Whining

Every winter I have to remind my parents that the heaters in my room don’t work

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I dreamed the other night that I wrote an entry about all the things I wear to stay warm through the long, cold nights in my house.  It was like a recipe for A Warm, Happy Emily.  It went a little something like this:

Materials

  1. Spandex fitness top.  A seamless style without metal strap adjusters preferred (those teeny tiny things conduct a mean cold pinch!)
  2. Long-sleeved silk thermal top with four-year-old hot chocolate dribble stain down the front.  Thumb-holes allow a bonus inch-and-a-half of wrist coverage.
  3. Raspberry purple raglan-sleeved wool sweater.
  4. Dark gray cotton/Lycra blend leggings.  (May have been black leggings in a former life).
  5. Sweatpants.
  6. One pair of wool socks, extra itchy.

Instructions

To achieve a warm, happy Emily, layer her in the above articles and tuck her in to bed beneath one sheet; one cotton blanket; one wooly blanket (affectionately known as “The Sully Blanket” for its resemblence to the poncho that Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman‘s Sully donned on several occasions during Season One); and one down-filled comforter.  Tuck edges in under her like a burrito.

Sleep eight to nine hours without disturbance.

Upon waking, wrap in down vest.  Remove itchy socks and replace them with down bootie slippers.  Serve hot coffee with skim milk and three Splenda.

My mood has been a little too, “Yeah, so?” and not so, “Yeah!”

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Oh em gee.  Remember when I used to do this every day?  I don’t.  I can’t imagine how that ever could have been possible.  Did I have a lot going on?  If so, how did I find the time to write about it?  Was life too dull to occupy much of my time?  If that’s the case, what did I have to write about in all that spare time in which I had to write about it?

It’s not that life has been particularly exciting or particularly dull, of late.  It’s just, I kind of feel like I do and think the same things every day.

I loathe getting up in the morning.  I put on make-up on my way to work.  I want an iPhone.  I tell myself I don’t need an iPhone.  Consider getting a manicure or splurging on Blue Agava & Cacao from Jo Malone.  I do neither.  Write one of the e-mails I’ve been meaning to write.

I try to think of a nutritious food for which I have an appetite.  I prepare or buy and eat that food and feel unsatisfied.  Open another box of chocolate graham crackers.  I go for a walk.  Jog half of the way home just because I get bored.

Look at the calendar to see when the next Brooklyn Museum Free Saturday Night or 10%-off GapCard Purchases Tuesday or new episode of The Office or Law and Order: SVU will be.  Decide whether to wear my hair straight or curly the next day.  Make a mental note to charge my iPod/cell phone/camera battery.

I’m used to taking a lot of pleasure from little things, like a special purchase, a special meal, a tough workout.  I looked forward to those things, got as much of a thrill from those things as I did from, I don’t know, Lilith Fair or getting my drivers’ license or quitting my first job to start my second (the first three things, in the last decade, that come to mind when I think about “excitement.”)

God, I was so excited when I got my driver’s lisence!  But I already blogged about that.  So, I’m gonna need a new idea.

This is what’s been playing in the background of the monotony this week:
But, Honestly by Foo Fighters (still)
Let it Rock by Kevin Rudolf feat. Lil’ Wayne
Cruise Control by Mariah Carey
Death Will Never Conquer by Coldplay
Follow You, Follow Me by Phil Collins and Gensis (don’t ask, I have no idea)

It’s a sinking feeling, pulls me through the seat of chairs

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Wednesday afternoon. Gmail.

Subject: pizza

Me to Jonathan: Tell me not to go eat the pizza in the kitchenette.
Jonathan to Me: DON’T GO!
Me to Jonathan: But I want it. And nobody’s watching.
Jonathan to Me: BUT I’M WATCHING.
Me to Jonathan: Okay. FINE. I’m going home. I had a bad day.
Jonathan to Me: I did too. Let’s pout!

Thank you, Jon.

“Sometimes you need someone to tell you that it’s okay . . . that you messed up—even if you’ve done it before . . . someone to shake you out of your weariness.”—on Snow Day

Thank you, too, Lisa Loeb.

txt the address i’ll cu l8r

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I am a reticent text messager. I don’t like awaiting a response without knowing that the recipient has seen the message or even has their cell turned on. I almost never get a meaningful answer to texted questions. What am I to do but follow up with another message: “Did you get my text?” I wind up calling anyway.

Making plans with text messages is the worst. It’s like playing a game when no one knows whose turn it is; a cross between ping pong and 20 Questions. Want to hang out? Yeah, okay. What do you want to do? I don’t know, what do you want to do? I don’t care. Where are you now? If it’s such a challenge to coordinate a social life, and I know that it is, why add this obstacle?

I’d rather get together just to do the apathetic thing. Let’s keep each other company while we writhe with ambivalence, wrestle pent up energy and fend off fatigue. What do you feel like doing? I don’t care; what do you feel like doing? I don’t know; ask me again in ten minutes.

In New Zealand, the hot cellular promotion was free text messaging on weekends. From Friday evening to Monday morning, pre-paying wireless customers (the vast, vast majority) could send as many pub addresses, estimated times of arrival, pick-up lines and where r u‘s as they could type. Which was a lot. The weekend timing was perfect. I just keep hoping that U.S. wireless companies will give in and give up a similar deal.

And until they do, I’m going to hold out. I save texting for especially opportune situations. Because I know as soon as I really get into it, I’ll be a goner; I won’t be able to stop. I’ll communicate only in 160-character phrases and expect every word processor to guess the word I’m typing and fill in the end of it for me.

I will enthuse that text messages are a fantastic medium for one-liners. If I were willing to pay for an unlimited texting plan (which I’m not, and that’s why relentless text messages irritate me so—twenty cents to send or receive!), I would use it to shoot quick messages to friends, just to say hi (plus a little).

These are messages I would have sent today if I could have sent them for free:

To: Caitlin
Do we need 1,000 drinking straws? Four colors only $4.99!

To: Jonathan
Coming to see your new place. I don’t have a housewarming gift but do you need any drinking straws?

To: Amy
I know I said I didn’t like Leona Lewis but now I keep listening keep keep listening to this song

To: Jimmy
My parents are sending my car to DC with my little brother. He better not take the Mount Holyoke sticker off the back window.

To: Will
You better not take that Mount Holyoke sticker off my car!

To: Rachel
Just passed that Thai place with the purple logo and the weird bathroom sink. Take-out or gym? Take-out or gym?

To: Chelsea
Remember when we used to ‘smoke’ invisible cigarettes to ‘calm’ our ‘nerves’? Have fun tonight!

To: Doug
So, you never told me your marathon time

To: Bridget (except Bridget doesn’t text at all ever)
Did you know that the Harry Potter Lexicon guy is “vilified” and cast out from the HP society??

And now, I think I have some phone calls to make.

Further reading:

Other New Yorkers gripe about Evites and texts in “Blame the Messager,” Alexandra Jacobs’ etiquette column in the May 4th issue of TMagazine. She quotes another Emily White (no relation).

Anand Giridharadasa looks at textiquette and social evolution in Mumbai: Flirting by Text Message, Indians Test Social Limits