I made a New Year’s Resolution this year that I was going to try and stop over-analyzing things. Granted, I made this resolution about a week into the New Year, after over-analyzing exactly what my New Year’s resolution should be and how much of an impact it would make on my day-to-day life and if I was even really going to keep my New Year’s Resolution, because duh.
It’s a New Year’s Resolution.
So, I made this resolution and basically a week later, was on the verge of breaking it. It started simply enough – kind of the way that an old school AIM conversation would, if I remember 2004 correctly.
You: What’s up?
Them: N2M. U?
Except instead of acronyms, we used proper spelling, and instead of the ding-a-ling IM sound, it was the generic Apple text sound that everyone checks their phone when they hear because #teamiPhone. So, really, it went something like this:
Me: How’s Mohawk?
Mohawk: Mohawk is fine.
Simple enough. It should be, at least. Simple question, simple answer, and we all move forward in our lives. Except for the fact that I had made a New Year’s Resolution, and Resolutions are apparently meant to be broken.
One of the reasons I decided to try and give up on “over-analyzing” the shit out of everything is because I over-analyze the shit out of everything.
But I’m fine, guys, I swear.
There’s this assumption that comes with being a girl and being fine. Are you really fine, or are you, like, the completely fucked up not fine at all that is now associated with saying that you’re fine?
It’s to the point where I don’t even try and say that I’m fine — or even better, I disclaim my fineness to accentuate the fact that I’m seriously okay.
I’ve realized that hearing that someone is fine is really like going through the five stages of grief.
Stage One: Denial
Stages Two and Three: Anger and Bargaining
Stage Four: Depression
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Seriously, what was this post about again? [Scrolls to top of post, re-reads…]
I’m fine, guys. Really.
Poof is constantly giving me shit for being Asian and being a terrible driver. Her purse always falls over in my car when I drive. Apparently, I’m just building upon the stereotype.
I’m really not that bad of a driver. Similarly, I’m not that bad at directions. But I’ve fucked up things enough on a few occasions that I don’t really help the stereotypes. Asian Women suck at driving, and all women suck at directions.
The very first time I drove to the D to see BabyDaddy was in 2007. Smart phones were not smart enough to have GPS on them. I did not have a functioning printer to get MapQuest. Thus, I went on BabyDaddy’s word that I was to exit the highway at the 11 mile road exit. Simple enough, right?
My roommate and I were scoping out the signs looking for 11 mile. We hit exit 21.
“11 Mile!” I shout.
“We found it!” She shouts.
We’re so thrilled with ourselves. We haven’t gotten killed on our road trip to Detroit! We exit the highway and follow BabyDaddy’s instructions to his house…until we realize that this doesn’t look like the nice suburbia neighborhood that I remember.
I realize this when a purple car pulls up next to us at a red light. It had lights underneath it. It is bouncing. And the large men in the front seat are giving us the nod. One of them mentions to me to roll my window down.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” I whisper.
“Do not. Look at them.” My roommate is staring straight ahead, eyes locked on the road.
We pull forward as the light turns green. I scramble for my phone and call TheCousin.
“We got off the highway and we don’t know where we are and there are scary people and BabyDaddy got me lost,” I tell him instead of a greeting.
TheCousin laughs at me and asks where we are. He says to pull over in a public location and that he’ll come find us and lead us to safety.
We hide out in a Wendy’s and eat frosty’s with the doors locked until he gets there. I jump out of the car and give him a huge hug.
He’s still laughing at me. “How the hell did you end up here?“
It’s my birthday weekend. GoldDust and I have dressed up and are prepared to paint the town red. The destination? Royal Oak. I’ve never been out there before. I’m useless, direction-wise.
GoldDust is texting JukeBox. He’s asking where we’re going. She tells him the location, and he replies:
No one goes there.
We shrug this off, and park GoldDust’s rabbit. She pulls up the bar on her GPS and off we go. Her iPhone is telling us we’re only a couple blocks away, which seems okay to walk…says the two girls in five inch heels.
After walking awhile, the only thing I’m thinking of is to concentrate on walking and not falling. Eyes on the sidewalk. Nothing else matters except staying upright. Normally, I’m intoxicated when I’m thinking like this. But that’s the only thing I’m concentrating on.
“It should be…right…here,” GoldDust is glaring at her screen. She hands me the phone. “It says we’re here.”
She’s right. The blue dot is right on top of where the bar supposedly is. I look around. There is nothing that looks like a bar around us. I look back down at the phone. It blinks cheerily at me, announcing our arrival.
Then the blue dot flicks me off, then moves to another block away.
Fucking GPS making me walk further in my five inch heels.
No wonder JukeBox told GoldDust that no one goes to this bar. It’s because no one can find it.
We finally discover the Lost Bar of Atlantis. Sit, order, put up your feet. We were supposed to meet up with Tits McGee, but she’s nowhere to be found. JukeBox was talking about meeting up with us too, but he’s sidetracked in some other area of the D.
“What are your thoughts?” GoldDust asks me.
I think we both know that getting lost in R.O. is a buzzkill on the night. We decide to carry our heels, walk back to the car, and call it a night.
…which we do…
Until we’re walking down the street, barefoot, and GoldDust proclaims,
“Where the hell did we park?!”
I had this whole post I was going to write about how I’m on this letter writing kick. Seriously. It’s my latest obsession.
I’ve hashtagged it. I’m trying to use up all the stationary I’ve accumulated over my life, which is an excessive amount.
Do you want a letter on Pohacco stationary? I’ve got that. Hello Kitty? Got it. Beatles notecards? I’ve got oodles. Those dollar bins at Target tend to sell cute little notecards, and they are only ONE DOLLAR. I must buy them. In case, you know, I write letters someday. Like today.
But while I was prepping to write this great post about letters and HOW YOU CAN GET ONE FROM ME, complete with doodles and Gelly Roll writing, I decided that I needed some inspiration.
I head to iTunes, ready to sing along to “Amsterdam” by Guster.
I wanna write you a letter, wanna write you a book…wanna…NOT BE ABLE TO PLAY THE SONG BECAUSE MY HARD DRIVE IS NOT WORKING.
I seriously start hyperventilating. My life is on this hard drive. All my music, every single photo I’ve taken since I got a digital camera back in 2005, every book I’ve written, homework going back to at least the seventh grade (God only knows why I’ve kept that), my effing TAXES, did I mention EVERY SINGLE PHOTO THAT I’VE TAKEN SINCE 2005?!
My first thought is to call theAsian and cry. Since he is 100% Asian, he has a tendency to be able to save my life when technology fails. Which is a lot.
Maybe it’s because my parents decided to marry and thus create a little half n’ half baby. But Technology and I do not get along. Someone told me once that I need to defriend Technology. And they are correct.
Case in Point:
I finally get an iPhone. It’s so shiny and pretty and the best phone I’ve ever had. Two weeks after getting it, I’m biking to soccer practice. I put the iPhone into my sweatshirt. The sweatshirt into my stuff sack. When I get to the field, the screen somehow managed to crack to oblivion.
“Did you drop it?” asks HSM while I cry to him at the Apple store. “You have to drop it just right for this to happen.”
“It was wrapped up in my sweatshirt in my bag on my back!” I wail.
He shakes his head. “This would only happen to you.”
While typing one day, LeBebe tries to Houdini out of his playpen (He’s just learning to walk at this point).
I immediately jump up to catch him, and when I’m holding him and telling him why we do not climb out of our playpen, I turn to see my computer. Which I dropped on the floor. Oops.
“I brought a computer for you,” I tell theAsian.
He laughs. “I’m guessing that means it’s broken?”
“No,” I say defensively. “It works!”
“I dropped it and the screen flashes now.”*
I load all of my worldly possessions onto a hard drive to attempt to keep my computer from being overloaded. I go to plug in said hard drive and it will. not. load. It won’t even recognize. I take the thing to Best Buy. Geek Squad, save me.
“I can’t figure it out.” The guy hands it back to me, shaking his head. “It should work fine, but it doesn’t even want to load.”
“What about my files?” I am about to cry.
“SOL.” He shakes his head at me. “But I won’t charge you since we couldn’t fix it.”**
I buy a new digital camera. A few weeks into owning it, Macy and I are out and it somehow drops and breaks.
We go to a casino. I win big money. I buy a new camera.
Fast forward five months. Macy and I are at a hockey game. I put the camera into my pocket. We climb on a tree.
I wake up and the camera screen has cracked.
Technology. Hates. Me.***
*Normally, I don’t drop things. Technology just blows up on me. I have witnesses.
**theAsian managd to successfully pull all my data off the broken hard drive and put it onto a new drive. Fuck you, Geek Squad.
***Feel free to donate to the “Buy L.A. a new hard drive foundation.” It will be my third hard drive. Although, I did manage to get it to connect by using a camera USB cord. I just can’t touch it, or it yells at me and starts making scary noises.