Moving On

...Or, at least, you know, faking it well enough to fool people.

In addition to making some fiscal changes that are long overdue

(Break here for a "short" explanation. Fiscal Changes could not be made if not for the generosity of an "anonymous" donor in Denver and some guy who I suspect may be a, um, 'brother' of the afore mentioned anonymous donor. Yesterday money quite literally fell out of my mail box. To say the least I was stunned. In a moment of utter brilliance I have decided to open a new checking account that is completely free of the scars of a few twenty or thirty overdrafts in the past year to six months. AND I am implementing the budget my sweet sister has been pushing at me since I was in diapers.)

I have decided to change my point of view towards dating and relationships. That is to say I will not be doing it ANYMORE. I know, drastic right? Except that a very smart person I know said to me this morning "Boys don't ever grow to be men. They just get more body hair."

Quite frankly I am just a tad too tired these days to play nanny.

...Okay, well there is this one boy that I ran into last night that infiltrated my dreams. I think we're going to get married.

Right after the next commercial.

He's perfectly beautiful, right? Yeah, we're going to have beautiful babies. As soon as they figure out how to make one of these impregnate women.

(For this price I want more than a ride in the rain!)

...If anyone needs me I'll be holed up in my apartment with re-runs of My Boys for the next lifetime.

Friday

Well, except that I have mentally committed myself to coming into work this weekend. I need the overtime.

My boss is taking a vacation day and did not tell me if I could have an advance on my paycheck to keep the repo man from coming. It bothers me that he has absolutely no sense of urgency. At least not with anything I talk to him about. I don't think he quite understood when I said very clearly "They are going to repossess my car in six days if I don't pay them." He said he had to ask the other bosses. I doubt very seriously that he did.

Rich people fucking suck.

C's birthday is tomorrow. It feels strange. My plan to come into work has an ulterior motive to keep my mind off of the obvious needling pain that is coming with not celebrating his 36th birthday with him. I gave him a present against the suggestions of many of my friends. I don't care. I still love the stupid jerk. I want him to smile - even if its only for a second - on his birthday.

Other than these little twisting dagger sort of things I guess I'm doing well. Better than several days ago, to be sure. My readership is at nil these days, so I guess that break ups and couch covers are not high on the list of exciting reading that people seek out. Some days I hate my stupid visitor counter.

I decided to build a bike. I am going to volunteer at the Yellow Bike Project - which I thought was mythical all this time - and after only 12 hours I will be allowed to make my own bike from their warehouse of bike parts. After I found out that the old Trek was, indeed, being loved by its new owner, I decided the next best thing would be something built by the sweat of my brow. Not to mention it would be swell to know how to work on my own bike. I can't really afford Jack and Adams (or even Bicycle Sport Shop) for repairs - no matter how cute the bike boys are.

I need to start writing again. I mean on the Letter Writing Campaign. My excuse has been the lack of stamps, but I know that it has far more to do with my current emotional state. I've always been avoidant in my journals and various other writings when I am depressed. Its like I don't want any physical evidence of the struggle. Or maybe I just feel silly after reading it when the time has passed.

Not that it's stopped me from torturing my online readers. More Chinese water treatment, ya'll? ...Coming right up!

A Lesson in Time Management

1: Write a Blog about time management when you should be doing a number of other things.

2. Obsessively check your email and / or Myspace as if you have something important to learn from them.

3. Look at the stacks of paper on your desk and wonder when you are going to get to them.

4. Troll Craigslist for a dog, even though you can't have a dog at your apartment, cannot afford a dog, already have two cats and will not be getting a dog any time in the near future. Who cares? You still want a dog.

5. Troll Craigslist for part time jobs when what you should really be doing is doctoring you resume so that it looks like you've had some kind of restaurant experience. Click on every job that sounds interesting but do not apply to any of them.

6. Make a new Soundpedia playlist.

7. Look up lyrics to songs.

8. Chat with friends on Gmail.

9. Look at stack of papers and realize that you are not going to be finishing them anytime today.

10. Spend half a day at another office in another city for a "Time Management" Seminar. Think about how much time you could be spending on the internet instead of learning about Time Management. Hope that it doesn't take you three hours to drive home in the rain.

Thank God

For Therapists. Thank God for baked salmon and root beer floats and some one to watch the Gilmore Girls with on a rainy night. Thank God for my neurotic cat who will never ever let me forget that he loves me. Thank God for work to keep my mind off of things and for friends and family to keep my mind where it should be. Thank God for the lump in my throat, because it means that I'm not dead yet, that I still have another chance, that soon I will come up for air.

F***

People don't like to hear the sad things. They don't want to hear your damn sob stories and they don't want to hear about how much your life sucks. They have enough shit going on in their own life. No one wants to read something that fills them with more grief.

I used to think that people could relate to me if I wrote the sad stuff. I used to think that people wanted to know that someone else was going through it too. But people don't want to hear it. After a while, people stop listening to your sadness. They turn off, turn around and walk out the door.

And yet, if you write about the things in your life that bring you joy, even just the littlest things, you are considered inane. People think you have no substance, no merit, nothing to give them.

And so fuck both sides. Today I write because my goddamned heart hurts. I am going to write whatever I want, uncensored because I'm sick of doing for others. I'm going to write because my dog died - the very last thing that my mother had with her from Colorado. There is nothing left of that past now.

I am going to write because my boyfriend and I can't make it work. After two long years and what felt like decades of trying we cannot make it work. Because today he came and picked up his cat from my apartment, and now all I have left of him is a pair of his socks.

I will write because I am going to be negative in my checking account again and I am too scared to call the loan company for fear that if they hear my voice they will come immediately to repossess my car.

I will write because I miss my mom, and more than anything I would love to drive to her now, hold her and let her hold me and make things better.

Because I want to believe in a damn God but I feel empty and hollow and no matter how much my friends or family try to convince me the love of God doesn't hold you at night.

I feel small and empty and angry and sad. I feel desperate and lonely and frayed. No amount of craft projects or bottles of wine or nights out with friends can wipe away what I am feeling this moment.

How is that for substance? Are you satisfied? I am. For once in a long, long time, I am satisfied. I realize at this very moment how holding back can be so poisonous, so deadly. How being polite and demure and evasive can slowly drain you of your life force and make you numb.

God strike me down if I forget it. I do believe he can do that.

Wow

Looking at photos of the couch make me sad for my couch. It needs a better life, I think. Its long past the point of retiring, and no kind of slip cover is going to make it better. Oh how I tried....Maybe I should have chosen something a little less stripey.

So, this is the part of my day, too early in my week, where I begin to think about jumping out the window onto my car. Then I realize I value my car and my body far too much to cause that much damage and so I consider just plain walking out. The problem is...Nothing. There is nothing wrong with my job. It is easy. I get paid well. Very little is expected of me and I still get full benefits. And yet....

I don't know maybe it's the boredom that's killing me. Maybe it's the utter silence. Or maybe I'm just straight up PMSing. Any way you slice it, I am ready to go home.

Neighbor Chris is smoking some salmon as we speak and by the time I am done with therapy it will be ready. I could really use a beer but considering my post dinner plans I think I'd better steer clear of it. Oh God and I'm out of cigarettes. I hope it's not another one of "those" nights.

A Photo Post

I don't know how you're feeling about it but I'm feeling like I say too damn much these days. So today post, boys and girls begins with the letter "P" and and the word "Picture".

First: I promised photos of the couch cover, and so here they are. This is what it looks like after I slept on it (and so did all the cats, obviously).

Please note the handcrafted Tiffany Blue Pillow covers.

Here is an homage to my uber crafty wall organizer.

And here is a long promised photo of "The Space Dress"

Here are few things to inspire you...

From my the wall in my bathroom (next to the mirror):And from above my computer...Then there are the things that inspire me...

A portrait done of me by my old neighbor Tom.My favorite (mostly unused) vintage camera. (A gift from Tom before he left for Europe.)My sweet Mom on her wedding day. (She's younger than me in this photo.)I also love that lamp. Note the Tiffany Blue curtains in the background that match certain couch pillows. How clever am I?

My bowl of lucky charms. Loretta Lynn cigarette ashbox is near the top of the list....this creature...And I could not live without my amazing friends.

Thus concludes today's walking tour, brought to you by the letter "P". Come again, and bring some of your own "P"'s to share!

What To Do With Too Much Personal Time

Alternately Titled: "Juliet and the Amazing Ten Dollar Couch Cover"

Yesterday after furiously cleaning my apartment from floor to ceiling (and saging. AND doing laundry) I found that I had nothing left to do. I took a nap, because a nap is always good. I thought about asking my new neighbor to go and get a beer with me, but just as I got up off the couch to do it I saw her walk out her door obviously on the way to work. It was only four o'clock. There were far too many hours of daylight to kill and so I decided to commit to a new project. I BIG project. A SEWING project.

Despite the fact that the previous morning I had destroyed two perfectly good items of clothing trying to "alter" them, I convinced myself that I could put together a slip cover for my couch. In fact, I decided that I had to.

After a few hours scouring over priced sheet sets and frilly ugly curtains inside the crowded isles of Ross, I found two lovely items I deemed acceptable to rip apart and baste back together over my seven foot couch. While I was definitely drawn to the Kelly green sheet set, I ended up with two chocolate colored drapes and a cream colored sheet for the massive expanse of fabric that would be the back of the sofa (No one sees it, who cares if its a sheet, right?). Grand Total: $9.70.

Five hours, countless pin pricks and a half a pack of cigarettes later I had a perfect (almost) couch cover. It was warm and inviting and I felt sure that with a little ingenuity and the leftover fabric I could cover up where I started to get obviously exhausted and delirious.

Photos of the botch job should be up tomorrow.

Saturday Post

This means that I am at my office. While I should probably do some work to catch up on the hour I was late last week, I won't. Instead I'll write, because that's what I've wanted to do all day anyhow.

Last night I splurged on stuff to make goat cheese, pesto and spinach lasagna. Eighteen dollars. And I didn't even buy more cigarettes (which I should have). But I justified it with the thought of being able to mix it up between last weeks soup (should I freeze that?) and some carb-y cheesy goodness for my meals. If I just had an extra four hundred dollars I would be caught up and I could eat like a normal person again.

Anyhow, I got home and started cooking right away, knowing that making the crepes for the pasta layers would take awhile. I wished that I had someone to share it with and placated myself with T.V.. I boiled and mixed and tried so hard to get the damn crepes to come out right (but didn't) and by the time it was done I had "tested" so much of the meal that I was barely hungry. I forced myself to eat it anyhow and it was good. Certainly worth the wait, and just what my tired, hungover body had been craving.

(Not at ALL what my pesto lasagna looked like)

As I digested I contemplated going to the secret swimming spot but I couldn't bring myself to get off the couch. Simon had passed out in my arms like a little velveteen baby doll and my face was flush with fullness and exhaustion. It was threatening to rain again.

I went to bed at nine o' clock on a Friday.

This morning I woke up with an urge to make things in my house clean. Not just straightened up, but really really clean - the energy, the air, the laundry the carpet. But first I went outside to check on my garden. Some kind of massive storm had washed all the earthworms up on the sidewalk and one by one they were inching towards the pink brick building in a mass suicide attempt.

Eager to get some fertilizer going beneath my teensey weensey basil plants, I donned my pink garden gloves and picked them up one by one - effectively putting an end to the impending worm carnage.

Satisfied with my work, I hung my prayer bells outside my door where they belong. I figure if there really is something to Feng Shui, the bells are not doing much hanging on the curtain outside my bedroom. Then I nearly died from the humidity, so I went back inside.

Girls from Colorado are simply not made for humidity.

Are you sick of reading this blog yet? I am. It's entirely too long for its lack of subject content... There will be more blather on Monday, I promise.

Now I Just Have a Headache

But, I think I will live.

My visit counter tells me that I have one new avid reader.

One new reader! ONE! AH AH AH!!

So, to my new avid reader, I hope you don't think I'm a total drunk. Wait, I don't think I really care about that. Any of my regular reader(s) know I have much larger problems than holding down a bottle of wine. But we all just laugh at it. So its cool.

The only real problem for a stalker like myself is that URL's don't tell you at all where your viewers are reading from. Uruguay? I doubt it. The URL for my computer comes from Michigan. Kuala Lampur? Seriously? This new reader might be from Ohio. OR they might be from Minneapolis. Or maybe it's my neighbor. Who the hell knows.

The really sad thing is that I have so few readers I actually NOTICE when I get a new one. SIGH. Bear with me you five people. Someday I will be WORLD FAMOUS!

....Or at least have more than ten readers...

Hello, My Name is Juliet and I am an Alcoholic

Last night I took rose to the secret swim spot. She is leaving town in a matter of days and I wanted to get in some quality time with her before she goes. Also, I had purchased a bottle of wine after work and I thought it prudent to not be drinking alone.

So off we go to the secret swim spot, me with my plastic cup and wine in a paper bag, she with her six pack. We got to chatting as we often do when we get together, and as we got to chatting we got to drinking. I refilled my plastic cup several times, considering that it wasn't the same capacity as a wine glass and so I couldn't have been drinking much.

And then we got back to Rose's empty apartment and I went to pour another glass. THE LAST ONE OF THE BOTTLE. I drank an entire bottle of wine by myself.

Now, any normal person might look at a bottle of wine and a trip to a pool and think "Hmm, I'll just empty half of this bottle into this to go container and sip on it for awhile. Then I'll have some for another day." But then we would be assuming that I am, in fact, normal, of which I am anything but. Especially when it comes to moderating my alcohol intake. I believe that I was given the genetic gift of non-moderation like eighty percent of my extended family, but I missed the gene giving a high tolerance. I am what they would call "a lightweight".

Naturally when one such as myself drinks an entire bottle of wine in one sitting, one will most times find themselves regurgitating the contents of that bottle into a little trash can by her bed. I think there was a granola bar in there too. Swell.

It's been a long time since I got that sick. I wailed so loudly that I may have finally convinced the neighbors I am possessed. I finally fell asleep with a half eaten piece of eziekiel bread still hanging in my hand over the trash. At 2 a.m. I woke to find that I was no longer drunk and I even felt kind of okay. I took three advil and chugged some water and fell back into bed. But when I woke at 7 it was to my special friend Mr. Hangover. Why there is a time delay with hangovers I will never know, though someone probably does. That somebody probably does not drink whole bottles of wine by themselves in one sitting.

I feel like hell on toast.

Thank God It's Thursday

Although I think I dreamt that it was Friday. It was kind of a let down to find out it isn't. Oh well. It means that the week is more than half over. Some days I think I should just retire. I could find a beautiful rich man who doesn't care about me or what I do and just travel around the world. Or not. Maybe I would just sit by the pool and sunbathe. At any rate I wouldn't be here.

I get so frustrated being bottom of the totem pole. Not that I'm interested in working my way up, but being at the bottom sucks. I am a glorified maid, and a horrible secretary. I find myself doing little passive aggressive things like letting the spoons and the paper towels go empty in the break room just to see if anyone in the office will fill them besides me. I take a stand on filing and I am the queen of dragging out projects unnecessarily.

The trick is this: Any project, when broken up by ten minutes of Internet surfing at regular five minute intervals, will take an extra two to three hours. Now, this might seem absurd to some, but when you only have about three real tasks a day it is positively paramount to ones sanity that one keeps as "busy" as humanly possible.

I suppose I could achieve this by doing actual work related tasks, but that, to me, seems absurd.

Whatever, don't judge. We all know I should be at home working hard at becoming a famous collagiste. (That is the french pronunciation, by the way. How do I add an ague to this thing?) My latest piece is coming along swimmingly except that I've discovered there are exactly TWO asian women between the covers of my hundred some odd fashion magazines, and now a certain spiritual Deity looks decidedly evil. That aside, it's beautiful, and if I could only bring it to work THEN I would be using my time productively.

Instead I am grinding my teeth at every phone call and contemplating what new music I can add to my soundpedia list. I've listened to Lyle Lovett for two days straight, and I'm afraid I'm going to become a curly haired cowman sometime soon.

In other news I have discovered the perfect time of evening for my stolen swims and the perfect buoyancy of my body. I've found that I bob, similarly to a red stripped plastic fishing thing, but this allows for a completely unfettered zen moment with the dusky sky and fingernail moon. I think I'm addicted.

Blog Lesson No.1:

People don't read the sad blog. In the past couple weeks, as my blogs have gotten progressively more stressed and sad, my readership has gone down 58%. 58%!! That means that over HALF of who ever the hell has been reading this crap just STOPPED.

So, in an effort to please my readers I'm going to make a sincere effort to lighten the mood:

This morning I overslept. Of course I didn't mean too. One never intentionally "oversleeps", unless you are an asshole who doesn't care about holding a job. Or the character from Office Space (who, I guess, would be considered "an asshole who doesn't care about holding a job").

At any rate, I woke to my alarm clock at 6:45. NPR was doing a piece on pigs. Slaughtering pigs? Herding pigs? I wasn't really sure, but I knew that I could squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep before dragging out of bed and so I reached for the big fat snooze button. And hit OFF.

I drifted back to a sleep where I was on a water ride to New York City. For some reason instead of buses there were long kayaks and as the water flooding the canyon (which looked like South America, for some reason) the massive bolt-of-fabric-highway would get sturdier. Me, I got to ride it when it was saggy and loose. I barely hung on long enough to roll into an aboriginal town where we added a baby to our tribe. What? Now there was a tribe. Of course. Who needs New York when you've got aboriginal breasts.

And then suddenly it was NINE O'CLOCK! Damn. I called work and showered the fastest I have ever showered since the last time I was late for work.

It seems as though the switch from Melatonin to Valerian Root has made sleeping more solid, at least for the time being. Even if it tastes like a sour butthole.

Last night I snuck over to Cat's old apartment complex for a swim. They have a great pool to break into because, barring it is left unlocked, it isn't surrounded by the complex like most of the pools in my 'hood and so mostly you can go unnoticed. No people peering out of their mini blinds going "Does that green polka-dot bikini live here?"

There was no one at the pool except a big concrete Buddha statue. I'm not a strong swimmer, but the water was warm and so I slipped in and did a few old lady laps. I let my body float without moving it, only slightly alarmed that the only part that was actually left floating was my head. I remember floating on my back as a child. When did the rest of my body become so heavy?

I stayed submerged and watched the clouds rush past. I noticed that the cicadas lost their sound as my ears filled with water, but the cars on the street did not.

It was the perfect pool to slip in and out of, but I think that the slipping out part would be better left till after dark. Even though I cleverly left my car on the other side of the complex, I could not disguise the fact that I was dripping wet in a bikini and walking directly to my car instead of an apartment. I got a few "looks".

Tonight I might try again, in the hopes that it rains like crazy. There is nothing more soul soothing that swimming in the rain.

Night Lights and Blankies

Last night I got sick of the loneliness. It was palpable, and painful. I needed something safe, something comfortable. I needed fried chicken.


Even though I wanted the Colonel's Secret Recipe, I didn't know where a KFC was nearby and so I settled for Whole Foods, justifying the proximity with the purchase of a couple of chick flicks to go with my meal. Unfortunately, WF has very very bad fried chicken. It's quite possible the chewiest, most tasteless chicken I've ever eaten. So I abandoned my dream for a pint of macaroni and cheese instead, and a chocolate soy milk. That certainly qualifies as comfort food in my book. I can almost conjure up a memory of my mother serving that up to me five times a week as a child. I was a picky eater.

By the time I ate and settled in it was 8 o'clock, and by the time I had my first good, cathartic cry it was 10. But it felt good to cry. It was as if I was squeezing the empty air out of a balloon, deflating slowly and quietly. I was at once grateful and angry at the movie for giving me false hopes about what could be out there. What "should" be out there.

"And Ray and Mirabelle are connected without ever knowing it.
But Mirabelle, now feeling the warmth of her first reciprocal love..
..has broken away from him.
And as Jeremy offers her more of his heart, Mirabelle offers equal parts of herself in return.
One night, sooner than she would have liked..
..which made it irresistible..
..they make love for the second time in months.
At this point..
..Jeremy surpasses Ray Porter as a lover of Mirabelle..
..because what he offers her..
..is tender..
..and true."

...And then I went to bed. The emptiness was not gone, but sleep came on easily. I dreamt of a wall full of masks and a room full of art. There was a catwalk joining the two that went above the ice cream section of the grocery store. There was something for me to look forward to there.

Tonight I will work on a collage. First time in.... months? I would go to Medici and work on it there to stave of feeling alone but the piece is large and the tables there are small. Not to mention, I'm not sure many people would appreciate the rubber cement fumes in the way that I do. But that and the Gilmore Girls Re-runs will keep me distracted enough, I think, to forget for one more evening.

I have

Chewed all the fingernails on my left hand into ragged little nubs. I don't know why.

My two front teeth have been hurting all day, as if the nerves were exposed from constant grinding. I really need a hug.

Can someone find me this dog?????

Just Keep Going

Because there is radio silence. Because there's nothing I can do about it anymore. One day I will see him smile again. Doubtful it will be because of me.

So I keep going, doing the things I need to do. I make a vat of soup out of the rice and beans I can't bear to look at anymore. I think about sharing it with my new neighbor, but instead stay inside my apartment, watching T.V.. I sew little letters into silk for gifts and think about the new ways I am going to make extra money, if I can at all. I chicken out on asking family for it - because they don't got none either. I apply for Financial Aid again and hope that I won't be denied this time. I make plans.

I will apply for the UT School of Journalism - part time at first and then hopefully full time as I can get more financial aid. I will finish my website and enough collages to show in October, and send out letters and press kits a few galleries in New York, Brooklyn. I will not move there. Instead I will get my passport and fly to Germany, like a lost puppy, to see Ame who will try to talk me into moving there, too. But I won't. I'll stay in my little apartment. Next year the honeysuckle will grow strong.

I think about painting my apartment a new color - something vivid and bright. I wonder if there is any such thing as too much yellow. I imagine so. I think about getting a tattoo, again, but figure I won't. Even if I had just one word, there on my wrist, it might just be one more thing to regret.

I try not to get annoyed at the people who love me so much and want me to be near them, so they can take care of me. I think I have my mother's stubbornness, kicking at them like a mule. I can't leave here, not now. It's not that I'm afraid. It's that I'm not ready. I thought I was, I thought I was, but I'm not.

I try not to get annoyed at the phone ringing, begging me to do my job. And the mess on my desk that I could easily clean up. I try not to think of the things I would rather be doing, because there is always something I'd rather be doing.

And when it's really quite like this - with the cicadas humming so loud, even over the buzz of the broken down printer - I try not to think at all.

Free Will Astrology

Cancer Horoscope for week of July 12, 2007

To celebrate your ramble through the most wildly independent phase of your astrological cycle, I'm offering you three inspirational quotes. The first is from poet e.e. cummings: "To be nobody but yourself in a world that is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle that any human being can fight." Your second shot of motivation is from Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "If you have ever been called defiant, incorrigible, forward, cunning, insurgent, unruly, or rebellious, you're on the right track. If you have never been called these things, there is yet time." Lastly, here's a Hindu proverb: "There is nothing noble in being superior to some other person. The true nobility is in being superior to your previous self."

If You Can't Laugh At Yourself Then You Might As Well Be Dead

And since I'm not dead, then I guess I have to laugh.

My house officially smells like the crazy cat lady today. Somewhere between the moldy air conditioning and the ultra smelly candles I've been burning furiously is the scent of "Fresh" cat litter and poo. It hits you like a wall when you walk in the door.

Between that and the cat hair that randomly floats up off the couch and carpet, I will be sure to keep all intruders out.

Having a third cat in the house didn't bother me until I realized that the food was gone. Somewhere around 3 a.m. Mingus started doing the pathetic, wounded cat cry and the whole pack of them started trampling across the bed. Fitch got in my face to remind me he was there and lick out my nose hairs.

I narrowly escaped the three of them eating me alive before I left for work.

I also narrowly escaped running out of gas on the Mopac bridge. Not that I haven't run Ms. Betty on fumes before. Lord knows that's probably the reason she needed 500$ worth of repairs at 43,000miles. But whatever. My checking account is negative, or will be when the rent check clears. There's nothing I can do about it.

I tried to sell some books last night - it was the last thing I thought I owned that had some value. But come to find out - I'm actually worth NOTHING! For fifteen books they wanted to give me TWO DOLLARS. TWO. That is less than ONE gallon of gas. You can't buy anything with two dollars. Not a cup of coffee. Not a bagel with cream cheese. Not a magazine. I think maybe you could buy some toilet paper, but it would be that sand papery one ply crap that chafes your butt every time you wipe.

I almost yelled at the pan handler on the way home. He looked into my car and mouthed "Do you have just a little?" and I thought very seriously about rolling down the window to ask how I could get into his business. I figured I could probably have a humorous political angle and might make enough cash to catch up.

Anyhow. The gas will be turned off and I will boil water for baths until next Monday when I can pay to turn it back on again. I'm going to beg my co-worker for a few dollars to put in my tank till next Monday. I will refrain from begging on the corner

(in order to retain my last shred of self respect), and come up with an ingenious way to make extra money to float me. And I will laugh my ass off at the ridiculousness of this situation I am in, again.

I figure, it's better than slitting my wrists.

Doesn't get more humiliating

than being given the number of the local homeless shelter as assistance because "there's nothing we can do for you". My gas account is four months delinquent. They are going to turn it off today. Or very near today. I am going to take some things to try to sell after I get off work.

Pan handling sounds less and less like a joke.

Twitter and Pitch

Last night I tried to text message God. I knew it was silly, but I secretly hoped that there was some combination of numbers on my cell that could be sent out into oblivion. All of them were sent directly back to my phone with an error message. Maybe God's way of saying "Knock it off, honey. You're being a dolt."

There are sometimes when I just wish He would knock it off with the signs and subtleties and just come out and talk to me. I don't want to be a prophet or a saint or a messiah. I just want guidance. I want one day where I don't feel like I'm going it alone. Maybe that is an absence of faith. I don't know.

It just gets to be overwhelming. I have it easy, I know, but when the cupboard is bare (again) the tank is on Empty, and the gas company is threatening to turn off my utilities, its hard to go to sleep without tears in my eyes. And though I wanted someone to talk to about it, I knew it was my own burden. I am responsible for where I am.

I am just tired. When does it ever get easier? When do I get to go grocery shopping again and when do I get to rid my apartment and my cats of fleas?? When do I get to put a full tank of gas in my car, drive to see my mother for the weekend and then fill-up when I get back? Its the smallest things that I watch people take for granted every day, and this begins to fill me with rage.

I know it's not for us to judge one another and it's not right to compare myself and that I shouldn't covet what other people have. But after a few weeks of eating nothing but beans and rice, and a few months of not paying the majority of your bills, and after getting BASIC FOOD as a gift for your birthday and being truly touched by the luxury given, you begin to understand why people steal and murder.

I frequent Whole Foods Market. I have a friend who works there and I often join her for lunch. Usually I steal a cup of coffee. Sometimes I steal something off the buffet bar. Occasionally I pay for things. Enough fifty dollar purchases that I feel it evens things out. But I feel so righteous there, doing that. Like Robin Hood. Taking from someone who obviously doesn't need it because they never know its missing. Usually while I'm parking I curse the 20-somethings in their Lexus' with their fancy Burberry sunglasses. Sometimes, its all I can do to not kick in the headlights and key the doors.

Because how can so few people have so much wealth, and yet I regularly forfeit food for my bills??? And what option do I have? If I don't pay my car payment, they'll reposes and I won't be able to get to work. If I don't pay my utilities I will have to live without electricity, hot water, gas to cook. If I don't pay my rent I am evicted. And so what is left goes to putting gas in the car, insurance so I don't get ticketed for not having it, a cup of coffee or a sandwich to make me feel like a functioning member of society.

I want so much more than this life. And I know I am capable of getting it. And I know that it could be worse. So much worse. But I just get tired. I just want to lay down and let the world run me over. It wouldn't take very long. If I let myself go I would be just a few months from being completely homeless. Destitute.

One of my bosses sent out an email today offering money to any employee who could bring in an electrical engineer who would be good with the company. They are desperate, he says. My eyes didn't go past the words "sizable sum". All I could think was "Catch up, catch up. Then you can get out of here!" But go where? Don't even know where I will go, now. Don't even know what to do.

So maybe this is the deep end? Maybe now is when I make up one of those scandalous and enraging signs that says "Already work for money, but I still can't eat. Don't care about the food, I just want your fucking Lexus."

Or maybe this is just the beginning of my quarter life crisis...

Made It Through

But just barely. Did you know that trying to wash away your miseries with a trash truck of beer and wine doesn't actually work? Well, a girl can try, anyhow.

This week I've had more "drink" invites than in the entire year. I guess because I wasn't drinking for so long I was never invited? If that's true, word sure got out fast that I'm off the wagon. ...On the wagon? Which ever is right.

Anyhow, I got pathetic photo documentation of Saturday's events. Rest assured it was a beautiful evening and all of the ladies who came were positively stunning. I pulled off the dress very well and even grabbed myself a "DAAAAAMN" from some short guy twice my age. It still counts. There was one thing missing, but I donned my dress the "I'm not thinking about it" dress, and tried to leave it in my empty apartment.

On Sunday I followed one binge with another and celebrated Ros'es 'sale of the couch' by drinking beers from green bottles in her now empty apartment. We blasted soundpedia and sang along to it Karaoke style at the top of our lungs. We smoked until everything was saturated with cigarette smell. It was a sort of last hurrah, I guess. In eighteen days she will find herself by the sea and my sweet friend will be more than four blocks away for the first time in two years.

Yesterday I called in sick and laid on the couch for so long my back began to hurt.

I'm a quarter of a century old. Everything is changing. Maybe I am having my Saturn Return early or something. If you believe in that Saturn Return crap. Think I used to, but I'm not exactly sure what I believe in anymore. All that's changing too. People I love are moving on and moving out. Seems like I go through this pretty regularly. The people I grow really attached to find out there's more life out there, and I am left to ponder what's left of mine.

I don't have the same burning desire to jump and run, like last time - because I realize how far back that would set me - but I do look around my familiar spaces without the things I've always known, and I feel emptier. Things look gray. I am dying for the sun to come out; the last two blooms on the lily to open up. I've never done well in limbo.

Time is certainly signalling for change.

Heppy Birthdeeeeeghhhh....

Alternately Titled: 'Candidiasis, BiPolar2 and Too Much Chocolate Cake'

Sometimes everything in the whole entire world is telling you to do something. And sometimes you can't ignore it anymore. ....Damn.

When I was 19 I got a book called "Asthma Survival", because I told myself that I wanted to be able to run. Haha! That in itself was laughable, yes. But I digress. The book offered up a "Quick-Fix" diet plan that almost guaranteed I be cured of my asthma. So badly did I want to run that I thought I would try it. I would try "The Candida Diet". I failed miserably, because I like food too much.

I have done this recently. It was by a loose suggestion of my gynecologist. She offered up "The Candida Diet" as a way to rid myself of the constant cycle that brings my vagina to a state of utter YEAST. I tried it - and though I was pleased to know that it was keeping the yeast at a low level - that could not stop my yearning for buttered bread, gelato, and pizza.

And then my therapist said the one word I've dreaded hearing since I became medicated for my depression: BIPOLAR. She added to it the noun "Two", which made it slightly less terrible a diagnosis, but both of us, though we'd been avoiding the thought that I might be, couldn't seem to avoid it much longer. I have very noticeable ups and downs (to put it lightly). And though I'm not "manic" in the traditional sense, I definitely can crash from a normal day in a heart beat.
OR when I eat two huge slices of chocolate cake and drink two and a half glasses of wine without eating dinner. Because, according to this book, "The Candida Diet" can rid you of your mood swings. Completely.

So it looks like the universe is pushing me away from sugar and yeast, oh and dairy probably too. And alcohol. Oh, and caffeine. And basically any vices that might make me feel like a member of the normal society. I wonder if I take some kind of over the counter Candida Cleanse if I could avoid torturing myself with cold broccoli and Bragg's DISGUSTING Amino Acid for months on end. It would be an okay diet if only I had several hundred expendable dollars to throw at specialized foods or maybe a personal chef. Yeah, then it would be okay. Then I wouldn't have to work at feeling better, I just would. Because we ALL know what happens if I do any WORK.
Anyhow. It's looking more and more like this Saturday will be my last hurrah before the end of my days as a lush, junk food eating, crazy lady. As long as I can keep myself from bawling all night, it should be a pretty good way to go out. It will be like the anti-debutant. The "Going In" of my life as a normal food eating member of the world.

Maybe I should start working on my dread locks and growing out my leg hair...

A Simulated* Photo Account of My Work Day

*Simulated: not actual photographs of me at work. Those do not exist. If they did, it might cause a fold in the time space continuum, and I might have to marry Denzel Washington. Which wouldn't be so bad, I guess.

8am to 10am: Drink coffee and check email, myspace, various blogs and write.

10am to 11:30am: Surf the Internet.

11:30 am: Answer the phone.


11:31 am: Start making lunch.

11:32 am to 1:32pm: Eat lunch.

1:33 pm: Remove Paper Jam from copier.

2:45 pm: Answer phone.


2:46 pm: Surf the Internet. Cut out daisy chains of people and make "Fortune Tellers" out of colored copier paper.

3:59 pm: Make popcorn.

4:20 pm: Make plans for the rest of the evening.

5:00 pm, sharp: Log off computer and leave stack of papers that need to be taken care of as part of the job responsibilities for "tomorrow". GO HOME.

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Birthday!

Whoops! I forgot I am at work - I shouldn't be having that much fun. And in just a few minutes I will have to actually get to "work". What? This word is not in my vocabulary.

Today is my birthday. I am...well. A lady never reveals her age, but suffice it to say that I'm not worried about getting older just yet. I'll be glad when people stop saying sweet things like "Oh, you're just a baby!". Right, and you're a cantankerous old geezer with ear hair and a bad moustache. Wax that thing, lady.

Yesterday was not my celebration, although sweet Cliff did sing me "The Birthday Song" at midnight. I guess that perhaps I'm getting a little old for insisting on having my birthday alongside the nation's. Or maybe I am just telling that to myself because it was in the middle of the week, that is kind of a worthless day to celebrate, and I am at work on my birthday.

It was a basically uneventful day, though, and that was as nice as any middle-of-the-week holiday can be. I woke up late with C and then he took me to get breakfast and then I went over to my crafty friend's house and smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until we finished some projects. I put the final touches on my special birthday gown which turned out part 1960 and part Jetsons. I'm incredibly excited, although I can't help but wish I had a new pair of shoes to go with it.

Then, after a delicious two hour nap, Cliff and I went to eat flautas and grabbed a couple movies. Originally we planned to get something "patriotic", but there are surprisingly few worthwhile patriotic movies (that we haven't seen yet). So, we left with Rocky Balboa and Dejavu.

A little movie review of Dejavu. (I won't try and make it rhyme....Although that is tempting):

Before the movie I had a glass of wine. Even just slightly drunk I couldn't find too much that was terribly believable in this plot line. Actually, that's putting it mildly. I would say that the plot was so far fetched I wouldn't even embarrass a good bird-dog to chase after it. What kind of analogy is that? Just go with me on this.

To start off any movie with Denzel Washington (DROOL) as a lonely bachelor is a silly thing to begin with, but to imply in the story line that the only way that Denzel can get a beautiful lady in his life is to fold the time space continuum and bring her back from the dead is just plain ridiculous.

Then, add to that the idea that the government has developed secret spying technology that not only allows them to loo k four days backward in time, but to effectively change the past to stop criminals? WELL. You lost me at way back in the beginning when Denzel was single. Sorry, folks.

Don't get me wrong, I love me some Jerry Bruckhiemer (even though he supports Bush...). I am thoroughly addicted to Vincent D'Onofrio and his twitchy yet cunning, seven foot tall ways.

Really, I'll watch anything that begins with Law and ends with "DUN DUN!". But Jerry really lost me on this one. I think he should really ought to stick to making crime drama and stay away from Sci-fi.

...And then it was Monday again. Who's idea was it to put a Holiday in the middle of the week? I think we should start celebrating the 4th of July on the first Monday of the month like any other respectable bank holiday.

At least tomorrow is Friday, again. Off to "work" with me...

False Alarm

Oh, by the way the other boss isn't coming down today. No, you're off the hook. Until THURSDAY. YOUR BIRTHDAY. Just frucking try to enjoy yourself.

Oh well, I will take this opportunity to continue to shirk my work responsibilities for another day. Who needs work when you can have Martha Stewart Living (and all her affiliate magazines) on the internet. Currently I am perusing for free sewing patterns and ideas for new outfits. That's not going so well. Oddly enough, Martha and I don't really have the same fashion sense (despite the fact the we are TOTALLY BBF FOREVER).

Don't worry, I'll get her one of my cute tent dresses before you know it. (Right after I pry Russell Crowe from her claw of death...)

Now, I know

Other peoples dreams are not that interesting. I don't give a shit, I'm writing about it anyhow.

It's broken, in my memory. I can see myself hiding under a huge white down comforter and hundred of little blue and green birds flitting in with me. I think I am waiting to transform. And then suddenly I'm a little girl, having a cultish baptism performed on her. I'm only doing it because my brother's doing it, and he only did it because our mother told him to. There are three or four people bent over us, pouring red liquid, to simulate blood. We are being weeded out.

And then I am in hell. With a man and his scaly winged creature. The cult has given us over to the beast who - in order to live forever - needs one of us: our blood. I see it underneath a metal grate, drinking blood from a tube that is hanging from the ceiling. Each of us knows that one of us will have to die. The creature sacrifices himself, but it isn't he who's meant to die and both the man and I know it. I can't let him go through with it. I step forward.

I wake up wishing the dream had stopped beneath the white comforter with the sweet little birds.

FINALLY

the end to the most excruciatingly long day ever. Though I'm looking down the barrel of the worst Tuesday before a Holiday ever, so which is worse, I guess. The Boss from San Antonio is coming down which means that I'll have to actually do like work work. I secretly hope that a herd of elephants stampedes the office in the middle of the night so that I don't have to come in. Actually, maybe they could wait until I get here. Being in a stampede would be FAR better than the mundane work I will have to busy myself with.

Maybe I would get gored on a tusk...

Oh well. I am off to craft my brains out. That should effectively wash away thoughts of the oncoming misery. Who's idea was work, anyhow. If the fucker wasn't already dead, I'd shoot him.

Happy July!

Seems like there is a weird time / space rift. It feels like the spring equinox was just yesterday, and at the same time there was something painfully slow about the birth of this summer. Perhaps confusion and sadness and fear are the things that make time stand still. If this is true it's a cruel sort of trick the universe plays; the sweet moments should be the long ones.

Regardless, we have made it into July. Though my life is in some kind of mid-spin, I am happy. I fell asleep last night thinking about how contented I am to have C in my life. When all is good with him I could stay in this quaint, heat burdened town forever. When his love is absent I feel desperate to break free and run. I don't know if this is good or bad.

The rivers here are brimming over, which means no fireworks for me. In the past three or four years I have only seen a display once - last year. To me this is a kind of travesty. I grew up with elaborate street displays orchestrated by my stepfather, drunk and giddy in a tall striped red and white felt hat.

It was an ordeal, really. Things I got used to seeing: the giant trash cans filled with the garden hose for stubbing out sparklers and bottle rockets; the pinwheel board which would be set up with spinners at least twice and usually released its contents into the yard like a neon projectile; the coffee table brimming with fireworks; sometimes a canon (for reasons I could never make out, besides maybe drunk people just love loud things and / or heavy artilery); and of course the entire neighborhood.

With the kind of display he would put on we had to invite the whole block. Safer that they be in the yard with us than pissed off and calling the cops, who typically showed up anyway.

The event was always coupled with my birthday. I think it was because my mom didn't want to have a party two days in a row, but I didn't mind. My friends and I would run around drinking soda until we were so caffeinated that we could float. Sometimes we set up a tent in the back yard, but usually we just ate cake and I felt like the queen of the whole world - or at least the whole country - knowing that everyone was celebrating on my special day.

This year - with no fireworks in site and the day falling in the middle of the week - I am throwing a outing that I hope will make me feel adequately special (as all SHOULD feel on their birthday). In years past I've thrown a party at my house, usually with a barbecue and gallons of wine, but I couldn't think about cooking, (then cleaning!) this year. Maybe that's the sort of laziness that comes with getting older. Or maybe it's just prudent.

Quite honestly, I really only care to see a few special people. I want C at my side to be my proper escort. A couple of my dear girlfriends. Maybe my old boss from the Food Hole to keep us in stitches. Its a very good excuse to get dolled up and tie one on with great friends.

There will be an excellent slide show available after this weekend, I assure you.