Word Barf

Jelly Donut Life Lessons

/ Ashley / Leave a comment

I’m not sure if you are aware, but right now, Amazon has Queen’s Greatest Hits available for mp3 download for just $2.99. It’s a pretty good investment, especially if you’ve forgotten what the originals sound like after hearing the songs on Glee. After listening to it, I found that I really enjoyed the originals way more than a bunch of 20-somethings pretending to be teenagers dancing and singing overproduced versions of Somebody to Love and Another One Bites the Dust.

I got into work this morning and decided to listen to it right away simply because it was my most recent purchase. Of course it starts out with We Will Rock You, which was the perfect anthem to start a day of office work. I’ve been filling in for a woman who retired last week and haven’t been particularly thrilled about it. (Tthen again, what job in an office is thrilling?) But this got me pumped up to sort through trip reports and write fleet numbers on folders (I’m so glad I have a college degree). The next song was, of course, We are the Champions. I remember listening to this when I was a kid. My dad would put the record on while my mom was at work at night, and Corey and I would sing along to what I only knew as the song in Mighty Ducks. It seemed very fitting as I continued sorting trip reports, since I’m obviously the champion of the cubicle jungle.

At some point, someone told me there were donuts by the coffee area. I resisted for about ten minutes before deciding I really wanted a greasy ball of dough covered in frosting and sprinkles. I selected a round one with vanilla frosting and a bit of red sugar on the top. It looked about as harmless as a donut could look. I don’t know how many calories are in a donut, nor do I care to know. I’m sure it’s astronomical and will make me want to starve myself until somebody else brings donuts into the office. I ate it slowly while I did my work. I was a little surprised to find that the red sprinkles corresponded, apparently, to the raspberry filling. The only change I made was to take smaller bits to avoid getting raspberry jelly on my cardigan. You know, because I’m a lady.

It wasn’t until I was 3/4 of the way done with the donut that I realized I hadn’t even enjoyed the thing. The dough tasteless (isn’t all donut dough truly tasteless?) and too greasy. The jelly was too sugary. The frosting and the sprinkles were the only enjoyable part. And by that time, I was already past the point of no return, so I ended up just finishing the thing.

It was disappointing for several reasons. First, the breakfast dessert I had anticipated sucked. Second, I had just mindlessly inhaled the day’s caloric limit. Third, I had breezed through twenty minutes completely unaware of what I was doing. It was like highway hypnosis but five times worse since the evidence would go straight to my ass. Though the evidence may show otherwise, I don’t take pride in spending any amount of time being unaware of myself.

I like to think of myself as a pretty self aware person, but this whole donut-eating experience shook me. Apparently I have very little knowledge of my own actions. I imagine the implications of this are quite big too, because how are my mindless actions or words affecting people around me? When I have conversations, I like to think that I choose my words fairly carefully, but that can’t always be the case. I have a sarcastic streak that some people probably don’t understand. Sometimes my tone is drier than I intend, and by the time I realize it, it’s too late to explain or compensate for. And sometimes I know I’m just careless.

Which makes me wonder how people view me. I’d like to think of myself as a quirky girl who wears cardigans and lots of sundresses in the summer, someone who giggles in her cubicle while listening to comedians, and thinks everybody should read at least one Kurt Vonnegut novel a year. But maybe they see me as this self-absorbed bitch who makes off-handed comments about the weather and   weekend plans.

Anyway, this jelly donut sort of prompted an existential crisis, which was further exacerbated when I realized what song I was singing along to.

Fat Bottom Girls.

After eating a jelly donut, that was just a quick and cruel turn to the tragic.

A week of revision, wine, screaming, & decoupage.

/ Ashley / 9 Comments

This last week has been about as good as I could have hoped for. After last week,  it was just what I needed. After making some mistakes, it only seems appropriate that fate rewards me with less trying and more rewarding seven days.

I spent the earlier part of the week revising a piece to share with my writer’s group. This meant coming home from work and spending the better part of my evening at my computer, reworking the same paragraph I had been staring at for twenty minutes. As tedious as it sounds, it was extremely rewarding. One evening, I took a bike ride down by the river, found a soft grassy spot and went to work. I got a lot more done without an internet connection.

I used to hate revision, but that was back when I thought everything I wrote was gold. Now I’ve accepted that first drafts are typically shit and have learned to appreciate the process. And though I don’t usually sift through old drafts, I’ve saved each one. This means I have a folder of each story with at least four or five drafts. Speaking of, I should really back that up on two separate hard drives.

On Wednesday, I met up with three of my aunts. We went to a wine bar for dinner and I spent the rest of the night burping moscato and beef carpaccio. After that, we went to Lifest. Lifest is a christian music festival that my family used to go to when I was young. I hadn’t been there since I was fourteen with my boyfriend at the time. Ten years later, it was bizarre to see a music festival lacking stumbling drunks and an excess of cleavage. Since I grew up nondenominational, I’m pretty sure most of my extended family assumes I at least claim to believe in God. While I’m not willing to state there is no God, I’m not willing to say I believe in a God. I know that saying this will probably give me some backlash from some friends and family, but I don’t want people thinking that because I went to Lifest I’m a god-fearing young woman. And I’m not saying that out of some sense of hyper-vigilance, I just don’t want to present myself as something I’m not. I know many good things done in the name of God, but there are also some pretty dark things done in the same name. At this point, all I am willing to say is that I haven’t found compelling evidence. When and if I ever do believe in God, it will be something that occurs organically, not by shocked friends and family sending me bible verses.

So anyway, I was at Lifest. I spent most of the time talking with my Aunt Laurie about men, dreams, passions, mental obstacles, The Bloggess (and Beyonce, the giant metal chicken), and goals. I went home feeling refreshed, inspired, and content.

On Friday, I went to Six Flags Great America with some friends where I went on rollercoasters and screamed a lot.

Yesterday, I met with my writer’s group, got some great feedback (“You have a lovely way of being funny & witty while also being poignant, self-deprecating, and reflective”), and left feeling inspired. I shared a more reflective version of my last post, and I had several requests for a story next time. I think I’ll do something more prose-like for next month, but my biggest obstacle is going to be getting away from my second person narration. It’s emotionally easier to write second person. It allows me to distance myself from the material. I think that was pretty evident with my last list. It’s strange: I’m willing to share fairly intimate details, but I’m not, apparently, willing to attach the “I” pronoun. I could be wrong, but I think that if I want to write memoirs and personal essays, I’m going to have to get over that.

Or maybe I’ll just revolutionize memoir and write a collection of essays in the second person.

Nobody steal my idea, okay?

Then Andrea and I had a decoupage day. We listened to Rilo Kiley, ate some pizza, drank some beer, and pasted things on foam board and canvas. I created some things to hang on my walls.


[Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.]

All in all, this was a mediocre blog post about a rejuvenating week. Now it’s coming to a close with a heat advisory that I’m using as an excuse to sit inside and read Kurt Vonnegut all day.

Wisconsin in the damn summer

/ Ashley / 2 Comments

I was driving home with my father from work today and we were talking about how hot it is. It’s roughly hot as balls. Which is an expression I don’t really use, but it’s really the only way to describe this weather. My previously clean-feeling skin took on a sticky residue not unlike the back of a post-it. (Poetic, huh? Can you tell I work in an office?)

“It’s frickin’ hot,” I said, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.

“Well the other option is freezin’ your ass off in a blizzard.”

“Well…” I paused, thinking of how to back my claim that a sticky heatwave is worse than a blizzard. Then I realized his logic was off. “No, I have many other options,” I said. “I could sit in air conditioning. I could go to the pool. I could go to a beach. I could drink some cold beer. I could go workout in an air conditioned gym. I have plenty of other options.”

I don’t think he had a retort. Probably because I was right.

Anyway, we have a heat advisory for the rest of the week, so I’m going to have to find some ways to cool off. After I dropped my father off at home, I continued on to my apartment, thinking of ways to stay cool.

[why not just say “hot as balls until Friday?”]

[for any of my southern friends, I’m sure 90s sound refreshing and cool. Probably because you’re not taking the hellish Wisconsin humidity into consideration.]

Go to the pool/beach

A public pool is about a two minute walk from my apartment. I’ve found this is a great way to cool off. I have mixed feelings about public pools – more negative than positive. But when the weather is hot enough I don’t really care. On the one hand, it’s a pool available to me to use whenever I want. On the other hand, a lot of kids see it as a a big toilet. There’s a ton of chemicals in the water to dillute the children’s urine. There is almost always too many people there, and there is always a person or two who really shouldn’t be wearing a bikini. I  feel on display at pools or beaches.  I’m convinced that when I take off my cover up, everyone is looking at me, thinking that my thighs are huge and that I should probably just go ahead and leave that thing on. Then when I wade into the water, I’m paranoid that somebody is going to go into my bag, take my wallet or worse – my journal or Kindle. When I finally dip underwater, I feel refreshed for a few seconds, only to resurface, fully convinced that my waterproof mascara is not actually waterproof. In order to avoid looking like a black-eyed sea creature emerging from what must be pure chlorine, I wipe under my eyes about a dozen times before I feel okay. I quickly return to my seat, check my bag for the essentials, crack open my Nalgene bottle of lemonade and settle in with my book until I overheat again and have to go through the whole submerging process all over again.

This is what I opted to do today. It was bright and sunny when I got home. I immediately changed into my suit and walked over to the pool, only to be there for about 20 minutes before this happened the sky started getting darker and people started talking about the pool closing. Another twenty minutes passed before lightning was spotted and everyone had to get out of the pool. I sat reading until I was sufficiently creeped out by the guy with the North Carolina logo tattoed on his chest who kept staring at me.

Sit in air conditioning 

This is by far the easiest of the options, since all I need to do is flip a switch and sit. This does require a television, Netflix, and possibly some snacks. If I’m looking to make it a more productive evening, I’ll grab a book or a notebook and actually accomplish something. This also has the potential to be the most soul-crushing. Usually when air conditioning is called for, it looks absolutely gorgeous outside, so I feel guilty for being inside. Typically, sitting in air conditioing doesn’t last more than an hour or two before I get sick of my living room and decide to do something else.

Drink cold beer

This is nice if you have some good microbrews. Few things are as satisfying as opening an ice cold beer and drinking it before the condensation soaks through the label. I don’t drink more than two or three, because then I get the genius idea of making inappropriate phone calls or texting people I have no business talking to. That usually results in a lot of blushing, which makes me feel warm, thus defeating the purpose of cooling off. Though I’ve only drank wine on my patio, I suspect it’s an excellent place to drink cold microbrews as well.

Work out at an air conditioned gym

This is funny, I know. Ten minutes into a workout, it no longer matters that the gym is air conditioned. This is just silly. It’s really just a half-hearted attempt to encourage myself to workout since I haven’t done anything since Saturday. I’m going to the spinning class again tomorrow night, and I’m sure I’ll return to my apartment fresh-faced and not at all sweaty. On a related note, I’m signed up for a heated yoga class on Thursday. The room is heated to 90 degrees with a 50% humidity so I should probably bring a parka in case I get a chill.

Demanding someone (most likely my dad) take me out on boat

Think about it. You’re on water, skipping over waves  with your hair flying back from the wind. This feels amazing. Then if the boat is anchored, there’s swimming without the public submerging dilemma.

Standing in front of the freezer while eating popsicles

Do I really need to say more?

Window shopping at the mall

With this,  I can kill a few birds with a single stone: I can finally find bedding for my adult-sized mattress, cool off, and conveniently have my paycheck pre-spent upon direct deposit. It’s all winning, all the time. Probably the smartest of my ideas so far.

I’m sure I’ll survive as long as there is shade, moving air, water, or ice cubes nearby. If none of those things are around, I’ll probably just pass out from heat exhaustion.

A little about Jay-Z, Kanye, and my blog.

/ Ashley / 5 Comments

Yesterday afternoon, I went to my uncle’s house to celebrate my cousin’s 21st birthday. Along the way, my little brother and I listened to Jay-Z and Kanye West. By the way, I just had to google Jay-Z because I wasn’t sure of the correct spelling or notation. I can’t decide if that makes me feel very old, very uncool, or very superior for not knowing how Shawn Corey Carter, who is worth $475 million, (Thanks, Google!) spells his stage name.

We were rocking out (does one rock out to rap?) and singing along, laughing at how ridiculous Kanye’s lyrics  were (“That shit cray, that shit cray, ain’t it Jay? What she order? Fish Fillet”), because honestly, how could you record that and still respect yourself as an artist? Because it’s clear that Kanye thinks of himself as not only an artist, but a visonary.

I’m not sure if anybody remembers January 4th when Kanye forgot he was using Twitter to unveil DONDA (hah, what?), but it was a ridiculous thing to witness. At the time, I had his tweets sent to my phone as text messages because he said awesome things like this:

That night, I didn’t have my phone near me for a few hours. I found it and saw that I had something like 36 missed texts. About 33 of them were from Twitter. All from Kanye. And they were still coming. Obviously, I changed the mobile forwarding on Kanye’s tweets.

Now that I’ve shared my extensive Jay-Z research and  given you a brief history of Kanye’s Twitter, I’ll move onto what I actually meant to write about. Ryan and I had a lot of fun on the 20-minute drive. When we arrived, I was bombarded by half of my family telling me they loved my blog. I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t like it. Compliments are nice. They’re even nicer when they’re about something you care about.

While I was in high school, I kept a Xanga. I think that for the most part, it was very similar to what this is, except even more self-absorbed (can you believe it?) and melodramatic. However, I do think I posted some interesting things. That was around the time I remember feeling like I was exploding with creativity.  I credit a lot of that to Xanga. It was the perfect outlet for my artistic restlessness and wandering self esteem issues. But I was embarrassed of it. I didn’t share the link anywhere (myspace?), I didn’t tell my friends to read it unless they stumbled upon it themselves, and I certainly didn’t invite my parents or extended family to read and comment on it. Part of this is because I was a teenager and while I didn’t want my parents knowing my business, I wanted everybody else in the world to realize the importance of my personal dramas.

Now that I’m older and have a better sense of self, I’ve sort of taken a claim to my blog. It still seems weird to articulate that, but I have one and I enjoy it. I’m enjoying it now even more that people are reading it and telling me they enjoy it. It means a lot that I can be doing what I want (ie: writing about myself) and be recognized for it. Despite appearances, I’m not doing this to just blather on about my life. I’m doing this because I think that every person’s existence is important. I believe that everybody has a story that deserves to be told. And if they don’t feel comfortable sharing their story, then at least they can be reminded that they are not alone in those feelings of love, loneliness, despair, euphoria, or hopelessness. By sharing myself on an intimate level, I’m trying to remind people in this crazy age of technology that we’re humans, not just profile pictures and clever autobiographies.

And if people are entertained along the way, that’s good too.

I feel extremely tacky saying this, but if you read my blog and you enjoy it, I’d like to invite you to comment, subscribe, or even share a link to it. I would really like to expand my pool of readers and possibly even start conversations in the comments. I love hearing other people’s anecdotes about similar situations; it’s a nice reminder that human existence isn’t solitary. Though we all think we are special snowflakes and our sufferings are unlike those of anyone else’s, we’re really just going though the same trials with variations on dialogue and setting.

Anyway, thank you for reading. It means more than you probably realize.