Blown Fuse

Lack of sleep makes Tiffany very philosophical.

I have no inherent fashion sense whatsoever. I don't buy into trends, and even if I did I feel like a fool for trying to look so "hip." If I can't wear it two years from now without looking like a throwback to an era gone by, I won't buy it.

Growing up, I had a definite style, I guess, but didn't we all? I had a pair of scrunchie socks in just about every color and like only 2 white pairs. I consider that wild now. My socks are pretty tame. I have a couple of pairs with flowers and the like that I wear with my "don't feel like wearing shoes with laces today, so I'll wear mules" shoes, but there's nothing particularly crazy about them. The wildest thing that I wear on a regular basis would probably be a "Lion King" band-aid, as I can't seem to quit cutting, burning, or otherwise mutilating myself.

My grandma used to do all my shopping for me. I kid you not. Up until I moved out after high school graduation, she would shop for me while I was at school during the day...I never even had to endure that whole torture of being measured for a first bra. She just bought one. It fit. Yeah, she has about 60 years on me, but she's better at figuring out what I would wear than my mother (who thinks I'm a toothpick), my sister (who thinks I should dress like a dancer in a Snoop Doggy Dogg video), and my aunt (who buys me clothes 5 sizes larger than the reality).

I don't really have a style anymore, and in fact I'm pretty conservative when it comes to buying clothes. I hate shopping because nothing ever fits right because I'm both short and petite. I have a closet full of stuff that everyone else has bought me that I've never seen fit to wear because I'd either look like a skank hoochie momma call girl or an oversexed secretary.

The problem with having no discernible style is that people are agitated over the fact that they can't find anything to stereotype me on. When that's done, they think I'm trying too hard to come across as "proper" because I have neither now or ever used Ebonics with any degree of proficiency. (Read my lips blog: Ebonics is not a language. It is not a dialect. It is a perversion. Disagree if you must--I'll debate you tat for tat.) Player haters...those are the same fools that hate your guts because you're nice.

*shrugs*

Without sounding like a Sesame Street segment, I gotta say that I like me. This is the me I will always be. Styles are going to change, but I refuse to change along with them.

Oink.

I've been collecting pigs for six years, for no other reason than the fact that I orignally thought they were cute. Now it's become a slightly house-cluttering obsession to which to amount of shelving in the world can make these suckers look organized.

I have stuffed pigs, Pez dispenser pigs, piggy banks, ceramic pigs--you name it. I'm not so pig looney that I have a pig duvet on my bed, but if Scott would tolerate it, I'm sure I could find one.

I think it's time now to pack these suckers away in a box that I can pull out of a closet every now and then and gaze at. I love my little oinkers (especially the ones with money in them) but I got to admit this is one of the tackiest hobbies you can have...other than...

One day I hope to have a daughter who will kick and scream for the pigs to be unearthed and proudly displayed in her equally-pink bedroom. We'll nickname her "Piggy Pridgen" and hope that she won't weigh 300 pounds at age ten.

You see, currently we have a house that has one bedroom and two offices. I considered the idiocy of that and decided to be the benevolent one and am giving up my office space to be used as a guest room (*eye roll: interesting, considering I'm the one that's home all day and doesn't have an office at work*). Initially I thought, "If we don't have a guest room, then no one will come visit us...yay!" I have since learned that people will happily sleep on the floor, sofa, or anyplace else they are offered...especially when the house always smells like baked goods.

*Sigh* Oh well. Why couldn't I collect something that I could sell on Ebay for a few bucks?

Christmas is what you make of it.

I think I've just put a finger on why I hate Christmas. The best holiday I've ever had occurred years ago when I still wanted "stuff" under the tree, but ended up getting so much more. I was around six or seven, so I was still living in New York at the time with my mother. We were living with my grandfather in Manhattan and one night my mother took me by the hand and walked with me down to Rockefeller Center. She put me on her shoulders (she was my height then--about 5'2") and we watched the big tree get lit. The crowds were pressing in on us and we could barely see, but we were there--we even got to see the Rockettes.

The memory of that makes me cry now because things are so different. In a couple of years, I'll be as old as she was that night and I still don't have kids--she had two by then: one six, one seven. I feel like we grew up together, and as I got older, I learned that we'll never have the sort of relationship a mother and daughter should. But the difference is that back then, she tried. The fact that she failed isn't what makes her a miserable mother. It's the fact that she gave up. No amount of Barbie dolls or Babysitter's Club books can make up for one's ineptitude in trying to understand the kid you keep calling "sensitive" and "emotional". You can't hide "don't care--rather have my new boyfriend" with gifts. That's when Christmas started to suck.

Growing up with my grandmother was fine for me. I feel like had this been another life, the tables would have been turned and she would have been my mother instead. Sadly, I'm closer to her than I am to my mom, but in a way it's because I felt like she actually wanted me, even with all my idiosyncrasies and my coke-bottle glasses. She never picked on me.

So...as I sit here now contemplating getting sloshed at 7 a.m., I ask one thing: figure out what you're celebrating now before it's too late. It's better to be happy and recieve nothing, than to have the world at your fingertips and be bitter. I figured out how I will be celebrating from now on--by closing old wounds.

Merry Christmas to all, and a Blessed Chanukah to all else.

Ho ho hell.

Real life is giving me a good kick in the ass. This is the sort of thing that occurs when you have résumés to mail out and your printer decides that it would be a good time to run out of ink. This is also the sort of thing that occurs when the holidays are simmering around you and the only thing you can think of is "Shit, I hope no one is getting me anything."

It is my preference to not get a job and to say that I got a degree just so that my children think I'm smart. Hi--real world calling.

I got a job offer last week from the principal of a charter school about an hour from here. Not only is teaching not on my list of things to do before I die, but the cost of driving there everyday far outweighs whatever benefits of pay provided. On top of that, any time there's a mid-year opening for a teaching position in a school it makes me suspicious. Why did the last teacher leave? What's wrong with the school? When you say "charter" do you really mean "untraditional learning atmosphere where ill-bred students flock"?

I guess the real problem with my job search is that I have absolutely no focus. I went into college all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with "Pre-Med" stamped on my forehead and "Music department" engraved on my ass. It didn't take me long to chisel either off. I think it was sometime around month two when some id-jut of a teaching assistant scoffed at my maladjustment and depression when I was going through a rough spot. I'd lost two family members in a few months, and wasn't handling it well. What did "Mr. Holier-than-thou because I wrote a thesis" tell me? I believe it was, "People die. Get over it." What really broke me down was when I had missed a day of class and had a friend tell me that the assignment due had been pushed back to the next Monday. When I turned in mine on Monday, he wouldn't accept it. For me it was "late" because I wasn't supposed to know that the assignment had been pushed back. Asshat.

That fucked me up reeeeeeeeal good for the next four years.

I didn't like anything after that. Even the things I was good at held no passion for me anymore, so imagine trying to focus all that hurt, anger, frustration, and grief into finding a new major and deciding on a career path. Hah!

I told myself at some point that, "Tiffany. You are a writer." True, I have been since I was six and scribbling poems about bedtime on the school bus. Heck, I even have a few published writing credits from back in the days when I was a sweet, good, God-fearin' girl. Ahem. However, the type of writing I crank out is not only time consuming, but frustrating as hell. I have probably 5 half-finished epic dramas festering in my file case. They're pretty good, but at this point in my life I lack the discipline required to sit down eight hours a day and peck away. Equally frustrating are those little unpresonalized rejection slips that editors send you making it painfully clear that they hadn't even bothered to read past the title and first paragraph. "Not for us--try again."

I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I just know that I have to be something. I'd be perfectly content with sitting on my arse all day and springing to action only when the kids get off the bus in the afternoon, but that aint going to happen.

On a seperate topic, I just noticed that a résumé I was about to send out contains traces of severe fuck-up. It would have been mildly embarrassing having to explain that inclusion away if I had been called in for an interview. I guess I need to add "be a better proofreader" to my list of things that I suck at.

Holiday depression sucks. To my credit, I can say that I haven't put my head in an oven yet and cranked it up to 500. That's mostly because I'm scared the power bill will be outrageous.

Following one's heart is never wrong.

With all of the talk of the "Joe Average" and "Bachelorette" going on around the blogosphere, I've been thinking about how wrong it is to be put on the spot to choose someone under such circumstances. It's not only wrong for those people who fall in love too quickly with the "star" but also for the person who signed up for it thinking that it would get them some media exposure. Why would anyone want to toy with their future that way?

Scott and I got married the stress-free way. About a year from the date that we had met, we went down to the police station to see the magistrate and had a civil ceremony. Our witnesses were two people we found in the building.

Neither of our families were apprised of our doings until after the fact, though they were well aware of what our intentions were. We had been "shackin' up" for the majority of the duration of our relationship because it seemed like the right thing for us to be doing, although everyone had their opinions:

Grandma: "Why would he buy the cow if he's getting the milk for free?"
Mom-in-law: "Are you sure you want to do that? She's not even out of school yet..."

My grandmother wanted me to have a wedding because she has a list of things she wants me to have (like success, happiness, etc.). My mother wanted me to have a wedding because she likes weddings. In fact, she likes weddings more than she likes the marriages attached to them.

I wanted a wedding. I wanted the satisfaction of planning a wedding and having it turn out to be everyone's dream of what such an event should be. It just didn't seem practical at the time. I couldn't really expect anyone to foot the bill for it and I wasn't in any predicament to pay for it myself. And besides that, I wasn't enthused about the prospect of having a family reunion disaster involving drunk uncles, screaming siblings, and finger pointing.

What really tipped the scales against me having a real wedding ceremony was the fact that there wouldn't be anyone to walk me down the aisle. I'm as modern and forward-thinking as any card carrying feminist, however I couldn't in good conscience walk down the aisle alone knowing that wasn't the way I intended it to be.

The one person I had always hoped to give me away (my uncle Peter) had passed during my freshman year of college, and I certainly wasn't going to swallow my pride and call my father.

When the magistrate had us saying our vows, I didn't stand there wondering if everyone else was happy and if the caterers had shown up on time to set up dinner. I stood there looking at the man that I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life with and didn't have another care in the world.

I had a dream the other night where Uncle Pete was confirming that I had did the right thing and that I would be okay. I feel now that not only did I pick the right person, but the right person for always.

Damn power...mumble mumble

Thank goodness it was unseasonably warm today, because our power was knocked out for a few whole lot of hours. This time, it didn't even need an ice storm like last year's disaster. It's my suspicion that the people down the street's landscapers hit one of the underground lines when they were doing God Knows What in their yard (Frost has come, folks--give it up. You're not growing a damn thing from this point out). I saw them fleeing away right after the Duke Power trucks showed up. Damn idiots. The last thing I need is some shmuck driving a mini-catepillar through my back yard trying to find out where the line is bad. The VERY last thing I need is for some DP employee to come triapsing through the yard when I have no idea they're there enabling them to scare the shit out of me when I mosey out to the trash can. I hadn't even washed my face yet because it was darker than Hades in the bathroom. "How you doin' ma'am?" Yelp!

It was warm in my car, so I sat out there for a little while. Then I deliberated driving to the gas station, but figured that since it's already on "E" I might as well wait until I have somewhere to go. It'd be very very very embarrassing to run out of gas somewhere during the half-mile between here and the gas station, so I'll just wait. Maybe I'll see if Scottie's willing to be the sucker to drive it down there.

Yeah, I should have put gas in it, but don't pretend you never procrastinated with your car. You're driving back from work or class and the heat has FINALLY kicked in and there's an interesting story on the radio. You don't want to stop. Or else, the kid is asleep in the backseat and you're thinking "SHIT! If I can get them home before they wake up, I'll have time to do XYZ before dinner!" Mm hmm, so you get home and park and forget all about the gas guage until the next day when you NEED to go to the post office or somewhere else equally important. Oops!

It'll be just my luck that some cold weather will settle in and I won't be able to crank the car at all. We need to get one of those gas cans that you use for filling the lawn mower. Since I'm entirely too negligent for my own good, it'd be good to have around.

Dear Santa:

You fucking freak of an elf. I haven't asked you for shit in fifteen years, and you've done a good job of delivering. I never ask for anything, because--Mr. "Father Christmas"--you've been quite the deadbeat. I wish I could sue you for back child support.

All I've ever asked your sorry work-one-day-a-year ass for is a vacation so that my husband can get rid of the bags under his eyes and look his frickin' age. Did you deliver? Half-assedly, yeah. Went right back to work with unpaid overtime. These freak of nature college students around here are walking around wearing Prada and carrying Louis Vuitton bags to class and you couldn't even do me the favor of working some magic so that I can get a full tank of gas?

Damn it, I don't ask for much, but when it's cold outside and I'm scared to turn the heat on in the car for fear of using up my last teaspoon of gas, that's just a shame.

Fix the gee-dee economy if you expect anyone around here to have a Merry frickin' Christmas.

And what's up with your friend the Tooth Fairy? She gives all these kids money for losing teeth but hasn't left me a damn dime to get my cavities filled? Shameful. Do you know how much dental insurance copays are? I guess not with you being "immortal" and all. I bet your teeth are platinum-plated, eh?

Whatever. The last time I sat on your lap in Macy's you smelled like booze and had a scary glimmer in your eye.
Fucking lush. I hope your reindeer go on strike and leave your sorry ass stranded in Compton on Christmas day so that
you can see all those kids you "forget" every year. And you wonder why kids join gangs.

That's all for now. I'll sleep well tonight knowing I don't have to spend my last $4 on cookies and eggnog for
your obese ass. As a matter of fact--do drop by this year. Our chimney needs to be cleaned badly and you--you
big cotton ball of a man--would be the perfect swab for it.

Love, Tiffany
P.S.: I've been very good this year.