Thursday, November 18, 2004


Gemini (May 21 - June 20)
You may be tougher on yourself than others realize, for they only see what you want them to see. You are like a stage magician, fascinating everyone with your hands waving about in the air. You can tell great stories, but people don't realize this is how you hide the sleight-of-mind you are performing out of their view. Don't just criticize yourself; take considered action to fix what's wrong.

Wow, B was right. I’m telling you. And it was worth the wait. I had to wait for like five minutes for this to load. Bizarre.
No shit.
No shit I criticize myself. And with good reason, too.
But good advise, that. “Don’t just criticize yourself; take considered action to fix what’s wrong.” By the way that a quote from Just saying in case the plagiarism police come a knockin’ at my door.
Take considered action. Take action: no. Take considered action. Consider what you’re doing. Well… that’s news to me, an odd advise to a Gemini, at least this one. Because usually, we Geminis, get so lost debating and considering and calculating and planning logistics in our heads, that we rarely, if ever, take action. So when we do them, it’s usually spur of the moment, out of boredom.
It’s true.

Today is Thursday and it seems as if on Thursdays I am never ready to be here, at least in spirit. Which is ironic, because even if I’ve been late the rest of the week, it’s the one day I will arrive on time, early even. Or maybe it’s the opposite that is ironic. Because on Thursdays in particular, I am . . . flighty.. fly-away. . . elsewhere. Usually, I chalk it up to being out drinking heavily on Wednesday nights. But no so last night, and so, I am unsure if it is a pattern with any basis. But I digress.

What I digress from is unknown.. just general digression, I’m sure.

What is new with you, J? Ya know, I’m not sure. I had some job interviews with the Alliance for Companion Animals, and would like the pay increase. But at this point, I’m not sure that it is the best fit for me, either. I need something. I am still searching. I read a really neat little ditty about how AOL (read the devil-in-training—not quite evil enough for the full capitalized title) shut down the last maverick start up dot com. Humph. It was cool. Like cool used to be. Like cool is in my head. Like cool I am not. Like cool I want to be, and have always wanted to be. I still strive for it. I want freedom with responsibility. I want money, but not too much I have to feel guilty about. I want individuality, but with groovy conformist health insurance. I want to be important, but not so vital I can’t skip a day or go on vacation. I want to be smart, but funny. I want to waste time, but accomplish great things. I want to have fun and be easy-going, but have a sense of purpose and better the world.
I am special. I know it. I breathe it. And on this Thursday, I cannot forget it. Other times, I stifle it and can endure work. Not Thursdays. Usually, I am re-energized by my frivolity the night before. Maybe it is my lack of it that has today standing out-but I’m not sure of that as, I haven’t been productive all week.
Humph. Now what?

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

FREAK! ing Proud

Ok. Proud.

Which is extremely uncomfortable for me. Because, I mean, like what? And a little exuberant. At least I was. That was last night. Or last evening. Whatever.

Here’s the scenario: freaks are out. I mean really. Out. And about. So I’m doing my swim/workout thing. I like it. Not the least reason for it because you can’t exactly hold a conversation. You just do your thing and can be left alone, and aren’t a freak for not talking to people that you don’t want to talk to in the first place.
Background: I don’t go to the gym to make friends. I don’t go to be social. I don’t even go, really, because I like it—although from time to time, I do. Which, as above, is probably why I like the swimming. I’m fat and very buoyant. It’s good. I float. I feel light. It’s good for my always-aching back. It makes me feel long and slender (go figure). And the best part—the very best part is sitting in the hot tub (which under normal circumstances is akin to sitting in a pitrie dish)[side: apparently that is not how you spell it—there is no word in the that even comes close-so sorry for you out there]. Sitting in the hot tub. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.
Oh, scenario.
Ok, so swimming… and usually about this time of day I am the only female and the men are busy being gross and I’m hoping they leave me alone…which, for the most part, they are in the steam room and sauna. And I’m lost in my head. And floating and la de da. And I notice icky guy staring at me. Humph. Ok, start swimming like I mean it and give him less to look at (which involves me swimming farther below the water surface and swimming in a kinda sitting up position when swimming on my back-read backwards, because I’m sitting and so no longer on my back).
And then squeaky shoes guy is walking around the pool. And around the pool. And again. Annoying, but whatever. Then he stops and says, “What’s your name?” and I surprised reply, “Why?”
He says his name is Eddie. And I give my name (later, I wonder why I do.. need to practice giving fake name.. think it’ll make me feel better). And he says blah blah blah, in a thick accent. I reply, “What?”
“Will you do me a favor and walk into the steam room for a minute? Just a second?”
“NO. No.” Shake head. “No.”
Actually, I’m not entirely sure what he said. As I mentioned before, his accent was quite thick. But he did say step or walk somewhere for a minute. Enough. And I said no. No.
Powerful word, no. And I am so proud. Because I didn’t think it and not say it. Or say it and then think horrible thoughts and run out in a tremor. I just said it and then thought, “Freak!” and kept going about my business. Until, of course, I realized it. And then I kinda gloated in my head. Stuff like, “As if!” and “Loser!”
I take this as a sign of being stronger. Of being more competent and able to take care of myself. Honestly. Frightening isn’t it? You’d be terrified if I told you how that scene (repeated often enough) normally plays out.
Him: do me a favor
Me: I don’t think so
Him: Aw, c’mon.
Me: what is it that you want me to do?
Him: go over here for just a moment. Won’t take long
Me: how long?
Him: just a second
Me: well . . .
Him: it’s ok . . c’mon
Me: well . . .
Him: it’s easy. C’mon.
Me: well, ok.
Him: (suggests something unseemly in darkened corner)
Me: (giggling uncomfortably) I don’t think so… (weasling to get out)
Him: c’mon (weasel)
Me: (freaking out, but appear, at least reasonably, calm) I don’t think so.. I’m going to leave now.
Him: are you sure?
Me: yes
Him: c’mon stay
Me: I’ll see you later
Him: (smiling smugly) yeah…

This time:
Him: do me a favor?
Me: No.
Him: no?
Me: No.
Him: Thank you.

Wow. Easy. Powerful. Good.

NO. :) I love it. Need to practice it a lot.

I got a little antsy and thought that I should leave, but true to form, “fuck it,” and kept swimming. And freak staring guy and freak squeaky shoe Eddie guy left and I was alone and able to relax and feel strong and a little proud. It put me in a really good mood for the rest of the evening.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Money: unsweet bedfellow


Money. Lovely fricken money. Fantastic when you have it. A mother when you don’t.
Yeah, and I don’t. Wonderful, smart me wasn’t exactly paying attention and I spent and I spent and now I have nothing. Nope, for more than a week I will have to subsist from my credit card, which is precariously close to being maxed.

Lovely feeling, isn’t it? That feeling that you might not make it. What are you going to do? Not enough money for gas, food, lights, water. Actually, I have paid for lights. But not for water, or Hot water. And, strictly speaking, I haven’t paid for Hot or water in two months. So, yeah, they want their fricken money. As it is, I’m going to have to run from one account and take out half (of my lovely forty dollars-for the math geniuses out there that’s a twenty-dollar bill) take all the cash in my wallet (six smackaroos) and deposit it to cover gas (for car: already purchased) and pilates (check already written: but who knows when it will clear) and then call and beg my nutritionist to NOT cash the check I wrote last night for 60-some-odd dollars, because it will be as a giant rubber ball.

Back to the feeling of it. How does it feel? Have you felt that way? The “oh-my-gawd-I-have-not-enough, what-am-I-going-to-do-?” feeling and question that is indelibly tattooing its mantra through your head, through your veins, attacking your heart and then seems to ooze through your skin, so you stink of it? Ever felt that way?

Confession: I intentionally didn’t pay bills. Was freakin’ tired of having nothing. Nothing! So when I would be completely caught up and pay my Hot bill and my water bill: I didn’t. Just didn’t. B urged me not to do it. I said it would be fine. And the truth is, I would probably be fine, but I broke down and paid the light bill-which I had finally caught up, and therefore, wasn’t late yet. That’s right, folks! Wasn’t late (yet).

Bully for me.

So now that I’ve written my stupidity down. Ehh. Doesn’t feel too bad. But I have yet to start dwelling. And I live it. I move in, make a little space, plop down and begin to nest. I wrap myself in it – get all warm under the oppressive mantle and begin to smother and as the blanket blocks out most of the light, I begin to pray to I know not what that the lights will not go out, and I will make it through.

Ever felt like that? It’s damn uncomfortable. But yet, as it is known, it’s not scary or truly intolerable. That’s frightening.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Ugh! Sugar! Sweet Goddess


Or headache.

Actually, I think it is sickness. I ate some sugar. After how long trying to kick it (again)? I’m like a fucking alcoholic, without the support group. I guess I could go to OA (for those of you with no addictions—the “A” is always for “Anonymous” and, in this case, the “O” is for “Overeaters.”) At OA, they do not allow you to have white flour, sugar, and something else… I can’t remember from my foray into getting a support group 10 some-odd years ago.

Fucking tasted good though. And it was nasty fucking chocolate. The kind of chocolate I wouldn’t deign to eat, if I were eating chocolate. But since I’m not, and haven’t been, I ate it and it was de-lish!

Moving on.


BF bought me 2 (not so) lovely couches on the weekend. (Mental note: do not forget to give him $$.) Weren’t expensive—1 full-size and 1 loveseat (not matching) for 30 bucks. Not bad. Not bad. But they weren’t v attractive. Actually, they weren’t that bad. But the wrong colors and styles for what I would have in mind.
Why would he purchase couches for me, you might ask. Funny story. My new puppy has been having really good snacks of my $50 sectional and my $0 (yeah, that’s right-free!) comfy couch. So he purchased these new couches. . . and she started in on the ugly one. Ripped off the skirt—or at least what I’m calling the skirt, that bottom part that hides the legs. I looked at it, and was all *&%*!! and $*%&#$!! But then stopped. It looked soo much better. J Seriously, I like the couch now. I’ve ripped off the rest of the skirt—threw it away (no evidence) and now have to decide if I’m going to spill the beans to BF or not.

Saturday, September 04, 2004


So, last night.
G is over with Mc. And Mc starts in on how month's ago at G's birthday festivities, I spilt water (seriously) and blamed him. I honestly didn't remember the interaction because that particular night I had just told off sister and was emotionally over wrought. But as he wouldn't let go, I began to piece together the incident.
And here is where the anger comes in. I didn't move. I didn't push my plate which, by chain reaction, caused another mysterious article on table to push into Mc's glass and thereby making it fall over, at which point Mc, rescued said glass (of water) and placed it back down on said trecherous table wasteland in aforementioned exact hazardous spot to, instantly and at once, fall completely over and spill all over table and splash several festivities participants. I apparently made flippant remark about dumbasses spilling some such.. and am instanly accused of causing said chain reaction by Mc, thereby making the entire incident my fault. Miracle of Miracles, people side with me, saying obviously I didn't spill water. Mc is humiliated.
Whatever. Humiliated over spilt water.
Ok, back to anger. Who cares? Happened months ago. Was water. Mc didn't have to clean it up, was at restaurant. Was not really public--just a few close friends who could give a rat's ass, except to laugh at each other's foibles.
G is my BEST friend. Or at least used to be. Now that G is involved in long term relationship, I am back seat baggage that only once in a while gets hauled out and gone thru, just to make sure what's still in there. And of couse, when needed. (That's not exactly fair, but who cares? My blog. Fuck you.)
Mc is selfish. Spoiled. Bratty. Mc has to have everything Mc's way. Mc is going to be 30 soon. One would think Mc might eventually grow up. But would you? If everyone continually gives in to you? I'm not sure that I would, except that I have. Because I feel bad if people have to go sooo completely out of their way for me. Constantly. All the time. For no reason. Other than to appease my ego. I mean, once in a while, sure. We all need an ego stroke. But all the time? Get over it. Get over yourself.
Oh, yeah, anger.
So what, in the last (?) 5 years, G has sided with me once. Over a glass of water, that everyone saw him spill.
But Mc had a cow (apparently) with G over incident. Why didn't G trust Mc? If G didn't see the beginning of the chain reaction (ie Me evilly pushing plate-to cause another unnamed object to push into evil glass of water) which he at once Rescued, but Mc saw said happen, why didn't G believe?
Ok, fuck you, Mc. It isn't as if I saw (or all of us for that matter) you standing over a bloody corpse with a knife and I said something damning like, "You murdered him. Ha ha." And then people believed me, and your partner of (?) 5 years has to have faith that you wouldn't kill someone. It was a glass of water.
Ok, so you have little fit in privacy of own home with partner.. accuse accuse. Fight over (eventually). But then to bring up retarded subject months later? What's the matter with you? Was your manhood so impuned, your honestly so taken into question, your ego, your spirit, your soul, so crushed that you cannot recover because someone once believed me over you?
Let me repeat, fuck you.
In the years that I have know you, you have been a horrible partner to my best friend. You are selfish. You have to have your way, all the time. You never, ever compromise. Never, not once.* You spent months (read: over a year!) out of work, forcing the supposed most important person of your life, the one you supposedly love more than anything, to work double duty To pay all bills. To be the adult while you got to carry out your childish fantasies.
And I pushed these things aside. But I am angry that you don't seem to be making any progress at all. You don't seem to be growing as a person, to be maturing, to be wisening, to becoming more of a complete, whole person.
Old fears and hurts resurfaced. In the five or so years that you've been with my best friend, I have felt so much pain. As my best friend continually choses you over me. Believes idiot things you say, over me. Believes you to be funnier, kinder, smarter than me. Fine. Love is honestly blind. I can't wait for someone to think I'm the funniest person in the world, the smartest, the cutest, the nicest, etc. And it hurts when Mc says some horrible thing (or I've started it this time), and the responses fly-- and G always always sides with you. Implies that I am somehow, not as... smart, or nice, or whatever. That Mc is right, that Mc is always, always right.
Lugging out the entire arsenal, years of pent-up hate, and hurt, and disappointment to be directed towards you. I long to tell you how you don't measure up, how you don't deserve all that you get. How when you make a mistake, you don't have to pay for it, others do -- in blood, sweat and tears. And you just go skipping merrily on your fucking way (exept to say, why they were mean. Of course they were you fucking moron. It's punishment. Everyone else let you off the hook. They are there to wake your ass up--let you know that you fucked up--but you still don't get it.)
But I have to stop. I cannot tell you what you so desperatly need to hear. I can't put my best friend in that position, not only because, of couse, I will certainly loose, but because I don't want to hurt G, to make things harder on G. To tell G, your long-term partner sucks, and is sucking the life from you.
But I will be more mature, and I will compromise.

Pity, because I feel like being childish. I feel like hurting people, and destroying myself.

* Wonder of Wonders! We all went to a movie on Saturday night. Instead of doing Mc's first choice, he compromised. Perhaps he is growing after all. Perhaps I've grown enough to enable me to see it.

Friday, September 03, 2004


I just wrote my first fan e-mail.
It was to Mark Morford, writer for the SF Gate.

It went a little something like this:

“I am sorry to learn that you have a partner, because I think I love you.

From someone who really needed it.”

I was seriously crying. Talk about a Horoscope and the universe giving you what you need. Apparently I was crying out…and the universe answered.
Thank Goddess. Thank you.

Hours tick by. Or do they?

Day One without My Beloved.


Ok. Here we go again kids. Trying to kick the juice, the junk, the dope, the lightening. The Sugar.

Hour Two.

Actually, I’ve been up a little more than two hours. . . but who’s counting. Oh, that’s right, I am.
I am depressed and weepy. I tell myself not to despair. Nothing ever comes from despairing—nothing, nothing ever gets done. And it’s true.
Did you see Scarlet O’Hara despair? No. She decided she was too busy trying to fix things, trying to save the beloved Tara, trying not to starve, trying to keep her family from starving. She just didn’t have time to despair.
And it helps. (Telling myself that.) Oh, and also I’ve been telling myself that it’s just coming off of the juice, the smack, the sugar that is making my emotions so . . . volatile. And it could be true. What it really feels like is going insane. And not so slowly. Kinda quick, so you notice it is happening. “Why am I behaving like this?” You ask yourself. “Why, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the sugar. Perhaps you are insane.” You answer yourself rationally. Heh. Rationally. Answer yourself.

I watched a lovely movie last night. I Capture the Castle. Lovely young women: English and poor. Lovely young, rich American men (and one was Henry Thomas... makes me kinda glad he survived ET). OK SPOILER. So, the lovely young woman, our heroine.. winds up with.. well, not nothing.. . and not alone, she has taken care of her family. But not with the object of her affection. And the end of the movie (my hand to gawd) she says, “I love. I have loved. I will love.” Fade to Black. Fuck. What the hell. Ok, great. But that’s why I watch movies. I need a mother-fucking, even-if-it-makes-no-sense, twisted plot, don’t-care-how, HAPPY ENDING. Need it. Like I need to breathe. And so yeah, a little hope, but not really happiness. And I’ve discovered in my pitiable life that HOPE kills you every time. Every time. Obliterates you. Crushes your soul. Kills your spirit. Makes you waltz then sticks out its big, rude foot and purposely trips you. So you fall on your face, in the most dramatic, theatrical, humiliating, public way, ever.

What am I complaining for? Well. After that and I just wanted to cry, I got on my newly returned, fixed computer. (Moment of silence and reverence for the COMPUTER.) And I checked my horoscope. And it was all.. You have had to relive part of stuff you thought you already handled, but didn’t (and pushed deep into your subconscious, you pathetic idiot. And will now wake up out of a very real dream and cry inexplicably for an hour whilst you are overcome with sadness and deep, deep, hidden trauma) and now that you’ve re-dealt with those aspects, move on and push your boundaries. Made complete and total sense. [Now I know that these are vague. And allow for various interpretations, but seriously, folks, how do they do it??? And as I write this… this is what they’ve written:
“Circumstances in your life may be full of drama and you'll need to use all channels of communication to share your story with those around you. Although you can be putting on quite an impressive show, you may not realize that you are only telling part of the story. Your beliefs are coloring your perceptions more than usual and you can only see what you believe.”
So here I am thinking I am giving myself therapy, and hopefully entertaining people. But I’m not being totally honest, with myself or with you, dear reader. Fuckers calling me a liar. But I digress.]

Soooo, anyway…I felt really sad. And I did a little (expensive) tarot reading (but considering they gave me the credits for free, wasn’t really a bad deal). And what was this wondrous question I inquired about in my future? I couldn’t really decide. Would I find love.. that’s not right, I have love. I love my mother. I love my friends, etc. And what if I love someone who doesn’t love me back? Would I be loved? No, that’s not right, either. G loves me with all his heart. Just can’t work out. So, I settled on “Will I find happiness in love?” So lovely Tarot tells me to push my boundaries…let my passions come through (because this is obviously something you are uncomfortable with, you fucked-up, damaged prude). And then goes on.. and I’m all.. who is it talking about?
Yeah, well. Money well spent.

Oh, look it’s been about 3 hours. And no sugar. Good for me.

And yet, the discomfort lingers. But I’m not weeping at work either. So. There ya go.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Dumbass and uncomfortable.

Why I should not have sugar.

I have a headache. A sugar headache. A headache that could have totally been avoided. But no, I have one. I had a HUGE, ooh, a HUMUNGUS sweet thing of somesort. Which, by all accounts, I should not have had. Not because – I am allergic to sugar, not because it leeches the B vitamins from my body, the very B vitamins that are essential to weight loss, gives me a sugar high, then a raucous sugar crash- and then I wish for death, not because I am going to considerable difficulty to be on a health maintenance (read weight loss) program, not because I am spending not inconsiderable sums of money on vitamins and healthy eats (when I truly have no money), not because today, of all days, is the day of the week that I must face my fears and weigh in , in front of a kind (skinny) woman who has taken on my case, at no charge, just for my betterment. No, not for any of those reasons. The real reason is because I had one very similar to it yesterday. And it was gross. Grody. Yucky. It did not taste good.

Any normal sane human being would have remembered (apart from all those reasons listed above) that yesterday, it tasted like crap, and today, it is one day older- and has been sitting out for the better part of 2 days. Do Not Eat This Vile Thing.

But I did. And I must say, it was very good. Right up to the blueberry goo—that was indescribable, and very much tasteless, but I ate anyway.

And now. The. Head. Ache.


Friday, August 20, 2004

Cliff: Hanging from a

Ok. That was scary. I just ate my entire Clif Bar and didn’t realize it. I mean, I was hungry. I made the decision to get it out of my purse. I opened the package, had fleeting thought of the trouble it took me to get the prized, my favorite, my precious, Black Cherry Almond Clif Bar, and took nummy first bite. Then went back to have more, and it was gone. I had consumed my entire Clif Bar (which, I would like to point out, is a meal Replacement bar). A Meal Replacement. Good for an entire meal. Enough energy, calories, protein to replace a meal. And I ate it all. Without realizing it.

Now I realize that this is not on the level of “Fat Girl Eats Own Arm to Survive.” But I am very disturbed, nonetheless. I am supposed to be watching what I eat. I am supposed to be losing weight. And already, I’ve had some candy from the evil candy dish, and then decided I was hungry – and ate my whole Clif Bar.


This job. I start to get busy and then get munchies and then before I know it, I’ve blown my diet. It’s supposed to be better here than at home. I’m supposed to be able to control my eating. Ha ha ha.

Will definitely work on it.

Dear J.

Get a clue!


Your Self.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

The Thing?

Ok, here’s the thing. I’m totally bored. And a little paranoid. G said that I should come with a sign that reads, “Warning: Paranoid when stoned.” Heeee. Well, I wouldn’t say that I was paranoid, except for that I just did. But yesterday, during the dental procedure, when they cut open my jaw and removed my icky, so yucky tooth, and then replaced some jaw bone… sounds horribly complicated, they put me to sleep, but not really. They mostly used laughing gas, and then some sleepy, IV stuff. So that I could be “responsive.” Yeah, well. You are supposed to get all dreamy, far away on the laughing gas (although some people get violent, etc). I got stoned. And then really paranoid. And between my slurring words, my mind went into overdrive—“Oh, no! You’re stoned. You’re out of control! Danger! Danger!” At which point I force myself to take relaxing, deep breaths to calm the fuck down. Except guess where the gas is coming from. But luckily, the nice, go-to-sleep now stuff started to work.
And here I am at work. Work. Where I make my living. And get paid to do stuff, that no ordinary person would do just for the hell of it. And as EB, or I prefer bitcherella, is in an extended meeting. I’m writing a little ditty.
And apparently, I’m a little lonely. I guess from being by myself all day yesterday, except that I wasn’t. I was drugged and sleepy, but I woke up. And wanted to leave. So, my not-so-thought out plan involve G and me going somewhere. But I shouldn’t drive, that much I knew. But he wouldn’t come over. So I drove, mostly asleep and met him. And we walked around a big mall, and then I drove, kinda asleep, and went home and really slept. And now, I’m lonely. And probably a little drugged.
I started this blog… and kinda had the idea that it would be based, at least somewhat, around the idea of discomfort. And so far, it has.
Here’s the thing (again). It is utterly astounding to me how we, as a populace, are always so thoroughly ill at ease. At all times. Why is that? So, I’ve been examining (not really) my own comfort level(s). And I’ve discovered: NOT MUCH. Except that I rarely feel comfortable. Truly relaxed, ya know?
Yesterday, on the way to see G, I was becoming more and more – eh, not really upset, but uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be driving. I knew I shouldn’t be. But I am strong, and I could take it. I could make it. And I kept thinking, once I get there, I will be safe. G will be waiting for me. And then he wasn’t there, as I pulled up 2 minutes before the agreed upon time. In other words, right on time. And the disappointment I felt as I rang him, and he hadn’t left home yet, was acute. But not surprising. I love him, I truly do. But the feeling of being disappointed by him is not new. Our entire relationship, it seems as if he has disappointed when I needed him. But that is not necessarily the truth. I mean, I was fine. It wasn’t a big deal. And he has come through for me more times than anyone else.
But I always feel as if those I love have disappointed me. Always. Perhaps I am like Prince’s mother and just never satisfied. Or like Bette in Beaches- always wanting attention, and I wear people out. I don’t know, but this line of questioning is making me uncomfortable.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

After Lunch

Attempting to work. Thoughts of this stupid blog run through my head. Wanted to have the theme of discomfort run through it. So far, I think I’ve succeeded in advertising that I am uncomfortable in my own skin.

Need to do work. Address an envelope and realize that I won’t send it. My handwriting is appalling. Have to open Word to type the address. Jacksonville, FL. Wonder if those people are at work. Did Hurricane Charley tear them up? Were their homes destroyed? Was their town spared, but they get a couple of well-deserved days off? How do I know they are well deserved?
Mid Morning.

Haven’t even made my morning break, yet. Maybe I’m not more special than this. Who’s to say? A fleeting feeling that I have sometimes? Pshaw. Maybe I need to accept that this is my life. That it’s a decent life (even though I can’t make my bills).

I don’t feel like working. I feel like reading something interesting. Hello? Is there anything out there that I can read that will fill some time? No, I don’t think so. A quick glance of MSN will just waste valuable Internet time, now that I want to be the internet/worker secret agent. Need to keep my net time low. Make it seem like I’m working, even though my productivity has fallen off a cliff.

Ah ha! I’ve stumbled upon no less than 3 slate articles that I will consume like a starving man eating a ritz cracker. Ok, interesting read over, now back to work. And so I stare out my window at the passing cars, and the people parking in the lot across the street as they head off into school. I work across the street from the Bryman School. Ya know, it’s odd to me how these people (who I assume want to be nurses, but could be any number of possible jobs in the medical field) wear scrubs—even during school. I mean they aren’t going to be cutting up bloody messes, are they? Eeew! Perhaps they clean teeth, but that can’t be that messy, can it? Why, why, why do they have to wear uniforms?

I guess this is a bigger question. I absolutely loathe the idea of uniforms. I mean I get that police wear them and firefighters and military wo/men must wear them (there is a certain psychological response and respect that follows not the person but the Uniform). But school kids? And I know that parents love them, because with the price of clothing, etc. gone so crazy that this way they all wear the same thing, saving money. Except then the kids want $250 sneakers, but I digress. I once mentioned that I didn’t like the idea, and AB said to me, “Why? School is not about being individual. School is training on conformity.” This struck me as very true, and I dropped it. Because I couldn’t argue. School, at least grammar and high, was training for a life of ordinariness. It was like a giant rock tumbler for young people, take the rough edges off so you don’t stick out, go with the flow so you can fit in so you don’t get crushed. In high school, I remember feeling that I should just stop fighting and go along . . . work around the system and fit in as best as I could. But I was very individual, and I did just slip along. There was nothing remarkable about my grades or performance. I did not belong to any groups or clubs, but I was an unremarkable reporter for the school newspaper. As a matter of fact, I completely dropped out of high school my senior year, suffering from a deep depression that my parents never knew about.

If everyone wore a uniform we’d have no Breakfast Club. No Molly Ringwald in her little boots and long skirt, no Ally Sheedy in her all black and certainly no Judd Nelson looking like a boy I used to date. That is a portrait of high school. It isn’t always accurate of who we are going to be, but it is a snap shot of us, trying to find our place, trying to locate who we want to become.

I didn’t wear a uniform. And look where I am now. I never became the person I wanted to be, but maybe someday I will. I gave up cheap shoes (my personal passion) for more expensive (and ugly) Birkenstocks.
And I look out the window and wonder why those adults choose to wear a uniform--before their life has really dictated who they are going to be. Are the scrubs just scrubs or are they those students way of smoothing off their rough edges so they don’t stick out, going with the flow and fitting in?

Goooooood Morning!!


Why is it that the morning is so nummy? I want to lay in bed and pet the boobas. And they stretch and snuggle-and put up with each other to be closer to me. And then I jump up and decide I cannot stand the kitchen any longer. Because, in the evening I just don’t have the energy to look at the kitchen. Or walk into it. Or think about it. But in the morning- it seems ok. But ugh! RM gets up early lately. And not necessarily spoils the reverie, but interrupts it. I like my private time: when the boobas stare up at me and wonder what I’m doing, and wonder whether they are going to get a treat, and the kitchen gets cleaner inch-by-inch.

And did I mention that I am half naked? Because no one is supposed to see me, and I don’t care what I look like—it’s not as if I have full length mirrors lining the walls, or even mirrors at all, for that matter.

When you are large, heavy, you don’t have many mirrors. And I have perfected the mirror trick, I look into a small mirror, that I can only see about 3 inches of my face at a time. You get a very distorted vision of yourself that way: putting together an image – overlapping every two inches or so. But most people have a distorted self-image, I would say. Thin ones want to be-oh, I don’t know, thinner- or less hairy or bigger breasts or nicer thighs, lighter hair, straighter hair. Big ones just want to be acceptable—whatever that entails. So: thinner, taller, longer, leaner, prettier, smarter, neater, more fashionable, better paid.


So: half naked, bending and moving and showing only heaven fears what and interrupted reverie. Oh, ok--time to take a shower, running late, anyway. Ooooh, way late!!!

Heavy morning. NO! Have nutritionist tonight! Ugh! A day early, too. Not fair! Not Fair!! Drink lots of water. Prepare water bottles. Make shake for breakfast, put in extra for lunch.

AHHH! Get to work ahead of boss! Hooray. Get stopped by do-gooder. What’s with the voice? Trying to scare me stupid with story of strep throat and kidney damage and eventual death. Long, long story. Certain it’s just allergies. Learn that her mother passed when she was 12. Very sad story. And uncomfortable. Learning stuff about someone you barely know—a certain religious person, who doesn’t necessarily seem the religious type. The hypocritical type, more like. Later, after finally done—see her talking in back of office to someone else, must note that she is boss’s pet. Come back and she announces she got in trouble because of me. Because she was talking. Uh huh, whatever.

And now, writing this for my blog. And I realize, not for the first time, that I get up happy, ready for something—more than this. And yet I come here and know… what exactly is it that I know? That I was meant for more? Yes. That I wasn’t mean to be a grunt? Yes. That I am smarter and funnier and more extraordinary than this place will ever allow me to be? Yes, yes, yes!!
But I cannot work with such disquiet; I cannot pay my bills with out a job. So I will put it away. Cover it up, bury it, until I can focus, not on my life, but on the stacks I have piled up next to me. My goal: to get my desk cleared, so I can begin again tomorrow. And tomorrow.

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Brand New

Fidgety –

Happiness. Is it real? Is it tangible? Sometimes I think I can feel it, other times I swear I can taste it [and I’m not talking about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia-or even cheesecake –which I’ve often equated to being better than orgasm. C’mon, the average orgasm last 2 seconds. 2 measly seconds. A good slice of cheesecake can last long, delicious, glorious, exuberant minutes building to the pinnacle of just licking the fork clean because you are spent and exhausted from all the lovely endorphins and chemicals (read sugar) rushing into your blood stream and slamming into your neuro-connectors. Closer to heaven than actual happiness.] I’m talking happiness. Does it last or is it some fleeting feeling that even our idealist forefathers knew we could not obtain and keep, hence the whole “pursuit” liability clause?
Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes it overcomes me and I feel that I will burst from fear or joy or just shatter because I cannot contain all the simultaneous emotions I know are going to erupt and, like Mount Vesuvius, take every thing and everyone and destroy us all.
And really I know that it’s me, being crazy. Because if I feel that kind of joy, it isn’t real.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to fall, not necessarily hard, but just come down and be bummed. Bummed that I no longer feel elated? Possibly. But this feeling, this overpowering sadness, I would say is real, and it lasts.
But happiness, true happiness: does it exist? Is it just fleeting moments and with luck, we can string all the moments together to craft a crown or a netting that covers us, protects us, reminds us, and comforts us?
Is it a state of being—a state for your soul to reside in? Pop culture artists, authors, publishers, advertising execs, and the religious say a resounding “Yes!” Buy this book and beer and subscribe to this god and witness the beauty of the synergistic harmony of all of today and know that it is art and art is life and aren’t we happy? I just got a new Jaguar.
I’ll tell you the last time I was happy. I went dancing. Now I love dancing, or at least I used to. I loved to move with the music. I loved the way my body felt and swayed. I loved the songs and the feeling of freedom I used to get. Of course, I used to be free. I was under 18, out until 4 a.m. and had my own car. My parents trusted me-and most of the time I was just out dancing. Not much to fear. OH, yeah, and they gave me an allowance, clothe, fed and sheltered me. All I had to do was go to school, which sometimes I did.
I’m talking dancing now, or at least, last night. Going out with friends and worrying if they will have a good time, because it was my suggestion. And I think it’s a blast, but they could be uninviting to the “happiness” bird, or the laugh bug, or the silliness cootie that you can catch, but really it catches you. Luckily, I wasn’t out with antiseptic types (they stayed home). And we relaxed and enjoyed.
And I am much larger now than I was in high school. Much. (More on that later, I’m sure.) And at first I felt self-conscious about dancing. It’d been ages. In fact, I hadn’t danced in this millennium. Not even in my underwear, knowing it doesn’t make me Madonna. I hadn’t felt loose or comfortable. And I started to dance and feel self-conscious (danger: poison to dancing well), but then I had a startling thought through my 80’s self-torture: I’m at a lowly club. A club (which shall remain nameless because currently I cannot afford a lengthy, expensive trial) that, in my uninformed but highly prejudiced opinion, only holds stupid people—losers, if you will—who only want to look cool, to see and to been seen, people I don’t have the time of day for. So who cares if they think I’m fat? Who cares if they think I can’t dance? Who cares about their opinion? --They go to (insert lowly club name here), for pity’s sake!
So last night, when friends came… not just acquaintances, I was ready. Except for the nervous, will we have a good time mantra (see above). And I got out there and boogied. And it was good.
And I was free. And even (male) friend got on the floor. And I was so happy. I clapped my hands and announced it (not that anyone could hear over the racket). And I realized that I had perfected my 80’s, bored, look far away glance, the I-could-stand-to-be-here-but-I’d-rather-be-there look. And he was looking at me. And making eye contact whenever I would allow him to. And I would see a flicker. My soul matching his. A longing, a connectivity. And I would have to look away. My eyes would skim away and I would force myself to look again. But I could feel myself falling and longing.
Background: I have fallen for this person no fewer than 3 times. 3 times! What is that? We have been friends a very long time. And he is a hard person to get to know. But he is sensitive and fantastic. And I feel a certain affinity toward him. Like we have kindred spirits. Anyway, it’s been a long time, and he (although quite dense) has never wanted to go forward, or so I gather. And all his chickee’s have been small, slender type girls. I’m not slender. I’m not small. And even if I were, I am not mousy. Let’s put it this way: I’m as big as life-I’m big in every way. Loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, annoying, I have a cackle when I laugh, and you could never, never not see me (although seems like some people try). Even if he wanted to take things further-we would be a disastrous couple. I would walk all over him. Not that I would want to, I just would. I would rail all over his feelings and he’d be miserable. He’s that sensitive.
So here I am dancing and I get the floaty, uncomfortable feeling that means—what does it mean? I am in danger of drowning in his eyes, and I keep forcing myself to look back at him, to meet his gaze (it only seems polite). And I can’t stand it. I smile, I look away. I swallow. I look around and come back. I get off the dance floor. Finally, after this ritual is repeated-my disquiet has me at breaking level. I feel giddy, I feel Stupid (yes, with capital “S”). I take off my glasses. And maybe that way, I cannot see into his soul when I look into his eyes. I go smoke a friend’s cigarette. I calm down, as he didn’t come. And the happiness subsides and so does the illness, but the antsy-ness remains.
And why is it so uncomfortable to not have pavement beneath your feet? Why is it sickening to not have something familiar to cling to (ahh, lovely puff of smoke)?
Why are we uncomfortable with joy, love, freedom? (How many times have you heard of someone who just became lost/sick after retirement, because they had no place to go everyday?) Do we just trudge along because we have OCD? Were we not taught to expect more? Did we need to be taught that? Or did we have “Expect Less!” drilled into our heads until it seeped into our souls? I return to reality, laugh at myself and thank goodness that I am myself again. Dull, boring, and sad. But comfortable.