Tuesday, December 29, 2009
If you say 6 people will show up at 7. I used to be very, very upset sitting alone in my apartment at 6:45, insulted that even people who swore they would show up early to help are now not answering their phone and convinced that no one would show up at all. Now I understand that 6 means 7, but only if everything is ready and warm at 6. If I plan to start putting things out at 6:30 and still have curlers in my hair then 6 means 5:45.
I’m not being funny here, this is seriously true.
Imagine me, hair a-curler-ed up, wearing my sweater and spanx and nothing else, applying liquid eyeliner when my first guest arrived. At 5:45. Awesome.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
See part one below.
As you get older people already know what they want to drink. This isn’t a dorm party where people are just happy that you have booze. In many cases guests will bring what they want to drink even after you tell them that you will have a bartending college equivalent of beverages, mixers, and booze. So don’t bother.
Stick to one universal booze that you already like or can re-gift if it doesn’t get opened, like rum, have several bottles of cheap wine, and a couple six packs of non-offensive beer on hand. A soft drink or two is fine, but water or ice tea will suffice. You need not buy the following:
20 pound bag of ice
Bailey’s Irish cream
10 bottles Red Wine
5 bottles White Wine
Because this is what will be consumed by 11 guests (excluding me and my boyfriend): 1 bottle red wine, 2 diets cokes, 3 waters. Everyone else actually shows up and brings their own drinks. WTF? If I asked them to bring their own drinks they would show up with handfuls of hay and perplexed looks on their faces (see food). Many of these people have been to my home numerous times before, I have never not had drinks to offer them, so when did stockpiling your own beverages become the thing to do?
One guy brought a mini cooler with his own (cheap) brand of beer. Another guy brought himself a full size sparkling pomegranate beverage and drank the whole thing himself. I understood the guest who brought his own Whiskey because you can see from the list above that that is one of the few things I did not buy but even he refused ice, and just sipped it warm from a glass. I HAVE NO IDEA what the heck this turn of events is about. Is this normal? Is this what late 20s early 30s people do now? Because I need to know before I even attempt to have another party.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Let’s begin with the best part of any gathering; at least, you hope it is. I saw a billboard for a super cheap and crappy “Mexican” fast food chain offering a party pack for $8.99, essentially 6 meat tacos (the meat is your guess) and 6 bean burritos in a handy cardboard carrying case to make catering your next party a breeze. If my parties continue to go the way they do don’t think I won’t strongly consider this option next year.
Most advice columns and articles geared toward hosting informal holiday gatherings say that the host should make things easier on themselves by requesting that the guests each bring a dish or an appetizer to share; thus cutting down on the amount of food the host is responsible for buying and preparing.
I have tried this.
It is a lie.
Guests who swear they are coming and bringing x item with them and can they also bring 3 friends since they are definitely coming will not only not show up but they will also leave a void for the guests that do show up by not bringing the item they were supposed to bring.
Guests are unreliable.
Guests are liars (this is important and will be repeated again).
Guests will bring pizza after you explicitly stated in email and on the invitation that you are providing gourmet pizza. They will do this even after they tell you they are bringing deviled eggs.
If you rely on guests to fill in the food spaces the rest of your guests will starve. People who swear to bring meatballs, shrimp, guacamole, chips, bruchetta and more will, if they even attend, show up carrying the same box of Trader Joe’s assorted cookies. You will have 78 of these boxes by the end of the night.
I do not know why.
I only know this, the cardinal rule of party food: If you plan to host you absolutely cannot depend on people to bring what they say they will; much less to bring something that will round out the menu you wind up having to plan (because people are slackers and they suck and why are you attempting this social stuff anyway? Really? Because no one else ever seems to be on the holiday party wagon and maybe they all figured out a long time ago that spending the equivalent of your rent to keep 11 people entertained for four hours is really, really not worth it).
Also, veggies and dip never get eaten. The dip does, the veggies don’t. Save yourself the wilted snap peas and broccoli, throw out a handful of baby carrots and be done with it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I have bits of posts written that need to be cleaned up and edited which I will post once typing doesn't hurt so much. If said items don't get posted before the holidays please have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year (or at least enjoy work sanctioned days off, which I hope you all get).
Friday, December 18, 2009
I like being alone but I fear I will fall asleep if I don’t have some stimulation. I can guarantee that I will fall asleep if I take any of the meds I have for pain or muscle spasm so unfortunately I can’t take anything to take the edge off the pain. Tylenol is like spitting into a lake, it doesn’t make even a smidge of a noticeable difference, and I can’t take ibuprofen due to a previously ruptured ulcer.
So I sit.
Alone under fluorescent lights.
My life is not quite what I’d imagined it would be.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
At least this time I have a badly sprained hip to keep it company.
I'm really, super, major ticked off that I slipped but I have to keep reminding myself that it could be worse. I was doing just that (No broken bones! No spine damage! I can stand up!) when I heard that a friend of a friend slipped on the ice the same day as me but she somehow wound up with internal bleeding so...yeah. I'll keep my complaining (the pain!) down to a minimum.
My holiday party was yesterday and the weather cooperated by snowing like mad in a place where we get an inch of snow at a time, tops. People had to cancel because they were snowed in but I still had an okay turnout. Here is the thing: What do you do about the awkward couple that is bickering? The whole time? And not so much just bickering, but really making things uncomfortable? What do you do if you've known this couple for years and things have been getting worse for a long time but you can't say anything because, seriously, who is able to say anything in this scenario? He doesn't beat her but he sure isn't nice to her and now she's starting to talk back which makes for all kinds of awkward. I had just secretly hoped that he wouldn't show, but he did, and it caused weirdness. I don't think it is quite my place to get involved, because I can't bad mouth her husband to her face, so at most I'm just supportive of her and I stay out of it, right? Or is there some polite and firm way to be like "yikes you guys totally bummed out like 8 other people the other night, maybe consider not doing things together in public anymore" (and girlfriend he's emotionally abusive, leave him)?
Yeah. We always say we want our friends to be totally honest with us but when it comes right down to it when is the line for honesty drawn? Another friend just cancelled his wedding because she left him and all of his friends let out a big THANK GOD because we could not stand the woman. She was a nightmare. At one point we all chimed in a bit, not much, and guess what? He essentially stopped talking to us for 6 years. Now that she's gone (we hope) he's socializing and doing things that make him happy again, yet if we even breathe the words that maybe this is for the best he would probably stop talking to us all again. You say you want your friends to tell you if you're doing a bad thing but do you? Or do people just have to make their own mistakes while friends stand sportively, and silently, by?
On to an entirely unrelated topic: My damn hair won't hold a curl anymore. It used to curl up nicely with the aide of a curling iron and now it hardly holds a wave. I haven't changed anything, I usually wash my hair about every third day and I do use the same conditioner almost exclusively, but switch around on shampoo. My hair is highlighted and semi-healthy, I only heat style once a week or less now. Google won't tell me what is up, any ideas?
Monday, December 7, 2009
Or actually, I am in AGONY and may not be writing anything again for awhile because you know what is particularly awesome with a chronic neck injury? The person who said slipping cartoon style, feet over head, and landing on their back in a parking lot wins. I'm looped on muscle relaxers and praying this does not get any worse, the least of which would be dealing with workmans comp, I'm not even as stressed about the pain as I am about the potential beurocratic hell.
I'm supposedly having my annual holiday party this Saturday, pray that my neck is better, or everyone gets to sit on pile of clean laundry (it hurts to even think about folding it much less putting it away right now) and they are eating damn sqeeze cheese from those aerosol cans because I'm not cooking squat.
Still hate my job. Still don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life. Here I am, with bonafied wrinkles and everything, and I haven't done a thing. What is my purpose? How am I supposed to help? How can I make the world a better place? These thoughts have been nearly overpowering lately and only with the aid of meds can I share them with you.
Go read The Happiness Project. Very, very good stuff. Especially the interview bits where people wish they could tell their younger selves that happiness is internal, not external, and that things and accomplishments won't neccesarily make you happier if you hadn't already worked on your well being to begin with. This is a book I will definately be buying (full price no less!) and something I want to explore further, hopefully when the shooting pain and muscle spasms stop.
I'm looking forward to my party this weekend even if people have to come over in filth and bring their own food. Must be a sign of maturity: some social things are getting easier for me because I'm actually learning to be chill about them and not stress. Cut to panicked blog post Satruday afternoon where I am weeping and telling you that I just can't handle it, but let us pretend shall we?
I have more but I hurt. Be good. Pray to the neck gods for me.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I have been literally pining over this one pair of boots for, like, half a decade. At least as long as I have seen them in a certain catalog which I know has been several seasons now. I finally broke down, with the help of awesome coupon codes and birthday money, and bought said boots for myself.
Never mind that I have absolutely nothing to wear them with.
Never mind that I can’t even afford to buy anything to wear them with.
Never mind that they didn’t have size 6 so I had to go up to 6.5 (thick wool socks!).
Never mind that it is stupid to spend money on something like this when really what I need are work shoes without holes in them or bras that aren’t going to give my ribcage tetanus or a damn replacement retainer for my upper teeth since I lost the last one. NO! Never mind all that!
Pshhhhh. Guilt aside from my stupid purchase I’ve been anxiously awaiting their arrival for over a week now. They showed up today. They aren’t quite as cute as they are in the picture, the tread on them is atrocious for folks like me who live in a climate where snow will show up and frankly they are made more cheaply than I would have thought, but whatever, fine. I have my boots.
Boots that won’t ZIP UP MY DAMN CALF.
Are you freaking kidding me? I’ve got NORMAL legs; all my fat is carried oh so sexily in the spare tire region making pants impossible to zip up, not shoes (why can’t the fat just move to my boobs?).
I’ve owned many a pair of boots before, some even knee high, that have no problems zipping up my calf. I’ve tried on many a pair of boots before, of every style, and none have ever had issues zipping up around my calf. These boots are ridiculous. I don’t know whether to be happy to have the excuse to send them back and hence not carry the guilt for my stupid purchase around or whether to be damn ticked off that they are total crap and clearly not designed for the human form. Sure, a skinny model who has pin legs can wear them in the photo but us mere mortals can’t expect to wear them at all.
I would maybe consider googling “how to stretch out boots” to see if I could avoid the hassle of sending them back but I don’t need them to just fit my bare leg; I imagined myself wearing them over those skinny jeans that the kids are so crazy about these days. Or perhaps with thick tights and a skirt. Not that I own thick tights, a winter skirt, or skinny jeans but I’m allowed my fantasies, yes? These won’t zip over freshly saved legs; I can’t imagine how they’ll ever fit over wool or denim. I’m just so bummed.
Know anyone with bird legs that wears 6.5 American size shoe that wants overpriced boots to compliment their wardrobe this year? Bah. If you need me I’ll be quietly weeping on the inside and hollering at the catalog returns folks. I’m not paying to return something that is clearly shoddy workmanship to begin with.
Monday, November 23, 2009
I’m not so much feeling the blue polish I have on now though, which is another sign that I’m entering a different period in my life because this specific blue polish was my absolute, utter, to-die-for favorite in high school. The bottle is over 11 years old and I made a paper funnel and poured nail polish remover into it, shaking each small amount for about 5 minutes, to loosen the polish up and make it viable again. The color is still as awesome as I remembered it and even revived it had done a killer job of sticking but still…this color isn’t working for my anymore. I did this while watching Community, the new NBC sitcom,on my laptop, which is such a major let down of a show that I’m super bummed they even made it. With a cast like they have, and a concept that is ripe for the mining, I can’t understand how the show can be so totally boring, hackneyed, and predictable. It is bad, so bad, and I’m really bummed that I spent money on Amazon Watch Now ($6.00!) to see the first few episodes, but at least I had my nail polish revival project to keep me mildly entertained.
Oh 30 Rock and The Office, please don’t ever leave me. Nothing can compare to you. (Is anyone else loving the new office love drama between Andy and the new receptionist as much as me? I hated Andy before but now he has grown on me and I’m such a sucker for a good office love story after Jim and Pam. Love Jim and Pam too. They are my imaginary friends.)
I’m spending Thanksgiving (American Gluttony Holiday for those readers that aren’t in the US) at the significant other’s parents’ house. What color should I make my nails for said occasion? I don’t want to go all holiday matchy matchy and do orange/brown but I’m also not leaving it this blue.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I’ve had my share of run ins with debt collectors. I’m much heartier about it now as an adult (yes, I have decided that I am an adult now, see growing up tag in previous posts) and see that there are many mistakes I could have avoided and been tougher about.
I’m virtually out of my bad debt, it only took living in a city I pretty much hate and suffering job(s) I abhor for half a decade but I did it! Yay! And perhaps someday I should get together a really good post, or series of posts, about what I did and learned in hopes that it might help someone else.
The reason I’m on this topic is because one of my favorite websites had to go MIA because debt collectors cyber stalked my buddy and literally harassed them with their own blog words. Jebus. The mafia totally wouldn’t have played it like that. Wire a bomb to your car? Sure. Leave animal heads in your bed? Sure. But finding someone’s blog and exploiting it to collect money is a new unbelievable level of bullshit. I hope that no one I know and love, including my adored readers, and the network of wonderful people I know online, and anyone decent, ever has to deal with debt or struggle with debt collectors. And if they do I hope they aren’t harassed on such a personal level. I’m pretty sure that crosses a major line and it is too bad that as consumers we are still essentially powerless to stop such kinds of harassment from occurring. I mean, really, what can my friend do? File a complaint that will never get read about the companies crossing personal lines? Yuck. And Bah. And I’m sorry.
I’d totally send the mafia after the debt collector if I didn’t want to wind up owing the mafia a favor. Un-named favors always turn out bad.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Which is to say, I’ve kept my fingernails painted for two whole weeks! Two! I very rairly paint my fingernails (black for Halloween, that is it) and I haven’t painted my toenails in at least a decade*.
Polish on my toenails feels horrible. Polish on my fingernails feels odd, but I’m doing this in an effort to not chew my cuticles. As a life long nervous habit collector I’ve decided it is time, after nearly 3 decades on this planet, to get a grip, stop attacking my hands, and do a bit of growing up already.
The succession goes like this:
12: start biting nails
19: stop biting nails, start chewing cuticles
20: stop chewing cuticles, start smoking
20.5: decide ugly cuticles better than lung cancer; stop smoking, back to cuticle chewing
21-26: do both intermittently off and on
26: start chewing inside of cheek
27: Sweet Jebus is that a wrinkle on my cheek? From pursing my mouth to chew the inside of my cheek? AUGHGHEHGHGHGHGH
27: chew chew chew the cuticles, try to stop biting cheek
27.5: HATE NEW WRINKLE
27.6: HATE NEW WRINKLE SO MUCH
27.8: OH MY GOB I HAVE FOREHEAD WRINKLES TOO, AUGHGHGHGHGHE
27.9: try myriad of face creams/retina A/clarisonic, nothing works. chew cuticles
28: Damn stupid wrinkles. Damn stupid ugly cuticles. Time to save for laser peel. Why am I almost 30 and still so damn poor?
28.1: Time to paint nails to stop attacking my cuticles. Decide to wait another decade for botox to see if the stuff is actually safe or if it seeps into brain and causes irreparable damage as I suspect is more likely the case. Buy stupid expensive face cream that makes my skin orange (damn vitamin C).
28.2: commence obsessive gum chewing
So far the polish has worked. I’m using a good cuticle cream, keeping things groomed, and avoiding attacking my hands. I haven’t bloodied my cuticles in days now! Yay me! Yay for adulthood and growing up and leaving the nervous habits of youth behind!
This nail polish stuff is TEH CRAP though. My nails reject all polish, whether it be OPI or Wet N Wild. Even with a base coat, 3 coats of color, and a super top coat, the stuff peels almost immediately. I think it is just my natural nail oils or something. I find I have to touch it up nearly daily, and apply glitter polish on top of the base color because that holds things together better. That said, even with 10 layers of tough polish held by glitter my nails are still weak and break and I can’t keep them long anyway since my job is labor intensive. Hell, I can hardly type with my nails past my finger tips.
I’m sure in another couple of weeks I’ll have to strip the stuff completely off and leave my nails bare again. The upkeep is retarded and it can’t be good to suffocate my nails. How do women do this? How do they keep their nails painted? The only conclusion I can come up with is that their nails don’t reject polish like mine do. And yes, I clean my nails then wipe on polish remover to remove oils before I put on the base coat, so I do read internet advice.
So that, oh internet, is my boring bit of news. Nail painting. Breaking the habit of cuticle chewing. What is new with you?
*yet ironically own about 60 bottles of nail polish. Enough to paint the entire rainbow across my ten nails. Invite me to your next slumber party, manicures on me!
Clearly I’ve got the mature and respectful part of growing up going for me.
My early 20s were a mess. My mid 20s won’t trigger PTSD flashbacks but they weren’t anything to write home about either. Now, in my late 20s, and closing in on that next decade that seems scary in some ways but actually exciting in others, I find that I’m ready to start making conscious changes toward improving my life, building a real foundation (I need to make an IRA contribution before 30 damnit) and finding my adult identity. From simple things like cleaning out my high school clothes from my closet to bigger things like mapping out my career I plan to document such things under this tag for the next two years. I see examples of how to be young, how to be married, how to have kids, and how to date all in the blogging world but I never see examples of how people actually grow up.
By grow up I mean not eating fast food 3 times a day; I mean having clean clothes that actually fit and can be worn to work that don’t require last minute hem stapling, I mean having a car where the floor mats are visible and learning how to actually host a good party. I mean finding a hairstyle different from the one I wore in my 9th grade yearbook photo, a skin care regimen that combats clogged pores and wrinkles, friends that I can grow older and wiser with, and a damn pair of shoes that go from work to dinner without leaving me looking like a trucker or a prostitute.
Let’s see how this goes.
Starting with stopping some bad habits.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
It is November.
It is 75 degrees Fahrenheit today, tomorrow, yesterday, the whole rest of the week. Try not to be jealous :)
According to my trusty companion Google it is 23.8 degrees Celsius. Which has sidetracked my whole other purpose for this post. My question for you metric folks is this: Does the number 23.8 actually sound pleasant to you? I mean, when I, as a child of the non metric world, hear the number 75 and the word degrees after it I melt into just a bit of happiness. Perfect, sunny, beautiful, warm weather awaits me. Because of this any number between 75 and 85 has a positive connotation for me whereas 23.8 would mean heavy coats, sweaters, mittens and probably setting fire to a trash can for warmth, but for you it might connote all the positive pleasures I listed above. I find that though much of the time I speak the same language as the people I interact with, (and you must be proficient in English to even be reading this), that the things we associate as pleasurable or positive differ greatly region by region, even office cubicle by office cubicle, and isn’t dependant on personal experience even, sometimes it is just dependant on quirks like Fahrenheit versus Celsius.
Celsius is far easier to spell though.
I will not pay $250.00 for something that is “Practically Brand New!” for more reasons than I can begin to iterate, the first being that if I had $250.00 and were in the market for a matching coffee table with two end tables I would prefer to actually buy something New, not something like it.
I hate to judge further but in this economy what were you thinking buying metal frame with glass top tables? These are impractical tables. You should have just gone to the dump like the rest of us and picked up some of those classy large wooden spools that can be used as tables. Or fashioned some milk crates into furniture using duct tape and ingenuity.
I am trying to not let my own preference for tables that aren’t precarious and don’t shatter enter into this matter, but it is a factor. Glass table tops are never, never, never a good idea. This is actually a rule that probably makes it into my top ten rules for living. Somewhere under always flossing and always letting drivers merge, it is just good practice. Tempered glass or not you are clearly not a person who utilizes their critical thinking skills. If you had, the following may have dissuaded you from your bad purchase decision in the first place:
Glass tops show more dirt, require more cleaning, more dusting, more hassle.
Glass tops break. Tempered or not, you do something stupid, you have an eight inch shard sticking out of your jugular.
There is no storage in such tables. You show me a person who can’t use a drawer in their end tables and I’ll show you a person with a guest room that is packed to the gills with things that belong in drawers. Or a dump.
I really ought to stop reading the employee bulletin board because clearly. I need a more productive hobby.
Or a used treadmill for $450.00.
I don’t mean in the way that I haven’t gotten along with other bosses. This boss is not taking credit for my work, lying about raises, ignoring my reviews, being overall catty or weird. I’ve had a slew of bad, bad bosses in my lifetime, yet this one isn’t totally, completely, one of the “bad” ones. We simply Do. Not. Get. Along.
I cannot manage him and ergo cannot function under his lead.
Through a series of headaches and questionably fortunate events I got to keep my job. We underwent a huge re-org, many people including myself forfeited any sort of raises or promotions, we all took substantial paycuts, many people are on reduced hours and many people were let go or took the “voluntary” retirement. I know that I am lucky in that I got to keep a job, any job, especially with healthcare, in this economy, but sometimes I don’t wonder if being laid off would have been the catalyst to propel me to doing something better, or substantial, or non soul wounding. It more likely would have lead to me being destitute and homeless, depressed and useless, but my mind (which we all know delights in torturing me) chooses to firmly believe that I would have walked out the door of my job with my pink slip and fallen into some sort of travel writing gig or novel deal or stand up comedy career or something. In any case things have been in upheaval since the great re-org of ’09 and to say that I am adjusting well is to say that I want Kirstie Alley to help me with my diet meal planning and healthy eating choices.
My very first job, with taxes and a paycheck and the whole deal, was for a married couple in a small coffee house. The husband chain smoked at least two packs of Marlboro Reds the entire morning, from 7-11:30AM, standing outside scowling and customers while I did all the work. He was the good boss. The wife came in on afternoons and was torture to work with. She was a penny pinching psychotic who screamed at me if I made the icecream scoops too big (in front of the customers no less), used expired milk, kept all the tips and mostly made me dread afternoons for years to come. My parents said I was very lucky because my first experience with a “real” job was with horrible bosses so I would be well prepared for the real world. This should give you an idea of what optimistic, happy folks my parents are. Bosses were mostly downhill after that.
I got along fairly well with the boss before this. Yes, he lied. Procrastinated. Said one thing and did the other. Played people behind their backs. Screwed me badly on a raise. But he never took credit for my work, never badmouthed me to other employees, and (this is the best part) mostly hid in his office away from operations so I was left to do my job in peace. I liked this boss, for all his shortcomings, and the marked lack of friction caused me sadness when I heard of the changes around the department.
New boss is much younger. New boss is kinda a jerk. New boss does have some great ideas about how to repair a department that has been left to decompose entirely on its own for years, how to get deadbeats to at least contribute a bit and how to improve things like documentation and efficiency. New boss, however, poorly communicates, changes his mind constantly, assumes we are psychic, and says charming things like “I don’t care” numerous times a day.
He tells us to email if we are sick and then tells us he never reads his email. He skims emails to “get the gist” of them or deletes them entirely without reading them at all. So if someone is out sick? No one knows. Nevermind the tedium of documenting or asking for help in an email that will never be opened.
He disappears for hours on end.
He schedules meetings and doesn’t show up.
He doesn’t listen to his phone messages. He says he saves them all and listens to them once a day.
He doesn’t answer his phone. He says it isn't productive. But he does talk on the phone to his family. All. Day. Long. I know he is capable of multitasking because he does this while watching youtube.
He cancels our staff meetings then is rude to us when no one knows what is going on.
He is inconsistent. He and I have had issue over this numerous times now. It goes like this: I bring up something that we normally used to do that needs to continue being done. He says he doesn’t care, it isn’t important, tells us all not to do it. We all do it anyway. He comes back after a bit, after talking to the boss above him, and tells us we actually should do it, never acknowledging that he was wrong ( a huge, wrong, pompous ass at that) in the first place.
I have a neck injury and cannot sit in the broken chair provided for me at an offsite location; I request to do my work remotely from my desk. He says I complain too much.
I have a huge issue that management needs to be involved with that is a glaring contradiction to company policy. At first he tells me that I need to tell big important people that the answer is No. Then I make him talk to them since I have no authority and he turns around and yells at me to get it done at all costs even though it is a breach of security and borderline illegal. This has happened not once but nearly a dozen times!
He doesn’t follow through. He doesn’t listen. He is immune to reason. He isn’t actually managing us, as a matter of fact; he gave us a lecture on what his needs are and how to manage him in order to make our working relationship better.
Now I get angry when I see emails from him. I want to snap at him when I need something because he is just going to blow me off then turn around and demand it be done. He thinks he is rational and smart and since he spends hours a day reading productivity blogs he knows how to manage. He doesn’t. He is awful. And I’m not doing any better.
I don’t know how my co-workers relate to him, I only know how they feel about him: They can’t stand him. They’ve all adapted an air of completely not caring at all. They’ve all been here much longer than I and have weathered numerous bosses so they are able to sit in meetings, agree to whatever, then go about their own day and their own jobs. I am going to have an aneurism if I don’t learn to do this. I need to not take things so seriously. I need to not lunge across a conference room table and throttle him the next time he does a complete about-face about something and instead... well, do anything else instead, I guess.
I can’t find a way around him. I can’t find a way through him. I need support and management and his actions impact everything I do so I must find a way to deal with him. All his issues aside, however, we have personalities that do not mesh.
We go together like a pebble in a shoe, like sand in tuna salad, like Britney Spears and moral decency or cognitive function. If he weren’t my boss and just my coworker we probably would have already come to blows.
I feel like I’m sinking into the land of crazy every time I talk to him. I can’t find a way to communicate with him, especially since email, phone, meetings, even one on one sessions seem to be out. What the hell should I use on this guy? Smoke signals? I can’t avoid him entirely, yet I can’t conform partially either; his decisions are crippling my job. I’ve already gone to the boss above him and she did what she could for specific issues but I’ve still got to handle him daily.
It is always something, yes? I should find the Zen balanve in that. The re-org jettisons a few awful co-workers and lands me with this. At least I have a job. I can’t forget that. I can, however, explain nicely to the New Boss that I no longer bother to read his emails (via email) since he has made it clear that he doesn’t read mine. That should go over well.
Friday, August 21, 2009
I went. I saw. I conquered. I'm glad I went because now I will never have the regret of not going and wondering what it would have been like but otherwise it wasn't earth shattering, there were no revelations, no friendships rekindled. I did not wear the super sexy dress I blew half my rent on, I wore a webcomic t-shirt with a cropped blazer and fitted pin stripe knee shorts with snake skin print heels and am very happy with the decision. The best part of the whole thing? Honestly? Was my date. I really, really like this boy. Which makes me really, really insane. Seriously. What is worse than not having everything you ever hoped and dreamed for? Actually getting it. And the self sabotage that follows.
Sweet jebus it is never going to leave me. I present, for your viewing ONLY and non commenting pleasure, me, in a bikini, 6 pounds ago. Yes I've gained since last month (I've included my double chin but cropped out my hair, the brand of beer I was holding, and most of the backdrop. Sexay!):
Now, I post this for several reasons. First, this is what 30 extra pounds on a tiny frame look like. Second, would it kill me to drop the beer and tone up already? Third, and most important, the reason why I haven't posted in a long, long time: This blog is crap.
Total, complete, and utter crap.
I started blogging in order to practice writing witty and charming and humorous observations about my life and life in general. It has instead become my secondary therapy, the place where I vent all the crap not fit to share with myself much less the world. It isn't funny, it isn't insightful, it's just me pouring out my insecurities and short comings and misery to the world. Most of the blogs I admire manage to write beautifully about their lives in a funny, human, and touching way instead of making the internet their garbage dumping ground. Now, I need it to be clear that I'm far more sane than any of this about 75% of the time, but somehow this became my confessional journal of misery. And you know what? Tough. It is going to stay this way. As a matter of fact it is going to get MORE this way. Much more. You may not want to continue reading because the rants are going to get worse, the insanity and self obsession more intense, overall, honestly, it is going to look like a damn teenaged angst filled diary except that I'm damn near 30.
I've avoided writing for so long because I wanted to avoid constant bitching and harping and being miserable. Then I realized that this is really my only outlet for such things. In therapy we focus on getting me better and positive things. With my friends I don't share nutty insecurities that even I know are retarded and stupid. With the boyfriend I never mention that I feel like a land whale and want to go on Survivor just for the starvation benefits.
I've made so many wonderful friends blogging over the years, and get to be a part of so many lives. The guilt over the fact that this is my dumping ground for total crap has kept me from blogging because I don't want to burden the interweb with it. The world doesn't need more negativity and surely the amazing people I've come to know and love don't need it either. The fact remains, however, that I need an outlet and this is the forum for it. I am choosing to not feel guilty over posting trite crap. I am choosing to let you know that I'll continue to visit your wonderful blogs and I am okay if you stop visiting here because really? Who needs the negativity, you know?
I'm not going to try to craft well written bits or edit myself. When I feel like bitching or being angsty I'm going to do so. I'm not going to try to post regularly, I'll post when it happens.
So I leave you with this: Breast implants. Jebus there were a TON of fake titties at the reunion. And I may be overweight but some of those bitches wrinkled up like Donatella Versache in the last 10 years and I don't know how. Did they smoke three cartons a day and live on the equator? Have they heard of sunscreen? I don't plan to be wrinkled like that even when I'm 80 and that is without botox. Seriously freaky.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Fun Filled Family Vacation!
Or not really. But it was an amazing success because I made it back in one piece, everyone is alive, and I didn’t have to sneak out for cocktails or snort lines of xanax to make it through. I did not, however, in almost a week straight of walking and being on my feet for at least 8 hours a day, lose even one pound. Not one. When I got back I was THREE POUNDS HEAVIER. Those pounds are gone, and I’m back to my starting point, but peeved. That much cardio and standing should equal weight or inches lost. (Don’t mind me, I’m just hiding in the corner pretending like I wasn’t inhaling churros, soft pretzels and pizza the whole time…)
…Mmmmmmm churros. And Pineapple whip. Oh heavens, there was this fresh pineapple soft serve that I had that was simply delightful. I want one again now….
Which brings us to:
Oh heavens people, I now have 30 days counting today to lose 10 lbs and firm up. That is IF I decide to go to this stupid reunion. IF.
Have you ever heard of a ten year High School Reunion costing $75.00 per person? Oh he-yell no. I went to the reunion two classes above me and it was like $15.00 and included two drink tokens. Aren’t these things supposed to be in the High School gym? Mine is being held in a stupid super post locale accessible only by gondola in a super expensive resort town (I grew up there, sure, but we was poooooor….And damn I’m still pooooor) and is “cocktail casual” which I can’t decipher. Do I wear a cocktail dress with tennis shoes? A slinky top with pajama pants? Fuck cocktail casual. If I take along the boy, and I would have to take along a date, it would cost my $150.00. Yeah.
Several things about said reunion:
• I don’t care about anyone going save the one person, a dear old High School friend, who called and begged me to show up so that he’d have buffer. He is bringing his boyfriend and though people suspected his orientation in High School I imagine there will still be some whispers. I do like said friend but he has flaked on me pretty bad the last like 10 times we were supposed to see each other and he has a date and I bet he doesn’t need my buffer. He is likely the kind to ditch me the second someone “better” comes along.
• I wouldn’t be so uncertain about the stupid event if it weren’t so costly. I didn’t pay that much money for my prom tickets and dinner combined, now they expect me to cough this up? If it were cheaper, and easier to get to, and easier to escape from (WTF gondolas?) then I’d just get the tickets and decide that week. But nooooo, the deadline is looming and the tickets alone will cost my grocery and gas budget for almost two weeks.
• High School was okay, and I’m glad I did it, but I don’t live there and I don’t need a walk down memory lane. As much as I bitch in this forum (because y’all have figured out that this is where I vent, right?) I’m fairly happy with my life and feel in many ways that it is just getting started.
• The only compelling reason I really have to go is that I don’t want to regret not going in the future. It is some kind of adult milestone and if nothing I could observe, I guess, but current me has little desire. It is future me that I am worried about. And, there is always that super slim chance that maybe I’ll meet up with someone really great and get to reconnect. For the life of me I don’t know who that will be because I knew most of my graduating class of 300 but I’m trying to be optimistic? So the only thing keeping me from totally blowing it off is some fear that in the future I will regret not going. Yeah. I hate my brain too.
• I’m fat and vain. There. I said it. How can I judge all the crappy girls there if I’m 25 pounds chubbier than I was in High School? And no, I do not think I am wearing it very well. None of it hit my boobs, it all seems to be distributed in my gut, upper arms, and chin. Sexay.
• To reiterate: My only compelling reason to go is fear that I will regret not going in the future and my dear old friend begged me. Otherwise the whole thing will cost me AT LEAST $500.00 I don’t have, I’ll look like a land whale, and my boyfriend may never talk to me again if I force him to attend with me (this is only one slot away from family functions). Yeah. Great. Did I mention that I must now decide by this Sunday? Tickets have to be bought by then. Bah Bah Bah!
I’m going on day 5 in the new place with no water. Because I moved on the three day holiday weekend no one could come fix it and now there is bickering between the owners, the rental company and the property management place over what is wrong and why it isn’t fixed. While this is nice and all I STILL HAVE NO WATER. Luckily I only moved next door so I’ve been padding down the hall in a bathrobe every morning (and whenever I have to pee, which is a lot, I drink much water) to shower in my empty old place.
Today when I woke up in the new place there was no electricity. The power company blames this on a “misunderstanding” with the move order. They assure me that it will be fixed by the time I get home today. What do you think those odds are?
Tomorrow is the big re-org departmental wide meeting. Cross your fingers that something wonderful and magical happens and I somehow get to keep my job. I’ve applied all over the place, including different cities, followed up and done my very best, and heard absolutely nothing back. Things are still bad, regardless of what retarded economists predict the recession to end this year. For who? Paris Hilton? Bitch can’t even pronounce the word because it is more than two syllables long.
So there is your * quick * update. I’ll be able to write again next week when I hopefully have water, electricity, and internet all back up and working. Until then be good and think skinny thoughts for me. Skinny, lottery winning, job having thoughts for me. I know I will think them for all of you :)
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I have a (painful, excruciating, ridiculous) family trip to go on at the end of this week and was feeling confidant that I would fit into some shorts from last year. After all, I am back into my (sadly) normal weight range. Normal because I’ve been a minimum of 20 pounds overweight for the last…mmm…five years at least. Hence I’m back to *normal*. Well, perhaps not so much. I can’t button up one pair of shorts. Not one. I know they fit when I went to Mexico last October but I was at least eight pounds less then. Being short means 8 pounds = no shorts for me. I don’t have the money to buy news ones so I’m debating fashioning some stylish culottes out of bedsheets and calling it a day.
I still have 10 pounds to lose by June 27 and that is my adjusted hope, back when this all started I wanted to lose a total of 25 pounds by then which would have meant 15 more pounds, but short of quitting my job (which will quit me June 30th, ironically) and working out nine hours a day and hiring a brilliant team of scientists and chefs to prepare exact nutritionally balanced meals that come in at 1300 calories a day I don’t know how in Pete’s name this would even happen.
Big picture? My weight loss has been slow, but it has been mostly loss, not gain. I’m not seeing any toning of any muscles anywhere but my stamina is better. 8 weeks ago just walking down the street at work during lunch caused my shins and calf muscles to tighten so bad I had to stretch every few hundred yards. Now I can walk at a brisk pace for over 45 minutes, only stopping to stretch a few times, and am getting close to touching my toes again. These are great accomplishments. If I wasn’t considering attending this 10 year High School Reunion (of dooooooooom) then I’d be thrilled. I’d be on track, albeit a slow track, to getting in decent shape, being able to have fun outside again, and I wouldn’t have this deadline looming ahead of me. I’m 25 pounds heavier now than I ever was in high school and it’s not like I have kids or something to show for it. All I have to show for it is years of depression smothered in nacho cheese.
This morning I was really down and googled Nutrasystem. It is basically crash dieting, I know, and not a long term solution, I know, but I looked at it anyway. And got annoyed. It is about $350.00 for one month and that doesn’t include the fruits, veggies, and dairy I would have to buy to supplement their plan. I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t even spend that much money in a month for food. If I am spending that kind of money I expect them to send me lobster on their damn plan because hell, it is low cal if I skip the butter.
The only advantage to Nutrasystem is that it requires virtually no thought. And no thought, I have learned, is the key to my weight loss success. After a few weeks of measuring calories and making myself healthy mini meals I begin to break down. I can’t let my brain being any part of the process; it gets lazy or it sabotages me and I’m back to square one. It may take me a month to take off five pounds but I can put on those five pounds in one weekend: My brain cannot be trusted.
I need a good calorie restricted diet at this point where thought is virtually removed. I did good for 8 weeks on my own but I’m breaking down and not losing weight anymore. I wouldn’t want to put this push in because it is counterproductive to attaining a livable, healthy lifestyle but my ego won’t let me waddle into the reunion looking like Eris the Hut.
So what do I do?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
They dumped leaves and pine needles and bits of feathers everywhere.
They crapped and crapped and crapped massive piles of bird shit on every available surface.
They knocked over my deck chair and crapped on that too.
They went too far.
I put out mouse traps. Everywhere.
The first day after I put out the traps and came home, several of the traps had been set off and were broken. I reset them if I could, put them back up, and went inside to drink heavy liquor and hide. The pigeons have given me the shakes. I've never been a brandy or whiskey drinker but a few more days of this and I imagine I'd be downing snifters of the stuff without need for a glass.
Four days since the resetting of the traps I haven't seen any signs of them. The traps are still set. The balcony is still trashed. But there isn't any extra trashing of late. I didn't like putting out snappy traps for the bastards, but I tried everything else and I don't want to die from pigeon disease. They can have the balcony when I move out, in a mere matter of weeks now, but until then they need to not use my space as a toilet.
Every time I hear a noise now, a printer starting at work, the upstairs neighbor showering, I jump up and think I need to go scare the pigeons off. I have damn pigeon PTSD. I have nightmares that they are going to smash through the sliding glass door and peck my eyes out. I'm afraid to walk outside.
Oh, and I've lost just about 10 pounds in 7ish weeks. BAH. I mean, YaY weight loss, not so yay on very slow going. But progress is progress, and I've got that.
Monday, May 4, 2009
sallyacious has left a new comment on your post "Addendum to the post below":
Maybe it's because you're settling for the status quo and selling yourself short.
You were ready to take a bigger step than this, whether you'd realized it or not. Are you sure this isn't a bit like settling for a boyfriend who's a nice guy and all, but who in the end isn't really who you're looking for?
You made the prudent choice, but prudent choices aren't always the most fun or interesting or growth-provoking choices. They're often the choices of stagnation.
Life, according to Carl Jung, gives us pain so that we can grow from it and become our complete selves. Prudent choices keep us in the same place. Only backwards.
Posted by sallyacious to Smells Like Nothing at April 29, 2009
The CEO has left a new comment on your post "Addendum to the post below":
I got caught pondering the last post while you put this one up. I'm going to take a middle course between you and Sally here. I like Sally's Jungian interpretation but think you both missed the object.
It's easy to point at the apartment and say that the next step was into something bigger and better, a better apartment or a house, yet this is the most improbable choice at this juncture of all of the variables under your control.
What do you have some say over? The boyfriend is where you have the most control, and the work you will seek next is the other. Saving money on housing simply makes sense and binds you for a year, or the extent of the lease.
I agree with Sally about growth, but I don't want to use Jung's term of pain, I'd rather use Maslow and Herzberg's term of risk. They actually mean the same thing. By taking risk, you can't be wallowing in all those things that make you feel good and help you avoid pain (like food).
A good risk for you might be taking your computer skills and finding a property developer and discussing job opportunities where you could work your way into floor plans. Or working with an architect doing something similar. Or considering telling the boyfriend maybe you both should date other people.
You should probably check with Sally, my personal biases are probably showing here. I may have an opinion to take responsibility for, in other words.
Posted by The CEO to Smells Like Nothing at April 29, 2009
sallyacious has left a new comment on your post "Addendum to the post below":
CEO - Excellent points.
I should clarify what I meant about pain. Pain comes from being stuck, from not addressing those things in our lives we need to address. We experience the pain because we're not being our authentic selves. So all of Eris' frustrations, etc.--according to Jung--would be that kind of pain.
We have two options when we get ourselves into these situations (and I have been in MANY; I have kind of a genius for finding them, I think, painful situations): we can choose to stay in the pain and remain stuck, or we can face the source of it and grow. But that brings its own issues, and in the end, the choice is between pain and fear.
So your risk is most assuredly a part of the equation. It's just what you take in response to the pain if you want to get anywhere.
Posted by sallyacious to Smells Like Nothing at April 30, 2009
The CEO has left a new comment on your post "Addendum to the post below":
Eris, you are truly graced with Sally as a friend. That is simply one of the most coherent explanations of Jung I have ever heard.
Everyone falls into problems. It what you do to get out that makes you who you become. You have talent. Start a business. Find a need and fill it. What do you need? So do a lot of others. You're smart, please don't forget that. Have a great day! And please, both of you, call me Monty.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
So why does this feel so wrong?
I'm ready for change yet this feels like I'm signing up for status quo; like I'm selling myself short, and I don't know why.
What is going on here?
The first pigeon couple got the hint after I scared them off 10 times a day for almost a week. This damn pigeon couple WON'T TAKE THE HINT and is scarily aggressive. I actually hit one with a broom mid flight when it came in and tried to dive bomb me (I was just waving the broom around people, it was an accident) and 10 minutes later the fuckers were back with twigs and bits of plants for nest building. This nonsense is distracting the hell away from my mind meltdown and not allowing me time to rock peacefully back and forth and mutter to myself. BAH.
Found a place to live! Sign Lease tomorrow! It has the same exact amenities as my current apartment but with a better view, new paint, new carpet, new appliances, and new linoleum. The move is going to be ridiculously easy and the rent is $150.00 less a month than what I pay now. DEAL!
Why Eris is Crazy News:
It is the apartment next door. As in, 12 feet away. Which is lovely except that I've lived in exactly one floor plan for over 4 years and the new floor plan is just exactly that floor plan: reversed and backwards. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm going to have heaps of trouble adjusting to this. Never mind the broken toes when I stumble out of bed and smack into a wall in the wrong place; my brain is going to have trouble adjusting. It will be like living in bizaro world, or the other side of the mirror.
Moving there saves me mucho money, time, and effort, and in my current position I really had no choice. I've been looking at places in the same price range that I pay now and was going to wind up having to duct tape bags over single pane windows for energy savings, sleep with a chambered handgun, and beat my clothes clean out on rocks in a creek somewhere. I saw the place I'm moving to come on the market but for much higher rent, which they then dropped, and I lunged upon it like fucking pigeons lunge at my throat when I try to make them take their bird flu and filth elsewhere.
I know this is a good thing. I know I'm really, really lucky. I know.
But I'm really, really, sad and nuts right now. The current apartment has been my rock for almost half a decade. It is the only thing that stayed with me during my formidable young adult years. It is the only thing that has been safe, my home. The furniture has moved, the jobs have changed or been nonexistant, the weight has come on and off (and on), the friends have filtered in and out and disappeared, the relationships have changed (for the better) and through it all I've had my safety, my white walls, and my delicious walk in closet.
I finally figured out why I'm not handling this well: I feel betrayed. I feel like I'm breaking up with something. And I also feel like I'm taking a step back, not forward. I figured when I left this place it would be on good terms and I'd be moving up in the world. Something with a backyard. Something with higher ceilings. Maybe even something in another city. Instead my apartment, my sanctuary, my safety, decided to get all foreclosed on and become a mess and a nightmare and even IF I could have stayed they never would have lowered my rent to match the place next door. I thought we had something apartment. I thought we got each other. Instead you decided to go and hurt me like this, couldn't our goodbye have been amicable?
I want to cry but I can't. I'm not good at crying. A lifetime of suppressing emotions makes that happen. At least I'm acknowledging the emotions that are there as opposed to running, but still, I'm all sad and scared and lonely because I'm moving out of a stupid apartment. Yes.
If I could have stayed here at the price point of the place next door even though the carpets desperately need cleaning and the appliances aren't brand new I would have. This is home. This is safe. This inanimate dwelling has offered the only consistency and care I've had since "growing up". But I couldn't, and I can't. Instead I come home to a place that feels alien and lonely. A place that I vacillate between savoring and being angry at. A place I have to start imagining backwards and reversed so that I don't lose my mind completely.
A place that is technically home, but isn't.
Monday, April 27, 2009
am nuts right now people. am nuts and 27 and in debt and have NOTHING to show for my nearly three decades on this planet other than crappy furnature that I found on the side of the road and a useless job and
must attempt sleep now.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
I’m not doing the environmentally correct thing; and I hate to admit this because I am the person who hates shampoo bottles and thinks we should be allowed to keep one and refill it direct from vats at the store to cut down on plastic waste, but I’ve been buying precut veggies and salads in non-reusable plastic bags and plastic containers and it feels GREAT.
Part of maintaining this current go at healthy eating has been the wonderful ease of buying pre-packaged salads and veggies. My brain associates cutting yummy, fresh, healthy veggies up and partitioning them into reusable plastic bins with depravation and misery. My brain hates taking care of me. It would rather eat half a stale bag of potato chips of questionable origin than make tuna for a sandwich. It would rather dig for 45 minutes though every kitchen bin imaginable for a few errant tootsie roll minis than whip up some whole wheat pasta. My brain: Functional Retardation at its finest (surprised we made it this far, actually).
I keep fresh fruit at my work desk, apples and oranges mostly, along with whole natural almonds and yogurts in the work fridge. I swing by the store on my way in and grab one or two of those veggies that steam in the bag (which I eat raw) and a premade salad by the bagged salads, and I’m happy. If I made the salad myself at home I’d resent it. I’d be angry at it. I’d go to sleep thinking “stupid salad” and wake up thinking “I hate that salad” and by lunch I’d be like “I hate that salad and my life and I’m hungry and I want a cheeseburger with onion rings now gobdamnit”. If I open my fridge and see rows of great, fresh, bite sized veggies in easy to grab containers a dark cloud settles over my mood and won’t go away. I apparently enjoy mystery in my life; I don’t want to know what I’m eating for lunch days ahead of time unless the words “buffet” and perhaps “all you can eat” are included.
I don’t know why my brain is like this; all I know is that it is. And I now know that I can bypass that whole loop if I buy my veggies precut and cleaned and my salads prepackaged all cute like. Hence airplane food: Give me two crackers in a tiny package and 1/8 ounce of peanut butter and I’m delighted. I don’t even like peanuts, or pretzels covered in “fiesta” spices, but if you put three or four in a tiny bag I’m all over it. Which may be why I’m so digging the current diet set up: It’s like vacation food. I don’t have to think about it, I don’t have to put any work into it, the calorie calculations are done by others and there are no plastic containers to clean out. Plus the mystery is still there: there aren’t five tubs of cucumbers and five tubs of salad and five tubs of tomatoes sitting in my fridge angrily nagging at me that I’m fat and a failure and they are all I can eat. No, my fridge is happy and veggie tub free and my brain is fooled by buying things in small doses.
I don’t have to worry about buying, cleaning, cutting, and preparing food for the week. I can wander into the store like a “normal” person and buy normal people food and I don’t feel deprived. I’m not spending hours of my week meal planning raw veggies and therefore focusing on my eating habits and therefore wallowing in self loathing. I can spend those extra hours a week wallowing in different kinds of self loathing, trying to find a new job, loathing, trying to find a new apartment, loathing, struggling with my credit, loathing, yelling at my wrinkles, loathing, you know, normal stuff.
Soon I may be bitching to you about my need for variety. I would love to see some jicama and beets precut and packaged for my convenience, I’m sure cauliflower and broccoli is going to start to wear on me, you know? But that shall be a post for another time.
If only I weren’t creating so much damn trash I wouldn’t have this nagging feeling of guilt but one thing at a time people, one thing at a time.
*Though luncheables are disgusting and can F themselves. That is one twee prepackaged meal I won’t touch with a ten foot pole.
I sent this post as an email to myself to publish later and all the google ads along the side were this:
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Mmmmm, think they data mine the content of emails much? Because I'm not chalking this one up to coincidence.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Where I live now 85 degrees is the break before we get slammed with 100+ degree weather. Supposedly I’m to take this 85 degree weather and label it spring, which is LIES, dirty dirty lies. Spring is 65 degrees, sunny days, rain showers and brisk evenings. Spring is not supposed to choke the green out of whatever tiny foliage attempts to peak out and turn the world a dusty brown that lasts until it snows again. Spring is not supposed to reduce me to hiding under patches of shade and growling if people get too close.
Clearly, I don’t handle heat well. My genetics would have me in Northern London or Scotland somewhere, where the sun hardly ever burns through the mist and touches pasty European descended skin. My internal temperature gauge cannot regulate anything above 70 degrees. Around 75 I get uncomfortable, by 85 I’m vaguely annoyed and angry for no reason, by 100 I’m whimpering in a bathtub full of ice and trying to remember my name.
The heat dragged my lunch walk down today. It added five minutes to my time. When I arrived back at my office after my 2.2 mile loop I was a sweaty, blotchy, panting, disgusting mess. And I still had four more hours in which to grace my co-workers with my presence. I wouldn’t call myself fully ripe, but I would say I wasn’t spring fresh either.
I had hoped that what with it being APRIL and all that I would still have at least a blessed month before the heat hit in which to cram in physical activity during lunch. Sadly it appears that this is not the case. This current heat spell is here to stay. And I’m going to have to find a new way to get physical activity into my day that doesn’t involve soaking through my bra and undershirt right before important company meetings.
I envy my father’s generation. When he was growing up all they railed on about was the next ice age. The global climate trend was toward the cold. Now damn global warming has taken over and things are heating up. You won’t see me whimpering and confused in an ice age, is all I’m saying.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I've spent the last week looking at apartments in the ghetto, reading apartment listings on every website available, driving all slow and creepy like down neighborhoods I like, and getting frustrated.
I'm getting absolutely no where in the apartment hunt.
Technically I only have two requirements: Safe and must have washer/dryer in unit. You would be surprised how hard it is to find these two things combined. My current place, while cute on the inside, really is in a don't go out after dark neighborhood but is a bit safer because it is an enclosed building. Well, it was, until someone drove into the lobby through the wall of windows just this week. Now I suppose if you really wanted to get in you could just push aside the caution tape, step gingerly around the shattered glass remnants and spray paint the interior of the elevator all you want. Because yes, in the time that I have lived here, people have tagged the elevator. The tagging luckily is usually confined to the outside of the building but still, this isn't the super best building, you know?
Technically I may only have two requirements but the list of hope-fors is longer. I want high(er) ceilings. My current ceilings are low and of the popcorn variety. My friend just moved to a fabulous place with vaulted ceilings and moulding and windows on more than one wall (my place only has windows on one side of the unit). I was drooling over the place until she pointed out her one problem: No closets. There is a tiny, shallow closet in her bedroom and that is it. She doesn't even have a pantry in the kitchen. I don't understand where she is supposed to store her sheets, towels, and shoes, much less coats for guests and her vacuum cleaner. She's paying the same price for that place that I am paying for mine and while mine feels like a dark, sad little dungeon after seeing her bright and airy domicile I must be grateful that I have no less than three closets, including a walk in! Plus I have a balcony that I have classily decorated with rubbermaid boxes full of crap covered in a tarp. So I guess I have to add must have storage to my list of needs. I really don't have that much, but this place is really small (all of it went to closets, methinks).
One question though: If you were building a beautiful development of swank loft two story townhouses what would make you decide that two bathrooms, one per level, was a smart idea for a space less than 600 square feet? Why wouldn't you put in a washer dryer in on of the twee bathrooms? Why would anyone think that a space than small would need two bathrooms? WHY? Because I tell you, I would have snatched that place up in a second. Apparently many people would save for the idiotic bathroom deal. I think the lease people are tired of being asked why there are two toilets per yet no washer/dryer. Common sense people: It ain't so common.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The part that drives me nuts* about weight loss is that it is all a numbers game. A pound of fat is 3500 calories. A deficit must be created weekly of 3500 calories to lose said pound. This must be done with eating and movement combined. Movement must include cardio and strength training. Strength training is needed because muscle burns more than fat, it revs the metabolism, helps shed fat weight and get in shape much faster than cardio alone.
So I set about to eat healthfully, make good choices, slowly learn about real portions and what my caloric needs are, break a sweat and build some muscle, but the numbers are daunting. Actually knowing exactly how to lose a pound (in a numerical sense) rather takes away the mystery of it all in a not great way. I don’t care about the man behind the curtain, I am fine being in the dark about things. I have a terrible suspicion that like a cartoon character run off a cliff, if I didn’t know the numbers, and the character didn’t realize gravity existed, I would lose more weight in bliss and they would never fall. I fear that the universe will now make me follow this formula because I know it, whereas before I might have slipped by mostly unnoticed and lost, say, 22 pounds in just a few weeks.
If I was eating over 2,000 calories a day regularly then dropping to 1400 should have resulted in just over a pound lost a week. If I take that 4200 deficit and add 100 cals a day burned extra with movement I get 4900, which is about a pound and a half lost per week. If I want to really lose 2 or more pounds a week I’m going to have to find higher intensity ways to burn calories off because I can’t/won’t/will lose my damn mind if I attempt to restrict my calories any more.
This is rational, mathematical, and lovely on paper. It is not, however, happy to my brain or my fat gut. Perhaps I have been far too heavily influenced by years of media showing starlets/paid spokespeople/your mom losing weight practically by magic or performing special moves and eating special food because I really want to see that 5 pound loss in one week poof! Like magic.
Real weight loss takes time. It takes time and a shift in paradigm (sorry, work word). It could also take methamphetamines but I’m trying not to resort to that until two weeks before the reunion, you know? I try to look at that as a last go to effort, not a long term solution.
I’ve gained a average of 3 1/2 pounds per year since I was 19. That is an average because the weight came in waves, and I managed to lose the same 6 or 8 pounds over and over again for months in and out. But if I think of it in purely mathematical terms I’ve gained 28-38 pounds in 8 years, I can’t expect to lose all of it in three months. But I want to. I’ve never been a good one for planning, my papers are always written last minute and my projects completed in the wee morning hours. I’ve sorta been treating weight loss the same; ignoring the project and figuring I’ll be able to cram and save the day at the last minute. And it doesn’t help to see magazine covers promising 20 pound weight loss in three months and walking off 10 pounds by Easter. I know that the media lies, photoshops everything within an inch of its life, and tries to make us miserable about our bodies in order to sell us stuff. I know this. Yet a little part of me is still pissed that I haven’t dropped ten pounds in two weeks, which, I guess if I really wanted it I could try to pick up dysentery.
In the great weight loss journey the next steps are these:
Gently increase physical activity.
Do not aggravate injuries or conditions.
Join a cheap gym again.
Keep eating the way I am, but let there be a bit of play. If my body still gets the occasional pasta or pizza in right proportional sizes it won’t keep storing up for the famine.
I’ve got to increase calories burned up to about 400 a day, or 2800 a week, to meet the 4200 calorie deficit created by diet to add up to 7,000, or two pounds lost a week.
I can do my strength stuff at home with tapes in the AM, and hit the gym for cardio and intervals in the PM. I can still take walks at lunch, but those are more to stretch out and get away from my desk. I really can’t break a sweat or go jogging during lunch…in my work clothes…down the busy street we’re located on, which means I’ve met the limitations of a lunch walk.
Great! So I have the next step in the game plan. Only…What in heaven’s name burns 400 calories a day besides 3 hours of cardio? Any ideas?
*Mmm, this is a misnomer. Everything about weight loss drives me nuts. Nuts…like peanuts sprinkled on bananas and real whipped cream with chocolate sauce. Gobdamnit, I can’t even add a footnote without having a food fantasy.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Does the caloric content of a lean cuisine include the box too? Because I need something a bit more filling.
This is not good.
For nearly a week I’ve been stuck at XX2.4. I’ve been getting activity, limiting my calories to 1400 a day but not starving myself (technically, I guess) and eating healthy but MAN! I want to bury my face in some damn Jelly Babies right now. I want to wear a brown trench coat with a long striped scarf and pull out wax paper baggies packed to the brim with them. I want to stuff my mouth full of the black Jujyfruits, which are the best kind, and bite the heads of of gummi bears like a French revolution caught in candies. I don’t just want to go to Candyland, damnit, I want to annihilate gumdrop palace and eat all the goods inside.
Strange to see what cravings my body puts me through.
I’ve learned that I shouldn’t “starve” myself. If I let myself get all hungry then my body thinks it is in a famine and fights harder to conserve calories. Today, in particular, this is an issue because right now I’m hungrier than all out and I have to eat something but it is 4 hours until dinner and I’d hoped to save my calories for then. Ah well. Have to suck it up, eat an orange, and stop shaking.
My weight loss progress has been slow. This will be the end of week three of real dieting coming up and I’ve only lost about 6 pounds. Okay, so that is ideal, I know, about 2 pounds a week, but for me it feels like torture. I’m not sure I can do eight more weeks of daily salads while increasing my workout intensity but I’m going to have to if I expect to atcually lose this weight.
I really want to see movement on the scale so I’ve contemplated dropping my calories to 1200 for a week but that is impractical and nearly impossible, plus I’m worried that my body would freak out and convert all the lettuce I’m eating into saddle bags. (I did the 1200 cals a day thing once upon a time, with the HMR program, and yes, I lost weight. But I was gassy and cranky and tired and insane much of the time, the program was costly, and I gained weight back the second I ate one Cheerio).
I know that in my adult life I’ve been 10 pounds less than this. In my early adult life, not courting the time I got back from overseas and weighted 98 pounds, I’ve weighed far less than this. It’s strange because I can’t even imagine 10 pounds ago. I know it happened, I know it was there, and yet, why the hell did I let myself get back here? Why oh Why oh Why is the glory of a cheeseburger with onion rings and a malted worth more in the moment than my longer term health and happiness?
And why does my body think that pounds of gelatinized artificial syrup goo constitutes nutrients? Frankly, I blame my body for this. It is the one that makes me look at candy online all day, it should know better. It should take the damn carrots and cauliflower I gave it two hours ago and be delighted.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
I spent today cleaning in a semi-lucid state (see: low blood sugar, or rather see: lack of nacho cheese) because my social life is dwindling and this place needed a scrub down. I live alone. My housekeeping skills are far better than days of yore (like when I learned that mold grows in cups of water left around the house). Yet it takes an entire day of scrubbing, mopping, dusting, vacuuming and bleaching to get this place to par. I don't even know where half the filth comes from. It's like secret dust fairies sneak into my apartment the second I leave and coat this whole house in their dust of the non pixie variety. I fear ever having to live with another person, or having nice things, how on earth will I stay on top of it?
Speaking of living with another person I have a question about the difference between boys and girls. If a boy asks you to move in with him what does that mean? To me it means I get double the cooking, cleaning, shopping and organizing in exchange for half the shower time, a snoring bed partner, and having to keep my legs shaved all the time. I see absolutely no point in living together.
HOWEVER, I am tired of trying to decipher the boy brain. What does living together mean for the boy? Does it mean that he wants to make a bigger commitment or that he likes the idea of having real towels in the bathroom and not drying off with laundry? Does it mean that he is falling in love with you or that he likes the idea of having milk with an expiration date that exists in the future and not the past?
Do boys even THINK about such things or are they just clueless bastards sent to this planet to torture women? And furthermore, why is it impossible to pry said motivations out of said boy? If you ask: Why do you want to live together? What does this mean? Does it mean anything at all? And you STILL get no answer at what point can you take him to small claims court and demand your sanity back?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I effectively wasted a whole month. I was supposed to be eight pounds less that I am now, starting on April 1.
Which makes the next two months that much harder.
I’m not losing weight by starving myself but I’m also not eating the way I would if I weren’t dieting which means:
And I swore that I wouldn’t do this dieting stuff again
I justified dieting by deciding that I needed to undo the eating damage I did by justifying my emotional eating spree
The whole point of losing weight this time was learning to lead a healthy, active, non-restrictive lifestyle
Yet here I am, yo-yoing again
Well. I cannot beat myself up. I just can’t. I can’t undo the past. I can, however, get myself to XX0 and start back in on trying to do this weight loss the mature way. Right now I’m eating a yogurt, 13 almonds, an apple, raw veggies, a salad with lean protein, an orange and a super light dinner everyday, amounting to about 1400 calories. For a person of my size this is apparently what I can expect to eat and “maintain” my weight. Damn being short, I bet tall girls get to eat pizza more often. I also bet ten pounds on a tall girl doesn’t size her out of her whole wardrobe, but, fine. Short it is.
I am eating healthfully, I’m not starving myself (yet I feel hungry, damn stupid addiction to sugar and fat) but this isn’t something I’m going to be able to stick to for the rest of my life. Unless someone zaps the part of my brain that finds food delightful I’m not going to be able to eat a salad everyday for lunch until I die. My arteries are calling out for trans fat, I know, they are gluttons like that and don’t know what is good for them but still. My arteries should be begging me for more raw broccoli, not alfredo dipping sauce.
I’m doing a workout video about every three days and walking every day that I don’t do the video. This is because of my neck injury, I have to take getting in shape very, painstakingly, obnoxiously slow. Which might be a good thing. I get so obsessive about the weight that I probably would have tried working out 8 hours a day, hurt myself, and set myself back even further. The neck injury is keeping me from being an idiot.
I still need to lose 25 pounds by mid June. Send skinny thoughts my way.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Speaking of jobs I still have one through July 1. Work has been just about as fun as you would imagine any crappy situation to be: Those not getting laid off are getting pushed into lower positions or forced to take substantially less pay, those that are getting laid off are heartless zombie drones that can hardly make it through the day. I'm only half joking when I say I hope one of my co-workers doesn't wind up going on a shooting spree. I work with much redneck or ex-military folk, there be a great many guns between the lot of them.
I've managed to go from XX8 to XX4 since last Friday and I'm doing my best. I overdid the workouts a bit and couldn't walk all day today for the pain in my shins and the blisters on my feet, so today is a day off. I'm also doing better with food. I want to be at XX0 by the start of next week, I'm just not sure how that will happen, so let's say I will be at XX0 by April 4th. That is a decent goal, I think. I mean, this is real weight I'm dealing with here but not real, real weight, right? This is weight I packed on the week I found out I was both losing my job and almost kicked out of my apartment (neither of which are my fault, thankfully, but still). Which means this isn't cheesecake from the 90s, which has settled in and created a home in my thighs, this is free floating weight that hasn't had time to put down stakes or start a family. I hope.
I don't know if I ever updated but the bank will let me stay in my apartment until the lease is up in July. Whew! Three months to find a new place is far more manageable than 48 hours. Of course, finding a new place will be awesome when I'm borderline unemployed and penniless. But that bridge? I shall scale when I get there.
Seems like all I can do is update lately, but work really is taking a huge emotional toll and working out saps up what little energy I might have had left. But know this: You guys are still some of the best friends I have in the world. Thank you.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
One is white, one is grey and purpleish. I think the white one is female but that's just a guess based on nothing.
They bring their friends by to check out the place and I have to keep shooeing them off. If they weren't desease infested filthy vermon who were trying to nest in my storage boxes three feet away from where I watch the sunset I doubt I'd be bothered.
Google isn't super helpful. Well, that is to say, google has a few ideas on how to get rid of them but there isn't a whole lot I can do. Pigeons are tenacious buggers and it seems my only recourse is to buy metal spikey things to discourage them from moving in. So I'm off to try to find metal spikey things in hopes that they don't cost much because, you know, I don't have much money what with being laid off and all.
Any other suggestions? On the weekend I can scare them off but come Monday I fear they'll have a housewarming party and move right in.
Sure, I have lofty dreams of just liquidating what little I do have, throwing the rest in storage, and moving to Spain or something, but I don't quite have the nerve to do that. And I'm not even sure that that is what I want to do! I know I want to write, and be creative, and be recognized for these things. I know I want to be surrounded by other creative people. I want to go on Conan and be witty and funny damnit. I want to get on stage and deliver a decent enough stand up routine that I'm not pelted with watered down drinks. I want to write for a funny show, I want to collaborate with interesting people, I need to act and collaborate and be a part of something that entertains people. But I don't even have a clue how to get there.
And I'm scared that it is too late.
I know that it is never "too late" in the grand scheme of things and that I'll regret even further not doing anything substantial with my life but I feel like I'm a decade behind the game and I don't even know where to begin. I've got this ticking clock, finally I guess, of three months that must force me into action but after a decade of inaction I don't even have the tiniest shred of a clue where to begin. Failure is made worse by fear of failure, and by inaction. My life is ruled by fear and inaction. I can't even fail because I can't even try.
I'm pissed too that I can have come this far, and done a pretty fair deal as far as work goes, to still have no real marketable skills. My degrees are useless, my extensive job experience apparently doesn't count for much and as for working in the field of technology I don't have any certifications (expensive) so in applying for more "day" jobs to sustain me a bit longer I don't even qualify. I am very good at my job and very good at computer support and repair yet that won't show as anything in a pile of very qualified resumes. I should be in this powerless position in my early 20s, still just trying to get a job to get by while I figure out the rest in my off time but I'm not; I'm damn near 30 with nothing to show for it.
I've got a condo that I'm being evicted from because the owner is a deadbeat, I've got a job that I'm losing in three months and apparently no qualifications to get me another, I've struggled for years to no avail to make good friends, and a relationship with a wonderful guy who...well. That is another series of posts entirely.
I actually do have a bit of motivation, a feeling that finally after a decade of struggling and overcoming every obstacle that I am in a place where I can break free and try to get out there and see what I have to offer. Yet no where to start. No idea what to do. I'm inhibited by my own obstacles. I should just pretend that this is a quarter life crisis and that I'm not a failure at life, that I'm just totally switching gears. People do it all the time. There is no shame or failure in doing what I really want to do.
I don't know what the first step is. I don't know what the second, third, thousandth step is. And I'm scared by time ticking away because there are things I want for my life but I fear that I'm putting them in jeopardy be essentially deciding to live a life of poverty for years in some far fetched hope that I'll ever generate revenue doing and pursuing what I love.
I'm stagnating and dying inside doing what I do now and better yet, I can't even do that anymore! Life is very politely pointing out that I can never hope to have a job that pays enough to keep me indoors with food and medical at the same time (which enrages me, I've been working full time since I was 15 and this is what I have to show for it? The hell?) but it isn't pointing me in any other direction. And I'm back to that fear again; I can't bear to live another 10 years of failure. I fear not doing what I want to do, I fear not knowing how to do it, and I fear that attempting anything else will never work out.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sorry I can't post a real pic of me. Keeping it on the down low, ya know.
To catch you up:
I'm still fat. Actually, I'm fatter. Being Jobless and homeless does not wear well with me. If I had, oh, say, any coping skills at all I wouldn't be shovelling goddamn food in my face like a fat kid at candyland but I'm working on it. I've done better this week and will be back on track by next. Unless an anvil falls on my car or something. Then? It is on. On like being unable to button any of my shirts.
My face is actually healing up fairly well. It is no longer oozing and bloody, it is healed over, but the size is still bigger than the original mole. It is a big pink spot right now, and it itches like all out, but I can't really touch it. I just rub Mederma into it a few times a day and cross my fingers.
Meeting the Parents was fairly painless. His mother was cold and non-talkative, as he said she had been his whole life. My mother was hopped up on OTC and prescription meds but luckily recovering from a cold so she couldn't say much: SCORE! Now I just need to figure out what the heck I'm doing. When he's here I adore him, can't live without him, want to see him every minute of every day. When I'm alone I love it, want to curl up with a book or do laundry and take long showers and not worry about taking up all the hot water. My stupid self can't make its mind up: Do we want to marry him and entwine in wedded bliss or do we want to remain independently dating with our own space? I don't know, but it is coming up close on a year and by this point I need to figure out if I'm happy or if I'm wasting my time.
Anything I'm missing?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Tonight at 6PM my time I am wandering into a non-offensive American chain restaurant that likely has license plates and saddles nailed to the walls to sit down and meet the boy's parents. In the last week I've eaten my way out of every pair of pants I own, my skin looks like I wash my face with Crisco and I'm sporting a very sexy double chin. On top of that nothing says catch like "meet my sweet adorable jobless, homeless, prospect-less girlfriend. I swear she doesn't wear clothing fashioned from what appears to be bedsheets, this is just a one time deal, I hope..."
Better yet my massively dysfunctional and totally inept parents may meet the boy tomorrow. I say may because though the dinner time is set, reservations have been made, and everyone says they will be there, there is a 10% chance my parents will show. My mother in particular is not good at things like "leaving the house" or "showing up" or "not staying up all night drinking and pounding xanax with ambien and living in her own damn imaginary world where everyone and everything is out to get her even though she's never done a damn thing in her whole life".
My parents live elsewhere but were planning on coming here to see some other relatives of ours that will be in the area. It will be like a mini family reunion provided that my mother actually shows up. I don't doubt that my dad will make it down here, but even if my mom does the drama surrounding the trip will probably leave her unable to make it to dinner to meet the boy even though every time I talk to her she demands to know if I hate her because I won't "let" her meet the boy. This is twofold: I'd "let" her meet the boy anytime she ACTUALLY LEFT THE GD HOUSE, however, that never happens, and she is a crazy manipulative narcissistic borderline with manic depression, bipolar and and other slew of fun issues so really? Maybe it is good that she never leaves the house because I'm not sure the boy will know what to do with her. I've lived away from her for nearly a decade and have had therapy for half as long and I still don't know what to do with her.
So pretending like my parents will show that means today I'm meeting the boy's family and tomorrow he is meeting mine. And I have to wonder; how did this go for you?
We're not college or even high school kids anymore, we're full fledged adults, so meeting the parents doesn't just happen when you swing by to pick up your date one night. I don't know what this is like for "regular" people with "regular" families (I know you hate the quotes now, sorry) so I don't know if I should consider meeting his family a big deal or not. The boy is entirely not useful in this area; he is a BOY. He has a boy brain. He does not think about the meaning of things, he does not read into things. He does not wonder if by my bringing him to meet my gene pool I am attempting to take the relationship to the next level. Hence I am going to do the same; since the impression I get from him is that this is no big deal, even though normally it is like a big relationship milestone, I am going to treat it as such. That doesn't mean I'm not going to spend the next three hours desperately trying to wedge myself into a girdle and weeping into a pile of clothes that don't fit, it just means I'm going to treat it with the same non-reverence as him.
So, most of you are married, or have been, or are in relationships. What was meeting the parents like for you? I've met the parents of boyfriends before but I was younger so it didn't seem like such a potentially big deal. Plus I wasn't all in love and sprung over those boyfriends.
What do you think? How did it go? And would you be worried if your son's date showed up wearing pajama pants and a parka (as these are the only items that fit right now)?