I think I might be an eccentric

Earlier today Jennifer "Sigh"ya Savage asked me if I was going to bleggg tonight. I said no, trying to pretend I had better stuff to do.

Well I am, and I don't.

I also was a little hesitant to write anything because I'm starting to feel like this blog is a big Thanksgiving Day Parade float for my ego. (It's got like 6 chicks in spandex riding on it and a spinny cupola covered in flowers. The float is playing "It's a Small World After All" but I think some water got in the music machine because it's coming out really slowly and all distorted-like. It's a pretty creepy float.) But then I says to myself, I says "Self, stop being douchy. It's your blog. You can write whatever you want. They don't have to read it. And if they do read it and judge it harshly they are ugly, and live small, sad lives." So that little chat with m'self made me feel oodles better. Also I realized that I don't have too much fodder for blog posts these days other than my dark, twisted Turkey Day float of a mind. I haven't watched TV in like a month and a half. (JEN! GET UP! BREATHE! Here. Drink this ranch dressing. See? All better.) I mean I read People.com and shit, but there's not even anything going on in celeb world. Pregnant man gives birth? THAT'S A CHICK! WITH SHORT HAIR! Also, Heather Locklear's depression does not for a radical blog post make. So it's back to me. And my apparent eccentricity.
I began to ponder this potential eccentricity this afternoon as I was walking to my yoga class. Aforementioned yoga class is approximately 2.5 miles from my home. I put on my yogatume and skipped out the front door. I grabbed my gallon jug of water (with no top!), my shiny black patent leather evening clutch and iPod, walked right past my perfectly good car with a full tank of gas and headed on my merry way. Yoga class started at 5:30pm. I left the house at 4:40pm. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it only takes 50 minutes to walk 2.5 miles on the North face of Kilimanjaro. I cannot give myself less than 50 minutes to do anything. I have to meet someone a 5 minute walk from my house at 2pm? I'm leaving at 1:10pm. Job interview? Forget it. I'm leaving 2 hours ahead. If the job interview was at 12 noon on the first floor of the house that I lived in, I would leave my room to walk down 13 stairs at 10am. The only time I'm ever late is if I'm hung over. If I'm still drunk I'm even earlier that I would have been normally. I have distinct memories of browning in at work at 7am, hours before anyone else arrived, trying desperately to piece my morning together. (I don't even try with the nights anymore. They've gone the way of the vodka soaked Dodo.)
The first time the word "eccentric" actually entered my mind was when I was standing on the side of the road, holding my going-out clutch, halfway to yoga drinking out of the top-less water jug which I proceeded to spill all over myself. As I stood on the shoulder of the road with a water-soaked shirt listening to techno music at full blast and laughing at myself I thought, "Hey, this is a little weird. Am I weird? Nah. I'm eccentic!!"
Now, obviously this one event of semi-wierdness does not constitute an eccentric personality. There's more.
1. The early thing. It's pretty out of hand.
2. I often make a weird face when I hear a song I like. The face is a combination of when someone says something wicked obvious and when you see a really pronounced camel toe. I think you get the idea.
3. I will play the aforementioned great song on repeat. For days. And days. There is usually a pretty heated struggled going on in my head when I have an obsession with a song. After I've played it say, 14 times I'l l think to myself "Okay, just one more time." I will then come to 45 minutes later having had listened to the song 10 more times. Then I cry. (Just kidding.)
4. I often break up the repeated playing of aformentioned great song with intense bouts of house, trance and other techno music. I usually listen to this music really loud, whilst driving down the tree-lined, cobblestoned streets of Edgartown, MA. If any of you have ever been to E-Town you know what I'm saying. For those of you that haven't think about rocking out to "She Fucking Hates Me" by Puddle of Mud at your grandmother's birthday party. It's kind of exactly just like that.
5. I tend to go into wardrobe K-Holes. My current K-Hole consists of gold flip flops, awkward length cut-off jean shorts and a fedora. Yes, a fedora. I used to do this in college as well. I briefly attended (read: failed out of) a really small college in Florida which was the playground of the kids whose parents sent them away to hide them from their prep school coke busts. These people were rich and faaancy. I over heard a quote one day of a girl telling a friend about how she felt far away from her boyfriend. The friend replied "Oh you don't spend much time together?" The girl answered "Oh no, we see each other all the time. It's just that he drives a Hummer and the passenger seat and the drivers seat are so far apart!" (That's not a joke. I mean it is a joke in the "nice fucking life" sense, but that conversation actually happened.) I was surrounded on all sides by Lilly Pulitzer, Theory, Diane Von F, etc. I chose to walk around that place in white painter pants with stains on them and a mallard green v-neck sweater with a hole in the armpit. I think it might just be my way of rebelling against the man. In Edgartown I dress like someone out of Slash's Snake Pit, at Rollins I dressed like your high school Biology teacher who was accused of hooking up with the class slut in the cooler where they kept all of the dead frogs. I'm not sure I perpetrated such ensemble rebellion when I lived in NYC. Jen, can you think of an example? (Hold on, I've got an incoming email. Oh, it's from Tranny Air. She just wants to make sure we're still friends. )
6. In response to the question: "If you could have any pet in the world, what would it be?" My answer, "An ill tempered, genetically engineered 4 lb. hippopotamus with Crohn's Disease." Okay, I know what you're thinking. "That's a stupid fucking questions." Hippies. 'Nuff said. Also, you're probably asking "why the teeny hippo"? Well I'll tell you. Because who the fuck is going to love a monster like that? This tiny disaster bites you, farts and then poops on you. (Insert Olsen Twin joke here, I suppose.) And it has to be in water for a good portion of it's life so it lives in a gross pond and is probably slimy. Who's going to love him? Nobody. Except me. I'm going to be the only one in the world who loves him, and know what that means? That means I'm going to be the only one in the world who he loves. We'll love each other. Two against the world. He'll need me. To brush his four gross teeth. To change his diaper. To clean out his grimy baby pool. I will be the sun to his decroded Earth. DO YOU HEAR THAT RICHARD DREYFUSS? ANJELICA HOUSTON? MORGAN FREEMAN? I HAVE LOVE!! Dodi Al Faypottamus and I are very happy together. So you go off, date your "girls". Have your "lives" and your "families". Dodi and I will be here, sunning ourselves on the beach trying to clear up these rashes. WITHOUT YOU!!
7. I play the air drums when I go running. Like, a lot. The weirdest part of this idiosyncrasy is the running part. I've been a big exerciser for a long time now, but it still seems to strange to me that I do ridiculous things like "go jogging". I guess this is because the mental image that I've constructed of myself for myself, my "ego" if you will, is some combination of Andrew Dice Clay, Brigette Nielson and Kit from Night Rider. Needless to say, this amalgamation of awesomeness does not need to work out. So the running part is weird unto itself. But the drumming. Who does that? I've never even played the real drums. What in the world gave me the idea that I'm allowed to play the imaginary drums to the trance song that I've been listening to on repeat since I began this "jog" which fundamentally goes against ever fiber of my chauvinist, in-recovery, wicked-helpful-awesome-car being?
8. The "Dear Reader" thing. That was weird. I annoyed myself. Sorry about that.

I could go on, but I think you're picking up what I'm putting down. Also, I'm tired and I need to make up some excuse to the Ginger about how I have to wake up wicked early tomorrow and go "running". Or am I making the excuse to you? Who's the Ginger now, dear reader? Who's the Ginger now.