$1300

The bf asked me what kind of ring I would like.
Well, he didn't come out and ask over quesadillas, or anything.  It was yet another prodding convo about the institution of marriage, the A, B, and C's of the entire endeavor ... and he busted out with, "I don't even know what kind of ring you would like."
Um, what kind of ring?  Are you fucking kidding me?
The ever matrimony-phobic, perpetually hot-into his 50's single bachelor is asking me what kind of ring I want?
Um, the kind that's from you ... pretty please?!
Two years of protesting and this is what he's stumped on?
Jesus!  I mean, I'm stylishly particular ... I know right away what's me and what's not, so the whole ring thing, really isn't THE issue!
So, we decided on looking.
Well, after a mutual agreement on the following pre-requisites: no diamonds, recycled gold, and a budget of "around" $1000, I set off on my mission.
I scoured the internet .. a path I may have once found cold and random ... but now find alluringly possible amid a sea of mall-bound chains ... for all things alternative and non-traditional in the world of engagement rings and wedding bands.  Yes, I Googled it.
And to my surprise, in the midst of the cheese and the typical and the glaringly obvious, I found a ring; a sweet, tender, hand made ring, that spoke to me in pixels.  It wasn't what I had in mind ... just like the love of my life; but it was ... Me. (For those of you paying attention, I'm already using the past tense for a reason). It was a ring I would wear ...  regardless.
See, I wear one ring: always.  It's a sterling silver heart Tiffany ring my mom and dad bought me in Hawaii.  It has all the hallmarks of posh and I never take it off.  It doesn't get in the way of my life ... unless I'm playing tennis, which is never these days.  It's understated, and only tarnishes when I soak in too many hot tubs. (Christ, what a snob!)
Other than that, for "fashion", I wear a sterling silver ring with a Smokey Quartz stone on my left 2nd finger (what's that finger called?) and a spirally, sterling silver ring on my right 2nd finger ... a gift from my best friend who sells Silpada.
I wear Target $2.50 studs in my ears and no necklaces and my nose ring is the original piercing.
That's the extent of my "fine" jewelry.
So, when I found "the ring", the first thing I saw was the price: $1300 ... $300 over the "ballpark".  But here are the specs: it's recycled white gold - a plus. It's hand made, from a lovely woman in the east ... a phone call away -- huge!  The gemstone is a sapphire!  Now, for those of you who don't know, sapphires were the engagement stone of your grandmothers and great-grandmothers.  It's only in our lifetime has the diamond craze instilled itself in our minds.  Sapphires are just as durable, and ...  some argue, more rare than diamonds.
But, I HATE dark blue sapphires ... I think their blah.  This ring ... MY ring ... has a pale stone; one that looks like the water I want to be in, the water I will be in.   It's a light blue, without being pale, it's deep without darkness, sky-like, without clouds.
Anyway, I uttered the words, "I think I found a ring that I really like" ...
Then, a lot of jumbled words came out (before the price) ... alluding to the fact that diamonds were more expensive, how recycled gold was the way to go, how regardless of that, the price of gold is through the roof ... blah, blah, blah ...
Yeah; nothing would override the price. I said the words: thirteen hundred dollars .. and that's when I heard the truth.
The bf is of the belief that that is a waste of money.  He cannot understand why someone (me?) would want to waste that kind of money on something they are, "... just going to wear on their finger?".

Is he right?

December 25th ... it's just another day.

Sometimes I'm slow.  I realized today, that one of the losses involved ... felt ... with not having children ... is  memories.  I just heard an editorial on NPR from a husband and father talking about decorating the family Christmas tree .... how various ornaments symbolize years of children's ages.  He talked about how when his kids are grown and on their own, he and his wife will have the clothespin Rudolph ornament his daughter made  to remember the times when their kids were young ... brightly awaiting Santa's arrival ... all pj's and stockings.
Hmmmm ... nice.  His memories even smell like cinnamon.
Here are some of my Christmas memories I will look back on:
-Working -- because I've either always worked in the service industry or in the news.
-Tree?  Really?  Oh, you mean, single gals like Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan living in urban sprawl, forking over $60 for a 5 foot tree that their 105 pound frames can barely maneuver down the street to their walk-up?  Cut to her slowly place baubles and tinsel onto the lonely pine while she stares forlornly into space; lonely, lost, too skinny ... in her early 30's wondering when Prince Claus will save her and deliver into suburban Illinois holiday bliss?  No, never done that. (Yes, I've seen every John Hughes film, RIP).
-Spending Christmas with the families of the men I'm currently dating, wondering if this Christmas will look like the rest of my Christmases.  And the answer so far, is  no.
-My awesome parents ... always understanding that Christmas doesn't have to be celebrated on December 25th because I usually have to work on that day.  Besides, my step-father is Jewish and my mom isn't even Christian.
-My Dad disappearing on me when I was 13 and never having another Christmas with him.


I hope all of the people I love, like, don't like, and don't know get to spend some time with those they love in the next couple of days ... that's my holiday wish.

Enjoy the Silence

Here is a sentence I never thought I'd write: I just spent 2 days at a Buddhist Monastery. But, I did ... and I meant to. It's not like it was a Turkish prison ... it was earned bliss. My sig and I found a Zen monastery that offers Introductory retreats to dorky, over-educated, bored-with-ski-passes white folk like us; who are longing for something different, simple ... real. Actually, we've been studying Tibetan Buddhism for the last year and a half and wanted to know what Zen was all about. I found out. And it's beautiful.We arrived on a Friday afternoon, received our room assignments, and promptly attended orientation. We were given the down and dirty on respect within the monastic community (after all, we were living in their world) and an itinerary; which was strictly followed. A tour of the magical grounds ensued, followed by our first meal as a monk... which required utter silence. Now, eating in silence is something that I'm used to, after living alone for so many years, but eating without the company of bad cable is quite another thing. 99 cent udon from Trader Joe's takes on higher decadence with the soundtrack to A&E's "Intervention" in the background. Once I got over my nervousness from the first dinner, I was in love with the meal service. Each item is passed from person to person, with hands clasped in a prayer shape with each pass, thanking for giving, and thanking for receiving; until everyone has taken their share. Once everyone has their soup, bread and pear, we lift our abundant plates skyward, in a symbolic offering to eht Buddha, and eat. We all wait until everyone is done, and then, clear our plates. It is then asked that some of us help clean up in the massive kitchen, doing dishes, cleaning stoves, and washing sinks.From there, we were introduced to the Meditation Hall, where we set up our "stoops" for meditation. This was where we chose our cushion, mat, bench, and/or chair, of choice. Personally, I'd like to meditation on a feather bed in heaven with a box of Oreo's and a flatscreen TV, but that option wasn't available. In Zen, we meditate facing a wall. We were given screens to stare at and I chose a mat and padded bench as my mode of torture. We then submitted to a 20 minute meditation ... and were subsequentl asked to keep a Noble Silence until lights out at 9pm. At 5:30am, a satanic individual rang a large brass bell violently up and down the hall; signifying morning. We had half an hour to make our way to Meditation Hall, where we assumed our positions, and sat for 20 minutes, did 5 minutes of walking meditation, and sat for another 20 minutes. I'm not gonna lie: it was tough. I've been meditating, and working on developing some semblance of a "practice", but contemplating stillness at 6 in the morning was like Buddhism Boot Camp Gone Wild! And I have to admit, I masochistically loved it!The rest of the retreat continued with a similar routine of mealtime, work, dharma talks, ceremony, and meditation. I had the fortune of whispering to my sweetie and holding his hand between events, but the weekend was mostly spent apart, and in silence.It's amazing how much does not need to be said. And it's amazing how little we need to live. The Zen Monks were kind, warm, giving, and knowledgeable. They invited us-- complete strangers; into their homes and showered us with respect and grace. I did my best to keep the wash of the retreat over me once we got home. It's been difficult ... work being the biggest test. I can't help but keep thinking about my shaved headed, new teachers and friends, and am constantly dreaming about when I can go back ... and dip into their stillness.

I'm Baaaaack!!!!

I used to write a blog. Now I'm just a person who used to write a blog. It's been a while, but my feeling is that "updates" are overrated, writing for writing's sake is just bad writing, and blogging just to look diligent and "connected" is contrived. And, let's face it, no one's life is that interesting. Even Kim Kardashian had to have a $20 million wedding to look interesting.

So, I got a job. Glare at a computer for 10 hours a day and sit on my soon-to-be cellulite ass for 2 hours a day commuting to said job. I get home, raid the fridge like a 15 year old bulimic. catch up with the sig-other for about an hour, scrape the day's makeup off my face, collapse into bed, take half a pill, "read" about a page and surrender.

I have to be at work at 7am. I live in Reno and work in Truckee. Here are the bad things about that:

-Getting dressed by the light of your cell phone so you don't wake up the house; SUX.

-Leaving the warmest, most cozy body on the planet without saying goodbye for the day; SUX.

-Sharing I-80 with nothing but semis and NHP SUX.

-It's so dark and early and cold, even my dog blows me off that early.

-Any chance of getting my meditation done in the morning is SHOT because my mind is still trying to grasp the fact that it's supposed to be awake.

Here are the most awesome things about that:

-Chasing the Moon west, telling it goodnight, and wishing I could wrap my arms around its glowing, guiding self; ROX.

-The heater in my car works; that ROX.

-Listening to miraculous teachings on my IPod, thanks to the same miraculous technology that I simultaneous curse, I have to admit; ROX.

I drive, I work; fear, sleep, long for sleep, love, yet long for love, seek, save, spend, question. I'm here, now.

I don't know

I don't know how to do this, you guys. (I sound like Butters from South Park: "Come on, ... you guys"). I miss writing so much. I got a job, a real job ... after getting FIRED from Channel 4. I spent almost a year looking for full time work...found it: in Truckee. I clock in at 7am, so I get up at 5, leave at 6... ok, that's a lie ... I get up around 5:15 because my make-up regime is getting less and less. In April, it was foundation, concealer, powder, 3 different eye shadoes, mascara, eyebrows, blush and maybe a bronzer ... if I was feeling particularly Twilight-ish. Now, it's: lucky-if-i-take-a-shower ... tinted moisturizer (kill 2 birds with ...) mascara ... and a slash of lip gloss. I WORK IN TRUCKEE!! Land of George Michael "Wake Me Up Before You Hetero-Go-Go" beards, flip flops, the daring non-suck-and socked-away tummy of a jean wearin', bagel eatin', twenty-something blond who is so hot, you'd kick yourself for holding out for a size 2 ...!
The point is, I, like many of you, literally stare at 2 flat screen monitors(some have 3--have u noticed? One monitor is not enough these days.) for about 11 hours a day. Then, I drive another hour, thru the winding canyons, into Reno's summer CONSTRUCTION ... and on into Sparks, where my love resides...
Yes, sparking up his PC just to stare at yet ANOTHER computer screen is the last thing I'd like to do when I get home after being gone for 13 hours. Personally, I'd rather have my cervix scraped. I really don't find that all too uncomfortable.
But I miss writing. I really do.
K

Runaway Horse

I think I almost died yesterday. Not in that melodramatic car-cut-me-off-on-the-freeway almost died kind of way, but in the if-events-had gone just one other way, I could have been either really badly injured, or worse.

I started riding horses again about a year ago after my parents bought one. I grew up riding, got pretty decent when I was about 12, then abandoned it for other hobbies. My parents, on the other hand, have always been obsessed with them, and now have their horses on their own property. They just saddle up, and ride through the sagebrush right from their own front door. Since the weather has improved and ski season is over, I've been trekking out to their house to ride. I ride my mom's horse, Jackie, and my mom rides my dad's horse, Blackwell. My mom has had Jackie for about a year and a half now I've been acquainted with her many quirks. She's a typical mare; full of back leg bucks and unannounced spooks. My mom is an excellent rider and has taught me how to navigate the many moods of her grey, 8 year old bitchy bitch. I've had a few tests on her back, but never been really scared; or been close to falling off. My dad's horse is the same age as Jackie, but their size difference is the equivalent of driving a Hummer versus a Mini Cooper. I don't know much about my dad's horse, but like my mom, my dad is an excellent rider, with loads of experience in the saddle.

Yesterday was the perfect day for a little ride. It was in the 60's, partly cloudy, and that infamous Reno wind hadn't cropped up yet. My mom and I headed out. We rode in a line on a single track through the hills; Blackwell in front, and Jackie on his rear, occasionally nipping him on the butt for some sisterly payback. We came down one hill, trotted side by side along a dirt road, and crossed the single lane highway to a grassy meadow tucked down under the trees. As we arced our way down to the lush terrain, Jackie picked up her step. We were heading in the direction of home ... and she knew it. The walk wasn't fast enough for her, so she picked up her pace into a slow trot. When I tried to slow her back down to a walk, she stuck her giant dinosaur head into the air and shook it from side to side as if to say, "No, no, no!" At that point, my mom offered we swap horses. Blackwell was in a mellow mood and Jackie was getting her bitch on, so figuring my mom could better handle her the rest of the way home, I said sure. I got onto Blackwell feeling as though I had just taken the elevator up to the second floor. It was like getting out of a low-rider and climbing into a Dodge Ram. With my mom now on Jackie, they took the lead into the meadow, which had a long distance of tall grass and flat earth laid out in front of us. We were flanked by a gradual hill of tall sagebrush on either side. My mom asked me if I'd like to trot Blackwell and, taking on my newly adopted attitude of "why not?", said sure. We started to trot and I immediately felt ... off. His trot was so much bigger and off-balancing to me ... compared to Jackie. My reins felt loose, my rhythm was not right, and I couldn't slow him down enough to stay right behind Jackie, which my mom had told me to do. I said I needed to stop and recollect myself. My mom said we'd try it again, but if he gets going too fast, to turn him to the right, straight into the sagebrush, which will slow him down and ultimately force him to stop. With those instructions, we decided to try again. My mom and Jackie took off, and immediately, Blackwell wanted to bolt. I had recently been taught to take a horse into a circle if they are getting too amped up and just want to jam. So, I thought I'd give that a try. I took him into a little, small circle ... felt confident about our slow pace, and headed him toward Jackie. But when he saw his sister, all bets were off. His immense body literally lurched from almost a stand still to a full-on gallop. His back flattened underneath me and I felt his mouth clench down on the bit like a pit bull with a chew toy. I tried what few tools I have to slow him down with the reins and my body positioning, but the unwanted gallop put a pit in my stomach and each stride felt like a loop-dy-loop on a roller coaster. I pulled my right rein out to try to send us into the sagebrush, but he wasn't interested. My tiny pull to the right only forced his head to go right and his body to continue straight. I finally got his massive body to take a right, 90 degree turn into the sagebrush. He thundered uphill, slashing through the tall brush like the TRex in Jurassic Park ... crashing through the giant rain forest. Blackwell's speed only increased, his hind end thrusting us quickly towards a barbed wire fence. It was at this point that he started bucking ... compressing and extending his spine ... rounding and arching the two ends of his body. I bounced hard to the left ... his head whipping high and hitting my forehead. I thought that would be it ... I saw the deep ground and thought, "this is gonna hurt" ... but somehow my balance stuck, and my weight shifted to the right again. I was still in the saddle. In the next seconds, either I finally did something right to grind Blackwell to a rough halt, or he was done .... bored now, having ridded himself of 8 year old angst. We were both breathing hard, standing sideways on the hill, less than 10 feet away from the fence. My mom and Jackie appeared instantly at our side. I thought about crying, but decided to be tough. I was shaking, my legs violently trembling as I stood up in the stirrups to dismount. We traded horses and I settled into Jackie's low back, feeling light and scattered. The moment gone ... the surreal glitch that had taken me from conscious, everyday life, to instant terror and the present moment of thought that this was how I was going to die. The quiet continuance of life fell upon me like a hushed turning page. "Oh", I thought, "I'm still here, my body is here, my heart is beating and I get to keep going ... seeing, breathing, moving, living." We slowly walked home. As we un-tacked the horses, I hugged my mom; held her tight ... kissed Jackie and Blackwell on their noses. "Thank you", I said, "Thank you for keeping me safe."

Happy Live-In Girlfriend/Dog Owner Day?

I hate Mother's Day. This is a new thing for me. Yes, it was a week and half ago, but I was just asked today how Mother's Day was, so it came swirling back into my head. My whole life I never thought one way or the other about Mother's Day. I always buy my mom a card, and if we lived close to each other, we'd joke around about going out to brunch because we both hate brunch. A menu featuring both breakfast sausage with waffles and a patty melt is just wrong. And don't even say the words "Brunch Buffet". Just the thought of oxygenated hollandaise sauce makes me throw up a little in my mouth. So, whatever, that was Mother's Day.

But it hit me this year. A girl at my new job wished me Happy Mother's Day when I was leaving on Friday (pretty much everyone there is a mom) ... I knee-jerked a blurt: "I'm not a mom!" Because just saying a simple "thank you" and leaving it at that wasn't right. If I did, I felt like I was deceitfully attempting to "pass" as a parent ... like I was posing as a member of an elusive club I didn't belong to. And then there's the people who know me and say Happy Mother's Day ... and I do the usual not-a-mom thing and they say, "Well, you're a mom to Pearl!" (Pearl is my 9 year old cattle dog.) And just so all of you real mothers know: I would never, ever liken dog ownership to being the mother of an actual homosapien who catapulted out of my kookoo after 9 months of parasitically sucking the ever-giving life out of me. It's like when a cat owner tries to draw similar parallels with a dog owner -- don't go there ... it's just not the same. Cat's don't need you, they do their business in a box, and you could come home after a 4 day camping trip and the cat wouldn't have even known you were gone. Trust me, I've done it.

But despite various attempts to allow me to sneak under the Mother's Day fence, the truth is, I'll never have a Mother's Day. And, I realized, I'll never get a Mother's Day card. Not even the 99 cent ones in Spanish that I buy for my step-sister at WalMart. As I was picking out a card for my mom this year, I saw all of the cards that were "From Husband", "For the Expecting", or "For The New Mom". Why don't you just kill me now, because what I was really looking for was: "For The 40-Something Selfish Slogging Late-Bloomer With Scrambled Eggs", or "From The Boyfriend Who Refuses To Procreate, But Loves You Anyway" ... or maybe "From Your Utterly Pissed Off Mother Who Will Never Be a Grandmother"! They don't make those.

So, to celebrate this day, my boyfriend and I made dinner for our mothers (the fathers could eat, too!) and the cards and toasts went around the table, all of us concurring as to how wonderful they are ... and they are. And it was nice and not about me. I wanted to feel hurt and left out and jealous and poor me ... but this day was about them, and they earned it.

I GOT A JOB!

F to the yeah! It's been a while. Here's why: I suited up for three interviews and spent over 2 weeks of training for a job ... not a just a job ... but a GOOD job. Okay, I had to go to a neighboring state to find it, but there are no jobs in Nevada! So, I'm commuting about 45 minutes each way and working from 7am-4pm Tuesday through Saturday ... but it's a JOB!!!!! For those of you who have luckily skirted the whole "recession" nuisance and still have your schedules, paychecks, 401Ks and health insurance, you probably wouldn't understand, but landing a good job right now is HUGE! So, I've completely thrown myself into this new whirlwind which has kept me on my toes, challenged, and grateful.
The great news, too, is that I've had less time to obsess about my ovaries and their diminishing use. Oh, I'm still a mess now and then, more often then than now ... but at least my zygote yearning has taken its place back in line and isn't hogging the center stage of my brain.
But it seems demented how much working means to me. How useless and diminished I feel when I'm not getting up every morning and joining the world in their march. I even busted open my purse calendar and started writing to do lists again. I am so much more organized when I'm working and thrive off that busy-ness and the notion of earning ... whether its fun or buying something or just chilling. It's been hammered into me that it all needs to be earned and if it hasn't been, it can't be enjoyed. God, I can pay my bills now and catch up with my responsibilities. It will feel so good to contribute to the household and treat my boyfriend and family again. All those things that you want to do for others, but simply don't have the money to. Buying a card, sending flowers, taking someone out to coffee or lunch ... treating the fam to a pizza ... all that life to participate in and you simply feel like the leechy, loser uncle when you can't. It's like you see yourself being force to be someone you're not ... just because you don't have the resources (ie: green stuff). No, happiness does not come from money ... I firmly believe that, BUT we live in reality, in this society, in this culture. And this culture requires money to eat, stay sheltered, and dress for our jobs that give us the money to pay for the shelter and food ... insert circle of infinity ... but I admit I'm very happy to be a cog in the wheel again!
Well, I spend about 9 hours on a computer everyday at my new job, but I miss writing so much, so add to "to do" list: keep blogging!

Family Portrait

Whoa, the moment has finally arrived and the results are in: I am the official loser of my parents 3 kids. It took a photo posted on facebook to arrive at this conclusion (another reason for my love/hate relationship with fb). My sister has 2 kids ... 4 and 2 ... she's 42. I was somewhat sufficiently jealous of that, but always so so happy for her because she wanted kids for a long time, went through immense challenges regarding pregnancy (emotional and otherwise), so when it was finally her turn, I rejoiced. Now, my brother just became a first time dad at the age of 40 ten weeks ago to a little girl. He and his wife just visited my sister and her husband ... and the photos of that visit have surfaced. My sister's two kids and my brother's infant. Everyone is smiling, big hands, little legs, cousin holding baby cousin, cuddling, holding ... the awe of it all ... the pride, the "I present you, My Family" looks on the parents' faces. Taking in the photos, it felt like the first time I saw Titanic: I saw, I cried, I wanted to jump off the bow. My brother and I aren't close, so to see him, a father in photos ... is a little odd, but mostly, I just feel so far removed ... from him, them, that experience. It was the first time for my sister and brother to hang out as parents ... the visit being a definitive recording of a milestone in their lives. They've come full circle ... closed the loop ... have successfully launched into the world of unconditional love, responsibility, and the your-life-is-no-longer-just-about-you-ness of it all. My brother's baby is so (cliche, I know) ... precious. Just two chubby, creased legs and a heavy head. His huge arm cradling her effortlessly, protectively. What a thrill that must be for his wife to see. She is witness to his home stretch of growth, a fuller spectrum of emotions, and his life forever and beyond tied to hers. I don't think I could feel more alienated, more broken, and more alone.

Sick of Me

I might have it all wrong ... the way I think. I was pondering the feeling I'm so terrified of: the feeling that if I don't have a child/become a mother, etc., I will never know the love I have subconciously desired my whole life ... to be relied upon, to be taken seriously. It's so fucked because here I waited all this time to find the kind of relationship I now have, to even feel like I would like to procreate with this person, and once I have the person, he doesn't want to. So, the question now is: will I feel the same kind of love, happiness, fulfillment; as a childless woman? Or, will this be a deathbed regret? Dunno. From what I understand, there is no substitute for the love of/for a child. I get that. I buy it. I mean, yes, I love my mother, I love my dog, but is/can it be the same as the love felt for a life created by my body? They say no. "They" meaning everyone I've heard/read, decided now NOT to hear/read (because it brings up too much pain) ... insists that it is a love you've never known until you experience it. So, how can that be duplicated?? Am I supposed to breed Boston Terriers, or adopt a child from Malawi? Take the helm of a Greenpeace ship and save soon-to-be slaughtered harbor seals? Or pretend that I might have the slightest of impact on my boyfriend's kids? Am I supposed to be an amazing step-mother? Or ... a-hem ... step-girlfriend? (Marriage is about as realistic right now as taking a trip on the Good Ship Lollipop) Oh my God! I'm going to be that volunteering 75 year old woman wearing dark lip liner talking about how awesome Whole Foods is ... because I'll be able to afford it! It will be just me. And a dog ... a small one, because I'll have given up on dogs over 35 pounds ... and a bill from Direct TV. I'll watch Dancing With the Stars and care about who should win American Idol, and how Katie Couric is wearing her stupid pixie on the evening news. Jesus Christ. Everything will be just as I want. What I want, when I want, how I want. Which is the life I've lead for the past twenty years. I don't want to be a mom because I want to be loved, I want to love ... want my life to stop being all about me. I'm sick of me. But for now, I have to continue this sick, co-dependent, unhealthy relationship with this chick I know ... her name is Kimberly.

Hell in Heels

So, I had the interview ... 2 hours and 15 minutes! I was shot, emotionally and physically (only had coffee for breakfast) and was totally exhausted by processing the duality of caring ... and not. I figure for every job offer I've received, I've suffered through at least 5 interviews. So, I busted out my size 8 BeBe pants (I get that a size 8 might not be considered "skinny", but I bought those pants when I was 29!, so fuck off), a proper business shirt covered with a vest and my high heeled business shoes ... cuz it was business time. So, I drove the 40 minutes (the job would be 70 miles round trip) to the building, and checked in. After meeting with HR, I took a computer test. The typing test consisted of like 8 pages! My wrists and fingers were seriously tired. I get the whole typing test thing, but for the love of God, why so many?? After that, there was a computer test, which I thought I'd nail, but once you're actually tested whether or not you're a geek, you realize how much you're NOT! One of the questions asked was about .... yawn ... the information section of a computer. I second guessed myself: is it a processor ... or a hard drive? Processor or hard drive? Hard drive or processor?? I know this! Damn! I felt like a tool. I took for granted how much I knew ... or didn't know ... about computers. Anyway, I guess I passed the test, because HR took me to shadow two positions. After that, I spent one parched, shaky hour on the other side of a sand colored Formica table in front of 2 men. For all of the interviews I've suffered, these words I'm about to utter are un-utterable: they were soooo nice ... super sensitive ( I know ... it was a job interview) and concerned about maintaining the culture of the company ... which I respect. I left the building so thirsty my tongue was heavy as silt, starving- yet nauseous, nerves fried. As a consummate job seeker, I've developed a cell in my brain that keeps me from caring ... from getting excited ... putting the cart before the horse, if you will. It's similar to the part of our stomachs that used to digest bone ... an anatomically, mammalian trait established for one's survival. Call it the job seeker's Darwinian approach. See, cuz I've had too many interviews and read too many consultant articles and tips from the top to be at all hopeful. Here's the truth: employers have made a decision about you within 10 seconds of your arrival; your appearance is the most telling story an employer has to make about you; and if the hiring manager was kicked in the shin by a redhead in 7th grade, I'm fucked.

Tell me some of your strengths

I have a job interview tomorrow. This is good news in this job market and despite how many times I've interviewed over the past 10 years, I'm already nervous. I HATE interviewing. Hate, hate, hate it. Plus I don't like to talk about it because again, when you interview over and over and then don't get the job, you really lose your hope. And honestly, I'm not even sure why I was called for this one. It's a customer service position for a company that specializes in real estate and mortgages and brokers and appraisals and stuff I haven't a clue about. They seem like a really good company and I'm stoked they did call me, but I feel like this is so not my area of expertise. I can produce a newscast for you ... or a documentary on your favorite celeb, but I've been a renter my entire adult life and feel like real estate is a grown up's game. But, I have to do the dog and pony show: do more research on the company, know their history and philosophy, pick out my outfit the night before -- professional casual pants and shirt, preferably not stained, do the hair pulled back thing, and bust out my sensible shoes. God, I HATE this! Eight years ago, I was once again trying to get the hell out of television and I landed an interview to work for an employment agency. I had ... count them ... FOUR interviews!! That's four suits, four pairs of NYLONS, eight firm handshakes and forty-thousand fake smiles! I had to go to stores I loathe like Fileen's Basement and Ross for business attire. I ended up getting the job ... and then getting fired. At least I still have the suits. So, here I go again. And I know you need to interview to get a job, but whyyyyyyy do they make such a big deal out of it? I mean, in the age of no such thing as a lifelong job and so many companies going freelance so they don't have to pay bennies, is the "where do you see yourself in 5 years" question still necessary? Oh, I know them all: what are your strengths/weaknesses, why do you want to work here, how would your previous employer describe you, what management style do you like/dislike, and I love the catch all warm up: So, tell me about yourself. Christ. Okay, my neck is getting tight just typing this.

Take the A Train

I experienced another first today. Another random, so-not-my-former-life experience, due to my dating a dad ... who obviously has friends with kids. Obviously. We're in our forties. The only people without kids are the psychotically selfish, the barren, and the socially inept guy who still lives at home and will only ever truly love "Mother". Even meth addicts, gay couples in their fifties and amputees have kids. But I digress. I went to a jazz recital today. Two of my boyfriend's friend's kids were performing. One sang and one played piano. It was held at a piano store and a local music teacher sets her students up to perform in a nice little room off to the side. We were a little late, and dressed for a beach party, so we sat in the last row. The 13 year old played piano first ... jumped right up there on stage in her darling black ensemble, took a confident bow, and played 2 songs like it was nothing. Then her sister took the stage. She's almost 15 and sang a song from Pocahontas ... "Colors of the Wind", I think it's called. I knew she was nervous ... she's new to performing, but she breathed and was in key and most importantly DID IT! I got teary eyed. I was nervous like a parent ... it was ridiculous. I've only known them for about a year, or so, but I was enthralled by her. I had to remind myself she wasn't my kid, then pondered what it would be like if she was. To see your own child up there ... so proud of them pursuing a musical endeavor. To practice, and then have the balls to get up in front of peers and strangers to perform. I think my chest would burst open. Then again, maybe it's no big deal. Or maybe that feeling wears off the more they perform. Dunno. We sat through what felt like a hundred more performances and then did the congratulations, beaming parents, and eat cupcakes thing. This is where I embarrassed myself. I was standing and talking with the 15 year old ... her parents nearby ... when the music teacher approached with her camera and said she wanted to get another snap, and pointed it at the two of us. I thought it was odd to want a picture of me with one of her students, since she knows I'm not her mother ... and quite honestly, looked homeless. But, I thought, "Oh well", put my arm around 15 year old and started to "cheese". That's when my 15 year old buddy left my side, walked in front of me, and put her arm around her mom to pose with her parents. I was clearly out of the shot. As the music teacher snapped a shot of the three of them, I pretended to be intensely fascinated with sheet music from The Phantom of the Opera. God, I'm such a dick. As if watching 2 hours of other people's children sing and play piano, while sitting next to a bus load of nursing home patients boistrously questioning their Saturday "outing" wasn't enough ... I actually thought I was part of the group for a second. Yeah, it was an innocent incident ... seemingly inconsequential to an observer ... but only because they have no idea how much I want to be in the picture.

7 lbs, 3 oz of Envy

Ok, that's it. I can't take it anymore. I cannot take the baby pictures on facebook. I know that sounds really mean and insensitive and all that and maybe I am. A friend I used to work with a few years back just gave birth to her first and pics from her hospital bed were uploaded before the umbilical cord was cut. And I really like my friend, I truly do, so I'm not trying to be bitchy or judgmental. I'm happy as hell for her. She's supercool and totally deserves. The problem is me: I am a ravenous jealous, premenopausal 41 year old with eggs that at this point are probably more scambled than poached. The nanosecond I lay my eyes on those pics, I'm in a heinously shit mood, I hate my life AND my boyfriend and just want to say fuck it and move to Paris, start a brothel and get really skinny smoking cigarettes, drinking sherry and eating ham. Those pics represent such hope and newness and light. The powerful, yet fragile presence of the newborn and the soft gaze of the mother ... now and forever intertwined for this lifetime. I feel so small as I stare. So weak compared to her strength ... and lacking of a significant responsibility to have, to serve, to live for. I mean, I fucking went skiing today. The woman GAVE BIRTH for God's sakes. Even celebrities, who have reached the pinnacle of their art form ... Oscar winners and platinum album superstars will swear up and down that the truth behind their success, the reason why they get up in the morning ... is for their children. All the money, fame, attention, power ... still cannot come close to the sense of wholeness they feel as parents. I can't imagine anything more powerful. And although I don't really give a shit what Reese Witherspoon says, it's quite a statement when someone who has everything we all want ... is happiest with the one thing we can all have. Well, that's if you have a boyfriend who's willing to procreate with you, or you have enough money for either top-notch sperm, or to adopt a cute little LingLing or Oksana ... all of which, of course, does not describe my current situation. To my friend, I say a huge congratulations. I'm envious as hell, you look gorgeous, he's adorable and all that. Fortunately, she'll be way too busy for the next couple of years to read this blog, which is cool ... sometimes I wish I didn't have time to write it.

Job Fairs Suck

I kept an open mind, put on a nice outfit, actually wore underwear ... and gee, wouldn't you know it: the job fair at the Grand Sierra was a total and utter WASTE OF TIME. I'm a self-proclaimed expert at job hunting. I've had 16 jobs in 10 years. True story. So, I would normally never subject myself to a job fair at a casino in the state with the highest unemployment rate ... I know better. But, annoying people in my life (love ya!) kept telling me about this one because the goddamn news channels kept doing stories on it. The story went something like this: One-thousand jobs will be "up for grabs" at the Silver--Stud-Whatever Ballroom at the Grand Sierra today from 11am until 3pm. The event was put on by a credit union (?) that specializes in banking for gaming employees. I still can't figure that one out. But the news anchors would blab on about how 20 (OMG!) employers would be waiting for us with baited breath and I-9s to fill out. And who were the exclusive employers we lowly, desperate job seekers would have the pleasure of interviewing with? Get this: The fucking Army, and Navy, every crap-can employment/temp agency in the area (Apple One, Hire Dynamics, and Kelly Services) ... oh, and ... casinos!!!!!!!!!!!! Who, just tell you to go on their website and apply online anyway. But my favorite employer of all was the State of Nevada ... whose website states the following: The State has instituted a freeze on hiring along with an approval process to allow for filling positions that have been identified as critical for maintaining State of Nevada government operations. Therefore, only recruitments for positions that have passed the approval process will be posted on this site. I love you, Reno, but you're killing me! And I don't feel sorry for me. I feel for the hundreds of locals who busted their asses to get resumes typed up and printed on a computer at the unemployment office, borrowed a friend's tie or spanx, got someone to watch their kids, rode two busses, and wasted perfectly good Dollar Tree lip gloss on a bunch of bullshit! But who cares if our time is wasted ... we're unemployed. And at this stage in my life, I have more on the job experience than the ass-clown HR clerks sitting behind the bright blue polyester table cloths in their Burlington Coat Factory business casual. I am so bitterella I can't stand it. They're just JOBS. Everyone hates theirs, no one wants to be there, no one is appreciated and we're all underpaid. It's a joke. I interviewed once for a minimum wage, seasonal cashier position a few years ago and the douche Manager actually asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. "Sir," I thought, "the question isn't where do I see myself in 5 years, it's where did I see myself 5 years AGO? And trust me, it wasn't ringing up chap stick ... for you!"

Off Sides

If I really stop and think about how much my life has changed over the past year, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I usually end up doing both. My boyfriend has two boys, 12 and 15, and one of my new past times is going to various sporting events. His boys are quite active. Snow skiing and basketball in the winter, soccer in the summer. My boyfriend kills himself to make every game, so I do, too. I don't know why. I mean, I want to be supportive, of course, but I sometimes wonder if anyone knows I'm even there. Basketball season ended tonight ... and that game I can deal with. Short quarters, you're home in about an hour ... that's my kind of committment. Soccer, on the other had, kind of sucks. The season is long ... and they don't call call them soccer moms for nothing. Last summer I had my first girlfriend-of-the-dad-with-two-boys at the soccer games experience. The games were suprisingly brutal. And I'm not talking about the action on the field. I was overwhelmed with feelings that were seriously embarrassing. I felt left out ... the childless hanger-on ... the single observer who chimed in pathetic "woo hoos". The parents of the players don't mess around. They bring lawn chairs, snacks, coolers, beach umbrellas ... and their other offspring. As a woman whose biological alarm clock is blaring like a tidal wave warning, these seemingly innocent games became incredibly trying. Thank God for sunglasses ... except when the tears fog them up. I was surrounded by families and couples intensely watching their kids with obvious stakes. Commenting on how much better, stronger, and faster their spawn had become ... inbetween tending to the player's younger sibling ... snacking on Sun Chips and Capri Suns. I tried to feel involved. I really did. I tried to understand the concept of off-sides, carried the folding chairs, and even considered giving the Ref a flying elbow on a bad call. But the undeniable truth that cannot be faked, is they are not my children. I'm kind of dreading soccer season. I'm thinking about not making as many games. Maybe it would be okay to take care of myself and not put myself through the emotion of it all. I mean, it's just soccer, right?

Ode to our 16 year old selves

I just lost myself on youtube. Lost my 16 year old self. My favorite band in 1986 was Lone Justice ... and not many kids in Marin County, where I grew up, had ever heard from them. Now that I think about it, I have no idea how I first heard them, but I do remember a time when I was in the juniors department of Macy's at our mall and they had just installed TV monitors playing music videos. I remember one video of a band with a lead singer with a strong, earnest and pretty face ... she had pale skin and curly hair like me ... wore matte ruby lips and attacked the microphone like James Brown. She was aggressive and competent and scarily free and I was mesmerized. Maybe that was the first time I saw Maria McKee. I bought their first album, and they had this really weird, alt (before there was an "alt") country, cowpunk sound that my step-brother used to make fun of me for. And truly, I can't blame him. At that exact time, most kids were listening to Def Leppard and Van Halen and the most alternative it got, was The Alarm ("68 guns will never die ... 68 guns,the battle cry ...")

Maria sang about redemption, sad eyes, springs in the mattress and Bourbon. She was from Los Angeles ... and yet, salvation, cold dinners sitting on the stove and tv's with antennae were woven into her lyrics. She glorified a yellow mobile home life with beauty, lipstick and ... dare I say ... class? I remember when I saw that Macy's video, I thought she was so passionate, she must be on drugs. She scared me, so I could definingly compartmentalize her into a young, So-Cal girl in a man's world, who spouted and thrashed at the mic.

Lone Justice broke up after just 2 albums. I played the song "Shelter" for my 70-something year old English grandmother when I was 16. Although she was impressed by the sophisticated melody for an American teen, she found the chorus to be quite repetitive. When I was 19, Maria released her first solo album. I had rented a room in a Victorian in Noe Valley in San Francisco and would listen to it sitting on the hardwood floor of my room ... crying in tune to her lyrics.

Maria has been my newspaper ... the proverbial soundtrack to my life. I understand that now, she's married, in her 40's and never had children. She still tours ... mostly in Ireland, where she is profoundly popular .... but showings near the west coast are incredibly rare. To this day, her voice warms me from the inside out, throws me into my dreamland, and gives me goosebumps. I am the 9 year old singing into my hand ... her lips are my lips and somehow she is my sister.

Chicken Fried Steak Post Script

Exactly one hour after the lunch described above, my boyfriend was lying on the floor enjoying his current book, when suddenly, with a moan and a dash ... the poor dear spent the rest of the night in the bathroom. I think he got maybe one or two pages read in between trips, which was nice, but you could have set a train schedule to his "moments". I mean, what's the point of a two-for-one coupon if you end up spending $5.99 on Pepto Bismol and $2.50 on diet 7-Up? My fried egg sandwich only cost $6.99. He even watched me eat ice cream topped with Magic Shell ... and didn't partake. That's one sick puppy. I try to give restaurants the benefit of the doubt. I've been in the biz and read Anthony Bordain's "Kitchen Confidential", ... and truly believe that immune systems are made for eating out. But, dude ... at least in LA, they make restaurants post the grade the food inspector gives them. Restaurants are graded from A to F. If you're a restaurant worth a shit, you're an A. Some are B's ... and you only eat there cuz you're drunk and really need a burrito. Anything below that was just out of the question. It would be like eating sushi in Mazatlan and washing it down with a glass of ice cold water. I used to only eat at A's ... obviously ... until unbeknownst to me, one Christmas, when my Jewish (now ex) husband grabbed some Chinese take-out ("A Christmas Story" was accurate) after seeing a movie ... from a C! I already hate Chinese food, so a C rated Chinese restaurant was clearly reason enough for divorce. But here, in Sparks, Nevada, no postings are required. Although the soaking, see-through dishwasher shirt in the dining room should have been my first clue. Poor bf. He did recover, of course ... thinking it was maybe a little stomach flu ... "No sweetie ..." I told him, "Coupons kill ... let this be a lesson to you."

Over Easy

My boyfriend and his parents and I had lunch at a diner today ... one of those semi-crappy diners that serves deep-fried cheesecake. They were closing in an hour, or so, and it was well past the lunch rush, so the servers were starting to close up shop while taking the last of their orders. I had major flashbacks to when I've worked the breakfast/lunch shift and you hit that hour of the afternoon where your dogs are barking, your makeup is shiny, your apron is caked with fried egg and syrup and you stink like the dishwasher. God, I felt for them. One woman was refilling the sugars on the tables, another starting to re-stock the croutons and half and half. Their ponytails had expired, along with their shirts ... few of them even bothered to tuck them in at this stage of the day. Then, the dishwasher came out with a 3-tiered cart of bus tubs ... rumbling down the aisle of the dining room collecting dirty dishes. I almost puked. Then I saw right through his white, wet button down shirt to his overhanging gut ... soaked and stained to the bone. I held my breath as he walked by. The smell of restaurant dish washing areas has always made me gag. There's a very distinct stench that rises up out of the sinks and washers and corners where these poor souls have to work. It's not right ... but I admire them for being able to tolerate it. My feet hurt just looking at the workers. Being on the breakfast/lunch shift SUCKS! It's the most work for the least pay. And breakfast people are PICKY motherfuckers. You have to get their eggs just right, bacon has to be "extra cripsy", choices of toast, jam, jelly, butter, ketchup, Tobasco (red and green), honey, warmed syrup ... and don't even get me started on the tea people. By the time you're done serving a table of 4 breakfast, there are literally 30 items to be picked up off the table. And since you're only one person and can only bring so many items to the table at one time, you can count on about a dozen round trips to the table. Then there's the coffee. The tiny, worthless mugs that maybe hold 2 ounces force servers to make coffee runs the equivalent of a half-marathon. And all for about $3 ... if you're lucky.
If I ever have to wait tables again, and believe me, I could be getting close, Mama only works the dinner shift. I look at it this way: I can bring you a plate of food that will cost you $7 or $32 ... it's all the same to my feet ... but you have to tip a percentage of your bill. And when you add cocktails, appetizers, a bottle of wine and dessert ... I'm walking away with a pretty good tip on a fat bill. Of course, you need to act the part ... you have to know what broccoli rabe and quinoa are, what wine will go well with your Chilean sea bass, and memorize detailed specials, but I personally think it's worth it.
So, here's to all you hard, hard working breakfast/lunch shifters: the servers, bussers, cooks, and dishwashers ... getting off at 3pm with $35 in your pocket, an apron that's stuck together, dried syrup under your fingernails, and the wherewithal to do it all over again tomorrow.

What a Lunk!

In a moment of desperation (and the balance in my checking account), I sent a resume to a posting on craigslist of a new gym opening up close to my house in need of front desk help. With my open mind, I pictured bike riding to work this summer wearing comfy yoga pants and tennis shoes, checking members in with some kind of electronic scanner thingy, ringing up $4 Muscle Milks and scoring a free gym membership. I got a call the same day for an interview. Just about the entire population of Reno is unemployed, so I thought I'd stumbled on to a decent opportunity. I showed up for my interview with "Gym Man" ... whom I was trying soooooo hard not to pre-judge. Black slacks, black polo with company emblem tucked into pants, bulging biceps and gelled short military hair. As we entered the interview room, he told me to, "take a seat in the yellow hand on the right". At the end of a long runway-like rug, there were, TWO plastic neon yellow hand chairs. You know the ones that might have been cool and moderne for like ... a second ... in a loft in SoHo? As I sat down on the hand, waiting for him to accompany me on the other side of the table, he said, "So, why don't you tell me about yourself while I unpack these boxes." He didn't sit down and didn't even LOOK at me. I couldn't believe it! The unemployment rate in this state has given employers such an advantage, they don't even owe you eye contact! So there I was trying to sell myself to a fucking wall while Sgt. Gel Head moved boxes.
When he finally sat down, he went over the membership pricing and the strict guidelines for answering the phone. After every sentence, he asked, "Any questions on that?" As in: "Right now, we're offering a $1 introductory sign-up fee. Any questions on that?" Or: "And your monthly membership rate is $10 per month. Any questions on that?" Jesus. I have questions about black holes, how the Mormon religion ever caught on, and why pubic hair has gone out of style, but I think I'm clear on the pricing ... thanks, Bud. He then told me to memorize the information and come back the next day for a SECOND INTERVIEW. Oh no! An employee for a minimum wage, part-time job that involves wiping down chrome with disinfectant cannot be chosen in one day, people!
The morning before my second interview, I did a little more research on the company. One of the gadgets this gym uses to entice membership is their "Judgment Free Zone" ... which I figured was a tactic to get the occasional, possibly overweight exerciser to join. It turns out, there's much more to that seemingly innocent marketing ploy. Controversy has been surrounding this east coast based chain since the beginning and I found several articles and news segments depicting the issue. The gym prohibits members from "grunting" while working out. Grunting? What qualifies as grunting? I mean, are we talking Serena Williams at Wimbledon grunting? A slight vocalized exhale when anyone over forty has to pick something up off the ground? Well this one poor weight lifting New Yorker found out. The manager of the gym actually kicked the guy out and called the cops because he "grunted" while bench pressing 300 pounds. And it gets worse. Another feature to the gym is what they call the "Lunk Alarm". The World War Two siren alarm and accompanying flashing light will go off when anyone "grunts, drops a weight, or JUDGES". And guess who's responsible for setting off the alarm? So, what started out as a simple front desk job turned into taking on the role of some twisted moral cop kicking out dudes whose vocal cords come too close together when they exhale. Can you say discrimination? Sexism? Flat out hipocricy? Let's see, we don't want you to judge, but we're going to judge you and then penalize you for it. I don't see how this chain is in business, but I know I won't be working there. I called up Bicep Boy and told him thanks, but no thanks.

Livin' and Lovin' the Dream

Since I have the joy of being unemployed again, I decided to express a moment of optimism and log on to a national job board website to take a peek. A friend of mine claims she actually had some luck on one of them. After narrowing it down to Reno, the site said it had 436 job listings for the area ... which is depressing enough ... but you can also post your resume on the site. And there were a whopping 86,000 local resumes posted!! I suck at math, but I think the ratio of 436 jobs to 86,000 job seekers comes out to be fucked %. Plus, I used to work for a temp agency, and the recruiters are told to post fake job ads on a weekly basis, just to get people calling into the agency to sign up. Posts like, "Warehouse Position, Full-Time, $12/hr" ... with a really general job description are probably not real jobs. If there's no company name, no specific email address or phone number to contact, and it refers you to an employment agency, don't get excited.
Oh, and for all of you who think unemployment checks just come "forever" and you can suck the government's tit while you chill ... I'm here to tell you that's not true. For example, in 2 weeks, my unemployment runs out. I was let go from my job as a News Producer 10 months ago. Since then, I worked a seasonal job for 4 1/2 months ... and my unemployment was only good for 19 weeks. So, now I have to apply for an extension, which can't be done online, so I have to do it by phone initially (the wait can be up to 6 hours) ... and then if I qualify, claims are done through the mail. Every week, I have to fill out an application listing all the jobs and companies I have applied to and send it off through snail mail. And even if I qualify for an extension, it is only good for 20 weeks. So, I have 5 more months before I am completely screwed. I keep hearing people say that some lazy asses have been on unemployment for 2 years, but I just don't see how that works. If I'm lucky, I will get a total of 10 months of unemployment benefits from the state of Nevada ... where I have worked for 5 years. In the meantime, the only jobs I've even seen posted are for forklift operators and casino cocktail waitresses. Honestly, I'd rather lift palettes than wear nude pantyhose and ingest cigarette smoke at 10 in the morning. At this rate, my annual income continues to be less than my student loan balance.

3/10/11

I've been in an emotional coma for a few days ... haven't been able to blog on schedule, but somehow, I was able to document the issue ... problem ... catastrophe:
3/10/11
Can something die without ever living? A dream, perhaps? How am I still breathing? Why are my lungs moving the heavy breath in and out? How does the pain not kill? I feel like a piece of me is dying every day. A month ago, it was another lost job, yesterday, a rejection letter from a graduate program, and today, the deepest cut of all, the love of my life finally killed my dream of us having a baby. Laid down a defiant refusal to try to conceive a child with me after over one year of swaying, considering, and teasing. He said No. Another No. No, you can’t, no you’re not the one, no, we didn’t pick you …No!
The baby, my baby that I will never know. Owning this female body for all these years … cleaning up the messes of menstruation and emotion … all the while knowing it will pay off: with a final scream and push, the noise will siphon down to the one ripe cry of a newborn, wrapped in white, it will be placed onto my chest and my love and I will sob tears of awe and never before realized happiness when we stare into the face of our new life.
No first night, smile, word, step. I will never hear, “Hi Mom” or comb sweet smelling fine hair. I’ll never have my patience, morality, and judgment tested to the utmost of my ability. Know humility, sleeplessness, and sacrifice the way only a parent knows. Or come face to face with the gripping fear and visceral uncertainty of handing a life over to this world.
I’m stunned and frozen by the depth of the pain I feel over this loss. I can’t help but think my love knew how he felt all along, but didn’t want to, “hurt my feelings”. Words and phrases like, “maybe” … “we’ll see” and, “you never know” haunted me with enough promise. Once our love is solidified, I thought, then he will certainly be overwhelmed by the possibility and succumb to the beauty of the ultimate symbolism of our love. We have a healthy relationship; we’re both incredibly active and vibrant people. But most importantly, we love each other passionately and dearly and have waited a long time to find each other. He is my treasure; a once in a lifetime love. The kind of love that won battles and sunk ships. He is my hero. He’s all I see and the only man I want; and despite the excruciating death of a dream, I cannot live without this man.
So I sit and lay and somehow keep breathing.

Scary

This week has been just an exhausting emotional roller coaster. The good news is the closure of the School of Social Work was rescinded and the program is safe. The bad news is, I just received my rejection letter from the Graduate program. Guess there were just too many qualified applicants ... but I already knew that. When I produced the news, we would do stories on how college students are staying in school longer because there are no jobs ... especially in Nevada. So, tons of kids with BAs are just staying in, going for post-grad work. I kind of figured I was a long shot, but I really felt positive about it. It felt right and I thought my grad application essay would just "wow" them. And, I thought it would be great timing to maybe try to get pregnant while I was in school. Then, just as the little one was ready for day care, I'd be off and running with my fabulous new career. Saving the oppressed and raising a compassionate little being at the same time! That was the dream.
So, what to do when dreams keep dying?
My boyfriend and I had to talk about the pink elephant in the living room (me wanting a baby) last night. I think it was starting to pee on the carpet, so we sucked it up and tip-toed toward the topic. His stance remains the same: he has no desire to have another kid. He's done. I guess he just cannot envision a life with a baby with me and have it bring a single ounce of pleasure to his mind. He sees sleepless nights and drained bank accounts and dirty diapers and trunks full of crap required for a single family outing. He sees all of the bad and none of the good. I guess I was hoping that "love" would wash over his brain and change his mind ... that loving someone "enough" could conquer all. Isn't that what we were taught?
There was a third bomb that detonated in my body when he said he doesn't even ever think about marriage ... that he doesn't "see the point" and is (again) "in no rush". I just turned 41. I've been divorced for 8 years and my dog and my clothes and I just moved in with him 2 months ago. I am MORE than ready for the next phase in my life ... and beyond even that: I'm ready for some good news.
Suffice it to say I have a cried-too-hard last night headache and can barely think for myself today. My energy is low and appetite non-existent. How did I get here? How do I get out?

What Now?

Wow! The hits keep coming! Even my Plan C for has fallen through! After getting let go from yet another tv production job last summer, I decided to go back to school to get a Masters in Psychology. However, unfortunately, the University of Nevada, Reno doesn't offer an MA in Psych, so I was encouraged by the head of the department to look into the Social Work program. It sounded great! In 2 years, I could be licensed and salaries, I was told, can start around 50k a year. So, for the past 2 semesters, I've been grad specialing masters classes and applied to the program this past January. I was supposed to find out whether or not I got accepted this month; but now, it doesn't matter. The university just announced that due to budget cuts, they are closing the School of Social Work and all related degrees. Nice. Stressing over the application essays, studying for the GRE, not to mention the time and effort my mentors and bosses put into my letters of recommendations ... all for not. I'm pretty shocked, to say the least.
This avenue was going to carry me into retirement. I figured I'll hunker down for 2 years, graduate when at 43 and have a whole new career. Social work isn't glamorous or cut throat ... just a nice, stable, honest job that would provide a living wage and fulfill my need to help people.
So, now what? I don't have a Plan D. I'd joke to my boyfriend that if I didn't get accepted into grad school, I was hopping on the first flight to India to fight human trafficking ... but I didn't really mean it. I just moved in with him, things are going great and he's totally supportive of me, so I can't just up and leave. Truth is, I want to be a mom ... and do all the non-feminist cooking and cleaning. I want to dote on my boyfriend ... make his life easier with his two boys. I want to volunteer and study Buddhism. I want to write and make soup. But I have a car payment, haven't had my cervix scraped in 3 years and am already a year overdue to get my boobs smashed for the first time. But before I start stressing out about all that ... I can't help but wonder why this happened ... because I have to accept it. I could stomp my feet and sob and cry, "why is nothing in my life working"?! But I won't this time. I'm choosing not to. It seems to me, like the perfect time to practice all of the Buddhist teachings I've been studying. So, I'm accepting the situation, doing my best to keep my mind free of anger and frustration and ... the hardest of all: fear. I have to assume that things are unfolding as they should and another option will soon reveal itself to me. I am going to trust the universe, or God, or whatever ... for the first time in my life. Wish me luck!

There for the Grace of God...you know the rest

I'm no saint. I rarely think of anything or anyone other than myself. Blame it on being an only child, or spending the better part of the past 41 years single and childless. So, during this latest phase of unemployment, I decided I needed not only a place to be a few days a week, but shot of humility so I won't feel sorry for myself all day ... everyday. I started volunteering at a food pantry today. Two days a week, I'll greet people, check IDs, and pack boxes with things like canned sliced peaches, dried plums, spaghetti sauce and apple juice. If you meet the income requirement and have a current photo ID, you qualify for a food box once a month and a daily snack ... and this economy isn't discriminating. Coming through the door were single mothers working just to pay the rent, the homeless guy reeking of pee and booze, young dudes all tatted up, Hispanic families, a cute, goateed, married father of 3 who just got laid off, and a Vet in a wheelchair. They were everybody. They were me. If it weren't for my family and friends, I've been a paycheck away from homeless since I graduated college. And as of right now, I more than qualify for a box of food.
I just completed four months at a seasonal job working a customer service for a company that sells overpriced outdoor clothing. I spent 8 hours a day on the phone listening to the elite complain about how their $500 ski jacket didn't keep them warm enough on the slopes in Aspen, or take 10 minutes to decide between the lavender $100 bunting or the pink $100 bunting for their Baby Jesus. I loathed just about every moment of that job ... dealing with customers and their rudeness, entitlement, and complete lack of perspective. I felt as if I was somehow validating their self-righteous and indignant behavior ... merely by working there. With each swipe of my time card, I was bowing to the alter of consumer capitalism right along with them.
But today was different. Today, I smiled ... a real smile, my smile ... not my fake, retail minimum wage smile. I called people Sir and Ma'am ... not because they were paying with an American Express card, but because I bet they never hear it. Some folks smiled back, some hung their heads in embarrassment or shame, some barely spoke English and some had stories to share ... but everyone left with enough food to make it through at least one more day.

Perfect

I had a nice birthday. Lunch with my Mom, a pizza party my boyfriend and his kids planned, and homemade cupcakes from a friend. It was nice. It's funny: it seems like the older you get, the less birthdays mean; when in fact, it should be the opposite. I mean, who cares if you make it to 23? Good for you! But 41?! And you're still here? If not by luck, then by choice, no less? Now, that's cause for celebration! You've crossed the threshold into, "scary milestones" land: mammograms and work-related-ageism, grocery baggers calling you "Ma'am" and a potential pregnancy considered "high risk". Pre-40 something milestones were fun! Getting a driver's license, voting, drinking in bars ... even renting a car! Now it's all about probing orifices and night sweats!
But my "birthday weekend", as my boyfriend calls it, concluded today with the most kind of celebrations. We attended a very special yoga class at the Dharma center I frequent. The yoga was referred to as "resting yoga" and included lying down on the floor for about 50 minutes. The instructor led us through moments of awareness to our bodies and parts of our bodies ... always insisting, "there is no goal, there is nowhere to be right now, there is no right or wrong". And in a radical statement, I learned today that it's not only okay, but encouraged in meditation to say to myself, "I am Perfect." The class posed the question, "What if?" What if I was perfect just the way I am? What if? Who would I be? What would I do? How would that feel? I've always been afraid to find out, but today, out loud, I made a promise to myself: I am not going to spend the next 4o years of my life judging and rejecting myself the way I did for the first 40. Because I am Perfect.

The New Suburbia

The neighbor across the street had his garage door open last night and I couldn't help stopping for a moment to take it in. It struck me- the sheer amount of items stacked, hanging and stuffed into that space; and the fact that very few garages are even used to house vehicles anymore. I couldn't even make out what half of the items were, but it made me turn around and peer into the garage of the house I'm living in now, which is my boyfriend's.
The abundance was astounding. The gear and tools and boxes; shelves holding paint and gasoline, 5 sets of Rollerblades for 3 people, skis, snowboards, bikes, dirt bikes, golf bags, shovels and brooms, ropes and boxes marked "Xmas Decorations". Randoms like a plastic pumpkin, a Halloween rasta wig, and a box of my shoes that won't fit in the closet.
I wondered what that garage would look like to any of the billions of people living on this planet who cannot comprehend the accumulative life we Westerners live. To have a car alone, would be astounding. Add to it, a box in which to park it. But we can't FIT our cars in our garages because we own too much SHIT. So now, our suburban streets have become parking lots. Forget fitting cars (read: huge gas guzzling SUVs and trucks) into garages, my neighbors can't even fit all of their vehicles onto their driveways! And I'm not excluding my boyfriend and myself. His truck fits into his garage, but he also owns a tent trailer, which sits on the driveway in front of the side of the garage that he doesn't pull into; so, I park on the street, so he can pull in and out of the garage. Yes, we are guilty, too.
Most of the people in the world are lucky to have a fucking bicycle! And in a sick sense, I'm kind of jealous. Jealous of simplicity, jealous of the "knowing" that things don't make you happy. We are still chasing that dragon. I'm suffering from the withdrawals of 40 years of a steady IV drip of consumer capitalism, and it's not all that easy to kick. Just when I think I've slayed the dragon, I see a ridiculous pair of platforms, or a shiny lip gloss, or a black 2011 5-speed Subaru Outback Sport with a roof rack and think, "THEN ... and only THEN, I will be the person I want to be." It's sick; a disease and although I cognitively know it's not true, my brain will still go there. To fight it is to be a rebel. The battle is against years of training, behavioral therapy, and my society and culture at large. But I'm taking it on. Sometimes I relapse and let my mind wander, but I'm mindful of it. And sometimes that's the best I can do.
I think of a boy, maybe 9 or 10, from the poorest part of India. I picture him looking at our garage wide-eyed. I don't know if he would be astounded, excited, or confused; but I know, I would be ashamed.

Don't Leave the Room

I went to my first bikram yoga class today. I know behind the curve on this one, but the idea of holding already seemingly impossible poses in a room that is heated up to the temperature of India in August with a dew point of 95, just never sounded good to me. I like yoga; gentle, meditative, candlelight yoga with Bollywood ballads playing in the background. But bikram, I knew, would be a challenge for me and my kind. See, I'm a redheaded, fair-skinned lass whose ancestors hail from Scotland. Lifting a Scotch to our lips while belting out soccer anthems safely tucked into a pub booth waiting for the rain to stop- that's what my people do for exercise.
As a brand new student to bikram, the instructor had to meet with me before the class. He gave me an overview, then told me it would take about 3 to 5 classes to even start to get used to the heat and humidity. He told me I might feel dizzy, lightheaded and nauseous, and feeling that way was fine, but however I might feel, just don't leave the room. Oh, God! Really? I mean, what if I puke or think I'm gonna pass out or have a panic attack because it's 100 degrees and I can't breathe because the air is thicker than commute hour in Delhi?
I took my mat and towel to the last slot in the back and sank into a 90-minute session. Yes, an hour and a half. I couldn't even think about it. The instructor paces and talks the whole time into a wireless mic, so I had to use my fellow students as my examples. Most of the poses themselves weren't particularly difficult (although I haven't been able to touch my toes since I was in vitro), but it was the heat that added a whole new dimension to my shaking shell. The poses are a form of cardio, and I could literally feel every single artery pumping as I inhaled with heavy, thick breaths. Halfway through the standing poses, the advanced students so limber, they might as well have been licking their tailbones, I saw stars...black splotches... and my towel started spinning. I came out of my pose to calm myself, but was scolded by the instructor for breaking my pose before the rest of the class. Apparently we start and end each pose together. I guess impending loss of consciousness isn't really a concern. I recovered and made it to the floor portion of the class. At this point, the sweat is literally gushing out of my body. I honestly didn't know a human could sweat this much. My high-performance wicking (ha!) t-shirt was completely soaked through, my shins resembled waterfalls and my pony tail was so wet it was literally starting to weigh me down. My face was as red as a campfire and my eyes stung from brow sweat (so that's what eyebrows are for! Damn Drew Barrymore and her thin '90's brows ... I knew I over-plucked!) After a few more poses that included cirque de soleil back bends and a, "now lift everything off the floor except your vagina" pose, we ... were ... done.
Now the questions are: was the pleasure worth pain? And, am I going back for more?
Answers: I'll let you know tomorrow ... and ... I have to, I bought a membership!

3 Days Left

Today is March 1st. My birthday is March 4th. I'll be turning 41. For most of us, it was the Big 4-0 that knocked us flat ... left us wondering what, when and where? But for me, it's 41. See, two, count them, TWO psychics, on separate occasions to two different people predicted emphatically that I would have a baby when I was 40 years old. At the time of the readings, I was 35 and single and still having fun and the idea of becoming a first-time Mom at 40 sounded great! I still had time to kiss a few more frogs, meet the man of my dreams, get committed and get knocked up. The first psychic was an impromptu sit-down at a party. She didn't know my age, and I didn't ask her if or when I would have a child. She firmly stated that I would not have a baby until I was 40. Several months later, my mother actually paid to see a psychic. She asked her if she would ever be a Grandmother and the woman said, "Your daughter will have a child at 40". We were astounded and figured such a coincidence would have to be true! So, I continued on, looking forward to my forties with a sense of optimism and hope; counting months backwards, wondering if I'd get pregnant when I was 39 and then give birth when I was 40, or if the entire event would happen in my fortieth year.
On March 4th of last year, I turned 40, and was dating a man who already had two children from a previous marriage. Although most of his comments about babies fell into the "I don't want to have anymore children" bucket, he never gave me a straight answer ... a definitive "no". So, I continued to count. "Okay, it's March, if I only have 12 months left, that means I have to get pregnant by ... May ... or is it June? May. Okay, so I have 2 months to get pregnant! And a boyfriend who is in 'no hurry' to make any kind of commitment". So, then the wheels started turning again ... justifying...rationalizing what 2 women who didn't even know me said 5 years ago. Since I was falling hard for my boyfriend and things were going so well, I had to improvise. I wondered, "did they mean have a baby at 4o or become pregnant at 40? Did they mean become a mother at 40, like, maybe psychics believe that being pregnant is already mothering?" I would go around and around in my head, in the ridiculous circle that this twenty-dollar prophecy would come true.
But here I am, 3 days away from 41 and I think it's safe to say I've run out of time. No more counting backwards, and no closer to the hope of becoming a mother. I remember where I was driving the moment my mom told me on my cell phone that her psychic told her the same thing. I remember smiling with such a sigh of relief and calm. Maybe God had a plan for me and I didn't need to do anything for once. Maybe I could believe in cheap mysticism, or buy into the paranormal. It was the first time in my life I thought, "Why not believe"? Of course, it was something I wanted to hear, so I decided to secretly buy it. I should have known better. Maybe, that's what 41 will be for.