons this has driven me to consider a removable catheter:

1. Other people (my boss) will now be very aware of JUST how many times I go to the bathroom every day (10) as I will be missing from my office for 15 (30) minutes at a time.
2. Strangers use the other bathrooms...STRANGERS! People I DON"T KNOW are sitting their naked bums on the same seat as me. At least on my floor I know everyone and can ascertain to some acceptable degree their cleanliness and hygiene. I don't know those other butts.
3. There are stairs. Just in case you were confused about that...the 1st floor and 3rd floor require that I walk up STAIRS. Try navigating stairs with your legs crossed. not easy.
4. Kidney failure imminent. Holding it, not good.
5. Though I have ceased and desisted (for the most part) with caffeinated beverages of the diet variety, I still like to retain the possibility that I could drink a diuretic if necessary. But not so now. No no. This bathroom situation has killed HOPE.

That is all.

All This Going To Crazy

I don't know how else to say this so I just will. I'm crazy. I have been for a long time, I feel like I will be for a long time to come. I can not rest my brain. It swirls and buzzes with all manner of thoughts, ideas, stories, weirdness. I hyperfocus on somethings, blow off others. Right now, in this space, I am hyperfocusing on why I am not married. An ex sent me an email link to an article about why men marry some women and not others. I can't stop thinking about it. There are all these women all over the streets of DC. They have rings, they have husbands, they have babies in little baskets in their bikes. They are on their cell phones talking about the ring, husband and baby in basket. I walk with my face turned to the sun, wind whipping my hair, thinking about everything dying and wondering how I got so shaken. How I got so wobbly.

What's so very interesting is that I feel ashamed. Ashamed that no one has chosen me. Embarrassed that I wear a badge that screams unwanted. I know I can't be the only person to feel shame at being single, but it's a new emotional revelation to me. The thing is that I realize this feeling is so outside of me... that my shame is based on the idea that others are judging me when in reality, no one probably even gives a crap. Most importantly (and perhaps ironically?), why do I feel the need to say it out loud to my blog? To the very audience that could be that silent judge I beat back with feverish prayers and moments of hard earned clarity from a source outside of myself. But, still I do...I need to tell you about it. I feel like this is so big in my body right now that if I don't put it somewhere it will implode and I will be lost.

Caviat: I'm not the bitter type and I'm not heartbroken. Please don't respond to this with how men are jerks and I'm perfectly ok. I'm working through these thought processes so I can eventually have the kind of marriage that I want to have. I brought you along for the ride. I'm willing to experience a little discomfort in this endeavor. It quiets my brain for while.

Hated for Loving

I don't know when it all changed. Once upon a time, they had to beg me to eat my vegetables, practically shoving them down my throat under severe duress. But like any good romance novel, those hateful, violent first glances soon began to turn and before I could say, "WHAT THE ...WHAT?" I was accidently brushing up against brussel sprouts only to discover a gentle flame fanning in my loins. (has anyone else noticed a recent theme in my blog posts? or is it only the single mormon man backing away carefully who can hear my shriveling eggs screaming?)

So yes, I love the carrot, the spinach, the tomato, the eggplant, the asparagus, the pepper and even the aforementioned sprout. In fact, I love them so much the I routinely add them to everything I consume...you'll find them sneaked in to the most unassuming dishes...chili with broccoli, eggs with spinach, burritos with EVERYTHING. I've even started tossing a handful of normandy blend and brussel sprouts into my carcinogenic microwaved lunches. But here's where I'm confused. Instead of being CELEBRATED for my healthy ways, I am mocked. Routinely. My coworkers stand at the door of my office, shake their heads and laugh while saying things like, "What the hell is that? Carrots? Only you would eat carrots." Really? I'm really the only person you've ever known to ever eat carrots?

or my favorite "Why are you eating broccoli????!!!"

I've tried to understand this phenomenon and explain it away. The truth is that these people have not been with me on my journey toward a healthy self/body image and the subsequent change from a costco sized bag of cheetos for breakfast to a handful of baked cheetos and a sweet potato for lunch. But it still doesn't really make sense. It's not like I am that naturally skinny girl who can pound a pizza and then wake up the next morning bloat free. We're all allowed to hate her and be annoyed when she says, "I'm on a diet. I'm fat. Watch me eat my celery and pills for lunch." I LOOK at a piece of pizza and my face starts to swell. That's painfully obvious to anyone who's seen me post-papa john's two for 10.

So what's the deal? At what point did the sentiment change from, "oh, look, that fat girl is eating green things instead of a pint of ben and jerry's. Good." to "I will point and mock and make you seem like a freakish vegetable eating outsider." ? I can't be the only one eating carrots and wondering about this?

It's Saturday and I'm at work. :(

What did you do today?

Don't Get Jealous

Dear Korea-

Do you remember all those times when your nose was running, your face was melting, you coughed all over me and I was breathing your stale sick air while your head bobbed back and forth on my shoulder as you passed out on the bus from sheer exhaustion? That was a special time. A time when you should NOT HAVE COME INTO WORK and INFECTED ME WITH YOUR BACTERIAL SWILL.

But I'm not angry. No no...I understand that you thought the problem was me. I refused to wear one of those surgical masks to protect me. But I just wasn't willing to let go of one of the most amazing parts of American culture. You see, I still believed in the "sick day"- that glorious invention by which those who are deathly, infectiously ill stay home and get better and then go back to work after the potential for passing on the pinkeye/flu/stomach virus/H1N1/ herpes outbreak has passed. YES SUH! I BEEEEEEEELIEEEEEEEVE!

And now that I've been home for 6 months and employed again for 2, I've been happily reunited with the Sick Day. And we are in love. This morning in fact, we lolled around in bed together after a fitful night of sleeplessness which ended in an ill advised fistful of Tylenol PM.

And then I came to work where I was NOT greeted by harried coworkers who had to cover my classes and did NOT reek of guilt for taking some time to myself to make sure I was functional.

but don't get jealous Korea, because before sick day and I had our tryst, you and I were getting busy in America over the weekend. Don't you remember? I took pictures to prove it. I'll post them soon so you can put them in your scrap book.

xoxox,
NB

RHETT MILLER DAY!!!

No seriously, this is the best we could do. I left my camera in the car and SB brought his BB but Rhett was rocking and rolling so VERY much that the crappy "smart phone" couldn't even contain all his glory. '

And it was GLORIOUS. OH, Rhett charms the ladies and even the mens with his wit and sweaty hip gyrations. Before we even got to the Black Cat, SB told me that he thought he was probably going to throw up just a little in his mouth as he watched me swoon over Stuart Ransom Miller III. But truth be told, By the time Rhett finished breathing out one of his seminal geniusy twangy ditties "The last thing I need....is another girlfriend.... two's enough for me...two's enough....and you would make three!" I do think it was he who was swooning (this is a lie. It was definitely still me.)

sigh. Every day should be Rhett day. more sighing.

Cliche

I do my best.
I put my whole heart into it.
I swirl it around in the pot
soaking it with cilantro, peppers, chiles,
(the green ones you like)- turn out another
bubbling witch's brew of nice try.

The Fall and Rise

I'm not who you think I am. However you've imagined me in your mind's eye, whatever you drew on that paper of yours, I'm different in countless ways. That's the problem with perception. Or maybe it's the genius of perception? It means that everytime we look at another person, there is a universe to uncover- a million hidden quirks swirling around birthing a complex new interaction with the world.

This weekend I faced my greatest fear. I stood at the threshold of the moment that I thought would destroy me, riddle me with holes large enough for the best parts of me to seep out, uncollectible. But it was miraculous, really. I remained. And I didn't just remain. I stood full.

We are all spinning around the edges, bumping into one another, creating friction that has the power to transform. I have an idea today that I will try harder to be honest about who I am and will try a little harder to let you tell me who you are. Honesty is that scariest leap from the precipice but it makes us possible to be healed. And I will pray for it.

Shared Birthday Update

I wasn't so sure that sharing my birthday with SB was going to make me happy. I mean, birthdays are all about ME ME ME and we all know that I like ME ME ME. But I discovered the exciting, perfect, upside of sharing your birthday with another person that you like:

CAKE!!!!! TWO TIMES THE CAKE!!!!

This is the cake I'm going to eat tonight. Chocolate. Chocolate and More Chocolate. This is the costco 6 pound cake. I've been dreaming about this cake for years. Chocolate. I CAN'T WAIT!!!This is the austrian sachertorte that I made for SB. I took me two and half hours and is also going to be consumed tonight. Chocolate, apricots glaze, chocolate ganache, heavy whipping cream and more chocolate. That's right...TWO birthday cakes.
I couldn't be happier. Thanks, SB for being born on the same day as me and Elvis.

to: you from: SB re: the birth of first child

SmartBoy told me that if he ever gets really passionate about some event or experience in his life and wanted to capture the moment, he would not write a passionate poem. He would not write a passionate song. He would not write a passionate sonnet, speech or essay.

He would probably write, oh, i don't know.... a passionate memo?

This is why I laughed for 10 minutes straight without breathing, near tears on Sunday night.

A passionate MEMO. be still, my beating heart.

Disgusting Eater Syndrome

Have you been to dinner with me lately? Did you secretely want to throw up a little bit in your mouth as you watched me eat? THere's a joke flying around these parts that I have Disgusting Eater Syndrome. Evidently, unbeknownst to me, I have somehow failed to develop eating habits worthy of the 1st world. As SB (resident food snob and he- who- eats -everything (including pizza?) -with -a -fork- and- knife) pointed out, There is no doubt as to my ability to "clean up" when necessary ...this syndrome is obviously a CHOICE.

Here are my self-admitted evidences of DE syndrome:

I pull things apart with my fingers at most restaurants.
I dissect most food in an attempt to see what's really in that sandwich.
I think it's almost always funny to show people the chewed food in my mouth.
I sometimes can't stop talking long enough to actually chew the food.
I need 5 times the amount of napkins required by most functional adults.

Now a bit more on the idea of choice. I admit that I am motivated in my actions by a certain desire to be funny, charming, childlike and cute. That can lead to some rather silly dinners. However, I think the problem is really that I LIKE high falutin' stuff (goat cheeses, nice breads, delicious organic produce whipped into a salmon frenzy) BUT I am just as happy, if not more so when we pull up to a 7-11 and run in for a chili dog (with that orange cheese goop...oh...my!) and a big gulp. I mean, I've been on weightwatchers since birth so a redrobin which is generally off limits during low points weeks can look like disney land with their never ending baskets of rectangular fried starch deliciousness. And these foods are a little messier and a little harder to eat gracefully. Maybe?

This penchant for diners, any restaurant with a booth and keep it coming diet coke with lime does NOT make me impervious to the delights of fine dining. I ooh'd and ahh'd appropriately when I had my $100 meal at the Hyatt in downtown Seoul and I dont' think I showed the chewed food in my mouth once during that experience. But after accidently ordering my second $8 thimble of diet coke (that's right $16 worth of Diet Coke that ended up being approximately HALF of a 20 oz bottle) the magic of the fine food experience wore off and I started wishing I was tucked in a booth, asking the waitress for more napkins so I could wipe the dripping grease from my palms as I pulled a Whiskey River Burger apart to evenly spread out the onion rings.

So I'm a DE. Maybe it's because I'm red blooded American? Maybe it's because of WW deprivation? Maybe it's a result of a childhood in which every meal started and ended with some form of hamburger, tomato sauce, potato casserole? I don't know where it came from and I'm sorry if you have to eat with me. But just know that I'm enjoying it. (I guess you'll know when I open my mouth mid bite to tell you how much "I love this spinach dip!!!")

The Blog has gone out of me...

But I'm going to put my head down and power through. You see, I just can't seem to get excited about writing because most of the things I want to write about are now off limits. I'm back in America and that means that I can't post cute pictures of adorable children whose parents don't speak enough english to find me. Here in America, that's creepy. I can't post about my new job at a trade association for scientists which starts next Tuesday. That's unprofessional. I can't post about my current pre-boyfriend aka SmartBoy(who is DREAMY and WONDERFUL and HILARIOUS and ADORABLE). That's relationship suicide. And I can't very well write about the joys of Diet Coke now that I'm off the caffeinated version and what's left is NOTHING to sing about. That's lame. So what's a girl supposed to write about???

I guess I could write about how I live in Washington DC now. I moved here over the 4th of July weekend in the go-cart packed to the hilt with my stuff which has been sadly reduced to a pre-adolescent proportions due to my NON STOP NEVER ENDING wanderlust. I could write about how the road trip was one of the most memorable of my life, not because I got pulled over and given a $140 ticket in Indiana for speeding...and certainly not because of the $59 a night motel that I stayed in which had a shower cap AND makeup remover in the toiletries (better than the W, right KA?)
but probably because we spent 2 hours at a crackerbarrel in ohio just because we could.
I guess I could also write about how I've had so many Korea reunions that it isn't even funny... (that's Rpotter who graciously agreed to meet with me even though she was now a movie star)
(this is me and alissa, reunited in the only place that was big enough for me, her and her massive bucket of cheezeballs...TARGET!) (those are lady willoughby's floral pants and her camera)

(this is J...one of my students...this is his aunt and H Mart in Annandale, VA which could double for seoul if it smelled a little bit more like pig parts and had more old men spitting in the streets)

I guess I could write about how I'm sampling the local fare and trying to remain a dedicated WW accolyte even in the face of BEN's CHILI BOWL (I've now eaten at more than two DC establishments where President Obama's one time visit has sparked a media and customer frenzy. I'm surprised they haven't framed his used napkins right next to the zagat rating on the door)

(sorry SB, this picture proves two things: We really were at Ben's and you really CAN fall asleep anywhere!)

I guess I could write about how AWESOME america is...how nice it is to be home and how much fun I'm having. Well, now that I have a job, a bed and airconditioning. Ok, so I guess I have some things to write about. xoxoxo NB