This week.

Things that happened this week with accompanying thoughts:

1. Interview at aquarium for marketing position-
A very young and excitable blond woman led me to a small room where she and another young woman conducted a very relaxed interview. I felt confident and I think I might actually have a chance. After telling me I would hear about the position Friday (today!) they gave me a free pass to use at the aquarium. Though I wanted to stay and stare at the fish, blisters from what I thought were a sensible pair of shoes pushed me towards the gift shop, frantically looking for Nemo themed band aids. No luck.

2. I acquired mammoth size blisters-
The outfits I choose for interviews always include a pair of wide leg trousers. They have an amazing fit, and if not awarded a job for my aptitude I should be for the way my honey looks in those trousers. But I digress. In choosing a pair of shoes I had three choices: open toe wedge which says 'I'm trendy and sophisticated.' Low heels with subtle white piping, very plain and unnoticeable. They say, 'Hire me or else I'll end up working in a library.' The last choice, which was were the shoes I wore on this week's interview, are black round toe flats. Very simple, very chic and are accessible to all potential employers. They say, 'I look nice but I'll turn on the heat.' Heat on my foot, from a nonstop burning sensation the rubbing of fake leather and bare skin on my heels and toes. I walked a mile from the interview to the BART station looking for a Walgreens. After finally finding a Walgreens I proceeded to attach melon sized bandages combat soliders use for gun shot wounds in the entrance way where svelte businessmen from the neighboring Financial District walked over me in pure disgust. I didn't give a shit, I was dying and debating surrending a pair of shoes based on the ungodly pain I was suffering through. Finally I made my way onto the BART, limping and cringing the entire way. I was in no hurry to get off the BART but soon had to leave the comfort of my seat to galumph another mile in agony. I can barely wear any shoe thanks to those damn interview shoes. I hope I get that f-in job.

3. Yesterday was the first day of my fiction writing class-
And let me tell you, I'm intimidated. It's not that anyone proved themselves to be the next Flannery O'Connor to make me feel insecure, but everyone seems to have an eloquence to their quick responses. The responses they nonchalantly blurt out always appear in my head three days after the fact. I just feel slow. Despite my few insecurities I'm quite pleased to be in the class and volunteered to read next week. I'm not nervous yet, but I'm sure I'll find myself toiling in front of this very screen next Wednesday with knots in my stomach and succumbing to a nail biting buffet.

4. Tonight we have a party-
Unfortunately I feel sick. My head feels heavy, there's a sty in my eye and I'm achy and feverish. Not a great way to go into a night of drinking and dancing. First party since we moved in. . .

5. I'm me-
Since beginning my medicine I feel more like myself. Do I sound like a commercial? I don't care if I do. My emotions and reactions for more stable compared to a few months ago. Nothing is perfect and I haven't been privy to any life changing epiphanies, but everything seems normal and the way it should be. I have hope and I have sadness, I have happiness and I have worry. But they're normal feelings and they go away when they should and linger when I let them.

It's a natural part of life. Everyone does it.

Yesterday at work I had to go to the bathroom. Like, go to the bathroom. As in not number one, but the other number. So, I went. It wasn't the first time I had to, you know, while at work. I did what I had to do, quickly mind you, and flushed. While washing my hands and making sure there wasn't anything stuck between my teeth, I noticed the toilet water was rising. . .not draining. For a girl who hates to even say the 'p' word and despises, ahem, 'fart humor' (an oxymoron if you ask me), I became frantic. Everyone at work was going to know that I. . .POOPED! Unless of course I could switch to plumber mode- ASAP. I abandoned my hand washing and teeth primping duties, grabbed hold of the plunger and pretended I had my ass crack hanging out of stone washed Levis instead of being hid underneath the adorable purple dress I was wearing. The plunger splashed into the polluted currents, but failed to make the, uh, soiled, water dissipate. My efforts as a drain doctor failed. I was sweating profusely, not from my forceful plunges, but from embarrassment and worry. I could feel my face turning bright red.

In this moment of ire, I remembered my dad hunched over the toilet. Not like that. He was my dad fixing an unclogged toilet. I must have been 8 years old. We were still living in Connecticut where my siblings and I shared an entire floor to ourselves. The bathroom we shared holds many memories, including the unlicensed cosmetology school my brother and I started where our younger sister was our first and last hair cut victim. However, the day my dad fixed the clogged toilet is insignificant in every way possible except that he took the top off and fiddled with some fixtures inside. As I leaned against the sink, not really paying attention to his method, I waited for my turn on the can. He fixed it and I enjoyed many more moments on that fine flusher.

Taking the very little that I learned that day in Connecticut, I frantically tore off the top of the toilet seat and looked dumbfounded at the two fixtures sticking up at me. I lifted and pressed and simultaneously tried to plunge. I was moist from sweat and the splashing of dirty waters. It was futile. Whoever used the toilet next was going to get an awful surprise. It only looked bad because my attempts to plunge and flush pulverized and pressed my. . .droppings. Combined with water and toilet paper. . .well. . .gag.

After putting the top back on the tank and covering the toilet with an empty box signifying "Caution Hazardous Waste" I made a rueful walk to the manager's office to notify her of the faulty toilet. Fortunately there were three people to embarrass myself in front of, Christine my store manager, Crystal my fun loving and favorite manager and Lucky, my intimidating peer who works in the receiving office who by the expressions on her face doesn't seem to have much luck concerning anything. But alas- who doesn't like an audience when the discussion of bowel movements are involved?

I cowered in the corner while waiting for the three to finish their discussion.

"Uh, so, the toilet, is clogged," I mumbled with a nervous smile.
"Yeah I know it hasn't been working lately," Christine said unaffected.
"How do you know?" asked Crystal.
"I went to flush and it just didn't" I answered eliminating any details.
"You go number two?" Crystal joked.
"Actually. . ." I said between pursed lips.
Lucky, who had her back to us the entire time, burst out laughing.
"Oh my god, I can't believe you just admitted you clogged the toilet with your shit. . .That's awesome!"
Christine was in hysterics and Crystal was shaking her head with a smile. I felt like a 6 year old among a crowd of adults laughing at a joke I didn't get. Pretend you get it, pretend!
"Whaaaaaaaaaaat? Soooorrry, I just didn't want to leave it for someone else, don't you think you should call a plumber?"
Their eyes were all tearing.
"Why didn't you just leave it?" Christine asked matter-of-factly.
"Ew!" the rest of replied. She shrugged with a grin and ended the discussion, "Well, can't do much about it, just put a sign on the door." I turned on my heels and sheepishly walked out still hearing their chuckles.
When I returned the bathroom, the box was still atop the seat. I removed it, Lysoled the scence of the crime, and flushed. Some water went down. I attempted a plunge. More water went down. I imagined it exploding back into my face after a few more successful plunges and flushes, but I was relieved, five minutes later, to clearly see the bottom of the toilet bowl.

As soon as it was cleaned I announced to all the other associates and my managers that the toilet was fixed. No one cared, in fact I don't think the managers even remembered that it was clogged considering they had a huge merchandise shipment to place. As a result, yesterday I learned that no one gives a shit about anyone else's shit. Like that bumpersticker: shit happens.

And for once, I'm comfortable with that.

I should be paying you to read this drivel

Updating hasn't been a priority, unfortunately. I wish I had the same desire to blog these days as I did last year. I guess I've been busier and not having more of a structured forum for blogging as I did last year makes it less appealing to broadcast sentiments. Maybe that will change when my fiction writing class starts on Thursday. I'm so nervous! I haven't written fiction in so long and am hesitant about sharing my writing in front of people, rather than the internet! Hopefully it will be worth my while to bare all in front of a wide eyed and critical crowd.

It's sad to feel uninspired. It's a different type of sadness compared to the self-loathing I usually subject myself to. This is probably what it feels like to watch yourself to progress with a debilitating disease, like Parkinsons. It worsens and worsens without your control, people stare at you, shake their heads with pity and say- Remember what she used to be capable of. . .

Ahh, hopefully this writing class reignites some passion and sparks some skill. Because you probably enjoyed this post half as much as I did, and that's not saying a lot.

$$$$$$$$

The fancy pumpkin seed cilantro pesto my parents bought me when we were visiting Sonoma wineries perished in the refrigerator despite being contained in a lovely glass jar. I wanted to marinate my chicken in it, but I ended up using months old Cajun marinade we had lathered up some pork tenderloin with in April. I'm thinking it was just as expired as the pesto, but didn't have visible signs of poisonous decay.

Why does this matter? Who should care I'm throwing away a mostly full jar of fancy pesto and instead using an old jar of marinade? No one should care, but I'll tell you why it matters to me. Ever since I've become a fiscal paraplegic throwing away food is no longer a blase activity. At home I could stand in front of the fridge and find food shoved in the back, teeming with mold. No problem, just throw it away, replace it with the abundance of new groceries and left overs provided by mother and father. Now that never ending influx of food is gone and now are the days of twice monthly grocery trips where I carefully pick out the most cost effective items to add to the refrigerator. It's a difficult task, especially when you try to avoid starchy and carb laden foods. Fruits and vegetables are expensive and require the most preparation for meals. I lost two tomatoes and a spaghetti squash in addition to my pesto this week!

I can't afford to waste food. It's made me more creative with my cooking (which doesn't always garner gourmet results) and more appreciative of the food I do have. But it makes me realize I do not want to live like this forever. I do not want to pinch pennies forever. My financial woes seem to be never ending and increasing exponentially. It's frustrating because I know I could have a better paying job but. . .I don't. And I don't know why!

I suppose if I really wanted to I could take a sales job, I could take a job I won't enjoy temporarily, just so I can have my head above water. So my parents don't have to pay for some of my expenses still. So I can pay off my roommates, so I can pay off my credit card. It's frustrating. I could get another job, but have two jobs? I've done it before and it sucks and I feel the vein in my forehead pulsate with frustration every time I think about it, however it seems like that's my only option at this point. Keep on applying and continue to get better at pinching pennies.

Easy does it.

Somehow last week I pulled myself together. After being dumped in a cruel, arguably deserved, manner, I managed to live unencumbered. I went to the park with work friends, I went to brunch with my roommates and I tanned solo under the sun at Stinson Beach. All of this I did without feeling like I should be somewhere else.

Last week I realized how I much I suffocatingly needed my boyfriend. My routines were planned around his routines, my emotions based on whether he satisfied my sometimes superfluous "needs". My love for him turned intoxicatingly pathetic. When he made it so easy for me to leave him based on his supposed actions (think: other woman), I felt lighter. I went to a few parties, I signed up for a writing class, I stopped wondering what I was going to do that day based on what he was going to do.

But why can't I be independent when I'm with him? Why did it become so harmful for me to be with him? Why did I lose myself in his world? When will I find a balance?

It's not easy being without someone you were a constant companion to and loved very deeply. It's not even enjoyable and that's why I wonder if this is right?

In other news. . .I went to a friend's party this past weekend. It was nice to get out and drink a few beers with a new crowd. But with new crowds are new conversations. Mixed with alcohol it veered towards sex. I was surprised by the nonchalance that everyone spoke about their escapades and especially shocked when there was casual kissing in front of a captive audience who threw their astonishment aside to continue rooting the couple along. It wasn't classless, per se, it was just so long since I had been in a similar situation. In college, I had been in that situation, I mean- I was even that situation. Perhaps even more surprising was I'm not that situation anymore and that I realized I had matured, even at the risk of being deemed a modest prude. However, aside for the brief awkwardness I encountered, I was having fun, watching my past follies being relived, maybe even relishing in a pseudo-pat on the back for calming down and finding joy in a fulfilling relationship. Who ever thought?

W-e-i-r-d

I don't want to jinx myself. . .but somehow I feel. . .lighter.

And I'm seeing possibilities.

And I'm feeling. . .hopeful.

And just lighter.

psht.

I got dumped again.
He called me a psycho bitch.
And he said he met someone two weeks ago.
Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me.
For trying.
For caring.
For whatever. For fucking whatever.

This has no point.

Remaining in retail isn't a long term goal of mine. It never was and it's even clearer to me now that I am a retail associate it's precisely where I don't want to be. Sure, I love I clothing and fashion and trends, but customers? Customers ruin my day everyday. They are both the bane of my existence and the payer of my salary. A necessary evil. They come in five minutes before we close the store to mess up the piles of shirts we've carefully folded. They want to return items without receipts. They want us to call another store and search for a sale item that's been off the shelves for weeks. They want us to spend 20 minutes looking for a lost SKU for the most atrocious clothing item known to fashion. They are annoying. They are endemic to a retail environment.

Last year working at Bloomingdale's was fun, but it was slow. My fellow associates and I were stationary, leaning against counters for most of the day, listlessly waiting for customers to abate our boredom but silently berating the first customer who interrupted our superficial conversations. My fellow fashion accessory workers and I, we had fun, despite most of us hating our jobs. What else were we going to do?

Things run differently at Urban Outfitters. We don't have any down time to bond with our co-workers. We're only allowed conversations in passing. Everyone has a station, a position, a task. There's always cleaning, there's always tidying, there's always restocking. I used to hate it. And I still really don't like the tasks I'm assigned, but I'm finally fond of the people I work with. Though I'm disappointed I am a college graduate and working a menial retail job, I'm beginning to make the best of it. And thinking more about it, work is the only thing making me sane these days. It's an escape from my head, from my worries, from my troubles. I guess you could classify it as preventative medicine. The best laughs I've had lately have been at work. In fact tonight I laughed myself to delirium, to tears almost! I may not be connecting with these people outside of work, but I'm going to take what I can get. It is what it is. Laughing my head off at work is better than not laughing at all.


It's weird to experience such highs and such lows. Yesterday I had a really bad day. I was rock bottom. I'm lucky to have some good friends who validate my feelings and assure me things are going to get better, it's just tough when they're 3,000 miles away. It's tough when you live paycheck to paycheck and eating is no longer an option. Maybe today's sudden love for my co-workers was spurred by my manager giving me a coupon for a free burrito, making two meals a possibility for today. I guess it's not important. Today I ride the high, hope it follows me to tomorrow.

ho-hum.

Ten years ago this is not how I would have imagined my life. But then again, ten years ago I wasn't dealing with half the shit I'm dealing with now. I was happily working at a movie theater, happily volunteering on the weekends, happily playing school sports and happily living at home with my parents. Now I'm miserable at my retail job and miserable living in California. There is nothing distracting me from those two facets of my life. This is not the life I imagined I would be living and what's worse is I can't remember the happiness I imagined when I was 15 years old. I can't remember how I imagined my life's happiness.

All of my relationships are suffering.

My desire to write is suffering too. When I write I can only seem to detail my latest sadness. My vocabulary is limited to negatives. My sentences are fragmented, half-assed. Kind of like my life.

I want to get a grip, but I just can't. I feel everything falling down on me at once. I can't see the surface. I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's so frustrating.