She who runs with scissors

Transition

2006-06-06T13:19:00.000-07:00

Were to start? There doesn't seem to be a beginning, middle and end these days. Just a bunch of blobs floating around that seem to represent my life. Ever changing shape shifters.

As my prior post mentioned, the Guru and the Princess came, saw, spent money, and left NYC on a bad note. The Guru disagreed with my thoughts on the trip, saying that I had "misjudged" the princess. She was just a little "hesitant" about the "unknown" but it was like a roller coaster ride; she always loved it at the end. Myself and MD are in agreement that we never saw her reach the other side. Just the fear and pessimisom of the ride up. My relationship with the Guru is an ever evolving work in progress. There are times I whish he'd be less "guru" and more "dad". I'm not sure he knows the diffrence.

If you follow Synge's blog at all, you'll surely have head the sad news about her mother. The unexpected nature of all of this hit me pretty hard. The idea that you could walk into the hospital with a headache and leave with a brain tumor is a terrifying prospect. It makes me want to run out and get a full body scan just in case. At least I should probably start with a mamogram, which I have been putting off for sometime. I talked to Synge today, who is without a doubt the rock and glue of that family. She's amazing.

Demolition Derby Continues

On a lighter note, the saga of my ever evolving bathroom continues. Around the time of the Guru and Princess's visit to NYC, I had asked the Singing Landlord to replace my disgusting, peeling, dirty, sorry excuse for a bathtub with something....better. I was tired of standing in rubble and peeling paint to shower and had a feeling it was only a matter of time before the plumming blew up in golden shower of dirty water. The Singing Landlord said "sure, no problem. One week." In contractor talk, everything is a week. Remodeling your home is "one week." Did you ever see the "money pit" The house that fell down? I beleive construction time was "one week."

That was 3 weeks ago. The other weekend I was told that MD and I could move back in, only to walk in on....demolition durby. My deffinition of a "livable enviroment" and the Singing Landlord's are evidently very diffrent. In pure SL2000 style I had a melt down reminiciant of a Judy Garland without her pills. I guess I just wanted to go home. MD took a sobbing SL2000 back to the Upper West Side, which has been my home for the past 3 weeks. Another week of demolition derby continued, but this time I had MD lay the pressure on the Sing Landlord the way only another "dude" can. By Sunday it was ready to clean, which I did all day. It took 4 mopings and some hands and knees scrubing to get that bastard clean. That doesn't include the kitchen, which is full of white drywall dust, and the living room, which has giant boot prints all over the floor from the Sing Landlord's boots. There are times when I wonder if he has any concept of dirt at all. I imagine he must eat and breath dry wall dust to the point were it's all just "air" to him.

This weekend I endevor to finish cleaning the Brooklyn digs, though it appears I've over booked myself 3 times over a few times, so it will have to be done rather quickly on Saturday. My dream of all dreams is to just move back in with MD and be settled in one place....once and for all. At least til we move again in the fall.

Oh, and did I mention I'm planning on quiting the SDJ in July? I just sent in a request to take 2 weeks vaction in July...then I'm going to come back and quit. It will be beautiful. Yet the beginning of another transition.

Sometimes it feels as though transition is the new theme of my life....because there I am..floating around in space, wondering if I will ever feel soild ground again.

They came...They saw....They spent money.....

2006-05-16T13:16:00.000-07:00

and they tried to poke as many holes in my relationship with MD as they possibly could. Well, the guru did. The Princess just aided and abetted.

The Questions:

"So his family is really blue blood huh?"
"Did he go to a boarding school for bad kids?"
"Do you really think the two of you are compatable?"
"Does he expect to make a living as an actor?"
"Is the real estate gig how he wants to live his life?"
"Do you think his family looks down on how you were raised?"
"Just an observation, but he seems more clingy to you then you are to him."

That last one was really the icing on the shit cake for me.

Lets back up a bit.

The Princess and the Guru, other wise known as my dad and his...girfriend? Who knows what she is, she's married and not to him. Anyway, the guru came up to meet MD and see what my life in the big city was like. That's what I was told, anyway. So I prepared a bunch of excersions to places I thought they make like. The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Central Park, Dylan's Candy Store, Serindipity, the usual tourist fare, added in with places I like, such as Williamsburg, Coney Island, the lower east side, etc.

The princess was higher maintance then I expected. There was something wrong with just about everything we did...lets see if I can recap

"The boat to the Statue of Liberty was too crowded"
"People were rude at the island and shoving"
"The hotel room is too small (The Algonquin)"
"There's no where to shop in lower Manhattan"
"None of the rides on Coney Island are open"
"The park is too big to walk (east to west)"
"Williamsberg looks sketchy"
"My neighboorhood looks 'rough around the edges'"
"The food here is weird, not what I'm used to, etc."
"I don't understand the menu"
"The wait staff are taking too long"

She was only happy eating chocolate at Sernidipity or spending the Guru's money which she did freely. A trip that was supposed to be a look into my life became about impressing this cold, critical, totaly unavailble woman. I ended up being dragged to Bloomingdales, and Canal Street, following behind the two of them like a shadow. I wondered what the purpose of the Guru's trip to NY really was; to see me, or impress his lady friend?

To give them credit, they did end up liking the food at all the places, and I did see an attempt to engage MD in conversation. But the over all tone of the week long trip really irked me.

I feel like I bent over backwards to accomidate these people and have very little to show for it other than a good case of exhastion and a slight cold.

On the last day, MD took time off to drive them to the airport. We lunched at this wonderful little Italian place in the Lower East Side that specializes in small plates, my favorite way of eating. The Princess and the Guru hardly touched thier food and after awhile MD and I were like "fuck it, we're going to dig in because its good." If you have no opinion about the resturant, then don't get all huffy when you don't like the food.

Granted, MD and I were pushing the drive to the airport a bit. Arriving at 5pm for a 6pm flight is kind of a gamble, but its a gamble New Yorkers seem to take a lot. Traffic was bad, unforseen events such as a miner fender bender occured, and at 5:05 we were still in traffic.

That's when the Guru turned into a cigar smoking daddy warbucks. "We're not going to make this flight, I'll have to find another one." He annouced to a striken MD, who I thought was going to cry. He got on the phone and started balling out some poor flight agent about how he and the Princess can ONLY FLY FIRST CLASS, he simply doesn't fly coach and they must be moved to another first class flight. He's simply too old to run for a plane, and he paid too much money to be treated this way....yada yada.yada....
Poor MD's hands were turning white from gripping the steering wheel and I was so car sick from the traffic I was afraid to move for fear I might puke. It was like a really bad sitcome.
"But dad, the airline people will walk you to the flight if you call and say you're running late."
"I'm too old and paid too much money to run for a flight."

We got them to the airport at 5:20 and at 5:45 the Guru calls to say they are both on the flight, in first class and an agent took them right to the plane.

It was a shitty end to a stressful week.

Did I mention that the Guru thought "The Producors" was to "gay"? I mean christ, those tickets cost MD $300. Its Mel Brooks, what did he expect?!

They mentioned the possibility of coming back, which they are welcome to do. NYC is open to everyone, I however, officially retire from the tour guide buisness. Next time all they get from me is a copy of NFT. I'm done trying to please difficult people.

My Big Fat Pile of Money

2006-05-03T12:43:00.000-07:00

That's right. I'm loaded. Rich. Packing my bags and off to Burmunda to live in the fashion MD and I could very easily become accustomed to.

Well...maybe not.

The Barracuda called me into her office today....with a sharp tone I assumed was the beging of my "firing file" or a strict talking to about team spirit and neggative body language. (I think a fist in someone's face would be neggative, but aparently my crossed legs and tense arms offend people). Instead, she began with her painful, uncomfortable laughter, the kind no one joins her in, and told me how this is a non-profit and salary caps are at 4% (cheap for a nonprofit) and our fisical year had ended. I had thought we were headed to the we can't affoard to pay you would you work for free, portion when the barracuda told me my work was good, but I needed to show "more enthusiasm" in my work. Be more of a team player. Pitch in more, take on other tasks and be happy about it. She then gave me a 2% raise. 2%. I could smell the money in the air.

I went back to my little cube by the typewriter, printer, carbon printer, fax machine and shreder to work out the math.

2% of my salary is about 560 a year. 560 broken down into 12 months is about $47.00. Divide that into bi weekly paychecks and you have about...$10 extra dollars a check. I could almost buy myself dinner once a week on that. I guess MD gets leftovers....of course after taxes.....

It makes you wonder if that 2% is supposed to be my carrot to work with more "enthusiasm" I mean really, who gives a rat's ass if I'm smiling while I work....do they really need that to feel good about thier jobs?

I digress. Lady Charion (Synge's lady, who I am now seeing) tells me that I can break this cycle by treating these people diffrently. Perhaps looking at them with a little more compasion and realizing its all a game, and no one really likes to play it. She ended our session by asking me if I was getting out of this job soon. MD has suggested I take a 2 week paid vacation (which I have) and then coming back in time to quit. I'm contemplating the suggestion.

On the home front:

MD and I are no longer moving to a new apartment. We decided that in the long run, we could affoard a bigger place in a nicer area if we saved some money and really did our homework on places. He feels that "consolidating" is the way to go.

By consolidating he means apartments. Mainly his. That's right....MD is in the process of moving into my little shack in the middle of the Brooklyn Ghetto. At the moment my living room is more like a bedroom and the kichen is more like a closet. As exciting as this is, its still a bit nerve racking and crazy. MD hasn't been able to take time off to do this, so the moving in process has been in aggonizingly slow stages. My apartment looks like a clothing bomb went off.

I complain, but I love coming home to MD everynight. Its the best feeling.

In Other News....

My "parents" are coming to town.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

MD is really relaxed about it. He's not Ben Stiller and my dad isn't insain...although he is an ex Navy Seal...and the other half of him is coming, the woman he's close friends with and may or may not be his girlfriend of sorts (its too complex to blog about) I'm still sweating bullets over it.

I want him to love MD. Instantly. I want the immediate stamp of approval, which is complicated because I feel like I don't need it and fuck him if he doesn't like MD. That's the complicated parent/child relationship which is even more complicated because I don't relate to my dad like a kid...we've been "pals" for a very long time and function like peers. I had a bizzare childhood, we'll leave it at that. Lady Charion is still sorting through the mess.

I have a week to show the two of them NYC, Brooklyn, MD, and why I love all of these things. I know that my dad and lady friend will love the things I love and be very laid back, because they are. My dad helped me move the the Upper East Side and always saw the good in any situation. But my life is a lot diffrent now and is going in a direction that doesn't involve him as much. I'm building my own life and family and I feel like the old man feels a bit left out....that's why the lady friend is coming.

(For the sake of typing time, we'll call the folks the Guru and Princess)

I don't know why I'm so bent out of shape about the Guru and Princess's arrival. In the end they are too laid back for it to be drama, and I'm the one creating drama. Could be a classic case of world's colliding. My entire life is in transition and the two of them are dropping in with a ton of luguage (Princess doesn't travel light), a map of NYC and list of destinations (Ground 0, the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty...)

Lets hope I survive the week.

Stress, blisters, and moving? What is going on?

2006-04-20T08:46:00.000-07:00

Its been a strange month so far. Actually, in retrospect, its been a strange year. If you had told me in December that I would have a boyfriend who I was madely in love with, be looking to move in together, planning my future, looking for new jobs and be gaining ground with my writing by April, I would have laughed in your face and offered to eat my shoe.

The shoe wasn't that tastey.

What's that boaring saying? When it rains it pours? Well its true. It's a hurricain, and its all happening at once in the shortest time frame imaginable.

MD and I are planning to move in togther sooner than expected....like July. We are both trying to get out of our leases, while looking for new places, as he tries to balance this intense, all consuming job and I search for new ones.

Enter large stress blister in the middle of my lip.

The reason we are putting ourselves through this is for a couple of reasons:

1.) Commuting back and forth between Brooklyn and the Upper West Side is exhasting. I hate leaving the cat and he finds my apartment too noisey, my bed really only fits me. I can't imagine us doing this for 9 more months
2.) My area has become a bit hostile. It could be the shooting that occured next door a few weeks ago, the large groups of restless young men screaming at each other right outside my window; usually at 3am, and the sever lack of police presence at these events. I called my landlord yesterday to inquire about the lease, full of doubt that my area was really THAT bad, when a police car, fire truck and ambulance pulled up outside to investigate a 911 call and some mischief. Point taken, I'm out of there...
3.) MD and I love eachother and want to build a life together, the above is our catalyst.

The timing couldn't be worse. I'm tied up in knots over this job search and time for writing, meanwhile I'm feeding off of MD's stress over his job. Yesterday we had a knock down drag out fight over the phone were I was accusing him of wanting to back out, despite him saying the opposite. It appears as though I momentarily mistook him for my ex-boyfriend. Really, it was me yelling because I was stressed out. Moving is hard. Moving in with someone is harder. Moving when you are super busy is what causes lip blisters. My face is breaking out too.

I know a lot of this has to do with my anal need to have a plan. WHEN are we moving, ARE we out of our leases, can I get a sworn afidavidt that it will happen in July? Were will I be working in July? These are all very unsettling things for me.

Everyone's advice? Relax. Yeah, easy to tell someone else, hard to do.

As always, I will do my best, and plunge forward into tomorrow.

The Realities of Uniformity

2006-04-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

There's something I've come to understand about the left wing movement.

Its made of lots of very diffrent people with very diffrent ideas. And they all believe thier idea is going to save this country. They are deeply passionate about these ideas and if we all just....understood thier vision.....we'd save Democracy.

I was a member of this group in the beginning as well, but perspective has brought me around to see a bigger picture, full of very diffrent, beautiful, colorful people.

Uniformity won't work in America. Why? Because we are a country founded by people who rebelled against uniformity, and we've been rebelling ever since.

I understand the dream though, I can see it my head as well. The image of thousands of people rising up, all wearing orange t-shirts or blue. Or pink. The image of thousands of women dressed as suffragists (in very nice costumes) marching down the street. The image of thousands of people in t-shirts with the same sloagan turning thier backs on Bush during the inanauguration. Its a very theatrical vision, one that is viewed in my mind as an arial shot done by a camera, sometimes theme music swells up in the background.

That's the problem.

These are shots made my movies, not reality. To achieve these images you have to have thousands of people willing to do the same thing, with the same clothing at the same time and perhaps someone flying overhead in a helecopter to get a picture of it. That's art, not neccessarily activism.

The second snag in the plan is that there really isn't just one topic to rally around. The Ukranian Revolution and the Philipino revolution had one very solid target. A governement so corrupt that the daily lives of the people were severly affected. The movie V for Vendetta (I liked it, but go see it yourself to decide)used the idea of an extreamly correput government in England, a true police state in every sense of the word. One centeral, undenaible target.

I don't believe that exists in America. There's just so much to chose from its like a smorgesborg of coruption, and to be honest, my daily life hasn't come to a scretching halt by it. For every person starving in the street, there is someone buying a 1.5 million dollar condo in DUMBO. There is unity, but it exists in small groups.

Besides, there's something beautiful about diversity. About seeing people of all walks of life marching together with thier own banners, taking a creative stand on the issue they care about. That's what the left wing movement is made of, and I think its just as theatrically beautiful as a million people marching in blue t-shirts. The movement still has people in it. As long as there are people who march for a better tomorrow, hope exists.

Musings While at Work.........

2006-04-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

Oh SDJ, waster of my time, paycheck I recieve only when chained to a computer, why must you suck the life force out of my brain? How shall I quit you SDJ? Shall it be in a ball of flames, lighting bridges out from under me as I go? Shall I announce it from the top of my desk for the entire office to hear?

"I'm done with you, peace out!" I'd scream.

Perhaps I could lump all of my vacation and sick days together until it totals a month, then come back in time to give my two weeks......

What is up with daylight savings? We don't have this in Arizona, and though I have lived in the east for about 7 years, it is still a shock evertime it happens. I woke up very confused on Sunday, waking MD up (yes, I was at MDs) asking him all these upset, half asleep questions.."does your VCR change audiomatically? Fall back, Spring forward, that sounds right, right? Wait, I think my cell changes on its own, yours doesn't, what time is it, why aren't you awake?"

"Its an hour later, so that makes it 8am. Go back to sleep." MD said.

Which brings me to the topic I wasn't going to blog about....

MD and I have gotten very serious. This is coming from the girl, who, if you scroll down the blog postings you'll see once proclaimed that she would adopt cats and be single forever. The fun aunt who plays with the kids and goes home to her single apartment. I never thought I could earn enough money to pay my rent, or save, or even...invest. That sounds so adult. But something strange happend when I turned 26.

I went crazy.

And suddendly started worrying about the future, about a house and kids and loosing baby weight from the baby I haven't had and babies in general and about doing all this with....MD.

He's it. I know this somehow. It doesn't feel false, although I keep questioning it on his end, despite constant reassurances. We talked about marraige, home, kids, the whole nine yards. We were at a resturant in DUMBO and MD said "why don't we just say it." "Fine." I said. "We talking about getting married someday, aren't we?" MD had a pecular reaction. He got a hard on, felt nausuas and could feel his heart beating all at the same time. I took that to mean it was scary and exciting. I myself felt a bit dizzy. We stayed at the table until he could stand up without embarresment and I could find my feet. It was an interesting evening.

I keep looking for the timeline that tells me this isn't moving too fast, or its moving at good pace at least. Were's the book? How do people know these things? MD and I are talking about buying a townhouse in Brooklyn after my lease is up in February. That feels like a good timeline, we'll have been together a good year by then.

My dad and MD have met via email. The great SL2000 dad is somewhat of a finiancial guru to young investors. He's thrilled to impart this information on his daughter and daughter's boyfriend. MD is working as a realestate broker in the hopes of saving up enough for a downpayment without parental help.

This isn't something I would have thought possible 4 months ago. It seemed like such a far off dream, I didn't think it could ever be real or more than fiction I write. I kept having nightmares that it wasn't real, I was afraid to mention it to anyone for fear it would go away....."what more do I have to say to reassure you?" MD asked. Nothing. The problem lies with me, not him. Hopefully the struggle with my doubt will ease up, and I will be able to enjoy the ride, no matter where it leads me...........

Corporate Couple and other nightmares

2006-03-28T12:43:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a time out from my corporate drugery of creating budget spread sheets (insert gasp of horror here) to write about my slow death crawl into the corporate relm.

I do have an artistic soul, but its been squeeking more than roaring these days...in fact at times I have to give it CPR to keep it alive, the paddles of life which do include blogging.

I fear that my darling MD and I are becoming a corporate power couple.

It could be that everytime we meet up after work, we're both dressed in our uniforms, his neck being choked by a restrictive tie, my toes breaking off in high heels. I'm sure people think we go home to our high rise apartment made of glass were we live miserably ever after. My comfort is him ripping off the button up shirt to revel a CBGBs shirt and me replacing the heels with running shoes as we head back to the ghetto of bed-stye Brooklyn.

I hope we never believe the clothes we wear or take ourselves too seriously.

I have been concerned about his two cell phone habit (a palm pilot and the regular one) and have had to take his toys away from him when he attempts to do something stupid like google while driving. Perhaps some of my concerns come from his new job as a corporate mongral i.e. realestate broker of high end lofts. MD seems to think he will make his fortune doing this and he just might. I'm very proud that he's getting serious about the future, I just wish he wouldn't whip out his portfolio at dinner. Sometimes I wonder if I'm having a meal with my boyfriend or my broker.

But, in the end, I realize that he is an actor and this is just another role he is throwing himself into full force. Will he make millions doing this? Time will tell, I just hope he never looses his perspective on things. The object is not to get as much money as you can, its to live well and live responsibly. The money is just the means and it will come one way or another. I don't have plans to end up in a glass loft in Soho entertaining his corporate clients. A loft in DUMBO might be nice though..........

I on the other hand am trying to get OUT of the corporate pit hole. I interviewed at the ACLU the other day and felt pretty good about thier jeans and t-shirt policy. They told me flat out that I was over qualified for the job, which made me feel pretty good. I have aspirations of making a living wage, and perhaps having my own office, or at least a cubicle near a window. The dream would be to have a job that changes in nature, isn't stagnent typing up documents and budgets but actually ingages my brain and sense of creativity. Wouldn't that be cool? Imagine....not being board shitless at work........

I had a dream the other night that I quit my job here at the SDJ. I think they tried to pile ALL the work on me to which I screamed "I quit you fuckers! followed by many many more choice words and me stomping out. I then went home and cried about not having a job. Somehow I broke my leg in my dream too and couldn't move it, which was distressing. I woke up to find my cat sleeping on my leg. At least she had a good night. I should probably write this stuff down when I wake up, it was much more colorful than I'm describing.....

All these nightmares about work....hopeful things wills sort themselves out soon....

office parties, agressive girlscouts and other ramblings

2006-03-21T13:36:00.000-08:00

I'd like to start by saying this is not my office. We're not that colorful here at the stupid day job. It is a random picture I found on google image search titled "boring office party". It seemed appropriate given my day.

I knew it was coming. It happens to everyone here. The embarrising office birthday party. If I was smart, I would have taken the day off, but they would have found a way to make it happen. It's fate, might as well bend over and take it proper.

It starts off with the card that is not so sneakily passed around the office, the conversations in Spanish that I catch pieces of, the missing receptionist around 1:00pm who has gone to get the cake. Around 3:00 the people upstairs waunder downstairs without much purpose, pooking thier heads into cubicles, chatting, shuffling thier feet. "Gee" you might wonder, "It looks like they are waiting for something." At 3:15 the entire office mysteriously disapears and I'm left alone in a strangely quiet office.

"Hey, SL2000, we forgot to tell you about the staff meeting in the back."

Staff meeting. The CIA couldn't plan a better covert operation.

I walk back to see the entire department quietly seated around a conference table, looks of bordom masked by bright smiles. A mondest cake, flowers and a card sit at the end of the table. A broken chorus of "happy birthday" is mumbled, watches are glanced at, feet shuffled.

As the entire office is on a diet, only 5 people end up having any cake, which I have to cut. The plastic barbie maintains her super bright smile and botoxed wide eyed look through the enitre "party", I'm left to wonder if the new injection has left her unable to form any other expression. The Barracuda is in attendance, sitting dead center as though she's about a to lead a meeting. The thought "fake interest, fake interest" seems to be floating through her head. I'm asked what my plans are. "dinner" I say. I'm asked how old I am. "26" I say. The conversation is over. I feel I should mention that the Barracuda's Helper was not in attendance. She had pressing work to do.

The conversation centered around Cold Stone Creamery for 10 minuets, then the party fell silent. I wolfed my cake, tossed the flowers in a vase and announced I was going back to work.

"so soon?" The Plastic Barbie asked, eyes struggling to blink.

Yes. This soon. I'd rather spend my birthday chained to the computer than watch a group of people who have nothing in common other than a shared cubical wall try to hold a social conversation. As I walk away I can hear the Barracuda change the conversation to work, and relief sweeps over the table.

Embarresing office pary complete.

Mind waundering:
The assult by girlscouts.

I've been told there aren't girlscouts in Brooklyn. I'd like to set the record straight on that misconception.

The girlscouts in Brooklyn aren't cute little girls in green uniforms ringing the bell of your house. Often times, they aren't even little girls. No. The girl scouts in my neck of the woods, tend to be middle-aged black men with an agressive sales pitch.

It seems to be a block by block compitition taken so seriously, the cookies have been ripped out of thier little hands and given over to "Dad" or "big brother" who has himself a plan. Usually folding tables are set up on street corners and mountains of boxes girlscout cookies are placed on them like a rumage sale. The salesman bullies and guilt-trips every passerbyer into buying at least one box, sometimes several. The good ones parade thier sad-eyed children around who will chase you down the street screaming "buy my cookies!" The really good ones will set up shop near the church, just to double the sense of guilt.

I try to avoid these street corners, but have found myself with a box of those thin mint cookies, holding them up like a shield to announce I've done my neighborhood duty for the season.

"these are the people in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood......"

Back to the birthday:

I forgot to mention that my birthday was indeed very good. I have pretty much decided that embarrising office pary had nothing to do with me, and moved on. I went to my favorite resturant with MD, who presented me with a few lovely gifts and had my favorite food (Tai food, the Lard Nor noodles with tofu, egg and brocoli), then proceeded to go home and fall alseep. Guess I just don't party like I used to. But to be fair, Tuesday is a rough day of the week to have a birthday and I was really exhasted. My B-day celebration will continue through the week, as I go out to dinner with Ms. Creative on Thursday (and drinks, many of them, no doubt) and then go out of town with MD to (gulp) meet the parents.

More on that later..........

Rock and a Hard Place

2006-03-17T11:45:00.000-08:00

"It has been said by others far more qualified then I am, that 'once you comromise your art, you compromise your soul.'" - SL2000's dad.

I had to make some very difficult decisions this past week. They were the decisions of an adult, one who protects her own interests, her own principals, and stands firm on a ground very far away from college. I can barely see those red brick buildings and open quad from were I stand. It just seems to be quiet a learning curve I'm on.

I had agreed to stage manage the show of Ms Creative's boyfriend, who's name is now going to be poltical art boy, or PAB. I have to say I felt a bit pushed into it, he begged me to do it, practically getting on his knees right in front of Ms. Creative, who just happend to be designing the show. I was promised a good time, to be used as more than a stage manager (that never happens) and that it wouldn't be that much work (that also never happens). I had never seen PAB's work, I only had the good word of the groveling director and Ms. Creative. I broke out of retirement and agreed to do it. I also dragged Mark Darcy down with me, and got him to audition for the show.

He was cast

The problem was never us working together, we're really professional. The problem was that we were seeing the same problem.

The show was a format I'd never seen and am still hard press to explain. What it looked like from my vantage point were a series of acting improv games strung into a format that has a dramatic formula and tells the story (roughly) of Hamlet, only it takes place in the present, and there are protests and the shooting of heads of state. Did you catch all that? I didn't either.

I kept thinking I wasn't giving it a chance, then I saw a DVD of a previous show using the same method and realized, no that's actually what it is. Improve games, dramatic formula, story line. It was improv, so there were no lines or blocking, which amounted to one bored stage manager. My main function was to tell PAB what time it was. I had plenty of time to sit there and watch MD get more and more fusterated, wondering what I had dragged the two of us into.

The rehearsals ran a bit like college student shows from Sophmore year and I kept having flash backs to that period of time and how miserable I was. I'm hard pressed to say this show was going to be a disaster, or that PAB didn't know what he was doing. I'd say he learned his methods in college, and just hadn't transitioned out of it yet. He kept teaching the actors how to act his way, to get them to fill out this frame work he'd created. Very fusterating for a professional actor who didn't go to college with PAB. Hence MD's distress during reherasals. I was also becoming painfully aware of the political message in the show, and how amorphous it was....

Brief Rant:

Art should never strive to be poltical. The very act of creating art is a poltical statement. Who said that? That's right, Frida Kalho, who was poltical in life, but not overtly so in art. She kept saying that her art wasn't poltical enough, and felt pressure to create art in honor of the Communist party she so dearly loved. Frida's most controversal works of art are her self portraits. They were revolutionary in thier surrealism, and emotional rawness. So then, to be truely revolutionary in art, is to also be emotionally honest in your art. Don't strive to MAKE a statement. Strive to make art, and that will make a statement.

Rant over.

PAB has taken a broad brush and decided to make a big poltical statement with his show. That is his intent. He believes in his work, but he's also very insecure about it, this makes for awkward rehersals.

MD and I decided to bail. Professionally speaking.

First MD quit, which went over like a ton of bricks. There was groveling involved. I let the waters settle, then dropped my own bomb. I quit as well.

I quit for several reasons. One being that I couldn't sit there and watch bad poltical art unfold, two being that I HATE stage managing. I have for years and I shouldn't do it anymore. Period.

I was afriad that the professional and personal would all get mixed into one stinky swampy mess. I feared PAB would be upset I quit, that Ms. Creative would be upset he was upset and so on. I basically put all of us in between a rock and a hard place.

I've learned to NEVER agree to help someone with thier art, if I don't know what that art is.

Not sure were I stand with PAB and Ms. Creative, MD is unsure as well. So far I've hit a wall of stony silence from Ms. Creative and have decided to just let her be for awhile. I'd like to think that all that happened was a on a professional level, but I can't account for other people's behavior, just my own.

I don't regret quitting, I did it to protect myself, something I didn't do enough of in the past.

We all put ourselves in that little space between the rock and a hard place. We have the power to get out as well....

Attack of the California Barbies

2006-03-13T12:02:00.000-08:00

They blew in from the Coast like a sharp Santa Ana wind, knocking New York to its knees. They were tan, dressed for a mild spring in light pinks, with a wind blown attitude that screamed "hey, its all cool, it'll just...happen." Yeah man, it did just "happen", but not without the blood sweat and tears of some dedicated women from New York.

If California was like "no worries, it'll all come together, peace..." New York was furiously sending emails from thier blackberry's asking for agendas, times tables, and exact budgets.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

The event I'm speaking of was a very special pannel on the Iraq war by my favorite activist group starring some very special VIPS, flown in by the California chapter of said activist group.

I had volenteerd myself and Synge to do what I had thought would be a simple "decorating of the space." Little did we know that we would be running the entire event by the seat of our little pink skirts.

I suppose it was a break down of comunication, or rather there never was any to begin with. California decided New York was organizing it, New York had said "no." California put thier fingers in thier ears and said "lalalalalala I can't hear you, your doing it..."

And so it went. I was given $80 to decorate a large space, I spent $180. (come on, one flower arragment would be $80, and Synge and I created them ourselves.) We walked in armed with decorations, only to be greated with stressed out New York women, people yelling about volenteers and questions about the day's agenda.

"We're just decorating." We said, bewildered.

Aparently someone had to told people we were running the whole show. I had media asking me questions all day, "where was favorite VIP, were was the press confrence, how did I spell complicated VIP's name?" At some point Synge and I just started making things up.

"Yes, no, I don't know, lets have merchandise here,and there and you! You bring this here, you are in charge of this!" We ran between two diffrent locations, snapping to attention at the will of the activist leader. I'm sure the people attending had no idea that Synge and I were on the verge of a nervouse breakdown. Even the California Barbies lower in the chain of comand started to look a little stressed, frowns beginning to form at the corners or thier pink mouths.

I felt battered, abused, yelled at and dead on my feet. The only picture of me is standing behind the merchandise table, white as a ghost looking like the dead had risen.

Wonderful MD showed up towards the end, just in time to bring Synge a roll of tape at location #2 and work the merchandise table, wearing the button of my favorite activist group. Did I mention its my favorite Femminist activist group? MD got some major brownie points that day, with all the New York activist women. He carried decortations to his car, broke down signs, and wisked a half dead Synge and SL2000 to a near by resturant for beer and substiance.

Its taken almost a full week to recover from the California wind. I've heard reports that New York women are still driving California VIPs around the state, they are finding apartments for them to stay in and making travel arrangements. So I guess things "really do work out", but not on thier own. While the barbies smiled for the cameras and got thier pictures in the newspapers, some very hard working New York women with cell phones attached to ears MADE things happen. That's the New York way, and why I am proud to live here. We are skeptical by nature, and can't seem to trust that the winds of fate will "make it happen" but we trust ourselves and know WE can make it happen.

And we did. As far as anyone was concerned, it was a very sucessful event.

The freaking out was all done behind the scenes.

You are not a team player

2006-03-03T13:17:00.000-08:00

The following are remarks from my evaluation at the SDJ, non of which were a suprise given my lossing battle with squashing my contempt for my bosses and the general SDJ corporate evilness. The picture is not actually my boss, known as The Baracuda, although I have to say the likeness is startling.

"SL2000 cummunicates effectivly in her writing and speaking skills. However, SL2000 is reluctant to disclose things that may be percieved as negative. This was demonstrated when processing walk in registrations and there was a problem with a batch. Although she did not voice the fact that she needed to correct the batch she became agitated when reminded to do so by one of her co-workers."

My evaluation was recorded by The Barracuda's helper, the office manager/busy body. She overheard me snapping at an annoying co-worker on a tough day. Have I mentioned how much I love working NEXT to The Barracuda's helper?

"SL2000 may not be aware that, at times her body language reflects an unwillingness to cooperate"

This was mentioned to The Barracuda's helper by one of my most obnoxious bosses at the SDJ. Actually, my body language conveys "I think you're made of plastic and as deep as a puddle." Obviously I'm being just subtle enough with her.

"Noted was a lack of initiative and enthusiasm when assigned various projects not included in her job description. She was only willling to take on those tasks if there was a guarantee that she would be compensated for doing them. She is not a team player in this regard."

This comment was made by The Barracuda herself. If not being a "team player" means not being a doormatt who gets tossed all the extra work, then I agree with that statement. I was never told directly about all the extra work The Barracuda wanted me to do, I was CCed on an email about me to The Barracuda's helper. It was insulting. No one asked if my work load could allow for all this extra work (it couldn't) no one asked me to help out and no one bothered to talk to me directly. The Barracuda doesn't even know what I do all day. I don't make a living wage and felt the duties being assigned to me were more of an IT position or executive assistant, who make twice as much as me, so I went through the proper motions. I had a meeting with HR. At no time did The Barracuda ask to meet with me directly. She talked to HR and the Barracuda's helper, but never me. My request for proper financial compensation caused her to blow up and declare that I was not a team player. If only employees were allowed to fill out evaluations on thier bosses.

Not a "team player" huh?
Evil Corporations that pretend to be non-profit are not "teams" I wish to play on.

Moving at the speed of light

2006-02-28T13:49:00.000-08:00

Oh, were'd I go? Didn't see me, did you? Thats because I'm moving at WARP SPEED. Its a little game we call, "over committing youself." Stage managing did you say? Why yes, I have time for that. Plan an international event for favorite activist organization? Why not. 5 birthdays in one month? Bring it on.

I'd like to add a reading of nonficition work I wrote to the mix. That's something I'm very excited and nervouse about. When I look at all the things I'm doing, I can say "THAT is what I actually do." So really, I'm doing the one thing I feel I should be doing. Writing.

Quick MD update: He's great. No one wants to hear it because its mushy and it makes people want to vomit but I'm really really happy. MD makes me smile all day long. He's the best boyfriend a girl ever had. Sweet, considerate, worships the ground I walk on, brings me things, drives me places, is proud of everything I do, listens to me rant, thinks I'm beautiful in jammies with messy hair, is able to communicate like a rational adult, has his shit together, speaks theatre, and is emotionally available. Whew, what a list. Feel free to vomit now, I know I would.

The "L" bomb was dropped the other night. As in "ove" He said it first and the hammer of fate smacked me upside the head like a bitch. I said it back, and I meant it. Sometimes I'm just a little slow to realize things.

Job front: I hate my SDJ with a burning passion. I'm actually going to run out of here like my arse is on fire in about two minuets. I hate being hassled everyday and I feel like I work for a really evil bad place. I'm applying for work in the nonprofit sector, preferably helping women. I want a job that makes me feel like I'm helping people, not one that just eats my soul and shits on my spirit.

And its 5pm. Time to fly.

Bathroom-Demolition Derby Update

2006-02-19T14:38:00.000-08:00

Ok, that's not a picture of my bathroom. Not even close. That's the picture of my dream bathroom for my dream country home that I will never make enough money to own. Lets me realistic here. I'm a writer/activist/artist/nonprofit desk jockey

My bathroom is still a construction zone. The good news is it now has walls. Drafty walls with holes in it and half dried putty, but walls just the same.

A very tired MD drove me and the monster cat home Wendsday night, greeted by the singing landlord who was still standing on a ladder in the bathroom.

"Oh, you're home." He said. "Its ok if I keep working?"

"Yes." I said.

I was just happy to be home. I slept right through the banging like a dead person.

Not much has progressed with the bathroom. All of my bathroom things live on the kitchen table and I eat meals in the living room. I've developed a rutine of showering around the box of tools, the buckets of paint and the ladder. He comes and goes and I'm no longer suprised to get a knock at my door at 11:00pm on a week night.

"Hey, um...I fogot my cell phone charger." I hand it to him.

"And...can I borrow a coat hanger, I kind of locked my keys in the truck."

"Yes, singing landlord." I say, "You can HAVE a coathanger."

Such is my life.

He came by Saturday night while I was out at the NY party girl's party of the century (it was fun, the vodka was free)and left streeks of blue on the walls and drips on the bathroom floor. Today we've been like Ozzey and Harriet, moving around eachother on a lazy Sunday as I write (or think really hard about how I should be writing, then listen to "collective shorts" on NPR and think about how I'm a shitty writer, then go for a walk and think of writing some more...)and he continues to paint the bathroom.

Somday I will move back in and liberate the kitchen table of shampoo and bath poofs, but I have a feeling the saga of the singing landlord will continue.

MD likes to say that the singing landlord is a super hero, and his power is building things.

"What's that you say? The bank has been robbed? Let me build a wall around that bad guy, where's my hammer?!"

The singing landlord has been having an on going battle with the asswhipe who owns the business bellow me. The jerk had the nerve to shut off my hot water just because he has access to the pipes and wanted to save himself like 50 cents off his heating bill at night.

"Don't worry about it." The singing landlord told me, "I'll build a wall around the pipes and add a door with a padlock. He won't be shutting off anyone's hot water."

Tagged again and futzing around on a Friday

2006-02-17T06:53:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by Synge, and not a moment to soon. Its Friday and I'd rather be playing on the freeway in a blizzard then sitting in front of this computer right now. So while all my co-workers call in sick, and my work buddy naps in the back room, I'll be filling out online surveys and creating dozens of new blog posts. The best part is I'm still clocked in and getting paid for it.

Four Jobs I've Had: Stage Manager, Bartender, Coffee slinger, Prop Mistress

Four Movies I Can Watch Repeatedly: Say Anything, Pratical Magic, Fight Club, Donnie Darko

Four Places I've Lived: Arizona, Chicago, London, Syracuse, NY

Four TV Shows I Love: (Back when I had a TV...) CSI, X-Files, The Daily Show, ER

Four Places I've Vacationed: Ireland, England, Italy, San Diego

Four of My Favorite Dishes: Baked Mac & Cheese, French Toast, Yummy salads with feta cheese, home made pizza

Four Sites I Visit Daily: Democracy Now, The Onion, CNN.com, whitehouse.org

Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now: Watching movies at home, A beach somewere, having brunch with friends

Four Bloggers I am TAGGING: The sad thing is I don't really know any bloggers......

"Sorry about your bathroom, we couldn't find the pipe."

2006-02-13T13:22:00.000-08:00

I had a bit of a suprise on Friday evening.

I may have mentioned that the singing landlord wanted to "knock a small hole" in my bathroom wall to fix a pipe.

It wasn't a small hole.

When I came home on Friday, I found my cat covered in dust playing with the rubble that was my bathroom and my kitchen a construction zone. He knocked down ALL the walls in my bathroom, removed the ceiling and filled the sink and bathtub with the broken pieces. What was going to be a small inconvience turned into an unlivible situation. I was a bit upset.

"I couldn't find the pipe, turns out it was in the ceiling!" The singing landlord exclaimed, muffled by a dust mask.

The dust he was protecting himself from was spread through my entire apartment, smudged with cat paw prints and his giant boots.

"Hey, you weren't attached to that tin ceiling, were you?" He asked. I was. I will now be getting a drywall ceiling. I did talk him into new outlets, a new lighting fixture and painting the walls blue.

I may ask for a discount on rent as well.

I dragged out my duffel bag and started packing. MD came and got me and the cat, assisting in stuffing what amounted to 20 pounds of pure furry muscle into a bag while she clawed our arms and projectile vomited on MD. I beleive he gets the boyfriend of the year award for this.

I have been staying with MD for about 3 days now while the singing landlord continues to distroy my apartment. I've only been dating MD for a month and I've already moved in with my black cat who sheds like its her job and loves to sleep in MD's closet. I'll find a way to make up for this.

On Sunday MD and I braved the blizzard of the century to hike our way back to my apartment through unplowed streets. It looked like a scene from "The Day After Tomorrow." (worst movie ever, by the way). 2 feet of snow lay in unplowed streets. Families lost small children in snow drifts, neighboors dug through piles of snow, searching for thier car.

"Hey Ben, I think I found your car! Mine must be the lunp farther down."

MD and I trudged through hip deep snow at one point until we reached my apartment, the front door covered in untouched new snow. Inside was a pile of rubble were my bathroom had been. Any hopes of returing home that day were squashed. I packed enough for a week and took pictures of the destruction.

"Oh yeah, I just put up the walls and the ceiling's next. I should get most of the rubble out today." The singing landlord told me around 12:00pm today.

"Yes," I asked, "But is it livable? I want ALL the dust out."

There was a little pause on his end. He asked me to call him around 5:00pm.

I will keep you posted.

I live in a Hazard Zone

2006-02-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

I can't escape it.

I wake up with it. "Boom, clank, honk," The sound of cars rolling over the big metal coverings in the street. It echos in my head. The sound of trucks backing up, workers yelling, things crashing, nail guns screwing, sledges hammering. It has become the soundtrack of my life. Its almost to the point were I can't hear it.

Or perhaps I'm slowly going deaf.

I recieved a lovely call from the singing landlord last night around 12am, when we usualy converse on tenant matters. He would like to put a hole in my bathroom wall. A large hole. Aparently he has to install a pipe because "something broke" upstairs. I wondered how large this hole would be. Would the cat get out this hole? Could people see me through this hole? And worst of all....could the mice escape into my aparment through this hole? I fear the singing landlord may actually liberate an army of mice my cat has been keeping at bay.

The construction has now entered my apartment. I contemplated this fact as I listned to the singing landlord install shelving unites in the apartment above me at 1am.

There is no escape.

Today I walked into my lovely SDJ job only to be greated with sour faces. The old turn of the century building that is slowly making all who work within sick. The smoke from the fire behind us, the smell of buring food from the deli sneaking into our airducts. Then, the jackhammer started

"Ehhhhhhhhhrrrrrrhhhheee" The vibrations were actually making my back hurt. A coworker joked that I was getting wipe lash from sitting in my chair. It was so loud I found myself yelling above it on the phone. People complained, walls vibrated, the pounding in my head increased.

"You have got to get out of that job." MD told me.

But were would I go? Its all around me. The entire city is under construction. My nieghborhood looks diffrent everytime I walk outside. "were did that buildling come from?" I'll wonder. Things pop up over night, the banging apart of the dreams city dwellers have. Sometimes I wonder if I tried to take a vacations somewere quiet, if the dead slince would keep me up all night. The sound of crickets would cause me to bolt up in bed, the way the jackhammer would cause a country person to fly out of thier chair.

MD has offered to let me crash at his place in the city, although I may point out that there is construction going on outside his window as well. Temporarly moving in with my sorta boy friend may be a bit much for a 1 month relationship. Besides, I have a strange sense of pride in making it through all this construction. It makes a good story as long as I survive to tell it.

I just hope I don't loose my hearing.

I really like hearing.

So this is what communicating looks like.....

2006-02-06T13:15:00.000-08:00

I get it now. When you care about someone and you're scared, you don't run away. You stand there (or sit in the far corner with your arms crossed) and battle it out until a mutual understanding is reached. Voices are raised, insults are tossed, attackes are made, tears are shed and somehow you turn a corner and make it out the other side.

MD and I had ourselves a long talk on Saturday night. I have to admit my timing left a lot to be desired.

As is my usual style, I let things brew to a boiling point, so that by the time he walked in the door after a 15 hour work day I was in a state of great agitation. I'm sure my body language was evident of this: Curled up in self protective ball, blank look on my face, flying hands, pointing fingers, crossed arms. It looks like the Ice Queen came out to play.

The gist of our conversation was that he had no idea his behavior was being percieved that way: it was not intentional on his part. He was acting out of fear. I was acting out of fear. The more he held on, the more I pushed away. He didn't think I was listening, I didn't feel understood. And around and around we went.

"That's cold" He said at one point. "I've never seen you so cut off and cold."

"Well, you don't really know me, do you?" I shot back.

"Ouch." He said.

Ouch is right. It was like a ball of ice was sitting in the center of my heart, radiating out to my arms and legs. I actually felt cold, I even started shaking at one point, which freaked him out a bit. My wall was very tall and very dense. I really had no idea that this defense mechanism was that extreme. To MD's credit, he managed to peek over the other side, and target that fact that we both didn't know what we were doing, and were acting stupid because we were scared.

True.

It was finailly agreed on that we would put the breaks on this train. He had discovered that my idea of "romantic" was something diffrent than his. Its a matter of discovering eachother's buttons. I'm a "show, don't tell" person and he's a "tell as much as possible", person. He's going to work on the show, and I'm going to work on taking the telling. Within reason. We down graded each other to "that person I'm seeing" and we're thrilled with this new arrangement.
Now I can breathe

I've never worked so hard on something this new. MD and I both want to give it our best try, because its worth it. Something about this "blooming friendship" as we're calling it, feels really right, and very solid. We talked about building the foundation on solid ground with sturdy bricks and our little fight that evening was part of our new foundation. We can argue, agree, disagree, and move on. I almost feel like an adult.

Almost.

Don't Stand so Close to Me.....

2006-02-04T12:49:00.000-08:00

This will seem like quiet an about face from my last post.

Indeed, things have gone from "hey this is cool" to "danger will robinson, danger!"

The problem is, I'm feeling very overwhellmed. That word isn't strong enough. I'm feeling consumed. Devoured. Pulled in too many directions, clinging onto the pedistol with every once of energy I have that I'm exhasted.

The problem is Mark Darcy. He's a nice guy. He's cute. He's funny. We get along really well. We have fun together. I was seeing something really cool start to unfold. He was "that guy I'm dating" and I was really happy with that. Apparently MD wanted more. A lot more. Really quickly. The whole "boyfriend" thing came up very suddenly. I didn't feel like I had a choice in the matter. So I accepted it, though it doesn't feel honest. But that wasn't enough, infact it was just the beginning.

No matter how much time we spend together, it isn't enough. The day after I had just seen him I would get 3,4, sometimes 6 text messages about how much he missed me, how desperatly he had to see me again. If we lived in diffrent states, it would be sweet. We live in the same city. It isn't sweet at all. Its scary.

I already feel pulled in diffrent directions. I have a very full life right now, my days are spent at work, my evenings writing, attending activist functions, hanging with various friends, making connections with theatres, the list goes on. What was missing was that guy I could bring to various functions. Someone to go on dates with, to sleep over, to have brunch with.....thats what I wanted. Someone to date. I realize that all relationships are complex. They are made up of two people coming together who want something from eachother. I've always called relationships a series of negotiations. There's the give and take, the struggle for understanding, for deffinition, the worry, the retreat, the rush forward. Its a dance. Not always an attractive one, but a dance. The idea is that you should enjoy it. The give and take should theoretically go both ways.

My relationship with MD feels wildly out of balance. He wants and is creating an intense relationsip the likes of which would make Daniel Steele blush. I don't share this mutal intense feeling. I don't pine for him during the day, I don't miss him with an all consuming passion when he's not here. I don't wish him to be my break from reality, nore do I want to be his. In MD's world, this is what is happening. I feel like a fictional character in the play of his life. This isn't any more real than my own fictional dramas.

How is it the one thing I desperatly wanted to break from is the thing I have plowed into head first? I wanted time spent with MD to be real, not filled with his barage of commpliments, his need to mull me at every moment, as though there is no way he could get enough until he somehow melts the two of us together. Its not real, and its not mutal. What started off as a beautiful, slow dance has sped up to an intense tango I can't keep up with. Were there was once attraction, there is only a weariness. I'm just not feeling it right now.

I have discussed this in length with Ms. Creative and Synge, (who now know eachother.) It was like a duel therapy session and I have to say they worked well together as a team. I was able to put constructive words to how I feel and am now prepared to talk to MD. The good moments we have had are worth the effort to save this. I love all the moments that are real and honest, its the fantasy I can't jive with anymore. I hope MD is willing to work on this with me, that he's able to back down and give me the emotional room I need.

As Ms. Creative says, "I can't only take things one step at a time."
As Synge's says, "MD's behavior is not my problem."
As I say, "I will do what feels right for me."

I guess there is no such thing as "a normal guy." I just wish I could finially achieive some sort of balance.

Riding the Wave

2006-01-31T12:17:00.000-08:00

I am currently on the ride of my life. Its a wave I've never ridden before and I find myself clinging on, determind to just enjoy the ride. I want to live in the real world, as opposed to disapearing inside the fictional world of my head. I have found that it is much scarier and much more thrilling to live in the here and now.

I beleive I can now officialy call MD my boyfriend. It feels strange to say it, a word that I'm not used to popping out of my mouth. The word "we" and "us". We were sleeping when the cat woke us up. We got up and went to brunch. My boyfriend drove me into the city in his car. It is a language I am not used to using in the here and now.

I feel as though I am standing still while MD dances circles around me. He has said more than once that he is "the girl" in this relationship. MD is never quiet sure if he's saying the right thing, guessing at how I feel and what the things I do mean. I am trying to meet him half way, to take the compliments without questioning them. MD is still very much earning my trust. It has barely been a month, there is still work that needs to be done, assurances that will come with time. I am leary of "the instant relationship; just add water" and the adoration MD lavishes on me is almost frightening in its intensity. He is a passionate person who doesn't hold anything back; I am a quiet person who wants to test the waters. I am trying to live in the moment, to enjoy the attention as it comes instead of fearing the future. It is something I activly work on everyday.

I'm still trying to figure out how to work MD into my life. I feel as though other areas are being put on the backburner, and I find myself playing catch up to no avail.

I have been "cooking" on my story, worried that it won't make it into the reading I once thought I had gained entry into. I have sent out 3 resumes for new jobs, but worry that I will be stuck in my current SDJ, that the motivation to get out is starting to wain. I've been feeling ill lately, exhasted when I come home with no energy to do anything but sleep or zone out.

I wonder how MD fits into my close knit circle of friends, who for years have known SL2000 as the "always up to go out single friend". I am working on being available to everyone. MD wants so much of my time. I want to make time for him, for the girls, for writing, for finding a new job and I am running out of hours in a day. I feel as though I need a good solid week of hiding. To just write, work and hang. I think they call that a vacation? Imagine that, time off.....just another fantasy from the ficitional world of my brian.

Prehaps the appropriate image for this would be juggling while riding the wave. The wave is not something I wish to get lost in. I do not want to come up for air and realize I've done nothing to find a new job, that I have not writen a word in months, that my friends feel alienated. That last part is particularly important. While I test the waters and see if I can trust MD, I need the people I do trust around me. All of my relationships are important, and I am cultivating new ones with with diffrent people.

I suppose the best advice is the kind I dish out like candy to everyone else. Ride the wave and just enjoy it....

My Body wants to up and Quit Me.

2006-01-27T12:53:00.000-08:00

I've been having a tough week. Bitch Slapped by the hand of God. Everything that could go wrong in my body, did. The day after I spent the night at MD's, I got a yeast infection. It was so bad I thought I was going to die, till Ms. Creative laid out the facts like a Planned Parenthood help line. I wasn't dying, this was normal and most likely a product of my spending the night (drunkenly) with MD. Call it my little morning after present. I felt cursed.

I was scheduled to spend another evening with MD later that week, but my body was slowly falling to pieces. I had a fevor, the chills, a cold sore on my lip, my ears hurt, and I wouldn't be suprised if I dropped limbs on the way to the train. "Oh, I'm sorry, is that my finger?" I had a deadly leper disease and felt like a walking virus. To say I didn't feel sexy was the understatement of the year. On Tuesday he texts me, saying how much he is looking foward to Wendsday. What do I say? "Sorry honey, I can't, I have a raging yeast infection?"

Well yes, actually. That's exactly what I said. I called him up and listed the entire dirty list of ills. He was once pre-med, he's in to totaly honesty. I figured the big boy could take it.

"Oh honey, you had me at 'yeast infection'" he said.

He then offered to pick me up from work on Wendsday, take me home, make me soup and watch movies with me.

Which made for the hotest 5th date ever. Me in my jamies with the slipper socks, a fever, a blister on my lip, and walking very gingerly. He said he couldn't have asked for a better 5th date. And my oversized sweatshirt was indeed very sexy. He met my cat and gained her approval, checked out my diggs, which he seemed to really like, saw that I slept with stuffed animals and didn't pass judgement, made me soup, set up "Fight Club" on the laptop, then put me to bed when I passed out. He spent the night with a sick girl, a cat on his face, and neighbors screaming outside.

I think MD might actually like me.

Doesn't dealing with the sick and the ugly usually happen at least a month into the dating process? I feel like we've skipped ahead in time.

He's working on restriant when it comes to the emotional bucket of paint and I'm working on taking the compliments. He wants to spend a lot of time with me, and I feel like I need some perspective on the entire dating process. I guess what it comes down to, is I've lived alone for so long, its all I know how to do. I don't even ride the subway well with other people. I've walked into this city as an independent person, and I'm unsure how to live any other way. How do I encorporate MD into my life? How do my mornings go with him sitting at the kitchen table? Its a life I've been longing to know for years, and I've gotten used to that far away longing. I'm good at it.

I've often said that relationships are a continuous set of negotiations. I need to start taking my own advice. This is something I need to stick with and explore. The scarrier it gets, the more I need to stay the course and see where it goes. I need to follow MD's tone, and be emotionaly honest about how I feel. This is scary, but I'm not going to run away.

Baggage.........

2006-01-24T12:32:00.000-08:00

Ok, so my baggage isn't that color coordinated or pretty. Its mostly beat up boxes covered in duct tape, with all kinds of things I don't really like dealing with bursting at the seems.

I am of course refering to emotional baggage, not my personal luggage. And I seem to have more of it than I thought..........

I heard this really great essay on NPR a couple of weeks ago. I can't remember the author of it, but it was on "Selected Shorts" one of my "regular" Sunday programs. It was about a writer who always seemed to be the "forever single" friend. She considered herself to be the perfect houseguest. By her deffinition, the perfect houseguest, is someone that is unattached. You can mold to fit other people's energy, blend into the daily life of the house until you seem to hum with it. The perfect houseguest never complains, you are niether too happy or unhappy. You just are....there, a familar blanket, a comfort to the family and able to blend into thier way of life.

The author loved being the perfect houseguest. In these other houses, she was able to dream about the day she would have her own family, her own rythum to hum to. What would her house look like, were would they live.....and what would it like be like as the other half of a pair? As a writer, she was able to live in this fantasy until it took the place of reality. The day she actually achieved her fantasy, was the day she was no longer able to be the perfect houseguest. She wondered if in the face of reality, was it the dream she prefered? For a writer, there is nothing quiet as seductive as writing your own life.

It occurs to me, that I too, have been the author of my own romances. It is a world I can create so well, I often wonder if I'm cabable of haveing one in reality. Imagine two people facing eachother, each full of expectations, hopes, fears and most of all....piles of individual baggage. It all seems to present itself so quickly and the reality of it all is a bit frightening.

In less than a month, I have found myself faced with my piles of banged up boxes, staring across the perverbial isle at MD.

He is the most open and sharing person I have ever met. There is not a moment were I wonder how he feels, or what he's thinking, because he tells me. There's no inner monologue at work, no subtext, just one big heart sitting on his sleave. Its just a little intense and a little frightening for this quiet writer.

Those who know me well, know that it takes awhile to sort through my boxes. I write more than I speak, I ponder things before I say them, and I am very careful about who sees the contents of my heart. It is the walls that life has built. I wouldn't say I'm "emotionally unavaliable", it just takes awhile for me to trust others and admit when I feel vulnerable.

My past is filled with relationships, both romantic and friends, who started out with an intense bang and ended in the same way. Its this habit of being with someone so much you use eachother up until there is nothing left. I call it "instant" relationship, just add water. I also seem to find myself on a pedistal, sitting way up high in the land of "everything you do is great" which can be a nice place to sit for awhile. The problem is what goes up, must and will come crashing down.

I can tell you that the air up here is pretty nice. So is my view. MD is pushing me higher and higher and after 4 dates (3 moved into 4, if you catch my drift, a decision I wonder if I made too soon), I'm starting to look for my glass ceiling. I don't know if its the product of therapy, an actor thing, or a past filled with people who never shared feelings, but MD is laying the emotional honesty on me with a thick brush. I think I spent a good 10 minuets on the phone just listening to him tell me how beautiful I am, how great I am, etc etc, until I literaly wanted to curel up in a ball and die. I had no idea what to say, how to react, what to feel, it was just so much at once. Now I know it must sound crazy, to react that way to someone who is paying you wonderful comments. They are things I like to hear....but when someone you've only known for a short time is laying it on that thick.....it gets your guard up. How does he know all this? On what is he basing it on? I am a writer....I prefer a few, well choosen words to an avalanche of compliments. They seem to roll off his tounge so freely, they almost loose thier meaning.

I am sitting on my pedistal, clinging to the edges as I am remade in MD's eyes. True or not, its how I feel.

The advice I've recieved is ride the wave. MD values emotional honesty, so I need to be honest. I need the breaks put on this train. I do like him, and I want to spend time with him, but relationships shouldn't grow like seahorses. It takes more than a little water for things to bloom for me.....I need to see how this will grow over time. My baggage will open, but I need to sort through it at my own pace...

Fading away in cublicle land

2006-01-19T13:23:00.000-08:00

The purpose of this posting is to keep me awake.
My eyes are actually throbing from staring at the computer screen this long.
My brain feels like a pile of processed cheese product.
My body may actually be molded to fit this chair.

A song comes to mind. From the show "How to Succeed in Buisness Without Really Trying...."

"....If I can't take 3 daily trips, to my shining shrine that nightly drips
or taste carboard between my lips, something within me dies
lies down and something within me dies.

That office light doesn't have to be florecent. I'll get no pains in the head. That office chair doesn't have to be foam rubber, so if I spead, so I spread.
But only one chemical substance...
Gets out the led.
Like she said.

If I can't take my coffee break
Something within me dies
Lies down and something within me dies."

I only remeber this song because I auditioned for the above stated musical in high school. I was the prop mistress on that one. I got to stand offstage in the dark while people tossed thier used coffee cups off stage or scooted office chairs at me. Its a glamorous job really and what go me started in theatre in the first place. I must be a glutton for punishment because I now have a BFA in stage management. That was a usefull degree....

They've set up for the program tonight. They being catering services. They have not, however, brough the coffee. I find that rather rude. I mean, I'm not paying $400 for the program or attending, but I do work here. They should at least provide me with ample opportunity to siphon coffee away before the paying customers get here. Come on man. I'm a cubicle fugative. I'm a writer in real life, I don't actually make a living wage. Free Coffee. That's why we're all here really.

Digressing......

What the hell ever happend to Axle Rose? Wasn't he working on an album for 10 years? Trying to make the perfect Guns and Roses album? I wonder what that would even sound like. That's a lot of pressure...to make the PERFECT rock album. I think its been done already, by Pink Floyd. I heard he showed up at the Rainbow Room and no one recognized him. He had to walk up to the bartender and say "hey, I'm Axle Rose" and they were like "were the hell have you been? We thought you disapeared with the early 90s" and Axle was like "I'm working on my music" For 10 years? Come on man. Just put the album out already.

More Digressing..........

So had to go to "phone training" the other day. I had this avalanche of work sitting on my desk, but the powers that be thought I should go to an hour long class on how to use the new phone. An excellent use of time. I thought "well, if its this complex it must be a computer or come with a helper monkey." But when I got down there, it was just a phone. You pick up the reciver and say "hello" and the other person on the other end says "hi" and then you converse through the very phone like reciever. If you want to put them on hold, you push this big red button that says "hold". There's even a packet of instructions that tells you how to program voice mail and give your direct dial buttons names. I named mine Fred. I had the entire thing set up in five minuets and then had to sit there while this lady cried because she couldn't figure out how to type in her password or her extention. I'm sorry she was having such a tough time of it, but really. That avalanche of work isn't going to disapear of its own accord. Not unless an act of God occures and that just doesn't happen here in cublicle land. I doubt even one of Bush's spy satellites could see me down here. Maybe they should have gotten her a squirl monkey. Something that sits on your shoulder and picks up the phone for you.

If your going to have an hour long training session on how to use a phone, you can atleast serve coffee.

5 minuets to go. If I don't get some caffine stat, I'm going to look like that poor dude in the middle cubicle pictured above......

Date # 2

2006-01-17T13:42:00.000-08:00

I'll wait a moment while you finish gagging over the sickly sweet picture I have posted........................................................................
But may I remind you that it is not offten, if not RARE that I would ever post something that pink and cuddley.

Ok. I like MD. A lot. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. What are the odds of a single, attractive, mature man my age to be running around this city? Its like I'm constantly looking for the fine print. When does this expire? Is he really 45 and supporting a family? Does he have a girlfriend or a string of women all wondering if they too, have found the last good guy on this island? I'm smiling, I'm happy, I'm holding his hand, all the while looking up, waiting for the sky to fall.

The Date.

We meet at said generic middle eastern resturant in trendy lower east side. He was running late, but made up for it by walking in with flowers! I was thrilled, but as you can see it doesn't take much. I choose the awakward table. The one with cushins on the floor that is impossible to get out of. It was a source of great amusment for us and his good natured humor earned him brownie points. MD is deffinatly ahead in the brownie point scoring division.

I rattled on like an idoit, although I usually feel like I rattle on, hands flying through the air, in danger of knocking things over, illistrating my stories with accents, voices and hand gestures. MD thought it was great. My stories are all new to him, and its great to tell them to someone who's never heard them and is truely interested. He made me laugh so hard a few times I almost shot water out my nose. We were a raukus pair, and could have cared less what anyone else thought.

It was nice to see that he was relaxed. Sometimes you go out with someone that is so uptight about impressing you, the whole evening feels a bit stuffy. Not so with MD. I ordered the wine on account of my supior knowlage from a 1 credit wine course in college and he deffered to me when it came, stating that "the lady has the supior taste in wine".

After the dinner we walked to the train, holding hands and kissed on the train platform, such a typical city thing to do. And you know what? I could have kissed him there all night. Its the first time PDA hasn't bothered me. In fact, I kissed him twice, in two diffrent subway stations. Thats right, we were those people. He said he had to see me soon and departed glancing over his shoulder as I walked to the train, clutching my flowers and looking up, waiting for the sky to fall.

Date # 3 TBA......

Coming out the otherside of the sink hole

2006-01-13T14:39:00.000-08:00

My last entry was somewhat in dispeare. I may have been counting my blessings, but I was down to counting change for groceries. It was getting bad. I had an "open tab" going with Ms. Creative, Synge was offering to loan me money off her credit card and I was borrowing money from petty cash at work all over the place. Checks were made of rubber and my credit card was $200 over limit. Last night I was staring at a box of pasta, a frozen bag of veggies and two eggs, wondering how to make it strech when my dad called with the good news

"We're out of the hole!" He screamed.

Dear dad finial had a lawsuite he'd been tied up in for 6 years settle in his favor. He was down to $10 and digging for quarters in the couch when the call came in. "See how it works?" He said "It always comes through when you need it." He's right. The next day he dumped a good chunk of change in my account and I began to climb out of the hole.

"I'm writing checks that don't bounce, how much do I owe you!" I yelled to friends over the phone. If felt good to pay off some debts. I repaid petty cash, my friends, and decided to host a dinner party to thank everyone for being so wonderful while I was down. Tomorrow I will stock up on stuff I need before I trip and fall in another hole. It happens sometimes. I'm up, I'm down, I'm hanging in by my finger nails, but thats life. I've learned to appreciate what I have when I have it.

On the man front:

Ok, its not raining men. Well, just one. We'll call him Mark Darcey, after Bridget's cute underdog. Or MD, if you will.

I met MD the old fashion way. Internet dating. I know, I can't shake the stigma of it either, and I was ready to quit when I stumbled across his picture on the site and well....he had the cutest smile. So I "winked" at him and he wrote back. This is how the internet thing usually goes.

We meet at the "safe bar", its a place I go all the time with Synge, and hence know the bartender who's a woman and was keeping an eye out for me. She needn't worry. I recognized him by the smile and was happy to see that this guy actually did look like his picture, a nice suprise. We hit it off fabulously. The mysterious self filling wine glasses helped push things along, compliments of the bartender and owner.

Synge did her friend duty and called to check in, but I was having such a good time I didn't answer. So she called again, which is why she's one of my dearest friends. She took her duties very seriously. I think I texted something like "I'm really really ok."

He was really really ok and I felt really really ok. He kept touching my knee when he was talking, leaning in, telling me I was pretty. (that was after a couple glasses of wine, he wasn't snarky or anything). I felt like I talked too much, I always feel that way but he seemed to think the long winded stories I told him were great. He seemed to think everything I said was great. I thought he was pretty great to.

He walked me to the train, no kiss yet but I wasn't into the ackward first date kiss. I tend to avoid that.

And we're going out again! Ha! This one just might stick.
The date is set for next week, and I will be sure to update you then.

Isn't it refreshing to read a postive blog entry for once?

Avoiding work.....and trying to stay awake

2006-01-13T06:59:00.000-08:00

To prevent my head from banging into the desk; both from exhastion and the fusteration of the Alito hearings on NPR, I have decided to indulge in the world's dummbest quizes.....compliments of Synge.

Your 80s Heartthrob Is

Kirk Cameron

Who's Your 80's Heartthrob?

I wouldn't have chosen this for myself, but he is kinda cute in wholesome way.

You are Bettie Page

Girl next door with a wild streak
You're a famous beauty - with unique look
And the people like you are cultish about it

What Famous Pinup Are You?

I've very happy with this choice. I think Betty Page is very sexy.

Your Vibe Is Somewhat Sexy

On a good day, you're the sexiest woman in the world
But on a bad day, you can't help but feel a little average
Try to remember the times you've felt the sexiest...
And keep that attitude even on the worst of days

How Sexy Is Your Vibe?

Well, isn't this true of everyone?

You Are a Lace Bra!

Dreamy, romantic, and ultra-feminine
You're a womanly woman who makes guys feel like men
Your perfect guy is strong, determined, and handsome
With a softer side that only you can draw out

What Kind of Bra Are You?

That's funny, I don't own any lace bras....

Guys Like That You're Sensitive

And not in that "cry at a drop of a hat" sort of way
You just get most guys - even if you're not trying to
Guys find it is easy to confide in you and tell you their secrets
No wonder you tend to get close quickly in relationships!

What Do Guys Like About You?

You Are an Exotic Beauty!

No matter what your ehtnic background, you've got a unique look
And your one of a kind beauty makes an imprint in every man's mind
You hardly ever wear the same outfit twice, and your hair is always changing
As a result, your look is always new and fresh - never outdated or stale

What Type of Beauty Are You?

You Should Date A Swede!

You're a romantic, albeit an understated and practical one.
It's more about a steady partnership for you, not unrestrained falling
Your Swede will give you the unwavering love you crave
While making up some mean pancakes and meatballs on the side!

Which Foreign Guy Should You Date?

I suppose thats a lot diffrent than an Italian....my last one.

Your Celebrity Sisters Are Mary-Kate and Ashley

Funky, eccentric, and offbeat
You're not a good girl or a bad girl, just a weird girl

Who Are Your Celebrity Sisters?

Ug! It'd be more like the little sisters I toss in the car when they're drunk or drag off to rehab. I also thought me and Claire Danes would be good sisters

Your Love Quote

True love stories never have endings.

What Love Quote Suits You?

I feel the need to point out that the only question on this one was "Are you in Love? Yes or no" Who comes up with this stuff? Who takes these quizes?

You Should Be In the Indigo Girls

Your all about expressing yourself through music
Lyrics are your poetry - think Sylvia Plath meets guitar

What Girl Group Should You Be In?

Yeah Indigo Girls! On that note, I think I'm done with the quizzes....

I promise to write something real soon.

When Life gives you lemmons, or cheap lemmon flavoring.....

2006-01-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

Its been a lean month. The peanut butter on a spoon, variety.

After all was said and done with January rent, I found myself with whopping $14.92 left in my bank account. My dad, the one who usually bails me out, found himself with $40.00 left in his bank account. The family that writes together, starves together. I guess you could say I found this a bit distressing.

"I don't know how I'm going to pay my bills, or buy food or exsist on $14!" I sobbed into the phone to my dad, who had nothing to say. I e-mailed a friend and told her I'd be unable to go anywere this week, or next week and would be eating crackers in my apartment.

"Are you stupid?" She asked in her usual gentle manner. "You have friends for a reason. I'm going to make you dinner. And take you out, and get you drunk and if you need groceries just say something." I did feel stupid. And very grateful to have good friends around me.

Its a matter of putting things into perspective. I may have had $14.92 in my bank account, but I'm better off than a lot of people. I have a job. I get paid in two weeks. I have friends around me that won't let me starve. I paid rent this month, and the electric bill isn't due for two weeks. I have bread and peanut butter at home.

I had a conversation with some of my co-workers, and one of them was telling me about living in the projects, or the "PJs" as she called them. What it was like to be on public assistance and the day she finally got a job. The day she went down to that public assistance office and said "I won't be needing your services anymore." It was a triumphant day. "You gonna be ok honey." She told me. "People always have a way of making it thought." She was right. A much older and wiser woman than me, who had been through worse things than having $14 in her bank account.

I felt like a shmuck. Perhaps that's the lesson in this. Count you blessings.

I live in New York for a reason. This is the city were people hang on by thier fingernails with a grim determination. We charge rent on our credit cards and eat free vegan food at the krishna center and march fowarded with that fixed look in our eyes that New Yorkers are known for. Its the city of "I'm going to make it if I have to crawl there on my hands and knees." Half the battle is making due with very little. Small apartments, high rent, expensive transportation and jobs that never seem to really cut it. I certainly don't make my rent in two weeks and I don't know anyone who does. People in the artistic world I live in never stop looking for work and never stop beleiving that somehow they will just make through this month because they always have.

I can't think of any other city I'd rather be broke in.

I am thankful for my friends, and the lesson in perspective I have gained. As I have every month for the past two years.....I will make it through.

I Consider Myself Warned

2006-01-03T13:48:00.000-08:00

When the fates speak, I find its usually a good idea to listen.

This weekend I recieved a double cosmic whammy, if you will. The giant hand reached out of the sky, slapped me across the face and said, "Hey, pay attention." My face still stings a bit, but my eyes are wide open. I'm now checking for boggey men under the bed and sleeping with a nightlight. Sometimes I wish the cosmic foces would be a bit more specific.

It all started with an anxiety filled night on Sunday. I just couldn't seem to settle down. I was up every hour with a feeling of dread filling me. Why was the cat staring at the corner? Was there something under the bed? Wasn't that car alarm going for a long time? The normal creeks and groans of my apartment all sounded new to me and my imagination was on overdrive. Shadows were people, the boys slamming thier door was suddenly my front door slamming, and monsters slithered through the kitchen. I finially fell into a restless sleep, the kind that is half awake only you can't open your eyes, sand weighing your limbs down.

I dreamed that I wanted to go get some juice. It was 3:00am and I suddenly had the desire to go to the super sketchy corner store to purchase a carton of orange juice. The same super sketchy store that may or may not be selling crack from behind its plastic windows. In my dream I got up, put on a coat and shoes, took some money and walked out the door. I got half way down the block when I saw a group of men pushing another man against a wall with a knife to his throat. A group of voices screamed "run home!" coming from everywere at once. I ran back to my apartment, terror gripping my heart. I felt like I had seen something I was not meant to see. I woke up dripping in sweat, my heart pounding. It seemed so real I was half convinced I had actually tried to go buy juice. Had I seen this out the window? I don't fall back asleep, and laid there watching the cat watch the heater, filled with her own cat anxiety.

The next day I recieved a strange phone call from my dad. "Are you okay?" he asked when I picked up the phone. Aparently, he had found a Christmas ornament with my name on it laying in the middle of the floor. He had left the house for couple of hours, all in order, and returned to find that this specific ornament (there was only two like it) on the tree had somehow unhooked itself from the top and landed by the front door. He lives alone without animals, nor does the tree move or ornaments walk. He was filled with dread, and felt as though something was being foreshadowed. When I told him my dream, it seemed to all click.

I was being warned.

To the average person, this may sound like a strange conclusion to make, but I have learned not to take these voices lightly. I have heard them foreshadowing almost every major event in my life. They stopped my dad from getting on a plane that crashed. They have guided me to the side of a road during a blinding monsoon, and told me to run just as foot steps started to pound behind me. I once fell asleep at the wheel, only to wake up to a sharp slap in the face, the wheel steady under my hands. It can be as simple as an idea that pops into my head, a dream, a soft voice, a shout to to run that seems to come from everywere at once.

This is one of the strongest warnings I've recieved in a long time, and the first personal foreshadowing. I do not know what to look out for so I will keep my eyes peeled for everything. My dream suggested violence, or perhaps an act that was out of character for me. The ornament that fell was of a girl ice skating, so my father thought it could be weather related.

I know if this foreshadowed moment should come, the same voices that throw Christmas ornaments and scream "run" will probably be there again to guide me through it.

Message recieved

I will proceed with caution.

I'll take a life boat, please

2005-12-30T10:31:00.000-08:00

We're going under.

The ship I lovinly call the SDJ, my stupid day job for the unintiated, is starting to cause drowning.

Had I any doubts about just what kind of place I worked for, the behavior of my workplace during the strike squashed them.

The official memo basically stated that we were responsible for getting to work on our own. When I inquired about car pools, I was told they were full. No cab fair was offered, no mercey shown to those who were late. They provided coffee for those who made it in, and patted themselves on the back for being good employers. Meanwhile my various friends with SDJs were running around with taxi vouchers or hustling to meet the shuttles thier workplace had hired. I don't exactly work for a mom and pop operation. This is a very big, important SDJ, I wouldn't be breaking any banks by asking for cab fair. I even went so far as to offer to pay my way there if they picked up the cab fair home. The official decision was that I didn't have anything that important to do. My presence at work wasn't worth the costs to bring in me in. They are still deciding if I should get any pay for this lost day, seeing as though I had no vacation time to put towards it.

This SDJ is without a soul. My work load has doubled and people wonder why I make more mistakes and mis more details then I did before. People are activly seeking out other jobs and I feel this is a train I should jump on.

The advice I recived was wait till the rats jump ship.....the rats have jumped and I want the remaining life boat.

The resume has been written, the cover letter is in the works and I am fully prepared to apply for new jobs in the New Year. Fellow blog readers (that would be Synge, I think) keep your eyes peeled. I'm looking for a pay increase, something in the mid 30s to 40K range. Executive assistant, project manager, anything but shuffling papers for the heartless entity I currently work for.

Making Peace with the Past

2005-12-28T13:41:00.000-08:00

I have finially made peace with the state of Arizona.

Its taken almost 20 years, since the plane landed in 1985, to the current Christmas vaction I have just returned from. I once ran from this state to the cold of Syracuse, NY. Looking for an escape from everything and everyone I had known. Trading in cacti for trees and dirt for green grass. I never wanted to see endless blue sky again.

But I no longer feel dispare and turmoil at the sight of that pale blue sky, the swaying palm trees or endless miles of freeway. I stepped off the plane and only felt....peace. I was tourist seeing it all for the first time. With new eyes. With New York eyes. I am settled in myself as a person and no amount of bad memories can shake that. I faced the ghosts of my childhood head on, and all they could say was "my god you look fabulous." I didn't need to loose weight or look super cool to show I had changed. I HAD changed, and the change was internal. Thanks, I do look fabulous. Its called "confidence."

Instead of trying to make Christmas into a Victorian, snowy, perfect family affiar, I made the best of what I had. My dad, his little retirement home in Mesa, and a tree bought the day before Christmas for $10.

I let go of the images we would never achieve and simply enjoyed his company. I soaked in the bright Arizona sun, ate Mexican food and stoped trying to hold my dad to expectations he would only fail. I don't have a large family, a family house, or tons of family friends. These are things I can not change.

I spent my evenings riding around the cities I grew up in with Carlita, my surviving childhood friend and got the dirt on all the people we knew. Who came out of the closet, who was in jail, who was in a mental hospital, who was pregnant, who worked at Circle K, who comitted armed robbery, the usual updates on people I had grown up with. I felt lucky to have survived my childhood. Carlita was lucky to have survived hers. I loved sitting back in her car, listening to bands she felt I should know and watching the desert cities pass by the window. She took me to old houses I had lived in, the middle school were we met and even our old high school. We got out of the car and walked on the campus that was the site of so much change, and so much termoil. It seemed a hundred years had passed since I had slinked through those halls, my head bowed, my back curved in a self inflicted shame. I was no longer that person.

The highways snaked bellow us and above us, the stucko houses with lights blending into one continous stream of color as we drove by, remembering and simply being in eachother's company. On Christmas Eve we tossed a couple of old friends in the car and toured the huge mansions of Arizona, the kingdoms that went out, not up and as my friend wisely stated "could employ an entire country" as the hired help. We counted lite up deer, plastic Santas and Baby Jesuses keeping track and screetching with victory everytime our chosen object was spotted. Carlita drove us up Camelback Mountain and stoped near the top, the gates of private masions looming above us. We got out of the car and stood at the edge of the cliff, looking at the tiny dots of lights illuminating the desert kingdom below. It was the first time I had ever looked at those lights, and felt full instead of empty. At last I could see the beauty in the place I had grown up.

My father and I opened presents on Christmas Day. Books we had regifted to eachother, CDs I had bought him. It was, as my dad would say, a "salvation army" Christmas. It didn't matter. My gift was the plane ticket back to Arizona and a stress free holiday. We watched movies, read the paper and simply talked.

There are still some ghosts I have not delt with. A stocking shoved hastily back in the box, a photo left in storage. A house that was once the residence of friends I lived with, but is now dark with a for sale sign. I can only climb one moutain at a time. Those are ghosts left for another Christmas.

I will be back, Arizona.

Stress Reaches its Peek, then I run into Humphrey

2005-12-16T13:04:00.000-08:00

I thought I might die of a heartattack this morning. My car service that my work ordered was canceled without my knowlage this morning and at 6:45am myself and my houseguest found ourselves running for the train.

The slow downs make your heart rate shoot up, and the inability to plan for your commute is a maddening feeling.

I still completely support the TWU. But the deadline has been pushed back to Tuesday, 12:01am and so has my heartattack. The contingancy plan I have for myself is on hold, and I must confess it does not include walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. Synge was pretty upset by that plan and pointed out the hole in my thinking. Freezing rain.

The slow downs magically missed me this morning and I was able to enjoy breakfast with my house guest before she left to continue her gypsy waunderings. I wished her the best of luck, but I know she will be fine. This is the girl who lived in Japan for 5 months and has been on tour as a technition for Disney on Ice for 3 years. She is always fine.

My reason for rushing to work was a huge program with 150 attorneys who all want want WANT things from you, fast, effeciant and of course, personal attention to just them. With 3 of us working the sign in desk, it gets pretty stressful. My transit headache returned and the Office Poet was dogging me like a puppy.

This is were I start to get to the second half of my title.

I had previously discussed the OP with my house guest and Ms. Creative, who had very interesting advice on the subject. The House Guest thinks I should send flowers to myself and talk loudly about my huge, 6'2 boyfriend. "that'll get the point across" She said. I love my house guest. She also pointed out that the OP is "cockblocking" me from Llyod Dobler, probably unintentionally, focused on his own objectives. My obvservations has proven this to be true to a certain extent. Ms. Creative thinks I should do all womankind a favor and really lay it out on the table. She said I could potentially "fix the situation for future women" by explaining the reason I don't want to date him is due to lack of self esteem and his constant self put downs. She said being this blunt could be an eye opener for him or cause him to self destruct. Either way it might prevent the future cockblocking and dogging he has been doing.

I love these women. They tell me what I want to hear, rather than actual good advice, but I know this about them. This conversation took place at a bar last night, so my head was full of thier "advice" as I listened to the OP and watched Lloyd Dobler out of the corner of my eye.

Then I had a moment.

But first I should explain today's outfit.

I am wearing boots with heels today. Nothing unusual about this, except I never wear heels and can't really walk in them. I tend to march around like a kid playing dress up. My house guest things its enduring and Ms. Creative thinks its funny in a cute way. I have no perspective on this. I was wearing a skirt, so I hoped it upped the cuteness factor.

Back to my moment: I was marching by a some what narrow hallway to my lawyer's office when I spotted Lloyd Dobler doing what I can only describe as striking a pose. He was leaning on some boxes, one foot over the other proping himself up in what looked like a 1930s leeding man posture. He wore a long gray coat, dark pants, black shoes and was carrying a very nice umbrella with a long, wooden handle. He leaned on this umbrella like Fredistare about to do a little dance, or Gene Kelly about to burst into "Singing in the Rain" and placed a teasing smile on his face. I looked at him and thought "my god, Llyod Dobler has just turned into Humphry Bogart". He was dashing. I was astruck. I marched past in my boots tripped on my own feet and stared at the ground in what must have been a very OP way.

I am my own cockblocker

I have turned around and done the same thing to Lloyd Dobler that the Office Poet has done to me. I have made him into a character. Llyod Dobler, Humphrey Bogart...I make him totally unreachable and do things like trip over my own feet in his presence. Perhaps I am his OP?

It was a startling realization. I have stated this before, but I'll say it again. I don't actually function in the real world. I live out my life as though I was writing fiction and can only hope that my awarness of this has brought me one step closer to fixing it.

It gets lonley in the fictional world.

This is not how I wanted to meet...Brooklyn Bridge

2005-12-14T13:27:00.000-08:00

I support the TWU's right to strike. I think the MTA is corupt and any surplus they had should have been spent on thier workers, not the bullshit holiday fares that I never even got to take advantage of. They were made of tourists, anyway. I don't think the MTA should remove conductors from trains, that's not safe. I agree with thier position and should the worst occure, I will not take alternative busses driven by scabs.

However, if the transit workers should strike Friday, my life will become absolute and total hell.

I live in Brooklyn and let me tell you, its pretty far from the Brooklyn Bridge and even farther from my stupid day job in Mid-Town. My office actually wants to pay for a car service to come get me and take me to work on Friday. I think that's very nice, but it would only be Friday because my presence is needed. On Monday, I'm on my own.

I have this feeling that me and the Brooklyn Bridge are going to meet under less then pleasant circumstances. This meeting may take place on Sunday, when I walk from my home to Hell's kitchen, in order to move in with my friend until Wendsday. I've been told to take a car service, and perhaps I should break down and spend the small fortune this will cost me. I hate this idea. Besides, I'm kind of wondering if I can actually do it. Could I, SL200, actually walk from my home deep in Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge to Hell's Kitchen? I have this feeling that I may actually die of exposure doing that. I keep thinking, "hey, I backpacked all over Ireland. I walked halfway over the Northern Ireland landscape. Why not Manhattan?" The diffrence is it wasn't 27 degrees in Northern Ireland. That may slow me down a bit.

I have this image of me wrapped up like a mummy, ear muffs, scarves, pants over pants, with a backpack; walking....the lone walker amongst cars, bikes, and people in cabs chanting "go, go, go" Can I do it? Will I have to do it? Am I being rediculous?

Stay posted to find out.

When Life Starts to look Ridiculous

2005-12-09T12:26:00.000-08:00

Total and complete redicilousness. That is me. I might as well be Bridget Jones as pictured, as clique as that may seem, making a perpetual ass of myself at the company holiday party. Only its an internal kind of redicilousness.

My pervious blog was almost a self pitty party, which I wisely put the breaks on. I had just gotten done listing the things I am happy about, when I went to see Depeche Mode with the office poet. In my mind, the world of the redicilous, I was going to see a fun show with the nice guy I work with. A co-worker. We don't chat outside of the cubicle chatting, he's funny and keeps me sane at work. This is his role in my life. Perhaps I had entertained the thought that he may have a crush on me, but come on....I work with him....he sits in front of me. That's just office drama waiting to happen.

The concert didn't really feel like a causal outing with the co-worker. Mostly because he was so nervous I thought he might explode. If I had any doubts at all, they were corrected when shy office poet, in a very uncharacteristicly brave act, laid it all out on the table. There was no guess work needed here, he just flat out told me that he's liked me for sometime, he was glad I went, how much he wanted to go out again....it was like he really needed to get it off his chest. The guy basically set off a bomb on the train (of the smokey variety, not the bad exploding people hurt kind) but of the I can't see I'm confused variety. He seemed relieved to have laid it all out on the table and I'm glad he did to a certian extent. I'm just unsure of what to do now.

Dating the guy who sits in front of you is a really bad idea. If anything goes wrong, there he is, every day, Monday-Friday 9am - 5pm. I'd like to give the nice guy a chance, but the stakes are high. He's very appologetic for exsisting, and doesn't even stand up straight. He's terrified of other people, doesn't drink, smoke anything, or like parties. I'm unsure of how or where we would interact socially. I feel like the cards are stacked against this. At the same time I wonder if I am trying to come up with reasons why this would not work. It looks like I have some thinking to do.

I've often wished that life would work as cleanly as a movie. A script is written and we really have no doubt that Bridget Jones will end up with the right guy in the end, no matter the bumps she encountred along the way. We laugh and cry and sympathize, but in the end, its not real. Life has no script and because of this is infinitly more interesting. The drama is real, because its my life. I suppose that's why reality TV is so popular as well.

Stay tuned for the next installment.....

Get By With a Little Help From my Friends

2005-12-08T13:29:00.000-08:00

On the anniversery of John Lennon's death, I'm sitting here at the Stupid Day Job listening to the all day John Lennon marathon on the radio. I was just about to write another pitty pot blog when "A little help from my friends" comes on the radio.

I was full of self woes about my lack of love life and lack of interesting things to blog (unlike Synge, who's blog reads like a best seller)when I realized...."hey, I got friends." I could write a disertation on why my love life is all fucked up, but I really don't think anyone outside a perfessional therapist who charges $50/hr would really care. So I'll save the woe-is-mes and just list the things I am happy about in my life right now.

My good friend Synge
The Code Pink Women
My good friend Miss Artistic and her dysfunctional household
My sparked creativity for writing
The ability to pay my rent on my own
The heat in my apartment
My apartment
My cat
Miss Carlita, her life partner and family
My dad
The fact that I'm going to Arizona for Christmas (hello sunglasses and palm trees)
My recent retirement from stage management
The people who keep me sain at work
The knowlage that my job is not forever
Brooklyn
Art/Theatre
The fact that I now have time to enjoy the above.

My life is a work in progress and everyday I need to remind myself that I determin what it should look like. If I am lacking in one area, its becaus I'm busy working on all the others. No more sappy, poor me blogs, its not doing anyone any good, least of all me.

The terrible horrible no good very bad week

2005-12-04T17:36:00.000-08:00

I hated this past week. The days Monday thru Friday were completly, terribly, horrible.

My job sucked more than it usually does. I got daily phone calls from irate lawyers saying our CLE courses were too expensive. Which is true. What can I say to these people? "Your putting small practices out of business!" "Yes sir, I couldn't agree more...." They sputter when I leave them no were to go. Most angry people on the phone want a sense of accomplishment when they hang up like, "well I sure showed them." I've learned to be very quiet, sometimes putting the phone down or on speaker so the rest of the office can bear whitness to my terrible day. What it really comes down to, is I'm onboard a sinking ship and I have no intention of playing the violin while it goes down. I don't care. I want my damn life boat. The advice I've been given is to watch the rats. When the rats jump, its time to go. So I watch the office rats diligently and carefully plan my escape.

My grandmother isn't doing so well. She's in her mid 80s, this is not unusual for someone of her age, nor a suprise to anyone but my dad. I get daily updates on how unreasonable she's being and have no idea what to say to him. He's lived his entire life on reason. He can't communicate with unreasonable people. I find putting the phone down and walking away to eat an apple is a good tactic. "Poor dad, so sad, mama hung him in the closet and now he's feeling so bad," as my dad would say. I have a feeling the daily updates will continue into next week.

I had two days of terror over whether or not I would lose my apartment. I found out the faceless company that owns this little building is renting the apartment above me for $1250. Its a one bedroom. The apartment is kitty cornor to the ghetto, leans foward a bit, and has holes in the stairwell. I feel this is an unreasonable price. Then again, my week was all about dealing with unreasonable people. Suddenly I couldn't breath. $1250! I can't afforad $1 above what I pay now! I'm barley scrapping it together as it is. Oh god, am I going to half to move? I can't afoard to move, I don't have time. I had one day to give 60 days notice and was hyperventalating at work. I called my landlord, the go between for me and this faceless company. I think the terror in my quivering voice made an impression. He vowed to call and find out if it was going to be raised. I banged my head on the desk hoping the office wouldn't know the drama occuring my cubicle. He called back 10 minuets later saying he had asked the faceless company not to raise my rent. Apparently they think nothing of slapping an increase on rent for installing a new water heater. I might point out the current one is ready to explode. I was so releived I burst into tears. This caught the attention of the office, who congratulated me on not having my rent raised.

Friday was the iceing on the shit cake for me. First I must explain a little bit about my bullshit job. I work in the CLE department of the City Bar. We produce edjucational seminars for lawyers and create program books. The books are made of materials we get the "faculty" to provide, send to a printer, and if all goes well they magically appear on the front desk the next morning in time for the program. A lot of time and stress goes into creating these books. The Friday morning program was mine. I had choked, begged and yelled to get these materials from our premadonna faculty. I had rushed it to the printer and called him twice to make sure it would make it to the City Bar on time. I walk in at 8:00am. latte in hand and what do I see? A big empty space were the books should be. They are not there. I know I shouldn't care, and really I don't, but the lawyer I work for sure does. My fear came from having to tell her there were no books and fending off the angry lawyers who paid $455 for the all day program and didn't get thier books. To make a long story short a lot of phone calls were made, I told my lawyer who laughed like a mad woman, as though this information had broken her, and the books arrived an hour late. It was not a good way to start a Friday. Nor was nearly choking to death, which I did later in the day, calling my dad to borrow $2,000 for rent and bills, and noticing the hole in the sole of my shoe.

It was a Terrible, horrible week.

My boy trouble compounded. Or just got more intersting depending on how you look at it. The office poet asked me to see a concert on Thursday (indirectly, he sent out a department e-mail asking if anyone wanted to go. I can't imagine anyone but me wanting to see that band. Draw your own conclusions). I don't know how I feel about the office poet yet. The signs are there and like a silly monkey I second guess every thought that enters my head. Welcome to the messed up world of "me." I have an office crush I call Lloyd Dobbler (after the John Cussak charcter in "Say Anything"). Or LD for short. He's got the whole "I'm really a film maker" thing going on. I'm not having much luck inventing reasons to speak to him, because he comes in, works, and leaves. Any conversation not pretaining to his little job running the powerpoint for our programs would be "interupting." The day our laptop stopped working was the best day ever. I had a reason to talk to him, mostly about the laptop. Our conversations have not progressed. I seem doomed to maintain 10th grad level crushes on boys all through my adult life.

Theres a guy in my writing class....its another 10th grade situation. I helped him get caught up on homework, we comment on the class, but really, not unlike with DH, it just hasn't progressed. There are a lot of reasons for this, and its probably enough to be its own seperate entry.

Anyway, bad week. Bad luck with guys. I stomped around my apartment Friday night after wine with Synge. I saw a one act festival around the theme of "revenge" and drank more wine on Saturday. Hopefully I've perged the terrible no good very bad week from my system.

2005-11-28T13:51:00.000-08:00

Ah yes. Bridget Jones returns. I'd say the scene that really applies would be Bridget at a table of smug married people. The "singlton". Which I've spent a lot of time trying not to feel bitter about. Actually, watching Ms. Creative and her boy fight for the 100th time over my head made me feel better about being single. If that's what it looks like, they are welcome to it.

Thanksgiving was good only when I wasn't monkey in the middle. I like the 2 year old. We had a lot of fun playing with the train tracks, the blocks and the fire house. We understood eachother. The baby was fun too, but seemed to draw a crowd. Babies have that effect. I like the rents, the friends and the general thanksgiving crowd. It felt like a good mix to be apart of and they were very welcoming. I didn't feel very welcomed by the person who actually belonged to these people. The boyfriend of Ms. Artistic. I felt loosely connected to these people, and because of this, I felt out of place. Like I shouldn't have been there. Its nothing he said, really. It was just the fact that I was the third person tagging along with a couple. This is what happens when your friends grow up and you've got more in common with the 2 year old who's eating chapstick. I agree, it did look tastey.

I feel like I'm doomed to be the weird aunt who pops over to play wit the kids. The perpetual third wheel with the cat. I'm learning to make peace with it, but there's nothing like a holiday with family that isn't yours to remind you just were in life you are.....

The Choas of Ideas

2005-10-26T16:12:00.000-07:00

I just returned from activist hell. It was a good idea. Most activist hells start off as good ideas. That’s what activism is. Lots of people, with a good idea. Its not always the best idea. Sometimes the idea seems really off target. A button that says “Say no to Religion”, just doesn’t seem like the best idea. But its an idea. An idea about change.

The Brooklyn Peace Fair was a room filled with ideas. If I was a person just walking in off the street, I would think “Oh my, so many ideas!” Yes, that’s true. But all those people, well, most of those people, think THEIR idea is the ONLY idea. You many respect the table next to you. United for Peace and Justice seems very uniting. I like their idea. The Veterans for Peace has a lovely idea. They are all a bit kooky…..they’re kind of loud about their ideas, but still. It seems like it started as a good idea. I am unsure about the World Can’t Wait’s idea. I’m not sure what their idea is. And they don’t tell you their idea came from the Radical Communist Party. Because that’s who funds their idea. The Veterans for Peace were yelling at the Working Party for their idea and no one seemed to think having an aggressive politician around who kept wanting to shake your hand was a very good idea.

The current activist movement, is about ideas. I think that’s really why its kind of…chaotic. We celebrate diversity, we welcome all, except for the idea next to us, because it doesn’t help us with our idea.

Would you like to buy a t-shirt? Its for a good cause. They are all for a good cause. They all want you to fund their cause, and wear the shirt that agrees with their idea. Kids! Kids have some stickers. Wear the stickers kids, go pass out stickers. Kids don’t care about the idea, they just like stickers. Yes, take a stack, decorate your shirt with stickers and bring you parents back.

I like to think I didn’t push the Code Pink shirts on anyone. We like all ideas, we are pink, we don’t need to be loud. The color of my skirt is loud enough. Yes thank you, yes we like your idea too. No thanks, we can’t stay for the march, 2-hour conference on direct action, or join you in your idea. We got our own. Its pink. The kids like the stickers. We have that shirt in women’s medium or men’s small. Would you like to be on our mailing list? You won’t get to much mail. We like to keep our idea direct and to the point. I’m going to have to shout the idea to you because the Veterans for Peace are yelling again. No one knows who the guy screaming about Hilary being the devil is. He’s not apart of anyone else’s idea.

Its time to go? Time to pack up all the ideas, before someone makes us take on their idea. You’ve never seen 3 women pack so fast in their life.

“No thanks got to go, great idea, thanks for the ideas, we’ll chat on the idea later” Lets take the stairs so we can run faster, out the door, well this was a good idea, I’ll see you at the meeting……

Activist fairs are so exhausting. I really had no idea……….

The story I can't stop telling

2005-10-19T16:30:00.000-07:00

And can't seem to write.

Its a story I've told so many times it doesn't feel like mine anymore. I've managed to become the storyteller, instead of a character inside the drama.

The RNC arrests.

Many people have no idea what that is. The Critical Mass arrests? Well...sort of. Try a few days later. Protest arrests? Some of us were, yes. Try 1800 people arrested on August 31st. Protesters, media, bystanders, a guying going out for sushi, a few German tourists and a couple of 16 year old kids for fun. I nice taste of the diversity NYC has to offer inside holding pens at Pier 57. Now you have a better picture.

I am a writer. Not by profession or hobby, but by nature. It is a natural thing that occurs wether I'm writing it out or not. The stories must be told. I fight this all the time, but in the end I am given little choice. Write or that constant stream of dialogue in my head will start to interfear with my day to day life. I'm told being a little crazy is one of my charms. Its something I battle with all the time. I'm a storyteller, and sometimes the stories come faster than I can type.

Then why can't I write one of the most important stories in my life?

Everytime I set word to paper, it looks like meladrama. It looks like agit-prop writing. Perhaps the anger of that day comes through, and it looks like I am writing for poltical effect. This is not what I want to do. That day, was a story. Full of tears, laughter, fear, confusion, solidarity, and lessons learned. In retro spec, I learned a lot about the power of the people. This is the theme I want to convey. The power of the people. Union minors breaking a jail with sheer force. Mother Jones marching down to the mine by herself to stop the scabs. Alice Paul leeding a revolution, and winning. Our history is made of people creating change. This great tradition was carried on in the Pier. It was formed in Central Booking as hunger strikes, chanting, and soldiarity took place. I was inspired to write.

All that comes through is the anger. There are so many things to tell, that it runs amok inside my head. The latest piece I turned in for my class was barley a sketch of what happend. I found myself getting fusterated at telling the story from the very beginning. That after a year, people still didn't have a base knowlage of what had happend. The real anger lies in the fact that 1800 people dispeared from the streets of New York, and no one noticed. Perhaps its more personal than that. I dispeared for two days, and no one noticed. Thats a far more personal issue I can't seem to work through with writing.

I guess this blog is my writers journal today. The fusterations of a writer who has hit the wall. It happens to the best of us, especially those who fight thier own writing nature. It is like the violon left out in the rain by the violinist who no longer wished to play.

The picture above is Carson McCullers. She wrote "The Heart is A Loner Hunter" when she was 23. Carson did not live past her 30s. Not unlike Syliva Plath or Virginia Wolfe, she fought her writing. Why is it that some of the best writers in history, were the most deppressed? Did they to, leave thier talent out in the rain, wishing to stop the music in thier heads once in for all? Perhaps they never learned how to manage the words, and in the end, the stories swolled them whole.

**Brief Admendment: I feel its important to point out that Carson McCullers suffered a stroke, which left her paralized on one side and was the reason for several attempted suicides. The official cause of death is brain hemerage. The other ladies mentioned committed suicide. I did not want to dishoner Carson's memory with mis information.

Spinsterhood

2005-10-17T19:19:00.000-07:00

Its time to face fate. Bite the bullet. Sit on that pity-pot and throw myself a really grand party. "Ms. SL2000 party of one, Ms. SL2000 party of one?" I might as well get used to it.

I'm going to end up a bizzare, slightly derranged old lady with a cat. Or cats. As the case may be. I think there is a handbook somewere that decrees that women who live alone are supposed to have multiple cats. I'm sure I'll live a pretty full life, do good things, maybe write some good stuff other people will read (in book form, the blog doesn't count.) There's just one thing I'll be missing, that I really kind of wanted.

Ok, so maybe not THAT man specifically. I'm not delusional. He's happily married. I just kind of wanted to know what if felt like to be apart of couple. The other half of two people. Someone else to cook for, to come home to, to make desisions with, to yell at, and all the good the bad the ugly and the beautiful that comes with it.

The online dating thing hasn't been working. You could argue that I never gave the forum a chance. Perhaps thats true, I have this stubborn belief that things can happen organically. That you meet people by accident in the most unlikely situations. I think I'm still young enough to hang onto that belief for a little longer. Besides, I went on one too many crappy dates with the online guys. I'm tired of compromising my selfesteem. I think I kissed one to many toads and its left a bad taste in my mouth.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting around my house crying myself too sleep everynight. In fact I have so much on my plate that I'm going out everynight this week to classes, seminars, protest activties and everything in between. Its just sometimes....sometimes when I visit my good friend down the street, who lives with her boyfriend....I see them to together and think "wow, that looks nice." Or I go out with my other friend and that "guy she's seeing and really likes but refuses to call her boyfriend even though she's meet his whole family and he treats her like a queen." Thats a problem I feel ready to take on.

I don't date. I don't meet people. My last relationship was brief and intense like all my relationships, friends and boyfriends alike. Ah, the lement of the lonely. How tired we all are of hearing it, especially when its coming out your own mouth. Its the same song I've been singing for years. Perhaps its time to resign to my fate, enjoy my empty apartment, my fat cat, and various social activities. And dedicate myself to a full life.....on my own.

Waden in the water, wasit deep, water rising up to my eyes, Lord have Mercy won't you let us in?

2005-10-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

This was sent to me by a couple members of this Brooklyn Coalition I am working with. Truely amazing people, proving that the power of the people is what shapes the world, not the governements.

None of this should supprise you, and if it does, you need to pay more attention.

New Orleans: Leaving the Poor Behind Again!
By Bill Quigley

They are doing it again! My wife and I spent five days and four nights in a hospital in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. We saw people floating dead in the water. We watched people die waiting for evacuation to places with food, water, and electricity. We were rescued by boat and waited for an open pickup truck to take us and dozens of others on a rainy drive to the underpass where thousands of others waited for a bus ride to who knows where. You saw the people left behind. The poor, the sick, the disabled, the prisoners, the low-wage workers of New Orleans, were all left behind in the evacuation. Now that New Orleans is re-opening for some, the same people are being left behind again.

When those in power close the public schools, close public housing, fire people from their jobs, refuse to provide access to affordable public healthcare, and close off all avenues for justice, it is not necessary to erect a sign outside of New Orleans saying “Poor People Not Allowed To Return.” People cannot come back in these circumstances and that is exactly what is happening.

There are 28,000 people still living in shelters in Louisiana. There are 38,000 public housing apartments in New Orleans, many in good physical condition. None have been reopened. The National Low Income Housing Coalition estimated that 112,000 low-income homes in New Orleans were damaged by the hurricane. Yet, local, state and federal authorities are not committed to re-opening public housing. Louisiana Congressman Richard Baker (R-LA) said, after the hurricane, “We finally cleaned up public housing in New Orleans. We couldn’t do it, but God did.”

New Orleans public schools enrolled about 60,000 children before the hurricane. The school board president now estimates that no schools on the city’s east bank, where the overwhelming majority of people live, will reopen this academic school year. Every one of the 13 public schools on the mostly-dry west bank of New Orleans was changed into charter schools in an afternoon meeting a few days ago. A member of the Louisiana state board of education estimated that at most 10,000 students will attend public schools in New Orleans this academic year.

The City of New Orleans laid off 3,000 workers. The public school system laid off thousands of its workers. The Archdiocese of New Orleans laid off 800 workers from its central staff and countless hundreds of others from its parish schools. The Housing Authority has laid off its workers. The St. Bernard Sheriff’s Office laid off half of its workers.

Renters in New Orleans are returning to find their furniture on the street and strangers living in their apartments at higher rents – despite an order by the Governor that no one can be evicted before October 25. Rent in the dry areas have doubled and tripled.

Environmental chemist Wilma Subra cautions that earth and air in the New Orleans area appear to be heavily polluted with heavy metal and organic contaminants from more than 40 oil spills and extensive mold. The people, Subra stated, are subject to “double insult – the chemical insult from the sludge and biological insult from the mold.” Homes built on the Agriculture Street landfill – a federal toxic site – stewed for weeks in floodwaters.

Yet, the future of Charity Hospital of New Orleans, the primary place for free comprehensive medical care in the state of Louisiana, is under furious debate and discussion and may never re-open again. Right now, free public healthcare is being provided by volunteers at grassroots free clinics like Common Ground – a wonderful and much needed effort but not a substitute for public healthcare.

The jails and prisons are full and staying full. Despite orders to release prisoners, state and local corrections officials are not releasing them unless someone can transport them out of town. Lawyers have to file lawsuits to force authorities to release people from prison who have already served all of their sentences! Judges are setting $100,000 bonds for people who steal beer out of a vacant house, while landlords break the law with impunity. People arrested before and after the hurricane have not even been formally charged by the prosecutor. Because the evidence room is under water, part of the police force is discredited, and witnesses are scattered around the country, everyone knows few will ever see a trial, yet timid judges are reluctant to follow the constitution and laws and release them on reasonable bond.

People are making serious money in this hurricane but not the working and poor people who built and maintained New Orleans. President Bush lifted the requirement that jobs re-building the Gulf Coast pay a living wage. The Small Business Administration has received 1.6 million disaster loan applications and has approved 9 in Louisiana. A US Senator reported that maintenance workers at the Superdome are being replaced by out of town workers who will work for less money and no benefits. He also reported that seventy-five Louisiana electricians at the Naval Air Station are being replaced by workers from Kellogg Brown and Root – a subsidiary of Halliburton

Take it to the courts, you say? The Louisiana Supreme Court has been closed since the hurricane and is not due to re-open until at least October 25, 2005. While Texas and Mississippi have enacted special rules to allow out of state lawyers to come and help people out, the Louisiana Supreme court has not. Nearly every person victimized by the hurricane has a price-gouging story. Yet, the Louisiana Attorney General has filed exactly one suit for price-gouging – against a campground. Likewise, the US attorney has prosecuted 3 people for wrongfully seeking $2000 FEMA checks.

No schools. No low-income apartments. No jobs. No healthcare. No justice.

A final example? You can fly on a plane into New Orleans, but you cannot take a bus. Greyhound does not service New Orleans at this time.

You saw the people who were left behind last time. The same people are being left behind all over again. You raised hell about the people left behind last time. Please do it again.

Bill Quigley is a professor of law at Loyola University New Orleans where he directs the Gillis Long Poverty Law Center and the Law Clinic and teaches Law and Poverty. Bill can be reached at duprestarsATyahooDOTcom

The Lolitaization of Women

2005-10-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

I have this theory that I've been developing for awhile. Its still pretty rough around the edges, and I'm in no way writtig a blog disertation here, so bare with me. I'm going to verbally vomit some ideas and you will read them and decide for yourself if I'm full of shit.

I call it the Lolitization of Women.

Its this trend in society that occures every few decades, were women in the media (TV, film, print media) suddenly start to look like pubescent 12 year olds. The image of "healthy women" or women who look....essentially like WOMEN have been replaced with this impossible standard of looking forever young.

I see it as a sexualization of young girls. Lolitas, if you will. (Read the book).
A way of making legitimate men's lust for young girls.

Hang on, let me follow this one to its end.

Young girls hold the innocence of youth. Thier actions come from pure intentions, not ones of hurt, past baggage or manipulation. They are less threatening. This is why Lolita was so appealing in the book, she did not appear to really know what she was doing. Her sexual power was innocent. This is both appealing and a huge taboo in our society. To lust after a young girl is a deeply shamelful thing, yet it exsists. No one likes to talk about it. No one calls it out by name. Instead, it manifestes itself in the form of media images. Why not make women look like young girls? That solves the problem.

I present this Steve Madden Ad as an example.

These shoes are for women, not young girls. I love the way the...people...in these ads look like dolls with big blow up heads and little bodies. Talk about an impossible image. There are even dolls on the market that look like this.

They are called "Bratz". I thought Barbie was bad enough, now we want to enforce the idea of staying young forever to our girls as well. Youth is beauty.

There are ads that have been created to combat this. One of the best being the Revlon - "older is beautiful" ads.

Though I may point out that older actress are often reduced to playing "mom" roles after a certain age. I've been told that the age of truely good female roles (this was mostly in refernce to theatre) has passed. This is why Botox and facial peeling has become so popular, as actress try to get work in roles that are increasinly aimed at younger looking women.

Like I said, there are always exceptions, and these exceptions are what we have to hold onto. This too shall pass, has it has throughout history.

But that's entirly diffrent blog.

I'll continue this thought later......

Ode to a Wet Sock

2005-10-12T00:20:00.000-07:00

Oh Wet Sock.
Squishy Wet Sock.
Why do you irk me so?
Why must you dampen inside my shoe
only to dampen my day?
Is it the whole in my shoe?
The tiny cut in the soul,
That causes you to wet my soul?

Oh Wet Sock.
Musty Wet Sock.
Why won't you dry?
Hanging limp on my file drawer
for all the office to see.
You curse me wet sock
with your squishyness
Seeping between my toes.

I toss you aside
but deep down I know
I must wear you again
If I am to leave the office
with shoes on.

Is it better to have wet feet or wet sock?

Oh Wet Sock
Squishy Wet Sock
My nemisis once again

Becoming an urban ledgend

2005-10-05T12:46:00.000-07:00

I've becoming increasingly concerned about my knee lately. It's kind of ichy, and red, and swollen. My office manager has informed me, its a spider bite.

I believe this inncident occured on my veranda, and by that I mean the roof of my nail salon. Its a classey place made of strange gray spongy materials\ with electric cords hanging all over the place. I had decided to read the Village Voice out there with a cup of tea, and admire the lovely view. By view I mean the front of the boys house and the empty lot next door.

I felt a little prick on my knee. Then another little sting, just a small discomfort. I had assumed it was a misquito, given the stagnet lot next door, this is to be expected. Its one of the drawbacks of my veranda. However the giant red bulb that became my knee indicates that it was not a little sting. It was not LITTLE at all. Aparently some tiny, micorscopic creature with enormous teeth has chomed down on my knee. This creature is not visable to the naked eye, but I'm guessing it lives on the roofs of nail salons, and has a taste for knees. Perhaps the chemicals from the nail salon have created this kind of creature, or the toxic wasteland next door that the boys refer to as "the jungle."

My knee feels a bit squeeky. I'm convinced that there is acutally poisin running through my knee, cloging the joints, forcing me to walk like a gimp. I like to pretend its an old injury from when I ran out in traffic to save the baby. I try to look stoic as I limp down the street, the mysterious bump throbing. I don't want to revel the truth....the sad, sad truth...

"Yeah, its a bug bite."

Its not just a bug bite, a small monster with enourmous teeth has chomped into my knee and cloged my joints with poisin.

Perhaps I'll be an urband ledgend, like the girl who was bit by a spider, only to have her wound burst open and a thousand baby spiders come crawling out. I'm sure you've heard about that one....its right up there with the guy who thought he was a glass of orange juice.

Too bad my knee has to fall off for that to happen. It might be fun to be an urband ledgend.

Than again, I could just have a stupid spider bite on my knee......but what fun is that?

Looking for a little Peace....

2005-10-05T03:12:00.000-07:00

Its beautiful, isn't it? Your looking at a picture of county Kerry. I didn't take it, but I have stood there, next to the waggon. It isn't a tourist attraction, or a location on a map. Its just there....in someone's yard just as it has always been.

This is a popular place. The Cliffs of Moore. Tour busses come here, but if you hop the fense and cross to the top of the cliffs, its possible to feel like you've come to the end the world.

I'm looking for my little seat at the end of the world. That place of ultimate quiet were I don't have to dodge pedistrian traffic to walk down the street. Have you ever noticed that somedays you can navigate the crowds, weaving in and out like a pro, and other days you just can't stop from bumping into people? Your bag hits someone and you feebly say "sorry" only to catch them glaring at you over thier shoulder, like you're the ruddest person alive. There are days were that bothers me, and days were it doesn't.

My resistance has been low lately.

I find myself craving nature. Paths made of dirt, not cement. I want to take a walk, and not have to dodge people or traffic. How nice it would be to not blow black snot out of my nose, or take a deep breath and not get a wiff of garbage or that rotten smell that lives in the subway.

It takes a thick shell to live here, but somtimes I want to crawl out and see the sunshine, without having to look for it between the buildings.

I know I'm in desperate need of a vaction. So far trips to the various Manhattan and Brooklyn parks has not been filling that need for uninterputed quiet. I tried to take the advice of my yoga teachers, and find "a quiet space within." However this meditative time was interputed by the sounds of a guy puking right outside my apartment. Have I mentioned I lived on the Clinton Hill party corner? Yesterday I was trying to read a book and was interputed by this guy preaching the holy word up at my window. I suppose the tapastry hanging in my window indicated I was in need of saving. He seemed so joyous in his preaching that all I could do was laugh. The irony is my Brooklyn apartment, is still quieter than my old Upper East Side dwelling. Who needs an alarm clock when the girl downstairs plays Christian Rock at 8:30am every morning and refuses to turn it down?

Its true, we make sacrifices to live in NYC. Its a silent compact you make with yourself that the atmosphere and opertunites avaliable here are worth a smaller space, a noiser space, a more expensive space. I know lots of people combat this compromise by taking out of town trips on the weekends....but I really haven't got anyone to visit, nor the funds to make it past Queens. I dream of a vaction.

Ireland is peace to me. It was the place I found my inner stillness. I found my writing process here, my first real love, and my thirst for adventure. Its the place of rejuvination. When ever I start to feel overwhellmed with life, its were I want to go so that I may heal.

A spontanous trip to Ireland is not an option for me. My 9-5 job dictates that I won't have earned days off until next year. For now I will continue to look at my Ireland pictures, drink Irish tea, listen to Irish music and search for that little place of inner peace. I'll get back there someday. Perhaps on a more perminate basis. My own little cottage by the sea.

Aye....wouldn't that be grand?

Shamefully Shaggable

2005-10-03T13:12:00.000-07:00

Ok, I've been tagged.
Thanks Synge.
Its easy to make a list of people who are agreeably shaggible. But shamefully shaggable? Your asking me to toss open the doors and revel the shameful skeletons that have tickled my senese in a way I hate to admit.

I'll start off Easy.

1.) David Bowe

Come on now, who didn't see The Labrynth and think "Stay in the crystal ball Sara, who cares about the dumb baby!" It was all about the hand thing with the globe. I know you know what I'm talking about.

2.) Duckie aka John Cryer

Geeky, I know. I used to pause at that point in the movie when he lip-synced to "Tenderness" over and over again. It was the entire reason to watch the movie.

3.) Sean Connery

The older he gets, the sexier he gets. Its really all about the accent.

4.) Marlyn Mason

It must be his sparkling personality. I admire his buisness sense, and the fact that on the Sharron Osborn show, he broke character for two seconds and started making cutsy voices to one of the puppies. I won't defend my choice, he did, after all, manage to have some extreamly sexy girlfriends.

The last one......here it is......

5.) John Kerry

I'm sorry. I know. I can't explain it. Everyone has at least one politician in thier closet.

I can't think of anyone to tag in return, I think Synge got everyone. I look foward to seeing the skeletons in all of your closets......

Folowing My Rocky, Up Hill Path

2005-10-03T01:50:00.000-07:00

So dear blog readers, who apparently do exsist....
I learned myself a valuable lesson about posting private thoughts on public spaces.

People read them.

I have a very good friend who learned this lesson not to long ago, when she posted some thoughts about a friend who read them and blew up. Was she wrong to post these thoughts on a public foruem? Some said yes, others said no...thankfully they worked things out, but the question was never answered. Perhaps its really all just a matter of opinion, which is what lays at the heart of blogging.

A fellow blogger pointed out to me that slamming your date on a blog before you go out with them, is probably not good. I suppose I had taken the nieve assumption that no one really reads my blog, so I can post freely without considering consequences. She proved me wrong.

Her comments made me look over the blog I had written, and realize how cynical it was, and how hurtful it could be to the person who's name I thinly coded. What is really reveled in the blog, though, is my own tendancy to make snap judgements on people. As much as I hate to be catagorized, it seems I do this quiet freely to other people. Because I went out with a few lowsey guys, I've let this color my entire preception of the online dating world. I've some how convinced myself that it is not possible to meet interesting people in this foreum. Kind of an interesting theory considering I'm on it, so what does that say about me?

Volumes, aparently. And the first line of this volume is: If you hate online dating so much, why are you doing it? Excellent question. As of later tonight, I will have answered this question by removing myself from the online dating foreum. I need to take a long look at why I joined these things, and just what was it I hoped to gain. Is going out on bad dates better than no dates at all? The answer so far, is no. Besides, how can I expect any date to be good, if I enter into them with such a neggative attitude.

So Mr. Witty, I'm truely sorry to have wasted a good two weeks of your internet time. I'm sure you are a lovely guy, and it seems you have good friends looking out for you.

I'd really prefer not to pay Taxes

2005-09-30T11:12:00.000-07:00

Dear American Government:

I'm writing this letter in response the the incredibly large sum you felt the need to extract from my measily pay check. After recovering from the shock of what deductions truely meant, having worked as a freelancer for most of my adult life, I decided there was realy only one proper response.

I'd like to inform you, that I no longer wish to pay taxes.

I understand that taxes do serve a purpose, that they are extracted to pay for items such as governemnt programs, and road building, yadadadda. But there is one, large, very expensive government program that I no longer wish my tax payer dollars to pay for:

War.

Its come to my understanding that we are spending millions to "bring Democracy" to a region of the world via guns and bombs, which realy seems to be a strange method of "speading freedom" unless its to liberate the earth from human beings, which the American Govermenment seems to be very good at. It is also my understanding that these tax dollars you have robbed me of aren't even paying for th armor that keeps our soldiers alive: aparently parents are paying $100s of dollars to keep thier kids safe, leaving me to wonder what happens to the poor soldiers who can't afoard body armor. This is a form of hypocracy I no longer wish to support.

I'd like my $300.00 back.

Unless you were planning to use that money to help rebuild New Orleans and provide aid to the people of the Gulf States. But considering FEMA is drowning in its own Red Tape, the Red Cross has become a money hole, and small, non-profit grassroots organizations are the ones providing aid; I doubt that's were my money is going. I just had some friends return from Baton Rouge, assuring me that help was needed and the Red Cross was indeed turning away the help offered.

So were is my $300 going?

Is going to the thousands of people without health insurance, including myself? What about the health clinics that are underfunded and understaffed? What about the nonexistant public housing that is being torn down to make way for high priced condos in New York? Please help me out here....I'm just a little curious as to what you're doing with my money. $300 may not seem like a lot to you, US Government, but to the homeless man sleeping outside my building and the family digging for cans in my trash, I'm sure it would mean a lot.

If you are going to insist on taking this money, I'd at least like a say in were it goes, Personally. On a one on one basis. In fact, when you get a chance, call me and we can discuss this matter. And While you have the phone, Call Cindy as well. I hear she wants to talk to the big guy in charge over there.

If you are unable to locate me, its because I've moved to a hippy commun out in the woods, were we grow our own food, weave our own clothes and live in Peace.

That's all anyone wants. Peace.
And a refund.

Sincerly,

Free-Bird Windsong.

Yeah. Sure. I had. A ________Time.

2005-09-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

I feel as though it must be wicked sense of self punishment that keeps me going on these semi-blind internet dates. Its the need to be PROACTIVE (said with fist in the air) and proclaim my independence as a WOMYN (said with fist quivering uncertainly in the air). I don't need to dress up in hochie clothes and show up at a bar to get a date. (Or a bad evening ending in a one night stand.) I am going to select my date from a list of somewhat boring and unattractive pictures. Many of which are airbrushed headshots, assuring that an evening with "Chad_Im_me_at_Chadisrad" would probably be an enriching evening of hearing all about Chad's self discoveries during his character work in "class."

I'm looking about as forward to my upcoming date with Mr. Witty as a trip to a Bronx Emergancy room with a 3 year old that can't stop puking. That's rather discriptive isn't it? I'm sure Mr. Witty will smell much better than the 3 year old.

Perhaps its my past track record with these "sites" that have caused me to become so cycnical. There was Mr. Heavy Metal, who couldn't discuss his ex girlfriend without cussing...which he did....often. Mr. Clean, who, well, looked like Mr. Clean, only not as attractive. Quiet Asian guy, who spoke volumes in e-mail, but not a single word in person. I had high hopes for the Yogi, who seemed to be very together and down to earth....so much so that I took an unexpected trip to Jersery, then never heard from him again. I suppose he's "oming" on a mountain somewere. The Beer Promter actually lasted a good month before I realized he was a pudgy, rude, over grown frat boy and my self-esteem was actually plumeting with every date. Opps. I actually took some advice from "THAT BOOK" "Your self-esteem may be harder to find than a new boyfriend, so plan accordingly." Thanks BOOK.

**Please not that "THAT BOOK" is "He's Just Not That Into You." which I am in no way recomending, nor discouraging the reading of. It will be refered to from this point forward as THAT BOOK

When marching with my fellow sisters in pink, I feel....empowered. Put Womyn in charge, and we will nurture the world. Anger pushes my voice, keeps my feet moving. Anger at another "dumb bosses war." At a government full of old, white men deciding our fate. Anger at the attorneys who pat me on the head at work and hand me thier coats. My anger is an explosion of pink that will tint the world.

I come home alone to my cat, put down my pink hat.....and wonder what kind of life I am marching towards.

I am proactive in my activism.
I am proactive in my future as a graduate student.
I am proactive.... in my love life?

I am tired of being proactive because its not working, not in my personal life, which really, doesn't amount to much right now.

So yes, Mr. Witty. I will go out with you on Saturday night. Just don't expect a ticker tape parade in your honor.

I'm feeling a bit cycnical

Angels in Pink

2005-09-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of weekend that you try to memorize as you are walking through it.
The mental note that you are activly creating a moment in history that someday, you will tell your kids with pride. The day you marched with 300,000 people against the war, and the sense of hope that filled the air.

It was an extradinary weekend. My self and my activist buddy took a buss down to DC the night before, armed with food and phone numbers, we had a virtual activist kit going. You learn things after being arrested, such as writing every vital phone number on your legs with sharpies.

We marched with Code Pink, women for peace; our sisters in pink. I was proud to be apart of this dynamic group of women. I felt like we were a fource in pink, this contingent that screamed unity in our colors and voices.

Where were myself and my buddy? Were we.....in the back? Nope. Were we.....somewere in the middle of that pink contingent? Nope. How about holding the banner? Almost. We were up front. The very front, the head of the pink march if you will, doing what it is we always seem to do. Acting as chant cheerleads and directing the marchers around corners.

It felt good. No. It felt amazing.

There were these girls about our age with megaphones, starting chants. We jumped in as chant leaders, expanding every ounce of energy we had, screaming until our voices were gone and throats sore. We can't help it. We're just naturally loud. And....we looked like freaks, which is always good for being a photo opp, which we were. I lost count of how many times we posed for pictures. My comrad in pink pictured above in angel wings was a particulary good photo opp. We discovered that dressing like pink freaks automatically made us Cindy Sheehan's keepers. All day people asked us were she was, as though we were in charge of her agenda. We were also asked what time the march started, were certain contingents were in the march, and if we were selling Code Pink merchandise. They should have armed us with buttons and shirts; we would have made Code Pink a fortune.

I loved being a pink represenative. People spontanously hugged us and proclaimed thier love for Code Pink. One woman approached my friend in the angel wings, and asked were Cindy was. This woman held herself rigidly, as though she might burst into tears at the slightest drop of her shoulders. A sense of purpouse radiated out of her.

"My son came back, but he didn't" She said. "He's suffering from post tramatic stress disorder and has tried to kill himself 3 times." She wanted to thank Cindy, and let her know she was with her. We told this woman we were with her, that we were all with her and her son was in our thoughts. We gave her a pink arm band, a show of solidarity with the ladies in pink. I saw her marching with us, yelling out the chants, drawing from the wall of female energy that radiated from our section of the march. People clapped and screamed whenever we turned a corner, I'm told you could hear us coming.....you could feel us coming.....if you took an arial photo you could probably see us coming......the pink blob next to the White House. That was us.

Later that day we attended the concert, heard Sweet Honey and the Rock and other amazing bands. We danced, posed for pictures, danced, posed for pictures....you get the idea. We danced with a little girl with Downs Syndrome. She was in awe of my friend's angel wings. She was given a pink bow, something she was so proud of she had to show everyone around her. "all these people are going to stop the war" she whispered.

And I beleived her.

At that moment in time, in that march, with 300,000 of my fellow human beings, with 100s of my fellow women in pink, it really felt like we were going to stop the war with our voices and our energy. This wall of hope would wash over the White House and the lawn would turn pink.

Its a shame we never really made it into the press. Funny how the press covered the 300 pro-war protestors who claimed to be the majority, and not the 300,000 anti-war protestors who were the majority. Its those numbers alone that give me hope and will keep me in the streets.

I march because it gives me hope. Because it gives others hope. Because people I didn't know were hugging me and thanking me for being there.

I dress up like a pink freak, because it gives others hope and if wearing a pink boa and sparkly skirt is what it takes.....

Then you can call me the lady in pink.

Back off, I'm trying to sleep........

2005-09-15T13:57:00.000-07:00

Why do you insist on harrasing me in this way? Can't you see that I am trying to sleep? I just finished arranging the avalanche of reports into a semi-compfortable pillow, do you know how long that took me? There's really no need for you to look at me like that. I have the phone on flash mode. Once I woke up, I would have seen that you had tried to call by the blinking light.

I got plenty of work done last night before I left the office. I really don't see were the notion that I am "slacking off" is coming from. I see it as a matter of time management. I think that I should be able to sleep during this time, and you don't. Obviously the mental and physical health of your employees is not a major concern for you. I wasn't able to obtain enough sleep last night because the prostitues outside my window were screaming at eachother about who had a right the work the block. I opened my window and told them to shut the fuck up, but my cries were not heeded. I almost managed a good solid 3 hours of sleep, when the frat boys behind me decided it was band practice time, the construction workds decided it was work time and gun shots were echoing up the street. If you paid me a decent living wage so I could afoard to not live kitty corner to the projects, I would not be trying to sleep right now. So if you will excuse me, I need to get a least a good hour and half in before I get ready to go to my second job.

Yeah that's what I thought. Do me a favor and dim the lights when you leave, its a bit bright in here, and see what you can do about that air conditioning; I'm freezing. Send me an e-mail about what ever it was you wanted tomorrow. I'll check it while I eat breakfast and read the morning paper.

Night..........

But its MY pink boa

2005-09-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

"Hand over the boa mam. Just place it on the ground and step away."

"But officer, its just a -"

"I said hand over the pink boa mam! This is a violation for unauthorized display of color and pride."

"You can't be serious"

"And a direct violation for unauhtorized use of feathers. That color is drawing too much attention to your person. Hand over the boa and step back."

"No. Its my boa."

The other officers start to notice the disturbance. Like puppies sniffing a treat, they crowd around, hands on the plastic riot cuffs they have itching to use, after practicing on eachother for the past two days.

"Whats going on here?" Asks a big officer, the swagger and wide stance indicating he is in charge, or at least likes to feel that way.

"She's refusing to hand over the boa sir."

"Mam, you can make this easy on yourself. And just admitt that the boa is in violation."

"No. Its my pink boa."

The other cops have started to imitate the wide stance of thier leader, pushing thier legs out into a V, hands on thier plastic cuffs.

"We could tack on parading without a permit and civil disobeidance."

"For what?"

"It's procedure."

"Its PROCEDURE?"

"Just put the boa down and step away."

I hold the soft pink boa close to me and start to back up. The officers dance from foot to foot, unsure if the boa and I are going to try to make a run for it. We dance in this way for a moment. Before I can realize what is happening, a young and zippy officer grabs my boa and pulls it out of my hands. There is a flurry of feathers as the officers tackly my pink boa. The next thing I know.....its in those plastic handcuffs. It takes 3 officers to carry it to the paddy wagon and 4 to write me a violation ticket.

I'm sorry pink boa.

Drowning in the wave

2005-09-09T15:42:00.000-07:00

I'm up to my eyeballs in Katrina Relief parites, fundraisers, drives, donations, news, articles, pictures, personal stories, marches, rally's and letters to congress.

This isn't a bad thing, but I'm starting to feel like I'm somehow over helping to the point of becoming a danger to myself and possibly others. I'm in the midst of working with a group of people in Brooklyn to start some kind of stableized Hurricane releif collation that would be continuous past one event. It would be on- going effort, exsisting beyond the sensationalized news stories and brash anger America feels. I hate say it, but people's anger only lasts so long. Stories only stay on the front page so long. The efforts will continue, but in a quieter way. There is a wave of help occuring, and this wave has knocked me off my feet.

I do everything to the extream. If I'm helping, I'm organizing. If I'm organizing, I'm starting a movement. If I'm starting a movement, I take it national.

Its this flutter in the heart, the "I have to be uber involved" feeling. Uber involved in Code Pink, in the Hurricane, in theatre, in writing. Its like trying to live 5 diffrent lives at the same time. I want to be the quiet writer that disapears into the woods to write my book, but instead I am super organizing girl, swimming in poltics.

A battle of the ego and the id.
The internal life Vs. external life.

The big question is, do I want to continue this kind of life?

I have the option of applying to grad school in California, a universe away from were I am. I would pack my things, my cat, and imerse myself in the world of writing and creating for three years. Live in a rural area, on campus and exsist as a college student. I'd also be leaving behind three years of work, and my entire life in New York. Friends, contacts, and a life style I am still in the midst of creating. I like my community, my friends, and feel like I am really starting to get involved in theatre, Brooklyn, and the poltical landscape.

Its a tough decision to make.

I can't ignore the inner cry for community. The gypsy life style is a shoe I've been trying to make fit, but in the end, it doesn't feel right. I've always wanted my own little tribe of people, to be mobil, but have a mobil partner or clan. But something deep inside is crying for peace, ocean, grass and quiet. I'm annoyed everyday on the subway, I feel closterphobic, I want space. California sounds good right now. A place were I can breath, and see what it is to live as an artist.

Besides, I never really got to go to college. Not in the sense that most people do. I spent four years learning to be a stage manager, and never really had the college experience. I'd like to see what's like to be a student, to have a backpack and ride my bike to class, to sit in a "quad" between classes and do homework at night.

It looks like I've written my own answer. Thanks Blog. I guess I'm applying to CalArts. It can't hurt.

Why Obsessivly listening to NPR can actually hurt you.

2005-09-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

Its The Hurricane.

I've become obessed with it in an odd way.

The images populate my dreams, all those people screaming "We want help" at the Astrodome. Harry Conick JR. appearing to offer aid, when the National Guard wasn't even there yet. The BBC reporter crying on the air. The Mayor screaming and cussing over the radio. I feel like I am activly living through one of the most important events in US history. There will be a section in US history books devoted to the day New Orleans and most of the Gulf states sank, and no one was there to save them. Its an outside feeling, as though I'm observing and documenting at the same time. Activly awear of how important it is to preserve these images.

So we as a nation never forget. Its like ripping open the closet, and America's skelitons have come tumbling out. The poor. The overlooked. The city of poverty teeming on the edge of disaster that fell off the edge.

What happens when a state disapears?

I was talking to this woman at my yoga studio who is a professor at Tulane University. She's handling this in a humorous, laugh or I will start screaming kind of way. I told her how sorry I was. She said she was one of the lucky ones. She may be unemployed. No one can tell her. She may be on a long paid vaction. Its the little things no one can answer that make life hard. Where is her mail going? Who will deal with all the mail for those states? How does she access a bank who's only braches are underwater? You never realize how dependant you are on the governmnet, or the state untill you actually loose your state.

I think the word refugee is a bit strong. The political implications are wrong. She is currently without state. The stateless people. There's a term. Refegee implies that the governemnt somehow forced her out. Well...they sort of are forcing people out. Stateless. She's not without home or hope, just without her state.

We want to help, I want to help, the entire state of NY wants to help, how do we help? Isn't your first reaction to run down there, pitch in, hold babies, hand out food and cook meals? I can't do that, its just not possible for me to do that, so many are trying to do that. Instead I will hold a fundraiser, and possibly take in a displaced person.

But more on that later.......

I have to go listen to NPR some more

Dress Codes, Casual Fridays, and Balancing in Heels

2005-09-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

When I was 16, I decided not to wear shoes anymore.
The last burnt out hippy in my high school, I wore flowers in my hair, flowy skirts and flashed the peace sign a lot.

I was eventually convinced to wear birkenstocks.

Last year I had to retire those same brikenstocks after 9 years of service.

Not much has changed.

You can still find a lot of the same skirts in my closet, though I pair them with other things. I'm aware that the hippy look has come back in, but its a flag I've been carrying on my own for years. Just throw open my closet and take a step back to the 60s.

Since moving to NY the style has upgraded a bit. A touch of sophistication and I like to think, a little class.

But there is something I seem to be lacking. Something the latest office memo made clear I will need. I have to conform.

I have to wear office cloths.

Summer had provided me with a gentle initination. We were on a causal dress code. Causal for the office, that is. I still struggled to come up with the proper clothes and was feeling pretty good about it. I thought I was wearing office wear.

"Oh no, that's like causual office wear" A co-worker said. "They mean like, heels and jackets and you know, corporate."

Heels? Did they say heels? I wear sandles and boots, none of which have heels. I'm not even sure I can walk in heels anymore.

I'm still reeling from this memo, mentally going through my closet. Skirts and legwarmers. Leggings, knee boots paired with capri's. Sweaters without the necks. The layering look....nope. Not a blazor in site. Not a heel to be seen. Nice pants with the torn up sweater........

To the Salvation Army I go......

Man.....

So what's Causual Friday?

To the boys who live behind me

2005-08-29T01:19:00.000-07:00

"He was no more... than a baby then
Well he... seemed broken hearted...
Something within him
But the moment... that I first laid...
Eyes... on... him... all alone...
On the edge of... seventeen"
-Stevie Nicks (Edge of Seventeen)

Why, are there 5 cute art boys living in a house whose windows look right into my kitchen?
Oh boys who live behind me, why are you all under the age of 21?
Why do you throw rediculous parties that you make flyers for and charge $5 for keg beer?
Why do you play ping pong on your "patio" with no shirts on?

Boys....sweet young boys.....why has the cutest among you learned to jump on the roof of the nail salon, so as to vist me faster?

"Young boys, get out of my mind, my love for you is way out line better ruuuunnn boy, you're much to youuunnng boooyyyy."

Young boy with the floppy hair, must you sit in your window with the red light on, playing your guitar as you gaze out at my windows with that torched art school student look in your eyes?

Young boys, please don't invite me to your rediculous keg parties.
Please don't do stupid ping pong tricks to get my attention.
Please don't leave your windows open when the five of you play music together.
Don't play Bell and Sebastian and Radiohead back to back, then put on Bush.

It confuses me.

Oh young boys, you are much to young boys, for I am slidding down the slope to 30, while you are on the edge of 21, still excited to get drunk, still at the age were a girl in her mid 20s is kind of exciting.

Don't tempt me with those tattoos and piercings art boy, my little sister is the same age as you.

Why do I walk a little slower past those kitchen windows, I move a little diffrently, I slink a little more, I linger a little more.

I need to get curtians.
Black shutters....

"Young boys, get out of my mind......."

They call me the Lone Cowgirl......except that I don't wear a hat...or boots....Maybe its just the "lone" part...

2005-08-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

That's right Dottie. They call me the Lone Cowgirl.

I'm a loner. A solitary kind of gal. I follow the the winding road and change with the wind. Every year my feet start to ich, I start to resent the walls that are containing me, the ones I carefully decorated and painted.

"Time to move Adelaide" I tell my cat. She picks up her mouse toy in definance, but she knows that it must be done. Sometimes its a new city, other times its just a diffrent apartment in the same neighboorhood. Either way its solitary adventure. I move alone. I travel alone. I sit in the park alone and contempate my gypsy feet.

I spent a lot of years fighting my own nature. "If only I could settle down and acutally unpack." Its never happend. I grew up in partially unpacked houses. Why bother to take everything out if your just going to move again? We lived like squatters, carting the same worn furniture around since 1977. Every year it was time for "a change", big house, small house, it didn't matter. And you know what? I liked it that way. It made life interesting. Comfort was boring. Moving was fun.

Now I've inherited my father's gypsy blood. I've been in NYC for two years, lived in two diffrent apartments (very normal for NY, I understand..)and am already looking west. I've reached my "I have to get the hell out of the country" quota, as I every do every 6 months, but alas am bound to NYC by monitary need.

I used to think I'd become "settled" if I just got a boyfriend. It looks nice. The couples shopping together, makeing decisions together, having someone to come home to. Some you have to call if your running late. Someone to wake up with in the morning....I like the idea of it. I tried it once, and found that the "sharing" my life bit was actually really hard. I'd like to try it again, but I seem to be perminatly in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't meet people. Perhaps its because I move so much.

One must resign to thier own fate. I am a loner. Not to say I don't have friends, I do. The odd thing is I change friends every few years. Even my relationships with other people are transient in nature. I have one or two that have lasted through the years, but these are girls I can walk away from for a few years and come back to. I guess that's just part of my nature as well. And I've become much happier knowing this.

Revelations in Union Sq. I sit with my own thoughts and think things through. I feel peaceful with my revelations. It is fun to watch the interactions other people have. What are thier relationships to eachother? Loners can sit alone for hours and be entertained. It is the art of being comfortable with your own thoughts. The NYU kids moving in packs with maps drive me back home, I hate being mistaken for one of them. I look young, but I like to think I don't look lost.

I think on these things on Sundays, when the world moves a little slower, which seems to be my pace, at least mentally. I think its time for some humus and crackers......

To The Attorney's I work with

2005-08-24T17:06:00.000-07:00

Mr. Herman H. Bottomham-Levine III Esq
Head of Litigation at Flom, Flom, Flom & Sniggit

I am writing this letter, the 5th reminder letter in the reminder serious that I have sent out over the past 2 months along with the polite reminder phone calls, to remind you in the most senior way possible that the materials you promised us are really and truely due on August 4th, which was about three weeks ago.

Your assistant's assistant's temp informed me that you are currently unaviable for the month of August, seeing as though you and the wife are on a cruise. You have indicated from the Blackberry that you have recived my series of notices and are "on top of" the materials for the program you agreed to participate in. The program on Tax litigation and ethics, which you have already included in your bio of personal acomplishements.

Mr. Bottonham-Levine III Esq: I do not think you are "on top of the matierals" and do not what to officially say what it is I beleive you are acutually on top of. I do not beleive the note sent from the Blackberry. You do not care about the materials. Mr. Bottonham Levine III Esq, I don't think you truely care about Tax Litigation and Ethics and I would just like to say, that those of us working on this program at the Bar do not give a flying fuck either.

This is my day job sir. It is my job to collect the materials for the program on Tax Litigation and Ethics. If you do not submitt these materials, the book will not be able to be completed and this will make my life much harder. This will limit the time I have to write my blog, surf the net and look for jobs that do not require any day to day interaction with "lawyers." I can not risk this. Turn over the materials, Mr. Bottonham-Levine III Esq, or I will have to empliment an unusual amount of force. I have managed to bribe your temp into telling me where your cruise ship is headed and lets just say, those of us in the temp and entry level world "know people."

May I humbly suggest that you have your temp gather the materials for you since I know for a solid fact she does nothing but write her own blog and surf the net all day. I do not think you have accesss to information on Tax Litigation and Ethics off the coast of Bimini Island.

Please keep in mind that all materials gathered that are copyrighted will need to have permission granted in order to include them in your official materials. Your assistant's assistant's temp has this form because I sent it to her.

Do not mess with us Mr. Bottonham-Levine. Those of us with considerable skills dweling in the cubicle wonderland of corporate America who consider our 9-5 live to be "stupid day jobs" are amazingly creative. And we have nothing to loose.

I expect to see those materials in my in box by the end of the week.

Sincerly

The Program Coordinator.

Air Conditioning Fugative

2005-08-15T06:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was hot.

I know I'm not supposed to talk about it.

But I am.

Hot. Damn hot. Like surface of the sun, my body is shriviling I wish I had less body mass to be hot I want to take off my skin and dive into an ice cube, hot.

I don't have air conditioning. At first it was a monitary issue. I could barely affoad ice for my lemonaide, not alone a $100 A/C unit and the energy bills that came with it. Then I got a stupid day job, and sit in the glorious artificial A/C from 9-5 every day. Why would I need an air conditioner? I'm from Arizona. You don't know what hot is until you've gotten 2nd degree burns on your hands from the steering wheel (This happend to my mother when I was 10.)I was acutally proud not to own an A/C, like not owning a TV, I was roughing it. Not starving for my art, but doing without.

Then this weekend happend. I couldn't find releif anywere. My cat was melting into a puddle of fur, flopped over a chair with her paws over her head "its hot!" She seemed to blame me for this heat. She was right. It was my fault. My pride had caused this, we were turning into loosely formed puddles due to the principal of the idea.

I became.....an air conditioning fugative. I left all the windows open and abandoned my cat (who spent the day in the bathtub) in search of the great indoors. I ended up in a little, air conditioned coffee shop in the East Village, were I, along with others, spent the entire weekend. We were writers, artists, avid readers all collecting in this one coffee shop with one goal in mind "A/C". We did everything we would do at home. watched DVDs on our laptops, wrote, read, talked on the phone, chatted with eachother, ran errands and came back, we lived at Drink Me on 3rd between B&C for two days.

So much for my principals. Everyone has thier breaking point and Saturday was mine. I grew up in a bubble of A/C, drove in a bubble, went from bubble to bubble, only to move to NY, and once again, seek out the bubble.

I suppose we just sweated before the invention of A/C, though I have a feeling its getting hotter as a result of all our energy use, our need for A/C.....

Ironic, isn't it?

Work is hazardous to your soul

2005-08-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

3:27 on a Friday.
I'm the new kid at work, which means that most of the office has torn out of here like thier asses were on fire, leaving me and a couple other "new kids" to hold down the corporate fort. If there was no one left on Friday afternoons in the corporate offices of the world, would anything really happen? I mean come on, I'm sitting here writing a blog, I think the corporate world would continue to turn, even if we all left early on Friday's in the summer.

I've become an official member of the artist sell out team (my friend gave me this tittle. She is currently going hungry in Arizona for her art) for a whopping 3 weeks. It feels like I'm spying on alien life forms. I find the way people comunicate here very interesting. For instance, everyone askes how your weekend was on Monday, but no one sticks around to really hear HOW your weekend was. The proper response is "It was good. How was yours?" People often start conversations by talking about the weather. "Its soooo hot out, isn't it?" is currently a popular line. My tendancy to start conversations mid-thought seems to jolt my coporate friends a bit. As does the way I talk back to NPR on the radio, or kick off my shoes under my desk. I'm still learning not to address lawyers by thier first names, which in theatre is a sign of respect. Here tittles are very important. Its not who you are, its what you do. This job is not who I am. Its barely what I do. My day begins at 5:00pm. The hours between 9am-5pm have been a vivid dream I can't seem to wake up from.

I don't like that time speeds up here. Time is so precious as it is. I want to enjoy my life, not pray for it to speed up, because were is it speeding to? What is at the end of this super highway, another weekend that goes too fast?

I'm not on the company phone tree list. The official reason is "I"m still a temp" which means that I don't officially exsist. This threw me into an existential crists for a good 15 minuets. Is my existence in this world dictated by a phone number? If my name doesn't appear on a list, do I then cease to appear? If I go up to Human Resources, would they see me? Then my phone rang and I got over it.

3:44pm.
Time slows down when you don't have anything to do. I started to picture my co-workers as puppets and the lawyers I work with as giant walrus type creatures not unlike Java the Hut in the star wars movies. They leave a trail of slime were ever they go with the faint sent of coffee and toner. I don't mean any harm by this, it just helps pass the time. Oh, I hear one coming, you can tell by the soft "squish" noice they make as they decend down the rows of cubes. Time to put up the "I am working" screen.

Peace Out.

(I can't believe people read these things, is this stuff really interesting?)

blog, what?

2005-08-10T15:25:00.000-07:00

Blog? Isn't that a thing that happens deep inside your nose that forms into a kind of greenish (or in Manhattan, blackish) glob that you later blow out in the morning, or comes flying out during "breath of fire" in yoga class? Welcome me to the 21st century, everyone, because I have created this "blog" thing for the very first time. I hear these things called "blogers" are changing the face of politics, the art world, and the world of publishing. I might as well jump on the band wagon.

I understand this is were I post things that come into my head, so welocome to the messy file storage house that is my brain. It looks a bit like a room with the files dumped all over the floor. There is a system at work, and given time I can usually locate the file I need, though random ones tend to surface. I have so much useless stuff to say, I can't wait to start posting, though there's this part of me who thinks I'll be the kid that wrote a blog, and no one looked.