Year in Review: Shit I didn't get done

Two-post December? Say it ain't so.

I really need to get some shit done. Instead of doing important stuff, I'm just going to post a snapshot of all the entries I didn't finish this year. I will first finish whichever one gets the most votes in the comments.

This is because I'm lazy. So lazy, in fact, that I never finished the post about procrastination, designed to procrastinate while I should have been cleaning. So, I procrastinated on the procrastination post. Awesome. I'm feeling really good about my accomplishments this year now.

Sorry it's hard to read. I'd redo it but ... ooooh! Candy!

Fuck. Were they making fun of me?

I'm kinda pissed at Molly Shannon.

And not only because she probably has one of those 401K things I keep hearing about and probably a late-model fully loaded Toyota Prius. Without leather seats, because she's totally legit.

And could probably fit a tummy tuck or a boob lift into her budget if she weren't too classy for that bullshit.

Damn it.

Anyway, I was originally mad because I just realized that she was making fun of people like me in those Mary Katherine Gallagher skits.

*sigh* Where do I begin?

Let's start with 6th grade. Tryouts for the middle school musical. I think it was Bye Bye Birdie, but I'm not sure. Lots of pretty girls in chorus tried out for it. I played clarinet in band, and I tried out, too.

What I remember of my preparation for auditions was singing Tomorrow and memorizing and singing another song, while pacing between the staircase and the kitchen in my parents' old house. Also, I specifically remember singing in two different octaves because I couldn't reach all the notes in either octave.

I bet I could be a awesome yodeler. I was Jewel before Jewel, except for the living-in-a-van part.

Now, for a conversation with myself as a high school freshman. Let's be real: you were the new kid last year, and now we're all the new kids at the high school. You don't know any upperclassmen. What's a good way to meet new people?

Right. Go ahead and run for class president. You'll meet lots of people. And then, you'll make some awesome posters with really bright markers and some bubble letters like all the other girls.

Oh? What's that? Your mom has a better idea? She thinks it's really cool?! Well, she's a science teacher. I'm sure she knows all about cool! Let's do it!

Oh, these old National Geographic covers are awesome posters. This yawning Artic wolf is going to bring in some serious votes.

Don't even get me started on the baby giraffe chewing leaves next to its momma. So. cute. Election - in the bag.

So ... that went well.

But, by freshman year in college, I was pretty confident I had developed the people skills to win the election for class president. Except, I spent all my time smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and procrastinating. I tried to go "funny" with the speech.

I ran through my credentials with a jokey tone and a smile. I said I was a cheerleader, and I followed that up with a "Don't gag! HAHAHA Ha ha ... ha ..." *crickets* That's when I realized that I am not great at politics and also, I kind of hate politicians. At least I was keepin' it real, and making jokes - unlike the asshats who went to every dorm room and introduced themselves, got comfortable with the issues, and had platforms.

Sometimes, my life seems like a series of embarrassing moments that I try to just ignore. Like, you know when your heel kind of catches on something and your ankle kind of twists to the side, and instead of acknowledging that you almost just fell for no reason, you just straighten up and keep walking even though everyone in your office saw you and your whole face burns but you pretend it doesn't?

Or, like, when on your birthday, you put on your special new sweater from Anthropologie, the cute one you picked out for your hubby to give you, and then, you put on your cute sweater tights and a skirt? When you feel something small kind of drop into your tights and settle just below your butt, and you just assume it's the tag, and you don't have a lot of time to just keep digging around, and later, you forget about it until you go to the bathroom at work, and get up from peeing and see your favorite earring at the bottom of the toilet and think, "ohhhhh," and hesitate a moment before flushing it?

It's like that.

Oh, you don't like adorable kid stories? Well, suck an egg.

The glass windows of the storefront toy store were ringed in white Christmas lights. In the sills stood stuffed giraffes in three sizes, the largest twice as tall as L.

We walked into this locally-owned, independent wonderland of playtime, and the owner smiled. I let L wear her fancy coat even though she was wearing play clothes and we were having a lazy day.

Inside, I barely got her past the wall lined with bins of tiny toys - rubber bumblebees, tiny wooden sailboats, echoing microphones, and snakes of all colors and sizes, made of wood and rubber. She loves snakes.

Finally, I told her we had to keep walking because we had a goal. Next weekend, we would go see Santa, and although she knew she would ask for a doll, she didn't know what kind. Santa prefers details.

Past the bins, against the wall, was a lighted glass case, stretching to the ceiling. At the top were the most fragile dolls, at the bottom, plastic and cloth dolls. I pointed out an Eloise doll, with a cloth face, beautifully painted features, messy hair, untucked shirt and crooked bow - all things that symbolize Eloise's personality, with which L identifies.

There was a delicate, porcelain Madame Alexander Cinderella, barely six inches tall, with an ice blue dress frosted with silver glitter and thread. Her signature red bow lips accentuated her rosy cheeks, her hair was perfectly coiffed.

A mermaid version of Fancy Nancy stood behind the floppy Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy, who smiled sloppily, impossibly, to each side.

Next to Eloise, though, was a standing twelve-inch, vinyl Madame Alexander with a red hooded cape, dark hair and eyes and a basket. "Ohh!" L said. "Yook at the Wed Widing Hood!"

Still, she was unimpressed. We went through the store, looking at other dolls, stuffed animals, games, dress-ups and puppets. Finally, I told her we needed to decide what she wanted from Santa.

"I want to go see that Duck again," she said.

"The duck?" I asked.

"Yes, the bunny one."

"Ohhh! I know which one! That's Jemima Puddle Duck," I told her, and I led her to the back of the book section, where Jemimah rested on a high shelf.

"No, not that one," she said.

"But, this is the one next to Peter Rabbit," I told her.

"No. Not the bunny one," L corrected. "The funny one. You know. The one that squeaks?"

Confused, I led her around the store, checking out the rubber duckies (no), the chirping carved birds (no), a box of fluffy baby chicks (no again).

"L, I don't know what it is," I told her.

She started leading me around, as she looked inside shelves and around corners.

Finally, she exclaimed, "Here it is!" and fell to her knees in front of a shelf in the middle of the store.

There, she picked up a toy about the size of my hand. With dangling feet and yellow skin, it was not what I expected my sweet girl to choose.

"That, L," I told her, "Is a rubber chicken."

"That's it!" she declared. "I'm going to ask Santa for that."

Satisfied, she led me out of the store. A girl after my own heart.