Ordered Chaos

2003-09-04T00:24:00.000-04:00

The End of Nine.

Funny. The entire concept of Nine revolved around the concept of The Perfect Ten, never quite good enough but always above average. Nine only existed in relation to Ten. Somewhere along the way in the past year, I realized that I'm no longer sure that Ten exists. Or, I've simply ceased to care about it. As such, I've realized that I've outgrown Nine, I'm no longer her, and she's no longer an accurate representation of the place I'm at in my life. At the same time, I recognize that pieces of her will always exist in me, like the little schizophrenic voice that still pops up once in a while to make its voice heard.

With new places, new cities, and new people come new ideas. Farewell, corporate America. May I never see you again unless I need a quick and dirty, soul-sucking way to make a buck.

Life After College: Year 3 - In Transit.

2003-08-18T23:43:00.000-04:00

And just like the movies, we'll play out our last scene.

Funny how certain moments in life are just like the movies - complete with soundtrack provided by whatever CD you currently have in your car stereo. Earlier tonight - I was a 22 year old in every sense. i'd taken off after work to go shoe shopping - not something I do very often - but when I shoe-shop, I do it with a vengeance. I was a woman on a mission and I knew it. Not only did I have shoes to buy, but also a variety of other things - earrings (I've somehow managed to lose 4 out of 5), and bras (I mistakenly packed all of mine into storage for the month. The guys at work may like it - especially since the office is always cold, but I've been getting looks from the women). I came out of my shopping trip highly dissatisfied - no shoes, nothing but one bra, and a black one at that. How am I supposed to casually impress the cute guy at the office without any new shoes? I only have one more week to get him to kiss me before I leave the firm.

Yes, it's actually official now. I landed into quite a hullabaloo last Monday. I've somehow managed to decide, within the past month, that I want to go to medical school. And towards that end, I'm entering a Master's program in Boston aimed towards improving my undergraduate science GPA. Considering the cost of a year of education, it's a substantial sacrifice I'm making for a conviction that has only recently re-surfaced in the past month and a half. I can only hope that all will turn out well. I can't even really explain where this sudden desire came from. Perhaps from the LSAT's, which I only took a month before I applied to med programs. I did well enough on the LSAT's to apply to any school I want, but somehow - my drive to go to law school had died. It had never been particularly strong I have to admit, and the LSAT's only served to prove to me what I already knew - that law would not be suited for me. Perhaps it was feeling how wrong the LSAT felt, how poorly it fit, how small of an affinity I had for the test despite my scores, that served to jog me back towards things I had once felt an affinity for - despite my low grades. Regardless, the conviction existed, and I am going off into graduate school for a year in Boston.

Tonight, after my rather unsuccessful shopping trip, I detoured into Barnes and Nobles to look at books on medical schools. My intent had been to look up the average MCAT scores for schools I was interested in, but it turned into a 45 minute reading of books entitled "How to get into medical school" or some variation thereof. What I read sobered me up like no other. I read about how there is likely to be a surplus of doctors in the future. I read about how "older" students with other experiences had a lesser chance of being admitted. I read about how students with seemingly perfect applications could apply and be rejected. I read about how re-applicants have a decreased chance of admissions although they statistically do better if admitted. I walked out of the bookstore wondering if I knew what the hell I was getting myself into. Only a third of fully qualified applicants are admitted. What am I goign to do? Am I really serious about this? Suddenly, the shoe shopping seemed so frivolous and every aspect of my life came under a magnifying glass as I questioned my decision. How serious can I be when I'm pondering spending over 200 dollars on shoes when I should be saving money for my upcoming tuition? How serious can I be when part of my reason for choosing Boston is because it's a college town? How serious can I be if something as small as a book can make me question myself like this?

Why are those books so discouraging anyways? In a world of cheery "You can do it!" self help books and comforting Chicken Soup For The Soul books, the "How to get into med schools" books are depressingly bleak. Are they written as such to weed out the uncertain and leave out only the truly dedicated who are unswayed by such depressing statistics? In which case, was I effectively being weeded out? Is it possible that there are med students out there who have never experienced a moment of doubt on their chosen path? Who are these people and what sorts of fantastical creatures are they to have never experienced anything but certainty in their choices? Do I really belong in their ranks or am I a fraud, a wannabe, a big fat fake? After all, I was so easily undermined as a freshman when I went to see the premed advisor with my 3.3 gpa and she told me I would never go to med school. How easily I gave up then. How easily was I knocked off my confidence and my mind turned to more "practical" choices. The same practical choices that have led me to my present misery which thankfully I will be escaping next week.

Part of me is relieved I didn't do this "research" earlier, or perhaps I wouldn't have reached the conviction I have now. I would've been discouraged earlier on and the gnawing self-doubt I perpetually suffer from would have taken over my fledgling idea easily. What am I going to do if I don't get into medical school? I didn't even have to hesitate to know the answer. I would cry like a big baby. For days. It'd be like the final decay of the last of myh self belief. My parents... I don't know how they would feel. Probably a mixture of disappointment and sadness for the pain I'm going through. To be rejected is like a nullification of all the time and effort you've put in. Like it was all nothing. A complete cancellation of your entire past year's worth of existence. Worth nothing, or at least - not enough. I imagine being rejected from medical school must be the most heartbreaking thing ever. It's a negation of you, your very soul, your lifelong dream and years of dedication. Who applies to med school that -isn't- dedicated? The very premed process is designed to leave only the most faithful alive to face the final slaughter. The very nature of premed students is that of one not accustomed to failure. And first failure is always a slap in the face.

Do I have what it takes? I don't know. I hope I do, but I won't lie - I have my doubts. I like other things in life too much - like shoes. Will my love for medicine overcome my love for material goods? Only time will tell as I journey into a year of student poverty. Am I being unrealistic in giving up my lucrative career when I know I like the creature comforts? Perhaps. But if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that this job holds no future for me. I'm wasting my time here. There are other lucrative jobs. What if there is a surplus of doctors in 10 years and I'm only making 40K? Surprisingly, I find myself not really caring. The only thing that I'm really truly scared of is not making it. The fear is there in the back of my throat, and that's when I realize that my uncertainty doesn't really lie in my uncertainty of medicine. I am certain of that. My uncertainty lies within myself. I know I want to do medicine. I do not know whether I can cut it. For the first time, perhaps ever, I'm venturing into territory where I'm not relatively certain I can kick ass. I'm not a gambler really, I tend to pick fields where my chances of success are pretty much guaranteed. For me, this is a huge risk, and the fear lies in the fear of failure. I've never failed before, I've never been crushed. I've been very spoiled in that sense, but it doesn't make me look any more forward to potentially tasting my first defeat.

Because my uncertainty lies in my chances of success, that translates to uncertainty of whether this is the right choice or not. Therein lies my difficulty in feeling complete conviction. Why can I not be one of those fantastical creatures that med school seems to have? Those that seem to have unflapping certainty about everything? How can I ignore the laws of probability that calculate and recalculate the odds in my head? I'd have to take a huge leap of faith in order to ignore the thousands of unknown variables involved. The majority of these variables lie within me. Yes, I am the biggest variable of all , the largest unknown, can I resist the temptations of social events? When the stakes are so high, I'm not sure whether I'll be able to pull through on my own investment. It seems silly to be afraid of myself, but that truly is the crux of my fear.

There are times in one's life when you've got to face down the demons. I thought of this as I drove. How I've spent my entire life being safe. I can't end it in one day, but I can take it a step at a time. The fear will no longer dictate the course of my life. Being logical and practical all the time means security. After all, shooting for a dream is never safe. I don't know what's going to happen to me... Even if I do everything right, it's out of my hands. Out of my control. Funny how doctors - people who play God, have to let go of control to get that very job.

Part of me wishes I could know whether this is the right decision or not. But I suppose that would take some of the fun out of it. After all, youth is not knowing the future. So after my unsuccessful shoe shopping trip, I felt like my life was a movie, complete with soundtrack provided by whatever cd I had in the stereo at that moment. I was 22, young, and driving. The road is always such a metaphor for life, and my life at that moment was the pivotal epiphany period in my own coming-of-age movie, except there are no guaranteed happy endings. But then again, part of the thrill is not knowing how it ends.

2003-08-16T02:12:00.000-04:00

When the Lights Went Out.

1. Thursday night, I arrived on the last flight to NYC from NC. We landed on a runway lit only by emergency lights and with half our baggage still in Charlotte. The airport was eerily like a scene outof 28 Days Later. Bodies were sprawled on the floor everywhere as people slept in the airport.
2. A cabbie charged me 60 bucks to take me into Manhattan, where I then had to climb 21 flights of stairs in the pitch dark to my friend's apartment.
3. I had to wash my hair in the fire hydrant in the street with borrowed shampoo from a passing girl.
4. My luggage still has not arrived. Figures, I got off the plane with two laptops, but nothing even remotely similar to a toothbrush or underwear.

2003-08-11T23:53:00.000-04:00

The Beginning Of The End.

It all started last Thursday.

1. I left my work badge at home and had to trade in my license for a temporary badge.
2. As I was rushing out of work to pack up at my apartment and catch my flight, I forgot to turn my temporary badge in and pick up my license. I showed up at the airport without any ID, and somehow magically was let onto the plane (scary).
3. I realized I would never board a plane from New York back to NC without ID, so I had my friend break into my corporate apartment in NC and overnight my passport to me.
4. Once I got back to NC this morning, I could not renew my lease on my rental car since I did not have my license (still at work), so was forced to empty out the contents of my car and drag it with me to work via taxi. This means that I was seen trekking across the corporate breezeway with a 12-pack of Charmin toilet paper.
5. On my way out of the office, I run into the partner of the project while dragging my jumbo-pack of toilet paper behind me.
6. Tomorrow, my senior manager (Watery Eyes) requested a talk with me. I have a feeling it has to do with my resignation and Big Dawg. I'm nervous.

2003-08-10T11:46:00.000-04:00

One Year Reunion.

My start group and I got together on Friday evening for dinner and drinking to celebrate our one-year anniversary with the firm. We were 18 strong, but already, 4 of us had quit or given notice, with 2 more planning on giving notice within the next 3 months. Mr. Potato Head (Lux's perpetual crush that defies all logic) left for construction management and Mr. Manikin had left one month after starting but joined us for our dinner. I was leaving to try my hand at medical school, and my favorite start-group boy - Curls, coincidentally was leaving on the same day as I was and had given notice on Friday just as I did. He was taking off to Southern California for kicks, hoping to find a job temporarily while he tries to get into sports media. When I heard, I felt a slight pang of jealousy. Good grief, I am SO BORING. Curls is leaving to do all these exciting new and different things, and I'm leaving to do this uber-responsible thing. How much more boring and predictable can you get than medical school in Boston? Because of course, anything that would be approved by parents can't be anything good. Wouldn't it be so much cooler if I was leaving to go write for Stuff magazine or join a nudist camp? Or if I was leaving New York for Seattle or San Francisco?

Last night, I went shopping in New York for the last time. Last night, I swiped my metrocard for potentially - the last time. I'm really into Last Time's. My dad used to make fun of me when I was younger. Everything was a Last Time.

"Dad, this is the LAST TIME I'm asking you for homework help as a non-teenager!"
"Dad, this is the LAST TIME I'm going to the dentist here. I'll have a different one in college!"
"Dad, this is the LAST TIME we'll have Christmas as a REAL family. From now on, I'll just be visiting home for the holidays!"

Not much has changed. I still think in terms of nostalgia, and whereas I'm quick to initiate change, once the fruits of my labor start to come around, I always begin to cling needily and semi-regretfully to my usual routines. What is this resistance to change that all mankind has? This inertia to move? Perhaps it's fear of the unknown, and nothing represents the unknown like change. True, it could be a change for the better, but it could also be a change for the worst. And if the status quo is quite alright, why bother? After all, if you stay where you are, you may not ever get better - but you'll also have the guarantee of it not getting worse. This is comfortable - what I know now. I know that I love New York. I know that I have a lot of friends here. I know that I can live here and be happy. I have no such promises about Boston. I'm already beginning to think pessimistically. I'm predicting that the first few weeks will be miserable. I won't know the city, I won't know anyone, and I'll have nothing to do. Boston isn't going to be like New York. There will be no Zara or Club Monaco! There will be no talented homeless people, there will be no people wearing crazy things with nary a glance thrown at them. There will be no Union Square, no Central Park, no cur.ve to hang out with, no Lux, no Dot, no BABAE J., no Alien to humiliate myself continually with. All I will have is my younger brother, who's in school at Cambridge. And we all know how thrilled -he- was when he heard I was coming to Boston to stay with him for a few days while I looked for housing.

"You'll ruin my game. Man, I was just starting to get on a roll."

Great. When they find my body floating in the Charles River, I hope he feels SICK WITH GUILT. I feel sick just by thinking of leaving the New York area. I hold Columbia University completely responsible for my misery. It is due to their lack of diversty in graduate programs that I was forced to look in other cities for a Master's program that would fit my needs. What is it about this city that calls to so many people? It's dirtiness, its griminess, its "freaks" and homeless people. What is it about this city that induces such fierce love for it? Its racial issues, its sometimes-corrupt-government, its ancient subway system that wreaks havoc on the eardrums. What is it about this city that makes so many people reluctant to leave it? Its overpriced closet-sized rooms, its rude bouncers at bars, its crazy traffic patterns. What is it? I don't know. But I wish I did. I wish I could bottle up whatever it is, shrink it down, and put it in my pocket - have a mini New York essence to bring with me wherever I go.

2003-08-08T09:38:00.000-04:00

The Edge.

I told my HR rep I was planning on giving notice today. She checked the calendar. "I guess this means you don't have to give any of the bonus back. You're quitting on the first day after your one year anniversary. I can't believe it." She laughed at me. Everything went well with her. She understands. Now however, comes the hard part. I'm trying to write my resignation letter. How does one write those things? I started with:

S and G.
I am writing to inform you of my intent to leave the firm on August 22nd, 2003.
Regards,
N.

Bland and boring.

or:
S and G.
Although I have highly enjoyed my time here, I regret to inform you that I will be leaving the firm on August 22nd, 2003.
Regards,
N.

Could be construed as sarcasm.

Or:
S and G.
I quit. Here are the reasons why:
1) I am disappointed in the lack of leadership shown by project management.
2) I am appalled at the lack of support given to analysts in high visibility situations.
3) The firm promotes work-life balance but then does nothing to support it. Considering that travelers have a hard time maintaining work-life balance because of the situations created by the firm,it should be the firm's responsibility to help enforce work-life balance, not mine.

Ergh. too wordy. Too disgruntled.

How about:
S and G.
I quit.
Later suckas!
N.

Brief. To the point. Honest. Why don't I burn all the bridges I can before I leave?

Despite all this fantasizing about all the ways I can write my resignation letter, I know I'll end up with the bland and boring one. I can't even start to imagine the uproar that I'll land in when I go to work on Monday. Not looking forward to it.

My finger keeps hovering over the send button. Everytime my mouse cursor goes over it, I get this weird feeling like my life is going to change. I can feel it in my body. It's like one of those movie moments where the music gets all intense, you're suddenly super-aware of your surroundings, what you're wearing, the room you're in, the way it smells, and the camera zooms in on your face.

Here goes. Here goes...

2003-08-07T12:00:00.000-04:00

Today marks my one-year anniversary with the firm. Tomorrow, I will be giving notice.

2003-08-04T19:06:00.000-04:00

Last week, on the Booze Cruise...

[Nine spends the whole night on the lap of Distended Nostril with his arm around her waist. Yes, Distended Nostril from August '02 training. I was dying for him to kiss me, not necessarily because he'd suddenly become uber-attractive or that I'd ceased to notice his uneven nostrils (in fact, I noticed them all the more while inebriated), but just because I wanted to feel like a -girl- again. Not some business woman. I hadn't felt pretty in such a long time. Four hours later, I wasn't very much further. We were about 8 or 9 drinks further along and both completely wasted, but not much else had moved. I wanted to grab his ears and shake some drunken sense into him. YOU HAVE A DRUNKEN GIRL IN YOUR LAP. TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HER.]

Nine: "What do you want from me, Distended Nostril?"
Nostril: "I don't know..."
Nine: "Did you know I had a crush on you during training?" [okay, -slight- stretch of the truth]
Nostril: "I had a crush on -you- during training. I'm still really attracted to you, but see... I have this girlfriend. And although she's driving me nuts right now, I don't want to mess things up with her."
Nine: "That's reasonable. .... You know, I always wondered what it'd be like to kiss you. I guess we'll never know now huh?"
Nostril: "..."
Nine: "Alright. I'll see you later dude!"

And with that, I hopped off his lap and stumbled into the night. Oh, liquid courage....

Today, my entire team was moved to a different building. We now are lucky enough to shuttle back and forth between buildings 0.5 miles away for meetings and such! And, I was horrified to see Distended Nostril's name right along my row. He sits right near my new cubicle spot. I felt the need to hide from him all day because of the gigundo zit I've developed over my left eye. Strangely enough, it must be emitting pheromones of some sort as I swear that more guys have smiled at me today than any other day. I wasn't -quite- convinced, but I like to believe it. I'm a sex goddess even -with- a zit. It was with this mentality that I squashed down the shyness, squared my shoulders, and breezed by his cube, uttering a cheery hello and giving him my most dazzling smile before sailing off importantly down the aisle. He was left gaping in my wake. At my wondrous beauty and how important I looked, of course, with my arms full of papers - online coupons printed off the printer, but he doesn't have to know that. Drive-by smiling. May seem like nothing, but my heart was pounding as I strode away - I did it! I did it! I said hi!

Tonight, I will tend carefully to my humongo zit and dress spectacularly, but casually - as if I wasn't trying. So that I can breeze by his cube again and look wonderful. Oh, life is so much more exciting when you have a boy to make a fuss over - even if he does have uneven nostrils and a girlfriend. In fact, it's only fun when they -do- have a girlfriend since it's risk-free. Sometimes I wonder if I create my own excitement out of boredom. Sometimes I wonder if I just like the fuss more than I like the boy. After all, I giggled to myself in my cube and hugged myself with glee all afternoon as a result. What gallant courage I have! Progress is being made! Sometimes I wonder whether people would laugh at what I consider 'flirting' and tell me that it's nothing, but I'm not sure I care. Life on the edge is relative! I'm going shoe-shopping today!!!

2003-07-31T19:52:00.000-04:00

Way to go out with a bang!

I found out yesterday that:
1) I got into both schools that I applied to and I have to decide by tomorrow which one I want to go to.
2) I'm being recommended for early promotion.

It would happen that way, wouldn't it.

On top of all the mental churn going on in my head, the entire week so far has been bad. I had the worst day at work today - although I held up surprisingly well. I even managed to be a real bitch at a couple different points in the day. But as I headed out, I ran into my consultant. She said hi and ran over to give me a hug. She was being so nice (and no one had been nice to me all day) that I started to crack. As I was tearing up a little, the partner on my project suddenly shows up, right in time to catch me bawling. Perfect. We all sat down to "discuss" this matter and I had to recount my day. Now that was a mistake. Not only did it make me more upset to have to talk about it, but recounting your bad day always makes you feel like such a wimp because everything you say that seemed so terrible at the time suddenly seems so stupid. What I should've done was tell the partner that it was personal and kept walking. Analysts, however, are so pre-programmed to do whatever the partner says that I automatically began spouting. Not so smart.

He proposed a couple of solutions for me, consultant-style, none of which particularly helped. I hate it when people state the obvious to me. Does he really think I haven't already thought of that and tried it? Eventually, I just stopped objecting. Even partners boil down to being regular guys when it comes down to things. He kept looking at his fingernails everytime I teared up a little more, so I tried very hard to squash things out of consideration for him. And, like all regular guys, he kept trying to fix it for me. Offered to talk to this person or that person, and really - nothing he could do would've fixed it. In fact, all the things he suggested would've made things worse. Eventually, I realized that he wasn't going to let things go until he had a solution that he felt would work. So I just nodded and stopped talking. Why is it that guys always have to fix things? I wasn't upset due to a lack of solution. I was simply... upset.

This would happen to me, wouldn't it. I have minimal interaction with the partner on the firm, and he has to catch me crying. Way to make first impressions! When I give notice next week that I'm quitting, I know what they're going to think. "Yeah. She just couldn't hack it. She's not tough enough to handle this." It shouldn't bother me what my ex-coworkers will think, but it does. I don't want to leave as the loser. I want them to think "Man, I can't believe we're losing such a good analyst. Let's beg her to reconsider", to which I will respond "HELLLLLLLLL NO!!!"

It really irks me that I still cry due to being angry and frustrated. When I was little, I used to get so mad at my brother that I'd cry and yell at him at the same time. Obviously, I haven't progressed much since the age of 6. It was pure immaturity back then. It's PMS now. It irks me even more that it takes someone being nice to draw it out of me. People should be mean to me all the time when I'm having a bad day. I hate especially crying at work because I can't think of anything more stereotypically female.

Hormones are a bitch.

2003-07-28T22:45:00.000-04:00

Goodnight sweetheart, it's time to go.

So it's over. My last weekend in New York with a mailing address. I moved out of my year in the city to the tune of $365 dollars and the foreman mover's digits (very Vin Diesel). How typical New York. I spent Saturday and Sunday night camping out in the floor of my empty room with only cyberspace and a brand new sleeping bag to comfort me. I was so excited about the sleeping bag when I first bought it that I crawled into it right when I got home and zippered up. I even pulled tight the bungee cord around the mummy hood and shuffled and hopped my way across the living room to show my roommate. I love sleeping bags. They make me happy =).

But even the sleeping bag wasn't enough to break the surrealness of the last few nights - the echoey barrenness of a room that used to be filled with things I loved, the darkness lit only by the occasional flashes of lightning outside and the glow of my laptop, the air conditioner humming noisily, and me - encased in my bright blue sleeping bag, propped on my elbows, face lit by the light of of the laptop screen, wondering what tomorrow is going to bring and yet knowing that it can only be the same as always - a flight to NC and the beginning of another work week.

This morning, I packed up the remains of my worldly possessions, took one last look around the room that held a year of my life, and left. The door slammed behind me, and although I could not hear it, I knew the sound would echo through the emptiness. I'm somehow leaving it exactly as it was when I came. Apartments and dormrooms have that feeling about them - that of transience, that of hardly restrained disbelief that so much change occurred in this room, and yet no mark is left behind of all the wonderful and terrible things that happened. It is but a silent bystander, a stoic unaffected witness to the trials and tribulations of the human lives lived within it. If rooms could talk, I bet they'd hold more widsom than the oldest sage.

I'm going to miss this place - with its half-packed boxes in the dim early morning light. Goodbye apartment. I loved you the 2 days a week I saw you.

2003-07-27T09:24:00.000-04:00

I wonder if this is what homeless people feel like.

Part of me mocks myself even as I compare myself to New York's homeless. I have the homeless person's equivalent to a shopping cart in the form of my two duffel bags. But it's downright pathetic that I'm even comparing myself to the real homeless considering that I am spending a few weekends without my usual things but WITH a roof over my head, running water, a bed, and good friends. Despite this, it's bizarre the effect the rest of it has on your psyche. I can't help but wonder if the depression rates that exist within the homeless population can somehow be traced back to this lack or of material things to create even a makeshift home with. They are forever unwelcome guests in the outdoors living room of New York city, sleeping on couches of sidewalks.

I slept last night on the couch and woke up 4 hours later, wide awake. I washed up in the bathroom and looked at myself. I could feel it - the unmistakable feeling of sinking spirits and I couldn't understand why. I have places to crash for the next few weekends, but a few minutes later, I realized it was the lack of a root. Human beings are like plants. All the leaves in the world don't have any meaning if you have no root or dirt to call home. Somewhere to return to. Sleeping on the couch made me feel like a guest in my own apartment. And somewhere along the way, I had underestimated the value of material objects - these things that so easily decay and are lost. Without these material objects is when someone is homeless. I miss my books. The blanket my mom made me. The picture of my parents ballroom-dancing. The snapshot of my little brother leaning in to give me a smooch as I try to drink an oversized can of coke. I love that photo, especially as my little brother wouldn't be caught dead giving me a hug now - much less a smooch. I walked back through my empty bedroom on my way out of the bathroom, kicked around the dust and listened to my footsteps echo.

There's a feeling of being lost even as I tell myself sternly that I'm being silly - this is good for you, Nine, it will build character and toughen you up. There is absolutely no reason to indulge this urge of leaking a few tears - after all, it's not like my stuff isn't going to be there waiting for me in storage, one month from now.

2003-07-26T20:09:00.000-04:00

Empty rooms.

I am spending my last Saturday night with a home sitting in that home, with National Geographic Ultimate Explorer: Jumbo Squid, banana creme pie, and a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. I'm surrounded by boxes and our living room is cluttered, but none of these boxes are mine.

I moved earlier this afternoon with the help of Joshua Moving, whose 25 year old foreman left his number on my receipt. It was odd having someone pack for me. It felt like my innards were being rifled through as they placed the components of my life into boxes. It almost felt violating. As they put my clothes in, and my photographs, and my books, it occurred to me that no one had ever touched these items really, except me. After all, these items were as representative of my personality as meeting me in person would be. If anything, these items were more indicative of my private life than meeting me would hint at as these are the things I like to do when I'm alone and no one is watching, these are the things I pick out to surround my home with, these are the things that are important to me. How many of my friends can really tell me what my hobbies are, what I do when I'm alone in my room, or who I have in my photographs? What I've kept for sentimental value and what I haven't? It was odd to realize that these movers had a somewhat passing, but more deeply penetrating look into my person than my friends had.

My life boiled down to eight unmarked boxes. I looked at those boxes and realized that my worldly possessions were in there and I was the only person who really valued these. Not even my dad could guess at what was in there, what I had held close to my heart and what I hadn't. My twenty years of existence, packaged into overpriced flimsy cardboard boxes. And all of a sudden I felt vulnerable. I realized how inconsequential I was, how fleeting my life is, how lightly I've skated over my time in the world. If I was to disappear tomorrow, these 8 boxes would be all that was left of my existence on earth. These 8 boxes would be all that would mark my presence, all that I would leave behind. And suddenly, these 8 boxes seemed trivial and cheap and simultaneously immensely important.

2003-07-25T11:05:00.000-04:00

The State of America.

"You can't buy a baby in the United States," said Caplan. "... But you can buy the sperm, you can buy the egg and you can rent the uterus." -article

Terra Lycos said Thursday that the Bryant case is one of the most popular online search topics in its history. Only the September 11 attacks, the Iraq war and the 2000 presidential election have drawn more interest, the Internet network said. -article

"A late-night brawl last autumn between the three off-duty police officers and two citizens over a bag of fajitas led to a grand jury indictment of the officers, as well as of the police chief and top officials in his department on cover-up charges. District Attorney Terence Hallinan eventually dropped the charges against the top brass, and did the same Wednesday against the three officers, including Alex Fagan Jr., whose father is acting chief of the department." -article

"Prosecutors said the nuns, all closely aligned with the late peace activist Philip Berrigan, showed a blatant disregard for the law and that previous arrests had not deterred them. The nuns claim the Minuteman is a first-strike weapon prohibited by international law. A demonstration was planned Saturday at missile sites in Colorado, said Cynda Collins-Arsenault, a community organizer and member of Code Pink, a national women's organization that is active in the peace movement. 'Bush has said weapons of mass destruction are horrible and I agree,' she said. 'We haven't found any in Iraq, but we sure have lot of them here.'" -article

2003-07-24T23:09:00.000-04:00

There's no one like you.

There are days when I don't know what I would do without music to help me get through it. Today was one of those days. I thanked my lucky stars that the woman I was dealing with was down in St. Petersburg, FL, because otherwise, I would've ripped her head off. As it was, I feared merely for those around me as I gnashed my teeth and tried very hard to be patient. She'd broken the data importer and I turned to my client lead to help me fix it. That led directly to a string of jokes that quite frankly, I wasn't in the mood for.

Him: "Nine! You broke the data importer!"
Me: "No I didn't."
Him: "Yes you did. This is all your fault!"
[heard from the next cube over: Mngr. Big Dawg]: "Nine, did you break the data importer?"
Me: Yes. Fire me.

I was serious. They laughed. I think Big Dawg knew though. He made a comment the other day at our morning meeting: "And Nine has been with the firm long enough to be jaded." It makes me worry about how clear my thoughts are to everyone. I've always had a hard time faking it. It's hard to be enthusiastic about something I don't believe in, but I like to think that I can at least hide my unhappiness if I can't express the RAH RAH! attitude. If I get into post-bacc programs, I will be giving notice in a week or two. I wonder how surprised people will be and how many saw it coming. I wonder how perceptive people have been or how poorly I've been able to hide my steadily decreasing opinion of the firm. I wonder how Big Dawg is going to take it. I'm willing to bet that he'll try and make me stay.

I talked to my HR rep the other week about how damaging it would be to my career if I asked to get rolled off this project in case I don't get into post-bacc programs. She spoke to Big Dawg and relayed back that it would be a serious "career limiting move" - aka a CLM. Despite Big Dawg's general torment of me, he seems to be awfully unwilling to replace me. It makes me want to laugh. There are hundreds of analysts out there, don't give me that crap about how I'm irreplaceable. The firm has this rule that no more than one partner can be on a flight at a time - in case the flight crashes. Meanwhile, about 20 other analysts and I are on the same flight weekly from New York to North Carolina. How's that for irreplaceable?

2003-07-22T08:21:00.000-04:00

All in the Family.

Cousin Influx.

I never knew. Sometimes I wonder if the harsh constraints of math/science are what drive members of my family to spontaneous bursts of neo-creativity, like a pressure cooker that finally has to let off steam.

2003-07-21T20:31:00.000-04:00

I'm going to miss my apartment. I realized today that though I only spend 2 days per week in it, I've grown to like this place. And last night was the next-to-last night I would ever sleep in it. Next saturday, I move out completely and start being a nomadic bum, sleeping on friend's couches for the weekends. I bought a salad at Hadleigh's yesterday for lunch, as I always do, and I felt a pang of nostalgia - even though I hadn't really left yet. I walked to the park and ate and felt another pang of nostalgia, even though I haven't really left yet. Within the next few weeks, I'll find out whether I'm leaving New York or not. Odds are, I'll be leaving. Every moment I spend in the city makes me hurt because I'm going to miss it so much. Every moment I spend in the city makes me bitter because my damn firm cheated me of living here. Every moment I spend in the city makes me resentful that life is so fucking inconvenient. That nothing -ever- works out the way I want it to. Why can't there be premed post-bacc programs in New York? Why does Columbia have to be so elitist? Why does NYU not have any advanced science courses offered in their evening classes?

2003-07-20T21:37:00.000-04:00

I've decided.

No more of this wishy washy-ness. I'm applying to post-bacc programs for this fall so that I can improve my chances for getting into medical school. Yes, you heard right. Medical school. What is this, a new flavor of the week? I thought so too. Until I realized that I didn't have to make a "Why I Should Go to [fill in the blank] School" list to convince myself of what a good idea it was. Until I realized that I woke up everyday thinking about it and wondering how the hell I'm going to get there from here. Until I realized that more than anything else, this felt... right.

I worried vaguely about getting married. Med school girls have a tough time I heard. But then I thought, I don't have a boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. And I can't keep on making life-choices based on someone who doesn't even exist. And with that, I made up my mind.

My timing could not have been any more terrible. Most of the deadlines for post-bacc programs have passed. I also found (surprise surprise!) that I've been banned from the majority of the most prestigious premed programs. Why? Because I was lucky enough to be premed as an undergrad. The best premed programs in the country are reserved for liberal arts majors who've never taken a premed course ever. My question is, who's going to help the premed dropouts? I feel like the Little Match Girl who's standing outside in the cold looking in at the roaring fire. I'm not allowed in because hey! I have matches. Never mind that they're all wet and soggy. I tried to explain my situation to the woman at Columbia's Pre-Med program today.

"Yes, I've already done all the premed requirements. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I've done them -well-."

She wouldn't listen.

I've been banned from COlumbia effectively as I cannot get past the secretary anymore. In my righteousness, I wrote an email to the directory, explaining my situation, again. What's the recourse for the premed dropout? How is our ambition to go to med school any cheaper or less genuine than that of the liberal arts student? What are we to do? I don't want to actually -be- in the program if I can't be in it, but if I'm willing to pay for the credits, can I take some of the advanced science courses that are offered as an outside student?

The response:
Columbia's program is not a remedial program.

I'm remedial!!!!!

There are a few programs that I found for the pre-med failure. UPenn in Philadelphia, CUNY in New York, and Boston U. Oh the dilemma. I love New York. I love it to bits. But it hardly seems smart to jeopardize the chances of my future admission chances for the sake of having a social life. And let's face it, CUNY doesn't quite pack the same punch as UPenn. UPenn means I'd have to live at home again. UPenn means I'd give up New York for Philadelphia. UPenn means 5 essays due by this Friday. Good God.

Writing is literally like squeezing a poo out of your butt. I managed to squeeze out the sole good one today. The two from previous days are not so hot. I guess I'm getting better with practice. STRAIN NINE, STRAIN!! Luckily for me, the one good essay is the one explaining my grades. The other two are complete shit. I re-read them and I want to bang my head against the wall. What is this crap that is spewing from my mouth? The ideas aren't clear, the sentences don't flow, and the weave is all wrong. It's so far from what's right, there are so many things that are wrong with them that I can't even see clearly what needs to be fixed.

One of the questions I have remaining to answer is: what do you do in your free time?

What am I supposed to write for that? I drink? I party? I kiss random boys in bars sometimes if I'm bored? Or, perhaps more accurately, I should answer, "I do not have free time as I am always traveling for my fucking firm." No bitterness here, really. I'm tempted to answer with a simple bullet point list.

1. I read science fiction and fantasy.
2. I write neurotically about my life.
3. I compose 5 essays about my career path to medicine for fun.

I hate writing essays. I've never been very good at them, thus explaining my consistently terrible grades in English classes. I'm forced to write in complete sentences and avoid the passive voice. It makes my writing all warped and twisted and gross. I hate it. Besides, I can never write a good "Why do you want to attend this program/school/college" essay. Those especially always come out warped and twisted. Largely because I can't help but feel like a huge cliche no matter what I write for that topic. Humanitarian blah blah, and community service blah blah, and science research blah blah.

Blah blah.

2003-07-20T12:49:00.000-04:00

Maybe this is why guys and girls don't understand each other. We speak entirely different languages.

Last New Year's when both Alien and Nine are wasted.
"I don't think this is a good idea Nine. I'm really wasted, and you're really wasted, and I take these things pretty seriously. I don't think we should do this."
I must be the only drunk girl on the face of this planet who has to practically lay out a court case as to -why- a drunk guy should kiss me. It's a New Year's Kiss!!!

Heard from Alien yesterday during moving:
"Wow. I can't believe we've known each other what... 5 years now?"
"I think you're cuter now than you were in college."
"I really prefer tall girls."
Promising...
"I like tall girls because I want my son to be taller than me. I can't have him be short."
Wait a second, what is this, a breeding program?
"I think I understand girls. You have to keep them guessing."
Good God, he could not be more wrong.

Heard from Alien last night while he was wasted:
"Let's toast Nine. To the girls who everyone thinks I'm dating but I'm not."
Way to scream platonic.
"What do you think of that guy who was hitting on you? Do you want me to kick his ass? Would you hook up with him?"
"You're the perfect height for me."
Wow. I'm scoring without even having to try.
"So... I've been regularly hooking up with your friend W. For some reason, I hook up with her a lot when I'm drunk."
... WONDERFUL. W. gets kisses but I get lectures on the inappropriateness of casual kissing.

He then proceeded to walk me back to my place and spend the night puking in my bathroom. I give up. I refuse to play this stupid game any longer.

2003-07-19T21:44:00.000-04:00

The unexpected is usually crushing, but sometimes, just sometimes - it lifts you up.

Alien and I have quite a history. He had a terrible crush on me during sophomore year of college, and I promptly crushed his heart terribly and somewhat inadvertently. At the tender respective ages of 19 and 17, he was the not-so-smooth boy who tried to pet the cat with a sledgehammer, and I was the skittish cat who went ROWR! in response. In hindsight, if he'd played his cards right and waited a little longer, things may have worked out between us. But as it was, he didn't speak to me for the rest of either of our college careers and I carried the burden of guilt.

Things between us haven't ever quite been the same since. Polite, but distant.

This week, I'm moving. Partially, at least. I'd been stressed out all week between making life-changing choices and trying to get my lease straightened out. I packed up the stuff I wouldn't need and called up rental car agencies to drive my stuff to storage. Would you believe that there was no car available in all of Manhattan? I instant messaged Alien to tell him I wouldn't be able to meet up for coffee anymore since I had to move and I couldn't find a car. He sounded surprised. "I have a car, Nine." I sat there stunned. And then he asked if I needed help moving. I couldn't believe it. I'd been begging co-worker and male friends all week to help me move, and couldn't find anyone. And in one fell swoop, suddenly I had a car AND a boy to help me move. And of all people, I would've never guessed him. I hadn't even bothered to ask Alien because I thought I knew what his answer would be. We spent the afternoon moving and shopping in North Jersey. On the way home, I thought - wow, life -is- good. You never know which people are going to pop up as the ones to help you out in times of need. And suddenly, I was intensely grateful to him for doing what he did, considering I broke his heart to smithereens when we were young.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek when he dropped me off. I wish I didn't do that. I can't ever seem to be one of those girls who airily kisses someone on the cheek and comes off as casual and chic. No, mine are always awkward and bumbling. Mental note: don't do it ever again.

The generosity of those you've wronged sometimes comes back and stuns you.

2003-07-18T20:25:00.000-04:00

Bits of you found everywhere, in doodles and dawdles of smudged pencil.

The voice inside me has stilled. I am no longer a human being, but merely a chemical reaction, a bundle of nerves and carbon based molecules. I react to stimuli like bacteria. I will cry in response to pain like an animal. I go through my every day like a robot, and I'm strangely not unhappy, but yet not happy either. I operate in a cloud of nothingness - no more bitterness or struggling or angst. To the outside eye, there is no difference - the girl still laughs, still jokes, still calls her friends, still does her work. But It's like my brain has been unplugged, and all that is me has escaped out the hole in my pocket, leaving only an empty shell on autopilot, whirring and clicking - unaware of its suddenly missing inhabitant.
[from margin of training manual]

2003-07-15T23:45:00.000-04:00

I HATE THE DRY CLEANERS. Not only was I completely overcharged (10 bucks per pair of pants!) but it took them two weeks to get my pants hemmed! TWO WEEKS!!!! I just tried them on after I brought them back, AND THEY'RE ALL WRONG. I didn't even have to put my shoes on for them to be too short already!! And considering that they told Sugar to go to small claims court when they ruined her shirt, I know they'll charge me again if I ask them to fix it. AND they'll probably take another two weeks!! By the time I eventually get these right, I might as well have bought another pair of pants!!!!! I am ABSOLUTELY LIVID!! Why can't people do their job right?!! I've been waiting FOREVER to wear these pants!! They were brand new!!!! And now by the time they're finally right, it will be ruined, UTTERLY RUINED! I will forever associate annoyance with them now!!! THE JOY OF WEARING MY NEW SUPER-CUTE PANTS HAS BEEN TAKEN AWAY FROM ME.

And no I'm not shallow. Not at all. How the hell am I supposed to get to sleep in this state of mind?

2003-07-15T22:55:00.000-04:00

Mars.

This made me laugh all night.

2003-07-13T08:36:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I give myself the creeps. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me.

I took a nap yesterday at 4 pm in my living room, and woke up to daylight this morning in my bedroom at 7 am! 15 hours straight! I've lost practically an entire day!

Besides that, how did I end up in my bedroom? Why did I wake up in my pajamas instead of my street clothes? How come my earrings were taken out as if I was perfectly conscious when I went to my bedroom? I'm convinced there was a spell cast over my living on that sleepy sunny afternoon yesterday. There can be no other explanation!

2003-07-11T14:37:00.000-04:00

I am a master at the closed-mouth yawn.

What is this vile brown liquid I keep pumping into my body? This bitter liquid that coasts smoothly down my throat, leaving behind a sour aftertaste in my mouth. How is it that I pay a premium in order to have the privilege to sip on this at a meeting. How did such a thing become a symbol of the civilized creature? Of the mature adult? Of the tired lackey?

My cup of iced coffee sits on the conference table, sweating, leaving a ring of wet. A ring of my glistening boredom. A ring of my vague discontent. I sip calmly on my coffee and study my fingernails. Everytime I look up, Boobs' chair is a few inches closer to Rabbits. It perks my interest, if only to relieve the long drone. I sip calmly on the the bitterness, a reflection of my bitterness at my job and my bitterness at girls with big boobs. I am a reflection of the perfectly poised business analyst, sitting upright on my chair like there's a pole up my backside, taking my neat notes in my fashionable notebook, with the perfectly appropriate professional (slightly bored) look on my face that hides the resentful stagnation underneath the surface.

My lunches with Brin and Pint are straight from Office Space. We gather, the very picture of the well-dressed multi-ethnic group that belongs in the brochures, and then proceed to bash and complain about our jobs. We think of ways to escape. I can tell Brin's getting to the edge. He's started coming up with some wild ideas. "Hey nine, do you think I could get a job at the FBI?"

Boobs forgot her printouts. Again. They're sharing, her and Rabbit. Again. She's wearing one of those currently fashionable low-cut tunics, as am I. But we couldn't look more different. She's leaning in, Cleavage Galore. I look down secretly at myself. No cleavage here. Just Padded Bra.

Wait... Cleavage Galore just got the heel of her shoe caught in the plug and disconnected the conference call that Rabbit is leading. Cleavage Galore fumbles, Padded Bra pulls ahead, the score is even!!!!!

And -that- is the highlight of my day.

2003-07-09T22:21:00.000-04:00

Top Five.

Pint: "So yeah. We made a Top 5 list of the hottest female analysts on our project."
Nine: "Really? Who's on it?"
"Jessica. Vonnie. Lauren. Laura. Amy."
"How come Sugar and I aren't on this Top 5 List?"
"Because. We respect you guys."

2003-07-07T20:13:00.000-04:00

Monday, Mondays.

You know it's a bad day when you eat the salami sandwich you made for lunch, for breakfast instead. And then after you've finished that, you head to the snack machine for chocolate at 9 am.

Somewhere between the salami and the chocolate, I decided that I'm ready for a relationship and that I'm sick of struggling against my job. I'm resigning from struggling.

A lot of this was largely based on the Sex and the City premiere a few weeks ago. It left me with strange wistful feelings that lingered. Either the episode was sending out subliminal messages, or the abysmal dating scene in New York is finally getting to me. I'm opting for the subliminal message. My friend Dot got the same relationship pangs on Sunday night. And what are the chances that both of us are tamed in one evening?

What is the purpose of a relationship anyways? When you were younger, it served a dual purpose. To provide some company during those lonely insecure teen years, and to provide an outlet for those raging hormones. But as you get older, what truly is the purpose of a relationship? How many of us settle for less for the sake of having companionship through our lonely quarter-life crises or for the sake of getting out of this dating hell-hole called New York? How many of us settle for less for the sake of settling down? Becuase we're approaching 30 and we feel like we "should" be married so we tie the knot with whoever we happen to be dating at the time?

Can you even trust yourself? I look around sometimes at all the semi-dysfunctional relationships my friends are partaking in. There's Dot, who's been in love for years with a guy who will never be a man. Who the hell makes up an accident with a semi truck in order to gain space? Whatever happened to the usual "I need some time off"? Lux, who's indulging in her singlehood and dating a variety of sub-par guys. BABAE J. who's been pseudo-dating this guy from across the country for months, but still won't admit that he's her boyfriend. And H2, who's been searching for that perfect BAM! - love at first sight - for years and has yet to find it. Are we just doomed to forever be dysfunctionally single or twistedly in a relationship? Is this just a symptom of being in our young 20's? A twisted romance to match our twisted lives? If I can't even figure out what I want to do with my own life, how am I supposed to know what I want in a guy?

My dad says "Sometimes it's not a grocery list. Sometimes it's nothing more than a hunch, a feeling, that with this person, you can be lost but find the way together. Having a companion on the path is always good, however temporarily. At worst, you learn from them."

Right... I learned a whole lot from the -last- time I shared my path. The past came to revisit me this weekend at 1 AM on Saturday night in the guise of a phone call from my ex. He was in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and "chat". Suuuure. Funny how quickly subliminal messages from tv shows about how wonderful relationships are can be wiped out by reality.

I wonder why it is that career satisfaction is never explored in Sex and the City. The focus of the show is on relationships. Besides the obvious tabloid appeal of peering into people's relationships (after all, what voyeuristic pleasure is there in peering into people's careers?), why is it that Miranda never complains about her job and Samantha never talks about the politics involved in PR? They don't even -pretend- to like their jobs. Their jobs aren't even mentioned. It's like the job is a footnote to the person and his/her daily life. I've decided to take a page from Sex and the City. From now on, my job is going to be a footnote to my life.

2003-07-04T20:23:00.000-04:00

Music.

I used to listen to music while coasting down the freeway. It gave me a sense of freedom. The open road before me. Power humming beneath my hands. Being in a car is wonderful. It gives you a sense of not being so small, of being just as equal, of being strong. And the music. The music was the best part of all. I didn't always have a good knowledge of which song belonged to which band, or what genre certain artists fell into, but I knew which music I liked and that was enough. What spoke to me about music was the words. I've never liked poetry before, but when set to music, it comes to life and flows around you in a way that the printed word can't quite do. I'd sing along with all my heart because I -meant- those words as they came out of my lungs off-key. They spoke to me. They put what I was feeling into succinct words. I was always guilty of that - of using too many words to express what I'm trying to say. And certain phrases always stuck in my mind. I'd think "Wow. I could've never put it so well." Simple pages on my mind. You're a song, written by the hands of God. The way you want to wrap me up inside your smile. Always felt I was outside, looking in on you. Finding my way back to sanity again. With the birds I'll share this lonely view. And other songs always spoke to me in their entirety. Regardless of what the song was -really- meant to be about, something about it spoke to me and endeared themselves to my heart forever. Verve - The Freshman. Kansas - Dust in the Wind. Matchbox20 - Unwell. Incubus - Drive. Hoobastank - Crawling in the Dark. RHCP - Under the Bridge.

It's been a long time since I've really found a song that spoke to me. I continue to buy CD's and download music in the hopes that I will eventually find again that band that somehow summarizes the entirety of my current life in 3 minutes or less. I'm finding a lot of bands whose sound I like, but sound, like fashion trends, die off in my memory. It's the words that capture me and hold me. What's happened to music that the very soul of it has degraded to simple lyrics repeated over and over again?

2003-07-02T22:52:00.000-04:00

Nice Guy. Interesting meeting.

He leads the workgroup meetings. He's an analyst. He's not very tall, or very striking, or very spectacular in any way. He picks his eyebrow when he's frustrated, puts one hand on his head when he's thinking hard, and tucks his pen behind his ear when he needs to talk with his hands. He was wearing blue today, which matched the blue of his eyes. His name is Rabbit, and he's ordinary. But I think I like him. I'm attracted to his patience when dealing with belligerent team members, to his dry sense of humor during the conference calls. He's your classic Nice Guy. The new girl beside him writes him notes, and I'm vaguely irritated. This is a -meeting-. Let's be professional here. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here wondering what he's like in bed. Obviously, I'm not a very nice girl.

I check his left hand. No ring. That means he's open game, but I can tell the New Girl has her eye on him. Since when did nice guys start finishing first? Either we women are becoming more mature and more intelligent, or we've fallen onto desperate times down here in NC. New Girl and I are the only two girls in the meeting room. She's an analyst, like me. She's from New York, like me. I'm taller, but she has bigger boobs. We all know who has the real advantage here. Boobs.

For a second, I'm struck by how bizarre this entire scene is. Eleven business people in a conference room, all under the age of 30, and all in charge of a substantial portion of what seems to be a gazillion dollar project. What kind of idiot assigns this to a bunch of kids like us?

I eye Boobs again and catch her eyeing me. She smirks a bit. Wonderful. One of those girls. She forgot her printouts so leans over to share his with him. Her breast is obviously pressing against his arm. Good grief, can he not notice? I can feel one eyebrow inadvertently start to rise but I force it back down. I calmly take notes in my notebook as if I didn't notice. I look up again and catch her giggling at him. I can feel my eyes narrowing.

The meeting ends. And as she breezes by me without even a hello despite the fake sunny smile I'd pasted onto my face - I recognize it for what it is and can feel my hackles rising. It's the same feeling I get before standardized exams. That of tense readiness. That of running a finger along my newly sharpened competitive edge. And on some level, I'm relieved. Maybe this will break up the monotony of NC.

2003-06-29T19:55:00.000-04:00

The Sound of Silence.

I like the sound of sleep. My roommate's mother is visiting, and she's obviously suffering from some serious jet lag. I came home today to her sleeping on the couch. And the place was filled with the airy sort of silence that descends when the sandman has taken a visit. I can -hear- her sleeping from inside my room, the sound of breaths going in and out of the body. And the breaths have this deep fullness to them that is different from regular breathing. You can't hear it, but yet you can somehow sense it, the whoosh of air in and out of lungs set on auto-pilot. You can hear and -feel- how soundly the person is sleeping. It has a soothing quality about it. Lends the place a homey sort of air. Fills it with a comforting sort of quietness. It's been a long time since I've been around a sleeping person. When someone is sleeping, they somehow pervade the air with this soft quality, like a blanket has been laid over the entire room. It's not really silence, it's just a hush. A calm quiet hush. I like it.

2003-06-28T11:32:00.000-04:00

Bars, barring thought.

The moment every girl has been waiting for happened last night. The cutest guy in the bar talked to me all night. And what could I do but sit there, dumbfounded with nothing to say besides the occasional giggle. Good grief girl, get a GRIP on yourself! My mom always said that I had a problem putting my best foot forward, but that if people hung around long enough, it would eventually reluctantly show itself. Thanks mom. There is nothing more frustrating than seeing opportunity sitting right in front of you, and you not being able to force your hand to go out there and grab it. What's the use of being a nice person if you can't seem to show anyone that? What's the point of having things to say if they won't come out when it counts? Likewise, what's the point of thinking you're smart if you can't prove that to the admissions officers? Oh this problem I have applies on -so- many levels. I came away with a couple of thoughts. 1) Bars are not the optimum place for meet people. Or perhaps that's just an convenient excuse for my lack of social suave. 2) If I don't do something about this problem soon, it will start to seriously impede my quality of life. 3) The NY dress code has relaxed. I got into the bar with flipflops on. 4) Girls with heels on are dangerous. My toe got stepped on and then proceeded to bleed all night. YUMMY.

2003-06-27T15:25:00.000-04:00

A bun in the oven.

As I was walking home today, I felt a bit of stirring in my brain. A few weeks ago, I had unearthed an idea. Frightened, I left it where it was as soon as I saw it, and it's been sitting in the back of my head since then. My brain treads gingerly around it, my stream of thoughts is careful to avoid it, as if afraid to disturb it and wake it up, as if afraid to touch it in case it disappears into thin air the way law school did. Law school disappeared into thin air conveniently after I'd paid the 100 bucks to take the LSAT's. So it sits on the back burner of my head, untouched besides the occasional careful poke to make sure that it's still there, that it's still real, that it's not just a figment of my imagination. It's baking like a bun in the oven. Incubating like an egg that has lost its mother hen. And I wait. I wait until its ready. Until I've become more accustomed to its presence inside my head. Until I am sure that it is real and not just another flight of fancy. Until I am steady enough to not burst into panicked flight at the very thought of it. I wait for it to mature and it waits for me to mature. It has a feeling of rightness about it though. A strange sense of belonging. But I leave it alone. I feel like it's a candle. If I think about it too much, it might blow out.

2003-06-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

Radiation and Drills.

I went to the dentist today. For the first time in two years. I sat in the waiting room and filled out the forms. I never understood why doctors need so much information about you. Why would marital status affect the health of your teeth? Or whether I have high blood pressure? Why do they need to know where I work and how long I've been working there? Why would my salary range matter? They know I have health insurance. Why do they want to know how long I've lived in New York for? Are they selling this information to market researchers? If government wanted to turn Big Brother, doctors and hospitals are the first places they would turn to. After all, no one thinks twice about giving their doctor information about their personal lives. They assume everything is confidential. I scanned the form I was filling out. Nope, no sign of a confidentiality agreement. "When's the last time you saw a dentist?" Two years ago. I chewed on the back of my pen and wrote "One Year". Underneath that was "How many times a day do you brush and floss?" I paused at that one as well. I always brush every morning without fail. But there've been times when I've passed out on the bed before I could make it to the bathroom to brush at night. As for floss? Never floss. Too time consuming, and I hate putting my fingers in my mouth. I wrote down "Brush twice a day. Floss once a week." Next question. "Do you like your smile?" Actually no. I've got really little teeth, and I hate how all my gums show. That's one thing me and my brother share. The exact same teeth. He refuses to smile in pictures for that very reason - the gums. I hesitated and checked "Yes." I decided that I wasn't about to be roped into whatever marketing gimmick they had planned if I admitted that I didnt' like my smile. Next question: "Have you ever considered Botox injections?" I left that one blank.

As I was led down the hall to the room, I could hear the whining of drills. I hate going to the dentist. Just the sound of the drool suctioner is enough to put the fear of God in me. I could feel my heart rate speed up and the adrenaline start pumping. My dentist ended up being from the same college as me. He talked the entire time about his college days while he cleaned my teeth and I drooled all over myself. I tried to position the drool sucker correctly with my tongue, but couldn't quite reach it. I could feel all my muscles tensing everytime he went near my mouth. If I was a horse, my eyes would've been rolling in fear.

I left with a clean bill. Two small cavities that could probably be reversed with some fluoride rinse he gave me. He told me I had an extremely healthy mouth. I refrained from thumbing my nose at him and taunting "And I haven't been to a dentist in TWO YEARS. Nya nya!"

2003-06-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

When the truth is so clear it hurts your eyes.

Recently, I've found myself thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. I realize that every choice is accompanied by a few years lag time before it actually takes place. Turnaround time. Whether that is studying up on course for a grad school exam, or doing intermediary low-paying jobs so you can switch fields. This makes me feel like I have to decide now - right now. I can feel the breath of the bulls breathing down my neck, threatening to trample me into mediocrity and inertia. I did some quick calculations. If I decide what I want to do right now, then at the minimum, it will take me two years to get started on that change. That would make me 24. To start my career all over again from the bottom, at 24. I'd like to be established on my lifepath at 28. I can't imagine doing all this all over again at 30. I don't want to be still wondering by that point.

"For everyone that makes it, thousands fall by the wayside."

W. hit the nail on the head. But what is "making it"? I think my definition of "making it" is changing. When I was growing up, success was defined by very concrete things. A 4.0 GPA. Entrance into a good college. Landing an internship. Everyone was full of ambition, the drive to attain success, and for a lot of us, success translated directly into concrete things even after we had left school - a good salary, a firm whose name people would recognize, the increase in purchasing power. But ask anyone in my peer group, and I'd say that the majority of them are dissatisfied. How can something that we've been raised to believe in and strive for, suddenly turn out to be so wrong?

I'm not so sure if I believe in success anymore. My life is rich according to the old standards of success. But that is an image, and nothing more. Underneath the veneer lies a rotting core. I feel like success now is defined more by the intangibles. The things you can't see. Who your friends are. Who loves you. How you've contributed to the world in other ways than financial ones. And by those standards, my life is very poor. What can I say that I've really contributed to the world so far? I can feel my priorities shifting as I get older. Does my job really matter all that much to me? Will it continue to matter so much to me? Is all this agonizing quite in vain since in about 10 years, I'm probably not going to give a shit about whether I like my job or not, as long as it pays me enough to put a roof over my head and clothe my kids? Is it even possible to like job for that long? Once you have a family, are you really going to love your job so much that you'd willingly stay late when you've got a 3 month old waiting for you at home? Do jobs inevitably deteriorate into a means to an end, regardless of how wonderful or lovely it is when you start? Is it worth all this mental wrestling if it will only be supplanted by other things like family as I get older? Is job satisfaction so high on my list of priorities only because right now, what else do I really have to care about, what else do I really have besides my job and my social life? Is it really smart to make life changing decisions based on the list of priorities I had at age 22? Shouldn't I be looking at the big picture?

Am I, despite all my supposedly open-minded world views, narrow minded and tunnel visioned when it comes to myself? Am I somehow missing the grand scheme of things and making a mountain out of a molehill? Will this end up being like the test I failed in tenth grade that I was convinced was the portent for the downslide of my life? Does this all really matter all that much? Or am I just fooling myself into thinking it doesn't? Have I merely become resigned and stopped struggling? Am I talking myself into settling for less? Or have I just become smarter as I've gotten older and seen what really matters in life? That to work to live is better than to live to work? Who wants their work to be their life anyways? Can I ever get through a week without asking stupid rhetorical questions that have no answers?

No. No, I can't.

2003-06-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

Bloody Sunday.

Sundays always start out the same. Pretty good. Until this Sunday that is. I called BABAE J. to hash over the details of last night. Which didn't really take very long since there were no details really to hash out. It looked like it was going to be a short call, until she mentioned that her boyfriend is going to Costa Rica for two weeks in July. That was when my day started to take a nosedive.

I've been wanting to go to Costa Rica for years. I had originally planned to go with Lux, but she bailed out on me. This effectively torpedoed my plans. She'd also previously torpedoed my plans for a new apartment in New York and my plans to go to Australia too in a similar fashion. Do we see a pattern here? I was crushed, but I'd gotten used to it. None of my college friends are really the sort to go eco-touring. They're more the "sip martini's on a beach" sort. For some unknown reason though, hearing that someone else was going on -my- vacation made me burst into tears. I blew my nose noisily on the phone as BABAE J. was confusedly trying to comfort me. I was quite the emotional train wreck, for stupid stupid reasons. Who in the world cries over a vacation that someone ELSE is taking? What it boiled down to was (surprise!) my job. The perks I have are the following: frequent flier miles that I can't use to go to the places I want to, a salary that I can't spend on the things I want to spend them on, and five weeks of vacation which I can't use the way I'd like to. There are no redeeming qualities. I lead a joyless existence!! I decided that something had to happen. Either I had to find a tour group that I could join and go with, or I needed new friends. Friends that had similar travel interests as I did and who would be willing to actually go.

But the crux of the problem was deeper than that. Since when did I start attaching such importance to flaky things like vacations? I attribute it to "poor man's syndrome". When you're poor, you will fight for that one grain of rice. And when your spirit is starved, you end up acting like a crazy-woman when you see someone else getting your grain of rice. The most minor details end up taking on the importance of a million things.

I cried for other reasons too. I'd interviewed a few weeks ago with a firm that was in New York. My aim was to switch jobs and work somewhere where I wouldn't have to travel. I found out on Wednesday that I was runner-up to a girl who'd graduated from the same college as I did, with the same credentials as I did. If she turned down the offer, I would get the opportunity to take it. The irony of the whole situation was that she might turn down the offer because she had a competing offer.... from my firm. I wanted to laugh and cry. This is so sick. For her sake, I hope she turns down the offer from my firm. Perhaps I hoped a little too hard, because she did turn down my firm's offer and took the other one. Which effectively left me out in the cold. I suppose I can't complain too much. I'm getting paid well, I work at a reputable place, and I'm set-up nicely when I travel. I told myself this all week. But this morning, it all converged and added to the misery. I suffer from delayed reaction sometimes.

Delayed reaction and PMS. I'm sure the weird hormonal balance added to the mix as well. The day was topped off with Sex and the City. Miranda. I could totally see myself in her shoes. Picking a fight with the guy I love because I'm freaked out. Leaving the most awkward answer-machine messages. Finding out that he's moved on. WONDERFUL. After the show, I talked with my friend from LA about how Sex and the City is a pretty accurate reflection of the dating scene in New York. His response?

"Oh come on. You can't tell me that you can't find one normal guy in the entire city of millions of people. You just have to find out where they hang out."
"I bet they hang out at home playing video games all night."
"That's it. You have to start hanging around internet cafe's."
"GREAT! That's exactly what I want to do on a Saturday night! Play counterstrike!"
"Sometimes, you gotta sacrifice for the booty."
"Wonderful. Just wonderful."

The best part is, if I did meet someone wonderful... lucky for him, I come equipped with the great talent of being laconic around cute boys, and an even more recent development - a fabulous mood that the month of rain has put me in - the sort of mood that makes me want to complain ALL THE TIME. I'm hot stuff.

Now I can head to bed so I can wake up at 4:30 AM for my flight and continue my miserable existence. Yessssssss!!!!!

2003-06-21T13:13:00.000-04:00

Dream.

I had a dream I was going to jail. I had done something, and my NC roommate Sugar and I were going to jail. My mom and my brother were driving me to this big gloomy castle at the end of peninsula by the water. My mom asked me what I had done, and I remember trying to think of something that wasn't a big deal to make it sound like I was just getting wrist-slapped. I told her it was for indecent exposure (good God).

Flicker.

I'm inside a round tower room with walls of grey stone and Sugar is there. There's a plump stern-looking matron standing there, and she's telling us that we can only bring one bookbag into the jail with us. We're trying to decide what we want to bring. When faced with the decision to narrow down all my possessions to just one bookbag-full, I had to decide what I really loved and what I didn't. Two books, photos of my family, and my minidisc player. Books weren't allowed. And I could only bring 2 photos. I started flipping through the photos and realized that I did not have one picture of my family in them. I grew frantic, there were a few where they were indistinguishable fuzzy blobs, but no real pictures. As I burst into tears, a second thin stern-looking woman came in to take Sugar and I to our new "cells". My things were still spread out all over the floor, so I collected them into my bookbag. When I looked up, the thin woman had gone. She hadn't bothered to wait for me to get my things together. That's jail for you.

Flicker.

I'm standing in a big hall-area. It's dark and gloomy and shadows collect in the corners. There are a variety of other people milling around, mostly teenagers and a few my age. They're walking single file to and fro and some of them are sitting along the steps. I look for the thin-lady to see if I can catch up with her. I ask a languid-looking girl if she's seen the thin-lady. She points a finger. I catch myself and realize that these people are in jail, they could be lying to me for kicks. I look around and realize that this is the sort of place that my imagination could do horrors with. Dark castle. Malfunctioning children. I had this sense of not really belonging here.

Flicker.

I've lost my bookbag. I put it down to go look at something, and I can't seem to find where I put it. Everytime I see a grey blob, I run towards it, thinking it's mine. It's a bag full of all the things I love most in life, the bag that contains all the things I'll need to keep me sane, and I've lost it. Finally, someone says that so-and-so picked one up. I run towards this guy's stand (he's an inmate that sells knickknacks at a little stand he set up) and ask him about it. "It's a grey EMS bookbag with a reflective strip running down the center of it." He pauses. He looks like a gang member. "Please. I really need that bag." He reaches down under the counter and pulls up my bookbag. Then he says "It's here. But your mini-audio is missing." I know what he means by that. I thank him, and take it. I see the thin-lady coming out of a doorway and I run towards her with my bookbag.

I woke up hungover and in tears. And I had the strong need to call my mom and tell her to please send family pictures. I thought, when it comes down to it, what really -are- the most important things in life. I didn't think to bring my Peter Kaiser pumps or my most expensive top with me to jail. I couldn't bring my Manhattan apartment or my corporate rental car. What I wanted was physical representations of the intangible - love. Something that had been given to me freely. Without any strings. No hazing beforehand to "earn" it, and no sucking up. I needed these physical representations to remind me in times of despair that I am not alone. After all, in times of despair, your mind isn't quite right, and it's so easy to twist things, to feel abandoned. And there's a certain solidness about objects that is comforting. I used to roll my eyes and sigh at physical manifestations of love. Some things, I won't ever be huge on - such as PDA's. Please, no need to subject the world to an entire emotional show. I am an independent woman. I do not have any of the traditional female weaknesses. But I do. I think this is something that career women struggle with a lot. The need to be independent and not viewed as vulnerable, thus denying part of what makes us women. I'm realizing that for all my eye-rolling at how cheesy and emotional my mom was for sending me cards or framed pictures, perhaps I do need them more than I'd like to admit. "Mom. I don't need another picture of you and dad. I know what you guys look like." That's the no-nonsense career woman speaking. The frantic girl running around jail looking for my bookbag full of love is probably a little closer to the real me. I've been starting to realize in the past few months that hey.... I'm a girl. I'm not a boy. I've started to let go of a lot of the things I used to cling so tenaciously to. It's okay if a guy helps me with my groceries. It's okay to accept help. It's okay to not always be so fiercely independent. Allowing people to love me and help me doesn't mean that I'm -not- independent. My mom and dad know I can do things on my own. They just want to do things for me. Because they love me. Is that really so bad?

The human being was not meant to be a solitary creature. I wonder why it is that our society seems to find such value in the maverick. The lone ranger. The independent emotionless rebel.

2003-06-18T22:49:00.000-04:00

Stuck.

Sometimes, I don't understand how my ex can still do it. Break my heart that is. I called him today to get a phone number of a mutual friend of ours. We haven't talked in ages. I had good reason to never speak to him again and he knew it. He was sleeping when I called at 1:30 pm. I should've known. As he answered groggily, I was propelled back to my 18 year old self who used to wait until mid-afternoon to call my long-distance boyfriend only to get half a conversation as he was, as always, still sleeping. Some things don't change. He was still, as always, sleeping when I called. I asked him how he was. Got the phone number. Thanked him. Apologized for waking him up. And told him I'd see him around. There was a pause. Then he said, "Is that all you called for?" I had to swallow hard and firm up my steely resolve. "Well, yeah." I said. "Oh."

And in that 2 seconds between his "Oh" and my "Well, I have to go now" my heart broke all over again. In those dangerous two seconds, I vacillated at the speed of light between my-anger-and-his-well-deserved-shunning-from-my-life and the-mad-desire-to-relent-and-be-nice. But, I knew the consequences of the latter. And I didn't want to re-enter that cycle again. But at the same time, the 2-second-long silent sound of disappointment almost was an equal opponent to the years of tears and grief I'd experienced as his girlfriend. And I hated myself for being soft. For even -thinking- of being nice to him. How was I really any better than those weak-willed women who stay in bad situations?

We hung up. I could tell he was disappointed and a little mad. My resolve held. But as soon as the phone went dead, my resolve went to jello again. I find myself wondering if I was too cold to him. Was I mean? Is he upset? Did I hurt him? And somewhere, a little voice in the back of my head whispers, did he ever think these things when you were dating him? Whether he was hurting you? Whether he was being mean? Whether you were upset? Don't go there.

I'm so fucking frustrated. WHY are we still like this. WHY can't we be normal. IT'S BEEN FOUR YEARS.

It's such an unhealthy relationship. Even now.

What is it about the first boyfriend that continues to plague women? Why is it that all his transgressions seem somehow forgivable when you know they wouldn't be if any other man had committed them? Why is it that he retains that spot in your heart and you know that he doesn't deserve it? Why do women continue to stupidly hand out our love like its pennies to the most undeserving of all while we withhold it from those who -are- deserving? What kind of evolutionary strategy is -this-?

I sit here, guilt-stricken, wondering if I should call back and ask him how he's been doing. But I won't. Because I know I'm a spineless ninny with no shred of self-respect, but he doesn't have to know it.

2003-06-17T20:22:00.000-04:00

Priceless.

Watch me.

2003-06-17T18:58:00.000-04:00

So. I was stood up on Sunday.

What do you say when a guy stands you up for a 1 pm date? When he doesn't even call to apologize but instead IM's you 8 hours later saying "I'm really really sorry." The standard response to "I'm sorry" is usually "It's okay". But really, it's not okay. I was torn. What else can he do but apologize? Part of me feels bad for giving him a hard time, but another part of me thinks - come on, you couldn't even take 5 minutes of your time to call me and tell me you wouldn't be able to make it? What does it say if he's already treating me like crap and we haven't even had a first date yet?

Besides, the excuse was that he got tanked last night with his buddies and overslept. "I got shit-faced wit ma boyz last night" is not a valid excuse, regardless of how sorry you are. Perhaps I'll agree to meet up with him again, but as suggested by Nya, -I- won't show up this time. I'll tell him I overdosed on Ben and Jerry's the night before. "I just... couldn't reach the phone... sorry buddy..."

Luckily, I wasn't at a restaurant. I would've been -furious- if that was the case. He was supposed to pick me up, so I was sitting at home emailing. Waited 45 minutes, and then went out rollerblading in the park with a friend.

I started tallying him up inside my head. Okay. No college degree. No job. No desire to find a job. Great. At this rate, I should've stuck with the CVS stockboy. He was at least employed.

Sometimes I wonder if I have a sign around my neck that says "Please. If you are a jackass of any sort, ask me out."

WONDERFUL.

Woopdeedoo's suggestion? Send a poop.

2003-06-15T12:34:00.000-04:00

A Letter To My Father

Dear Dad.

When I was little, you were the world to me. Literally. I couldn't imagine anyone who was bigger than you, taller than you, stronger than you. You could do anything and everything. The true-to-life God in a child's world of Catholic school, nuns, and a forbidding God. When Chernobyl happened, it did more than nuke the small town in Russia, it also nuked your career as a nuclear engineer and marked the beginning of a difficult period in my life. You carried me around to 9 different schools prior to fourth grade and watched me struggle through being the "new girl" over and over again, handicapped by my small size, younger age, and not-yet-trendy Brit accent. I withdrew from a madcap child who ran naked giggling through the living room to a more quiet one who buried herself in books - her escape from the strange unpredictable reality around her. And you watched. You watched and in your awkwardly lovely dad way tried to make it better by sitting with me every night before I slept and lecturing me on how to be a good person. Your intent was two-pronged. To instill in me the values of being generous, patient, and warm-spirited. And also, by showing me what constituted being a good person, you hoped that I would see that these kids at school were -not- good people. But I was too young to make that connection and just felt more alienated by the nightly lectures. Instead of working hard on keeping my spirit up and fulfilling those ideals of being a good person, I worked hard on losing my Brit accent. And after crying after the first day of school at new school #1, I vowed I would never cry again.

A few years later, when your marriage to mom was going through a difficult period, you were driving me to the library. I was at school #8 by that point. Between the hostility of kids at school, mom's inattention to me because my brother was constantly sick, and the daily arguments between you two, I went to the library an awful lot. You pulled over to the side of the road suddenly. I looked over and you sat there silently, with tears coming from your eyes. I couldn't understand it. All the circuits in my ten-year-old brain put it together and arrived at the answer, "Dad is crying." But that couldn't be. You were superman. Supermen don't cry. I deducted and re-deducted and came back to the same answer. And you continued to sit there in silence, a picture of impossibility to my eyes. Like a cow inside the car. There were tears on the face that I knew to be stern, unyielding, and strong. And then I started to cry. I didn't know why you were crying or why I was crying. But I cried, because you were the rock in my life, and if you had cracked, then the world must truly be ending.

As a teenager, I was particularly difficult. But I was difficult in ways that no parental-guidance book could ever help you with. Yes, I saw those sitting on your nightstand. I couldn't read the words on the Chinese cover, but flipping through the illustrations inside were enough to let me know what was going on. Instead of rebelling outwardly and getting involved in alcohol, drugs, tattoos, and piercing, I was the model student. I never went out to parties, never talked on the phone, and never talked about friends. This was because I had no friends. A fact that I was simultaneously proud of (because no one at school was -interesting- enough to perk my interest and warrant my friendship) and simultaneously ashamed of. You never brought it up. But you made it clear that you knew by coming into my room at night when I was studying and lecturing me about the value of friendship and all its pitfalls. You never set a curfew for me in the hopes that I would take advantage of this seeming oversight. I never did. Instead, I spent hours locked inside my room, burying myself in pages and pages of journal writing that consisted of nothing but questions. Why is life like this? Why am I here? Why do I exist? What is the purpose of my existence? What do I contribute to the world? Would anyone notice if I suddenly disappeared? Why did this or that happen to me yesterday at school? And the answer that laid inside my head but unwritten in my journal was that I just wasn't good enough. It remained unwritten because I had this fear of facing it. I felt like if I wrote it down in black ink on the white paper of my journal, it would become undeniable irrevocable fact. And I wasn't sure if I could stand to have the truth slap me in the face like that, even though I was sure of its veracity inside my head.

Everything that occurred throughout the day became another bastion for this truth I believed in. It doesn't really make sense to me now that I think about it. I look back on my high school pictures and realize that I was pretty. I think about some of the positions I held and some of the awards I won and realize that I was accomplished. But to my teenage mind, I didn't make it to concertmaster in orchestra because I sucked. Boys didn't pay attention to me because I wasn't pretty enough. I didn't get top grades on that exam because I'm not smart enough. But somewhere underneath it, I was a strange paradox. I was proud of myself. I didn't think I was ugly. I just felt like the alien. I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or interesting enough for the world's standards but I was quite satisfactory for my own. I was always surprised when someone showed interest in me. To some degree, I still carry this mentality, as sometimes I am still surprised that people show interest in me. When you saw that I was crushed over not making concertmaster, you would push me to practice more, so I could make it next time. You believed in me. But I pushed it away. I railed at you instead, yelling about how being in the first violin section alone was an honor, and how I didn't buy into all the politics that was part of orchestra seating, and why couldn't you just love me just the way I was. When I sat in the backyard with you watching you garden on the day of Prom, you casually asked why I wasn't going. I shrugged. No one asked me, I replied. Well, why didn't you ask someone? You said. There's no one I'd want to ask, was my response. That was partial truth. There really was no one I found particularly interesting. But beneath that was also the certainty that even if I -was- to ask someone, even someone I didn't find interesting, they were sure to say no. Because why would they go with me when they had a class-full of pretty girls to choose from? I never told you that. But I'm sure you guessed. Because that afternoon, you talked to me about flowers. About how some flowers are harder to take care of than others. About how flowers grow and bloom. About our rose garden and how much work it takes to cultivate each rose so it will climb our fences. About how a rose, despite all its beauty and its popularity, is easily ruined by a strong wind. And you said to me that though you admire the rose's beauty, you truly admire the weed - the dandelion that grows inside the cracks of our driveway. Because it can grow and thrive in the most daunting of conditions. That -that- is what's truly worthy of admiration, wildness and strength. And that you'd be much prouder if I grew up to be a dandelion. You meant to teach me about the inherent cheapness of outward beauty. But I took that to mean that you didn't think I'd grow up to be a rose. And that day, I went to the driveway and vehemently uprooted every dandelion growing there.

College applications was a period of time when I cried regularly every night. I was terrified that I wouldn't get into an Ivy League school. I was convinced that if I didn't, I wouldn't be able to face the disappointment in your eyes. The silence that you and mom would sit in when you attended those dinner parties and the other parents would casually mention, "Yes, my son at Princeton recently..." or "My daughter is loving Harvard right now." You encouraged me to apply to all the top schools because you were proud of me. You thought I was smart. But I refused to. I only applied to one Ivy League school, the one I thought I had a good chance of getting into. We fought a lot. I invoked the term "independence" often. I didn't understand why you were treating me like I was a child and couldn't make my own decisions. I didn't understand that you were only trying to tell me my worth. I never listened to you when you told me I was smart and beautiful. I didn't listen to you when you'd lay all my accomplishments on the table in an effort to pound it through my brain that I was outstanding. You were my dad. Dads are obligated to think their kids are perfect. Especially their daughters. I applied to a second-tier Ivy for two reasons, one public reason, and the other a secret one that I kept inside my head. The public reason was to back my words up and "assert my independence to make my own decisions". The private reason was because I didn't want my father's daughter to be a Harvard reject.

When I went to college, the car was packed to the brim with all my silly things, every last cherished object that I had deemed absolutely necessary. You unquestioningly unpacked every last important possession into my tiny room without a complaint about all the flights of stairs and looked around. It wasn't impressive. There was no cherrywood shelves like the ones you'd built me back home. And no huge desk for me to write at. But you didn't say anything as this represented freedom in my eyes. You helped me get the egg crate mattress pad onto the bed and pull my rose-printed bed sheets over it. Yes, the bed sheets that have a huge black ink-stain in the middle of it that I insisted stubbornly on loving. You kept asking me whether I had everything I needed. Whether you could help me get my books on my shelf, my clothes into my drawer. Was I hungry? No, I wasn't hungry, and I didn't see the point of you and mom sitting around watching me unpack. I was impatient to start off my new life, unfettered by constraints. So you two left. I saw you guys off, waved gaily from the parking lot as you drove away with mom bawling her eyes out in the passenger seat. As I re-entered my new dorm room full of boxes, I could see with absolute clarity what you were doing. In my imagination, you were crossing the bridge on the way home. Mom was still bawling, talking about what I was like as a baby, and you were listening and not listening. You were driving with your eyes fixed on the road with silent tears just like that day when I was 10. And at that point, I sat on my ink-stained sheets and cried my eyes out, surrounded by boxes full of things I supposedly loved. I had never felt so alone in my entire life.

Now, I'm 22, and our relationship hasn't really changed all that much. You still try to lend me a helping hand, and I still push it away, yelling at you about my independence, wailing about why you insist on treating me like a child. No, I do not need a detailed email on how to rent a U-Haul truck. I know that step 1 is: Dial 1-800-go-uhaul. I'm still impatient with our weekly calls when you try to guide me because you're anxious that I will go the wrong way. I yell. You yell. I yell louder. We hang up on each other. But I still call every Sunday, because I know it means the world to you and mom that I call, especially now that Brother is in college. I still call, because I know that if I don't call by 5 pm, mom will call me, desperate and worried that something terrible has happened to me. You will tell me about how it's not good for women to be this independent and opinionated. And I will be offended. But I will know that it's because you want to make sure that your daughter will find someone who will take care of her, and that your daughter will allow this person to take care of her. Mom will try to get me to buy membership to the MOMA so that I can attend their Wednesday night soirees and meet a high-class man. You will secretly whisper to me your reservations about rich boys and their work ethic. I joke with you that my love for you is directly proportional to how loudly I yell at you. You laugh. But on some level, this is true. I only become so upset with you because I care, sometimes overly much, about what you think of me.

I told you on the phone today that I know I'm difficult to love. That I tense up and make faces when mom tries to hug me. That I cause you endless amounts of grief. That our Sunday phone calls are sure to deteriorate into a shouting match. You tell me that that's not true. But I don't listen. I plow on into an analogy of how I know my brother is much more quiescent. He's much more reasonable. He doesn't argue with you and mom as much and his ideas of his life path match up with your idea of success. He's just... easier to love. I have no endearing qualities. I'm like the cactus in the Arizona desert we saw in the Grand Canyon. I've got prickers. Come too close and I'll poke you. I'm difficult to love, I keep saying. I know this. And I want to thank you for loving me as much as you do despite that. I'm finally finished. And you repeat again when you've been saying in-between all my pontificating and that I haven't been hearing.

"I don't agree", you say, "You are not difficult to love. You're stubborn, like me. I like people who are more like me in personality - you are not a cactus, you are a rose with thorns, you are beautiful and strong." Oh jeez Dad, I say. I try to be gracious. Thanks Dad. But then I follow that up with, "I have to do my laundry or I'll have no underwear. I'll call you next week." You lecture me on planning my laundry cycle better. I impatiently say "I know I know" and hang up quickly. I do have laundry to do but that wasn't why I hung up quickly. I hung up quickly because I had the sudden urge to cry. And I cried for a long time. Because at that moment, I have never loved you so much. And because finally, I believe that you love me just as much.

2003-06-11T19:59:00.000-04:00

Career Limiting Moves.

Mental note to self:
Please try to refrain from snort-laughing at meetings when the following occurs:
1) Recognition. "I'd like to recognize so and so for their contribution to..." It happens at every meeting. The call for recognition that is. "Would anyone like to state any recognitions?" It's such an obvious kiss-butt tactic, that I always have to stifle a giggle when people start clamoring to recognize others.
2) They keep bringing up what sounds like "Joe Doodie." "Yes, Joe Doodie said that he would take ownership of that action item." "I believe that Joe Doodie would be a better resource to answer your question." "Why don't you take that offline with Joe Doodie." I have no idea who this guy is, or what his real name could possible be (maybe Joe Duty?), but the fact that I always want to start cracking up when I hear this poor guy's name just goes to show exactly how mature I am.

2003-06-08T17:14:00.000-04:00

Quarter Life Crisis: In Full Effect.

I woke up this morning to a minor crisis. A phone call from my dad. It started off okay. I told him about the testing patterns I'd seen and asked if he had any techniques to help me out. He didn't. But what he did have was an awful lot of suggestions and hints that I'd heard about 200 times before already. "You know, you should really be going to grad school soon." And "Are you applying this year? If you apply for next fall, it'll be your third year out of college. It's about time." And "You know, if you coast along the highway for too long without taking any exits, you'll just find yourself at a dead end." Your usual stuff about how I need to figure out what I'm doing. I told him I was only 22. His response? "I'm only telling you because I care."

The result of all this is stress. I knew my dad was wrong. I do have time. But I still felt upset and turmoiled. I had meant to study hard core for the LSAT's today, but now all I can think of is whether I should even bother taking it if I'm not sure that it's right for me. Am I wasting my time? Should I be exploring other options? Somehow, I don't think this was the effect my dad was trying to achieve. I tried calling BABAE J. She's my standby for quarter-life crises because her parents are just like mine. She's in the same situation as me. And she has the same overwhelming sense of responsibility. She didn't pick up. Neither did Alice and Scott - the two med residents I know who are just as miserable in their jobs (if not more) than I am. I even called my 19 year old brother hoping for wisdom.

And what I wanted to ask them was, "Do you feel like you've made the right choices in your life?" What I was looking for was a little guidance. Guidance that my dad obviously wasn't giving me. He follows the formula to success that we've all been taught. Go to grad school. This whole "finding yourself" thing is beyond him. But in this day and age, how many people really find themselves? It seems like being unhappy and vaguely dissatisfied with your job is part of the territory when you become an adult. I'm not sure I know any adults who are truly genuinely happy. And the ones I know are the ones who took risks like becoming a painter, or an artist, or a fashion designer. Not exactly role models I can take, not because they're not worthy, but because I don't have those sorts of creative ambitions. I'm not sure what my ambition is.

I think the difference between people who find themselves and people who don't, is knowledge. Knowledge of what you want. And that almost makes it a moot point. People who find themselves can't really help those who are having trouble, because the source of the trouble is not knowing what you want. And most of those adults who "make it" have known since childhood or just somehow known inside their heads that they wanted to be artists. For them, it's like having another appendage. It's just always been there.

If I knew what I ultimately wanted to do in life, I'm sure all this would be easier as well. But the indecision is what cripples me. The fear of choosing blindly. I don't like doing anything blindly. But as I wait for my vision to suddenly come upon me so I can say EUREKA! THAT's IT!, I fret as the clock ticks. And ticks. And ticks. And I start to wonder if the eureka will happen to me. What makes me think that I'm so special that I should receive this epiphany when thousands of other adults never have? What makes me think that I can reach this sort of epiphany without any work? That it will land on my lap just like that? Because. I know that if I was to try out everything that I thought maybe I might want to do and dedicated a year to each (because let's face it, you can't really tell if you're going to like something or not unless you've given it a good year), I'd be old and grey before I was finished. And then I'd have to take another year figuring out which one I liked best.

I don't know what to do with my life. And the worst part is, I don't know how to even start figuring it out. I don't know who to turn to as a resource. I don't know where to go to for information. I don't even know if this information exists out there since I have a feeling it might be different for every individual. I'm at a loss. And I can't concentrate on studying when somewhere in the back of my head, I'm wondering if it's pointless. I don't know what to do.

All I really want out of life, is to be happy. Why does this seem like such a difficult thing to achieve?

2003-06-08T02:11:00.000-04:00

The switch is ON.

That's what BABAE J. calls it. The "available" switch. We went out to 17 Home tonight for a friend's bday party. And ran into a bunch of beautiful boys. A bunch of professional lacrosse players. And one of them had the most divine head of curls. He held my hand, joked around, and was your classic flirt. Talked about his childhood in San Diego and his surfer days. But I had to go. And when he turned away from the girls he was talking to to pull me over and ask me why I was leaving, I thought "Wow. He's slick." In the cab, BABAE J. and I talked about it. He didn't ask for my number. But that's because guys like that don't ask for girls' numbers. They're the kind of guys who you take home. Not the kind you date.

He was easily the best looking guy in there. I knew it. BABAE J. knew it. He definitely knew it. And all the girls in the room knew it. I could tell by the way my female friends suddenly flocked to me after Curls and I started talking. They were suddenly all hanging in the vicinity, waiting for the buy-in, the introduction. And I gave it to them. The introductions. And he still pulled away when he saw I was leaving. Damn. What I -should- have done was say, "Why don't you give me a call sometime?" when he was asking me not to leave. But I'm not that bold. And, boys with that kind of air about them don't call women. They just bed them. Women have a sixth sense about these things. And even if he did call, what would I say? "Yeah... I'm in North Carolina..."

Nonetheless, BABAE J. and I rated the night an 8. Pretty good after a winter-full of 5's. Since when did we start rating our nights based on the quality of male attention we got? It must've been my lucky bikini bottom.

2003-06-07T17:21:00.000-04:00

Suspect Motives.

This morning, I woke up, took a shower, and made my long long list of to-do's. And realized that if I don't get started on them ASAP, I wasn't going to get through them. One of the major things on my list was studying for my LSAT's. I started getting dressed. As always, step 1 of stepping out of the shower is opening the underwear drawer. It opened up easily with a whish. Strange. Then I realized why. It was empty. I didn't have the time to do my laundry. And girls can't go commando. Chafing. This is what happens when you're out of town for 3 weeks straight. You lose track of your laundry status back home. I briefly pondered going to Victoria's Secret and just buying panties. But the thought of wearing jeans without underwear, for the sake of going out to buy underwear, made me pause. Sweatpants? There's something dirty about walking around in loose pants without underwear in New York City. All that air movement... and it's not clean air either.

Then my eyes fell on my bikini bottom. It was my last and only option. I had to take it. So I pulled them on and headed off to go study. There's something ultimately weird about walking around New York City in your bikini bottom on your way to the Used Book Cafe when it's completely cloudy outside.

I've decided that tests like the LSAT's are less about intelligence and more about pure stamina. Can you keep your focus for 2.5 hours straight? I know I have a hard time with it. I get to about part 3, and I lose steam. I start to get careless and sloppy because I'm tired and frankly don't care anymore. I've already noted habitual testing patterns and strengths/weaknesses. The hardest part isn't that the material is necessarily difficult, it's that they barely give you enough time. You can't really think about your answer for too long or go back and double check it. It's like flying by the seat of your pants and fervently hoping that your intelligence, first instincts, and intuition will not lead you wrong. And when you're someone like me, who has the need to analyze and re-analyze before choosing an answer, it keeps you teetering on the edge of panic for 2.5 hours. Going through the LSAT's is like running with the bulls in Spain.

Sometimes I question whether my motives are correct for wanting to take the LSAT's. After all, I'm not even sure if I want to go to law school. My reasoning right now is, why wait? It's not like I'm going to get any smarter. If anything, I'm likely to get dumber. If I do well, then maybe I'll think about applying. I'm all about maximizing my options. GRE's last year, LSAT's this year. My motives for law school choice are also suspect. If I decide to go, I'd like to go to a "laid back" law school, if such a thing exists. The last thing I want is an experience akin to my undergraduate one. I swear that took years off my life. I think I'd be satisfied with a top 25 law school that was laid back. In a nutshell, I want to be as lazy as possible while looking smart. According to my roommate, she only knows of two such schools. And they happen to be not only be in the top 25, but also in the top 10. Dammit!!!!!

I feel slightly odd about horse-whipping myself to do well on the LSAT's, not for the sake of quality education, but so that I can kick back. I bet my father would be proud.

2003-06-06T23:24:00.000-04:00

PHOOOM!!!!

Funny how everything always converges at one point. You go through life kinda drifting down the stream, slightly disgruntled, but what the hey. Then all of a sudden, everything starts happening so fast that you can barely whip your head around quickly enough to watch it. Even worse, all the good things in the world start coming at you all at once, and there's no way you can have them all due to time constraints. Dammit! I need my good stuff in a slow IV drip!

2003-06-05T19:47:00.000-04:00

For Your Protection.

These days, a girl never knows. When bringing a guy home, what do you do? This is the question hotly debated by Pooh and I. She's a little sad about moving across the country from me, despite the fact that she's got sure booty waiting for her over there. As members of the newly-burgeoning 20-some female crowd, the operating procedures have obviously got to change since the college days, where the threat of gossip alone was enough to stave off the hormone drive. Now that we're Grown Ups Living In Large Metropolitan Areas, we can basically let ourselves go wild and hide in the anonymity of the crowds. So the question of the day is: should you buy condoms?

Knee-jerk reaction is "No way. The guy should bring them." Who keeps a pack of condoms in their bedside table? What does that say about you as a girl? "That you're a woman who's responsible?" That was Lux. Good point. But still, psychological blocks have been set up against that. "Good girls" don't keep condoms in their bedside cabinet. That implies that you have casual sex. But, at the same time, in the off chance that you went temporarily insane with one too many drinks and were to bring a guy home with you, what would you do if neither of you had condoms? Anticlimactic dissatisfaction? Or do you just take your risks? Neither option sounds particularly fun. And if you follow the "The guy should bring them" idea, would you really be that happy if he did have condoms on him? Or would you be offended as a girl? I mean, good grief, he came out on a date with you -expecting- to get laid. Or should you merely feel relieved that he brought some?

Logic dictates that since, as a woman, you're the one most at risk for being in hot water if you get pregnant, you should take your fate into your own hands and purchase the damn condoms yourself and merely avoid eye contact with the cashier at the drugstore. "Paper bag please?" Why take a chance that your hormones could overtake your brain and make you do something stupid? In that case, what kind do you buy? Sex ed class taught us to buy the sort with spermicide. But has anyone ever -been- to the condom aisle in the drugstore? First of all, you're usually embarassed to be seen there browsing. The last thing you want to do is linger.

Pooh and I were aghast. It's a pretty dazzling array of options for something that merely covers the penis and prevents sperm from getting to you. We decided that perhaps the purchase was best left for another day. When the drugstore was less crowded. I'm determined to see her off with a box in her suitcase though when she leaves next week. When buying a pack for general use, "just in case", you run the risk of never using it. Then you end up with an expired box of unopened condoms in your drawer. And how embarassing is -that-? You also run the risk of having the wrong size. Do they sell condoms in variety packs? And if they do, how do you avoid offending the guy when you pull out a size "small" for him?

2003-06-03T20:57:00.000-04:00

Show your love with a plate of fresh-baked cookies. Warm delicious cookies that will bring a smile to every face. -Duncan Hines

How about a plate of salmonella cookies for my team?

I had dinner with my project "mentor" today. Every analyst is assigned a mentor to help "welcome them into the fold." First of all, my mentor was drop dead gorgeous. She had long long eyelashes, perfect legs, and that perfectly manicured yet fresh and peppy look (Rah rah team!). I looked down and suddenly wished I hadn't gotten up late and thrown my clothes on. The sheer number of completely perfect people in management positions makes me seriously question the ethics of promotion at my firm.

"So, how do you like it here so far?"
"Well... It's hard to say since I've only been here for a month. But..."

What followed was a string of tactfully phrased complaints.
"I would really like to have a flexible work schedule especially since I've been working 5 day travel weeks for a year now."
"I really feel like this firm has strait-jacketed me into -not- advancing my career as I have no network in New York among the people who will be deciding my promotions precisely because I travel so much that I don't meet people from the New York community."
"No, I cannot say that there are any managers within Financial Services who can go to bat for me. I've been staffed on projects outside of my workgroup for the past year."
"It's hard to say whether I feel challenged by my role. I can't say it's conceptually challenging, but the learning curve is challenging. Does that count?"

I felt like a freshman again in college. I was the analyst, and she was the "well-meaning upperclassman". Back when I was an upperclassman mentor for incoming freshman, I could look at them and pick out who was going to make it at this school and who wasn't. I wondered whether it showed on my face that I was beaten-down miserable, completely resentful, burned out, and had no intention of staying. I wondered whether she looked at me and thought "Yeah. This girl isn't going to cut it at this company." Instead, she brushed away her perfectly trimmed bangs with her beautifully manicured hand and was so perfectly nice that it almost gave me a cavity. And I felt bad. About myself and my rotten attitude. I was nothing but the classic sulky sullen freshman. If you were going to categorize us until high school crowds, she would've been one of the peppy happy cheerleaders and I would've been part of the bitter, sarcastic, resentful pot-smoking crowd. It's almost bizarre to think of it in those terms, because everyone who works at this company is a type A personality. To think, that I'm the "bitter disillusioned underachiever" among type A's, whereas I'd be the "peppy sort" among normal people.

Yeah. I'm resentful. And I recognize that if I don't have an attitude adjustment soon, I really -am- going to not-make-it here. The sad thing is, I think it's a slippery slope I'm on. It's hard to pull yourself out of the bog of righteous resentment when everyday, there's something new to fuel the fire, yet another event in New York that I'm missing, yet another friendship fading away.

2003-06-01T21:57:00.000-04:00

12 mile hikes. Wonderful views. Permanent dust stains on everything.

Arizona was wonderful. I used to think I could never feel at home anywhere except the East Coast, but there's something about Arizona that calls to me the way California and LA couldn't.

When I was younger, I spent most of my childhood living in a land of make-believe. Solitary is the natural state of children who are different from the others. In my case, it was a combination of being younger, much smaller, and getting better grades than my peers. I retreated to a land dominated by fantasy novels - the 8 year old's drug of choice. A dependable and easily accessible escape from reality. Where good always won over evil, and the protagonist was always the peasant's daughter, not the noblemen and women. When faced with a situation where it's one against the masses, the individual has a choice to make. A very clear cut choice with only two options. Either you believe your peers' mentality and think you suck (probably accounting for a good amount of teenage depression and suicide) or you completely reject public opinion and entertain fantasies of your own (Columbine tragedy). I dabbled in the latter. In fact, I firmly believed that I was not truly human and instead belonged in the faerie world. I was a changeling, and -that- was the real reason why I was different. Because I was actually better than everyone else. I didn't suck. They sucked. I was magical. I made myself special because no one else seemed to notice I was even alive.

I believed in faeries for an awful lot longer than the average child did. I spent the first 16 years of my life lost in a solitary reverie inside my own mind. Magic lurked around every corner, and at any moment now, I would be rescued. Forests and mountains called to me very clearly for that reason. I played for hours in the woods behind our house, despite the fact that my mother had specifically forbidden me to go there. I felt a special affinity for the trees and especially with creeks. I had a remarkable ability to ignore the empty beer cans and trash clustered around. Every brush with nature was a potential homecoming and an escape from this dreary world called life. Only in the last few years did this belief start to fade. In fact, it started to fade during my freshman year of college. College was a whole new world. A fresh canvas. And suddenly, I came to the realization that people liked me. Even now, there are times when people seem to -want- to speak to me, and I'm surprised, caught off-guard, and bluster around thinking of something to say in return. After all, expectations set by years of being not-included are hard to get rid of in a jiffy. It's like a 16-year-long habit that's hard to break. Two thirds of my life was spent living inside my head and inside of books, not having to really worry about anyone else but myself. I floated through it oblivious to everything but my own thoughts. And people say that quitting smoking is hard. Try ceasing to be self-absorbed.

In a way, it's been both a blessing and a curse. I recognize that it's probably healthier to have social interactions, but it simultaneously comes with so many downfalls that at times, I wonder whether it's really worth it. As a child, I learned to disregard public opinion and society's remarks. That was easy because I wasn't really a part of normal society. What they said or thought didn't really have any bearing on me as I operated in my own separate world ruled by its own laws. Now that I've become part of "normal" society and am hopefully a fully functioning member of it, things like public opinion do directly affect me, in the way of promotions and performance reviews and friends. Having friends is like leaning on a stick. Once you learn to lean on a stick, when someone pulls it out from under you, you fall over. For someone who's had to stand alone for most of her life, having a stick seems like a welcome relief but also is a peril as it exposes weaknesses and increases the chances of falling on your ass that much more. Public opinion at work is where the major effects are. And as someone who's only recently learned to navigate the treacherous waters of a world that includes more than just yourself, it's irritating, frustrating, and seemingly uselessly important. There are times when I seriously consider going back to my fringe world and heading into the realm of academia where you can be a certified nut and still be respected.

Hiking the Grand Canyon this week put me close to nature again for the first time since I left high school. As I looked at the canyon walls and the natural amphitheatres, something tugged inside of my mind. Something familiar and comforting. But try as I may, I couldn't get a grasp on it. It hovered right outside the edges of my thought. That was when I realized that the magic was gone. Whereas I would usually indulge myself in an orgy of fantasizing about cave gnomes or canyon elves peering out from their hiding spaces to look at me, what I saw now was merely the beauty of the canyon. It held nothing more under the surface besides a sense of awe that these rocks and these walls have seen a millenia of things go by, generations of people, and experienced an unimaginable amount of events. Had I become just like everyone else? Is this a sure sign of growing up? The more I thought about it, the more I pinpointed the slow fading of magic to college. At first I thought that perhaps it was the urban setting of school. It's hard to think of faeries when you're stumbling over homeless men on your way to class, dodging cars, and wondering if you're going to get mugged on your way home from the library. But upon further thought, I realized that the belief in faeries probably faded because I no longer needed to believe in them. I didn't have a need to belong in their world anymore when I suddenly belonged in mine. It made me a little sad.

I thought about it as I stared out the car window and my brother complained about me ignoring him while he was talking. I thought about how nice this past week was, to just spend it with aching muscles and sweat. My brother and I hiked a good 6-12 miles each day. You'd be surprised how unperturbed you get about eating trail mix with the same hands that just scrambled on rocks and scrabbled in dust. When it gets to hour 10 of hiking, you really care about nothing besides getting water and salt into your body while taking yet another digital picture of every view around the corner that somehow impossibly seems to be better than the previous one. I walked away from this entire week with a terribly sexy backpack tan, about 200 digital images, and a feeling of somehow being very far from the girl I was when I left high school.

A few things haven't changed though. A childhood spent in solitude may be viewed as a tragedy by some, in hindsight, I'm not sure it was quite the tragedy that it seemed to be. I had a lot of color in my life. I was a secret princess, a faerie child, or an undiscovered X-Men. I'd spend afternoons climbing trees and reading books instead of fretting over the intricacies of high school gossip. I didn't worry about boys or prom dates, because the non-existence of such possibilities negates the possibility of failure. If anything, I treasure alone-ness even more now than I did before when I had it in abundance. I always felt like I related to the Unabomber for that reason. When every news show was commenting on his hermitage in the mountains, I understood why he would shy away from everyone. I could understand the comfort and yearning to just be alone, the peace of nature, the relief of not being judged all the time. As Milan Kundera defined it: Solitude - the sweet absence of looks. I miss it sometimes. And yet I know I can never quite go back. There are times though, when I wonder whether I was stronger back then than I am now. Dependencies always worry me. Because dependencies that are human are never dependable, due to the natural fickle qualities of human nature and society.

Regardless, although I can no longer answer the call of magic in the forests, the peace and sense of comfort I feel in mountains and rivers and trees is something that's never changed and something that I plan to go back for regularly. Like a pilgrimage for my soul. Perhaps the magic of the Great Outdoors hasn't really gone away. Maybe its nature has just changed to fill my changing needs.

2003-05-25T11:44:00.000-04:00

Las Vegas. City of Extravagance.

My brother and I landed in Las Vegas yesterday morning. Although we arrived at different gates originating from different cities, both of us had the same reaction when we stepped out into the airport. "What the hell?!" Slot machines greeted us. Money truly runs this city. As I watched the Bellagio water show though, I realized that Las Vegas, although a city of modern decadence, reminded me more of the olden times. Older civilizations. Perhaps a la Romeo and Juliet times. When they had the House of Capuleti. I could see Las Vegas being a city of a fantasy novel. Run by clans of thieves that warred against each other. People would align themselves with one House or the other and learn their skills. And they'd put on fantastical water shows as an exhibition of their wealth and power.

Walking through the casinos, I decided that I liked Las Vegas. This was a place of dreams. There was no bitterness in this city. As bitterness is defined as a lack of hope. A despair. Every old lady pulling the slots, every baseball-capped young man at the tables was there because they had hope that they would win it big. Fantastical dreams of making it. These were people who dreamed big and did something about it. With every roll of the dice. Everyone here has a story to tell. Everyone who works in Las Vegas has a story to tell. After all, very few parents would "approve" of their child working in Las Vegas as a dealer or dancer. I walked around and wondered what the story behind each person was. And thought about how these people lived in the city of fantasy and dreams and wondered what that fact said about each person there.

And. I thought that perhaps my life wasn't so bad after all. Being a Vegas dealer is always played up in the movies. But quite frankly, I noticed that a lot of the dealers had the same expression on their face that I have when I'm checking my 604 rows of Excel. I didn't really gamble, but I played the investor in my brother. Told him I thought he had a lot of potential and said that I would subsidize his gambling. I'd cover half his debts if I also got half his winnings. And I'd back him up with his fake ID. Pretend to be his girlfriend. He wasn't too thrilled about that last part. I wasn't too thrilled either at the end of the day. I'm down 25 bucks. Small peas when you're talking Vegas, but that's a lot of losing when you're playing the 25 cent Video Poker. He played a couple of the tables as well. Mainly blackjack.

I found the whole thing rather amusing. The non-expression on the player's faces. The tap on the table if you want more. This is serious business. What I did realize though, after an extensive talk with my brother about the probabilities being slightly skewed for the house, was that the success of Vegas really had nothing to do with probabilities and the dealer always winning. The success of Vegas had more to do with human psychology. The wild hope that next time, next time you'll win. Because statistically speaking, if you play for long enough, you're bound to win. In my brother's case, the success of Vegas had more to do with the male ego. He lost about 30 bucks right off the bat at the 10 dollar table and won it back just as immediately. But he felt like he had to keep playing so he wouldn't look like a wimp, leaving the table as soon as he broke even again. We'd been there for about... 2 minutes at that point. Money changes hands fast around here. He could never play just one hand and walk away.

Vegas deals in dreams and hopes, and is the one place where such intangible things can be assigned a value. How long do you play before you give it up? How much money is your pride worth? Today, we head to the Grand Canyon, where my own bitter dreams have gone to die even before I've gotten there. No mule ride down the canyon, no whitewater rafting. After all, I didn't think to make reservations 2 years in advance. Silly me. My last bastion of hope, the Havasu Falls, died yesterday when I called to see if they had any vacancy in their lodge mid-week, and found out they were booked through June. That was the most crushing of all. I was looking forward to that.

On a brighter note, my brother grudgingly admitted yesterday that maybe... I'm not as busted as he usually tells me I am. But then he added quickly that I need to work on my thighs as I've obviously gained weight since he last saw me. Aw, thanks. Such love. Let's see if I buy you that digicam you wanted.

2003-05-22T22:30:00.000-04:00

Rain.

It's funny. I was driving in to work this morning through NC's fourth straight day of rain and thinking about how what is an inconvenience now was a blessing a millenia ago. Rain meant growth, and growth meant food and life. Now, rain more likely means death as it makes the roads hazardous and the office floors slippery. It's made a 180 from being loved and revered to becoming detested.

I rather like the rain. I like how it makes the world grey and misty. I like how nothing has hard edges and instead is blurry and muted. Everything has a halo around it. I like how the rain drips down my face. I don't like carrying umbrellas. I like how the trees look wet and happy.

You don't truly appreciate rain when you live in the city. Because you're in a concrete jungle. You don't feel how parched the land is. You don't see, you don't smell the thirst that is quenched when it rains. You don't step into the wonderful squelchiness of saturated earth. All you see is the hissing steaming sidewalks, smell the wet homeless men, and step in dirty puddles. There are benefits to being in NC. It keeps me grounded in a way that Central Park and Prospect Park can't quite do. Kind of how there are city dogs and farm dogs, Central Park and Prospect Park lack the wildness, the soft boundaries, the untamed quality that non-urban parks have. If parks were people, Central Park would be the well-manicured, well-groomed, sophisticated beauty. NC would be the apple-cheeked farm girl.

2003-05-22T03:16:00.000-04:00

Bullet points pre-Vacation: 10 days at the Grand Canyon with the parental units and brother.

1. My brother's flipping out over a few B's on his transcript. Freshman year for him is pass/fail. As if he hasn't already beaten me into the ground just by virtue of the fact that he's at MIT.
2. I forgot to pack pants. All I have are a bunch of little tank tops. How could I forget to pack any pairs of bottoms? What was I thinking? No tan lines?
3. I am awake at 3 am on a Wednesday night, and I've got a client training session tomorrow, 9 to 5. I'm going to fall asleep and get fired.
4. I can't find a copy of the severance package policy on our firm's online portal.
5. I figured out what bothers me about my firm. I'm used to being one of the most anal people. I work with people who are even more anal. I didn't think that was possible. There's something seriously wrong when I'm considered the "laid back" one.
6. I hear that girls in hiking boots are sexy. I hope that's true, because one thing's for sure, hiking boots themselves are not very sexy. The salesman at Paragon gave me a funny look when I made that comment. And he replied that any girl in hiking boots is sexy even if the boot itself isn't sexy. I bought a pair. I'm such a sucker. Tell me I'm pretty once a month and I'm yours. He's such a good salesman.
7. If you want to go rafting down the river in the Canyon, you have to make reservations a year in advance. What the hell?!
8. If you want to go hiking INTO the Canyon, you have to make reservations a year in advance. Again, what the hell?!
9. Hiking shoes are damn expensive. I got the cheaper kind. Sneakerish. Low top. Still over 100 bucks. Good Lord. I could hear the thoughts in the salesman head. "Stupid girl. Typical. Not a REAL outdoors person. Let me offer her the cheaper model with the pretty blue color that offers less ankle support. She'll be distracted by the pretty blue."

2003-05-20T21:31:00.000-04:00

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell. I know right now you can't tell. -Matchbox20

So. It's finally happened. That thing that anyone who is corporate has been telling me will only be a matter of time. I cried at work.

I started out irate. Manager Big Dawg gave me the most biased, unfair, and irrelevant performance review ever. For someone who sees me once every 3-4 days MAYBE, he sure had an awful lot to say. I have never seen anyone so full of hot air. "Nine has trouble keeping commitments and promises." After intense questioning, he admitted that that statement stemmed from the time I was 5 minutes late to the first meeting. He refused to change it. More accurately, that -should- say, "Nine has trouble predicting traffic patterns in foreign cities when she first gets there."

I was helpless. And that was what drove me crazy. Not having any recourse. I called my old team lead, Supervisor Z, to see if he had any suggestions for what I could do. And that was when it happened. As soon as I heard his voice go "Hello?", I could feel myself start to crack. By the end of the conversation, I was trying hard to keep my voice from shaking and to sniffle quietly so he couldn't hear. As soon as we hung up, I cried my eyes out for a good 5 minutes inside the phone booth. The dam was broken. Anyone who walked by the booth at the time must've thought I was nuts. I tried to pull myself together. Good grief, get a grip on yourself. It's completely unprofessional. We're not 14 anymore where you cry in the bathroom because the teacher was mean to you. The irony of it all was that it wasn't cruelty that made me crack. It was kindness that revealed the chinks in the armor.

I updated my resume tonight. Prepared it for deployment. The question is no longer "Where to?" but more of "Anywhere that's not here." I'm so desperate for escape that I'm likely to take whatever offer comes by first. Not the most prudent or careful of paths to take, but I trust that God will set the right things before me. I am closing my eyes for this one and taking the plunge headfirst. Deal with me as you will, Fate.

2003-05-19T22:02:00.000-04:00

Reality Bites.

Sometimes I wonder if its all a conspiracy, this whole fiasco we call work. Almost every one of my friends has had their ambition squashed by the realities of the real world as we sit in our respective cubicles, miles from each other but all sharing the same experience. The "collective consciousness", as opposed to Carl Jung's "collective unconsciousness", connects us to every other 20-something similarly despairing over the fading of exciting dreams of really making a difference somewhere and still living a good lifestyle as we stagnate in a pool of Excel sheets and Power Point presentations.

Why is it that the people who truly do good in this world are the ones least compensated? Why is it that the ones who are rewarded the most by society are usually also the most unscrupulous? What kind of incentive system is this? What kind of mentally challenged sadistic God set -this- up? If the world itself is not a merit-based system, then why did we expect anything else to be? Why are we brought up to believe in it only to be rudely dumped into reality? It's like allowing you to use a calculator all through high school and then taking them away for the SAT's.

The largest disappointment of all is the disillusionment itself, not necessarily the source of the disillusionment. You can't blame the world for being itself, just as you can't blame the SAT's for not allowing calculators. I never thought, as I burst out of the gates of college that all that would be waiting for me was a 50 foot drop off a cliff. And as I lay crumpled on the sharp rocks below, I start to realize that no one is going to pick me up, dust me off, wipe away my tears, pat me on the butt and send me on my way. In fact, there is no movement around me, except the slight stirring of the broken bodies around me, my other fallen comrades.

And the vultures gather. The vultures, who are the builders of this cliff. They gather and watch us struggle. That's the conspiracy. Sometimes I wonder if they're all out to purposely squash our youthful zeal and cotton candy dreams. I wonder because I don't understand it. They too were young once and laid at the bottom of the cliff, shedding their tears. They know what it's like. Lux cut through an empty conference room once and saw the bullet point on the agenda - "How to make your analyst feel like he/she is worth something." Why do they participate in the squashing of analysts? Knowingly so?

The only answer I can think of is the "Do unto others as was done unto you" motto that seems to exist in the corporate world. And so continues the vicious cycle of spirit breaking, soul crushing, dreams fading as we're pushed into choosing between material rewards/recognition vs. doing good but living in abject poverty. Is it really so surprising that so many young 'uns opt for the lifestyle? Especially when the hard-learned lesson is that the world is not merit-based after all and does not reward the meek. Do we work towards the amorphous promises of a better afterlife if we do good or work on improving what we know?

And the people wonder why becoming an adult seems to mandate becoming a shadow of your former self, seems to dictate a struggle just to maintain your sense of self-worth. We are but a generation of Icarus's, armed with wax wings flying towards the sun, only to melt.

"Icarus ignored his father's warnings and thrilled with the power of flight, flew too close to the sun and perished. Daedalus flew to safety and later erected a monument to his son, who has remained a cautionary symbol warning of the incautious exuberance of youth."

2003-05-18T18:17:00.000-04:00

Sharing is good.

I'm a squatter!!!!! We're wireless down in our NC apartment, so I lugged my laptop and its corresponding wireless card back to New York this weekend to see if I could find anything useful up here. I flipped my laptop on and lo and behold - there was a signal!!!!! I'm sitting on someone else's network right now. I can kiss DSL goodbye.

It's so sad. Winona Ryder gets a thrill out of stealing expensive clothing. I get my thrills out of stealing internet access.

2003-05-17T00:24:00.000-04:00

Prom: The Grown-Up Version.

We've got a firm formal this Saturday. Part of me doesn't want to go. It sounds like quite the snobby affair. All the men are wearing tuxes. Originally, I had rejected the idea. The last thing I want to do when I get home is hang out with work people all trussed up. But then I thought, wait a second, I take so much crap from this firm, there is no way in hell I'm missing this event. If I don't load up on the perks, there'll truly be no redeeming qualities. So I called up Lux and asked her to come with me as my date. I can't imagine any of the analysts will bring real dates since all of us travel so much and have schedules that preclude us from having any sort of interpersonal relationships besides the ones that exist within the office. Yes, the firm motto should be "You won't need another life, because we -will- be your life." People might think we're a lesbian couple. But who cares? The guys will love us!

So I dug up one of my old college formal dresses and found one of my old college strappy sandals. As is evident, I haven't moved on much since college despite my shiny new job and my glamorous consultant lifestyle. Perhaps we'll run into some single, good-looking, and equally bitter and disillusioned smart male analysts. Because there's no way I could ever date someone who thinks all this rocks and is gung-ho about it all. I'd be forced to kill them.

2003-05-15T22:13:00.000-04:00

Conversations with Brin.

B: Where were you? I stopped by your cube. I saw a man there instead.
N: Yeah, I have to share a cube. Sorry, I was in the bathroom.
B: I stopped by twice. You were gone for a long time. Bad lunch huh?
N: .....I was napping.
B: In the bathroom?
N: I like the handicapped stall. It's got this great handrail that you can put your arm on and then rest your head against your arm.
B: Oh my God.
N: Don't tell anyone!
B: Oh my God. You fool. You should use the phone booths instead. They've got padded seats in there.

Brin is one of my favorite analysts in NC. He's got this great jug of animal crackers by his cubicle that I eat from daily. He squeals, "MURDERER!!" whenever I come by. "When the jug is gone, I will no longer have anything to lure you to my side of the building anymore!" Hearing that is -such- a pick-me-up during the middle of a terrible workday. Plus, anyone who's got "Bake cookies for Nine" on his wipeboard "To Do" list is a winner in my book.

I've got this theory that you can pick out who's going to make it in this firm and who isn't based on personality types. I've met a whole lot of super cool analysts. A couple of cool consultants. A few cool managers. It's a y=1/x graph, and it's not coincidence. It takes a certain personality type to really make it at this firm. Brin doesn't take himself seriously enough to make it. I'm predicting that he quits within the next two years. I'm not going to make it. I can tell by the games that are going on around me that I don't have the right drive to play them. I trust too much. Let my guard down too soon. Laugh too easily. Wear my thoughts on my face. I'd be terrible at poker. I don't think I have the smarts to play the political game well. I was thinking about all this as I was running today. The team lead, Consultant "Big Dawg" recently wrote my performance review. The other consultant, Not-Team-Lead had lunch with me in pretense of being friendly. I saw right through it. I could see the power play she was planning, and I knew she was going to use me as a pawn. I may not know how to play the game, but I'm not completely stupid. I can see the strategies, spot the maneuvers in a heartbeat. See her grab for power, her attempt to upset Big Dawg. I was an unwilling participant, but I had little choice.

I ran for 45 minutes after work today, running out all the excess energy pent up from the day, the anger at being part of Not-Team-Lead's powerplay, the resentment at having no control over my life, the frustration at my own inability to just suck it up and play the game. Linkin Park pounded in my headphones and strengthened my resolve. I may not play the game well, but I refuse to lose at it. I'm not going to play. From now on, everything is strictly work. I go in, do my job, and leave. Superficial chitchat at best. I will not be anyone's pawn, I will not be manipulated, I will not be used. I will not trust anyone.

2003-05-14T21:17:00.000-04:00

When Men Have Sex On The Mind.

You can tell a guy wants to sleep with you when he keeps turning the conversation to sex. It started off with "I have the solution to all your problems." I fell for it. I thought maybe he'd found the perfect career for me or won the lottery and was willing to split it.

"What? What is it?"
"You need to get laid. When's the last time you got laid?"
"When's the last time -you- got laid."
"Been too long. Too long."
"I don't think getting laid is the issue. Any girl who really wants to get some can get it whenever she wants. There's always some guy out there willing to help her out."
"You're missing my point. You can't just get laid. You need to get laid RIGHT."
"Are you offering?"
"I'm pretty good in bed you know. When a girl asks you to do her because her friend slept with you and said it was the best thing ever, you know you're good."
"..."
"Why are you laughing?"
"....no reason."
"Man, you think I'm an egotistical whore now don't you."
"You said it, not me."

He said he'd call me later on this week to try and redeem himself. He's bordering slimey based on conversation topic, but strangely, I'm attracted to his confidence. The go-getter attitude that seems still aloof. He says dangerous things while not coming off as disgustingly stalkerish. It's an attitude. See, this is what gets me into trouble. He's got "playa" written all over him. And here I am, half-falling for it. I like to think it's due to the rampant drought I've been experiencing lately. Tack the travel onto it, and you've got a girl with rapidly dropping standards. You'd think I'd learn by now. I need to start dating some nice boys.

2003-05-09T23:29:00.000-04:00

Traveling.

Pet Peeves.
1. Girls who are purposely loud in order to attract attention to themselves.
2. Guys who sit at airport gates and call every person in their cell phone books, leaving messages.

The latter was sitting two seats away from me today at the gate. I felt bad for him. He had a special U.S. Airways luggage tag on his carry-on, a sure sign of a frequent traveler. I felt bad for him precisely because I knew how it felt to a lesser degree, and the lesser degree to which I felt it was pretty damn bad. He was calling all his friends in the few free minutes he had before boarding his plane. No one picked up. I shamelessly eavesdropped on him leaving one voicemail after another. "Just calling to see how you're doing. Sorry I haven't really been around lately." Even if one of them had picked up, I knew how the conversation would go. "So... what have you been up to? How've you been? I haven't seen you in so long. We should have brunch sometime." Except "sometime" never happens. Because when he gets home, all he'll think about is crawling into bed and being alone. Recharging. Like the cell phones and digital cameras and laptops that we buy with the paychecks that we've paid for with our souls. Because what else are we but little machines to our respective firms? I watched him leave voicemail after voicemail and was thankful that I was sitting at the gate with my roommate. He wasn't very attractive. But I sat near him anyways, because I was attracted to his humanness.

The life of a traveler is a lonely one. The only constants in our lives are the airports, our laptops, and the occasional book that accompanies us. Everything else slides by us like oil on water, spinning around faster and faster until everything - the endless string of managers, the endless drone of clients, the millions of aiport gates, become a blur. A dizzying blur of movement - constant movement and change, until your eyes can't follow anymore or pick out anything, nor do you care. The only things standing still in the midst of all this chaos is your luggage, and your laptop. And these stand out in stark relief against the backdrop of swirl and noise.

My luggage. I've had it since college. As it came out of baggage claim after my flight from hell last week, I noticed that it had a small but noticeable tear in it. I stuck my finger in there to confirm it. Yup. Undoubtedly a hole. I looked at my battered companion and suddenly felt sad affection for it. It sat there on the airport floor and looked back at me, a reflection of my life after college thus far. Bruised and battered by the winds of chaos and change. Or, in my case, by the ludicrous performance reviews and uptight managers. We were both travel weary, my luggage and I. I wondered whether it was a sign. After all, I do feel like the very fabric of me is wearing thin and transparent. And unlike my luggage, I won't be duct tape-able.

When I got on the plane, I saw him again - the boy. He was sitting in first class. Another sign of his frequent travel. He looked miserable. I wondered how long it would be until I became as miserable as him.

I didn't know that it would only be a matter of an hour. As soon as I found my seat, I settled down and promptly fell asleep. My body woke itself up an hour and a half later, at 6 pm, which is my usual landing time at La Guardia. I looked out the window and marveled at how nice of a day it was in New York City. I turned and asked the lady beside me why people weren't getting off. She turned sourly at me and said, "Honey, we're still in North Carolina." That was only the beginning. We sat on the runway until 7:45 pm. I listened to the lady behind me talk on her cell phone loudly the entire time, "I'm in hell Steven. When we hang up, just you remember, I'm in hell!" I wanted to grab the seat cushion that can be used as a flotation device and club her over the head with it. SHUT UP LADY!!! YOU'RE MAKING MY PERSONAL HELL THAT MUCH WORSE. She was coming back from the Bahamas. I got up to use the bathroom, and as I was standing in line, I heard myself speaking as if in a dream. I couldn't believe it, I was saying it, the thing I imagined saying to the airline stewardess during last week's flight from hell. "Excuse me. Can I just get off this plane?" She looked at me. Shrugged and motioned for me to follow. I couldn't believe it. Was I getting off? I was. I got off and bought pizza from California Pizza Kitchen. More of the plane's passengers were leaving and wandering the terminal. You know it's a bad sign when the pilot steps off the plane as well. The control tower eventually unmixed itself, but then they couldn't get all the people back on the plane. By the time I got home to New York, it was 10 pm. And I was surprisingly resigned about the whole thing. After all, it's not like I had plans for a Friday night anyways.

In the cab on the way home, I looked out the window and felt this strange sense of calm and assurance. Why do I worry so much about everything. It's really not that big of a deal. When I'm feeing lonely, I have this tendency to propagate the loneliness, isolate myself, as if I could push it to a point where I feel it so sharply and so intensely that I get used to it and turn numb. Why do I do that? It seems awfully self-defeating. You know what, there are people out there who -really- care about me. There's no reason to feel alone. My parents obviously love me a lot since they call me every week, worried, and then I yell at them. BABAE J. loves me to bits, how can she not after living with me for 3 years of college, partying with me through 2 subsequent years post-college, and surviving together through both of our ex-boyfriends and subsequent pseudo's. And Lux, who hauls her ass to New York City when I don't feel like spending the weekend by myself. My brother, who called me last weekend, worried and asking me if something was wrong because I left him an instant message saying "I love you." Ha. Brothers. Kenmore, who I haven't spoken to in months since he got a girlfriend, but who I know would be completely devastated if something happened to me. There are people who love me and think I'm pretty damn cool. And if people who I think are cool love me this much... This has to mean that I'm at least as cool as they are. I thought about it. Dammit, I -am- pretty damn cool, once you ignore the uptight business-casual crap, disregard the permanent bitch look I have on my face at times, and have the patience to wait around until my "I'm too tired to be anything but boring" phase passes.

I felt... good. Even despite my crappy job. Because what really matters in the world, I have. What is truly important in a life, what defines it, isn't the job you work. It's the people who love you. What really matters in the world are the people who know you inside and out, the people you've allowed into your heart and who've let you into theirs. And I've been very lucky in that sense. There've been people who I've let into my heart who haven't let me into theirs, and those used to cause me a good deal of grief. But there's so many other people who -have- let me in, and who love me despite all my tragic flaws. What more could you ask for than that?

I thought about my future. And it no longer seemed like such a scary decision. I'm still scared, but now it's more of a challenge. Instead of being afraid of myself and of making mistakes, I'm only afraid of my own cowardice and its potential to cut me off at the knees and stunt me. Life dictates that you should rise to the occasion. And if you don't, then you'll really only have yourself to blame.

2003-05-09T10:51:00.000-04:00

I wish everyone had jobs as fascinating as ours. -Lux

I am currently checking 604 rows of someone else's Excel sheet. Whee!!

2003-05-08T22:54:00.000-04:00

Cooks in the Oven.

We tried to bake cookies. It was a mess. Patty (my assigned roommate in NC) and I decided that we should make efforts to be more domestic. She's from New York also, where we have tiny kitchens. We wanted to take advantage of our nice one down here. After all, we're smart high powered career women, it shouldn't be that far of a leap to make it to "good cooks" as well. So instead of studying for our standardized tests coming up, we baked. The actual cookie-batter part wasn't that hard. Instant-mix, it's a beautiful thing. Trouble started to brew when we baked them. We thought we were home-free, this is supposed to be the easy part. That is, until smoke started pouring out of the top of the stove. Is that gas? I don't know, does it smell like gas? Are ovens supposed to work like this? I've never baked before. Well, the cookies will be done in 7 minutes. 7 minutes of gas inhalation can't be that bad right? Just don't light a cigarette, let me go open a window or something. Okay, this definitely smells like gas. Will it set the smoke alarm off? If it does, we can blame it on the faulty stove. Do you think we'd make headlines if we died? "Corporate analysts at major consulting firm die due to cost cutting on corporate housing."

Seven minutes later, we pulled the cookies out. Are they done? I don't know, how can you tell? Let's poke it. I think it's okay if they're soft. I heard they keep cooking while they're cooling. Are you sure? You said you never baked before. I read it somewhere. Stop it, you're making a hole in the cookie. No worries, I'll just offer this one to my consultant. I'll tell him I made it special, JUST for him. Do you think we'd get blamed if we gave everyone at the office salmonella poisoning? I think they need to go back into the oven. Can you rebake cookies? I don't know. I don't see why not, they're still batter, right? Just warmer and harder. Well, let's try it for a few more minutes.

Another 7 minutes later, we're standing there, watching the cookies cool for another 15 minutes. 15 minutes later, there's 2 cookies left. We somehow ate the rest while "testing" to see if they were cooked long enough. One of them is the one with the hole. I'm weighing eating it vs. offering it to my consultant tomorrow morning. I managed to get melted chocolate on my thigh. I didn't notice until I sat down at my laptop later and noticed the smears. I tried to eat it off my leg but couldn't contort myself enough. I had to wipe it off with a napkin sorrowfully. Wasted chocolate =(.

2003-05-08T21:27:00.000-04:00

Holiday.

Let's go away, you and I, to a strange and distant land.
Where they speak no word of truth, and we don't understand their ways.
Holiday, far away, to stay, on a holiday, let's go today, in a heartbeat!!!

Don't bother to pack your bags, or your map, we won't need them where we're going.
We're going where the wind is blowing, not knowing where we're gonna stay.
Holiday, far away, to stay, on a holiday, let's go today, in a heartbeat!

HEART BEAT! HEART BEAT!

*sigh*. (*wistful*).

2003-05-07T23:23:00.000-04:00

The Long Road.

I'm in a state of stasis right now I think. In a state where I've ceased to worry about things because quite frankly, I've ceased to care. I find comfort in routines, where I push everything away and think of nothing but the everyday things. What to eat for dinner. What to pack for lunch. Did I bring my gym clothes. Yes, I've joined the gym. Although I have to say that I'm a bit disappointed in it. All I do is run on their treadmill and take their disappointingly low key funk aerobics class. I can run on the road for free. The sole source of my enjoyment these days is lunch and running - an activity I used to heartily hate. But now, I relish the opportunity to disconnnect my brain. To just run and think of nothing but my heart pounding in my chest, feel nothing but my feet pounding on the road, hear nothing but my breathing - the whoosh of air in and out of my lungs, worry about nothing but a far off niggling doubt about the long term impact on my knees. In fact, the main thing going through my head when I run is how similar my body is to a machine. A car. Running is like driving a car on the highway. Warm it up. Start it off slow to break it in, and as my heartbeat starts to speed up and I breathe, I imagine the blood coursing through my veins. I think of the muscles in my legs pushing and pulling like the pistons in an engine. I feel the sweat coming out of my pores. And as I run, I feel clean, like I'm being purged of the day. I am not human when I run. I am not me. I have no thoughts, emotions, or feelings. I'm a machine.

2003-05-04T22:23:00.000-04:00

weekend.

parlay. cafe mogador. street fairs. union square. more street fairs. nap. sugar. compusa. barnes and nobles. X2. quintessence.

2003-05-02T21:36:00.000-04:00

From Hell.

I just got off the flight from hell. My flight time was increased one hour due to inclement weather. We circled around Manhattan twice, dropping a few feet in altitude every few minutes due to turbulence and then rising back up. My stomach was -not- dealing well. I felt thoroughly sick after about 5 minutes and wondered why airplanes don't have puke bags the way buses do. I turned my green face downwards and saw my own apartment building sliding by through the grey clouds. I briefly entertained the idea of making a break for it and throwing myself out the emergency exit. I could see myself floating downwards, my business skirt billowing in the wind and the stiletto pumps making a V formation, a la Mary Poppins, as I hurtled headfirst toward the roof of my building. To keep myself sane, I started to play a game with myself. What was I willing to do if I could get home -right- now. I decided I was willing to pay up to 1000 dollars. I was so nauseous and miserable I wanted to claw my throat out. I had that gross feeling in the back of it, bile rising - the ultimate indicator of severe nausea.

The plane banked and dipped a few times consecutively (not helping the situation) before coming in for a rough landing. Rough enough that I grabbed the back of the seat in front of me and my heart leaped into my throat. We sat on the runway for another 20 minutes. I started to quietly go crazy. I had to get off the plane. I had to. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to be home. I pressed my thumb against the window when in reality, I wanted to shatter it with my fist and climb out. I wondered whether my shoulders would fit through the porthole. Probably not with the extra weight I've gained. I was -this- close to being hysterical. I could feel it rising. I played with the edge of my skirt instead and studied it. I thought about getting up and asking the flight attendant if she'd let me out right here and I would just walk to the gate. As I thought about it, I could feel myself start to cling to the hope that maybe... just maybe she'd say yes. Another sign I was going nuts. Belief in the impossible. I squashed the thought. I knew that if I actually did ask, and she said no (as she inevitably would), I might tear up, discard the remains of my dignity, and beg her to please, please, please just let me off. I really need to get off right now. I wondered if I would get arrested as a terrorist if I held up the plane like that. I could see the headlines. "Pressure gets to corporate analyst. Goes crazy on plane." It'd be an addendum to the "White Collar Sweatshop" editorial that was published in U.S.A. Today last fall. Maybe they'd discuss this issue on 20/20. What would cause an otherwise seemingly sane and successful analyst to ruin her life in this manner? Maybe Oprah would talk about the psychological motivations and environment that would cause this to happen, like they did when the Columbine shootings occurred. Perhaps it would spur a revolution in corporate policy towards analysts and their quality of life. I continued on in this fantasy while I waited for the plane to pull up to the gate.

I waited at the baggage claim, I prayed that the next piece of luggage that came out would be mine. Fifteen minutes later, with still no luggage in hand, I proclaimed out loud that there is no God. The young Hassidic Jew beside me moved away. It took me 2 hours by cab to get from La Guardia airport to Manhattan due to traffic and weather. I turned on my cell phone to call Lux, only to realize that the battery was dead. I flipped on Jack Johnson instead on my MD player. There's something about Jack Johnson that goes very well with cabs and rain. I stared out, comatose, concentrating vaguely on hanging on to the last shreds of my sanity. The only thing that shook me out of my reverie was a firetruck full of firemen that passed by. Firemen are hot. I think the cabbie sympathized with me. He handed me a stick of gum.

I got back to my building, only to realize that I'd left my apartment keys in my jacket pocket, which I'd left down in North Carolina. I trekked back down to the lobby to get my spare keys, let myself in, dumped all my stuff, flipped my desktop on, to find that my DSL had died. No internet connection. I couldn't believe it. No connection. I spent an hour on the phone with Verizon. It's back. But the nausea from the flight hadn't gone away. I have a birthday party to go to tonight. One in which I was expected to drink a lot with the birthday girl.

I leaned over the toilet bowl hoping I would puke and the nausea would go away. No puke. I lingered there for 15 minutes.

I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

2003-05-01T21:03:00.000-04:00

Life imitates Art.

Sometimes I sit in the conference room during a meeting and stare out the window, basking in the one hour of natural light I get per day and enjoying the view of other buildings and smokestacks. The discussion becomes background hum as I'm too caught up between daydreaming and concentrating on not yawning. If you hold a yawn in for long enough, your eyes start to water. Then you can concentrate on not blinking to dry them out faster. Sometimes I look around at what the other women are wearing and note the unbuttoned blouses revealing cleavage, the transparent shirts, the sandals, and marvel that I have a "points for improvement" on dress code in my records for showing a bra strap by mistake on my boatneck sweater.

Today, I'm sitting idly, wondering what I'll be criticized for. I haven't seen my consultant yet today. I stared out the window and could see myself with my mind's eye, floating in front of the window in surreal Salvador Dali-esque fashion. A flesh colored form without really any substance. Just a collection of small flesh-colored flat squares floating and rotating in the general shape of the representation of me. Surprisingly small and compact for someone as tall and lanky. Like those magnetic little silver squares from the 90's that sit on black magnetic blocks. You could mold and shape the little squares for amusement with your fingers, creating larger structures. Little squares fly off of the form occasionally, until eventually so little is left that you can barely trace the outline of where I used to be. Then, what's left suddenly contracts and bursts outward, the little squares fly away from me, through the windows into the distant sky, and little squares fly towards me, landing on the conference table. I watched with interest as Dali-Nine was literally picked apart.

2003-04-30T20:05:00.000-04:00

The Enthusiast.

[email to friend]
Brand Spanking is so cheery it drives me nuts. He announced that he doesn't mind staying here for 5 days. He also announced that he'd rather go to an "educational" meeting than the "new analyst social" that conflicts directly with it. Good grief. At our weekly status meetings, it's always "Brand Spanking resolved X number of problems this week!!!" Then a pause. "Nine is still working on documentation." Great. I'm trying to figure out if I was this annoying back when I was new. In a nutshell, I suck. And my consultant apparently knows it. I get regular emails entitled "professional advice." So far I've been criticized for:

1) yawning at a meeting.

2) my away message. i was in a hurry and slapped up the "Playing Game" default away message by mistake (I am not available because I am playing a computer game that takes up the whole screen). I was told that there wouldn't be any formal documentation written up about it "this time".

3) being 2 minutes late to a meeting because I had a bathroom emergency

4) coming in at 8:30 AM instead of 8 AM. The client doesn't get here till 9 AM. He swings by to check on me.

5) leaving at 6 pm instead of 7:30 or 8 pm. The client leaves promptly at 4:30 pm. He swings by again, to check on me.

6) asking for time off for a family vacation end of May. he said we might have to "compromise" and have me join my family mid-week. The client already told me that things will probably be slow at that time and to go ahead. He said "we don't know how hectic things will get at that time". Meanwhile, my dad is sweating because the longer we wait, the more expensive the plane tickets get.

Yesterday, I wondered whether it would be too smart-ass to put up an away message of "I am NOT playing a computer game that takes up the whole screen. I am merely not available." But I decided that I shouldn't since I still haven't gotten my vacation yet.

Everyday is a new surprise. I wake up in the morning and can't wait to get to work to see what I'll be criticized for today!

-n

p.s. I get my one-month performance review in a few days. I'm so excited for it I can barely stand it!

2003-04-28T22:28:00.000-04:00

Lemmings.

I learned a lot of things in LA this weekend. I learned that coolness is all in the eyes of the beholder. I learned that I like Newcastle. I learned that I could drink a surprisingly large number of "half-yards" of beer without puking. I learned through the resulting conversations what a Dirty Sanchez was ("I'd never really do that though. Why would I want to put my finger in that?" "Well, why would you want to put your penis in it then?" "...") Why is it that alcohol plus mixed-gender company always results in talk about sex? I learned how to crack a crab to eat it. I tasted raw oysters for the first time.

But the largest lesson, I learned after the vacation was over. Due to a glitch in planning between myself and my firm's intentions, I had booked my flights from New York. Two weeks after I paid for them, I was shipped to North Carolina. Figures. This means that I had to haul myself from JFK, where my flight from LA landed, to LGA, where my flight to NC was leaving from. As I sat in LGA waiting for boarding time, it dawned upon me.

The spectre of going back to work had suddenly loomed up, and instead of wanting to face it down with gritted teeth and intrepidness, I wanted to cry. The thought of going back to work is never pleasing after a vacation, but it wasn't just a reluctance to go back to work, it was downright despair at the thought of it. And cry I did. It was like I'd suddenly hit a brick wall. I leaked tears and dialed my best friend, Kenmore, who I hadn't talked to in weeks. We'd drifted a bit in the past months, but he's still the one I call when get upset. There's something about his line of reasoning that never fails to comfort me. The dry humor that makes its point. And makes me laugh. But it didn't work this time.

I had suddenly realized that there was nothing in my life that had any sort of redeeming qualities. I didn't have a boyfriend because I'm traveling all the time and don't have the energy to work on relationships (it's not because there's anything wrong with -me- of course). I didn't have any friends because I'm never in New York for long enough to catch up with bills, much less people. I didn't have any hobbies because I get home from work so late that it's impossible to do anything worthwhile. And the paycheck? I haven't seen a bit of it because it all goes to rent and paying for these damn business casual clothes that quite frankly, I wouldn't be caught dead in on a normal basis. The only toy I've bought for myself was a new digital camera. And this was 10 months after I started working. I bought it with great guilt on my mind.

I snufflled quietly and leaked tears because I hadn't realized how unhappy I was. Unhappy, after all, is a relative state. And when you've been unhappy for such a long period of time, it's easy to stop feeling bad about it, because it's become the norm and you've forgotten what it felt like to -be- happy. It must be a survival skill that humans come standard with. Otherwise, us corporate hacks would hurl ourselves off of cliffs at an alarming rate like Lemmings. This past weekend was wonderful. I remembered what it felt like to have friends again. To wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and LIKE myself. To look forward to the day. To have friends. To just be... happy. Truly happy.

And I sat at the gate thinking about North Carolina and how I have to spend 8 hours a day being fake and peppy, which leaves me completely drained and cheats my friends of peppiness when I'm back in New York. It's like I have a standard quota of it and it gets all used up during the workday. I thought about living out of a suitcase and how much I've come to hate airplanes. Whose bright idea was it to combine business travelers going from New York to NC with vacationers going from New York to the Grand Cayman Islands via NC? I thought about how I think about quitting everyday. How I have a feeling I'm going to get myself fired at this rate. How I'm not sure if I would care. I thought about what I would do if I quit. How I can't quit unless I have another job lined up. The rent. My student loans. This economy isn't exactly optimum for "finding yourself" in. I thought about what kind of job I wanted. Not really sure. I thought about how under most normal circumstances, if I was interested in journalism or science, I could take a night class and test the waters to see if it was something that I really wanted to do before making a career change. But the number of hours I work per week makes it impossible for me to take any sort of night classes. I was trapped. Effectively strait-jacketed.

I wanted to get out. But the nature of the job itself had made it impossible for me to get out. How am I even supposed to interview at other places when I'm not in New York for the weekdays? I wished I had a passion or a talent that I was so good at that I could have the confidence to give up everything to do it. But at best, I'm average to above average at most things. Kenmore pointed out that most people are average at everything. Small comfort.

I thought about my conversation with Yelofngr this past weekend. I hadn't seen him in years. But things hadn't changed much. I thought about how vehemently and thoroughly I had argued for my chosen path of going to law school. And rewarding myself with 3 months of backpacking in Oz if I got in. I thought about the straight flow of logic I'd laid out before him as to why this was the best choice. I thought about how really, I was only proving my point so cohesively for myself. Because I needed to believe it. I thought about how good I am at convincing myself of things, how wonderfully I can construct paper castles for myself.

I thought about how everything had collapsed. And how trapped I felt by my supposedly shiny new job straight from college. It's never the problems themselves that worry me. It's only when it seems like there's no directions to head in, that there's no plausible solutions that you start to despair.

And Kenmore couldn't say anything. Because he himself is headed in the same direction, and he himself is trying to desperately avoid the train wreck that I'm in. "I don't think I'm qualified to give advice. Because I think you're me in three months."

By the time my flight landed in NC, I had recovered. I wasn't half as upset anymore. I'd accepted my fate with grimness and resignation. I'd rebuilt my paper castle after it'd temporarily collapsed. I'd buried myself in Asimov's Foundation and shoved all the thoughts to the back of my mind and smothered them. And somewhere inside, I both cursed and blessed this survival tactic. It promotes apathy and inertia and leaves us trapped. That's how the disgruntled middle-management is made. But it keeps us sane at the same time. Otherwise we'd go berserk and lose ourselves to despair. Lemmings. Dropping off a cliff.

2003-04-24T01:13:00.000-04:00

Who said the South was laid back?

I was reprimanded last week for yawning in a meeting.

This week, I was reprimanded for having the wrong away message up.
"I am not available because I am playing a computer game that takes up the whole screen."

I came back from my meeting and had a message waiting for me from my consultant. "Please remove your away message. I realize you're trying to be facetious but we have to make good impressions here." I couldn't believe it. "Playing game" sits right below "Default away message" on my AOL Instant Messenger. I was in a hurry to make it on time to a meeting. I must've mis-clicked. It's -obviously- a mistake. "Well, the first 2 weeks are freebies. I won't write up formal documentation on it." That was when I snapped. I told him that even if there was formal documentation on it, I wanted to make it clear that it was an honest mistake.

But he hates me. He hates me because I put pressure on him. When he said he wasn't sure about whether I could take vacation the last week of May, I told him that I'd hate to put my family as second priority to my job, especially since it's precisely -because- of my job that I travel so much and never get to see them. And he hates me because I asked him why I need to come in at 8 AM when no one else gets here till 9 AM. I can't do any work without the client anyways. I'm not sure what he expects me to do in that time. Am I supposed to charge the client for thumb-twiddling time? "We need to make a good impression. I'd like to break away from their schedule and set a standard for them to meet." I have a feeling it'll just make them hate us.

Every day, it's a little "professional advice" here or there. Every day, I get slapped on the wrist for something. If I could make it through one day without being criticized, maybe I wouldn't entertain fantasies of hurling my computer monitor over the cubicle wall with all my strength. Whee!!! And then calling out "Who did I hit? How far did it get?"

2003-04-21T23:17:00.000-04:00

Pop!

Drivel. Pure absolute drivel.

What is blogging but the lunatic rantings of a mind insane enough to believe that people give a shit about the crap that's spilling out of your brain? What is a blog but the sign of an ego large enough to think that what it says matters, that its thoughts would be interesting to anyone else but itself. What is a blog but a newsletter starring oneself. A physical manifestation of an ego stroke. Every time you want to tell yourself how great you are, you can look at your blog.

I used to wonder why I blogged. I'm still not sure. I am sure that it's not because I think I'm so great. Half the time I think it's drivel and I ponder deleting an entry. Other times I re-read and think "Hey, this is somewhat enjoyable." Other times, I read it and am embarassed. Jesus Christ, what a psycho. Then I ponder ending it all. It's better to be a secret psycho than a public one. I used to think it was about organizing my thoughts. Writing forces you to straighten things out in your own mind so you can present it in nice neat little rows. But recently, I've lost the capacity to present things neatly. Thoughts spill out like verbal diarrhea onto the page with no cohesion or logical train of thought. A meandering path with no purpose. What the hell.

Now I think I blog because it gives me a false sense of being published. And along with the sense of being published comes all the confusion. Just as an author may be embarassed by a certain terrible article he wrote for the sake of earning a penny to pay the bills, I am embarassed sometimes by the inane drivel that spouts from my mind. Just as everyone else may love that terrible article, in the heart of the author, he hates it. Because he thinks it's terrible. Sometimes I hate it.

I used to not understand River Cuomo from Weezer. I love Pinkerton. I think it's the best album ever. I hear that he refuses to play many songs from that album at any concert. Because he hates that album. But now I think I understand. Because when it comes down to it, everything you create, whether idly or passionately, is a reflection of yourself. And no matter how many people say you look fabulous in that dress, if you look at that reflection and think you look like crap, you're going to feel like crap. I say this not because I'm fishing for sympathy, but because I truly believe it. Sometimes.

Feeling cute is half of being cute. And that goes for more than just writing.

2003-04-20T11:13:00.000-04:00

Old friends. Love 'em.

I saw BABAE J. yesterday and suddenly realized how much I missed her. Somewhere during all this thinking and deep-down digging I've been doing, I came up for air and realized that I was drifting, lost in my own thoughts. And I suddenly missed my mom and dad like crazy. And my best friend Kenmore. As well as BABAE J. I thought about college and how much fun it was. How I thought I was miserable. Maybe this will all turn out to be similar. Perhaps I'm having tons and fun and don't even realize it.

After all, it's not like I'm going through this alone. BABAE J. worries about the same shallowness that I seem to be afflicted with. Perhaps we're just not adventure gals. Kenmore is trapped in his own hell as he graduates this year and starts his own reluctant descent into corporate America at JPMorgan. And H. H just quit her elite firm to work for non-profits. Of course, just like how H2's parents are supportive of her going to Thailand, H's parents are currently supporting her rent as she "finds herself." I'm starting to see a direct correlation between supportive parents and people having the freedom to find themselves.

Why am I so concerned with meeting new people when I have a perfectly great set of friends? Teflon invited me to go to Miami for vacation in June. Lux wants to go camping in June. Get all anti-corporate and not shower for 3 days straight, yeah! And my high school friend JL2 still calls everyweek to see if I want to go rollerblading, even though I've said no to him for the past 3 weeks straight. He rocks for still thinking I'm cool. Perhaps I should just suck it up. It's not like I really have all that much to really complain about. There are times when you're so concerned with looking towards the future and what's "best" for you that you don't enjoy the present.

My new New Year's resolution is to be a hedonist.

2003-04-19T23:19:00.000-04:00

Got passion?

BABAE J., our third college roommate H., our friend H2, and I met up today to watch Better Luck Tomorrow. We hadn't gotten together as a foursome since ew were in college together. Interesting movie. Don't quite get the title. But if it means what I think it means, I'm not sure if it's fitting. A bit too light for the heavy material in the movie. Overall, I'm not sure what to make of it. It seems like it wasn't sure what it wanted to be: a coming of age story a la John Cusack or Reservoir Dogs, a funny light movie or a heavy one. The movie couldn't make up its mind and flipflopped between funny scenes and drastically serious ones. Or, to be more accurate, it seems like it lost its focus midway through. Its purpose seemed to be to prove how even a seemingly ideal life can be stifling. How it can drive people to do rash things just to feel like they have control over their lives. How the motivation to succeed may be driven by other motives besides benificent ones. As the movie aptly stated, "As long as we were at study group, our parents didn't care if we were out till 4 AM. And as long as we kept getting the grades, they never questioned us." How often have I used that? Too often. The better I did in school, the more my parents left me alone. I could relate all too well. But the theme of breaking-the-cycle and the monotony of day-in and day-out expectations and performance seemed to lose its place to special effects and violent scenes as the movie went on. It's like the movie lost its train of thought and suddenly veered off on a tangent. I'm not sure what the value of the ending was or how it was relevant to the plot. In fact, I felt that it was evident that the movie had a dominant male hand in there. I could easily picture the guys in the cutting room looking at edits and saying "Whoa! That scene looks sick!!" "But it's irrelevant to the plot." "Who cares? It's cool!" And they're absolutely right. The scenes -were- cool. I was impressed by the camera angles and such. It looked like they were reveling in the moment of technical effects. But it still didn't quite fit into the picture. If this was meant to be a coming-of-age story, it's a pretty twisted one. And not exactly one to be light-hearted about.

However, I do appreciate the fact that it breaks the Amy Tan mold of Asian America. Joy Luck Club made me cry when I first watched it, and it still makes me cry. But the fact remains that Asian America is so much more than what Amy Tan presents. Better Luck Tomorrow in that sense made its point. That we're not really all that different. Same sorts of problems that all teenagers face. The movie had mass appeal. Anyone of any race could identify. I appreciated the fact that it was an film that featured Asian Americans but wasn't about "being Asian American in America." How many times has -that- horse been beaten?

After the movie, H. left, leaving BABAE J., H2, and I to have coffee. We discussed our lives. H2 got a fellowship to go to Thailand for a year. She's taking off in late May. BABAE J. and I both were envious. She's getting to do such cool things. But even as we were envious, we knew we were needlessly envious. Even though we would like to do such things, we'd never have the courage to do them. Everyone has two paths to take in their lives. The high-risk path and the low-risk path. H2 was going for the high-risk path. BABAE J. and I are low-risk type of people. As we listened to H2 talk, I realized that she had courage and passion. She was willing to give it all up on the off-chance that this could be her life calling. She was leaving behind her family, her friends, and a loving boyfriend.

Talking to H2 always makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. I want to -be- her. She's the sort of person I wish I was. But as I thought more about it, I realized that I wasn't sure if it was possible for me to be like her. It boils down to different priorities. I'm too shallow. I used to beat myself up about the fact that I didn't have the courage to take chances and just fly off on a jet plane to foreign countries. I used to call myself a coward because I would daydream about it, but not do anything. Walk the walk, bitch, don't just talk the talk. But I'm starting to realize that just as the blonde booby girls in high school were a completely different breed of girl than I was, H2 is a completely breed of girl as well. And just as I could never be blonde and booby, I'm not sure if I can ever be like H2, no matter how much I yearn to be. The fact is, I'm shallow and materialistic. And she isn't. If I worked her socially conscious job in New York, I wouldn't be able to take a vacation to LA next weekend. I wouldn't be able to live in Manhattan near Central Park. I wouldn't be able to buy nice shoes. Are these things really -that- important to me? I'm not sure. But I do know that I like having the capability to have the things I like. Perhaps I -am- just shallow.

Perhaps it's because she's known since she was in high school what she wanted to do. Maybe if I had an idea of what I wanted to do, instead of merely knowing what I -don't- want to do, I'd have that sort of passion and drive as well. After all, it's hard to have passion and drive for.... something that you haven't identified yet. Maybe it boils down to the simple fact that I've realized that I'm probably not going to find satisfaction in a job. My life outside of my job means that much more to me. Maybe because all my mentors tell me that in the future, no matter how much I love that job, the job's going to be supplanted by things like kids and a family in my list of "things I love". And in that sense, wouldn't it be more practical to work towards a high-paying 9 to 5 job in anticipation of the job being topped in my list of priorities? And at the end of the day, a job is still just a job. Something you can't take with you when you die. So is it really worth stressing over finding a perfect fit?

I've spoken to a lot of people about this journey. I've talked to my parents, my friends, my co-workers, my stylist, people I meet in bars. I've talked to people from all walks of life, of all ages, hoping that maybe by hearing their thoughts on things, their experiences, their take on why they chose the paths they did, I could gain some insight on what I should do with my life. Research, I suppose you could call it. There are trends that exist, trends delineated by age. Everyone young thinks it's super important to find a job that you love and enjoy. Everyone older thinks its super important to find a job that minimizes the amount of time you spend at work and maximizes the salary. Two very different takes. I've decided that it boils down to priorities. When you're young, you really don't have much in your life besides your job and your friends. So obviously, finding a job you like is going to loom larger in your mind than anything else. When you're older, you've got other priorities - family. And then the job only becomes a hindrance to the amount of time you can spend with the people you love, and the job becomes a means to an end.

Practically speaking, the older people have it right. And I am a practical person. But I can't help but feel like it's selling out. I can't help but feel like H2 has the right idea. I can't help but wish that I had that sort of personality. But the fact is, I don't. I don't think I got the passion. When choosing between having a certain lifestyle and having job satisfaction, I hesitate and vacillate. H2 wouldn't. When I think about traveling for a little while, I start to get the guilt feeling. H2 doesn't. My parents would add onto the guilt feeling. "I didn't sacrifice years of vacations for your Ivy League education just so that -you- could take a year-long vacation in Asia."

I have the sneaky suspicion that H2 is going to make more out of her life than I will out of mine. I have the sneaky suspicion that I'm going to end up just like my parents. Upper middle class, vaguely discontent, 2.5 children, 1 dog, and 2.3 Lexuses in the driveway. My husband will come home, loosen his tie, and read the paper. I will drive the kids to soccer. I'll turn into my own nightmare and somehow not realize it because I've been brainwashed. Despite that, I also have the sneaky suspicion that even if I was to do what H2 was doing, I'd still be vaguely unhappy. Because it's just not me. It takes a certain type of person to be successful in that type of life. And I don't think I'm the right type.

I like to know things. I like certainty. When I was little, I used to make my dad fast forward to the ends of movies/cartoons before I'd watch it from the beginning. Because otherwise I'd get too anxious wondering what was going to happen. My dad would oblige, because the last thing he wanted was an anxious 6 year old on his hands. I'm not sure if my personality is suited for taking off on wild open-ended escapades. What it is suited for are wild escapades with endings. Like going backpacking in Australia for a few months if I get into grad school. Like going skydiving with Lux this summer. Like wanting to go spelunking in Belize for vacation instead of lying on a beach. I'm cautious. But I can't squash the bug for wildness. I'm the race-car driver that wears a seatbelt. I'm the motorcycle rider who wears a helmet.

And we all know that guys who ride motorcycles without helmets are hot. I suppose this makes me not-hot by my own standards. But I think deep inside, I already knew that. I'm not sure if I like myself. All paths of logic point to me being rather staid and boring, safe, depressingly practical, and rather unexciting. But just like I can't change the shape of my nose or the size of my boobs, I can't change my personality. I have a feeling that as much as I hate it, I'll have to accept this as part of who I am, and work with it instead of wishing I was someone different. Perhaps I'll compensate for my "playing it safe" career by having a wildly exciting after-work life. After all, going spelunking in Belize is going to cost a chunk of change. And chunks of change are going to have to make it to my bank account somehow.

That's the only thing keeping me sane right now in my job. I was reprimanded last week for yawning in a meeting. My consultant told me that he's only reprimanding me because he's "concerned about my career." I was thrilled that he was concerned with it because I sure as hell am not. But I keep going because I put the paycheck into my account and save towards a plane ticket to Australia plus any backpacking equipment I may have to buy. I've promised myself that if I get into grad school next fall, I'm going to quit next April and go traveling for three months in the summer. It will be my reward. And I'll feel justified in going because I'll have a post-traveling plan in place already. My parents won't be able to say a thing. All I have left is to convince one of my friends to quit their job and come with me.

I wish I wasn't so lost.

2003-04-18T22:56:00.000-04:00

Tired. But feel like writing. 8 am train tomorrow to meet with Lux. Necessary things to take care of. Too many to-do's. Why. Overall tired. Of everything. Worn out. Physically. And emotionally. Tired of trying. Hanging on. Hoping the next curve will bring fairer weather. Forecast is cloudy. Tired. Just tired. No more energy left to hang on. Giving up on things ever changing. Perhaps it's time to find a new road. With new comrades. Investment bad. Need to bail out before crashing and burning.

Lux and I. Boys. Bad news boys. We need to get out of the flaming car. Out. No loitering. But we hang around like feckless teenagers, flouting our personal set of laws. The flames beckon us to go and play. Enticing. Flirting with the danger of getting burned. Badly. Fire! Fire! We try to stay away but are enchanted by the flicker in and out of the flames, into and out of our lives, dancing at the edge of our vision, teasing, luring. We know better but our eyes can't help but follow, even as we drag our feet reluctantly. Reluctant. We are reluctant players in a game where we can't figure out the rules. A dangerous game. With high stakes. Every child is raised with the knowledge that fire is danger. But isn't that the lure of it. The knowledge that it's dangerous. The fear and the accompanying attraction.

They're like cigarettes. You want to smoke them even as you know that it's bad for you.

We squeeze our eyes shut to shut them out, to stop ourselves. But closing our eyes to shut out the mesmerizing flame doesn't work, as even without sight, we can feel the heat emanating from them. We know where they are even with our vision gone. We can sense them. Their proximity. Their thoughts. We carry the knowledge of impending disaster. And even as we stand frozen in fear while the flames lap closer, we're horrified and enchanted at our own heat that reaches out to meet the warmth and danger of the flickering flames.

2003-04-17T23:31:00.000-04:00

Past the point of no return.
No backward glances,
The games we've played till now are at an end.
Past all thought of "if" or "when"...

Lux is depressed. I think regardless of how much we try to be guys about certain things like dating and sex, when you get to the bottom of the bottle, we're still girls. We talk the talk but can't walk the walk. At least, not for very long. We do a damn good job of walking the walk at first though. We think like guys but then can't handle it the way guys can.

I think it boils down to the desire to be independent and freewheeling battling with the fundamental foundations of Girl-ness. We say we want to date around and we don't care. Sure. But come 5 months later, and you're still "dating" the same guy, you start to wonder if it's going anywhere. And that's when walking the walk walks you into a concrete wall. One night stands should be limited to those guys you will never see again. Because if you do the Friends with Benefits thing, you just end up feeling used. You're either purely Benefit Buddies. Or you're friends. No mixing hanging out with sex.

I have yet to do the one night stand thing. I'd like to say that it's something I'd like to experience, but I'm not sure if I can really say that. To be honest, I'm not sure how I would react to it afterwards. I'd like to think that I'd be cool about it. But is it really possible to squash the second X chromosome so thoroughly? Would I really be "cool" with it if the guy packed up and took off the next morning with only a "see ya sometime"? Probably not. What girl would? Who wants to the cliched "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am"? How is it that it's so much easier for guys to take sex more lightly?

2003-04-16T22:33:00.000-04:00

Solitude: The sweet absence of looks. -Milan Kundera, Immortality.

Again, I'm tired and worn out. I'm slouched on the couch in my corporate apartment in NC. All in all, I'd have to say that for all outward appearances, I've landed on my feet. I've got a nice apartment, 2 bedrooms, 2 bathroom, and 2 walk-in closets. We have a smashing kitchen (there is no better domesticator for a working gal than a nice kitchen, it makes you want to cook in it), a washer and dryer inside our apartment, and a dining room. Plus we get a car. Despite it all though, I'm feeling like a thin piece of thread-bare clothing. Worn. I really don't have all that much going for me at the moment.

My life is empty. What do I do these days besides work and party? I used to -do- things. I used to do activities, have passions, express opinions. Is the color slowly being sucked out of me? Is this the fate of every adult out there? To deteriorate from vibrant young individuals to grey forlorn adults weighed down by the responsibilities of bills, rent, and the unrelenting cycle of work, work, and more work until you reach a point where you're not sure where your job ends and you begin? These days, my feeble attempt at separating job from life is to log onto the internet when I get home, regardless of how late it is, just so I can feel like I do something after work. That my life isn't completely enveloped by work, working out (sometimes), and sleep.

I used to get real email. But even that's tapered off. "Checking my email" these days consists of cleaning out the spam so my box doesn't get full. In case I ever get real email. I don't blame my friends though. I've been a terrible friend. When I do reply, it's late, and usually slammed out on my keyboard in a hurry, a jumble and rush of thoughts spilled out onto the screen. Click "send" and it's gone. I don't even re-read or polish the email. It's nothing but a rough rush of colors, slapped onto a canvas and shipped away. I suppose it can be considered more raw and personal since it hasn't been re-read or edited. But I can't help but feel a bit guilty, as if I'm selling my friends short. But when I get home, the last thing I want to do is muster up the energy to be funny or witty. I want to collapse into bed until someone, anyone calls me. Thus proving that someone does love me besides my mom or the telemarketers. No one does. Unless it's one of my guy friends calling with girl problems. I've become the de facto Carrie Bradshaw, doling out sex advice like a cheap plastic Pez dispenser with a grinny face.

My roommate is out for the night. She has the car, which means I'm left in the apartment by myself. I was sitting watching TV when it struck me. I've stopped feeling lonely. I've stopped noticing the emptiness because it's so pervasive that I've become accustomed to it. Empty has become the norm. I'm wondering if this might be a survival skill. To learn to be alone and not mind it. Or whether it's a sign of oncoming psychopathic-ness. Like the Unabomber.

But the more I think about it, the more I think that being alone has different meaning now. I choose to be alone. I revel in it. The silence. The bliss. The sheer comfort of reading a magazine on my bed. Alone. I spent the past 3 weeks alone. You'd think that I would've had enough of it. But after last weekend's whirlwind of bars, birthday parties, and social events, I'm feeling the need to isolate myself again. My roommate and I don't usually get in each other's way. We have our own bedrooms and bathrooms, but just having her out of the apartment feels nice. And so much is chaotic in my life right now that she's just another variable in my environment. I need to feel more stable, and being alone is the only source of stability I have right now. Being alone means that there are no variables. Just objects in my environment. I like the solidness and certainty of objects.

2003-04-15T21:49:00.000-04:00

The world has turned and left me here. -weezer

I'm tired and worn out. I'm sick of the rat race, in every sense. Physically, the race to be tan and fit. Emotionally, the race to compete for the limited number of nice guys in the world. Professionally, the race to the top of the ladder. I've had it. I'm tired of all the outstanding issues in my life. I'm tired of having them sit on my desk and wait. I'm tired of hanging on to hopeless ideas and unsure people. I'm tired. And I'm giving up. All I can think of right now is a life without any more of this. An empty desk. Nothing pending, nothing on hold. Anything without the loose ends tied up is being tossed. Most of all, I'm sick of all the talk about boys. Is this what my life has deteriorated into? Work and boys? I used to -do- things. My life used to be rich. I used to be more. How can it be that 20-some year old women revert back to 14 year olds and talk non-stop about guys all day long? Is it because all of us are so work-worn that all we have in our lives to talk about is the possibility of improving it with love? I can't do anything about my work-worn life, but I can end the madness. No more hoping. No more emotional crap. I've had it. I refuse to go out at night anymore. It's a waste of my time and money. And I never meet anyone besides guidos, stockboys from CVS, and boys who invite me to fake brunches just so they can get into my pants. I'm tired and frustrated. With myself and with the world. Do we have three-heads or something? Why is it that we never seem to meet anyone sane and likable? I'm declaring a boycott on bars.

I hate the dress-up process and the underlying competitiveness with other girls. It makes me want to be the antithesis, despite its seemingly self-sabotaging qualities. I think its because I recognize that it's a battle I can't win. I am not trim and fit. Because I work a zillion hours a week. I do not have a savvy haircut, because I can barely be bothered to blow dry it, much less style it. Because yes, I look at girls who fit the "hot" image and feel resentful. As a girl who's been brought up to succeed, I feel like the world has suddenly changed the rules on me. We were taught to excel, to exceed expectations, but no one bothered to tell us that men feel intimidated by such women. That men like to be the powerful ones. That by being successful and smart, we were in fact decreasing our success in the emotional arena and increasing our chances of staying desperately single. What sort of motivation is that? What kind of drive can we possibly have when we know that by striving for success, we were in fact dooming ourselves to a life of spinsterhood? What woman is willing to die alone and lonely for the sake of a career? And then people talk about the glass ceiling. It's not about the glass ceiling, it's about society.

So I look at these hot girls and feel resentful and cheated as if they had secretly known the rules the entire time and I had been hoodwinked. If I had known, then I wouldn't have spent so much time studying for school and spent more time flipping my hair and making my boobs grow. I feel like I've been told that the world is a game, and then dropped into the "real world" with a handful of monopoly money that suddenly has no value. I think it's in avoidance of this feeling of failure that I suddenly feel the mad desire to cut my hair. Out of insecurity springs a passion to deface onself, to make oneself unattractive, almost in an effort to rebelliously in-your-face say a proverbial "fuck you" to the world, a mad scramble for a secure hold in the superficial world of image. Out of fear of failure, I find the drive to provide a convenient excuse for failure. In order to save myself. It's not because they're better than me. The world really operates by -my- rules. It's only because the guys are too shallow to see beyond the long swishy hair and perfectly tanned bodies. And so I wear my short pageboy cut and pale pot belly with pride, as if they're symbols of my disinterest in everything around me. I wear my out-of-shapeness defiantly, to contradict every other girl out there who's desperately trying to attract the perfect man by running everyday and doing a thousand crunches each night. I try to combat the shallow superficiality of myself and the world by becoming the anti-stereotype of the "hot girl".

I cut my hair and refuse to go to the gym in my boycott of image. But this doesn't mean I'm boycotting myself. I wear short skirts if I want to. I wear tall boots if I feel like it. I let my roots grow out just because. I do what I please, most of the time. The rest of the time, I make sure to do what wouldn't please the world or conventional views. I wonder if I'm going through a second rebellious teenage period. Or whether the overwhelming time I spend at work conforming to the firm standards of being so fucking pretty and nice that has skewed me to the other extreme.

My mom begs me not to do it. Boys love long hair, she says. Cut it after he's in the bag, she adds. Makes logical sense. Does any girl really want to spend the rest of her life alone? I don't. But for some reason, I want to throw it all to the winds madly. The fact that my mom makes so much sense makes me want to do the opposite even more. Somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice whispers that the only person I'm hurting is myself with my headstrong plunge into the world of android unattractivity and surly rebelliousness. But I don't care right now. I just don't. I'm tired of feeling competitive, I'm tired of slyly seeing if I measure up and feeling like I don't, I'm tired of seeing pictures of super-cute girls with big anime eyes and feeling inadequate. How can it be that some people pull a perfect hand out of the gene pool? I'm tired of worrying about whether I'll grow up to be a spinster the way my mother claims. I'm tired. And fed-up. And angry. I'm taking myself out of the race. I refuse to be a part of this. No more waiting. I'm done. I've had it. Capice?

2003-04-10T22:43:00.000-04:00

"You ask what hope is. He (Aristotle) says it is a waking dream." - Laertius Diogenes, Lives of Eminent Philosophers (bk. V, 18)

There comes a time in a girl's life when she has to let go. Of many things. Her family, her need for security, her dependence on her friends. There comes a time when one must learn to stand on her own two feet, shakily at first, but hopefully firmly as time goes on. There comes a time when one must learn not to count on people, because people, being fallible whimsical creatures, come and go at will, like a chair that suddenly disappears from under you, leaving you to collapse on the floor. Thus it's best to look at the chair and admire it, pat it once in a while, but stand firmly on your own two feet and leave the interaction at that. Interaction at arm's length.

Is this what the world has come down to? When a 22-year old girl feels like she can't trust or lean on others? Perhaps it's not a fault of the world at large, but a fault within me. Perhaps I lean too heavily on others. After all, is it the coffee's fault that you're tired without it? Or your own for developing a dependence on it? It's gotten to the point where hoping is equivalent to dependence. But instead of being a chair that you rest on, or a coffee equivalent, hope is a wall that you lean on. It's that inbetween stage of dependence where you're still standing on your own two feet so you won't land on your ass, but when it disappears, you still stumble as hope provides a crucial third point for your balance.

Hope for girls is defyingly long-lived. Like the menstrual cycle, hope ebbs and dies, and ebbs and dies again. They say that women experience this phenomenon called "selective amnesia". Doctors speculate that selective amnesia occurs most strikingly after childbirth. That it's a genetic trait that has specifically been selected for, since women who experienced selective amnesia after childbirth conveniently forgot about the terrible experience and thus reproduced more than women who didn't have selective amnesia. I think that selective amnesia happens also in women who've had terrible relationships or maybe not even terrible relationships, but had not-so-positive experiences with men. What else could possibly cause these women to go back again and again for more? What else would drive these women to keep trying after being burned with men who are inconsiderate, men who can't commit, men who are only in it for the game. If men took the beat-down that women take on a regular basis, they'd be sitting on the bench recovering from the bruised ego. But that's the main difference between men and women. Men are the ones who went out and hunted down the game. Fought the tigers. Defeated the enemy army. They showed fortitude and courage and drive. Women were the ones who carried on as widows, who survived as single mothers, who scratched out a living sometimes at the expense of their dignities. Women showed resilience. Men showed strength.

And at the base of that very resilience is hope. Hope seems to be woman's strongest and weakest flank all at once. That we can hope forever, even when all logic dictates that the odds are against us and to cut our losses and bail. Hope is what keeps us going, drives us to try again and again, traps us in unhealthy relationships, and defeats us. After all, disappointment proportionally grows in magnitude with the size of hope. In that case, are women doomed to be forever disappointed?

I'm not sure. I'm not sure if hope is something that's limited to just women. In fact, I know it's not. Women just contain a greater capacity for it. After all, why do we hang on to guys long after its over? Why do we continue to care for some of them despite the lack of reciprocation? Why are women more prone to doormat behavior than men? Why are men considered "womanish" or "whipped" if they exhibit these traits? Why do women all think similarly in the vein of - "Well, maybe if we meet again 5 years down the line... He'll be different and it will work out." Why can't we accept that maybe this is the way they are and they'll never change? Why can't we just find someone who fits the ideal instead of hoping that someone who doesn't someday will? Why do we so often fall in love with the idea of who someone is instead of who they really are. Who are we really doing a disservice to? Them? Or ourselves.

Why is it so hard for us to just let go? Why do we continue to hope? Why is it that otherwise intelligent women can be so stupid about certain things?

2003-04-09T22:10:00.000-04:00

The Quest for A Maxi Pad.

I'm on the rag. Not only does that mean serious cramps, but that also means a pad shortage since I only carry a few in my traveling luggage. I get back to my hotel at 8 pm only to realize that I forgot to buy pads at the drugstore during lunch. And I'm completely out. Everything is already closed.

Step 1: The Hotel Giftshop. They sold a 30 pack of regular maxi's, but nothing with wings. And I wasn't about to buy 30 pads that I didn't like. There was a guy and a girl cashier, but I waited for the girl cashier to finish with the old man so I could ask her about it. Before she finished though, the guy asked if he could help me. I hesitated, and then asked him whether they sold pads in single packs or pads with wings. He turned bright red. He was one of those skinny pale freckled teenagers. He said that he didn't think they did. I asked whether there was a public bathroom around since all public bathrooms have little pad machines. You stick a quarter in, and a pad comes out. Like magic!! He said that he wasn't aware of any but he'd never been in a woman's bathroom before so he wouldn't know. But I could check the food court that's connected to the hotel if I like.

Step 2: The Food Court. So off I head to the food court, on the quest for a maxi pad. The food court is closed (of course), but the security guard asks me if I need anything. I ask him where the public bathroom is. He tells me that each restaurant has its own bathroom and they're all closed now, but he can let me into the security guard bathroom with the key if I like. I thank him and say that really, I'm looking for a -public- bathroom. He starts to look offended and says that if I gotta go, I gotta go, and does it really matter where I pee as long as there's a toilet bowl? I was forced to tell him that I'm actually not looking to pee, I'm looking for the little pad machine. He pauses. I ask him whether he knows where I can find one. He shakes his head and says he's never even seen one before. But I can try the hotel bathroom on the first floor.

Step 3: The Hotel Public Bathroom. Wild goose chase continues. The hotel bathroom has no pad machine, but it has two Hispanic cleaning ladies. Cleaning ladies! They have to know where I can find a pad machine. Little did I realize that they couldn't speak English. I tried to convey what I was looking for with my rudimentary Spanish and through hand motions. Finally, one of them gets it and says that if I'm a guest at the hotel, I can call housekeeping for it. Yes!

Step 4: Housekeeping. I get back to the hotel room and call Housekeeping. The hotel cleaning ladies should understand what it's like. But then I get an answering machine instead. I hesitate for a second and leave a message indicating that I need "something" brought up to my room and to please return my call. Half an hour later, my phone rings, and it's a -man- on the line, asking me what I need. I'm forced to tell him I need a pad. They don't have any. All they have are tampons. By that point, I'm sick of this whole thing so I tell him to go ahead and send them up. Five minutes later, there's a knock on my door. I open up expecting a room cleaning lady, but instead, there's a big black man standing there holding a plastic bag full of tampons. THEY SENT A BIG BLACK MAN. He hands me my bag of tampons, and I start laughing. I wonder if I'm supposed to tip him. He laughs and kinda waves a hand at me in an embarassed "aw shucks" sort of thing and ambles off.

So now I have a bag full of tampons I'm probably not going to use. And no maxi pads.

2003-04-07T20:38:00.000-04:00

Day One.

So. Today starts day One of the NC project. It started off terribly as I didn't fall asleep until 3 AM or so due to a mixed case of anxiety, stage fright, and anticipation of new-girl-syndrome. I crawled out of bed at 4:30 AM feeling like I hadn't slept at all and hauled my ass to La Guardia, where I was practically detained. A hint for those future travelers, women's purses now count as a "carry on". Before getting to my gate, I had to stand in a long line and walk through the metal detector. They made me take my boots off. Since they're long boots, I was forced to pull my pant leg up to take them off, holding up the entire line. If I'd known that I was going to be showing my leg off to the entire airport and security staff, I would've at least taken care to shave the night before.

Once in NC, Consultant GB gave me and Brand Spanking a tour of the facilities. He said we'd pass by a coffee shop along the way so I brought my purse. The coffee shop ended up being a little snack kiosk where we could get free coffee. And here I was thinking Starbucks. Hello yuppie. Everytime I step out of New York, I realize what a sickening cliche I am. I couldn't find any caps for my styrofoam cup. In my hurry, the coffee ended up too sweet but I put up with it and bravely smiled. As soon as the team and I started walking, the coffee started to slosh so I tried to drink it quickly. Within a few minutes, I was sweating like mad and hoping just as madly that no one would notice. And I'd burned my tongue.

Meanwhile, Brand Spanking and Consultant GB were bonding over the Final Four. How is it that guys can bond almost instantaneously all the time over sports? It's like some universal male language.

Plus, I had Fiber One cereal this morning. My roommate swears by it and says she lost 7 pounds in a month on it, without exercising. Lots of fiber means lots of trips to the bathroom. I wish I'd chosen some other day to eat Fiber One. I sit right near my team, so they know everytime I go to the bathroom. I can't even pretend that I'm going to some meeting since it's the first day. This is embarassing. Lux: "I bet they call you the piddler."

To top it all off, I've got some major cramps. About halfway through the day I couldn't take it anymore and hightailed it to the convenience store to drug myself up while my consultant was gone. During the 10 minutes I was away, he called my cell phone to ask me to look something up for him. I had to 'fess up that I wasn't at my desk. Also in the 10 minutes I was gone, the partner stopped by to welcome us to the team. When I finally got back, I was caught dumping out 5 boxes of single-serving Aleve onto my desk, thus publicizing that I either a) had a serious migraine b) am addicted to pain killers or c) was experiencing womanly problems. Way to make first impressions, eh? It's gotten to the point where I'm reading the warning on the box "Do not exceed 5 in 12 hours" and thinking that if I take one more and it makes the pain go away, maybe it will be worth the damage to my liver. Consultant GB did say though, that if I'm feeling "under the weather", I can go ahead and check into the hotel room a little early. I could feel the back of my ears turning red.

What a great first day. Yay me!

I've noticed interesting patterns down south here though.
Pattern 1: First Names
Clay. Russ. Hope. Bruce. Blair.

2003-04-02T18:43:00.000-05:00

Hey.
Listen to me.
You must TALK MORE SLOWLY down there in NC.
I can HEAR YOU IN MY HEAD WHEN YOU SAY THAT.
"Hey."
"Listen to me."
It's freaking me out man! FREAKING ME OUT!!!
Ahahahahahaaha.
I can picture you flying off the handle as you type furiously to me.
What do I look like?
Eyes wide. Twisting your mouth. Hands all over the place.
Oh wow. I look hot.

Half of our team is heading down next week. The other half is still undetermined. I spoke with a potential team member from one of the west coast offices on the phone today. He was talking so slowly it was driving me crazy. I wanted to say "COME ON!!! GET TO THE END OF THE SENTENCE!!!" There's 3 of us so far. Two analysts and a consultant. The other analyst is brand new. This is his first project, and he is so enthusiastic. So enthusiastic.

"Thanks for everything so far... I think we have a great start as far as team dynamics go, and I can't wait to get to work!"

This was in an email sent to our team lead. I only saw it because I was cc'ed on the reply. I'm a new analyst too since I've been here less than a year, but he is Brand Spanking New Analyst. Was I ever that enthusiastic when I was about to embark on my first project? Quite frankly, I don't mind being at the bottom of the totem pole as you can get away with an awful lot. It's one of the few perks. With the lower pay comes lower expectations and less responsibility. Less pressure. You can never sink lower than being a new analyst. But now, I'm practically the fake new analyst, and Brand Spanking is the real new analyst. I want to be at the bottom!! I'll be expected to know more than he does because I've been here longer. I hope he doesn't make me look bad. No pressure.... I don't like this. I don't like this at all. He already wins for team spirit.

I'm supposed to get certified for mortgaging before leaving for NC. I've been staring at this computer course all day.
Sounds very cool.
I know, doesn't it? You think I can use this at a bar? "You know... I've got mortgage certification..."

2003-04-01T19:51:00.000-05:00

Types.

The weekend in NC with Lux and her family was a typical suburban day, but surreal - fast forwarded ten years: a glimpse into the future, or rewinded 15 years: a glimpse into the past, depending on how you look at it. We spent the morning riding to the soccer fields in the family van to watch Lux's brother R's peewee soccer game. Her sister N's soccer game was earlier that day, but N was still running around in her soccer uniform and cleats. Sitting out there on the bleachers with all the parents, I shaded my eyes from the sun as I peered onto the field. All the little kids looked the same to me. Short people running around. I looked around at the parents sitting around me, and realized that a lot of them weren't much older than I was. They were all young, and fashionable - all the things that I never associate with parents. Are the parents of this decade suddenly cooler? Or am I just aging?

As N. wriggled her way under my arm and hid in my lap from a bumblebee, I absently-mindedly patted her for reassurance. I used to think that I would never have kids. I'd be the worst mother. I barely manage to feed myself regularly, much less children. Yet here I was, sitting among parents, acting like a parent with a little girl crawling into my lap and listening with fascination to my discman. It was like time flickered. Like slices of the present suddenly overlapped with slices of the future and I was somehow sitting on bleachers 10 years later watching a soccer game with my daughter squirming her way under my arms, yet I was simultaneously 22 years old, sitting on bleachers watching Lux's brother play peewee soccer and N. hiding in my lap.

I looked at the kids on the soccer field and wondered where they'd be 5 years from now. You could tell already which ones would end up being athletes and keep up with soccer, and which ones were likely to branch to other things. After all, even the science nerds in high school were probably forced to play peewee soccer at some point in their lives. I looked at the kids and wondered what would become of them, where they would end up falling in the high school hierarchy. I looked at the little girls sitting in the bleachers watching their brothers play, and I could already tell right off who was going to end up where in the hierarchy of girls. I could tell that this group of girls were "fashionable" for their age. There was one particular little girl, wavy blonde hair, confident in her pastel colored shorts, tanktop, and rainbow colored flip-flops. I could tell what kind of girl she would grow up to be. The popular sort that all the boys like. Because even at that young age, she had it - the awareness of and confidence in her femininity. I looked down at N., who had her hair tied in a ponytail and was climbing on the bleachers. I saw more of myself in N.

I wondered where N. would be in a few years. After all, I wasn't so unlike her. I preferred climbing trees and wearing high tops to wearing pastel colors and flipflops. In fact, I wasn't even sure I was aware that boys existed for an awfully long time. Or that I was a girl. I just... was. I wondered when she would lose her innocent oblivion. Probably when she starts to like boys and realizes that they all like little girls like the blonde. All little boys start off liking the same kind of girl. Their tastes only begin to diverge and differentiate as they get older. She'll look at those girls and wonder what they have that she doesn't. She'll start to question herself and become less confident running around in high tops. She'll hit those insecure teenage years. I looked at the little blonde girl, and looked at N. in her cleats, and saw all this. I saw how the blonde girl with her cool demeanor and standoffish attitude was fundamentally different from N. You could say she was more girl. But that wasn't it. N. hid in my lap from bumblebees the way all girls do. She had a crush on the referee. What it boiled down to was that they were two distinctly different breeds of girls. I marveled at how the differentiation started at such a young age between types of girls.

I looked at N. climbing the bleachers and wondered if she realized that these next few years would be the last time she felt completely confident in herself. Pre-puberty. I felt protective of her. Being a teenage girl is hard. She isn't going to find out about different breeds of girls until later on. She won't have the reassurance that later on, boys will like her too. She'll only have Lux's and my word for it. That there's nothing wrong with her. She doesn't have to wonder if she's a freak or try to be like those girls. And even if she tried, she won't be able to change her own nature. They're just... different from us.

I remember simultaneously being resentful of them and wanting to be like them when I was younger. Not because I admired them. In fact, I didn't really see why the boys thought they were so great. But at the same time, I recognized that this was what boys liked. And I liked boys. But I wasn't willing to make myself be like those girls. I was a bitter teenager. And so I spent most of high school feeling like I was shooting myself in the foot due to principles. Wondering what they had that was so great that I didn't have. Besides breasts.

I tugged on N's ponytail as she begged me to kick the soccer ball around with her. "Please?? We'll make this the goal, and we'll try to score against each other." No, I'm tired. Listen to the discman. Five minutes later, she was handing me 3 flowers picked from the soccer field. Little girls are wonderful. I only wished that little boys would be able to see it soon without causing her too much grief. Boys are stupid sometimes.

Maybe having kids won't be that terrible. Although I'm obviously out of shape and doomed. At a sprightly 22 years of age, I could barely keep up with an 8-year old. I was exhausted and passed out in the middle of the day. Only to be awakened by a little body crawling into the blankets with me, hot breath in my ear, and a loud whisper, "....Are you awake?" If it was anyone else, I would've been grouchy and annoyed. But somehow, it wasn't so bad.

2003-03-31T10:23:00.000-05:00

Because weekends were made for fun. -black eyed peas

Roadtripped from Lux's house down in NC back to NYC. Her little sister N. loved me. Had disturbing maternal feeling as N. hid in my lap from a bumblebee. Must re-examine biological clock.

Drove 10 hours through all types of weather imaginable - snow, sleet, hail, freezing rain.

Had the most divine chocolate at Lux's house. Broke lent =(. Made renewed promises not to slip again before Easter though. No more chocolate or candies!

Made pledge last night to run extra lap in Central Park today as punishment for breaking Lent. As soon as made pledge, felt justified in eating krispy kreme donut meant for this morning as a late-night-snack before bed instead. Yum.

Spoke to brother about his recent breakup. Am pleasantly surprised that he calls me when feeling bummed. Have suspicious feeling that months-long silence will ensue again once he no longer feels depressed (funny how it always seems to work like that). He's having all these doubts about whether he did the right thing in breaking up with his gf. Since I never really liked her all that much, I did my best to reassure him that he did the right thing. Was pleasantly surprised by all these thoughts, doubts, and moods he's going through. Wasn't aware that guys had complex emotions and thought processes (that are similar to women's) underneath the seemingly simple exterior. Am feeling somewhat more positive. Faith in men has been restored.

Have been given adorable stuffed monkey from FAO as belated xmas gift from old college roommate. Stuffed monkey is really a puppet, which means that I can stick my hand up its ass. Who makes these toys for kids anyways?

Was told that monkey was appropriate gift since she thinks it looks a bit like me. Not sure whether to be complimented (it's a -very- cute stuffed monkey) or insulted (it's a monkey).

Sleep with it every night clutched under my arm regardless. Perhaps have regressed to childhood days due to increased stress of having to act like an adult for 5 days a week.

New haircut from last Thursday makes me feel like Pat from SNL. Wondering if appointment made at 2 pm on Thursday for a 4:30 cut that very same day was perhaps on the rash side. Think it may be subconscious reaction to the overwhelming "I am a professional woman with nice long feminine hair and am overly-nice-to-the-point-of-being-fake" mold that proliferates at my company. Am wishing that rebellious tendencies took on other forms that would not affect my ability to attract men as I seem to have enough troubles in that arena. Attracting gas attendants, stock boys from CVS, guidos, and cabbies being symptoms of these troubles (and this was when I had -long- hair). Attracting gay men is not considered an acceptable substitute.

Am feeling quite happy as have extra week before being shipped out to NC next week for new assignment. Tentative deploy date: next Monday. Hopefully hair will magically grow to fashionable edgy 'do by then.

2003-03-26T22:37:00.000-05:00

=)

My dad is so cute. After yelling at me all afternoon, he finally said that he would do my NJ tax return for me, but I had to do all the rest myself. Then he sent me an email in the evening.

"Do you want to come home next weekend so we can work on your tax return together? Maybe I could help you put all the forms together. Bye. And we all love you."

My dad's been making a concerted effort to be more affectionate now that my brother and I have both moved out. He's the classic stiff upper-lip sort of dad. Never really touched us much besides a rub on the top of the head for a good job done. Would scowl ferociously whenever I hugged him goodbye. Gave me regular lectures on how strength is a virtue when I'd cry because he had to leave on business trips. Read the paper and watched the news when he got back from work. Worked around the house doing home improvement jobs in his spare time. We've been trying to move him away from the 50's and the restrained Asian mentality and more into the 21st century, where it's okay to have feelings. We used to complain about it all the time but he'd ignore us. I think he misses us more these days now that the house is empty, so he tries a little harder. I notice he hasn't quite graduated to "I love you" yet. But "we all love you" is close enough. Even it was obviously added as an afterthought. I'm sure he means "we all" as in, him and my mom. But we all know that my mom would never be caught dead near a computer, much less on email.

And come on, this is an -obvious- invitation home because he misses me so much. I can't wait. My mom wants me to help her buy a new camera, and since I've had my parents' credit card since I was 16 (although I've never used it. Sometimes my morality works against me) it'll be super fun to go browse for new electronic toys and use it. Next weekend is really inconvenient for me to go home, but I've always had a hard time saying no to my dad. Probably because he never asks for much. And I know he'd never outright ask me to come home. But wrapped in the excuse of taxes, it says enough. After all, he's the one who kept yelling on the phone today, "You only have 8 numbers to worry about!! Why's this so hard? Just email me your numbers and I'll do it!"

2003-03-26T17:39:00.000-05:00

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Taxes. I enthusiastically offered my dad all my W2 forms so that he could pass it on to our accountant to do. But he told me that I had to do them myself. Because it's important for me to learn to do my own taxes. Blah. I've got to file in 4 states.

I've paged him 8 times this afternoon already with questions about my taxes. And I just made it 9. He's going to kill me.

2003-03-25T08:34:00.000-05:00

Cagematch: National Anthem vs. 50 cents.

The national anthem used to be something I'd hear at athletic events, or something I was forced to sing in school before every orchestra concert and in homeroom. These days, the national anthem never ceases to make me stop in my tracks and tear up. Ever since 9/11, its started to have new meaning for me. It's no longer just a national anthem, but almost a mournful dirge. It doesn't remind me of how glorious our country is, but it makes me think of dying Americans, dying for the sake of a country, or for the country's mistakes. It makes me think of the people throwing themselves out of the World Trade Center, falling down in slow motion with their ties fluttering. It flashes war scenes through my brain (a la Saving Private Ryan since I'm lucky enough to not have any real war memories to draw on), troops dying also in slow motion. It makes me think of how human everyone is, even the chauvinistic male idiots in the bars. It makes me sad that I've connected our national anthem to such terrible terrible things, and it makes me angry that something, anything can have such an emotional impact on me that 2 years after it happened, hearing music that reminds me of it makes me tear up like some untrained schoolchild. Good God, have some spine.

I was standing in our living room, bending over to zip up my boots for work when I heard it wafting out of my bedroom. The national anthem was being played on the radio, by Z100 - not exactly the most solemn of stations. I immediately wondered who died. Flipped on the TV and only saw more coverage of the war. I came back to my room to visit cnn.com when the anthem ended, and was followed directly by Fifty Cents "In Da Club - It's your Birffday". And that disconnect, that juxtaposition captured America in its very essence. And I don't mean America as its represented by Bush. I mean America the population. We've got the MTV generation going through wartimes right now, and it's hard to really understand it. Do we merely protest because of some inner desire to be part of the Woodstock hippie generation? I'm willing to bet that a good half of the young protesters have that subconsciously going through their minds. It doesn't diminish the intentions of their effort, but just like two cars that run and serve the same function, what's going on under the hood does make a difference, if only in the long run. Logically speaking, I do realize that life has to go on. Life can't stop just because there's a war going on fifty million miles away in the Middle East, but it somehow feels wrong to be laughing on the phone about guys and worrying about whether my panty line is going to show at work when there are people who aren't that much different from me worrying about their lives. It feels wrong to be enjoying Central Park and the weather when some of my friends in ROTC have been dispatched overseas. I feel like we're supposed to share in the pain somehow. Help bear the burden. It doesn't seem fair that those young people (who -are- my peers) have to deal with it while I parade off to work and worry about how much I'll have to travel and whether my bra strap will get me in trouble again.

Every laugh, every joy, feels like a guilty pleasure when I hear the national anthem. But at the same time, I recognize that in a few hours, I'll forget again, and laugh like I always have, and complain like I always have. Just like how in the end, 50 cent's "In Da Club" will always reign in the minds of young people over the National Anthem.

2003-03-22T17:27:00.000-05:00

Latent Tendencies.

I like to cook. This is a fact I try to keep hidden from my mother as much as possible. If only so that I won't fall into the "good daughter" mold she's constantly trying to push me into. I browse the food section of Barnes and Nobles avidly and have purchased a few cookbooks. So far, I've only used the cookbooks to look at the pictures - which then make me hungry. I generally don't have a lot of interaction wtih my kitchen. Largely because I'm traveling all the time. But when I am home, most of my kitchen interaction has been fruity. I buy an awful lot of fruit. And I cut the fruit in the kitchen and put it into a bowl before I eat it. Or I pour granola into my vanilla yogurt while standing in the kitchen. That's been the extent of my kitchen activity. But today, in a burst of industriousness, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to finally, finally cook.

I started out small. Eggs, scallions, and tomatoes. A dish my mom used to make for me all the time. I ran into a few problems right off the bat. Despite the fact that I live with two roommates (who by the way, are getting a heck of a deal on the apartment since I'm never there), we are missing a cutting board, knives of any sort (besides butter knives), and a spatula. I'm friendly with my roommates, but I'm starting to get the feeling that neither of them cook very often. I sawed at my scallions with a fruit paring knife I managed to dig up and cut my tomatoes the same way. The result?

I never knew that three eggs would end up being so... much. Two eggs looked so astonishingly little after I beat them in the bowl that I felt I should add a third one. Big mistake. I feel like cooked eggs won't keep well in the fridge. I also realized belatedly that we don't have any rice. Regardless, I called my mom anyways. Because I wanted to know what was in her recipe for the bamboo dish she makes. And I told her of my conquest over adversity. Big mistake again. It ended up being a 45 minute long conversation about how I'm becoming so "wifey" now (*shudder*) and how she's so proud of me. It sets my teeth on edge. I called my brother to tell him of my cooking conquest as well. He was more appreciative. Gave me a "good job Jeh". A nice short 10 minute convo. See, that's what's great about guys. They keep it nice and simple and short. I wonder if I'll ever become a mother that never shuts up. Sadly, I think there's a good chance I might.

2003-03-20T16:47:00.000-05:00

Contingency Plans.

That's all I've been hearing about at the office today. I've been asked a few times what my "contingency plan" was. You know, in case something happens to New York. I drew a blank. Someone's got plans to drive to West Pennsylvania. Another advised them to avoid route 80, since that's what everyone's going to be using to get out of New York. They started pulling up maps online to plot the best route out of Manhattan. The bridges would probably be closed, so you'd have to go around.

I called BABAE J. What is this lunacy? She piped up that she had a contingency plan too. And she's not even in New York, she's in Hoboken. It's like having a contingency plan has become the latest fad. She offered to help me make a "flee pack". I'm supposed to carry this thing with me wherever I go? What am I supposed to put in it? I guessed a flashlight, some granola bars, water, and a switchblade knife - in case I have to cut my way out of whatever I'm buried under? Also for self-defense, BABAE J. added. Good God. If anything does happen to New York, I'm not going to make it. I can barely run 2 miles in Central Park without being sore for days afterwards or slice fruit without cutting myself. She's got a car, so she's going to drive up to Syracuse for her contingency plan. She figures, no one's going to bother to bomb Syracuse. She told me to make my way west of the city, to Westchester, and she'd pick me up there. How am I going to get to Westchester? Walk? That's what the flee-pack is for, she explained patiently. Survival. Make sure to put a raincoat in there too. And socks. She'll call me on my cell and find out where I am. And don't forget my cell phone charger. My cell phone charger? What does she think I'm going to plug that into? It's not like they have electrical sockets out in the woods.

That's when I realized, gosh - if something was to happen to New York and my cell phone battery was to die, I'd seriously be in trouble. I don't have anyone's phone number memorized anymore. They're all in my cell phone book. There's a sign that I'm getting too dependent on technology. Not that having their number memorized would be of any help anyways. If New York was wasted to the point where I'd be stranded somewhere long enough for my cell phone battery to die, most likely, anyone I could call (if I had their number memorized) would be unreachable anyways. Especially since all the numbers in my phone book are -their- cell phone numbers. And if my cell phone died, most likely theirs did too. Technology is definitely my weak flank.

And what am I supposed to really put in this "flee-pack"? Am I going to need to put pads and tampons in there? Contact solution? I looked up "urban survival" on Google and got a lot more hits than I was expecting. There are some really prepared people out there. Or potential crazies. Am I just being naive? After all, crazy is relative. I checked out urbansurvivalkit.com. I'm supposed to tote this thing to work? It weighs 7 pounds and includes a "120 dB PERSONAL ALARM to alert others of an emergency". When they find my barely-breathing body, they won't be able to help me anyways because I'll be deaf. And then they'll steal my 600 dollar survival kit.

I think I can make it out there in the wilderness. I used to read my brother's Boy Scout manual for fun. As he rose up in the ranks to Eagle Scout, my toilet reading changed accordingly from "How to be a Star Scout" to "The U.S. Army Survival Guide." According to my doctor, I've got all these weird antibodies floating in my blood that most people don't have. So I presume I'm probably immune to a lot more weird diseases than most people. Pro. And I don't need much food to sustain me. Pro. I wonder if the fat people will survive better than the skinny people due to "energy deposits" in their body that I don't have. Con. Maybe we'll just kill them off first for food.

I'd like to think that New York is relatively protected and hard to attack though. Especially since they've been placing radiation detectors around the city, according to Wired magazine (see article here). Cancer patients are being detained at the border and strip searched. I find myself with a dark sense of humor these days.

2003-03-19T22:51:00.000-05:00

Funny how shallow everything suddenly seems..

The war's begun. I don't know why I'm so surprised, but I am. I was lying on my bed writing in my journal and listening to Norah Jones when I heard my roommate say "Oh my God."

I can't believe it's actually happened. I never thought I'd have to grow up in wartimes. But here it is. All those kids in ROTC who did it so they could have a good shot at a good education... They never thought they'd get called. But their number came up. I wonder how long it will be before people start disappearing from work. And like everyone else, the question looms - will there be a draft? Everyone I know and care for falls between the ages of 18 to 25, and they'll be the first to go. My younger brother just turned 19 in January.

I'm convinced that the war won't stay in Iraq. It will definitely be taken to our land. I'm convinced that it's going to be bloody. My mind is nothing but a blank wall of white. I'm not sure what to think, how to react, so I stay still. I want to call someone, my family, my friends, anyone, but I don't know what I would say to them. So I don't. It's just an instinctive grab for something comforting. To not be alone. Because quite frankly, I'm afraid. That's really something to say for someone who's sitting in her apartment safe and sound when an entire country is cowering in fear of the bombings.

2003-03-18T14:32:00.000-05:00

Projected Flatline: One Month.

My mental foodstuffs remain in the balance. I stand on the brink of losing my internet connectivity and being chained to dial-up again. My roommates have decided that they don't want internet connectivity anymore, leaving me to shoulder the cost. I live and breathe the internet, and when the small squeak of dismay escaped me as I heard this news, I realized that I had given myself away as a CyberGirl. I have a dependency on the internet the way Whitney Houston has a dependency on crack. I lean on it. Except I don't have millions of dollars from a diva career to support my habit. No more high-speed access. This means less contact with friends, less emailing, less blogging, less internet shopping, and less everything. I wonder if this will result in more living. Cut off from the internet, what kind of a person will I become? Will I become more vibrant? More into living RealLife with tangible things that you can breathe, touch, taste, than living the CyberLife? Will I turn into a Real Girl? Will I turn into my parents, forever behind in technology because they're out-of-touch? Does being off the internet mean being out-of-touch? More out-of-touch with information and long-distance friends, but more in-touch with immediate surroundings that so easily fade into the background when the flickering light of the computer monitor beckons. Which one embodies the true sense of "in touch"? Like two cities, you can't get closer to one without getting slightly further from the other.

As I blank out from Verizon DSL next month, Ordered Chaos will become officially image-free. Server space doesn't come cheap these days anymore. I go back to dial-up and the stone age. Even though dial-up means some internet access (and i get dial-up service from home for free from work), I'm wincing at the thought of slow download times and the bleeps and blurps of the modem. I'll have to get my fix in drips and drabs from the IV of the telephone cord.

2003-03-16T15:09:00.000-05:00

And the winner is...

I just woke up. I can't believe I slept so late.

Prime Picks for Last Night.
1. A guido who kept calling me "Sweethaaaa-ht".
2. A 400 pound black man who kept breathing heavily in my face.
3. A clean cut guy from Long Island who tried to convince me that his retail job at Gap was "sales", and then kept misusing the word "antidote" when he meant "anecdote".
4. A promising-looking grungy guy who came up to me and said hello. I took a deep breath and gave him my most winning smile. Then he asked me if I had any drugs. Twice.
5. An Israeli man who kept grabbing both my ears every time he talked to me and kept repeating himself.
"So, no date?"
"No."
"So, no date?"
".....no."
"So, no date?"
"....Can you let go of my ears?"

BABAE J. summed up the night with one sentence as we were lying slouched and disheartened on a couch in the corner of the bar. "Where do all the normal guys hang out?"

2003-03-15T11:23:00.000-05:00

Death and Taxes.

My dad woke me up at 8 am this morning, to tell me that I only had a month left to do my taxes. My dad is like my personal Outlook alert. Except I can't shut him off. We yelled at each other for 15 minutes.

Dad: "How come everytime I call you, you yell at me!"
Me: "Because! I don't appreciate being treated like I'm 12! I know the deadline is April 15!"
"I'm just calling to remind you! You also have to file in 5 states you know. You need me to tell you which 5?"
"DAD! Do you think I'm so stupid that I can't remember where I lived this past year and where I worked?"
"It's NJ, PA, NY, DE, and CT"
"?!?!?!?! I'M 22 DAD! I don't need you to call and remind me of these things anymore!"
"Don't pay to have someone do your taxes. Do them yourself. Or pay me and I'll do them!"
"I DON'T WANT TO HAVE THIS CONVERSATION AT 8 AM ON A SATURDAY!"
(we're yelling at this point)
"Fine!! I'll just go now!! Don't pay an accountant for your taxes! Bye!"
"Fine!! Bye!!!"
"I love you!!"
"I love you too!!"
*click*

Those last two sentences were not said with any measure of tenderness. You could've taken those words out and replaced them with "You asshole!" and the tone of voice would've fit perfectly. Sometimes, I'm surprised at how well we get along considering how completely dysfunctional our family is. And, I fully plan on paying H&R Block a visit.

2003-03-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

And They All Fall Down.

So. I had my performance review yesterday since today is my last day on the project. I had my performance review and I was inducted into the Secret Society of the Stupidly Elite. In a nutshell, I realized that I work at a freaking high school. I learned today that our firm works on a "laddering" system. This means that at the end of every project, all the people who are manager level and above get together in a big meeting and rank all the analysts. Yes, they rank us. From 1 to God knows what. This ranking affects our promotions, our bonuses, our raises, our performance review status (from "exceptional", the top 5% of rankings, to "needs improvement", the bottom 5%). It's like college where you're graded on the bell curve. And this ranking really has nothing to do with performance. Because all the analysts, meaning the HR analysts and the tech analysts, are all ranked on the same ladder. And you can't really compare an HR performance to a tech performance. It's like apples and oranges. They discuss us and tear us apart. I hear these meetings get crazy. People push their chairs back, stand up, and point fingers in each others faces.

I learned today that both my manager and my team lead loved me. And they pulled for me at the meeting. And surprisingly, a bunch of other people who I've only had brief contact with pulled for me as well. But one manager, who has never worked with me, shot me down. Apparently, I was tied with another analyst for a certain rank. And I got minus points because this manager (who I found out later was LCM) said that I had "professionalism and dress code" problems. Apparently, on one of the days I was at work, I was wearing a boatneck sweater, and my bra straps were showing. And that demoted me. I couldn't believe it. A BRA STRAP. Good God. My manager told me about it even though it's supposed to be confidential. He told me because he wanted me to know why I didn't get the rating I wanted. I was completely stunned. For a couple of reasons. First, because one of the other managers in particular pulled for me really hard. I was surprised. I'd met him at a happy hour and rode with him on the shuttle a few times. We'd chatted. And he was one of the people I happened to get along with better, but I'd never worked with him. Second, I was stunned because I couldn't believe how completely juvenile the entire system was. As an analyst, your entire career is in the hands of others. Your manager is supposed to be your advocate. This means that if your manager is new at this game, then you're screwed regardless of how well you work. This means that if your manager wasn't on the college debate team, you're screwed if you're tied with some other analyst for promotion. This means that if a lot of people happen to like you, then they'll pull for you at the laddering meeting. It's a fucking popularity contest. Just as someone could shoot me down for no good reason because they happen to see my bra strap in passing, someone can vouch for me for no good reason than the fact that I asked about their kids in the airport van.

I always knew that there would be politics involved at work, but I didn't realize it was to -this- extent. I knew you had to know the right people to get promoted. I knew you couldn't simply do a good job and keep your head down. I knew you had to network and let yourself be known. But I didn't realize that the actual work you did was -this- irrelevant. I didn't realize that something as innocuous as a bra strap could knock me down. I couldn't believe that LCM spoke out against me. All those smiles and jokes were nothing but bullshit.

I can't stand it.

I can't stand how everyone is so smiley and "great job!" to you, but then rip you down at the laddering meeting. I can't stand how it's all dependent on what other people think. I can't believe that what one manager said could outweigh what both my managers said. I couldn't believe that so many people who did vouch for me were people who I hadn't ever really thought of as "connections". Since when was sharing a drink and asking about their kids a career move?

It's like Big Brother. They're watching you at all times. Anything and everything can come back to haunt you.

My crush on LCM is permanently over. I could barely bring myself to even smile at him when he passed by and tapped my desk. I couldn't believe how damn fake he was to me. I couldn't believe I used to think his dimples were charming. I couldn't believe that I'm one of the few people he smiles at. He obviously only smiles at people he hates. All I can think about now is how he's such a workaholic and how his life obviously revolves around the office since he's got a memory like an elephant and will bring up anything and everything to rip someone else down. I couldn't believe he had the balls to speak up against me when both my own manager and supervisor were speaking for me. I couldn't believe that he felt he had the right to say anything to contribute to my ranking when he's never even worked with me. I couldn't believe it.

If I'm going to be successful at this business thing, I have to learn how to be nice to people I dislike. But right now, I'm terrible at it. I couldn't even look LCM in the eye today. Because I knew if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop it. The Death Stare.

He came by my desk today.
"I'm hurt that you didn't invite me to your project goodbye dinner." Then the smile.

I didn't even look up from my laptop. "It wasn't a project goodbye dinner. And you wouldn't have come anyways since you're so busy all the time."

Cold. I was downright cold. I should've pulled down my shirt and shown my bra strap to him instead. But I coudn't figure it out. Why is he sitting there flirting with me when he bashed me to the ground at the laddering meeting? Why does he act like he likes me? Unless it's like third grade where you like the girl so you kick her over in the playground and rub her face in the dirt. I don't get it. But I don't need to get it. I don't need people who say one thing but do another. I don't need fake. He's on my shit list.

Cross me once, and it's over.

2003-03-13T23:45:00.000-05:00

Pow! Pow!

"Nice schoolgirl skirt. It's not really short enough though. Don't you know? Short is trendy. Not this knee-length AUTHENTIC school girl look."
"Thanks. But I'm not about to flash my co-workers. You like the run in my stocking too? Adds to the authentic schoolgirl appeal, don't you think?"

I troubleshoot. That's what I do. Once in a lucky while, I'll get to write original code. But mostly, I troubleshoot others code. I do most of the dirty work. That's what my lot in life is, as an analyst. While others "manage".

"So, I hear you've got some extra bandwidth. I was wondering whether you could find out what the problem is with..."

I've got some extra bandwidth. I couldn't believe it. I am no longer a human being but a machine with "bandwidth". I've become a damn good troubleshooter. I can find the problem in the code in half the time it takes the programmer to find it. This means that I'm called on to troubleshoot even more since I'm "so good at it". This means that I get to do even less real work. What rewards for doing well at work. Whoop dee do.

If only I could troubleshoot my own life as well as I can troubleshoot code. Maybe things would be more together and streamlined. Maybe instead of this wandering path I'm taking, my life would stop hanging in this infinite loop and reach O(n). Did I really just say that?

I think I'm working way too much. I need a vacation. Or, all I really need is lots of sleep and a good book to indulge myself in. None of these deep books that talk about life. But something that will pull me in and keep me in some rip-roaring plot about trolls, elves, and the fight between good and evil.

If I had to troubleshoot my own life, I'd say that there's too much redundancy lying around. All these things are lying around unused, and the program isn't giving a good return code. The findboy() function is definitely buggy. As is the livelife() one. But livelife() is about to get fixed as of Friday when I leave. Perhaps the problem is that the overall program, mylife.pl is all confused. How can it correctly call functions and use the results well when it has no idea what it's true purpose is? What is the point of its existence? What are its aims and goals? Once that's figured out, perhaps I can rearrange the other portions of my life accordingly.

Like programming, adding one thing to my life means that I have to make a million minor adjustments everywhere else to accomodate for it. Thus the crash course of "getting used to things" for the first few months of any new change in my life. That's when I go into hibernation and become anti-social while I slowly tease it out and figure out where I want everything to be. Where I belong in the midst of it all.

Now that I'm entering month 7 of my stint doing this consulting thing, I've learned two things. A) You can pick out a consultant based on their polished aura. And that's not always a good thing. We're less rough around the edges, but a little -too- slick. A little too perky and a little too nice. It smacks vaguely of fake. B) Everyone hates us. I'm not surprised. But despite it all, I think I can say that I think I've finally settled in. Settling in isn't merely getting used to the routine, it's also getting your sense of self settled in. I railed and roared against the business life for the first 6 months of working here. I performed well, but inside, I was stewing and steaming. UNHAPPY. I retreated into myself and brooded an awful lot. It was hard for me to be ME while at work. That's when I turn the auto-pilot on. I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of being here still, but the unhappiness has started to subside. Whereas it roiled and bubbled like a pot about to overflow, now it's just simmering. With the occasional bubble burst. And I've become more comfortable. I've defined my boundaries and know where the edges of mySelf are. I've gone from feeling like the person who went to work in business casual was so far removed from the person who I knew I was. I couldn't put together my sense of who I was with the person I saw in the mirror. They were mutually exclusive.

I've managed to mesh together Nine of before with Corporate Woman (because Nine has to pretend to be Ten when she is at work). I've managed to settle into business life without feeling unhappy about what I've had to give up of myself. Because to be honest, I really haven't had to give up much except my preconceived notions that all people in suits are boring. I've merely become more flexible. Realized that just because I walk the walk and talk the talk doesn't mean a thing. I've learned how to be me and still be corporate. Like a blend of fruit fusion.

Besides, who says that I have to think and act the way I look? The wolf in the sheep's clothing.

Or, the Nut in the Businesswoman Clothing.

2003-03-11T23:14:00.000-05:00

The Countdown Begins.

This is my last week in Connecticut. And they're wringing their money's worth of work out of me. I've been pseudo-staffed on a different team. I'm mainly helping them with some of their work since they're short-staffed. I thought it'd be excel sheets or something of that ilk, but it ended up being the design and development of a synchronization application. Estimated time to completion: 16 hours. Or so the New Manager said. Is that including the learning curve or not including it? I've been working some crazy hours. Haven't been home earlier than 11 pm and haven't gotten to work later than 8 am. And I still feel like I'm constantly on edge, like all my nerves are on high alert. But at the same time, I feel somewhat languid about the whole thing. When the New Partner came over to pressure me into doing it faster, I completely resented her for it. I'm trying my best, okay? I -do- still have work from my original team to finish up first, and my priorities lie there. If they want it so fast, then they can go spend the money and get a real analyst to do it instead of pillaging me from my team.

Overall, it's resulted in a feeling of numbness. It's like all remnants of what made me uniquely me, are gone. I operate on auto-pilot. I've lost interest in everything that I used to love. I haven't written in my journal in two weeks. I haven't spontaneously created a piece of writing in days. I've pinned my mullet back with barrettes, trying to cover the mullet-ness over with cute-ness. Not quite successful. But that's been the story of my life lately. Draft 1 of the synchronization application. Not quite successful. Trying to cover my belly rolls after lunch by buttoning my cardigan. Not quite successful. The buttons just looked strained. Trying to get a glimpse of LCM all day. Not quite successful. I think I've ceased to care about even that.

Although I have managed to attract the attention of someone else. I think I was pseudo-propositioned by the maintenance man. He knows me because he's the one who was called when I locked myself out of my laptop, and when I locked myself out of my desk as well. He remembered my name. And then asked me a series of strange questions about how late I work, whether I was working late that night, whether there were a lot of people around when I worked late, and that maybe he would stop by and say hi. I excel in the field of short greasy men. My mother would be proud.

LCM did stop by and ask me what I was doing hanging around with New Manager. I told him that I was doing some work for him, and why was he asking? "No reason. I thought maybe you guys were an item." Ha. I smirked at LCM. But inside, I was hugging myself in glee. He noticed!!!

These days, I wonder whether it's possible for the Self not to return when it's been smothered for too long. I wonder how long it is until all that makes me unique is wiped out by the hours of overtime. I wonder how resilient the Self is. You'd think it would be, considering that it's been forged out of 22 years of experience. But perhaps it's fragile, prone to change, influenced by outside factors. In such case, can corporate life completely wipe you out? Am I going to be nothing but another male-bashing female whose biological clock is ticking despite her vehement denials? Will I become nothing but another cliche?

I'm tired. I feel like I've been stretched thin and transparent. My brain is leaking out my ears. And in this sort of mood, I'm convinced that I'm never going to find happiness, in any way shape or form. Not in love, not in marriage, not in career. I say this not because I want pity, but because I've come to believe it as fact.

2003-03-10T23:38:00.000-05:00

Old School.

I went home last weekend. Lux came back with me. We shopped at Urban Outfitters (3 shirts for 10 bucks each!), had thai food at my favorite thai restaurant on campus, and got our hair cut. I got a baby mullet (not quite a full-grown mullet, but definitely getting there) and Lux is helmet-head. Great. I bet this will do -wonders- for our social lives. We consoled ourselves by going shopping again on Sunday. French Connection (1 pair of pants), Tommy Hilfiger (1 pair of pants, 1 cardigan, 50% off the entire store!), Benetton (2 skirts, 2 pants, 1 shirt, 75% off!!!). As is evident, I've completely broken my "No shopping till end of March" rule. I made it through all of February with my credit card bill in one piece, and in the interest of preserving what remains of my savings account, I've sworn off shopping for the rest of March. Also on our agenda was a movie. The movie of choice? Old School.

Loved the movie. Loved it. Old School has redeemed my faith in men. Vince Vaughn did it when he fended off the college girl by showing her his wedding ring. Will Ferrell did it by looking devastated when his wife wanted a divorce. Luke Wilson did it by reminding me that maybe not all the men who work with me are corporate hacks. I liked it because it reminded me of the stage where I am in my life right now. Granted, I'm not about to start a fraternity, but I understood the desperate need of Luke Wilson's co-workers to belong to a fraternity. Corporate life kinda sucks the fun out of you. I liked it because the guys in the movie are in the same weird pseudo-domestic pseudo-anti-domestic stage that I'm in right now. Vince Vaughn in a baseball cap and a baby snugglie? Hot. Vince Vaughn hooting at the college girls? Not hot. Vince Vaughn saying no to the college girl because he has a wife? Hot. Vince Vaughn yelling after her "Can I get your number anyway just in case something happens to my wife?" Just funny as hell.

The movie redeemed my faith in men because it showed me guys doing classic jerk things (something women see all the time and are all too familar with ), but then showing the inner workings beneath it (something that women never see). It made me realize that it's practically impossible for any human being to -not- want a relationship at some point. Who wants to grow old by themselves? No one likes crotchety old men besides their wives. And sometimes even their wives don't like them. That everyone's really looking for the same thing. No one wants to die alone. And this whole "let me get into her pants" thing is just a stage until the boys turn into men. Kinda like when their voices crack. I consider it a crack in polite behavior. It seems bizarre to me that everyone wants the same thing from each other in the long run, but somehow, no one can find it. Even Luke Wilson, not someone who I usually would think is cute, seemed attractive and date-able by the end of the movie. Because ultimately, what makes a guy attractive isn't height, good looks, money, or power. It's the desire to be with you. What makes a guy attractive is the fact that he isn't afraid, he doesn't care about what other people think, and he likes you. What makes a guy cute is when he's all awkward about talking to you but continues to do it anyways. What makes a guy admirable is when he persists against the odds - guys who persist deserve at the least a chance. Credit for courage. What makes a guy maddening is the fact that because he's all of these things, it's impossible to stay mad at them for long. What makes a guy completely hot is the intangibles. The way he smiles at you. The way they chatter away at you about things that you have no clue about, but you don't care. The way you can scream at each other and still be okay the next day (communication is good!). What makes a guy hot is when he can be a man about things, including you. Do away with the washboard stomachs, the nice arms, the 6 foot tall height. Who needs those? I can easily waive those in favor of everything else.

Like LCM at work. He's not on my team but he works on the team that sits beside mine. He's super grouchy, has a droopy belly, downward sloping shoulders, short legs, and a reputation for being a workaholic. But those snappy answers, the blue blue eyes, and those dimples (however rarely theyr'e shown) get me -every- time. He's so smart it makes me queasy when he sits down at my laptop to fix something. LCM is definitely not your standard definition of hot. But when he's talking and scowling at me, all I can think about is how I want to jump on him and drag him to bed. Meanwhile, I'm nodding, taking notes, asking intelligent questions, and fixing my business casual skirt. One thing for business casual, you always look proper even while thinking improper thoughts.

Hot. Guys who know what they want. Hot. Guys who aren't wishy washy. Hot. Guys, period. And it's okay to act like jerks occasionally, as long as you come through for the important things. After all, in the long run, we're going to have to get along if neither of us wants to die alone and decrepit. Earmuffs!!

Hurrah for Vince Vaughn, Will Ferrell, and Luke Wilson!

2003-03-07T13:31:00.000-05:00

You and me, baby, ain't nothing but mammals.

I am exhausted at work. And I pin the blame squarely on Discovery Channel. I love Discovery Channel.

Every night I tell myself I'll go to bed early, and every night I find myself staying up, glued to the TV. Last night, it was a special on crop circles. I was completely fascinated. I imagine if I was an alien and wanted to leave messages to people on earth witout sending them into a panic, I'd see the fields of crops as blank canvases. Might as well leave my fingerprint there. Or what if Earth was like the street corner or a lamppost? And alien teenagers run by and "tag" the land with their cool graffiti designs?

2003-03-05T23:28:00.000-05:00

Remember, man, for you are dust. And unto dust you shall return.

Today marks Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.

I went to church during lunch. It was hard to track down a local Catholic church, but I found one. I entered, ready to stand on the shaky legs of my faith and try to bolster it with ashes and wandering prayers. I entered, and had the most beautiful Ash Wednesday ever. It wasn't a sudden reunion with God, or a particularly good homily. It was the church itself. The building spoke to me more than God did. It spoke to me of beautiful things. It spoke to me of the future. It showed me with rainbow lights playing on the floor from the stained glass windows what life was truly about. I realized that my somewhat shaky belief in God wasn't really something that I needed to worry about. Because I believe in beauty. It's hard to find God within the cubicle walls of work or in the eyes of the homeless man on the corner. But when you're outside in Vermont looking up at the stars, or standing on a beach at night with the ocean, or sitting in a wooden pew in a singularly beautiful church, you -must- believe. Because it is entirely impossible for such gorgeous things to happen by chance.

I prayed. I prayed for myself. That I would walk down the right roads and make the right decisions. I thanked. I thanked Him for the basic things. That I had never experienced the death of a loved on. That all my body parts are in the right place and functioning. That no one in my family had any major psycho issues. That I'd managed to circumvent a lot of the potholes in life.

Mostly though, I prayed for my family. Now that I'm not near them, I worry about them a lot more. I worry that my mom will get lost on the freeway and not know how to use her cell phone to call for help. I worry that my dad will encounter racism at the DMV and no one who's bilingual will be around to help beat them down. I worry that my parents are going to kill each other now that my brother's left for college and they're on their own. I worry that my younger brother's going to become the next unabomber. He's got some worrisome symptoms.

I prayed. Because I didn't know what else to do. Because I've recently come to the realization that I can't control life. Because I can't magically make everything okay for the people I care about. I prayed, and hoped that God wouldn't notice that I was the kid who ran around and ignored Him for the past 10 years. I prayed and hoped that God wouldn't remember that I was the girl who got punished in Catholic school for starting my prayers with "Dear God. Hi." I prayed. Even though I know I didn't particularly deserve it. If I was in God's shoes, I'd laugh in my face. I prayed. Because in this mad mad world, what else -can- you do?

2003-03-03T22:18:00.000-05:00

Why do people send pictures of cake through the company email =(.

Feel like a zombie today.

It's one of those days where I sit with my chin in my hand and stare off into the depths of my laptop LCD. Supervisor Z. gave me a "Hi! My Name Is" sticker. Except he wrote "Space Cadet!" on it. So tired. I went down to grab a coffee. Not because I like it, but because today - it is absolutely necessary that I force down a cup of the vile stuff to make myself semi-functional for work. I got a caffe latte with a vanilla shot, added extra milk to dilute the coffee taste out, and dumped a whole lot of sugar in it for good measure. I can still taste the coffee. Yuck. I hate the sour taste it leaves in your mouth.

I also got a raspberry croissant. Brought it back to my desk and told myself I'd save it for dessert after lunch. It's strictly against co-worker Dot's diet that I'm trying to adopt. No carbs or processed sugars! she said. But, I've been good all week. I only had -one- bag of M&M's yesterday after 3 days of low fat peppermint patties! And it's not my fault I couldn't exercise... I couldn't find decent sneakers. The croissant sat on my desk and called to me, "Eat me. Eat me!! I'm good!!"

I took one nibble. Which then turned into a bite. I couldn't help the "Mmmmm...." that came from my mouth. It tasted so -right- that my mouth ached with how good it felt. The crisp flakiness, the chewy moist inside, the sweet raspberries battling and blending with the salty dough. The croissant really hit the spot. I finished it off, finger-licking good. Then I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. So yummy. That's it. The diet's -over-. I can't deny good things from coming into my life. Good things that come in the form of pastries and cakes. People will just have to learn to love my belly.

2003-03-02T19:42:00.000-05:00

Stream of Consciousness.

Thoughts in Subway.
Kissing looks like such an uncomfortable thing. Those two people's noses just squashed together and their glasses clinked against each other. What really is the pleasure of pressing lips together? Is it something that's really biologically bred in us to enjoy (sex is an evolutionary enjoyment activity) or is it merely social construct that tells us "kissing is pleasurable" and therefore we think we like it. Is there really any biological reasons for enjoying kissing? Are there more nerve endings in our lips and tongues than anywhere else? If poking someone in the eye was the accepted form of showing affection in our society, would we come to find that pleasurable too? What is the background of kissing? When did it develop? What century? Did cavemen kiss each other as well? Do monkeys kiss each other in nature? What makes someone a good kisser or not a good kisser? It can't all be emotional attachment. I didn't particularly enjoy kissing my ex-boyfriend. But it's kind of a testy subject to bring up. "Do you mind changing your kissing style?" No good can come of -that- conversation. Are matching kissing styles a sign of mate compatibility? How is your kissing style determined? It's not like you can look at magazines and "develop" a style the way you can with clothes. It must be something genetic and inbred. Does this mean I kiss like my mom? I bet there are ethical issues involved in conducting that sort of scientific study.

Look at that other couple. He's obviously infatuated with her. But she can't speak English. I wonder if he has an Asian fetish. But I suppose it's easy to fall for someone who can't speak English. It's equivalent to falling for someone over the internet. It's easy because you can make them whoever you want them to be inside your head. And if you can't speak English, then he can probably project whatever personality traits he wants on her and she'll never object. I wonder how she feels about that. Perhaps I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it's -not- Asian fetish. What is it about foreign girls who can't speak English that appeals to guys? Is it the primitive need to feel like a man? After all, if she can't speak the language, she's gotta depend on you. You are without a doubt the breadwinner. There's this theory (that my mother subscribes to) that says that men like girly girls because they like to feel needed. It speaks to the ancient caveman hunter mentality. It makes them feel more confident. That would make sense.

This is fun. Making up stories about people. It's better than the usual game I play when I'm bored - the "Would I have sex with him?" game. You run out of things to think about once you take into consideration his looks, his build, the way he carries himself, and whether he looks like he'd be good in bed or not. And if you're in a car full of women, couples, and children, you're out of luck.

2003-02-28T14:42:00.000-05:00

Email: Twenty Questions to Avoid Heartbreak and More.

A few days ago, I struck inspiration. A couple of friends and I were having a conversation at work about men. I related last weekend's experience with Spaghetti. Apparently, I'm so undate-able that he wouldn't call even when he was halfway to a date. Or so I thought.

A guy co-worker of ours gave us the low-down on men. He said that sometimes, guys make plans they have no intention of keeping. This is because most girls don't want just a one night stand. So the guy figures, if he makes it sound like he wants more than just one night, then it will increase his chances of going home with her and getting booty. The three of us sat in stunned silence. I hadn't even considered that scenario. It hadn't even cast a shadow across my mind. But it made sense given Spaghetti's strange behavior. GUYS ARE SO SNEAKY!!! I couldn't believe it. That would explain the half-made plans and the lack of follow-up. I should've known. If a guy uses the word "sexy" more than twice within the first 10 minutes of your conversation, all the alarms should start going off in your head. I bet he's laughing at my voicemail. I left a voicemail telling him I couldn't make brunch anymore because I ended up having to go into the office on Sunday. To think, I thought I was being considerate! He's probably hooting it up because I BELIEVED HIM. Good Lord am I naive.

That was the catalyst for a conversation about all the men we know who suck. All the men who we've heard of who suck. All the men who are boyfriends of people we know, who suck. That night, I went home and wrote the following email, inspired by the conversation at work. I wrote it on behalf of myself and all the girls I know who've met guys who are sub-par. It's a compilation of experiences. The "Do you kiss like an attack dog on a piece of meat?" was in honor of Spaghetti.

----Original Message Follows----
From: "me"
To: [girls_list]
Subject: twenty questions to avoid heartbreak and more.
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 2003 23:13:28 -0500

ah the vicious cycle of heartbreak. there are times when you wonder, is there such thing as a decent guy out there? how do you weed out the schmoozers from the losers? How come they don't teach you things like "how to avoid a shitty boyfriend" in college? Or "how to recognize a playa". Those are the kind of "life skills" that i know i could've used.

so. there is no manual. but i figure, there's a wealth of female experience out there that has gone untapped. so, from the minds of three girls, i've extracted the following information.

as a bunch of my girl friends, i thought you should be the first ones to get the first draft of "How To Avoid The Jackass: SexEd101".

Chapter 1: Questions You Should Ask Guys Right From The Get-Go.

do you have any emotional problems? are you emotionally stunted? do you have trouble committing? do you treat the ones that you like/love worse than your friends? do you have a problem with looking "uncool" in front of your friends if you treat me well? Do you have a teenie weenie? Do you have a girlfriend? do you kiss girls like you're an attack dog on a piece of meat? Do you understand that pms is something that we have to deal with every month, and therefore you will have to also? are you a pothead? Do you use sex as a band-aid for all our problems? Do you believe that semen is "healthy" for a girl's skin?

And that's just a good beginning with contributions from 3 of my personal gal pals. Any additional contributions or suggestions are welcome. Feel free to forward it on to friends you know who may have interesting contributions to add. Thanks to all the girl friends (and their ex-boyfriends) who've given me suggestions and inspiration for these. This is what your brain ends up doing at work in order to amuse yourself after 2 hours of copy/pasting into Excel. Yeah corporate life!

-n

2003-02-27T21:56:00.000-05:00

The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Tis the season. June is coming up and the wedding invitations have started to pour in.

Now that my friends have started getting married, it's become a question that weighs heavily on the minds of all of us. Does this mean we're officially old? Have we officially become "grown-ups" now that we know married people? Month by month, the number of people that goes out to bars decreases. We feel like the survivors of some terrible disease. On one hand, we're thankful that we're still around, but we're uneasy. Who's next?

At this age, the question always starts to come up, given the divorce rate in this country, are we settling for less because we're afraid to be alone? The fear of loneliness is a fear that transcends all countries and cultural barriers. Divorce, however, is something that seems unique to the United States. Being a liberated country, with freedom of choice being the banner under which we fight all our wars, "divorce" and "abortion" seem to be the biggest things that set us apart from every other country. That and our loud obnoxiousness and disinclination to be embarassed by any of it. Therein lies the extra special ingredient that gives our country the divorce rate that we have. The fear of loneliness (the base ingredient in every human being) plus the extra zest of freedom to choose and be obnoxious. Combine these to get "50% of all couples in the U.S. get divorced".

Settling for less seems to be a human trait. Everyone weighs their odds. Settling for less at 22 is a sin. But, once you're starting to hit 30, the women are beginning to show their age, and the men aren't in hot shape either. Once you start hitting the big 3-0, people start thinking about cutting their losses. The spectre of growing old and dying alone starts to loom. The fear of "I might not get anyone better than this" becomes recurring as your body starts to sag just a little. And somehow, we convince ourselves that we love them. Because we need to believe that we're living the dream. After all, no one thinks they're settling when they're getting married. No one thinks "Yeah, we're going to get divorced" when they first get engaged. Everyone is convinced that this is The One. Well, statistics show that half of all people are wrong.

What I want to know is, what do the statistics say about the spinsters? You know, those women who never get married. Let's face it, a human being alone is a sad animal. I watched The Gift on TV the other day. Cate Blanchett plays a single mother supporting her children. When Keanu Reeves breaks into her house and threatens her, her children peep around the corridor and watch. He threatens her children and she tries to throw him out of the house. She looked so fragile and small beside him and his rage. I watched her putting up a brave front to protect her kids, but as a woman, I could feel that underlying sense of fear that every woman, even the strong ones, feels when threatened by a man. The sense of helplessness and knowledge that if the man really wanted to hurt her kids, there really wasn't much she could do. Besides buy a gun and shoot him. She can't throw him out of the house or scare him away. Men are never as aware of their strength and physical advantage as they are when they are angry. You can tell by the posturing, the threatening poses. All made to intimidate. And women, as the smaller sized dogs in the pack, are intimidated even as we snarl back. The sense of helplessness battling with the the need to stand and be strong. You're left vulnerable, at the mercy of your own physical smallness. At that moment, I caught myself thinking "Wow. It's so hard for a woman to be alone without a man." A year ago, I would have spit on that statement. But the older I get, the more I see the differences between men and women, the inequalities that exist, and how they make up for those inequalities by being together. They fill in each of what the other is missing. Despite the divorce rate, with the knowledge that society is the way it is, I have this sneaking suspicion that a woman might be better off with a good man than she is by herself. And vice versa. Show me a middle aged man who doesn't have a woman - not a pretty sight.

Is this the reasoning that an individual goes through before picking the man with the best resume instead of choosing with your heart? After all, if no one catches your fancy, you've got a choice of waiting and risking the fact that he/she will never come along (or even if he/she does, they may already be married), or you make the best of what you have and choose the one with the best resume. For women, this means someone employed, who you get along with, who you can imagine getting along with forever, who is responsible, who would be a good father and husband. Chemistry goes out the window as a criteria point when women start looking at resumes. Chemistry has to do with matters of the heart. And when you're considering resumes, it's because you've given up on matters of the heart.

At this point in life, I'm not too worried. That sort of decision point is far down the road for me. And hopefully I won't reach that decision point because I'll be one of the lucky ones who find the elusive One. But if I'm still single and looking at the age of 29, I know that it is a choice I will have to make. It's something I think about often. What would I do? I like to prepare for worst case scenarios. Just in case.

Spinsters are the ultimate idealists. The ones who believe and never stop believing. The ones who float forever in fantasy. Or is it? Spinster-hood. Is that the price you risk paying for being a dreamer?

I'm not sure which is worse. To stand up for my dreams and be punished for them by having to die old and alone. Or to sell-out and settle. There comes a time when you have to start wondering whether you're being realistic. Does that count as "settling"? After all, everyone is flawed. Perhaps you're looking for someone that doesn't realistically exist. There also comes a time when you need to stand up for your principles and refuse to compromise on something as important to your life as love. But at the end of it all, you have to wonder, where has it gotten you? Is something better than nothing? My dad says a lot of things to me that end up coming back at odd times. One of those things he said was in reference to my smart-ass remarks as a teenager that would set my mom off and get me grounded. He said, "You have to think about which principles are worth it and which ones aren't. Sometimes you win the battle, but you lose the war."

Are you willing to gamble with the stakes as they are? Is all fair in love and war?

"Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on a morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
And what do we think we might see?"

2003-02-26T21:50:00.000-05:00

"I just finished a 10 pack of peppermint patties." -me
"I almost finished my box of Godiva." -Lux.

I have a sweet tooth.

And I mean the biggest sweet tooth imaginable. A few hours after every meal, I get the craving. I'm not even hungry, I just want to taste it. The sweetness. My friend lost 20 pounds doing Tae Bo Get Ripped and avoiding carbs and processed sugars. She's inspired me. I don't want to lose 20 pounds (I'd disappear into thin air if I did that), but I wouldn't mind fitting comfortably into my work pants again. I don't care about poundage. Merely about comfort. I got a yogurt parfait, but that didn't cut it. It was 2 pm and I had a craving for peanut M&M's like you wouldn't believe. I promised myself a peppermint pattie for dessert after dinner. Peppermint pattie's are a low fat candy. So are Twizzlers. I informed Lux of this fact over instant messenger. Too bad peanut M&M's don't fall into that category. Lux just as informatively informed me back that low-fat candies are high in sugar. And if you don't use that sugar right away, then it turns into fat anyways.

What the hell is the point of low fat candy then?
"Make people on diets buy them."

Thank you Lux.

I briefly considered sucking the candy coating off an Advil. There isn't that much sugar in that right? I felt sick. I couldn't believe that I lacked so much self control that I would consider sucking on an Advil to taste sweet. It wasn't even like I was hungry. I had a pretty big lunch. I was only cutting down on desserts. But it didn't stop the craving. Lux and I decided that electroshock would be good for us. Kind of like that Simpsons episode where they go to family therapy and they have the capability to zap each other with a button. Lux and I would zap each other everytime we took a bite of illegal sweets. Get fried everytime we eat chocolate so that we don't want it anymore. It will be like reverse Pavlov's dogs.

Sadly enough, "feeling good about myself" isn't enough incentive for me to really start to eat healthy and exercise. Probably because I don't really feel all that bad about my extra weight. Financial reasons are -almost- enough incentive. Buying new pants is expensive. Discomfort is also a pretty good incentive. Although that tends to peter away as I start wearing my drawstring pants more often to work.

I love food. It comforts me when I'm upset. It's there to celebrate when I do well. And it keeps me company when I'm reading in bed. In the absence of a significant other, I think food has become my surrogate boyfriend. Food and I have a good relationship.

"Oh definitely, it gets me more excited than any boy has in a while." -Lux