100 words a day

Tomorrow’s it.  I need to knock it out of the park. If it doesn’t go well… well then, I need to figure out something else out.  Fast.  This should make me incredibly nervous.  I was the first time I interviewed with them. It’s amazing what can happen in three months of nothing happening.

You can realize a lot in three months:

Truth: I don’t really want this job.
Truth: I definitely want it more than my current one.
Truth: I am going to have to act my ass off.

It’s going to come down to my acting chops.  Oh dear.

I should be preparing.
I should be studying.
I should be learning.

But I’m not.

The truth is I’m angry about the situation and more than a bit bitter so I’m doing nothing.

This, of course, I will regret.

On Thursday I will be interviewing for a position that I was already offered: “Go back and re-impress them!”

It’s a position I’d given up on because negotiations had stalled, its battery died and there was no one around with jumper cables.  Now someone has come by and offered to tow me back and I’m not sure I want to go.

And now the battle begins: me versus the thermostat.  Honestly, I lose every time. When it slides below 70 degrees I sprint for socks. I throw on a long sleeve shirt and an oversized flannel from my grungier days. When that doesn’t help I dive into a scalding bath until I run out of hot water. The bath turns half of my body a scary plummish-pink color and I look like an Easter egg painted by a color-blind child.

Now I am sitting here, sweating, thirty minutes post-bath, clad only in a tank top and sweats, enjoying the temporary thaw.

My relationship with alcohol has never been complicated.  He was the popular kid in high school that everyone wanted and I simply wasn’t interested.  Later, in college we began seeing each other casually and would date a couple of times a year.  As the years progressed he pressured me for more commitment.  I obliged and began seeing him a couple times a month.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve noticed that he lingers more and more into the morning.  Hasty departures are no longer his trademark.

I am starting to think that he’s too needy and our days might be numbered.

Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Drunk Sick.

Mom,

Wonderful books are like juicy secrets, we can’t wait to share them.   I read this book today while waiting at the gate for my flight. Cover to cover. In two hours.  I tend to swallow books whole, each page within a single bite.  I now wish I savored each mouthful more.

You and I have much in common, but fundamentally we are both daughters.  Comments I made in margins, sentences I underlined: please consider these as a daughter and not as my mother.

This book is a written painting.   It is provocative and compelling.  It is high art.

Enjoy!

Tonight I had a moment of crystallized delirium which may have been induced by a glass and a half of wine.   I was enjoying myself with this faux family I’ve found on the road.  The ability to socialize is a muscle I rarely flex, so I’m always surprised by its strength and power.

Tomorrow is my last day in Jersey.  From now on I will wake up to the Washington Post and not USA Today.  It might just be the wine, but right now, I am completely at peace.

I am standing on a cliff and looking out, not down.

I still don’t know what I’ll be doing for work next week.  As I see it now I have three options:

• Contact someone I detest, eat crow, and ask for help
• Talk to the Inappropriate Inaudible Brit knowing that anything he has will require me to extend my travels
• Go back to the nest and begin to die a slow death

In this humbling race of losers the slow death is winning by a nose. Dying is not usually the favorite but being in my own bed will make it easier when I can’t sleep with myself.

You can’t get discovered by sitting on your couch.
You can’t live up to your true potential if you’re wasting time watching television.
You can’t run a mile if you’re standing still.
You can’t enter writing competitions without any writing. (The same goes for painting.)
You can’t apply to school if you don’t know what you want to learn.
You can’t put your best foot forward if you’re not sure if its your right or your left.
You can’t find a soul mate if you walk around wearing a blindfold.
You can’t change careers if you’re too afraid to jump.

There is something surreal about taking the New Jersey Turnpike to work.  The TP and I are old friends.  We usually catch up when I go up to see my family.  We used to hang out a couple of times a year but since I became an aunt we’ve seen each other more often.

I haven’t always been a great friend. I admit I’ve called her southern-nether-regions a tad boring and drawn out and on occasion I’ve made the obvious joke about her sporadic body odor.  But the TP is nothing if not dependable, and sometimes she’ll even surprise you.

I hope in my lifetime we’ll stop tying firsts to ethnicities and gender: the first woman president, the first African-American coach to go to the Super Bowl. Imagine if the firsts were truly groundbreaking and didn’t have a whiff of our racist and sexist past?

Imagine our accomplishments were colorless. They were for most of our history because the playing field was only open to white males. As the field grudgingly opened, accomplishments by the newcomers, already achieved by existing players, were lauded. These accolades are well deserved but hopefully soon the achievement will need to be celebrated only once.

Why is this day different from all other days? All other days I arise from bed gingerly, my right knee creaky and sore.  Not this morning.  All day I’ve been moving my knee around in odd ways trying desperately to remember if those same maneuvers hurt before. But I can’t remember.

I do know that something knee-related was inflamed and causing me discomfort. I truly believe that the healer was able to reduce that inflammation.  But although she fixed my pain, she can’t fix my knee.  If I resume running I might as well be signing up for knee-replacement surgery.

Apparently my body is very open to receiving energy.  Who knew? I went to a healer today to address my chronic knee pain. Years of on-again-off-again running have taken their toll and I wanted an alternative to my usual wait-and-see knee therapy.

She spoke about chakras and colors and motion. I understood maybe an eighth of what she said. But she had an inner peace and stillness that I am drawn to and envy.

My knee seems better. I know the healing might be in my mind, but according to a good friend, that’s exactly where it needs to start.

My project ends next week and I don’t know what’s next.  And I don’t care. They’ll find me something to do.  Or fire me.  I would be equally pleased with either outcome.

Although for all my griping, today I experienced a reality shift so swift that I got dizzy. This afternoon a puzzle was posed to my boss and we spent the next hour brainstorming creative solutions.  And I loved every minute of it.

I realized that where I am is no coincidence, and it’s not a result of laziness:  I might be exactly where I am supposed to be.

Three full moons have passed since I interviewed for an admittedly interesting job.  Today, these many days later, they finally told me they weren’t flexible all at in terms of salary.  I politely and respectfully told my recruiter to suck it.

Disappointment is never easy, but standing up for myself made it palatable. Sure, I did commiserate with a post-lunch brownie, but that was all. That was it.  No anger.  No tears.

I think I’m close to veering off this dreadfully boring track.  Had the job come through, I would have opted for practical.  Instead, I get to start over.

Last night, amid the excitement of the Golden Globes, I filled out a career counseling quiz online. Each question included three statements and asked which option I would least like to do and which option I would most like to do. There were one hundred of these questions.

Among the top three paths they suggested that I pursue were art and writing.  This wasn’t too surprising to me since I kept reiterating that I’d rather paint a room than dress someone’s stitches.

But ultimately, the career field that I am best suited for, according to this website, is clerical work.

One lives to work. The other works to live.  And they both like to tell me what to do.

One wants me to find a better job, the other wants me to find a better life, outside of my job.  They do agree on one thing: that they both know how to fix me, except that I don’t exactly think I’m broken.  I’m fissured, but I haven’t split in two yet.

I am caught in between these two angels on opposing sides of the seesaw.  For the first time in my life, I find myself seeking out the middle ground.

I’ve been masquerading as a practical person for years.  I appear to make logical decisions and have linear thought patterns.  But actually, my thoughts zigzag and intertwine; they trip over each other, fall down, get up, and race around again.

I’ve noticed that when my heart and my head are at odds my heart takes a beating.  My head is the constant victor. But in this battle my heart isn’t surrendering, I know that’s why I’m still.  My head wants to race to the next opportunity, the bigger office, the solid paycheck.  My heart is holding out for something grander.

I always leave five minutes at the end of each interview for any questions they might have for me.   My final candidate asked, “7 and half years ago, did you think you would have stayed as long as you did?”

I hesitated, deciding just how honest to be with him.  I recently read my journal from my first months and was surprised to read that I had hesitations from the very beginning.

I looked at him and said, “When I started, I didn’t think I would make it six months.” He smiled, “And what happened at six months?”

“I stayed.”

How long do you wait for someone to call?  When do you give up? When do you accept that it just isn’t going to happen?

It has been over two months since I interviewed, since they swooned, since I was disappointed by their less-than-stellar offer.  I am the only one left who has any hope that they might pleasantly surprise me and come through.   I want to give up. I do.  I can’t seem admit it’s over, that it’s not going to happen.

This is certain: the waiting must end.  I need to find another opportunity, one that is worthy.

I’m witnessing a transformation I didn’t think possible. Her steel ambition has oxidized into something I don’t recognize. I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing, but her single-minded pursuit of her dream job was one of the things I admired most about her. I understood that. I envied that passion and knowledge. I change my mind almost hourly about what I want to do when I grow up. The entire time I’ve known her she’s given the same answer. That is, until now. Now it’s a paycheck. The words “dream” and “job” no longer fit together in her vocabulary.

I didn’t think he could do it, he almost appeared contrite.  He admitted mistakes and took responsibility, but what choice did he have?  The public has been speaking through the ratings for years and shouted themselves hoarse at the ballot box.  If he’d shown his characteristic conviviality he would have appeared more delusional and ignorant than we already perceive him.

And there were the sound bytes and the mandatory reference to 9/11. Unfortunately he hasn’t dropped the “War on Terror” crusade yet.  He still doesn’t understand that a war against an emotional state is a war that can’t be won.

At first I thought they were mumbling. Or moaning. Their voices were low and weaving in and out of their guitar strings.  I couldn’t understand anything they were saying.  Then I found the lyrics online and was astonished. The barely audible words were interesting and beautiful. It’s what I love about them: they paint unexpected pictures.

For me, it’s all about the words. I like to read songs almost as much as I like to listen to them.   I have no patience for guitar solos, long intros, or extended instrumentals; I just want them to get back to the singing.

After weeks of choosing the cheap but close hotel, I upgraded to the mediocre one. I felt nothing but relief and hunger as I entered the hotel.  Unfortunately, the woman behind the desk couldn’t location my reservation. My confirmation number was in my email so I impatiently booted up my laptop right there at the front desk. She never found my reservation, but she did find me a room. When I finally entered it, I found a candy basket with a note addressed to Ms. Murphy. I hesitated for a second before reading the note.

Then I ate the candy.

Recently I was helping my mother update her Netflix queue. She never remembers to do it on her own. As we were scrolling through Netflix’ recommended films, we came across Annie Hall. My mother mentioned how she’d always wanted to see the movie but had never gotten around to it. She decided to add it to her list even though it was really old. I knew exactly when the movie came out. “Mom, the movie’s not really that old.” “Oh yes it is,” she replied, “It’s ancient.”

The movie came out in 1977, the year I was born. Thanks Mom.

Too much time alone can be a dangerous thing. Words heard busily race around your brain. They lose their shape, fall apart, and then glue themselves back together. Usually, in the wrong order. All context is lost and the true intent becomes suspicious speculation.

My mother and grandmother stew. And misconstrue. They spend too much time thinking and not enough time talking. And usually the only people they’re talking to is each other.

I, like most of the women in my family, spend a lot of time alone. I worry that seeing them is the truest crystal ball I have.

I majored in art in college. My most meaningful piece is folded up and stuffed in a bag in the corner of my apartment.

I do crossword puzzles and always start at the end of the Down section.

Mack trucks are my good luck charms.

Part of me hopes for a demotion, just so I could be a part of a team again.

If money were no object I’d be working in the arts.

I became a consultant because I didn’t know enough about my options.

I’m still a consultant because I worry it is too late to start over.

People wonder why I’ve stayed at the same job for years. There’s a very specific reason I’ve never looked for other jobs in my field. There’s a difference between staying at a job that’s become lousy versus consciously choosing to be at a lousy job. I could rationalize staying; I couldn’t rationalize seeking out a different one.

My job isn’t universally lousy; it’s just lousy for me. Just as my bad dates were great guys, just not great for me. There’s nothing wrong with ex-drug-dealing alcoholics or ex-musicians who refuse to listen to music. They just weren’t right for me.

This year I’m trying to address my dysfunctional relationship with hope.  My internal voice always catches me when I’m excited about something and scolds “don’t get your hopes up.” The most irrational side of me truly believes that when you get your hopes up, you will be disappointed.  It is an absolute certainty.  Even when I see my friends get really excited, on the inside I am cringing, subtly inching away so I don’t get in the way when the axe falls.

It’s superstition on steroids. It’s a bleak approach to life for someone who claims to be an optimist.

I’m sick of the selfish life.  I’m done with living to work.  There has to be something else.  It was different when I was painting every night.  I was pursuing a dream, a path, a passion.

I truly believe that you can be whole with a less-than-dream job as long as you are nourished elsewhere.  For the past couple of years work has been all there was.  I wasn’t nourished there, and I wasn’t nourished elsewhere.

There can be more in my life, but I have to seek it out.  Thankfully, I think I finally know what I’m looking for.

I face tomorrow sadly. It’s the return of the real world. This vacation has been nothing short of heavenly and I am already mourning its departure.

But instead of dwelling on the negative, I will make the extra effort and focus on the positive. In retrospect, 2006 was a fine year. I challenged myself, pushed some boundaries and even darted out of my comfort zone a bit. I didn’t succeed all of the time, but at least it was colorful: it wasn’t neutral, it wasn’t beige.

In 2007, I hope to dare more, go with gusto, and scare myself silly.

It’s one of my favorite times of year. I haven’t finalized my resolutions yet, but a certain theme has been surfacing: fantasy fulfillment.  I’ve never taken my dreams too seriously, forsaking them for being hideously impractical. This year I hope to eschew practicality and befriend my idea.

I spent New Year’s with perfect company: friends of mine, a couple, who believe that anything is possible, that you can be exactly whom you want to be. Lately, I’ve been trying to take responsibility for who I’ve become. That also means I have the power to change and realize the ideal me.