I always knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was just as hip as celebrities:
“Older women, younger men: Moore and Kutcher latest examples of romantic type”
http://www.cnn.com/2005/SHOWBIZ/09/27/people.kutcher.moore.ap/index.html
You know, because Daryl is younger AND European. I mean, there is no way that Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake are cooler than me and Daryl. Anyway. I am still fighting mad about these insurance issues and have now decided, if necessary, to leave the country entirely in order to offer Daryl an affordable way of life in a society that does not try to kill diabetics.
In brighter news—I bought two new ultra cool chairs this weekend. They are seafoam green, and in the style of what I like to call “Parisian Salon,” or “Chairs That Could Be Found in Joan Crawford’s Dressing Room.” In other words, wonderful. But then, I realized that my couch cover (“No more couch covers!!!!”) did not match. So this required a purchase of a new couch cover (I heart Target) and new curtains. Then, I moved the entire living room around, bought some vacu-bags to store all of my crappo so Daryl doesn’t have to store his belongings in the oven, and framed an old map of Europe to hang over the bed (you know, to illustrate the Europe-America alliance). I’m trying to make my apartment European Husband Friendly, and once I get the electric tea kettle and Fox Sports (for soccer/football), then we should be all set.
I had my new writing class last night. It was kind of painful for me, because we had to go around the room and read out loud our “history as a writer.” We had a whole range of stories from the girl who described a poem which “found her in the night, somewhere between anxiety and sleep,” to the divorcee real estate agent who sees herself as a 40-something Carrie Bradshaw, to the very to-cool-for-school recent college grad who enjoys “word play,” and the flaky lady who gave the most syrupy speech about why writing is a “beautiful tool to paint memories,” or something. I honestly felt like I was in a support group. I mean, I’m sure they are all swell people.
You may be surprised to know this, but I hate talking about writing. Hate it. With a capital “H.” Mostly, because I fear I will sound condescending and annoying—which was pretty much proven last night. I was shocked by how many people went on and on about their writing accomplishments. I mean, if you are a “published poetess” then what are you doing in this class? Also, I don’t think writing is fun or “play,” I think it’s a big annoying process—like waiting in line at the DMV—it’s painful and annoying while you are doing it, but it’s necessary and you are happy when it is over. It just irks me when people talk about art of any sort as if a muse comes down and touches them on the shoulder or something. In my mind (twisted as it might be) writing is not romantic, in fact, the urge to do any of this (see my last 199 entries) is probably a dysfunction in itself. Well, maybe I am just a big dysfunction and have attached guilt to writing and so can’t see the joy of creation my fellow workshop-mates see. I don’t mean to sound like Ms. Poncy Pants, but people being cheesy about writing and over-romanticizing it is just beyond me. And now, I have done it myself. Gak!
Why Shoe Gotta Be Like That? - 2005-11-11
Better Design for All! - 2005-11-09
men are annoying - 2005-11-04
Ides of October? - 2005-10-25
this, that and the other - 2005-10-11
