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.

Rules for When You See Your Ex-Boyfriend

/ Ashley / 12 Comments
  1. If possible, wear an in-ear speaker that plays a continuous loop of yourself reciting all the reasons you’ve broken up/why he’s now an asshole. 
  2. Avoid alcohol, you moron. 
  3. Don’t revisit rituals from your relationship. Did the two of you play Scrabble together? Not allowed. Did you drink Guinness and watch Burn Notice? Don’t even think about it. Feel free to drink caffeine-free tea and watch Shark Week reruns though. 
  4. Keep your damn pants on, you moron. If you’re wearing a dress, put on some spanx since they’re essentially vagina armor.
  5. Wear your least sexy underwear so that in the event the pants or spanx are removed, there is one more barrier before you do something you regret. Yes, ladies, this means you could and should pull out the granny panties you only wear when you have your period. 
  6. Don’t create new and novel memories. Never shot a pistol? Don’t do it with him. Anything fun and exciting that will be remembered as a personal milestone should not be acted on unless you wish to forever remember the first time you shot a handgun was on a sweltering hot July day with your ex-boyfriend’s new Walther 9mm while sweat stung your eyes and dripped down your back. Or something. 
  7. Notice how he changed and how he stayed the same and react appropriately. Exhibit A: Does he wear a new cologne? Does it smell like pine and an intimate toy cleaner? Take note. Exhibit B: He shows up with 3-day stubble and wearing that grey t-shirt he knows you love? Pompous ass.
  8. Stay out of the bedroom. I don’t care if you just got a new bed and you’re living in a new apartment. He’s not allowed to see it. If he’s spending the night, he can sleep on the damn kitchen floor with a towel and an uncased pillow if you’re feeling generous.
  9. Remember that there is no such thing as unconditional love. Then remember your damn conditions, you moron.
  10. Don’t. Just don’t see him. It’s not a good idea. Nothing good can come from it. You’ve broken up for a reason. Remember that reason. Maybe he said he was “missing something” (he probably still is) or maybe he kissed some indian bitch who plays the flute (he probably gave her a hickey), or maybe he’s unsure of how he feels (he probably still needs to shit or get off the pot), whatever the reason, it probably still exists and you have no more time to waste.