The Bitching Has Ended (for the weekend)

As my Internet Mom aptly pointed out,

I've been wrapped around a pole this week.

Sometimes we go through these phases.

We need to re-prioritize. Take five.

Maybe stop eating so many goddamn cookies. And miniature sticky buns.

Put an end to the randomly large amounts of soda and coffee.

And just ask ourselves

"what are you doing and WHY?"

Also, remembering how things used to be,

and realizing how much better they ARE,

is always a good thing.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

1 A.M in the City that never lets you sleep...

So.

This is me being very New York.
Back from a night seeing a friend in a show
Back from walking the windy streets with my once weekly Starbucks decaf Eggnog Latte
(which, by the way, tastes strange and must have a chemical in it
that keeps you wanting it, even though it tastes strange)
Back early so I can get up Sunday morning
and drop my laundry off and find some food
to shove in my empty fridge
before a workshop.
This is me being very New York.

This is me being very New York.
Not caring that he's obviously in no mood
to do me right.
Fine with the fact
that he can choose but doesn't care to.
Alright with the idea that I might not even feel
as much as I think,
but just want to fill something
with nothing.
This me eating Ben and Jerry's Fish Food
instead of caring,
watching bad Saturday Night Live sketches
and not caring.
This is me being very New York.

This is me being very New York
Being cynical and snide
instead of vulnerable and hopefull.
Playing the tough girl
instead of the little girl.
Talking to no one
instead of someone
about my weak spots.
This is me being very New York.

This is me being very New York.
Throwing a shoe
at my ceiling
to show my upstairs Showtune Loving neighbor
that I MEAN it
when I yell at him to shut the fuck up.
Turning down sheets
that need to be washed,
badly,
and not just because he was here last night.
Wondering what other people are doing
on this Saturday night,
but not in the mood to call any of them up.
This is me being very New York.

This is me being very New York.
Giving my life up to my art.
Struggling with that fact.
Watching my classmates become my family.
Falling in love with each of them.
Struggling with that fact.
Wondering why the HELL my heat isn't on when it's 30 degrees outside.
This is me being very New York.



does it suit me?

I Mean, At Least There Aren't Lions

Whenever I feel exhausted, poor, and randomly crappy

 

I like to turn on Animal Planet and watch a documentary about animals in the Serengeti.  Their lives are hard.  They travel for miles just to drink out of a shitty little water hole, and most of them die because it's Africa and there are lions who don't mind jumping on backs and ripping into jugular veins in the middle of the night.

Perspective, you know?

 

At least I can sleep without worrying about something digging it's claws into me and shredding me into pieces.

I mean, the cat might try to eat my toe,

but unlike a hungry lion, I can kick my cat.

Still Haven't Solved the Problem of World Peace

Ever have those days

where you just can't do anything?

Being partially unemployed means that sometimes you have days off during the week, feel guilty about them, get exhausted by the guilt, take a nap at 2pm, and wake up sure that you've wasted your life.

Couldn't even write.

I did, however, eat a few miniature sticky buns.

I Am Not Cute

Tis the Season for Polite Rejections.

These last couple months have been full of industry conversations -- mostly one-sided.  Producers have been contacting me.  Contests have been informing me that I'm one of the chosen few.  But. Goddamnit.  The buck stops there.

The general consensus is that the writing is good.

The script(s) are good.

But.

...what I write tends to be slightly un-producible.

The films that come outta me are small.  People-centered.  They also tend to be kind of uneven in tone, funny one minute and serious the next.  I find this combination to be very true to life (laugh at a guy singing to himself in his car, get the finger) but a lot of people don't know how to handle it.  The last time I had a 10-minute play read out loud to a room of 100 people, the uncomfortable shifting was loud enough to be heard all the way back to New York.

I don't mind this.

Life makes me uncomfortable.

The stuff I create is going to reflect my constant awkward struggle.

But.

It's gotten to the point where I've started to write more digestible things because I'm so tired of having my work stared at like that weird bug you find in your sink and have no idea what the fuck it is.

For once, it'd be nice

to be a ladybug they let crawl on their finger

Instead

of a weird sink centipede-spider with a billion legs and feelers that's cool but eventually has to die because really,

what IS that thing?

Kinkos Can Kiss It

I tried.

Really.

 

I've been trying all day to be creative.  To get motivated.  I even whipped out my computer while the baby I watch was sleeping to see if I could make something happen...the house where I work doesn't have internet so there's nothing to distract me -- but I still couldn't do anything worthwhile.

Instead, I spent way too much goddamn green at fucking Kinkos.

Can we all take a minute and hate on Kinkos?

 

Because never in my life have I walked into a Kinkos establishment and NOT had to wait 50 hours for the one of two employees on duty to get their ass out of a copier and help me.  And then when they do help me, it's like I'm whipping them with a steel, spikey cane by simply asking questions such as "how do I print something from my laptop?"

I'm sorry I don't know everything about the Kinkos I just walked into.

Jesus.

And then they have the audacity to charge like a million dollars for printed shit and it's 20 cents a minute to be on the internet there and the whole time I'm sweating because my credit card CANNOT spend another moment getting charged for bullshit but their internet is so SLOW that I have to sit there and silently scream because Kinkos is just the biggest bunch of crap IN THE WORLD.

Okay.

At least I did that today.

If nothing else, at least I hated on Kinkos

She Writes Hard for the Money

You may have noticed

the Donate button.

Let's be real.  It's not like I'll to be filing for bankruptcy any time soon.  I can still go to the grocery store and buy food -- even those cheap ass "bakery" cookies that frequent my basket are only there because I like the fakest tasting sweets available -- and maybe once a month I can go skipping through Target, loading up on shirts good for layering.  Truth be told: I am not destitute.  But damn.  Money is always on my mind. Mainly because I wish I had more of it.

So.

The Button.

Perhaps a billionaire will type in "Redhead" + "Boobies" into Google,

accidentally end up here,

read a few entires,

and fall so in love with my talent he'll send approximately 5.5 million my way.

Maybe Bill Gates

will type "Redhead" + "Boobies" into Google,

end up here,

read a few entires,

and stop being a big philanthropist because he decides to donate it ALL to me.

Either way, I'm not ashamed for seeing if anyone out there is interested in being my Sugar (Mama) Daddy.  Imagine if everyone who visited donated 50 cents?  I'd have a least two dollars by now.

To up my chances,

I've added some appropriate tags.

So Full, Can't Think

Still in a food coma,

nursing a food baby.

Above are some pretty pictures to make up for the fact that I can't function.

...Time to get back to sort of watching a James Bond marathon but really contemplating the pros and cons of nuking another bowl of stuffing.

The Thankful? You Can't HANDLE The Thankful!

A year ago,

I was thankful to no longer feel desperate when it came to relationship shit.

A proclamation that in a month's time

would find itself to be slightly untrue.

Which leads me to what I'm thankful for this year:

The End of a Stupid Era.

For 5 years after my Big Break Up, I would occasionally lie in bed and wonder what the hell was wrong with me that I had such bad luck when it came to my heart.  I'm a fairly normal, fairly drama-free person, so the idea that I had been without a loving relationship for that long made me want to shove my head under a pillow whist smoking a pack of cigarettes.

I couldn't understand.

But I also couldn't force anything.

(Although I tried.  Like hell)

Coming out to a place where I didn't know a soul, putting New York behind me not because it made sense, but because I had to for my happiness, and believing that a career bachelor would turn into a man I could love -- all of that shit was a gamble.  But I took it because I was so done with living a life that didn't satisfy me.

This year, I'm thankful for leaving that life behind.

For finally figuring out how to do it.

And for waking up in the middle of the night...just having to pee.

Horrible Timing

I've decided I need to lose weight.

Thanksgiving is 1 day away.

I always do this.

I can't tell if I've actually gained anything in recent history.  I just currently feel fat.  Maybe because I ate 5 cookies.  I ran at the gym for a while but then I came back and ate 5 cookies so I'm pretty positive the mind numbing run did nothing.

My eating habits have veered toward "weird" again.  For a while I was actually consuming 3 square meals like the rest of America, but somewhere along the line I settled back into my strange undefinable habits.  I eat weird things at weird times.  Like an apple, chips, and 5 cookies for dinner.  Pretty sure the nutrition content in that is .03%.

Maybe some people just biologically hate cooking?

Because sometimes, the idea of putting shit in a pan and warming it up annoys me into eating peanut butter on a spoon in protest.

Losing weight during the Holiday Season is a disgusting act

to ask a person to carry out.

...And yet, there are expensive jeans that I can't afford to pouch out of.

Blame it on the Tur, Tur, Tur, Tur, Tur, Turkey....

When I started blogging, I felt like a moron.

I didn't know why I was doing it.

Didn't why other people did it.

But now it's 4 years later and even though I'll probably always be sure I'm a nerd for seeking / finding / nurturing relationships on the wires and magic they call the Internet, the fact of the matter is that this activity, blogging, has begun to make me feel like I'm doing something worthwhile.

If you agree (or just want to get on my good side for when I become grossly famous)

perhaps slide over to THIS SITE and nominate this odd thing I've built for something?

And since I believe in equal-opportunity whoring,

I'll totally scratch your back after you scratch mine.

Lastly, and I guess because dead turkeys stuffed with bread always make me kind of weepy and thankful for shit, I'd like to point out a few new wire and magic friends who I think are just so totally Fab, they make a gay club look dull.

She doesn't update as much as I'd like (because I'm greedy)

but hot damn this lady is HILAR:

BluntDelivery

She's already internet famous, but what the hell.

This girl is readable.  And seems like she'd be a fucking sweet friend.

Another attitude-ridden redhead.  YES.

She makes the cutest shit.  For realz.

My Internet Mom.

Fellow Writer-Trying-To-Get-Famous-In-Training

She will rip you to shreds and you will laugh.

If I forgot anyone who's awesome (i mean, I haven't even had coffee yet...), let me know and I'll highlight you in the next cheesy-ass post I somehow find it in myself to create.

Not Exactly Useless...But Close

A year and six months ago,

I walked across a stage in a Harry Potter robe and took hold of a hard-earned MFA.

I have yet to decide if it's worth anything.

The experience was worth it, of course. Meeting amazing people and gallivanting through the streets of New York City like so many bohemian novels claimed I would.  That was fun.  The stories from those years more than make up for the debt and roaches and fire escapes that strangers sometimes crawled through at 3 AM.

But as for the degree itself...the jury is still out.

Not one recruiter has looked at my resume and given a shit about those three letters.

I walk dogs and take care of babies for a living.

I make so little money I sometimes get light headed just thinking about it.

Maybe if I had stayed in New York, maybe then I would have found a way to make my Masters worth something -- although, considering the types of jobs some of my classmates are currently involved with (waiters / cubicles / administration), I'm not sure it would have mattered.

Was it the right choice to move out of the city?

Who the fuck knows.

I'm happy here.  But I'm also in the middle of nowhere.

I feel like I constantly ruminate about this stuff, but that's the bitch of being in the later half of your Twenties: everything is still up in the air.  Thoughts and ideas still haven't taken complete hold, and yet the pressure is there for shit to be figured out.

"Gizzard" is the Scariest Word in the English Language

On Tuesday,

I'm going to pick up an 18 pound turkey.

NOTE: I have never handled, never mind attempted to cook

A Thanksgiving bird before.

Why start small?  I mean, why not just jump in and try to feed 13 people?

When I promised I'd be in charge of the turkey, the Tattooed Hippie had told me there would probably be "a few strays" coming over to celebrate.  Everyone who didn't have any other place to be.  A nice gesture.  Sure.  Cool.  I was down with that.  And so I offered to cook a turkey for the "few strays" that ended up coming through the door.

Apparently, "a few" is just over a dozen.

Just the thought of handling a giant, slippery monstrosity that has it's neck inside it's stomach is enough to make me dry heave a little, but I was going to push past that vomity feeling for my man and a few of his friends because I'm giving like that.  However, now that I have a whole army of people I have to avoid giving Salmonella to...that vomity feeling has been combined with intense pressure.

I could potentially become a mass murderer overnight.

I Kinda Feel Like That Girl in the Exorcist...After the Devil Came Out

A lot of writers have that ONE THING

they're never sure they'll finish.

That ONE THING

that scares the bejeezus out of them every time they look at it.

That ONE THING

which started innocently enough, but has now grown to disgusting proportions.

I have that ONE THING.  I've had it since junior year in college...which means...I've had it for almost 5 years. It's grown in size and complexity and at this point I can only take it for 30 minutes at a time.  After 30 minutes, I have to close the Word document and breathe into a paper bag to keep myself from passing out and slamming headfirst into the wall.

I have a manuscript.  A long-ass novel.  A novel I've barely let anyone read because what do I know about  novels?!  Plus, it's fucked up. I didn't mean to write a fucked up novel, but when you take all the advanced writing courses at your college by Sophomore year they tend to let you do whatever you want and even ASK you to create something extraordinary weird.

So I've had this extraordinarily weird and fucked up manuscript for 5 years and it's grown and rambled and attempted to be rewritten, but mostly it's just sat in a folder on my desktop called New Fiction and done nothing but make me nervous every time my mouse accidentally passes over it.  I mean, what do I know about novels?

But recently, a colleague who either knows my dark literature secret or who simply passes everything Writing / Internet related on to me, sent a notice about St. Martin's "New Adult" Contest.

Apparently, there's now a market for fucked up literature that's too adult for kids, but not fancy enough for the New York Time's Book Review.

At first I was all, oh man, I can't even begin to do this...but then I slapped myself in the face because I'm a writer and nobody knows my name so I have to take every chance that randomly sets up shop in my Inbox.

It took me a few days to gather up the courage.

Another week to actually do the minimal work required.

But finally: I've done something other than stare in fear at that ONE THING.

If you're interested in reading the tiny paragraph that caused me to almost brake out in hives, go HERE.

P.A.F Pro Tip #31: Don't Go Cheap on Paper That Wipes Your Privates

If you're anything like me,

you're poor as fuck.

But.

Here's something you shouldn't do.

Even if you are

P.A.F.

DON'T SKIMP ON SOFT TOILET PAPER.

I know that the random brand you see on the highest shelf seems like a good deal when you're attempting to calculate your grocery budget in your head, but when you get it home, it will suck and your butt will hate you.

There are some things we just shouldn't go cheap on.  Toilet paper is paper that wipes your privates.  Why would anyone in their right mind buy the cheap version of paper that wipes their privates?

I did it once.

And shall never do it again.

Plenty of Places to Die

Have you ever been to a mountain town?

This is how you know:

It's snowing.  There's one dark road that you travel on for like an hour.  It's kind of a highway, kind of a dirt road. It winds and curves and sometimes gets as steep as a ski hill. Except you're not on skis!  You're in a car with tons of band equipment and your man is white knuckling the steering wheel and asking you to put on jazz because he wants to drown out thoughts of crashing over the side and plunging to your deaths.

You reach your destination: the one restaurant in the town.  It's still snowing.  You've passed a few random houses that look like maybe they were hand-built (and possibly a tepee, although it was kind of too dark to be sure), but that's about it.  So you load your shit into a small restaurant and the guy who makes the food tells you your audience for the night will be the entire town.  About 60 people.

When people start coming in, they kind of all look the same: long hair, dreads, alpaca sweaters, complete with names like Rainbow and Cofie.  They're nice.  They're chill.  They all know each other - because they're the entire town.

The show goes well.  You load your shit back into your cars.  There's now about 5 inches of snow on the ground and it's coming down nice and heavy.  The entire town comes out to wave you off.  You drive down the one winding road without lights but plenty of places to die, wiping the windshield every five minutes because it keeps fogging up and putting on smooth jazz again because your man is even more convinced that you're going to die coming down the road.

You get home around midnight.  Surprised to be alive.

That's how you know you've been to a mountain town in Colorado.

Oh HELL Nose

My nose

thinks it's getting a cold.

Haha.

Nose.

How wrong you are.

As I've said before, we are not going to get sick again.  There is no time to get sick.  Plus I'm already so stressed out about life that I'm not sure my body has any space left for germs.  No GERMS.  FUCK YOU GERMS.

Have I ever talked about how I have this giant fear of blowing my nose in public?  I can't do it.  Never been able to.  Every time the need arises I have to run to the bathroom and shut the door.  So when I'm sick people think I have a bladder problem.

Don't make people think I have a bladder problem,
Nose.

You hear me?

Lock Your Pantry, or I Will Break In And EAT EVERYTHING

Why must My Special Time Every Month

come complete with an insatiable hunger for chocolate?

It took a 100 Calorie Kudos bar and snacksize Milky Way shoved into my mouth in rapid succession before I realized that I might have just been visited by Aunt Flo today.

(See how I'm trying to keep this metaphoric?  It's for the guys.  I know you all have a hard time believing this process actually occurs...)

Has anyone ever figured out why certain unfortunate souls like myself crave fountains of sugar during this time?  At least I don't get psychotic and yell at random people on the street like a girl I know.  Or collapse onto the floor and tell everyone I'm ugly - like another girl I know. 

Most of the time I just get a little weepy at insurance commercials and crave massive amounts of calories.

We Just Called To Politely Tell You It Sucks

So this morning,

right in between bites of toast and True Life,

I got a call from a guy who works at a big Production Company in LA.

He read one of my scripts.

(Right here is where I begin freaking out.  Because...no one ever CALLS you on the phone unless they want to make you famous and take you away from your dirty house and $200 a week paycheck and change your life forever...)

But he didn't really like the script.

"The tone was uneven" and he didn't think the characters were "that original."

He called to tell me it was good

but not good enough.

Which made me sit in silence for ten minutes after he hung up.  I didn't try to get him to read something else.  I didn't try to convince him that I was actually talented.  I just let him say what he had to say and thanked him and hung up and blinked at my half-eaten piece of toast.  Because what do you do when someone calls you personally, just to tell you they're not interested?

Sarcastic? Me?!

You know what I can't live without?
Roommates who are dirty.

Oh yeah.  I mean, what's better than dishes that've been sitting in the sink for a week?!  Dishes crusty with disgusting cheese shit and Tupperware so moldy it smells like baby crap that's been left in the sun for a few days?  What's better than that?!

You know what else I can't live without?

 Cilantro

This little herb is a HUGE pain in the ass.  It ruins everything.  Every single goddamn piece of food it touches. Burrito?  Awesome.  Until you put sprigs of Cilantro on it, rendering it inedible.  Nice Italian meal?  Delicious.  Then you add Cilantro and it becomes poison.

You know the third thing I can't live without?

Chapstick that makes my lips even more chapped.

I mean, this is like the best product ever.  Come the beginning of wintertime each year, my lips begin to get a little flaky and I think, welp, time for some lubrication!  And then I make my way to the drug store or grocery store and stare at the millions of chapsticks and try to buy one that, unlike the LAST product, won't make my lips more of a mess than they already were. But guess what?  It never works.  Every single chapstick I try goes on smooth, but then like an asshole boyfriend, secretly fucks with things until I wake up and realize it's like the Sahara Desert over here and I have no other recourse except constantly licking my lips like a weird child molester at Disney World.

I could go on.

But I'm too pissed off.


(This post is a part of 20SB’s Blog Carnival: Can’t Live Without, and Alice.com is awarding prizes to lucky bloggers and readers!)

Naturally

I've dodged the cold, and the flu.

For now.

I Emergen-Ced myself until I felt like puking.

Slammed back Ecanasia pill after Ecanasia pill.

Practiced positive thinking (which, we all know, for me, takes CONCENTRATION).

And basically forced myself into health.

The only current problem is that my body doesn't seem to want to let this UTI

go.

So I've turned to natural medicine.  That's right.  I'm to the point where I'll try anything -- even a bunch of herbs stuffed into giant capsules with slightly poopy aftertastes.  I'll do it because I'm just fucking S-I-C-K of being sick.

My whole life, it's been me and my health in a cage match.  Sometimes I win, sometimes I don't, but for as long as I can remember, it's been a struggle to find a week where something isn't going haywire. I've got some real medical issues (like the ability to be driven insane by men in pointy shoes), but I've also got a history of being attacked by tons of tiny things,

...things like a UTI that wants to stick around for an entire month.

So yes.  I've turned to the hippie world of plants and teas and crushed up blackness in a bowl that tastes like sour broccoli dipped in paint -- but I've done it because I'm tired of being a victim.  I'm tired of antibiotics, emergency rooms, prescriptions, shots, surgeries, and doctors who have a negative 8 in the bedside manner department.

Whatever happens, happens.  But it's sure to be an improvement on the current situation.

Bring on the poopy horse pills.

Listen To Me, Glands

I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick.

Got it?

Because I'll be FUCKED if my second UTI in a month is followed by my second cold in a month.

Nobody should be allowed to get repeats of the same sickness.  At least nobody who lives in a first world country with drugstores and hand sanitizers and a billion medicines to ward off infections.  It's not like I dance around naked in the cold with wet hair while shoving dirt in my mouth.  I live a very healthy lifestyle.

So no.  I'm NOT getting sick.

Keepin' It In The Family (ER Visits, That Is)

Here's some advice:

Never start a sentence with "Now, don't freak out, but..."

Because invariably, the person will freak out because you said not to.  I did.  Especially when my dad followed that first statement with, "I had to take your mom to the hospital."

She had Appendicitis -- which isn't that big of a deal -- but as soon as the words "your mom" and "hospital" were uttered in the same sentence, I pictured every.single. horrible thing that could ever happen to her.  In under 2 seconds, I had 100 different ways she could have been hurt, maimed, or worse shooting across my brain.

Obviously, I have a tendency to flip out.

The thing is, if I lost either of my parents right now, I'd be completely dead in the water.  There are vital, adult things I don't know how to do.  Like deal with scary insurance people, refinance a house, mortgage a house (I have no idea what to do with houses), roast a Thanksgiving turkey, mount a TV...

They can't leave me for a very, very long time.

Accidentally on Purpose

"Why don't we plug the acoustic in?  We'll hear it better," she said.

"Because it's a lot of work," he puffed.  No work on Sunday."

"It'll take two seconds. "

"Look, we do things differently.  I love you, but - "

He smiled, and then looked down at the floor, like a kid who's just caught someone naked.

"That kinda slipped out."

No one spoke about the accidental ILY for the rest of the day,

but she knew,

that he knew,

that she knew,

he loved her for real.

The Eve of All Hallows Eve

I'm on heavy antibiotics due to my wild adventure at the ER this week.

I'm also going to a party tonight where you PAY $20 to get 3 drink tickets.

 

If someone makes me shell out $20, it's a damn sure thing that I'll be drinking.

 

Here's hoping I don't blackout and run headfirst into a wall.

Last Halloween was so lame I can't even remember it.  The years before that were the usual sloppy, gay-ified, so-drunk-my-ears-hurt fiascoes.  Fun fiascoes.  But fiascoes just the same.  That's why this year, I'm determined to have a great time and make out with someone I know.  Probably I'll still be so drink my ears hurt (plus medicated), but I'm banking on leaving the whole "stumbling home at 3 AM in a mild depression" scenario in the past.

What are YOU doing this year??

Muffin Like A Visit to the ER in a Blizzard

I just stress ate a ginormous banana nut muffin.

Why?  Because ten minutes ago, I got back from the ER.

Yup.  Me and the ER.  We like to reconnect about once a year.  It misses me, I think, and then ESPly wrecks my insides so I have to come back and visit it. Doesn't matter where.  New Hampshire.  New York.  Colorado.  Just as long as I limp through the automatic doors, hunch over in a chair, and put on a blue hospital dress.

Remember a while ago

when I was all,

Man I have a hurty UTI.  Glad I went to Planned Parenthood for antibiotics!

Well, that UTI came back.

And this time, it wanted blood.

Or pee.

Around 7pm tonight -- while babysitting, of course -- I took a regular old trip to the toilet.  As soon as I was finished I thought, hm.  It feels like I might have another slight UTI.  Better go get those herbs and over-the-counter pain meds my doctor told me about last time.

So I bundled one of the kids I'm babysitting up and took him with me.

By the time I had purchased everything, I was almost cross-eyed with pain.  I couldn't think.  I couldn't breathe.  My bladder was possessed by the Exorcist. 

[Mind you: there's about 2 feet of snow on the ground at this point]

I tried to wait it out.  Took the herbs.  Took the pain meds.  Took the cranberry pills.  Drank water.  But no dice.  It fucking killed.  If UNCOMFORTABLE could be written in bold, uppercase letters, that's what I was feeling.  I considered my options.  I swallowed my pride.  I called the Tattooed Hippie and asked him to take me to the Emergency Room.  I had to go.  Now.

They took a urine sample (hell, I could pee all night!)

They gave me an antibiotic pill and a pain pill.

Gave me prescriptions for more.

He drove me home.

I stress ate a muffin.

At this point, my bladder is no longer possessed, but it still burns like fucking liquid fire when I pee.  I don't feel quite as much pressure (a la the state of Texas on my stomach) but it's still there.  I have to tell the woman I nanny for that I left a friend with her kid for 2 hours while I was at the ER.  I stress ate a gross muffin and I'm exhausted and not sure if I'll sleep at all.

But at least I wasn't that guy on the gurney with frostbite on his entire foot.

NO EXCUSE October

Oh. My. GOD.

Stab me. Right now.

Because there's a foot of snow outside and half a foot more is coming.

Doubt Before Breakfast

I feel guilt.

and I haven't even

had coffee yet.

An alumni newsletter connected to my big, important, NYC graduate school arrived this morning.  This newsletter was a few pages, describing in detail all the success my peers have been having in New York. 

They've been having a lot of success.

I'm happy for so many of them.  They deserve those grants and readings and performances and mentor-ships and money.  I'm sure there was a buttload of forms and auditions for all of those things and total respect for anyone who can wade through the bullshit to be picked for something major.

And yet, the guilt.

Because what I have done recently?  Besides move out of the Art Mecca of the World to a town in Colorado?  Besides take odd jobs that in no way have to do with writing?  Besides put California on hold because I'm scared of uprooting myself and being depressed again?

What have I done

recently?

A WHOLE Lotta Uncomfortable

Whole Foods was the perfect way to start off my day; buying overpriced herbs and pre-made organic meals I don''t need always makes me feel great about life.

It was probably around 9:30 AM.  I was dressed like a stylish human being, something I like to do when I'm not yanking kids away from sockets and china cabinets.

The vitamin section of Whole Foods is glorious.  Rows and rows of shit you never imagined existed.  Walking down the aisles full of random tinctures and tablets, I kept my eyes open for cranberry pills.  Going through an Elephant-On-My-Bladder UTI was something I decided I'd keep to a one time event.

"Can I help you find anything?"

A tall, gawky Whole Foods worker was suddenly standing two feet away from me, staring at my forehead.

"I think I'm all set!"

"Okay.  By the way, great outfit.  You look really..."

He went silent, searching for words I guess, and kept staring at me.  I smiled at him, feeling the heavy blanket of awkwardness begin to press down upon us.

"And the gold...it goes really well with everything.  Your gold..."

His voice faded away again and he kept staring.  Gold what?  I tried to think.  What was I wearing that was gold?  What had I put on that morning? The wheels in my brain spun. Where was the gold?!  What was it?! My only chance to save myself was to come up with the answer.

"The gold on her pocketbook?"

A female Whole Foods worker stepped in, a bunch of scented candles in her hand. 

"Yes!  Your gold pocketbook!  I like it."

"Oh.  Well, thanks!"

The female worker began a conversation with the guy about beeswax, presumably sacrificing herself to the Gods of Awkward and allowing me to scurry away.  Reaching out and grabbing the first bottle of cranberry pills I touched, I did indeed scurry.  

Moral:

I really can't deal with weird people before 10 in the morning.

Please Sir, May I Not Have More?

New York made me interesting.
It also made me miserable.

Recently, I've been reading the archives of this blog.  I've been reading them because I can't fucking believe I've been doing this for almost 4 years.  What the hell?  Why keep an anonymous, electronic literary journal of my life?  When someone first mentioned the idea of blogging to me, I remember laughing.  Nerds.  They were the only people who kept blogs.  Nerds and dramatic teenagers who tried to cut their wrists with scissors but got freaked out and decided quoting obscure beatnik authors at a www address was the next best thing.

When I lived in the city, my writing was interesting.

And I think it was interesting because I was miserable.

Overworked. Underpaid.  Lonely.  Cold. Hot. Poor. Knee deep in love triangles, bad landlords, horrible neighbors, shitty apartments...it was all there and I wrote about it and it sounded good turned into words.  But living that shit out?  No. No fun.  Not worth repeating.  Let's not go back there and say we did.

Life hasn't improved to the point of spontaneous celebrating (all my soaks have holes in them, Charles Dickens style, but I'm simply too poor to buy new ones) , but it HAS gotten better, and sometimes, it worries me that because I'm not rolling around in a twin sized bed soaked in tears, these words no longer have the punch they once did.

Do you have to be miserable to be interesting?

A lot of writers who drink whiskey straight up and stare at blank pages at 3 AM will tell you that it's true.  Misery is the spring of creativity.  But shit.  I don't want that.  I never have.  I want to intrigue people and tell stories that you read until the end and then flip back to the beginning because there has to be more!, but I don't want to hate my life to get there.

I like being happy.
Artistic death sentence?

Movin On Up

As you can see
we are going through a RENOVATION period.

My fantastic friend -- and NYC roommate of 2 years who subsequently popped up here every once in a while -- is trying to make my blog less retarded.

Because let's face it people.
I've been doing this for 4 YEARS
[holy.shit.]

It's time for an upgrade.
...or at least an attempted one.

A One Two Punch of Affection

"Okay. I'm going to take a chance here..."

He exhaled, his mouth almost-smiling with a nervous twitch. She stood in front of him, internally bracing herself for whatever he was about to throw her way -- because any sentence that started out like that probably required a set jaw.

"You're gorgeous. And I love you - "

Wait. Something flickered in front of her eyes and she felt her face flush. Had he really just said -- had he really just --

"But I think you should know when you wear too much of that make-up it makes the hairs on your face stick out."

...So there it was. His proclamation of love. The words she had never thought she would hear combined with some other words she never really wanted to hear. But at least she heard them.

And learned to apply moisturizer after a powder base.

Ugh

You know what I hate?

Feeling mediocre.

It's why, when I go to yoga, I find a spot in the back. It's why when I run, I run on trails that have mostly cows and birds (because we all know cows don't judge). It's why I cringe when an actor messes up the timing I could have sworn I fool-proofed in the script. It's why nothing feels as good as Finalist, First Place, Far Better Than The Competition.

I realize this probably makes me childish.
But whatever.

When I'm smack dab in the middle of a project that makes me feel
mediocre,
it takes all my strength to not FLIP THE FUCK OUT
and throw things like the pseudo-toddler I am.

I have no problem admitting that I'm impatient. A perfectionist. Way too critical most of the time. I have no problem admitting to any of that. Sit in a room with me for 5 minutes and it'll be obvious. But the thing I just...can't...

Mediocrity.

P.P Thoughts

Last night my brain was moving.
Racing like Lance Armstrong going downhill with bricks on his bike.

Every so often my mind will do this. I slide into bed early and feel excited that I'll actually get some sleep and then BAM somebody turns the motor on and the thoughts can't be stopped for at least another hour.

There wasn't even anything particularly pressing to obsess about last night. Mostly just poor person thoughts. Thoughts about how to go grocery shopping and spend as little as possible, thoughts about the price of juice (WHY is it so expensive?), thoughts about instant taco seasoning packets and how salty they are but oh,how cheap and easy. Last night my mind went over every single thing I own in the refrigerator and freezer and analyzed what could be made out of them.

I envision a day when I won't feel guilty about spending money on food.

Just think about it...walking through the Organics section, picking anything I feel like, maybe things I don't even need...like pre-sliced vegetables. Who needs vegetables that have already been diced? No one. But how awesome are they?

The last thought I had before finally getting a few hours of sleep centered around being 26 and not having a real job or any real savings and spending a good portion of my 20's acting like a gypsy and currently being unable to afford pre-sliced vegetables.

Couldn't be sure if I was proud of that or not.

Am I So Horrible?

{Please Note: My computer is making a very weird buzzing noise.
Please Also Note: I shelled out upwards of $100 to get it fixed earlier this month
and spent way too much time inside a bloated, confusing Mac store full of employees
who couldn't find it inside themselves to help me.}

Sometimes I'm worried
that I'm a horrible writer.

Not talent-wise.
Talent is so subjective
and it ain't coming if it isn't already here,
so why stress about that?

I'm worried I'm a horrible writer because I don't spend most of my time writing.

I spend my time working so I can pay my bills and for one too many Target splurges. I spend my time dicking around on the internet watching videos of babies hitting their dads in the crotch and downloading illegal HBO shows. I spend my time making art, love, and general passionate uprisings with a half crazy tattooed guitarist. I spend my time leafing through Martha Stewart magazines and clicking through blogs about screenwriting.

I daydream about being famous. I meditate. Turn around in my mirror with my shirt pulled up to see if I've lost or gained any weight. I go to Whole Foods and wander down the aisles, wondering if I need star fruit or organic lemonade or more vitamin D or B or a full body cleanse.

I go to band practice and sing. I spend time deciding if I could be famous for singing. I daydream about that. I stare inside the pantry and shake boxes of stale crackers to see how stale they really are (the less noise, the more stale). I count the change in my wallet.

See?
I'm wasting time
and it makes me worry
that I'm a horrible writer.

{Oh Yes You Will}

"You could go as a rock star."
"I'm already a rock star" he said (in jest?).
"Right. But we'll just put some guyliner on you, maybe some black nail polish..."
"Why don't I go as a skier? That way I'll be warm."

He [predictably] hates Halloween.
I love it.

I'll have to whip out the hottest costume known to man
just to get him out the door.

It's been years since I've had a (non-gay) man on my arm during my favorite holiday. In New York City, it was fine. In New York City, there was going to be someone to hook up with, regardless of where I went or how I was dressed. But even a girl like me gets tired of random dance floor make-out sessions with dudes a little too eager to wear a dress.

I'd really like him to have fun with me that weekend. Both nights.
[What can I say? I'm a glutton for candy and glitter.]