Naked At Work...Again

I am GR-OW-CHEE. Let me put that out there in easier terms, for all you non-phonetic folks. Grouchy. Groucha-groucha-groucha. Grouchy McGroucherson.

Shoo-wee.

And the worst part of it all? I arrived this morning feeling more rested than normal, surprisingly jovial--even happy to be the one responisible for sitting at the front desk and filling in for the receptionist. I was glad to be seeing folks! Crackin jokes! Smiling and greeting! Announcing burritos!

But turns out that it just feels like one of those days when once the spell is broke, it done broke. A few things went awry...small things on the large scale, but enough to be an intial mood killer and plentiful enough to sustain said kill.

And now I am doing this weird swinging between giddy silliness (trying to regain previous cheer? I don't know.) and a dull-edged misery, so stealthy I can hardly feel it. Ick ick ick. I am so against this. Is it that I am now going to slide into the requisite pre-holiday funk? Yuck. I need some turnin' in the mood. I AM trying...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Speckeled Heckle

Here is the audition draft of my Heckler for the mag. Needless to say, as it is published here, I was NOT selected to write this column.

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I don’t consider myself overly critical and I don’t support girl-on-girl crime, so it is not with personal venom that I report this wide-spread fashion faux pas. A sweet boyfriend on a Life Savers commercial might have been too smitten to tell his gal the real reason she had been hearing “muffin top” all day, but I’m just not that sugary. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.

Girls, get rid of your gunt. Unhook the camel toe. Free up your fupa. Your boss did not mention you and muffin tops in the same sentence because you, like Elaine’s favorite half, are just the best! (If all this is a bewildering mess of meaningless slang, spend some time with Urban Dictionary, and give some serious thought to getting hip.)

Indeed, the unfortunate trend of too-small pants and too-tight tops is one that has long prevailed, no matter how ill-fitting. Waistbands whimper and seams scream all over our fair city, and likely any city with people. Men, too, suffer from whatever fever makes wedging into clothes like sausage casings seem like a good idea (you know who you are, boys, and slacks are intended to be worn at a waist, not sadly sagging underneath your beer belly) but females are by far the most notorious perpetrators. Don’t get me wrong, I get the less-than-perfect figure; some of my own curves are dangerous—literally. This is not an attack on a thicker sister but rather a cry for smarter dressing.

Friends, comrades, allies: as depressing as actually picking up that size 14 might be (go ahead, sulk while you hand over the plastic, you show that cashier!), it shouldn’t be half as depressing as the way you look when yo’ stomach “dunlap” over yo’ size 12. The rumors are true: buying that one size bigger will make you look one size smaller. It is much harder to pull off a super-squeezed midsection than elegantly drape your padded places with simple, well-tailored style. It doesn’t have to cost a pretty penny, either. Most retailers carry classic pieces to fit and flatter any woman and the more modest garb will impress your co-workers who are tired of tracing the lines of your bikini briefs through your khakis. Your love handles just might start to love you back.

So, unless you sport a Daisy Duke physique, lose the low-riders and abandon the belly shirt. Scratch that—everyone bail on the belly shirt, it’s not so much a trend as a recurring nightmare. The goal is not citywide lifestyle lifts, only closet makeovers. I don’t knock on voluptuous, but looking like linked meat doesn’t work for anyone.

So go a size up for the greater good, or maybe I’ve just been drinking too much hater-ade. I prefer the purple.

Gross-Out Blog

DISCLAIMER (though really, to be fair, un-needed, you all know what you are getting into and with almost every post there is an accompanying admission that it will probably bore all readers):

If you are uninterested in what one elitist snob I know called a "whine blog" please proceed elsewhere. While the rest of you may have drugs or shrinks or healthy, non-busy, in the same city, same-sex friends to entertain your issues and coddle you through them, I do not. This is therapeutic and the only way I keep myself from riddling my ACTUAL life and all the people in it with endless psychosis and actually make it through every day. SO, if you don't like it, fuck off. I will stop by to read your endlessly brilliant analysis of Band of Horses and There Will Be Blood, later. Probably not. BO-RING.

;) I say that with teasing affection of course. I just had an obnxious weekend of a pseudo-break-up with someone I was never with--over texting, no less; feeling perilously let down regarding a friend's maybe-addiction; having NOTHING to wear; falling down, being manhandled and borderline abused and then called a bitch repeatedly. So I had a moment of venting to do. Not even about you, button, turnip, poodle, schnauzer. The good news was I hit my first NBA game. And we won. An unceremonious, not super-well played game, but a win nonetheless. And I could use a win.

END DISCLAIMER
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Last night, I was standing at the window picking my nose and found myself staring at a pink foam Princess magnet that my sister sent me. I don't generally like to put things actually ON my refrigerator, as it would so detract from the dirty hippy motif that rules the home/fridge and ruin the carefully crafted illusion that I do not really live there.

Fresh out of the shower (which, I must mention, has become an ever-increasingly ugly prospect, this whole bathing thing. Mid-November Denver in a crappy-insulated house in a room that doesn't belong or have a vent just does NOT welcome wet legs. Sigh.) I stood at my window staring out at the far-too-early darkness, wrapped in towel, and thought just how much I had grown into that pink foam above-my-bed- label. A delicate, sea-shell princess, this one. Of course, the sort of princess that, just now when I was itching my ear, I accidentally wedged a strand of hair in the waxy canal. When I pulled it out...I liked it. That sort of princess.

But really, outside of that, I have come to have very high expectations. I find myself feeling satisfied less often and critical more. I have been a little irritable, relative to my normal mood. I have been feeling wider swings of emotion. I seriously considered trying to get back on some meds. I mean, I realize that PMDD is clearly a fictitious diagnosis aimed at giving people who don't have the time/motivation to get any therapy nor have any real, serious problem, a little boost to get em past the rough patches. This is ok with me. Unlike Tom Cruise, I have no problem with needless mind-altering drugs being prescribed to treat the symptoms and not the cause. That sounds just right.

BUT, because even that would really take more effort than I am willing to put out, I decided to take advantage of some of my monthly automatic withdrawals. No, no, this is not the time right before that time when I get reclusive and pouty like clockwork. I am referring to those purchases, long-term contracts, if you will that take $16, $25, even $35 out of my checking account each month and have gone neglected far too long.

I have returned to 24-Hour Fitness. My hips hurt, I am pretty sure that I don’t actually do anything particularly fruitful there and those guys with the shiny gloves and the biceps that are bigger than my head (by a lot, for reals) truly give me the creeps. But I am pretty sure I am getting my money’s worth. Right.

I also went back to tan. Or, rather back to orange. And all of this brassy-bronze, gyrating and squeezing really made me realize how much I dislike jiggling all over. So, I have also back a glorious WeightWatchers comeback (though I have yet to finish a week ON program, a feat that has eluded me since October LAST year) and am totally certain that in just a few short weeks, I will be JUST like the woman that teaches the pole dancing class I took.

Side note: I plan on climbing backwards up a pole by this time next year, if not sooner, due to my rapidly perfecting physique. Duh. I am taking donations, as it is what I want for Christmas. The class, you fools, not the ability. But if you know someone who can get me that, right on.
But all of these new operations, along with my general inability to feel stable and organized or even productive about them has left me feeling intolerably antsy. Even as I type this, my finger keeps wandering to my mouth, trying to fish out the hunk of lip I just bit off. That’s right, it’s a nervous habit. Anxiety + oral fixation = Holey Lips, Batman!

But it is not just those things. I am nervous about money of late. Mine, Citibank’s, my family’s, Fanny’s and Freddy’s and Eddy’s and who knows. I just don’t know if I have the gumption to make it through a depression. Depression, yes. But A depression? Sheesh. Well, at least I would have my stripping to fall back on. You know, it is a cousin of the world’s oldest profession, she’ll hook us up. Get it? Hook?

Additionally, I am having a major relapse of quarter-life crisis, obsessing over wasted time, missed opportunities, ones that I am GOING to miss if I don’t get my shit together, all kinds of useless thoughts that actually PREVENT action while requiring it. What a mindfuck.

At this moment I look for other jobs daily WHILE I try to stick with this one in hopes of a promotion/bonus. But there is the looming idea that we will just go extinct, here, in our ultra-floundering business. That’s comforting. I want to travel but have no money. I want to take this dance class but have no money. I need new glasses, want to mail a package, think my brakes are about to go out, would love a new car, new boots, to go back to school but I have no money. And I don’ t think any is coming my way.

Lost in the confusion of all this (to which one can add sporadic stresses of what is feeling like an increasingly chaotic magazine-work element to my life) I want to apply to grad school and am totally paralyzed by laziness (first of all), the total disorganization of trying to figure out what needs to be done to do it (could be helped—though not alleviated—if I weren’t so lazy. Lazy and, honestly, scared. Scared that I wouldn’t get in, sure. I AM applying to pretty unattainable schools (NYU and Northwestern, I think). But that’s not even the primary concern. Scared that I would get in, maybe. Scared to think about a change that huge. Scared to put that much into it and have it be all for naught, unnecessary, stupid, laughable even. I have already DONE that, for chrissake.

I can’t even sit still at my desk. I keep flipping back and forth in windows, opening new tabs on my IE, not even using them, trying to find the track list to Finally, Lillian and Dan, ONLY b/c it would be a good distraction, getting up and wandering into other people’s cubes so that they can be as disturbed and unproductive as myself, getting smacked—quite literally, slapped in the face—by my boss, feeling the crazy coffee jitters of some insanely high-caffeine brew on a small cup of Crispix, feeling like I desperately need to make a list and not even knowing what to put on it (no idea! Of what? What to do? In what period of time? With what money and time? Where do I start? Do I even HAVE things to do?). I even looked up Princess in urbandictionary. I keep opening my iTunes and staring at it blindly. Should I get something? Should I organize it? Add to it? Even turn it on? (It has been open and non-functional now for two hours, currently I think that music would only make me CRAZIER!)

All while pointedly NOT doing my job. I have done literally nothing this week. Other than show up late, take ten minutes too long at lunch, do my OTHER job while here, MASTER JoJo’s Fashion show and Games.com, waste time, money, effort, energy and still not do the ONE. MUNDANE. MIND-NUMBING thing I should do for this company. I SHOULD get fired. For sure.
But then who would they slap?

Just Smile All The Time

Laugh at every joke.

And it does work, to a degree-dy, Jeff Tweedy.

I blame my mood on the weather. It is tangible, visible, documentable that as colder weather onsets, so does my despondency. Really, I am uncomfortable all the time and finding it harder and harder to be happy. I carry a basic chill (and with it a tense rigidity that I cannot lose without an opportunity to be really good and warm, maybe even hot and bothered, in the recent past) at all times. I may have made a mistake in moving to Denver. I am not sure it has the climate-al tolerance required by someone with as low a threshold for cold as myself. Who knew it was so cold and snowy in Colorady? Well, I guess hindsight is 20/20.

But really, I would love to say it was my hormones. I wish it was a phase or a day or even a week, but I can feel the strain every day of maintaining my perkiness, of pushing aside the cloudy days and focusing, farsightedly, on the things that make these murky days just as good as others, in other months, in other mindsets. Just dust that frost off, it'll be good as new.

Plaster on my grin. If you tell yourself enough that you are happy, eventually, you'll start to believe it. That's how to fight the loneliness.

And I am not unhappy, let's not be foolish. I am just falling victim to that general malaise coming with losing a suntan, dreading even a minute out of doors, giving gam-bearing for a season or two, fitting (or not fitting) into last year's pants, having to crack the whip on the squatter hippy living at my house who keeps turning our heat up to 70. Excuse me sir, but one month of sleeping space, energy bills, water supply and refrigeration and cooking amenities AT NO COST does not, dear sir, entitle you to ratchet up my heating bill without a second thought. You cold? Get a blanket. Can't fit it on your bike when you travel cross country? Leave it. It's the least contribution to your mooching. Clogging our sink with your Orange County Choppers mustache then buying the Draino to clear it and giving the bathroom as cursory clean barely breaks you even for a week or two.

I am watching that thermostat, buddy. (AND I am watching YOU.)

See? I am an irritable grumpy fuck. But, in fairness, that is totally uncool, Matt, cut it out.

On the brighter side several things will set the tone for an A-ok weekend: free dinner on Friday at my roomie's (the paying one) new restaurant and the Big Lebowski party (one of my very favorite, annually sporadic, completely chaotic, poorly timed, costumed Sunday bowling events, of which there are many, naturally). These should surely be the dose of dopamine that my mood needs this week, that is if I make to the weekend...and through the birthday festivities of one very high-maintenance, generally agitating, heavy drinking friend. And, as a good rule of thumb, most weekend outings with said pal end in a quarrel of varying severity, duration and consequence. So THAT's something to look forward to.

Do I even get to come home for Thanksgiving? I dunno. I am poor, the airlines are poor, the country is poor. That's not a good start.

There is that nagging despondency again. Just feeling like my life isn't as lively as it should be. Missing arm-grabbing, curse-splattered, mean-tender desire and that gripping in my gut. Stepped into the elevator yesterday and it smelled of the cologne of the person who had just stepped out. It gave me shivers, like stepping into the ghost of someone, a lingering scent of... of? I don't know but it sure made me miss something/someone/somewhere/sometime. I am horribly sentimental and nostalgic for something I don't remember or maybe even know. That's what happens in the fall/winter.

What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music? - Rob

Ah, shut your trap, Eva. Turn off your "Sad" iPod playlist. Stop all that bellyachin, you sissy. After all, June is just around the corner.

Listening to: "Most of the Time" - Bob Dylan, then "Drive" - The Cars

(Would someone make me a mix already? I am craving new-to-me, less downer tunes and cannot motivate myself)

If you need to make up some of the intelligence lost by reading this, please spend a moment here: Mad Dog Palin, with my good friend Matt Taibbi.

Please let Obama win, or else give me a huge windfall so that I might flee for a while and live on strangers' couches in Europe and Asia.

I am sorry for even writing this.

Shut The Fuck Up, Eva

"Well, governor Palin, seeing as you watch comedy shows with the sound turned off..."

JON STEWART FOR PRESIDENT!

That out of the way...

An Old Spice commercial just featured a centaur that was half the cutest guy I have seen in a while and it made me laugh. Almost a whole laugh. Almost as much as the intro on the Daily Show that I haven't seen in months. And it was followed by a decently amusing preview for Choke. Like the book, intrigued by the filum.

Plus, Tony Blair's extreme likeness to silly cartoons in pink pink ties has lit up the night.

I guess I enjoy having cable for a night. I suppose this is the silver lining on three hotels in three nights. And an abhorrent amount of calories, taken in during a pathetic, futile and, frankly, repulsive attempt to meet with a moment of satisfaction.

I am revolting. Seriously.

My heart, right now, feels hard and small and ridiculous as Laura's fists. I can quite clearly map how my loneliness right now is both symptom and cause, root and flower of my icky feeling right now.

I hate having had something so nasty and terrible happen then have to put off the fallout, the real reaction. It doesn't get dealt with and disappears, normally in a bad way. Like you don't get to fix it, it just goes on, unstitched, while your insides spill out on the road and you have to fly to Idaho, while your heart bleeds out on your porch.

I am a maniac and an obsessive compulsive dater. I relate to way much of this article. Or I have. Or did. But I think that it's assertion of just stopping is not a broad enough solution. I truly think that there is such a complex cocktail of emotion and needs and stresses and activities and food and drink and biology that even gets you started on such a crazy-pants roller coaster to begin with that, while this remedy is a good step, I just can't buy it wholesale.

I know. I AM that crazy person.

And what about the aftermath? The withdrawal? The shakes? The looking over your shoulder forever? The wondering if you missed out on each other? The mutual enjoyment of Colbie Callait? I mean, you might be on to something but please, do not underestimate the psychosis that goes into this kind of behavior and therefore the far bigger undoing that has to be done. I mean, thats like putting a band-aid on a wound that is the size of the mountain I am making out of the molehill of my emotional and self-esteem issues. And I know it. And you know it. And you know I know it. And I know you know.

I am considering going back to grad school. Somewhere crazy. I am also considering watching Religulous. But for now I am glad that a random black guy told me I had the nicest legs in the bar on Saturday, that another random black guy told me I was increditable and thanked me for "the best view all night" and two people told me I looked like Sarah Palin (either the greatest chic in TV writing or the worst person-with-a-backyard-view-of-Russia she ever hilariously portrayed) on that same Saturday, and that the evil vice grip my own guilt, nervousness, tension and pathetic paranoia about my own behavior this past week and the probably-not-even-that-great-but-god-I-want-it-anyway opportunities and people I have rabidly pushed away just as I wanted to pull it close has only given me a heart murmur and an ulcer but NOT kept me from actually breathing.

Though part of me wishes it had.

At least then I couldn't talk.

TRANSCRIPT: Do With It What You Will

I didn't acknowledge/express what I like about you. Why Eva & her spirit is beautiful. That bothers us for whatever reason. Maybe because it doesn't.

I adore you. Your vibrance, your pretty brown eyes, your intelligence & the witful expressivness of your nature made from the cloth of naked reality.

It doesn't give to our actualization. We weren't speaking cerebrally or from our hearts but emotionally from the ego. No ones fault but human nature.

I don't intentionally try and hurt people. What I meant was... My heart is unavailable. Belonging to another. My demon I choose not to share. Our relationship, like most would have eventually been driven by physicality. And the emptiness leads to abandonment. In my mind I was protecting you. It was not my intention to hurt you or be quarrelsome, as I know it wasn't your intention to besmirch my character.

I am sorry.

On A Lighter Note

A list of 10 Things That Prove I Am Not A Sourpussy Old Curmudgeon (in no particular order):

1) I also coined the word sexorexic. For those of us who haven't "eaten" in so long we can't remember being hungry.

I mean, as I told Beth, our sexual ribs are poking through, and when we look in the mirror, we STILL think we look fat.

2) I get to go to the DAILY SHOW TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHH!!

3) Since last post, became presiding KICKBALL CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD! Also saw The Police on a psuedo-date, that was pretty sweet. And free--HA!

4) Will be published as author of FEATURE article in September issue due out in about one point five weeks.

5) Nobody can drink a Car Bomb faster than me, nobody. Yet another heavyweight title belt.

6) My sister has a faux hawk!!! At least some of the time, and I could NOT be any prouder of her coolness.

7) Lakes are fun, suntans funner, new, bigger, better, stronger belly after days of beer swigging and piggin' out, not so cool, but so worth it.

8) Only 2.5 weeks until Monolith. Where there will be great Atmosphere, nah'mean?

9) I have a savings account for the first time since I hit puberty.

10) Last month, I had an opportunity to respond to an especially dou-che (pronounced like touche) date of mine, who when I texted, totally out of courtesy, to see how his new status of self-employer was said, and keep in mind I am pretty darn sure said fellow is an ENORMOUS tool: Muy bueno, como estas? At other times he also said the following: "Dinner at 7, mon cher?" and "Sabor Latino, 7:30, bring your Tommy Gun." So, in response to the polite question, I got to say: "Non important, yo tengo papel." The only thing worth saying in Spanish if you are from my family. And I probably spelled it wrong. Yahoo!

Me, I'm The Asshole

To tell me the truth, I really don't want to write a thing right now. (And on that note, I, as usual, suggest you not read this, unless, like me, you have a nice, healthy masochistic flair or any tendency toward voyeurism. I have both in spades, so, if you would like to observe my failed human spectacle, I get that.)

I feel mean and uncommunicative. I want to say "Fuck you, blog." Well, really, I could address that to a number of people/places/things or any other Twenty Questions category right now, but I think I will stick with directing my anger one place--kind of. Especially because it is so infuriatingly directionless.

Sort of.

The very worst part of it is how annoyingly conscious I am about how I feel, why I feel it and how--most likely--irrational, silly or fleeting that feeling is. I KNOW it is. I REMEMBER how happy I have been for the last few days. Almost entirely, if you were wondering. Well, not so close to entirety after I had to come back to h-e-double toothpicks, also known as work.

I need to get out of this place. It is framing my whole perspective in dark, heavy, monastic wood. Fantastic for a stark, nicely contrasting effect on your Martha Stewart Goldenrod-painted walls. Not so beautiful when crammed into a rapidly gloaming brainscape. It makes me a stern, bitter nun, easy to anger, quick to reprimand, wrinkled and scowling always.

P.S. This is not me.

I normally have more patience for inane argumentativeness from people with a piddly sense of humor or something to prove. I usually would, not noticing, tune out the fact that my cube neighbor spends 5 of her 8 work hours on the phone with her boyfriend, lending me an earful of cooing, idiosyncratic love babble and pleading compromise and insipid inside jokes. Normally, I would never use the word insipid. Most of the time I wouldn't mind so much that she almost never refers to "her son" by his name or even by a nice, traditional pronoun. "Her son," is far too important. Her life around "her child," far too dramatic and to be taken VERY seriously. "Her little boy" is the center of her universe. And apparently the center of our miserable, temperature dysfunctional, smelly, germ-incubating, mind-fraying and soul-eating cube universe, too.

Typically, hauntings of my room mate's filthy habits (and the weeks-old, molded-into-their-vase WEEDS she picked!!) wouldn't last alldaylong. Normally, my colleagues rehashing of the same, stupid crap, doing the same pointless things every day only exists just beyond my mood.

But my dark, Victorian-furnitured mood is not so resilient. Absurdly, I am pretty certain it has something to do with the DNC. That sounds queer--rather, it IS queer--but all the goings-on, all the people, events and issues at such a frothy head in my city right now have cast in an embarrassing, depressing, painful light how unfulfilled both my desire and my potential is. Or at least I think it is. I just want so much more.

I want to be in it. I am sad I miss out on so much from my safe distance, from my terrible, suburban-job perch and my still-sort-of-insulated(isolated?) life. I want to be involved in something that means something--if only to me. I want less routine days. I want stimulus. I want an outlet for my unique brand of not very special and completely untalented creativity. I want to direct my passion outward instead of letting it point deeper inside myself, where it festers and becomes discontent and loathing. I want something to offer in conversation that is really mine and that people might actually want to hear. Other than my increasingly more dating infused life (though this means something different extra-recently than it did even a few weeks ago).

I want this icky, rejected, not-loving-myself feeling to get the hell away from me. I want to actually BELIEVE what I for SURE know about a certain few deeply flawed, completely aimless, aging and incapable, sorta gay, high-pitched laughing, body-shaving, manipulative, emotional juveniles, which is that I deserve better and I DON'T EVEN CARE. But somehow, the inky mark of feeling hurt and unwanted and therefore not good enough is a stain I just can't wash out. Even in the light of much better, more real and I think pretty solid prospects. (At least one, maybe.)

I want to quit feeling sorry for myself and quit hating myself for being the sort of weak, sniveling little bitch that lets me feel sorry for myself. However, I think that my intrepid, uncontrollably optimistic and dizzyingly hyperactive traits normally do a good job of keeping this self-pity out of my normal, every-day activities and moods. It only leaks out on occasion, when it's got all swoll up from some little (or big) blow.

Even then, I think most of the time I reserve it for my blog, where anyone can ditch my rant whenever they see fit. Or never read it at all. Or decide they can't condescend to be friends with someone who spends so much time on such trifling, shallow garbage. I would get that, too. However, if you DID have that grossly masochistic, voyeuristic, slightly stupid need to read all the way to here, you will be glad to know that, now, I feel better.

Or, at least, the tears have started to eek their way out.

But, that is actually sort of the same as better.

Gross.

Coinage

Long time, no talk, world of eager Eva readers. Wait, who are we kidding here, blog, its just you and me. You're the same as me, we see things they'll never see, you and I are gonna live forever. Just the two of us, we've come a long way, baby. Did you ever know that you're my hero? You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration, you're the best friend that I've ever had, what would we do, baby, without us? Shanana.

All right, that out of the way, BREAKING NEWS! Yesterday, a young man kindly pointed out that I had particularly "wide fingers." Once past the initial, stunned silence (WHAT? I DO? I have ALWAYS considered my hands to be dainty, delicate, pianist-fingers) that was more like one moment where I scowled at him, I simply said, "Yes, Dave, I have fat hands. Thank you for using such a polite euphemism when making inappropriate, embarrassing observations with a woman you don't know." However, that being true, it is ALSO true that I do, indeed, have fat hands. Any fool reading this who might be considering scoring me that Canary I have so long wanted, go big, or go home.

That fact and the fact that this weekend I consumed 17 times more booze than either food or water combined (but don't worry, what food I DID eat was completely packed with standard American excess that one would hardly be able to worry for undernourishment--and it was good) are what I directly blame for how badly I bowled last evening. Well, those two facts and the fact that I suck. A lot. But I had fun. With my new friend Chris who has a Fu Manchu (and contributes to the VERY funny and tastefully superior--Donnybrook Writing Academy) and a few of his friendly hipster pals, who certainly had to be displeased with having let me play when we realized my high score of the evening was an overwhelming 87.

Ok, that wasn't really breaking news, BUT, this just in: I coined a new word. As far as I know it is new, FuManchu seemed unimpressed with it but I refuse to be discouraged. And when it is as common a household item as Booyah! (I mean, really, when that guy coined that word do we really think everyone just froze, riveted by its brilliance and clear, lasting relevance? Ppff.) So, here it is:

Opionionado.

Take a moment, roll it around in there a bit. (In your brain, in your mouth, either works, it is at home both places.)

Otherwise known as the critic, the person who might not REALLY be qualified or informed on a subject (or just prefers to speak on subjects on which it isn't entirely possible to be technically well-versed), but sure has an opinion on it. They don't know shit, they just talk about shit. Not always a bad thing, either. Depends on if it is funny.

Take THAT urbandictionary.com!

In other news, the African American community suffered a big hit this weekend when BOTH Isaac Hayes AND Bernie Mac kicked the bucket(s?) at prematurely young ages. Word on the street is that Bernie Mac died from complications from pneumonia. This raises eyebrows, mine anyway, what kind of normally healthy 50 yr old dies of pneumonia? None. But UN-healthy ones do... I have my suspicion. But regardless, the world is a little less baritone this week, and all hopes of a re-emergence of Chef on South Park (or of an Ocean's 23) are now out the window. We will miss you, Shaft (singer). Oh, and you too, guy that was in Guess Who.

In brief, the weekend was great. Dinner with pals then out to see a pretty solid local band at the Hi-Dive. Blues and Brews Festival. Baseball game. Blues and Brews again. Bowling. FuManchu's (and at least one other) stellar short film at the 48-hour Film Festival. PTSD exboyfriend in town for a visit, think we showed him a good, Denver-tastic time. Plus, I got to wear 5 dresses this weekend. Any weekend with that much sundress is a good weekend

EXTRA, EXTRA!! Beth is coming in town!!!! Not reaaaally to see me, but SO WHAT! Ya-Hooooooo! AND I finished my FEATURE article for the magazine this past week. I think it is fabulosa. But it is, after all my baby, the product of my very own fat little fingers.

Which, speaking of, are tired of typing.

Over and out.

Jabber...Wonky?

Yesterday, at kickball...our first loss of this season, sadly enough to say, and I know that I can hear the sharp intake of breath--yours with horror and shock--I was cheering on a runner, one on mine own team, of course, not one of those horrible ass-clowns from the other team. By the way, their mascot is the Jersey Monster (a player who looked eerily like a younger, slightly more natural but even creepier George Hamilton and was all over the field like a vulture on a gutwagon) and ours is me. Just me. I do kicks. It is pretty amazing.

A-N-Y-how, there I was cheering, hollering, screaming and gyrating as one does and a new guy (approximately eleven) was doing about the same--we were near scoring a run, shut out my BOOT!--when we achieved a kick and said runner was--well, running--and me and 11-year old (was his name Zack?) screached, "RUN! RUN LIKE THE DICKENS!!!" In exceptionally synchronized unison.

Better yet? He followed with:

"WHY are you stealing my SIMILE!?"

He might be 11 but, hey....nudge, nudge.

After which a few gals from the team decided to celebrate our losses with a few $4 Margs and $1 Tacos. During this dinner we somehow snagged a young man (and an old man--together) to come sit with us and chat us up. I was clearly the black, less-than-cute sheep of our femme foursome and, on top of that, was the only one with any particular tart in my conversational skills. I could feel the rejection. It was thicker than my guac.

But moving on, this may or may not have contributed to the immense anxiety I had during the night (this happens a lot these days, literally awoken--or never allowed to sleep--by nagging super-anxieties, and DAMN those fuckers are persistent). I was overcome by my normal fear that, somehow, something bad about me will be exposed, very publicly. I fear there are terrible things about me on the internet, that my medical records will leak, that people know all my darkest secrets. And I am not even running for office! Nonetheless, this prompted me to actually put on my spectacles and Google myself at about 2.20 am.

I need medication. Like, for sure.

One of the things I did, to many readers' chagrin, certainly (or rather, to the chagrin of those who can no longer read this) was remove my blog link from my Facebook. Gotta tighten up. They are watching me.

Other notable puns:

My Jewish friend Danny was joking about how, in high school, he and his friends began a Jewish club, made up of their friends--namely the Jew Crew--which they desperately wanted to formally name The Jew Tang Clan. Sadly, it was an administrative No Go. On further discussion, we traversed the subject of his Bar Mitzvah. He tells me it was all commando themed.

Awwww, cute. A bunch of little G.I. Jews. HA!!! That one was all me.

Further yet: a new column is opening up in the magazine I work for and I need to submit some samples for it. It is sort of a rant (though the previous author was far less ranty than I would prefer, he could've used a glass of Haterade to spice it up a little. We are edgy, we can take it, we want people to go 'Whoa!') and I could use some brainstorming help.

If you read this far, please leave a comment or two about pet peeves. What just bugs the shit outta ya? What commonplace situations do you find vexing, unfair, rude, irritating, irksome, childish, stupid, useless or just down right unbelievable? I know you anal retentive intellectual hipsters have a whole boatload, so...pile 'em on!!

Out Loud Diary (Heretofore known as OLD News)

Guess I am doing better. Better than what that last post might let on.

But I only guess, hard to tell for sure.

My life is seeming pretty full, that should be good, I think. But I am just not sure that I like what it is full of. Some of it smells like shit. Job for sure could be better. Doing nothing = feeling like nothing. More often than not anyhow. As my wise old sister (wink, wink, she ain't that old) once said, "Sounds like a pretty toxic environment." Understatement. Consider me a friggin' biohazard why don't ya? I think I am leaking onto people around me.

Then there is this current self-esteem issue. So old to me, so wrinkled. I thought I had banished it to the basement of my life like that dude in Austria did his first daughter and all their creepy incest kids. Only it SHOULD be there.

Damn that boy for unlocking that dark dark door, and letting old issues out of their dark dark room and up that dark dark stair and into my life. Which, at moments now, feels awfully dark dark. A certain sense of self that has taken me years to cultivate, I would have liked to think was unshakeable--it was, after all, well-nurtured by several years and a couple of exceptionally lucky relationships with people who truly built me up and treated me well. We loved.

Damn me for letting him, because here I am, shaken. I mean, I am practically fizzing.

I keep doing all the cardinal no-no's. Respeaking conversations, reliving moments, rereading messages, picking apart my every word, move, attitude, feeling, trait and quality. Generally kicking the shit out of myself. Even WITH that smart, rational voice that normally tells my friends not to do that coming through loud and clear in my brain. But I can't stop.

I am suddenly and compulsively doubting me. Everything about me. My sense of humor, my nose, my sense of style, my body, what books I read, my kindness, my opinions, my hobbies, what I have done and what I want to do in life, my lifestyle choices, my hair, my goals, my intelligence, my glasses.

What I bring to the table. Suddenly it doesn't feel like much.

Despite people all around me, things all around me, and my whole life behind me that suggests otherwise.

This is me according to you.

And all the while I KNOW I am too damn smart to let this get to me like that. And my mature, been through a lot worse, been through this bullshit before self is fighting it. Keeping busy (except when the black hole that is my work is in the picture, an unfortunately huge portion of my life), working out, TRYING to eat right, get involved in even more new things, spend as little time as possible sitting and picking myself apart.

I do all right. I am not mopey, I have great friends and great family and a great time, most of the time. But every once in a while, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for a night, sometimes for only a few seconds, I really want to cry and not understand and sort of understand and want to know why and not want to know and always just wish it was away...away...away.

Every so often, I am just dying.

Don't Read This, It's Stupid.

Caution: Mostly writing this for my own benefit, do not read on if you easily lose interest.


I need change. I need to change, I need to change things around me. I need to feel even remotely whole again. It has really been too long. To whatever degree I indulge in self-loathing (more and more, it seems, these days), I guess I have been trying to fix it, hide it, fill it in and spackle it with all the wrong things.

I let myself believe in too many half-hearted signs. I clung to all the moments that came strong but few and far between. I allowed my own loneliness, desperation, regret, fear, anger, hatred, insecurity, sense of humor, desire, adventure, openness and honestly to steer my right past reason and clarity.

I tried so hard to back up, move away, move on. Several times, how did this just keep happening? Keep coming back? If all those moments, if all that fun, if all that laughter and affection was just not sincere, then let it falter, leave me the fuck alone! Tell me the truth when I ask you those questions, don't let it fester, don't let it grow, don't make it a huge, swollen, hopeful heart you have to break.

You should have let it down long ago, when it was a small, tight balloon. Much harder to break.

And foolish, stupid me. Foolish, stupid, lonely me. So close to good enough to love, just not quite there. So close that people try, try, try, try, try to love me. Want to see it, wish they felt it, but don't.

If god exists, I am SO pissed at her. I asked for guidance, signs, help, direction. Please just let me know. Whatever the truth, just make it CLEAR! I said thanks for all the positives, was grateful for all the GOOD signs. And there were plenty! Couldn't those have just been cut out? Couldn't he have been man enough to shut it down LONG AGO? So many easy opportunities for it, would have taken only a SLIGHT spine. Crush me a little now, or a lot later? Good choice, buddy. What fun is it if you can't REALLY obliterate someone. Gonna fuck someone over, do it right.

Be too nice to say no, be too scared to admit, be too weak to cut em loose, have some real fun with em first, torture them, fatten em' up.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Something died. Some hope, some possibility, some part of me??? I don't know. I hope not. I like my optimism, I like my sentimentality, I like my dreams.

I don't like how I feel with they get put to death, but I hope, for my own sake, they just keep coming back. I hope my wounds scab and heal and leave the the same, only with a new scar. Scars are all right, they remind you where you've been.

But for sure I feel stagnant. I feel like quitting, leaving, moving. I want to get out and get away. At the risk of being Cher in Mermaids, when this town gets old and hard, I want to just leave it for a new one.

All of those things that seemed right, seemed going for me, none seem to be so much anymore. Nothing seems meant. All seems wrong. Forced, bent.

I want to pare down and build up, start over, start alone, move on, be different, forget a lot of the things that happened here.

I wish I had never met you.

Oh, no!

I walk in from lunch, feeling appropriately pukey after having gorged myself on a grilled vegetable burrito from Q-Doba (no, they DON'T sponsor this blog OR my ever burgeoning curves, people as outrageously cool and almost famous as myself really DO eat there) to find that my inbox contains the following message:

"The phones are back up in Boise. Thank you for your patients and understanding."

Shock! Awe! Pick yer jaw up offa that floor! Really, and sometimes I start to doubt that the people I know are smarter than the average bear. But the average bear does NOT assume that a bunch of goofy-ass engineers HAVE any patients. Nor do we assume that spell-check fixes everything.

Additionally, I was extra sensitive to this horror of errors (it warranted an out-loud--Oh! No! at my desk) due to my lunchtime partner, we will, for the sake of this privacy, call him D-Train, an affectionate nickname. I would consider using D-Bag (his name DOES start with a D, after all) but THAT might sound MEAN! HA!!

I only mention him because he took me to B&N to buy me a book. Nice, indeed, almost odd, really, he wants me to read his fave novel and therefore purchased it for me. However, it took an unnecessary amount of time to locate said book. I say, Yo, D-Train, what up? Why you so hung up in the Fiction and Lit? He says, I can't find it, it SAYS these books are alphabetized by AUTHOR but they don't SEEM to be.

Pause. Look. Yes they are. They are. Absolutely.

No, here is a "John."

By last name! LAST NAME YOU FOOL! How to people get through life without understanding this universal truth about alphabetizing! AH!

Then I felt like an asshole. I am clearly an elitist. Of what I don't know. Which category of snob I am in is still open for debate (feel free to weigh in) but I was truly appalled. Then at Q-Doba, I commented, Could anything BE more tasty than grilled vegetables marinated in garlic sauce? He replied: Vegetables marinated in Italian dressing, maybe.

Those of you that know me, already know my deep aversion to Italian-dressing-marinating-men and what a severe blow it is to my image of them. It is ONLY acceptable when terribly poor and lazy and then only on chicken (asparagus?) Either way, VERY LITTLE. Certainly NOT an acceptable alternative to a more refined and delicate garlic.

Deep sigh. Having issue with such trivial things can be SO exhausting.

Uh, oh.

I am feeling oddly reclusive and not like talking to people. Sorry. This seems like a bad sign.

Potpourri

So. It seems that things, though generally (maybe? possibly? shall I curse myself so?) doing all right, are a wee bit akimbo, not awry, as that implies all bad things, just akimbo, caterwaul. Wonky.

After a few weeks that I would deem some of the worst consecutive weeks in my recent life, I think, I certainly do NOT know, things being comprised right now of some fairly confusing things, that things are maybe gonna get better? Right?

Not all things are great, i.e. work has been more stress these days that normal, small things accumulating and all. I am getting unbearably fat, I think I have been eating my feelings and, as it turns out, my feelings are booze, chocolate and lard.

So that's cool.

A number of other big, small, and abstract things that are possibly too personal for bloggery have been weighing me down. But that is NOT what I am here to say. I am here to say that the things that ARE good are special, unusual, and maybe totally better than all that other crapula.

The Royals are in first place. Go back, read it again, I said first place. (Please forgive if this status has shifted a little and is no longer entirely true, my updates on sports and stats are not always actually up to date.) No one can believe it. It is madness.

Speaking of madness. I thought our stars were aligned just right. After 20 nail-biting years of almosts and should'ves, the Hawks bring home the title. A miraculous, truly earth-shattering 2 second three pointer and a huge, jaw-dropping rally in OT will establish Mario as the most popular boy's name for births happening in the second half of 2008. I know I am naming MY baby Mario, and it's a girl and I'm not even pregnant!

Speaking of babies. I got some pretty surprising baby news that I will intentionally keep vague as I am not sure that I should be the one leaking said littl'un news. But my initial reaction was as follows: Holy Shit.

Other reactions: WOW! My kick-ball team is undefeated. Whoulda thunk? And though I will be skipping this week's double-header to go to my mag's launch party/Betsey Johnson fashion show (P.S. another reaction: OMG!), my thoughts will be with them on the field, kickin' balls and taking names.

Last reaction: HURRAH!! The Rockies pulled out a bottom of the 8th 2-run homer to bring home a win and a much-needed morale boost yesterday as I multi-tasked between the boys of summer and the second half of the NCAA Championship which, as I indicated, changed my life forever and NOW when I have a second child it will CLEARLY have to be named Luigi to match its sister Mario. What have you done to me, Almarie, Ronnie? Good thing I will sacrifice that all-important naming ritual for the glory of your god-like child. But personally I hope Luigi ends up more in the image of B-Rush or Sasha, those boys are LOOKERS. Could eat em right up. Dang.

Speaking of hot men. Though I am certain it is counting my chickens, cuz it always is and especially cuz this particular specimen of perfection also has ISSUES, I am also feeling a almost-familiar-but-thankfully-not-too-familiar-cuz-then-it-wouldn't-be-special gut-tingle and over-all elation about a man I have been seeing lately. Now that I have put this out there, though, it would not shock me if my OWN stars took a little twirl and this did not work out. Unfortunately for both me AND John Cusack, this is NOT a sure thing. I just surely do want it. And, in truth, I so relish even the beginnings of a feeling this great (by the by, only had once before with last, fabulous, worth-every-minute-and-move boyfriend) are totally worth having, even if, in the end, this little heart that is swelling right now is all a bust in a bit.

Other men in the news, N.K.O.T.B. is back and LOOKING GOOD! Who even needs Jordan now, though I NEEDED him when I was 7. I am all for brooding, perfectly grizzled Donny, now. Shoot, now I will have to have THREE gender-confused, indiscriminately named kids. That's right, Donny, you've got the right stuff, too, the right stuff to be MY hero.

PLUS, I get to go to KC this weekend and spend much needed time with family. Particularly sister and bro-in-law and possibly sisters-in-law-ish. Thank God, really. For Mario's Miracle, for family, for boys that make me laugh at least once a minute, and for God's over-generous favor of helping me get not fat again.

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, eh?

In conclusion... HUZZAH!!!

Kick Shmick Dick Lick Liar

I, am broken.

And all I can feel is my eyes rolling back.

Blurg.

Eva

No Worries

I sit at the bar alone, sipping steadily on my beverage and savoring the moment with only one little voice in my ear. I spent hours today nursing people through their bad days, their bad weeks, their broken hearts. I check my phone again, no calls.

In a flash, I see a blade.

Smiling coyly at Brendan and not even having to flirt with Carlos, I try to patch the feeling I have like a last-ditch effort on fraying old jeans. I stroke her hair and empathize. I do. It isn't a lie. "I saw him with another girl, beautiful, blonde." Hands laced affectionately. I tell her we have poor taste. These guys, they leave us because they are flawed, don't want even what they really want. I promise there is not something wrong with us, it isn't our fault. I don't even believe myself. A weak pink lense over a painful pattern.

In a flash, without any movement, I am open, peeled back in so clean a motion I don't even seen it, I just see me, blood-red flower, pulsing away.

The worst part is that this is how I breathe more deeply. I feel now like this has given me an extra place to touch oxygen. There is the fizzy sensation of heat and chill clashing with one another and my eyes feast on it, the only thing that I can focus on, figure out.

Brendan tells me a holiday joke. His arms splayed to the left and right of his torso, a line across his shoulders, he says, "What's this?"

Dunno.

"A crappy way to spend Easter."

Not So. Sweet and Lowdown.

It is kind of late. Not too late. But certainly an hour that highlights loneliness. I decided, a few weeks ago, to relegate my narcissism to where it belongs, a creepy bottom drawer that was full of some pretty gnarly mystery dust in the dresser that got taken from my room last week. I intended to post about some interesting, wider-appeal items. Take a page from my scholarly friends and enlighten the world after I have enlightened myself. Broadcast and opine.

I fail. I have been busy. A lot of busy. A lot of drinking. Two seven-night benders in the last 3 or 4 weeks. Lots of work and a good dose of kissing boys. Never combined, sadly, as that might make this worth reading. Maybe. People DO love a good workplace soapy drama.

But really, my life feels like a revolving door. So much coming in and plenty going out, leaves me feeling (on a given day, in a given week, this year), like my gauges are off. The rubric for judging my life is unbalanced and inconsistent. If I were a teacher, grading my life on this scale, I would for sure fail.

I need the weather to turn. I need to start exercising and re-introduce solid foods into my diet. I need to get organized and I need to start tanning. I feel like I need somebody. I am annoyed that I feel this way. I chide myself for it. I should not feel this way. I have gotten many of the things I ever asked for. I made some new friends. I am in a kickball league. I get plenty of attention from those penis-laden creatures we call men. I got a promotion and am due for another. I am getting further and further with the magazine (though, admittedly, this is also a stress) and I love my roommate. My family is healthy, happy, supportive, and great.

Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.

I think I am. Mostly. But still I am on my couch at 11:15 on a Friday, a much needed respite from debauchery, drunken lip-locking, and 3 hour nights, and I am feeling sub-par. Feeling like I am missing something, like I need something.

Gross, that sounds vaguely like a desire to find religion. Now I am lonelier.

Title Here

Weird how night after night of "partying," and "having fun," meeting people and making friends, really ends up making me feel lonelier, emptier? than before.

Or is it just a different kind of empty?

Round peg, square hole kinda deal, I guess.

A-Ok, I think.

So, there are a few things making me feel like this is gonna be an OK week in the Mile High City. Let me list, in no particular order:

STEFANIE IS VISITING THURSDAY! YAHOO!

Saturday night was my first launch party with my great new mag...Check us out at our currently crappy but soon-to-be-fab website...303magazine.com. And my editor is A-mazing, cute, AND wants to show me to her hip, good looking friends. I have yet to tell her that I have a mad friend crush on her. She is fantastic. Just like me, only BETTER.

Tuesday night is Denver Divas, an all-right, all-women networking event...why not? I AM a Diva, after all.

My boss gave me a nickname! (Big E, can't you feel the love?)

Wednesday is Drinking Liberally, hot dog!

I read a sign in front of a church in the ghetto called "The Pearl" that read as follows: How deep would the ocean be without sponges?" And thought to myself, who knows and does it really matter? It is asking the tough questions that counts.

Thursday, above mentioned visit, but all other Thursdays will be kick ball league with my new crazy friend Amy! (She tells me that the most beautiful, mountain-y men in Denver play this game, and I would be glad to let their balls fly at my face.)

I had a new job interview! Might not get it but who cares, really.

I could have a date OR TWO this week. What kind of swimsuit is best for going swimming in men? WHO KNOWS! Who CARES?!?

I do have a dark cloud behind my joy, though, for when it rains it pours, and there could any day be an end to my revelry. Too much success and excitement for one week? Is it possible? Ack!

Old Balls

Situation:

Got asked out on a date (lunch, dinner OR drinks, apparently all are options from Man 2) for this evening.

I am not available this evening as I am already going on a date with Man 1, who for the informed public, does not pay for me. Ever. This will be date 5 and I have basically given up hope that I will get even a single beer, glass of wine, or hot wing purchased for me.

While I am not old-fashioned, and especially support going Dutch or alternating payees when you are IN a relationship, I do feel like it is a gesture of how much you value the time/effort/lovin' I am giving said date if they pay for it. It seems odd to ask a girl out and then expect her to pay for it. Up to me, I would save the $25 each week to go out drinking on the weekend and find me a man who PAYS! Damn.

Anyhow, back to the matter at hand. Man 2 will certainly pay, a major plus. My reservations? He is kinda Magoo and, get this, I believe he is 38. I like older men but, dang, 14 years older? I dunno. Plus, the invite came via email (we had already been communicating in this mode) and I don't know how I feel about that. He does have my number. But it was a really funny email (he apparently is very clever, well-read, and articulate, and double-majored in English and Journalism when he was in college in 1910, so he ALSO writes, oh the conflict!) Decisions are the worst.

So, put to you, those who know and love me (as all people who know me do because knowing and loving clearly go hand in hand with people as fabulous as us), this query:

Yea or Nay?

Purgatory (Please pardon my self-indulgence here.)

The last week has been a truly lopsided mix of laughter and tears. Feeling stymied by the unappetizing mixture, I was driven to investigate the formula. According the the label, ingredients include: finicky, foreboding lights taunting me from the heavy-browed dash on the Saturn; pestering (concerned and well-intended but ultimately cumbersome) father nagging about said lights; threats to longest-term friend I have to terminate friendship after staggering (and quite possibly record-breaking) display of mania, narcissism, and selfishness; cavernous wind-tunnel style empty bank account; text vomit (close relative of word vomit, only worse, because clear evidence of badly planned, terribly timed, and poorly worded communication is readily available for review and critique); coinciding blow-offs by anyone who has recently been a recipient of either my emotional or physical affections (apparently both require entry to a very dark nether-region that is quite unappealing); and abysmal, botched bangs and the accompanying loathing and resentment for Becky at Floyd's.

Also contains insignificant amounts of fun with new roommate (friend who manages not to feed directly on my soul, therefore sucking it dry), flirting with cute (and occasionally too old for the established age range for love interest) bartenders, and purchase of incredibly hot new vest (because 5 vests is not enough).

Interesting concoction.

After sipping on this cocktail for a few days, I found myself, for the second time in the past seven days, in the honeymoon stage of the 4th hour at Pep Boys AutoCenter, where, ironically, I am finding it hard to maintain any pep and as far as I can tell, the boys ain't doing any better a job.

That morning I had gotten up in a pretty dismal cloud. Not loving life too much, not dying to go to work, I worried that had been promoted to the new, Denver chapter Eyore. So I decided to garnish myself with loveliness and wear an attractive, winsome, and borderline too-fashionable-for-work outfit to work that day. I was hoping that a boost on the outside might translate to a boost on the inside.

Thus I found myself bedecked in a red dress, a trendy, wide, black belt, smooth opaque tights that made me want to rub my OWN legs, and fun new black suede, cuffed, Chinese Laundry pirate boots. Looking good if you can get past the fact that my hair makes me look a shade too much like Punky Brewster (spunky, and inspiring to young girls as she may be, she is not my number one fashion icon). However, there is a slight, infinitesimal chance that this kind of apparel is wasted on a Pep Boys AutoCenter audience.

It is in this way, that I find myself sitting in the wretchedly cold waiting area (gusts of ice-fringed January Colorado air tackled my knees each time someone entered, not even a stale, stinking cup of coffee in the so-called reception area) that smells somewhat of bug spray, toasted car oil, and an old sardine can, reading a Tom Robbins book hilariously out of place in the Pep Boys, and listening to what is apparently the only sad, weepy ballad that JT has ever performed and that my iPod has cruelly bestowed on me at that moment (damn you, random!). And at that moment is when I think that maybe this is it. Maybe I have died and, given my lack of faith and goodwill at the moment I deceased, been sent to purgatory.

Things DO seem a little off. The only two men working who are both cute and speak English as a first language WILL NOT SMILE AT ME. Aside from the fact that this bruises my ego, it is also incredibly absurd. EVERYONE should smile at me (please read this as forced vanity in attempt to elevate my self esteem). Neither will the regular looking sorta-emo guy in the waiting area (doesn't he KNOW I, too, have ultra-hip musical taste, I AM listening to an iPod, for chrissake). This is madness. Especially because there is one person on the hard blue plastic chairs who WILL smile at me: a largely overweight woman (would we call her obese?) with a limp who has just blessed my sneeze. She proceeds to offer me gum (an antidote for sneezing unbeknownst to me?) and, after I politely decline (mama told me never take candy from strangers), she proceeds to pop, chew and smack her gum as if she had made some deal with the gum that the more she mangled it (to OH! the chagrin of people around her) the better it would taste, the longer it would last. Which, apparently, in this devilish deal means forever. Forever in limbo.

When she starts humming (Hymns! She is humming hymns! In limbo! What a brown-noser.) I turn my hate rays on full blast and try to burn a hole into the side of her face. (Chances for upward movement are looking less and less real for me.) It is in this ray-blasting stance that I realize that she is reading the bible. And not just any bible. This one is exceedingly slim, what could a bible that thin contain?! It is wee and bound in black faux-alligator embossed leather. This makes me rethink my gracious thanks for the blessing she gave after my sneeze. I am repulsed, I wish my life hadn't been touched by the likes of a bible like that! That's the kind of Bible and gum smacking that gets you trapped in purgatory, no matter how much hymn-humming you do.

Eventually I get to slither away, released, surprisingly undead, into the outside world. In this reality, after all that time, fear, and burdensome annoyance, those fucking lights are still blinking in my car. Those un-peppy and apparently unskilled auto mechanics got in line behind the many who had queued before, took a bite out of my morale, and left me flaccid, and them cackling away from me in their Dickies.

Thank goodness for the (albeit comparatively weak) revival of some spirit by the following: super sharp, waist slimming vests that cost more than they should but are SO worth it emotionally; invitations to Operation S.A.L.L.Y parties with a crew from the new Irish bar-restaurant down my street (an AWESOME Sunday take-a-bus-to-the-bowling-alley, Lebowski themed affair for you Philistines who mightn't have recognized); and, days later, a simple, and simply delightful, text from a complexly delightful Allison:

"I stubbed my vagina." (Those of you who understand this reference, kudos, you are one of the few who have reached comedic nirvana, please, join Allison and I for an evening of laughter, farts, and Troll cards.)

And, on that note, I conclude this ludicrously long post with a sentiment from wild, wonderful Tom Robbins:

"Suppose you are one of those persons who feels trapped, to some degree, trapped matrimonially, occupationally, educationally or geographically, or trapped in something larger than all those; trapped in a system, or what you might describe as an 'increasingly deadening technocracy' or a 'theater of paranoia and desperation' or something like that. Now if you are one of those persons (and the author doesn't mean to imply that you are), wouldn't the very knowledge that there are clockworks ticking away behind the wallpaper of civilization, unbeknownst to leaders, organizers and managers (the President included), wouldn't that knowledge, suggesting as it does the possibility of unimaginable alternatives, wouldn't that knowledge be a bubble bath for your heart?"

-p. 52, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

My Jean Jacket Is Too Tight

A very bad sign:

"Sister Golden Hair" actually triggered a tear to pool in my eye today. Very bad bad sign.

Need to get out of this funk.

Should consider not listening to Album Rock Station that predates my birth.

Need single gal pals to decorate my life.

Again, most likely the album rock not helpful in this endeavor.

All right, new life plan: No more album rock station for ageing rock groupies, only hip, pop-y, or convenient jam band tunes.

Bad case of the Mondays, good life plan. Ha.

Cultural Demise and Other Parking Lot Stories

Pearls of the Parking Lots, Throughout the West (aka, amazing bumper stickers and license plates to take home with you as warm bed companions):

1) On the plates of a big, sexy H3 (A Hummer to you road-ignorant plebes):

• GLOBLWRMR

Awesomely hot. Enthusiastic obnoxiousness is so rare a trait these days. Props to my sister for catching this gem on digital memory technology, anthologized forever in our horrified memories.

2) On the wily rear-end of a rust crusted white truck in Why-oming (this is an old fave):

• "Hetero is Bettero"

But apparently clever is not so chic these days.

3) Flanking the black bumper of a school bus yellow FJ in the lot of my new job:

• Left side, in garish red letters on marigold background: "Other than ending Nazism, Fascism and Communism, WAR has never solved anything."

But apparently reductive arguments HAVE. Consider me charmed. (Note: is Communism actually over? Was there a major belief system shift in some parts of Asia that has eluded me? Huh.)

• Right side sticker and faithful companion (though certainly the better-looking, more popular one of the twins): "Happiness is a belt-fed weapon."

The Beatles would be proud. As for me? I must excuse myself to the ladies to recover from my swoon.

Ta-Ta for now!

Horrors! HORRORS!

This bitch will NOT let me write Post-it NOTES in my title. Censorship! Blasphemy! Pisswater! Screw copyrights! GRrrrr-ARG!

Sequins and Post It Notes

Last Wednesday, in the wiry little arms of First Denver Shacker, I was dubbed, one of "you nine-to-fivers" in the weirdly gloaming snow-coated sunrise in the offensively cold Colorado morning. His version of sympathy to my drab cubicle life was something along the lines of

"It's dark when you go to work and it's dark when you leave. That sucks."

As if it weren't bad enough that at twenty-four I feel resigned to letting my dream of an independent, creative life of work die, not even slowly, while I spend eight hours a day burning my retinas with intense blog-reading, online magazine scouring, and, lucky me, the occasional Spider solitaire-ing.

I can tell that I am getting stupider. (More stupid?)

How have I, in such a short time since that blissful, carefree and ignorant time of being a student, already put my fantasies to rest? They were not so far fetched. Is it so much to ask that I be a lusty lounge singer? They still exist. I already have the ample bosom required AND the sequined dress. How do you get the hook up for that? Where are the cheap, floozy entertainer networking events? Give me the skinny if you know.

Even more plausible, I want that job where you get to just voice over commercials. An ugly, vile little bird told me that in order to do this I would have to go to broadcasting school. Boo. It isn't journalism, it's barely thinking! Read pre-crafted sentences off a page! Come on! I have excellent diction! I have mastered inflection! I do accents! I am VERY interesting! (Not even required for voicing over but surely an added bonus.)

Somebodies life out there is being thrown an amazing twist by fate, it could be mine! I must keep myself open so that karma can smile on me.

Don't get me wrong, I do not expect life to solve itself for me. I actively pursue new friends, men, interests, activities, and, lets face it, jobs. So far, it seems, my moons are just a little crossed still. Maybe I had some sort of sketchy karma to sort through first.

However, I do have another date this week with Little Luke, the thirty year old photographer who lords his flexible schedule and passionate work over my head. But he makes me laugh. And the making out has really been working out, if you know what I'm sayin'. So he may win me over yet. Otherwise he can go live alone in Boobistan.