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.
RUAWAKE...a wake-up call column of questions, answers, celebrations, fascinations and philosophications.
13 November 2008
12 November 2008
Sexy Back
There's nothing sexy about a yawn. A morning stretch, yes. A yawn, not so much.
I can't stop yawning. All day long. Basically, I'm watching my sex appeal walk out the door with each sleepy gape. Really. Every third sentence, just picture me yawning. And not a cute little yawn, but a you-can-see-my-tonsillectomy-scars chasm. Like I said, sexy. And I just yawned again.
All I need to do is get my silly ass to bed at a decent hour. But, no. My brain doesn't shut off until midnight. This isn't a case of "racing thoughts" or insomnia. At least that would be fixable. I just have a stubborn brain that wants to *do* stuff when we finally get on *my* time. My brain doesn't like the fact I have to rent it out to other people. It thought we were through with that. But no. Almost, just not yet. It's like dealing with a bratty toddler on sugar. It just wants its way, and I have not choice but to relent. Truth be told, I like my brain time. I just miss my sleep.
The brain and I don't get to bed until about one. The alarm goes off before six. And I live in a sleep deficit. It sucks. But this is how it goes. I am a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I am not cut out for the nine-to-five world. And I know I'm not alone. We, the nocturnal masses, are the ones who support the caffeine industry. We do our best to function as *normal* people. But, we're not. We aren't lazy. We aren't slackers. We're not even hungover (most of the time....like 98%). We might look that way due to our dark circles, pale skin and perpetual yawning, but please note that we look a hot mess because we are desperately trying to adapt...and pretty much failing in spite of those efforts. Still, we don't give up. While we might be showing off our dental work to random strangers as we tilt back our heads and attempt to balance our oxygen levels, getting yet another latte, we are really trying our best to make it work.
And I just want my sexy back.
I can't stop yawning. All day long. Basically, I'm watching my sex appeal walk out the door with each sleepy gape. Really. Every third sentence, just picture me yawning. And not a cute little yawn, but a you-can-see-my-tonsillectomy-scars chasm. Like I said, sexy. And I just yawned again.
All I need to do is get my silly ass to bed at a decent hour. But, no. My brain doesn't shut off until midnight. This isn't a case of "racing thoughts" or insomnia. At least that would be fixable. I just have a stubborn brain that wants to *do* stuff when we finally get on *my* time. My brain doesn't like the fact I have to rent it out to other people. It thought we were through with that. But no. Almost, just not yet. It's like dealing with a bratty toddler on sugar. It just wants its way, and I have not choice but to relent. Truth be told, I like my brain time. I just miss my sleep.
The brain and I don't get to bed until about one. The alarm goes off before six. And I live in a sleep deficit. It sucks. But this is how it goes. I am a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I am not cut out for the nine-to-five world. And I know I'm not alone. We, the nocturnal masses, are the ones who support the caffeine industry. We do our best to function as *normal* people. But, we're not. We aren't lazy. We aren't slackers. We're not even hungover (most of the time....like 98%). We might look that way due to our dark circles, pale skin and perpetual yawning, but please note that we look a hot mess because we are desperately trying to adapt...and pretty much failing in spite of those efforts. Still, we don't give up. While we might be showing off our dental work to random strangers as we tilt back our heads and attempt to balance our oxygen levels, getting yet another latte, we are really trying our best to make it work.
And I just want my sexy back.
11 November 2008
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.
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.
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