Eight Days a Week

I thought I'd be awesome and catch you up on my boring life. Whether this is torture or a thrilling look into the life of the insane that far surpasses any mental ward based piece of literature is up to you.

So today (Sat) and tomorrow (Sun) are my days off. I've actually had far more days off than I wanted lately. I would say I'm down to working 3 or 4 days a week and no one is hiring so a 2nd job seems unlikely at the moment. Work is slow and my manager is actually apologizing and feeling guilt ridden for the lack of hours she's supplying me with, but alas, her hands are tied. What the big boss says goes, no matter how crippling it may be for his employees.

The house has been exceptionally cold lately. I feel like I live in a snowman's asshole, so hot showers and warm fuzzy blankets worn like an emperor's robe have become classic favorites. I refuse to give into the snuggie though. I will die before I spend 20 bucks on a backwards robe that makes me one step closer to the fat cat lady who sits on her couch watching soaps and eating cheetos all day.

I've been a writing fiend lately. Funny enough, not having a life frees up some time to pretend you have something to say that's worth recording on paper. I got this awesome journal for the new year called "one line a day". It encourages writing by having you record one line in the book everyday for a span of five years. So far it's taught me two important things: 1.) I'm a lazy motherfucker who talks more than I actually do. and 2.) I have the attention span of a chihuahua on crack so writing in short bursts forces me to examine my details more closely and be far more witty in smaller sections. I'm becoming more disciplined in my correspondence and I'm proud of that. I'm starting to become more motivated to make this whole "author" thing happen. I just need to focus on finding more outlets and staying inspired.

I'm also making a list to keep me from falling into the trap of the boring life:



*Write or read for 60 minutes everyday.
*Start hiking. (There is so much beautiful greenery out here. I need to take advantage of that.)
*Learn to play the guitar (I don't need to be a musical god. Being mediocre will do just fine.)
*Sing in public more often
*Cook one scary new thing every month
*Finish my fafsa early for once
*Take at least one class that will help me learn some useful new skill
*Go out and socialize with the public at least once a month (being a hermit, no matter if it's a sexy hermit, is no way to stay in touch with life)
*Go to pismo beach (I've lived here for 6 months and I've never been! What the hell!?!!?)
*Try something new (falling on my face has always made for a humorous note to the public)


Alright, so I think I've exacerbated the fountain enough for one night. I've far exceeded the one line encouragement level and I'm treading into essay waters. That's going to turn me into an english student if I'm not careful.

Ob la di, ob la da

I've recently discovered it's possible to live at or below the poverty line with more tumble weeds blowing through your wallet than cash, and still go to bed with a full stomach. You just have to get a little creative.

I'm ashamed to say that I've gotten so poor that I can no longer afford groceries. Work is slow so the hours have decreased and no one seems to be hiring, so a second job seems unrealistic. I'm so broke I think the homeless guys on the street are going to start giving me change. I'm staying optimistic though. With my free time I've been working on getting my life in order and writing more, because really that's where my heart is.

So, back to feeding myself on impecunious man's budget.

I opened my fridge the other day in the hopes that some almighty feast from the god's would somehow be waiting for me on a gold platter. Alas, all I really discovered was some rendered bacon fat, some wilted veggies, and half an apple pie. The freezer offered me a little more luck with a bunch of leftover Christmas ham and some bacon, so I started to think of what I could turn that into. Turns out, there are lots of things you can do with such meaty items. Stumbling upon some beef bouillon, a bit of milk, an onion and a can of mixed vegetables, I went to work making a hearty ham and bacon stew. Not too bad, and it fed myself and two growing boys with endless appetites. Now that I'm out of ham, I've moved on to the cupboards. Turns out a box of pasta meant as a side-dish doubles as semi-homemade macaroni and cheese with a little leftover cheese from the fridge. Ramen with some vinaigrette, olives, and slices almonds turns into a surprisingly tasty Asian pasta salad. And frozen mashed up bananas with a bit of milk and sugar is just about as good as ice cream. This might sound disgusting to you, but until you show up at my door with a plate of steak or a check with my name on it, I don't want to hear it. Work has also been a huge lifesaver. Breakfasts come in the form of fruit from the salad bar, a large cup of coffee, and sometimes a muffin which has "mysteriously" broken into two pieces and therefore is unfit to sell to our customers. Lunch usually consists of vegetable soup and a lot of times brings some of his friends home with me in a carry-out container. Everynight for the past 2 weeks I've gone to bed without feeling hungry, and in a time where about 3.5 million people don't have that luxury, I guess I've got not complaints. It's really humbled me, I suppose. I don't need all that money to be happy. I don't have to go out to eat all the time, or buy that cute dress I saw at the mall, or see every damn movie that some big budget director has thrown into theaters. I'm content and for now, and I think I can manage with the little I've got.

If you'll excuse me, I've scrounged up some change from the couches and I'm off to buy some milk to accompany the cereal I got on sale for 99 cents. :)

For No One

A shot in the dark.
I'm coming to round five.
Still no luck.
The ideas just don't seem to be flowing like they used to.
My fingers twist tightly around the base of the pen, turning my knuckles an eerie shade of white. Another barely marked piece of paper gets balled up and tossed into the waste-basket like the forsaken remnants of yesterdays lunch. A useless notebook filled with useless words. Nothing original. Nothing emotive. Once upon a time reverie and purpose used to gush forth like blood pouring from a broken vein. Now my thoughts lay dormant.
Nothing is good enough. Every possible idea seems beyond useless.
I consider, for a few moments, just giving up. Drop the pen, stand up and leave. Someone must be hiring. Perhaps I can work in a museum. Passing out those tiny little brochures and pointing schoolchildren to the dinosaur exhibit, their tiny fingers wrapped around the wrists of their parents, attempting to drag mummy and daddy across the linoleum as fast as possible as if the t-rex might once again go extinct if they don't dash to the other side of the hall like rabid little monkeys. No. I don't think I'm cut out for that. I don't like kids much, and the elderly on a dreary Sunday afternoon can be ten times worse.
I inhale deeply, letting the air fill my lungs. Exhaustion is taking over. The blackness of sleep slowly creeping into view. I close my eyes for a moment, toying with the thought of a solid nap. I can picture my pillow in my head better than any lover that ever existed. Whomever compared a soft pillow to falling asleep on a cloud was not far off. It only takes a moment before I realize I'm drifting off.
I snap my head back up into place, filled with determination and a hint of desperate anger. Anything to make me feel motivated.
Since the age of seven, all I've wanted to do is write. Something as simple as putting my pen to paper, something that brings me more pleasure than anything else in the world is now haunting me, baring down like a weight on my chest. Maybe I'm over thinking it.
Should something you love so wholly be so difficult? What is it I'm missing? Where is my inspiration?
Suddenly, in a moment of overdue frustration I slam the notebook shut and fling the remaining scraps of paper and crumpled notes to the floor. My feet hit the ground so hard I feel the pain reverberate all the way up to my knees as I storm off to the kitchen in search of another cup of coffee. The little white clock nailed to the wall reads; 3:24 am. My third break in as many hours and still nothing of use. I flip through the mail on the table while the pot begins to drip and in a moment more humorous coincidence than irony I stumble upon a coupon for the local National History museum. I let a small smile permeate my lips.
Things really could be worse. I just need a day off and a day out. I check for the museum hours on the back of the ad. Tomorrow seems like a mighty fine day for a history lesson. But first, some rest. I choose to abandon the pot of coffee and leave my workings in a wash of sudden darkness as I close my bedroom door and reach for the pillows like a lost child.
The night is too good, and tomorrow is another chance to screw it all up.

Rain

"Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain."

There's something therapeutic about slipping on a pair of brightly coloured polka dot rain boots and splashing around in the puddles outside.
The water kisses your nose, and catches beads on the very edge of your lashes.
The wet air seems to smell better. Clearer.
For 30 minutes I let the sky soak me to my bones.
My hair matted to the sides of my face.
My vision blurred. My fingers icy.
I open my mouth and catch drops on my tongue, and still laugh every time the wind pulls my umbrella inside out.
I'm seven all over again and that's perfectly alright with me.
For 30 minutes the world and all its troubles seem to wash away with the storm, flowing like a river between my feet.
I don't mind when it rains.

Happiness is a Warm Gun

It's 7pm and I'm currently sitting in bed, watching soup run off the end of my spoon, drop after drop of warm red liquid splashing back into the bottom of the bowl. This is what my mother would categorize as "playing with your food" although not quite as creative as building sandcastles out of mashed potatoes, complete with garlic bread fort and mini broccoli soldiers.

I recently had a tooth yanked out of my head. Yes, an entire fucking tooth. Gone.

On the bright side the nice doctors (who spent plenty of time laughing at my feeble attempts to slur inaudible curses at them with my completely numb tongue and puffy chipmunk cheeks) wrote me a nice little prescription for a strange new friend called Vicodin. Now, kids, I'm not saying Vicodin should be used for anything other than true pain related conditions and it should ONLY be used as prescribed by a real licensed doctor. But I AM saying if you're lucky enough to be prescribed such a magical pill when you would otherwise be writhing in pain, thank the Lord in Heaven because DAMN do these suckers do their job!

I've spent the better part of the last two days tucked in bed, watching movies and consuming non-solid foods while simultaneously fantasizing about potato chips and crunchy tacos. But it's been (for the most part) pain free, and I'm grateful for that. Today I actually mustered up the courage to walk to the shower and rinse out some of the small creatures that have no doubt been nesting in that tangled mess I call my hair. I still haven't found the will to change out of these comfy pink pajama pants, though this has less to do with pain and more to do with my inherent laziness. As this is my last night of allowed pity, I plan on sleeping for a good 12 hours. It seems only fair to double up on my normal sleep intake after endearing such a traumatizing procedure, no?

What?

You don't think what I went through was trauma inducing?

Well fuck you! You don't know me!

Okay, maybe I'm milking this whole thing a little too much. Just let me have this final 12 hours then I promise I'll go back to being a normal human being...well at least as close to normal as I get.

Here Comes the Sun

Finding myself on the edge of 21, and realizing it's a long way down from here, I've started desperately clawing at the wallpaper and tying myself to the trees in one last feverish attempt to hold on to that last drop of youth who's only concern is which dress to wear to the party. A stack of bills sits on the desk in the corner, eagerly awaiting its chance to take the largest bite possible out of my already emaciated wallet.

Times are tough, boys and girls. Times are tough.

The New Year arrived with no hoopla. No shouts and cheers or clanking of glasses overflowing with bubbly. I lay in bed quietly reading a book and when the clock turns over that last remaining minute of the decade, I gently push Matt's shoulder, plant a kiss on his forehead and turn off the light. The last decade was big for me, so it's not to say I had nothing to celebrate, it's just that when you're hardly in your 20's every decade is big. Ten years is plenty of time to make mistakes, fall in love, move away from home, make new friends, lose old friends, take a few leaps, fall on your face once or twice, and essentially come away from it all feeling like you learned some valuable lesson. It's like watching a Brady Bunch rerun marathon. So the end of 2009 seemed like the perfect opportunity to relax. I have an entirely new decade at my feet in which to party, stress, try new things, and immerse myself in the kind of unavoidable drama that won't matter when 2020 rolls around.

It's been six months since I moved away from home and I'm proud to say that there are no plans in the works to move back. The freedom is nice. Finally having the chance to become your own person and learn by doing rather than someone else telling you what you should or shouldn't do. It's much like being a small child in the kitchen all over again. Our mothers, in their all knowing voices warn; "don't touch the stove, you'll burn your hand!" Of course a warning like that only makes us want to touch the stove more. It suddenly becomes that juicy, red, forbidden apple that probably tastes sweeter than all the gummy bears in Candy Heaven combined. We are programmed to learn by doing for ourselves. Regardless of how much we already know it's going to burn like a mother-fucker and leave nasty red welts on our hands for weeks, we still reach out and tentatively challenge the red hot coils, and we still cry and yank back our hands in surprise when those words are proven right. The shock is still the same, but would you have remembered that lesson for the rest of your life if you had just taken your mother's word for it? That's the point I'm at right now. Foolishly touching every stove I can get my hands on. I can only assume that one day the challenge will lose it's appeal and I'll be content with sitting at home reading about people doing stupid things rather than partaking in the stupidity myself, but at this moment in time playing the part of the naive young girl is the only thing that keeps me learning. Everyday the world opens new doors and everyday I comically fall down a flight of stairs just beyond those doors.

Tomorrow, as with most days, I'm going to get up and drive to work and enjoy the best part of my morning: watching the sun come up over the horizon. It only recently occurred to me that most mornings I start my day the same time the sun does. There's something calming about watching the light start to peak over the hills and creep through the trees of a small beach town. I've seen more sunrises and sunsets in the past 6 months than I have over the last 20 years. I feel like one day the memory of those mornings will be something very special to me. Some people would give anything to be able to witness that one last sunrise.