I am thankful for ibuprofen and elastic waistbands.

It is Thanksgiving and my ovaries are celebrating, wildly. They've shaken themselves into spasms of delight. Oh, I adore being a girl.

Luckily, we have liquid gel ibuprofen and nothing do do but bake and go to Grandma's house at three. I've got four dishes working, only two they're expecting, but I was motivated to make cranberry relish and a corn pudding (experimental and only going to the party if it turns out) on a whim. They know I'm bringing a butternut squash dish and green bean casserole.

The apartment smells great and I am guessing this will be one of those periods where I inhale food constantly. Today I can do that without shame. I am totally wearing my fat jeans.

Last week, my cold sore returned. This one is nasty. I had hoped it would be gone by today but it cracked and bled this morning. So I am bloated, crusty lipped and tender over every square inch of my body. I thank God I had the day off. If I were working in this state, I would snap or cry. Strangely, my psycho hormones have not been acting up all week. I didn't drink at all for two or three days and I gulped water. I think this health stuff actually works. I felt really good. Of course I drank a bottle of sauvignon blanc last night, so the ibuprofen is working double duty.

I wish I could throw a paper bag over my head and call it a day. I don't want anyone to actually look at me.

Brief Update

Work is draining my life force this week. I'm on the slow climb that leads to the holiday season. I need to make my body and mind accustomed to the unbelievable multitasking. It's bizarre. So many phones ring and so much shit happens in every minute. I could pledge my first born to a person and totally mean it one minute. The next minute, I have no idea what happened. Worse, if I don't write it down, it never happened. I really hope I'm shipping something to correspond with every credit card I've swiped.

Tomorrow will be a festival of crazyness - a fiftieth birthday celebration taking place in the store during normal business hours. Employees will be trashed and customers worse. My job is so wierd.

In other news. I pulled the entire front of my hair into a barette today. I haven't done that since last spring when I allowed Jason to cut the pixie cut of doom. I will have real girl's hair by spring. I can feel it!

Tired

I had a very long day for a Sunday. Bill can't drive so I took him to work. We left at 7:30 and I had purple teeth and wine breath from dinner Saturday. Still, I decided to swing around the city and visit my sister's place instead of going home and adding miles to a long enough trip. My mother was visiting and the reason I'd been drunk on wine the previous night. She was already at my sister's place. Mom wakes up at 4 am or some similar ungodly hour every day. I prefer eight hours minimum. I've been told I need "to get over that," as if proper sleep is a drug habit. I toughed it out to see everybody and spent the day with my fabulous niece who babbles in full sentances constantly. She takes me by the hand to play and is extremely, extremely energetic. We put her down for her afternoon nap and she cried when I told her I had to go bye-bye while she slept.

I skipped writing class to hang at home with Bill tonight. I surprised him and picked him up. His commute is less than twenty miles but two trains are spaced so it takes two hours on a Sunday. It is a pain in the ass to drive out there but it's a lot easier on my end than his. I bought groceries and made a delicous dinner: shrimp with garlic and ginger, rice with onions and almonds and sauteed broccoli rabe. I even did the dishes.

We got home and I managed to take a shower and brush my teeth only twelve hours late. I stole all the hot water and just leaned against the wall with the stream on my back. I cannot believe I've driven well over a hundred city miles in the last day and a half. I cannot believe how smart and wonderful my niece is. It's 8:30 now and I'm having a beer. My class has another half hour left but I could be snoring in twenty minutes.

Merle

"Oh, what is it? What is it?!" she wailed.

"What is what?" I asked.

"I can't remember the name of it. Chateau Poo-poo. That wine? The one I want it was right here. Where is it? I just saw it."

"Poujeaux? Pommerol? Petrus?"

"NO! The one I found. The one for my lawyer. I just finished physical therapy. I'm so tired."

"I can imagine."

"They make me do the eliptical."

"Even I hate the eliptical. Good for you."

"Chateau-poo-poo pants?"

"Oh, the Chateauneuf-du-Pape from last time?"

"Yes! Why are you hiding it from me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's right over here. Let me hold your bags."

"You're so good to me. When are you going to marry your boyfriend?"

"Maybe next year. We want to buy a house first."

"You know Harold married me after three months. We were dating and he said 'That's it. We're getting married or it's over.'"

"He must have loved you instantly."

"Oh, he did. You know he's dead now."

"Yes, I know."

"I have his wines. I should put them up for auction. I really should. I don't know what he would want me to do with them."

"I think you should do whatever you want with them."

"Maybe I'll give them to my son. I think I'll leave now. You don't want an old lady ruining your day."

"No, you're no trouble at all."

"No, I'll leave. I'm tired. Walk me to my car. I'm so cold."

"Of course."

The Snob Bakes

My mother calls me her Nancy Reagan daughter. If you heard the tone of voice she uses when she says it, you would be certain that this is not a compliment. I was born the week Reagan was inaugurated and my life has always been tied up with his presidency in my mother's mind.

I am the family priss. I see things too often as black and white, whereas my mother sees the world in a soft gray haze. It never helped that my sister was rebelliously cool from age two. She was the one insisting on wearing a Hawaiian print t shirt instead of a dress and I was off crying that we wouldn't match in our Sears portraits.

If you looked into my messy cheap apartment or saw me on the street, you would see a scatterbrained and entirely normal woman in her late twenties. Still, the role chosen at birth sticks in Mom's brain.

I have deviated so far from that role but one thing keeps pulling me back. I am a total snob on a few fronts. I am a food snob (tm my best friend W). I am a restaurant snob. I am a party snob. Working in restaurants and hotels will do it to you but I've always been this way. It's the reason I ended up in those restaurants and hotels.

This explanation leads up to today. I drove Bill to work and was wide awake. I was thinking of a fun activity to do on a Sunday at 8:00 am that didn't involve Jesus and I decided to go to Whole Foods while it's still empty. Being a recent young person turned old person, I had no idea what time a supermarket opens. Luckily, it opens at 8:00. I was car number four in the parking lot.

I had decided to try pie again. I made a very good first berry pie over the summer but I wanted to surprise Bill with pecan. He likes desserts in general but his favorite flavor is sugar. The sweeter the better and I thought pecan pie was the perfect thing. For it I bought a premade pie crust. Oh, did you think I meant cut-frozen-butter-with-two-knives pie? Silly me, I wanted to make it's-my-day-off-lazy-smells-good pie. I also bought dreaded High Fructose Karo syrup for the first time. (What is with those stupid commercials anyway?) .

The couple in front of me at the check out had about a dozen of the really cool guilt inducing reusable bags in all bright colors. They were buying organic produce that they carried, unbagged, to the register. I imagined they were the happiest and nicest people ever - shopping early to have plenty of time to volunteer. I was buying four types of sugar while the sun was barely up. They won, hands down. Ringing up my processed crap and bulk nuts with no hip cloth bag, my inner snob twitched.

Still, I smiled and bought my fructose, sucrose, dextrose and molasses. I went home a made pie. While the pie was finishing and I spent a few minutes peeking to be sure the crust didn't burn, I thought of how nice a freshly baked something would be-right now. But, it was 11:00 am. I had to save the pie for Bill and that meant after 9:00 pm when I get back from writing class. I wanted something hot right now.

I dug around the pantry. It's pretty deep. I recently found some beef soup purchased before I gave up meat in February 2007. I pulled out a little box of Jif pizza crust. It required water and five minutes to make dough. I was thrilled. Two convenience foods on my day off? Two carbtastic dishes made together? My snob yelled from within but I suppressed her with fantasies of surprising Bill with a note that says, "Your dinner's in the fridge. Heat in a 350 degree oven for ten minutes. Love Ya!" How fucking cute, right? Just like a housewife off on an evening adventure.

So, I made four small calzones. I steamed the last of the aging broccoli and mixed in cottage cheese, shredded cheddar, basil, parmesan and garlic. These were not authentic in any way, but I was winging it. The dough was too sticky and I kneaded in flour. It wasn't relaxed or risen, but the box said it was ready, I shoved the filling in, pinched and baked. They turned out great. Each one leaked somewhere, but after baking for only 15 minutes, the ooze was gooey and only browning on the edges. Man, is baked cheese good. I ate two as soon as they were cool enough to only burn me slightly. I wrapped two in foil and put them in the fridge, so later tonight I can write that note.

I think I am always wishing to be perfect. Wishing I were skinny or acclaimed or wealthy. I want a marker of my goodness that will show to everyone. I want to feel worthy of what I already have. I have so much love and such good things in my life. I couldn't want anything else and yet I do, all the time. I want to be better. I want to be comfortable. I want to win but have everyone like me and I want to do it without trying.

It seems that the only thing I actually do instead of wanting, is cook stuff. That makes me happy.

Making Dinner

I'm making dinner right now. Bill has started his new schedule and I'm cooking for one on Mondays. I am actually really excited tonight. Last year I made a stuffed squash with lots of sage, white wine and parmesan in the filling. The combo was fantastic - sweet, acidic, cheesy- so I am trying to recreate it. I don't have a squash but I have one little sweet potato, so I'm making a sage, garlic, sweet potato and parmesan rice pilaf. I am ten minutes away from knowing if it is awesome or not.

Work beat me down today. I have worked there for three months and I am already the one in charge when management leaves. Whatever. I've got a key and a teeny bit of authority. I was managing big projects before this job, so remembering to lock up doesn't scare me. Still, every yahoo waited until the owner left to call and bitch about things I don't even understand. It was a stressful afternoon - but it's over.

I was forced, absolutely forced to open a new bottle of wine to add a splash to my dinner, so I have a lovely glass of 04 Jadot Chablis right now. It hits the spot.

Fucking Coincidence

There were two men I knew.

One was a retired car dealer who moved to Arizona and had to be six and a half feet tall. I met him once, when travelling, and though I was only the girlfriend of the son of his son's new wife, he was so kind to me. He was loud and charming and probably had been a wonderful salesman. He made me feel right at home. We watched bad reality TV together and commented on the contestants.

The other was an immigrant who raised five kids and supported them by cooking in kitchens all around Chicago. He later retired and helped his wife open a beauty shop. None of his kids or his wife ever learned to cook because he made delicious and elaborate meals for every occasion. His six grandkids all called him Pops. He loved my sister instantly. She was an outsider and not Catholic. He spoke very little English and she doesn't know Spanish, but he loved her and adored the granddaughter she brought into his life.

Both were older and both we sick with painful diseases. They lived half a continent away from one another and I might be the only person in the world who knew them both. Both were good fathers and both had loving marraiges that lasted decades. Both died today - the same damn day, and left those wives, children and grandchildren heartbroken. If two people I knew had babies on the same day, I would call it a miracle, but this is a cruel blow. The world gives but it takes away. So, Parker and Jose, wherever you are, your families love you so very much.

Full Moon

I hope it is the full moon. I have been tense, pissy and mentally clouded all day. I cannot keep up with the fairly simple demands of my job. I forgot details and put down papers and walked away. I was a true space cadet. That wouldn't matter too much if I didn't have to drive on the highway to get home.

The car and I are each still whole, so that's great. I almost got hit by an SUV and a I later almost hit a car. By almost hit, I don't mean had to break or swerve. I mean I was centimeters away driving at top speeds. Both could have been fatal and I defied the laws of physics by not grinding into that SUV as we both merged into the center lane from opposite sides. It was lovely.

Home is empty with Bill out for his Tuesday night pool playing. I checked my email and read the message boards on a website I frequent. I think I need to cut that out. First, the snob in me doesn't want to spend that much energy invested in cyberspace. The judgemental part of me doesn't think it's healthy to rely on the internet for social satisfaction. The pissy part of me wants to tell a few morons a few things about the real world and the very fact that I can get so upset about the words of strangers tells me I've crossed a boundary and need to check myself.

I don't really have any friends close by, at least not any more. It is so much harder after college. Bill grew up a few miles away, so he has plenty of childhood friends around. I don't have that anymore and it can be hard.

Pissy

Today, I'm sad. Bill has legal troubles and I am selfishly angry about them - very angry. We need that money to buy a house and get married. I have money issues already. Seeing our plans float further into the future because of money makes me want to rip out my eyeballs. I have no idea where my job is going. I feel it's secure, but what do I know?

I feel like crying.

In an effort to actually track my days...

Today was a beautiful fall day. We took a walk and I bought new canvases to paint on. We went to dinner with my accross the hall neighbor. The "institution" Italian restaurant in the neighborhood was having an off night - rubbery calamari and Bill's vodka sauce was not good. Our server was a straight up beeotch too. Still, no dishes to wash and we are home early for ANTM and Project Runway. I'm about to crack open a bottle of Chablis. I've got my feed-the-birds cardigan ready since it isn't quite time to turn on the heat. I love Wednesdays. I really do.

My sister's baby (at 21 months) is learning defiance and choosing daddy this week. "Help please! No Mommy, Daddy!" and "All done Daddy. No Mommy." My poor sister. I think it makes her a little sad to be number two for the first time ever.

Future Me

For two years now, I have written an email to myself and had it delivered exactly one year later, as part of a "time capsule" project. Each letter has been addressed "Dear Future Me." I wrote about my baby sister becoming a mother, wishing myself to stop smoking for good (YAY, I really did that) and my boyfriend.

When I imagined my life when I was young, there were a few important factors that defined the grownup I wanted to be.

They are: art, open outdoor space, dogs, cooking, comfort, love, freedom, creativity...

I could probably go on for pages but I will spare anyone who reads this. I am not me unless I can spread out and be creative. I am not me unless I can mess around the schedule and make my own. Today, I felt like me a bit.

I went to a wine tasting on behalf of the job. I was uncomfortable once I arrived. I felt mentally clouded and totally uncool. Everyone seemed to know one another and they were all fakey-fakey. I had slight high school flashbacks. Look at me, the fattest girl here and the most dowdy! The men were all metro and wearing ties and sweaters with jeans. The girls were ditzy but thin and drawing attention. I was the one in flats and pants - yet again.

Still, I force myself to smile and talk to a few strangers. I could have networked a bit more, but this was an honestly douchey crowd. I made the best of it and left.

What felt awesome was the afternoon to myself. I had a few extra hours. I walked and shopped the Goodwill. I contemplated Halloween costumes. I made dinner at a leisurely pace. I drank wine while cooking and talked to my sister on the phone.

Sometimes I think my standards are wacky and sometimes I think I am so blessed. Does anyone really want more than to cook for a loving partner and talk on the phone and drink wine and walk around the city for a few hours every day?

One thing I never ever ever imagined as a young girl was real romantic love. I was a pessimist from adolescence. A boy name Charles blew me off when we had a distinct plan to go see Con Air. Guys at school would ask me about my slutty best friend or sexy baby sister or trigonometry. My mother was the world's bitterest divorcee. My deck was stacked for misery and I accepted it. I spent much of college in women's' studies classrooms and rejecting any cocktails purchased for me at bars. I fell for conceited jerks and cried when they dated skinny morons. I was fairly textbook for man issues.

I lucked out so much with my boyfriend. Sometimes, I think I used up all my luck and I am now cursed for career and such. See, I got the best and most attractive man I have ever met to fall in love with me. Sometimes, I think this far exceeds my lifetime allowance of happy points and as such I am doomed to never find my path in life.

For every youthful fantasy of happiness I created, there was never a man in the picture. When I fell in love with Bill, three plus years ago, I had to readjust mentally. It was a couple years into our relationship that I realized that someday, when we had children, we would both get a say in the way our kids were raised. Ridiculous, yes - but I had never seen two parents work together. That realization floored me and as a person who has worried about the implications of string theory since I was twelve, I like to consider my contingencies well thought out. I had imagined children but never imagined a dad in the picture. I had even imagined a wedding but never imagined a marriage. I guess I just assumed romances would always end (cough, cough, my issues, cough).


So, as I adjust to keeping Bill forever. I wish and I hope and I finally imagine a future me who isn't the tough and independent woman of my adolescent fantasies. She is similar in many ways but happier and softer too. Her independence is loose and free, not hard and defiant. Future me will not be the exact replica of the woman I imagined when I was a teenager. That can be scary when I realize my outline has disappeared.

New Boss

I am getting used to my new boss now. I like him very much, but as I am a moody person who needs coffee and alone time, I am confused by his strange and sparkling happiness that is always mellow and kind. I distrust such behavior as a rule and tend to think of such people as fakers.

It seems his enthusiasm is genuine. He has bestowed some nice responsibilities on me like writing fun marketing stuff and attending interesting and non-horrible events. I am getting excited about work type things. That hasn't happened in a long time. I am feeling less and less dormant.

He has not dumped crap in my lap on a Friday or called me out for things I know nothing about or suggested there is a proper way to staple paper or any of the behaviors I accepted as normal from my old boss. It is weird that as much as I prefer the new boss in almost every way, there was something very soothing about the fact that only I could stand my old boss. I felt tougher than the average girl. I think I might actually have issues I didn't know about!

My long probationary period ended months early as the new boss announced he liked me and would give me health insurance early. On the very same day I received mail from my last bleep of an employer - the one I ran away from - about benefits. It seems I wasn't removed from a mailing list.

It gave me the chills to see that letter. I thought about what I would be doing if I were still at that job. First, I would still be at work. 9 to 9 was my basic schedule. I could certainly work longer if it was required, but never shorter. I would be dressed in a designer suit, purchased by the company. I might even be on one of the auxiliary boards they so heavily recommended for me. I would be morphing into a person I don't want to me. For a while I thought I could be an event manager and party planner and avoid the mold of Gold Coast bitchery...but no one can. It is so weird to witness. I wish I could explain but after sixty hour weeks of witnessing it, I couldn't reconcile it within myself, much less explain it in words.

So, in my totally opposite direction of a new job, I tend to stick a Bic ballpoint pen behind my ear at all times. I often carry a clipboard and chat with strangers. I have taken to wearing cardigans and keeping lip gloss in my pocket. I feel like a combo of an old lady and a teenager. That feels a much more appropriate self image than some sort of glamorous city woman in stilettos. I am attending wine tastings and wearing tights again. I am leaving my suits in the closet and wearing flats every day. I am rolling my eyes in solidarity with my new coworkers and growing out the evil pixie cut. Oh, the hair is floppy and gross right now. If ever there was a hairstyle that looked pubescent, I have that. It is so fucking awkward it hurts to look at. A bobby pin and headband can try and help, but I've got to grin and bear this phase, hoping I turn out pretty. I am optimistic that if my life were a movie, this period would be the montage with catchy music. I would look frazzled but poised and before the song ended I would look around I realize I was getting to be happy again.

Babies

My niece is old enough for pigtails now. She is twenty months old and finally likes barrettes in her hair. She used to just rip them out. Today was a nice day. Mom was in town so she took me to my sister's suburb and we all went to brunch. We ladies of the family haven't been all together much since we increased to four.

My mother has a birthday this week and the baby turns twenty months. "Imagine," Mom said to me while pointing to the baby, "When you were this age, I was eight months pregnant with your sister."

"And when you were my age almost exactly, you were getting pregnant with me." I said it before I realized it's the truth. I am exactly the age at which my parents conceived me. As I recall, I grew up with some of the older parents of the kids my age.

I wonder if I am going to be an old Mom. My boyfriend hints around about engagement rings every once in a while but he also talks about changing jobs and I haven't seen evidence of any progress on either front. I know that a wedding isn't a prerequisite for a baby, but I don't think we would relax our prevention methods until we were married. We've discussed it and we want to stick to the lame traditional plan if possible.

I think all this turmoil and thinking is my biological clock making itself heard. We have agreed that we want kids by 35, but that's almost 8 years from now. I feel like I want them sooner. It's all my niece's fault for being the most wonderful, beautiful, captivating child in the universe.

Diet

For years, I have lived under the assumption that I have a "slow metabolism." My Mom is heavy and has hypothyroidism. Her Mom was heavy and had hypothyroidism too. My sister and dad are skinny no matter what, lucky bastards. I have always been heavier than I would like. Any glance at old photos shows me I was never unhealthy, I am just not skinny and I never will be. I am fleshy. Hypothyroidism has never shown up on my yearly blood work. I do get tested. If I am truthful, my worst health issue is laziness.

I have never really dieted. I love food too much. It can be my entire reason for a day. I will wake on Sundays thinking of dinner and where to shop for ingredients. I've worked around food for years in restaurants and a hotel. Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, my life revolves around food and I love that about it. Without that, I would not be me.

Still, the new job has brought change. I used to walk either four miles each way to work or "wimp out" and walk just one to the train. Now, I drive my car 27 miles and walk in from the parking lot. This has cut an easy dozen miles of walking out of my week. Now, I get home later and I am tired. I have been eating too much and drinking too much by my own lax standards. My boyfriend is taking responsibility for more dinners now and that means frozen pizza or Thai delivery. I am probably a bit situationaly depressed and that doesn't help. This is the perfect storm that has caused some straight up weight gain.

I think I have to do this dieting thing now, in some form or another. I was thinking of giving up grain based foods for a while. I think I could do that and stick to more salad and soups. I need to hold back the fat as well. Since I don't eat meat, that doesn't leave much. I have considered going vegan or raw for a bit as well. I am not a moderation girl. If it is around, I will finish it. I quit cigarettes and meat cold turkey, so I need to drop the junk that way too.

I refuse to follow any of the branded plans I know about. I will admit I am snobbish as hell about food and it's not going to happen. A cursory glance at a calorie info website revealed the horrors of my food from yesterday. Dark chocolate, mascarpone, three crab rangoons and cheddar cheese in one day is, I guess, bad for you. Oh, two bloody marys and five beers is bad too. How am I supposed to combat a hangover without fried foods I ask? Cruel world, why must the proportion of exercise required for good health be directly proportional to the amount of time I wish to spend eating and drinking and vice versa? I enjoy exercise in moderation and indulgence as a daily lifestyle habit. I did it backwards.

Old

Today I looked in the mirror and looked different than I used to. The horrid haircut is growing. I have gained weight. All this makes sense. It's what happens when you don't cut your hair or exercise. I feel older. People call me ma'am over the phone now. I used to get asked if my mommy was home well into my teens. My voice was always younger than my real age. I don't have any epiphany about this feeling or anything constructive to add. I just feel old.

Roommate

Today, a series of strange and wonderful events transpired at work and I ended up drinking a glass of 1989 Chateau Haut Brion while a nice man broke into my car and retrieved my keys. My boss said, "You might as well quit today. It's not going to get any better than this." I took my wine glass out to the parking lot to thank the nice man and sat down on an upturned wine crate near the dumpster in a good patch of sunshine. I closed my eyes for a few moments to make sure I would remember it. While working on Saturdays will never be my favorite thing, I've always managed to get good perks one way or another.

Back when I could barely tell a red from a white, I had a roommate who gave me a wine of the month membership for Christmas. We were twenty-three. He was a good but complicated roommate. He was the kind of guy who, on paper, was a dream. He was tall and cute enough, successful in his career. He was empathetic and kind. In reality and not on paper, he was the worst storyteller in the world. You could fall asleep listening to him and your heart would sink every time he piped up. He couldn't tell a joke, ever. He'd fuck up the timing or laugh on the punch line. He told the same stories, with the same phrasing and the same emphasis over and over. He told stories about his high school job and his father - terrible stories. He did the dishes though, always paid the bills and once walked to meet me at the bus stop when a creepy guy was staring me down on the bus. Together we created a tenuous little unit of lonely young people who helped each other out and shared pasta and toilet paper.

Following nature's laws of futility and annoyance, my roommate developed a crush on me. He never hit on me, but he started giving me gifts. He gave me pretty agate earrings on the fourth of July. He couldn't hide anything and began to stare at me dreamily. Our mutual friends started to notice. Even the way he said my name changed and it began to bug the hell out of me.

I knew it was time to change, so I moved out and got my own place at the end of the lease. We slowly lost contact. The last time I saw him was a couple years ago at a barbecue when he introduced me to his date. She was dull and cutish. She laughed at his botched delivery and hung on every word of his God awful stories. She gave the precautionary stink eye that women do when they meet a date's female ex-roommate. The eye quickly judged if we ever slept together. The eye said, "You had your chance and yeah, I know you lived together. I know he says you were never involved, but just in case you didn't realize. He's mine now." It happened in a flash and I had to pretend I didn't see it at all. For the rest of the night, they just grinned at one another and I knew it then.

Yesterday, I got the wedding invitation in the mail. They're getting married at a winery in October. I will go and wish them the best.

My boyfriend and I have been together three and a half years and people (mostly parental people) have begun to ask about our marriage plans. It is funny for me to see other people with shorter relationships getting married, especially when I think they are a good match. It doesn't feel like our time just yet. Somehow, buying a house seems like the right move. A wedding doesn't. I feel like I would marry him tomorrow but that there's no rush. I do wish Roomie and Stink Eye the very best of luck.

The blank page

My computer betrayed me. I installed updates just like I am supposed to and it decided to freak out and not restart. My boyfriend was called in. He tried set it to a previous setting or reverted it in some way to something and it worked again. It just lost many of my programs and all of my files. This leads to...

An ode to my hp

Seriously, I don't want to reinstall Word or dig up proof that I just bought Norton.
That is so boring.
I just want to email my girlfriends, find out who got ugly a la facebook and laugh at the trashy choices made on the babycenter name boards.
Is that not my right?
Oh, I also need to read a couple blogs of stangers I have followed for a few years, look up vegetarian recipes, fantasy job search and sometimes compose the perfect cover letter (my version of the perfect cheer).
I have to keep an eye on my hometown newspaper (recent story: Boy and Aunt Lost in Corn Field Found after Hour Long Search).
I also want to watch videos about animals when I am hormonal.
I want to play a Yahoo game that involves stacking every now and again.
I must have access to Google and IMBD, just so I can settle arguments with my boyfriend.
I need to read about our vice presidential nominees, lest I be tricked into assuming a person who also has a vagina might care about the rights I care about.
In short, computer, I need you to work so I am not forced to watch the college football that my loving boyfriend has claimed as his right.


Every cover letter I have sent in the last two years and every version of my resume is gone gone gone. I had: resume_communications, resume_creative, resume_lies, coverletter_ballsy, coverletter_namedrop and coverletter_desperate all lined up for cutting and pasteing. They are all gone. This absence feels like a relief. I always liked the idea of certain professions. I always thought I'd enjoy having clients, selling things and planning events, but I never enjoyed any of the components. I don't like long hours or networking. I don't know whose career I was inventing in my head as I kept pushing and pushing for these dumb jobs that go to rich guys' daughters every time. Then I got one and I quit. I quit quickly and decisively. My body practically created psychosomatic symptoms to keep me from going to the job.

That part of my computer held the baggage. It was shameful to see the reminder of all the effort I put in just to fail at a career I secretly regard as not good enough for me anyway. How twisted and adolescent of me to both long for a job and resent it at once. It is actually no surprise that all that stuff is gone. Chapters, doors, books, gates and metaphors have all been closing for me lately. As frightening as the possibility of losing something important is, the empty space is chance for a do over. So I say, hello blank page.

The Tower

After three years of waiting around for a promotion at my old job, I got fed up and took a promotion with another company. I should have known better. The raise was too big. The smiles on my new bosses' faces were too wide. I asked my tarot cards and I pulled the Tower. I accepted the job and I hated it.

After three months of daily crying in the shower, I quit. I had no job lined up but I wasn't willing to let impending homelessness keep me this miserable. I geared up for financial hardship and prepaid a few months insurance. My two weeks notice passed as I created manuals and lists for the poor woman who replaced me. I left quietly.

The very next day, my friend's boss offered me a job in his wine shop. I would commute to a suburb and "help out" at the store. No title, no business cards, no suits. Until I hit unemployment, I would have never considered this job. It pays well, but I was wrapped up in ideas of retirement plans and PPOs. I was twenty-seven and healthy and afraid of making the slightest wrong choice and thus ending the world. This time, I didn't analyze or overthink it. I just needed some work, so I took it. That is how I ended up opting out of the corporate climb in twelve crazy weeks.

So, one month into the wine shop, I am here. The freshmen are moving into the dorms near my apartment and we are all walking around with the same bewildered looks on our faces. I'd blend into the crowd if I weren't ten years older than they are. What happens after your plans meet the Tower? What happens when the life you weren't exactly excited about but had come to terms with pursuing because it offered good stability and a chance to make lots of money gets so bad that you just walk away? I am going to find out and hopefully find out a lot more about what I actually want.