On Reaching Out To People...

I have exceptional hearing.  I hear EVERYTHING - and that certainly isn't limited to things that I want to hear, it also includes the annoying, the random, the personal and the things I'd rather not know.  It's probably the reason that I have a problem with repetitive noises, loud TV, talk radio and big crowds.  It's also the reason I've been privy to more than one explanation of myself that wasn't intended for my ears. 

"Don't worry, that's just Kay."

"No, it's not that she doesn't like you, it's that she doesn't like anyone."

"Sometimes she says the most ridiculous things..."

The most succinct rendition I ever heard was this - sensational.  My written word isn't much different from my spoken word and when I came into work this morning wearing a turtleneck that I was fairly sure was going to drive me into a panic attack because it manages to be both grabby at the wrists and grabby around my throat - the two things I hate most in clothing - I announced to a friend of mine that I wore a turtleneck and I was fairly sure I was going to die.  A few weeks ago, someone asked me what I was going to do as I aged and my arthritis got worse and I told them I was banking on a cure - either that or I would pick up a handgun and a tarp. 

If you combine my black Irish blood, my personal history and my penchant for comedians, it's easy to figure out why I always go for the overblown and hilarious, so when I say things like "Dude, friends are way too much work - they just die on you," people think I'm being cute.  With the exception of an addenda ("they just die on you or make you wish they were dead") I'm not being cute.  That is, in fact, one of the most sincere things I've ever said to another human being. 

It's hard for me to look back on a time in recalled history where I can say I had an easy time reaching out to people.  As a child in a tiny private school where anything you did, said, thought or heard was known by the entire school in a matter of minutes - a place where all the kids were smart but none of them were quite brilliant either, where I was still set apart from the rest - it was impossible to trust anyone because people you'd known for your entire life would turn on you in an instant because they were kids and that's what kids do.  I stepped out of that environment into the rest of the world and things didn't improve.  There were more people, which meant there were more people to choose from, but it didn't do much for my confidence in humanity when I finally found people that understood - people that got me - and they started dropping like flies to suicides and overdoses - let alone that I hadn't yet hit my teen years.

When you cut to the end of the story, what I'm left with are a handful of people who proved to not only be decent human beings but trustworthy ones at that.  It's funny because, of all the many men I've befriended over the years, I had to send Chris a message today (because I believe in the power of positive reinforcement) when I realized he was the only one I could count as more than an acquaintance who never tried to sleep with me. (His response was that, when I knew him, he was a fairly shy guy ;)  I think that's meant to intimate that, if offered the same opportunity a few years later, things might have gone differently.)

The people I've loved - the people I've trusted - have betrayed me on the most base levels.  I think it is that way with people - the more you love them, the harder you lean on them, the deeper they have an opportunity to cut you.

For most people, they'll tell you that the internet has made the world a lot smaller - made it a lot easier to reach out to people that have the same interests and to find support in numbers.  For me, the internet has always made the world bigger.  I can tell the internet anything and, provided I'm careful about where and how I put it out onto the internet, no one ever needs to know it was me.  There's anonymity, but there is also something deeply personal about it - there are so many things it's easier to put into written words than spoken ones - there are things you can tell someone in text that you could never say to the same person.  The internet doesn't care if, when closing a file I never should have opened in the first place, I remark to the room at large "Well, that still bleeds."

Reaching out across the void that is the internet, I've managed to stumble over people - real human people who know, who understand, who get it and who've been there.  The funny thing is, that was never what I was looking to find. 

At twenty-four, I've learned to wear my scars with some sense of sick pleasure.  (Yes, I've been there.  Yes, I've done that so you'll have to excuse me if I don't want to sit here and explain it to you.)  If someone asks directly, or if someone needs to hear it, I'm to the point where I can tell them what happened in a distantly amused kind of way and not really connect with any of the stories.  They're my life.  They're my past.  They happened and I can't avoid them but I'm still the person who told could barely breathe the words to her best friend.  Worse yet, I'm the person who did tell her best friend and spent the next two years paying for that choice.  I'm fairly sure I'll never stop paying for the next time I made that mistake.

Over the years, I've gotten more choosy.  Open though I may be, the things that are still raw - the things that still bleed - I can't bring myself to discuss with even those people who I'm closest to.  (This, by the way, is why Freud feared the Irish.) 

They say that people who have been victimized, who've been abused or betrayed or taken advantage of, can smell their kind a mile away.  I don't know if that's necessarily true, but I know that I've always had a bit of a sixth sense for the damaged.  I can tell you what happened and when and how bad it was after spending fifteen minutes with someone, so I'm seldom surprised when someone offers up a theoretical revelation about themselves but I never stop finding it amazing how easy it can be to distill ones fears and regrets into a few words and say them to someone who doesn't need it explained to them.  I seldom seek out people who can offer understanding, mostly because I've found that the more information you give someone, the more power they have over you, but when pushed to the point of confronting some demon, its comforting to know that the internet brought me the people, or kept me in range of the people, who have the capacity to be the most understanding.

Now, years later and light a few dozen confessions, there is no single thing more terrifying than removing the barrier - taking the internet out of the equation.  When Chris comes back home to visit, I avoid him like the plague - not in spite of but rather because he is one of my favorite people in the universe.  On the one hand, there's relief in knowing that after seven years of friendship, I'll finally be able to give Linda that hug I know she's needed on more than one occasion or share that drink we've often waxed philosophical about until three in the morning, but there's fear there too because I'm not sure how I'll make it through any of it without bursting into tears.

Cufflink Round-Up

I adore cufflinks.

Ask anyone who knows me well, they will tell you that, while I don't wear a lot of jewelry, I love me some cufflinks. Being a girl, I don't find many off the rack items that are cufflink compatible but I've been known to tailor men's shirts and 'hack' the cuffs on regular button downs to give them cufflinks.

For most people, they own a pair or two and they only drag them out when they're in a wedding party somewhere and it seems like such a pity because, while necklaces, rings and bracelets are "out there" pieces of fashion - big things that people notice - cufflinks are subtle but they can also say so much.

I may not have a few hundred dollars to drop on jewelry at the moment, a girl can always dream, can't she?

It can be about where you've been or where you are going like these map point cufflinks from luv4sams shop. You can tell someone special that they've left their fingerprints on your heart with these custom, fingerprint cufflinks from lukely. They're billed as a gift for Dad's - and I think that's adorable too - but they'd be a sweet gesture from a bride to a groom as well. (Or vice versa if the bride is as odd a duck as me ;)) There are even cufflinks for the logophiles out there (there are more than just me, right?) if you have a favorite word or phrase that you wear like a badge of honor or a quote that carry's you through difficult days, these custom word or phrase cufflinks are a subtle way to do it. Or, if you feel like you're taking a gamble on love, or just want to remind yourself to take chances every day, there's nothing like a a tiny roulette wheel (Both of these are also from luv4sams.} To round things out, I have to say this awful thing - I'm not a huge fan of train/subway token charms, cufflinks, etc... I feel like it's so "done" that it's lost a lot of its appeal, but since I'm a sucker for the sentimental and I've suddenly come to terms with the fact that I will be leaving my beloved Chicago soon, these Chicago Transit Authority cufflinks from NOOBOO will probably make their way into my collection at some point in the future.

For those among us whose inner child, or at least their inner hobbyist, is a little over-developed, there are tons of conversation starting cufflinks on etsy. CosmicFirefly has a diving bell that appeals to the 20,000 leagues fan in me as well as the part of me that wanted to be a marine archaeologist when I grew up, and their Ouiji Board cufflinks are super cute for the indecisive among us. If Ouiji boards aren't your thing, maybe you're into monopoly or d&d. (From nakedtile and qacreate respectively.) I'm also a huge fan of the Marmite jar's from mixedupdolly. Even if games and obscure European foods don't make your day, everyone has to find something to love among Superman (finkstudio), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (The Clay Collection) or Star Trek (also from finkstudio).

If you're the kind of person who can't be quantified, Etsy sellers have your back too. daniellejewelry's abacus's come in several different designs and I'm in love with the military vibe of CosmicFirefly's wings. luv4sam also offers these modern 'bright idea' cufflinks and a fully functional set of compasses. Finally, if you're looking for something bold - so cute for groomsmen, pinktophat's Boys Will Be Boys links can't be beat.

If none of those have you sold on the awesomeness of cufflinks, check out the just plain old pretty ones below:

From NobleStudiosLTD. These antique glass button cufflinks manage to look gloriously modern.

Check out these antique cufflinks from New Zealand brought to you by hansfromsweden's etsy shop.

Wood is wood, so don't ask me why I'm constantly falling in love with wood stud buttons, rings and cufflinks but I am. There is something organic about Holcomb's Woodworking and their Bubinga Wood Cufflinks.

LouyMagroos has tons of fabulous, modern cufflinks - the above are just a few designs.


[funky geometric cufflinks | oval crosshatch cufflinks | apreture cufflinks |

Michelle Chang's custom initial cufflinks are (i think) a much more stylish take on the typewriter key phenomena*.

I adore these. They're funky, they're brightly colored, they're sort of industrial but still nicely finished... *sigh*

Way to go, Poppy Porter

And just when I thought I'd run out of energy to drool over things, I ran across Christine Bossler's etsy shop and fell in love with her alchemical use of metals and stones and ability to find the beauty in rust.

[ There is a whole parenthetical aside happening here as I want to wander down a path of discussing the fact that reclaiming, repurposing and reusing has become so much about "look how I cut apart this t-shirt and made an itchy rug out of plastic bags" and so little about taking something old or unused and making it into something beautiful and how that should be the real goal of reclaiming, repurposing and reusing - not just taking something to a use but elevating it to it's best use. And then, you know, I thought I should stop. ]


*they're cute - but it's so done to death.

On To Do Lists…

I try not to fall into the trap of New Years Resolutions.  They seem like a good idea for the first few days – and I think it has a lot to do with the killer hangover people are usually nursing on New Years Day – but after that, they tend to get lost in the shuffle of living day to day and then you end up regretting your hubris the next New Years Eve and repeating the cycle all over again.  Me, on the other hand, I try to set goals rather than resolutions.  Would I like to be skinnier, sure I would.  Do I think it’s a good idea to be a better person, probably.  Could I swear less, of course.  But these are the sorts of things you should be working on anyway – and they’re the kinds of things that get lost after a couple of days or weeks.  For me, it’s all about the tangible and real – things you can reach out and touch and work for concretely – and things you’ll know you’ve achieved once you’ve gotten there.

Last year I set forth the desire to know how to make perfect macarons – with a slightly raised foot and an uncracked top.  I didn’t make it all the way there.  I’ve gotten the foot smack on and they don’t crack anymore, but they are still more oval than round.  (Something I can chalk up to my life-long animosity toward pastry bags and piping tips.)  All things considered, I’m putting that one in the “win” column, if only because that’s perfect enough for me.  (One of those “big,” “pervasive” and “intangible” things I learned this year, though it wasn’t something I set out to grasp, is the value of letting things go and not getting down over imperfections.  I don’t want to be the next iron chef and I also don’t want to be that person who sucks all the joy out of what they’re doing by fussing over a cookie that flattened – it’s the flavor that I want to be good at, not the look.)

The internet is rife with people doing the same – Wardrobe Refashion and 101 in 1001.  Even at HPFF people are being challenged to read all, or as many, of the Pulitzer winners as possible in 2010.  I haven’t taken up any group causes but that doesn’t mean I won’t still spend a good deal of time searching for a support group of my very own.

For Today:

• somehow stay awake until the end of the work day
• remain productive despite my desire to collapse into a pit of exhaustion
• go to bed early and drink lots of water

For Tomorrow:

• design something for print.  I made a promise to work on something every day and I’ve been working on everything but this.

For 2010:

• launch “the business”
• go to infinitus and have fun despite my misanthropic desire for anonymity.
• write a proposal for infinitus and try not to be self-sabotaging because of above or because I feel I have nothing of any real value to say to these people.
• be self-sabotaging for a new and unique reason.
• move some place a little wonderful
• edit undone and have the proof copy printed
• find someone who can give me honest feedback on same and ask for it.

And Beyond:

• find a way to work from home, be it actual employment or freelance work
• send more care packages
• act my age and go out more often!
• keep writing, if only because it surprises people.
• continue to recognize that there is always something I don’t know how to do and learn to do it.  (this feeds into my ultimate goal of possessing the title of MOST DIVERSELY EDUCATED PERSON EVER and ensuing WORLD DOMINATION)

A Shout Out To You, Internet

I have less than 50 friends on Facebook.

My friends (!?!???) and family have always joked that, while I may not have a lot of interpersonal relationships, I'm still kind of a big deal on the internet.

This, I won't lie, is a little hard to explain without feeling self-deluded.

Still, when you show up for a midnight showing of a movie and strangers want to hug you and you get a call from CNN the next day, it's hard not to think there might be something to the rumors.  For the most part though, I tend to keep a pretty low profile.  I use the same login name everywhere, but I don't cross link my blog, my twitter account etc... to any of my websites and I don't do it because being "kind of a big deal" doesn't really interest me.  It's wonderful to be appreciated and there's nothing handier than having an 'international contingent' when you want to travel and you need to know what kind of outlet adapter to buy, but I'm not Tila Tequila, nor do I want to be - so I'm me, and if you want to web stalk me and follow me around, go for it.  I won't be making any Forbes lists anytime soon....

Where am I going with all of this?  Today I was looking for a new avatar to use, so I was browsing my gallery to see if anything struck my fancy or if I was going to have to make a new one when I got home.  Internet, I've had Gallery installed for years and I love it, but I've never really noticed the "views" feature. 

A few months ago, I removed all of my files from Gallery and re-uploaded them with all new meta data to give myself a uniform structure and remove a lot of crap I didn't want.  Doing so, obviously, reset the view counters... This was July.

 

What have you people been up to because I don't even like that icon...

I guess sometimes I forget that there are people out there reading my blog, browsing my gallery and looking at my tweets.  It only really occurs to me when I have to confront that, despite the fact that I block search engine spiders to save on bandwidth, in the last 63 days that single icon has not only been looked at but been clicked on 1049 times. 16 times a day?  Seriously??!?  I don't advertise...my stuff is not posted all over the internet and the first time I walked into a store and saw someone wearing a t-shirt i'd designed I almost passed the fuck out.

It's weird, but it's a good weird - so thanks, Internet.  I love you too.

Yo Momma So Fat....

I hate Craft People.

This strikes most everyone who meets me as slightly…shall we say counter intuitive on account of my status as the Queen of Why-Would-I-Pay-You-To-Do-That-When-I-Could-Do-It-Myself? I have a cursory knowledge of painting, wine making, light carpentry, re-upholstery, garment making, knitting, crochet, jewelry construction, stained glass design, baking, cake decorating…etc, etc, etc… In the last month I’ve made blankets, two costumes (one of which included the most obscenely ornate trench coat, both of which I completely drafted my own patterns for), a wedding cake and greeting cards. My big goal at this point is to locate an Eames or Plycraft knockoff lounge chair on Craigslist and refinish it in a light gray vinyl and Brazilian Cherry stain.

I may have repaired my sofa with mounting brackets, plastic coated wire and a borrowed hammer tacker but before you confuse me with Craft People, you should understand that there is a subtle distinction between me and them: everything I do is useful and usable.

My Kleenex boxes do not have quilted cozies for every season – though I’m not above picking up some bulsa wood and spray paint to bang out an adorable, mod Kleenex box cover should my lifestyle ever warrant hiding the hideous floral patterns their corporate office reveres so. And yes I could knit you an ugly sweater, but I would rather make your kid an adorable stuffed hippo. Of course I can tell you that vodka and vinegar are the most effective ways to remove a strong scent from fabric, but that doesn’t make me a Craft Person – that makes me crafty.

A few weeks ago, I got quite the shock when one of the girls invited me to her baby shower. It wouldn’t have surprised me because, at their core, most people will do anything for free stuff, except this shower is not the “everyone from work” shower – this is the “friends and family only” shower. At the office, only an elite group of five were invited, or so I was informed in whispers when the card was dropped off and she hissed “friends only – I don’t want a bunch of other people there.” Forgive this for sounding strange, but I didn’t know I was friends with this girl.

It’s not as bad as it seems, it’s just that I’m not a person who has “friends.” There are people that I hang out with/around at work who I don’t do the tuck and run for when I catch a glimpse of them at the grocery store, but I wouldn’t presume to be friends with these people. I wouldn’t call them and ask for help moving or invite them to my baby shower…. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I would resent them asking the same of me, I’d do it in a heart beat…. Maybe it’s the after effect of being the kid no one liked in school but I there are exactly no people that I know whom I would feel comfortable imposing upon in any way. I just assumed that meant I didn’t have any friends – all though, apparently I do. Go figure.

Anyways, the point of all of that is that in the near future, there is a baby shower looming for me. The best thing about this is that this particular person is by far the most reasonable pregnant girl I’ve known and I have every confidence that she will not attempt to make me wear a pacifier necklace or participate in a diapering relay race….(not that I don’t totally pwn in those relay races.) If there were another best thing, it would have to be that this is also a “cool” pregnant girl. I’m one of those people that see something they like once and files it away hoping that some day the information will be useful. Among those ‘somethings’ have always been baby items that I saw once and thought were totally awesome but never had someone to give them to because no one I knew would ‘get it’

This girl – she gets it. I could explode. Suddenly I have a place to bestow all of this stuff that’s clunking around in my head. (Finally I’ll have room for that cure for cancer Colin was always bitching about.)

Problem? The physical manifestations of this stuff are just not as good as they were in my head. Iron on transfers fade, rhinestones fall off, embroidery is too Holly Hobby, that design is so ugly it ruins the funny…

Of course, to the crafty, these are not problems, they’re challenges :P

So last night I raced to four different stores to pick up the necessary supplies but, damnit, the thing that existed only in my head has been brought to fruition…delicious, snarky fruition.

B is for BuSpar

I think I was seven when it first occurred to me that I probably didn’t want to have kids.

I know that sounds silly because, at seven, most little girls are playing with Barbie’s and Baby Alive (Or, at least that’s what we were doing in the early 90’s. I guess now they’re playing with rolling papers and dreaming about fucking a Jonas brother, but whatever.) For me, seven was the magical age in which I got my little brother. My parents say that I asked for him. They remind me, emphatically even, every time he does something stupid and I start raising money around the neighborhood to send him to a boarding school. I remind them in turn that, unless you want to know which Care Bear is which, you shouldn’t be looking to six year olds for guidance on major life decisions. Either way, the experience of getting my little brother was one of the more traumatic endeavors of my young life. My mother, in her pursuit of raising a well rounded daughter who was attune to the world around her, decided that I should understand the concept of birth and labor in a “first hand” kind of way.

Internet, there are things that you cannot unsee.

I remember four details surrounding my brother’s birth.

1. I was allowed to bring my Duplo’s and my Tiger games to the hospital for my mother’s labor.
2. My parents had no idea what to name him and chose his name only because the hospital wouldn’t let them go home without filling out the name on the birth certificate.
3. We dressed him in a 101 Dalmations outfit, complete with ears. This first experience with incognito dressing would come back to haunt us in years and years of “I don’t wear clothes! I wear Barney/Superman/Big Bird/Woody/Wonder Woman!” screams from the afor mentioned child.
4. ….

You know what, I can’t even tell you about four. This is the one time I am going to get up and call this experience a unique little snowflake. All I can really say is I didn’t have a cheap seat or, to use another euphemism, this was not an “above the curtain” viewing. I’m pretty sure I can still feel my grandmother’s fingernails digging into my shoulders.

It goes without saying, but my first real understanding of child birth was graphic, gory and utterly repulsive. Add that in with the particular variety of little brother I got – one that has gone far beyond the usual reaches of stealing your stuff and tattling when you sneak out of the house on Saturday night and into… well, suffice it to say that my little brother has endeavored to become everything I ever hated about other people. I’m sure he and I will iron it out later in life after he has a few life experiences and grows the fuck up but in the interim, we’re not doing to well.

Either way, I’ve spent every day since his birth very confident that I never wanted to have children. I don’t blame my mother for this in any way. In fact, she inadvertently stumbled upon the best form of contraceptive on earth. Never has there been a more careful or conscientious person when it comes to keeping the risk really really really low and I’ve been exceptionally dedicated to ensuring my own little corner of the world doesn’t contribute to the climb in teen pregnancy rates. I pass out condoms like they’re candy and we’ve taken every teenager in reasonable reach to Planned Parenthood.

As I got older and the people around me started having kids and settling down, it started to make me anxious. It took me a lot longer than it should have to come up with that word but it really is the most appropriate one for the emotion. When one of the girls at the office gets pregnant I get physically uncomfortable. When a family member pops out a kid I back away. God forbid someone in their late teens or early twenties gets their girlfriend pregnant accidentally – when that happens it’s a little like pulling the parking brake for the first time in a few years – the whole drive shaft seizes and smoke starts coming out of my ears. (Perhaps my understanding of pregnancy, child birth and child rearing was slightly skewed by my friend embedding a bullet in his skull because he knocked his girlfriend up and she wouldn’t have an abortion. That might have had something to do with it…maybe a little.)

I’ve developed a nervous twitch when people mention that they’re trying to have a baby…It’s just completely surreal.

I get that my reaction is irrational and that my behavior may read with a wink of “thou dost protest too much” but I can’t ever help it because it’s how I feel – completely and utterly repelled.

About two years ago, I got pregnant. I was on the pill but karma, in that way that it does sometimes, reached into a disastrous situation and decided to make it just a little bit worse. The sex that lead up to the almost baby was had on the cusp of Mike’s near suicide attempt. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, my boyfriend told me he’d bought a gun and intended to eat it because he was on the edge of financial ruin and what happened but I went and got myself knocked up. A lot of factors went into my decision to have an abortion but, to be honest, the emotional turmoil and our status as completely unprepared to raise a child really didn’t factor in that much. I didn’t want kids and, for his part, I don’t think Mike really wants kids either, though I think he’s far more inclined to tolerate them than I am. To boot, I was a miserable pregnant girl. I didn’t have morning sickness – I had all day long sickness, and it wasn’t just eat and wretch it was a simple inability to eat, period. Was part of that psychosomatic? I’m sure. Had I wanted to be pregnant the fact that I had to drink all of my meals for a few months probably would have seemed a lot less problematic. I might have even gotten over the fact that taking fifteen steps was enough to make me want to pass out I was so dizzy. I probably could have avoided the anemia if I’d been planning a pregnancy.

Two years later and I’ve never regretted the decision to have that abortion. It’s a decision I revisit often, like I’m sure I’m going to change my mind about it at some point – like I’m supposed to. Pop culture and the media pumps you full of the notion that if you elect to abort you will live to regret it – to miss the little life that could have been – and maybe that’s true for the spiritual but for me I’m still sure that this was absolutely the right decision for me. Sure, the protestors outside the clinic were scary – it seemed like the wrong moment to be pouring salt in people’s wounds. The fact that they had bomb doors and a video intercom system was more than a little foreboding, but when it was all said and done it was a comparatively painless experience.

I’m older now than I was then. While my eight year long relationship with Mike has always raised eyebrows and the question “when are you crazy kids gonna settle down and make babies?” over the last few years, the tone of the question has changed. People ask now with a lot more sincerity than they used to. Co-workers who I barely know stop me and tell me that I’d be a great mom and ask when I plan to have kids. The office pregnant girls, who are more than aware that “no, I don’t want to touch your stomach and feel the baby kick – tks” smile and point out that they wish they could be half the mom that they know I would be if I had kids.

They don’t do that to everyone and I’ve never really understood that because I’ve always had the hunch that I would be a horrible mother – a selfish one. I like watching bad tv and would do everything in my power to ensure that my child was enriched by PBS, not Dora the fucking Explorer. I wouldn’t give my kid Disney cd’s, I’d teach them to love metal and big band and blues and indie rap. There would be no cutting the crust off of the edges of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because that’s some pink bullshit right there. If my kid fell down roller skating, I’d probably be laughing when I went to help them up because I don’t care what you say, it’s kind of funny. Just because I made you get your drivers license doesn’t mean you’re ever getting to use the car and I think it’s fabulous that you want a $200 pair of jeans…come to think of it, they’re cute – I want a pair too. Oh well, now we both need a weekend job cuz there’s no way in hell I’m buying those for you just because you want them. I’m happy to make edible play dough and stay up all night making a costume for the talent show but god help us all if my kid ever took an interest in t-ball or fishing (or became a Heather… shudder) because I would have no idea how to relate to them.

When I look back on the mother’s that I’ve known – my own included – I see women who have made incredible sacrifices for their children and, while they don’t seem to resent them for it, are certainly a little worse for the wear. My grandmother stayed in a marriage that is ultimately bad for her simply because she had children. My mother is, to a large extent, doing the same despite the even larger sticking point of her sexual orientation. She has effectively swallowed that in order to maintain her relationship with my father so long as my brother is still in the house. From the outside, I can see nobility in their actions, but I can also see the negative impact it’s had on their children. Exempting myself from the conversation, I know my brother was ready for my parents to just get a divorce and move on from the age of twelve – I think he’d rather. Conversely, I’ve had pictures of the bad moms too. My other grandmother is a cold, calculated, manipulative truly evil woman. I won’t say that the abuse her children suffered at her hands was the worst kind but I think Loralie Gilmore said it best when she said “Honk if Emily Gilmore thinks your mind is her personal playground.” My grandfather is dying of liver cancer and the entire family is afraid to go see him because We Dare Not Speak It will be there. I’m pretty sure that’s some bad juju.

At the end of the day, I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is that these relative strangers are seeing that makes them think I should be entrusted with another human being.

I don’t read “Mommy Bloggers” – but I do read a lot of Bloggers that have gone Mommy over the last few years and, I have to be honest, they’ve done a lot to change some of my perceptions about parenthood. Their missives on raising their own children have gone a long way toward making me feel less alienated…a little closer to whatever it is that people see before they feel the need to grab me by the arm and encourage me to “marry that man and have a little baby!”

I have a post in my near future about finally finding a “cool” pregnant girl that is actually tangibly here – it feels a little like finding a unicorn. I’m not saying that I want to go home and get myself good and pregnant right now. M is still knee deep in classes, we’re planning a move in the not so distant future…It will be a few years before we’re really settled enough anywhere to even consider having that particular conversation, and I do still hold strong to my convictions about being able to afford college funds and private schools, but I think, as long as there are still people out there who teach their kids to laugh when they get hurt rather than to cry I might have some more options than I thought I did and that’s nice.

Ted Strong

Ted Kennedy died last night. Today I wore blue.

I was asleep when it hit the news, but Mike woke me up to tell me. Getting woken up in the middle of the night is bad enough, but to be asked “I have bad news, do you feel up to it?” isn’t the best follow up.

I get that, for most people, this death is still far secondary to the recent demise of Michael Jackson but, for me, the Kennedy family has always been something far more fascinating. I must have been pretty young when I developed my attachment to the Kennedy’s, because I don’t remember when it happened or what triggered it. Teddy delivered his concession speech five years before I was born. I was nine when Jackie died, and I remember being sorry that she was gone. When John-John died in ’99 I felt for Ted and Eunice but I wasn’t interested in the eons of searching and the conspiracy theories that came forward. When Patrick got clocked with a hammer during a business meeting, I blogged about it. There are Kennedy’s in my dreams, there are Kennedy’s in my closet. There are even Kennedy’s in my office. While my heart may have gone out to Bobby, and Mike may have a tremendous love for the man who gave him the space program, Teddy, by virtue some would say of his mediocrity, has managed to outlast them both, and his legacy is larger than life.

When Sam Johnson died, I wrote the following:

Respect your elders. They’ve seen more than you can imagine. Their stories and advice are the only things that they have to offer you that are of any real value and they’re the only thing you’ll have left after they’ve gone. Realize that you get only one chance, but live it in a way that you won’t have to apologize for later. Never ask permission or apologize for doing something you believe in. Understand that the good things in life – the things you should be most proud of – aren’t tangible; they’re the things that can only be seen by looking into a person’s eyes. Be patient with your friends, but hold firm to what you believe in. Don’t get so caught up in yesterday’s news that you forget what today is all about. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. There’s no point in being jealous. Know only that each person works for what they have, and those people who haven’t worked for the things they’ve received will never really live to appreciate it and that’s a form of half-life. Do the things that you enjoy. Never mind what everyone else thinks of them.

In short, this goes out to all of the people who are spending their weekend relaxing and enjoying people that they love because they know on Monday morning they’ll be back to work at whatever they do, or school for whatever they’re studying, to give it everything they have.

Chappaquiddick, the Bay of Pigs and Marilyn Monroe and Joe McCarthy - all stains on their respective pasts but I think Dennis Leary said it best when he said “Good senator, but a bad date.”

The sentiment applies here, not in the same context, but with the sense that the feeling – righteousness, hard work, ethics and respect are what, regardless of their missteps, these Kennedy brothers tried to be. They may not have always succeeded, but at the end of the day those were the ideals they struggled towards as people and as politicians.

Today is a sad day and the world mourns their many losses.

"For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die." - Ted Kennedy 1980 [listen]

I have one of those jobs. (And if you've ever started answering your cell phone in your best "Corporate Accounts Payable - Nina speaking." voice you know what I'm talking about.)

In addition to being one of those jobs that completely numbs my mind to the point where the only thoughts that are going through my head when I'm doing it are "Has it been more than thirty seconds since I last said something to this guy?" and "Did I remember to repeat his question back to him?," its also one of those jobs that has a great work to check ratio - insofar as Check > Effort. the day that Check < Effort i will run screaming from the building leaving a trail of flames in my wake.

Or something like that.

When I took this job I knew that it was just A Job and certainly wasn't anywhere near The Job, but I was OK with that, since I was only looking for A Job to keep me from dwelling on the fact that M was, at the time, considering swallowing his gun and, for that A Job would do. To boot, since I was on the rebound from A Really Crappy Job that got mad at me because I took three Monday's off during the five months I worked there to attend funerals of all things, I figured A Job working Anywhere But There would hit the spot. So I applied at precisely the kind of place that employs people like me - "Some College" (because I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up), "Exceptional Technical Skills" (because while I wasn't thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was staring at a computer screen) and "Extensive Customer Service Experience" (because my parents fear no child labor law) - strip malls, coffee shops, book stores and big chains.

Guess what? None of them would hire me.

The process was always the same - fill out their disturbingly long application and questionnaire, all vaguely personal while being completely pointless and insane and turn it in to the nearest person in khaki's and hideous polo. Wait. Receive phone call from the Happy HR Department. Schedule interview. Attend interview. The interview's all went soemthing like this.

Interviewer: "What makes you interested in working for the Starbucks Corporation?"

Me: "You know, I've worked in coffee shops before and the best thing about any of them was always the fast pace and meeting new and interesting people on a daily basis. Plus, never before more than twelve steps from a double shot of espresso never hurts."

Me - On The Inside: "Because I am 21, don't want to get a real job where I have to be accountable for what I do and this is seven blocks from where I live."

Interviewer: Phony Laugh. "Good answer. What do you know about Starbucks?"

Me: "That I love a good Latte." Phony laugh from both of us now. "No, seriously, mostly what I know about the company doesn't go far beyond the green aprons."

Me - On The Inside: "I know that as a corporation your earnings are solid enough to keep this location afloat for another six months, which is all the longer I want to work here. I also know that your employees are completely miserable - but I'm going to be miserable either way, so I'd rather be miserable while being payed for it. I also know that your cash counting policies are lax and that you use a machine to weigh your change at the end of the night so I don't have to count it - thank fucking god, because I never want to see another quarter again."

Interviewer: "Fair enough. Let me give you a little run down about the company because, with your experience, I think you'll be management material in no time..."

And that's the point where it all falls apart. My eyes glaze over as Overly-Caffeinated-Part-Time Night-Manager tells me about how many new locations they open each week and how he thinks that, given my management experience, I could be looking at my very own store in less than six months. He seems very excited about this. I am less so. He starts telling me about the benefits package for a regular employee, then waves his hand in a completely heterosexual way and says "What am I thinking?" before shuffling a few papers and getting out the managers benefits package. He is very excited about this. Predictably, I am less so. After about twenty minutes of me feigning interest, he starts to get that I have no intention of turning my potential job at Starbucks into a career choice and that's the end of that.

I repeated that process at no less than a dozen big name chains - each of them sending me the same letter that pretty much read like this: "Your resume was great and you had tons of potential but, by the end of the interview, we could totally tell that you thought you were too good for us, you misanthropic bitch."

At the time - I was furious. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why companies that employed a slew of 16-year olds who couldn't handle showing up for work on time and often didn't know the difference between an MSDS and the Employee Handbook wouldn't hire me. I completed "Some College"! I slogged through almost two years working my way from "we might have a shift for you on the weekends bussing tables" to "you're one of the only two managers we have that we can count on and I need you here for 16 hours today - puh-lease!" My customer service skills are so fucking sharp I should be a god damn hostage negotiator. Why the hell don't you trust me to fold a fucking sweater if i'm willing to work for the same $7.50 as the rest of you idiots? And then I realized that it was totally the part about them knowing that I knew that I could have a better job and I didn't want one...and then I stopped resenting the situation.

Nonetheless, when this job came around, I knew that it was still just A Job despite the higher payscale and slightly larger name tag and I was OK with that. I figured it would never hurt to have a big name company on my resume.

Internet, I feel as though I have been seriously wronged.

A Job that I would keep for six months, long enough to figure out what I wanted to be what I grew up and find something that didn't try to crush my soul with authorized bathroom breaks, cherokee red cubicles, a boss that doesn't think Hawaii is part of the United States and co-workers who think I'm not only insane but also a liar when they say "Check out this cool picture of a raptor" and I say "Raptor bird or Raptor plane?" becuase "What the hell are you talking about Raptor plane? There's no such thing as a Raptor plane." [Just for the mother fucking record, Internet, I am neither insane nor a liar.] That job - does everyone remember that job?

That job is dead and what I'm left with is the rotting carcass of that job - no more self-respect, no more dignity, no more soul. You see, about a year into A Job, M lost his job. To be fair, he had A Job too. His job had been a somewhat longer tenure but it had the same pay, the same hours and the same soul deadening qualities. But, when M lost his job, he didn't just lose his job, his boss enrolled him in a magical government program that allows me to feel like I'm taking back just a fraction of the money I send to the IRS every year and getting to spend it on M's education. You see, M is currently enrolled in an all expenses paid Associate's Degree Program, a period during which he is also being paid unemployment. This is tehAWESOME because M never would have gone back to college were it not for being forced to decide between free school and finding another job right away. This is also tehSUCK because he only brings in about 2/3rds of what he used to bring in, and that means that we are no longer in a position where we could live in the lifestyle to which we've become accustomed on his income alone. We're making it work and, really, I kind of like it better. He's at home for a large part of the day which means I no longer have to interact with laundry, dishes or the vaccum cleaner and, if we get in a bind on a weekend, he can hit the grocery store during the day, sign for deliveries and bring me lunch when I'm jonsing for someplace that doesn't deliver. Having someone at home has made things a lot easier for us - and, since he's not working and going to school at the same time, he has tons of time for all of this while still keeping up with his homework.

The only complaint I have (other than that all this time home alone makes him really really really really chatty when I get home and he's constantly looking for someone to banter about the future robot war with) would have to be that, all of a sudden my job became so much more important. I could no longer entertain the notion of talking back to my boss. I could no longer get up on a Tuesday morning and just decide not to go to work that day. I have to be working and thats incredibly oppressive for me - a person who has, thus far in life, worked for six months, squirreling away money all the while, and then quit my job, living off the fruits of my labors until they were gone only to repeat the process again.

This knowledge has actually driven me completely insane. Two months ago I started doing this:

I
Originally uploaded by waxwingedfae

Yes, that is The Flower Pot Formerly Known As Pencil Cup and Monkey Munch Holder holding about 30 paper cranes. Why is TFPFKAPCAMMH holding about 30 paper cranes? Well because I've gone crazy, silly. When I was a kid I once read a book about a cancer kid who had tons of children sending her paper cranes because legand holds that if you make 1000 paper cranes you get a wish. The kid died, I think.

I wish I didn't have to work here anymore and the collection - it's growing.

Economic 180's

I'm a serial temp employee. I figure, I'm young enough not to need the health insurance and old enough to be placed in the long-term contract positions, lazy enough to enjoy the way they just hand me a job and I show up and have a strong enough itch to enjoy changing positions every year or so. Plus, when it comes time for team building exercises that involve trust falls and hug-a-thons, I always get to use the tried and true line of my ancestors - "Dude, I"m a temp."

In any case, over my years of temping, you see that temps are treated a lot of different ways depending on the corporate culture. At some offices, it doesn't matter that you've worked there six months and you'll be there for another 10, they still won't give you a name tag for your desk and half the office calls you "the temp with the glasses." At others, co-workers adopt you into the fold immediately and forget that you're a temp - when the company gives away goodies, they're for everyone, not just the actual employee employees. Either way, it never really mattered to me, but lately, an interesting phenomena has taken hold - Jobloss-itis.

because if you're going to fire someone, you should at least do it with flair.

I temp for one of those really big, international conglomerates that owns a few fistfuls of companies in varying degrees of success and failure. Truth be told, I've never worried about being hired on permanently. M, our brand new student, is set to graduate in a few years, and when he does, we'll be moving. Is it worth it to bust my bosses balls and insist that I get hired on for a few months of health benefits and some paid vacation? To me, not really. If they hire me, yay - i'll be happy to soak up the summer sun on my days off and get my teeth cleaned - but if they don't, I'm not one to feel worried or slighted.

That's how I felt until recently.

Now, if they tried to hire me, I think I might say no.

You see, one of the new fringe benefits of being a temp is that, while once we were the expendible workforce - the people to be cast aside when economic times got tough- now, temps are the lifeblood of a corporation trying to cut costs and stay afloat. They find women and men in their early to mid twenties who don't really care about pension plans because we've already started our own IRA's and who aren't all that concerned with vacation days for sick children because we don't have any. To boot, we're computer savvy, willing to work odd hours and, best of all, we're inexpensive because we don't carry that weighty benfits package. Today, it's the employees that are getting let go and being replaced by temps rather than the other way around.

So, today, when my co-workers fret over layoffs in other branches of the corporation or get nervous when they hear that we might be sold off, it takes everything I have to force myself not to smile and say "Dude, I'm a temp."

Because even if I do get let go from this contract - my temp agency will have me working somewhere in a matter of days. Now that's job security.

Jack Dalton

My brief and truncated internet research says that MacGyver had a lot of sidekicks over the years, but Jack Dalton seems to have been the most popular.

Thursday's, meet Jack Dalton.


Okay, so maybe not exactly Thursday. Maybe it was Tuesday, but anyway....The saga of the car that is out to get us continues this week in a few minor and mostly amusing tales. The first of which involves the worlds fastest installation of a spare tire and the second of which apparently involves some drafting tape.

Go figure.

In the words of Dennis Leary - "See, some people laugh, and the others need an explanation"

I do, Flickr. I do.

See, and you thought she was sad in that picture.

Just wait until I tell her about this, internet. Just you wait.

Happy V-Day Everyone!

My photography might leave something to be desired but, aside from the potatoes (which stubbornly refused to be cooked through in time to go on the table with the rest of dinner), this dinner did not.

Rosemary Focaccia, a Caramelized Onion & Gruyere Gallette, Fillet with compound butter, mushrooms, blue cheese and some plain old chocolate cupcakes....we're having a happy V-day around here.

To you and yours :)

Thursdays

I, like Arthur Dent before me, could never really get the hang of Thursday's.

That's why, this morning, when I wandered into our temperature controlled parking garage to discover that our car wouldn't start, I wasn't really all that surprised. Sure, we're not outside in the sub-zero, arctic front that all the local weathermen insist on calling "the Deep Freeze" (the graphics are really fabulously bad) but, on a Thursday morning, I expect nothing less. First, I phone call to my Dad - i.e., the car doctor. (Turn your headlamps and cough, please.) Then, to my sister-in-law - i.e., "Hey....how far are you from work right now and how do you feel about getting a little farther? We'll go back, I swear!" Then, to the office to tell them that my sister-in-law was a little too far from work to get us both there on time so I was going to be late all by myself.

When superman showed up, battery pack in tow I was all ready for him to MacGyver the car back together but it didn't go quite like I planned. Apparently, the starters bad. But that's a problem for after work.





So, thus begins my weekend. In the mean time, Superman gave us his car so we can all get to work and class where needed.

All in all, it's good times.

Comment

I have, at one point or another, belonged to many a community and at all of those communities, commenting has been kind of a big deal. People encourage it - they long for it. And I get that. Comments are nice. They make you feel warm and fuzzy and like people actually care about your inane blather that you insist on sharing on the interwebs. Sure, comments, depending on their nature, can sometimes have the capacity to make you feel like crap, but most people have the good sense to keep that shit to themselves.

Me, I'm not much of a comment whore. I have blogged for going on a decade now and for the first 2/3rds of that decade, my blogs were geared towards my immediate friends and family - if they had something to say, they called. (And, oh, they did.) In fact, the only time I used to get comments, my stomach would lurch and bile would rise up in my throat because the only people who were driven to leave comments were those that didn't know how to get ahold of me by a more personal means and those people are almost always bad for my psyche. So, long story short - I love comments. They do make me feel warm and fuzzy, but if I never get one, that's OK with me.



All right, that's really not what this was about.

Gotcha.

What I was going to say is that as much as I've never been particularly eager for comments, and as much as I'm always willing to espouse my personal opinion on my own blog - I've never been one to leave comments. There's something about scattering my personal opinions on other people's corners of the world that makes me...uncomfortable. So, for the most part, I just don't. Sometimes I want to say something - and occasionally it's even witty, but I just don't. But lately, I've been...inspired.

I never say anything profound and rarely is it interesting, but I've felt compelled in recent months to post wishing people a good time on their trips or letting them know my personal method for achieving the maximum possible amount of "crap shoved in a flat rate postal box" with the minimum amount of "held together completely by packing tape that will give way at any moment."

All in all, it's not as scary as I thought it would be. :P

Making Macaroons & House Guests Who Set Alarms For 5:30 AM

What are Vegans? They're like Vegetarians...only more strict and humorless.

Well, last night, we had our first house guest since the move. (Is it a bad sign that it took us 6 months to get around to it? Oh well.) To boot, it was only my mother...who lives a whole 20 minutes away, but she had an early flight to catch with her boss and, since we live about four minutes away from said boss, it made sense for her to stay with us rather than to have my father drive her, only to turn around, go home and then come right back to go to work.

In any case, at Pizza Night, she mentioned that one of her co-workers brought in Mac's and she's been gushing ever since. It was at that point that I foolishly revealed that I know how to make Mac's.

Well, all right - so the tops sometimes crack and they're always misshapen - but OMG do I have the flavor down. And that's all that's important.

Right?

Hrm...

Anyway, I dragged out my egg whites and my food scale and painstakingly measured out 200 grams of powdered sugar, 100 grams of almond flour, 65 grams of white sugar and less carefully doled out the cocoa powder. The results - YUMMY. The look - not so much. The leftovers, less than half.

Where am I going with all of this delicious gloating? Two places, really. One, I have come just this much closer to achieving one of my New Years Resolutions. Cuz, hey, at least they were all round and approximately the same shape this time. (Piping, why dost thou mock me?) And two, I know why my career as a person with a dedicated food blog ended before it started. Macaroons are the only thing I can stick to the recipe on. No, seriously. Give me a salad, a dough, a crust, a batch of cookies, a roast and I will improvise - improvise - improvise. More of this. Less of that. Measuring cup say what? The problem, I never write any of this improvisation down. And I never measure it or weigh it. I just cook.

All in all - 5:30 AM Sucks.