I am back at work on a Tuesday, two days after returning from a week-long vacation to the Caribbean with my man-friend, Jim. We spent the week in 88-degree weather, where the sun was shining, the food was impeccable, and the 'no problem' attitude of the locals put an extra bounce in my previously tripped-up step. We laid by the pool, sat dangling our feet over private docks in the bay, drank frozen girly drinks, and slept. It was perfection.
Now I am back in the trenches of Chicago after immediately dropping Jim off at the airport to fly back to England. I go home, to a cold apartment, and sit by myself, as it were before I left. The only solace was having Murray to cuddle, but that quickly subsided when my allergies went into full self-attack mode since I'd been away for so long. It was misery.
I woke up Monday morning overly tired from the previous 20-hour day, and dragged myself around the apartment collecting items for my work day. I walk out into the 40-degree Chicago weather, battling the strong winds on my way to the train. My skin, which had healed and softened significantly in the Caribbean sun and sea water, had already started to chafe and redden yet again.
I walk through the pedway on the way to the office, and not one single face is smiling. No one is in a good mood, no one is being courteous or holding any doors or thanking anyone for holding any doors. A Chicagoan's bitterness is wrapping a cold blanket around me! I get to my office, walk into reception the made no room for windows, into an office with no windows, sitting and facing a gray, undecorated wall for the next 9 hours while my boss barks at me to get out of vacation mode and get back into work mode.
Alas.
There is that saying that you need a vacation from a vacation, and I take that to heart today. There was not much transition from sitting in happiness with the man of my dreams, and then literally the next day being thrust into a cold gray city with no mans. It doesn't help that work conditions are dreary and depressing as well, in accordance with the high expectations of performance but without payoff or self-fulfillment.
The British call this the "post-holiday blues." I call this 'the ethnophenomenology of unhappiness.' We seem to have gone numb to depressing work and living conditions because we either have to or because it's what we know. I feel like there needs to be a paradigm shift here, because people shouldn't feel this way. Some of these are [relatively] innocuous phrases used to present extreme anguish...because everyone feels this way. Reaching into the lion's mouth, I wonder if taking a break from 'reality' actually opens our eyes to what life should be like, rather than a simple acceptance of brief happiness.
I guess one will never know. And I leave this chalked up to a question as my boss could potentially read this, and his answer would be to take away vacation days so we won't have to feel this way.
Let the tightening of the chains begin.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Bachelor: ring-a-ding, dip sh*t
As a late comer to this season's the Bachelor, I only watched the final rose ceremony, admittedly only to find some vacation spots in St. Lucia. By the end of the season finale, I was able to draw direct sympathy with Facebook's "Live Feed" avid dislike of the infamous Vienna.
As I stand in line, albeit the back of it, I come up with a list of just a few ideas for a personal favorite Someecards.com:
1. I hope you bruise your knee.
2. I love watching pretty boys cry.
3. Two words: Shane. Lamas.
4. Never fall in love with a grammatically incorrect woman.
5. I'm only watching the final rose ceremony to find out the 11th Dancing With the Stars contestant.
Next up: AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL.
As I stand in line, albeit the back of it, I come up with a list of just a few ideas for a personal favorite Someecards.com:
1. I hope you bruise your knee.
2. I love watching pretty boys cry.
3. Two words: Shane. Lamas.
4. Never fall in love with a grammatically incorrect woman.
5. I'm only watching the final rose ceremony to find out the 11th Dancing With the Stars contestant.
Next up: AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Pushing Rubbermaid to head Department of Agriculture
In the last 48 hours I have become my own worst nightmare trying to clean my apartment for my mother's arrival tonight. In fact, anytime I try to do a clean up of this nature it generally takes me several days longer than expected - I always find a mini-project that sidetracks me. For example, last night I found a bag full of samples: 3 packs of Kiehl's body wash cream, 2 packs of anti-wrinkle cream, about 8 different types of body lotion, etc. (I also went through my back-up makeup bag and threw out about 12lbs of worthless eye shadow that caused me to have an allergic (read "swelling") reaction).
Once the evening rounded the 11pm corner, I went looking for a glove that is meant to wipe up pet hair. And since my red duvet cover has recently glowed a slight "orange" tint from the layer of Murray hair, I figured now is the time to take care of it.
Not quite sure where this glove is hiding, I default to a big, blue Rubbermaid bin in my kitchen. This bin has been home to many o' pet items over the last few years: dog food, collars, E collars, torn up rope toys, kitty costumes. I start to dig around hoping this thing would just jump out at me, and instead, to my surprise, I find I have a lot more in here than I thought. So I dig deeper.
Let's call this part of the story: foreshadow.
Before I even complete my journey to the bottom of the bin I stop to notice small, brown shiny particles stuck to the velcro piece of one of Vera's old winter coats. Upon closer examination, it appears as if this coat has been bombarded with crushed exoskeleton. And anyone who knows me well, knows I DON'T do exoskeleton.
I keep going.
I keep going until I notice there is a third of a large bag of open dog food that I'd long since forgotten about. Right next to it was a paper bag with something in it, though I dared not to find out. The ENTIRE bottom half of the bin, including the base, was covered in dead maggots and little crunchy bugs. They were all over the food, stuck inside the bristles of a brush, tangled inside chew toys. Even part of the paper bag had been chewed up so there were dusty particles that had fallen to the bottom, making the yellowy maggots indistinguishable. I almost threw up. I mean, I really almost threw up.
I saved as much as I could including a bag of leashes and collars, along with a couple pinch collars...but everything else was went right out into the alley dumpster. I wonder what I must have looked like, dressed in my pajamas, kicking around a Rubbermaid bin at 11:30p in an alley.
What I learned from this is not so much dwindle down hoarded items, but rather, if you do, always ALWAYS store them in a Rubbermaid bin.
Once the evening rounded the 11pm corner, I went looking for a glove that is meant to wipe up pet hair. And since my red duvet cover has recently glowed a slight "orange" tint from the layer of Murray hair, I figured now is the time to take care of it.
Not quite sure where this glove is hiding, I default to a big, blue Rubbermaid bin in my kitchen. This bin has been home to many o' pet items over the last few years: dog food, collars, E collars, torn up rope toys, kitty costumes. I start to dig around hoping this thing would just jump out at me, and instead, to my surprise, I find I have a lot more in here than I thought. So I dig deeper.
Let's call this part of the story: foreshadow.
Before I even complete my journey to the bottom of the bin I stop to notice small, brown shiny particles stuck to the velcro piece of one of Vera's old winter coats. Upon closer examination, it appears as if this coat has been bombarded with crushed exoskeleton. And anyone who knows me well, knows I DON'T do exoskeleton.
I keep going.
I keep going until I notice there is a third of a large bag of open dog food that I'd long since forgotten about. Right next to it was a paper bag with something in it, though I dared not to find out. The ENTIRE bottom half of the bin, including the base, was covered in dead maggots and little crunchy bugs. They were all over the food, stuck inside the bristles of a brush, tangled inside chew toys. Even part of the paper bag had been chewed up so there were dusty particles that had fallen to the bottom, making the yellowy maggots indistinguishable. I almost threw up. I mean, I really almost threw up.
I saved as much as I could including a bag of leashes and collars, along with a couple pinch collars...but everything else was went right out into the alley dumpster. I wonder what I must have looked like, dressed in my pajamas, kicking around a Rubbermaid bin at 11:30p in an alley.
What I learned from this is not so much dwindle down hoarded items, but rather, if you do, always ALWAYS store them in a Rubbermaid bin.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Excuse me, Fate Waiter. This isn't what I ordered.
I wrote a story once about the subjectivity of life and how our mindset changes from the time we are small children until the time we grow old(ish). I find that many of my thoughts as even a teenager, somewhat rational considering my post-pubescent rage, have expired into the butt of jokes, or walk among the undead. Growing up, I believed I would be married at 25, children shortly thereafter, successful business woman (I invented post-its), a dog and a walk-in closet. So when I graduated college and moved to the big city where I landed, not the job of my dreams, but more like an "oh my god! A job!" job, I thought my adult life could finally flourish.
Four years later, I am sitting on the couch in my one-bedroom apartment, with my left arm draped over the belly of my 18-pound cat, writing a blog. Alone. At 28.
But my life is wonderful. I have no complaints that wouldn't melt under a 20-watt light bulb. But as I get older, as more and more friends' paths become straighter, more married, more parental, I wonder where it is I strayed to wander so far from a path I once thought was my destiny. Suddenly I can barely stand babysitting for more than a few hours, I'd happily trade a wedding for a box of pizza and a beer, and that walk-in closet only half exists as an airtight bag squeezed underneath my bed. There is no dog, there is no husband, and thirty is meeting me in a half hour, near the corner of PMS and Menopause.
My sister, Mom and I often sit and talk about weddings. I tell Anne that her colors should include a lime green accent, Mom tells me I should wear my hair in a loose bun, I tell Mom she can plan the ceremony, and we all have a good laugh knowing the lackadaisical effort we put into an original thought makes for great girl talk. But even as I sit here now, I cannot envision my wedding. I close my eyes so very tight in hopes that it will magically appear like a 13-year old at a wishing well, but it's just not coming. Those kids' names I always said I wanted for my own will now go to my friends' children, and that beautiful white dress maches itself into another bride's album. I'm slowly watching as what I thought was my destiny slips away unclaimed. Even unidentified.
I know I'm not the only one who finds it fascinating that what we once thought would be will never be, and in some case SHOULD never be. But still it could be. I feel that while I would dearly love to hold onto the hope of a memory I'm comfortable will never come alive, the possibility of it happening is still just as sweet. Me, in a long white dress and hair pulled lazily into a that bun, drinking the nectar of the Guinness gods and wondering how I ever thought the one-bedroom life of a 28-year old could ever have reached that full of satisfaction. And while it does for me now, original fate might intervene.
So, until then, I hold the cards close to my chest and raise my glass to those who will walk before. Here's to a life well lived, my friend, or a life of nevermore.
Four years later, I am sitting on the couch in my one-bedroom apartment, with my left arm draped over the belly of my 18-pound cat, writing a blog. Alone. At 28.
But my life is wonderful. I have no complaints that wouldn't melt under a 20-watt light bulb. But as I get older, as more and more friends' paths become straighter, more married, more parental, I wonder where it is I strayed to wander so far from a path I once thought was my destiny. Suddenly I can barely stand babysitting for more than a few hours, I'd happily trade a wedding for a box of pizza and a beer, and that walk-in closet only half exists as an airtight bag squeezed underneath my bed. There is no dog, there is no husband, and thirty is meeting me in a half hour, near the corner of PMS and Menopause.
My sister, Mom and I often sit and talk about weddings. I tell Anne that her colors should include a lime green accent, Mom tells me I should wear my hair in a loose bun, I tell Mom she can plan the ceremony, and we all have a good laugh knowing the lackadaisical effort we put into an original thought makes for great girl talk. But even as I sit here now, I cannot envision my wedding. I close my eyes so very tight in hopes that it will magically appear like a 13-year old at a wishing well, but it's just not coming. Those kids' names I always said I wanted for my own will now go to my friends' children, and that beautiful white dress maches itself into another bride's album. I'm slowly watching as what I thought was my destiny slips away unclaimed. Even unidentified.
I know I'm not the only one who finds it fascinating that what we once thought would be will never be, and in some case SHOULD never be. But still it could be. I feel that while I would dearly love to hold onto the hope of a memory I'm comfortable will never come alive, the possibility of it happening is still just as sweet. Me, in a long white dress and hair pulled lazily into a that bun, drinking the nectar of the Guinness gods and wondering how I ever thought the one-bedroom life of a 28-year old could ever have reached that full of satisfaction. And while it does for me now, original fate might intervene.
So, until then, I hold the cards close to my chest and raise my glass to those who will walk before. Here's to a life well lived, my friend, or a life of nevermore.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Did non-zombies in zombie films ever watch zombie movies?
I wish this were discussed more. In fact, I wish there was an entire Jeopardy category dedicated to zombie reasoning. I'm in the middle of watching the most recent release of "Dawn of the Dead" and so far, the burdening question among the selected living is, "what are they?"
Bitch, they're zombies.
Look, it's about to be 2010. There are like 862 zombie movies, probably originating during the time of Adam and Eve. So during a weekend romp with a 2004 remake where no one seemed to know what to do, I was a little taken aback.
Let us break this down....
You (Read "general term for general idiot in leading role of horror film, male or female, though likely 'all'") wake up one day, and at random most of the people in your life, and on television, and walking the streets of city center have somehow formed a death strut of thump-thump-drag. You are able to escape in your 2004 Honda Civic to the nearest mall where you find solace in other humans who have yet to morph into grandma on her 97th birthday. The mall is empty, the PA system lulls you into a calmness with its elevator music, the escalators are still running by the electricity we've had since the 18th century, and the vast spread of Abercrombies and Crate & Barrels are at your endless disposal. The televisions are even still broadcasting the horrors of nearby ravaged cities, detailing the mass chaos that has plagued the millions of Americans (pompously assuming this hasn't gone "H1N1") who you live among.
With the rest of the film stained with modernity, are you telling me that if you marched your living ass to the nearest Blockbuster, there wouldn't be one single zombie movie to tell you what the F is going on?
I can only conclude that this ups the ante for Shaun of the Dead to be one of the greatest zombie movies ever made. It's original, funny, the characters placate the undead with their knowledge of how to "blend in", and to boot, it's a British film.
God this has exhausted me.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Dan Brown, where are you?
With my B.A. in Religious Studies firmly nailed to my wall*, I recall the summer of 2001 being the first wave of Dan Brown awesomeness. The DaVinci Code sold so many copies, hot dog vendors traded in there "ass and lips" for copies of the highly talked about novel to sell from their push carts to the late-night drunks. Hold the mustard.
After reading the book and absolutely loving it, I decided on tackling its predecessor: Angels and Demons. Whatever seat I was sitting in during its page-by-page play of dramatic religious and symbolic infusions, I was on the edge. This guy writes like another favorite author of mine, Ken Wilbur. I think they're both too interesting to write a text book or some other form of non-fiction (likely because it will bore the hell out...zzzz). I think they chose the smarter route and placed their intelligence into the not-so subtle notes of fiction.
Until I met The Lost Symbol.
I wanted to love it, I really did. But everything seemed so anti-climactic. It had the occasional build up, and then followed by the inevitable let down. It gave new meaning to a few choice phrases that were popular in grade school. It was like watching Aaron Carter on Dancing with the Stars - I just couldn't force myself to like it. Books are like albums. They have to be treated delicately because it's most important for you to grow as a musician, grow as a writer. I struggled past book 4 of Harry Potter, and Dan Brown lost my on book 3. It's a record.
I finished the book this morning on my commute to work. Generally I sit and ferment in a job well done to even complete a book, but I skipped that and went right to popping in my ear phones and wishing like hell the train would plunge into the dark waters of the Chicago River.
Dan Brown, if ever become rich and famous off one of my awesome inventions, and this blog ends up at the top of your Google search, take heed: evolve. The intellectual Indiana Jones is cute as a button, but I need more. I wish for Robert Langdon nothing but success. Maybe he could achieve greater success through a carefully leaked sex tape, Jennifer Aniston's next dumper, or maybe a cameo on "What Not to Wear." I mean, it can't be that hard. Right now you could even place him anywhere with Carrie Prejean and he'll get attention.
Regardless, I know where my weaknesses lie and I am sure I will be purchasing whatever money maker you decide to put out next.
Until then....
*This statement is up for grabs in the Truth department. I'm not sure I ever received my actual diploma, from high school or college. I'm assuming there was some pending or unpaid balance from excessive parking tickets which led as a barrier to receipt. If so, I promise I'll pay those fees. Maybe.
After reading the book and absolutely loving it, I decided on tackling its predecessor: Angels and Demons. Whatever seat I was sitting in during its page-by-page play of dramatic religious and symbolic infusions, I was on the edge. This guy writes like another favorite author of mine, Ken Wilbur. I think they're both too interesting to write a text book or some other form of non-fiction (likely because it will bore the hell out...zzzz). I think they chose the smarter route and placed their intelligence into the not-so subtle notes of fiction.
Until I met The Lost Symbol.
I wanted to love it, I really did. But everything seemed so anti-climactic. It had the occasional build up, and then followed by the inevitable let down. It gave new meaning to a few choice phrases that were popular in grade school. It was like watching Aaron Carter on Dancing with the Stars - I just couldn't force myself to like it. Books are like albums. They have to be treated delicately because it's most important for you to grow as a musician, grow as a writer. I struggled past book 4 of Harry Potter, and Dan Brown lost my on book 3. It's a record.
I finished the book this morning on my commute to work. Generally I sit and ferment in a job well done to even complete a book, but I skipped that and went right to popping in my ear phones and wishing like hell the train would plunge into the dark waters of the Chicago River.
Dan Brown, if ever become rich and famous off one of my awesome inventions, and this blog ends up at the top of your Google search, take heed: evolve. The intellectual Indiana Jones is cute as a button, but I need more. I wish for Robert Langdon nothing but success. Maybe he could achieve greater success through a carefully leaked sex tape, Jennifer Aniston's next dumper, or maybe a cameo on "What Not to Wear." I mean, it can't be that hard. Right now you could even place him anywhere with Carrie Prejean and he'll get attention.
Regardless, I know where my weaknesses lie and I am sure I will be purchasing whatever money maker you decide to put out next.
Until then....
*This statement is up for grabs in the Truth department. I'm not sure I ever received my actual diploma, from high school or college. I'm assuming there was some pending or unpaid balance from excessive parking tickets which led as a barrier to receipt. If so, I promise I'll pay those fees. Maybe.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
What better way to say "I care" than with a well-chosen emoticon
I love emoticons. And by that I mean I <3 emoticons. With most of my beloveds located around the world, most of my communication is conducted via IM, email and text messages (I find phone calls to be SO archaic). For moments such as, I often find conveying proper e-emotion to be a very fragile situation which requires the delicacy of handling newborn baby chick with a missing leg and a Napoleon complex. It's tough.
By personal jest law, I am required to mitigate the distance issue by cracking a joke (that might not sound much like a joke). As a substitute for voice inflection, it might go something like this:
So-and-so: Damn, I really feel like crap today.
Sarah: Yeah? I bet you look like crap today.
There's only one way to save this....
So-and-so: Damn, I really feel like crap today.
Sarah: Yeah? I bet you look like crap today. :D
No tears. No ended friendships. Just the understanding that my dry sense of humor and sarcasm shouldn't be taken for more than just that. Assume I am always laughing or joking when I say mean and hurtful things. And if a day shall come that the emoticon makers make a middle finger emoticon, then you know when I'm crossing a line.
Until then....
By personal jest law, I am required to mitigate the distance issue by cracking a joke (that might not sound much like a joke). As a substitute for voice inflection, it might go something like this:
So-and-so: Damn, I really feel like crap today.
Sarah: Yeah? I bet you look like crap today.
There's only one way to save this....
So-and-so: Damn, I really feel like crap today.
Sarah: Yeah? I bet you look like crap today. :D
No tears. No ended friendships. Just the understanding that my dry sense of humor and sarcasm shouldn't be taken for more than just that. Assume I am always laughing or joking when I say mean and hurtful things. And if a day shall come that the emoticon makers make a middle finger emoticon, then you know when I'm crossing a line.
Until then....
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