This Is It

Fancy Footwork

2008-10-03T09:02:00.001-07:00

I'm totally seeing Chromeo tonight.

Totally.

Inexperience

2008-10-02T20:26:00.001-07:00

Did you watch the VP debate? Sarah Palin danced around those questions like her shoes were on fire. She sure is patriotic, but ready to become the vice president of the United States. . .? Not in her lifetime.

Interning today was stressful. I have to solicit shoe images for the shoe column that was due Tuesday. No one is responding to my queries despite countless phone calls and emails. The slow response has been making me think, what's the point? They're only shoes. Then I begin to think what a waste of paper magazines are in general and I become frustrated that I'm participating in such a superficial and mindless publication. Sure, sure, we write articles pertaining to health awareness and charity work, but in general it's a magazine listing luxuries for rich people.

Last night I was trying to figure out how to get my emergency teaching certification. In the process I stumbled upon a degree program to become a reading specialist. It sounds pretty cool, though I'm not sure if I'm qualified as I'm sure there is some sort of speech pathology mumbo-jumbo that I never learned in college. Still, how cool would it be to help kids read? When I was little I loved to read, I still do. And my love for reading spurred my love for writing thanks to Harriet the Spy.

I just feel more scattered than Denise Huxtable (and Sarah Palin) and so unsuccessful compared to peers. I'm frazzled and lost and kind of scared at this point. I'll be 30 in 3 years. I have a degree that lately I'm deeming useless and not much experience with anything. And a boyfriend? Will I ever get married? A nervous breakdown is not approaching, but maybe just a depression. I feel like a bum.

Tomorrow my sister and I go meet another leasing agent to check out two apartments. Hopefully I get him. I mean, we get one of the apartments. This guy is cute though and I couldn't tell if he was digging me the last time I saw him at a showing. I'll figure it out tomorrow, but first I need decide what to wear. . .

L is for losing my life in the ghetto

2008-09-30T20:22:00.001-07:00

I found a new apartment I like.
I think it helped that the leasing agent was super cute. The view of the Philadelphia skyline is breathtaking.
Before that apartment I trekked all the way out to Fishtown for a super cheap two bedroom. It's an up and coming area in Philly which for some reason I really like. It's a Williamsburg wannabe.
Dee was the woman showing the apartment. She was a big lady, boisterous, with huge movie star glasses. She wore a black and white track suit with pink sneakers. Really bright lipstick. She was great. She could sell a library of books to a blind man. Unfortunately her house had no closets and for a duo of sisters who have hampers full of clothing, closests are a necessity. We parted, not after having a few chuckles over our current president. As she was walking me out she asked me which direction I was going in. I said I had to figure out how to get back to Center City. "Oh, I'll just drop you off at the L!"
Whatever the L is, sounds good. For some reason I am Philly-challenged. My sense of direction becomes defunct right before the Girard Avenue exit on 95. After confirming with her one more time the L went into Center City I hopped in this lady's SUV and we headed to the SEPTA line that was going to lead me safely into Center City. Steering the wheel with one hand and flailing her other hand while cursing America's financial crisis, she drove through a stop sign, gasping as she realized we almost died. I laughed nervously. Then she asked me what I did for a living. I said I was trying to become a writer. She said I was really beautiful, like Audrey Hepburn.
She could have been being nice for three reasons:
1) She really wanted me to lease the place
2) She felt bad about driving through the stop sign and putting my life in danger
3) She put my life in danger again by dropping me off at a notoriously dangerous L stop.
"Sorry about the stop sign, here's the L, it's not the best L to drop you off at, but you'll be fine." I was just grateful for her dropping me off at this foreign stop that would save me from another $15 cab fare.
Before I had both legs on the ground she sped off. It didn't seem that dangerous to me. It reminded me of the nice parts of the Bronx. And if any of you know anything about the Bronx. . .I climbed the steps to the train, a goofy white girl with a big goofy white girl grin, passing crack heads and people with jeans so baggy they must have been packin' lots of heat.
I stared at the SEPTA map waiting for an epiphany. Even now I can't even tell you what L stop I was at. There was a police officer standing, watching passengers walk by. I assume cops at all L stops is standard. I walked up to him, not wanting to waste more time staring mindlessly at a diagram of a city that makes my brain hurt, and asked him where to go.
"Why are you at this stop?"
"My leasing agent dropped me off here."
"HA! Don't buy a house from her if she dropped you off here."
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"Where are you from?"
"Jersey."
"Yeah, you shouldn't be a this stop."
"It doesn't look that bad."
"A lot of things don't look that bad. . ."
After chuckling at my brush with death, muggings, rapes, assault, etc, he got me on the L and I continued apartment hunting in the city with no hard feelings towards the leasing agent who put my life in danger.
The only thing that sucks is I can't remember what stop is was that I got on at, so I don't know how to avoid it.

I'm bored.

2008-09-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

I'm ready to pull my hair out. Boredom has lead to frustration. My recent apartment debacle has also been a source of frustration. Joblessness due to lack of apartment is assisting in the enhancing the frustration I am feeling. My two internships are also breeding stress.

I'm not sure if I'm happier here than in California. Living with my parents is stress free, surprisingly. Living with my roommates back in California was unfortunate. Still, I had a lot of friends in California and plenty of stimulation outside of work. My life has slowed down considerably since moving home.

Tomorrow I'm going to look at some apartments thanks to our inability to move into a place we signed a lease for on Friday. The property was in disarray when we tried to move in Friday and Sunday, so we terminated the lease and my sister and I find ourselves still living at home. Hopefully we find a place tomorrow.

My internships feel very superficial and shallow. I love fashion, I do, but writing about $1,000 shoes provides no stimulation or gratification. It actually feels pretty pointless, especially in times of such economic duress. My dad is urging me to find a creative job at an ad agency or with a media outlet which confuses me. Sure, I used to go to art camp, but when did I ever display interest in the creative arts past senior year of high school? Rarely. I do enjoy being creative with the written word, but I haven't touched a paint brush in years. When I think about when I felt most creative it's probably when I was volunteering or working with City Year when I felt most inspired. It's obvious now that my energies need to be funneled into a job where I am helping others. My biggest obstacle will be transforming a resume consumed mostly with retail jobs to a resume that screams, "Let me help you!"

In other news, when I finally find a place in Philadelphia I'm going to sign up for hustle lessons. That will be my platform for dance greatness, for sure.

So far. . .

2008-09-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

My sister and I landed a place in West Philly. If all goes as planned we move in on Friday. Our leasing agent is a flake and has been extremely slow in responding to our wishes. She's also reneged on letting us move in this weekend, though she claims if it's inconvenient for us to move in on a Monday then this Friday will suffice. Who moves in on a Monday?

The place is huge and has plenty of room for dance parties though it is farther than I deem ideal for having the quality social life I deserve. My friend who lives in the area assures me it is a great place and my worries have been quelled a bit. I'm excited to move again but I'm not sure what the hell I'm really doing which seems to be the general theme of my life. So far, I'm ok with that.

Tomorrow I go to my internship that after a week I'm already really bored with and unenthusiastic about. I will just have to suck it up, grin and bare it. It's only two days a week, I think I can handle that. Right???

here comes the bride, all fat and wide

2008-09-14T20:11:00.001-07:00

Bridal magazines? Who would have thought I would be buying bridal magazines as soon as I returned home? You would think having a steady boyfriend would necessitate buying bridal magazines or maybe being a psycho single marriage fanatic. But I have no boyfriend and am in no hurry to pass through that threshold, though I do see a wedding (or plural version) all in the name of OPEN BAR AND BIG DANCE FLOOR.

Here I am with Modern Bride, Inside Weddings and New Jersey Bride (teased hair and everything else gaudy glaring from each page) thrown carelessly out on my bedroom floor for research purposes. My first assignment for my magazine internship is writing a bit about Bridal Shoes. Because I am such an expert. Because I know so much about weddings and what goes into the perfect wedding.

When I was interning for the fashion boutique website I had to write bits about stores I had never been to in cities I had never visited. After I had written a few columns my boss threw a cocktail party. After freelancing (for free I will grumpily remind you) in sweats for a few months I got gussied up and showed my face to co-workers I had never met. They all raved over my column, "You are so funny! And so lucky you get to travel to all those boutiques!" Yeah, I fucking wish. Time to jet over to Chicago? While working 7 days a week? Yeah right. And even if I didn't have time, money to stay in hotels and fly to distant places as an intern? Were these ladies on crack?

Still, their naivety was quite flattering. I had written well enough to fool even the most keen fashionista. Perhaps my writing and research will allow me to fool even the most astute bride-zilla?

In other news, I'm getting fat. My mom commented on love handles. "You better watch those." She wasn't being a bitch, though out of context that is as bitchy as they come. The past three weeks of moving and obligatory moving booze and food fests and the extinguishing of my work regiment have exemplified the fastidious nature of fat around my waist. I complain about this with a glass of wine by my computer.

Tomorrow I will run, right after I finish researching wedding shoes.

Baby come back?

2008-09-13T22:06:00.001-07:00

I made it to the east coast in one piece and feel at peace with my decision to be here.

My sister and I have been looking for apartments in Philadelphia. If all goes well we will have a place in Fishtown by the end of the month. The rent is cheap and the location is prime.

Friday I had a preliminary meeting with my new boss at my new internship. She encouraged me to email my fellow intern who started two weeks ago. I sent him a one liner and received 500 lines in return. He seems like a go getter with plenty of experience at publications. This is unfamiliar territory for me. Unlike my past internship where I sat in my house at my desk in sweatpants and researched and wrote with the TV on a low volume in the background at 12am, this requires office presence and the ability to collaborate with others. My past jobs have demanded I work with others, but collaborate?! This internship is going to stimulate parts of my brain that have been dormant since college.

Tuesday I have an interview in Philadelphia for another internship. When am I going to stop interning and start getting paid? Hopefully by January 2009. My portfolio is non-existent and I need these people to give me positions in order to beef up my sad looking resume. I really believe this magazine internship is going to help me in a big way. Though it may not segue into a job immediately, it will give me skills I never learned in college or at my past internships.

And how about getting paid? Who knows. There is the possibility of working at Urban Outfitters on South Street if I end up moving into Fishtown, but if I stay in New Hope there is a bookstore job waiting for me. Though living at home has been stress free thus far it hasn't even been a week.

I miss my friends in California, but regret about moving hasn't struck yet. I don't miss much. Yet.

getting out of the way

2008-08-31T12:08:00.001-07:00

When I returned from vacation my computer shut down. The past few weeks I've been hanging out at Kinkos for brief computer sessions. I wish I had the motivation to take the bus to Best Buy but I don't like buses or figuring out public transportation so I think I will wait until I move back home and have someone drive me there.

A week and a few days until I leave the west coast. After my plane ticket was booked I called a friend frantic. "What did I do? I made such a big decision in such a short time!" He said calmly, "But Mapes, it's not a big decision, it's just a big distance." To an extent, he's right. It won't immediately be the frazzled, momentous, life changing decision I think it will be. Still, it won't be easy. My parents have been suggesting I move in with my sister and buy a car which boggles my mind because the whole reason I wanted to move back was to save money and have time to apply to schools. If I move into an apartment I will have to pay rent and if I buy a car expenses like gas, repairs and insurance will drown me. What are they thinking? They're thinking, "What is our daughter thinking!?"

Who knows?

Last night I went to a work party hosted by one of my favorite bookstore co-workers. In contrast to the beer pounding, shot swallowing, booty shaking parties my Urban employees host, this party was over 40 and served Maker's Mark Whiskey, expensive wine, and homemade calzones, but in the most unpretentious way. My 50-something year old co-worker and her husband picked me up in their luxury vehicle with bread from the best bakery in town secured under a seatbelt. The East Bay native sped through the streets yapping wildly and smartly about her sadness of me leaving and McCain's VP nomination, while her husband rolled a joint and tried to give direction. He offered me a hit, I declined, feeling kind of like a loser who doesn't do drugs. We got there, a little buzzed thanks to the confines of a petite sedan, and were excitedly greeted by our host. As the rest of the guests showed up I was greeted with "Why are you leaving?"s and "We're going to miss you"s. The parting words were so genuine and so surprising that when I made it home last night I cried. I was really going to miss these people. I didn't realize they really liked me, I always felt like I was in the way.

To the west to the east.

2008-08-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

I'm moving back home the second week of September.

You never know.

2008-08-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

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.

________________________________________________________________

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.

______________________________________________________________

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. ?

2008-08-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T09:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

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.

____________________________________________________

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.

2008-08-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-04T21:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T22:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Manic Monday

2008-07-28T23:00:00.000-07:00

Monday is always so busy at the bookstore. It's a flood of phone calls, a cacophony of questions and a general atmosphere of craziness. And since we're in the heart of Berkeley that means we're susceptible to a little more craziness than other retailers in other areas.

Today's example is brought to you by the letter G which stands for "Get a life."

While at the counter, fielding questions over the phone and in person while ringing up customers, from the staircase a yell.

"Get him out of here!" yelled a 20-something Asian woman. She looked stable and without mental deficit. She was also wearing a short white skirt.
A 20-something Hispanic man rushed down the steps looking like a puppy who just shat on a new white rug. This man, however, did not shit on a new white rug, instead he tried to video tape what was underneath this woman's white skirt.
She angrily announced the man's undertakings to the entire store. My store manager, who can be as docile as a new born lamb, or as nasty as a raging bull, led the man outside with a few harsh words. My manager returned and shook his head, "It ain't like the old days when we could have really showed him." I urged him to go into detail but he shrugged his shoulder and shook his head. "Twenty years ago, he would have gotten what he deserved." I envisioned the old bookstore as a olde time saloon, with beer bottles being broken over slimely videographers heads.

What is it about Mondays that gets everyone crazy?

In it to win it

2008-07-27T22:42:00.000-07:00

Today I played my first competitive match since 10th grade junior varsity tennis. When I was on the JV team I played doubles, today I played singles. I had so much fun.

And I think it was only me who had fun. I met my opponent at the courts. We had to wait before courts cleared so I attempted to make small talk. She, like me, moved out here with a friend from high school from Pennsylvania. Small world, huh? And apparently her hometown is only an hour from where my parents now reside. She didn't really care though. My opponent wasn't mean or rude or even shy, she was just my opponent.

Her lack of personality off the court made me think she would be a lackluster opponent. For the first 4 sets I thought I was right, until she caught up and won the first set, 7-5. And then beat me 6-3. Despite losing to such a lame opponent I really had a good time.

Competing after such a long time of not competing, especially in a non-team sport setting, was invigorating. I will go as far to say it was a thought-provoking match. The way I competed today is similar to how I live.

Sure, I thought I had a chance and yeah, I didn't do too poorly for a first timer on the singles court, but still, I was out there to have fun. Winning wasn't the object of the game for me. Losing didn't hurt so much today, but I don't want to continue losing, I want to win a game. Similarly, I'm floating along the tennis court of life, winning points here and there, but overall not really making any stellar plays to go home with a big win. Mostly I wanted to get through my match today without double faulting every other serve. I was successful in that endeavor, but I want more next match. I really want to win. I want to put all my energy towards winning the match.

Similarly I want to put all my energy into winning at life. That sounds sooooooo lame, I know it does. But I want to be more competitive. Something clicked today while I was out there whacking balls over the net (and oh some went oh-so-over that net lob style). I live my life without drive or motivation or a yearning to win. For some reason I shy away from competition and I don't want to do that anymore. I want to shake things up.

Goodnight.

2008-07-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday
I learned that I am not an idiot and that people at the bookstore appreciate what I have to give.

Today
I worked my ass off to prove to my bosses that I have what it takes to keep working at the bookstore.

Tonight
I did laundry. It is Saturday night, "date night" to some, yet somehow I find joy in solitude and the smell of dryer sheets.

Tomorrow
I have my first tennis match. I'm nervous and excited and ready to win.

Right now
I'm going to bed so I am spry for my match because

Right now
My knees feel week, my stomach feels rotund and my shins are killing me.

cowering coward.

2008-07-22T23:10:00.001-07:00

Last night I left a kitchen of conversation because as I told my two friends, "I have to wake up at 6am." 10:30pm and I zonked out on my bed. 9:25 am rolls around and- 9:25!!! 4 missed calls from work, a text message and an icon indicating my sound was off.

Not only was my sound off, but I was off. My off-kilter essence snuck its way into today. The feeling of "I can't do anything right" decided to lend itself to me for another day of torture.

Yesterday really wasn't that bad. It was, however, tough on the ego.

Since the beginning of the summer I've been ready to leave my job at Urban. Though I have made some lovely friends and built a fabulous wardrobe thanks to the discount, I haven't grown much as a person. I've become bitter, cranky and stifled. My creativity and inspiration have waned and I have no drive. I go to work and do menial things, like fold shirts. Multi-tasking is when I do menial things while making sure shoplifters do not run away with merchandise. My lack of enthusiasm for completing these menial tasks is slowly becoming more obvious to my manager who is beginning to show signs of disappointment and resentment.

Meanwhile, my other job was seemingly go well. My store manager always has a task for me; whether I'm alphabetizing art monographs or culling the cartoon section, I have free time away from the register where I'm usually bombarded with questions I cannot answer because I have no fucking idea who Studs Terkel is or it takes me 2 minutes to remember who Leonard Bernstein is and where he would be shelved. My impeccable shelving skills combined with the enthusiastic encouraging of a co-worker who only likes me because I'm funny, I decided to ask my manager if I could work full time at the bookstore. He was very agreeable about giving me another day, he only said he had to talk it over with the deceased owner's daughter. Fine, why should she care?

"Lindsay, I need to talk you," the deceased owner's daughter said before I left yesterday.
Deer in headlights.
"It's not bad, it's not bad, trust me."
Realize, this is three days after I convinced myself she hated me. I'm not sure if it's that I laugh too much or too loudly or am just misunderstood. Maybe I get along better with the guys at work, but then again the other women I work with there are so much fun.
She sits me down and tells me she will give me an extra day if I decide to show her more. More confidence, more customer service and more flexibility. Apparently I cower at questions from customers, fearful I don't know the answer, fearful I will look stupid in front of the more seasoned employees. I'm that obvious?
The deceased owner's daughter wasn't rude, but it wasn't my friendly, jovial store manager giving me a big brother talk. I was getting a stern principal talk. My previous excitement evaporated immediately. I just felt really stupid despite her telling me that she understood that this job was "tough on the ego."
At least I had tennis lessons after. Smash some balls and loose some aggression. Or maybe miss all my shots, flub all my serves and wonder how I took so many lessons and never retained a god damn thing.
That hour tennis lesson after the five minute talk I had with the deceased owner's daughter left me thirsty for a beer and some conversation with my friend, Joe. He wants to work on a script with me because he thinks I'm funny and good writer. I needed alcohol and a good ego-stroking session. But it was interrupted by a roommate and her odd friend and Joe and I didn't get to discuss anything about our project.
So, I fell asleep and woke up incredibly late for my menial job which after yesterday I feel like I should keep full-time instead of picking up the bookstore job full-time.
There I go again, cowering.

stuff

2008-07-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

What have I been doing the past ten days?

I can't recall, actually.

Tennis lessons started. I, along with 6 other college aged kids, hit balls with a tennis instructor who has no idea what she is doing, really. Her instructions carry weight; I definitely need to bend with my knees and move my feet more, but her method of running a class lacks order. She changes her mind about what drills she wants to do every five minutes. When she, an older woman who looks like she's been to a lot of Melissa Etheridge concerts, finally decides on the drill she would like to have us take part in, she dictates the rules in a way that makes understanding the object of the game difficult. Still, I'm grateful for the chance to get back on the court and improve my game for my upcoming matches with Community Tennis League. Unfortunately my first opponent backed down due to a funeral. Hopefully I have a match sometime this week, though my imagination led me to falsely believe I'm actually good at tennis. I'm not bad, but I should be more worried than I was two weeks ago when I signed up for the tennis league.

I haven't been to yoga in two weeks because of food poisoning and my conflicting tennis schedule. This disappoints me greatly and I'm anxious to get back to classes as soon as my schedule allows it, which it hasn't and I'm not sure when it will. Fortunately I have time to run but it's such a drag to commence running after weeks of not. Dreadful is the idea of walking up the hill to the track and getting myself back to where I was endurance-wise three weeks ago. Bah.

I tried to convey these feelings of dread to a handsome young man who frequents the bookstore. Not only is he handsome, but his physique is blush inducing as is his smile. He is so hot, so so so hot. The first time he came in we had a lengthy introduction. I forget his name, but I haven't forgotten his compliments or his flirtations. He reads smart books like Sartre and enjoys hiking in his free time. Running too. I complained about the prospects of running after a long absence. He smiled and told me "no better time than the present". His smile, ugh, his smile. His arm muscles. His tattoo.

In addition to my futile flirtations I have been attempting to find a new job. Mostly I've been continuing to wonder why the hell I'm still in Berkeley and wondering if the east coast really does hold more for me.

There was more I wanted to write, but I began to space out and think about the handsome guy in the bookstore.

And I couldn't help but wonder. . .

2008-07-09T01:06:00.001-07:00

Am I getting desperate?

Extreme cabin fever hit me last night. Three days confined in my tiny little apartment (courtesy of crippling food poisoning) finally drove me out of the house yesterday. Sex and the City was a movie I wanted to see with girlfriends, but desperate times call for desperate measures and with Crystal out on the town with her out-of-town friend and Patty bogged down with lesson plans for creepy old foreigners wanting to learn English pick up lines, I was on my own.

I enjoyed it nonetheless. If you're a SATC fan then you will completely ignore all reviews of the film which say it is long, drawn out, choppy and without substance. Last night, and any girl's night out, there's no need for substance, especially when your stomach hasn't been handling anything with substance too well.

The movie was a colorful array of sex, sex jokes, broken hearts, mended hearts, couture and Manolos. Though I will be eternally jealous of the ladies who lunch and their extensive wardrobe, I was kept awake not by anguish over baubles I have not, but by the thoughts of my relationship history and future. There is no present. I have no prospects, no potentials, no past partners to put to use. I am so single, so so single.

I'm not desperate. If I were desperate I would take home anything that looked like it had a penis. Which would require me to actually go out and seek someone. But I don't really go out much. And I don't go out of the way to find someone when I'm at work, or at a coffee shop. I'm waiting to be approached.

Is that so wrong? No, it's just stupid. If I ever want to nestle in someone's embrace again I need to put more effort into my single and ready to mingle status.

If I may muse in the tone of Miss Carrie Bradshaw: I couldn't help but wonder. . .

How the fuck do I do that????

Food cravings poison.

2008-07-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

Last night I did the dumbest thing ever.

After three days of excruciating stomach pains and no desire to do anything but sleep and groan I started to feel better. I forced chicken noodle soup down my throat and alternated between sipping water and Gatorade every other minute of the hour. By 9pm I was feeling a little more alive and a lot more hungry.

More than anything I was craving a chocolate chip muffin from Dunkin Donuts. Ohhh! Even now my mouth is watering at the thought of it's grandness. No doubt each time I've devoured one of those sugary carb-loaded treats it's been a day old, but there's a certain je ne sais quoi about the taste of day old pastries from Dunkin.

But my luck Dunkin Donuts is not a west coast thing. I'm sure it has something to do with the health factor. But California has cops and firefighters, they need their fatty nourishment like any east coast law enforcement officer. I mean, isn't Dunkin's tagline, "America runs on it"? What are we west coasters running on then? East coast Dunkin Donuts fumes????

I really wanted chocolate and I wanted it immediately. I forced myself to think of other options. If I was really hungry, why not choose something nutritious. After all, it had been days since I had eaten anything with real sustenance. Banishing thoughts of salad and couscous, I quickly dressed and headed to my favorite mini-mart. I bought more Gatorade, some orange juice and best of all, Snowballs. Oh! Snowballs are delicious with a large glass of milk right before bed.

Walking home from the mini-mart I felt like a crack-head jonesing. I had a ghetto black plastic bag filled with treats that would make my mother slap me. Didn't I know better? I did, my appetite didn't.

In an attempt to be healthy I opened the orange juice first. It was the second rate, not Tropicana, so immediately my stomach was queasy. But I was determined to eat my treat, and I did. I devoured the first Snowball in record time. And as quickly as I inhaled it my stomach's wellness took two steps back.

All night I burped up orange and chocolate, a combination some people adore, one that absolutely disgusts me. I'm not sure what compelled me to chug orange juice and gorge on a Snowball. That wonder kept me up all night. That wonder spilled out into the toilet in the form of chunky spew.

So, today, still feeling ill from whatever started this whole stomach infection, I scheduled a doctor's appointment. They got me in immediately and after waiting for what seemed like a 1/2 hour in the doctor's office they immediately swept me out. Doctor's hasty diagnosis was food poisoning.

Maybe Thursday I had some bad Jamba Juice or maybe my bread was moldy even though I checked it thoroughly by sight and smell. All I know is that I will never fold under the pressure of a craving like that again.

aching

2008-07-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

This past holiday weekend I spent in bed. When my back hurt from lying in bed for too long I moved to a cushioned chair in my room and when that didn't help I rotated to the futon in the living room.

I really thought I would be able to go to work today. After two days of alternating between positions of my face in a pillow groaning and huddled under pillows, groaning, in a fetal position, my mind decided I was better. But after I made a trek down to 7-11 and barely made it back due to feelings of death. Yes, death. I could barely walk back from the corner store because I was so dehydrated and malnourished. I called work and stated my case to my sympathetic manager.

Curled on the futon and in my bed I watched Nadal in the longest Wimbledon match in history. I managed to stomach soup. Then I napped, a glorious nap, which might have been my saving grace.

Since moving to California I haven't been so sick that I've needed to skip work, Even since I started working every day. Being sick though reminds me of my old boyfriend and how nice it was to have him make me tea when I was sick. Or when he was sick and I would come home to find him scrunched up in a ball under a pile of blankets.

This time last year we were fighting. His friends were in town and he was drinking and smoking and lying to me. We broke up, of course, but then got back together, of course. Over and over I will say our relationship was fucked up, but I can't tell you how badly I missed him this weekend. Maybe it was the need for someone to care for me that uprooted memories of such love and care for each other.

Sometimes it's so hard being out here. My living situation and job situation are both not ideal. And if my job situation improved I'm sure my living situation would improve. Being bedridden for the past few days has given me a lot of time to think about being out here. Nothing is working, so why am I still here? Why?? I don't know how to be an adult and that's what I want to be. I don't want to get paid hourly and have to find someone to sub for me when I get sick and can't come to work.

And I want to get married and have kids and go to graduate school and. . .I'm making my stomach hurt again.

sick and tired.

2008-07-05T23:47:00.000-07:00

I can't stand being broke anymore.
I can't stand having two jobs and no time off.
I know I say it all the time, but I think I'm at my breaking point. I'm giving myself until the end of August. After that it may be bon voyage Berkeley and hello hometown, NJ.
All of this is caused by a sudden burning desire to live in a condo. I think I' dehydrated.

In other news my 4th of July weekend was worse than expected. I anticipated working all weekend, but instead I spent about 72 hours in bed with some sort of stomach issue threatening to implode and/or explode my innards.

Eat, skip the pray and love

2008-07-01T20:54:00.001-07:00

When I am in yoga class all I can think about is food. It's not that I am exerting myself and need to fuel up after class, it's just something to think about.

Lots of people probably think about sex during yoga courtesy of the bendy positions reminiscent of sexual positions we have found ourselves in during the "course of inter" or would like to find ourselves in.

But for me, my mind goes from downward dog to doggie style to hot dogs with bacon. God, I've been craving bacon lately.

I'm not sure if my hunger is due to lack of food before yoga or the calories burned during. Yesterday when I had my yoga class in North Berkeley I was listing the possible places I could dine at every inhalation and exhalation. North Berkeley is about a 2 mile walk from my house, so I don't go there much, mostly just for yoga, so the list of places I hadn't been in a while or ever been to lasted a few poses. There's Saul's Jewish Deli that serves fatty and flavorful unhealthily divine brisket and other cholesterol boosters. Then there's the uber-healthy vegetarian Thai joint, Cha-Ya, that serves really fresh straight-forward cuisine. Of course I couldn't forget Barney's Gourmet burgers that has juicy hamburgers (or veggie burgers) with ridiculous and untraditional toppings, like pineapple and ricotta, and or course bacon.

During my savasana (resting pose) instead of concentrating on the message of today's class, clearing space in your life for things that matter (like a new blender), I decided I would hit up a favorite spot for the hyper-Berkeley residents. Think: ultra vegan and ridiculous. Each item on the menu does not read as "Veggie Surprise" but as "I am grateful" or "I am free." I had never been to Cafe Gratitude before but my yoga class inspired me to clear my mind of restaurants I'd already been to and open my stomach up to a new experience.

The chalkboard outside read "When do you feel most free?" I ignored the question and surveyed the menu. I wasn't in the mood for dinner or a snack, there was a smoothie making my mouth water.

"I am grace." I said, automatically responding in my head with a bad joke "No, you're Lindsay." (is joking inside my head a bad sign?)

The woman behind the register looked warmly, almost eerily into my eyes. "Great, great!" she was so excited to take my order. Instead of busying herself with other register tasks, like restocking the organic napkins or polishing silverware, she continued to stare, as if she knew me from someplace.

"So, did you read the question outside?"
"Yup."
"So? When are you most free?"

I wanted to respond Friday nights I'm a buy one blow job, get the second free, but I decided this was not the time for crass humor. I was standing among a crowd of dread-headed vegans after all. . .and you know how they are. . .fuckin' weird. So, instead I said the ocean and she proceeded to ask me a billion and ten questions about the ocean while I waited for my smoothie. Organic shit takes a long time to make, that is for sure.

Despite the long wait with a side of 20(gazillion) questions, my smoothie was amazing. Young coconut milk (as opposed to old), dates, almond butter and vanilla. For $8.50. HA! Maybe I should be sorting through my money problems during yoga. Who am I to buy an $8.50 smoothie?

Today during yoga again my mind drifted to my next meal. My hatha class is not in North Berkeley, it's in Telegraph, where I live, eat and work daily. The choices were not as enticing as my North Berkeley anusara class. During our moon sequence today I mulled over Cafe Intermezzo, but decided that as tasty as a leafy green salad the size of my head sounded, going to the bank to take out cash was the last thing I really wanted to do. My teacher guided us through more poses and said made us squat in some Indian-sounding word that made my mouth water thinking of naan. Buttery, garlic naan.

Somehow I ended up at Subway. Indians work there, who kind of smell like garlic naan, so I was close. I feasted on half a turkey and ham whole wheat sub with the works. They always ask if I want a foot long, but that makes me feel uncomfortable, so I stick with the 6inch.

My new found love for yoga and running has been helpful in keeping me awake and spry, but I'm not sure about my weight control. They save move more, eat less, but this whole moving more is making me eat more.

I'm still hungry.

scattered, per usual.

2008-06-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

Remember when I wanted to be a writer?
What happened?

When I was a young girl I collected pins. Instead of storing my collection in a jar or box, I stuck all the pins on a jean jacket and hung it for all to see. One pin my mom found for me reads "Moody But Cute." I think she picked it up for me only for acquisition purposes not realizing that one day I would transform into a moody little c*nt.

Working at Urban Outfitters is frustrating. I love my co-workers, but I hate: my job, my pay, my responsibilities and most of all, the customers. Essentially I clock in to hang out with my friends, but then all this other shit, like shipment and tracking numbers and worst of all, customers, just get in the way. The constant interruptions grate on my nerves so badly.

Somehow the bookstore doesn't breed such moodiness. I deal with the same amount of annoyance from customers without as much support from my co-workers. Sure, I love my co-workers at the bookstore, they're all brilliant, but unfortunately they've been in the business for so long that my complaints and observations fall on deaf ears sometimes. They've been around the block so many times already, in Berkeley no less, that they've seen everything. Maybe that's why my moods are stable there. Since I don't have anyone fueling my fire I am relegated to calm. Or maybe because it is still new and stimulating I have no time to get caught up in my moods.

I just want something stable. I want days off. I'm proud of myself for doing yoga twice a week and maintaining a good running schedule, but I also wish I had more time to chill out and read. And write. I never write anymore and it sucks.

I'm still stagnant. Content, sometimes moody, and definitely stagnant.

L'huomo

2008-06-24T22:18:00.000-07:00

This is what I miss about living in Firenze.

Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.

today at work. . .

2008-06-15T01:21:00.000-07:00

Here's my story from work today.

After we open I run upstairs to organize the fourth and final floor of the store. We store all history books on this floor and there's usually a good chance you can find someone creepy lurking near the one case of chess and gambling books we shelve up there as well. Unfortunately for me I am a magnet for the creepy men in the bookstore. Today exemplifies my creep appeal.

While shelving a few European history books I am interrupted by a man wearing a cowboy hat. He looks like Imus from that radio show, actually. Definitely does not look like a cowboy. From his perch straddling a step stool like a mustang he asks, "How old are you?" Immediately I wonder where this is going. I have no idea where this question is going at all, except that there is a creepy inflection in his voice. I hesitate. ".........Why?....How old do I look?" It's hot on the fourth floor already, but the stare from under the lid of his hat makes me nervous and for some reason I begin to perspire.

"18 or 19." He looks at me like a juicy t-bone steak dripping with A-1 sauce.

18 or 19? 18 or 19?

People, I know I'm flat. I know my ass is 1/700th of a Kardashian hiney, but am I really that meager of a woman to look 18 or 19? Or was this recently released child molester trying to figure out if I was legal?

I laugh loudly. "Try 26," I say.

"Oh. . ." he seems satisfied. As I'm about to exit the potential rape crime scene he asks, "Are you Iranian?"

"Uh, no, French and Polish." Close, very close to Iranian. We share the same national anthem and state flower.

I hurry downstairs and complain to my manager that he plants these random creeps in the store to keep me on my toes. He laughs and sends me on another errand to the fourth floor. Cowboy Creep is still straddling the footstool.

"I'm sorry to have startled you before, but when you see beauty as startling as yours, something comes over me."

"Ha, ok, thanks." I run downstairs, a sweaty, nervous, violated mess.

No one is coming on me in a bookstore, especially some old guy in a cowboy hat. The fourth floor and that guy are history to me.

they say i look like tom cruise.

2008-06-01T10:49:00.000-07:00

i've been hitting the bottle a little too much these past weekends.
this week the hydrating will continue when i go to boston for my Americorps reunion.
where is my "kicker" check? did it somehow get in the hands of one of the other lindsay mapes' out there? i know there are others, i checked myspace. they're not as cool as me because they like to knit and participate in fun runs.
i thought if you met/saw someone else with your name you die. kind of like the ring. or maybe it's when you meet your twin? but i'll never meet tom cruise so i guess ill never die.

desperate.

2008-05-28T10:31:00.001-07:00

I really need a new job.

best time ever

2008-05-26T13:23:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I had the best time I've had in a while. I spent the entire day with Sophia, Melissa and their closest friends. We got on a bus to Napa for wine tasting at 10am. Fortunately the bus was stocked with champagne to celebrate Sophia's graduation. It went quickly as did our sobriety. We polished off the champagne before we even got to the first vineyard and proceeded to satiate our thirst with Tecates and wine. Everyone from- from grammas to ma to pa- were all tipsy to trashed. After drinking Napa dry we proceeded back to Sophia's place for a 6 hour dance party. Who knows, it might have lasted longer, but I had to leave so I could wake up for work the next day. I'm sure I reek of rum and coke which Sophia's dad kept replenishing for me against my wishes. But trying to tell her dad to slow up on the cocktails was like trying to sit down and take a rest from dancing at the party. . .impossible! Those Cubans had me on my feet the entire night.

It was so much fun!! I'm so thankful I was able to share a special moment with Sophia and her beautiful family!

i'll take it!

2008-05-21T18:36:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know, I have an internship for which I write a daily (well when I have time) column about different boutiques across the country. It's fun, but sometimes a bit tedious with the whole two job slash social life slash reintroduction to exercise schedule. But for some reason my boss thinks I am the most, to say the least, therefore, once again I am receiving a promotion I deem undeserved.

I'm not going to argue with her, but I just don't get it. I'm an ok writer, but do I deserve the accolades? I know, I know, I shouldn't argue, I should just smile and continue doing what I'm doing while my trip to the top accelerates.

In other news, well, there is no other news, really. I'm coming down off my New England crush high and realizing it's been 5 years, why am I expecting rainbows and butterflies and all that shit? And my local crush and I have been resurrecting a friendship and nothing more, which I am content with although I miss. . .well, you know.

Off to the Kabuki theaters for Iron Man, wine and $7 chocolate.

reading people.

2008-05-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

Each time I work at the bookstore I absorb as much information in all different ways. I overhear conversations, I stare outside the window, I am pressed to find out where books on Santeria are (not in the sheet music section under Sublime), I am forced to alphabetize the art monographs which takes forever because I tend to leaf through every other book that is out of order and mostly I am offered information at every hour of the day by my co-workers and my customers.

Patrick is a man who I guess to be in his late 60s. He is one of those guys who could have a bumper sticker that reads, "60 is the new 30", though I'm pretty sure he doesn't drive and if he did, it's the base model and free of stickers. I work at the bookstore four days a week and I see almost every shift. A few weeks ago I noticed him absent from my shifts and wondered if something happened to him. When you have regulars they invade your routine, similarly their absence raids your daily activities. Patrick's absence didn't keep me up at night, but it nudged me during my work hours. Finally he reappeared during one of my Literature shelving excursions. "Where have you been?!" I exclaimed. "No, where have you been?" he retorted.

I'm not sure if he knows my name, but I remember my boss introducing us when I began working at Moe's. He was a regular and had been since the store opened almost 50 years ago. After our introduction Patrick and I mostly ran into each other while I shelved in Literature. Sometimes he would slink around the carts, pick up and book and orate memories of the time when he read a particular book.

He loves Bukowski. One day while carrying a pile of used Bukowski over to their crowded home near Burroughs and Camus, Patrick interrupted the silence I worked in with his introduction to Bukowski. Barely 20, he popped into a bookstore, not Moe's, and began looking for a book. A customer in the store recommended Bukowski. Patrick was hooked. He read every single Bukowski in two months.

I wanted to tell Patrick about an Italian boy I met while studying abroad in Florence. Roberto looked like a street kid. Tattered clothes, a salt and pepper mohawk and a motely puppy tagging behind him made Roberto, a chain smoker, look like an uneducated vagabond. Roberts, as I called him, and I met one of the first nights I was in Florence. I forget the name of the bar, but myself and a few American female cohorts were easily intrigued by the Italians of the opposite sex. Too many viewings of Under the Tuscan Sun, I guess. We guessed Roberto and his equally dishelved friend as easy targets. Roberto and I started talking about music. I didn't intend for intimate relations to happen that night and they didn't. Instead he invited me to a music festival in Bologna. Being a stupid American tourist I agreed to meet up with some random Italian dude, a sketchy one at that, and have him take me to some random city. It turned out to be quite the adventure, in a good way, including me running and jumping onto a moving train. Roberts, my American friend Theresa, and I were a trio that semester. Roberts and I spent more time together, however, and became quite close. Even though my Italian was weak and his English not perfect, he was able to read me fluently. On one of our many late night walks through historic and dimly light Florence, Roberto stopped walking and asked, with passion, why I was so afraid of trying, why I was so afraid of being myself. It was shocking. I loved him for it.

Before I left Florence Roberto gave me a copy of poetry by Bukowski. It was his favorite and he made sure I took it. It was in English with the Italian translation on the neighboring page. It is a precious souvenir. I always think of Roberto when I shelve Bukowski. I always think of Roberto and Patrick when I shelve Bukowski.

But I didn't tell Patrick about Roberts. Mostly because when Patrick begins to talk he stops listening. I don't mind. I like to listen to him talk because he is interesting. Some people talk about themselves and they bore me, but maybe that is because they do not talk about books. Patrick told me he keeps a list of every book he has ever read since 1965. He also has a list of every book he wishes to read.

Tonight I decided to read after work. Patrick told me during one of our run ins between the bookshelves that he worked at a bookstore for a time and during that 6 months he read the least amount of books. Emphatically I told him how I related, that my reading has subsided considerably since beginning at Moe's. But tonight I decided I would not run and instead I would read. I went to a local coffee shop and outside I saw Patrick sipping a latte, as usual his grey hair slicked back like a greaser from the 50s, reading a book. Thomas Paine was the father of the American Revolution as well as the French. The English hated him. I didn't know any of that, I told him. He asked me what I was reading. "Trying to get into Michael Chabon." "He's popular." I shrugged, wished him happy reading and said "See you later." "No, see YOU later."

big. fat. DUH.

2008-05-19T13:58:00.001-07:00

Don't call it a comeback, they've been here for years.

This should be common knowledge to people, but it's not.

anticipation.

2008-05-18T23:49:00.000-07:00

I've never wanted to hold someone's hand so much in my entire life. I don't know if it will even happen or if it does in what context. But. . .I daydream of it obsessively.

memories.

2008-05-16T23:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a strange week.

Reconnecting with an old friend has been really gratifying. I'm not sure why the universe brings people in and out and sometime back in again, but I suppose there is a plan. I hope it is a plan that brings much joy into both of our lives.

For the first time since February I saw my old boyfriend walking down the streets of Berkeley. I didn't even recognize him. And when I finally did I was so taken aback I could barely walk, let alone say hello. Now I feel terrible for not even managing to wave, but it was just so. . .jarring?

I'll admit, lately I had been wondering about his well-being, but now I am assured that he is doing well and on a good path. Ever since we broke up I assumed the first sighting after months of no contact would bring back feelings but I feel no desire or yearning for him. I'm relieved.

Tomorrow I go to the beer festival with my good friend, Theresa. A co-worker asked how she and I met and memories of our time studying abroad flooded back to me. We had the best time. I would never have survived without her. Hopefully this alcohol-centric festival won't wield the results of the wine fest I don't remember from months ago (which I described to my old friend as the low point of the past five years he and I had minimal communication).

Anyways. I'm pretty happy because of delusions of dancing, laughing and hugs which I anticipate for Boston. Is that silly of me?

im confused.

2008-05-13T19:44:00.000-07:00

Everything is so fucked up in this world.
Duh, you know this.
Everyone knows this.
Somethings happens and ignites a flurry of emotion, which is so powerful and instantaneous, yet so fleeting and superficial.

Last weekend I heard someone UC Berkeleys was stabbed to death at a frat party. I've lived in many college towns and know they are not immune to tragedies and I know far worse could occur. Take for example, Virginia Tech. Unexpected violence in an idyllic setting was jarring. But I still got drunk that night and woke up the next morning not remembering how much I drank or even the student's name who was stabbed.

I still can't point to where Myanmar is on a map. Is it still even on a map? The number dead is almost to 100,000! Yet here I am, sipping a beer after a simple day of waking up at 7:30 to go to a yoga class, and after hitting up Starbucks while walking home skipping to the beats on my I-pod to rush to my job where I mainly walk around and pretend to look busy.

Guess what happened at work today? Nothing. Guess what happened while I was at work today? Someone was shot a block away. At first there were rumors of a bank robbery and instead of feeing sorrow for the wounded all of us at work were giddy for more information. What bank? How many wounded? Was there are getaway car? We found out it there was no TV-movie heist with good guys and bad guys, that in fact someone was shot and killed the next street over from our shop. No melodrama, just senseless murder.

You've all heard this before. You've all heard someone, probably your mother or local mini-mart clerk, talk about how "sick" society is today. And it is sick. It's fucking disgusting to think someone woke up today, thought about tomorrow, but didn't even make it to this evening.

This evening, when I was compelled to donate a significant sum to a charity for Chinese earthquake victims. I never carry checks, but tonight as I walked by a group soliciting funds to send to helpless residents of China I remembered I had one blank check in my wallet. I still don't remember why I put it in my wallet in the first place, but I guess whatever the reason was, wasn't as important as donating to people who aren't waking up to play hooky and go to the beach tomorrow.

The beach where I'll sit and stare out into the ocean. Stare and wonder why I was born who I was and wish I could change something, but instead I'll do nothing except complain. At least I'm honest.

You go girl

2008-05-07T23:06:00.000-07:00

Your feelings are strong now, yet you may choose to keep them to yourself. You might want to show someone special that you do care, but would rather express it through actions instead of language. Keep all channels of communication wide open. Just continue to follow your heart, even if you feel awkward about it.

My horoscope. I know there isn't a smidgen of truth to these astrological predictions, however sometimes the advice expressed does actually fit into various compartments of my life. There's someone I'm interested in and I'm really quite unsure about his feelings. I want to play flirtatious follies for a little while longer until I have a better gauge of his sentiments. Unlike the last time I tried to engage this man, this time I am going for the gold completely. I am not afraid of rejection, I am afraid of regretting being a nervous ninny*.

* other description would have been fucking pussy. i liked the alliteration of nervous ninny better.

lovin' life.

2008-05-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

im broke.
i want to rekindle something.

i love this video.

Don't make me a target.

2008-05-05T22:13:00.001-07:00

There must be a plan for each one of us on this planet. There must, musn't there?

Here I sit, drinking my Copper Hook Spring ale listening to the bluesy rock of Traffic, slightly buzzed, reflecting on my friends paths and comparing them to mine.

Sometimes I feel so inconsequential in my daily routine while some of my friends are making documentary films, joining the PeaceCorps and selling their own art. It's wonderful to hear of their accomplishments! My friend Desira sells her dresses for $100! My friends in Brooklyn makes hilarious short films that admit them entrance in film festivals and allows them many opportunities to sleep with lots of hot ladies! Another friend spends his summers in Maine as a rafting instructor by day and an amature guitarist by night round the campfire.

There is no jealousy towards these friends and all my other friends partaking in adventures, affording them eye opening experiences, just pride and awe.

But I still feel superficial and dissatisfied with where I am. I have fun, but I feel like I lack depth. Sure, I can churn out stories from the past from when I feel there was more substance and worth during various stations of my life, but those memories are becoming very dim and stale.

Maybe I had my moment in life where I accomplished whatever God wanted me to do. Could have been that year with Americorps, or those years with the youth group or maybe it was something that I have no recollection of. I can't help feeling like there is something bigger out there, waiting for me to discover and become an active part of. . .

I think my problem is that I'm waiting.

Push me pull me but let me

2008-04-27T22:57:00.000-07:00

When I left NJ two weeks ago I think my mother secretly attached a magnet to the bottom of all my shoes. All of the time now I feel a pull towards that coast.

It might be time leave here without my tails between my legs but my head up and my heart open to more adventures and more learning.

Boston bound.

2008-04-27T00:30:00.001-07:00

The past few days I've been thinking about taking a vacation. I have a free plane ticket so I might as well use it to go someplace where I can splurge on the money saved on that flight.

But then today I got in touch with a good friend I haven't seen in at least two years. We met each other during one incredible year, our City Year.

Whenever I mention City Year while writing or in conversation, I always feel I need to explain what it is to others. I can say I took a year off to volunteer with at risk kids, but it was so much more than that. And unfortunately outsiders will never know the experience until they too participate in it. So, I will spare you an introduction to the program, to the lifestyle, to the cult that City Year is and instead make it known that it's like no other volunteer experience or job you could ever have.

This is why Heather and I decided we should celebrate our 5th year as Americorps alumni by meeting in Boston for CYZYGY, City Year's year end celebration. Hopefully our long journeys from the west coast will inspire friends still concentrated in the New England area to gravitate towards the big event so we can all reminisce, catch up and drink a lot. Just like the old days.

I'm so excited to see everyone and be inspired by the thousands of young Americans currently serving communities in need. But the insecure and self concious part of me is overwhelmed with how I am going to be viewed as an Americorps Alumni. Retail? You dedicate a year to serving your country for $100 for that 70 hour work week you put in with hyper elementary school kids and drama infused co-workers. . .and then what? You forget the idealism you learned? The need to serve? The passion to change the world?

Where has it all gone?

I have changed in so many ways from the person I was 5 years ago. I used to care so much about helping people and now I'm so concerned with furthering myself. Maybe the only way I can help myself is if I help others.

If I start volunteering again it shouldn't be to impress my former Americorps peers, it should be to help awaken parts of me that have been dormant for a while. The idealistic, sympathetic, empathetic Mother Theresa wanna-be is still ingrained within me, it's just a matter of reigniting her spirit.

Sameness.

2008-04-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

What's new?
It's cold out. I was under the impression that California, even Northern California, would be slightly warmer than the east coast. This was one of the many "pros" that persuaded me to move here. And like many of those other "pros" I listed they have somehow turned out to be. . .well, neither pros, nor cons, just unexpected.

What else is new?
Nothing else is new.
It's always the same.
I am depressed again. Not sure if this is because of lack of medicine or life being difficult and ability to cope with difficulty unavailable.
What else is old?
I'm looking for a new job. I'm taking baby steps towards the idea of applying to graduate school.
And even when I'm not alone, I'm lonely.

Point and laugh

2008-04-18T22:28:00.001-07:00

Push people down to lift myself up.

Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks, you suckas.

You got counters to lean on.

2008-04-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

After I graduated in December of 2005 I moved back in with my parents for a short time. My parents gave me until after New Year's until they began bugging me about finding a job. The day after New Year's we went shopping, so that didn't count. But the next day, as promised, I was tortured by my nagging mother, "Don't think you can just sleep in all day and not work while you're livin' here" and my idealistic father, "It's so easy to find a job! You can do anything!"

I'd wake up at 11:00 am, if I was lucky, and brew a pot of coffee and pop a few adderall before settling down in front of my laptop at the kitchen counter. I'm not sure how many resumes I posted on Craigslist.com, Monster.com, Hotjobs.com and Hopeless.com, but it was to the point of delirium. When did the madness stop? When I finally got a job, at Bloomingdale's, another point in my life that as I look back, is fucking hilarious. I can't believe I worked there and helped people pick out sunglasses and purses.

Still, if I had to choose between the finger print smudged sunglass counter at Bloomingdale's and the shiny marble counter top in my kitchen I'd have to choose the one under the fluorescent lights. At least I had more entertainment from Aileen and her stories of drunken hook-ups gone awry, Go Get Em Gail's wisdom from 60 years of being a self proclaimed JAP and the ongoing relationship drama between Michael and Steven.

The counter at my house reminded me of how pathetic I was. I would stare into it and see a haggard, over-caffeinated college graduate with no direction and no paycheck. At least working at Bloomingdale's provided me with a paycheck affording me the opportunity to buy those unnecessary Chanel sunglasses.

Coming home for this brief vacation I haven't reflected about where I want to go in my life as much as I intended. Yet, sitting here in my kitchen alone on a Monday evening reminds me of the days of frustration at my email for not allotting me any responses from my resume postings. It reminded me of when I was an internet whore, blogging and commenting incessantly between resume editing.

At the risk of imitating an excerpt from an AARP article, it seems like just yesterday I was living here with the constant chiding of my parents and leeching disgust within myself. The Lindsay now is so different from the Lindsay then. Sure, I still have the same cynicism and ability to complain about anything on cue, yet I there is hope and forgiveness I never had before.

And we know who got da funk, don't we?

2008-04-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

Wednesday I fly home. I am going to relax and "luxuriate." I hate that word. It sounds like a word a sleazy Cadillac salesman with fake red crocodiles wing tips would say. But I'm going to luxuriate in a bath, when I get a facial, when I walk my dogs and when I play tennis. Unencumbered luxuriating.

The past three days I didn't nap and I actually exercised. Now if I could just get in the habit of reading nightly again I'd be pleased with myself. Unfortunately I think I need a nap today because I had a little too much fun last night. We know what that translates to!

I've given up on my crush. It's unfortunate he sent me messages I ended up misinterpreting, but he didn't know how I was going to react, I don't think it was his intention to hurt my feelings. But I'm not going to work for something futile, there's no convincing in love, I think. The best way is when it happens naturally, mutually and enjoyably. Oh well.

But I've fallen for something else. . .

this website. . .it's amaaaaaazing: http://fufustew.wordpress.com/

best mp3 files for funk anywhere!

I'm callin' this trend early on

2008-04-04T21:21:00.000-07:00

Doc Martin's are coming back into style in a baaaaaaaaaad way.

them days. they go by.

2008-04-01T17:29:00.001-07:00

It's April.

Geeeeeeze.

The months up until August are going to fly, I have a feeling. The weather is nice, visitors are visiting and all three of my jobs will be picking up steam. Good thing for my vacation which begins next Wednesday. Of course, I will be doing work for my internship, but this will be paid work which I'm not accustomed to. . .yet. At least my dad will be around to kick my ass into gear and make sure I do nothing less than amazing. He's a stickler, I'm lazy.

After my week home I should probably take the notion of applying to graduate school seriously. I should also think about moving out, taking another writing class and trying to figure out how not to work every single day but still be able to afford to not eat grilled cheese every night.

One day I want to look at the decisions made in my life and with satisfaction a la Hannibal from the A-team say, "I love it when a plan comes together."

Rant: Creepy Men.

2008-03-31T22:49:00.000-07:00

Apparently I have that "je ne sais quoi" factor that attracts all the creepy guys. Perhaps I should rephrase that. . .what the fuck is it about me that attracts all these fricken weirdos?

All I want to do is go into a store, walk down the street and work at my jobs without being visually and verbally molested. Tonight I stopped by my local corner store I frequent for a caffeine fix. I helplessly searched for the bottled iced Starbucks and was finally directed by one of the disheveled employees. Normally he and I share polite banter about the weather and how we're both sick and tired of working. It's always harmless and without flirtation. After all, he's old and dirty! Why encourage any sort of uncomfortable ire that will impede my easy access to six packs of beer late at night or gallons of milk early in the morning. Change my corner store? That's like replacing a hip: it ain't gonna happen and if it does, it's not going to be for a while.

Well, tonight I told the guy my name. He asked and telling him my name essentially gave him permission to turn the tables of our relationship.

"Why Lindsay, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl." Now, this sentence seems harmless in nature. But imagine a sullied man in his forties with a ski cap attempting to harness his nappy head and perhaps disguising any scars that might alert watchers of America's Most Wanted, leaning against a banister with his pelvis directly aimed towards my pelvis. I squirmed past him and ran to the register. "See you soon, beautiful."

Does this mean I have to go to 7-11 now? Do I deal with the creepy guy at the corner store or do I unsuccessfully try to make nice with the unstable, potentially violent, mute at 7-11?

Well, that might be the least of my worries. Monroe, who used to be the harmless parking attendant near one of my jobs, has begun greeting me with hugs. Monroe is probably 60 years old. I suspect he jerks off to all the college girls who walk by his parking post. Sure, he's funny and loud with a big smile, but that doesn't change the fact (yes FACT) that his hugs are not "grandpa" hugs but instead are "fuck me little girl" hugs.

"HEEEY GIRL! YOU'RE LOOKIN' HOT TODAY!" And I was. Friday I pulled out a tight little red pencil skirt to prance around work in. There was no intention to prance towards Monroe and have give me an extra long hug with enough shoulder rubs to loosen me up for a good long year.

Another stomach-turning interaction occurred after that work shift at my other job. While ringing up another Schmoe off the street I made small talk. "Find everything ok?" "Why yesssss I did." Hmmm, weird, I didn't know Tim Meadow's character from The Ladies Man lived in Berkeley. Ok, Lindsay, don't appear to notice that this man's breath reeks of Creepsterine, just keep it neutral. "Well, thanks have a good weekend!" I said. "Why thank you for your sexxxxxxxxcellent customer service." "Um?" "Excellent customer service."
"Uh thanks bye." And then my co-workers at the counter burst out laughing at my character defamation.

At the moment you might be wondering, "Why is this lady complaining? Guys want her!"

You've got it all wrong, idiot. Guy do not want me. Creepy, old men who are dirty and without manners want to take me home, tie me up and play with me. And when they're done "playing" with me they want me to do their dishes and clean their jiz-soiled BVDs.

I'm complaining because it's never the tall sexy crew team member who wants to take me home and do very naughty things with me. It's never my Lebanese Lover who wants to take me to an abandoned allyway, push me against a wall and whisper sweet nothings into my ears then take me out to tapas. It's never the young ones, the hot ones, the smart ones, the rich ones, the funny ones. It's always the old creepy man with booger residue underneath their long icky fingernails.

Where is the weirdo magnet I am harboring and how do I replace it with a "sexy stud" magnet?

Books.

2008-03-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

People think because I work at Urban Outfitters I think I'm hot shit. Completely false, people. In fact, sometimes I'm embarrassed I work at that hipster haven. I do, however, think I'm hot shit because I work at one of the best bookstores in the country. We just had a blurb in The New York Times. Eat it futhamuckas!

Here's some other literary business to check out from the NYT. If you like Christopher Moore or Sci-fi turn your romantic gestures in another direction. And my extended family at the bookstore won't allow me to date anyone who loves The Alchemist.

The end.

So I got that going for me, which is nice.

2008-03-28T23:54:00.000-07:00

I would love to be able to sit down and shoot the shit, but I have no time. No time! No time! No time! The time I do have I want to spend sleeping. There's just no time for me to sit down and read a magazine. I haven't been bored in weeks! All I have been is tired.

Last night I went to see Justice and Diplo at the Concourse. It was a lot of sweaty, crowd surfing, loud dance magic just as all live music acts should be! For some reason I convinced myself Chromeo was playing, but they in fact did not play. Silly me.

Today I worked, told a lot of jokes, bought some Nikes and worked again after a brief nap. I told more jokes at my other job and was declared "funny" by the guys at the bookstore. One even suggested I do stand up. I told him not to encourage me.

Then I ran into Kari and we got some drinks and decided we both had too much fun at our respective dance parties the night before that we should call it an early night.

So I came home, shoveled a few M&Ms in my mouth, checked my email and was happy to read that I was promoted at my internship, whatever that means. I get unpaid more? Well, there's respect, so I got that going for me. My boss was super sweet in the email:

Lindsay,

You are doing a fantastic job. Thank you SO SO Much!

I think there is a side benefit to this internship: You are going to be a famous writer!

We are promoting you in our SF newsletter and I will continue to promote you.

I would love to take you to lunch to show you my appreciation.

Again, I'm flattered and pretty much in awe that these people think I have some sort of talent. I guess if I can fool them then I call fool myself.

It's midnight. Glass slippers, or Nike Blazers, go poof! and I go to bed, to wake up for another episode of "Lindsay Works Everday of her Life."

Take the good with the bad.

2008-03-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

I sure do feel like Clark W. Griswald today.

Apparently my bonus isn't what I thought it was going to be. In fact, it's not even enough to join the jelly of the month club. Or afford writing classes or an italian classes.

It's not my manager's fault that she thought my bonus was going to be significantly larger than I will actually receive on Thursday. It was an honest mistake. Unfortunately, I thought my bonus was going to be at least $100, not $15. Why would they even waste a piece of paper to write me a check for that much?

The good news is that my column featured on Brandhabit will be syndicated. Well. . .kind of. . .DivineCaroline will also be featuring my column. More eyes on my writing and more potential to get my foot in the door for other writing projects. Maybe freelancing is in my future?

Other good news. . .Chromeo on Thursday and my flight home April 9th.

I could go for some eggnog. . .

I just don't understand.

2008-03-24T23:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I walk down the street and people say mean things to me like "Hey GI Jane" or "Is that a boy or a girl" or "How's your girlfriend?" It's not curiosity, it's maliciousness.

There is a man in Berkeley who is crippled. His walk is stiff and mechanical, it's abnormal. His slow pace and disfigured body stand out among the sidewalks full of people moving quickly. I have seen people point and laugh at him, literally friends, point and laugh. It rips me apart. I'm sure he is much stronger than I am and I'm sure he doesn't think twice about it. . .but maybe he thinks a little about it.

One of my managers is gay. He doesn't hide it, he doesn't flaunt it. He just is. People pick up on his sexuality and immediately pull out an arsenal of gay jokes to openly stab him with. I've seen it happen more than once. He remains calm, hides his hurt and moves on to the next task on hand with more gusto and more cheer.

When I read this article I started to cry. I think it was just a long day at both jobs and the mysterious disappearance of a 6 pack of beer I just bought yesterday that I really wanted to unwind with. Instead I gotta drink milk and continue to do work before I finally hit the sack.

Why are people so mean?

Tenderness

2008-03-23T19:14:00.001-07:00

Kari, Daniel and I saw the RxBandits and the English Beat last night. They both put on a great show, but I preferred the English Beat. Some bands rank higher for me because of nostalgia. 80s bands remind me when I was little and of road trips in my dad’s janky Honda Accord or dance parties with my mom after the my siblings and I had our evening bath. That’s why this song really got me last night. (This video also displays the highest quality of lip syncing EVER).

Time to move on.

2008-03-18T00:20:00.000-07:00

The other day I saw him smile. He was far away from me, but his smile still made me smile. Then my heart sunk. I will never be able to call that smile my own.

I hate having crushes.

long day.

2008-03-15T00:16:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you don’t realize how long a day is until you find yourself awake until the next day. 16 hours later and I’m just beginning to wind down. In 9 hours I will be doing it all over again.

Tonight I was in the bookstore by myself. This is what I wrote. . .

My co-worker ran to the music store for a few minutes to exchange books for albums. They do that here. It’s like the olden days. Trade spices for meats, etc, so on and so forth.

The music my co-worker put in just stopped. The books are silently cuddling next to each other on shelves, some have been there for years, others have just been abandoned by their former owners. Not from disgust, but to carry it on, pay it forward. That sort of thing. Maybe abandon is too harsh of a word. I should think of another.

A few foreigners mumble on the floor above me. I see them examining an art book. A monograph, or maybe a photo book. They’re engrossed.

I hear people pacing above. What book commands them to stop in their tracks? Heigels thoughts on ? Norwegian folktales? Manga? I hope not Manga. Funny how they’re all on the same floor, isn’t it? From philosophy to Japanese graphic tales.

Friday nights at a bookstore with four floors. We close at 11pm. Who are these people who shop until 11pm? if I didn’t work here I would be one of those people craving some literary comfort on a rainy evening.

What will my next customer buy? What will he ask for? What will---

My next customer interrupted me. A handsome young man purchasing Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. I always meant to read his work.

Then I stopped. And now I’m going to stop for the day and the next day that I’ve entered into. But I’ll commence again in some hours.

Goodnight. Literally. Good. Night.

I'd rather a toaster strudel.

2008-03-12T23:15:00.001-07:00

I'm sick of Pop-Tarts. I've only been eating them ravenously because somehow I am broke until tomorrow when I get paid. Praise the Lord! I can't wait to eat something nutrious and delicious.

I had some ideas for my internship and emailed them to my supervisor. She replied excitedly with the word COMPENSATION mixed in.

Paid to write? What the, what the?!

Speaking of writing, I have an entry due tomorrow and I'm so unmotivated and uninspired.

Time for a Pop-Tart.

C'est la vie.

2008-03-10T22:31:00.001-07:00

I don't know what has been going on with this guy. All I know is we spend a lot of time together and laugh often.

I'm really confused about what he wants from me. And kind of dizzy from the sangria we drank tonight. I hope I just fall asleep without dreams of hope, because they can sometimes bring just the antithesis. . .in this case, heartache.

Oh the drama, oh the red curtain.

Maybe friends is the way we should stay. I say it as if there is another option. It's clear that's his only option. I'm content with that route, though the way he smells makes it hard not let my mind veer off in other directions.

I can be just his friend. I can. But "be" and "want" are completely different verbs.

Oh well. In the words of some wise friends, "Le sigh." And bonne nuit.

Letter from my "editor."

2008-03-08T14:01:00.000-08:00

Lindsay,

First of all thank you for the quick turnaround, the blog is great! You might want to make it shorter going forward, as we want people to stay and read it. Finally I let the engineer know about the edits you are trying to make and he is looking into it, will get back to you! You are an awesome writer

This email is from my editor, or whatever title she holds synonymous with "lady in charge." Someone in charge of me thinks I'm an "awesome writer." WTF?! Who would have thought? I'm pumped, inspired, motivated, and excited. This is awesome! Cuz I'm awesome!

Links!

2008-03-06T09:04:00.001-08:00

I've been busy. I feel like I need an assistant. I wouldn't be able to offer him (it would have to be a him) anything monetarily, but I give great benefits. Ahem ahem.

Moving on.

So, I got an internship with www.brandhabit.com. I'll be writing a daily column called BoutiquePeek. Am I excited? Yesssss. Am I nervous? Yessssss. Still, what the heck? This is my evolution into a writer. Now I get to sound important and scream into my cell phone on the street, "But I've got a deadline!" and "What will my editor say!?" and instead of looking like some other schmoe on the street I'll look important and sexy. Especially with a manwhore, I mean assistant, lagging behind me taking notes on my deadlines and editor.

Aside from that fortunate news I've been having a good time with my work cohorts. Unfortunately one of our managers left to move onto bigger and better things, but we did have a rockin' send off for her this past weekend.

Then there's been sporting events followed by Louisiana Kitchens sprinkled with moments of unexpected chivalry. And comedy! Always comedy!

Ok, time to go to my other job.

Glow little glow worm.

2008-03-03T13:36:00.000-08:00

Everything comes in spurts. This time last week I was feeling so low. But today. . .today I am elated, invigorated. . .floating. . .effervescent.

This weekend was glorious. I need to get to the city more, I think it puts me in a better mood. Or maybe it's just I need to dance more and eat lots of cheesesteaks frequently. Watched movies, played tennis, got hugs and hugs and hugs.

And the best news of all. . .I got a writing gig. A real deal writing gig where I have to post every day!!! I'll be writing commentary about boutiques. I will post the link and more information later, but what the fuck!? I'm a writer. Well. . .and unpaid intern. But who the fuck cares?! This is a big step! I'm so pumped.

Anyways. . .I'm happy today.

internal dialogue

2008-02-27T20:04:00.000-08:00

It’s a Wednesday night, quickly approaching 7:30 pm. I have my bag of chips and one bottle of three Dos Equis I can down before I lull myself into a slumber punctuated for bathroom trips and dreams of unemployment.

Do I consider dreams of unemployment nightmares? From where I’m standing, all day, 7 days a week, no, unemployment nightmares are not synonymous with man eating snake dreams or visions of me orating in front of 4,000 people naked. Dreams of unemployment at this point in my life nudge me awake and say, “Hey, let’s hit the road, let’s settle down on l’Isola D’elba in Italy.”

But like all dreams, they’re unattainable until actively pursued.

I just keep thinking to myself, I can’t do this anymore, I just can’t.

I can’t keep working two train wrecks of jobs, with no light at the end of their tunnels. Every time I work I feel like I’m reduced to a kindergarten education level.

Which is ridiculous, because I have a college degree. Somewhere. It’s at my parent’s house, 3,000 miles away. It’s in the basement in a box. Or maybe the attic? That expensive piece of paper I worked (see: crammed slash participated in adderall and espresso enhanced all-nighters) towards is under a pile of clothes to be donated or that hideous fur coat my mom pulls out once a year when she decides it’s too cold to look like a normal human in a warm pea coat or fleece and rather walk around looking like a bear. But I digress. . .

All it is, readers, is a piece of paper. A piece of paper someone could mistake for a placemat at a diner or a piece of scrap paper to write a phone message on. It holds no magical powers, even when you divulge it’s prowess on another piece of paper called a resume.

Oh the resume. Similar to a college degree, it provides a poor reflection of the person I am and have the potential to be. The list of accomplishments I fine tune and embellish for the entertainment of a potential employer is ridiculous and pointless. Don’t you want to know who I am, not what I’ve been allowed to do?

I’m just fed up. I have no direction, I really don’t. All I know is that right now I’m regressing into the depressed, hopeless shell of a person I was last year. It’s frustrating, but it’s becoming unstoppable. Lately I become so frustrated with myself and my inability to be driven that I pout in a corner and say, “I want to move home.” And then my logic surfaces, buoys around for a while and reminds me of what displeasure living at home would cause. Chiding, probing, dictating. But honestly, I’m at a loss, I’m desperate. Maybe moving back home is what I need, maybe I need my parents to push me towards something because I’m obviously doing a poor job of pushing myself towards something other than hatred towards myself. And then I think to myself, “Goddammit Lindsay, you’re almost 27, you’re an adult, grow up and make things happen for yourself!” Which (please pardon the play by play of my internal dialogue) causes me to become so upset about the state of my being that I decide it’s more productive to continue rattling of my shortcomings. Makes a whole lot of sense, right?

I don’t know. Dreams come true with hard work, yet somehow I find it easier to create my own, never ending nightmare.

"Men Schmen" is not Yiddish.

2008-02-26T20:27:00.000-08:00

During a lunch break the other day I called my mom with a covey of complaints about my jobs and my general existence in California. She listened and offered me words laced with love, also known as good ole' fashion motherly advice. As she has a tendency to do, she soothed and calmed me from her position on the couch, 3,000 miles away from my perch on the stairs outside my job. When she was done telling me cute anecdotes about my precious dogs to distract me from my problems, she uncouthly attempted to ease into the topic of men, or boys as I still call them, though I am 3 and a half years from 30 and should label them as what they are: (supposed to be) men.

Without sadness or feelings of unworthiness or regret I simply said, "Nothin' much." "No guys?" she asked probing me, trying her best to catch me in a lie. But I had no relationship to hide, no potential man to hide. And I didn't care, I haven't cared.

My last relationship was simultaneously suffocating and draining. I am not getting over him, I am getting over the entire time we were together. My focus is never to repeat what he and I created. It was a mess I cannot begin to describe or even care to harp on. Part of me believes in order not to repeat past mistakes I need to stay single for a while and focus on me. This does not mean I am to decline any romantic forays if they are bestowed upon me, however I am not looking for a man, a boy or a guy. It's pretty obvious I'm actively, even desperately, searching for myself.

There is one man who hits a chord within me when I see him. But I haven't seen him in a while. I'm not sure what building of UC Berkeley he is hiding from me in, but this Middle Eastern Sex Machine slash Lebanese Lover slash Moroccan Manwhore, is extremely sexy. His visits to either store I work have been very infrequent and I miss the feeling of the firey flush of my cheeks when he saunters in through the doors.

And there is another crush, but it is so off and on and aloof and obvious and ridiculous and fun and dumb all at the same time that I continue to keep my distance happily and unfortunately. I keep reminding myself that I want to "do me" for a while. I think I have been doing a decent job so far. Reading, writing, taking pictures with my soon to be extinct Polaroid and painting.

But for my next trick, ah yes, it would be glorious if I could pull a new job out of my hat and then a sexy man!

Smiles.

2008-02-25T23:23:00.000-08:00

Tonight I introduced the comedy of Stella to my friend. It reminded me of the morning I was introduced to it by John, Bill, Tim, Anthony and Bob. Tim made a good Bloody Mary that day. Their floor wasn't very comfortable. But I was laughing so hard. Tonight I laughed just as hard, if not harder. Thank goodness for comedy troupes.

Speaking of Bloody Mary's. . .Budweiser introduced a meshing of Clamato Juice and Bud. Yes, the two are mixed into a carbonated beer, clam juice and tomato concoction which the local mini mart owner's son calls, "Chlamydia." Well, my friend and I tried it and agree wholeheartedly that it is absolutely disgusting. Budweiser should be fined. In fact, the entire staff should be drug tested because someone was obviously on drugs if they decided Clamato and ale were a good combination. Bud no less.

And with that, I'm off to bed with a grand ole' grin on my face.

Excuse me, boys, but why are you dressed as skunks?

Pluses and Deltas

2008-02-24T23:22:00.000-08:00

When I signed up for Americorps during the spring of 2002 I was oblivious to the amount of hard work I would be doing for myself and others. For a little over ten months I worked 50 hour weeks with a group of ethnically, financially and educationally diverse 17-24 year olds. We had different backgrounds, different work styles and different temperaments. If there was a camera following the 40 odd Americorps members I worked with our reality TV ratings would be through the roof. There was every kind of drama. Romances, fights, dishonesty. And that's just working with the corps members! Realize we were volunteering to better the lives of at-risk youth while simultaneously trying to find ourselves through all of the drama.

But I loved it. I had the best roommates and I worked closely with some of the strongest and resilient young adults I'll ever know. At the beginning of the year our elders told us Americorps would be what we made of it. The lazy college student I had been for two years never stepped foot into the realm of Americorps. I busted my ass from day one. I lead a team of corps members, I lead projects for other teams, and I offered my services to another team on Saturdays. Why work 5 days a week when I could work 6?

Then one day I got sick of mediating team drama, unraveling romantic feelings with another corps member, working alone, working on a team, working too much for too little, working with kids who wouldn't stop whining or crying or yelling or fighting. So I stepped away mentally. I was fed up with treading water, making no progress towards anything. For almost two weeks I was a physical entity on my team. Write curriculum for the week? No thanks, I'll let someone else give that a go. Make the schedule for the day? Oh, sorry, you didn't get the memo that I'm on a mental vacation and won't be babying anyone anymore. Remind someone to do this? Reprimand someone for that? Be on time? Crease my khakis? No. No. No.

My Service Leader noticed the change but seemed to think giving me space would be the only way to allow myself to alleviate some of my stress. He knew I was volatile and ready to pick a fight, to take my anger out on someone else. Something made me approach my Program Manager. It might have been guilt or it might have been the desire to complain to someone, I'm not sure, but my talk with him garnered no sympathy.

I said to him, "Bill, I'm so fed up, I'm so burnt out, I don't want to do anything, I just want to finish these next two months without doing anything."
I was expecting him to shower me with compliments of praise and remind me of my great accomplishments from the past year. Instead he said with his big goofy smile, "Okay, well, I'm sure it will pass."

Whaaaaaat?
No words of wisdom?
No shoulder rub?
No motivational speech?

I'm not sure if he was too busy to listen to my trivial complaints or if he knew what he was doing, but later that week I snapped out my funk because of his response. No one gave a shit if I was wallowing in my own shit. Why should anyone feed my depression? No one was making me miserable those two weeks except for myself. I was the one feeling sorry for myself.

Which is exactly what I'm doing to myself now. These past few days I've been sabotaging any ability to be productive or happy or hopeful. Working 7 days a week does take a toll, but I have to realize how far I have come from this time last year. No longer am I interning for free, working barely enough in retail to scrape by on rent or suffering from depression or reluctantly staying in a bad relationship.

Americorps was a ridiculous experience that no one will really ever understand unless they immerse themselves in it, especially a program like City Year. The City Year culture appear cult-like to outsiders, but once you dive in, you're part one of the most hardworking, idealistic, diverse and hopeful group of people you'll ever meet. One part of the culture I should probably implement in my daily routine is something we used to do at the end of every meeting; pluses and deltas. Everyone went around the table and expressed a plus, something wonderful about the day, and a delta, something to improve upon the next day (i forget why they called them deltas, something Greek I think).

Surprisingly, when you wallow in your own misery something entices you to stay there, rent out space for a while, taxing your entire body, mind and soul. That's why it's difficult to think of the pluses of the day when they're overshadowed by big huge fat deltas falling from the sky. I suppose it can't hurt to try.

What now?

2008-02-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

The 6:30 pm epiphany I had scheduled for tonight was canceled. My "life coach" called during my lunch hour today and in her overzealous and excited about life tone told me that she would be unable to make our appointment for the evening because of inclement weather. Mind you, I live in the Bay Area, not New York which is currently getting slaughtered with a unfortunate cold front and a melange of crippling precipitation. The weather which has caused my "life coach" to cancel our first meeting is made up of some wind, reminiscent of a cool breeze and rain. "Wet and Windy!" one Al Roker might exclaim if stationed out here in the west.

So this cancellation leads me to believe my new "life coach" is fat, like most coaches (especially those of the baseball genre), and lazy. This woman probably is a "life coach" because she enjoys sitting on her fat ass and bossing people around under the guise of someone with much wisdom.

Did I mention she's blind? Does this sound like a joke? A scam? If I do decide to meet her again, is she going to try to read my palm and tell me to join the circus?

Not saying that blind people are incapable of directing others in their pursuit for life's meaning. But if she saw what I looked like she would be as incredulous as I am as to why I am not the ruler of the universe. . .

I mean what?

So, in lieu of tonight's regularly scheduled program, Lindsay's Life Changing Epiphany brought to you by Blind Life Coach, I will huddle in my room and read and write as I haven't before, bailing out of San Francisco concert plans (that inclement weather is scary!) as I tend to do. That inspiration to renege on plans was inspired by my "life coach", mind you. I finished Hand to Mouth by Paul Auster and wish to delve into Italo Calvino's If On a Winters Night A Traveler. I began the latter during my lunch today and was grinning ear to ear by the end of paragraph one. I hope my appreciation and awe for literary geniuses never wanes. The discovery of new authors is thrilling. I really am a kid in a candy store. A gluttonous, fat, fat fatty with an appetite for every single thing in the store whether he knows what it is or not.

I also hope I keep writing, even if I suck at it or never get published again or don't make a dime off of it. I don't need a "life coach" to tell me to keep writing, that's something anyone can see is necessary for me to keep going and stay sane.

What now?

2008-02-22T21:51:00.000-08:00

Friday nights are brutal. Yea, yea, yea, we all know I work every single day and I never have a day off, blahblahblah. However, Thursday and Fridays prove to be especially difficult considering I work 12 hours each day. When my Friday night shift is done all I want to do is drink a beer, eat a turkey sandwich and fall asleep.

I have so much love and reverence for my bookstore job. People LOVE our bookstore. To Bay Area resident's it's an illustrious and seminal establishment housing knowledge, memories and history. Most employees have been there since day one, twenty-some odd years ago. Every time I work I learn something new or am exposed to an unfamiliar person, discourse or topic. On Thursday my co-worker Elliot, a thirty something library studies graduate student, gave my first glimpse into Bollywood, without the tired jokes and screeching imitations of Indian song I usually hear when the Indian film genre is mentioned. He showed me colorful examples of film, song and stars. Elliot is a pint sized Irish man who reminds me of Stuart Little. His endearing nerdiness and boundless but nonchalant intelligence have put him at the top of my "favorite bookstore employee" list this week.

I hold such an unimportant position at the bookstore. My position is completely disposable, yet I fight my way to show everyone there, those still sometimes intimidating philosophers and historians, that I want to be there, that I want to learn despite stumbling over big words and fumbling over big books.

My other job, however, is getting old. Though I've been at the bookstore for 6 months, I know that 6 months at Urban was 6 months too long. And now it's been a year and 4 months too long that I have been at Urban. I love my co-workers, but the work I do is so boring, so mindless. The customers annoy me, their questions annoy me and their conversations bore me. Maybe because the job was so easy to learn and the questions are so recycled that I've become bored. Stagnant. I always use that word, stagnant, yet it's so appropriate. There is still so much I have to learn at the bookstore that I have yet to tire of it.

Tomorrow I meet with a "Life Coach." I'm not nervous, I'm not even excited, I'm just anxious. Let's get this show on the road, and by "this" I mean my life.

An old co-worker came into Urban today. She saw me and said, "You still work here?" I sighed, grimaced and forced a smile. "Of course, where else would I be?" Obviously not where she is. Apparently this bleach blond retail rat got a job as a production coordinator with the White Stripes. College degree? Nope. She just "meshed" with the guy in charge. Isn't that precious? I could understand if she was good looking and had a good personality, but she doesn't even have those going for her. . .She just fell into it.

Why can't I fall into anything good? Why hasn't one job connected me to another job? Or another hobby? Or an epiphany? Or a clue?

I don't even have a clue.

Thank goodness February is a short month.

2008-02-19T18:20:00.000-08:00

Something impregnates February with depression. This time last year I was swelling with tears and cramping with indecision. I found myself in the same condition last week and this week, just like February 2007.

This time last year a rocky relationship with a boyfriend and financial struggles combined with a few other stray ends knotted my identity into a big, untidy ball of worthlessness. This year it has nothing to do with boys and it has nothing to do with money. It's me, it's my station in life, it's my occupation, it's what I do, it's how I see myself.

Why did I work hard in high school so I could go to a prestigious and expensive university where I passed my courses and learned this theory and that language? Why did I spend so much time volunteering? Why did I take a year off to give myself to a community in need? Why did I spend a semester abroad? Why did I intern? Why did I see a therapist and a career counselor my last year in college?

So I wouldn't be in the position I am in now.

I hate that I have expectations for myself that are unreachable. It's my own fault. My expectations are so vague. It's all about what I don't want.

I don't want to live near these fricken crack heads on Telegraph anymore.
I don't want to work 75 hours a week anymore.
I don't want to feel brain dead or stagnant or foolish or inconsequential or under-appreciated or stupid anymore.
I don't want people to tell me it's ok that I'm 26 and work two jobs and tell me it takes my entire life to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

I'm scared because I'm feeling sad again. My sadness halts motivation and ignites self doubt so effortlessly.
I'm scared because I don't know how to make a grown up decision. Sure I can decide to get the generic brand of cereal over the name brand to save money. But do I want to go back to school so I can teach elementary school? Do I want to be a columnist? Do I have what it takes to be a writer of any sort?

I have a knack for feeling sorry for myself. Why do anything to ameliorate the situation? After all, it's so easy to drown myself in self doubt until I suffocate on my ineptitude and feebleness.

Lately I've been asking myself why I am still in California if I don't really have a whole lot out here. Sure I have some wonderful new friends, but my family is home. Then I argue with myself that if I go back home all I have is my family and nothing more. I can't run away from myself, my failures and my lack of confidence and absence of motivation.

During one of my writing classes last year our teacher read to us from a book of personal essays by Paul Auster. Immediately I fell in love with his writing. Shortly after I read his novel, The Brooklyn Follies, and became smitten, craving more of his words. Recently I started Hand to Mouth, an autobiographical account of his attempt as a young man to make it as a writer. Early on in the book he writes about various odd job he holds which resonated so deeply with me, something I thought no one would ever understand about me, or know about me. Sure, I've had so many pointless jobs. From a movie theater concession chick to a burrito slinger to a chiropractor's assistant. They add up to nothing that I want to be, but these experiences are so important, they've molded me and made me who I am. Not so much through the motions or the duties I performed, but the people I met.

Auster writes:

"By any objective standard, [these guys I worked with] were nobodies, a pair of eccentric fools, but they made an unforgettable impression on me, and I have never run across their likes since. That was the reason for going off to work at places like the Commodore Hotel, I think. It's not that I wanted to make a career of it, but those little excursions into the backwaters and shit holes of the world never failed to produce an interesting discovery, to further my education in ways I hadn't expected. [Those guys] are a perfect example. I was 19 years old when I met them, and the things they did that summer are still feeding my imagination today(p. 30, Hand to Mouth)."

Keith, Ed, Amanda, Marty, Anne-Sophie, Caroline, Andrea, Roberto, Matt O'Connor, Sean, Kin, Kristin, Alexis, Mike Patch, Ryan, Hanieh, Shabnam, Ritter, Blondie, Evan, Jenn Kinney, Kathy, Monica. . . I could list one thousand more names and write ten thousand more paragraphs, memories, of what we did together during those jobs and those experiences. They're my learning experiences, they're what I'm grateful for.

It's hard to distance yourself from your own experiences until you look back years later. Right now I am struggling with my station in life, but five years from now I may look back and relish in the nights I spent playing Scrabble with Daniel or the dinners I mooched off Crystal. I remember the the crush I have on my 60 year old manager at the bookstore and giggle. I'll wonder whatever happened to my project manager at that wretched internship I had. . .she was amazing, that internship was not.

I'm going to continue reading Auster's book in hopes of learning how to be more appreciative of the "now." I'm going to read on in hopes of learning how to work towards something I want even I have odds against me. If nothing else, I will have finished the (seemingly) dismal month of February having read a wonderful novel to distract me from my inconsequential, self-involved issues.

so happy.

2008-02-13T23:39:00.000-08:00

I asked him to play tennis with me and he showed up in super short shorts (red) and a sweatband around his head (also red), wrist bands (bright blue) and black Vans.

What more could I ask for?

And he was really good too. . . .

It's weird. Sometimes you meet people you feel like you should be knowing your entire life. And I don't mean that in the romantical sense, I mean that in the awesome sense.

In other news I love It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Vampire Weekend and Hot Chip.

Work hard for the weekend.

2008-02-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

This Saturday marks my first day off since December! I'm super excited to be heading to the SF Chronicle's Wine Fest at Fort Mason with some fun kids this weekend. Glug glug glug and grin grin grin. I love wine, I love the city and I loooooooove days off.

I'm so tired from tennis and working, I'm not sure if I'll be able to handle a swimmy swim after work tomorrow, especially when I have to work 10-10 Thursday and 9-9 Friday. I haven't swam laps in two years so I'm a little nervous. When I was living at home I got in the habit of lap swim, but it was a small pool all to myself where I could tread water and do hand stands if I got bored or out of breath. The university pool is bigger, deeper and crowded. . .Yet it's so empowering and invigorating. Maybe a little intimidating considering I don't have a Speedo, just a bikini. I don't know if I'll make it there tomorrow. . .

Heeeeeeeeeey boooooooys. . .

Ok, I convinced myself.

Keep Berkeley Weird.

2008-02-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

Am I a gypsy? Do I just run away from my problems caused by indecision and lack of motivation? Is it my inability to be happy that causes me to jump from one city to another. . .to another? Or maybe I just get jaded easily. Maybe that's it.

I think I'm over Berkeley. But I'm going to think about this intently before I move.

Realize, I live on Telegraph Avenue. The Wikipedia definition does not do the street justice. It's more than a home to head shops, legendary bookstores, ethnic gift shops, and some mediocre cuisine. It's a street struggling to hang on to it's tumultuous past amongst a melange of brilliant UC Berkeley students, adolescent street punks, a problematic homeless problems, "hyphy" kids, life-long Berkeley hippie residents, hipsters and then people like me; people who have somehow found themselves in an alternate universe.

Everyday I walk through a motley circus to get to work. People smelling like weed, rambling one armed homeless people beg for change, drugged out youngsters yell to their friends three blocks away about their dirty sexual escapades from the night before, and protesters picket the nearby university. The energy is high (and I'm guessing half the people are high). Yet I feel lost and detached. Am I supposed to be here?

It's so hard to paint a picture of the area I live in. Other parts of Berkeley are different. North Berkeley is beautiful. Home of the Gourmet Ghetto, North Berkeley boasts clean sidewalks and grown ups. There are a few misplaced homeless people, but for the most part everyone is. . .dare I say approvingly. . .normal. And College Avenue is home to chic eateries and posh boutiques, a far cry from the bumpser-sticker and incense street vendors who molest me with their eyes every time I walk to work.

So, what do I do? Do I move to College Avenue or North Berkeley. . .or even save to move to San Francisco, or do I try to appreciate the bubble I am in? My older co-workers at the bookstore weave tales of freedom fighting and liberation and all things associated with flower powers and LSD. Residents cling to this rich history, for better or worse. I'm not sure if it was my old friend who coined the phrase, "Keep Berkeley Weird," regardless who patented it, it rings true daily. If Berkeley were not the weird, wacky and sometimes dirty alternate universe that I claim it to be, then it certainly wouldn't be Berkeley.

I've got San Diego, Charleston, Savannah and home on my mind. As good of a time that I am having when I'm not working, I'm wondering if this is where I should be spending most of my time. Plus, there's something about the beach. . .I need more of it. . .

Oh my life, to be continued. . .

Don't pester me.

2008-02-11T02:35:00.000-08:00

When I lived at Doyle Ave in Providence we had a "garbage room." It was a closet in the kitchen neas the stairs where we threw all of our garbage bags in a pile. . .a pile that grew over weeks until it eventually began to emit a smell into the kitchen and stairs. And even then we were rodent and bug free.

Alexis and I had a Palmetto bug problem in Charleston, but who didn't? We had a primitive, but proven, method of propelling ourselves onto our respective beds with a broom and a can of Raid or a bottle of hair gel (the stickier the better) and sweeping, thwacking, and spraying. It was probably one of the more unwieldy tactics, but it got the job done.

Now here I am in sunny California, where nothing in the world can go wrong. Sun is always shining (not true), surfers roam the streets in search of good smoothies (only in movies), and all the girls have blonde hair (we're in Berkeley and I can't tell boys from girls and clean hair from dirty). California has been less than expected in so many ways. Especially concerning our houses knack for housing unwanted guests.

First we had ants. The counter, the table, the cupboard were all covered with the little buggers. We tried traps and sprays, but finally, a few weeks later, a once over with white vinegar kept them away. Then during the summer gnats came. Dirty dishes piled in the sink and a unkept compost near the kitchen window attracted the unsavory winged parasites. Cleaning the dishes and spraying the gnats with Windex seemed to be the most effective treatment. That and closing the windows.

Most recently we've had a mouse problem, I'm embarrassed to say. Mice belong in dirty people's homes, don't they? As soon as we discovered we had mice we took measures to eliminate them. The kitchen was vacuumed nightly, the counters sterilized after every meal and all the dishes washed and dried daily. We even set up mouse traps. Initially the old fashioned wood slabs with metal choke holds were ineffective, but eventually we moved onto the sticky pads which have rounded up plenty of the little suckers.

Little.

I said little.

Tonight I was awoken by the sound of popcorn slowly popping in a metal pot. Who, at 1:30 am, would be popping popcorn in a pot when we had a microwave for microwavable popcorn? Who even eats popcorn in this apartment? I peeked out my door. No one was in the kitchen and there is no smell of kernels exploding into tiny edible clouds of goodness. I must have mistook that sound for what is really a burglar. I crept up to the kitchen and flicked on the light. A-HA, I caught him! A RAT. A RAT WAS ON THE STICKY PAD. The sound was the rodent, the huge rodent, trying to free itself of the sticky mess it was in. I heaved. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Must. call. landlord. immediately.

Now it's 2:30 am and quite frankly after this siting, I'm not sure when or if I will fall back asleep. I have barricaded the door crack to my room with clothing but am fearful there is an army of mini Ratatouille wannabes outside my door, waiting to gnaw at something.

I'm disgusted, ashamed, and scared. I rather it would have been a burglar. Maybe he would have at least been hot and I would have been more willing to have him gnaw at something. . .

I mean, what?

Sideway stories from retail.

2008-02-07T06:28:00.000-08:00

Kari and I were sitting at Bing Wong's laundromat last night with sangria lingering on our tongues. We made the last wash call by ten minutes. While sitting and waiting for our soiled fabrics to get clean, we complained about work and customers. I said, "Ugh, some people just don't get it because they've never worked in retail or food services. Everyone should have to serve a year in one of those industries so they know what it's like!" Kari chuckled and then very wisely said, "Yeah, it should totally be like the draft."

So true, so true.

My two cents.

2008-02-05T19:04:00.001-08:00

1. Go Hillary Go! (image from nytimes.com)

2. I'm going to become a tennis pro.

How to live like an Italian.

2008-02-04T20:30:00.000-08:00

My passion for pages bound encourages me to read book reviews, especially now that I work at a bookstore. Today I was reading a brief article about the newly inaugurated poet laureate, Charles Simic, in The New York Times. It was a simple Q&A with the 69 year old Yugoslavian born poet mostly intended to promote his new collection of poems, "That Little Something." The interviewer obviously left out much of the interview because the questions jump from topics such as his teaching career to the upcoming election to the recent new of vandals at Robert Frost's homestead in Vermont. While his answers on the latter were poignant, the second to last question struck me most.

"Have you noticed all these new nonfiction books on “happiness”? It’s an industry. It’s really frightening. People need to read a book on how to be happy? It’s completely an American thing. Can you imagine people in Naples sitting on a bus or in a trattoria reading a book about happiness?"

Though I was only in there for 4 months, my mind was crowded with comparisons between Italy and the states most of the time. Why aren't Italians fat? Where are all the drunk Italian kids on a Friday night? Why does their skin glow and why are Americans so pale? Why do American couples look so gauche when they publicly display affection, yet Italians look so romantic and sensual? Where is my host mother's microwave? And her clothes dryer?
Yet I never spent my time pondering about the lack of self-help books and Dr. Phil-esque shows on RAI simply because there is no such thing as The Secret in Italy. People don't attend televised 4pm religious ceremonies with the almighty Oprah for their daily dose of self actualization. Gli italiani, for some reason, are just happy. Or at least content. If they're miserable, they aren't searching for an answer or a cure, and they're certainly not complaining about it on national television.

How did Americans get so fucked up? I search my brain to figure out why so many people are on medication or why so many people are on the path to enlightenment and come up with too many answers and no answers at all. Poverty, greed, pressure, pressure, pressure. The pressure to be the best, to do the best, to have the best. If you're happy, you have it all, right?

That pressure, that quest for happiness, maybe that's what screwed up America. Instead of being content to ride the bus to a trattoria and sip on an espresso, we chide ourself for having to take the bus to a janky ass Dunkin Donuts to chug some watery coffee while speed reading a chapter of The Power of Now before we head to one of our many jobs that will pay for something we want. That something that will make us happy.

My life is good right now, but I want more. If I lived in Italy, would I want more? Probably not. I'd be content to serve cafe au laits all day in broken Italian, then go home to a bottle of wine and a wayward dog I'd find in one of the alleyways in Bologna. Didn't you ever read Under the Tuscan Sun or Eat, Pray, Love? Those women bailed on the American dream of "having it all" and planted themselves in fresh soil, to grow freely and unencumbered.

Unfortunately I don't have the funds to uproot myself and move to a farm in Tuscany, so I am stuck here with a copy of The Secret and Creative Visualization, both books my mom assures me will help me accrue some accomplishments in the emotional happiness department of my life. But what would happen if I let everything go and lived like an Italian? Do they have a book for that?

hungry.

2008-02-01T02:50:00.000-08:00

I can't sleep.

My recent habit of waking up in the middle of the night is going to be blamed on my poor diet. Sure, sure, I start the day off well and good with a bowl of cheerios and a glass of orange juice, but come lunch time I end up gorging on huge steak burritos dripping with cheese and meat juice. Somehow it doesn't feel right not to have a Twix right after. The mini mart grade chocolate compliments the five pounds of lard I just consumed. I justify it with "I'm too skinny."

An excuse that will work a little while longer until I realize my pants don't fit and my metabolism isn't what it used to be.

That burger tonight, that pizza this afternoon, the other half of the pack of milanos after lunch. . .those other cookies after work. And beer. Who do I think I am? Kate Moss? Posh Spice? A twig? A stick?

No. I'm the girl who works two jobs where I stand on my feet all day. I go home and pass out from fatigue, stress and boredom. Sometimes I eat dinner, sometimes I don't. I never exercise anymore, although the idea crosses my mind a lot, the excuses why I can't stay.

Ugh. I can't believe I ate the whole thing!

In other news I took ANOTHER shift at the bookstore. Monday, Thursday and Saturday were just not enough. Now I'll be working until 4 at Urban and then traipsing on into the bookstore at 5pm on Fridays. There's still a chance of having a life since I'll get off at 9pm, but not much. At least I still have my Saturday nights which I refuse to give up. Will a 9-5 job to in my future? Do I want a 9-5 job? I don't know.

The weather has been so dreary lately. Syracuse had a lot of rainy days like Berkeley is having currently. Unlike Syracuse there isn't an influx of dead worms on the sidewalks after a heavy rain. That smell will never leave me. . .

I started reading Sula today. I did something I haven't done in a while- I went to a coffee shop and read at a table all by myself. After trekking through the rain to get my paycheck it was nice to warm up with a hot cup of coffee with a little cream and a good book. Ms. Morrison has a way of engrossing her readers so I wasn't even afforded any time to people watch. Maybe since I can't sleep I should keep reading, then again I promised myself I would read at least five pages of War and Peace a night. . .

Hmm. . .I think I'll just try to pass out.

He will be mine, oh yes, he will be mine

2008-01-30T20:24:00.000-08:00

Question: What makes any girl eat an entire thing of Milanos and two big glasses of milk?
Answer: Boy troubles.

Well, MAN troubles. This male specimen I am interested is far from a boy. He is a Middle Eastern sex machine. Or so I imagine. And imagine I do. From the moment he enters the store I envision his lips on my neck and my ears. The other details I begin picturing are not for the most mature of audiences.

Still, I need to fill you in on the other details of this man, who I name differently each time I see him. Sometimes he's my Lebanese Lover, today he was my Moroccan Man Slave and other times he's my Middle Eastern Lover. He is tall and olive skinned with a five o'clock shadow. I've never seen him clean shaven, I've always seen him with a hat. Usually it's a kippah or a topi, today it was a cabbie hat. He's trendy, but it's effortless, it's luxurious. It's so so sexy.

I don't remember when I first saw him, but I remember pulling at my old manager's arm one day when he came in this past summer. I was flustered and frozen from his presence in the store. He saunters, he swaggers. He's not built like an athlete, yet his posture is full of confident agility. After he left my manager reattached her arm I tore off during my middle school tantrum. "Why don't you just talk to him?" she scoffed and walked away.

Oh, great idea. Aside from suffering from severe side affects like heart palpitations, sweaty palms and pits when he comes into the store, I am completely intimidated. I imagine he smells like mint tea and expensive cologne. I bet he has a foreign accent that would make me weak in the knees. Talk to this man who is obviously out of my league?

Well. . .maybe. . .

Two weeks ago I ran into work perfectly coiffed (everyone has their good days, even moi). Joe even said I looked, "Smokin' hot." There was a smile on my face and a pep in my step. Then a stumble. Lebanese Lover was in the building. Act natural. ACT NATURAL.

Is it natural to walk back and forth 17 times in 15 minutes in order to catch every angle of Middle Eastern Man Slave's sex appeal? No. But I saw him look at me. Never will I be the first to say I'm hot but this time is an exception. He was checking me out- a lot! Even Jennifer said he was looking at me. That day I had my chance to say "hi" but I cowered in fear and insecurity. Just as I did today.

Every other week, at least, he comes into the store and does a walk around the entire floor. On occasion he buys something, rarely does he try something on. Today he looked at me and walked by twice. The rest of my shift was spent drying the sweat I perspired while he floated through the store.

I never see him around Berkeley. I have no idea what his nationality is just that he is dark and handsome and mysterious. And untouchable.

More Milanos please.

Insecurity at the bookstore

2008-01-29T22:20:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately I wasted my time sleeping and eating burritos while in college. I wish I paid more attention or chose a major I actually liked. Why didn't I choose English? Stupid high school volunteering made me pick social work which I quickly decided would never support my penchant for all things Bloomingdale's (not that an English degree would either. . .). Also, I realized my case management skills would probably drive my clients to further insanity. So, being the poor decision maker that I am, I decided to change my major to sociology because at that point I wanted to "help the less fortunate." Altruism and idealism are wonderful personality traits, but if I had only known student loans breed anger, resentment, bitterness and madness.

Anyways, so here I am, almost three years after I graduated feeling like I learned nothing at $800 per credit hour (and boy did I take a lot of classes over). Graduate school is an option but my procrastination skills seem to get better without any sort of dedication to said activity. So now it's time to take matters into my own hands and educate myself. Here is my current "to read" list.

-Ovid. One of my friends got his degree in Classics, so after a few months of working at the bookstore and laughing at references to Greek myths and tragedies I have no knowledge about, I decided to seek his advice on how to keep up with the joneses at work. He writes: Check out "Metamorphoses" and "The Art of Love." Metamorphoses is about the beginning of the universe and everything else that happens until about 20 AD. Lots of mythological references, so you can drop some bombs on those fools at work. The Art of Love is about how to seduce women. There are parts that he talks about how a lady should act at the gladiatorial games to make the fellas sweat. It was a hot seller 2000 years ago. Oh Patrick, you're a hot seller.

-Toni Morrison. Fricken Bruno at work. As nice as he may be, I'm pissed he made me feel like I was at a 4th grade reading level. I'm going to read this freakin' Sula and shove it on his shelf. . .where the sun don't shine. Word sister word!

-Steven Seidman. Oh Sociological Theory. No one but my fellow prisoners of that classroom will understand the pain and boredom we endured. Had we a different warden, perhaps our lives would be unchanged. The pyschological torture brought on by the sound of drones in an uncomfortable, crowded and stifling classroom will stay with me. . .forever. Hindsight is back, however, greeting me with a large smirk which says, "SHOULDA PAID ATTENTION!" Every conversation at the bookstore contains some reference to Weber, Durkheim, structuralism or rationalism. Had I paid attention I could throw out a phrase rather then wondering outloud, ". . .that sounds like something I learned." Fortunately I saved Contested Knowledge, a very accessible social theory book from the class. It's highlighted to pieces, for my entertainment and to pass off the allusion of studying while in Bird Library many moons ago, but it still has some gems I can pass off as. . .well, you know, contested knowledge. Meheheheh (smart laugh.)

-Betty Friedan. I'm an apathetic woman. Part of me feels like I should explore feminism before I decide who I am going to vote for this year. Maybe The Feminine Mystique will give me some clues as to what the heck is going on with society. Unfortunately, that book is almost as big as War and Peace, which by the way, I'm only on page 20 of Tolstoy's cruise ship anchor (as in, it's fuckin' heavy.)

-Susan Sontag. People make a big deal out of this deceased novelist and essayist. I'm going to find out why. I'll start with In America which was written when she was 60 and then work my way backwards if I feel she is worthy of my time.

-John Berger. Ways of Seeing. This book is always coming in and going out at the bookstore. Berger's an art critic whose essay accompanied an old BBC series about art and ideology. Everyone is a critic, especially when it comes to art, so I think this book will be able to make me an even better critic. Kind of like Jay Sherman.

I will stop here for this week's desired reads. Working at a bookstore for me is like an alcoholic working at an unsupervised bar. Dangerous.

If you don't know, now ya know.

2008-01-28T21:24:00.000-08:00

Toni Morrison penned Sula.
Apparently this is common knowledge among everyone who works at a famous bookstore in Berkeley. Except for me.

I got the stare down of a century today when a customer and I stared into the distance waiting for her name to appear out of thin air, like clues to a mystery case on Ghostwriter. Bruno, an elder at the store said in shock, "You don't know who wrote Sula?"

What does Toni Morrison know?? She's the one who thought Bill Clinton was a black man.

Add another book to the pile of "must reads so I don't look like a complete moron."

There was another bookstore blunder today. I am a little puppy to my store manager. He coddles me and lays on the compliments and affection generously. I sit with my tongue out and my tail wagging waiting for more special treatment. And as any puppy dog loyal to their owner, I'll do anything he says promptly, efficiently and adorably. As cute as little doggies, they can be a handful. I had an accident in the art history section, not a mess that you can cover with newspaper unfortunately. He brought me upstairs, rubbed my nose in the mess, but felt bad about being too hard on me and reminded me what a joy I was to have in the store. How was I supposed to know the difference between an art survey catologue, an art survey and an art catologue? Well, now I know.

I hate feeling like an idiot. Off to Wikipedia things that make me look inferior when I work at the bookstore: philosophy, ontology, literary criticism, poetry, metaphysics, phenomenology, Greek classics. . .Oh I could go on for days. . .

What would Humbert Humbert do?

2008-01-28T01:53:00.000-08:00

My stomach hurts. This is not a case of I've fallen and I can't get up. This is I'm up and I can't fall asleep. No more Ovaltine please, more exercise please.

What's that Ferris Bueller quote? Something about life moving too fast and missing shit. That is happening to me. My life is moving too fast, but it's predictable. Every day is the same. It's not a bad thing, I'm having lots of fun, but I'm not challenging myself. I feel pretty stagnant at the moment. I become antsy quickly. Usually it inspires some clumsily orchestrated change. I.e: chopping off my hair, moving across the country, dropping out of school for a day or taking a year off to do some unknown Americorps program. Fortunately I'm sane enough not to get married on a whim or donate my kidneys for some cheap, altruistic thrill.

Lately this feeling has prompted the latent silent debate in my head about moving back east. I've always said I'll eventually move back, so maybe I should do it now, before it's too late. But too late for what? And what will moving do for me but quell an ephemeral feeling of geographical ADD courtesy of job stagnation? It's simply a distraction which will further me from any sort of advancement or progress.

I know if I move I will miss my life in Berkeley incredibly. Over the past months I've made some great friends and overcome some personal barricades. Yet the yearn for more, for something bigger, continues to resonate. Soon I will have to get this monkey off my back and make a "big girl" decision.

At least this keeps me up at night and not this. Poor guy.

for the heck of it.

2008-01-25T21:44:00.000-08:00

Weather.com expects the sun to peak out one week from today. The past month of rain Berkeley has had rivals the countless days in a row I dug myself out of unwanted igloos in Syracuse. Maybe I need to move again. . .

Even though I like my jobs and am content with my social situation, I still feel worthless. I paid so much money for such a shoddy education. Every time I work at the bookstore I think about how badly I want to go back to school to study creative writing, literature or art history. When I was 18 I wasn't prepared for college, I had no idea what I was doing there. I just thought I was supposed to be there. Almost ten years later I finally have a better sense of my self and wish I could get those four years back. If not for a good job, then just for myself. I don't remember what I learned in school, I don't know how I use what I paid for.

Similarly, I'm completely annoyed by my man situation. I attract the ones that are far away, that have girlfriends or are just around to confuse me. The attention is new, exciting and welcome, but I just wish things didn't always have to be so complicated. Without complication I would probably end up in a relationship again and I'm not sure I'm ready for another one of those things. My last attempt was pretty messy, but maybe practice makes perfect. Recently I told one of my friends I had been in only two "real" relationships. By "real" I mean someone I called a "boyfriend." Neither lasted over a year. He laughed and told me he was shocked that someone my age had been so inexperienced with commitment. I shrugged my shoulders, drank more of my beer and worried my experiences with the opposite sex were setting me up for continual disappointment. I then reminded him he shouldn't be kissing as many girls as he does, especially when he has a girlfriend. That's when he shrugged his shoulders and drank his beer. Fuckin' boys.

Just like the weather, my life has seem pretty unchanged and stagnant. Rain is needed and as lame as it can be sometimes a mundane few weeks is needed in order for to reboot.

I'll post more, I swear.

2008-01-22T23:08:00.000-08:00

Oh my life.
Let me be frank. Not Frank Gehry the architect or Frank Sinatra the crooner. Frank, like candid. Not candid like candy, but candid like Frank. Not Frank like Frank Gehr-. . .

That tangent finally flew out the revolving door into the ticket booth of the oncoming train of thought:

My life has improved exponentially. Back in the day (last year) when I wanted to sound smart I would say to my co-workers, "The sales of this particular shirt have increased exponentially over the last week!" Silly me thought that exponential was a steady increase. Silly me thought I sounded smart. Silly me thought anyone at work cared about the selling of shirts. Silly silly me.

But did you know exponential growth is a steeper increase? I will not try to explain because I'm bad at math and I'm really bad at explaining things, but the point is (you are waiting in a long line for this train of thought, I know, but I promise you won't miss the train I promise!) exponential growth is a bad ass increase. Like me going from mosquito bites on my chest to me having prize winning pumpkins on my chest. Now, wouldn't you rather suck on some gourds than infected insect bites?

(DONT TRY TO GET ON ANOTHER TRAIN OF THOUGHT! I SWEAR, IT'S COMING SOON! IT JUST HAS A LOT OF ROWDY PASSENGERS!)

So yeah, my life has improved exponentially since October. If I am not happy then I am content. This time last year I was never happy and never content. If I was not miserable then I was semi-miserable. I wish I had a more eloquent way of describing last year's slow evolution, but I don't. I can only describe it as weird. To go from five years of curling into a ball on my bed and avoiding the world to smiling again and telling jokes, like really bad jokes that only make laugh. I'm satisfied, but I want more!

While closing the store a few nights ago, I sat on the cold cement floor, alone and simple, folding shirts. Someone yelled across the store something funny. I laughed. For some reason I thought of high school, the time when I last remember being genuinely happy. The feeling in my heart was the same as when I was in high school. That it is what it has been the last few months. Genuine happiness.

I'm so proud of myself. I feel like a skinny lady who suddenly got fat for five years and then suddenly lost all the weight she gained. I achieved the impossible. I decided to become a happy human being again.

You bought the ticket. You can get on the train if you want. It's not that exciting of a ride, it's smooth though. Those bumps on the track don't affect me anymore.

Funny story.

2008-01-08T00:40:00.000-08:00

My roommate, Mike, wants to evict me. It's because I'm a "princess" and I still get money from my parents (not much, they pay for my meds), I am going nowhere and am a "shame." I "live a pathetic life" and am very apathetic. Also, if you didn't know, I am a "big bitch." Repeat, a "big bitch."

This is news to me considering he and I never talk. N-e-v-e-r.

Interesting
and funny.

Anyone know a place I can live?

He was really mad there were new dish towels in the house. I didn't buy them, my sister gave them to me as a Christmas present.

I guess you can't buy whipping posts at Costco.

There's just something about those Mormons. . .

2008-01-05T09:31:00.000-08:00

Read it.

And then read Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer.

It's 2008!

2008-01-03T04:07:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!
I got a feeling that 2008 is going to be a good one.

Life's been crazy, mostly crazy good, since I returned from my trip home. Eventually I'll write again, but right now I want to nip this insomnia in the bud with some good ol' fashion sleep.

This article made me happy.

All I want for Christmas. . .

2007-12-25T20:35:00.001-08:00

Is to finish this fricken Tom Robbins novel. Gosh darn. I haven't had such a tough time with a book since Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Chris Moore. The latter book was so awful that after 40 pages I said my condolences and prayed find another line of work. Normally I don't dispose of books until after I finish them. I hate to give up on a book. But Still Life of a Woodpecker has been slow, verbose and rambuncious. I mean it's really just all over the place! With slight ADD I can keep up with Lolita, but contemplate upping my adderal with TR. However, I'm determined to finish because I'm eager to begin Steppenwolf a "must read" according to the young White Russian I work with at Moe's. Should I trust a strapping young male described like as a feminine cocktail? Yes. He's more vodka than Kahlua, so I trust his opinion more than I do of the Sven Rodriguez (Norwegian Puerto Rican) who recommended Tom Robbins. Sveny has made one bad recommendation so far so I'm wondering if I trust his next recommendation.

Any fricken way, enough about these tool sample boys, more about this book. I just want to finish it tonight before I go to bed and wake to see Jersey Boys in NYC tomorrow. 70 more pages, can I do it? This is like a college final. Hunkering down to finish a bland anthropology paper. It's similar to a quest. It must be done. I'm not giving up. I'm waiting for page 270, 7 pages before the end, when I will suddenly read the climax and rush through the next 7 pages of falling action and close the book ephinanized.

In other news I scored some sweet holiday loot, which actually I hate to write. I should delete it, but I'll just keep it there to exemplify how much of a snobby 12 year old girl I am. See, Christmas isn't really about the shit you get, but somehow America has turned it into that. It's lame. Christmas is lame.

And so is this book. I'm gonna go freakin' finish it.

Holiday means Fatty.

2007-12-23T21:10:00.000-08:00

When I'm at home I'm difficult to get in contact with because I'm content to hibernate. Since I've been home I've only left my house three times: to get a facial, to buy some make up and see a movie, and then today for a jaunt to Princeton to finish Christmas shopping. All times I've "forgotten" to take my phone with me. It's not that I don't want to see anyone, it's just I'm too lazy to get off my ass and steer myself away from the gourment coconut cream cake and bottles of wine that trap me. Did I mention The Sundance Channel and IFC? Those prevent me from leaving the plush sectional in the living room. I've seen some great movies while downing eggnog and Southern Comfort. The heat in the house seems to be set at the most perfect temperature too. Reading under dim lights with a light blanket and the snug fit of my pooch on my lap has never felt so perfect, especially accompanied by some mushroom risotto.

I feel like the sister in European Vacation. She gorges until she explodes.

Yes, so anyways, it's not that I don't want to see anyone, it's just I'd rather get fat and drunk instead of making the trek to NJ to go to Tiger's Tale. But if y'all want to see me, you know where I live. And if you don't know where I live ask anyone in New Hope if they've seen the fat giant eating house and home on Main Street. Yeah, that's me. But watch out, I might mistake you for a gingerbread man and eat you too.

Oh boy.

2007-12-20T07:17:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was bittersweet.
I'm glad I'm going home. I'm glad my flight leaves in 3 hours and a half.
If I stayed any longer I think I would have been jerked around a little more by my crush.
And since I'm leaving, there needs to be no more jerking around. I'm walking away from this situation and hopefully will not be tempted to return to it.
My sensitivity leads me to believe I am still fragile from my last relationship and need more time before sharing myself in any way.
Say no to boys. Except the ones who treat you to a sexy Scrabble board. Delicious.

preparing for impact.

2007-12-18T21:08:00.000-08:00

I have a crush. The reason it is called a "crush" is because inevitably someone is going to get "crushed." In this situation I think I will end up being crushed. There is this boy who I have a very large crush on. He is very cute and loves to read and play Scrabble. But I'm not sure anything will happen. Should anything happen? I don't know the answer to that question either. But it's difficult to be incredibly smitten when you know your feelings are at stake. I am trying to be careful, as I think he is, but I unfortunately am finding myself bubbling over with excitement for meeting him. I do not want to appear too eager or too interested for fear of turning him off, but I do not want to appear aloof for fear of turning him away. What do I do? Hopefully my time at home will be a much needed retreat from head games and work stress.

love.

2007-12-16T13:58:00.001-08:00

My previous entry's mood was swept away by some glorious Scrabble playing and Sangria. I am smitten.

Still, in that post's same vein, I wonder the worth of my "career" life. While I feel stagnant in my "career" (if you will allow me to call it a career) I love the co-workers at both of my jobs. At Urban Outfitters I laugh and spread rigmarole around while listening to dance music. Occasionally I deal with asinine customers and draining management, but I actually look forward to waking up at 6am to see my friends at 7am. And the bookstore, how I adore the days I work at the bookstore. The old philosophers are warming up to me considerably. They actually find me funny! They like me! They say, "See you Monday!" They smile and wave when they see me on the street now!

It could be since I work daily and have no life outside of work that I am reliant on my work families for support, laughter and entertainment. Maybe I build them up to be amazing people because the other people in my life are too far away to give me the tangible love.

And speaking of love, when did that word become taboo? Because I want to tell people I love them. I am not "in love" with them like Romeo and Juliet, but I love them, like I love dancing to Chromeo, like I love singing at the top of my lungs to the Eagles, like I love wearing dresses and leg warmers and shiny red shoes. Maybe I am in love? I'm in love with today and the way I feel.

One week.

2007-12-13T19:54:00.000-08:00

Today I am:
Sad
Tired
Depressed.

I want to:
Eat lots of German chocolate cake.
Drink glass upon glass of eggnog.
Roll in a life-size tub of Cool Whip.
All of those things without getting a stomach ache.

Instead I will:
Read.
Drink a glass of eggnog.
Pass out at 9:00pm.

Then I will:
Wake up.
Do laundry.
Continue to feel miserable about my life and do nothing to change but put on a happy face.

I can't wait to go home and get a hug from my parents and my dog.

.

2007-12-12T22:44:00.000-08:00

The stack of books next to my bed is becoming taller and taller. Yesterday I added another to the pile: The Best Creative Nonfiction, Vol. I. If I decide to pursue graduate school it will be for professional writing. As a sociology major I was trained to write countless ethnographies, case studies and book reports. Everything was based on observation and theory. Infusing flare was difficult and sometimes superfluous. But for some reason I loved being able to write a sociology paper and successfully move away from the sterile formulas professors were used to. I'd love to hone my skill in graduate school, and one way to start that process is to continue reading nonfiction.

Anyways, I eagerly opened the book and quickly skimmed the forward to reach the first story. It was ultimate depression. A middle aged woman's body is found in a hotel room. There is a note signed by 'Mary Anderson' saying goodbye and farewell, nothing more. 'Mary Anderson' apparently was her pen name. 'Mary Anderson' did not commit suicide in a hotel room because there was no 'Mary Anderson' that matched her description. Dental records and other clues lead to dead ends. Most upsetting is that no one claimed her. No one went looking for her. She is just another nameless death among the thousands that occur in the states yearly.

Similarly I read an article today in The New York Times about a cemetery in NY that is a grounds for hundreds of nameless bodies. Death scares and saddens me, yet it is still an event to celebrate the life of someone important. But imagine you, your family member, or a friend not receiving the celebrations and respects deserved at the end. It is a devaluation of epic proportions. A complete insult to the life one has lead.

I'm not sure how to end this, just that I hope everyone has someone and I hope everyone is able to reach out to someone. I hate thinking that people feel alone. Everyone is loved by someone somewhere.

At least we have toilet paper

2007-12-11T03:04:00.001-08:00

I hate waking up in the middle of the night to pee. After I empty my juices I end up filling my head with strange thoughts. After all, thoughts are always stranger and less rational after the hours of 11pm. This I know is true.

3:00am is the wrong hour to think about debt, graduate school, new jobs, past loves, financial woes, roommate issues, mice traps and work schedules.

Maybe I will open up Lolita again and work towards finishing it by tomorrow. I'm not sure why I was so intimidated by Nabokov. This book is rich, playful, mischievous and tortured. Somehow I find the main character, a pedophile, endearing. (What would Benson and Stabler think?!) I'm glad reading has become a necessary part of my life again, especially fiction. What will be next? Herman Hesse? Don DeLillo? Or is Reading Lolita in Tehran the next obvious choice of reading material? Alors, bof, j'aime lire.

it doesnt even pay rent!

2007-12-06T19:12:00.000-08:00

I've created a barrier between my room and the hallway. Dirty laundry blocks is piled on the floor in my room to prevent the mouse from crawling over the blanket I placed on the other side of my door. No mice allowed in my room, especially during sleeping hours.

As soon as I turned the broiler on to reheat some leftovers for dinner, a mouse scurried past my feet in a frenzy. It nearly ran into a wall before it bolted into the pantry which opens to . . . Patty's room. It is my hope that Patty has no food in her room for the mouse to nosh on and then become groggy after an unexpected feast and end up falling asleep upon a pile of dirty underwear. If the mouse is smart it will proceed back into the wall where it will die and not leave an unpleasant sent. If it is very smart it will stay clear from my room or it will suffer a more horrific end. Something along the lines of bleach and a heavy shoe. So cruel, so cruel.

Today has been dreary with rain and a chilly wind. It is winter in Northern California. The only acceptable cure is a warm down comforter accompanied by a good book. I miss playing Scrabble and drinking tea. It would be fun to do that right now.

Sometimes I am lonely. I come home from work and isolate myself, usually with a nap and a book. This tends to relax me and for the most part is how I prefer to spend my after work hours. Hardly ever do I beg for the company of others. And even in this instance, tonight, I am not desperate for a companion. The brief thought of company brings the desire, yet extended thought reminds me I am a better loner and wish not for someone to crowd me. I'm not sure if it is healthy or normal, but lately it has been working for me. Or so I think. Who knows? All I know is I do not want the company of an uninvited rodent.

Sleep to dream.

2007-12-05T21:25:00.001-08:00

I'm going home December 20th. I can't wait. I miss my family so much. I need a vacation from California badly. I just checked the forecast. Currently the temperature is 27 degrees. Gulp.

Unfortunately I can't post much due to my lethargy. Every day I am more and more fatigued. Is it my diet? My work schedule? I'm not sure, regardless, I'm disappointed in myself for coming home and napping daily after work. Somehow there seems to be no other alternative I can force upon myself. My life has become three places: Urban Outfitter's, Moe's, and my bed. The latter is where I am headed now. I don't mind, East of Eden is coming to a close and soon I'll be able to return to my non-fiction habits.

A side note slash question: What do I get my mom for her upcoming 50th birthday? It is a big one, one that she is fretting over and I want to make her feel young and special and worthy and loved. Ideas?

fortunes.

2007-12-03T09:29:00.000-08:00

A few minutes ago I was trying to consolidate my loans. $34,000. HA! I really am not sure how I will ever pay that off.
Then my roommate asked me for rent money.
Now I'm cranky.
Mornings and debt don't mix.

There's been rumors about people being fired at work. I don't have to worry, but there are people I'm concerned about. A girl who has the weight of the world on her shoulders is one of them. I know her situation: financial duress, family stress, emotional complications and worst of all, no one to lean on. She can't lose this job, but what do I do? Tell her she's at risk of being fired? She's a firecracker, she'll lose control, she'll do something stupid. I wasn't supposed to know about the firings, so what do I do? Stand back and watch when I know I can do something? Everyone needs a chance, everyone needs a break. My mom gets so frustrated when she sees people struggling because she remembers way back when someone gave my dad a break and he is where he is today because of that. We should all be so fortunate.

Sake bombs.

2007-12-01T21:51:00.000-08:00

I recommend 1 per customer. Not 5. Because then you end up passing out, not sleeping, and working early in the morning. You watch the customers walk by and wonder silently and smugly, "Ew, I wonder which one smells like stale alcohol." And then you realize it's you.

True story.

I slap my hand to my forehead every time I think of it. Oof.

Dynamize.

2007-11-30T11:29:00.000-08:00

Since I work all the time I haven't much to write about, except for how tired I am and how I don't do anything but come home from work and sleep. Sometimes I read, but like a 70 year old woman after an intense night of bingo at church, I pass out after five pages with my shoes still on.

Yesterday at work Crystal said, "Too bad we don't work in an office." Three of us were toolin' around in the manager's office, laughing and being slightly productive. It would be fun if we worked in an office. Certainly we'd get paid more money to do less work as I imagine many of my friends do. After all, what do you possibly do in an office all day? When I was an office temp I did crosswords and surfed the internet. Some days I would do a collective hour of work though I was paid a for 8 hours of supposed work. Unfortunately we work in retail. My job reminds me of a scene in Wayne's World II. Wayne and Garth go to get a waiver signed for the town. While they're parking they encounter two men moving a large plate of glass. Every time they go back the men are moving the glass. One of the men has a line which I forget now, but it indicates how pointless their necessary job is. Finally someone runs into the glass, breaking it and freeing the men from their pointless job. I suppose that's a poor description. But here's how it relates to me. Every day I move clothes and housewares around my store. My effort is to increase sales therefore benefiting the company. But I just feel like a mover. I just feel like I'm shifting stuff around with no point. More times than not it's mindless. I'm not quite sure what contribution I make at all. There is no gratification. I guess I'm waiting for someone to break my glass, set me free. Unfortunately I think that person is me and I'm afraid of cleaning up the mess I might be left with; starting over and learning something new. . .testing my limits.

There are things I like about my job, mostly my co-workers. I'm fortunate to work with a group of kind, good humored, diverse, eclectic, up beat friends. Last night I was in tears and three of them came to my rescue. Two in person, one on the phone. I'm not sure why I become so shocked when people actually care about my well being, especially people I view as co-workers. They aren't just co-workers, they're friends. I'm lucky. I also like helping customers who want to be helped. Customers get a bad reputation, rightfully so, those fuckers with all those questions and complaints. However, there are some that respect our position and seek our opinion, advice and knowledge. That's where we can have fun, where we can help. I suppose it seems trivial and unimportant to those who haven't worked in retail for more than a few months, but I need to cling to some sense of worthiness.

I haven't written something important in so long. I've been drained and uninspired. Someone was telling me his inspiration was at an all time high when he was smoking weed. It's tempting, but that's not me. I'll wait for a sunny day or hopefully I can get to the MOMA at some point next week. The lack of verbal creativity has made me question my hopes of becoming some sort of wordsmith when I "grow up." Maybe I am destined to be a helper, maybe my interest in social work back in college was on point. Maybe I should be a school counselor like my friend suggested this week. I don't know. I'm not scared from this confusion or overwhelmed, I just have a wish of clarity. I want to make sense of things with speed so I can get started, so I can work towards something.

Anyways. . .
I can't stop listening to VHS or Beta. They play tomorrow night in SF. Maybe someone will go with me. Maybe I'll grow some balls and go by myself. I think that would be a test. I passed the solo movie test, I love going to movies by myself. Perhaps I can jump this hurdle of seeing a concert by myself. It seems awfully weird though. That whole idea of "collective effervescence" on the dance floor makes more sense when you're with friends.

what is the what.

2007-11-24T09:26:00.001-08:00

My schedule has been packed with work and engagements lately and will continue that way until after the new year. Surprisingly this busy schedule has calmed me. Working seven days a week has already become so ingrained that when I have a day off I have no idea what to do with myself except for organize my house, which is essentially what I do at both of my jobs. On my to-do list (yes I have one) I should add, 'Find a hobby.'

There is much going on in my head, yet I'm not sure I can divulge much of it yet. I'm still waiting to synthesize it all and formulate something coherent.

I know recently I've been complaining about my retail job and some of the new management. It continues to be a less than ideal situation, however, I must say, I absolutely adore some of my co-workers. When it's good, it is so good. The laughs, the dance-offs, the immaturity, the gossip. Despite my feeling of inferiority amongst other graduates from prestigious universities, sometimes I think I should savor these follies as much as possible.

On that note. . .time to run to my other job and organize books.