You never know.

Yesterday I went to the Renaissance Faire. Yes, with an extra E. Because it was a ye olde grande timee. Add an extra E to anything and it will instantly enhance the mysteriousness and novelty of any time period.

I'm not sure the Faire was worth $20. . .wait a second, yes it was. When do you get to see a group of adults dressed like wizards and warlocks and maidens and pirates? Ok, ok, Halloween, yes, but, these people in the Faire actually think they are from the Renaissance, therefore they parlez in ye olde timee talke and refer to prives and dragon tears and grogs.

The Faire was only fun because I was with a bunch of raucous Coast Guard men and my California best bud, Crystal. Even better, I met up with an old college friend. Fun was had by all, oddly enough.

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My return from vacation mirrored Goldilocks and the 3 Bears. Someone slept in my bed. There were blueberries on my bedroom floor next to an open magazine. The sheets were crumpled, there was a wet tissue under my pillow and a big huge mug on my nightstand. None of this was put there by me, instead someone I didn't give permission to slept in my room and made a mess without cleaning it up. Rude times ten to the tenth power, no?

Coming home jet lagged and desperately wanting nothing more than a good night's rest became a shattered dream when I discovered the wet tissue. It was like when Charlie and his grandfather drink the fizzy lifting soda in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory and messed the entire room of the factory. Everything had to be washed and sterilized. Just like in my room. YOU GET NOTHING.

More reason I want to live alone and live someplace different. But where? I applied to a job today referred by a friend. I feel somewhat under-qualified, but maybe it is about who you know, not what you know. You never know.

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Today is my first day back to work. I really don't want to go back to work. Vacation was a nice reprieve from my monotonous and unrewarding schedule. I bet if I didn't show up they wouldn't even notice. . .How pathetic is that?

Moving. ?

I want to move out of Berkeley.

I think I will move out of Berkeley very soon.

My choices of destination are as follows:

1. New Hope, PA
2. Philadelphia, PA
3. Charleston, SC
4. Boston, MA
5. Savannah or NYC (the whole grad school thing)
6. Boulder, CO (???why not???)

1 will probably most likely happen before 2-6.

The only things I will miss about Berkeley are the friends I like and the countless yoga studios I have within walking distance from my house.

vacation

It's raining in Charleston. The verb raining does not accurately describe the situation it is creating. Raining induces the following: boredom, anxiousness, defensiveness, mood swings, and morbid obesity (when there's no beaming SC sun to require the constant slathering of SPF what are your hands to do other than open the cabinet and fill your palm with a pile of M&Ms every 10 minutes?).

I'm trying to use my time wisely. My busy lifestyle in California (which has come under scrutiny courtesy of the rain which makes critique-our-child a fun indoor activity) doesn't allow for much time to read, fortunately, the plane ride into Asheville, time at the beach and pool, and today's endless rain has reacquainted me with words and pages bound.

But now, now what? My parents went house hunting in hopes of securing a second home which eventually they will retire in. As much fun as it sounds to be confined in a car with my parents and a Realtor, my sister and I passed. After all, much of this trip has tajen place in the car and it hasn't been pretty. Our family should schedule a two week vacation instead of a one week vacation. Week one can be reserved for voicing issues that haven't been properly addressed from all corners of the nation. I mean, shouldn't my sister have an audience of three instead of one when she exclaims no one understands her, no one listens to her, and she hasn't been properly exalted for her efforts of self-sufficiency. This spurs my mom on, of course, because my sister has always been good at igniting a fiery response from my mother. Then my father or I will try to neutralize the situation. When I try to neutralize my sister gets nasty with me. If dad tries to neutralize my mother gets sassy with him. But by the end of the week, when the bags are packed and we begin to head north, we're all wearing smiles and are best of friends. Is it because we know we're heading back to our separate lives or because we had a good time?

So here I am, staring at rain soaked Palmetto trees. Beach mansions have replaced beach bungalows on this strip in Isle of Palms. They all look dark and I feel bad for the neighbors who have a house full of kids under the age of 7. There is no ocean to fill their mouths and no pool to submerge their cries. Today those neighbors are going to have tire their kids out the old fashion way. Fill their stomachs with movie theater popcorn laced with Nyquil. . .

All the while I've had the idea of applying to jobs in the back of my head. It is the perfect day, the perfect opportunity, to use a rainy vacation day, away from my cluttered space in Berkeley to sit down and apply for jobs. I have no pending activities or obligations, just a combination of ADD and laziness distracting me.

I think I'll take a shower and eat something.

sex on the beach

I haven't uttered the phrase, "Guess what happened last night???" in a while. Post-high school I had the fortune, and sometimes misfortune, of recollecting (and trying to recollect) drunken hook-ups. Should I be proud of my boastfulness concerning these shallow and meaningless rendez-vous? I won't answer that with a yes or no, but with a question. . .should I be bragging about my nonexistent sex life instead?

How does one go from consistent male companionship (at least somethin' every three months) to barely a high five from an attractive male? What is it going to take for me to get some? When will I even have a chance to make a connection with someone again?

Getting old sucks. Everything that at the time seemed difficult now seems as though it was easy for Lindsay of yesteryear. But now? It's ten times harder.


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Tomorrow is my first day of vacation. Tonight I will repack my bag and make sure I have all necessary toiletries and garments. I will remember my camera, my beach reads and running shoes. I will leave my house on time, this time with my debit card (which I forgot two months ago on my way to Boston) and I will greet my family with massive hugs.

I look forward to doing yoga, running in the sweltering heat, diving into the luke warm ocean, slathering on layers of sunscreen, drinking chilled white wine on the porch with my sister, playing tennis with my mom, coffee runs with my dad and most of all the beach. Though I live in California in fairly close proximity to the beach, I see the sand and waves less than I have ever seen it in my entire life.

For some reason I'm really excited I'll be able to catch Regis and Kelly. Maybe this contributes to my inability to get laid as much as I'd like. . . .

Spare some change? Yea- get a job you bum.

My last two years of high school and throughout college I spent my spare time volunteering. I loved the social aspect of working with families at Habitat for Humanity sites and children in schools. I felt inspired after hearing stories from single men and women frequenting soup kitchens, both volunteers and patrons. When I applied to college I intended to study social work in order to turn my unpaid free time activities into a low-paid full time endeavor. I devoted a year between semesters in college to work with disadvantaged youth.

Then I studied abroad. Then I pushed through two more semesters. Then I graduated. And somewhere in my transitions I lost the passion for community service I once embodied.

My passion has tried to resurface but for some reason I suppress it. It has landed me in two dead end jobs. I'm not sure where or when the change occurred but my idealism and advocacy have become nonexistent.

Tonight I made a quick beer run to the corner store. It's less than a minute from my house but I still have the misfortune of encountering some of Berkeley's "finest." And by "finest" I mean Berkeley's most notorious, loud and colorful homeless men. Even if you plug your ears with an Ipod, chat on a cell phone or are actually in a deep conversation with someone while walking on the street, the homeless will distract and interrupt. They are ceaseless and undeterred in their efforts to beg for change and simultaneously draw the most attention possible to themselves, as if their moldy and urine drenched clothing isn't enough.

Two years in Berkeley has afforded me many unsolicited encounters with the homeless. Some of them are humorous and others are just plain vulgar. Tonight I received a vulgar comment. This comment I will regurgitate to my parents when I am reunited with them on Thursday. It will be a comical ice breaker when conversations of my futile attempts to find a job turn flat. I will say, "Oh my god, so the other night I ran to the corner store and when I left of course there was some bum waiting for me outside. And guess what he said? 'Your parents must have had fun when they made you.'"

I didn't acknowledge this drunk old man. I didn't even have time to get a good look at him since I was interrupted by two foreign students looking for a venue to buy hard alcohol. My directions were muffled the bum's chuckle at my stature. My mistake for wearing yoga pants outside. Right? No. Noooooo. I should be able to wear whatever I want without being harassed.

And that's when I began cursing this homeless man. Inside of my head, of course. I walked away thinking about all the nasty and condescending things I could say to this man. I was reminded of high school and the soup kitchen I spent many nights slingin' baked beans on to plates and refilling hot sauce bottles.

What happened? I hate these people who encroach on an otherwise idyllic area. Beautiful foliage, eclectic shops, and a diverse community set against the Berkeley and Oakland Hills. These smelly, drunk lowlifes. . . .

What happened to them? Why are there so many? And if I were the Lindsay of 8 years ago, what would I do to ameliorate this situation? Because of the startling number of these people there are so many resources available to them. Yet they don't seem to be utilizing the help they are offered.

I don't get it.

The worst, I am.

Thursday I leave Californy for my family vacation in South Carolina.
Thank God.
I need to participate in something I actually excel in; sitting at the beach and reading.

Once again, once-a-fucking-again, I feel all I am capable of is failure. Work at each job has been discouraging and wearing down my soul. At Urban I found myself mopping a dirty floor by my lonesome on a Sunday morning. Did I go to college to end up mopping floors? And today at the bookstore the deceased owner's daughter managed to point out every misstep and mistake I made or almost made. In front of everyone. On a very busy day. I was also observed by a fellow employee as looking "aimless." 20% joke 80% inappropriate, but possibly deserved, observation.

Following 7 hours of agonizing self doubt I treated myself to a pedicure. I had been contemplating the foot pampering for a week, but was staving off due to my attempt to balance a budget. But after last weeks bout of excruciating shin splints (which got me addicted to BenGay) and two twelve hours days on my feet and an absence of yoga, combined with todays big heaping of shit, I decided to sit back and luxuriate.

After my nails dried I headed to my tennis lesson where again I was reminded that anything I try to do, I fail. I've taken tennis lessons for longer than I can remember and somehow I can't retain any skill.

In an effort to turn lemons into lemonade, I've been trying to tell myself that my unfailing ability to fail will grow me a thick skin and encourage me to persevere until I get "it" right. But maybe I'm just perpetuating my uselessness and need to try something new.

Lindsay Davenport I am Not

I lost. Again.
2-6, 6-7.
God dammit. I almost got another set out of that lady. My next opponent is going down.

But I did win in another arena today. I told Urban that I could no longer work full time. This means I drop my assistant manager title, take on more days at the bookstore and begin receiving benefits there. Even more exciting, I have a whole day off during the week to plan my life. All this begins after my family vacation which commences in 9 days. Life is good.