November 17, 2013
Sunday mornings
Start the day by sleeping in, however late that is. Amble towards a restaurant that serves a good, hearty breakfast. Dine with friends and laugh while drinking coffee doused in cream and perhaps sprinkled in sugar. Mosey towards a bookstore and browse. Sit in the stacks and flip through a picture book, or grab a chair near the window and talk memoirs as friends wander by with the books they're taking home. Hit up a coffeehouse and chat some more, or maybe do some writing. Share your words or save the file away for future review if friends have moved on to run errands at the hardware store, grocery, or that heady and exotic boutique that sells spices. Head home for an afternoon nap, curling into the softness of down, and sink deeply into dreams that will foster conversation at the dinner table. In the evening, please the palate with something made with patience and love. Enjoy a rich pasta with cream, a green salad dappled in vinaigrette, a wine touched with black cherry and oak. Nestle into an armchair in the living room as the conversation continues and the Cabernet gets polished off. Acknowledge the good weekend while preparing for the week ahead with planned outfits and easy-to-approach to-do lists. Know this day will come around again, perhaps looking very different. Church and croissants. Pancakes before painting. A quiet cup of tea in a delicate white mug before the greasy cloth and detective work of car repairs. Appreciate the slow day. Savor its significance as the second day of rest before the world starts up again.
November 16, 2013
Coffee
I really enjoy coffee, but don't drink it nearly as often as I would like. It's not that I lack a coffeemaker, a bean grinder, easy access to a Starbucks, or even a car to drive to the grocery store. It's just not something I think about often, even though I enjoy its rituals. I like the steps it takes to brew coffee, from the gush of water out of a weighty carafe to the smell of the grounds when I pop the lid off the coffee can. I'm bad about getting my coffee to water ratio correct, however, and tend to make the coffee too strong or too weak when I'm trying to make enough just for myself. Though it would be easier, I find something inherently sad in buying a machine that would only make one cup at a time. It's as though giving in to that purchase would be a needless reminder of being single, like buying single-serving frozen dinners and the sad music of taking one mug down from the kitchen cabinet.
I love drinking from large mugs I can wrap my hands around. The independent coffeehouse near my house serves a nice cuppa in a deep purple mug, which I have actually requested before, even though it made the barista look at me strangely before he admitted he too had a favorite mug. I like nibbling on something sweet with coffee, trading sips and bites while I browse Facebook or answer email. There's something sacred in going out for coffee, which is perhaps the best reason I don't make it at home. I don't care for overly sweetened varieties that are more dessert than coffee. I like a simple cup of regular, saying yes to 'Leave room for cream?,' and making my way to a table in the corner where I can people watch and chill. I may be enjoying my cup alone, but I'm surrounded by people with similar tastes on their tongues. It is in this unspoken camaraderie that I find myself at home.
I love drinking from large mugs I can wrap my hands around. The independent coffeehouse near my house serves a nice cuppa in a deep purple mug, which I have actually requested before, even though it made the barista look at me strangely before he admitted he too had a favorite mug. I like nibbling on something sweet with coffee, trading sips and bites while I browse Facebook or answer email. There's something sacred in going out for coffee, which is perhaps the best reason I don't make it at home. I don't care for overly sweetened varieties that are more dessert than coffee. I like a simple cup of regular, saying yes to 'Leave room for cream?,' and making my way to a table in the corner where I can people watch and chill. I may be enjoying my cup alone, but I'm surrounded by people with similar tastes on their tongues. It is in this unspoken camaraderie that I find myself at home.
November 14, 2013
Comfort
Every year for the past several years, I've attended a gay film festival with several friends near the end of January. It's generally a great time, full of laughter, excellent food, and life-affirming GLBT films. It's pretty nice to be somewhere for a long weekend and be able to be fully out and surrounded by like-minded folks and feel pretty darn okay about myself.
The film fest that took place at the beginning of this year was a little different, unfortunately. It was the weekend before I decided to leave the job I referenced in this post and I was a wreck. I was going to skip the festival and stay at home to wallow, I guess, but ended up going to the festival and hanging out with my friends. I was terribly out of sorts and fielding phone calls from my parents and lawyers (seriously) because of how bad things were and didn't get to fully enjoy the weekend, BUT I do remember the sleep I got at my friend's house the night I arrived.
My sweet friend Em lets me sleep in her bed when I visit. She beds down elsewhere with her partner and I'm treated to a luxuriously soft bed with scoonchy sheets (trust; it's a compliment) and several blankets that are great for warmth but also a kind of safe smothering, if that makes sense. I recently heard about people on the autism spectrum who use weighted blankets to help them keep calm, and it makes complete sense to me.
I like best being able to cocoon when I sleep and I desperately needed rest when I arrived at Em's house. I remember burrowing beneath the layers and letting out a sigh of relief. I got the kind of comfort I am missing at home with my wonderful, albeit solo, comforter on a mattress years past its expiration date.
I aspire to have soft pink sheets, thick blankets, quilts with history, the weight of warmth and safety, a haven from the outside world even when things are going all right. These things are currently labeled someday, but will eventually become my everyday comfort.
The film fest that took place at the beginning of this year was a little different, unfortunately. It was the weekend before I decided to leave the job I referenced in this post and I was a wreck. I was going to skip the festival and stay at home to wallow, I guess, but ended up going to the festival and hanging out with my friends. I was terribly out of sorts and fielding phone calls from my parents and lawyers (seriously) because of how bad things were and didn't get to fully enjoy the weekend, BUT I do remember the sleep I got at my friend's house the night I arrived.
My sweet friend Em lets me sleep in her bed when I visit. She beds down elsewhere with her partner and I'm treated to a luxuriously soft bed with scoonchy sheets (trust; it's a compliment) and several blankets that are great for warmth but also a kind of safe smothering, if that makes sense. I recently heard about people on the autism spectrum who use weighted blankets to help them keep calm, and it makes complete sense to me.
I like best being able to cocoon when I sleep and I desperately needed rest when I arrived at Em's house. I remember burrowing beneath the layers and letting out a sigh of relief. I got the kind of comfort I am missing at home with my wonderful, albeit solo, comforter on a mattress years past its expiration date.
I aspire to have soft pink sheets, thick blankets, quilts with history, the weight of warmth and safety, a haven from the outside world even when things are going all right. These things are currently labeled someday, but will eventually become my everyday comfort.
November 13, 2013
My favorite person
I am lucky that this prompt makes me think of a lot of people I know.
Today, it was my mom when we chatted about appliances (seriously) while drinking chai tea infused with milk.
A couple weeks ago, it was my brother when we chatted on Skype and he took his laptop out on the balcony to show me downtown Waikiki.
This afternoon, it was my dad when I looked at his grey-and-white hair and realized I still think of him as having brown hair.
Last week, it was my friend Luckdragon and her blog posts that are delicious, fun, and a glimpse into a life I wouldn't mind living.
Years ago, long before he passed away, my favorite person was my paternal grandfather, whose whiskers I can still feel 'burn' my cheek from kissing him hello and goodbye.
It was my paternal grandmother and her handwritten letters that started with phrases like Tuesday morning instead of the date. Years before she too passed away, we lost her to dementia. I'm glad to have some of her authentic self saved in a box with other written correspondence I have long cherished.
A couple days ago, it was my friend Schwa who reminded me how much I love Ze Frank's "True Facts" videos. We chatted for more than four hours and that night I went to bed with sore stomach muscles because I'd laughed so much.
The night before that, it was a friend for whom I have long felt a deep love who told me that visual art may be my passion, but writing is my calling.
I'm a lucky grrl, no?
Today, it was my mom when we chatted about appliances (seriously) while drinking chai tea infused with milk.
A couple weeks ago, it was my brother when we chatted on Skype and he took his laptop out on the balcony to show me downtown Waikiki.
This afternoon, it was my dad when I looked at his grey-and-white hair and realized I still think of him as having brown hair.
Last week, it was my friend Luckdragon and her blog posts that are delicious, fun, and a glimpse into a life I wouldn't mind living.
Years ago, long before he passed away, my favorite person was my paternal grandfather, whose whiskers I can still feel 'burn' my cheek from kissing him hello and goodbye.
It was my paternal grandmother and her handwritten letters that started with phrases like Tuesday morning instead of the date. Years before she too passed away, we lost her to dementia. I'm glad to have some of her authentic self saved in a box with other written correspondence I have long cherished.
A couple days ago, it was my friend Schwa who reminded me how much I love Ze Frank's "True Facts" videos. We chatted for more than four hours and that night I went to bed with sore stomach muscles because I'd laughed so much.
The night before that, it was a friend for whom I have long felt a deep love who told me that visual art may be my passion, but writing is my calling.
I'm a lucky grrl, no?
November 12, 2013
First love
My first love was a boy. A beautiful boy named Chris who was kind to me.
I'd had crushes on boys and girls before I met Chris when I was around 18. I could easily identify the crushes on boys since, you know, girls were 'supposed' to like boys. The girls I liked? I just had a desire to form, as a friend of mine puts it, an intense friendship with them. But they were crushes.
Until I got to college, boys had never really been that nice to me. I was a shy kid who gained weight seemingly exponentially, so I was always the fat girl. Hence, target. I got into a lot of fights on the playground in elementary school, often grabbing a boy by the shirt collar and hurling him to the ground in a rage. In junior high, the guy I sat next to in band class for two years made booming sounds as I walked across the classroom. In high school, I chased boys down the hall and cornered them in classrooms for whatever unkindness they'd extended my way.
I guess I expected more of the same when I got to college, but things took a different turn. Boys were after a different kind of attention and I attracted a few miscreants, surprised and pleased to have boys paying attention to me. All the while, I was deeply into Chris. He had short, dark brown hair, wore a leather jacket, smoked, and smelled like Drakkar. Hey, it was 1992.
I can't go into a lot of specifics because I can't remember most of them. I remember being drunk at some college party and Chris sitting next to me on my friend's couch and making me laugh. I remember being elated when we were euchre partners for the many games of cards I played during my first 18 months of college. I remember kissing him one New Year's Eve in my dad's brand-new car that is now my beloved, old-ass hoopty.
Sadly, about a year after we met, Chris and I had a fight. I liked him too much, I guess, and had called him one too many times at his dorm. I remember him yelling and calling me a psycho bitch, which hurt and embarrassed me for a long time. There's not much I can do with that now. It was the last time we talked and there was little reason to try and contact him anymore. By the time it felt safe to reach out to him again, he probably would've been in a different dorm, different college, or even graduated. Of course, it wouldn't have taken long for him to become a different boy, just as I became a different girl.
Chris and I are both around 40 now, which seemed an impossibility when 20 hadn't even happened yet. I'm sure he's married with a bunch of kids. Maybe he remembers our friendship, or maybe he only remembers slamming the phone down after our last conversation. I was just starting the process of coming out back then, liking Chris at the same time that I began to call myself bi-curious, bisexual, and, eventually, lesbian. Regardless of who I prefer to date now, I'll always remember the night Chris and I were driving somewhere -- a friend's house, probably -- and I absentmindedly put a cigarette in my mouth before looking for my lighter. Suddenly, but not so much that it startled me from paying attention to the road, a flame appeared from his Zippo, and I was caught in the heady scent of lighter fluid, leather jacket, Drakkar, and the cigarette's first burst of smoke. A slow smile broke across my face in the dark car and no moment ever seemed more perfect.
Hey, it was 1992.
I'd had crushes on boys and girls before I met Chris when I was around 18. I could easily identify the crushes on boys since, you know, girls were 'supposed' to like boys. The girls I liked? I just had a desire to form, as a friend of mine puts it, an intense friendship with them. But they were crushes.
Until I got to college, boys had never really been that nice to me. I was a shy kid who gained weight seemingly exponentially, so I was always the fat girl. Hence, target. I got into a lot of fights on the playground in elementary school, often grabbing a boy by the shirt collar and hurling him to the ground in a rage. In junior high, the guy I sat next to in band class for two years made booming sounds as I walked across the classroom. In high school, I chased boys down the hall and cornered them in classrooms for whatever unkindness they'd extended my way.
I guess I expected more of the same when I got to college, but things took a different turn. Boys were after a different kind of attention and I attracted a few miscreants, surprised and pleased to have boys paying attention to me. All the while, I was deeply into Chris. He had short, dark brown hair, wore a leather jacket, smoked, and smelled like Drakkar. Hey, it was 1992.
I can't go into a lot of specifics because I can't remember most of them. I remember being drunk at some college party and Chris sitting next to me on my friend's couch and making me laugh. I remember being elated when we were euchre partners for the many games of cards I played during my first 18 months of college. I remember kissing him one New Year's Eve in my dad's brand-new car that is now my beloved, old-ass hoopty.
Sadly, about a year after we met, Chris and I had a fight. I liked him too much, I guess, and had called him one too many times at his dorm. I remember him yelling and calling me a psycho bitch, which hurt and embarrassed me for a long time. There's not much I can do with that now. It was the last time we talked and there was little reason to try and contact him anymore. By the time it felt safe to reach out to him again, he probably would've been in a different dorm, different college, or even graduated. Of course, it wouldn't have taken long for him to become a different boy, just as I became a different girl.
Chris and I are both around 40 now, which seemed an impossibility when 20 hadn't even happened yet. I'm sure he's married with a bunch of kids. Maybe he remembers our friendship, or maybe he only remembers slamming the phone down after our last conversation. I was just starting the process of coming out back then, liking Chris at the same time that I began to call myself bi-curious, bisexual, and, eventually, lesbian. Regardless of who I prefer to date now, I'll always remember the night Chris and I were driving somewhere -- a friend's house, probably -- and I absentmindedly put a cigarette in my mouth before looking for my lighter. Suddenly, but not so much that it startled me from paying attention to the road, a flame appeared from his Zippo, and I was caught in the heady scent of lighter fluid, leather jacket, Drakkar, and the cigarette's first burst of smoke. A slow smile broke across my face in the dark car and no moment ever seemed more perfect.
Hey, it was 1992.
November 11, 2013
Safety
One of the best presents I ever received was a goose down comforter in a soothing sage green. It has big, puffy squares that I squish around myself when I get in bed, which usually prompts me to stage whisper, "Poof poof!" I know it's just a blanket, but there's something meaningful in the comfort and safety I feel when I'm all wrapped up like a burrito. If my mood is dark and I'm spending too much time in bed, the comforter is armor against the world. I pull it over my head and play ostrich. Go away. Come back some other time. If it's cold in my room, I burrow, relishing the heat my body creates, lasting as long as I can until I feel claustrophobic and have to poke my face out for air. When it's time for a nap, there is no better feeling than the cool material as it crosses my skin, especially if it's the weekend and I have no obligations. I hit the bliss trifecta if it's raining when I lie down.
When I was a kid, I had a baby blanket that I kept until I was about 12. It was white and had puffy squares similar to my green comforter, albeit a denser material like a quilt. I loved that cover and called it Covey. It was my comfort until I was about 10, the same year my maternal grandmother visited my family and teased me for being too old to still have a baby blanket. The following year, I remember folding Covey in a panic and shoving it (her?) on a high shelf in the closet so I wouldn't be teased again by whomever was visiting. A year or so later, my family had moved to the Midwest. I guess I deemed myself too old to be seeking safety from a piece of fabric, even though I was still playing with Barbies after school. I cut Covey into pieces and, using a stencil-and-paint kit I had, decorated a square with a big, sloppy red heart pierced by an arrow. Even though Covey was ripped from years of use and was probably going to be tossed out by one of my well-meaning parents before too much longer, I still regret that decision.
When I was a kid, I had a baby blanket that I kept until I was about 12. It was white and had puffy squares similar to my green comforter, albeit a denser material like a quilt. I loved that cover and called it Covey. It was my comfort until I was about 10, the same year my maternal grandmother visited my family and teased me for being too old to still have a baby blanket. The following year, I remember folding Covey in a panic and shoving it (her?) on a high shelf in the closet so I wouldn't be teased again by whomever was visiting. A year or so later, my family had moved to the Midwest. I guess I deemed myself too old to be seeking safety from a piece of fabric, even though I was still playing with Barbies after school. I cut Covey into pieces and, using a stencil-and-paint kit I had, decorated a square with a big, sloppy red heart pierced by an arrow. Even though Covey was ripped from years of use and was probably going to be tossed out by one of my well-meaning parents before too much longer, I still regret that decision.
November 10, 2013
Stealing
I am never more cognizant of the concept of stealing than when I'm in the dollar store behind my house. It's not that I've stolen from the store. Even at my poorest, larceny has not and will not be an option. What gets me is the automated message that plays when a customer enters the store. It's something along the lines of All activities are being monitored and recorded, coupled with a gentleman's dulcet reminder that loss prevention is everyone's responsibility. Additionally, a security person in a hidden office will check in with the cashier, a message I originally thought was recorded because it sounded so scripted. The first time I heard a cashier reply and the ceiling said thank you, however, I understood everyone was under surveillance. Too bad it was far more creepy than comforting.
The store is certainly not in a good neighborhood. It's tucked at the back of a parking lot praying for the salvation of fresh asphalt, across the street from a competing dollar store that took over a gutted grocery store, and catty corner from an always-hopping liquor store. Just a few blocks away, police hide and wait for prostitutes to get out of their johns' cars. The neighborhood to the immediate north was going through a rapid gentrification project a few years ago, but then the economy tanked and the development dollars clearly dried up.
I fear I look suspicious if I get out of my car and lower the sleeves of my jeans jacket before I walk inside the store, even though I am only reacting to the chilly air. I feel guilty when I hear the ceiling cops start talking to the cashiers, as though I am holding my frozen pizza too close to my body, or I've ducked too quickly down an aisle after hoisting a giant bag of cat food into my cart. I'm thankful I don't carry a purse or any other kind of bag that can be searched, not that my pockets would be exempt were I feeling a little light fingered. I wonder what happens to people who enter the store, hear the various warnings, and ignore them, either out of spite or because they're too desperate to care about the consequences of being caught.
The store is certainly not in a good neighborhood. It's tucked at the back of a parking lot praying for the salvation of fresh asphalt, across the street from a competing dollar store that took over a gutted grocery store, and catty corner from an always-hopping liquor store. Just a few blocks away, police hide and wait for prostitutes to get out of their johns' cars. The neighborhood to the immediate north was going through a rapid gentrification project a few years ago, but then the economy tanked and the development dollars clearly dried up.
I fear I look suspicious if I get out of my car and lower the sleeves of my jeans jacket before I walk inside the store, even though I am only reacting to the chilly air. I feel guilty when I hear the ceiling cops start talking to the cashiers, as though I am holding my frozen pizza too close to my body, or I've ducked too quickly down an aisle after hoisting a giant bag of cat food into my cart. I'm thankful I don't carry a purse or any other kind of bag that can be searched, not that my pockets would be exempt were I feeling a little light fingered. I wonder what happens to people who enter the store, hear the various warnings, and ignore them, either out of spite or because they're too desperate to care about the consequences of being caught.
November 9, 2013
Cleaning house
Tomorrow. I'm going to clean tomorrow.
I can take those bags of recycling to the drop site outside the overpriced grocery store. The newspapers too. When I get back, I'll spend 10 minutes in the kitchen. I can get that one counter taken care of. Scratch that. I'll spend 15 minutes. I'll reward my productivity with 15 minutes of Netflix. Better yet, I'll spend an hour in the kitchen and then watch Netflix for an hour. I'll make myself a Spotify playlist that lasts an hour. When the music stops, so can I.
Tomorrow, I'll move that bookshelf from the living room to the den and redo my altar. First, I have to move the ironing board. Then I can clean it off. It's just holding stacks of artwork and dry-clean-only pants that no longer fit. Maybe I'll hang up some art I've done. Something above the fireplace, something above the stereo, something that says I've lived here seven years and should at least pretend I belong. I don't want to get too comfortable, though. I keep intending to move. I should sell that goddess-y wall hanging and jump start the purging process that accompanies moving. It's time for it, like me, to be in a new space. Dear Craigslist: For sale, one black goddess scarf with velvety texture, purchased in Ann Arbor, 2007. Tiny holes in corners from being hung on nails by safety pins. Probably dusty. Two-cat home.
Crap. I forgot that broken TV stand is in the closet and I can't put the ironing board in there, even if I could figure out how to collapse it. Where'd all this dust come from? Oh, great. A chunk of ceiling fell in and I need to sweep it up. I think I'll just close this door for now. But I'll stand here for a minute first and toe the dust that's still visible. Maybe I'll just go ahead and leave the light off in this room.
I'm going to move the bed tomorrow. I'll wash the bedding and make that one shelf into a bedside table. I'll pull its twin from the living room, remove all the stuff that doesn't belong there. A bottle of ibuprofen with only two tablets left. A bottle of adobe seasoning that's essentially just colored salt. Takeout menus in triplicate. I'll find a lamp that works but leave it unplugged since no one's on the other side of the bed anyway. It'll match, be cute. Maybe I'll put my yellow sheets back on the bed. Mental note: Buy lightbulbs. Tomorrow.
I can take those bags of recycling to the drop site outside the overpriced grocery store. The newspapers too. When I get back, I'll spend 10 minutes in the kitchen. I can get that one counter taken care of. Scratch that. I'll spend 15 minutes. I'll reward my productivity with 15 minutes of Netflix. Better yet, I'll spend an hour in the kitchen and then watch Netflix for an hour. I'll make myself a Spotify playlist that lasts an hour. When the music stops, so can I.
Tomorrow, I'll move that bookshelf from the living room to the den and redo my altar. First, I have to move the ironing board. Then I can clean it off. It's just holding stacks of artwork and dry-clean-only pants that no longer fit. Maybe I'll hang up some art I've done. Something above the fireplace, something above the stereo, something that says I've lived here seven years and should at least pretend I belong. I don't want to get too comfortable, though. I keep intending to move. I should sell that goddess-y wall hanging and jump start the purging process that accompanies moving. It's time for it, like me, to be in a new space. Dear Craigslist: For sale, one black goddess scarf with velvety texture, purchased in Ann Arbor, 2007. Tiny holes in corners from being hung on nails by safety pins. Probably dusty. Two-cat home.
Crap. I forgot that broken TV stand is in the closet and I can't put the ironing board in there, even if I could figure out how to collapse it. Where'd all this dust come from? Oh, great. A chunk of ceiling fell in and I need to sweep it up. I think I'll just close this door for now. But I'll stand here for a minute first and toe the dust that's still visible. Maybe I'll just go ahead and leave the light off in this room.
I'm going to move the bed tomorrow. I'll wash the bedding and make that one shelf into a bedside table. I'll pull its twin from the living room, remove all the stuff that doesn't belong there. A bottle of ibuprofen with only two tablets left. A bottle of adobe seasoning that's essentially just colored salt. Takeout menus in triplicate. I'll find a lamp that works but leave it unplugged since no one's on the other side of the bed anyway. It'll match, be cute. Maybe I'll put my yellow sheets back on the bed. Mental note: Buy lightbulbs. Tomorrow.
November 8, 2013
Bleeding
In this story, mentions of internal bleeding are not literal. Welcome to the world of metaphor! And hazy details.
The job was bad for me. I didn't know that right away. If I'd known, maybe I wouldn't have gone for it. Maybe I would have. I really needed a job.
It started out as a temp gig. I had been working part time for another company and had begun researching how to apply for food stamps because $9/hour wasn't cutting it. Even though it was temporary, the new job was full time and paid a little more, so I leaped.
The first sign of trouble was when my new bosses didn't really know what to do with me and the other employees they'd hired. It was like they had bought a cruise ship and wanted us to row it.
Work came our way and our ragtag group of misfits started getting to know each other. At first the work was a lot of research and data entry, but I didn't complain much. Full time. Occasional free lunches. Regular paychecks. Relief.
Near the end of the temp assignment, management decided who they wanted to keep and who they wanted to cut. Sadly, the folks whose contracts weren't being extended were pulled out of work one afternoon and unceremoniously dumped. Follow me into this room. Line up against the wall. Blood stains? No, those are -- bang.
I hardly thought the HR department was going to wheel a big cake into the room and make champagne toasts at the end of the first phase of the assignment, but one minute my coworkers had been working and the next, they were quietly packing up their things and leaving the room while the HR rep monitored them.
Hmm. This little red flag. Where did that come from?
Fast forward a bit and I was sitting in a final interview with the HR rep who let me know I was being hired permanently, but that new hires were on 30-day reviews. If I failed to deliver, my "relationship with the company would be reevaluated."
It is no understatement when I say I never relaxed at that job.
Over the next 18 months or so, select employees would be marched into conference rooms or manager offices and put on probation, "invited" to resign, or outright fired. Rumor had it these people always knew the end was coming, but it happened so often I had a hard time believing so many useless people worked for one company. The whole drama played out like an abusive relationship. From the front, big smiles and bigger sunglasses. From the side, visible bruises behind the shades.
Work piled up, which wasn't surprising considering the workforce kept getting reduced. The office became the land of unrealistic expectations. Employees were made to feel guilty for taking time for themselves on the weekends. Something was wrong with you if you didn't elect to work on your days off.
I became progressively unhappier and took my emotions out on food. I vented to others who were fighting the same battle. I thought we were all in the same boat. I should not have been surprised the day I found out I was on a sinking vessel and all the life jackets had silently been distributed.
As you might guess, the death march eventually came for me. I held on at first, clinging to the side of the ship even though pirates were on board and there was nothing left to save. Fearing shark-infested waters, I did not want to let go. A few days into the fight, I had to surrender. I was not going to be allowed to win. Even if I swam faster, the water level was going to continue to rise.
At first, I was absolutely destroyed. I was mired in the societal definition of success. When employed, I meant something. Having resigned, I felt meaningless, unwanted, unimportant. The truth was in the word, was it not? Resignation. I had given up. Slipped under the water and faded away without a sound.
Now, however, some nine months later, I understand so many things I could not see then. I know, much like some character on Grey's Anatomy, that I had presented with no external injuries but I was quietly bleeding internally.
I would remark to coworkers and friends outside the company that I was dying inside, but I always laughed it off as the darkest form of sarcasm-rich hyperbole. Really, though, I understood my life force was ebbing. Actual death may not have been imminent, but an emotional and mental end was nigh.
For two-and-a-half months, I couldn't do much more than rage and take my emotional damage with me on interviews. Not surprisingly, none of the jobs I applied for at the very beginning went anywhere.
One night, though -- and I can no longer remember the impetus -- I got my art back. The urge to create, the same the job had all but squashed out of me, came back. I stayed up all night drawing. It was early spring. The weather was glorious, the windows were open, and at 3:00 a.m., there was little else besides me, my art, and Spotify in my headphones. I felt almost unnaturally good. Night after night, I drew for hours, losing time in details and color matching.
My inner critic was good at reminding me I had no business being happy. If I stayed up all night creating, it was still my responsibility to get up after a few hours' sleep and start applying for "real jobs." I did, but the louder message I kept hearing was that everything was going to work out.
The past nine months have been a time of incredible upheaval. Creating art has brought me the most incredible joy. I have also spent considerable time lingering in my own darkness, letting fear and worry consume me. The good, though, has been shinier and brighter and useful for beating back anxiety and all my shoulds.
Art healed me. Beginning to pursue the path I want to walk -- the path I am meant to walk -- stemmed the flow of blood I didn't want to believe was spilling away. I knew I was down, that I was unhappy, that I needed to make a change, but seeing around fear was difficult. Leaping meant imminent death instead of the realization that I could actually fly, that I had known how to fly all along. I listened to my critic instead of my heart. I put stock in mantras I didn't actually believe in, like buzzwords, jargon, and the unspoken rule that success would come if I just had enough Twitter followers.
I am still figuring out how to make everything work out. I have my days when I dwell on the past year and let a rush of anger flood my face, but I have so much more to take away from this time than one bad experience. I have my freedom, knowledge, and my art, none of which can be destroyed by any number of marauders. Above all, I have the unshakable feeling that things are going to work out. The excitement is in swimming away from a sinking ship and seeing only clear blue water.
The job was bad for me. I didn't know that right away. If I'd known, maybe I wouldn't have gone for it. Maybe I would have. I really needed a job.
It started out as a temp gig. I had been working part time for another company and had begun researching how to apply for food stamps because $9/hour wasn't cutting it. Even though it was temporary, the new job was full time and paid a little more, so I leaped.
The first sign of trouble was when my new bosses didn't really know what to do with me and the other employees they'd hired. It was like they had bought a cruise ship and wanted us to row it.
Work came our way and our ragtag group of misfits started getting to know each other. At first the work was a lot of research and data entry, but I didn't complain much. Full time. Occasional free lunches. Regular paychecks. Relief.
Near the end of the temp assignment, management decided who they wanted to keep and who they wanted to cut. Sadly, the folks whose contracts weren't being extended were pulled out of work one afternoon and unceremoniously dumped. Follow me into this room. Line up against the wall. Blood stains? No, those are -- bang.
I hardly thought the HR department was going to wheel a big cake into the room and make champagne toasts at the end of the first phase of the assignment, but one minute my coworkers had been working and the next, they were quietly packing up their things and leaving the room while the HR rep monitored them.
Hmm. This little red flag. Where did that come from?
Fast forward a bit and I was sitting in a final interview with the HR rep who let me know I was being hired permanently, but that new hires were on 30-day reviews. If I failed to deliver, my "relationship with the company would be reevaluated."
It is no understatement when I say I never relaxed at that job.
Over the next 18 months or so, select employees would be marched into conference rooms or manager offices and put on probation, "invited" to resign, or outright fired. Rumor had it these people always knew the end was coming, but it happened so often I had a hard time believing so many useless people worked for one company. The whole drama played out like an abusive relationship. From the front, big smiles and bigger sunglasses. From the side, visible bruises behind the shades.
Work piled up, which wasn't surprising considering the workforce kept getting reduced. The office became the land of unrealistic expectations. Employees were made to feel guilty for taking time for themselves on the weekends. Something was wrong with you if you didn't elect to work on your days off.
I became progressively unhappier and took my emotions out on food. I vented to others who were fighting the same battle. I thought we were all in the same boat. I should not have been surprised the day I found out I was on a sinking vessel and all the life jackets had silently been distributed.
As you might guess, the death march eventually came for me. I held on at first, clinging to the side of the ship even though pirates were on board and there was nothing left to save. Fearing shark-infested waters, I did not want to let go. A few days into the fight, I had to surrender. I was not going to be allowed to win. Even if I swam faster, the water level was going to continue to rise.
At first, I was absolutely destroyed. I was mired in the societal definition of success. When employed, I meant something. Having resigned, I felt meaningless, unwanted, unimportant. The truth was in the word, was it not? Resignation. I had given up. Slipped under the water and faded away without a sound.
Now, however, some nine months later, I understand so many things I could not see then. I know, much like some character on Grey's Anatomy, that I had presented with no external injuries but I was quietly bleeding internally.
I would remark to coworkers and friends outside the company that I was dying inside, but I always laughed it off as the darkest form of sarcasm-rich hyperbole. Really, though, I understood my life force was ebbing. Actual death may not have been imminent, but an emotional and mental end was nigh.
For two-and-a-half months, I couldn't do much more than rage and take my emotional damage with me on interviews. Not surprisingly, none of the jobs I applied for at the very beginning went anywhere.
One night, though -- and I can no longer remember the impetus -- I got my art back. The urge to create, the same the job had all but squashed out of me, came back. I stayed up all night drawing. It was early spring. The weather was glorious, the windows were open, and at 3:00 a.m., there was little else besides me, my art, and Spotify in my headphones. I felt almost unnaturally good. Night after night, I drew for hours, losing time in details and color matching.
My inner critic was good at reminding me I had no business being happy. If I stayed up all night creating, it was still my responsibility to get up after a few hours' sleep and start applying for "real jobs." I did, but the louder message I kept hearing was that everything was going to work out.
The past nine months have been a time of incredible upheaval. Creating art has brought me the most incredible joy. I have also spent considerable time lingering in my own darkness, letting fear and worry consume me. The good, though, has been shinier and brighter and useful for beating back anxiety and all my shoulds.
Art healed me. Beginning to pursue the path I want to walk -- the path I am meant to walk -- stemmed the flow of blood I didn't want to believe was spilling away. I knew I was down, that I was unhappy, that I needed to make a change, but seeing around fear was difficult. Leaping meant imminent death instead of the realization that I could actually fly, that I had known how to fly all along. I listened to my critic instead of my heart. I put stock in mantras I didn't actually believe in, like buzzwords, jargon, and the unspoken rule that success would come if I just had enough Twitter followers.
I am still figuring out how to make everything work out. I have my days when I dwell on the past year and let a rush of anger flood my face, but I have so much more to take away from this time than one bad experience. I have my freedom, knowledge, and my art, none of which can be destroyed by any number of marauders. Above all, I have the unshakable feeling that things are going to work out. The excitement is in swimming away from a sinking ship and seeing only clear blue water.
November 7, 2013
Sunny days
Sapphic Scorpio seeks love with artistic flair
Francophile girlfriend, long dark hair
Loquacious lady, erudite femme
Hello, darling, say this love is no whim
November 6, 2013
Rainy days
dancing in the rain is cliche, really
the kind of thing movies like the notebook are probably about
two people with some kind of connection
lovers
best friends
good girls and bad boys
find themselves playing in puddles
kicking up the waterfallen sky
running in circles, laughing
and without warning
the serious moment arrives
the one novelists write about
plumping up the scene with sparks, magic, electricity
the barefoot good girl spins toward
the bad boy with celebrity blue eyes
and knows without knowing
this boy with whom she shares a bed but no romance
wants to kiss her
perhaps like the breeze of butterfly wings changing the world
leaning in for that silver screen kiss would've altered the path of the universe
perhaps not
probably not
somehow it's better
the not knowing
instead of awkward or afters
what ifs or what was that
the memories that linger
are laughter
a long skirt
a shared towel
and an energy that rolled through
like the low rumble of thunder
a shared towel
and an energy that rolled through
like the low rumble of thunder
November 5, 2013
My favorite place
Many, many moons ago -- around the year 2000, I'd guess -- I was heavily involved in volunteer work for an organization that promoted women in the arts. I was attending/working their annual event, the National Women's Music Festival, which featured an open mic for poetry and the chance to be around art all week.
Participating in the open mic had potential for greatness. In addition to getting a chance to perform work in front of a new audience in the afternoon, the winner would move on to a round robin performance that evening and perform again with other open mic finalists. The winner of the round robin got to perform on day stage on the last day of the festival.
Potentially long story short, I won.
I had never been much of a performer in my life. I auditioned to be in a play in high school, but didn't know squat about acting and flubbed my way through the reading. I thought the drama geeks were weird and the theatre kids in college were irritating. The closest I got to performing, aside from putting on skits for my parents with my brother, was watching Fame on TV when I was a kid.
I say all of that so you understand I didn't know much about cues. I managed to walk onto the day stage while the emcee was still introducing me, but somehow it worked out. I was onstage at most 15 seconds before I should've been, but it meant I got to stand at the microphone, awash in applause.
It was thunderous. And it was for me.
The lights were blinding and I'm sure I was at least a little nervous, but I really only remember reading my poem -- something I'd written the day before about a woman I was crushing on -- and stepping back to receive more applause.
I made it to the wings before I burst into hysterical tears.
The emcee eyed me oddly and asked, in a none-too-kind way, if I was okay. Her tone seemed to imply I'm going to have to cancel the show and find you a damn doctor. I nodded, unable to convey that I was actually crying happy tears.
A few years later while attending Michfest, I had a similar experience. Another open mic, another poem, more applause, and, like clockwork, tears.
Even though I am out of practice with performing and I devote more energy to worry than art, I know there is truth in those tears.
I know where I belong.
Participating in the open mic had potential for greatness. In addition to getting a chance to perform work in front of a new audience in the afternoon, the winner would move on to a round robin performance that evening and perform again with other open mic finalists. The winner of the round robin got to perform on day stage on the last day of the festival.
Potentially long story short, I won.
I had never been much of a performer in my life. I auditioned to be in a play in high school, but didn't know squat about acting and flubbed my way through the reading. I thought the drama geeks were weird and the theatre kids in college were irritating. The closest I got to performing, aside from putting on skits for my parents with my brother, was watching Fame on TV when I was a kid.
I say all of that so you understand I didn't know much about cues. I managed to walk onto the day stage while the emcee was still introducing me, but somehow it worked out. I was onstage at most 15 seconds before I should've been, but it meant I got to stand at the microphone, awash in applause.
It was thunderous. And it was for me.
The lights were blinding and I'm sure I was at least a little nervous, but I really only remember reading my poem -- something I'd written the day before about a woman I was crushing on -- and stepping back to receive more applause.
I made it to the wings before I burst into hysterical tears.
The emcee eyed me oddly and asked, in a none-too-kind way, if I was okay. Her tone seemed to imply I'm going to have to cancel the show and find you a damn doctor. I nodded, unable to convey that I was actually crying happy tears.
A few years later while attending Michfest, I had a similar experience. Another open mic, another poem, more applause, and, like clockwork, tears.
Even though I am out of practice with performing and I devote more energy to worry than art, I know there is truth in those tears.
I know where I belong.
November 4, 2013
Food
Jesus. What COULDN'T I say about food? Friend. Comfort. Elixir. Enemy. Shame. Discomfort.
My inclination is to go dark with the topic, to explore a wound that never really heals.
I don't want to go dark. Not tonight. It's too late, I'm too tired, and I'm too tired of telling a story that started at least 32 years ago.
In its place, a fun story.
Earlier today, I called a restaurant to order delivery. It's a bar food kind of place. Burritos, fries, cold bottles of Diet Coke.
The guy who took my order -- let's call him Fred -- is normally just a driver. He likes me. I know this because I've never been called sweetheart and baby so many times in one conversation as I do when I talk to him. Flattery is nice. We'll go with it.
Fred used to drive for a pizza company in the area. He left that job, he once explained on my porch, because it didn't pay well, something something about poor management, et cetera. He seemed pretty stoked to find out I was a customer of his new employer.
I don't have a lot of patience for cooking and basically dread going to the store, so yeah, the delivery guys (and very occasional girls) know me well.
On the phone, Fred flew through the process of taking my order. A side of this, a ramekin of that, hold the this, charge it to XYZ card.
"I'm gonna tell you 35-45 minutes for delivery, sweetheart... but you know I'm faster than that."
I know what he means and I also know that I no longer sleep with boys, but my first thought is, "That's not exactly what a girl likes to hear."
My inclination is to go dark with the topic, to explore a wound that never really heals.
I don't want to go dark. Not tonight. It's too late, I'm too tired, and I'm too tired of telling a story that started at least 32 years ago.
In its place, a fun story.
Earlier today, I called a restaurant to order delivery. It's a bar food kind of place. Burritos, fries, cold bottles of Diet Coke.
The guy who took my order -- let's call him Fred -- is normally just a driver. He likes me. I know this because I've never been called sweetheart and baby so many times in one conversation as I do when I talk to him. Flattery is nice. We'll go with it.
Fred used to drive for a pizza company in the area. He left that job, he once explained on my porch, because it didn't pay well, something something about poor management, et cetera. He seemed pretty stoked to find out I was a customer of his new employer.
I don't have a lot of patience for cooking and basically dread going to the store, so yeah, the delivery guys (and very occasional girls) know me well.
On the phone, Fred flew through the process of taking my order. A side of this, a ramekin of that, hold the this, charge it to XYZ card.
"I'm gonna tell you 35-45 minutes for delivery, sweetheart... but you know I'm faster than that."
I know what he means and I also know that I no longer sleep with boys, but my first thought is, "That's not exactly what a girl likes to hear."
November 3, 2013
Childhood memories
The family station wagon, a white Aspen with dark green vinyl seats. Sticking to the backseat in the summer. Finding a small gift on my seat before a road trip with the family, something to keep me occupied for at least a short while.
Playing dress-up at the girls' club after school. High heels and fancy clothes, probably donated items from closets where forgotten bridesmaid and prom dresses had once hung. Volunteering to sweep up after the afternoon's activities because it meant I got to have a snack and pull a glass bottle of Coke from the machine in the kitchen, even though the bottle cap always bit into my fingers.
Selling candy around the neighborhood for the same girls' club. Immediately hating sales. Stalling. Walking down the club's long hill of a driveway as slowly as possible. Eating some of the candy myself even though I would later get in trouble. Arriving, more than once, on the doorstep of an old man who was always happy to see me. Smiling, greeting, stepping inside at his invitation, remembering only a flickering light on the left side of the hallway. Darkness.
Posing for pictures Dad took for his various books. Pretending, alongside my brother, to drive a train, peer into a cave, or investigate the mouth of a well. Being at the home of a well-known family, descended from settlers or conquistadors or some such. Watching a girl close to my age brush her long, dark hair before joining her siblings in the backyard for the photo.
Running through the ramshackle clubhouse my dad built for me and my brother, its walls a hot pink we specifically picked out during a trip to the paint store. Swinging on a tree branch between the back step of the structure and the neighbors' wall. Playing in a camper parked in the backyard even though we weren't supposed to be inside. Pretending to drive a broken-down pickup truck, making car noises and shifting only when I remembered.
Leaving a deep fingernail scratch across the album cover of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall," a birthday present I had deeply coveted. Paying for a copy of "Thriller" with a few singles and a pile of change, proudly poured, to the clerk's chagrin, from a manila envelope onto the record store counter. Buying a tape of Van Halen's "1984" for $4 from the kids next door. Listening to Quiet Riot, being scared of the guys in Twisted Sister, experiencing the first years of MTV at friends' houses.
Growing tiny, anthill-sized boobs and having to tell my parents in deep, deep shame that the girls on the playground had told me I needed to buy a bra. Participating in a staging of the Nutcracker with my ballet class, promoted to a soldier because I was "too tall to be a mouse." Telling my mom about helping hoist friends to the monkey bars, letting them step into my hands or climb on my back even though it hurt, and having to ask her what she meant when she called me a beast of burden.
Sparklers on the patio on the Fourth of July. A school box full of supplies (and gum!) from Grandma Verbose at the end of every summer. Small chili peppers made from Wonder Bread + Elmer's Glue dough, painted red and glued to wooden spoons for our mothers for Christmas. Flips off the uneven bars on the playground; the freedom of soaring backwards. My calloused palms, my spirit, my courage.
Playing dress-up at the girls' club after school. High heels and fancy clothes, probably donated items from closets where forgotten bridesmaid and prom dresses had once hung. Volunteering to sweep up after the afternoon's activities because it meant I got to have a snack and pull a glass bottle of Coke from the machine in the kitchen, even though the bottle cap always bit into my fingers.
Selling candy around the neighborhood for the same girls' club. Immediately hating sales. Stalling. Walking down the club's long hill of a driveway as slowly as possible. Eating some of the candy myself even though I would later get in trouble. Arriving, more than once, on the doorstep of an old man who was always happy to see me. Smiling, greeting, stepping inside at his invitation, remembering only a flickering light on the left side of the hallway. Darkness.
Posing for pictures Dad took for his various books. Pretending, alongside my brother, to drive a train, peer into a cave, or investigate the mouth of a well. Being at the home of a well-known family, descended from settlers or conquistadors or some such. Watching a girl close to my age brush her long, dark hair before joining her siblings in the backyard for the photo.
Running through the ramshackle clubhouse my dad built for me and my brother, its walls a hot pink we specifically picked out during a trip to the paint store. Swinging on a tree branch between the back step of the structure and the neighbors' wall. Playing in a camper parked in the backyard even though we weren't supposed to be inside. Pretending to drive a broken-down pickup truck, making car noises and shifting only when I remembered.
Leaving a deep fingernail scratch across the album cover of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall," a birthday present I had deeply coveted. Paying for a copy of "Thriller" with a few singles and a pile of change, proudly poured, to the clerk's chagrin, from a manila envelope onto the record store counter. Buying a tape of Van Halen's "1984" for $4 from the kids next door. Listening to Quiet Riot, being scared of the guys in Twisted Sister, experiencing the first years of MTV at friends' houses.
Growing tiny, anthill-sized boobs and having to tell my parents in deep, deep shame that the girls on the playground had told me I needed to buy a bra. Participating in a staging of the Nutcracker with my ballet class, promoted to a soldier because I was "too tall to be a mouse." Telling my mom about helping hoist friends to the monkey bars, letting them step into my hands or climb on my back even though it hurt, and having to ask her what she meant when she called me a beast of burden.
Sparklers on the patio on the Fourth of July. A school box full of supplies (and gum!) from Grandma Verbose at the end of every summer. Small chili peppers made from Wonder Bread + Elmer's Glue dough, painted red and glued to wooden spoons for our mothers for Christmas. Flips off the uneven bars on the playground; the freedom of soaring backwards. My calloused palms, my spirit, my courage.
November 2, 2013
Grace
Her name was Grace and we were in junior high together. Details are sketchy because I'm hearkening back some 28 years, but I remember she had brown hair, wore glasses, was cute in an adorkable kind of way, and was nice. Back then, around age 11, my overeating was kicking into high gear and my mom had taken me to a psychologist after I ate half a cake in one sitting. I remember telling the shrink about Grace, how I wanted to invite her to do something. Go to a movie, maybe. I can't imagine what else we would've done. Surely I wouldn't have invited her to play Barbies, even though I was still doing so after school. I worked a lot on self-esteem issues with the therapist. She wanted to know why I was hesitant to ask Grace to hang out. I can still see myself duck my head, look at the ground, and smile shyly. I had no good answer. I just believed Grace would say no or think I was stupid. I had one friend in junior high -- a rough time for any kid -- but especially a dry heat desert kid transplanted to the humid Midwest. I outweighed most of my classmates by at least 75 pounds. I still had a Spanish accent, had recently gotten glasses, and was mercilessly harassed by a group of black girls who loved to get in my face and pull my hair when I was trying to exit the bus. I didn't have the confidence to do much, let alone ask Grace to hang out. I realize now, more than 20 years after I started coming out, that I was attracted to her, but I had no words for those feelings then. I just thought she was nice and pretty. My lack of grace all those years ago was twofold.
November 1, 2013
Travel
Not having a car sucks.
Check that: Not having a functioning car sucks. The lack of a car when one is used to going anywhere one wants at the drop of one's hat (okay, I'll stop) sucks.
Here's the good in this situation: No need to set aside a few bucks to put gas in the car. I live less than 10 minutes from King V and Queen S and Dad willingly picks me up and drops me off. He picked me up earlier today so I could do some work for him. To give him a break from being my personal chauffeur, I'm staying here tonight. On a twin bed. With goose-down-pokey-in-the-face pillows. Across the hall from my parents. Whom I hope do not have Friday night sex.
Now that my eyes are bleeding, let's get back to travel, shall we?
I suppose I could be really profound and say that being a passenger has given me the chance to really focus on the beauty around me. I do love all the things I notice that I don't ordinarily see when I'm chugging by in The Hoopty. Down the street from my parents' house, there are huge houses with huge lawns, decorated with tiny lights and grinning plastic pumpkins. Dad and I talk about the former one-way street that is now bi-directional. We discuss the mural that adorns the side of a neighborhood cafe. We get as far as the bridge a few blocks from my house and I find myself wishing I lived just a little further away. I am spirited home practically before I can get comfortable. I say thanks, climb out of the ever-so-small green Prius my parents own, and listen for the car's barely perceptible hum as Dad drives away.
He waits until I am on the porch before he leaves. I flip on the porch light momentarily so he knows I am safe inside.
In my apartment, things seem stagnant. Every day, I see a French version of a Diet Coke can I brought home from our family's travels to France and England when I was 20. How is it possible that I haven't been overseas in 19 years? I think about the trip I was going to take to England with some friends back in 1998, a few months before their father's sudden death. We were going to make the trip and then take a train to Scotland to buy sweaters. We also thought about flying to Australia and taking the train across the country. I still remember our shock when we realized the continent is much, much bigger than we realized. I think about the geography of our friendship and how very much things changed after their dad was gone.
I think about 2008 and the trip I was going to take with college friends the next year. We were going to go somewhere overseas, although I can't remember where anymore. It was a pipe dream trip -- the kind of vacation you excitedly talk about over too much wine one night, wanting to get away from school or work or whatever mire we were slogging through then. Or maybe I'm just speaking for myself.
All too well, I remember the end of 2008, how the financial collapse signaled the end of my job with King V's company. After my last day, I was going to travel the states in the then-reliable Hoopty. I made it as far as St. Louis before I lost my mind. Two hours into the trip, I was more bored than I thought possible. Half an hour outside the city, the rain became too heavy for my non-functioning windshield wipers and I had to pull off the road. I wondered how traveling musicians and poets put up with the endless highways, the same songs on the same CDs, the need to stop for gas and stretching while simultaneously fighting the urge to keep going, keep going, keep going.
My mind is always swirling somewhere else, it seems. Things will be better when I move to [city name] and I start working for [company name]. I will meet a lovely woman and begin dating. We will fall in love and get married, if only in a small backyard ceremony with folding chairs and lots of balloons. Things will be better, I think, when I am not here. My life is going to start -- really start -- when I'm not in this apartment, driving this car, looking for a job I don't entirely want but need. Too often I find myself fighting instead of surrendering.
Someday I will move beyond this place where I feel stationed like a passenger without a passport. I will climb aboard a plane headed for Spain, Greece, Turkey, Morocco, Scotland, or France. I will pack the car for a road trip or drag an impossible carry-on onto a train. Someday I will feel myself moving forward again, whether I'm winging my way around the world or simply puttering across the city in my sweet, old car.
Check that: Not having a functioning car sucks. The lack of a car when one is used to going anywhere one wants at the drop of one's hat (okay, I'll stop) sucks.
Here's the good in this situation: No need to set aside a few bucks to put gas in the car. I live less than 10 minutes from King V and Queen S and Dad willingly picks me up and drops me off. He picked me up earlier today so I could do some work for him. To give him a break from being my personal chauffeur, I'm staying here tonight. On a twin bed. With goose-down-pokey-in-the-face pillows. Across the hall from my parents. Whom I hope do not have Friday night sex.
Now that my eyes are bleeding, let's get back to travel, shall we?
I suppose I could be really profound and say that being a passenger has given me the chance to really focus on the beauty around me. I do love all the things I notice that I don't ordinarily see when I'm chugging by in The Hoopty. Down the street from my parents' house, there are huge houses with huge lawns, decorated with tiny lights and grinning plastic pumpkins. Dad and I talk about the former one-way street that is now bi-directional. We discuss the mural that adorns the side of a neighborhood cafe. We get as far as the bridge a few blocks from my house and I find myself wishing I lived just a little further away. I am spirited home practically before I can get comfortable. I say thanks, climb out of the ever-so-small green Prius my parents own, and listen for the car's barely perceptible hum as Dad drives away.
He waits until I am on the porch before he leaves. I flip on the porch light momentarily so he knows I am safe inside.
In my apartment, things seem stagnant. Every day, I see a French version of a Diet Coke can I brought home from our family's travels to France and England when I was 20. How is it possible that I haven't been overseas in 19 years? I think about the trip I was going to take to England with some friends back in 1998, a few months before their father's sudden death. We were going to make the trip and then take a train to Scotland to buy sweaters. We also thought about flying to Australia and taking the train across the country. I still remember our shock when we realized the continent is much, much bigger than we realized. I think about the geography of our friendship and how very much things changed after their dad was gone.
I think about 2008 and the trip I was going to take with college friends the next year. We were going to go somewhere overseas, although I can't remember where anymore. It was a pipe dream trip -- the kind of vacation you excitedly talk about over too much wine one night, wanting to get away from school or work or whatever mire we were slogging through then. Or maybe I'm just speaking for myself.
All too well, I remember the end of 2008, how the financial collapse signaled the end of my job with King V's company. After my last day, I was going to travel the states in the then-reliable Hoopty. I made it as far as St. Louis before I lost my mind. Two hours into the trip, I was more bored than I thought possible. Half an hour outside the city, the rain became too heavy for my non-functioning windshield wipers and I had to pull off the road. I wondered how traveling musicians and poets put up with the endless highways, the same songs on the same CDs, the need to stop for gas and stretching while simultaneously fighting the urge to keep going, keep going, keep going.
My mind is always swirling somewhere else, it seems. Things will be better when I move to [city name] and I start working for [company name]. I will meet a lovely woman and begin dating. We will fall in love and get married, if only in a small backyard ceremony with folding chairs and lots of balloons. Things will be better, I think, when I am not here. My life is going to start -- really start -- when I'm not in this apartment, driving this car, looking for a job I don't entirely want but need. Too often I find myself fighting instead of surrendering.
Someday I will move beyond this place where I feel stationed like a passenger without a passport. I will climb aboard a plane headed for Spain, Greece, Turkey, Morocco, Scotland, or France. I will pack the car for a road trip or drag an impossible carry-on onto a train. Someday I will feel myself moving forward again, whether I'm winging my way around the world or simply puttering across the city in my sweet, old car.
Refresher course
To recap my last post:
No word from the marketing firm about my interview or the freelance project they had me work on. Rather surprised and a bit peeved that I heard nothing by the end of today -- not even a conciliatory "We got your email" kind of reply -- so we'll see what news Monday brings.
The Hoopty is only semi-functional. The car guys couldn't find anything wrong with it, besides the godawful noise it's making. They were able to drive it and recommended I fix the flex pipe. So I drove it to my parents' house, worked a few hours for King V, left to go home, and made it to the dollar store about two miles away where it decided to not start when I emerged with my sack o' purchases. AAA rescued me about an hour later. The tow truck guy said he could stop by the next day and look at the car, but didn't return either of my calls the next two days. Either he got really busy really suddenly or I didn't understand that 'popping the hood' was a double entendre. Regardless, El Hoopterino is barely functional and I need to un-ostrich my head and get it taken care of. Otherwise, I'll continue to be relegated to bumming rides or *shudder* buying a bus pass.
Later tonight (i.e., after beer, after dinner, after squirreling away some Halloween candy), I'll be publishing a post as part of a month-long writing initiative started by my friend Phoenix. Instead of trying to write a novel during November, we'll be writing on a different topic each day. Today's topic is travel. Stay tuned!
No word from the marketing firm about my interview or the freelance project they had me work on. Rather surprised and a bit peeved that I heard nothing by the end of today -- not even a conciliatory "We got your email" kind of reply -- so we'll see what news Monday brings.
The Hoopty is only semi-functional. The car guys couldn't find anything wrong with it, besides the godawful noise it's making. They were able to drive it and recommended I fix the flex pipe. So I drove it to my parents' house, worked a few hours for King V, left to go home, and made it to the dollar store about two miles away where it decided to not start when I emerged with my sack o' purchases. AAA rescued me about an hour later. The tow truck guy said he could stop by the next day and look at the car, but didn't return either of my calls the next two days. Either he got really busy really suddenly or I didn't understand that 'popping the hood' was a double entendre. Regardless, El Hoopterino is barely functional and I need to un-ostrich my head and get it taken care of. Otherwise, I'll continue to be relegated to bumming rides or *shudder* buying a bus pass.
* * * * * * * * * *
Later tonight (i.e., after beer, after dinner, after squirreling away some Halloween candy), I'll be publishing a post as part of a month-long writing initiative started by my friend Phoenix. Instead of trying to write a novel during November, we'll be writing on a different topic each day. Today's topic is travel. Stay tuned!
October 24, 2013
Slump Day
Pack a lunch. This might be a little too TL;DR for even the heartiest among you.
After going bed too late (close to 3 a.m.), I woke around 8 this morning and quickly became cognizant of how cold it was in my apartment. I'd left the heat off for a couple days because I'm still paying off AC bills. I'm just not ready to start paying huge heating bills. But it was about 37 degrees outside and stupidly, ice cubingly cold in my apartment. I definitely didn't want to move away from my electric blanket.
I had to be up at 9 to start getting ready for my interview. I clicked on the heat and did all my prep, probably staying in the hot shower a smidge too long. Everything went smoothly. My outfit was waiting for me, I mostly eased into the bra I've gotten way too used to not wearing, my dress shoes squeaked onto my flip-flop feet. I tried to wear a winter coat I bought months ago on clearance, the same I had left in its package since it arrived, figuring it would fit. I found out the yoke is too short or I'm too wide or both because I sort of had gingerbread man arms when the coat was on. So it came off and I thought cloudy, poor-ass thoughts about the cost to ship it back, and switched to a different dress coat. I *really* wanted to wear my jeans jacket, but knew I couldn't swing that -- both because of the necessary dressy factor and because it was 40 damn degrees outside and eventually even *I* need to give in. My only other option was my too-casual stadium coat that has a big rip in the side. Hire me; I need money to buy new clothes. I dawdled online too long and messed around with my shower-dampish hair, trying to make it do something besides flop on my head in humid tendrils, and scooted out the door around 10:30.
I went out to the Hooptymobile, which had developed... well, it sounds like it has a bad cold. About a week ago, I started it and a great rumble erupted on the driver's side. If a car had a front muffler that no longer muffled, that's what it sounded like. The car had long had problems -- it felt like it might have been misfiring a bit, it smelled like burning if I drove even a short distance, the smell of the exhaust was overwhelming -- and El Grande Rumble was yet another thing (or worsening problem) that I was pretending wasn't really happening. The car is 22 years old and I know it's on its way to the Automobile Dealership in the Sky. I'm partially in denial -- my father picked me up from HIGH SCHOOL in that car; it must be immortal -- and fearful of the repair cost that may be the death knell of my beloved car. The car is so old that I've made out with BOYS in it. Come on.
I motored down the street and found the company where I was interviewing, but not the entrance I'd been told to look for. I drove around the block and ended up parking and heading to the front door before finally seeing the gate I was supposed to go through. I went back to move the car. It roared to life... and died. Even though I could tell the rumble had quickly been getting worse and had in fact worried I wouldn't make it to my interview, I still uttered a deep and surprised NOOOOOO. I tried to start it a couple more times and finally gave up. I had to get inside anyway. I was so glad I'd made it to my appointment even though I couldn't exactly leave when it was over. (Foreshadowing!)
After walking around the building and through the automated gate (inside which I'm so glad my car was not parked and dead), I collapsed briefly on a church pew (srsly) in the lobby to get my breath back. The past week or so has seen a spike in my productivity, which is wonderful, but my body still needs to get used to walking further than the living room-to-kitchen-and-back route in my apartment. In the lobby, I was looking around for the elevator that didn't exist and the CEO came out to greet me. I recognized him from the lengthy tour I'd taken around the website the evening before and had to suppress a tiny fangirl moment. I introduced myself and he shook my hand but just sort of looked at me blankly. It's okay. There will be time for hugs later. He directed me to the upstairs office. Groan.
Once upstairs, I was directed to go back downstairs. asdohfefuighweibmmprhgh
I ended up sitting outside a conference room for nearly 30 minutes, waiting for the interviewer, Suzy Q, to make an appearance. About halfway through, I asked a lady in a nearby office if the interviewer knew I was there (I asked nicely) and she checked. She then directed me to go back upstairs. (NO.) I politely protested and thankfully the CEO turtled his head out of the conference room and said I should stay downstairs. I sat down and continued to wait, wishing I could get on the company's wifi so I could check email.
Finally, Suzy materialized and I chatted in a conference room with her for about 20 minutes. It wasn't a stilted interview, per se, but I didn't get the feeling she was that great at interviewing. I had done my prep, though. I spent a couple hours on the company's website (finding typo after typo after typo...) and had also read tons of sample interview question answers in case I stumbled into one of those standard 'Tell me about a time when something difficult happened to you' interviews, the same where I tend to freeze up and start babbling. Suzy and I chatted amicably and discovered we had a mutual acquaintance -- someone who had worked for King V while I was also at the company -- and that was a fun, familiar moment. I don't know that it gave me an edge, but you can bet your bippy I texted that mofo when the interview was over and said I'd buy him beer if he contacted Suzy and talked me up.
Suzy stood and said, if I had time, she'd fetch Lila, the woman to whom I'd report if I got the job.
I have time.
Lila was a bit brusque at first. It was unnerving but we started chatting warmly and laughing after a few minutes. She shot some 'What do you like about PR?' kinds of questions at me and I gave her lots of examples from working for King V. I felt like things were going really well. I took notes, I learned about the company, I made it clear I'd done my homework. A few minutes before I got up to leave, Lila told me she thought I was overqualified for the coordinator position.
I... didn't realize "coordinator" was code for something. Lackey? Intern? Freshly graduated n00b?
I was disheartened, a bit, but said I thought the company had enough clients to keep things interesting. Lila said she wanted someone who was in it for the long haul, someone who wouldn't just take the job and bail a year later because s/he wasn't challenged. I wanted to launch into all kinds of arguments, like how long I'd stayed at my previous company while hating the work and wanting to run over several of my coworkers. When I told Queen S what Lila had said, we agreed that anyone -- "overqualified" employee, 22-year-old college grad, et al. -- could bail at any time. I'd even argue that a younger person might be inclined to bail more quickly. I wanted to exhale the fumes of unemployment all over Lila and convince her I was good to hang around for quite a while. The damn staff takes project ideas from Pinterest and sits around the office making them together. They have a 20-person staff. They've been around 22 years. They work for environmental organizations and nonprofits. They have a pro bono client who finds homes for homeless families. Their website is begging for snappier writing and an editor's gaze. COME ON.
I left the interview just a tad uneasy, but a little hopeful that I still have a chance. Lila wants to throw some freelance work my way, which is nice. It'll be some money anyway. I'm going to send out my thank you note tomorrow and hope they decide to hire me. It suuuure would be nice to work again. The work I've done for King V is nice but I need more than $20 for the occasional project, yanno?
I walked out to the Dead Hoopty and called AAA. It was 12:30 and I was told the truck would be there just before 2. At 1:30, I had to be beeped back into the office so I could tinkle. I had the gate code and probably could've skirted around the building, in the back door, and into the potty, but that just felt weird. Knowing my tendency towards the awkward, I would've run into the CEO on the way out and babble-flubbed my way out of the running for the job.
At 2:10, I called AAA to ask where the truck was. He's eight miles away.
At 2:15, I got an automated call that the driver was 15-20 minutes away.
At 2:40, I was still waiting. I'm going to have to pee again. I just know it.
During the next 20 or minutes, I talked to the dispatcher at least three times. Somehow they had taken the address I'd given them -- 1414 N. Elm, right off 15th Street -- into 1414 E. 15th Street, which meant the driver was still about 20 minutes from me. Not surprisingly, he couldn't find me or my car.
mmprhghghgaa
At 3:10, the driver, a doppelganger for the boss I had at Vox, finally pulled up. By 3:25, the car was at the service station, checked in, and I was at my parents' house and waiting for a ride home. I was too tired, too sore, and feeling too self-conscious/fat/whatever to try and cram myself into my mother's Neon with the manual transmission and let her jerk-and-lurch me back to my apartment. It turns out she wanted to wait for King V to get home anyway because she was sore again from her fall and just wanted to "wrap up in her blanket in the living room and moan."
She made herself a cup of tea, seemed offended when I declined a cup, and proceeded to slurp and "Ahh!" her way through each sip. I retreated to the bathroom. When I emerged, I quickly found out I, in the kitchen, could hear her ahhs in the living room.
God? Just kill me, okay? Splat. Over. Okay? Hello?
King V returned shortly after and we chatted about the interview. Every time I yawned (frequently), he commented about how tired I must be. I agreed, but kept downplaying the day. I guess I was in some kind of denial/shield mode in which I didn't want to admit how anxious I was feeling about the interview and the car and how I can't afford any repair that's more than, oh, free. I'd been watching the buses go by on Elm while waiting for AAA, thankful the street is a major thoroughfare in River City, thinking about bus passes, and how far the walk from my apartment to the bus stop would be. Turns out it's half a mile. All I need is some sassy Working Girl sneakers and I can make that happen. Of course I'll need to leave early at first so I can stop 15 times between my place and Elm, rest, and pray for death.
In adorable caretaker mode, King V packed up some spaghetti sauce I could have for dinner and sent me home with a bottle of three-buck Chuck. He spirited me home in the Prius and finally, at 6:30 pm, I was home from my interview. The fancy clothes got hung up, the unforgiving loafers were unceremoniously kicked off, and I ate the half-cup or so of spaghetti sauce with a plastic fork and decided to order pizza.
When the pizza arrived and I stood up to discover that (((TMI))) my period was sneak attacking me, a little something in me snapped and I decided it was time to open the wine. Except I couldn't get it open. I tugged and twisted and pulled and finally ended up chopping up the cork and digging it out with the weird little knife attachment on my odd Swiss-Army-knife-ish wine opener. I know I looked like a woman crazed but I wasn't about to be denied. All I want is a job that pays me decently that doesn't make me absolutely miserable and a car that doesn't belt out the fumes-only version of Britney Spears' "Toxic" when I drive down the street. Now gimme mah wine, you bitch.
Thankfully, I don't have to get up early later this morning. At some point during the day, I'll hear from the service station about the cost to fix the car. I hope its repair isn't prohibitive to me continuing to own a car. I'd miss the shit out of that Camry. When I was 19, I got to kiss a boy I was in love with in that car. I got pulled over during an impromptu road trip for GREATLY exceeding the speed limit in that car. My dad picked me up from high school, jamming to the Tori Amos tape I'd left in the deck, in that car. I've slept in that car prior to camping at Michfest. If I get hired at the marketing firm and the car is declared dead/too expensive to fix, it will be remembered for valiantly delivering me to the company's doorstep before chugging out its last breath. It seems silly to cry over an inanimate object, so I'll cry over all the car represents and hope for good news... and drink a little more wine.
After going bed too late (close to 3 a.m.), I woke around 8 this morning and quickly became cognizant of how cold it was in my apartment. I'd left the heat off for a couple days because I'm still paying off AC bills. I'm just not ready to start paying huge heating bills. But it was about 37 degrees outside and stupidly, ice cubingly cold in my apartment. I definitely didn't want to move away from my electric blanket.
I had to be up at 9 to start getting ready for my interview. I clicked on the heat and did all my prep, probably staying in the hot shower a smidge too long. Everything went smoothly. My outfit was waiting for me, I mostly eased into the bra I've gotten way too used to not wearing, my dress shoes squeaked onto my flip-flop feet. I tried to wear a winter coat I bought months ago on clearance, the same I had left in its package since it arrived, figuring it would fit. I found out the yoke is too short or I'm too wide or both because I sort of had gingerbread man arms when the coat was on. So it came off and I thought cloudy, poor-ass thoughts about the cost to ship it back, and switched to a different dress coat. I *really* wanted to wear my jeans jacket, but knew I couldn't swing that -- both because of the necessary dressy factor and because it was 40 damn degrees outside and eventually even *I* need to give in. My only other option was my too-casual stadium coat that has a big rip in the side. Hire me; I need money to buy new clothes. I dawdled online too long and messed around with my shower-dampish hair, trying to make it do something besides flop on my head in humid tendrils, and scooted out the door around 10:30.
I went out to the Hooptymobile, which had developed... well, it sounds like it has a bad cold. About a week ago, I started it and a great rumble erupted on the driver's side. If a car had a front muffler that no longer muffled, that's what it sounded like. The car had long had problems -- it felt like it might have been misfiring a bit, it smelled like burning if I drove even a short distance, the smell of the exhaust was overwhelming -- and El Grande Rumble was yet another thing (or worsening problem) that I was pretending wasn't really happening. The car is 22 years old and I know it's on its way to the Automobile Dealership in the Sky. I'm partially in denial -- my father picked me up from HIGH SCHOOL in that car; it must be immortal -- and fearful of the repair cost that may be the death knell of my beloved car. The car is so old that I've made out with BOYS in it. Come on.
I motored down the street and found the company where I was interviewing, but not the entrance I'd been told to look for. I drove around the block and ended up parking and heading to the front door before finally seeing the gate I was supposed to go through. I went back to move the car. It roared to life... and died. Even though I could tell the rumble had quickly been getting worse and had in fact worried I wouldn't make it to my interview, I still uttered a deep and surprised NOOOOOO. I tried to start it a couple more times and finally gave up. I had to get inside anyway. I was so glad I'd made it to my appointment even though I couldn't exactly leave when it was over. (Foreshadowing!)
After walking around the building and through the automated gate (inside which I'm so glad my car was not parked and dead), I collapsed briefly on a church pew (srsly) in the lobby to get my breath back. The past week or so has seen a spike in my productivity, which is wonderful, but my body still needs to get used to walking further than the living room-to-kitchen-and-back route in my apartment. In the lobby, I was looking around for the elevator that didn't exist and the CEO came out to greet me. I recognized him from the lengthy tour I'd taken around the website the evening before and had to suppress a tiny fangirl moment. I introduced myself and he shook my hand but just sort of looked at me blankly. It's okay. There will be time for hugs later. He directed me to the upstairs office. Groan.
Once upstairs, I was directed to go back downstairs. asdohfefuighweibmmprhgh
I ended up sitting outside a conference room for nearly 30 minutes, waiting for the interviewer, Suzy Q, to make an appearance. About halfway through, I asked a lady in a nearby office if the interviewer knew I was there (I asked nicely) and she checked. She then directed me to go back upstairs. (NO.) I politely protested and thankfully the CEO turtled his head out of the conference room and said I should stay downstairs. I sat down and continued to wait, wishing I could get on the company's wifi so I could check email.
Finally, Suzy materialized and I chatted in a conference room with her for about 20 minutes. It wasn't a stilted interview, per se, but I didn't get the feeling she was that great at interviewing. I had done my prep, though. I spent a couple hours on the company's website (finding typo after typo after typo...) and had also read tons of sample interview question answers in case I stumbled into one of those standard 'Tell me about a time when something difficult happened to you' interviews, the same where I tend to freeze up and start babbling. Suzy and I chatted amicably and discovered we had a mutual acquaintance -- someone who had worked for King V while I was also at the company -- and that was a fun, familiar moment. I don't know that it gave me an edge, but you can bet your bippy I texted that mofo when the interview was over and said I'd buy him beer if he contacted Suzy and talked me up.
Suzy stood and said, if I had time, she'd fetch Lila, the woman to whom I'd report if I got the job.
I have time.
Lila was a bit brusque at first. It was unnerving but we started chatting warmly and laughing after a few minutes. She shot some 'What do you like about PR?' kinds of questions at me and I gave her lots of examples from working for King V. I felt like things were going really well. I took notes, I learned about the company, I made it clear I'd done my homework. A few minutes before I got up to leave, Lila told me she thought I was overqualified for the coordinator position.
I... didn't realize "coordinator" was code for something. Lackey? Intern? Freshly graduated n00b?
I was disheartened, a bit, but said I thought the company had enough clients to keep things interesting. Lila said she wanted someone who was in it for the long haul, someone who wouldn't just take the job and bail a year later because s/he wasn't challenged. I wanted to launch into all kinds of arguments, like how long I'd stayed at my previous company while hating the work and wanting to run over several of my coworkers. When I told Queen S what Lila had said, we agreed that anyone -- "overqualified" employee, 22-year-old college grad, et al. -- could bail at any time. I'd even argue that a younger person might be inclined to bail more quickly. I wanted to exhale the fumes of unemployment all over Lila and convince her I was good to hang around for quite a while. The damn staff takes project ideas from Pinterest and sits around the office making them together. They have a 20-person staff. They've been around 22 years. They work for environmental organizations and nonprofits. They have a pro bono client who finds homes for homeless families. Their website is begging for snappier writing and an editor's gaze. COME ON.
I left the interview just a tad uneasy, but a little hopeful that I still have a chance. Lila wants to throw some freelance work my way, which is nice. It'll be some money anyway. I'm going to send out my thank you note tomorrow and hope they decide to hire me. It suuuure would be nice to work again. The work I've done for King V is nice but I need more than $20 for the occasional project, yanno?
I walked out to the Dead Hoopty and called AAA. It was 12:30 and I was told the truck would be there just before 2. At 1:30, I had to be beeped back into the office so I could tinkle. I had the gate code and probably could've skirted around the building, in the back door, and into the potty, but that just felt weird. Knowing my tendency towards the awkward, I would've run into the CEO on the way out and babble-flubbed my way out of the running for the job.
At 2:10, I called AAA to ask where the truck was. He's eight miles away.
At 2:15, I got an automated call that the driver was 15-20 minutes away.
At 2:40, I was still waiting. I'm going to have to pee again. I just know it.
During the next 20 or minutes, I talked to the dispatcher at least three times. Somehow they had taken the address I'd given them -- 1414 N. Elm, right off 15th Street -- into 1414 E. 15th Street, which meant the driver was still about 20 minutes from me. Not surprisingly, he couldn't find me or my car.
mmprhghghgaa
At 3:10, the driver, a doppelganger for the boss I had at Vox, finally pulled up. By 3:25, the car was at the service station, checked in, and I was at my parents' house and waiting for a ride home. I was too tired, too sore, and feeling too self-conscious/fat/whatever to try and cram myself into my mother's Neon with the manual transmission and let her jerk-and-lurch me back to my apartment. It turns out she wanted to wait for King V to get home anyway because she was sore again from her fall and just wanted to "wrap up in her blanket in the living room and moan."
She made herself a cup of tea, seemed offended when I declined a cup, and proceeded to slurp and "Ahh!" her way through each sip. I retreated to the bathroom. When I emerged, I quickly found out I, in the kitchen, could hear her ahhs in the living room.
God? Just kill me, okay? Splat. Over. Okay? Hello?
King V returned shortly after and we chatted about the interview. Every time I yawned (frequently), he commented about how tired I must be. I agreed, but kept downplaying the day. I guess I was in some kind of denial/shield mode in which I didn't want to admit how anxious I was feeling about the interview and the car and how I can't afford any repair that's more than, oh, free. I'd been watching the buses go by on Elm while waiting for AAA, thankful the street is a major thoroughfare in River City, thinking about bus passes, and how far the walk from my apartment to the bus stop would be. Turns out it's half a mile. All I need is some sassy Working Girl sneakers and I can make that happen. Of course I'll need to leave early at first so I can stop 15 times between my place and Elm, rest, and pray for death.
In adorable caretaker mode, King V packed up some spaghetti sauce I could have for dinner and sent me home with a bottle of three-buck Chuck. He spirited me home in the Prius and finally, at 6:30 pm, I was home from my interview. The fancy clothes got hung up, the unforgiving loafers were unceremoniously kicked off, and I ate the half-cup or so of spaghetti sauce with a plastic fork and decided to order pizza.
When the pizza arrived and I stood up to discover that (((TMI))) my period was sneak attacking me, a little something in me snapped and I decided it was time to open the wine. Except I couldn't get it open. I tugged and twisted and pulled and finally ended up chopping up the cork and digging it out with the weird little knife attachment on my odd Swiss-Army-knife-ish wine opener. I know I looked like a woman crazed but I wasn't about to be denied. All I want is a job that pays me decently that doesn't make me absolutely miserable and a car that doesn't belt out the fumes-only version of Britney Spears' "Toxic" when I drive down the street. Now gimme mah wine, you bitch.
Thankfully, I don't have to get up early later this morning. At some point during the day, I'll hear from the service station about the cost to fix the car. I hope its repair isn't prohibitive to me continuing to own a car. I'd miss the shit out of that Camry. When I was 19, I got to kiss a boy I was in love with in that car. I got pulled over during an impromptu road trip for GREATLY exceeding the speed limit in that car. My dad picked me up from high school, jamming to the Tori Amos tape I'd left in the deck, in that car. I've slept in that car prior to camping at Michfest. If I get hired at the marketing firm and the car is declared dead/too expensive to fix, it will be remembered for valiantly delivering me to the company's doorstep before chugging out its last breath. It seems silly to cry over an inanimate object, so I'll cry over all the car represents and hope for good news... and drink a little more wine.
October 22, 2013
Ain't nothing gonna break my stride
Gather ye round, chirren, and let Princess Verbose tell you about the past few days in her fun life.
On Wednesday, I visited with my folks. Queen S had taken a tumble off a stepladder a couple days prior and was convalescing in the living room, her bruised and sore leg propped on an end table in front of her. We spent a few hours chatting and I stayed long enough to join the 'rents for Chinese takeout. I was happy to help take care of Mom, bringing her a dinner tray and fetching her water. And lovingly calling her Gimpy.
On Friday, I was back to work on some projects for King V. He's happy to throw some work my way when he can. As the mayor of Brokeassopolis, I'm happy to hold out my hands and wait for pieces of green paper to fall across my palms. Even though it was only two days ago, I can't remember what all happened on Friday. I do remember staying up until 6 a.m. on Saturday, in part because I was strung out on episodes of Animal Planet's Too Cute that were recently added to Netflix. Puppies and kittens?? Fuck sleep!
Four hours after going to bed, The Humpingtons woke me up by making a hellish amount of noise, but then I remembered they were MOVING OUT, so it was okay. (Sorta.) I lingered in bed a while, but eventually had to bail because Stompy McThunderfoot wouldn't stop letting the unnaturally heavy storm door slam every time he entered and exited the house. I also had to bail because my Internet was off. Knowing my bill was unpaid, I assumed the service had been disconnected. I wasn't too worried; I would pay it when I could. In the meantime, public WiFi was easy to find.
A few minutes later, I walked into my favorite cafe with a laptop bag, feeling just a smidge important, as though I was going to write a campaign speech while I sipped my latte instead of linger on Facebook. Because I was sacrificing my last little bit of grocery money on a breakfast out, I was frugal but still able to enjoy a bagel and coffee. Something about sitting with my computer in public while I sipped java from a purple feesh-sized mug made me feel... normal. Over the past couple of days, I've realized that feeling has been missing. Getting dressed, collecting my things, and going somewhere with a purpose reminded me of a life I haven't been living in months. I've gotten really good at isolating and only leaving long enough to visit with my folks or duck into the dollar store before scurrying home. When I do leave, to be in public long enough to do stuff like pick up my thyroid medicine, I often congratulate myself for Doing a Thing I Did Not Want to Do. (Huzzah! Back to the mousehole!)
The good, normal-again feeling -- let's call it sparklemagic, shall we? -- lasted throughout the day. In addition to checking out Facebook, I cleaned up my inbox (a daunting task now that Yahoo! is copying Gmail and using threads; also a task when one's father emails a LOT) and applied for three jobs. Two were writing positions (one freelance, one a tech writing job) and the other was with a marketing firm looking for a PR person. I hung out for almost three hours and finally left after my second bucket of coffee had grown cold. Rather than head home, fearing more Humpington noise and believing my Internet was out, I went to my folks' house again. I visited with Queen S, who was by now off the crutches she'd been hobbling around on. I worked for King V another couple hours and finally emerged from the basement, exhausted from a lack of sleep and more productivity than I was accustomed to. And then the sparklemagic balloon done got popped.
I don't know how the topic of money came up, but it did. Mom and I may have been discussing the sequester and the fact that my unemployment benefits were cut by 10 percent about a month ago. I distinctly remember Queen S saying, "So what do you do? Pay the rent and just hope you have enough money left for food?" And then I admitted that I was behind on my rent and soon to visit the township trustees' office to apply for assistance. Maybe I shared because I wanted to feel less ashamed. Or maybe I wanted to get cut off at the knees and listen to my mom rant about the availability of jobs in the 1960s, an argument I have now heard four or seven times, because that's what happened.
I didn't see it coming, but her tirade soon swept up my scheduled birthday celebrations like a tsunami taking out villages too close to the shore. She wanted to know how I was planning to pay for dinner on my birthday if I didn't have any money. Tired and shocked, I just kind of shrugged. I... have time to figure it out, I tried to reason. And then she went after my friends, wondering where they were with job leads and offers to celebrate my birthday with homemade cupcakes instead at some expensive-ass restaurant. I mumbled my way through explanations that friends had been sending me job leads and that I'd made my this-will-cost-actual-money birthday plans a few months ago when I wasn't behind on anything. I finally eased my way from the room, stopping in the potty to tinkle and staying long enough to textbomb a couple friends with WTF HALLLLP messages.
I was gone long enough to make Mom call out and ask where I was. I exited the bathroom and bid her farewell, completely out of things to say. I was polite but still got the hell out the door before she could start up again. I had been gone from my apartment for close to 12 hours and it was time to go home. Still believing my Internet was off, I watched a DVD and finally dragged myself to bed, knowing The Humpingtons would probably be up early to finish moving.
Wanting to get my sparklemagic back, I went to the cafe on Sunday to check email. I bageled and coffeed but the surroundings weren't the same. The beautiful day had attracted a bevy of people and I was relegated to a small table against the wall. My coffee mug was orange, which didn't properly set off the creamy color of my coffee. The cream cheese on my toasted bagel melted and I ended up dodging glops of goo while trying to get my breakfast on. Thankfully, I remained productive and finished the project Dad had given me. I left the cafe when several children trailed in the door, crowing about hot chocolate and unknowingly solving the story problem about a child-free woman in her late 30s and how long it would take to drive her straight out her damn mind.
Not wanting to face The Gimp of Wrath, I headed home. As soon as I arrived, I noticed the wireless signal on my phone lit up. I tentatively tested my Internet connection and soon found myself online. I clicked various websites, expecting the cable company to pop up and yell "PSYCH!" Turns out the service being off was a regional fluke and not just me. I'm glad I hadn't realized the glitch sooner; I got out of the house, ran errands, and was otherwise productive when I ordinarily wouldn't have been. It was certainly nice to see humans other than the few folks who deliver overpriced takeout to my house.
Saturday's efforts paid off. By Monday morning, I'd heard back from everyone I queried about jobs, including an invitation from the marketing firm to interview on Wednesday morning. I'm trying not to get all floopy because I've danced around with my basket of hopes before and been seriously disappointed when The Job I've Dreamed Of fails to materialize. That said, I feel like things are taking a turn for the better. No more sex and vacuuming from The Humpingtons. Ever. Both AT&T and the cable company were cool with waiting a few more days for their money. I've been chatting with King V about stepping up and taking the Verbose & Co. reins after he retires. (He's at the helm until late 2014, so this story will continue to develop.) My landlord was cool about the rent being overdue. Now I just have to get Visa on board with being a little patient and survive a mandatory trip to the unemployment office later today. At least there are giant mugs of coffee to get lost in when the world gets to be too much.
On Wednesday, I visited with my folks. Queen S had taken a tumble off a stepladder a couple days prior and was convalescing in the living room, her bruised and sore leg propped on an end table in front of her. We spent a few hours chatting and I stayed long enough to join the 'rents for Chinese takeout. I was happy to help take care of Mom, bringing her a dinner tray and fetching her water. And lovingly calling her Gimpy.
On Friday, I was back to work on some projects for King V. He's happy to throw some work my way when he can. As the mayor of Brokeassopolis, I'm happy to hold out my hands and wait for pieces of green paper to fall across my palms. Even though it was only two days ago, I can't remember what all happened on Friday. I do remember staying up until 6 a.m. on Saturday, in part because I was strung out on episodes of Animal Planet's Too Cute that were recently added to Netflix. Puppies and kittens?? Fuck sleep!
Four hours after going to bed, The Humpingtons woke me up by making a hellish amount of noise, but then I remembered they were MOVING OUT, so it was okay. (Sorta.) I lingered in bed a while, but eventually had to bail because Stompy McThunderfoot wouldn't stop letting the unnaturally heavy storm door slam every time he entered and exited the house. I also had to bail because my Internet was off. Knowing my bill was unpaid, I assumed the service had been disconnected. I wasn't too worried; I would pay it when I could. In the meantime, public WiFi was easy to find.
A few minutes later, I walked into my favorite cafe with a laptop bag, feeling just a smidge important, as though I was going to write a campaign speech while I sipped my latte instead of linger on Facebook. Because I was sacrificing my last little bit of grocery money on a breakfast out, I was frugal but still able to enjoy a bagel and coffee. Something about sitting with my computer in public while I sipped java from a purple feesh-sized mug made me feel... normal. Over the past couple of days, I've realized that feeling has been missing. Getting dressed, collecting my things, and going somewhere with a purpose reminded me of a life I haven't been living in months. I've gotten really good at isolating and only leaving long enough to visit with my folks or duck into the dollar store before scurrying home. When I do leave, to be in public long enough to do stuff like pick up my thyroid medicine, I often congratulate myself for Doing a Thing I Did Not Want to Do. (Huzzah! Back to the mousehole!)
The good, normal-again feeling -- let's call it sparklemagic, shall we? -- lasted throughout the day. In addition to checking out Facebook, I cleaned up my inbox (a daunting task now that Yahoo! is copying Gmail and using threads; also a task when one's father emails a LOT) and applied for three jobs. Two were writing positions (one freelance, one a tech writing job) and the other was with a marketing firm looking for a PR person. I hung out for almost three hours and finally left after my second bucket of coffee had grown cold. Rather than head home, fearing more Humpington noise and believing my Internet was out, I went to my folks' house again. I visited with Queen S, who was by now off the crutches she'd been hobbling around on. I worked for King V another couple hours and finally emerged from the basement, exhausted from a lack of sleep and more productivity than I was accustomed to. And then the sparklemagic balloon done got popped.
I don't know how the topic of money came up, but it did. Mom and I may have been discussing the sequester and the fact that my unemployment benefits were cut by 10 percent about a month ago. I distinctly remember Queen S saying, "So what do you do? Pay the rent and just hope you have enough money left for food?" And then I admitted that I was behind on my rent and soon to visit the township trustees' office to apply for assistance. Maybe I shared because I wanted to feel less ashamed. Or maybe I wanted to get cut off at the knees and listen to my mom rant about the availability of jobs in the 1960s, an argument I have now heard four or seven times, because that's what happened.
I didn't see it coming, but her tirade soon swept up my scheduled birthday celebrations like a tsunami taking out villages too close to the shore. She wanted to know how I was planning to pay for dinner on my birthday if I didn't have any money. Tired and shocked, I just kind of shrugged. I... have time to figure it out, I tried to reason. And then she went after my friends, wondering where they were with job leads and offers to celebrate my birthday with homemade cupcakes instead at some expensive-ass restaurant. I mumbled my way through explanations that friends had been sending me job leads and that I'd made my this-will-cost-actual-money birthday plans a few months ago when I wasn't behind on anything. I finally eased my way from the room, stopping in the potty to tinkle and staying long enough to textbomb a couple friends with WTF HALLLLP messages.
I was gone long enough to make Mom call out and ask where I was. I exited the bathroom and bid her farewell, completely out of things to say. I was polite but still got the hell out the door before she could start up again. I had been gone from my apartment for close to 12 hours and it was time to go home. Still believing my Internet was off, I watched a DVD and finally dragged myself to bed, knowing The Humpingtons would probably be up early to finish moving.
Wanting to get my sparklemagic back, I went to the cafe on Sunday to check email. I bageled and coffeed but the surroundings weren't the same. The beautiful day had attracted a bevy of people and I was relegated to a small table against the wall. My coffee mug was orange, which didn't properly set off the creamy color of my coffee. The cream cheese on my toasted bagel melted and I ended up dodging glops of goo while trying to get my breakfast on. Thankfully, I remained productive and finished the project Dad had given me. I left the cafe when several children trailed in the door, crowing about hot chocolate and unknowingly solving the story problem about a child-free woman in her late 30s and how long it would take to drive her straight out her damn mind.
Not wanting to face The Gimp of Wrath, I headed home. As soon as I arrived, I noticed the wireless signal on my phone lit up. I tentatively tested my Internet connection and soon found myself online. I clicked various websites, expecting the cable company to pop up and yell "PSYCH!" Turns out the service being off was a regional fluke and not just me. I'm glad I hadn't realized the glitch sooner; I got out of the house, ran errands, and was otherwise productive when I ordinarily wouldn't have been. It was certainly nice to see humans other than the few folks who deliver overpriced takeout to my house.
Saturday's efforts paid off. By Monday morning, I'd heard back from everyone I queried about jobs, including an invitation from the marketing firm to interview on Wednesday morning. I'm trying not to get all floopy because I've danced around with my basket of hopes before and been seriously disappointed when The Job I've Dreamed Of fails to materialize. That said, I feel like things are taking a turn for the better. No more sex and vacuuming from The Humpingtons. Ever. Both AT&T and the cable company were cool with waiting a few more days for their money. I've been chatting with King V about stepping up and taking the Verbose & Co. reins after he retires. (He's at the helm until late 2014, so this story will continue to develop.) My landlord was cool about the rent being overdue. Now I just have to get Visa on board with being a little patient and survive a mandatory trip to the unemployment office later today. At least there are giant mugs of coffee to get lost in when the world gets to be too much.
September 29, 2013
I want to be a valiant amphibian
So far, there have been no big developments in my plans to move, except for the following:
I've researched the cost to fly. It's around $1,000 because big girl needs two seats. It's both an airline requirement and to spare me from sitting next to an asshole who passive-aggressively shoves his elbows into me before takeoff. I understand I am partially in your seat, but for the love of God, poking me isn't doing either of us any good. (I feel like some of that statement also applies to my attempts at being heterosexual. Hi-yo!) That price does not include the cost of bringing my cats with me. If I put them in the cargo area, which makes me feel ill and sounds like torture for my poor babies, the cost is around $175 each. If I store them in the cabin with me, the three of us will probably be thrown off the plane by the time we get to Nebraska because of the cats' yowling. Unless they're sedated (something I've yet to try) and I'm drunk.
Taking the train is about $500 (cost x 2 for all seats on public transpo). I felt a little nauseated at the thought of being on a train for upwards of 43 hours. I had to eat peppermint candies when I was on a train for six hours because the rocking started making me ill. I can eat peppermints across the country or wear a motion sickness, what, collar? I just don't know if I want to. That said, this is supposed to be a one-way venture and I can put up with just about anything for a couple days. Aside from attending, say, back-to-back Katy Perry concerts.
Seats on the Greyhound are close to $400. Gets there faster than the train. Probably less comfortable, though. Fear I would arrive in California and be dangerously dehydrated because I wouldn't want to use the bus potty.
Renting a car (because my car is old as hell and might not make it 2,000 miles all at once) is crazy expensive -- something like $800. I want to avoid renting a U-Haulish truck because (a) I don't think I'll be taking enough stuff with me to justify the cost and (b) I might attract rogue lezbins looking to cohabitate. Also, renting a truck is expensive and my car is too old to drag one of those little rental pods across the country. Also, I don't want to try and drag a trailer behind me, nor do I want to alert thieves to the fact that a mere padlock stands between them and my worldly possessions.
Basically, my biggest hurdle is fear. A glance back at this post tells me I need to change my focus from money to something that doesn't make me seize up like a piece of coal with designs on becoming a diamond. Fear is not stopping me, but it IS making me send panicky texts to friends around the country that clearly reek of a lack of self-confidence. Last time I moved cross country, I was 11 and distinctly remember arriving in River City with a Barbie in one hand. Hence, I am asking for advice from everyone I can think of who has uprooted themselves as an adult and I'm making lots of mental notes.
I've researched the cost to fly. It's around $1,000 because big girl needs two seats. It's both an airline requirement and to spare me from sitting next to an asshole who passive-aggressively shoves his elbows into me before takeoff. I understand I am partially in your seat, but for the love of God, poking me isn't doing either of us any good. (I feel like some of that statement also applies to my attempts at being heterosexual. Hi-yo!) That price does not include the cost of bringing my cats with me. If I put them in the cargo area, which makes me feel ill and sounds like torture for my poor babies, the cost is around $175 each. If I store them in the cabin with me, the three of us will probably be thrown off the plane by the time we get to Nebraska because of the cats' yowling. Unless they're sedated (something I've yet to try) and I'm drunk.
Taking the train is about $500 (cost x 2 for all seats on public transpo). I felt a little nauseated at the thought of being on a train for upwards of 43 hours. I had to eat peppermint candies when I was on a train for six hours because the rocking started making me ill. I can eat peppermints across the country or wear a motion sickness, what, collar? I just don't know if I want to. That said, this is supposed to be a one-way venture and I can put up with just about anything for a couple days. Aside from attending, say, back-to-back Katy Perry concerts.
Seats on the Greyhound are close to $400. Gets there faster than the train. Probably less comfortable, though. Fear I would arrive in California and be dangerously dehydrated because I wouldn't want to use the bus potty.
Renting a car (because my car is old as hell and might not make it 2,000 miles all at once) is crazy expensive -- something like $800. I want to avoid renting a U-Haulish truck because (a) I don't think I'll be taking enough stuff with me to justify the cost and (b) I might attract rogue lezbins looking to cohabitate. Also, renting a truck is expensive and my car is too old to drag one of those little rental pods across the country. Also, I don't want to try and drag a trailer behind me, nor do I want to alert thieves to the fact that a mere padlock stands between them and my worldly possessions.
Basically, my biggest hurdle is fear. A glance back at this post tells me I need to change my focus from money to something that doesn't make me seize up like a piece of coal with designs on becoming a diamond. Fear is not stopping me, but it IS making me send panicky texts to friends around the country that clearly reek of a lack of self-confidence. Last time I moved cross country, I was 11 and distinctly remember arriving in River City with a Barbie in one hand. Hence, I am asking for advice from everyone I can think of who has uprooted themselves as an adult and I'm making lots of mental notes.
The good news is my California hosts don't expect me to get a job immediately. There will be time to decompress and heal, which I hadn't even really thought of as necessary. I have not truly realized (or accepted) how tense I am about, well, everything. I am trying to let go of the rote: get a job, keep a job, work that job, be happy (or pretend to be happy), pay bills, go to work, go home, sleep, go back to work, try not to shoot self in head. I want to be open to working a 'fun' job that brings in enough money to cover my bills while I continue to pursue my ultimate goal of selling art and being a semi-famous writer. I'm probably not asking for as much help as I need, but it's hard to know where to start. I feel like index cards would really come in handy here. Maybe a vision board. Pretty much anything that gives me an excuse to buy a lot of office supplies, really.
I told King V and Queen S about the move and they couldn't have been more underwhelmed. Queen S is concerned I don't have a backup plan in case staying with my friends doesn't work out, but I have resources. I know about 10 other people who live in California. If I *really* had to bail, I know I could couchsurf until I figured something out. This is the age of social media, after all, where adopted people use Facebook to find their birth parents and a single Kickstarter campaign can result in a movie being funded. There is always a solution, even if I have to live in my car. Hell, Jewel did it and she published a poetry book years later, so maybe living in a van (down by the river) is a rite of passage.
On the same day that I mentioned California to my folks, I spoke with my friend in St. Louis about living in a house with her, AND I applied for a job in a burg about 30 minutes from River City that reminds me a little too much of Pleasantville before Technicolor. I told an older, mentor-ish friend that I was feeling a little nuts and she said it was because I couldn't see the big picture yet. She's right. I'm seeing 8,000 big pictures and they're all snapshots of things I'm not doing yet. I am in need of completing some baby steps. Once I get started, I can find my momentum. It helped that I read this on a friend's Facebook page earlier today:
“The Tao Te Ching says, "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. When I let go of what I have, I receive what I need." Have you ever struggled to find work or love, only to find them after you have given up? This is the paradox of letting go. Let go in order to achieve. Letting go is God’s law.”
(Despite believing in more than one higher power, they lost me a little with the God's law part, so I'm glad it's at the end.)
I'm on the sidelines, waiting for the coach to put me in. I'm chair dancing to a great song instead of getting on the dance floor. I'm Frogger eyeing fast-moving traffic and speedy lily pads. My inner coward whispers, "You know, it would be better if you just stood here, frozen, watching everyone else have fun," but I've done that. I'm DOING that. I want to run onto the field when the coach calls for me. I might make a touchdown. I might get tackled. It's worth riding a wave of adrenaline to find out. I want to dance, even if it's in my underwear and in my living room. I want to be a valiant amphibian with a taste for adventure instead of a squished frog in the middle of the freeway. For now, I will simply do my best to relax when I feel myself get tense. It will help if I imagine my house in the mountains that I buy after the sale of my book(s) makes me Oprah-rich. If Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey can become bestsellers, so can anything I write. No one's written yet about vampires who are into BDSM, right?
I told King V and Queen S about the move and they couldn't have been more underwhelmed. Queen S is concerned I don't have a backup plan in case staying with my friends doesn't work out, but I have resources. I know about 10 other people who live in California. If I *really* had to bail, I know I could couchsurf until I figured something out. This is the age of social media, after all, where adopted people use Facebook to find their birth parents and a single Kickstarter campaign can result in a movie being funded. There is always a solution, even if I have to live in my car. Hell, Jewel did it and she published a poetry book years later, so maybe living in a van (down by the river) is a rite of passage.
On the same day that I mentioned California to my folks, I spoke with my friend in St. Louis about living in a house with her, AND I applied for a job in a burg about 30 minutes from River City that reminds me a little too much of Pleasantville before Technicolor. I told an older, mentor-ish friend that I was feeling a little nuts and she said it was because I couldn't see the big picture yet. She's right. I'm seeing 8,000 big pictures and they're all snapshots of things I'm not doing yet. I am in need of completing some baby steps. Once I get started, I can find my momentum. It helped that I read this on a friend's Facebook page earlier today:
“The Tao Te Ching says, "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. When I let go of what I have, I receive what I need." Have you ever struggled to find work or love, only to find them after you have given up? This is the paradox of letting go. Let go in order to achieve. Letting go is God’s law.”
(Despite believing in more than one higher power, they lost me a little with the God's law part, so I'm glad it's at the end.)
I'm on the sidelines, waiting for the coach to put me in. I'm chair dancing to a great song instead of getting on the dance floor. I'm Frogger eyeing fast-moving traffic and speedy lily pads. My inner coward whispers, "You know, it would be better if you just stood here, frozen, watching everyone else have fun," but I've done that. I'm DOING that. I want to run onto the field when the coach calls for me. I might make a touchdown. I might get tackled. It's worth riding a wave of adrenaline to find out. I want to dance, even if it's in my underwear and in my living room. I want to be a valiant amphibian with a taste for adventure instead of a squished frog in the middle of the freeway. For now, I will simply do my best to relax when I feel myself get tense. It will help if I imagine my house in the mountains that I buy after the sale of my book(s) makes me Oprah-rich. If Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey can become bestsellers, so can anything I write. No one's written yet about vampires who are into BDSM, right?
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