Heading for a Fall

Why are the short weeks so mean?  Seriously.  It's like the holiday weekend flips you the bird.  "Hope you enjoyed those three days off," it seems to say, "because that four-day work week is gonna be a futhermucker."

Last week was a tad brutal, I must say.  Just a tad.

The week started off with discovering on that holiday Monday, that my debit card had been frauded to the tune of $600.  Now, I'm not the type to regularly (or ever) check my bank activity online.  But, on that day, I did.  So I called my financial institution and found that, yeah, I would have to cancel and get a new debit card...which would take up to 10 business days to receive.  I use that card for ev-er-y-thing, so the bonus to being frauded was the added inconvenience of going Visa debit card free.  Um, yeah, boo.

Next, I was met with an unhappy client, which is one of the better ways to begin the workweek, no?  The upset occurred over simple math.  We have an agreement to pay me a specific amount per week.  That weekly rate was rounded to a monthly by the client.  My invoices are still for the week, he just pays me for the month, which is really and truly nice.  However...there aren't always four weeks in a month.  There just isn't.  We have 52 weeks in a year.  Divide that by 4 and you get 13.  We don't have a Decenuary on the calendar.  So, any genius that builds a budget based on a 48-week year is doomed for financial failure.  Because, occasionally, say about four times a year, we have a five week month.  July happens to be one of them.  So, when I sent my invoice reflecting this, I got a lecture on my math skills and a hint that I was being greedy.

Suffice it to say, I'm just working less this month.  And, future monthly invoices will reflect 4.33 weeks.

The next hiccup came when the long-awaited meeting I've had calendared and re-calendard, then re-set again got moved.  I really do ink things in my calendar, and I am never thrilled to cross anything out.  This is kind of a big meeting.  Well, not kind of, it is.  And, while I'm a pretty laid-back gal, and understood the reasons why all the moves were occurring, the anticipation (and preparation) that went into it, only to be met again with a resched, left me a bit letdown.  At least it wasn't a cancellation.  That was the upside.  But I was simply exhausted from holding my breath, and wasn't really looking forward to holding it again.

But the week would only get better when a good friend went this side of apeshit on me over nothing, and made it all my fault.  That is just nothing but good times, people.  All I could do, while sitting through the email exchange -- yes, emails, which made it all the more sad -- was inhale and edit, re-edit and edit again my replies.  When someone just decides that they are going to be pissed and that they are just going to be pissed at you, there's not a whole lot you can do but ride it out.  And it was a very, very, very long ride.   I was called aggressive, passive-aggressive, accused of not telling the truth, of suffering from the endless need to be right, of hidden motives and not being a good listener.  Oh, and I complain about my life.

Yeah, I know.

I love my friend immeasurably. I know that there's other stuff going on and sometimes shit (even of the ape variety) happens. Still, when faced with a situation like that, in a friendship where you've shared laughter and tears and secrets and joys, it's a little unnerving to be attacked for something so inconsequential that it doesn't even warrant mentioning here (and I don't want to piss my friend off again, thankyouverymuch).  I had to stop myself from going to that place where you look at the friendship as a whole (and, yes, all the things I've done for said friend), and think, point-wise, I've earned a bit more credit that what I've been given. But, I didn't.  You can't go there because friendships aren't tit-for-tat, let's tally up the scoreboard. You just kind of hope to get, I don't know, the benefit of the doubt, or at least a phone call.

So, by Friday, I was in desperate need for something relaxing and fun.  But, first, I had to go over to the LAPD Pacific Division to fill out my identity theft report.  After that, I texted a nearby friend to see if a last minute walk to one of our favorite spots could be arranged.  She was kind enough to comply.  And that was exactly what I needed: a good laugh with a good friend, and a turkey burger to go.

Now, I feel completely safe in my neighborhood, even though it's not completely safe.  I feel comfortable walking home at night, but I am mindful of the routes I take.  I should also be mindful of the moon cycles.  Not so much to keep an eye out for the full moon shenanigans, but to be reminded of how dark a moonless night can be, especially when I take the shortcut-I-never-take-at-night-on-a-back-street-with-no-street-lamps home.

I caught my left big toe on a piece of uneven sidewalk. The surprise of the pain this caused was more shocking than the unexpected halt.  And, being somewhat graceful (or at least not a total klutz), I thought that I could catch my balance.  In order to do this, one has to take up speed, and I was already walking at a pretty good clip.  Unfortunately, I never caught up to myself.  I went down and hard.

I was carrying my wallet and BlackBerry in my left hand, my handled paper bag of dinner in my right.  I kept my left hand clutched as I went down, taking the skin off the back of that.  I let go of dinner, but my right hand alone wasn't enough to brace this fall.  I came down on my right knee and chin.  And, once I met the ground, I sort of just rested there for a moment, collecting my thoughts.  The one that kept floating through my brain was, "WTF?!?"  I slowly got up, happy that the contents of my left hand were still intact.  I found my bag of dinner a few feet away, and it was in respectable shape.  I still had four blocks to go before I got home, with a toes that was bleeding profusely.

Here's what's sort of spectacular:  I had skinned my right knee, but didn't tear a hole in my pant leg.  I had a scrape on my right shoulder, but didn't tear my shirt either.  I had a deep purple bruise on my chin, but didn't chip a tooth or bite my lip or tongue.  And, FYI, OxyClean really does get blood out, because the bottom of my beloved near-bell-bottom khakis were soaked in it from the rest of the walk home.

Here's what's sort of sad (besides the above):  When I fell, I shattered one of my favorite Buddha necklaces.  And that's what made me cry.  Not the fact that I was literally bleeding and bruised from head to toe, and that's kind of painful, but that my lovely necklace was destroyed.

I can't imagine ending such a week on a more perfect note.  I mean, really.  I sort of had to laugh, because the lyrics to "Hurt" were running through my head as I tended to my wounds:  I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.  And, it's almost as if that's what I had to do.  I've been just going and going for the past few months, pushing to get things done.  Then, on that short week, others started pushing me, too. And the pace that I was keeping was like the shove that brought me down, even though, technically, it was an uplifted piece of cement.  Don't even get me started on breaking my Buddha.  Inner peace has not been mine of late.

I can't even describe the crippling exhaustion I feel.  (Though, I'm sure you're feeling something similar, too.)  Not only did I hit that sidewalk, I hit the wall.  I've got nothing.  Zero.  Zilch.  And there's still so much to do.  But, sometimes what's going on inside has to manifest outside.  And when that happens, embrace the Arnica.

Nine

Hello. Remember me? Yes, I know it's been a while. I needed a little break. Some time to sort things out. Replenish the well. And, truth be told, I was a little cranky. Unemployment seems to have the effect on me. And, fortunately for you, my misery does not love company. You're welcome.

This happens to me (and I'm sure all writers) every once in a while, where I have so much to express but absolutely nothing to say. As bitchy as my blog can be, I don't like to rant all the time. Who wants to hear me moan about the job market and mounting debt? Aren't we all dealing with that in one way or another? I kept hoping that I would have something more interesting to say. Turns out I didn't. It's hard to have adventures when you don't leave your house so as to not to spend a dime and you're conjoined to Craigslist hoping there will be a job that you'll be right for...and pays more than $9/hour. When you don't have enough money for booze or chocolate, it's best to just keep to yourself. And, so, for the most part, I did.

By the time October arrived, the toll hit me physically. I suffered the worst bout of gastritis I'd had since I was diagnosed three years ago. I couldn't eat for four days, and became quite impressed with functioning self-starvers. Really. I couldn't stand up to brush my teeth by day two and needed a nap after showering. Being dizzy isn't much fun when it's not cocktail induced. Also, having to buy easy-on-the-tummy foods isn't as inexpensive as one might think. But, in case you didn't know, if you eat organic cinnamon apple sauce with organic saltines, it tastes kind of like really cheap apple pie. I became a connoisseur of the bland. Do NOT buy low sodium chicken broth. You can't add enough salt to make it palatable. Ginger ale should be served in a champagne flute. And you should only get rotisserie chicken from Rainbow Acres. I was deeply disappointed to find that the chicken from my Whole Foods as dry as Death Valley. After a couple of weeks of that diet, and a new addiction to Reed's Ginger Candies, I was a few pounds lighter, leaving me with an ill-fitting wardrobe. My curvy 6's too loose, my 4's too snug...not to mention a little out of style. I haven't been a 4 in five years. And I will never forgive Seasonale for that.

Fortunately, the day before Thanksgiving, I was offered a job, making my stint of un- or under-employment just two weeks shy of eight months. I survived that time only because of my incredible friends, who rallied around me, supported me (at times literally) and wouldn't let me give up or give in. They are as stubborn as I am. The hole I have to dig myself out of ends somewhere near Shanghai. And, so what? I'll get out of it one day. I've learned a little about patience during this time and the art of going with the flow. Which, for an A-type Aries, borders on alchemy. By the end of the year, I was so exhausted that I spent New Year's Eve with Netflix watching Bogie and Bacall (The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep), Cary Grant (Arsenic and Old Lace) and Grace Kelly (Dial M for Murder). I fell asleep about 10:30. New Year's Eve is one of my favorite events, but after the way it treated me, I didn't even feel the need to show 2009 to the door.

2009 was much like my last boyfriend -- coming in with so much promise and beauty, but ending up a cloying, annoying, utter disappointment. Last year was almost arrogant in its cruelty. Let's just say it: Last year was an asshole. And, like my last boyfriend, I'm not looking back to wonder, "What happened?" No. I've got better things to do. Top on my list: I am going to fall in love with this year.

I've been looking forward to 2010 like meeting the hot guy at the gym whose 6-pack remains on his abs, not sitting in his fridge; the only spare tire he's got is in the trunk of his car; and 'tight ass' refers to his bum not his wallet. Yes, I expect this year to be a perfect '10. And I am going to seduce it.

I realize I'm going in to the New Year with the same level of optimism and hope I did for '09, except, this year, I'm stronger and wiser, and have even less of a tolerance for bullshit. And that kind of feels fabulous. There's a level of fear that falls away once you have lost your illusion of security. I find myself walking into situations like, "Bring it!" Any minute shred of doubt about who I am, what I want, what I am capable of has been obliterated. Now I probably sound pretty arrogant. But I simply lost tolerance for even my own bullshit. You kind of have to at some point, if you are really going to survive.

And while we are celebrating '10 (which, by the way, I will say as two-thousand-ten because it just sounds better), today is a 9...the 9th anniversary of RUAWAKE. I know. Crazy, right? And I'm pretty sure this will be the last year for it. It's time to wrap it up. It's time to start moving on.

There are sure to be lots of adventures this year, including revealing some secrets I haven't yet shared. Which should seem shocking. What haven't I talked about here over these last nine years? You might be surprised. It's time for some light and laugher and some bloody effing fun.

Thanks so much for staying tuned even when I tune out. Thanks so much for your emails and comments and friendships. You make me laugh and think, and realize that I'm not just shouting into the abyss. So, happy damn New Year, friends. Let's show this one who's boss. xo

At Least We Can Laugh

I don't know where I am right now. I don't know if it's denial, acceptance or certainty. It doesn't matter, really. There's only one place I can be and that's here, in the moment. Dealing with it. That's all anyone can do.

And we are all dealing with it, no matter what our it might be. Everyone has something going on. It's part of the human condition. The trick is not to do it alone. That's what friends are for.

Thank God for my friends. They are a fabulous group of wonderful nuts. You won't find better people anywhere. Except maybe in your tribe. I hope you've collected some wonderful nuts along your way. My friends and I are all dealing with a little merde right now. But, at least we are dealing with it together. And, at least we can laugh about it.

I'm going back up to see Joy next week. T-cells willing, she will have her last chemo treatment tomorrow. Hurrah! I can't wait to get back up there and spend some quality time with three of my favorite people. I think what I adore most about Joy is that, through this whole ordeal, we have laughed more than we've cried. A lot more. The last time I was up there, we spent most of our time together doubled-over laughing. If you were in California after Easter, you'll remember the winds that kicked up. They were Dorothy/We-aren't-in-Kansas-anymore wicked. I had to pop outside to pick up some errant socks (her three year-old at least brought in his shoes), and in those twenty-seconds, I couldn't believe how my hair was whipped around. We were going to be leaving in a few minutes to go to her doctor's appointment and when I came in, I said, "Hey, you'd better tighten up your wig, sister. It's a blustery day." She bent into a ninety-degree angle, laughing. When she came up for air, she said, "I'm so glad I can laugh about stuff like that." To which I replied, "Shit, so am I."

I have another friend who was slammed by the housing market. Another who is considering bankruptcy. Another dealing with family issues. Another juggling three jobs. Another hoping to find a job. But, we are just as concerned about what the other is dealing with as we are with our own load. And, in the midst of our merde, we are laughing. Hard. At each other. At ourselves. At the absurdity of it all. We are laughing more than we are crying. Maybe it is a form of denial. Perhaps it is acceptance. More than likely, though, it is the certainty of our friendships. We have each other's backs. And we have each other in stitches. And I can't think of a better place to be.

When 'What If' Happens

For years, I've been aching to have nothing to do but write. Just write. Writing, to me, is like drawing breath. I just have to do it. And, each time I rushed from the gym to get to my desk for whatever client I was dealing with, I wondered, "What if I didn't have to clock in? What if I didn't have someone else's deadline? What would my life be like?" I would fantasize about waking up a seven, being at the gym by 8:30, working out for two hours every day (I really like my gym time), then, after a shower and breakfast, I would write. And write. I would take myself out to lunch at a sunny bistro, then sip coffee as I typed out a scene or spiced up some dialogue. I pictured myself happy, well-rested, fit, prolific. But, since I've been unemployed (for over a month now), I've done anything but write. See, it turns out I didn't need the time to write -- I would shoehorn that in, much to the detriment of my social life and benefit of my dark circles -- what I needed was dough.

By no means am I a materialistic label-whore. You'd be lucky to ever find me in anything but Gap, except maybe Banana Republic. Whatever you find me in is most likely from the sale rack. I like a solid bang for my buck, people. Being freelance, I am always living on a budget. Sometimes, it's stricter than others. Right now, it's Sado-Masochistic.

The odd thing is, with an open schedule, instead of feeling free and having all the time in the world to write, I find myself slightly paralyzed. With everything in flux, I think of all the things I should be doing, worrying about what might happen, hoping a miracle arrives and eating organic. Because that seems to be the most proactive thing I can do. Go figure. And with all of that, there's no room for the story stuck in my head to come down. I've yet to have a two-hour workout because I'm just a little too stressed out to enjoy that. It makes much more sense for me to be at home waiting for the chips to fall.

But, I was just thinking today that I might as well make the most of this. Why not? Sure, my budget has me spanked into submission and there are real-life worries to deal with, but why not take a few days to dip my toe into the great What If? Maybe tomorrow I'll enjoy a lengthy workout and let the story flow. Get used to being a self-supporting, self-sustaining writer who gets up at 7, is at the gym by 8:30 and has a two-hour workout then writes and writes and writes. Maybe I can make it happen in a build-it-and-they-will-come sort of way. After all, it seems like a version of 'What If' has arrived, so what the hell, right?

Some Day

Today's my birthday. Oh, stop. I'm not telling you that because I want a flurry of cards and gifts. No. Thanks, but no. I'm mentioning it because I have to remind myself of it. I'm the kind of geek who loves birthdays. Not just mine, but everyone's. After all, it's *your* day. It's meant to be special. This one was supposed to be special, but it's sort of lost its shine.

I don't go to extremes for my birthday. I simply gather friends for dinner. We laugh and eat and drink. No matter what is going on, that night is just us. But, in all honesty, I don't want to go to my own party tonight. There's a part of me that would like to call everyone and just say, "Let's put it off until next year, shall we?" I won't, but I want to.

Like so many others, the recession has slammed me. My main client, whom already cut the project fee in half, is failing to pay me at all. I know, kind of rude, don't you think? That flakeage puts me in a bit of a financial tailspin, and I know I'm not alone in that freefall.

Somewhere along the lines, I've misplaced my golden parachute. And I know I'm not the only one. But this sort of takes away the glow of the birthday candles. This is kind of not how I planned to ring in this new year of mine. I had bigger plans. Things that were supposed to be done. There was stuff that should have come through. And it didn't. And, even more surprising, other things slipped away. I know there are plenty of others going through a similar sitch. And, no matter how bad it might be, we all know someone else has it worse.

Wait. I'm not replacing my birthday party with a pity party. No ma'am sir. I'm just sitting here wondering the best way to handle all this as the happy birthday wishes roll in. I don't feel much like celebrating. I have to make a plan, and fast. For now, though, I will simply go to the gym, work for the client who does pay me (God, I wish I had three more of her), put on a party dress and give my lovely friends a smile. While I might not feel like celebrating me, my friends certainly deserve a toast.

In Consistency

So, obviously my March NaBloPoMo was a total fail. I was hoping to pull it off. I'm one for discipline. I don't usually sign myself up for something and not follow through, no matter how painful it is to finish. I've done the Master Cleanse three times. However, life just took over here. C'est ma vie. But, I think this post will be the equivalent of what I failed to write.

It's been a while since I've taken a road trip. Fuel had been so expensive for so long that it made one question a superfluous drive across town let alone upstate. But, now that it floats around two-bucks a gallon (and when did we ever think that would be a deal?), it was time to hit the road. Two and a half weeks ago, I did just that.

I'd been planning a trip up North to visit a friend and meet her husband and son before moving in for a week to help out during one of her chemo treatments. I thought it might be a good idea to find out if her kid would totally hate me, or her hubby for that matter, before showing up to give care. I'm kind of courteous that way. Besides, I couldn't wait another month to see her.

I should probably note that I haven't seen this friend in two decades, although we have been in touch for the last year. She found me on Facebook. Since then, we have emailed and pinged and had phone dates with wine. We spent election night together (telephonically speaking), and the Inauguration, too. We have known each other since the seventh grade, growing up surrounded by the same beige stucco. We sort of picked up like it had only been a week since we talked. There are just friends that are like that. And she's one.

As I do with all long drives, I took my car to a full-serve station and had my tires, oil and fluid checked before I rolled. I am also one who is extremely diligent in taking my beloved Ghetta in for scheduled maintenance. While she may not look it, I love my car. She is awesomely reliable. So, imagine my surprise when I saw a huge plume of white smoke trailing behind her.

"That can't be from me," I told myself. It just couldn't be, so I just carried along playing the new Lily Allen on my new iPod Touch. Ah, life was good...until I saw another plume of smoke definitely trailing from my car. I had just passed the point where the 5 and the 14 split, which is uphill. Not only was my car smoking, she was losing power.

"No, effing way am I pulling over here," I said to myself as I eyed the shoulder. I was mere miles away from our hometown. It would only be poetic for me to crap out there.

I threw on my hazard lights, made my way over to the far right lane and said little prayers in between cursing the fates. I had a frozen, homemade (by my chef friend, Cookie) chicken pot pie and two packs of Guinness in a cooler in my backseat. The pot pie was for my friend, whom I'll call Joy here; it's all she's been craving. The Guinness was for me and the hubster, whom I'll call Dude, because he is a super cool dude as it turns out, and that's all I've been craving.

You know, it's shocking the amount of people who seem oblivious to what flashing hazard lights imply. Tailgating isn't going to help. Zipping around me, like I'm in the way, isn't proving a point. I'm in the slow lane with my flipping hazard lights on. SHIT'S GOING WRONG! DEAL WITH IT!!!

I made it to Lyons Avenue, the portal to my personal hell, and opted to turn right because it's downhill. My car was barely hanging on.

Now, if you are in a "planned community", like the whole of the Santa Clarita Valley is, you might expect them to plan enough to have a service station offering repairs available off the freeway, don't you think? Oh, sure, you can get gas, you can even get a boatload of Doritos from any one of the attached Food Mart/Circle K/Seven-Elevens, but good effing luck finding a grease monkey.

I continued further in to town to a gas station that had previously serviced my car (and by "previously", I mean more than fifteen years ago), only to find a 7/11 where the repair station used to be. Beyond frustrated, I parked, turned off my failing engine, Googled "Volkswagon Valencia" and dialed.

"Good afternoon, Valencia Nissan," she sang. I asked if they were also the VW dealership. "Oh, no. That closed. But I hear it might be coming back in April or May. But I think it's going to be at the Infiniti dealer. The closest VW dealership is in Palmdale." I politely told the sing-song lady voice that I was broken down in Valencia. Palmdale would not be an option. Would she know of any place in the area that might be able to look under my hood? "Oh, no." Were there any repair places on auto row. "Oh, gee, not that I know of." It was like being trapped in Fargo.

I'm not one to just sit and wait. I need to keep moving. I started my car and, miraculously, she was behaving better already. I figured it must be a hose or a belt. And doesn't white smoke mean oil? Maybe they just overfilled the oil? This was going to be an easy, quick, cheap fix. I was certain of it. Still on the phone with Nissan Fargo, I asked her again if she knew of any mechanic anywhere in Valencia. "For a Volkswagon, I think you'll have to go to Palmdale."

Do you see why I couldn't wait to move out of those beige, stucco walls?

I hung up with her and called my old pal, Nerf. I call him Nerf because he is made of Nerf. I've also known him since seventh grade (all the elementary schools poured into one middle school back then). Amazing that some people can put up with me for so long, no? Anyway, I got Nerf's voicemail, but, true to form, he called me right back and helped walk me through the possibilities. He still lives in my personal hell.

"There's a Shell station up at the top of Lyons that has a service station, and there's a Jiffy Lube near that," he told me, though, giving me the disclaimer that, since he lives in another part of town, he's not really up-to-date with that section of Stepford. I was in auto row by that point, so I turned around and headed back up the hill, catching up with Nerf as I drove. I pulled onto the side street that would take me to the Shell repair shop, and found it shuttered.

I won't list the litany of curse words Nerf had to hear.

I turned around again and went to the Jiffy Lube. Before Nerf and I hung up he said, "You know, I just Googled repair shops for you and there's a place on 9th." Then, we said it together, "German Autohaus." Praise God.

The Jiffy Lubers were really nice. I popped the hood and they showed me that my oil funnel was broken. That had to be it! I called German Autohaus and asked if they has the part. "Yes," said the accented voice. I asked how much. "Eight dollars," he said. Always the skeptic, I asked if he was sure it was only eight dollars. "It's just plastic," he told me. I told him I'd be right there.

When I explained my Ghetta's symptoms, he told me, "A broken funnel would not cause you to lose power." Can't a girl have her fantasies? He, who I will call Hero, went into his office and came back with a little computer he plugged into my car. The Ghetta found a shoulder to cry on there and spilled her guts. Hero came out shaking his head. "You have two cylinders misfiring and two sensors that are bad," he said.

I won't list the litany of curse words that went through my head.

I told him I should probably head back to Santa Monica and deal with my dealership. "Why?" he asked me. He called to verify that nothing was under warranty (my Ghetta just turned nine), so I said, "How much?"

Three hundred and thirty-eight dollars.

You can imagine the litany of curse words I swallowed.

All I wanted to know was that he could fix it that day. "Sure," he said. "Once I get the parts, it will take about two hours."

I had been pinging Joy to let her know the situation. I had been so proud of myself for having left ten minutes ahead of schedule, and was so happy that I hadn't hit any traffic...and now this major delay. She was more concerned that I would have to drive in the dark. "I may not be awake," she said, "but Dude will wait up for you." I ate my lunch, drank my water, and peed eighy-three times. It felt like hours had passed, but I wasn't watching the clock. No. I was being Zen and reading a really bad book.

Hero finally came up to me and said, "Okay, Sandra," and I lit up. Then he finished with, "We just got the parts." Fuck. Another two hours. This was cutting into precious visit time. Bummer.

I read. I texted. I emailed. I Facebooked. I Twittered. I peed some more. Finally, Hero came back out and said, "We're all set." I handed him my debit card and stared at my new iPod. Ironically, it cost as much as my car repair. [Litany of curse words redacted.]

At 4:55 PM, I hit the highway at 80 MPH. I was fortunate to miss any traffic and got to Novato at 10:20 PM. The Guinness was still cool. The pot pie pretty much frozen. Dude and I settled onto the sofa with some pints, keeping our voices down while Joy and the boy slept, and had a good laugh about my wild ride.

Some people are just going to be beautiful no matter what. Joy is one of those people. She and Sinead O'Connor can rock the no-hair look. It was so good to see her. Of course, I would have felt better about it if I hadn't just rolled out of bed. But the pitter-patter of little feet was just too irresistible to sleep through.

"You have a present for me?" Laddy asked me (yeah, that's the name I'm giving their three year-old). "I do," I said. "But, would it be okay if I brushed my teeth first?" He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. After good oral hygiene (he joined me in the teeth brushing), we went back into mom and dad's room to hang out.

Joy and Dude had given me the "Chick" car from Cars to give him. I had also brought two Beenie Babies along that my chef friend passed on to me: a dragon and a bear. Joy had told me he was into dragons. I brought the bear, too, because it was so soft I just couldn't put it down. "I was wondering if you would like to take care of this dragon," I asked Laddy. "No," he said shaking his head. His parents were mortified. I thought it was the coolest thing. He wasn't copping a 'tude, he was being honest, something I totally adore. "How about this bear? Would you or mommy like to take care of that?" I asked. "No," he said. "Not even mommy?" I inquired. "No," he said. It was all I could do not to laugh. I told him I had one more thing I thought me might like and asked him to shut his eyes and hold out his hands. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the car, and placed it into his hands. Totally matter-of-fact-ly he said, "Chick," and crawled into bed with his parents. They weren't too happy about how he had accepted his gifts, but I told them I thought it was perfect. We were bonding in our own special way.

I won't bore you with our perfect weekend. I will just say that I couldn't love or be more proud of my friend. If any husband should be cloned, it's hers. And Laddy is just too much fun. I'm in love. The cutest thing was, after his nap on Saturday, he came stumbling out all red-faced and sweaty-headed from a three year-old's sleep, and had a Beanie Baby tucked under each arm. Yeah, I melted.

I came home, three-hundred-bucks overbudget, to find that the job I was told I had through May, would end mid-April. Perfect. I looked again at my iPod. It seems every time I treat myself there's a repercussion. But, I can't look at it that way. The way I have to see it is that everything happens for the best. Sure the bill for the car repair sucked, but Hero surprised me by fixing my front end. That's a bonus. There's no way my old iPod would have lasted that trip, or an hour into it. The new iPod was not just a treat but a necessity, because there are going to be many more long drives in my future. And, while these little setbacks keep happening, I'm still moving forward. It's consistent, even if it doesn't always feel that way.

Rarely Do I Repeat Mistakes

I don't repeat my errs. Really. I find it silly. Burn your hand once, you learn to keep it out of the flame. Did anyone ever buy two Epiladies? I think not. I mixed white wine and red wine once -- one time -- and never again. The whole purpose of mistakes is to learn from them, right?

Well, there's one mistake I seem to repeat over and over, year after year, and that is not entering my shizzle into QuickBooks. Muck fe.

This will be the fourth -- THE FOURTH -- year in a row that I have been less than diligent about entering my banking into QB. It is torture. I have the Amish version of the software. It won't download from the net (not like my bank will let me download year-old transactions, anyway), so I have to manually input all of my transactions. And I live on my debit card. Yeah, I'm the ass hat putting Starbucks on my ATM card. I never have cash. I have a magic wallet that turns a twenty into a one in like fifteen minutes. So everything goes on that card. And that all has to go into QuickBooks. Un-fun.

Typically, I start off the year pretty good, going from daily to weekly to monthly updating. That responsible behavior typically lasts through April or May. June, if I'm lucky. Then the rest I have to enter. But, when I sat down to do 2008, I discovered I only got to late January.

Repeat after me: I am sofa king wee todd dead.

So, I've spent the last five days entering that data. Five. I hurt all over. The pain, however, is mostly in my ass. When will I learn? Seriously, when? It has to be this year, because I can't go through this again. I can't. I won't! Tomorrow, I start on 2009. No, seriously. Otherwise, I might as well stick my hand in a fire, call an ex-boyfriend and mix red wine with white. I know better. It's time I learn that.

I Should Be Home Now

I look around my home and see all that I want to change. Which is everything. Really. When I move from here, I think I'll have an open house. Just open up the doors and say, "Here, take it." There is not one stick of furniture I want to move with me. Nothing I own represents me or my taste. It was what I could afford at the time. And, in all this time, the only things I've "updated" were a new (and somewhat crap) sofa and a (very cheap) desk.

Some pieces came from my first apartment. I know. Now you must really feel my humiliation. Other pieces are from my co-habitation with Almost, and that was an ice age ago. My furniture is lost past its "use by" date. And it stinks.

If only I were indeed moving. Sadly, that's not on the agenda. Yet. Oh, I fantasize about it more than I do the Clooney. It's the first thing I'm going to do when I win life's lotto. Must-haves are parking (in my hood, that's a bonus) and my own washer and dryer. Because I prefer to have the option of doing laundry in the nude. I do. I think it's liberating to be able to wash *everything*. That's something you just can't get away with that at the laundromat. Then again, why would one want to? It's bad enough knowing that you are in proximity to the worn smalls of strangers while you are folding your clean clothes. And how the hell did I get on this tangent? Jeebus. I need some Purell.

A fresh coat of paint would help a great deal here. But that would entail moving furniture, laying drop cloths and a bunch of prep work. I just don't have it in me. Isn't that pathetic? But I don't. I'm just over this joint. I don't want to live at an intersection anymore...and that statement goes a lot further than my address. It's time to put it out there: I want a new home. A fabulous new home where I can safely park my car and won't have to worry about street cleaning days. Where I can wash *all* my clothes and not have to deal with the unmentionables of others. It's time for me to come home and feel at home again.

The Dance is Dizzying

It's been a blur. Everything. All of it. This year is not yet two months old and yet, to me, it's like there has never been a time before it. Like we did indeed clear the slate. The past is seemingly behind us. Out of sight, out of mind for me. And I am so happy.

I know I've said that over and over (I'm so happy...I'm so happy), but I am. Oh, that is not to say this year has been perfect or without any ass pains. No. There have been a few *displeasures*, shall we say, along the way. But I see them more as a shaking off of what's left of the past. There always has to be something to remind us where we have been, and what we have learned. It's all in an effort so we don't repeat ourselves, our missteps, our tracks.

Still, I've been rushing around so much, it's been difficult to keep the pace, catch my breath and remember what I'm supposed to be doing. Writing has sort of been a part of that. Oh, I've been writing, and writing and writing and writing, just not here. Which always sort of bums me out.

I kind of missed out on commenting on the insanity that is the Octomom. Seriously, she has a college-tuition amount of filler in her lips, signs of Botox usage on her forehead (obviously it's moving now because even *her* doctors wouldn't inject a pregnant woman), rhinoplasty and acrylic nails. Now *that's* a mother who sacrifices for her children. I'm not saying a hard-working mother does not deserve to be pampered or look as good as she wants. What I'm saying is, I know a lot of mothers with one child who *treat* themselves to the $20 mani-pedi (or do their own), who have learned to color their own hair, who haven't had a facial or seen a dermatologist in ages (let alone a plastic surgeon), because there is the baby's future to think about. How was she able to afford all of that stuff with six kids? How was she able to afford all that in vitro? I have so many questions, but none of them matter as much as the welfare of her fourteen children, who will likely end up in the care of others. Unbelievable, and beyond tragic.

And then there were the awards shows. My high holy holiday weekend of Spirit Awards and Oscars. I love them, I do. I become an embarrassing superfan of the film industry and giggle and clap and squeal. I typically do this alone or only with the closest of friends. And there is no talking. NO TALKING, PEOPLE. Until the commercials (which don't exist with the Spirit Awards...so that's a lot of not talking). Sadly, I thought this year's Oscars show was meh. How annoying was it for them to be playing music while the presenters spoke?!? And, please, in the name of all that's holy, get rid of the song and dance numbers. Please. This is not the Grammys nor is it the Tonys. Beyoncé lipsyncing takes away from the winners' speeches (which is what I am there for). Let's just ditch them altogether. It will save precious time and money. Thank you. Amen.

Now we can talk about Obama's address to Congress last night. Oh my. I only caught the last twenty minutes of the speech, but I think everyone in DC was feeling the soreness in their glutes and quads today from all the up-and-down-and-up-and-down with the many standing ovations they gave. Have you ever seen anything like that? I am so proud of our President. Yes, we have a long way to go. It won't happen overnight. And we all have to suck it up and take responsibility, pitch in and help out to make this work. So, let's do it, shall we?

I'm about to stimulate the economy with an iPhone. Ugh. The thought of switching from my beloved T-Mobile to that other carrier makes me want to cry. But, it looks like that will end up being the frugal-er way to go at the end of the day. And the debate between friends over the pros and cons of this switch makes my head swim. Oh, they think technology makes our lives easier, but I've got a Facebook thread three miles long going back and forth on this. It's so complicated. You give up one thing you really like/need/want for another you really want/need/like. I'm thinking we should just bring back 8-track tapes and LPs and be done with it. I'd vote for the covered wagon comeback, too, but as I'm deathly allergic to horses that would be sort of dumb.

And now, she who cannot figure out which phone to get, is about to go off and optimize user functions for someone else's websites. Can you believe someone is trusting me with that? Me neither. But, if I want a new iPhone, I'd better get to it. Yes, I do dangle a carrot every now and then. Don't you?

The dance of late has left me dizzy. But it's all of my own doing. The speed of Life is rushing me along. It's all I can do to not trip over myself. But I mean that in a good way.

Electronic Revolt

I don't know what's going on. Or off, actually. My TiVo died. My iPod is on its last leg (has been for months, but the buzzards are circling) and my BlackBerry is positively geriatric, annoying me to the point that it's sort of mocking me to buy another.

Why is it this kind of stuff always happens at once? When I'm haphazardly employed, taxes are due and I just bought a ticket to NYC I could barely afford (but with airfare so low, I couldn't afford to pass it up, either)? And the choices that are presented as possible solutions are not exactly economically helpful or emotionally appealing. By the way, there's a recession going on. My timing is always perfect.

TiVo can be replaced for $149 (but that extra cash is carrying me to Eastern Standard Time). A TimeWarner DVR is $19 extra per month. I can't stand TimeWarner; the idea of giving them an extra dime gives me slight angina. I want them out of my life...but Verizon and DirecTV aren't really options I'm excited about either. And I will not be able to survive a day without an iPod. So, do I just get a Nano? Or do I splurge and get the Touch?

But, that brings up the BlackBerry issue. If I need a new iPod and want a new phone, should I just get an iPhone? But, I want to stay on T-Mobile. An unlocked, unjailed (whatever the hell that is) iPhone is like $700. WTF? So, now I'm back to a Nano and my GeriBerry...and a TW DVR. Because we are in a recession. And my spoiled need for electronic conveniences and entertainment has to get on board with that. And I've got to run. I have to turn in my cable box now so I can record tonight's "Biggest Loser". Because I sort of am one lately.

A Snag in the Silk

My friends are dangerous, dangerous people. Seriously. They are great and fabulous, too, but totally dangerous. Why, you ask? They plant little seed bombs in my ear that breed paranoia and force me to change or give up things I love. And that's just mean.

First, let me start by saying that none of this would have happened if flipping Starbucks didn't change their soy milk from Silk to something that tastes like ass. Yeah, you, Starbucks. The company I've been loyal to for thirteen years. The venti-soy-no-foam-lattes that I made a dedication to in my book. You think that thing wrote itself? No. I was high on Starbucks the whole time. Why? Because writing is really draining, though somehow burns no calories and actually slows your metabolism, which is such a ripoff. And soy lattes made with Silk taste like heaven. Now, they taste like monkey butt. Thanks, Starbucks.

Anyway, I was in the car with a friend bitching, obviously, about the soy ass latte I was trying to gag down when she said to me, "You know, you shouldn't be having soy in the first place. It brings on early menopause."

WTF?!?

What kind of a friend tells you that at like nine in the morning? Well, she's a good friend, actually. One of my favorites. But, totally effing dangerous. Granted, she wasn't the first friend to tell me that. I have a lot of friends who are way into holistic, alchemical shizzel that are always harping on me to give up something. I have so few vices. Really. Booze and soy and chocolate. I get antioxidants with my booze (hello, pomegranate martini), and my chocolate is 85% cocoa. Healthy. Anyway, I was stubborn about the soy. Until my friend opened her mouth.

I couldn't even finish the latte. Not only because it was vomitous but because every time I brought it up to my lips "early menopause early menopause" echoed in my ears. Farg.

Now, remember that I have super powers, and the problem with my super powers is that once something is in my head, it usually happens. Jeebus. So, I have to put the brakes and the kibosh on this. I've given up all my soy. And as a ficaken (which is a lazy vegan who occasionally eats fish or cake), soy is a huge part of my diet. This removal complicates my already complicated, inconvenient diet even more. Sigh. Okay, I still let myself have soy cheese nachos, but those are medicinal for my friend dealing with It as a show of support. That's her favorite, and since she can't have them, I do when she has chemo for some extra mojo. For her, I'll risk it. But, for the rest of the time, I've got to find a way to fall in love with almond milk or the like. Effing Starbucks.

Control

Flipping through channels last night, I came across "Control". Whether or not you are familiar with or a fan of Joy Division, this is a must-see. The performances are astounding. The actors learned to play their instruments and sing, so the performances aren't dubbed. They are sublime.

This is the tragic story of a talented man, a short life, and an enduring impact. Put it on your Netflix. Set it on your TiVo. Do not miss this cinematic gem. That's an order.



Control itself is a funny thing. We lose it, give it up, or it ends up making us freaks. It's something you love (when you have it) or hate (when it's out of your hands or lorded over you). It's one of my favorite things. It's also something I'm learning to let go of. But, even that's a form of control, no?

Things are in a little bit of a spin for me at the moment. In a good way, though. My pet project just got a huge boost, which means a lot of work to do in a short time. Thus, my posts here will be a little less regular...but hopefully a bit better. There are no guarantees on that, however. I'm just being honest. I hope you will stay tuned, though. There will be interesting developments I hope to share here.

A lot of things will soon be out of my control. It's wonderful and knicker-twisting. I just hope I'll wear the dark circles well.

A Fabulous Fortnight

This year is only two weeks old and I am so in love with it, I could lick it. And, yes, I type that tentatively because I know that so many people are having a tough time. Two wars and a rotten economy are affecting us all. Friends of mine are dealing with job losses, major health crises, even deaths of their most cherished. I can't hug them enough, even if that embrace can only come through an email. I blame 2008, though. 2008 was rough. I think we are all breathing a collective sigh of relief that 2009 is here. Or maybe it's just me.

Let me share with you, before you think me too glib, that I only know for sure I have a job through next month. I'm hoping it will be extended a bit longer, but there is an air of the unknown going on in my life, too. Everything is in flux. The Jello of my life is still a thick, unset liquid. Nothing is yet concrete. But, that has not has not diminished the shine this year has brought me.

What has this year delivered in such a short time? Contentment. I know. You just threw up in your mouth a little, right? I could hear your groans from here. But, for an A-type Aries personality, contentment is HUGE. I have only flipped off a stupid driver twice this year. I know. Pick your jaw up off the floor. Granted, now that I'm not commuting to the outer reaches of Malibu, I hardly drive. But still. The streets are littered with crap drivers. The short little drive to the gym could bring on Carpel Tunnel. But the middle-finger reflex is no longer automatic.

The last nine years have been *challenging* for me to say the least. Going freelance right before the economy dipped the first time and the internet imploded probably wasn't the best timing. I've been digging myself out of that crater since I made that move. Being utterly stubborn (and allergic to office air), I sort of refused to give up on the life I wanted. Which is one of independence. Many friends suffered along the way with me. Understandably, they grew a little weary of hearing me say, "Sorry, I can't afford it," or kindly picking up the tab. Believe me, I didn't enjoy it. There is a deep level of humiliation in having a friend subsidize your bar tab. You know you are low when you get a Trader Joe's gift card in a "Thinking of You" card (which was so perfectly timed, I cried). Finally, though, there is a shift. Not necessarily a material one, but one of perspective and actually seeing the opportunities in front of me. Yes, there remains some instability and unknowns in my world. But this is the year.

This is the year for all of us. Don't you feel it, too? Even my friend who is going through chemo and all the *fun* that brings is loving 2009. There's just something in the air. And, even though it is only two weeks old, this is already the best year of my life.

Yes, I hear the groans. Apologies for inducing your gag reflexes. Deal with it. I'm happy. I hope you are, too.

At Least There's Not Muzak Playing

I feel like I am on hold. Like someone pushed "pause" or something. And it's grating on my nerves. I'm sitting here, spinning my wheels, going nowhere, getting nothing accomplished. And it's putting me in a bit of a mood.

I'm from L.A., so I know about astrology. It's an elective in high school. Kidding. Seriously, people, we aren't *that* out there. Anyway, the dread Mercury Retrograde cycle is about to go down. From January 11th through February 1st things are going to go a bit hooey. No. I don't live my life by the moon cycles. Mercury Retrograde and my sign are the only things I pay attention to in astrology. I don't even check my daily forecast (though, I do a monthly *glance* here and here). I used to read about Mercury Retrograde in LA Weekly's "Rocky Horoscope". She would write about it and say, "We're all screwed!" I was all, What's she talking about? Everything's just fine. I was in the eight grade. Of course everything was fine.

I never heeded the warnings Rocky put out. Never paid attention to it. Until I was an assistant production coordinator on a low-budget horror flick during film school. Principle photography started on the day Mercury turned, and I've never been part of such a fustercluck in my life. Everything that could go wrong did. In spades. It was unbelievable. From that point on, I've paid attention to this little phase and simply batten down the hatches. I'm not looking for trouble, per se, I'm just *prepared* for it.

I don't know if what I'm feeling now is the MR influence, or just M-E. Things have already started to lag. Hence the griping about feeling stuck. But there are things on hold, and I find that I am kind of holding my breath. I have a meeting next week that may or may not change my life. I may or may not being going to New York the week after that. I may or may not have work after next month. None of that is particularly earth shattering. None of it is giving me angina. Which is the weird part. I'm not tense or nervous. I'm paralyzed, in a sense. I'm certainly stuck creativity wise. Not writer's block. I don't believe in that. More like constipation. Everything is just stuck in my head and I can't get it out. This sucks.

Whether it's a planetary influence or my own shizzle, I just want things to get moving again. I've got deadlines and whatnot.

Happy Monday! (And that's not dripping with sarcasm.)

Oh. My. God. I never thought I would ever say that I was happy to see a Monday (that wasn't my birthday, Christmas, New Year or any other national holiday), but I am so glad today is here. Because it's like now the New Year can officially begin. Now, we can really start on a new page and embrace the clean slate that we perceive January 1 provides.

It's kind of exciting to get to do it all over again, only better and perhaps with more wisdom. The days will all be the same, only the number of the year has changed. The events will differ, unique challenges will come into play, but there will also be wonderful surprises. And that's what I love about New Year.

I feel like I can finally exhale. Ahhhhh. There are so many irons in the fire that were put *on hold* until the first of the year (which actually means the second week of January, because no one wants to deal with anything right away; they are all afraid of what they will walk into when they get to their desks). Either way, now we can start making some progress and catch up from the lost time. This pleases me to no end (and please remind me of this when I am pissed off next week that no one has picked up the balls -- thanks).

This is going to be a great year. I can feel it already. And, no, it's not the sugar high from the Christmas candy. This has to be *the* year. Like I said, I'm demanding that it will be groovy. I know you are just like me (I don't mean that as an insult), and you've been working hard on your goals and you want to start seeing some progress. Nothing is as frustrating as having your fate in others' hands. I effing hate that. But, it's a fact of life. Patience isn't a virtue of mine -- but, it's forced upon me quite frequently. This year, however, I'm taking fate and life by the bollocks and shall squeeze, ever so gently, until they hand over the goods. Because it is bloody well time that happens. For all of us. And, why not? What have we got to lose? (Easily said for a single, childless chick who rents, I know.) It's just time. And today starts it off.

Happy Monday. So glad you are here. Please get us off to a fantabulous start (because I'll be so embarrassed if you blow).

Just in case, here's some Happy Mondays that don't blow. xo

So Lonely

Today, Salon has a article on loneliness. Because, I guess, it's that time of year.

While I don't quibble with people who suffer from depression, or those who have to deal with SAD each winter, I think most of the ho-hum that comes at the holidays is the clash of our natural instincts to hibernate by the fire with a cup of spiked nog watching "A Christmas Story" and the obligations to dress up, be cheery and bear the cold to make a meal of bad hors d'oeuvres while enduring mind-numbing chit-chat during this highly social season. Or maybe that's just me.

I politely cleared my schedule this weekend. I was tired, not feeling especially social, and desperately wanted to avoid the panicked-shopper traffic this weekend seems to bring. Most of my social obligations had been met by Friday anyway. The remainder can be made up after Boxing Day. So, I snuggled up, wrapped in my Four Seasons Hotel robe, and watched movies I've seen three hundred times before.

Don't ask me why I willing watch "Terms of Endearment" when I know I'm going to cry when Huckleberry Fox does after Debra Winger tells her sons she's not getting better. Ugh. But, sometimes, I long for weekends like this. Quiet time alone. Perhaps it's part of a certain type of writer's personality. I think we are solitary creatures by nature only because there are a bunch of characters living in our heads all the time. It's sort of exhausting, at least mentally. So, if I can get those characters to be quiet, I kind of blow off the rest of the characters in my life. Which sort of makes me a cruddy friend, I suppose. But, my friends are used to it to a degree. Writers are also like exotic pets to some. Our idiosyncrasies are considered part of the charm (as long as we don't claw the furniture or crap on the rug).

Inevitably, I get a bit bored at the end of my hibernation. Typically, as I'm getting my second wind, friends have lost theirs. They are donning their robes and either nursing lingering hangovers, or trying to psyche themselves up for Monday...or neither of us is willing to drive to the other's part of town, so we end up gabbing on the phone instead of in person. Which is just as well, because I was still in my robe and didn't bother blow-drying my hair after my shower.

Then, I stumbled on the Salon article. I've always been a loner but, for a moment, I became slightly panicked that I was actually chronically lonely, and without even realizing I was! I took the lonely test and ended up in the gray zone between the "normal" and "severe" range. Then I realized that I had forgotten about the "rarely" option. Never give me four choices. It's one more than I can handle.

There's a thin line between being lonely and alone. I'm quite comfortable being alone -- which is both a good and bad thing. I like the self-sufficiency, but it can also be a bit of a bad habit. Fortunately, I have friends that will call me on my idiosyncrasies and force me to be social. They know the magic words: "Drinks", "Hal's" or "A Votre Sante". And I love them for it.

Unfortunately, they disabled the embed (where's the love, Universal Music Group?), so click here for a little slice of Charlie Sexton. Just in case your beat's so lonely, too.

Change Anything Change Everything

I don't think I can wait for the New Year. I need a change now. Somehow, that's easier to say than do.

See, I don't want to change just anything; I want to change EVERYTHING. Absolutely everything. It occurred to me that I want to start living my life the way I want to live my life. Doesn't that sound utterly absurd? Like, what other way would I live my life? Well, around other people for one, and my wallet for another. And then there's the lack of time to do half the stuff I need to, not to mention what I would like to. I know I'm not alone in that. But, is that what really hinders us from living how we really want, or is that the easy excuse? Perhaps a little of both? I don't know. It just seems a shame that I have let those things stand in my way. But, no longer.

I suppose it was easy to let work or a tight budget restrict me. Some might even cite that as being responsible. I think what I haven't realized, now that I'm back working at home and not for a nut-job boss, is that I have the time I need to do what I should do for the life I want to have. There isn't a rush anymore. Sure, there are hours to put in, work to do and deadlines to meet, but I no longer have to look around to see what I need to avoid. I can just look at what's in front of me. How novel! And isn't it asinine that this just occurred to me? I know. I baffle myself sometimes. Whatever. At least the notion made its way through my thick skull and I can finally do something about it. Though, I might wait for Monday to set this change in motion. I'm too stoned on Midol to deal with it now.

The Problem With Superpowers

The problem with superpowers is that sometimes you forget you have them. Or at least I do. I have to be really careful with what I put out in the Universe, because it is likely to happen. Though, somehow winning the lottery and losing those damn ten pounds the wrong Pill put on me are exempt. Seems I have to work for those. Whatever. It's the thought that counts for me. Really. It's almost like I am like Wish Girl or Intention Woman. It's kind of spooky.

Last week was a rollercoaster of good news/bad news (though, not in that order). By the time Thursday rolled around, I got not only good news about progress on a writing project, but a job offer from a friend. I had decided to give notice to my day job on December 1st and start with her on the 16th. It was a plan. Life seemed to be working for me for a change. Celebratory fish tacos from Lilly's were bought for my co-workers, who have been so supportive through the highs and lows, though I didn't feel I could tell them why I was in such a good mood. Sometimes, you need to keep things a little close to the vest. You don't want to jinx the mojo. Jinx is my kryptonite.

Friday morning, I got up to go to my client's and, before I left, I Twittered: Getting ready for a major shift. All I meant was that I was ready for even more good to come. What I got was a phone call from the general counsel of the imploding company I'd been working for. He had to let me go. Right before pay period. Typical. The ass hat turkey that was my boss didn't even have the balls to do it himself. Also typical. Can you really be that much of a wuss and declare yourself a CEO? I think not. I had grown friendly with the GC. We all know we are in the same sinking ship there. At least I was being shoved off in a lifeboat. He explained how awful he felt and how hard this was to do. I was not at all surprised. I knew my salary level put me in jeopardy (and when I say that, I was not making bank...the turkey just prefers to pay third-world wages). The GC thanked me for being so nice about it. I refrained from mentioning that they were merely beating me to the punch. The only difference would have been that I'd have had the class to give two weeks notice. My severance package? An extra day's pay for that Friday. I know! Knock me over with a feather. What will I do with all that dough?

I sat there and smiled and finished my Friday client duties. There was something poetic about the whole situation. Then I logged on to Twitter and was reminded of my post. A shift indeed.

The problem with my superpowers is that they are inconsistent. Some things happen super quick, and others take ages. Either way, what I put out there is bound to happen. The date with Clooney is inevitable.

For the first time in over a decade, the keys on my chain are just mine (I keep my Friday client's in their own place). For the first time in six years, the emails on my BlackBerry are just for me. I don't have to punch a clock anymore. I can keep vampire hours. I get to go to the gym for two whole hours every day -- except for Friday (client) and Sunday (laundry) -- and so there will go those bloody ten pounds once and for all! Hurrah! I finally get my life back. My work-from-home-writer-consultant-freelance-independent-contractor life. And that's just super.

From Darkness Into Light

I woke up this morning feeling kind of numb. But as I thawed, a dark mood washed over me. I was full of anger and rage. And, to top it off, my internet was down. Not the best thing when you need to communicate. A cube of Post-Its was a casualty of this when I hurled it at the bookshelf. I'm not prone to fits like this. It's not generally the way I like to start my day. But, today, my friend is having surgery. And I am pissed.

Like they say, first you cry. Last Tuesday was spent in a flood of tears. But that's not what my friend needed or wanted. She simply asked us for our positive energy, good thoughts and love. To picture her happy and healthy and full of life. And that is so easy to do. She is the kind of person you can't help but smile when you think of. So, I have been smiling and focusing on her speedy recovery with great joy every minute of every day. We are in it to win it. Not a tear was shed from then, until today.

She and I have known each other since the 7th grade, but only got back in touch this spring. A mere twenty years had slipped by, but we made up for lost time with "wine dates" shared over the phone. And emails. We spent election night "together", breathing sighs of relief, talking about how hot Obama is, and what a gorgeous family they are. We felt so proud that we got such a good man in office, and by such a margin. Then we talked about what was going on with us. How well her three year-old son's doing. How she looked forward to her husband coming back from his trip. My nutty job. Our writing.

She and I marvel over the similarities we share. Obviously, I don't have an adorable son or a hot husband, but there are other things. Little coincidences. Uncanny duplications. We are connected in a fantastically peculiar way. We joke that we were separated at birth. I call her my soul sister. I love her that dearly.

I wouldn't think that three weeks later we would get such hard news. I'm not even going to write what she was diagnosed with. I don't want to give it the energy or make it any more real. Sorry if that seems wimpy or odd. I don't care. I can't even speak it. It makes me too mad. This is unfair. This is wrong. It has to be a mistake. But, right now, she is on her way to the hospital. She is hugging her son. She is putting on her gown. They are putting in IVs. She is kissing her husband. And at 3:30 PM (PST) she will be in the hands of the surgical team and the oncologist and God. I hope that you will think of her then with goodness and light. Thank you.

I've done well up until today. It has been easy to be positive and to know that she is just fine. This is merely a blip. And I do believe that. But today, I am so pissed off this is happening to her. I am so angry that she has to go through this. But, she's not. She has been nothing but graceful. She has been funny and open and full of life, just like she always is. Her husband is equally amazing. I am so proud of the way they have taken this on. And embarrassed that I am falling apart.

Another friend called to let me know she was thinking of my friend. She asked me how I was. I broke down, talking in broken sentences, red-faced like a two year-old having a tantrum because I couldn't express what I am feeling and why. It's just rage. Utter rage that this is happening. And it is the most useless, pathetic feeling I've ever experienced. As any good friend would, she tried to console me. But there's nothing quelling this ire. You don't need to tell me everything will be okay. I know it is okay. You don't need to tell me the best thing I can do for her is to be strong and be there for her. I am. Just let me have these couple of hours yell and cry and be so mad at it. Because soon, it will be gone. And I want it to be damn sure of the fact it is not welcomed back here. Stay away from my friend. Don't even think of coming near us again. Because when we said we were all in this fight with her, we meant it. We won't back down. So it might as well understand, it doesn't stand a chance.

I'm trying to take deep breaths and get my shit together. But I want to punch something. I want to kick it and break it and smash it to bits. So much for my Buddha nature, huh? Well, fuck it. I'm human and prone to flaws. Of course, all of this isn't going to help her. I've got to focus back on the good.

At 3:30 today, I will be on my knees, chanting and praying and smiling and sending her all the love and goodness in the world. Soon, we will be clinking cocktails in person, celebrating her recovery and laughing at the dented Post-It cube.

Turkey

Of all the words that need to make a comeback, "turkey" tops my list. It's terribly retro, I know. It screams double-knit polyester jumpsuit, flare pants and corduroy. But it's also kind of perfect in a G-rated with R subtext sort of way.

I've been trying to cut down on my swearing. I've already been known to make truck drivers, sailors and frat boys blush, but the litanies I've let loose in the past two weeks, well, I've even started to shock myself. Shouting out sockcucking futhermucker in the office isn't really professional or polite, especially considering that we work in a single room and conversations (or outbursts) can be easily overheard on the phone. Not the level of integrity I usually take to the office. And just another reason why I'm not cut out for nine-to-five life. Somehow, people expect a certain level of decorum, even if aptitude is optional. You have no idea of the level of "genius" I sometimes have to deal with...or, maybe you get to frolic in it, too. Now I understand why God invented Happy Hour...and why it goes on for two or three.

As I've been trying to spare the ears of my two colleagues, I've tried to be creative with my outbursts. Farg has become a regular expletive substitute for me. "Wait. Did you just say 'farg'?" my co-worker asked yesterday, obviously more accustomed to hearing the blue streak. "Yeah. Just trying to cut down on the bad words." She gave a nod that was both slightly confused and a tad grateful.

Rice crispies is another good term to use when around children or old people. It's sort of a mouthful to say, and is confusing to the listener. However, it hasn't really found its way into the workplace as yet.

Douche bag, on the other hand, has been falling out of my mouth pretty regularly. About every five to fifteen minutes or so. I try to throw in Massengill every now and then, just for kicks, but even I've grown tired of using an antiquated and unhealthy feminine "hygiene" apparatus to express my disgust.

So, it's time for turkey. I warned the girls it was coming. They kind of dig it, too. I can't wait to roll down the window and scream it at the next douche bag futhermucker ass clown inept driver that cuts me off. The look on that turkey's face will be so worth it.