Before I started this post, I checked out the Stages of Grief on Wikipedia. The stages are not in the order I thought they were, so my new found knowledge almost makes this post moot. But, when I have let that stop me? So, instead...
I hit Stage Two like nobody's business yesterday. I originally thought that anger was Stage Four, or at least Three... but it's Two. So my theory on me going through the grieving process about the state of my life right now, is not so much linear. I've already done my share (and probably other people's) of Stages One and Three. Not to mention quite bit of Four (with special guest, ice cream). I've also experienced Stage Six -- nonexistent, but otherwise known as extreme bitchiness.
But, yesterday... whoa, Two. I had an explosion of anger in being left all alone to face everything.
(Editor's Note: This post originally went on for four more excruciating paragraphs. I was therapeutic for me to write, but wouldn't be for anyone to read. Suffice it to say that I'm angry, okay?)
In other news, I want to name my first born son Atticus. I mean, he beat out Gandhi, yo.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
I don't want a "Yes" Man
This morning's announcement was the first time I've been actually happy in weeks. Which, is really pretty pathetic, since this news only marginally affects my daily life -- but given what's actually gone down in my daily life these last few weeks, my happiness has to come from somewhere. I'll be taking a happy and hopeful moment where I can get it -- might as well be from the Obama/Biden ticket.
I was so excited, I nearly cried. Okay, fine... I did tear up a little bit. The first thing I did this morning after reading the details on CNN.com, was head to my TiVo and set CNN to record Monday through Thursday, 6pm to midnight. I was probably going to catch as much of the Democratic National Convention as I could anyway, but Biden made me clear my TiVo of all but four episodes of Grey's. That's something.
I don't really have any plans to go all political on this blog, since I don't feel qualified to speak to what isn't much more than a college minor and a strong personal interest in politics in my part (can't get through the week without the Sunday morning shows, though), so I'll keep this relatively brief. I've had a big thing for Joe Biden for years now. My first real memory of liking him was when he was a guest on Meet the Press shortly following the 2004 elections. It was a strange time for any Dem, and I listened to what he had to say. I said aloud, "this guy's really smart. He should be president." And even though he left the race for president early this year, I held out hope for him as a VP pick. I value his experience, his attitude, his opinions. I like that he often meets a question with wit first, and then buckles down and goes for brilliant. I dig him -- actually, I may have never felt so passionately about a politician before -- and I'm truly excited and hopeful that he's on the ticket.
I was so excited, I nearly cried. Okay, fine... I did tear up a little bit. The first thing I did this morning after reading the details on CNN.com, was head to my TiVo and set CNN to record Monday through Thursday, 6pm to midnight. I was probably going to catch as much of the Democratic National Convention as I could anyway, but Biden made me clear my TiVo of all but four episodes of Grey's. That's something.
I don't really have any plans to go all political on this blog, since I don't feel qualified to speak to what isn't much more than a college minor and a strong personal interest in politics in my part (can't get through the week without the Sunday morning shows, though), so I'll keep this relatively brief. I've had a big thing for Joe Biden for years now. My first real memory of liking him was when he was a guest on Meet the Press shortly following the 2004 elections. It was a strange time for any Dem, and I listened to what he had to say. I said aloud, "this guy's really smart. He should be president." And even though he left the race for president early this year, I held out hope for him as a VP pick. I value his experience, his attitude, his opinions. I like that he often meets a question with wit first, and then buckles down and goes for brilliant. I dig him -- actually, I may have never felt so passionately about a politician before -- and I'm truly excited and hopeful that he's on the ticket.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Ted Leo would sing: oh, woe (woe woe)
Perhaps I should rename this blog "the Complaint Department." It's certainly become a vehicle for me to vent about the injustices that I (think I) encounter. Well, here's another one (actually, several) for the books. If you're already thinking, "whiny bitch..." then you should probably stop reading right about...
... now: Having no money sucks. And, when I say I have no money, I really mean it. My food budget for this week is $15. If I have to eat one more box of organic macaroni and cheese (I may be broke, but I will spend the extra 20 cents per box in hopes of saving the environment), I am going to hurl myself off the Verrazano Bridge. With my $15 for the week, I purchased two boxes of my organic mac and cheese, a box of Morningstar Farms faux-chicken sandwiches, a half-gallon of skim milk (not organic, because that would have been another $2.50!), the cheapest box of generic (non-organic, again, dammit) cereal that I could find, and some fudge bars (because, well, I can't face my situation without some kind of reduced-fat chocolate product). I have a few odds and ends left in my cabinets, too, from the shopping trip two weeks ago, where I had triple the budget (for $45 I was able to score the organic milk! Woo!), but its so frustrating to only spend money on rent, debts, (some) food and transportation, and have $5 left to show for my 10+ hour days at the office, with another five days left until payday. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. Right?
Tomorrow at work, while I'm savoring my turkey sandwich and sucking down office-provided popcorn, I will have to make a budget so that I can figure out how to afford these two upcoming weddings with next to nothing. I adore both of the people getting married, so I wish I had the dough (or credit) to splurge and get them something really fabulous for their newlywed lives. It just means I need to get creative!
Annnnd on to rant #2: bugs. My apartment building has a small bug situation. It's been the case since I moved in (which, obviously, I was not privy to before I moved in), but since I'm incredibly clean, I can usually keep them at bay. Well, now that it's summer, that's been a lot more difficult. Don't get me wrong, its manageable and entirely normal in a large, older building, but it's still, um, gross. Just a year ago, I would have freaked and called in a strapping man to kill a bug, if I saw one. Now, well, without the luxury of a man (let alone strapping), I kill them myself. And. I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Killing. Freaking. Bugs. In. My. Freaking. Kitchen. Need to debate the pros and cons of moving again. And that, it seems, is going to (mostly) come down to dollars and cents as well.
My writing: One way to make more money to deal with said issues would be to write something and sell it. Definitely not easy, of course. But even harder when I can't write. I'm just blocked. My brain is mush. All of my ideas -- when I have one -- suck or are giant lame rip-offs of something someone more talented has already done. I want to write. I sit down in hopes of doing so. And then... I'm watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother or checking my email or, sadly, just sitting, waiting for divine intervention. It's pathetic.
And, what's looming over me, when these situations (and work and weight loss and family and...) are stressing me out, I keep thinking, "where's my partner?" I thought I had one to help me through this ridiculousness. I want an escape, albeit temporary.
I feel dangerously close to saying, "all right, New York, you won. You've beaten me. Fuck you for taking away my hopes and my dreams."
... now: Having no money sucks. And, when I say I have no money, I really mean it. My food budget for this week is $15. If I have to eat one more box of organic macaroni and cheese (I may be broke, but I will spend the extra 20 cents per box in hopes of saving the environment), I am going to hurl myself off the Verrazano Bridge. With my $15 for the week, I purchased two boxes of my organic mac and cheese, a box of Morningstar Farms faux-chicken sandwiches, a half-gallon of skim milk (not organic, because that would have been another $2.50!), the cheapest box of generic (non-organic, again, dammit) cereal that I could find, and some fudge bars (because, well, I can't face my situation without some kind of reduced-fat chocolate product). I have a few odds and ends left in my cabinets, too, from the shopping trip two weeks ago, where I had triple the budget (for $45 I was able to score the organic milk! Woo!), but its so frustrating to only spend money on rent, debts, (some) food and transportation, and have $5 left to show for my 10+ hour days at the office, with another five days left until payday. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. Right?
Tomorrow at work, while I'm savoring my turkey sandwich and sucking down office-provided popcorn, I will have to make a budget so that I can figure out how to afford these two upcoming weddings with next to nothing. I adore both of the people getting married, so I wish I had the dough (or credit) to splurge and get them something really fabulous for their newlywed lives. It just means I need to get creative!
Annnnd on to rant #2: bugs. My apartment building has a small bug situation. It's been the case since I moved in (which, obviously, I was not privy to before I moved in), but since I'm incredibly clean, I can usually keep them at bay. Well, now that it's summer, that's been a lot more difficult. Don't get me wrong, its manageable and entirely normal in a large, older building, but it's still, um, gross. Just a year ago, I would have freaked and called in a strapping man to kill a bug, if I saw one. Now, well, without the luxury of a man (let alone strapping), I kill them myself. And. I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Killing. Freaking. Bugs. In. My. Freaking. Kitchen. Need to debate the pros and cons of moving again. And that, it seems, is going to (mostly) come down to dollars and cents as well.
My writing: One way to make more money to deal with said issues would be to write something and sell it. Definitely not easy, of course. But even harder when I can't write. I'm just blocked. My brain is mush. All of my ideas -- when I have one -- suck or are giant lame rip-offs of something someone more talented has already done. I want to write. I sit down in hopes of doing so. And then... I'm watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother or checking my email or, sadly, just sitting, waiting for divine intervention. It's pathetic.
And, what's looming over me, when these situations (and work and weight loss and family and...) are stressing me out, I keep thinking, "where's my partner?" I thought I had one to help me through this ridiculousness. I want an escape, albeit temporary.
I feel dangerously close to saying, "all right, New York, you won. You've beaten me. Fuck you for taking away my hopes and my dreams."
Thursday, August 14, 2008
"this is so going in my blog!"
I love my office. I love my office. I love my office. In fact, I love it so much, here I am in it:
No, I don't work with hazardous materials; I work in PR. With a painting mask on. Uh huh... We're all wearing them today. It's the hot new accessory in all of the top toxic offices. We're so trend-setting right now.
No, I don't work with hazardous materials; I work in PR. With a painting mask on. Uh huh... We're all wearing them today. It's the hot new accessory in all of the top toxic offices. We're so trend-setting right now.
Monday, August 11, 2008
ask the sky to fall on me
Today I just couldn't stop. Stop obsessing. Stop feeling. Stop talking. Stop thinking. Stop freaking. Stop being a freak. I need a re-education. I'm 26 years old and I need to learn how to be a normal, social person all over again.
Earlier this evening, I found a very close college friend of mine on Facebook. In the grand scheme of my life, we were extremely close for about a minute. Hell, even in relation to four years of college, we were only close for a minute. But, in the thick of it, we really connected. We met and we were just friends, in what that word is really supposed to mean. Like, in a nice mix of dot your i's with hearts way and have your kids call her "aunt" even though she's not way. We did everything together for a few months. She was a great friend to me -- she really listened, we exchanged witty banter, we had great fun. She really understood me in a way that I felt few people did. And, even now, I still think she understood me better than most people had or have since. It was a strange connection, but I was incredibly grateful for it. Knowing what I know now about myself, it's occurred to me that maybe I was kind of in love with her -- or the idea of her.
Fast forward a few months and we weren't speaking anymore. I've wondered for years what happened.
Enter Facebook, circa today. I looked her up, and there she was. And I friend requested her. I used up all 255 permitted characters in my greeting trying to explain that I really and truly missed her friendship and I still thought about her often. I sent the message before I could erase those 255 characters, therefore preventing myself from sounding like a complete stalker-freak. And away it went into cyberspace. My 255 character message in all it's freakishness.
I had thought about contacting her again for at least two years, actually. And yet. It felt like it had to be today. I just had to know. Immediately.
Putting out that friend request felt like offering my glass heart for her to smash into a million pieces. I'm doing a lot of that lately. This request for acceptance is a microcosm of my last few months. I'm left questioning. Vulnerable. In all my freakish glory.
Earlier this evening, I found a very close college friend of mine on Facebook. In the grand scheme of my life, we were extremely close for about a minute. Hell, even in relation to four years of college, we were only close for a minute. But, in the thick of it, we really connected. We met and we were just friends, in what that word is really supposed to mean. Like, in a nice mix of dot your i's with hearts way and have your kids call her "aunt" even though she's not way. We did everything together for a few months. She was a great friend to me -- she really listened, we exchanged witty banter, we had great fun. She really understood me in a way that I felt few people did. And, even now, I still think she understood me better than most people had or have since. It was a strange connection, but I was incredibly grateful for it. Knowing what I know now about myself, it's occurred to me that maybe I was kind of in love with her -- or the idea of her.
Fast forward a few months and we weren't speaking anymore. I've wondered for years what happened.
Enter Facebook, circa today. I looked her up, and there she was. And I friend requested her. I used up all 255 permitted characters in my greeting trying to explain that I really and truly missed her friendship and I still thought about her often. I sent the message before I could erase those 255 characters, therefore preventing myself from sounding like a complete stalker-freak. And away it went into cyberspace. My 255 character message in all it's freakishness.
I had thought about contacting her again for at least two years, actually. And yet. It felt like it had to be today. I just had to know. Immediately.
Putting out that friend request felt like offering my glass heart for her to smash into a million pieces. I'm doing a lot of that lately. This request for acceptance is a microcosm of my last few months. I'm left questioning. Vulnerable. In all my freakish glory.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
"So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon'tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeof-
glassI'veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme..."
- from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
Monday, July 14, 2008
I would call it writer's block, if I felt I could call myself a writer...
I left work at a reasonable hour this evening -- that's pretty unusual for me for a Monday -- and I decided on the train ride home that I was going to sit down in my decadent air-conditioning and write. I mean, really write. So upon walking in my door and killing a bug, I nuked my Lean Cuisine and fired up the MacBook. Oh, sweet glorious love of my life -- my MacBook.
I opened my "novel." And by "novel," I mean the three written pages of nothingness I've spewed out over the last few months. Tonight, I wrote maybe six lines. Six whole lines. And now, more nothingness.
And here's what is holding me back... I think that I hate my idea. The entire event on which said "novel" is based... yep, pretty sure I hate it. I certainly never loved it. I sort of tolerated it for three pages. I briefly flirted with an idea that left a lot of be desired anyway. Now that the flirtation is old-hat, and the mild amusement I felt with my opening line -- about it really fucking hurting when you get hit by a bus -- has faded... and well, I am all-out loathing for my idea. See, the bus thing was a poor metaphor for the style of writing that I was -- at very best -- attempting. And, well, that's just stupid and weak.
I generally write out of my head. I'll sit on the train and write a paragraph or two in my head. Those very rarely see my MacBook or paper, though. I think I arrived at the whole bus thing on the train, actually. I've taken the bus here exactly three times. Don't like it much. Shouldn't write about a bus.
I'm missing my own point. It wasn't about a bus. Nevermind that.
So, since I hate this idea, and it's going nowhere slowly, I need a new one. Send help.
I want to believe I'm this writer trapped in a publicist's career with all of these great ideas that someone will one day want to publish. But not today. Today (and for the foreseeable future) I need help.
I opened my "novel." And by "novel," I mean the three written pages of nothingness I've spewed out over the last few months. Tonight, I wrote maybe six lines. Six whole lines. And now, more nothingness.
And here's what is holding me back... I think that I hate my idea. The entire event on which said "novel" is based... yep, pretty sure I hate it. I certainly never loved it. I sort of tolerated it for three pages. I briefly flirted with an idea that left a lot of be desired anyway. Now that the flirtation is old-hat, and the mild amusement I felt with my opening line -- about it really fucking hurting when you get hit by a bus -- has faded... and well, I am all-out loathing for my idea. See, the bus thing was a poor metaphor for the style of writing that I was -- at very best -- attempting. And, well, that's just stupid and weak.
I generally write out of my head. I'll sit on the train and write a paragraph or two in my head. Those very rarely see my MacBook or paper, though. I think I arrived at the whole bus thing on the train, actually. I've taken the bus here exactly three times. Don't like it much. Shouldn't write about a bus.
I'm missing my own point. It wasn't about a bus. Nevermind that.
So, since I hate this idea, and it's going nowhere slowly, I need a new one. Send help.
I want to believe I'm this writer trapped in a publicist's career with all of these great ideas that someone will one day want to publish. But not today. Today (and for the foreseeable future) I need help.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
show me the money
During my extended blogging hiatus, my financial situation not only did not improve, it actually worsened. If you can believe it, I am actually $550 overdrawn on my bank account as I type this. Pretty sure that means that my rent check will bounce by Monday. Can we say eviction?
I am overdrawn (mostly) because of my fake pregnancy. What? No, it's not the kind of thing that someone should lie about, but I did. I would probably be going to hell, if I really believed in it. I spent Monday in tears on my living room floor, trying desperately to defy my meekness and install an air conditioner myself. The thermometer in the room read 92 degrees (it was 105 outside in New York), and I after giving up before the early afternoon, I waited and waited and waited and waited and... you get the point... for an air conditioning installer person to rescue me. At promptly, um, midnight, he arrived. He only arrived because I claimed to be pregnant (I guess I'm glad I went off Weight Watchers last month). I just kind of blurted it out. I'm not a terrible person, I was just miserable and could not stand the heat any longer. Don't judge me.
I have air conditioning now and it's currently set at 64 degrees. It cost me approximately 1/3 of my paycheck (I wish I was kidding), and my next electric bill will only tell how much more before October.
I am also in the red because I went home to witness my little brother's high school graduation. Rental cars a expensive, not to mention that whole $4+ for a gallon of gas thing. Enterprise should rent hybrids. While visiting "home", I saw my high school math teacher that I was convinced I was going to marry. He's still single -- not sure how that can be-- and I briefly considered throwing myself at him. Had I been home another day, I might have.
I'm not sure why I can't get this whole grown-up finances shit together yet. Every month I skimp on everything and just a few days after my paycheck has been deposited I am f'ed again and can't buy milk. Twice this week I couldn't afford a cab to the Javits Center (it's about a million and a half long blocks away from everything else in Manhattan), that I would have been reimbursed for. That made me sad (and hot, because it's a loooong walk back to civilization).
So I'm pathetic and selling some things on eBay to try to get back into the black. Since all but two of my designer handbags were sold months ago, I've moved on to my DVD collection. I think the only thing in my entire apartment that has remained untouched in my quest to make quick cash has been my bookshelf. I can't bear to part with anything on it. Even if I don't always read the most challenging literature, having a small collection makes me feel smarter. And I certainly need something to maintain the little bit of self-esteem I have left before the bank takes that, too...
I am overdrawn (mostly) because of my fake pregnancy. What? No, it's not the kind of thing that someone should lie about, but I did. I would probably be going to hell, if I really believed in it. I spent Monday in tears on my living room floor, trying desperately to defy my meekness and install an air conditioner myself. The thermometer in the room read 92 degrees (it was 105 outside in New York), and I after giving up before the early afternoon, I waited and waited and waited and waited and... you get the point... for an air conditioning installer person to rescue me. At promptly, um, midnight, he arrived. He only arrived because I claimed to be pregnant (I guess I'm glad I went off Weight Watchers last month). I just kind of blurted it out. I'm not a terrible person, I was just miserable and could not stand the heat any longer. Don't judge me.
I have air conditioning now and it's currently set at 64 degrees. It cost me approximately 1/3 of my paycheck (I wish I was kidding), and my next electric bill will only tell how much more before October.
I am also in the red because I went home to witness my little brother's high school graduation. Rental cars a expensive, not to mention that whole $4+ for a gallon of gas thing. Enterprise should rent hybrids. While visiting "home", I saw my high school math teacher that I was convinced I was going to marry. He's still single -- not sure how that can be-- and I briefly considered throwing myself at him. Had I been home another day, I might have.
I'm not sure why I can't get this whole grown-up finances shit together yet. Every month I skimp on everything and just a few days after my paycheck has been deposited I am f'ed again and can't buy milk. Twice this week I couldn't afford a cab to the Javits Center (it's about a million and a half long blocks away from everything else in Manhattan), that I would have been reimbursed for. That made me sad (and hot, because it's a loooong walk back to civilization).
So I'm pathetic and selling some things on eBay to try to get back into the black. Since all but two of my designer handbags were sold months ago, I've moved on to my DVD collection. I think the only thing in my entire apartment that has remained untouched in my quest to make quick cash has been my bookshelf. I can't bear to part with anything on it. Even if I don't always read the most challenging literature, having a small collection makes me feel smarter. And I certainly need something to maintain the little bit of self-esteem I have left before the bank takes that, too...
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