Category Archives: My ghetto-fab life

May 8, 2013 · 11:47 am

My Little Black Desk.

It all started with a fateful trip to Ethan Allen.

I should clarify that I was not furniture shopping at Ethan Allen. This is NOT like the very first time that I ever met Kellan’s sister Keri for coffee at the Mad Hatter cafe, and I walked in sheepishly holding a bottle of Figi water. To my great chagrin, Kellan had INSISTED on buying it for me earlier in the day even though everybody knows that nothing makes you look like you think you’re Madonna faster than a bottle of Figi water.  I wish I could tell you that I didn’t spend ten minutes in a fluster attempting to explain the whole I-didn’t-want-this-Figi-water-I’m-really-not-a-diva situation to Keri…but sadly, that would be a lie.

It was love at first sip. Keri and I have been like peas and carrots ever since.

But no, that day at Ethan Allen was actually an accident. After weeks of eating dinner on the kitchen floor and sharing our ONE black hand-me-down recliner [bohemian and romantic? Yes. Squished? Also yes.] Kellan and I began hunting for furniture at every super-sized furniture warehouse and Walmart in Albany. One weary, gray afternoon as Fancy and I puttered down the road, I spotted an Ethan Allen design center out of the corner of my eye. Recognizing the name and armed with no other information whatsoever, I pulled into the parking lot, waltzed in the front door and immediately realized that there were a myriad of fantastic bargains to be had as long as you didn’t consider the US dollar to be an actual measure of currency.

But y’all. It was all just so breathtakingly beautiful and homey that I was absolutely compelled to wander the store. Just to see. Just to daydream a little bit about maybe-one-day.

And that’s when I spotted it.

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A little black desk tucked away in a corner underneath an oversized window. Simple, dainty and elegant, it had antique looking legs and a little drawer that looked suspiciously like it might just be the perfect size for stowing my laptop. Never had I ever fallen in love with a piece of furniture before, but I knew without hesitation or reservation that this was the real thing.

Hello little black desk. Let’s run away together. And get married. And have kids and drive them to soccer practice.

I could see my little black desk and I living happily ever after, spending hours together writing the next great American Novel while Kellan spent his new found free hours training for a triathalon and falling asleep to the soothing lull of ESPN. How could I say no to something that would CLEARLY dramatically improve the quality of my marriage!? How grossly irresponsible would that be!?

…alas, reason dictated that there were more pressing purchases to be made—and my torrid affair with the little black desk ended before it began in favor of a stable and committed relationship with a very sensible cream colored couch at a store across town. All too soon, my little black desk and I were forced to bid each other a tearful goodbye. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea of it when I got home.

And out of the idea of it, friends, is where the new name for this blog was born. While the desk that I use to write happens to be Kellan’s ancient put-it-together-yourself contraption from the Walmarts and thus looks approximately nothing like the desk of my dreams, I do write my stories from a little black desk. And while I love the stacks of blogs floating around about the latest trends or how to make your hair look like Jennifer Aniston’s [and don’t let my hair deceive you: I read and enjoy those blogs!], mine is nothing like that. Here, you’ll just find stories. Stories from My Little Black Desk.

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Filed under Blogging, My ghetto-fab life, Then I found $5.00

May 23, 2012 · 2:57 pm

Ladies Who [Are Out To] Lunch.

My 25th birthday was hallmarked by the rather terrifying realization that it’s finally happening. In a sort of “I still vaguely recall what to do with this tooth brush” kind of way, I am officially losing my mind.

It became impossible to deny the blatantly obvious when at approximately 8:20 AM on Monday morning, I discovered that I had walked out of my house, driven to work and sat down at my desk wearing two entirely different shoes. Justin Timberlake and I are in the business of bringing sexy back, and we’d appreciate it if you would simply leave us to it.

I felt very “ladies who lunch” sitting in my skirt and mismatched footwear. They added a certain “Je ne sais quoi” to my outfit-and technically, I AM a lady, and I DID eat lunch on Monday. Even if lunch consisted of a rather suspect stalk of celery, four limp grapes and a cube of Munster cheese. It might have been alone under fluorescent lighting, and it might not have been white wine and a strawberry salad, but there is no shame in lunches comprised out of the dregs of my refrigerator! Or in eating Nutella straight out of the jar with a spoon. Or taking purple Flintstone vitamins for adults.

There is no shame in that.

My fading mind is frazzled. Which is unfortunate, because I used to be able to remember an impressive variety of things and have now reached a point where the only thing I can recall with total clarity are the words to approximately every. single. Rascal Flatts song. Which is a handy life skill.

Sadly, I’m not even sure that Sudoku can help me now. …especially because I’m not entirely positive that I correctly understand how to do Sudoku.

Give it to me straight: is everything just downhill after twenty five? At this rate by the time I’m thirty, you’ll find me wandering your local Walmart parking lot and rummaging through their recyclables.

…while eating a strawberry salad.

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Filed under First World Problems, Life at the Frat House, My ghetto-fab life

November 2, 2011 · 12:57 am

Occupy Halloween. [Crayons Aren't Sexy.]

It is with morbid fascination and not a little exasperation every Halloween that I watch co-eds at UNC prance around in glorified doilies, making it impossible to determine whether they’re trying to get candy or Japanese business men.

I blame Obamacare.

Mistaking Chapel Hill for the Redlight District in Prague, they masquerade as trashy cops, skanky bumble bees, and whorish Crayola crayons. [Though truthfully, if you can channel your inner trollop into a crayon, my hat goes off to you. …now go use it to cover up.]

Yesterday, Kellan and I made a last minute decision to venture out to Franklin Street-where thousands of elaborately costumed ghouls, goblins and Steve Jobs’ were braving the cold to participate in the most spooktacular event of the season.

Having failed to give any prior thought at all to our costumes, and much too proud to join the masses without one, my genius boyfriend had a brilliant idea: we could occupy Halloween!

We quickly threw this together:

Let me tell you: I fit right in with the crayon-whores.

Our visit to the actual Occupy Chapel Hill protest site! ...these men are not in costume. They're just our new anarchist friends.

Kellan confidently strutted around all evening looking for all the world like someone who might commission oil paintings of his Yorkshire Terrier, while I gave off the distinct impression that I’d just finished rummaging through the recyclables.

Thoroughly self-amused, we grinned the whole way up and down Franklin Street-channeling our inner Miley Cyrus as drag queens and Michael Jacksons asked to take our picture. I think the fact that we were holding hands made it all the more comical-I received more than one comment about “fraternizing with the enemy”.

I know, I know. But I have such a very. large. crush on the enemy.

I can’t even help it.

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Filed under My ghetto-fab life

August 29, 2011 · 2:27 pm

Cover Me!

"Super Asian Buffet". I made her do this. It's amazing that I have any friends at all...

As much as I’m enjoying life at the frat house [read: my part time job at Summit], a recent gander at my bank account prompted a rather frenzied attempt to find a second job last week.

Well, if I’m honest, my first instinct was not so much to scour the internet for available jobs as it was to channel the old couple in Titanic, lay down and pretend nothing was happening.

Not. An option.

And so I googled. I yahoo’d. I craigslisted, want-added, and even trianglehelpwanted.com’d. [“Long name, amazing results” my BEHIND.] I was looking for something that might allow me to write-because something about writing makes me feel. It makes me remember. It makes me avoid doing laundry-and that just feels right.

The results were so depressing, that the only possible thing left to do is blog about them. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my top four options:

  1. “Author wanted for humorous hunting and fishing blog.” How would I spin my cover letter for this baby? “Dear Sir, I believe I would present a unique asset to your blog, because I bring a distinctly raw, human perspective to the table. In fact, the last time I caught a fish, I sobbed the entire time that I watched it gasp for breath and die. Admittedly, I have never hunted, but I did watch Bambi as a child, and my therapist has high hopes for my full recovery. Truthfully, you needn’t be concerned about my lack of experience in this area, given that I have never sustained a head injury and thus have full confidence in my ability to pick it up. Is it anything like camping? I once stayed in a Holiday Inn, and thus, am an expert at roughing it. “
  2.  “Author wanted for crocheting blog”.  “Dear Madam, I am tickled pink at the prospect of writing crocheting tutorials for your blog, mostly because the idea of showing up to work in my yoga pants looking like an uncooked chicken leg makes me want to burst into song. While I have never crocheted, my neighbor does have a cat-which I presume qualifies me to speak authoritatively on the subject.
  3.  “Original erotic stories wanted.” “Dear Sir, while the idea of writing for you is simply fascinating, my Mother once told me to “stick with what you know”. Thus, I believe my talents might be better put to use devising crocheting tutorials for the masses. Crocheting is my life. Mr. Whiskers and I thank you for your time.”
  4. “Seeking a Chinese Interpreter” “Dear Madam, you are probably unaware that one of my best friends is Indonesian. This qualifies as “relevant work experience”, because I thought she was Chinese for approximately the first six months of our relationship. While I do not exactly speak Chinese, I have developed an unnatural fondness for Hello Kitty and Pokémon that I feel would endear me to your clients in a way that language could not-after all, where language fails: Hello Kitty speaks. For your consideration, I would also like to point out that I once had a wicked case of food poisoning after eating sweet and sour pork, and thus feel as though your country owes me something.”

It’s back to the drawing board, with me.

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Filed under My favorite people, My ghetto-fab life

June 18, 2011 · 12:26 am

See, What Had Happened Was…[Spilling the Beans.]

Sun-drenched mornings are meant to be orchestrated to the intoxicating tune of percolating coffee. Mornings beg for coffee.

As do bagels.

And oxygen.

This morning was no different. I rolled off my mat on the floor and groggily stumbled into the kitchen-where with great delight, I discovered that it was new-bag-of-coffee-day.

This is something that only coffee drinkers can understand. Those of you that prefer to avoid legal addictive stimulants [and truly, I salute you!] will simply have to trust me on this one- there’s just something about opening a brand new, vacuum-sealed bag of coffee that tickles the imagination and causes a piece of you to come alive.

With a sleepily satisfied smile, I opened the cupboard and pulled out a fresh bag of hazelnut crème coffee. To my unspeakable horror, two roaches the size of small kittens promptly fell off of the offending bag and onto the floor, where they scurried about in a frenzied attempt to find somewhere to hide.

Not that they needed to. I was approximately eighteen steps ahead of them, and had already run hollering from the kitchen looking for a place that I could hide.

I would rather die of exposure than deal with a roach.

However, I would rather deal with a roach than miss my morning coffee.  Without my first cup of coffee, I find it utterly impossible to laugh, operate heavy machinery or have any discernible personality whatsoever. If you’re a chocolate-swirl, spattering of peppermint pieces, dash of cinnamon, dollop of whipped cream kind of person; you likely view coffee as more of a recreational activity. Now, that’s just fine-but some of us have a genuine, medical need for the stuff if we are to deal with the people around us in a nonviolent manner. And unfortunately, said roaches stood between me and my first pot of coffee-thus, all was not right in Whoville.

I stood hesitantly outside of my kitchen, braving the elements and desperately attempting to work up the gumption to battle the bugs. My un-caffeinated stand-off with the roaches lasted approximately seven excruciating minutes, before my menacing can of Raid and I manned up and determined to rescue my beloved coffee pot-and, by association, my sanity.

Both roaches had, of course, long since escaped-[and are presumably currently snuggled up under a bag of French Vanilla]-and so I made my café au lait in tentative peace, being careful to pick around the dead ants in the sugar bag as I measured out a teaspoon.

12.

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Filed under My ghetto-fab life, Senegal