2010 Manifesto: The Year of Yes

Some people tell me I complain about a lot. However, I prefer to call such things “observations”:

“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

“Stop complaining.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m just observing my hunger.”

“My feet hurt.”

“No complaining.”

“Just observing…”

***

This year has been filled with many, many changes personally:
•    I became an aunt.
•    I became the last of unwed siblings.
•    I became single for the first time in 5 years (and out of school).
•    I grew my friends and independence.
•    I moved out of the District … and in with a stranger.
•    Both of my ferrets passed away ... in the same month.
•    I got a new nose.

 To name a few: So this year has been a mix of good and bad, difficult and necessary – and with all these changes I find myself sitting here hoping, praying and half-planning for more. With all the change I feel like I should want to stay at the same job, in the same city to keep my new “normal” normal. But now I want to travel. I want to relocate. I want to try new things. Everything.

***

I recently realized that I have little adventure to speak of in life. I don’t have a passport; I’ve been to Toronto and the Bahamas. And while as kids we used to go to on little trips a lot: Pow-Wows, canoe/kayaks trips with my grandparents, camping in the fall. Once we went to a taxidermy convention (wherein I discovered how to realize if I smell pot when I got older: It took me about 8 times of saying “it smells like a taxidermy convention” with a retort of “It smells like pot” for me to realize that pot and formaldehyde smell oddly identical to me. To this day when I smell reefer, my initial thought is "taxidermy convention".). And one summer, when I was 13, we took a motorhome of 13 family members from western PA to our final destination of a re-enactment of Custer’s Last Stand in Montana, stopping at places like Wall Drug and Mt. Rushmore along the way. But that’s pretty much it.

As an adult, any adventures have all but ceased to exist. This year I went to California…for work…that’s about it. It’s sad. And I hate it, but I’ve been going to school and chasing debt for eight years. (Wow…8 years…) I’ve been preoccupied with trying to get out of debt, while going to school and digging in deeper. Now, I’ve been working for two years and I live cheap: I don’t go anywhere, no adventures – nothing - in a futile attempt to get out of debt. While, I managed to pay off my $8,000 credit card debt from college last year, I ended up with $5,000 card debt one year later. And still…no adventures, and it’s not for lack of invitations.  What stories will I have to tell my kids? Mommy went to bars and got drunk? Where is my epiphanal (yes, epiphanial) moment? Where are my adventures?

This is where my observations really begin to shine: I have been fiscally, socially and personally responsible my entire life. My most gutsy move was trading in my old Pontiac Sunbird and buying a brand new BMW M Series … just kidding… Mazda3. Woo! Livin’ large!!

[Tangent: Alright, so this year I bought a new nose too, but to be fair, I had to do it now or I knew I never would. And it was half-necessary and I had a payback plan that promptly went to shit when my boss called two days after the procedure to inform me of 12 days worth of unpaid furloughs coming up. And instead of being hella-cheap like I anticipated, moving to the asscloth of a state of Maryland, it ended up being more expensive than DC.]

So my point is…

I have been living responsibly for 26 years with little to show for it; I have two degrees, a car, and a new nose – none of which I own. (Exactly what happens if someone doesn’t pay back plastic surgery?) Each year I attempt to claw my way out of debt, but I always seem to end up back where I started. It is infuriating.

In this past decade I have:
•    Graduated high school, college and grad school
•    Lived in PA, OH, VA, DC and MD
•    Saw the ocean 3…maybe four times
•    Been in and broke out of 2 long term relationships (7 years worth)
•    Endured the deaths of 6 family members and friend
•    Went from $0 of debt to $96,000.00 worth of debt

I kind of feel like I've done a lot and absolutely nothing all at the same time. And in the vein of “observations”, being close to six figures in the hole with no adventure(s) blows big donkey balls (that’s a technical term). And if I wait until I’m debt-free, or at least have more than $6 each month to live life, I’ll be 40…or 65…or probably dead. What happens when you waste you 20’s trying to be fiscally responsible instead of enjoying life and finding yourself? Your passion? Your happiness?

***

So, I’m taking this observation and I’m doing something about it: Welcome to The Year of Yes. 

For 2010 (and basically starting right now), any request, opportunity, adventure that is asked of me or comes my way, I will say “yes” to. A little like “Yes Man”, but not quite as cheesy (and it's not where the idea come from).  So, if an opportunity arises and I’m capable, I will find a way to do it.

A few rules: 

1. My credit card cannot exceed $5,000 (right now it’s at about 5,300, so there’s that).
2. My nose needs to be paid off my Oct. 1.
Those are my fiscal limitations. Other rules include:
3. Going on dates count, sexual advances do not. (Note: The Year of Yes is also the year of me - yup, I'm taking a year to be selfish - and men/dating is of little importance.)
4. Anything that is overtly dangerous is eliminated.
5. First come, first serve – unless one is cheaper than the other or vastly more appealing. Backing out is discouraged.
6. No taking (over-)advantage of the Year of Yes; life participants guilty of this are subject to “maybes”.
7. Bar invites are discretionary upon fiscal limitations; as all small requests may turn to something larger, but this is more about big adventures (and I still have some fiscal limitations).

This will be documented via WordPress blog aptly named "The Yes Year". Stay tuned and make suggestions in person or in my comments. Welcome to My Yes Year, the Year of "Yes".

Thundercatsnow Shines Light on AirTran Classism

Earlier I was rearranging travel for my boss due to delays due to the pending "Thundersnow" in DC. My prediction? 4 to 6 inches, tops. I think it's too much hoopla; talk to me when there's three feet (like the blizzard of '93 where my sisters and I dug snow tunnels. Fun!) and I'll be interested.  I'm really only impressed with the "10 to 20 inches" (yea right) of "thundersnow" if it sounds like this:

Thundercats HO! sound bite  Thundercats sound bites

Anywho, so there's that. So I work my magic to rearrange around the flight delays and get an email from AirTran with a "Fly vs No Fly" PDF attached. I have no clue what this is, so I open it out of my toddler-like curiosity to discover this (click to enlarge):

Really, AirTran? You're requiring a dress code for people to fly on your planes? This seems completely inappropriate and totally unnecessary. Evidently they don't want their passengers to be comfortable while flying. Are they trying to make themselves the high class airline? Sort of the wrong economy for that strategy, don't you think? Their marketing team should be fired. Also, it seems quite classist...no torn clothes? "Business casual" shoes? No sleeveless shirts or visible tattoos? And your little flyer there, slightly racist. I had more of a selection for what I could wear in high school.

Well, there goes that face tattoo I was planning on getting...

Now, more about this Thundercatsnow...

[Edit: The dress code is for AirTran friends and family - I stand by its rediculousness. And why did I receive it?]

To Be Honest...

My favorite color is green. My favorite fast food is Wendy’s (which I have maybe 3 times a year). My favorite candy bar is a tie between Caramello and Heath. My favorite other candy is a Mallo-cup. My favorite gum is Orbit Spearmint. My favorite comfort food is haluski. My favorite comfort movie is Pete’s Dragon. My favorite all time movie is The Goonies. My favorite movie to just pop in and watch over and over is a tie between Blow and Goodfellas. My favorite aesthetic quality in men is brown hair and blue eyes. My favorite personality trait in men is a tie between a sense of humor and good manners. My favorite board game is Trivial Pursuit. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.

My least favorite color is a tie between red and yellow. My least favorite fast food (coincidentally) is McDonalds (and I have not eaten there in about 10 years). My least favorite candy bar is a Take Five (I like pretzels, I like chocolate; I don’t like them together). My least favorite other candy is anything licorice. My least favorite gum is Juicy Fruit. My least favorite comfort food is my mom’s hamballs (yuck – it even sounds gross, right?). My least favorite comfort movie is Demonic Toys (there’s a story to that). My least favorite movie ever is Bug. My least favorite movie that I continue to watch when it comes on is Christmas with the Kranks (sigh). My least favorite aesthetic quality in men is dirty nails. My least favorite personality trait in men is arrogance. My least favorite board game is Monopoly. My least favorite holiday is Christmas (bah-humbug).

There. We just had a simulated first date. What do you think?

Ya…me neither. Dating is stupid. And least favorite is an oxymoron.

Wasting Time

There are a few sites that I have been finding amusing lately; I thought I'd share them with, just in case you have time to waste too:

(The Customer is) Not Always Right - Short cuts of customer interactions that make you want to slap your head and wish this existed when you waitressed or worked at the Gap. Oh, that was me.


People of Wal-Mart Dear Christ, People like this really exist? The world really is ending. Hello idiocracy documentation 101.

Facebook Fails Putting on a show of all the dumb shit people say on facebook, just so we can laugh. All I have to say is: Moms on facebook = fail.

And for the holiday season: Sketchy Santas.

The Middle

I have been technically single since March. I have been seriously single since the end of June. And have been living on my own since August 1, 2009. After 6 months of sleeping alone in a queen size bed I used to share with a 6'4", 230 pound man, last night was the first night I took to sleeping in the middle of the bed.

I mainly did it because two of my four pillows are dying and shared duty fixed it, but it was a strange revelation none-the-less. Evidently, I'm still adapting to my single life. And it's not always easy. The middle of the bed is lonely. And cold. (Granted I have my entire bed up along the wall that shares the other side with winter; and the first snow of the season was Saturday.) I may get good use out of my electric blanket this year; however, I already added another blanket between my sheet and comforter - it felt very Carrie Bradshaw on the episode where she talks about the first day of fall and adding that extra comforter for warmth and new seasons and beginnings and blah blah blah. But it was, it was the first time it was cold enough to need the extra layer and the first time in 5 years that I needed it because there was no warmth of a man beside me.

While my bed took me six months to wriggle towards the middle and away from the door side, my food making skills took a shorter amount in some ways and I'm still working on it in others. Grocery shopping for just me was an adjustment; I went twice before I realized: Oh wait, it's just me - I don't eat nearly as much as "us". I also went into financial panic mode in that time and learned to survive on $50 a month for food. This has lead to scrambled egg dinners, testing if 5 day old tuna helper is still safely edible (it is), pop-tarts for dinner and dessert and freezing a lot of things. I made chili - which is typical for me when football starts. It's cheap and delicious. I made a vat - it was probably about 3 gallons - I froze more than half, which is still in there. The other night I was hungry and got home late from work, a simple meal of noodles and sauce turned into about a half gallon of spaghetti sauce - half of which I froze, and the other half which turned into lunch and dinner for about four days. (Then I went home for thanksgiving and my mom tried to feed me spaghetti...that was quickly vetoed with explanation.) In short, things with effort are still made with the capacity to feed a family of 4...or an army of 100. Perhaps I should work on that.

Although, I still think one day I'll have kids, so finding a balance between being able to actually cook for one (which I still have trouble with) and eating single people meals (which also just happen to typically be super cheap) might be a good thing. So maybe I'm more on top of this than I think...I'll need to consult my 13 boxes of cereal and get back to you.

No, really, I have 13 boxes of cereal right now...

Sexy Beards & Great Music

Recently I have developed this fond facination and inexplicable attraction to men with beards, al la Ray Lamontange (right).  Talk to me months ago and I would have said “yuck”. But the longish, “floppy” Seattle-based hair and longish mountain man beards is so sexy. I don’t know that I would enjoy kissing someone with all that scruffy goodness, but damn if it doesn’t make me want to. Or at least grab it and play with it a little.

I don’t know how long it will last, but it’s a good look and I like it and I’m never going to find that in DC, am I? With a city full of peacoats, ties and men who are overly full of themselves for no reason (but that’s another blog entirely), they wouldn’t be caught dead with a 5 o’clock shadow. Midnight shadow? Yes. 5o'clock, no. [Side note: Midnight shadow is my name of those beards that are just enough scruff (nice drapes, dude) to look like a beard but have no length and are kept pretty well trimmed as a “look”.]

Moving along with delicious (hello there), the Avett Brothers have some killer beards and floppy hair (most of the time). In addition to their total recent sex appeal (to me), they have amazing voices and songs. I’ve been told about them for a while by my ex, but nothing really resonated with me until their latest album: I and Love and You. Last night I came across this gem while scrounging for new music on iTunes - I fell in love in my allotted 30 seconds:



And while reading the comments on YouTube about how inexplicably amazing they are live that it makes their recorded songs pale in comparison, I looked up some live performances and came across this (no need to watch, just listen while you work):

 

Holy shit if this doesn’t make you go: Damn...beautiful. The three lives songs are great and show not  only their vocal and acoustic range – but their range as complete musicians from bluegrass to pop to a melodic love song with drippingly wet vocals. Goodbye Mr. Lamontange, I have new mountain man beards and gorgeous hair to drool over.

Gaga, you’re lovely, but I'll be back later.

The Ga!

In keeping with my love for Lady Gaga (or The Ga, as I like to call her), I found her leaked album (without having to sign up for an account). Click here to listen to her entire new album. Yes!

Not only does she refuse to lip-synch (Gossip Girl does not count), but she is willing to give her music away for free - and a week prior to her album (re)release. Ah, a woman the lives for her art and not just the money it has the potential to create. A true artist. She is so Andy Warhol-esque. And I love it.

I've been saying it for a while now, but she is the new queen. Madonna, you can go have a bon-bon and age gracefully now - your replacement has arrived, and like any good revision, she's a vast improvement because this girl can sing. And write some killer songs with infections beats.

But it's not like you didn't notice that already. Work it Gaga. Work it!

[Update: My top picks of the new songs are definately "Monster" and "Dance in the Dark" - aside from "Bad Romance", of course.]

If only this were a joke...

"There should be an application process to procreate."

Yes, yes there should. Sadly, it's the good ones that have the trouble makin' babies. This is why our country is doomed.

Obsessed

And I'm not talking about that God awful Mariah Carey song. No. Dear God, no.

However, I am currently obsessed with The Ga's new song: Bad Romance. I've been in love since winter and was the first to play her for all my friends (you're welcome, Rocket Bar circa January '09) and have played out her songs a little and couldn't be more excited for Fame Monster. I like music that makes me not care that I'm dancing in my airplane seat and the fat lady on the aisle seat is staring or that I'm rocking out in my car the the truck drivers slow down to laugh or be jealous that I can have that much fun by myself. Suck it CBLover1212, you'd dance too.



So I took my plane to Nashville to meet my niece - the cutest baby in the world - (as I lose ambiguity on my blog) and rock climb for the first time (since a friend non-blood relative of mine is a rather avid climber and has all the gear and know-how). And I'm obsessed. So addicted. So relaxing. I feel so refreshed. I'm more obsessed than the first time I heard Poker Face. (Do you know me? That's a lot.)



I've been waiting for my hobby to come along. Now, I just need a good man with a nice beard and a cute face underneath who can belay me and make cute, smart babies (so I don't have the ugly grandkids in the family). Too much to ask? Maybe so. For now, I'm going to focus on getting my next fix of climbing. I've been waiting for an addiction - now I just needs to figure out how to follow through. I'll muscle up in the meantime...starting tomorrow...:)

Past, Present and Dating

My past passed through a couple weeks ago. He apologized for everything. His general disposition over the past few years, under-appreciating me, not listening to my words or advice – all of which are proving to be correct. I wouldn’t say it wasn’t nice to hear, but I think at this point it’s kind of unnecessary; but I understand there are certain things certain people need to get off their chests. Another being that he is still trying to get over me and I did that long ago (while we were still living together, putting holes in walls with half-thawed frozen pizzas and breaking doors with my bare hands). He had hopes for us reconciling and getting back together, but he admitted he understood it was over now, as he said I looked “younger”.

“Younger?”

He hesitated to say it, than said, “Happy. You look happy.”

And I am. Thank you. I’m not the girl who throws pizzas through walls (though, I assure you, it’s a lot less impressive than it sounds). That girl was created by an entirely unhappy situation she was trying to force into a functioning whole. (See the pun?) I’m moving on; we both have a lot more growing up to do. That chapter is not closed, but altered. The ending is of friendship and love: About two people that spent some time growing together happily and growing apart painfully together, while understanding that life goes on and no one person is to blame. He is learning now everything I suggested when we were together, and I am learning you can't tell a person something, they just have to make mistakes and learn on their own. That’s life. And it goes on.

Speaking of going on (hi, obvious segue), I went on what I’m assuming was a “date” the other Friday night. At 10pm. In a Hyundai. This is the “date” I drunkenly agreed to go on, but had no recollection of saying; just a business card that fell out of my bra in the morning. Anyway, I think I almost died in the car ride to Georgetown, not so much from the specific driving itself, but from the mini-panic-attack his driving induced. That was slightly embarrassing. But, my God, if I’m not the only decent driver in the DMV!

The conversation was decent; realizing were both the youngest of 3 siblings of the same sex – of the same age (odd coincidence), then devolving into movie trivia (yesss!). I confused Boondock Saints with Sleepers…don’t judge me - I had 2 cosmos, 3 vodka tonics and no dinner. After drinks, he dropped me off and used my restroom (leaving the toilet seat up) and we watched Roseanne (sexy!) till 4am. That was it. A few problems though: 1. The toilet seat, 2. The Hyundai (I judge those, Kias and Daewoo’s), 3. Not walking to my left [correction] right [recorrection] left on the sidewalk (a lady should always be protected from traffic when walking on the sidewalk – take notes, boys) 4. He texted me Saturday night at 1am to hang out (smells like a booty call, doesn’t it? Hi, I barely know you = Bad impression and slightly insulting.) 5. Where’s my dinner? I’m not sure if just drinks counts as a date – I polled, people seem to think so, and, 6. 10pm? And this was arranged a few hours beforehand and you squeezed me in after dinner with your friend? Should I be impressed? I’m not. A little planning, a little initiative: I’m pretty stellar --- you didn’t notice? But, at least he opened the car door. If there’s a next time, I’m driving…

Now, who wants to go out on a date and take me for hibachi?! I’ve had a huge craving for like a week and I can’t afford it on my own and, well, let’s be honest, you can’t go to a hibachi place by yourself. That would be the sad story of the week: Attractive, Witty Female Sits Alone to Watch One Man Cooking Show at Table for Ten. Story at 11…

Blërg

My job is irritating me right now. I need stress, I need 800 things to do. I want to do my job, but I'm at a forced stop. (And a few weeks ago I was so busy.) "I don't have time for marketing," says the only other person in the department. ...seriously? Wow.

[bells go off]

That would be fine; I'm capable. Extremely capable, but roadblock...research, work, write...roadblock... stall...stutter... stop... Please, give me a minute, some info, a back-breaking load of work to do - it would make me smile.

Love the flow, hate the ebb.

I have so much more potential than this - but I'm stuck. I can social media and promote they daylights out my niche company, but YOU HAVE TO CLUE ME IN. I'm a PR professional, not an investigative reporter. *sigh*

"I'm gonna go talk to some food about this."

.

BoysBoysBoys

(written in conjunction with previous post)

I’m going to say boys here because I’ve yet to meet a man. Okay, that’s not fair, but fewer. However, to be honest, I’m not really looking, but what I’ve heard about the DC male population is not promising.

I feel like I’m at a county fair and this food all looks really good, but it either tastes like crap or the false promises of aesthetic appeal leads to an upset stomach and general irritation that I wasted $4 on that deep-fried Twinkie adorned with powdered sugar. Fuck the powdered sugar. Give me a tasteless rice cake that fills me.

I used to have this “Guy Qualifications” list. (Shut-up, I was 19!) Guidelines I made after my 2.5 year relationship. Posted to Xanga (Shut-up, I was 19!), my 4.5 year relationship read it and thought it was describing him. It wasn’t. (I mean, it did, but it wasn’t.) Very recently I realized that I must be maturing, as I tossed aside that list for a sudden revelation of the one qualification I will require in an everlasting love: Laughter.

Okay, okay: Brown hair, blue eyes, a college education, motivation, the desire for kids…and laughter. Actually, I might be willing to forgo these things for just the laughter. And non-reciprocated back rubs…and all his folded potato chips.

I realized that what went missing in my past failed relationships was laughter. Samantha Jones, in her infinite totally non-fictional wisdom, once said, “Sex is a barometer for the relationship”. Perhaps, but I think my barometer is laughing – and when I’m happy, all the other good things will follow.

I am grateful for no longer being in a broken relationship and trying desperately to make it work because for some reason maybe I thought it would be easier that way. Now, I would endure 500 heartbreaks to find someone that truly gets me and can make me laugh through my saddest of tears. This will be the man I love eternally.

Someday.

For now, I’m good alone. No worries or fights, no questions to be answered. For now, I’ll entertain the masses…and laugh along the way.

Happy

Back to the post I intended.

For years, I used to describe myself as always laughing. That description is finally becoming suitable again. When I first moved to DC it was extremely difficult. I left everything I knew and basically started over. I went from having family near and multiple circles of friends to having none (except an aunt who lives about an hour away). In a word or two: It sucked. But what goes up must come down – and in life, what is down, comes back up - unless you’re dead.

Now, I’m not uncomfortable with myself or my life anymore; quite the contrary, actually. There is no lie I’m living. I’m broke and I’m struggling financially…and I’m content. I’m independent. I thought it would be so hard to be alone; to have someone next to you nightly for 5 years and to lose it…but it’s not. I crawl into bed proud of myself, my solace. Proud of my independence; proud knowing that I can make a life for myself, by myself and I don’t need anyone else. No In Case of Emergency Contact; just me. It’s just me…and I’m happy.

I’m getting it together. I’m laughing again. And I’m loving every minute of it.

*knock on wood*

Not the Post Intended*, but Thumbs-Up 26

This past weekend I celebrated my birthday. I played some vodka/rum pong with my roommate at home (in which I womped him. Like 4 – 5 cups in a row); I think he won 1 of 8 – and we had 2 O.T.’s, pat on the back. The skills I learned as a teen are coming back. Watch out, bitches!

This unfortunately led to fat face on Saturday night at my birthday thing, as I was out looking for something to wear all Saturday with a lovely new friend and didn’t have time rehydrate. Alas, all I returned with was a new hairdryer from TJ Maxx. But aside from fat face, the evening was a lot of fun – despite the false RSVPs from some folks…the important people were there and made it a good time. (So thanks for that.)

However, towards the end of the night a douche decided to take off his hat and spray people with his sweat by shaking his head. YOU DO NOT SHARE BODILY FLUIDS IN PUBLIC, DUDE. This, to me, was the equivalent of peeing on someone, or bleeding in their eye – so I took it upon myself to let him know. My roommate quickly learned that I don’t really need help with my battles; you 3 boys want to fight me? Really? How good of an idea do you think that is? Have you seen my evil eye? How about my Polish temper or quick wit? Oh, I won? You walked away? Good, go spray someone else with your grossness. That’s just rude; I just wanted to let you know.

Anyway, so a small group of us left at closing and went back to my place to play pong. I remember putting four of us in the back of a cab and that’s it because it was then that the free end-of-the-night shots and the V-8/vodka mix that was pulled by my friend from the bushes outside the bar appeared…then disappeared, kicked in. So, I’m told we played pong – till 5am. Six hours later I wake up and the other three folks who came over decided we would all go golfing – only Always Sunny style – as in drinking wine from a box out of a can, al la Frank’s intervention. I laughed so hard my stomach ached throughout the day.



I needed a day like that. Maybe we all did, because we decided to get wings after, then ninja into a Giant that closes at 10pm at 10pm to get a case of beer to continue the fun at my friend’s apartment which turned into me and the other gal dressing in snowsuits the guys had got from a local thrift shop. (That's normal. People do that, right?) I meant to leave, but I stayed till 7am. Then I went home to get to work by 10am. Only when I went outside, my car was gone. My friend hadn’t put the visitor pass on like I’d thought – so off to the impound we went. Then off to work. That’s one of those days…or weekends…I would happily do over and over – kind of like the one back in June where we impromptu-ly went from one House Party/BBQ to another.

So, so far 26 is off to a good start. I mean, 25 2.0 – a few more weekends like this and maybe 26 and I can be BFF’s…or at least BF365’s.


*Intended Post Forthcoming.

Hello 26.

This month I enter my 26th year of life. I anticipate a wishful year full of self-discovery, self-deprecations, life lessons and clinging on for dear life to my mid-twenties. You're officially here and I'll embrace you, but you're only as old as you feel - and I feel 24...that's close enough. 24 3.0, here I come!

Immature (Aspiring) Politico, A.K.A., Fucking with Public Relations

Dear World, Don't fuck with people who do PR for a living. Also, if you are a company or your name is your commodity, be very kind to them-it will serve you well. You have no idea the power good PR personnel possess (when they want to).

On a very related note, I had the extremely unfortunate experience of meeting a PA State Rep. tonight. It being 4:26am, it was more like an hour ago. You see, I went to the local college's homecoming to the frat of an ex, ex of mine to see friends. Because, also, you see, I used to hang out there junior and senior year of high school (and a little throughout college) so I'm still friends with quite a few of those guys. And being home for the weekend, I dropped by to see them upon request.

Well, afterward some went to Eat'n'Park - mmmm - and as much as I wish now that I hadn't, I joined (but damnit, I love and miss Eat'n'Park). There was an unfamiliar face at the table. After one friend mentioned his first name I put a full name to the face, which I knew from Facebook and the fact that a friend from high school ran against him in the last election.

So let's keep this in mind: A FRIEND OF MINE RAN AGAINST HIM IN A POLITICAL RACE. This I told him, to follow with: I heard you used state money to pay for prostitutes. (Repeat: heard.)This seemed like a ridiculous part of a smear campaign, especially considering this guy had won a second term in office - or is it a third - I don't care because I DON'T KNOW HIM. And I harbored no ill-intent, so I thought maybe he'd get a good chuckle out of it and move on. I was wrong.

This fucking conversation went on...and on...and on...and on. So much so that 1. I started to ignore it 2. I tried to laugh it off 3. I felt bad for the rest of the people at the table 4. Did I mention I tried to ignore it but he wouldn't stop? and 5. I apologized if I hurt his feelings; as it wasn't my intention, as I tried to explain myself (as he cut me off). At this point - I feel I was being the bigger person - okay, evidently I hit a nerve. Although why would someone be so defensive about something if it weren't true? 1. Hello, you're in the public eye, GET USED TO IT; grow a thicker fucking skin, 2. Did I mention I thought this had been in the paper so I wasn't aware it wasn't old news? And 3. To me it had blown over since HELLO, HE WON AGAIN.

Nope. Wrong again. This jackass attacked me for the next hour and unrelenting to my non-responses and sporadic fevered leave-me-the-fuck-alone-about-it responses. Like WOULD. NOT. SHUT. UP. He refused to drop it. He even went so low as to attack my friend his former opposition. Again, I refused to respond and fuel the fire, but he continued unrelenting even as he was walking out the door. I felt like I was fighting with my 5-year-old cousin - if I had a 5-year-old cousin and he was a complete spoiled shit.

So I pose the question, PA, America: These are the kinds people you have voted for, running the country state local areas? And you wonder why we're in a shit situation? Can I tell you (parts of) southwest Pennsylvania, that you have a completely immature, bald-headed, 5-year-old cousin that willingly yells across Eat-n-Park's at 4 in the morning to a person who has already reluctantly apologized just to be able to drop it, representing you in Harrisburg? Because you may want to know that...and rethink your voting strategy.

Oh, and in addition to being a complete dick erratically immature not nice, evidently he is also unaware that paragraphs are suppose to have three full sentences in them. Good blog [link removed] though, dip. And this will be my third for good measure.



P.S. State Rep., You're welcome I didn't mention your name in this so it won't pop-up on searches. Also, you're welcome for the traffic to your "professional" blog that includes incomplete paragraphs complete with images of crass cartoon characters. I hope for the sake of Washington, Beaver and Allegheny counties, they provide a more mature replacement. That, or you grow a pair. Also, your twitter [link removed] lied - you were at homecoming, at least the tail end. Way to focus on that initiative. Perhaps you should hire a good PR person.

[Edit: It was requested that this blog be removed by a friend of the Rep.; it will not. I received an apology from Mr. Rep, which I appreciate but does not make up for how uncomfortable and small I was made to feel - particularly because I made the effort to apologize first and was simply told "I don't like you" in return. However, as a favor to a friend and not the person in question, I will remove the links. I did warn Rep. not to piss off PR people, but this is as far as I will take it on account of my friend and the apology - which I'm certain I would have never received were it not for the power of social media.]

This Moment of Pointless Fiction Brought to You by Colorblind on my iPod

He sat down beside her - staring, perplexed. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, bending her head down for her hair to shield the welling tears in her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, still staring.

Silence permeated the room. She felt hopeless and sad. He felt confused and concerned.



He breaks the silence, “I love you,” he says quietly to her shield of hair. She pauses.

“You say that now?” she bats back as she turns to look at him.

Taken aback by her unexpectedly curt response, he stops to think, then says confidently, “Yes. Yes I do. I have wanted to say it for years. Years. And your vulnerability is my opportunity”.

She sniffles and stops to wonder if this should offend her; if he is taking advantage in her moment of weakness – or if he has been the third wheel waiting for her for years; waiting for this small window of opportunity. She wipes the tears from her eyes and tucks her short strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. She speaks softly to him, “Really?”

“Yes,” he says, as he puts his hand on her damp cheek and moves his thumb just so to caress her pale, soft skin. “You are so intense, so closed, yet, in the moment, so exposed. I have been furtively in love with you for years. But your sadness exposed is my suppressed feelings realized. I love you. I always have. And in this rawest of moments, I love you more.”

“Thank you,” she replies, as she gets up to clean the palette of melted colors from her face. “Would you like a sandwich?”





["colorblind", counting crows]

Being Set Up to Fail

I just checked my bank account. I’m freaking out. I’m writing to cope. And seek commiseration.

I am going to 26 next week. I have a master’s degree. I have had the same job for two years. And after my rent, I will have $145 in my bank account. And $96,000 of debt: including approximately $84,000 in school loans. (And if one more person calls that "good debt" - they're walking away with a black eye.)

I have nothing lavish. I don’t spend money freely. I shop at Marshall’s, Gabes, TJ Maxx, Ross and outlets. I am a size 4 now and my clothes are all 6 or 8. I look like a schmuck. I have a dock for my refurbished iPod that no longer works properly with it. I know, a silly example – but I think it demonstrates my frugality. I buy things I know I will use, but I find a cheaper way to do it; and despite wanting something that will so obviously work better, I stick with what I have. Because I know I can't afford anything else. (And yes, I know, some people can't even afford these things, but I work hard and I'm talking about me and not them, damnit.)

I live life on the cheap. But it never seems cheap enough. And it’s all sans reward. More like punishment.

I feel like a hamster on a wheel; set up to fail. I’m not going anywhere. I’m running and running (with no break, no vacation) and I just get more broke. More broken.

This furlough killed me. And I’m straining to recover. I know I thought that October would be my God sent, but alas, it is not the case. It is a pinhole light at the end of an ever-growing tunnel.

***

A Polish coworker and I had a discussion a few months ago; he cannot understand why Americans are so in debt and so eager to be in debt. Well, obviously, when I was a little girl I decided that when I was 26 I wanted to be 100k in the hole with a good education, $145 in the bank and nothing else. I had to explain that while European countries pay for students' universities, The States does no such thing. He looked perplexed and asked why people don’t just wait to go until they can afford it. “My undergrad was $16,000 a year – so by the time I could have saved that, I would have been into my 40s.”

“Oh.”

Oh. Yes. Oh. And if that wasn’t enough (even though my parents helped with undergrad), I decided I needed a masters degree because, let’s be honest, a bachelor’s mean less and less these days. And I needed to make the big bucks to send my kids to school. Talk about a plan fail. Perhaps I should have weighed my 60+k Grad school debt?

***

The other day I saw an ad for a documentary about “America’s addiction to debt” and I think that statement is such fucking bullshit. I hate debt. I want to burn my credit card. But when you have school loans and you’re still making shit (relative to cost of living; my rent is $900) and working and you have a $500 insurance deductible, and then your (ex)boyfriend you’re living with loses his job, and you need to put stuff on the card to make sure you can make it and rack of more bills after JUST finishing paying off an $8,000 card accrued from school things, it’s hard to understand how we can’t get into debt.

Debt is cast upon us by our government and big business. Cash for Clunkers? More like: Oh, you own your car outright; how about you trade that in for $15,000 worth of debt you can pay off with interest for the next 4 years? And education; if that’s not the biggest of big business.

But here’s what: You can’t make anything as to not accrue debt UNLESS YOU GO TO SCHOOL FIRST AND ACCRUE DEBT. Hi. What the fuck? And the government’s “federal loans"? I’m still paying twice as much in interest right now as I am to the actual principle. And after what little choice (see below) I had in consolidation, it’s still $600 a month - and that’s after the interest decrease since the economy tanked. (So when inflation comes back as a badass – I’m totally fucked. Oh, and I can’t defer it because after a Federal ruling the only way to consolidate was through the government and the only way to defer is if you have proof of unemployment - so Federal debt wins again.)

Except you know who doesn’t have to go into debt in order to go to school in order to not accrue debt? The rich. And who’s rich? The government and big business. See how that works? Poor middle class – help, we’re sinking!! When my kids grow up and other kids ask about their heritage, I’m just going to have them say: Middle Class. My family used to be Middle Class - and damn proud of it.

***

Now pardon me while I take my good education and two years worth of hard work resulting in $145 in the bank and a $4,500 credit card bill and crouch in the corner and cry. I hate money. I really, really – I just hate it. I don’t need nice things; just to live. Just to make it. Is that so hard, Obama, et al.? Stop helping current college students and help the recent fucking grads.

WE STRUGGLE. (Or is it just me?)

Catcalling

Any mildly to wildly attractive female gets catcalled, right? Actually, I suppose I really don’t understand the requirements of a catcall. All I really know is that it happens to me...a lot.

Once I was walking down the street during undergrad and got yelled at out of a car window: “NICE TITS”. What do you do with that? What is that accomplishing? It’s like a drive-by ass slap I can’t do anything about. (Kinda like the time someone actually slapped my ass, then RAN INTO THE MEN'S BATHROOM TO HIDE.)

In fact, about 70% of catcalls I get are from a car: Be it beeping, whistling, or some other form of stupid male expression – YOU ARE IN A CAR. What if I stopped and responded? Are you gonna stop and park the car? And then there's the other 30% in the form of sidewalk passerby’s: "Ohh damn girl", or a whistle, or the "Hey Sexy". Or the eye-fuck. Ugh, the eye-fuck. Let’s not, okay? Obviously, nothing comes of either - in fact, I'd have to say both forms are a deterrent. I just can't understand the point.

Although, however much of an obnoxious deterrent I have found catcalls for the past decade, I question them now. As in: Wow, that was fucking annoying and pointless and I’m a feminist and you just objectified the shit out of me, but I must look halfway decent. What happens when the catcalls stop? Am I old? Ugly? Undesirable?

Perhaps a man’s catcall is a woman’s baby talk. Women inherently talk to babies a certain way as it helps with their development; maybe men catcall women to --- actually, there’s nowhere for this to go. I’m still lost in the world of beeps, damn girl’s, whistles and drive-by eye-fucks.

But at least I know I look cute in that dress…

PSA

Recently it has been brought to my attention that a few entries in here make me look less like a responsible 25 year old with a stable (*kow*) job and a Masters degrees from a good, expensive private university, and more like a fumbling idiot blonde. This is not the case.

But really though – don’t all the good stories worth sharing usually involve drinking? I mean, I can tell you about how I spent the day fussing with Photoshop and Illustrator because people seem to forget what my degree is ACTUALLY in, and just task me for everything. “Oh, I thought you were the graphics guru”. Um, sure – compared to you, but have I ever needed an .ico file? I think not. But who wants to hear about that?

So let’s just set this straight: In high school I was a good student - I drank then too. (Ahh, so ILLEGAL. Shut up!) I even took 2 math classes my sophomore year so I could take honors physics my junior year. And my toothpick bridge? It was 300% efficient – the best out all of the classes. So suck it you Ivy Leaguers!

I graduated a good university Magna Cum Laude. I even took out extra loans to take COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY summer classes so that I could earn a certificate in American Sign Language before I graduated in a year – a feat I was warned against doing; and no one had ever done before. But I did…just because I wanted to. A year later I got my Masters. I even got a 3.5 GPA. I started my job I have now two weeks later.

I'm a good employee. I work 40-50 hours a week. So I work hard…and I play hard moderately. But damnit, I am responsible enough for a single 25 year old; I'm just sharing the funny parts with you. And yup, drunk stories provide the best material. So don't judge, just enjoy the fruits of my drunken labor. :)

We now return to your regular programming…

And When I Woke Up My Mouth Tasted Like Stupid Decisions

In yet another round of stupid drunk decisions, I ended up back at the bartender's couch place. And left very shortly after for expressing that there would be no relations happening. Then why would you go back there, you ask? Because, as I discovered in a discussion about the on-goings of yet another messy Saturday night, my general indecision in life leads to awkward situations in Drunkland. Evidently, in not making any decision on my own, it takes me to wherever whoever I’m with is going. I know, it sounds bad – but I suppose it depends on the company you keep. Historically, mine has been good. Here and there it’s has totally hic-cupped. But I have a plan.

From now on, before I get drunk, I will have a plan of action in mind. Perhaps I’ll set an alarm. But I think that if maybe I make choices before I go to decision-less drunk, I might just make it home without a 3 to 4 hours walk around the District. And how did you end up on a 4 hour trek through the District, you ask? Well, friends, after the no relations comment, it was suggested it was time for me to leave. I agreed whole-heartedly, called him an “asshole” as a shut the door behind me and started on my walk to – well, I suppose I was walking to my car. My plan was to eat some of the food I have in my trunk from the grocery store a few weeks ago (don’t ask) and sleep there till the morning. (Cause, damnit, I’m broke and a cab is like 15-20 bucks!)

I started at 40th and something, far from anything – really. My car was at 21st and L. Normally I would use my phone's GPS, but my phone was conveniently dead as of 12:19am. So, on my own, I made it up to Wisconsin and 34th. I walked back and forth a lot and thanks to time traveling, do not remember the bulk of it. For miles. Proof: My calves are still sore – and rather unforgiving. Chances are I started walking at about 4am (since we went to an after-hours bar before I walked in and out of his door). I decided it was time give up the search and catch a cab when I noticed the sun was rising. (Thankfully, on account of an unplanned, though very social day involving a haircut, a winery, a bbq and then the bar - for all of which I was sober for up until 1:30am, I was wearing a shirt and a hoodie with flip-flops, so I looked like maybe walking around alone at 4am and 5am and 6am and 7am wasn’t so weird.) So I flagged down one of like two cabs out at that time.

While in the cab, reading the meter tick my money away, I looked in my wallet only to discover that ALL OF MY MONEY AND CREDIT CARDS WERE GONE! Fuck! Freaking out commences. “Excuse me, cabbie. Someone stole all my money and cards, I need to go home instead because I have money there.” So we turn around from where we just came from. I watch the meter tick my backtracking.

Five minutes later I’m still frantically searching for my money because why would someone steal my license too, right?! I check my bra – where I often tuck things like cash and cards - and viola! EVERYTHING WAS THERE. Thank you, Left Breast. In the moments of pulling my life back out from Victoria's Secret, I remember that I had earlier taken everything out of my wallet and put it in my bra, just in case I got mugged. Although, seriously, I remember seeing one other person the whole time. But, you know me: Safety first. Obviously.

So $14.75 later, I’m home. I think I downloaded a song. Then I realize my iPod is gone. FUCK! I tweet. Then I roll into bed and pass out at about 8am. The sun is out. At 12 noon I wake up suddenly for no reason, still slightly drunk (I would have been sleeping in my car for a while) and something dawns on me! So I check my other bra cup. MY iPOD! Rock on. Thank you, Right Breast. I fall back asleep till 3:12pm. My roommate takes me to get my car later that day. I drive around contemplating my life when I decide that pre-drinking plan-of-actioning is the new way to go. Oh, and I can no longer go to that bar.

Way to go, dumbass.

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

I started watching IASIP in first season, catching an episode here and there. The second season I was addicted. I have been promoting this show entirely since I developed my love for it - and that's how it's grown so much by now: word of mouth. Because it's that AWESOME.

And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, buy this, this and this immediately and then get back to me. Because if you don't watch - and love - the show, then we can't be friends.

A few weeks ago a feed from the IASIP Facebook group said that there was a live musical of "The Nightman Cometh" from a season 4 episode and tickets were on sale the next day. I grabbed up two tickets before they sold out in under 3 minutes for the Philly showing. (There were only 5 showings nationwide.) Happy (early) Birthday to me!

So my friend and I drove up yesterday and the show was fucking hilarious! Hopefully these vids last, but here are a few from the clips I got yesterday. (Video was my SD1000 so it's a little blurry.) Enjoy (I know I did!!!):

Boy & Troll


Troll Toll


Dayman

Charlie Proposes/End


And I can check cheese steak off my bucket list. And, honestly, it tasted like a Hot Pocket. Primantis > Cheesesteaks. Now go watch some more Always Sunny!

PS. There's an Always Sunny Christmas DVD we got to preview at the show: Looks ridiculous, per usual. Sweet.

Bucket List

Last summer I created a Bucket List while blogging on humzoo.com. The strike-thrus are what have been. Anything after 65 is new. (If someone can tell me how to get this list as a permanent gadget, that would be awesome.)

Wednesday, June 25th, 2008
Before I die/in life...


I’m sure I’ll make additions, but, here goes.

My list of things I want to do before I die, or rather in life, I want to:

1. Go to California
2. Tour Alcatraz
3. Take a Diner Road Trip
4. Eat Authentic Southern Fried Green Tomatoes
5. Try Gumbo
6. Gamble in Vegas
7. Snorkel in Hawaii
8. Find my great-grandparents corner store in London and take a picture in front of it (or where it used to stand)
9. Vacation/honeymoon in the Virgin Islands
10. Be someone’s Mentor
11. Be someone’s boss
12. Have a baby…or 4
13. Get married
14. Find my TRUE passion
15. Document my pregnant belly as it grows (God willing)
16. Live in a house with a pool
17. Swim with dolphins
18. Attend a Charity event & donate
19. Find a job I LOVE
20. Invent/co-Invent something
21. Go camping (again)
22. Own a house
23. Plant Lily-of-the-Valleys along an entire side(s) of my house
24. Go white water rafting
25. Canoe/kayak on the Potomac
26. Take a paddle boat ride on the Title Basin
27. Tango (well) to Por una Cabeza
28. Go salmon fishing in Alaska
29. Plan a nice wedding for under 5k
30. See the Grand Canyon
31. Horseback ride on the beach
32. Get a professional, head to toe, massage
33. Have a “spa day” with family
34. Make a difference
35. Paint on the National Mall (area) - don’t be afraid if people watch
36. Do one selfless task a week for a year
37. Eliminate my debt
38. Get a Nursing degree
39. Have a Free Yard Sale
40. Finish a marathon
41. Try (indoor) rock climbing
42. Go wine tasting
43. Eat a pomegranate
44. Eat a real Philly cheesesteak
45. Visit the San Diego Zoo
46. Go to Baltimore Aquarium
47. Drink a $25+ drink
48. Go to Hershey Park
49. Eat a meal that’s $100+/plate
50. Feed an elephant
51. Ride in a helicopter
52. Wear my senior prom dress to an event
53. Have my picture in the newspaper/magazine
54. Be a movie extra
55. Learn to play guitar (for real)
56. Re-learn the violin, figure out fiddlin’
57. Start/co-found an organization/business
58. Type 100 WPM
59. Spend a day giving money and/or food to panhandlers
60. Create/find heirlooms to pass down to my children
61. Cook a Holiday meal for my family, by myself
62. Own land and use it
63. Hug a stranger
64. Make a quilt like my mom's
65. Live near family (and have weekly get-togethers)
66. See Les Misérables (in London)
67. See a show on Broadway in NYC
68. Take a ride on the Savannah Slow Ride
69. See the Beatles "Love" Cirque (in Las Vegas)

Blonde Moment

...and with the COO standing over my shoulder I abbreviated Manufacturer Parts to Man. Parts.

Think he noticed?

Dear Value City Asshat...

Last week I saw an ad for a $39 dresser - or chest of drawers rather - at Value City Furniture. So I go there and see it; it's small, but will work for the crap that won't fit in my main dresser since I threw out the dresser I picked up by a dumpster before moving to DC. (Not the first time I hauled away trash as a treasure...and probably not the last.) I evaluated it for a moment and asked if it came in pieces (like Ikea); the guy said "No, just the knobs". I take an extra 10 seconds to examine it before I decide it can fit in my Mazda3 (4-door), and buy one.

I go to pick it up today and a foreign man dollies out my dresser in it's little cardboard packing (not even a box, just a piece of cardboard on top, bottom and wrapping around the front). He looks at me, looks at my car and says "This is not going to fit" in that tone and expression of you stupid little woman.

I HATE THAT FACE. Fucking sexism. Fucking cultural differences.

So I simply say, "Can we take off the packaging?"

"Yes. But it won't fit."

"Do you have box cutters?"

"Yes. But this is not going to fit in your car."

OH. MY. GOD. I stay calm: "Yes it will. Just take it out of the box."

The stupid little woman face overtakes his entire body as he drops his head and shoulders while he starts to take off the packaging. I get in the car to pull up the passenger seat so it fits behind easily. He picks it up and starts to push it in with no problem, and as I start to pull from the bottom as I'm in the car, he starts the sentence "Pull it from the--" and halts when he notices I have a brain big enough to have started helping already and just finishes the sentence with: "Yea". 30 seconds into this wholly intense (*sarcasm alert!*) struggle since OMG THIS WAS NEVER GOING TO FIT CAUSE MY BRAIN IS TOO SMALL TO CALCULATE DIMENSIONS OF MY CAR! the dresser was in my back seat (not even the trunk) without incident. And then I hear him say lightly "You got lucky." Sigh. So:

Dear Value City Furniture Doubter,

That's not called "luck", it's called "intelligence". Twat.

Signed,
A Female Who is Generally Always Right

P.S. Suck it. And welcome to America.

P.P.S. Also, please note that I carried the dresser out of my car and into my apartment by myself. Whoa! Beauty, brains and the strength to kick your ass carry a dresser.

Never Forget (but continues to wonder)

Can we cure the world with laughter? Certainly not, but it sure does help. I wonder if the Swiss are funny. How do you make it so you just slip on by without anyone bothering you in the world? I feel as though they must have some good jokes.

“No, Germany, don’t bomb us!”

“Why not?”

“Well, have you heard the one about the horse and the condom…”

I know today is a very significant day. But I guess I am missing how staying angry over something is getting us anywhere; that spewing hate is contributing the US’s “fight on terrorism”. Violence breeds violence. And anger will eat at your soul.

I cannot begin to express my gratitude toward the servicemen and servicewomen of the United States. Nor will ever understand how truly devastating it must have been to lose someone on that day – or because of that day. I have been fortunate. And I am thankful.

9/11 is our parent’s JFK assassination. We all remember exactly where we were that day; in each moment that mattered. And we will never forget.

Ironically, the guy I was dating at that time in 2001 (who was in the reserves), had a status on Facebook today. It read: Today let us remember that they brought the fight to us. COWARDS MURDERED almost 3000 INNOCENT Americans before we even mobilized. You fucking bastards wanted in, well now you are here...and so are we. We won't quit, we won't lose......, WE WILL CONTINUE TO FUCK YOU UP, ANYWHERE, ANYTIME. We won't rest until EVERY lost soul is avenged with your blood...

My response: I'm not sure the Taliban check facebook.

I don’t know what reaction I was expecting from an ultra-conservative group (nothing, really - I guess I don't think sometimes), but, you are speaking to the terrorists first person, via Facebook. This doesn’t seem a touch silly? Granted, I agree with what he says – not so much how or the medium - but my comment was neutral enough...I thought. A moment to lighten the mood should not translate to a moment of disrespect.

Eight years ago today was an awful day in American history, but at some point we have to move forward. Strangely placed anger and strong reactions to silly quips is not the answer. My response wasn’t a slam or a slight – it was a silly observation that the terrorists are not reading Facebook. Come'on, that’s a funny mental imagine. We can laugh about slapping a bitch, or Chris Brown beating Rhianna, or rape or racism or sexism - but a terriorist checking Facebook? YOU’VE GONE TOO FAR!

Laughter is a medicine, not a sin. I’m not making small of the issue. But am I the only one that uses laughter in times sadness? If I die tomorrow, can someone please tell a joke in my eulogy?

Know Me, Then Hate Me

Here is what needs to happen: I need people to stop assuming they know me. Why is it that today's society thinks that meeting someone or hanging out a few times is to know them? Hello, McFly?!

In my life, rarely am I being serious and my dry humor is often lost. I'm not really gonna punch you in the face. It’s a joke. A joke.

In contrast, I will tell you the truth. If your shirt is ugly, I will not hesitate to say so; and if it’s nice, I will say it's nice. I appreciate when this honesty is appreciated: "I come to you because I know you will tell me the truth: How do I look?"

"Good. And thank you for noticing."

A friend boyfriend ex-boyfriend friend once said: “How you were described to me prior to ever meeting you: ‘She's a bitch when you first meet her, but if you can deal with her at first, she's great.’” Fair (to know me is to love me *ping*); but at least at that time (and place) in my life people took the time to actually learn to know one another. Now, I’m left wondering if this is a lost art. Are we no longer interested in actually taking the time to truly know another person? The complexities of their life, their personality and - dare I say it - their soul?

I feel as though I’m spending my twenties sadly forgetting my past connections, as the river of life pushes us into different estuaries, and missing any new ones. Now, at 25, I find myself frustrated that the public is so quick to judge. The ignorance of some people, particularly educated people, is palpable. And it is quickly becoming apparent that those who are less educated are far more welcoming, patient and accepting than those with a college education. Has schooling deluded graduates into thinking they know more than anybody ever could without inquisition? Or are they just too lazy to take the time to inquire?

It is my understanding hope that we have something to learn from everyone we encounter: Born-Agains, drug addicts, homeless, young, old, rich, poor. No one person is better than another person. Just different. And until we take the time to truly understand someone, we cannot pass judgment...or appreciate their worth. Each life has a path; and each path, regardless of outcome, has a history of lessons - and fall backs, and triumphs - and listening to them is a lost art.

I want to bring that back. I want to understand. I want to be understood. I want that wholesome, innocent, childhood curiosity of human nature to permeate the air of my twenties.

But alas, I feel outcast in a city so loveless. So "educated", yet too quick to judge. And I'm getting more frustrated by the minute...

At least get to know me before you hate me. (Thanks Samantha Jones)

Speaking of: Exhibit A

So the last blog I said that the stories in my life are ridiculous. Well. Yes.

Exhibit A: I went out on Sunday, thinking it was Saturday, on account of my lazy Saturday (see, I tried to be good; even got shit for it) and day off Monday. I realized an hour after the Metro closed at 12, that the Metro, in fact, closed at 12 because it was, in fact, Sunday and not Saturday. (Evidently, I didn't learn anything from that, as yesterday I tweeted that it was Sunday.)

Right, so, Saturday Sunday, I went out in Dupont with some friends who were down from Pittsburgh. Hi Guys. They decided at about 1am, against my warning that the bar would be closed when they got there (and it was), to go to VA to meet up with someone else who'd come from a wedding. VA being further away from my humble abode - and it being late and I had to take a cab home and all - I decided to stay where I was.

This being the same bar that I blame for my stolen paintings, I apparently had made friends with the bartenders. Who knew? (Not me.) So, I'm a fun drunk? (Well, that's good at least.) So I stayed. The bartender had xBox set up "for [his] friends". He invited me to play, even though I have never played an xBox before. (I know, welcome to the 21st Century.) We played Tiger Woods Golf as he kindly made sure my glass was never more than half empty. And how is it that taste aversions to all kinds of beverages have developed for me over the years, but never vodka tonics? Or Jager. Both of which were happily consumed. Not that I particularly remember it all. But they were. Deliciously.

Drinks consumed, xBox played, game over; I was only 2 points under him (go me!), then memory fades. Yes, that's fucking right, my memory fades when I drink. And, Sidebar: Thank you all for your concern in reply to my Time Traveling post. But I am not an alcoholic because my memory hiccups when I drink. Some people slur. Some drunk dial. Some are unbalanced. Some fall. Some cry. Some text. Some pee the bed. I do none of these things; I simply forget. Completely (seemingly) coherent, just forgetful.(Okay, well, usually seemingly coherent, auto-pilot, whatever you want to call it, but when alcohol is freely flowing, that's just an unfair advantage: Like a tiger vs. a kitten.)

Oh my, so many tangents today. Back to the story: Self-refilling drinks. xBox. Memory fade.

(Mom, earmuffs!)

I wake up the next day thinking "Ahh, my bed is comfortable". I open my eyes and my beige walls are suddenly peach. Well, that's not right. I search my brain for some snippet of information as to how I ended up on a plaid couch under 2 comforters. Slowly, I sit up on the couch, feeling less than good and remembering that I may have lost a touch of dignity the night before (not the slutty kind, I'm not like that. thankyouverymuch. I threw up in his kitchen sink. Much better, right?!) and I needed a good teeth brushing (and not for that either. Geez, you guys. I'm a lady. It was just the sink.).

So I try to gather my thoughts and I remember that I was with someone. Somewhere. I look around the room. No photos. Boxes of Jager stuff; that's odd. But no information to help me know exactly whose couch I woke up on at noon on Labor Day. So, I get up, go pee. Still, nothing. I sit back down on a chair and notice some mail to my left. I pick it up. A name! Ah-ha! I realize I'm at the bartender's apartment. I'll give that a minute to sink in...


I take a moment to tweet: *this* is where I woke up? really?? really?? ...damn. I get up to look outside; trying to figure out exactly where I am. Trees and an oddly familiar feeling. Oh! I remember he told me where he lived. Ah-ha! so now I have a name and location. So sleuth. But I can't go outside looking like I got dragged behind a slightly slutty pick-up truck, so I grab some touch-up make-up I have tucked in my (obviously) going-out purse. I wipe off the dark eyeshadow. I touch up my face a bit and dab the sleep away with some powder.

Still, no one is up. No noises. (I think he was waiting for me to leave. Who knows? I would.) I poke around the kitchen looking for a gumband - my hair is atrocious. I find one in a drawer along with some more Jager paraphernalia. I put my hair up, I gather my things (dignity aside) and head outside. I sit on a curb under a tree.

Yes, that's right, I'm in a short dress that's sexy, yet tasteful, I've got my little clutch purse and 5 inch cork heels (kinda like this) sitting on the curb beside me. A bus passes - I turn my head to the side. I text around a minute; assess the situation. This is not a cab friendly street and it's Labor Day and Monday. The chance of me getting a cab without walking my sorry ass 8 embarrassing blocks is more than unlikely. I call my friend. He laughs at me as I say "I'm in ***** Park and I need not to be". 40 minutes, 3 more buses and turned heads and a couple of This is my life?'s later, I'm in his car. (Thank you. Thank you. A million thank yous!)

I facebook message said bartender later that day. (Knowing his full name from his mail; though I wonder if he wonders how I know his last name.) I apologize for my general ridiculousness and thank him for the use of his couch then signed, hungover and slightly embarrassed. He messaged back no problem or something like that. Good guy. (And to be fair we had met a few times prior so he wasn't a complete stranger.) So you know what that means, right? I can go back to that bar now. As a friend put it "that bar will either ruin you, or make you a legend". Next time, I'll be sure to have some cab fare.

We'll See Where It Goes

(that's what she said)

As is applicable to my professional life, I have decided to try to promote my blog. Not so much that I think people want to hear what I have to say – although being a newly single professional 20-something in DC may be prove to be quite interesting – but more that I’m curious how much traffic I can actually get (you know, since I'm writing all this anyway). My goal: Reach 5,000 readers in a year.

I have registered my domain and reviewed a number of tracking sites starting this week, e.g. Alexa, Viralogy, Site Meter. Aside from keeping my mother and (eventually) new potential employers from my blog, I’m pretty much open to the world. I’m currently checking out and registering other social media networking sites. It becomes quite interesting to discover what is out there once you start looking: e.g. 20sb. We’ll see how that one pans out.

Internet activity is key to building a readership. To get people to return to your blog, you have to have good content: My life is chalk full of ridiculous situations and less-than-believable-yet-true stories, so as long as people are interested in the rest of the TFLN, I think I’m good. I just have to get them here first: So inter-web activities require increase. Phase one suggests minimal activity. Phase two increases activity. Phase three…well, let’s see where two gets us. This is an on-going experiment project.

Social media is being overly stimulated, but I give it a year for that to die down. However, despite the overuse of new media at the moment, the value of properly used social and viral media is astounding. Really, though. I could call this practice, a research project, or an experiment; but for the moment, I’ll call it a hobby plus lexical therapy and documented memories (since my memory is so good).

I'll keep the Internets updated. Until then, enjoy that shot of Ginkgo in your smoothie.

Idiocracy

Echo Delta fluffs Oprah Arms. No one wants to see that. Hypothetically.

It’s remarkable how some men boys people will take what is available over what is amazing. We go to the grocery store now to buy our eggs rather than caring for the chickens ourselves. We buy scarves instead of taking the time to knit them ourselves. Have we, as a society, become so lazy that we prefer things that just throw themselves at us, rather than what is better and better for us; regardless of cost to our person, our health or our egos?

If an Ugly Betty wants to throw herself all over a Decent Looking Dude, and said Decent goes for it, then lies about it; perhaps it proves, then, that those two belong together - while he lies to her face that she’s pretty and tells a Good Girl that no one else exists. It’s too bad that quality people, in their infinite beauty and wisdom, are well aware of such lies. And will use that. And possibly fuck with liars. Possibly. Oops. Next time practice your lie tell the truth. If you want to diddle the maid, okay, just own it, my friend. Own it.

I heard of a study in Grad school that suggested that in the future, the distant future, there will be two groups of people left in the world: The Attractive & Smart and The Stupid & Ugly. Kind of like this. Only an actual study (though I couldn’t even begin to think of how to Google that, but kudos if you can find it) and not everyone’s stupid and ugly.

No lie, I’m nominating myself for the Attractive & Smart group. (And I'm very picky both with attractiveness and brains in the opposite sex when it comes to commitment, so I think I'm good.) It seems appropriate that this group would be more willing to work towards a quality partnership rather than just laying there waiting for someone to fondle their genitals. (Too soon?) So, in the meantime, I think I’ll sit back and laugh at the boys and girls who make out in a crowded bar, IN A BAR, and applaud those who are actually willing to put time into something and not settle for anything less than perfect. I’d rather be alone, than be with sub par. Others, apparently not - perhaps it's self nomination for the Ugly & Stupid group? Maybe their mothers didn’t raise them right. Maybe they seek attention and not affection. Or maybe they just haven’t grown up yet. Idiocracy suggests we wait and see.

In the meantime, I’ll need to make some Attractive & Smart friends so my hypothetical children will have some kids to play with someday. Gotta counter the growing idiocracy.

I kid. I kid.

Maybe.

Just Keep Swimming

I can feel myself slipping unsure of how to stop. It's like standing on the outside looking in but the windows and doors are locked. Then the house fills up with water like a cocktail in a car.

It's one of those moments I just want to curl up in a ball and stop trying. Always in the fall. Not autumn. Fall.

Sometimes you just feel like you're fighting a losing battle. And then they send in reinforcements...

I need a door to open.

Hey Money, F*ck You

Alright, lets get real here for a second. Furloughs - that sexy forced unpaid time off - they suck. They suck hard. (Damn you, economy.) Granted, the 12 Monday's off this summer were nice, but the slash in paychecks was harsher than expected. And what's funny about them is that they totally creep up on you; like those 8 spiders you will eat in your sleep in your lifetime. (Okay, so maybe not.)

I was on my 3rd day of recovery when I chatted with my boss (because speaking was painful) and he told me that we would have 12 days of furloughs for the next 3 months. Holy shit. So, you mean to tell me that I just spent money I don't have on a surgery I had a plan to pay back and now my plan is not only spoiled, but completely raped? Recovery is fun.

So I cried some. And that hurt. So I stopped crying. I coped. And I checked my finances religiously. And you know what, I was doing okay there for a while. But, in reality I did okay for a month into the actual deduction taking place (since work's paychecks are delayed by 4 weeks - so even though my furlough ended last week, my checks won't return to normal until October. Come'on October!) And then I moved.

And hello moving costs! and welcome to my incredible shrinking bank account. Ta-dah! So you have the security deposit, and the car registration (but we're not even going to go there), including new brake pads to pass inspection, and so on and so sexy forth. Also, in this time, I had a spree of "Woo! I'm young and I'm broke anyway. Let's live!" So you know what I did? Do you know?! I got sushi. That's right. Half price sushi. And then not half price sushi. And then you know what I did? I got half price sushi again. And then lunch price sushi. Sprinkle a bar tab or two in there and a drunken night with a WTF happened?! and, oh, a pair of shoes and maybe a new dress from Ross Dress for Less (what up foreign people?!), not to mention those 2 parking tickets and a photo trap in June and I'm fiscally screwed. That's hot, right?

And the thing about it is, I was really doing okay. I was checking my finances. But the sushi and the moving and the WTF happened and it all compounded to go to broke-ass-chick. And you know what Fergie's daddy said? So perhaps I should take my broke ass home, cause I ain't got no money. But damn, yo-be. Summer's almost gone. Warm weather is turning to cool and soon I'll be a winter hobbit choosing to stay in and keep warm with my vodka rather than dragging my tipsy ass out in the cold. (I could barely walk through some parts of summer. Hey sexy shoes, meet uneven brick sidewalks.)

Well, regardless, I may not have a choice but to stay in. I don't do well in the crowded bar scene without a bit of lubrication (which I can now no longer afford). Some sort of claustrophobic social anxiety. I need my 2 feet of personal space...unless I know you...and like you. But the weather, the weather. But I digress the bar scene anxiety, because now I have some additional anxiety brought on my financial woes. (Oh, did I forget to tell you I need to pay off my credit card by Dec. or I get charged 23% interest? Because that's a wholly important detail. Or main chapter.) My ever-depleting bank statement has sent me into a tizzy both last week and this. And by "tizzy" I mean mini panic attacks.

I used to just think I felt "nervous". It took me about 10 years to realize this was anxiety. Lately, I've been gasping for air, which evidently sounds like a yawn, and having my heart feel like it was going to beat out of my chest or come up through my throat, and clocked the pulse in at about 80 BPM. This has happened before, but very recently has been increasing in both frequency and severity. So I message my personal nurse (read: mom); the women in my family have the genetic abnormality called: Mitral Valve Prolapse that she said I may have. So I researched it, in hopes of proving it just to be anxiety and not anything actually wrong with me, only to find that "Anxiety, panic attacks, and depression may be associated with mitral valve prolapse. Like fatigue, these symptoms are believed to be related to imbalances of the autonomic nervous system".

Damn. They're not mutually exclusive. In fact, they're linked. Well, that plan backfired. Thanks Internets.

So now I have to make an appoint with a cardiologist, says my RN mother. And guess what happens there? That's right, I need to give someone else more money. And I still have a few folks after me for nose-related items. HSA's stink.

So now I'm stuck wondering if I should sell my It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia "The Nightman Cometh" tickets that I excitedly bought (before they sold out in 3 minutes) as an early birthday present for myself when I still thought I had a financial cushion (4 weeks ago). Or say "fuck it" and just live my life. Money is for spending and saving is just delayed spending and I'm young once and there are only five showings nationwide, but that credit card, that haunting credit card...



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Time Traveling

So last weekend my paintings were "stolen", missing or whatever when I got up the next day. I don't recall what happened to them, but thankfully my roommate informed me - as he heard the conversation from his bedroom (at like 5am). It took me the next 2 days to get them back. So I took it semi-easy this week and went out Wednesday for kickball and Saturday to a winery then the open bar for kickball. (I swear I do more than kickball crap.)

Despite keeping telling myself that I should put insurance on my new phone, I neglected to do so. So, what happens? I wake up this morning with everything in my purse - everything but my phone. God damned. But I don't remember that either - and I definitely took it easier last night than a typical open bar would suggest.

The day after drinking usually opens with a lot of sentences that start with "I remember...". Then I wait for people to fill in the blanks. It occurred to me some time last year that I have more than likely forgotten, or rather never remembered, a good deal of fun times in my life because of my time travel.

I got curious today about why this happens: "Alcohol induced amnesia". Sound serious. Lately it's more of a "time travel" where I remember bits and pieces, but I have lost entire nights from time to time. And apparently there are a number of people that don't believe that this actually happens; that people just don't remember events while drinking. Well, it happens folks. A lot. And no, Mom, it's not "serious" and I don't have a problem because I go out twice a week (sometimes more). I'm a "W.A.S.P.", which is half your fault, and W.A.S.P.s are suppose to drink, so lets move on. Back to the time travel, or blacking out, if you prefer, it's odd. However, I think if I remembered drunk me, I would never drink again. So I take this as a suggestion that God wants me to continue drinking.


Now I sit back and wonder how people can remember things when they drink (and why some don't); as this is a completely foreign concept to me. I also wonder how other people's memories work in general because I can't remember 90% of the past 25 years. So perhaps there's something wrong with mine? I'm unsure, I can't remember...


[Update: Phone found! : ) So I will be putting insurance on that.]

Scribble

Open to the smell of sweet summer air. Fall creeps in: Leaves changing. Life is altering. Hibernation until the warmth and rain of spring re-awakens the flowers beneath the snow.

Discovery

When I was little we used to play in the woods, catch salamanders in the crick and burn ants with a magnifying glass in the heat of the sun. Traipse around the waterless pond only to find out it was more of a cemetery for rotting deer carcasses than the pond sans water. (Did I mention we were barefoot?) We’d play hide and seek in the basement of the neighbor’s house on rainy days – and were small enough to fit in the old kitchen cabinets stored down there. And on a nice day we’d go swimming in the pool or take a hike through the acres of yard space, climb up on the deer stand and use the CB to tease truckers. (Did they really buy we were 20 and not 10?) Sounds just peachy, right? (Let’s go with that for now.) We lived there for 8 years. I was 13 when we moved.

When we moved out of the boonies – with two less family members – it was the end of my 8th grade year. I appreciated the country very much, but I was glad we moved so I could have a social life in high school. After visiting Boston and New York over the next four years, the desire to live in the city – a real city, not Pittsburgh – grew exponentially. After going to undergrad in Pittsburgh (which I miss dearly, but visits suffice), I moved to DC; a metropolitan area with increased job opportunities. (Not NYC big, but it will do.)

I think that it was this desire, the desire for city life that was the largest contribution to the fail of my most recent relationship; stick with me now, I’m just segueing.

I caught myself wondering if the shift in location and life direction caused abrupt changes – or is it that abrupt changes caused the shift in direction. While he wanted suburbia, I wanted city life. I have my whole life to live outside the city; but you can’t raise a family on the NE side of DC. It was my time to live where I wanted; to be in the middle of it all – he wanted trees and a lawn and shit like that. I wanted bars and bums and shit like that. I wanted to live where life was interesting enough to have stories for my (eventual) kids - all 4 of them.

That’s right: 4. I’m guessing twins. I used to think I wanted to be a young mother; my plan at 16 was to marry at 24 and have babies at 26. I just broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years and I’ll be 26 this October. You do the math. Now 30 sounds good: 32 for babies, because for now, I’m all by myself. I’m alone. And I’m okay with that.

I’m not nervous. I’m not scared. I don’t lack self-confidence. And while I’m stressed to my wit with money and life, I’m sufficiently content enough. But I’m waiting: Who am I? This was, and continues to be, a point of contention for me - A nagging little bug that I just can’t seem to find to kill. And as a point of contention for me, it was a point of contention for me in a partnership.

We were in college when we met. (And while I’m aware 50% of married couples meet in college, I’m also aware that 50% of marriages end in divorce.) I was freshly 21 and he was 20 when we started dating – and as much as I hate Beyonce, a comment she recently made kind of clicked with me. She said, in reference to waiting so long to marry (that doucheturtle) Jay-Z, “I really don't believe that you will love the same thing when you're 20 as you do at 30. So that was my rule: before the age of 25, I would never get married. I feel like you have to get to know yourself, know what you want, spend some time by yourself, and be proud of who you are before you can share that with someone else".

As much as I despise her (and her halitosis *giggle*), she has a good point. A point that made me stop and go, “Huh, could be”. As we age, we change – regardless of any extenuating circumstances. And while I’m certain some things accelerated or magnified the shifts (for me), they would happen with or without the fuel.

I now find myself in a personal limbo. Something that I feel happens to most people (women) after escaping a long relationship: Of a time in life of trying to re-figure yourself out: Of attempting to re-balance: Of re-structure: Of figuring out how to move along and do it for just yourself. I find myself in many limbos: between wanting nice things but not being willing (or able) to pay for them, between wondering if I even want nice things or just have whatever suffice, between being a feminist and questioning the absence of chivalry, between being independent and wanting something done for me…or even *gasp* bought for me, between being a leather strap or diamond encrusted watch girl, between loving the city and missing the country.

Is this interesting? Or possibly just eclectic? Or is it simply confusing?Perhaps I’m trying to push an oval personality into a square hole. Is this just part of the series of trial and errors that we call our “twenties”? Do we ever really figure out who we are? In life, what defines a person and how do they know when to stop looking? Is it when we stop asking introverted questions that we are self-aware? Or do we become self-aware because we start asking?

I’ll have to get back to you…


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