Big City, Lustful Heart

I do promise that my blog from now on will NOT be solely about being an obsessive mommy and the wonders of my child. But frankly, the last four months of Jiffy Pop's life have been solely my focus. As she gets older and develops more, I will also be spreading my own wings. Sadly, though living here out on the coast is just as breathtakingly beautiful as the day we arrived, it's now starting to suffocate me a bit. The upside is that it has allowed me to be a full-time mother to a preemie baby, something that would have been impossible in the States. The downside is that I haven't done more than temp or long-term relief work for the past few years and any semblance of a career is slowly becoming an impossibility. Oh, I knew what I was doing when we made Jiffy Pop. And I know living out here on the coast holds few opportunities for anyone, but still, it is starting to get me down.

Beau had some teacher training in Mt Maunganui, a good-sized city attached to Tauranga, which is the fastest-growing city in the country. We love these cities (we kind of see them as one, though I'm sure residents would get pissy about that), and so Jiffy Pop and I tagged along for the day.

It's always a treat to go to Auckland or Tauranga for the day to shop and see movies and eat at restaurants, etc. It's something I feel I truly need once in awhile. I am still a city girl at heart and though I have enjoyed the country, truly, it's not for me. Though surprisingly, when I picture my ideal situation for the future, Beau and I would live on a "lifestyle block" which is basically a modest piece of rural land on the outskirts of a big city where you can do a tiny bit of farming or animal raising, but mostly, it's just bigger and prettier to live in. (This kind of reminds me of what you guys did, Loafkeeper). Since New Zealand is still mostly rural, there are many of these blocks around and the only downside is your commute. But you'd still be attached to the city in some way.

So, on this recent trip to Mt Maunganui where Beau went off to enrich himself professionally, Jiffy Pop and I went off to...the mall! Though it was still morning, I promptly got myself some Indian food, Jiffy Pop got a big-ass bottle, and we proceeded to KILL that place.

It's amazing how much time you can kill in a mall (especially one with a bookstore that has lots of clearance items), and I felt so frickin happy. I missed the convenience, the accessibility, the choices of a city. And luckily, I have a pretty good baby who was a good girl the whole time I pushed her around in her "pram," which believe me, I was super thankful for after passing about 17,000 screaming babies while there (btw, is "bring your baby to the mall" a total THING? There were TONS of them!).

Sidnote: Super big shout-out to this Bayfair Mall! I took Jiffy Pop to the bathroom and saw something called a "Caretakers Room." Pushing a button, a long glass door slid slowly open to reveal an incredible (massive) room: three large changing tables with mats and a sink to wash your hands; a microwave for heating up food and bottles; three leather couches tucked into individual cubbies with a curtain you could pull across so you could breastfeed in private; a large play area filled with toys and sporting a glass enclosure so your little monster can't take off on you; high chairs; and a bathroom with various-sized potties for all ages. Oh, and soft lighting, too. Wow!

Anyway, we then picked up Beau, had some lunch, did a bit more shopping (hooray for the German sausage shop!), and headed home.

Since then (last week), I've felt a bit different. Going to Auckland or Tauranga is like that old adage about sex: once you do it, you wanna do it again right away. So, I've told myself that's just it, I just want to go back again, but I don't know. Though I have always missed living in the city, it's always been nice being here "in the bush," but now...it just seems a whole lot less tolerable. I know I know that this is the perfect time to live here since it has given me the right to take care of my daughter full-time. I really can't imagine what it must be like to return to work 6 weeks later like in the U.S. Awful.

But I've been here in the bush for 2 1/2 years now, and it's just not the place for me. It's so beautiful and the people are really warm and friendly, but the isolation is getting to me. And due to the fact that schools in the big cities won't even interview Beau for teaching positions (we still haven't figured this out, think it might be because he's American and not Kiwi, though people keep telling us, "It's who you know!"), I am terrified that we may be stuck here.

The only way out will be for me to get some great job that makes as much as Beau makes, which will be tough since he makes a pretty decent salary. And since I've been out of the job market for a few years now, who is going to want to hire me for a position like that?

But even if I did get a good job, our monthly costs would easily double once we leave the bush where rent is cheap and there isn't much to spend your cash on. And also, would Beau be happy just being a substitute in a big city, hoping to get a permanent position somehow? Probably not. He's already feeling a bit burnt out as it is and being a sub wouldn't help that much. But after Jiffy Pop gets a bit older, I need to work. I need to work and I need to contribute to my family's expenses. This is important to me.

Whine whine whine. I'm really not unhappy as I sound. My marriage is going well right now, Jiffy Pop gives me a great amount of joy, and though we have lots of bills and little cash, we're certainly not starving. There's just a current flowing in the back of my mind which is unsettling me. A restlessness that, really, is a fear of the future. I'm usually so optimistic about the future, but I need to know we will end up in a decent-sized city somewhere where Beau can work, I can work, Jiffy Pop can go to a good school, and we can possibly get a house.

I never knew such big, open beautiful spaces could make me feel so closed in. I'm going to make the most of this year, and then hope like hell next year we will settle (for good) in a place that will provide opportunities for us all.

Books Books Books!

"I cannot live without books."
-- Thomas Jefferson

That quote would make me look cool save for the fact that the only reason I know it by heart is because I've played so much Civ IV on the computer that I have memorized all the quotes elegantly recited by Leonard Nimoy after each scientific discovery.

Anyway, through the unending maze that is blog-to-blog reading, I came up with this from a total stranger's page, and wanted to do it myself immediately, though I know I'll think of a better answer for every one here and then get pissed at myself later on.

1. One book that changed your life.

This is difficult for the simple fact that it depends on what PERIOD in my life, for I've had a book change my life every few years. Also, because as a youth, my reading level was so far advanced, much more than my actual maturity level, I read many books before I could actually "get" them, like The Great Gatsby. Anyway, when I was a teenager and my spirituality was in chaos and confusion, The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham had a huge impact on me. Reading of someone else's spiritual journey and release from so much superficiality (as well as a voracious appetite for books and knowledge) spoke to me. I read it a few years ago in Bangkok and couldn't stand it.

Also when I was young, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas was huge for me. Again, re-read it in Bangkok and though I enjoyed it, I found the utter cutthroat need for revenge over all else to be distasteful. Not that I didn't root for him, but I believed that by the end he had somewhat lost his way. Maybe I'd feel different if I had spent many years in a cold, dank, shithole of a prison.

A bit later, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera resonated within my very soul, and would result in my use of the handle Sabina for the rest of my life (so far).


Even later, English Passengers by Matthew Kneale, which I still claim to be my favorite, was the book that made me truly realize that more than anything, I wanted to write historical fiction, and eventually would take an expensive but very valuable writing class in NYC, and then follow that up with ...just a bunch of blog writing and a few chapters of a now defunct book. *sigh*

Finally, and really sadly and embarrassingly, the most recent book to influence me was Dr. Phil's Relationship Rescue. I know, I know, I've totally de-legitimized myself now, but when you realize that you've got a cartload of emotional bullshit baggage, it can be rather freeing to have a book shake you up and allow you to release, manage, and if you're lucky, destroy at least some of that crap.

2. One book you have read more than once.

I'm not a huge fan of doing that, and rarely do since there are too many wonderful books I have yet to read, but I guess it would be Danny, Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. It was in our bookcase when I was a child and I used to read it, parts of it, over and over on the long days of the sweltering summer when I preferred to stay in my air-conditioned room reading, drawing, and playing with tiny plastic animal figures, much to my grandparents' chagrin who wanted me running around in that desert heat (yeah, right). The photo to the left is the exact edition we had - with gorgeous, detailed drawings inside by Jill Bennett - much more beautiful than the annoyingly messy illustrations of Quentin Blake that dominate every damn Dahl book now. A few years ago I went on ebay and finally found this same edition and bought it. I completely cherish it.

It may not be as glorious and imaginative as some of his others (Charlie, James, The Witches), but is a simple, yet touchingly told story about the relationship between a boy and his widower dad (with a little classic Roald Dahl naughty humor thrown in). It makes me think of what kind of parent I would like to be - kind, patient, fun, and allowing a kid to be a kid and not treated like some kind of pampered, fussed over, fragile egg that could crack open at any second.

3. One book you would want on a desert island.

The five-novel set by Marcel Proust entitled, Remembrance of Things Past. They'd drive me totally looney toones, but they'd last for years and years. Maybe I'd even read them in French to ensure a complete mind fuck.

4. One book that made you laugh.

The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost is HYSTERICAL! I usually loathe travel books, finding them pretentious and annoying, but this one was simply delicious in both its humor and its brutal honesty. No "oooh exotic" natives here. Also, it paralleled so many of my crazy experiences abroad that the book was like a friend who understood me.

5. One book that made you cry.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Fantastic book, rich and sad and beautiful.

6. One book you wish had been written.

English Passengers above qualifies. And hell, Harry Potter would be nice! And every time I read a really good book, I am green with envy that the author wrote it first.

7. One book you wish had never been written.

To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf because it was fucking torture to get through, and I still feel guilty that I didn't like it, or fear that I didn't get it, and the whole rest of the world did. Rubbish. Rubbish. Rubbish. Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil and The Map that Changed the World by Simon Winchester are a close second and third.

8. One book you are currently reading.

Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace...One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson. He came here to UM a little while ago and we organized his talk. Fascinating man, though no way would I want to be married to him - I'd stab him for sure. Very touching, sweet book about the good that can done by one person with just a little bit of money and love.

9. One book you have been meaning to read.

Thousands! But I'd say Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies by Jared Diamond is right near the top. It was one of those books back in the English bookstore in Bangkok that I was tortured over for months - seeing it on the shelf, wanting it, but daunted by its hefty price (all English books were jacked up to the sky there). I finally bought it, thrilled at the opportunity to finally read it, and then read about one chapter before abandoning it for various, stupid reasons. I've been meaning to get back to it many many times and haven't. Git.

10. Ooh, the bit where I tag people and guilt them into playing along. Okay,
Jera, Lazuli, Jenna, Beau, Steve and Varen, Spongie, Froya, Loafkeeper, Fuschia, yeah!

Toying with the Idea of Moving Again (I Know)

I know, I know, it sucks. It smells of the ridiculous. It's costly. It's a pain in the ass. And each subsequent move gets more and more difficult for me to find a decent, happy job.

Oh yeah, and I'm not getting any younger.

I'm still dying, longing, hoping to return to New Zealand, but it seems to be becoming more and more of a distant dream. It just costs so much, and getting a job like Beau had the first time is not likely (or really, desirable). We continue to get the job notices a few times a week, but nothing that promising has popped up.

I was looking at my resume the other day, updating it for more job applications, when I noticed that since Thailand, it kind of looks like my "career" has slowly gone downhill. I went from being director of a school, pretty impressive (though truly less impressive than it sounds), to a grants manager of millions in international aid (still sounds cool, but still less impressive than it sounds), then followed by various low to mid-level administrative jobs, and finally to my current situation of administrative temp/retail chump. It was pretty depressing. And a bit of a slap in the face.

Beau and I are pretty much of the same mind -- we still really do want Missoula to be a success. We just want both of us to have decent, full-time work that is steady (and health insurance would be nice!). We keep plugging away at it. We have our bouts of depression and despair, then we pick ourselves up, grit our teeth, and at least pretend we're happy and upbeat and looking on the bright side. I know that sometimes even when you pretend, you kind of fake yourself into believing it. Sometimes. But the reality is that we're not much farther than when we first got here. We're simply treading water.

And as each month drags on, it gets harder to be optimistic. The school year is approaching, and Beau has resigned himself that no High School Biology teacher job is going to open up within a 100 mile radius after all, and he'll have to return to substitute teaching. Fun.

My current temp job at the university was extended for another month (for the second time), which is good, but again, bad, since it means continued temp work. I know that when it goes permanent in early September, I will most likely get the job, but although it would be nice to have a permanent full-time job, the reality is that this job is so much less than I should be doing. And the pay is pretty sad. I see so many positions at the university I long to do. They are mid-level and usually connected to advising and involve more interaction with students, more decision-making, more responsibility, etc. One of my bosses here keeps telling me I really need to be doing something where I am using my "skills and talents more fully." Trust me, I agree! I keep applying for other things, but my hopes are not what they once were. Usually, if I could at least get to the interview stage, I usually got the job. That no longer seems to be the case, since I've had three interviews at the university in the past couple months that have resulted in nada. Zip. Loser-zero! Oh yeah, and Shop-n-Smile is becoming more and more unbearable. My new boss is most likely bi-polar, and with people quitting left and right, I often find myself doing the work of two people in half the time. I hate it there.

So, although half of me is still chugging along, looking for work, sending out cover letters, half of me is just thinking, "GO where the work is!" It just gets to the point where you want to be some place where you can have a good, decent job, no matter where that is (something I would not have agreed to before, since where I live is so important to me).

It feels like somewhat lowering of standards, giving up one what you believe in, but then it also feels like just being goddamn pragmatic and wanting not just to survive, but to thrive. For the past several years, I've really wanted to live somewhere with great natural beauty - part of the big draw to New Zealand - but I also considered other places like Maine, Montana, and North Carolina when I was thinking about this. Now, that kind of thinking seems like a luxury.

This brings me to Missouri. The whys are a few, and some personal. There is family there that Beau has missed tremendously, apparently more than I ever realized, which has affected his happiness. I have never had those kinds of ties to family, and so it is hard for me to relate (and what makes my traipsing around the world easier than it is for others). Overall, I liked Missouri. 1) It was gorgeous in the Spring, with dozens of different species of birds flittering around, rivers all over the place, and nice green grass. 2) It was very cheap - we lived in a 2-bedroom house with a huge backyard for a little over $400/month. 3) Location-wise, it's right smack in the middle of the U.S., making visiting friends and relatives a lot more realistic than it is Montana (including the accessible Kansas City airport which has nice-n-cheap Midwest Airlines flights!).

What I did NOT like about Missouri was: 1) Living in a tiny town with a bunch of extreme right-wing, fucking stupid, often prejudiced people, who often declared that the fact that I "had all my teeth" was a sure-sign that I "was not from there." 1B) ...which also included living 30 miles from anything resembling a city (or a job that didn't involve me working a literal roadhouse). 2) The summer's were hot. Real hot. Like melt your eyebrows off your face, hot. But I guess extreme climates are what I am destined for. And 3) the "antics" of Beau's ex-wife who is as mean as a wounded wolverine and just about as cuddly.

Returning to Missouri would mean 1) Moving to at least a mid-sized city like Columbia or Springfield, and NOT moving back to some small town that offers no job prospects. This will also eliminate surprise visits from said ex-wife, though I'm sure she'll still be within road rage driving range. I'll install live traps around the perimeter of our house 2) Can't do much about the summer 'cept buy an air conditioner. 3) See #1.

We've both been to Columbia and Springfield, both towns that I liked very much (the former more than the latter). They have the #1 and #2 biggest universities in the state as well, and I've already been checking them out. Last week I applied for a job that really got my juices flowing in one of their international programs departments, which has me all excited, despite the fact that being out of state might make my chances a bit less likely.

But again, this is something to be realistic about. Though Missouri has a much bigger population and tons more "smaller towns" surrounding Columbia and Springfield to teach in, will Beau still be able to get one of those positions? The school year is going to start soon and there might not be anything left (we're looking). There's no use packing up and moving to Missouri if we're going to be stuck in the same boat we're in here (a damn leaky one). So, for now, it's just something that we're keeping our options open for. If we could both get jobs, then there would be no question of moving there, but this continuous fractured career thing is getting a bit tiresome. No use trading one bullshit state for another.

It's just something we're toying with....I'm just saying!

Found on Myspace!

So, I used to teach elementary school in Bangkok, my favorite and longest-running being my 6th graders (whom I began teaching in 4th grade and followed them up). I absolutely adored them, and several still email me, though I left Thailand nearly four years ago (shit!) now.

Today, I got a "Friend Request" on myspace from one of these students - who is now a 15 year old girl. Uh oh.

My myspace page isn't so bad. It's not raunchy, there's no pics of me in a bikini, and I'm not a friend whore. I don't even blog on it, since obviously I do that here, and I do not advertise there about here. But I still never imagined my page being seen by anyone else but other adult friends. Okay, I'm fucking naive, I know.

She's a wonderful student - super bright, a very talented writer, eccentric and interesting, kinda like a cross between Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger (since we have Harry Potter on the brain). Although I am happy to email with my former students, I've always limited contact to keep things (somewhat) professional. I don't join all the groups and lists they send me, I never give them my cellphone number (though they repeatedly beg for it), etc. But for some reason, I feel like rejecting this student on myspace would be unnecessarily cruel. Yet, I'm not sure it's a good idea either. I do post bulletins (usually just the endless 'get to know me!' lists), but otherwise my time there is pretty benign.

Now I'm just going back and forth, but I guess I'm wondering what you think. This is the one student who has kept up writing me the most, who sent me a gorgeous, giant photo montage of all my former students with their notes of congrats after I got married, and one who continues to email me updating me on other students and seeking my advice on her life. And we talk about books, a favorite subject of mine. I'd feel terrible to reject her in this way, but... I dunno.

Thoughts?

The End of an Era

Yes, I am a Harry Potter fan. A gigantic, enthusiastic, at times, obsessive fan. I step away from it for awhile, but when I come back, I am completely saturated with it, happily. I love each book, though am more attached to some than others (3 and 5). I am waiting for my book 7 with as much anticipation as most big events in my life, and also with apprehension, knowing I will finish the book, probably within days if I don't work too much, and then will feel a great sadness that it's all over. I'm also terrified that some asshole is going to post some unavoidable spoiler and fuck things up for me, like one of my students did for Order of the Phoenix when she said, "You know Sirius dies, Teacher J.!" *mutter*

It's funny, I sometimes get a little freaked at my attachment to these books, and yet, though I am WAY more attached than most people I know (it kind of alarms Beau a bit), my perusing of the internet, and of some other more heavily-involved friends' blogs has reminded me that I am NOWHERE near the disciple of some. I don't know every finite detail of each book, and though I have a strong attachment to certain characters (Lupin, Tonks, etc.), I just don't have these others' loyalty. It almost makes me feel like I'm not a true fan, and maybe also, a little relieved that I'm not.

I have delved into hundreds and hundreds of various types of "fan fiction," including -ooh- slash, which I think is the area where the real die-hards lie. There are message boards, conventions, thousands of websites (Mugglenet is king), and tonight, there will be parties. Reading the newspaper this morning, there are about six or seven events just in Missoula alone, which is saying something.

So, I really do want to talk about it, and the characters, with that pure enthusiasm that only true geeks posses, but I'm not sure I want to dive into that world. It's such a commitment! I saw Mugglenet advertising for writers, and although I think it would be fantastically fun and a good way to keep my writing up, it also freaks me out since a) you have to devote a LOT of time to it, and b) it's one of those areas where if you fuck up ONE detail, 10,000 HP fans will jump all over your ass, feigning great offense. But I'd like to do it because after reading quite a bit of fan fiction, I found myself indignant at many of the "good" stories. I didn't think they were all that great, though some had interesting plots, indeed. This is not just because I am a writing style and grammatical snob, but also because, as in a story yesterday featuring Snape as the main character, I kept thinking, "Snape would never say that! Snape would never do that! He doesn't even TALK this much!" Now, I know, who am I to be the judge of that? I'm just one fan out of 20 gazillion, but I feel like I have an idea what is "probable" and "believable" in a character's actions and speech. It made me want to write my own stuff more.

Anyway, it's celebration time! Wooo hooo! I'm so excited!!! I kinda wish I hadn't pre-ordered and that I'd just gone to our local Barnes & Noble and gotten a copy right away. Oh well, I have to do that real life thing anyway. Can't wait to see how the book ends and how our wonderful cast of characters choose to ride off into the sunset. Hooray for Harry Potter!
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Friday night, both Beau and I got off from our respective retail suck jobs at 10pm and I asked if we could just go over to the local Barnes & Noble to check out the festivities. This is one of those times when your "beau" does something for you purely because they know it gives you joy, despite the fact that it holds nearly no interest for him/her beyond a mild academic curiosity.

There were several people lingering outside, but the store was open and we went in. It was pretty full, though not as packed as I had imagined. People were simply milling around, many young children or teenagers in black robes or striped socks and scarves. Everything was just so...mild. I was pretty disappointed. I thought there would be much fanfare, games, contests, I dunno, confetti, someone on a microphone MC'ing the "event." To be fair, there were SOME things going on. One corner of B&N hosted some puzzles kids could play, they were handing out large, plastic Harry spectacles, and you could get a small ticket for a drawing that a monotone voice would ooze over the loudspeaker about every 15 minutes, droning out the matching numbers. I just thought there'd be...more.

After about a half hour of wandering aimlessly, Beau and I ended up in one of our favorite sections: cookbooks, where he was perusing the beer and winemaking volumes. The maps were behind us, and he took out a large map of New Zealand, unfolded it, and we just peered at our old home on the north island. "There it is," I said, my fingers tracing along the old routes we used to drive regularly to the next two towns. We both kind of sighed nostalgically as he folded the map back up and returned it to the shelf.

At that point, I thought we should just go. Since my book was pre-ordered and there wasn't much going on, there didn't seem to be any reason to hang out any longer. I'd just have to wait until Saturday or Monday. Sadly, it never arrived Saturday, and I resigned myself to expecting it Monday. Again, avoiding the internet and newspapers' Harry Potter headlines.

Sunday morning after watering the garden, I stopped to pick up our mail which I hadn't done Saturday. It's all bills and crap anyway, so mail doesn't hold the same magic it once did for me. As I opened the box, a key was there. "Oh shit!" I said. Keys are used to open up larger boxes where stuff that doesn't fit in your regular mailbox goes. I opened it up, and sure enough, there was my fucking Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows book! "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!" I hadn't checked the day before, because UPS always delivers to our door, only the post office has access to our mailboxes. I have no idea how the UPS guy managed to do this - I had been tracking the package online and had gotten the ambiguous and disappointing "In Missoula" answer with no hint that it was on its way. The only thing I can think of is that the UPS guy arrived at the same time as the post office guy and asked him to just stick it in my box.

DRAT! A whole day of Harry Potter wasted!

So now I am floating gently, happily, hypnotically in my Harry Potter world. I am reading as if each word is oxygen, giving me life. Every chance I get to sneak in a page or two, I do. I even resorted to sneaking into the photocopy room, copying a few pages, and then reading them at my desk, as if I'm reading some important document. I'd feel guilty about this if it weren't for the fact that BOTH my bosses left for the entire week and BOTH left me with NOTHING to do (despite the fact that I asked them to before they took off). I even take my bookbag with me to the restroom and read a few more pages there. Yeah, I know, TMI.

In a couple more days it will be over, and I will be filled with a lot of emotions, but hopefully most of all, contentment. It'd be nice if another book, another series will come along someday to fill me with such excitement again. Until then, I think we'll all be left with a little hollow space where our love and excitement for Harry Potter resides.

Virginia Tech, Imus, and Blame

My friend wrote me like a one-line email last week about Imus. Kind of a, "Wow, did you hear what he said?" (I had only heard of it at the time). And in true J. Cullinane form, I wrote him back an essay on my opinion of what I now see as our culture of overzealous blame. He didn't really respond after that.

Beau and I have been talking about this for awhile now, and it came up again with the whole Imus situation. My problem for awhile has been the whole concept of blame. My personal opinion on Imus is mixed. I thought he did a really mean, stupid thing, but was kind of shocked at the rabid response and his subsequent firings. At home, sick, I watched the two days of "Town Hall" meetings on Oprah which featured various black leaders, entertainers, authors, shrinks, and students discussing the whole issue. I thought it was pretty fascinating and I don't think I quite realized how deep some of this pain goes, and that Imus was just a symbol, or, a catalyst.

Back to my point though, there seems to be this, almost nation-wide, INSTANT witch hunt that goes on when anyone with any remote spec of celebrity says something stupid/mean/racist, etc. Not that saying any of these things is ever okay, but it's just that suddenly, whatever the person said is splashed on TV and print for DAYS, the s/he always has to give multiple public apologies, get suspended, meet with the ACLU, do volunteer work, be tarred and feathered...and of course, let's not forget...

GO TO REHAB!

I just think it has gotten way out of control. I know in the course of joking around we have all said something that could have easily offended lots of people, but can you imagine going through ALL this for it? I try to be sensitive to others, and Beau even thinks sometimes it goes too far where I'm careful not to offend ANYONE, but that doesn't mean I haven't ever said anything that would make me some kind of public target.

When I was an undergrad at a Jesuit university, I had to take a LOT of philosophy. This included an introduction to Existentialism, a school of thought, that for the most part, I really identified with (except for the whole "the body is disgusting" part). In particular, I liked how it believes in accepting blame for one's mistakes and not trying to make excuses or point the finger at another. We are all responsible for our own lives. I felt this was something really missing in American culture, where we are so quick to either blame someone else, or eager to diagnose and medicate problems. This doesn't mean I've been innocent of course. I've sought my own medical attention for things and felt a sense of relief when a problem was identified and sometimes then prescribed something (especially in regards to my stomach).

But I can't stand this whole notion that not only is everyone innocent because of things happening to oneself. It's not my fault! It's my parents/teachers/environment/physician/boss/broken heart, etc. To me, these things are all influences, sometimes very strong ones, but influences nonetheless. In the end, we all make choices in our own behavior. Responsibility and blame are not the same.

And now, with the whole sad shooting at Virginia Tech, every time I turn on the TV, all I hear is blame blame blame. Not so much for the shooter, who was obviously disturbed, but for the university, the president, the campus security, the Virginia police. Why didn't they do THIS soon enough? Why didn't they do THAT? If I am correct, that school has nine THOUSAND students living on its over 2600 acres! AND it has another 14,000 students driving in from the surrounding area. How do you "lock down" 2600 acres of anything that isn't a fenced in prison? It's ridiculous. I work at a university with about half as many total students, and about 1/10th the acreage and I cannot imagine a) notifying the entire campus immediately of something of this nature, or b) locking it down in any way. If they use this tragedy to try and develop better ways to communicate en masse with their student, staff, and faculty, great! I wish them luck on such an ambitious task.

And I certainly can't see blame in police believing this was a "domestic" act considering it was initially confined to one dorm and seemed to be an ex-girlfriend (that last fact I'm not sure of). Who would possibly imagine he would then walk to an academic building and open fire on dozens of people afterwards?

It saddens me to see so many people so quick to seek blame and fault at this time, just hours after it all happened. I don't know, maybe if it was my child who was shot, I may be reaching out for some sort of vengeance myself, but unless there was some sort of gross negligence on the part of officials, which I clearly do not see, why why why blame them? Why go after them as if they caused this event? Accountability is fine, I obviously believe in that. I believe in justice. But in needs to be directed to its proper place -- the shooter.

And I'm sure, as the days go on, we'll find out just how disturbed he was, and how it's someone else's fault for not throwing him in jail, committing him to an asylum, etc. How can anyone know the heart of another? Even if there were "warning signs" that something was wrong, would anyone ever take the leap to think a massacre would follow? And is that truly something we should be blamed for?

An Expired Box of Condoms

I've talked about this before, but it's kind of swirling around in my mind again. Basically, in regards to most human beings, it's the way that there seems to be an expiration date on everything. This varies wildly from person to person and from subject to subject, but I think it applies to most people, at least in some aspect of their lives. Basically, this "expiration date" is the concept of replenishment, reassurance and affirmation.

For example, like me, *cough* I know there are many women and some men who need to hear "I love you" from their partner, frequently. If a period of time goes by and you don't hear it, a part of you can get anywhere from ansy to fearful (depending on your own level of confidence in the relationship). To hear it, once a week, once a day, whatever, settles you in a sense. The old "I love you" may not be spoiled or gone bad, but it certainly is losing its potency, so instead of curdled milk, it's like an old box of condoms! So, your partner says it again, and the date of the last "I love you," which had expired, is now renewed, and a new date is subconsciously imprinted in your heart.

That's the romanticized version, but it applies to other things.

Note: The condom thing came to mind because when I started at Shop-n-Smile a few weeks ago, one of the first things they ever had me do was go through all the condom boxes, one by one, to make sure there were no expired products on the shelf. I learned a lot!

What about simple gratefulness for life itself? We've all seen or known someone who has had a near-death experience and then comes back full of zest for life. "Live like there's no tomorrow!" people will crow. What's the country song? Live like you were dying? "I went sky-diving...I went rocky mountain climbing..." It's great to see someone charge into life with such joy and enthusiasm. But again, does it last? Has anyone who ever said they were going to live every day like it was their last, then actually gone ahead and done just that for the rest of his or her life? I've wondered about it myself. Even if I maxed out all my credit cards and embarked on some great adventure, my funds would run out in about six days. Then what? It's hard to live life to its fullest when you're broke, I don't care what you say.

When I was in grad school and emerging from my bout with Depression, I remember how I had this personal rule to do something every day that scared me. Now I don't mean like hang glide off of the Grand Canyon, I mean simple things that you wouldn't do just because you were too shy. It could be something simple like asking a stranger for the time, or something a bit more bold, like when I bet my mother $5 that I would lie down in the center of the rotunda of the state capitol building and stare up at the vast ceiling above (which I did, briefly). I loved it, because each day when I finished my mini-quest, I felt such a great thrill, like a shot of adrenaline.

I don't do that anymore. Why? I dunno. Lazy, I guess. The "Do something that scares you every day" scheme expired.

And I can't tell you how many talks I've been to on university campuses, or something I've seen on TV (hello, Dr. Phil!) which have energized and inspired me and made me want to jump out of my chair and take action. But sadly, it never lasts. When I was a freshman in college in a special federal program for "educationally-disadvantaged" students (I still love that term -- it basically means "poor and first-generation college student" or "'targeted' minority"), we were honored to have Cornell West, a well-known scholar and current instructor at Princeton, come to our school to give the opening speech. At the time, I was 18 and had no idea who he was. He gave the most amazing talk about grasping your education and shaking all you could out of it. He strongly suggested that we attend as many of the free talks that are so common to all university campuses as we could. He said, "I'd go to a talk on molecular biology," (he was/is a scholar on religion), "Because I didn't know anything about it. Just to learn something new and interesting." Little ol' me thought that was a genius idea, since I already was into learning about everything. I wanted to follow his advice, I wanted to go to molecular biology and physical therapy and mathematical and religious talks! I was going to start right away!

Well, how many talks on Math do you think I actually attended? That's right, ZERO. In fact, right now at UM there's a Math talk advertised entitled, "Phase-Locking in Electrically Coupled Networks or Cortical Neurons." I don't know shit about what that even means. Will I attend that talk? What do you think?

In undergrad I did attend talks and special lectures, but they all pertained to my degrees. I may have attended one or two others that had some connection to me, but not a single speech originated in the "Hard" Sciences building. So much for the life of inspiration. The expiration date on the inspiration from Dr. West's speech could have been just days. And what's even hypocritical about it, is that I remember (obviously) that speech today and still believe in it and still want to follow his advice. Yet, the only talk I plan to attend in the near future has to do with teaching, which is connected to me. Oh well.

And how many times have you looked at the person you love, and just marveled at how thankful you are for having them in your life, and how you truly want to treat them with dignity, respect, and love. And how you vow to yourself at that moment you will not do (insert psycho behavior here) to them anymore.

And then you fight.

There's just this need in us, as humans, for our love to be constantly reaffirmed, for our inspiration to be constantly replenished, for our ambition to be constantly revitalized. All this great work that is done in the world for "sustainable development," and I can't even sustain it within myself. We become so grateful for what we have, for awhile, maybe around Thanksgiving or Christmas, then that expiration date comes and goes as well. Perhaps that's a good thing, but I've always found it kind of selfish and sad. Why can't we sustain positive, motivational, life-altering feelings and use them to be better people? Why are we this constant source of need? Why do I sound like a whiny philosopher? It's because of my undergrad university! It's their fault!

That's right. I blame the Jesuits.

Out, Out Damn Nostalgia!

"For every job, so many men
So many men no one needs."
-----------------

So, I've been here in the, let's just say, VIP University Officials Office (From now on referred to as VIPO) for a few days. As usual, since I moved to this city, my feelings are mixed. Decent job in important office that can show me a lot and as I've been told like 10 times, set me up to get to know the whole campus as a whole and get an even better job. I guess that's how things work here. People kept telling me how difficult it was to get hired by the university, but once you were in, you were in. Now I guess the deal is to float around until you find a nice job to land on. I find the whole thing unsettling. Yeah, me, Ms. Move-Around-The-Universe-Every-1-2-Years.

And with the way things have been going, I've tried to be really positive about getting ANY work at all, even if it doesn't fit me. Let me say that again, trying. It's interesting how I can overdramatize my life sometimes (don't laugh, Beau). When you're looking for work, and you keep lowering and lowering your standards ('til you end up working at Shop-n-Smile and start saying to your mate, "Hey, look, we could deliver newspapers at 3 in the morning!"), I start imagining strange scenarios. I love history, particularly individuals in history and how they react. And I have been imagining the long, depressing lines for work during the Depression. Those grey photos of men with vacant, hopeless stares hoping that today they'll be picked to do some shit labor job. And for a split second I'll feel like that, temping at some lumber yard for 1/3 my NYC salary and having to defer my student loans AGAIN, and eating oatmeal for breakfast AGAIN lets me feel a fraternity with those men. How I have been doing all these jobs I hate, that are boring and tedious, and that the pay is crap.

And then in the very next moment I feel like a giant asshole. I'm not an idiot; I know there is no comparison of me now to what people then went through. When I'm picking up the 12 rugs that someone has left strewn all over the floor at Shop-n-Smile, I remind myself that a) this job is easy, b) this job is an a climate-controlled environment, c) I don't get that dirty, and d) I don't have a bunch of starving kids to feed.

I still want to quit Shop-n-Smile every single night though.

It's funny, when you're in a situation where your current job situation sucks, you start looking back to your old jobs with a great deal of romantic nostalgia and wondering why you ever left, despite the fact that at the time you were DYING to get out of there, for whatever reason.

Remembering how happy I was at UW-Madison and how it was the only time I really felt a part of a tight-knit, warm community, but forgetting that the job I was in had no growth potential, EVER; and that I was surrounded by either 50-something's or 20 year olds, but never anyone my own age; and how I was in a relationship that needed to end, but wouldn't as long as were in the same city; and that after I got my Master's I thought it might be time to move to Southeast Asia, since, what's the point of spending all that time and money studying it and not ever experiencing it in any meaningful way?

Remembering my great jobs in NYC that did have growth potential and lots of interesting and caring people to work with, but forgetting that it was still low-paying; that at times I felt as if I was treated like a glorified secretary and not an equal; that I lived in a tiny, cockroach-infested apartment that would make the guy on Fear Factor wince; or that my second job (teaching) really fulfilled me, but also forced me to travel way out to Queens, only to return to my home on the subway at around 11pm at night every night; or that the love of my life was living in a totally different state; or that as much as I loved NYC, that I wasn't really a NY'er and didn't really fit in anywhere; and that I couldn't afford the damn place!

Or even remembering my brief job in Missouri with four beautiful, funny, and unbelievably kind and caring women (I used to call them the Missouri version of Sex & the City, the waaaaaaay toned down version), but forgetting that the pay was less than half what I made in NYC, that the job was often slow and boring, that most of the time I was itching and burning to leave for New Zealand and join Beau, and that I had to commute (something I really really hate).

Yeah, nostalgia's a real treat.

And I'm a nutjob. You ever wonder if it's even possible that you could ever just be happy? Ever? Not deliriously happy, but a long-lasting, unending, flowing stream of contentment? Peace? I have periods where I am, but.... ugh. Normally, I don't consider myself unhappy, but I also don't usually consider myself truly happy. Or that I have happy days. Usually I feel restless, like I haven't really reached my potential and there's so much more to be accomplished, worked on, figured out, paid for, learned. I could attribute this constant restlessness to my ADD, how when doing my work at Shop-n-Smile, my mind, which is usually going going going, feels like letting out a bloodcurdling scream from the boredom. But more and more I feel like that's just a cop-out, even if it is true. I've been somewhat fascinated by those at Shop-n-Smile for whom this is their "job," (most are younger than me and have children), and who have a kind of contentment with that. They are making single-digit, per hour wages, they do the same thing night after night, and there's a sense of okayness with that. That fascinates me, because every time I think about working at Shop-n-Smile, as a full-time provide-for-my-family job, FOREVER, I want to stab myself. I envy that kind of peace.

I used to poke fun at Beau, because he'd make these comments like, "When this happens, I'll be happy." Then it would happen. And he'd go, "Okay, when THIS happens, I'll be happy." And then THAT would happen. Rinse. Repeat. Is there just something in us that is so spoiled and screwed up that happiness is completely unsustainable? I sometimes think of people years and years ago who basically worked their asses off every single day, simply to survive, and I don't think they had long periods of self-musing over their own personal happiness. They just did. Or, so I think. Sheesh, right now I'm thinking so much I'm all turned around.

Blah.

We’ll Be Home for Christmas? - Part II

Author's note: Back in New Zealand in our little village, I didn't have internet access on my laptop, just occasional access via the school's computers (which had the most rigid, militant controls i have EVER seen on a network). So, I wrote all my blogs in Word with the hopes of future postings, until about two months later when I got one of those USB drives. Because of this, my blogs were all backed up, so every blog you have read from New Zealand probably actually happened anywhere from 2-5 weeks before I posted it. I know. Awful. It's like I'm cheating. Suffice it to say, I am ALMOST caught up now -- as I am currently in Milwaukee, Wisconsin , working an icky seasonal job in a retail store (details later), and climbing the walls as I wait for Beau to arrive this Sunday.

So, here we are, now "fast forwarding," though in reality, going backwards, to when I arrived in Milwaukee in mid-November 2006. Confused yet?
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
(November 15, 2006)
So, I'm back! But the sad thing, is that I'm back alone. Hold the phone gentle reader, it's no tragic tale. Beau has to stick it out in NZ until mid-December when his contract (and the school year) ends. I decided to rush back to the U.S. ASAP to try and get some holiday work, instead of twiddling my thumbs in New Zealand and just being dead weight. It looks like I arrived a couple weeks too late as several places told me they already hired their holiday help, damnit! But, despite this, I did nab a job as a "team member" at Target, Tar-zhay, The Bullseye Boutique, or as my friend calls it, her "happy place." I agree. It's no career move, but it's a quick way to make some cash so by the time Beau gets here we have a little bit more to move with.

And where are we moving to? Montana. Beau SERIOUSLY wanted to move back to Montana, his home state. That's really fine with me, I hear great things about Montana and I know it's beautiful. My only stipulation was that it had to be a big city (as big as one can get in Montana). I know now that living in a small town may have its quaint advantages, but it just doesn't work for me, and literally, it has no work opportunities for me. I need to be in a good-sized city that has administrative or educational positions. So, Missoula it is. And my former flight attendant friend informs me that it's a pretty place and just like a mini-Madison, Wisconsin which is great news to me since Madison is one of my favorite places I've ever lived. I like college towns.

Oh, and right now I'm in Milwaukee at my mother's house. Yeah....33 years old and living with my mother. This feels pretty crappy. Furthermore, the relationship between my mother and I is strained at the best of times and since it's just the two of us now (and her sacred cat), I'm feeling mighty uncomfortable. At least it should only be 'til right after the holidays, but STILL!

I'm actually sleeping in my sister's twin bed, and get this, it's a loft! It's like sleeping in a bunk bed's top bunk. So every night, I climb up into the thing and use a long broken handle of some cleaning tool to turn out the light switch by the door. In the middle of the night when I have to use the loo, I slowly slide off the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, legs dangling above the ground, and in one brave moment, plop down to the ground with a muted thud. I feel like I'm twelve. Lord.

I know I did this, this leaving Beau behind and rushing back to the U.S., mainly for money. We spent thousands to move to New Zealand, thinking it was "forever," and it's going to cost a whole lot to come back. All those boxes to send, the plane tickets, the cat (FUCK, it's another dramatic and financially-crippling disaster getting her back), selling our car, etc. etc. etc. And now we have to start over, AGAIN, in a new city, both of us jobless and homeless. This used to be exciting for me, now it's just exhausting and terrifying. I'm not 22 gallivanting around Europe with my Eurrail pass and a just enough francs for bread and a hostel in my pocket anymore. I'm rapidly approaching my 34th birthday with no hint of a career, no house on the horizon, no plans for kids anytime soon, student loan debt that produces a gasp in anyone I mention the grand total to, and again, no money. Working at Target for a month or two may get us some precious cash for our move to the great north, but I think I should admit to myself there's more going on here.

A part of me feels guilty, like a tiny voice inside my head that says, "Money wasn't the ONLY reason you left. Money in and of itself is never the only reason you do anything, otherwise you wouldn't always be so broke." This is true. When I lay awake at night, up in that ridiculous loft bed, alone, and missing Beau, a part of me just wants to apologize. Maybe, deep down in me, past the part with the good intentions, past the part that said, "Okay, we can go back to the United States," past the part that puts on the brave face and tries to think positively about Montana (despite my aversion to living in extreme climates), way down there at the bottom is that angry, vengeful side of myself. The part that says, "Beau, you made us leave. New Zealand was our big dream, a dream we made come true. I could hardly believe it myself; I was ecstatic, on top of the world. Sure, we didn't land in an ideal location there, but we knew that going in. You ripped us away from there. You stayed there for just six months before throwing in the towel. Now i have to move to a cold place, that yes, may be beautiful, but where we have no prospects and no home. (Plus, we'll be near my in-laws, YUCK!!!). I never ever wanted to leave New Zealand, just that tiny little village we were in. I wanted to move to Dunedin and get a house and have my garden and get a job at the University of Otago and eat lunch at that great Asian food court and stare at the gorgeous blue blue water every single day of my life. Now, for love, and yes, willingly and by my own choice, I am leaving all this behind. Fine! Fine! Then you can stay here and finish out this damn contract. I'm going back early. You can clean up the mess. All that packing and shipping and cat bureaucratic shit I had to take care of by myself when you left for New Zealand without me, now YOU can handle it all on the way back! I'll get work, make some money, but part of me is punishing you for doing this to me. The selfish part of me is angry, and very very sad."

It's an ugly, ugly side of myself that I'm ashamed of, and yet, here i am writing it all out in my blog. Masochistic dork. Furthermore, punishing Beau, even if only from a tiny part of me, is idiotic considering I think I am suffering even more than he is from the separation. Not to mention the tension between my mother and I is making me homicidal. I just think I have to face up to that part of myself, even if it's deep down and only surfaces occasionally late at night as I lie awake in bed. That guilt that slaps me in the face and says, "You are not so noble! You may have done this for love, and you may really be okay with it, but you are not all-forgiving!"

I am flawed.

21 more days 'til Beau arrives. As Elvis Costello sang, "God, give me strength!"
Note: In reality, he NOW arrives in 4 days. *cough*

Jerry Orbach

Jerry Orbach
Originally uploaded by jagabrie.

Rest in peace, Jerry Orbach.

As usual, I was going to write a long goodbye to beloved Jerry, man of a thousand talents, including a Broadway star, though best-known as the tough NY cop who made you laugh with his clever and cynical one-liners on Law & Order (which as you all know has been my favorite show since I was about 12). But I'm not going to. It's too sad.

I just feel so horrible. As with most deaths, it seems so sudden and so totally wrong to the fabric of one's life. I will really really miss him. I will miss the new Law & Order; Trial by Jury epsiodes I would have seen him in (he did film some). I will miss him each time I see his delightful

lumiere,
originally uploaded by jagabrie.

"Lumiere" dancing around the tabletop in Disney's Beauty and the Beast. I will miss the Broadway shows I would finally have been able to see him in since I live here. Of course, I will continue to do what I've been doing all along -- watching those reruns with him on TNT.

I know he was a good person "irl" as well. If I can be so bold as to quote a friend who actually knew him personally, she described him as "wonderful, smart, generous, ...funny (in a hammy kind of way), -- just a decent person." Oh, and staunch Democrat as well! I am so envious that he was a part of her life. And due to that, I'm sure she's hurting much more than I am at this moment.

We lost a great one yesterday. Goodnight, sweet prince. Your absence will be felt.

Feel that? That's a trickle!

Reagan: Sacred in Death

I wasn't going to put down anything about Reagan -- I just wasn't interested. But then I was thinking that maybe I should, simply for the fact that when I have looked back on my journals from my days of yore, I have regretted not noting down important times, either in my life or in "history."

Unfortunately, I don't really have any good things to say about Reagan. Yes, I remember him and his charisma (he was an actor, for Christ's sake), but I also remember him for all the damage he did to me and my family. Picture this: A young girl living in poverty, being raised by her grandparents (earning Social Security and a paltry pension), with AFDC checks coming in and college looming in the future. Now think about Reagan and his mighty slashing sword of budget cuts. If I was a big shiny missile or a big fat millionaire, I would probably kneel down and worship the man. But for someone like me, who was terrified about not being able to go to college and for her grandparents whose combined salary was about 40% of what I'm earning now (and I don't make shit!), Reagan was evil.

I think there's something in our society of canonizing people after they die. No matter how awful they were, there's something so taboo about talking about anything negative. I guess I understand it, and yet....I don't. It seems so hypocritical. And let's face it, the dead person doesn't give a fuck. Funerals are for the living.

My own grandfather was an intriguing and charming man, but also in many ways, a horrible man. I won't get into all the details, you don't need to pity me any more, but there was a part of me that was relieved when he passed away. Do i think he loved me? Yes, I think so. But I don't think he liked me, and there really is a difference.

The interesting thing was his daughter, whom had really suffered from his actions during her life, has completely turned him into a saint since his death. She sometimes think he communicates with her, she's the only one who goes out to his grave (deep in the far desert, in a military grave), and once when someone showed me that site Find A Grave, I found she had already left her nauseatingly loving message for him.

Rude? Yes. I loved my grandfather, but I am adult now and I see things with different eyes.

I think when I die, I would rather have people talk about my good AND bad habits. I wasn't a saint in life, I don't need to be one in death.

Comments...

Well, I was against adding a "comments" section on my blog for a long time. You see, I began this blog as sort of a personal diary/journal. Living in Bangkok, I knew that someday I would really WISH I had written down all the stuff I had gone through. And though it's only been about four months since I've left, I already regret that I didn't capture everything just after it happened. My memory has never been so stellar (just ask my roommate or any past beaus), and I'm afraid some great experiences will slowly fade. Even now, when once in a blue moon I look back on an old blog or email from Bangkok, I go "Wow, I had totally forgotten about that."

Finally, I put up an email address on my blog. I find it a bit unfair, and a bit cowardly to blast your strong opinions to the world and then quickly hide behind the anonymity of the web. I was shocked when I received my first email, a kind of fan letter from a very nice person. I wrote him back. He never responded. The same went for the next "fan" who wrote in. I guess if you're going to be a celebrity, you need to maintain a degree of aloofness.

I did have an author once write me when I mentioned him in a blog. I was kind of surprised since the book, though interesting, was a bit creepy to me (letters from lovesick white guys to street-savvy Thai women). He was publishing the book in the U.S. and wanted some press. I should have told him that only three people read my site including him and myself.

Glorious “Cheek,” who seems to have slowly grown a fanbase and has become a true writer all over the web, has continually pestered me to put up a comments outlet. I really haven’t been interested until lately. I guess for 1) there are such a small number of people who visit anyway, most of them through Cheek’s site. They don’t usually stay long. I have nothing shocking, extreme, outrageous, deep, and/or wonderfully amusing to say. 2) There are a million blogs about NYC. 3) I’m afraid that my comments section will be filled with vitriolic comments that will make me cry and then make me stop writing. Since I started this blog to write, capture memories, and feel good about myself, I fear the power of the "Comments!!!!!" section 4) See #3.

Alright, well, I put it up there anyway. It's accidentally squashed above the "I should move to New Zealand" phrase. It’s kind of all screwed up now since I haven’t really refined the code that is supposed to make it work. I’ll get on that later. Alright, *deep breath* I did it. Let's see what happens, if anything. Now, for me, back to the fascinating world of private banking! Wooooo!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today is my birthday. I am 31 years old. What a strange age. There’s no going back now. The twenties are utterly and completely gone. I really liked 30. It seemed like such a nice age (though it was difficult getting through it since it was my last months in Thailand). Now, I’m just 31. How boring.

Last night I reached a special point. I was reading this article on people who have come to live in NY (forever), and the writer made a comment to the effect that at some point, everyone ends up on their bathroom floor crying. Bah! Not me! I don't even cry that much and I'm made of concrete.

Bah, indeed. Guess what I was doing last night? It was right before my birthday (I was born four minutes after midnight and often kind of look forward to that moment), and I was doing some online stuff, like checking on my one remaining credit card bill (I have in recent years paid off all other EIGHT credit cards I once had). I knew I was late with my American Express bill, for the first time in years, but it couldn’t be helped seeing as how I am gainfully UNemployed and doing anything the temp agency throws at me to make rent and keep myself in potatoes. I was noticing how my balance had skyrocketed (no fucking surprise, fucking credit card companies), and then I saw that the “late fee” was $35.00. THIRTY-FIVE DOLLARS! With all this talk from the politicians, why isn’t anyone DOING something about this??? It’s fucking criminal. And you know there’s no rich people suffering such a fine, it’s the people who couldn’t scrounge enough cash to make their minimum payment in the first place. If I couldn’t make my $50 payment, how am I supposed to make another $35? Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s so sinister it just erupted into a wave of malice that washed over me and choked me up. Not wanting to look like a weepy girl in front of my roommate (I have already cried in front of him once which was humiliating enough), I retreated to the bathroom where I let it out. I was overwhelmed that in minutes I was turning 31 (not old, but certainly not fresh and young neither), and that I was a) unemployed, b) totally broke, and c) back into my spiraling credit card debt that I had triumphantly crawled out of inch by inch through my paychecks in Thailand. The feeling of helplessness when you know you’re being totally fucked and there is NOTHING you can do about it is almost more than I can bear at times. It’s not like you can complain to the Better Business Bureau. It’s not like a policeman will show up at their door and tell them to cut that shit out. You just have to find like $150 for your next payment in 28 days (they don’t even give you 30, which screws things up if you’re paid once a month), so you can pay for the minimum balance from last month and this month, the late fees, and the new and higher interest all coming at you like some sort of Odyssesian Hydra.

I hate credit cards. I love them too. I hate this one, but I’ll never be able to get rid of it, because even if I pay it off, I’ll need a credit card just to get that Blockbuster or gym membership or WHATEVER that requires a “credit card, not debit.” *SIGH* No one is going to give me a new one (I was hoping Citibank would, but forget it now), despite my heroic destruction and fully-paid balances on the eight others. I’m going to be stuck with this crappy AmEx forever.

Anyway, that was last night, and today I am better, though still broke and after tomorrow, once again without even temp work. For the moment, I twiddle my thumbs away in the World’s Most Boring Job Ever. It’s my office job that pays really good money, but collectively, has about 45 minutes of basic clerical work for the eight hours I sit at this desk (nine hours if you include your lunch break). I know I should be more grateful, since it does pay well, but I hate to be so idle. I would rather be sitting here typing (which I am obviously doing right now), even some boring report or whatever. I enjoy being busy and doing good work. Luckily, there is just ONE more hour left, and then I can flee to home home home! Wonderful apartment.

And tonight my roommate is doing something pretty great – he’s taking me out to dinner to somewhere very nice. I actually feel really uncomfortable about it (when money’s involved, I always turn into a self-deprecating Catholic priest), but this is one of those things I’m trying to change about myself -- Accept gifts graciously. Enjoy them without feeling immense guilt at the money that was spent for them. Feel worthy of such a gift, etc. It’s not that I really feel unworthy, I was just raised, in a very strict manner, that money was something we didn’t have, we didn’t want anyone to know we didn’t have, and to make sure not to take dime from anyone else. It’s bad bad bad! Yeah, it fucked me up good.

So, tonight we go to Tavern on the Green and I’m going to love it! And order a salad.

The Method Behind the Magic: the Death of Mr. Rogers

Read Mr. Cheek’s commentary on Mr. Rogers here.

Okay, things that don't have to do with yawn-inspiring business or anything remotely-related to Iraq doesn't get to me too quickly here in Bangkok, but I have finally found out about the death of Mr. Rogers. How very sad. It's one of those moments where death's icy realization washes over you. “He will never be here again. No children alive now will be able to see him, experience him. I just kind of assumed he’d always be around.” Okay yeah, luckily there are 30 years of reruns, but I guess it’s just not the same.

The sad thing about Mr. Rogers is that he’s a magical, warm, and fascinating man when you are in diapers. As soon as you “grow out of” him, which doesn’t take long, he becomes the subject of playground ridicule. Young kids mimic, “Won’t you be my neighbor?’ and the taking on and off of various articles of clothing. I feel ashamed to admit that he goes from demigod, to a joke in just a few short years.

Years later in high school, I took a class in Psychology. I was fascinated with the subject and I was fascinated with the teacher (a Zen-like man who taught four days a week and then actually flew to Columbia University once a week, EVERY week, to work on his PhD in Psychology). He asked us to watch an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I taped it and watched it. So, a few days later when he asked who had done the assignment, I raised my hand. He immediately called on me and began what was a fantastically frightening and exhilarating hour of focus on me (in high school, it always feels awkward to have so much attention placed on you). Really, he was just using me as a source to bounce off of, and throughout the hour, he slowly deconstructed each segment of the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood hour. He revealed how every layer was backed by careful childhood development research, and Mr. Rogers’ own two PhD’s in the area (is this true?? I looked for proof on the website but couldn’t find it). Every movement had a purpose, every phrase had a goal. All was geared toward the child, his/her individuality, development, and self-worth.

WOW!

It was an amazing day in my life. Suddenly, I had rediscovered the (Method to the) Magic behind Mr. Rogers. He was a genius! He was loving! He was thoughtful! He knew what the fuck he was doing! I felt shame for all the years I had laughed at his old-fashioned and “dorky” ways. I even had a very un-high school-like thought of looking forward to a day when maybe my own children could watch Mr. Rogers (and I could watch it with him/her, caressing my little secret of what was really going on). Now, I’ll have to be happy with three decades of reruns. Thank god for television. Thank god for Mr. Rogers.

Turning 30

In about six weeks I will be thirty years old. Supposedly, this is a major turning
point in one’s life. As for me, it is and it isn’t. Just acknowledging it is giving it importance, I know. Well, so?

I’m not afraid, worried, or alarmed. I kind of welcome thirty. For one, I feel smarter, stronger, more attractive (though a bit too fat recently), calmer, and more independent than ever before. I’ve always really liked the 30’s decade. I’ve always thought women were at their most beautiful in their 30’s. I’ve also admired how you are still young, but have taken all those lessons learned from your twenties and can put them to good use.

I’ve seen my face changing lately – in a way that I like. Unfortunately, I’ve put on about 5-10lbs in the past few months, a mixture of illness and laziness being the culprit. But I have liked the changes in my face. I have wrinkles around my eyes – those laughing lines or crow’s feet (the former sounding quite a bit kinder, in my opinion). Those are okay. I have watched my face take on more angles and shapes. My cheeks and nose seem a bit pointier, and my eyes are different, though I’m not sure why. I’ve even seen a bit more definition in my chinline, which is fine with me considering my normally soft profile. And as I said, since I’ve packed on a little lately, it’s not due to losing weight. I like it. It makes me look older, and a bit more dignified and less goofy. It’s not like I had plastic surgery, and I’m sure anyone who is in my life wouldn’t notice much of a change, but I do, and I’m pleased with it. Unfortunately, I recently went off the pill for the first time in about 10 years and it brought back my oily skin and acne in an aggressive rush. Before that, I had finally achieved, with the combined help of a high level of estrogen and the tropical climate, problem-free skin for the first time in my life.

One of the only bad things I can think of regarding turning thirty, is the loss of the allowance to be a fuck up. When you’re in your twenties, you are often referred to as “young” and you are given a LOT of freedom to do whatever the fuck you want. You can try different jobs (including getting fired), enroll and drop out of school (multiple times if need be), take off and travel for awhile, join a Buddhist temple to become a monk, etc. This is all fairly-well tolerated.

What I don’t like is that once you hit 30, society has lost almost all of its patience with your bullshit. Although the recent emergence of the “Bridgets” in the last few years have kicked out a niche for the new brand of 30-somethings. But in reality, once you hit 30, it’s time to cut the fucking shit. You aren’t married? Are you even LOOKING for a mate? And speaking of “mate,” (if you are a woman), “You know, you only have so many years left [to have a baby], you know. You don’t want to wait too long, be too old.” (I personally have heard this statement, almost verbatim, given to me on more than one occasion). It’s time to get hitched, time to put kids on the agenda (not NOW, but very very soon!), it’s time to get a career instead of a job, to stay in ONE place and settle down, to maybe buy a house or a condo, and maybe even buy a (GAGGAGGAG) an SUV.

I think I’d rather slit my wrists.

So, I’m nearly 30, single, in a good job but one I don’t see as a career, staying in a 2-bedroom-on-loan apartment, and living in Thailand, where I have NO intention of settling in. The only bit of responsibility I have is 2 cats. I don’t really have any interest in marriage, and although I’d like children some day, I certainly don’t want any right now. I like going out, being by myself, traveling, buying myself stuff, and sleeping all way too much.

Obsess! Stop!

So, I haven't written here in awhile. I was gone for a bit, but that's just an excuse. I guess like everything in my life, I become consumed by it, rabidly passionate, and then, I just...stop. It's not that I lose my steam, or .. well I guess it is. I don't exactly lose interest, I just get sick of stuff. This runs the gamut from things like pomelos to painting. For instance, I'll buy pomelos from the market. I'll eat them every day, for every meal. I'll become an EXPERT on them. Know how to pick 'em, how to peel 'em, the right way to eat 'em. And then, it starts to get to be too much. And I just, stop. I stop eating them. As mentioned, this happens with activities too, like painting. I'll be suddenly seized with inspiration and be maniacally focused. Sometimes I finish the painting, but often, I don't. Often I get to about 90% done before I quit. Well, it never feels like quitting, it always feels like a break, but I still have 2 unfinished paintings on the easel (and a new one drying near the air conditioner). You could blame it on my annoying ADD, but that's a cop-out too, because that's something I've learned to deal with, at least as best I can. It's a very annoying habit of mine, this finding things fantastically boring after being so totally consumed by it. I don't really know how to control it or stop it. Eventually, I am able to come back to the discarded thing anyway, though it usually takes some time.

The reason I'm talking about this is 1) to explain why I haven't come back to this for a bit, and 2) to give a fatalistic premonition to my declaration of wanting to be a writer. "Being a writer" is one of those things I've always wanted, just like "being an artist" or "being an actress" or "being a marine biologist." Things I always thought I had the ability to do, but couldn't really get around to it. Not to mention, any desire I ever had for the first two professions was muted by the promise of being a starving artist. If there was anything I wanted to avoid in my adult love, it was the prospect of eternal poverty. I don't need to be a millionaire, but fuck, by the time I graduated from high school I was sure as hell sick as living at or below the poverty level. Of course it shouldn't be like that, but it's hard to be the keeper of dreams when you've got no money and no prospects. So, others can take their self-righteousness and shove it.

Anyway, now I AM at a point in my life where I can pursue these previously suppressed passions. A writer? How fucking cliché. Who doesn't want to be a writer? ESPECIALLY of novels. You're supposed to start small, right? From your school newspaper to small articles to short stories, and so on. I suppose so, though I WAS an editor on my school newspaper and I have never liked short stories. For some reason, I love novels, but find short stories test my patience. I read them and feel like I'm back in grad school in one of my long and tedious seminars where I drew pie graphs on my notes and colored in a slice for every 5-10 minutes that ticked by. But marathon novels still interest me, though I find dense writing makes me want to puke.

Anyway (again), saying 'I want to be a writer' means nothing. And as mentioned above, I don't know if I have the self-discipline to finish a novel once it's started. I lack a great deal of self-motivation for long run. I have bought a few books -- the typical "Writer's Handbook," as well as "The Writing Life" and "How to Write Historical Fiction." We'll see if they really help. Historical fiction is my favorite. I'd like to do that, but it'd take a great deal of research and time. I love research, but I'd hate to get SO involved and fail. Rather write about something more familiar to me and fail.

The funny thing about "deciding" to become a writer is that suddenly every word you write (that the public sees, from a friend to the whole internet), feels 10x more vulnerable than before. I've only told two people (and since no one reads this, this doesn't matter), but even a simple email to them makes me hyper-aware of the words I write. Are there any misspellings? Do the words match, make sense, are consistent? Are there any antecedents? Yeah yeah, I know it's ridiculous. Give me some time, and I won't give a shit.