"Are you pregnant?"
It's a running joke with my friends. Any time I come into work complaining of exhaustion or nausea or use my super sensitive olfactory senses to discriminate scents wafting throughout the newsroom (usually some sort of garlic/pasta concoction), my friends always ask the same pointed question: "Are you pregnant?"
One of these days, the answer is going to be yes.
Today, however, it's not. While I may eat like I'm expecting, I can assure you, I'm not...
I'm just rundown.
I don't know to what I can contribute this feeling, but lately it's as though the life is being sucked out of me. I barely have the energy to blink, never mind to get out of bed and be a productive member of society. Caffeine hasn't helped to combat it either; it just makes me more of a jittery, frazzled mess.
This may have something to do with the fact that I haven't been eating as healthy as I was pre-weeklong power outage. Perhaps this is some sort of iron (or vitamin/mineral) deficiency? Or maybe the processed sugar I've been eating has been making me feel ill?
Whatever it is, I hope it's something I can control.
Otherwise, I'll cross that thin pink line when I come to it...
Friday, November 18, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
Living off the grid
Six days into living like a refugee and we still have no estimates as to when our power will return. On the one hand, I want to break down and cry. On the other hand, I've fallen into a sort of routine "living" at my friend E.'s and I don't feel a pressing need for power to return except that I miss spending time in the comfort of my apartment.
Tomorrow will be one full week since our power went out and still, my street looks like a war zone. About 1/2 mile away from my house, is a utility pole (with an attached streetlight) that is resting precariously on a chain link fence and power lines, and it's easy to see why I hold out absolutely zero hope that I'll be restored any time soon.
If there's a silver lining to this whole experience, it's that I'm learning who truly matters in my life and who doesn't. I have a few friends on whom I've been checking since this started and have had a few others who check in with me on a daily basis. Although I'm frustrated with this whole experience, I am truly thankful for the daily message from one friend in particular. It's nice to know that there's at least one person out there (who's not a relation) who legitimately cares about my well-being. It's the one thing that is keeping me from feeling truly miserable these days.
Tomorrow will be one full week since our power went out and still, my street looks like a war zone. About 1/2 mile away from my house, is a utility pole (with an attached streetlight) that is resting precariously on a chain link fence and power lines, and it's easy to see why I hold out absolutely zero hope that I'll be restored any time soon.
If there's a silver lining to this whole experience, it's that I'm learning who truly matters in my life and who doesn't. I have a few friends on whom I've been checking since this started and have had a few others who check in with me on a daily basis. Although I'm frustrated with this whole experience, I am truly thankful for the daily message from one friend in particular. It's nice to know that there's at least one person out there (who's not a relation) who legitimately cares about my well-being. It's the one thing that is keeping me from feeling truly miserable these days.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Power outage: Day 5
Has it been five days already? I'm losing track of time. I suppose that's to be expected when you don't have electricity to keep glancing at the clock.
Some of the things I keep hearing people say throughout this debacle is: "Who cares if you don't have power?" "It's just a little speed bump on the road of life." Or my favorite, "This is a minor inconvenience." It was a minor inconvenience three or four days ago. Today, it's approaching ridiculous.
When you suffer from an "inconvenience" such as this, more often than not, you fall back on the generosity of your family to help you out, right? What do you do when that's not an option?
If my parents lived closeby, I'd think nothing of showing up — unannounced — at their house to seek shelter from the icebox that my apartment has become, but that's not an option for me. And I'm not close enough with my extended family members to expect them to open their homes for me (that is, if they even have power!) My problem is that I'm more or less alone out here, fending for myself. And while normally, I thrive on the idea of independence, after five days of eating next to nothing (except at lunchtime or the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner), and sleeping in a room with temperatures so cold hypothermia is a legitimate possibility, I don't view this as a minor inconvenience. To me, this is downright dangerous.
So far, I've heard of two people (and two dogs) who have died in my town from carbon monoxide poisoning because in lieu of electricity, they were heating their home with a propane heater of sorts. Despite the fact that I know better, I briefly considered going to sleep with a candle (or two) burning to at least keep some semblance of warmth overnight. I didn't, but who's to say other people haven't? Desperate times call for desperate measures and often, desperate measures can have disastrous outcomes. If people are dying (or at the very least, succumbing to illness) while the power restoration efforts are under way, who is going to be held accountable?
Residents have a right to be upset that the utility crews have been operating slowly. I'm no longer willing to cut utility workers any slack; this is their job, after all. Plus, it's not like customers will receive a rebate for the extended power outage nor will the electric company pay for hotel rooms for those customers who need to vacate their homes due to the lack of heat.
Yesterday, I arrived home from work to find four National Grid trucks in front of my house. At the time, I assumed the work crews work doing their job and that our power would be restored that day, but as of this morning, our electricity still wasn't on. How is that, in any way, acceptable?
Those utility crews may be working around the clock and under stressful conditions, but worrying about where you're going to lay your head at night is just as stressful.
It's a strange thing to have a home and yet still be homeless.
Some of the things I keep hearing people say throughout this debacle is: "Who cares if you don't have power?" "It's just a little speed bump on the road of life." Or my favorite, "This is a minor inconvenience." It was a minor inconvenience three or four days ago. Today, it's approaching ridiculous.
When you suffer from an "inconvenience" such as this, more often than not, you fall back on the generosity of your family to help you out, right? What do you do when that's not an option?
If my parents lived closeby, I'd think nothing of showing up — unannounced — at their house to seek shelter from the icebox that my apartment has become, but that's not an option for me. And I'm not close enough with my extended family members to expect them to open their homes for me (that is, if they even have power!) My problem is that I'm more or less alone out here, fending for myself. And while normally, I thrive on the idea of independence, after five days of eating next to nothing (except at lunchtime or the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner), and sleeping in a room with temperatures so cold hypothermia is a legitimate possibility, I don't view this as a minor inconvenience. To me, this is downright dangerous.
So far, I've heard of two people (and two dogs) who have died in my town from carbon monoxide poisoning because in lieu of electricity, they were heating their home with a propane heater of sorts. Despite the fact that I know better, I briefly considered going to sleep with a candle (or two) burning to at least keep some semblance of warmth overnight. I didn't, but who's to say other people haven't? Desperate times call for desperate measures and often, desperate measures can have disastrous outcomes. If people are dying (or at the very least, succumbing to illness) while the power restoration efforts are under way, who is going to be held accountable?
Residents have a right to be upset that the utility crews have been operating slowly. I'm no longer willing to cut utility workers any slack; this is their job, after all. Plus, it's not like customers will receive a rebate for the extended power outage nor will the electric company pay for hotel rooms for those customers who need to vacate their homes due to the lack of heat.
Yesterday, I arrived home from work to find four National Grid trucks in front of my house. At the time, I assumed the work crews work doing their job and that our power would be restored that day, but as of this morning, our electricity still wasn't on. How is that, in any way, acceptable?
Those utility crews may be working around the clock and under stressful conditions, but worrying about where you're going to lay your head at night is just as stressful.
It's a strange thing to have a home and yet still be homeless.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Power outage: Day 4
The last few days have been trying, to say the least.
Following Saturday's freak October snowstorm, which brought nearly a foot of snow to Western Mass, we lost power due to the damage from fallen trees/wires. From what I've heard, every one of the 144 streets in my small town suffered significant tree damage and today — roughly four days since the power went out — we still haven't been restored.
At first, it was fun to "rough it" at home...I'm all about being independent, after all. But without basic amenities such as hot water or heat, it's a challenge to live comfortably with overnight temperatures plummeting to below the freezing mark. I managed to make it three days in my apartment before the cold finally got to me and I sought shelter with a friend from work instead.
The worst part of this whole experience isn't necessarily the power loss; it's actually forced me to read more and spend more time at my office than I ordinarily would so in that respect, it hasn't been all bad. But I still feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness, and I'm having a difficult time coping with that. Being alone and being lonely are two different things, you see. I relish the idea of being alone, but I hate feeling lonely. Being a prisoner in my own apartment —with nothing but candles/flashlights to light my way and without TV or radio to keep me company — I started to sink into a depression I haven't experienced since one particularly bad breakup two years ago, and at least then I had the luxury of heat when I spent my days with the blinds/curtains drawn and in bed.
For the first time in the nearly six years that I've lived in western Mass, I regret my decision to move so far away from my family. Mom and dad have power at their house and have invited me to stay with them, but in order to do so I'd have to take time off work. I've tried communicating with my executive editor about the possibility of jumping ship and heading home to my family, but I haven't been given the go ahead yet.
Instead, I abandoned my apartment in favor of my friend's which, though not fully-restored with electricity, is being powered by a generator. At the very least, I was able to take a hot shower — my first in four days! It was glorious, but I hate the feeling of being homeless, given I have a home; I don't like to impose on others.
I guess I'll just accept this for what it is: a life lesson: To appreciate those people who love you enough to check in on you, and to not take for granted the creature comforts we've all come to expect in our day to day life. Like flipping a power switch, we can loose it all in a flash.
Following Saturday's freak October snowstorm, which brought nearly a foot of snow to Western Mass, we lost power due to the damage from fallen trees/wires. From what I've heard, every one of the 144 streets in my small town suffered significant tree damage and today — roughly four days since the power went out — we still haven't been restored.
At first, it was fun to "rough it" at home...I'm all about being independent, after all. But without basic amenities such as hot water or heat, it's a challenge to live comfortably with overnight temperatures plummeting to below the freezing mark. I managed to make it three days in my apartment before the cold finally got to me and I sought shelter with a friend from work instead.
The worst part of this whole experience isn't necessarily the power loss; it's actually forced me to read more and spend more time at my office than I ordinarily would so in that respect, it hasn't been all bad. But I still feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness, and I'm having a difficult time coping with that. Being alone and being lonely are two different things, you see. I relish the idea of being alone, but I hate feeling lonely. Being a prisoner in my own apartment —with nothing but candles/flashlights to light my way and without TV or radio to keep me company — I started to sink into a depression I haven't experienced since one particularly bad breakup two years ago, and at least then I had the luxury of heat when I spent my days with the blinds/curtains drawn and in bed.
For the first time in the nearly six years that I've lived in western Mass, I regret my decision to move so far away from my family. Mom and dad have power at their house and have invited me to stay with them, but in order to do so I'd have to take time off work. I've tried communicating with my executive editor about the possibility of jumping ship and heading home to my family, but I haven't been given the go ahead yet.
Instead, I abandoned my apartment in favor of my friend's which, though not fully-restored with electricity, is being powered by a generator. At the very least, I was able to take a hot shower — my first in four days! It was glorious, but I hate the feeling of being homeless, given I have a home; I don't like to impose on others.
I guess I'll just accept this for what it is: a life lesson: To appreciate those people who love you enough to check in on you, and to not take for granted the creature comforts we've all come to expect in our day to day life. Like flipping a power switch, we can loose it all in a flash.
Friday, October 28, 2011
A collector's collectibles...
Anyone who walks into my apartment will notice a few things right off the bat: I have a lot of books, a lot of plants and a lot of — frogs? Yes, it's true. Since I was about five years old, I've amassed a pretty sizable collection of amphibians, including stuffed animals, candle holders, wind chimes, soap dispensers, book marks, and more. I think the obsession started when I was little and Santa Claus bestowed upon me a tadpole.... His name was Kermit and he eventually grew into an African Water Frog, almost three inches in length.
In recent weeks, however, I've started a new collection (and thus developed a new obsession): giraffes. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why I'm so enamored with these creatures...they are pretty tall. And given my small stature, it's only natural I should be drawn to something so impressively large, but I digress.
It started with a candle holder that I ordered at one of those home shows that are all the rage lately. Think Lia Sophia, but with candles. I spotted the giraffe in the catalog and just had to have it. And when I moved into my new apartment a few weeks ago (with its gloriously bare walls and their endless possibilities), I wanted to come up with some unique, creative ways to fill in the blanks, so to speak. To that end, I visited a local flea market where I found a beautiful wooden magazine rack for my living room, a few iron candle holders, a shelf to display items, a Galileo thermometer (which isn't a thermometer at all, but a barometer) and a wood-carved giraffe. Yesterday, I made another trip to the flea market where I spotted a giraffe print painted on glass with a linen backing. Although I fell in love with it, I decide against buying it... until an hour later when my friend K. texted me a photo of the exact same painting. That, to me, was as good a sign as any that I needed that giraffe, and I braved the cold rain to get it.
Following our jaunt through the flea market, I followed K. to an antique co-op down the street from my house where her father used to have a display before opening his own shop in the next town over. I've lived in this area for six years and not once have I set foot in that place. I didn't get to take a close look around because we arrived just 15 minutes before the store closed, but I have every intention of going back.
The thing about flea markets and antique shops, I'm realizing, is that they have everything you could ever possibly hope to find. One of my friends collects vintage Coca-Cola items and now, wherever I go, I'm on the lookout for something he might be interested in...I feverishly text him photos of my finds with whatever relevant information I can find on them, although usually I find reproductions and he's looking for authentic items. Both K. and my aunt collect owls (which seems like an easier collection than giraffes because I've found hundreds of owls to my two giraffes), so whenever I spot them I have to resist the urge to purchase them for one or the other. I've spent countless hours among the piles of items for sale, searching for that one special piece and have opened my eyes to the treasure trove of shops we have here in Western Massachusetts. It's daunting and exciting at the same time.
At this point in my quest, I'm looking specifically for giraffe-related items (which, believe me, are not as easy to find as one might think), but I'm open to other things...Frogs or books, for instance. Anything to make my new apartment more like a home.
In recent weeks, however, I've started a new collection (and thus developed a new obsession): giraffes. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why I'm so enamored with these creatures...they are pretty tall. And given my small stature, it's only natural I should be drawn to something so impressively large, but I digress.
It started with a candle holder that I ordered at one of those home shows that are all the rage lately. Think Lia Sophia, but with candles. I spotted the giraffe in the catalog and just had to have it. And when I moved into my new apartment a few weeks ago (with its gloriously bare walls and their endless possibilities), I wanted to come up with some unique, creative ways to fill in the blanks, so to speak. To that end, I visited a local flea market where I found a beautiful wooden magazine rack for my living room, a few iron candle holders, a shelf to display items, a Galileo thermometer (which isn't a thermometer at all, but a barometer) and a wood-carved giraffe. Yesterday, I made another trip to the flea market where I spotted a giraffe print painted on glass with a linen backing. Although I fell in love with it, I decide against buying it... until an hour later when my friend K. texted me a photo of the exact same painting. That, to me, was as good a sign as any that I needed that giraffe, and I braved the cold rain to get it.
Following our jaunt through the flea market, I followed K. to an antique co-op down the street from my house where her father used to have a display before opening his own shop in the next town over. I've lived in this area for six years and not once have I set foot in that place. I didn't get to take a close look around because we arrived just 15 minutes before the store closed, but I have every intention of going back.
The thing about flea markets and antique shops, I'm realizing, is that they have everything you could ever possibly hope to find. One of my friends collects vintage Coca-Cola items and now, wherever I go, I'm on the lookout for something he might be interested in...I feverishly text him photos of my finds with whatever relevant information I can find on them, although usually I find reproductions and he's looking for authentic items. Both K. and my aunt collect owls (which seems like an easier collection than giraffes because I've found hundreds of owls to my two giraffes), so whenever I spot them I have to resist the urge to purchase them for one or the other. I've spent countless hours among the piles of items for sale, searching for that one special piece and have opened my eyes to the treasure trove of shops we have here in Western Massachusetts. It's daunting and exciting at the same time.
At this point in my quest, I'm looking specifically for giraffe-related items (which, believe me, are not as easy to find as one might think), but I'm open to other things...Frogs or books, for instance. Anything to make my new apartment more like a home.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Catching up on...life
I haven't done much in the way of writing — or reading — lately and I don't know why. Actually, I do know why... I'm too exhausted lately to crack open a book.
Part of my problem, I suppose, has been the stress of moving. Last week, I packed up the last five years of life in my very first apartment and moved it all of 20 feet into a larger apartment in the same complex. In doing so, I had to safely store all my belongings, which included bundling my collection of books, and schlepping them down the narrow, unsteady stairs and into my new (humble) abode. The process of moving my books— which took roughly two hours (during commercials of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice last Thursday)— left me with this mess:
After 72 of the most stressful hours of my life (between packing, moving, disposing of furniture and acquiring a few new pieces for my new place), I am finally in... and almost unpacked at this point. Almost.
Once I finished cleaning out my old apartment on Saturday, I ventured over to the new one with the intention of sitting down to relax. I set up my TV and DVD player and settled onto my futon with the full season of Glee, Season 1. Needless to say, however, I didn't do much in the way of relaxing; instead I set to work putting together my masterpiece, the bookcase:
The books are arranged in no particular order (mostly because I have way too many to want to even try arranging them in some sort of coherent order), but the DVDs are in alphabetical order. If there was any question as to whether I am my father's daughter, I think I just put that issue to rest.
I still have to unpack a few more totes and will have to move the items from my storage area in the basement and hang up the assorted wall art I have, but I suppose now that the hard part is done, I have more than enough time/opportunity to kick back and catch up on my reading.
Part of my problem, I suppose, has been the stress of moving. Last week, I packed up the last five years of life in my very first apartment and moved it all of 20 feet into a larger apartment in the same complex. In doing so, I had to safely store all my belongings, which included bundling my collection of books, and schlepping them down the narrow, unsteady stairs and into my new (humble) abode. The process of moving my books— which took roughly two hours (during commercials of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice last Thursday)— left me with this mess:
 |
| Well read AND well exercised, that's for sure. |
After 72 of the most stressful hours of my life (between packing, moving, disposing of furniture and acquiring a few new pieces for my new place), I am finally in... and almost unpacked at this point. Almost.
Once I finished cleaning out my old apartment on Saturday, I ventured over to the new one with the intention of sitting down to relax. I set up my TV and DVD player and settled onto my futon with the full season of Glee, Season 1. Needless to say, however, I didn't do much in the way of relaxing; instead I set to work putting together my masterpiece, the bookcase:
 | |
| Pièce de résistance |
The books are arranged in no particular order (mostly because I have way too many to want to even try arranging them in some sort of coherent order), but the DVDs are in alphabetical order. If there was any question as to whether I am my father's daughter, I think I just put that issue to rest.
I still have to unpack a few more totes and will have to move the items from my storage area in the basement and hang up the assorted wall art I have, but I suppose now that the hard part is done, I have more than enough time/opportunity to kick back and catch up on my reading.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Existential crisis...
So here's where I'm at today: I give up on love. That's the long and short of it.
Love can't possibly exist for me because if it did, I'd have found it by now, right? The fact that I haven't yet, after at least 10 years of looking, is a testament to the fact that I'm just not cut out for a relationship, at least not at this stage of my life (if ever)... So why keep trying?
I write often about my dating disasters and lament my lack of a love life to my friends but I always do it with a self-deprecating laugh to show that I'm a good sport about it. At least I try to be. I can take those failed relationships for what they are: the basis for a really great book one day.
But today, after weeks of self-reflection and self-flagellation, and after briefly considering walking in front of a train (a la Anna Karenina), I came to the realization that it's probably time to simply take a break... from men, that is. I can't keep putting my heart out there to take a beating because it hurts too much when I finally get it back — in pieces.
So what should I do with myself?
I suppose the fact that I'll be moving into a new apartment in the coming weeks is a welcome distraction from the utter failure that my life has become. When I moved into my current apartment in 2006 (that's more than five years ago, I'd like to point out...the longest relationship I've ever had has been with my landlord.), I did so with the intention of staying one or two years and moving on. At this juncture, I can say with almost absolute certainty that I'm going to be alone forever, so why not move into something bigger and more comfortable? I may not be able to have pets, but at least I'll have a kitchen in which to cook up casseroles for one on a nightly basis.
As for how I should spend my time post-move, though, I am at a loss.
What do you do when you realize you're never going to attain the one thing you've ever aspired to be in life?
What other goal can I set myself up to fail, I wonder?
Love can't possibly exist for me because if it did, I'd have found it by now, right? The fact that I haven't yet, after at least 10 years of looking, is a testament to the fact that I'm just not cut out for a relationship, at least not at this stage of my life (if ever)... So why keep trying?
I write often about my dating disasters and lament my lack of a love life to my friends but I always do it with a self-deprecating laugh to show that I'm a good sport about it. At least I try to be. I can take those failed relationships for what they are: the basis for a really great book one day.
But today, after weeks of self-reflection and self-flagellation, and after briefly considering walking in front of a train (a la Anna Karenina), I came to the realization that it's probably time to simply take a break... from men, that is. I can't keep putting my heart out there to take a beating because it hurts too much when I finally get it back — in pieces.
So what should I do with myself?
I suppose the fact that I'll be moving into a new apartment in the coming weeks is a welcome distraction from the utter failure that my life has become. When I moved into my current apartment in 2006 (that's more than five years ago, I'd like to point out...the longest relationship I've ever had has been with my landlord.), I did so with the intention of staying one or two years and moving on. At this juncture, I can say with almost absolute certainty that I'm going to be alone forever, so why not move into something bigger and more comfortable? I may not be able to have pets, but at least I'll have a kitchen in which to cook up casseroles for one on a nightly basis.
As for how I should spend my time post-move, though, I am at a loss.
What do you do when you realize you're never going to attain the one thing you've ever aspired to be in life?
What other goal can I set myself up to fail, I wonder?
Monday, September 26, 2011
Paying it forward
I meet men in the strangest places. Today, it was the salad bar at Stop & Shop just 1/2-mile down the road from work.
Over the last few weeks, I've made substantial changes to my diet, not because I have any idealistic notions of losing weight, but because I'm trying to ensure I'm getting enough vitamins/minerals. I've cut-down on greasy and sugary foods and replaced them with healthy alternatives and, for the most part, I feel great because of it. But with this new healthy diet comes the burden of having to prepare something for lunch every day, which I'm notoriously bad at.
Today, I ventured out of the office shortly before lunchtime to get something healthy for this afternoon. When I turned on the radio in my car on the way to the store, one of my favorite songs (John Mellencamp's "Hurt So Good") was playing, which immediately put me in a good mood. I made it to the store before the last chorus ended, belted out the last refrain, updated my Facebook status, and made my way inside... When I got there, I noticed a man not much older than myself at the salad bar. He was wearing an air force uniform and was fairly good looking. He also wasn't wearing a wedding ring, which didn't mean anything really, other than I have about a 75 percent chance that he was actually single. Being the shyest person on earth, however, and thus not willing to initiate a conversation, I grabbed a to-go container and circled around to the opposite side, careful to avoid eye contact. Minutes later, I was standing in line behind him with an elderly woman between us. Before Mr. Air Force made it to the cashier, the woman turned around and offered me her spot in line.
"You've only got the one thing, go ahead," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked and she nodded. "Thank you very much." I really do appreciate it when people are pleasant. It makes it so much easier to be happy.
"Would you like to leapfrog again in front of me?" Mr. Air Force asked.
I declined. He only had a few items and that way I could surreptitiously admire him.
"No, I'm all set, thanks. That would be far too much generosity to pay forward," I said.
He laughed and said something else I can't quite remember and we went back and forth a few times.
Was I really trying to flirt with this guy?
He told me I'd still have to do something nice for someone else to pay forward the elderly woman's generosity, to which I replied that I would be courteous and allow someone to cut in front of me out on the road.
"You'll only pay about 40 percent of it back, though" he said. "That's not gonna cut it."
We continued on in that fashion for another minute or so and he paid for his items and left the store. I wasn't too far behind him and as I was walking out toward the parking lot, I spotted him climbing into a pickup truck not too far from my car.
I wish I could say I had the nerve to actually introduce myself to him or get his name, but I haven't quite worked myself up to that point yet. I did, however, slip into the conversation that I worked for the local newspaper, so maybe if I'm nice and "pay it forward" a bit, Karma will return the favor and somehow put us in touch again.
And just in case I needed to push things along, I wrote an editorial for this week about the importance of paying it forward. If he reads the paper, or if he happens to pick one up this week on a whim (what are the odds?), he'll see it.
We'll see if fate intervenes on my behalf but until then, I'm gonna suck up to Karma for awhile and be as kind and considerate as possible. It couldn't hurt, right?
Over the last few weeks, I've made substantial changes to my diet, not because I have any idealistic notions of losing weight, but because I'm trying to ensure I'm getting enough vitamins/minerals. I've cut-down on greasy and sugary foods and replaced them with healthy alternatives and, for the most part, I feel great because of it. But with this new healthy diet comes the burden of having to prepare something for lunch every day, which I'm notoriously bad at.
Today, I ventured out of the office shortly before lunchtime to get something healthy for this afternoon. When I turned on the radio in my car on the way to the store, one of my favorite songs (John Mellencamp's "Hurt So Good") was playing, which immediately put me in a good mood. I made it to the store before the last chorus ended, belted out the last refrain, updated my Facebook status, and made my way inside... When I got there, I noticed a man not much older than myself at the salad bar. He was wearing an air force uniform and was fairly good looking. He also wasn't wearing a wedding ring, which didn't mean anything really, other than I have about a 75 percent chance that he was actually single. Being the shyest person on earth, however, and thus not willing to initiate a conversation, I grabbed a to-go container and circled around to the opposite side, careful to avoid eye contact. Minutes later, I was standing in line behind him with an elderly woman between us. Before Mr. Air Force made it to the cashier, the woman turned around and offered me her spot in line.
"You've only got the one thing, go ahead," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked and she nodded. "Thank you very much." I really do appreciate it when people are pleasant. It makes it so much easier to be happy.
"Would you like to leapfrog again in front of me?" Mr. Air Force asked.
I declined. He only had a few items and that way I could surreptitiously admire him.
"No, I'm all set, thanks. That would be far too much generosity to pay forward," I said.
He laughed and said something else I can't quite remember and we went back and forth a few times.
Was I really trying to flirt with this guy?
He told me I'd still have to do something nice for someone else to pay forward the elderly woman's generosity, to which I replied that I would be courteous and allow someone to cut in front of me out on the road.
"You'll only pay about 40 percent of it back, though" he said. "That's not gonna cut it."
We continued on in that fashion for another minute or so and he paid for his items and left the store. I wasn't too far behind him and as I was walking out toward the parking lot, I spotted him climbing into a pickup truck not too far from my car.
I wish I could say I had the nerve to actually introduce myself to him or get his name, but I haven't quite worked myself up to that point yet. I did, however, slip into the conversation that I worked for the local newspaper, so maybe if I'm nice and "pay it forward" a bit, Karma will return the favor and somehow put us in touch again.
And just in case I needed to push things along, I wrote an editorial for this week about the importance of paying it forward. If he reads the paper, or if he happens to pick one up this week on a whim (what are the odds?), he'll see it.
We'll see if fate intervenes on my behalf but until then, I'm gonna suck up to Karma for awhile and be as kind and considerate as possible. It couldn't hurt, right?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Breathe and reboot.
Last night, the unthinkable happened.
My computer fell to the floor from its precarious perch on the narrow arm of my futon and now I'm waiting with baited breath to see if it finally dies. I mean, I hope it doesn't, but I've lost other electronics in a similar fashion in the past, so there's kind of a precedent set in my life for this sort of thing.
One might wonder what my trusty laptop was doing balancing on the thin wooden arm of a futon, and the answer is simple: I was trying to obtain a wireless Internet signal from my downstairs neighbors and that just happened to be the only place in the apartment where I can actually find a signal. Go figure. During that time, while sitting with legs crossed on the couch, a half-empty (or maybe depending on your philosophical slant, a half-full) bottle of Poland Spring in my hand, I felt the faintest tickle on my back, which I immediately presumed was a spider and lashed around in defiance in an attempt to kill said arachnid. Apparently, in so doing, I knocked over my computer. Who didn't see that one coming?
Did I mention there was no spider?
So here I am, sitting at my desk at work wondering if I should compulsively save everything I'm writing in the event that my computer crashes. It is running a bit slow today, but I can't tell if it's any slower than usual.
Every time I click on a webpage or attempt to access my email account and I see the "red rainbow wheel of death," I have a minor anxiety attack. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until my page finally loads and I can let it out and breathe again.
I guess Carrie Bradshaw summed it up best in that Sex and the City episode: "After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot."
My computer fell to the floor from its precarious perch on the narrow arm of my futon and now I'm waiting with baited breath to see if it finally dies. I mean, I hope it doesn't, but I've lost other electronics in a similar fashion in the past, so there's kind of a precedent set in my life for this sort of thing.
One might wonder what my trusty laptop was doing balancing on the thin wooden arm of a futon, and the answer is simple: I was trying to obtain a wireless Internet signal from my downstairs neighbors and that just happened to be the only place in the apartment where I can actually find a signal. Go figure. During that time, while sitting with legs crossed on the couch, a half-empty (or maybe depending on your philosophical slant, a half-full) bottle of Poland Spring in my hand, I felt the faintest tickle on my back, which I immediately presumed was a spider and lashed around in defiance in an attempt to kill said arachnid. Apparently, in so doing, I knocked over my computer. Who didn't see that one coming?
Did I mention there was no spider?
So here I am, sitting at my desk at work wondering if I should compulsively save everything I'm writing in the event that my computer crashes. It is running a bit slow today, but I can't tell if it's any slower than usual.
Every time I click on a webpage or attempt to access my email account and I see the "red rainbow wheel of death," I have a minor anxiety attack. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until my page finally loads and I can let it out and breathe again.
I guess Carrie Bradshaw summed it up best in that Sex and the City episode: "After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot."
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Plotting the novel: The real reason writers are neurotic
Writing is more than just chasing ambulances and fire trucks and spending countless hours harassing the cops for information... or so I've read.
Last night, I finished reading Lisa Gardner's latest book, "Love You More," which was phenomenal. To be honest, I think the best part of the whole book was the acknowledgments, not because the substance of the book was bad, but because in her acknowledgments section, Gardner was much wittier and more candid than I would've expected from a suspense writer. I burst out laughing on at least two occasions while reading those two pages alone, although throughout the week I was reading the book, I did post a number of quotes as my status update on Facebook.
I'll admit part of the reason I so enjoyed this book was because its characters were Boston police officers and Massachusetts state troopers. And Gardner put both entities through the wringer. In retrospect (and for her sake!) I really hope they have a sense of humor. The whole time I was reading, I thought of my cop/trooper friends and it struck me that I could easily do this. I already write for a living, and I know I do that well. How much harder can it be to write a book? The trick, according to Gardner, is to conduct research and learn "new and inventive ways to commit murder and mayhem," as she so eloquently wrote in the acknowledgments. "Oh, and, um, also spending quality time with law enforcement officials who remind me why a life of crime really isn't a good idea, and thus I should continue to hope the whole writing gig pans out." Haha. She said it so perfectly and I'll take any excuse to spend time in the company of the cops. They're a pretty fascinating group of people.
That said, I have been toying with the idea of writing a novel lately, but I'm not sure what kind. Given that I've never written a book before, I can't really be squished into one category, i.e. suspense or romance, etc.. I love reading cheesy, girlie novels otherwise referred to as "chick lit" but I'd kill to write a suspense-type book like Gardner's... if only because I'd love to create some mahem and - ahem - kill someone. Figuratively, of course.
During the last few weeks (as always), I've been mulling over a few ideas, and after reading Gardner's acknowledgments (and subsequently, her website), I think I may have to bite the bullet and give it a go. This could be fun. I tend to have an active imagination anyway, so this might prove to be the perfect outlet. Maybe I can finally get what I want out of life, even if I am only giving it to my characters (although not without a little stumble here and there!). All I have to do is come up with an idea, throw in a few crazy plot twists, exacerbate conflicts and character development with sexual tension and, oh yeah, create a little mayhem... how hard could it be?
Last night, I finished reading Lisa Gardner's latest book, "Love You More," which was phenomenal. To be honest, I think the best part of the whole book was the acknowledgments, not because the substance of the book was bad, but because in her acknowledgments section, Gardner was much wittier and more candid than I would've expected from a suspense writer. I burst out laughing on at least two occasions while reading those two pages alone, although throughout the week I was reading the book, I did post a number of quotes as my status update on Facebook.
I'll admit part of the reason I so enjoyed this book was because its characters were Boston police officers and Massachusetts state troopers. And Gardner put both entities through the wringer. In retrospect (and for her sake!) I really hope they have a sense of humor. The whole time I was reading, I thought of my cop/trooper friends and it struck me that I could easily do this. I already write for a living, and I know I do that well. How much harder can it be to write a book? The trick, according to Gardner, is to conduct research and learn "new and inventive ways to commit murder and mayhem," as she so eloquently wrote in the acknowledgments. "Oh, and, um, also spending quality time with law enforcement officials who remind me why a life of crime really isn't a good idea, and thus I should continue to hope the whole writing gig pans out." Haha. She said it so perfectly and I'll take any excuse to spend time in the company of the cops. They're a pretty fascinating group of people.
That said, I have been toying with the idea of writing a novel lately, but I'm not sure what kind. Given that I've never written a book before, I can't really be squished into one category, i.e. suspense or romance, etc.. I love reading cheesy, girlie novels otherwise referred to as "chick lit" but I'd kill to write a suspense-type book like Gardner's... if only because I'd love to create some mahem and - ahem - kill someone. Figuratively, of course.
During the last few weeks (as always), I've been mulling over a few ideas, and after reading Gardner's acknowledgments (and subsequently, her website), I think I may have to bite the bullet and give it a go. This could be fun. I tend to have an active imagination anyway, so this might prove to be the perfect outlet. Maybe I can finally get what I want out of life, even if I am only giving it to my characters (although not without a little stumble here and there!). All I have to do is come up with an idea, throw in a few crazy plot twists, exacerbate conflicts and character development with sexual tension and, oh yeah, create a little mayhem... how hard could it be?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The power of positive thinking
Some say when you really, really want something, you need to set your mind upon getting it. Positive visualization and all that.
Last night, while watching reruns of Criminal Minds before bed, I was poking around various websites out of sheer boredom when I stumbled on HigherEdJobs.com. And I thought, "What the hell, it's been a good three months since I've tackled the fruitless task of conducting a job search, so why not?"
And there, I found it... my dream job (sort of!) right here in Springfield.
Because I have both a full-time and part-time job that more or less covers my living expenses, I have given myself the luxury of time as far as the job search has gone. In the last three years or so, I've applied to countless positions, some of which I really wanted, others I know I was barely qualified for, just to say I've been looking. But it's always been with the thought that I don't have to settle for something I don't really want... unless the salary is too good to pass up.
On a whim, I logged into HigherEdJobs.com and found an Editorial Assistant position open at Springfield College. The job description reads as follows:
Under general supervision, prepares written material for publication, performing any one of the following duties: copyedits and proofreads to detect errors in spelling, punctuation, and syntax; verifies facts, dates, and statistics using standard reference sources; rewrites or modifies copy to conform to publication's style and editorial policy and marks copy for design, using standard symbols; maintains photography files, selects photography upon request, builds relationships with photographers and assigns and assists in photo shoots; prepares updated drafts of text upon request; serves as compiler of Class News & Notes for the College's flagship magazine; utilizes advanced computerized word processing programs and techniques to produce documents and/or narrative materials.
This position requires a minimum of an A.A. degree or equivalent with a minimum of three years related experience preferred. Strong knowledge of Chicago Manual of Style, Associate Press style, and punctuation and syntax. Familiarity with Macintosh software programs that impact design (Photoshop, Illustrator, Quark) helpful but not essential to performing the duties of the position. Position requires: a) Utilizing computerized graphic programs or word processing in the development and formatting of reports and documents; b) compiling and preparing text from copy, notes, voice, or other format; and c) proofreading and editing documents in accordance with pre-set guidelines.
If that's not the perfect job for me, I don't know what is. The added benefit, of course, is that the job is at a college -- which has been the primary focus of my search so far. Ideally, I'd like to go back to school and get my master's degree or another bachelor's degree, and working at the college level would likely only aid me in that mission.
So, to whatever higher power is looking down on my life -- I want this job. I know it's perfect for me and I'm perfect for it. Let's throw a little luck my way this time, huh?
Last night, while watching reruns of Criminal Minds before bed, I was poking around various websites out of sheer boredom when I stumbled on HigherEdJobs.com. And I thought, "What the hell, it's been a good three months since I've tackled the fruitless task of conducting a job search, so why not?"
And there, I found it... my dream job (sort of!) right here in Springfield.
Because I have both a full-time and part-time job that more or less covers my living expenses, I have given myself the luxury of time as far as the job search has gone. In the last three years or so, I've applied to countless positions, some of which I really wanted, others I know I was barely qualified for, just to say I've been looking. But it's always been with the thought that I don't have to settle for something I don't really want... unless the salary is too good to pass up.
On a whim, I logged into HigherEdJobs.com and found an Editorial Assistant position open at Springfield College. The job description reads as follows:
Under general supervision, prepares written material for publication, performing any one of the following duties: copyedits and proofreads to detect errors in spelling, punctuation, and syntax; verifies facts, dates, and statistics using standard reference sources; rewrites or modifies copy to conform to publication's style and editorial policy and marks copy for design, using standard symbols; maintains photography files, selects photography upon request, builds relationships with photographers and assigns and assists in photo shoots; prepares updated drafts of text upon request; serves as compiler of Class News & Notes for the College's flagship magazine; utilizes advanced computerized word processing programs and techniques to produce documents and/or narrative materials.
This position requires a minimum of an A.A. degree or equivalent with a minimum of three years related experience preferred. Strong knowledge of Chicago Manual of Style, Associate Press style, and punctuation and syntax. Familiarity with Macintosh software programs that impact design (Photoshop, Illustrator, Quark) helpful but not essential to performing the duties of the position. Position requires: a) Utilizing computerized graphic programs or word processing in the development and formatting of reports and documents; b) compiling and preparing text from copy, notes, voice, or other format; and c) proofreading and editing documents in accordance with pre-set guidelines.
If that's not the perfect job for me, I don't know what is. The added benefit, of course, is that the job is at a college -- which has been the primary focus of my search so far. Ideally, I'd like to go back to school and get my master's degree or another bachelor's degree, and working at the college level would likely only aid me in that mission.
So, to whatever higher power is looking down on my life -- I want this job. I know it's perfect for me and I'm perfect for it. Let's throw a little luck my way this time, huh?
Monday, September 5, 2011
Murder mystery
I need to remind myself not to read books about serial killers or watch tv shows like Criminal Minds alone at night right before I go to bed. I tend to freak myself out this way.
Yesterday, I was laid up in bed (or rather, on the couch) with a cold so I decided to read "A Murder in Belmont" by Sebastian Junger, a book about the Boston Strangler. I am fascinated by the Strangler stories. I started reading them a year or so ago when I was visiting my mother in Dracut and I took a book out of the local library on that subject. I never got a chance to finish that book before I had to return it, but the fascination remained. When I saw the Junger book on my friend's bookshelf a few weeks ago, I knew I had to read it.
I've got conflicting emotions while reading this book... On the one hand, I want to yell and scream at the Strangler victims to exercise a little more self-preservation than they had, but I also can't help but wonder if perhaps the killer was just that enigmatic. Maybe they were all just doomed. After all, Ted Bundy was an educated, good looking man who probably disarmed all his victims with only a smile. Perhaps it was the same for the Strangler victims — most of whom were women in their early 60s. Nevermind the fact that the 1960s was a different time; maybe there wasn't as much reason to be concerned for safety as there is today.
In any event, I was reading the Strangler book last night right before I watched two episodes of Criminal Minds, which happened to be right before I decided I wanted to go to bed. By the time I shut the TV off and settled under the covers, I was convinced every sound I heard meant someone was out to get me. This isn't the first time I've felt that way either. Once, while dog-sitting for a friend in a rural neighborhood in Ware, I watched a Criminal Minds marathon right before I decided to take the dog out for his last potty break of the day. It was about 11 p.m. and pitch black outside. I lasted less than three minutes before the shadows (and Barkley's incessant barking) convinced me something sinister was lurking and I made my way back to the relative safety of the house.
I'm all about watching murder mysteries on TV or reading true crime stories about them, but I'm all set with becoming a victim.
Yesterday, I was laid up in bed (or rather, on the couch) with a cold so I decided to read "A Murder in Belmont" by Sebastian Junger, a book about the Boston Strangler. I am fascinated by the Strangler stories. I started reading them a year or so ago when I was visiting my mother in Dracut and I took a book out of the local library on that subject. I never got a chance to finish that book before I had to return it, but the fascination remained. When I saw the Junger book on my friend's bookshelf a few weeks ago, I knew I had to read it.
I've got conflicting emotions while reading this book... On the one hand, I want to yell and scream at the Strangler victims to exercise a little more self-preservation than they had, but I also can't help but wonder if perhaps the killer was just that enigmatic. Maybe they were all just doomed. After all, Ted Bundy was an educated, good looking man who probably disarmed all his victims with only a smile. Perhaps it was the same for the Strangler victims — most of whom were women in their early 60s. Nevermind the fact that the 1960s was a different time; maybe there wasn't as much reason to be concerned for safety as there is today.
In any event, I was reading the Strangler book last night right before I watched two episodes of Criminal Minds, which happened to be right before I decided I wanted to go to bed. By the time I shut the TV off and settled under the covers, I was convinced every sound I heard meant someone was out to get me. This isn't the first time I've felt that way either. Once, while dog-sitting for a friend in a rural neighborhood in Ware, I watched a Criminal Minds marathon right before I decided to take the dog out for his last potty break of the day. It was about 11 p.m. and pitch black outside. I lasted less than three minutes before the shadows (and Barkley's incessant barking) convinced me something sinister was lurking and I made my way back to the relative safety of the house.
I'm all about watching murder mysteries on TV or reading true crime stories about them, but I'm all set with becoming a victim.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Mother knows best...
It's taken me awhile, but I think I've finally learned to listen to and trust my body.
A few weeks ago, while in the midst of our total market coverage (TMC) editions, which are sent to every residence in the town I cover, I started to feel rundown but I pushed it aside in an effort to get all my work done. TMC weeks are, arguably, the biggest editions of my paper each year; this year, because our back-to-school edition was the week following TMCs, I had three super-stressful weeks at work. Like always, the second the stress subsided, I was walloped. It took just three days for a cold to set in.
In the past, if I was sick during the workweek, I'd power through and "rest" on the weekend. I always feel like as a reporter, I have a responsibility to my paper, to work as hard as I can to put out the best-quality publication as I can. But in the past, when I tried to work through the sickness, I'd been sicker, longer. Today, I didn't think twice about taking the day off from work to rest — and boy did I need it!
Growing up, my mom always made me spend the day in bed whenever I was home sick from school. I always hated being cooped up, but I now officially understand the value of my mother's wisdom. I spent today on my couch after waking up at my usual time and, although I wasn't doing anything strenuous, I felt exhausted fairly quickly. Whenever those moments hit me, I would close my eyes to rest/relax, and ended up falling asleep for over an hour each time. Now, although only dinner time, I feel more refreshed and alive than I have in days. I have no doubt I have my mom to thank for this.
Never again will I put my job before my health. I love what I do (and I do it well), but I realize I'm not doing anyone much good by going to work in the cloudy fog of sickness like I have these last few days. I know I don't always listen to my mother's pearls of wisdom, but perhaps I should. After all, if this is any indication, mother knows best.
A few weeks ago, while in the midst of our total market coverage (TMC) editions, which are sent to every residence in the town I cover, I started to feel rundown but I pushed it aside in an effort to get all my work done. TMC weeks are, arguably, the biggest editions of my paper each year; this year, because our back-to-school edition was the week following TMCs, I had three super-stressful weeks at work. Like always, the second the stress subsided, I was walloped. It took just three days for a cold to set in.
In the past, if I was sick during the workweek, I'd power through and "rest" on the weekend. I always feel like as a reporter, I have a responsibility to my paper, to work as hard as I can to put out the best-quality publication as I can. But in the past, when I tried to work through the sickness, I'd been sicker, longer. Today, I didn't think twice about taking the day off from work to rest — and boy did I need it!
Growing up, my mom always made me spend the day in bed whenever I was home sick from school. I always hated being cooped up, but I now officially understand the value of my mother's wisdom. I spent today on my couch after waking up at my usual time and, although I wasn't doing anything strenuous, I felt exhausted fairly quickly. Whenever those moments hit me, I would close my eyes to rest/relax, and ended up falling asleep for over an hour each time. Now, although only dinner time, I feel more refreshed and alive than I have in days. I have no doubt I have my mom to thank for this.
Never again will I put my job before my health. I love what I do (and I do it well), but I realize I'm not doing anyone much good by going to work in the cloudy fog of sickness like I have these last few days. I know I don't always listen to my mother's pearls of wisdom, but perhaps I should. After all, if this is any indication, mother knows best.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Keep your friends close...
For the last month or so, a friend of mine has been crashing on my couch and now that she's packed up her stuff and moved back home, I feel... lost.
When I first offered her the option of staying with me (due to circumstances I won't discuss here), I felt apprehensive because I've never been the type of person who liked having a roommate. Just the thought of having someone invade my personal space was enough to give me heart palpitations, but I figured she was in a bind and I was in a position where I could help, so I did. During the period of time that she spent with me, I learned a lot about myself and I can honestly say I'm a better person for having had her around.
I think there's something to be said for friendships that are built on similarities. What I didn't know prior to this experience is that she and I are a lot alike. We're both writers who work tirelessly to put out the best quality of news possible, despite the usual hardships full-time writers face. Outside of work, we both enjoy reading (she brought a huge pile of books with her to my house, for which I was thankful because I found a few interesting novels to read) and we both seem to be unlucky in love. It's refreshing to talk to someone who understands exactly how that can negatively affect my overall outlook on life. Plus just having someone around to talk to and laugh with was nice, I won't lie.
Now that she's "moved out," I find myself bored with my same old routine. Quality alone time is important, but I crave company. I want more than anything to go out and do something, anything... but what?
When I first offered her the option of staying with me (due to circumstances I won't discuss here), I felt apprehensive because I've never been the type of person who liked having a roommate. Just the thought of having someone invade my personal space was enough to give me heart palpitations, but I figured she was in a bind and I was in a position where I could help, so I did. During the period of time that she spent with me, I learned a lot about myself and I can honestly say I'm a better person for having had her around.
I think there's something to be said for friendships that are built on similarities. What I didn't know prior to this experience is that she and I are a lot alike. We're both writers who work tirelessly to put out the best quality of news possible, despite the usual hardships full-time writers face. Outside of work, we both enjoy reading (she brought a huge pile of books with her to my house, for which I was thankful because I found a few interesting novels to read) and we both seem to be unlucky in love. It's refreshing to talk to someone who understands exactly how that can negatively affect my overall outlook on life. Plus just having someone around to talk to and laugh with was nice, I won't lie.
Now that she's "moved out," I find myself bored with my same old routine. Quality alone time is important, but I crave company. I want more than anything to go out and do something, anything... but what?
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
What's a girl to do?
I sat in the waiting room of the service station wondering what, exactly, was taking so long with my car. I had been waiting for over and hour and a half and all I asked for was an oil change. Did an oil change really take that long?
When the service representative finally called me over to tell me that my car was all set, she broke the bad news. The mechanic had performed the oil change I requested as well as a tire rotation, but while conducting an overall inspection of my 4-year-old SUV, found that I had a few “problem areas” that needed to be addressed — $1,600 worth of problems, in fact. The good news was, at least half of the items listed on the estimate sheet the service representative handed me were covered under my extended warranty. The bad news was that half of the items listed on the estimate sheet would need to come out of my pocket.
I smiled and nodded politely as she outlined my options, and I tried in vain to work out the math in my head without outwardly showing her that she was giving me a migraine.
By the time I scheduled a follow-up appointment to fix those problems, she handed over my keys and I made my way back to my car. I decided I had one of two options: I could trade it in and buy the shiny, new SUV I’d had my eye on for the last few months, or I could suck it up and fork over the money for the repairs. Given that the former option was about a likely as my getting hired as a television news anchor for a national news organization, I decided to plan on the latter.
This was exactly the reason why I went out and purchased a new car four years ago: I didn’t want to have to worry about exorbitant repair bills. And while it seemed like a good idea at the time to pay up front for a problem-free new vehicle and accompanying warranty (I thought ahead and bought the best warranty the dealership had to offer, which is, admittedly, coming in handy now), the fact that I’m now faced with huge “routine” maintenance/repair bills with only 57,000 miles under my (serpentine) belt is slightly… irksome. If not for my excellent warranty, I would have been in trouble; even with my warranty, I’m struggling.
When I called my dad to lament my misfortune, he informed me that I am just one of many car owners who feel this way during this economic climate. Evidently, he was right.
A study recently released by AAA indicates that at least one quarter of American drivers neglect car repairs or maintenance due to the economy. One in four people could not afford to pay for a vehicle repair of $2,000 if faced with one today, and one in eight would be unable to pay for a $1,000 repair, the study indicated.
Well then, at least I’m in good company.
Despite the financial burden, AAA encourages drivers to keep their vehicles up-to-date on routine maintenance in order to prevent more expensive problems in the future, but therein lies the rub. Do you come up with the money now in an attempt to stave off the inevitable, or do you tempt fate and hold off on spending money you don’t have in the hopes of winning the lottery? And if you win the lottery, do you pay for repairs or do you buy a new car outright?
I’d go for the latter, but that’s just me. A girl can dream, can’t she?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Ambivalence
I'm sitting in my aunt's water-front cottage at the lake, watching the activity down at the docks and on the public beach, and it dawns on me that while I lead a good life, I'm not always happy with it.
Time alone here has given me the opportunity to reflect on what I want verses what I have and while I appreciate all I have, I can't help but feel bitter that I can't have everything I want. It's getting harder and harder to care one way or the other, I've realized.
A few weeks ago, I went out for Chinese with a friend who, recently, I started looking at as more than just a friend. For awhile, I was ambivalent about him. He was sweet and I spent a lot of time in his presence, but I couldn't say for sure that I wanted our friendship to result in anything more. When I cracked open my fortune cookie at the end of dinner that night, it read (something to the effect of) "Now is the time to go after what you want." I thought about it for a few days and I realized that flimsy little paper was referring to whatever was going on between me and him. So I confronted him about what, exactly, we were...
"What's going on," I asked him one afternoon on the phone because I couldn't bring myself to broach the subject in person.
"I don't know, why?" Uh oh, that's never a good reaction to this line of questioning. "What do you think is going on?" He turned it back around on me, but I threw his answer back in his face. I didn't know what was going on, I said. I wanted to hear from him what this was.
I can't remember the specifics of the conversation, only that I hung up the phone a few minutes later and crawled into bed feeling badly for myself. I know he pointed out that we didn't know each other all that well (Really? Because I think I know you plenty well, I wanted to say.) but he also indicated he didn't know what he wanted from me.
I was blindsided because here I thought he wanted me.
When did his feelings for me turn ambivalent? And when did I develop something akin to feelings for him?
Over the last week or so, I managed to convince myself to back off. Don't answer the phone if he calls; don't respond to his texts immediately. I've resorted to playing this stupid game of cat and mouse in an effort to spare my feelings, and as I sit here quietly contemplating my life and what I want, I realize this might not be it. You're not supposed to have to work for someone's affection, right? Love isn't supposed to be a game.
So here I sit, my phone on silent and tucked away in my suitcase, and I wonder... has he tried calling? Will I have a text message from him? I'm resisting the urge to look, but I feel it won't be for long.
Why do I care?
And how do I stop?
Time alone here has given me the opportunity to reflect on what I want verses what I have and while I appreciate all I have, I can't help but feel bitter that I can't have everything I want. It's getting harder and harder to care one way or the other, I've realized.
A few weeks ago, I went out for Chinese with a friend who, recently, I started looking at as more than just a friend. For awhile, I was ambivalent about him. He was sweet and I spent a lot of time in his presence, but I couldn't say for sure that I wanted our friendship to result in anything more. When I cracked open my fortune cookie at the end of dinner that night, it read (something to the effect of) "Now is the time to go after what you want." I thought about it for a few days and I realized that flimsy little paper was referring to whatever was going on between me and him. So I confronted him about what, exactly, we were...
"What's going on," I asked him one afternoon on the phone because I couldn't bring myself to broach the subject in person.
"I don't know, why?" Uh oh, that's never a good reaction to this line of questioning. "What do you think is going on?" He turned it back around on me, but I threw his answer back in his face. I didn't know what was going on, I said. I wanted to hear from him what this was.
I can't remember the specifics of the conversation, only that I hung up the phone a few minutes later and crawled into bed feeling badly for myself. I know he pointed out that we didn't know each other all that well (Really? Because I think I know you plenty well, I wanted to say.) but he also indicated he didn't know what he wanted from me.
I was blindsided because here I thought he wanted me.
When did his feelings for me turn ambivalent? And when did I develop something akin to feelings for him?
Over the last week or so, I managed to convince myself to back off. Don't answer the phone if he calls; don't respond to his texts immediately. I've resorted to playing this stupid game of cat and mouse in an effort to spare my feelings, and as I sit here quietly contemplating my life and what I want, I realize this might not be it. You're not supposed to have to work for someone's affection, right? Love isn't supposed to be a game.
So here I sit, my phone on silent and tucked away in my suitcase, and I wonder... has he tried calling? Will I have a text message from him? I'm resisting the urge to look, but I feel it won't be for long.
Why do I care?
And how do I stop?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
All you need is...love?
"Go through life with no regrets, give me love or give me death."
I heard this in a song last night and I thought, how true, but then it made me wonder: Does love even exist? That, I can't say for certain.
In my 28 years (and especially in the last 10 or 12 years during which I've been "dating"), I've met many different kinds of men and although I've had some kind of spark with a few of them, I can't say for certain that I've ever known love. Real love. The kind that makes you overlook someone's flaws and want to be with them anyway.
I've been on this stupid quest for so long, I'm not even sure at this point what it is I'm looking for. What does it look like? What does it feel like? How do you know when it's love? Is it gradual or instant?
And most importantly... where do you find it?
I heard this in a song last night and I thought, how true, but then it made me wonder: Does love even exist? That, I can't say for certain.
In my 28 years (and especially in the last 10 or 12 years during which I've been "dating"), I've met many different kinds of men and although I've had some kind of spark with a few of them, I can't say for certain that I've ever known love. Real love. The kind that makes you overlook someone's flaws and want to be with them anyway.
I've been on this stupid quest for so long, I'm not even sure at this point what it is I'm looking for. What does it look like? What does it feel like? How do you know when it's love? Is it gradual or instant?
And most importantly... where do you find it?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Life is good
I'm sitting at home tonight, on the couch with a book in hand and all I can think is.... I love my life.
The windows are open for the first time in nearly a week following five or more days of endless (sweltering) heat, and all the stale hot humidity has dissipated, replaced by a cool breeze blowing through the screen. It's raining outside and the sound envelopes the house, broken only by the occasional passing car and the hum of the trains moving along the tracks in the distance. As I sit here and listen to the world around me, it hits me: Life is good.
Admittedly, it's taken a while for me to reach this point. It's been five years since I moved here and I can count on one hand the number of times I've sat here quietly contemplating the fact that I lead a happy little life. And I do, I'll admit it. I hate loneliness, but I relish my time alone and tonight, I am enjoying it. Thoroughly. It's a luxury that, thanks to the fact that I'm not married and I don't have kids, I still possess... better enjoy it now.
When I first moved here (in 2006 — where did the time go?!), I called home virtually every night in tears about how much I hated it here and what a bad decision it was to move to Western Mass. I was 23 years old, fresh out of college living two hours away from my family and still naive enough to believe I could earn a good living doing what I loved to do: writing. For as many times as I've lamented my life decisions, I'll be the first to admit that it hasn't all been bad. I've met some interesting people along the way and have learned the value of living in a small, tight-knit community.
Today, I also understand the importance of alone time. It's great always being in the presence of others, but there's something to be said for the opportunity to do what you want, when you want to do it. Tonight, for instance, the TV has been shut off; in lieu of spending all my time in front of a stove cooking dinner, I was able to get away with simply heating up a can of soup; and the rest of the evening shall be spent on the couch with a book in hand. I may even turn my phone on silent and pour a glass of wine.
One day, I'm going to look back on my twenties, when I was single and free, with fondness. I know I'll miss having the opportunity to simply exist, without very many worries. I'll do what I can to enjoy it now. Let me just add that to tonight's To Do list:
*Read
*Relax
*Enjoy life
Done. What's not to love?
The windows are open for the first time in nearly a week following five or more days of endless (sweltering) heat, and all the stale hot humidity has dissipated, replaced by a cool breeze blowing through the screen. It's raining outside and the sound envelopes the house, broken only by the occasional passing car and the hum of the trains moving along the tracks in the distance. As I sit here and listen to the world around me, it hits me: Life is good.
Admittedly, it's taken a while for me to reach this point. It's been five years since I moved here and I can count on one hand the number of times I've sat here quietly contemplating the fact that I lead a happy little life. And I do, I'll admit it. I hate loneliness, but I relish my time alone and tonight, I am enjoying it. Thoroughly. It's a luxury that, thanks to the fact that I'm not married and I don't have kids, I still possess... better enjoy it now.
When I first moved here (in 2006 — where did the time go?!), I called home virtually every night in tears about how much I hated it here and what a bad decision it was to move to Western Mass. I was 23 years old, fresh out of college living two hours away from my family and still naive enough to believe I could earn a good living doing what I loved to do: writing. For as many times as I've lamented my life decisions, I'll be the first to admit that it hasn't all been bad. I've met some interesting people along the way and have learned the value of living in a small, tight-knit community.
Today, I also understand the importance of alone time. It's great always being in the presence of others, but there's something to be said for the opportunity to do what you want, when you want to do it. Tonight, for instance, the TV has been shut off; in lieu of spending all my time in front of a stove cooking dinner, I was able to get away with simply heating up a can of soup; and the rest of the evening shall be spent on the couch with a book in hand. I may even turn my phone on silent and pour a glass of wine.
One day, I'm going to look back on my twenties, when I was single and free, with fondness. I know I'll miss having the opportunity to simply exist, without very many worries. I'll do what I can to enjoy it now. Let me just add that to tonight's To Do list:
*Read
*Relax
*Enjoy life
Done. What's not to love?
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Passions
Is too much passion a problem?
According to the dictionary my computer so thoughtfully provides for work purposes, passion is defined as: strong and barely controllable emotion. Based on that description alone, I think it's fair to say I am a passionate person. A very passionate person.
I feel almost every emotion wholly and deeply; so strong it borders on painful, both physically and emotionally. I'll be the first person to admit it: I fall easily and madly in love — with everything. You name it, people, animals, my car; it's true. More often than not, these intense emotions lead me toward heartache, yet I can't not feel them. For better or for worse, at least I feel something. There are far too many people in this world who are content to lead quiet, calm, unpassionate (and boring!) lives. I can't see myself ever existing that way.
But this passionate nature gets me into trouble. And while I thoroughly enjoy the fact that I can be so unequivocally adrenalized, I don't like the mercurial tendencies it brings. I vacillate between extreme and total happiness and utter misery. I want what I know I shouldn't and that frustrates me endlessly. I find myself toeing the line and rationalizing my desires so that they coincide with what I want as an outcome. But something always holds me back and I miss my chance to live out one fantasy or other.
Perhaps, in this respect, passion is a problem? It can make you do (or at the very least consider) things you wouldn't ordinarily do. Whether or not you actually commit to the follow-through is beside the point, isn't it? The simple fact that you'd even entertain the idea is problematic, is it not?
Sometimes, though, I can't help but wish for something I know I'm not supposed to have. Because, dammit, what's the point of living if you can't thoroughly (and passionately) enjoy your life?
According to the dictionary my computer so thoughtfully provides for work purposes, passion is defined as: strong and barely controllable emotion. Based on that description alone, I think it's fair to say I am a passionate person. A very passionate person.
I feel almost every emotion wholly and deeply; so strong it borders on painful, both physically and emotionally. I'll be the first person to admit it: I fall easily and madly in love — with everything. You name it, people, animals, my car; it's true. More often than not, these intense emotions lead me toward heartache, yet I can't not feel them. For better or for worse, at least I feel something. There are far too many people in this world who are content to lead quiet, calm, unpassionate (and boring!) lives. I can't see myself ever existing that way.
But this passionate nature gets me into trouble. And while I thoroughly enjoy the fact that I can be so unequivocally adrenalized, I don't like the mercurial tendencies it brings. I vacillate between extreme and total happiness and utter misery. I want what I know I shouldn't and that frustrates me endlessly. I find myself toeing the line and rationalizing my desires so that they coincide with what I want as an outcome. But something always holds me back and I miss my chance to live out one fantasy or other.
Perhaps, in this respect, passion is a problem? It can make you do (or at the very least consider) things you wouldn't ordinarily do. Whether or not you actually commit to the follow-through is beside the point, isn't it? The simple fact that you'd even entertain the idea is problematic, is it not?
Sometimes, though, I can't help but wish for something I know I'm not supposed to have. Because, dammit, what's the point of living if you can't thoroughly (and passionately) enjoy your life?
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Mac world
I love my Apple computer, I really do, but never fail, every time I walk into the Apple store in the mall, I feel like I'm losing a piece of my soul.
A couple months back, an old editor at my company stopped by my office to say a quick hello, and upon seeing my computer, said, "You're still using that relic?"
That relic, as she called it, is an eight or nine year old PowerBook G4. I got it around four (or five?) years ago and it was at least four years old when my company handed it over. Needless to say, it's old and it definitely acts its age.
Throughout our relationship, my PowerBook has died on me twice, both times on deadline. As a self-proclaimed control freak (I am a prime candidate for a "Neurotics Anonymous" therapy group), I had what can be classified as a moderate meltdown when my hard drive decided to stop working while I was in the midst of putting together an entire 28-page broadsheet newspaper... did I mention my editor was on vacation at the time and I was in charge? You can imagine how seamlessly that production week went... Not very! Thankfully, the powers-that-be at work decided a computer was an important tool for completing my job requirements and I received it back after a brief (read: extended) hiatus.
In the last two weeks, I went to the Apple store twice with a friend who was having problems with his iPhone and was given the opportunity to observe the different kinds of people who actually use Apple products. As an Android user (it is my firm belief that my Android far surpasses the iPhone, sorry!), I figured I wouldn't be allowed in the store, but then I realized I am also one of the Mac computers' biggest advocates, and that that fact (and that fact alone) likely removed me from the Apple Blacklist...
So there I sat, for at least 30 minutes (both visits!) waiting for one of the geniuses at the Genius Bar to help us, and I stared at all the pretty little computers I would kill to have — all of which make my relic look like it belongs in a museum. It was at that point that I realized Apple stole my soul. I absolutely did not want to have to walk out of there without either a new computer, an iPad (I still have yet to fall prey to the tablet hype) or — gasp! — an iPhone.
Luckily I have what can be classified as armored-clad will-power and resisted the temptation to spend any money, but as I sit here today, listening to my old PowerBook G4 huff and puff (literally, the fan has been running for the last 15 minutes), I can't help but wonder... will I ever upgrade to a newer Mac?
And hey, who wants to buy my (even older!) HP laptop? Now there's a relic!
A couple months back, an old editor at my company stopped by my office to say a quick hello, and upon seeing my computer, said, "You're still using that relic?"
That relic, as she called it, is an eight or nine year old PowerBook G4. I got it around four (or five?) years ago and it was at least four years old when my company handed it over. Needless to say, it's old and it definitely acts its age.
Throughout our relationship, my PowerBook has died on me twice, both times on deadline. As a self-proclaimed control freak (I am a prime candidate for a "Neurotics Anonymous" therapy group), I had what can be classified as a moderate meltdown when my hard drive decided to stop working while I was in the midst of putting together an entire 28-page broadsheet newspaper... did I mention my editor was on vacation at the time and I was in charge? You can imagine how seamlessly that production week went... Not very! Thankfully, the powers-that-be at work decided a computer was an important tool for completing my job requirements and I received it back after a brief (read: extended) hiatus.
In the last two weeks, I went to the Apple store twice with a friend who was having problems with his iPhone and was given the opportunity to observe the different kinds of people who actually use Apple products. As an Android user (it is my firm belief that my Android far surpasses the iPhone, sorry!), I figured I wouldn't be allowed in the store, but then I realized I am also one of the Mac computers' biggest advocates, and that that fact (and that fact alone) likely removed me from the Apple Blacklist...
So there I sat, for at least 30 minutes (both visits!) waiting for one of the geniuses at the Genius Bar to help us, and I stared at all the pretty little computers I would kill to have — all of which make my relic look like it belongs in a museum. It was at that point that I realized Apple stole my soul. I absolutely did not want to have to walk out of there without either a new computer, an iPad (I still have yet to fall prey to the tablet hype) or — gasp! — an iPhone.
Luckily I have what can be classified as armored-clad will-power and resisted the temptation to spend any money, but as I sit here today, listening to my old PowerBook G4 huff and puff (literally, the fan has been running for the last 15 minutes), I can't help but wonder... will I ever upgrade to a newer Mac?
And hey, who wants to buy my (even older!) HP laptop? Now there's a relic!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
What if he tries to eat me?
Look at me today and you'd never guess I used to have a debilitating fear of German shepherds, or rather, of all dogs.
After an unfortunate run-in with my neighbor's massive shepherd nearly 20 years ago, I couldn’t even look at a dog, never mind approach one. If I so much as saw one look at me, I’d succumb to a panic attack of epic proportions and lapse into an emotional meltdown.
After an unfortunate run-in with my neighbor's massive shepherd nearly 20 years ago, I couldn’t even look at a dog, never mind approach one. If I so much as saw one look at me, I’d succumb to a panic attack of epic proportions and lapse into an emotional meltdown.
Generally, my reaction to dogs only further piqued their interest in me, as it’s a well-documented fact that dogs can sense fear. I don’t remember when I started to get over my canine phobia or whether it was gradual or instant. I just remember one day a few years ago, my (now ex-) boyfriend and I decided it would be a good idea for us to get a puppy (why, exactly, I can’t quite say; that’s another story entirely). And while he really wanted a shepherd, I really wanted to be able to go home without fear that my dog was going to use my leg as his chew toy, and we settled on a Labrador.
Guinness was cute, albeit slightly energetic. I spent countless hours of my day — every day — running around with him trying to expel some of his boundless energy and in the end, I only ran myself ragged. I was tired, but the exercise was working wonders for me, as I lost roughly 20 pounds chasing him in those first few months.
 | |
| Guinness |
When my relationship didn’t work out and I was forced to relinquish custody of Guinness to my friend’s parents, I found myself actually longing to be in the company of canines. If I saw a dog in my daily travels (especially a chocolate lab), I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I wished fervently that my landlord would allow pets at my apartment so that I could adopt a puppy, even if it couldn’t be a large-breed dog. I always loved the West Highland white terrier, yappy as it is; I could have lived with one of those, I’m sure. I even briefly considered adopting a fully-grown young adult lab under the guise that it was a medical alert dog (I know, I know, shameful, right?) but clearly I never went through with the ruse. I don’t think my landlords would have fallen for it anyway.
Around Valentines Day this year, I was at a party during which an acquaintance happened to mention she was going to be leaving for vacation in a few days with her family and that her primary dog-sitter was unable to stay with her lab. I joked that I’d love to stay with him, but it wasn’t until she called the next day to ask if I was serious that I started to doubt myself and my fear reared its ugly head.
What if he tries to eat me? I wondered. I am good with dogs that are under the control of their owners, but up to that point, with the exception of my uncle’s English Springer spaniel, I had never been with one so large on my own. I feared the worst.
I walked into the house mere hours after the family left for Florida and Smokey was waiting for me. When I saw his black body in the shadows moving toward me, I immediately felt my heart rate quicken and suppressed a flash of panic. I could tell he sensed it, but he kept all four paws on the floor. I put my hand down for him to sniff, and he turned his back, casually walking away. Success! For the next seven days, he greeted me warmly every time I walked through the door.
 |
| Smokey |
Shortly thereafter, another friend asked if I’d be interested in watching her lab, Barkley, while she and her family were on vacation for a week. Again, I said yes without thinking.
 | |
| Barkley |
Since then, I’ve had the luxury of being in constant contact with canines of all sizes, from a French bulldog and Labrador retriever to not one but two German shepherds (yes, really!).
Shep (aptly named, don’t you think?) is roughly 12 weeks old now. I went with a friend to pick him up from a breeder in Greenfield when he was just 8 weeks old and fell in love with him immediately. I figured if he grew up with me, he’d be less inclined to want to hurt me. Can’t argue with that logic, right? Not so! He can sense something about me, because on at least one occasion, he’s backed me into a corner emitting low growling sounds with his puppy teeth bared. Now I know his little needle teeth can’t really do too much harm, save for a few small bruises, but this seems like ominous foreshadowing to me.
 |
| Shep |
His “older brother” of sorts, Tazer, is about a year and a half old and, while exuberant, one of the nicest dogs I think I’ve ever met. If all my interactions with shepherds were as positive as the times I’ve spent in Tazer’s presence, I wouldn’t be in the least bit apprehensive. Ever.
I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately because another friend asked me recently if I’d be interested in dog sitting for his shepherd. I don’t want to discriminate against him simply because of the dog's breed (and the fact that he’s large and understands German, which I do not), so I figure I’ll agree – at least tentatively, pending a meeting with him. I trust he’s a well-behaved animal, but I’m still not sure I can trust myself to fully mask the residual fear. Will he sense it? What if he tries to eat me?
Monday, July 18, 2011
Writing: It's what I do, not who I am
I've learned something about myself today: I have ADD...or some variation of it, at least as far as the Internet is concerned.
This blog has been in existence for just over a year now and although I would love to have a funky design for it, I don't have the energy to devote to creating one. I'm not a techie; I don't understand HTML. The thought of sitting at my desk trying to finagle a certain look for my blog just tires me, so I'm not about to put the effort into actually doing it. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate a nicely crafted website, however.
My friend Kristin's blog is phenomenal -- both because of its design and because of its content. Her skills as a photographer blow me out of the water and her writing is so easy to read. Add to that her ability to design a website and, well, I'm green with envy.
I barely have the motivation to write here on a consistent basis, mostly because I write for a living and sometimes I think writing for fun is more tedious than enjoyable. I love writing and I still aspire to write a book someday, so the fact that I can't work up the enthusiasm to jot down a few thoughts now and then is concerning to me.
But now that I'm thinking about it, I would like to at least attempt to come up with a new blog template.
See? Anything to keep from having to actually write.
This blog has been in existence for just over a year now and although I would love to have a funky design for it, I don't have the energy to devote to creating one. I'm not a techie; I don't understand HTML. The thought of sitting at my desk trying to finagle a certain look for my blog just tires me, so I'm not about to put the effort into actually doing it. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate a nicely crafted website, however.
My friend Kristin's blog is phenomenal -- both because of its design and because of its content. Her skills as a photographer blow me out of the water and her writing is so easy to read. Add to that her ability to design a website and, well, I'm green with envy.
I barely have the motivation to write here on a consistent basis, mostly because I write for a living and sometimes I think writing for fun is more tedious than enjoyable. I love writing and I still aspire to write a book someday, so the fact that I can't work up the enthusiasm to jot down a few thoughts now and then is concerning to me.
But now that I'm thinking about it, I would like to at least attempt to come up with a new blog template.
See? Anything to keep from having to actually write.
Friday, July 15, 2011
What's that buzzing sound I hear?
The morning air was calm and the sun's soft golden rays poked insolently through the blinds that were drawn to prevent their presence. All was quiet as I went about my morning routine when suddenly...
I shrieked. Loudly. It pierced the quiet and made even me jump. Did that sound really come from me?
I turned back towards the window and jumped again, this time without emitting any sounds. There, in front of me, were not one, but two hornets. They're plotting their attack, I just know it.
Over the course of the last couple weeks, I've found no fewer than seven of them in my apartment. Two were dead in the window, one I trapped between the windowpane and the screen, two were dead on the floor and the last two...well, they made their presence known today.
After getting over the initial shock, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I left, but not before calling my landlord to request he take care of the problem this weekend in my absence. I just hope that by the time I get back on Sunday, the place isn't overrun with wasps.
I shrieked. Loudly. It pierced the quiet and made even me jump. Did that sound really come from me?
I turned back towards the window and jumped again, this time without emitting any sounds. There, in front of me, were not one, but two hornets. They're plotting their attack, I just know it.
Over the course of the last couple weeks, I've found no fewer than seven of them in my apartment. Two were dead in the window, one I trapped between the windowpane and the screen, two were dead on the floor and the last two...well, they made their presence known today.
After getting over the initial shock, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I left, but not before calling my landlord to request he take care of the problem this weekend in my absence. I just hope that by the time I get back on Sunday, the place isn't overrun with wasps.
Monday, July 11, 2011
My Best Friend's Wedding...
My best friend is getting married, my brother is getting married, and suddenly, I've become the lonely girl who needs to be pitied.
This weekend, I traveled back to my hometown to attend an engagement party for Best Friend and her future husband, who became engaged over Easter. With the whirlwind that was the month of June (literally!), I hadn't been able to make it home in time to congratulate them and I was starting to feel remiss.
When I saw her Friday night for an evening of TV and gossip at her condo, it suddenly became apparent that my status as a single girl made me something akin to ... pathetic, at least in her eyes. On more than one occasion since her engagement, I've been told that her fiance has [a] cute, newly-single friend[s] and that he/they could be all mine if I'd just move home already. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm all set with moving back there and I think I can do just fine finding a man for myself. I know she means well, but I can't help but feel defensive about it.
I hate to admit it, but I was dreading having to go to the party at all, and not solely because it meant I'd have to brave the highway for the 2-hour ride back. While talking to Best Friend the night before, it was glaringly apparent why.
Case-in-Point #1: When BF was telling me about the other members of the wedding party (all of whom I knew but one), she happened to mention the fact that the one I didn't know was overweight. She asked my friend if she'd be the biggest person in the wedding party, and when BF told me that, I responded in my usual self-depricating manner that she wouldn't be with me around, to which Best Friend responded, "Oh no, she's bigger than even you."
... Say what, now?! She's bigger than even me? Exactly how big am I, then?
I let that one go, but on Saturday morning, I got a text from her, which brings us to:
Case-in-Point #2: "Hey just wanna make sure you know to dress up to the party, it's not a jeans kinda thing." Now, I know I'm not the most glamorous person in the world (I do live in a small western Massachusetts town, not New York City; here, it's not a requirement to step out of the house with a cute dress and Jimmy Choos or Louboutins), but c'mon. Doesn't that go without saying? I gathered that fact based on the semi-formal invite, did I really need to be told?
Part of the reason I don't return to town as frequently as I used to is I'm sick of constantly feeling bad about myself and never fail, whenever I'm in the presence of BF (or especially, her sister!), I leave feeling an immeasurable amount of self-loathing and resentment. I am not the type of person who counts calories; I'm not a gym fanatic; I don't own my own house/condo; I don't have someone to share my life with... these are all qualities that describe BF/Sister and for some reason, I can't help but feel like when measured against them, I fall short as a result... and not just in stature.
It's probably all in my head and I'm probably too oversensitive, but I can't help it. Ever since BF met her boyfriend — excuse me, fiance — she has become a different person. We used to talk all the time and I used to go home as often as possible to see her. Since he came into the picture, she has forgotten about our friendship... or at least forgotten how to maintain it. Sure, I may be partially to blame for that — I did move away, after all (although to my credit for the first few years, I maintained it pretty well) — but whenever I'd contact her, I'd at least acknowledge her boyfriend. If I don't solicit any details about my personal life, she doesn't ask... Isn't that what friends do? Inquire about the others' lives?
Perhaps, though, it's better that she doesn't... Because with all the news of people getting married (and having babies), my news that I'm now single —again — isn't all that impressive, is it?
This weekend, I traveled back to my hometown to attend an engagement party for Best Friend and her future husband, who became engaged over Easter. With the whirlwind that was the month of June (literally!), I hadn't been able to make it home in time to congratulate them and I was starting to feel remiss.
When I saw her Friday night for an evening of TV and gossip at her condo, it suddenly became apparent that my status as a single girl made me something akin to ... pathetic, at least in her eyes. On more than one occasion since her engagement, I've been told that her fiance has [a] cute, newly-single friend[s] and that he/they could be all mine if I'd just move home already. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm all set with moving back there and I think I can do just fine finding a man for myself. I know she means well, but I can't help but feel defensive about it.
I hate to admit it, but I was dreading having to go to the party at all, and not solely because it meant I'd have to brave the highway for the 2-hour ride back. While talking to Best Friend the night before, it was glaringly apparent why.
Case-in-Point #1: When BF was telling me about the other members of the wedding party (all of whom I knew but one), she happened to mention the fact that the one I didn't know was overweight. She asked my friend if she'd be the biggest person in the wedding party, and when BF told me that, I responded in my usual self-depricating manner that she wouldn't be with me around, to which Best Friend responded, "Oh no, she's bigger than even you."
... Say what, now?! She's bigger than even me? Exactly how big am I, then?
I let that one go, but on Saturday morning, I got a text from her, which brings us to:
Case-in-Point #2: "Hey just wanna make sure you know to dress up to the party, it's not a jeans kinda thing." Now, I know I'm not the most glamorous person in the world (I do live in a small western Massachusetts town, not New York City; here, it's not a requirement to step out of the house with a cute dress and Jimmy Choos or Louboutins), but c'mon. Doesn't that go without saying? I gathered that fact based on the semi-formal invite, did I really need to be told?
Part of the reason I don't return to town as frequently as I used to is I'm sick of constantly feeling bad about myself and never fail, whenever I'm in the presence of BF (or especially, her sister!), I leave feeling an immeasurable amount of self-loathing and resentment. I am not the type of person who counts calories; I'm not a gym fanatic; I don't own my own house/condo; I don't have someone to share my life with... these are all qualities that describe BF/Sister and for some reason, I can't help but feel like when measured against them, I fall short as a result... and not just in stature.
It's probably all in my head and I'm probably too oversensitive, but I can't help it. Ever since BF met her boyfriend — excuse me, fiance — she has become a different person. We used to talk all the time and I used to go home as often as possible to see her. Since he came into the picture, she has forgotten about our friendship... or at least forgotten how to maintain it. Sure, I may be partially to blame for that — I did move away, after all (although to my credit for the first few years, I maintained it pretty well) — but whenever I'd contact her, I'd at least acknowledge her boyfriend. If I don't solicit any details about my personal life, she doesn't ask... Isn't that what friends do? Inquire about the others' lives?
Perhaps, though, it's better that she doesn't... Because with all the news of people getting married (and having babies), my news that I'm now single —again — isn't all that impressive, is it?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Dejected rejection
I'm not qualified for anything.
In the last year or so, I've sent out hundreds of applications for various writing/editing/media/PR positions across Massachusetts (and in some instances, in New Hampshire and Connecticut, too!) and all I ever get by way of response is a rejection... and that's if I'm lucky enough to get a response at all.
Am I missing something, here?
I've spent the better part of the last decade of my life writing. Between college essays, the school newspaper, my internship and now my full-time job, I have spent the bulk of my day - every day - with my fingers rapidly clicking keys on my keyboard. Even here, when I'm not writing for work I'm (sporadically) writing...just to write. (Needless to say, I have a pretty impressive WPM rate, but that's beside the point.) So why is it so hard for me to find something to do for a living where I can be adequately compensated for my efforts and actually enjoy what I do?
Out of the countless applications I've mailed in the last year or so, I've had one interview...ONE! During that interview, the woman I spoke to told me she'd call me in a day or so to let me know if I'd gotten the job and I never heard from her again. I can accept that perhaps I wasn't qualified for that position, but I can't accept that she couldn't bother to tell me to my face. Hell, I'd have accepted a form letter indicating I wasn't the right candidate for the job, blah blah blah, but instead I got nothing.
Since then, I've been more bold in my applications. If I'm going to be rejected for the positions I know for a fact that I actually possess the qualifications for, I might as well apply for the jobs I'd love to have, despite the fact that I lack the necessary skills for them. Case in point: I applied to Harvard a few months ago. No, not as a student; as an editor for Harvard University Press. Come to think of it, I never did get an acknowledgment from them either way (Yay? Nay?) but I don't care because I didn't much believe I'd get the position anyway. I just wanted to be able to say "Why yes, I've applied to Harvard." Haha. At least my sense of humor is still intact.
These rejections and the last year of my life are made all the more frustrating when you consider that this (apparently) is one of the reasons why Doc and I broke up. He believed I wasn't motivated enough to find a new career path. I believed that if I was rejected one more time, I'd have no choice but to throw myself off a cliff. Clearly I'm a lot stronger than I gave myself credit for because the demise of my relationship was, in fact, yet another rejection, but here I am... sure I'm still dangling precariously close to the edge, but I'm here nonetheless.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my future but these days I find pessimism is my initial knee-jerk reaction to everything. What's the sense in trying when it feels like I'm only setting myself up to fail?
Will someone please pull me away from the edge or do us all a favor and push me over it?
In the last year or so, I've sent out hundreds of applications for various writing/editing/media/PR positions across Massachusetts (and in some instances, in New Hampshire and Connecticut, too!) and all I ever get by way of response is a rejection... and that's if I'm lucky enough to get a response at all.
Am I missing something, here?
I've spent the better part of the last decade of my life writing. Between college essays, the school newspaper, my internship and now my full-time job, I have spent the bulk of my day - every day - with my fingers rapidly clicking keys on my keyboard. Even here, when I'm not writing for work I'm (sporadically) writing...just to write. (Needless to say, I have a pretty impressive WPM rate, but that's beside the point.) So why is it so hard for me to find something to do for a living where I can be adequately compensated for my efforts and actually enjoy what I do?
Out of the countless applications I've mailed in the last year or so, I've had one interview...ONE! During that interview, the woman I spoke to told me she'd call me in a day or so to let me know if I'd gotten the job and I never heard from her again. I can accept that perhaps I wasn't qualified for that position, but I can't accept that she couldn't bother to tell me to my face. Hell, I'd have accepted a form letter indicating I wasn't the right candidate for the job, blah blah blah, but instead I got nothing.
Since then, I've been more bold in my applications. If I'm going to be rejected for the positions I know for a fact that I actually possess the qualifications for, I might as well apply for the jobs I'd love to have, despite the fact that I lack the necessary skills for them. Case in point: I applied to Harvard a few months ago. No, not as a student; as an editor for Harvard University Press. Come to think of it, I never did get an acknowledgment from them either way (Yay? Nay?) but I don't care because I didn't much believe I'd get the position anyway. I just wanted to be able to say "Why yes, I've applied to Harvard." Haha. At least my sense of humor is still intact.
These rejections and the last year of my life are made all the more frustrating when you consider that this (apparently) is one of the reasons why Doc and I broke up. He believed I wasn't motivated enough to find a new career path. I believed that if I was rejected one more time, I'd have no choice but to throw myself off a cliff. Clearly I'm a lot stronger than I gave myself credit for because the demise of my relationship was, in fact, yet another rejection, but here I am... sure I'm still dangling precariously close to the edge, but I'm here nonetheless.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my future but these days I find pessimism is my initial knee-jerk reaction to everything. What's the sense in trying when it feels like I'm only setting myself up to fail?
Will someone please pull me away from the edge or do us all a favor and push me over it?
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tornado woes
My heart is broken.
Today, a tornado struck my town. Picturesque Monson, Mass., the sort of quaint, small town that reminds you of a Norman Rockwell painting, was pummeled by a storm this afternoon that all but leveled the downtown area. Luckily my house -- located on the outskirts of town on the border of Palmer -- was spared, but Main Street, just a few miles away, was destroyed. First Church of Monson, located at the intersection of Main and High streets as you head into downtown, was hit. Tomorrow would have been the seven-month anniversary of the fire at the church in November. Back then, we'd considered ourselves lucky that the church had been spared thanks to the local fire department. Now look at it.
Walking along the streets today, though, I found it hard to stay composed. The steeple that housed the stately clock that I was forever checking to see if I was late, was strewn across the front lawn, a gaping hole in the side of the building where it used to be.
In the parking lot of the library was a silver SUV larger than mine that had every single window blown out. Across the street, a maroon Toyota sedan was on its side, pressed up against a tree. Beyond that car, in the direction of State Street and Bethany Road, all you could see was destruction. A semblance of what once was. I wasn't able to make my way down Main Street -- there were electrical wires down and what looked like small fires in addition to the trees that were toppled over -- but from my vantage point in front of the library looking down, it didn't look like there was much to salvage.
Since arriving back home and watching reports of the tornado on the news, I've come to accept that we're now "that town;" the one that everyone looks on with sympathy and thoughts of "thank God that isn't me." My house may not have been affected but this is my town; this is me.
All I can think of right now is that I want to go to bed. I want to fall asleep and forget this happened, even if only for a few hours. Tomorrow, we'll begin the process of cleaning up and starting over. But for right now, I want to be blissfully ignorant; to live in a world where Mother Nature didn't just unleash her fury on us.
Perhaps all that talk about the world ending wasn't so far-fetched after all?
Today, a tornado struck my town. Picturesque Monson, Mass., the sort of quaint, small town that reminds you of a Norman Rockwell painting, was pummeled by a storm this afternoon that all but leveled the downtown area. Luckily my house -- located on the outskirts of town on the border of Palmer -- was spared, but Main Street, just a few miles away, was destroyed. First Church of Monson, located at the intersection of Main and High streets as you head into downtown, was hit. Tomorrow would have been the seven-month anniversary of the fire at the church in November. Back then, we'd considered ourselves lucky that the church had been spared thanks to the local fire department. Now look at it.
Walking along the streets today, though, I found it hard to stay composed. The steeple that housed the stately clock that I was forever checking to see if I was late, was strewn across the front lawn, a gaping hole in the side of the building where it used to be.
In the parking lot of the library was a silver SUV larger than mine that had every single window blown out. Across the street, a maroon Toyota sedan was on its side, pressed up against a tree. Beyond that car, in the direction of State Street and Bethany Road, all you could see was destruction. A semblance of what once was. I wasn't able to make my way down Main Street -- there were electrical wires down and what looked like small fires in addition to the trees that were toppled over -- but from my vantage point in front of the library looking down, it didn't look like there was much to salvage.
Since arriving back home and watching reports of the tornado on the news, I've come to accept that we're now "that town;" the one that everyone looks on with sympathy and thoughts of "thank God that isn't me." My house may not have been affected but this is my town; this is me.
All I can think of right now is that I want to go to bed. I want to fall asleep and forget this happened, even if only for a few hours. Tomorrow, we'll begin the process of cleaning up and starting over. But for right now, I want to be blissfully ignorant; to live in a world where Mother Nature didn't just unleash her fury on us.
Perhaps all that talk about the world ending wasn't so far-fetched after all?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Looking to the stars
I try not to put too much stock in horoscopes. I'm not sure if I buy into the belief that "that the sun's apparent position relative to arbitrarily defined constellations at the time of your birth somehow affects your personality," as is so eloquently stated in the Big Bang Theory pilot episode. However, sometimes I am flabbergasted that, when reading my daily horoscope or the personality description of those whose births fall under my astrological sign, I find it is absolutely, 100 percent accurate. And then I wonder....
According to my astrological sign, Cancer, I am an emotional person: overly sensitive and moody. Well that right there sums me up in what, four words? Let's take it a step further and elaborate a little bit more, shall we? Because I'm bored at work and rather curious about Zodiac signs these days, I Googled the Cancer sign to see what came up. Included with the ridiculously long-winded description (that I'm too lazy at this point to hash out) were these key words, which supposedly describe my sign: gentle, conservative, feeling, nurturing, defensive, contemplative. I do possess those characteristics, and that right there makes me wonder if I shouldn't take with a grain of salt what I read as my horoscope each day.
Last week, I downloaded a horoscope App for my phone not because I wanted to refer to it incessantly and live my life based on what was proposed as a horoscope for me, but because I was bored and thought it might be interesting to check out. This week, I've looked it almost immediately after getting out of bed in the morning. Every. Single. Day. There are a few key phrases and sentences that I've seen used in the last week that (believe it or not!) actually do pertain to my life and what has been going on lately.
Yesterday, for example, my horoscope read (in part): Someone in your world is telling you a story you want to believe. This person may or may not be misleading you intentionally, but yet you are being misled..." It reminded me a little bit about the doubts I've had raised in my head (not to mention my heart) about Doc in the last month.
So this morning, I eagerly checked what was in store for me for today:
Since you are reading this horoscope, the world did not end on May 21. Did you believe that the end was near? Did you fear that a devastating earthquake would shake the earth to its core? If so, you must be pretty relieved. If not, then you may be wondering what all the fuss was about. The answer, dear crab, is that human beings need drama. We need to believe that there is a purpose for being here - and for some it translates to a beginning and an end, and a judgment. But if you live in the present, you have everything. Don't miss a special moment because of regrets from the past or fears of the future.
I am particularly stuck on the last few sentences, mostly because I find it difficult to do that, however much I might want to. Lately, though, I have been trying to take life one day at a time. I have a very zen, "it is what it is" philosophy about life these days and have been going through my life operating under the assumption that something good is destined for me and that I should enjoy each day as it comes until I finally get to where I need to be. Try as I might, though, I can't help but relapse into my old ways: stressing about what tomorrow will bring, worrying about things that I did or said yesterday and wondering how it will affect my life tomorrow.
Much of this, I know, is a sign of insecurity. I can't explain why I often feel the way I do -- like why do I feel massive panic attacks over things that are far beyond my control? -- when I know with absolute certainty that I shouldn't.
Maybe I'll get lucky and tomorrow's horoscope will tell me?
According to my astrological sign, Cancer, I am an emotional person: overly sensitive and moody. Well that right there sums me up in what, four words? Let's take it a step further and elaborate a little bit more, shall we? Because I'm bored at work and rather curious about Zodiac signs these days, I Googled the Cancer sign to see what came up. Included with the ridiculously long-winded description (that I'm too lazy at this point to hash out) were these key words, which supposedly describe my sign: gentle, conservative, feeling, nurturing, defensive, contemplative. I do possess those characteristics, and that right there makes me wonder if I shouldn't take with a grain of salt what I read as my horoscope each day.
Last week, I downloaded a horoscope App for my phone not because I wanted to refer to it incessantly and live my life based on what was proposed as a horoscope for me, but because I was bored and thought it might be interesting to check out. This week, I've looked it almost immediately after getting out of bed in the morning. Every. Single. Day. There are a few key phrases and sentences that I've seen used in the last week that (believe it or not!) actually do pertain to my life and what has been going on lately.
Yesterday, for example, my horoscope read (in part): Someone in your world is telling you a story you want to believe. This person may or may not be misleading you intentionally, but yet you are being misled..." It reminded me a little bit about the doubts I've had raised in my head (not to mention my heart) about Doc in the last month.
So this morning, I eagerly checked what was in store for me for today:
Since you are reading this horoscope, the world did not end on May 21. Did you believe that the end was near? Did you fear that a devastating earthquake would shake the earth to its core? If so, you must be pretty relieved. If not, then you may be wondering what all the fuss was about. The answer, dear crab, is that human beings need drama. We need to believe that there is a purpose for being here - and for some it translates to a beginning and an end, and a judgment. But if you live in the present, you have everything. Don't miss a special moment because of regrets from the past or fears of the future.
I am particularly stuck on the last few sentences, mostly because I find it difficult to do that, however much I might want to. Lately, though, I have been trying to take life one day at a time. I have a very zen, "it is what it is" philosophy about life these days and have been going through my life operating under the assumption that something good is destined for me and that I should enjoy each day as it comes until I finally get to where I need to be. Try as I might, though, I can't help but relapse into my old ways: stressing about what tomorrow will bring, worrying about things that I did or said yesterday and wondering how it will affect my life tomorrow.
Much of this, I know, is a sign of insecurity. I can't explain why I often feel the way I do -- like why do I feel massive panic attacks over things that are far beyond my control? -- when I know with absolute certainty that I shouldn't.
Maybe I'll get lucky and tomorrow's horoscope will tell me?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It is what it is...
These last few weeks have brought with them a number of changes in my life. Some good, some bad, but all for the best... I hope.
There are a handful of people who know what has happened, and a handful more who are astute enough to have gleaned the truth from my always super-cryptic Facebook postings, but I haven't really felt like I need to announce it to the world just yet. I don't need to beat others over the head with my personal struggles. I've taken the "it is what it is" approach to handling my emotions lately and I feel much better for it. I don't have control over everything that happens in my life and I have to have faith that God has a plan for me and if I enjoy my life and what I have, ultimately, I'll find the path that will lead me to where I'm supposed to be. That doesn't mean I'm 100 percent OK, though. Whenever people ask me how I'm doing, I say "fine," because I am, but I do have my moments. Last night was one of them. Sitting along in my super-small (read: cozy) living room with a book (because my TV is on the fritz again!!!), I couldn't help but feel a bit of sadness over the events of the last few weeks. I feel I'm entitled to these moments since, after all, I am getting out of bed every morning. I am well aware that I can't just erase the last year of my life, but learning to adjust to life on my own is a bit more daunting than I had expected. I like my personal space and I like knowing I can be independent, but I still want someone to share my experiences with, and I think that's what I'm struggling with the most.
Despite these changes and my previous rants about my resistance to change, I still find myself on a search for... something more. I have this unwavering faith that if I just believe, good things will come my way. I wake up each morning with a renewed sense of purpose, convinced I am on the road to greatness. What greatness that is, I'm still not sure yet, but I like to be positive. I keep hoping that my tenacity will pay off; that my words will speak for themselves; and that someone, somewhere, will notice that I'm wasting my time here and scoop me up to better use my skills elsewhere.
Someday.
There are a handful of people who know what has happened, and a handful more who are astute enough to have gleaned the truth from my always super-cryptic Facebook postings, but I haven't really felt like I need to announce it to the world just yet. I don't need to beat others over the head with my personal struggles. I've taken the "it is what it is" approach to handling my emotions lately and I feel much better for it. I don't have control over everything that happens in my life and I have to have faith that God has a plan for me and if I enjoy my life and what I have, ultimately, I'll find the path that will lead me to where I'm supposed to be. That doesn't mean I'm 100 percent OK, though. Whenever people ask me how I'm doing, I say "fine," because I am, but I do have my moments. Last night was one of them. Sitting along in my super-small (read: cozy) living room with a book (because my TV is on the fritz again!!!), I couldn't help but feel a bit of sadness over the events of the last few weeks. I feel I'm entitled to these moments since, after all, I am getting out of bed every morning. I am well aware that I can't just erase the last year of my life, but learning to adjust to life on my own is a bit more daunting than I had expected. I like my personal space and I like knowing I can be independent, but I still want someone to share my experiences with, and I think that's what I'm struggling with the most.
Despite these changes and my previous rants about my resistance to change, I still find myself on a search for... something more. I have this unwavering faith that if I just believe, good things will come my way. I wake up each morning with a renewed sense of purpose, convinced I am on the road to greatness. What greatness that is, I'm still not sure yet, but I like to be positive. I keep hoping that my tenacity will pay off; that my words will speak for themselves; and that someone, somewhere, will notice that I'm wasting my time here and scoop me up to better use my skills elsewhere.
Someday.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Lucky dog
I've been reading a lot lately about dogs in crisis, from Patrick — the "miracle" pit bull who was starved and tossed in the trash like garbage but survived — to Wonder, one of the many fortunate dogs featured on Lucky Dog Rescue Blog. With each story and photo I see, I become more and more determined to aid in the prevention of animal cruelty.
Last year, after a tumultuous breakup with my boyfriend at the time, I was forced to give up my beautiful chocolate Labrador, Guinness, because I couldn't afford a place to live with him. At the time, it was the hardest decision I ever made and I still feel its repercussions today. Every day. But given I know he's now living in a happy, loving home, I am okay with my decision to give him away. Still, I can't help but feel that despite our end, Guinness was brought into my life for a reason. He gave me a purpose that I still feel even today, without him. He showed me what it means to love a dog.
Although I may not be able to take on a dog of my own, or even foster one looking for his or her forever home, I can still help them in some way. Last year, I started volunteering at a local animal shelter and I've written newspaper columns about my adventures with different animals to spread the word about animal welfare and well-being. It's small, but I'd like to think it helps bring awareness to the cause.
At my office, I have no fewer than 10 photos of my pets adorning the walls and my desk. Nine of those are of Guinness and my boyfriend's French bulldog, Frenchy, the other is of my first cat, Sylvester. Each photo tells its own story. I picked each one because of the emotions they evoked, from myself and my friends. I want to smile and cry at the same time just looking at them, by sheer virtue of the fact that they're so cute.
How can anyone not love animals...or at the very least tolerate them enough not to torture and abuse them? It astounds me that people hurt animals. Violence against each other isn't acceptable, but we have the capacity to defend ourselves from abuse in some way, whether physically or verbally. We have the option of attempting escape or calling for help. Animals don't have that luxury; they can't even tell us when or where they're hurt. If they're tied up and starved, they're dying a slow, painful death, and they can't cry out for help.
I tell my boyfriend my sole goal in life is to buy a house with a nice yard so I can adopt a dog (or two, or four!). Then, at least then I can make sure that one lucky dog will have the life he deserves: a life of love and comfort.
I applaud those people who devote their lives to helping animals. It's a noble cause... maybe one day, I can be a part of it.
Last year, after a tumultuous breakup with my boyfriend at the time, I was forced to give up my beautiful chocolate Labrador, Guinness, because I couldn't afford a place to live with him. At the time, it was the hardest decision I ever made and I still feel its repercussions today. Every day. But given I know he's now living in a happy, loving home, I am okay with my decision to give him away. Still, I can't help but feel that despite our end, Guinness was brought into my life for a reason. He gave me a purpose that I still feel even today, without him. He showed me what it means to love a dog.
Although I may not be able to take on a dog of my own, or even foster one looking for his or her forever home, I can still help them in some way. Last year, I started volunteering at a local animal shelter and I've written newspaper columns about my adventures with different animals to spread the word about animal welfare and well-being. It's small, but I'd like to think it helps bring awareness to the cause.
At my office, I have no fewer than 10 photos of my pets adorning the walls and my desk. Nine of those are of Guinness and my boyfriend's French bulldog, Frenchy, the other is of my first cat, Sylvester. Each photo tells its own story. I picked each one because of the emotions they evoked, from myself and my friends. I want to smile and cry at the same time just looking at them, by sheer virtue of the fact that they're so cute.
How can anyone not love animals...or at the very least tolerate them enough not to torture and abuse them? It astounds me that people hurt animals. Violence against each other isn't acceptable, but we have the capacity to defend ourselves from abuse in some way, whether physically or verbally. We have the option of attempting escape or calling for help. Animals don't have that luxury; they can't even tell us when or where they're hurt. If they're tied up and starved, they're dying a slow, painful death, and they can't cry out for help.
I tell my boyfriend my sole goal in life is to buy a house with a nice yard so I can adopt a dog (or two, or four!). Then, at least then I can make sure that one lucky dog will have the life he deserves: a life of love and comfort.
I applaud those people who devote their lives to helping animals. It's a noble cause... maybe one day, I can be a part of it.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Questions
I’ve never been the type of person to accept complacency. While I tend to be (more or less) resistant to change, I like to be one step ahead of the game and in charge of my life, my future.
However, these days, I feel I’ve become complacent and I don’t know what to do about that. I came to my job almost five years ago (after one year working for the company as an intern) intent on staying just one year as a full-time reporter, “for the experience.” Today, I’ve worked my way up the proverbial ladder from intern to reporter to assistant editor to (finally!) editor, and yes I enjoy it, but I yearn for more.
I never wanted to come to Western Massachusetts because I always thought of it as too far from home…and it’s less than two hours away. Nevertheless, I’m starting to feel a desire to travel and see the world. To do something with myself.
The other day, I told Doc I wanted to visit San Francisco. He’s lived there. I’ve told him how badly I want to visit London (specifically) or England (in general). He’s lived there too. Once, I brought him to my favorite sushi restaurant with the promise that he’d taste the best sushi ever and he said “I’ve had better.” Where? I asked. “Japan.”
Almost everywhere in the world I wish to see, he’s seen. We’re the same age – he’s just 8 days younger than I – and yet he’s seen so much and done so much more than I have. I’ve settled for the life of a small-town newspaper editor in rural (suburban?) Massachusetts but I can’t say for certain that this is what I want.
I watch as he prepares for his future as a doctor – from the specialty he hopes to pursue to the hospital at which he’ll complete residency – and I wish that I could expand my horizons.
I’ve always dreamed of being a book author, but I still don’t believe I’m good enough to pursue that dream. I’d love to work for a bigger newspaper, but journalism is a dying industry and I’m probably better off where I am. I want to settle down and buy a house, but on my editor’s salary, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon. I want to hop on a plane to California to experience life on the west coast. Doc said out there, traffic is “a way of life” and that I’m not likely to enjoy it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to experience it just once.
How do I shake things up in my life? What should I do with myself? When will I figure out my ultimate goal? Should I even have one? These are the questions I struggle with daily.
I want so badly to have more than I do now, but am I risking all the good things in my current life? How do you know when you’ve had enough?
Friday, February 25, 2011
Running the gamut
My boyfriend likes to point out that men don't think like women. Every time I project my own feelings onto him he is sure to tell me that I can't assume things about his logic, as my way of thinking differs from his. Fair enough; I'll accept his premise. However, (in my defense) I'd like to point out that the opposite is true. Women think differently than men.
It's true, women are more emotional than men. Given our hormonal cycle, it's to be expected, correct? So why, then, do men become upset when women become (as they say) "irrational?" Being emotional and being irrational are two different things. I think of myself as the type of individual who thinks things through. I look at things from every angle and I tend to make decisions only after careful deliberation. Would an irrational person do that? Then again, I also have days where everything makes me cry, for no apparent reason, and usually by the end of those days, I'm a convulsing, hysterical mess. But I'm a woman and "all women are crazy" as my male friends say, so why are they always so surprised when the calm, composed woman falls to the wayside and the emotional, passionate one bursts forth?
If I have to put up with football every Sunday (complete with men yelling, drinking, belching, etc.) and do so graciously, why can't he put up with one or two days of me whimpering like a lost, lonely puppy? He's going to be a doctor, for God's sake... if he can't handle me, perhaps he should choose another profession, pronto!
It's true, women are more emotional than men. Given our hormonal cycle, it's to be expected, correct? So why, then, do men become upset when women become (as they say) "irrational?" Being emotional and being irrational are two different things. I think of myself as the type of individual who thinks things through. I look at things from every angle and I tend to make decisions only after careful deliberation. Would an irrational person do that? Then again, I also have days where everything makes me cry, for no apparent reason, and usually by the end of those days, I'm a convulsing, hysterical mess. But I'm a woman and "all women are crazy" as my male friends say, so why are they always so surprised when the calm, composed woman falls to the wayside and the emotional, passionate one bursts forth?
If I have to put up with football every Sunday (complete with men yelling, drinking, belching, etc.) and do so graciously, why can't he put up with one or two days of me whimpering like a lost, lonely puppy? He's going to be a doctor, for God's sake... if he can't handle me, perhaps he should choose another profession, pronto!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Pausing to think..
It's been a considerably long time since I've written anything here, not for lack of trying. But life tends to get in its own way sometimes and I've been keeping myself so busy that I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and write... for pleasure, that is. Lord knows I've been writing enough professionally.
In November, I was offered a promotion to editor of one of my company's newspapers, which I happily accepted. Though I didn't officially start in that capacity until January, I did spend the end of November and the whole of December becoming familiar with the town by editing the paper on production day. When I took over in January, I immediately implemented some changes that (in my humble opinion) have made it an even better product than before. I still have my work cut out for me, however and the work has been keeping me going at a frenetic pace. One day I hope to slow it down, but for now I suppose I'm okay with it.
This week, Doc and I have been dog/house-sitting for some friends in a neighboring town who have traveled to Florida. I first met their Lab, Smokey, last month and fell instantly in love. In jest, I told his people if they ever decided to go away on vacation and were in need of a dog sitter, I'd happily oblige. Earlier this month, Smokey's Mom approached me to ask if I was still willing. While I was ready to accept her proposal on the spot, the sheer size of the dog gave me pause: He's nearly 130 pounds of sheer muscle. Despite his size, Smokey has turned out to be a gentle giant; one of the best behaved dogs I've ever met. I'm having a blast.
Puppy love aside, I'm also having a great time "living" with Doc. Having him around 24/7 makes me long for the future. Next month, he'll find out his residency placement and I'm waiting with baited breath to learn his (read: our) fate. Last night as I was falling asleep, I recall him saying something to the effect of: "If you move in with me..." or "If we move in together..." The rest of the clause isn't all that important; what I'm focusing on is those five or six words. That indicates some kind of commitment, right?
So that's where I'm at... that's the last three months of my life in a nutshell.
In November, I was offered a promotion to editor of one of my company's newspapers, which I happily accepted. Though I didn't officially start in that capacity until January, I did spend the end of November and the whole of December becoming familiar with the town by editing the paper on production day. When I took over in January, I immediately implemented some changes that (in my humble opinion) have made it an even better product than before. I still have my work cut out for me, however and the work has been keeping me going at a frenetic pace. One day I hope to slow it down, but for now I suppose I'm okay with it.
This week, Doc and I have been dog/house-sitting for some friends in a neighboring town who have traveled to Florida. I first met their Lab, Smokey, last month and fell instantly in love. In jest, I told his people if they ever decided to go away on vacation and were in need of a dog sitter, I'd happily oblige. Earlier this month, Smokey's Mom approached me to ask if I was still willing. While I was ready to accept her proposal on the spot, the sheer size of the dog gave me pause: He's nearly 130 pounds of sheer muscle. Despite his size, Smokey has turned out to be a gentle giant; one of the best behaved dogs I've ever met. I'm having a blast.
Puppy love aside, I'm also having a great time "living" with Doc. Having him around 24/7 makes me long for the future. Next month, he'll find out his residency placement and I'm waiting with baited breath to learn his (read: our) fate. Last night as I was falling asleep, I recall him saying something to the effect of: "If you move in with me..." or "If we move in together..." The rest of the clause isn't all that important; what I'm focusing on is those five or six words. That indicates some kind of commitment, right?
So that's where I'm at... that's the last three months of my life in a nutshell.
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