Discombobulation Station

Karma, Work and The Secret?

So I guess I put it out there in that last post. The next weekend I got a text on a Saturday morning...offering me work! I had been getting a little tight on funds. Not quite to the extent of breaking into my 401k, or calling backup support (tm) in land o Cleve. But uncomfortably so, in my best guess. I had been going to meetings, interviews. Doing my due diligence on the jobs boards. A little pro-bono work to keep me sane. But when a friend asked me over wine one night, "do you really want to work?" I had shrugged my shoulders. By the time I wrote that post I was ready. The day before, maybe not so much so. I only have one friend who really believes in "The Secret." She had a few anecdotes about needing something to happen, willfully putting it out in the world, and such things magically coming through. I cheerfully believed it happened for her. Kind of like with ghosts. I believe in the stories people tell me, getting chills and excitement all the way through their stories. But I don't really think it will ever happen to me. Because I just don't believe in them, so they won't share themselves to me. Which is fine n dandy as it fits within my understanding of the spiritual dimensions so far. They can stay on their side and I'll stay on mine. Let's keep the mystery between us. But did it work for me, when I really needed it to? Who knows. I'm more of a believer in doing good work, and hey, smiling.

I just caught an express train home, and was feeling quite happy about it. My particular train line is slow and stops quite a bit. It usually doesn't smell like urine and doesn't have a vibrant homeless contingent on it, but the ride can be arduous when all you want to do is sit in your window with a glass of wine after a long day with shopping bags. I guess my line was all backed up, and when a man motioned for me to take my headphones off and hear the good news, I was delighted with an emptying train and an entire bench to myself, and an express ride to the stop just before mine. On my walk to my house, I decided to move my car which has been on the opposite side of the block since last Tuesday. There was a wild storm on Wednesday and the water line was up to the door, so I left it there for a while to dry out. But the first thing I noticed was that some punk kids had knocked off my lovely Mercedes hood ornament. Little fuckers. What good is a jalopy Mercedes without its shining masthead? Now its just a jalopy. What are they going to do with it put it on a chain around their neck? I guess in the grand scheme of city crime it's not so bad. No one broke in. No glass to replace. Still, feels like karma for my magical train ride home.

I also want to put out a small eulogy for one of my favorite blogs. My friend was moving out of state, and I was looking forward to keeping tabs on her through her hilariously insightful and often curmudgeonly blog. Someone at her former work had gotten hold of it -- she found out her former boss had been reading it -- and it had to come down. I will miss you! I hope that all of your writing energy will be put into a smashingly good book, or material for you to create your own one-woman stand up routine in your new home town. We cannot let this impasse take away the thoughtful ramblings of which I've become so fond.

And work is good. Its the place I was at late last year that kept me very busy at odd hours, but this time around there's not as much overtime or frustrations. Plus, it was so much easier coming in this time. Knowing where the bathroom is located is one of the very first perks of walking into a familiar place. I know how to do everything I need to do. Except manage animation timelines. I am learning to just add a day to any estimate a graphic designer gives me. Its working out well on this second project. An opportunity to learn as well!

Hope karma, fate, work and any secrets you have are working out well for you, dear reader.

xo

E.

If I Should Buy Jellybeans

Dude and Dudettes. I have a confession to make. A wine-fueled, co-blogger encouraged confession.

So. You remember when you were young, and your body was doing mysterious things, and sometimes you were doing mysterious things with other young bodies? Do you remember that? I do, especially now that I am back in the land of my pubescence.

And I remember sitting in study hall with my good friend Shelley (one year older than me), who was going out with my classmate David. She was talking about this friendly competition she had with David, to "see who could finish first." And I was like,  finishing? What is this finishing?? I had no idea. And I had been having sex for like a year, is the really sad part. But everybody knows orgasms are for college. Um. Right?

And THEN she went on to say that the fastest way she, ummm, finished, was if David "ate her out."

If "WTF" had been invented then I would have used it. Because. I mean. WTF?? Eating out?

We have our fair share of sex-in-cars here in the wilds of Maine, but. I thought she was talking about, I don't know, a picnic, or I dunno. Camping? I really had no idea.

And I had read Clan of the Cave Bear and Erica Jong and Glamour magazine and everything! Just didn't make that connection. And for reals, I still suffer a twinge of discomfort every time the subject is brought up. It's just, y'know, not for me. Too much baggage. Shelley had braces? I don't know, oh my gawd shuttup! I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Let's just call it going downtown, and leave it at that.

And with that. Good night.

xoxo,
A

p.s. now is the part when you're supposed to share your confused youth stories. G'wan, be kind and share! There's a nice lurker. Nice, cuddly lurker. Aw, you're cute. C'mere, give us a hug. Don't be shy. What? Well, I know what it means NOW.  Geez!!

Go Ask Alice I Think She'll Know

OMG you guys! Have been a shitty, shitty bloggerlady lately. Really need a reboot. But before we go away for a week -- oh first, praise be to E., for keeping you all in fresh content -- I have to tell you this totally hilarious story about someone who totally, totally, isn't me.

SO.

There was once a girl: a girl who went to yoga class on a Saturday morning and then blithely made her way home in the sunshine with her lovely coffee and a whole expanse of weekend in front of her. A happy girl indeed. The happy girl was made even happier by the sight of the exterminator at the front door of her building. 'Cause her roaches had also been a little happy lately, and her cat was a useless furball who would just look at the damn bugs, and then put out her paw and miss the bug entirely, then pull back and shudder.

SO, the girl was entirely pleased to have the very nice exterminator follow her up to her apartment, and pleased to point out where the bugs had been wiggling exoskeletal bums around in the kitchen. The nice exterminator used his funny little old-fashioned little tin-can-and-hose contraption to squirt bug-killing spray in appropriate areas (meanwhile fierce, useless kittaen hides herself under bed). He then suggested that sometimes the little nuisances hang out in the bathroom, and offered to go check it out.

The happy girl happily agreed and pointed him in the right direction, and chose to stay in the kitchen with her coffee and her mail. The nice exterminator finished in the bathroom, and with a pleasant smile, requested her signature in his funny little old-fashioned receipt book. Exeunt exterminator.

Moments later, after making sure that kittaen was safe from noxious chemicals, our heroine decided it was time for a shower. Imagine our heroine's surprise when she discovered, basking in the sunshine on her bathroom windowsill....

Her Rabbit. Her cannot-possibly-be-mistaken-for-an-electric-earcleaner Rabbit, larger than life, sitting out to dry on the windowsill after an, um, bath.

Imagine her creeping sense of dread and mortification at realizing that the mild-mannered bug dude MUST HAVE SEEN HER VIBRATOR AND THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU ARE SINGLE AND NEVER HAVE FRIENDS OVER!!!!! GAHH!!!!! KILL ME NOW!!!!

But that of course is just what we imagine she might have felt. Having never experienced anything like this before. EVER.

And with that, we bid you a good week. We'll miss you!

xoxo, A

Sparkler Season

Dear E., Can't stop wearing these!

I'll mail them (and the hoops) back to you soon, promise!

xoxo, A

Weekly Secret: OMG!!! Celeb Babies

Ladies and Gentleman, here's my confession:

Perhaps been a tad overworked lately, perhaps just too much going on in general, but that cannot explain the wrongness of my current obsession. NO IT IS BAD AND WRONG AND DAMN YOU DOOCE AND YOUR SNEAKY SIDELINKS:

Celeb Babies!!!

Seriously, I need a shower. Or a lobotomy. But OMG Kate Winslet's kin is so adorbs I want to have like 7000 babies with Sam Mendes too!!!!!! Look:

Praying for strength to break this accursed addiction, O my personal Savior Jesus Christ (actually, if there are any pics of Mary & the baby Jesus strolling around Hell's Kitchen we'd be totally into that too. Yep, all over the justJared archives for THAT shit).  Amen!

xoxo, A

The Weekly Secret: Size Matters

Hi. Hi! I'm back too, from dumb old Florida, and tan like George Hamilton. It's weird. My skin was like HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE SUN! And that kind of hurt. But 'pon my return to the city I seem to be photosynthesizing or something, getting more brown every day. My mom and I had an interesting conversation about -- wait, this has NOTHING TO DO WITH MY SECRET. Sorry. Anyway.

My secret is twofold: One: last night I had a blind date. Yes! I am one of those people other people will set up! Isn't that keen. Actually, I appreciate it. Since declaring lifetime moratorium on Internet Dating and Meeting Men at Bars, being set up is a nice option. My co-op friend asked the other week if I was single and suggested she had not just one, oh no, but two men for me. Geez! We agreed to take it one at a time. Emails were exchanged and lo, I found myself posing the question:

So, how are we going to recognize each other? Shall I just approach random strangers at the restaurant and hope for the best?

Ha ha, ain't I hilarious. Anyway. To his credit, Very Eager Date called and said, Let me help you out with the identity thing. I'm 5'7", have short dark hair...mwah mwah mwah oh golly had I ever stopped listening.

Why? Because Secret Number Two: I am a HEIGHTIST. Now, here is a Very Eager guy! He called and emailed many times and was so friendly and funny on the phone! This Very Eager Guy is just the right age (36) and went to law school because he was interested in doing human rights litigation. Very Nice! His family owns a brownstone in Boerum Hill! Sweet!

But he's only a couple of inches taller than me, which means when I wear heels, he's not taller than me at all.

I am a piece of poo superficial asshat, yes, but this just doesn't work for me. I like 'em big. Real big. Like, over 6 feet. It's so dumb. I mean, I'm pretty small.

Sigh. I am TRYING. Because we had a nice dinner, good conversation, he didn't try to touch my boobs or anything after he walked me home, and he called me before he even got home (Very Eager, yes, but not creepy), we're going out again next week. Can this relationship be saved?

I guess I'll wear flats. FOREVER.

Very bitchily yours, A.

The Weekly Secret: Nocturnal Reverie

My first full night's sleep in Galway was divine. There were twelve whole hours of it, under a duvet as thick as the bed itself, in a small warm room in my friends' new house.  I woke up of my own accord and recalled with startling accuracy the dream I had just had.  I'm going to have to cut to the chase here and just confess - it was a steamy session with no other than bad boy Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.  There was loads of making out, on a bed at that, and the love I felt for him was without compare. I haven't had a session like this since, well, the last time I felt that way. Which was a long long time ago.  It would only go so far, however. Because when he willed himself to pull away momentarily, his face betraying how hard it was for him, I said: "you won't make love to me because you know, if you do, that then I will fall in love with you - isn't that it?" And he said that it was true. Our love was doomed for some unknown reason. Prolly because of his London socialite girlfriend. Stupid twat.

And then, the very next night, I know that I dreamt of the very cute, very short legged Paul Rudd, who I have always found adorable. I quickly forgot what that was about however. Cheating on Jonathan must not have been worth it.

E.

Weekly Secret: Pussy Galore

Happy Friday. Wheee. 

About two years ago, in an odd fit of relationship-optimism, the Gaffer and I got a cat. An adorbs wee chitlin named Eliza Butterfly Doolittle D-H. She got the hyphenate because of being a bastard. But look how cute:

The Gaffer kept her after our break-up but she has, at last, come back to my custody. At least temporarily. And guess what.

My secret: I am a bad, bad mother. She's been at my place only two weeks tomorrow and already she has: fallen in love with my Nicest Ex, spurned the Guitar King, crashed a large vase from cupboard-top to floor at 3 am, imagined a mouse in my suitcase thus wouldn't leave its side for FIVE HOURS,  puked into my wellies, pooped on the floor, spied in my "secret drawer" (poss. scarred for life when confronted with, ummm, you know, evidence of parental sexuality?)  and last night, seriously, she tried to commit suicide.

When I cracked the top pane to have a much-needed but typically forbidden smoke she got all interested in the breezes and sounds up there. Since it was the top pane, about 6 feet off the floor, I was convinced that she would just make her little curious noises and then forget it. BUT NO.

Brreeeeep-meow! Mighty leaping! Grabbing the window pane with one outstretched paw! Claws unsheathed, hauling herself up to teeter on the edge! The edge of my 4th floor window! Which opens onto a concrete pad in the back yard!!

I SHRIEKED (sign me up for auditions for Scary Movie 15, so went there) and then everything went silent. What to do? Leap at her and take the chance that she would freak and fall to her death? Hope she would somehow over-balance back INTO the apartment?

Nooo...shhh....crept up as slowly as my pounding heart would allow, grabbed her tail and yanked her out of the window! Then spanked! And yelled! BAD ELIZA!! And she ran into my room and I slam her in there!! VERY BAD ELIZA!!!

Five minutes later we made up with much cuddling and apologizing. But guess who's never smoking again? Eliza. The human needed another one after the fright. Oh, surely this is all very, very amusing to my neighbors.

And, lo, thus begins my slow but inevitable decline into spinsterhood. Soon, I will be wearing 5 pairs of socks under my cat-puke wellies with a garbage-bag slicker, walking down to the petstore muttering to myself and scaring the kids who hang outside the Brooklyn Industries Store.

Help.

xoxo, A

The Weekly Secret: Doing Nothing All Day

After January's madness,  my job has quieted down quite a bit. The bills are paid, the elements stored away, the phone is silent. The only emails I'm getting are agency wide ones or invitations to free luncheon screenings. I come into work, check my email, read the same blogs, check my email again. I eat a bagel. Check to see if anyone updated their blogs. I get another cup of tea. Go to the bathroom. Get my mail, gossip with my seccy. Sit on her desk and look at people's myspace profiles. Go back to my office. Check my email. Get some water, say hi to about 5 people on the way down the hall. Lunchtime! I go down to the cafeteria and bring something back up (sometimes I can't be bothered to "go" to lunch).  I close the door to my cubicle and eat, read an alt weekly or Entertainment Weekly or a piece of the neglected NY Times. I put my feet up on my desk and read until the alloted hour is up (resting my eyes from the computer I guess). I open my door for business. Look up and down the hall. No one is looking for me. Check my email, see if anyone posted on the blogs. The phone rings! Its my friend in sales, driving around the northshore. Talk to her for about a half hour, inadvertently informing all cubicles around me how drunk I was last night. Hang up. Get more tea. Check my mail, gossip with coworkers. Check blogs. Read Gawker. Call S. in Florida. Oh 3.30! Lori is calling. Chat to her for about a half hour. Feeling like a loser, run a report on a job I don't need to look at, walk to the printer self-importantly, staple it and put it in the middle of my desk. Return to computer. Look up words that A. has emailed me on dictionary.com. Search for recipes for my Oscars party on epicurious.com. 5pm. I finally get into writing a blog or email that I manage to stay until 5.30. Say goodnight to coworkers, go home and watch reality TV.

This is all going to change very soon so I'm just enjoying it for what its worth. And I don't think its a secret, all this engaging "computer work" I'm doing. People can tell I'm on blogs because sometimes its just pictures of kittens - you can tell that from the hallway, even at an angle. Oh well.

E.

The Weekly Secret: Bourgeoisie Wastefulness

As you may or may not have already noticed, I have many bad habits: drinking, smoking, watching too much TV, being lazy in general. What you may not know, because some know me as a thrifty person, is that part of my Sunday ritual is a shameful waste of  money and a drain on the environment.

I am a New York Times on Sunday subscriber. I am also usually hungover beyond all repair on Sundays. But what I love the most about the paper is that someone delivers it to my front door. So after I turn on the kettle, start the cheese on toast in the broiler, make the orange-pinapple-fruit punch or whatever from concentrate, I put on a sweatshirt and tip toe down to the front step to retrieve my $5.00 paper (yes thats a five dollar paper).  Then I let it warm up for a bit (its been very cold outside lately) and I switch on the boob tube. Ususally a bit of WE or Lifetime, an old movie off HBO or TCM.  The lower the budget the better, like "The Man With Two Wives" or "How I got a Heart Transplant and Have New Cravings and Fell In Love With a Biker" - you know the genre.  And you know what happens to the paper? It moves from the couch to the floor when I have to stretch out after eating, and then it moves from the floor to the endtable when the girls come over for DH later (that's Desperate Housewives to the uninitiated) and then umm, on Monday I grab the Sunday Styles section and read it on the train and errr, sometimes, I don't get around to the rest of the paper.

But I need the option of having all that knowledge there, at my doorstep, every Sunday morning. My dirty little secret is that sometimes I prefer to load up on bad TV instead.

E.