Dear Facebook, We're Through...Kind Of

I'm breaking up with Facebook. For a week. I know. It's a trial separation leading up to what will be the inevitable divorce.

I'm sure everyone online is aware of the kerfuffle over Facebook's privacy policy. There's a movement to delete profiles on May 31st, another to not sign in on June 6th. Of course, the changes to the privacy policy to make them "simpler" have come through just in time to make those deadlines. By that, the deletion movement has lost some of its wind, as I'm sure has the June 6th protest. But, back in mid-May, I decided that, while I was too lazy to delete my account at this time, I would not sign in for a week to let Facebook (and my friends) know that I could indeed live without it. Facebook's advertisers would not get any hits or views from me in that time, making only a slight dent in FB's back pocket. Even though Facebook admitted to making some mistakes and have clarified the privacy policy, I'm not one to walk away from a commitment. So, I'll be signing off before midnight on the 30th and won't sign back in until the 7th. I'll also be deleting my BlackBerry Facebook app as well so there's no unintentional connection.

Why go to all of this bother, especially when it's only me doing it?

Well, for one, I think Mark Zuckerberg is the ultimate douche. He believes Facebook is too big to fail and that he can get away with just about anything because where else will people go? Back to MySpace? And, for the most part, he's right. Where would we move to if we made a mass exodus? (I say to a bar. Actually have real contact with real friends. But that's just me.) There are other social networks in development, most excitingly Diaspora. But, for now, there's no real, new alternative. So, maybe Mark is right. For now. Without a doubt, what happened to MySpace will happen to Facebook. Eventually. Everything changes. Nothing lasts forever. And, once you've reached the top, the only place to go is down.

Zuckerberg ought to tattoo that somewhere.

For the past two weeks, there were many interesting conversations and rants on the subject of To Delete or Not to Delete as well as Who Cares? I created a Facebook event and invited friends to join me in a week away. It was an underwhelming response with four yeses, 11 maybes and 33 noes. I wasn't surprised. We tend to be such good corporate lambs willing sacrifice privacy, among other things, for convenience or fun or to be part of the crowd.

But that's not what I signed up for.

I'm not so naïve to believe there's such a thing as actual privacy on the internet, or life in general, these days. I use a rewards card knowing they are keeping track of what I purchase. But, at least I'm getting money back for that. Not to mention I've been blogging for nearly a decade, and have been known to overshare. But, I'm not one to post photos or videos, or anything more compromising that an opinion on the internet. Yes, I blab on Twitter on a daily basis and tell people where I'm at via Foursquare. Obviously, I'm not *that* concerned with privacy. I just like to have a say in where what I post is going.

It's a fine line.

The Library of Congress is collecting my tweets. Google me and you'll know some of my innermost thoughts. But, I don't want to be on CNN.com and see what my friends have been reading. I find that incredibly creepy and assumptive. Like I need to be led by my friends' opinions as to what is relevant or cool.

No. I don't.

And, if it is something that's truly relevant to me, or super cool, my real friends will contact me directly.

*********

I will give Facebook its due credit. I've reconnected with countless people through it. Friends I hadn't talked to for ten or twenty years. That's an incredible thing. I also connected with total strangers who have become friends of sorts. And, in the beginning, I friended people I didn't know just to be polite, accepted requests from a friends' friends in order to not look like a jerk. I ended up with 160+ people connected to me who may or may not have the same views of privacy I do, and I started to ask, Why?

So, on Thursday, I did a mass deletion. I removed about 20 "friends". It felt kind of heartless at first. It's not like you have the option when you delete to send a note saying, "Hey, nothing personal, but I'm removing you from my list. No hard feelings, okay?" (And I didn't have the time to send out personal messages.) Half of the people I was deleting I had already hidden from my news feed, so what was the point of having them linked to me if I wasn't paying attention to what they said? The others removed were courtesy friends that I never really connected with, or actual friends who use Facebook as a promotion tool or their center stage. At the end of the day, I'm sure people won't notice or care that I am no longer their "friend", and, if they do, hopefully, they will find this and accept my apology, or will pick up the phone to ask why. Seriously. Facebook isn't the only form of communication left on the planet, you know?

*********

When I first joined Facebook, it was fun. I will admit that I was that annoying user whose zombie would attack your zombie with zeal, and would send you karma regularly. But, soon, I grew bored with that. I never got into mobs or farms or the like. Never played any games or IM-ed. Facebook, for me, was about connection and conversation, and the occasional pleasant surprise of catching up with a ghost from the past.

But now? Well, now, I've just about caught up with everyone I want to. I don't need a four-digit friend count to feel a sense of self. And I really couldn't give a rat's backside about what anyone "likes". Facebook has become a bit of a yawn, sort of like a dinner party that's gone on too long and the conversation is dying out.

Still, no one seems ready to leave. Yet. But, I do believe that Facebook has jumped the shark. With competition brewing, the next year of social media is sure to be interesting. It's time for something new. A new group of people. New conversations. A different way to connect. Like, perhaps, in person.

So, a week without Facebook is soon to begin. I'm sure it will be a bit awkward at first. A habit to be broken. But, I'll still be on Twitter. I still have email, and three phone numbers for friends to call or be called. This isn't a way of disconnecting from friends but perhaps connecting with them better. Yet, what I'm most curious to find is how often I will be back on Facebook once the week is through? Or if I will at all.

Any word on when Diaspora will launch?

The Lengths I Will Go

I bought my first package of recycled toilet paper yesterday. I gag a little whenever I think of the phrase "recycled toilet paper". It's just gross. I, like most women, am a total toilet paper snob. So, while I will buy recycled paper towels (the 365 brand at Whole Foods is the best because it comes in half-sheets with little hearts embossed on it, so what's not to love), and biodegradable detergents and non-chlorine non-bleach, organic soaps and shampoo, I can only take my ecological efforts so far. Thus far, that has not included "feminine" supplies (nor will it), or recycled TP. Until I stood in the aisle staring at the $2.99 double-roll 4-pack of environmentally conscientious bathroom tissue.

I stared at it for a long time. I looked at the options. Seventh Generation's was a whopping $4.69. Hell, if I'm going to spend that kind of money, I might as well get Charmin or Northern...stuff that hasn't been used before. No. That was quickly ruled out. The 365 brand was also $2.99, but had a lesser sheet count (yeah, I really do look at that stuff....eight months of unemployment will change a woman) than the brand (whose name I can't even recall, outside of "environmentally sound packaging") I ended up getting...but only after I squeezed it to see if I could gain a sense of its softness.

I couldn't.

But, I bought it anyway. Why? Because I was too fucking lazy to walk two stores down to CVS and get real toilet paper, that's why. Really. Can you fucking believe that one, people? No. Neither can I.

Let me further articulate the situation. My Whole Foods is in a semi-gentrified mini-mall. It houses (from South to North) a laundromat, the aforementioned Whole Foods, a 99¢ Store and a CVS. Now, my Whole Foods is the size of the Super Dome, so it's quite a walk over to the CVS. And that CVS is tiny, and still kind of grungy, but has the basics, including real toilet paper.

So, I stood there in the Whole Foods aisle of all things recycled, including things that really shouldn't be, and weighed my options: Dump my groceries in the car and walk over to CVS and get the super ultra Northern at nearly $1.25 per roll, or save myself a few steps and two bucks and buy the recycled crap.

How lazy am I?!?

Well, to my credit, I got up at 7:30, had my shower, sorted laundry, took it over to the 'mat (not the one by WF, because that one still kind of skeeves me out...all laundromats do, but I would rather get three loads done in one hour, so I suck it up and pretend I'm not really there) and got petrol for the week. So, by the time I got to Whole Foods, it was just after ten, and I had my whole day ahead of me. I just wanted to get home to my French press of French roast and the chocolate croissant I splurged on (because my uterus wanted it and she tends to get want she wants...it just makes life much easier not to argue with her, trust me).

Recycled toilet paper seemed like a cheap price to pay for that.

(I'll let you know how it goes. I'm making my half-roll of the really good stuff last as long as possible. Why do I do this to myself? Really. I would love some insight here.)

**********

And so, I should probably explain my four-month absence from the blog, especially since I promised so much and it is its last year, and to just toss a good third of it away kind of deserves an explanation.

I don't have one.

Sorry. But just being burnt out doesn't seem to hold water. Being busy with a job rather than doing the work I want doesn't really breed fodder for this forum. Spending every weekend writing for someone else's project leaves little left over for myself. Ideas whir about in my head, then evaporate before I can log in here.

There's a lot I want to say, but can't right now. There's a lot on the line and a lot on hold and I desperately want to share, but I'm afraid it would make it all go away. I know. Could I be more vague? I'm sure I could, but how annoying would that be? Or annoying-er. Whatever. There is more to say here. Really, there is. I just need to free myself from a few more strings, and then I can really let it all fly.

xo

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

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.

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.

Forget It

I'm the kind of girl who needs a kettle with a whistle. I can go out to make a cup of tea, go back to the computer to quickly answer an email or write another paragraph while the kettle boils, and totally forget about what's on the stove. I used to have a charming Japanese kettle. Then, one day, I walked into my kitchen and found a steam bath. "Oh yeah," I said to myself. Tea. I was going to have a cup of tea. Instead, I had a facial. With the quaint, floral pot totally destroyed, I went out and got a kettle with some lungs. It screams at me almost daily.

I'm really diligent about keeping my calendar up-to-date, jotting down each appointment, details, addresses, etc. Then I'll forget to look at it (because I think I've memorized it), or will leave it (and the addresses) behind when I go off to an appointment. This is how I learned to master the BlackBerry email search function and swear by Google Maps.

These are side-effects of Writer's Brain. Friends might say it's more like "Head Up the Ass" syndrome, but really I'm just stuck in the story. Either way, it can result in regular FAILS.

I really never know what day it is. I mean, I can register the number on the calendar, and guess what day we might be on (it helps that I have street parking and must be hyper aware of when Wednesday and Thursday occur), but I really don't relate to the fact that today is Thursday the fifteenth of January in the year 2009. I'm so far behind in my life, I'm like still in 2002.

There's a certain disconnection that *normal* people would rightfully be concerned about. You would seek a diagnosis for behavior like this. I kind of wonder what Writer's Brain hides. At what point should I worry that I am heading toward dementia? I mean, I would totally forget to call the doctor to make the appointment, but there has to be a line, right?

Forget it. I mean, I will in another twenty minutes. But, if there's a writer in your life, have a little sympathy for their *challenges*. Be forgiving when you have to repeat things over, and over, and over, and...well, if you have a writer in your life you know. We don't do it on purpose. That would take planning, and, well, we forget to do that, 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.

She Said He Said

I've always been the chick who has more guy friends than girl friends. I didn't plan it that way. It just sort of happened. Perhaps because I preferred kickball to jumping rope. Not that I'm particularly sporty; I just liked the friendly competition the boys had going. I preferred it to the rather catty competition happening in the girls' corner. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. Little girls can be big bitches.

As I grew older, I still found myself hanging out with the lads more than the lasses. Guys didn't mind that I was opinionated and prone to use language that would make sailors blush. With guys, I didn't have to mind my Ps and Qs. And the conversations weren't about clothes or hair or boys. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. In high school, conversations ran about as deep as puddles in most cliques, no? [And I should really qualify all this by saying I grew up in a stucco-encrusted suburb I fondly refer to as Stepford.]

By the time college rolled around, I was used to palling around with the guys and usually being the only girl in the lot. That's when I noticed the whispers. Slut was a common slur. Because *obviously* I was sleeping with all of them. These guys wouldn't just be my friend if there weren't *benefits*, right? A girl couldn't be close friends with a guy unless they were very close indeed. This happened with more frequency and fervor if I was friends with a guy another girl liked but he didn't like her back. That suddenly became my fault. Because, at that age, it's always another woman in your way...right, sisters? It can never be that he isn't the right guy for you. No. It's the slutty girl "friend" re-routing the rooster.

I've come to find that there are some people who absolutely don't believe a man and a woman can have a truly platonic relationship. This is usually the thought pattern of those who sleep with their friends. I don't sleep with friends. I sleep with my boyfriend or lover, not a buddy. I'm not judging a buckfuddy situation. But, that's not what I consider a friendship. That's a quasi-relationship, ill-defined and prone to heartbreak or a bitter end. Most likely, you would not be able to sit across from that "friend's" spouse and have a pleasant conversation about all the fun times you two had without a few hesitations and awkward edits.

College is a heady time. Young adults and sexuality are much like baby rattlesnakes and venom -- we don't yet know how to control it. How much to give off. When to stop it before it goes further than planned. That's all part of growing up. And while I wasn't chaste, I was far from the hose-hound whore a some sorority sisters seemed to believe...and spread about. I can count my college conquests on one hand. And no, I don't have additional digits like Anne Bolin. I bring this up because, nearly two decades after the fact, I recently had to do a reality check. It seems that rumor and innuendo can fester into legend then harden into "fact". Which I found utterly baffling. So much so, emergency text messages were sent to two of my guy friends and a panicked after-midnight call was placed to a girl friend who, too, has her fair share of platonic male mates. Each of the communiques began with WTF?!?

It came in the form of an email in which she said he said, to which I said horseshit. At first, I really didn't care. I mean, seriously, WTF. But it was so outlandish that it began to bug me. What if all this time people were under the impression that actually happened? Now, I'm not one that feels the need to defend myself, nor do I really care what some people think of me, but I do care about the truth. I found myself going right back to sophomore year when I wanted to shout from a bullhorn at every kegger: Seriously, I'm not a slut! Just because we are hanging out does not mean we are making out...or anything else!

Sigh. Trust me, there are plenty of things I actually do that people can judge me on. That I welcome. Have at it. Spread it like wildfire. Whatever. But if I didn't do it...then I get a little pissy.

Rumormongering isn't just a girl thing. Guys were equally guilty of it. I remember one occasion where a dude in our crowd told the world I went home with a certain bloke. This, after I was nice enough to give him a ride home. Because I dropped him off first, I must have gone back to my dorm room with the other guy. When I heard about this, I was furious. The look on his face when I called him out on it -- in public -- was priceless.

"Why would you start a rumor like that?" I demanded. "Uh..." was all he could come up with. "Did you see us go into my dorm together?" I questioned. "Uh, no," he admitted. "Were we making out in front of you or flirting even?" He answered, "No." "Well, then what made you think he ended up spending the night with me?" I huffed. "I just...I...I don't know," he stuttered. "So you just made the whole thing up and spread it around? Kind of an asshole thing to do, isn't it?" He hung his head, muttered that he was sorry and couldn't look me in the eye for a month.

Now, if you'll notice, in my line of questioning I never denied going home with the guy. The truth was, I did. But, that wasn't for gossip guy to say. That was my private affair and none of his or anyone else's business. When the bloke and I later showed up as a couple, the gossiper called me on it. I explained that he assumed what happened and went about spreading the news like a twelve-year-old without asking me if anything had gone on before he did so. That's not what a friend does. But, like I said, some people don't think guys and gals can be friends. And, after that, he and I weren't.

Over the years, the ratio has shifted and I have a larger network of girl friends today. I still have a lot of guy friends, though. And, for the record, I can look every one of their wives in the eye. It's nice that we can all be friends. But it's sad when you stumble upon someone who's still sitting in the quad.

Blah Humbug

There's nothing worse than having to go near a CostCo right before Christmas. But, if you are like me and need need need your venti-soy-latte, you tough it out.

I'm not off the sauce yet. I figured it was futile to try right now. That's what the New Year is for, no? So, I've got a few more days of daily pit stops at Starbucks. However, the last two days have been nightmarish. Crazed last-minute holiday shoppers plague the road, reading lists, yelling on cell phones, ignoring lights and signs and double-yellow lines. Merry fricken Christmas indeed. But, every once in a while, someone slips a smile and wishes you a happy holiday, and you recall what it is supposed to/used to be like.

Yesterday, in my battle to the 'Bucks, I got lucky. In spite of (or perhaps because of) the rain, I found a space on my first lap of the little parking area that falls in the hollow of my Starbucks, a Subway, a GNC and a Verizon store, which I think all CostCo shoppers should be banned from. Really. You have the rest of the acre. Let me and my people have this meager parcel. At least it's a quick turnover there, and thus should be left to those who are desperate for caffeine, lunch, vitamins, or like to overpay for spotty cellular service and not people buying an 87-pack of toilet paper and a two-ton ham.

Today's traffic was horrific. Probably because of the lack of rain. Tempers were flaring. You could see it through the windshields of the people parked in the thruways to the exits. The whole mega-mall itself is beyond a fustercluck. The way they set up the stop signs and traffic lights took special effort to make it all the art of bottlenecking that it is. Bravo, ass-hat developers and city planners who pay no attention and sign off on anything, bravo! Yet, the best Starbucks on my side of town sits there. And so, I deal.

I did one lap, and no luck. No one even walking out of a shop, which meant CostCo shoppers had infiltrated the lot entirely. Drat. I pulled into the little side lot because I saw brake lights. No luck. It was just someone who wanted to sit in the car and toy with people jonesing for coffee like me. I turned around and started to make another lap when a man and his son coming from CostCo smiled and waved and pointed over their mega-pack of paper towels to their SUV a few spots away. I smiled back and said thank you, pulled out and signaled toward their spot.

At the same time, a man in a Passat wagon was coming around the corner from the opposite direction. By the rules of parking lots, that space should be his. And, had he not been in the middle of the two lanes, I would have waved off the CostCo dad and kept going. But I had nowhere to go with the Passat-er at an angle hogging all the room. (It's a really small lot.)

CostCo dad smiled at me with thumbs up and rushed to pack up the back of his Suburban, really please he could give me his spot. I shook my head and pointed to the Passat-er. I mouthed, "It's his." The Passat-er and I made eye contact, which I thought communicated the situation. It shall be yours, dude. I've just got no place to go until you park. Seriously. If I moved forward, then the Suburban belonging to CostCo dad wouldn't be able to back out, the Passat-er wouldn't be able to get the spot, and we'd all just sit there in another fustercluck. So, I didn't move.

Now, I must admit that CostCo dad was totally ignoring the Passat-er. In his own way, he was bequeathing the spot to me. It was sweetly gallant, but it belonged to the Passat. It's Christmas. You don't want to be quibbling over a parking spot at Christmas. Do you?

CostCo dad closed his hatch and, to my surprise, the Passat-er sped toward me, made an abrupt halt and rolled down his window. With his cell phone still to his ear (illegally, I might add -- hello, hands-free), he said rather snottily, "You know, that spot should be mine, but I'm going to give it to you, since you are obviously so determined to have it. I'll just give it to you. I just wanted you to know that it should be mine." I noted the crusty stream of bird shit running down the side of his car door. It seemed a fair part of this performance was for whoever was on the phone.

"You know," I said, "I was actually not going to take the space, but, since you are such a generous guy, I'll take it! Thanks!" In the spirit of Christmas, I stopped short of calling him an ass-hat, flipping him the bird or pointing out the massive trail of avian dung his elbow was hovering over. Not worth it.

The funny thing was, the Passat-er had been blocking another car who was trying to get out, so, when he passed, and CostCo dad pulled out, there were two spots open. Room for everyone. And, were he not blinded by the holiday spirit, he might have seen that as well. I hope he caught a glimpse in his rear view mirror. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all.

The Starbucks was empty. My latte was perfect, and I made a quick escape out of the mega-mall only to get home and realize I have a few more things to pick up from the store. Blah humbug indeed.

The Clompy Chronicles, Part 4

While I am spoiled both by location and price point, there are days when I long to move out of this abode. Find a place without a shared wall. With parking. A washer and dryer. Someplace not on a street corner because there's no human way to keep up with the dust traffic delivers. A quiet home where I can't hear my neighbors. Yes, that would be a dream.

I can't tell if they've installed a basketball court or a bowling alley, but Clompy and Boomer seem to run, crash and throw things a lot. Fortunately, they don't play all quarters or frames. Just enough to be disruptive and genuinely annoying. My favorite is when Boomer gets all Rocky and jumps rope in the bedroom. Slap, slap, slap, stumble, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. The smoking has shrunk his lung capacity, so he can't keep it up for very long. Just enough to be disruptive and genuinely annoying.

The other morning, I heard a commotion outside their door. It was either the cops or deliverymen from the sound of the duo's deep voices and heavy feet. I refrained from getting up to snoop, since I trusted the thin wall to keep me appraised of whatever was going down. Then my phone rang and I got sidetracked. There wasn't any further hubbub. No one seemed to be getting arrested or ousted, so maybe it was the hockey rink their ordered. I just went about my day.

Somewhere around two, it occurred to me lunch might be warranted. Off I went to nab some. When I came back, something caught my eye.

They had flocked their pink flamingos.

This was as perplexing a site as the copy of "Bridal Guide" I got. I stared at the plastic fowl stabbed into their front yard and felt a deep sense of pity for them. How humiliating. Then I noted that Clompy and Boomer had also given the jade bush a heavy spray and added some "snow" to their windows.

Now, some people can pull this off with a sense of whimsy. Not so much here. I walked into my home and shut the door with the sinking feeling that I was no longer living in a duplex but a double-wide.

Undoings

There are days where I feel like I am a tire just spinning in the mud. Getting nowhere fast. Making a mess of things. Oh, it's not all that gloomy, but you know what I mean. Just nothing is clicking, working, moving forward, or even moving back. Beige. Bland. Blah. Today was beyond off.

First, I worked until three ayem, trying to extract some corporate writing out of me. That's sort of like painting the Mona Lisa with my left hand instead of my right. It's painful, unnatural. But, it must be done. Sigh. Even after a Starbucks, I had nothing in me. I should've sucked it up and went to the gym. I should've just started the day normally, no matter how late it actually began. Lesson learned. I don't know why I kept thinking I can live it both ways (vampire nights and productive mornings). I'm just going to have to put the world on notice: I'll get there when I get there.

After a few false starts, I finally stalled. Even the most simple things became productions. For example, my appliances have turned against me.

My oven's never really worked, my microwave is inconsistent with the popcorn (which is likely a sign from God that I should be eating celery instead...though celery doesn't go quite as well with M&Ms), and now my refrigerator took its final crap. I woke up the day before Thanksgiving to find my soy milk was ice milk. I've kept a bare cupboard ever since, which is neither good for my pocketbook or waistline when everything is being delivered. (I'm waiting for my shrimp-only pad thai right now.) I finally got the call that the "new" one was on it's way and I went to work clearing the contents and taking off the magnets and clips that cover mine. What? I like a bit of collage art.

Right when the dudes were due, I got a call from my manager. "Sandra, I'm sorry, but you do not want that refrigerator. I should've taken a look at it when they brought it out of storage. There's just no way I could send that over to you." It must've been truly gagrific because she could barely get the words out. It will be another few days before anything else is done. I see a lot of deli in my future. The magnets and clips lay in a pile on my dining room table and I feel compelled to drink the splash of vodka re-chilling in my freezer.

Tiffany Blues

Breakfast at Tiffany's was on cable this weekend. And there went my plans for the midday. Who doesn't want to be Audrey Hepburn for a couple of hours, even if she's a poorly disguised call girl? The clothes are so chic. She is so beautiful. George Peppard is rather dishy. It's a fun little escape in spite of the shoplifting, cigarettes and Mean Reds.

However, I am always completely annoyed by the repeated use of "Tiffany's". It's not like they are going over to a cheerleader's house for muffins. No. It is Tiffany. As in Charles Lewis. One fails to acknowledge the "Co" by adding the possessive. It's just Tiffany. But I'm funny like that. It's not a foy-yer but a foy-yay. Not nyk but nigh-key. And if you are going to swallow the price tag, might as well throw in the extra syllable and refer to it properly as a pour-sha instead of a porsh. I think this desire for proper terminology comes from finding my family's use of "chester drawers" was just a tad off. Don't even get me started on "you-tildie room" and "torlet". Then again, every once in a while I throw out "boughten", my own hybrid for those occasions when I cannot decide between saying "had gotten" or "had bought"; thus, I had boughten. I suppose we all have a touch of Lula Mae in us. Quel drag.

Perhaps due to Audrey as Holly, Tiffany holds a bit of allure for all of us. I recall the first time I went in to one. It was sort of like Fantasy Island; everyone had smiles. Everything sparkled. Everything was a tad out of my price range. I was there to exchange a gift. It just wasn't my style. And the things that were more of a fit were still beyond my dollar's reach, even with the exchange. After an extensive browse, I smiled and asked about the telephone dialer. The saleswoman tilted her head at me and furrowed her brow. Please. I wanted to tilt my head as well and say, "Look, lady. Borrow a sense of humor. You are in the Century City Mall Tiffany, not the one on Rodeo. Snobbery doesn't fly here. Ease up," but I didn't. I just batted my lashes asked her to please show me the key rings. I left with one rather cumbersome, U-shaped, heart-tag version of such, and a gift card for the remainder of my return.

There are many beautiful but very few practical things for me at Tiffany. So, the gift card stayed on my shelf for many moons. I considered it a boon when I discovered their appointment diary. See, I'm a pen-to-paper gal at heart. The worst thing I ever did was give up my Filofax. Had they kept making my coveted double-pen slot, money-sleeve and coin purse back, calf skin design (sorry PETA), I would still be on it (mine, after ten years, was beyond repair). But they no longer made what I needed. And there was a Palm Pilot on sale for less than the Filofax I was going to settle on (and the Palm Pilot was cute and matched my graphite Mac clam laptop). I've been forever ruined by that choice. Shortly there after, my life went on BlackBerry and my calendar quickly got screwed. I don't think BB and Entourage always get along. (Might be nice if RIM started actually supported Mac users.) After one too many pooch screwings (and having grown tired of writing everything down, putting it into my computer, then syncing the Berry in order to avoid accidental deletions), I decided it was best to keep appointments on paper. And so to Tiffany I went, gift card in hand, to get my "bible". That's what the appointment journal looks like. All 5.5"x8" of it in black leather (sorry again, PETA) and gilt-edged pages (or the silver version thereof). And I treat it as sacred.

For the past two years, that's where my life has been contained. It's a bit of a splurge, but it makes me happy. I jot down not only the appointments themselves, but notes on the day. Reactions. News. Since I've had this blog (for nearly eight years), I don't really keep a personal diary anymore (hello, redundant), so additional musings have been put on those Tiffany pages, mostly for my amusement.

While I was watching Holly and "Fred" go through the Tiffany aisles, I thought, "Merde. It's December already. I'd better get on the horn and order up a new bible. I mean, appointment journal." I've learned you can't call it a calendar. You can't even give out the measurements and price points to the people on the phone and expect them to find it. I found this out when I rushed over to the Century City store last year and was greeted with a pocket annual diary. So not in the same ballpark. Thus, I've learned the importance of specifics. I went to the website to get the order information. But my appointment journal wasn't there. Oh, they had the big one and the small one, but not the Goldilocks-just-right one for me. I called customer service. Perhaps it could be special ordered. Nope. It has been discontinued. I suppose the lack of order form in this bible should have been a clue. [Insert litany of curse words here.]

Not only will I have to spend twenty dollars more on the bigger annual desk diary version, but they don't even have it in black leather (I'm not apologizing anymore). Oh, they have black patent leather, but that's just too shiny. Oh, I could get it in pink leather, or Tiffany blue leather, but not in regular-leather black. Whaddafug? I mean, if you can't count on Tiffany for tradition and keeping classics classic, who can you count on? Who, I say! Pink leather? Come on.

I haven't placed the order yet. Still haven't made a decision on the red leather or black patent or to go back to Filofax (the Eton is as close as it comes to my old version...but at a steeper price tag...effing inflation). I have to bust a move soon, though, because my 2009 is already blowing up.

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.

Notice Me! Notice Me!

It always astounds me that those who so desperately need attention will go to extreme lengths to disturb any occasion, no matter how peaceful the scene. The impetus of this post is the laundromat, natch, of which I am arriving rather old-lady early these days. If I get there in the 8 o'clock hour, I am pretty much guaranteed not only "my" machines, but no loud cell phone talkers or sugar-hyper kids. It's worth the lack of sleep to get in while the place is relatively empty and quiet but for the hum of the dryers and the whirl of the washing machines.

But, there always seems to be a turd in my punchbowl lately. And this one was wearing pigtails (which should be noted as Notice Me effort #1).

She first came to my attention when she burst through the swinging door of the attached cafe and yelled across the room to her husband. With the extra poundage she was sporting, it might have been more prudent to walk the twenty feet to her husband. I think walking burns for calories than a shout, otherwise I'd be screaming all day. Like a well-trained Labrador, her husband followed her call and back into the cafe they went. Ten minutes or so later, he returned, and ten seconds after that, she burst through the door and shouted for him again. Apparently, nothing really existed unless he saw it, too.

Now, let me map this out for you. I sit in the back of the laundromat, sipping my soy latte, reading Sedaris, minding my own business...quietly. To the left of my perch, about six feet away, is the swinging door to/from the cafe I mentioned earlier. On his third trip back, her husband must have breezed by me when I was finishing the burning mouse story, but I nearly came out of my skin when Miss Pigtails kicked (KICKED!) open the door, and hard. I looked over in surprise to find her smiling and, in each hand, holding a full-sugared soda. I suppose it did not occur to her that the light-weight door could have easily been bumped open with her backside, but I might have missed her grand entrance had she done something that subtle.

I suppose none of this would have bothered me if: 1) I had been listening to NIN (but it was so meditatively peaceful, I decided to go with the rhythm of the 'mat as I read); and 2) she wasn't wearing a similar ensemble to mine -- which, embarrassingly enough, consisted of black track pants and a black tee. I'm not going to apologize for my lack of fashion. It's effing laundry day. Anyway, I at least had my hair up in a French twist (the first since I got Boop'ed) and not in pigtails that are not only age inappropriate for someone 40+, but also exposed a good inch of her gray rootage. That is something most of us try not to have others notice. Every atom of her being seemed to scream, "Notice me! Notice me!" Finally, they seemed settled in the cafe. His attention now solely on her, she no longer had to beg the rest of us to bear witness.

Many moons ago, my friend, Snap and I discovered the Notice Me! Notice Me! phenomenon back when we were film students at CalArts. We soon learned how to discern which student belonged to which school. Those donning baseball caps and playing hacky sack were the animators who would go off to Pixar after a year and make bank. Those who could not stop swaying and had magnificent posture were the dancers. Those whom we never saw much socially were the music students. The emo-sullen were the art students, except for a gregarious few who were the graphic artists (mostly they were chicks; though there were still plenty of sullen GAs of both genders, and they usually silkscreened t-shirts). Film student were pale (from spending so much time in dark theatres or the subterranean edit bays) and sleep deprived (from long, night shoots and editing through dawn), but carried an optimism/delusion that they would breakthrough and be the next Tarantino. However, the most easy to define area of study was the Theatre student/acting major. Snap and I could be sitting quietly in the coffee house, splitting a six-pack of Bud Light (don't ask -- for some reason he claimed that was a more gay-friendly beer) and be deep in a great philosophical conversation and suddenly the whole place would come to a halt because a Theatre student would need to act out the conversation with wild physicality and projected vocals. He and I would soon come to mock them by waving our arms for dramatic effect as we sang out, "Notice me! Notice me!" Then we would giggle a bit and go back to our beer and repartee until we were interrupted again. (Don't be mad, my Theatre alum friends. You know what I mean. And we loved you for it.)

Snap and I will still call someone out on that behavior. One was my ex's now-wife, whom for some reason absolutely hates me. This is rather perplexing, because, at that point, she and I had never met. At least give me a minute to piss you off. Jeebus.

We were at my favorite brekky spot for brunch. I hadn't seen the ex (nicknamed here as Almost) in about a year. I noticed him when the two of them pulled up on his motorcycle not realizing it was him at the moment, just wondering who the fuck would be wearing such thick leather jackets on such a hot day. My ex and his girl evidently. (The motorcycle came after our breakup. Had it happened before, he would have had a smarter getup.). He didn't see me and I was kind of hoping we could "miss" each other on this occasion, but the Irish waitress bellowed out my name and he leapt up as I passed. He introduced her to me. She gave me her wet-noodle handshake, but failed to look in my direction as I said, "So nice to meet you." Whatever.

As luck (?) would have it, they were seated across the aisle from Snap and me. His back was to our booth, but she faced us. Every time the waitress came by their table, she would talk so loudly that Snap and I would have to stop our conversation, unable to hear each other but for telepathy, where we both were like, "Why the hell does she have to talk so bloody loudly? We don't give a toss that they just got back from Hawaii. Shut it." However, when the waitress wasn't around, the two of them were quiet lambs. Barely an audible bah between them.

"She really wants you to notice her," Snap said. "You should go over and sit in his lap and give them a proper hello." Don't worry, I'm not that kind of a girl. I was happy for the both of them. Just puzzled at her behavior. Snap and I just tried to ignore her (which wasn't easy) and enjoy our brunch.

Finally, after a few more visits from the waitress, they left. She shot out of the room, but Almost waved goodbye to us and we awkwardly returned the gesture. Once he was out of earshot, we let loose. Snap mocked her with his arms waving in the air and a high volume parroting of, "BLAH blah blah blah blah and BLAH blah blah blah blah and BLAH..." which was interrupted when Almost walked back to the table to leave the tip. He looked at us, knowing what we were doing, and kind of gave an acknowledging glance. We looked back contrite. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, or hers. But we were caught. Nailed by our own Notice Me behavior. We waved again and said how good it was to see him. Have a nice day and all that. And please, give her my best.

Somehow, I doubt she got that message, or cared if she did.

Nano Nano

So, I never, ever eBay. Well, except for one Vince sweater, and that was a fluke. It was so cheap (for new) and is so cozy; I'm wrapped in it right now..and every girl deserves at least one Vince. Look, you know I'm a walking, talking contradiction. But, as a rule, I stay away from eBay. It kind of grosses me out. I don't know why and I realize it's irrational, but it really makes my skin crawl. Look, you also know I'm a walking, talking goofball. Nothing should surprise you about me by now.

With my iPod Mini slowly going into that long good night, I had to do something. I can't take my long commute without my NIN. The right music really make a difference, and while I love my Indie 103.1, I hate it when they play Green Day. That's why God invented KROQ. And Soundgarden, too. Why?

I'm not really into the latest generation of Nano. I would probably snap it in two when I rolled in on the sliding squat machine at the gym. I need something a bit more sturdy, and something I won't easily lose in my cavernous handbag. I can't afford or even rationalize paying the dough for a full-sized model (though, the Touch would be so much fun). The Shuffle is ruled out due to the fact that I need a screen. After resigning myself to the new Nanos for budgetary reasons (an armband would be needed for workouts), and figuring how long it would take me to save up the two Franklins to procure one (new tires and brakes are due in the next week or two), I thought, Huh. Why don't I look on eBay and see if they don't have a little square Nano in need of a new home?

Of course, they did. I found two, 8 GB, silver, refurbed, 3rd gen Nanos (you know, the cute ones that had the Feist song promoting them last year), both starting at about forty bucks -- with free shipping. Bargain! I put in a bid for one and felt fabulously frugal. Until I was outbid.

I went up to $65, still feeling like it was a steal. I went to bed and thought, If I'm outbid again, I'll go up to $75, but that's my limit.

Okay, how bad is it that I was driving into work, scoping out my eBay stats at red lights (actually looking forward to red lights, if you can believe that one)? The bidding had intensified. It was time to up the ante. I decided to draw the line at $87.50. For real this time. And that was quickly outbid. I watched in stumpified awe as the first refurbed Nano went out at $125. After that bidding closed, I looked at the second Nano, which I had already $87.50'd my way into. At the next light, it had crossed $91. I closed my browser and went in to order my latte. It sucks to be a two-time loser before you even get a sip of caffeine.

The Mini actually seemed to get a full charge last night. Maybe her pride is in play since she knew she was on the verge of being replaced. I don't know. I just hope she holds out a little bit longer. Fight the good fight with me, until I can afford to get a new iPod...from the Apple Store.

And Nero Whipped Out His Fiddle

I feel like I'm standing in my very own Rome and Nero is rosining his bow. Sadly, in this Rome, I am not the Empress. I'm more of a lady in waiting...which is so the story of my life. There's nothing I can do in this situation. I'm not the one commandeering the chariot. I just have to hold on tight until we either hit the brakes, or the wheels fall off.

While I am all about the optimism (yea, power of positive thinking! w00t!), I prefer being pragmatic. It just makes the day run a bit more smoothly. Not that I've not pulled a few ostrich moves in my day. (Why do you think I set up everything on bill pay? I just don't want to know. I know, I know. You sound like my CPA.) But, when faced with a crisis, I have the presence of a panther. I am engaged and ready to do what needs to be done without hesitation. Which makes being stuck on someone else's Mr. Toad's Wild Ride all the more uncomfortable for me. Especially when they keep turning their head toward me to explain how we really aren't going to hit that brick wall we are headed for; and to stop being such a downer. As if happy words and an affable grin will chase away the looming storm and bounce away those lightning bolts. Like a sunny disposition could get you out of the shit. Wouldn't we all be walking around like Cheshire cats if that were the case? Wall Street and DC would be ear to ear. (And don't even get me started on AIG.) In my case, my driver is putting perfume on a corpse and setting a place for his dinner. It's that deluded. Oh well, right? Excuse me while I put Vaseline on my teeth to keep that smile going.

I just hope that whatever tune Nero starts fiddling, it will be one I can dance to.

Inventory

There comes a point in a busy girl's life when she has to face facts (even if she won't look at her bank balance) and admit that $144 is a ridiculous amount of money to pay for a storage unit that holds a few bits of unneeded furniture and a bunch of boxes full of stuff. That stuff is really receipts and whatnot for a you-know-what; some old scripts (that could come in handy one day because the one I'm shopping around right now ain't no spring chicken); a few bits of memorabilia from my Hollywood past; and some truly miscellaneous crap. You know, the typical. Somehow, I remembered it being only a "few" boxes. Try thirteen.

When I looked at the extent of my storage, I started thinking about what I could cut out of my already lean budget in order to afford that $144...or what third job I could procure to keep it. I firmly believe that my time as well as my happiness/comfort is worth a fair amount. As I stared at what I stowed away, I decided it made sense to chalk that $144 up to my peace of mind at not having to further impose on my already crowded duplex. But, when I started to slide the door on my unit shut, I heard the voice of my good friend/CPA saying, "What the hell are you doing throwing that money away? Put your boxes in document storage. It's cheaper." With our level of intimacy (when I say she knows everything about me, that includes my net worth), I can't get away with any sort of shenanigans. Since I am having dinner with her on Thursday, I thought it might be nice to look her in the eye. So, I loaded up my car, twice, and carried the boxes into my home.

I suppose wearing white wasn't the brightest move. I did second guess my t-shirt and hoodie when I walked out the door, but, I figured, I'm a grown-up. I can manage a laborious task and not end up all grimy. It's all about how you carry yourself. Well, just who does carry themselves well shuffling old boxes about? Clearly, not I.

I stacked the boxes in a tower in my living room. That was about the only fun part. I stood back and stared at the wall of Stor-All and sighed. This is the price of being an independent contractor/writer -- a whole lot of "back up". The question is: Can I fit it all back in here, or do I have to take the time to organize the contents of the white cardboard cubes in a way that really organized people will understand and can assign barcodes to?

By the way, can I just mention how this so does not fit into the "minimize my life" scheme?

Stumbling through the boxes of my past, I did uncover a few things that made me smile. The invitation to the housewarming party with my then co-habitating boyfriend. Names I hadn't thought of in years. Cancelled checks from nearly twenty years ago, leading a trail to where I had been (and how much I'd spent). Remembering that dinner, that dress or that day. And, as I shredded them all, I felt both closer and more distant to my past. That girl I was. So hopeful and sure of how things would be. There's still some of her left in me. I look at those boxes, which seem to stare back at me, and I wonder what else I might find. What I will toss away. Or what I will cram into a corner until it's time to do inventory again.

Next time, I shan't wear white.

That Spat

In relationships, the first fight is rather a pivotal moment. For the first time, the rosy glow of infatuation does not dim the ire. Guards are let down. Shit hits the fan. Most of these "exchanges" are quickly erased from memory. Some, however, are just too good to forget. Therefore, I would like to share with you The Toothbrush Incident:



[Production Note: The Grayscale People are a little buggie. Some of the camera angles and movements were not what I "directed", but I think they add to the narrative. And, in real life, he's not Australian. The accent was just better. Isn't it always?]

[Another Note: The framing blows a little on the embed. You can watch it better here.]

That spat happened seven years ago. He is only alive today and walking without a limp because he used the manual and not use the Braun Oral-B. We still laugh about it...or needle each other with it. It's a running gag. How can it not be? He did spend that night on the sofa, which was his last night here. The next morning he returned home. Not the way either one of us wanted to end the visit. But, a line was crossed and there were consequences for that.

The second spat was even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it. The subject matter is one of utter hilarity; the conflict itself was rather painful. We spent the night in separate sections of the city after that one. Such is the price of passionate personalities. The goal is to avoid a third. I think we can. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if betting pools were forming. If there ends up being a tiff, though, it's sure to be animated.

A Rebuilding Year

Men don't always get the ways of women. Could I make more of an obvious statement? No. So, imagine their utter confusion when a chick chops off her locks in order to grow them out.

I know. It only makes sense if you are a woman. However, if you own dangly bits below the belt, perhaps it would bring you a sense of understanding if we called it a "rebuilding year". I believe that's what men refer to it as when their team has a crap season and they remain blindly optimistic that it will be better next year. Well, that's what we girls think when we've had enough of bad haircuts and color and split ends. With a weakened sense of optimism, we whack it all off. Like an abused wood floor, we've got to take it down to its most natural state so we can add to it again, and bring it to its best again.

Or, at least that's what we tell ourselves.

The past month has been a hairy-ed adventure for me. The next person who says, "I almost didn't recognize you," will have to buy my drinks for the night. And, I tend to be thirsty. This tressed-out situation again proves my theory that bangs do more for you than Botox. I've not done the Botox yet, but I've had ample people tell me how much younger I look with this 'do. That could very well be a backhanded compliment, but I'll take it. Trust me, Botox is on my list of things to do. But, if the bangs keep getting me those comments, I'll keep them (and the money I'd be spending on needles; bangs I can cut for free...needle injectors I'll pay top dollar for).

I don't mind my hair being this short, or this straight. I mind that they are both of these things at once. This is of my own doing, of course. There is no one else to blame but the bimbo typing this out. There are certain occasions in which forethought takes a vacay and forgets to put the "Gone Fishin'" sign up to let me know that perhaps now is not the time for me to make a decision that will take a long time to grow out. Maybe I enjoy that frivolous unpredictability about myself. If I do, it only lasts until I have to do my hair.

I just keep repeating that I did this for a reason. Like trading my slightly aging star player so I can get three more young bucks to play. And, as I run my fingers through my very soft, very straight hair, I keep thinking one thing:

When will it be long enough to pull it into a ponytail?