Stuck

Written back in March and never published, although I'm not sure why. Publishing now because all of this is still true, tragically, although I am getting better at embracing my bohemian lifestyle and ability to pay bills (most of them, anyway) with my freelance work.

I am stuck, once again, working for King V. Only now it's part-time, the pay is far less than when I was important full-time, one of our clients is irritating as fuck, and I don't get to complain because beggars don't get to be choosers. I expressed dissatisfaction about the neurotic client we're stuck working with and King V told me to suck it up. He claims I have a choice if I want to work with the client after his (King V's) contract expires this fall, but I don't see how it's true. King V insists I can do the work in the evenings and on the weekends and still maintain a full-time job during the day. He's desperate -- without entirely saying so -- for me to take over his business, which I don't want to do. I can understand that he doesn't want to see the business close, but there's something he's clearly not getting. I am stuck with phrases in my throat like It's time. You have to stop trying to control my life. Let go. Stop telling me what I can handle.

* * * * *

I am stuck in an apartment beneath people I literally had to yell at the other night because they were tap dancing at 9 p.m. The landlord doesn't care. King V thinks I need to sit them down -- two hyperactive Gen Yers who clearly don't care how many times I complain about noise -- and have a face-to-face discussion. Hopefully King V will be just as forthcoming with the advice when he's visiting me in prison.

* * * * *

I am stuck in a city with no IKEA. That's just cruel.

* * * * *

I am stuck between the urge to find a "real" job and the desire to stop looking because it's clearly not going to happen and if I continue to pray/talk to the Goddess in the way I do, maybe something like freelance editing will come through, or any kind of opportunity that wouldn't be too soul sucking and would allow me to pay the bills AND eat AND buy something from Etsy every once in a while oh please oh please oh please Goddess let it happen and happen soon. I am one tired little locomotive and it's getting harder and harder to fake steam.

Consumerism (and more)

Post originally scheduled for November 28

I want to own almost nothing, live in one room, and soak up the simplicity of life. I started feeling this way a couple years ago at least when I realized or accepted that my apartment is too big and the clutter I am exceedingly good at ignoring is threatening to suffocate me. I felt a little better when the coldest winds of winter struck and I moved my bed into the living room. I am away from a drafty window I never got around to insulating and feel a bit like I live in a studio, which I have thought a lot about doing once I move. The only drawback to studio living would be a close proximity to two cats and a litterbox. BLEARGH.

At the same time that I want to pare down and sell, give away, or burn most of the things I own, I want to go to Target or (and!) IKEA and have a retailgasm. I want to lose my mind buying sheets and towels and bathroom sets in patterns that complement the wall color in the boudoir. I want a stocked linen closet so I can open my guest room -- painted a pale shade of blue, bright white accessories, starring a conversation-starting duvet -- to friends passing through town and pull out a blanket, extra pillows, a towel and washcloth set without a moment's hesitation. I want to provide for the ones I love. I crave a security I do not and have not felt for close to eight years.

I overwhelmed by all the things in my apartment: Tote bags full of recycling that never make it to the bins at the park. Boxes of paper that need to be shredded. Old magazines I don't want to throw away because I might read them someday and if I'm not going to read them then shouldn't I make a very cool collage and ohmyGOD why am I not making more art and living my purpose and finishing that painting leaning against the wall and why haven't I cleaned up that mustard stain yet or recycled those pizza boxes or taken that lamp to Goodwill or bought some decent silverware I'm 40 goddamn years old I should own a set of silverware. And china. I should own some china. Because that's what people DO. And I should be married. Just think. If I get married, I can get stuff.

When I was 17, I saw Thelma and Louise in the theatre. In one of the scenes, a song called The Ballad of Lucy Jordan plays, whose chorus is "At the age of 37, she realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." The words impact me today almost as much as they did in 1991. While I'm not trapped in suburbia with a husband and kids, I feel like... I hate to say I'm too old to live out of a backpack and take the train across Europe, but my first thought (excuse) as to why I can't is "I have cats." If the cats are taken care of, then I worry about money. I don't feel like I can be carefree and get away from it all, but mostly because I don't know how to make it happen.

I know that if I gave up my apartment and sold/trashed/gifted what I didn't want to keep -- which isn't much, I realize, as I look around the living room alone -- a big weight would be lifted off my shoulders. My primary expense is rent and coming up with the money without a job and without unemployment insurance is proving more and more difficult. Most of my other expenses are related to living here. Once I have walls, I need heat (or cool) and light and of course I need the Internet.

Without those bills, my shoulders could cease being ear rests. I don't know where I would live, what I would do for money, or what life would be like if I couldn't live with my cats, but something needs to give. I might never become a traveling poet who lives out of a suitcase, hoping my next gig will pay me enough to get to the next town, but stuff is weighing me down -- mental, emotional, and physical stuff -- and I have to get out from under it before I start singing Lucy's soft song.

Gratitude (All is well)

Post originally scheduled for November 27

I am grateful for so much.

I have a family I love.

I have friends who are smart, good, kind, and funny.

I have my writing and my art.

I have a new mattress, courtesy of King V and Queen S, which has made sleeping a joy again. I'd been sleeping on a bed that was almost 12 years old and had springs poking through its cover. I no longer wake up sore or have to dodge pokey things when I go to bed. (That's what she said -- hey o!)

I am grateful the mini-flood that happened in my folks' basement while they were out of town was contained by a floor drain and a fast-acting plumber. And me not losing my shit.

I'm grateful the plumber hit on me before he left because it made me feel pretty.

I am grateful my old car continues to run.

I am grateful, amazed, and thankful to King V, the Goddess, and the Universe that money shows up right when I need it most.

I am grateful for the years I was able to draw unemployment assistance. (I would be super mega squee-worthy bouncy happy happy joy chocolate joy surprise bunnies! grateful if that assistance would start up again. Bills don't stop and I'll be damned if I can't find my seeds to grow a money tree.)

I am grateful I no longer work in a terrible environment and that I feel a deep, calm happy most days, even if my serenity borders on boredom and coma. (I have plenty to do around the house. I just don't want to and there's no one to hold me accountable, so....)

I am grateful the one-year anniversary of leaving said bad job found me giddy instead of depressed.

I am extremely grateful depression hasn't reared its ugly head recently and that I haven't been spending my days feeling sad and trapped.

I am grateful Netflix exists and releases entire seasons of House of Cards all at once, even if I binged on season two in about a day-and-a-half and probably now have to wait a year for season three.

I am grateful the front porch hipsters are gone as often as they are and that I have earplugs for when they are home.

I am grateful I've cleared four hurdles in pursuit of a job with a organization that helps people. I will be especially grateful if they stick to their promise and contact me tomorrow about an in-person interview. I will be squishy pink unicorn biscuits and gravy grateful if they offer me the job. (Especially if that happens soon.)

I am grateful for Spotify.

I am grateful no one just saw me lip synching to an Aretha song.

I am grateful ice cream exists, even if I don't have any.

I am grateful a delivery driver from a local restaurant and, later, a blog reader inquired about my well-being after I hadn't been around in a while. It's nice to know people care, even if you don't really know them.

Family

Post originally scheduled for November 26

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I was thrilled to find out yesterday that my parents have only invited over my aunts and one uncle for Christmas dinner. The past few years have been a mishmash of relatives and my parents weird-ass friends. Last year, I was seated next to one of my dad's friends, a man who tragically resembles Charles Manson, and his loud girlfriend. I watched her graze on the paella Mack Daddy Smooth had prepared and wondering if I was ever going to be able to escape. If you never stop putting one large spoonful after another of food on your plate, we're never going to be able to move on to the next course and I will be stuck on this uncomfortable wooden chair all night and I don't know how I'm going to get out of here and before I literally started hyperventilating, I said I was too warm and went in the living room to calm down. King V followed me, unfortunately, and I tried to explain that I needed a minute. I don't think he understands introversion or anxiety or panic attacks, which makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed, and in the moment, I am too flustered to explain properly. We also have 'I don't understand your issue' history. Years ago when I worked for him, I called in sick for two days once because I had a migraine (and, on the second day, a kind of migraine hangover). When I returned to work, he told me he had decided one day, years ago, that he no longer wanted to have migraines and they just stopped. I had to leave the room because it was the closest I have ever come to actually wanting to stab someone.

Thankfully, this Christmas will be restricted to my parents, my brother, two aunts, and one of the aunt's husbands, which means we'll be able to sit at one table. I won't have to play nice with serial killers and chatterboxes of questionable sanity and talent. I won't be shoved in the corner (insert Dirty Dancing moment here) and I can just be with people I actually like and love. Also, there will be liquor. And pie.

Object(s) close to me

Post originally scheduled for November 24

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1. Water bottle, almost empty
2. Diet Coke can, empty
3. Orange patchouli lotion
4. Stuffed pony wearing a birthday hat
5. An envelope with almost $5 in dimes to be taken to the bank, rolled, and deposited
6. A check with my landlord's name scrawled next to PAY TO THE ORDER OF as though I was possessed by a drunk toddler. Note: Write out rent checks the night before, kids, or you're just going to have to start over.
7. Tweezers
8. A cap to a missing 20-ounce Dr. Pepper bottle
9. A headband
10. A plastic cup with packets of mild Taco Bell hot sauce
11. Napkins
12. Pens
13. My phone
14. Cordless mouse
15. Tortilla chips
16. Earrings
17. Cell phone adapter
18. Takeout menus
19. A straw
20. A bottle of hydrogen peroxide

That's not even all. My house is a mess.

Fences

Post originally scheduled for November 23

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Whenever I think of fences, I think of this relational psychology test. I've never been a fan of fences. They seem restrictive and unwelcoming. Certainly there are some very nice fence designs, but I think I'm drawn to those you can see through, like wrought iron. Maybe you can't move the bars, but you can see what's on the other side. I'm sure there's something deeply psychological about what I just said and whatever else I could say about fence design. I don't like chain link fences. They look cheap, flimsy, and awful. I lived inside a gated community when I left my parents' house for the last time and it was much more of a hassle than it was protective. Cars would bulk up at the entrance and scoot through in a clot when someone used their pass to trigger the sensor. There was nothing but waiting when you were in a hurry to get home or leave, which I pretty much always was. I didn't feel any safer there than I did living in 'open' complexes. If bad guys want to get in, they're going to find a way.

The fence around my parents' backyard looked nice when it was first installed, but the wood weathered to that flat, dirty grey years and years ago. If I ever own their house, I'm changing out the fence. Because the neighborhood is on the edge of sketchy, I'd prefer it be another fence you can't see through. But I also say that because I want to put in a pool where I can go skinny dipping.

Given that there's a Catholic church next door, I'll probably invest in a roof too.

Fuck

Fuck is easily my favorite swear word. It would also be my answer if I was ever on Inside the Actors' Studio and James Lipton asked me what my favorite word was. It's so versatile -- in fact, I just whispered it, made it into a drawl, and sang it. (I live alone. FREEDOM!!) It's just -- well, I just can't really say what it is I like about it. It's a tiny little word with a great big presence. It's simply fanfuckingtastic.

Please to enjoy the following video, "The F Word," which will be a special treat for English majors, writers, and linguaphiles everywhere.

Life lesson

I think it's appropriate that the topic on my 40th birthday is life lesson. Best lesson I probably ever learned? Don't settle. Don't settle for a shirt you ordered that doesn't quite fit, a sandwich at a restaurant that includes something you specifically said no to, or a relationship that isn't working for you. I've done all those things and more -- wore the shirt I was uncomfortable in, repeatedly taken the onions off a sandwich, and dated a woman whose claim to fame was keeping a jar of pickle juice in my fridge and her Law and Order DVDs strewn about my living room. I may have to try on a thousand shirts, switch restaurants, and be single for longer than I'd prefer, but I'm living life on my terms and taking the little steps that add up into one, big happy.

My favorite holiday

Hands down, my favorite holiday is Christmas. There are several reasons why this is true.

I still believe in Santa

I'm serious. Not like a wide-eyed, three-year-old kid believes in Santa. In a healthy, adult, electricity-still-feels-like-magic, it-could-happen way. It feels wrong to give up all hope that Santa exists, even though lots of killjoys like to post facts about how Santa would liquefy if he actually tried to deliver presents around the world in one night. Or his stomach would explode from eating all the cookies kids leave out. Whatever. What I'm holding onto -- more than sleighs, elves, and presents that magically appear -- is a feeling I had when I was a kid. Mack Daddy Smooth and I would get up WAY too early (it was ALWAYS dark when we slid out of bed) and creep to the living room to see if Santa had been by yet. I remember the wide-eyed wonder and gasping aloud at all the unwrapped presents waiting for us. I remember the year MDS received a bright yellow fireman's helmet complete with a light and siren. He flipped a switch and the living room lit up as red light bounced off the walls. The helmet's insanely loud bleating probably scared the shit out of our parents. I think it was 2:00 a.m., which means they'd probably been in bed for an hour. And yet they wonder why they aren't grandparents yet.

I no longer work in retail

For years, I hated Christmas. HATED. The day I got to spend with my family didn't mean shit because I'd been at work the day before, would be in the store the next day, and had been dealing with the oncoming holiday since at least August. This was even in the '90s, long before stores started opening on Black Friday at 3:00 a.m. and before the Internet took over the entire world (or even existed if we're talking about my teen years). All I knew of Christmas was long lines, mean -- MEAN -- people, and numbly sliding boxes of toys and books into dark sacks so surprises wouldn't be ruined. I remember reading a manual when I was working in retail management that explained what days I would have to work in order to qualify for holiday pay. It was always December 24 and 26. No excuses. The instant I realized I was always going to always be screwed out of a decent holiday with my family, I knew I wasn't going to pursue managing my own store. No customer is worth that shiz.

Mack Daddy Smooth comes home

MDS has lived out of state since the end of the '90s, which barely seems possible. He might make it home twice a year, but usually it's only at Christmas. Several of my friends can attest to my excitement when December rolls around. You know how it is when you're apart from someone you love. You don't want to waste a second of their visit, but of course he needs to spend time with my parents and with his friends. Generally the 10 or so days he's home go by in a flash and then he's gone again and my heart is broken, but I hold onto the moments we get to chill in the kitchen while he cooks, or when we chat while I wrap his presents for him. (Otherwise my parents get presents that appear to have been wrapped by drunk toddlers.) It's weird to think of him as a man, but I guess he is. He'll be 38 next month, but of course he's always going to be the little brother I wrapped in a blanket and popped on the head with a pillow when we played Toothpaste, a short- and short-lived game we made up as kids. Yeah, we were kind of strange. Or maybe it was just me and he was gullible. Now he's a professional who lives halfway around the world, loves surfing, and talks about how he's starting to go bald. He'll be here in 29 days. I can't wait.

The house feels good

While MDS and my mom are in the kitchen cooking amazing things, King V and I tend to putter around the house decorating. Dad sets out the candle holders and creche scenes that our family has owned since I was a kid. I'm tasked with adding and lighting tea lights, and both parents gripe at me and MDS to help decorate the tree. I like the way the house feels: it's warm, it smells great, all the comforting memorabilia makes an appearance, and, if we're lucky, it's snowing outside. There's something so great about stomping up the walk in messy boots, laden with bags, and being welcomed into the house as though I'm a long-lost traveler. To make my mother happy, I tend to stay over on Christmas Eve, even though it means seriously uncomfortable sleeping. A few years ago, it was a foldout couch with the inevitable bar that dug into my back. After the couch was replaced, it was the new couch that's covered in a fabric I can only describe as some combination of glue and Velcro. Last year, it was a creaky twin bed I feared I would fall off during the night. It's okay that I don't sleep well or much. I'm waiting up for Santa anyway.