LaurieWrites

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I am sososososososososososososososososo tired.

OH MY GOD SO TIRED. OHHHHHHH SOOOOOOO TIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRREEEEEDDDDDDDD. I think this may be sleep deprivation verging on self-torture. So really, I'm going to bed, because I'm not that ridiculous.

Goodnight NABLOPOMO, for another year. I can't believe I managed it amidst the insanity...but you have to have those rocks to cling to, I guess.

Off to find another one.

Apologies in Advance

This is one of the filthiest things I've ever seen.

I think I'll be bringing my own cup from now on, or you know, just drinking straight from the bottle, per usual.

Sunshine

I found this picture when I was going through my Ohio pictures to find the ones of Cindy. This has all made me quite nostalgic in a good way, I think.

I loved and I miss this silly little dog so much...Look at her with the big bug eyes and the kisses...That was the summer before we left and we did step aerobics and kickboxing every day, which tired her out and actually gave me some arm definition.

And I've never found a better hairdresser either. Damn.

Cindy Lee

My friend Erica called from San Diego last night to tell me that our friend Cindy died suddenly in the Barnes and Noble where we all used to work. She was 50 years old. I'll write the 75 words first, but then some, because...because.

"Sometimes we cut a wide swath, baby, and that's okay," she said at my goodbye party, as I worried over leaving everything that knit my Dayton life together. She hated bullshit and I loved that. I’ve repeated her words to myself many times since, a Cindy mantra that soothes me. I just knew even then the loss of leaving people like that, people who tell you the truth, who you stupidly lose sight of but never forget.

These are my extra words for her:

She let her husband Bill get another car once. He likes classic cars of some money-sucking sort that I can't remember now. She came into work after the decision had been made, and he called her during the shift to tell her, just in case she didn’t know it, that she was “so fucking cool.”  Cool because she didn't give him any shit about getting the car. Cool because she laughed and said some stuff like "that man" or "his toys" or whatever, and she just moved on from it. She knew he loved them, and because she handled the money, as I recall, she'd just make the thousand dollars or whatever it was happen, and she'd pull her car out around the extra vehicles in the yard. Because, she said, there was nothing she could really do about it but do it, because it made him happy and it was no big deal anyway. Another car, a few more dollars.

They were one of the great love stories I've ever met in person. No one wrote stories or made movies about them, but they just honest to God really loved each other, and loved their pets and house, and whatever it was that made their lives tick, and I find that one of the most underrated beauties of life, maybe because I don't hear about it or see it that much.

He came in to the store the other night, apparently, just to be there, to be where she really did love to work after escaping mindless shifts of “Hello, thank you for calling Hugo Boss fine leather goods, how may I help you?” Erica said he said he didn’t know what he was going to do without her. Sometimes it's hard to know, beyond just putting one foot in front of the other.

Cindy was always kind to me. She always made me laugh. She was one of the coolest women I've ever met. She rarely went out socially, and when she came to my goodbye dinner, it really, really touched me and made me feel pretty special too. She inspired in me absolute positive regard, something I'm ashamed to admit doesn't come along as often as it maybe should.

The photos below are from the summer of 1999, when I left for home and Vic moved to Seattle, and we had parties all season to say goodbye.

The top photo is Vic on the left, Cindy on the right. The next one is Cindy on the left, Erica on the right. I really, really love these women. It was such a good time for friends.

And yes, sometimes you do cut a really wide swath, and it just has to be okay.

Counting Down

Number of lipstick options currently in my purse and pockets: six. Really, it is so out of control.

Amount of money crammed pathetically into coat pockets: $4.71

Number of times I've spilled soup down my legs this week because the cafeteria cannot acquire matching containers and lids because they hate me: Twice in three days. It's nice when I walk by and people are all, "Oh, French onion today? Thanks, now I don't have to call," and also it is hard to clean soup off of boots and off of jeans. Just in case you were wondering.

Time last e-mail sent relative to the paper on the United States - India nuclear deal: 3:08 a.m.

Ranting e-mails sent in order to avoid and also complain about paper on deal: Only one, but it was long.

Hours of sleep in last two nights: 8.5

Number of times have thought drowning self seemed like good alternative to current pressing demands: 4 squared plus some odd derivative of pi.

Times have gone to put glasses on when are already on: Countless, because I am fucking old and demented.

Numbers of cups of coffee behind schedule: 3, at least.

Number of Christmas presents purchased: One.

Number of Christmas presents I want to purchase: None.

Number of Christmas presents I will likely purchase: 18

Days until media law final is done, and everything is finally final, and I can find a cozy corner and a tub of eggnog to stick my face in: 20. Dear God. 20?

Numbers of lovely individuals currently involved in two group projects in which I am also involved: Nine. Nine people. Try to get anything done with nine people, no matter how much you may or may not like these people, while simultaneously not going insane. I dare you.

D

*I covered a story tonight in the same place where my senior prom was held 19 1/2 years ago. I'm still in touch with my date...we've been friends for more than half of my life. He's a good guy.

We argued prolifically. I wasn’t patient, you said. Don’t look at me with those EYES. You wore high-top sneakers and a black concert t-shirt daily. We grew our hair. We grew up and away. Before, we talked everywhere - under parking lot lights, in bars, on the beach, work when you rode your bike over and I edited your papers. Once  we threw cake at each other and hugged, spontaneously, people and icing everywhere.

Nikki

I stayed in my car last night listening to "Too Late for Love." I saw us flying down Riggs Road in your Chevette on free periods, me learning how to smoke and listen to Kix, alive. You cleaned out your purse in creative writing, shaking out pot seeds I’d never seen. ‘Laurie, you’re so good honey.’ You lived in a cemetery, loving Prince and heavy metal. You helped me rock first. I owe you big.

From the procrastination files

Or, why I should not be allowed on Ebay unsupervised.

Because first, I'll buy a linen towel with a map of Maryland on it that I don't need, with the crazed thought that I'll maybe frame it and put it in my kitchen. And after I buy that, I'll totally find a picture of me and my dog.

"Beautiful and Sexy pin up Girl with her sweet pup printed on lovey textured canvas. This print looks great with a frame and simple mat. This type of canvas does not require stretching or wooden bars. The colors are stunning and the clarity is Excellent.

Clearly the stretching and wooden bars are reserved for the Beautiful and Sexy pin up Girl. (O Lord save me from the wielders of random capitalization. How do you Decide? Just the Important Words? It's so Curious.)

I really can't seem to stop laughing at this to the point that it's making me tear up a little. While my dog would cry at the mere thought of holding a purse in his mouth and dumping my shit out all over the floor while I throw him around in the air. WTF????

From the "Why?" files

Dear person who insisted on covering "Good Morning Starshine,"

You don't have a bad voice, not at all, but I still totally hate you.

XO,

Laurie

Audrey

We needed to choose. I saw you across the room, welcoming and safe. I pointed, you pointed, and we were fish partners. Grace.

You are primary colors. You are open arms and gingerbread lipstick. You take sweatshirts and pencils to Africa, to men named Wisdom who come down the mountain for accounting class and find you, arms open. You make whiskey slush and a real tablecloth dinner for my birthday. Grace is at your table.