Merry Christmas, readers. (Note: if you are looking at this, I am considering you a reader).
Tis' the holiday of giving, receiving, spending time with family and... eating and drinking. Perhaps even more so than Thanksgiving. My Italian father, with an intense love and knack for cooking, basks in the glow of opportunity to stuff his family (uncomfortably) full for one evening and one day, beginning Christmas Eve. Being Italian, we part-take in the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve. We have been doing this for as long as I can remember and each year the feast grows- not in the number of people who attend, but in the number of different dishes served. (The number of people who attend has actually dwindled over the years, causing me to question the actual, real appeal of this meal to others.) I am not sure exactly what seven fishes are traditionally present at such a feast- it is our tradition to improvise and place our orders with the cook, who rarely fails to serve more than one delectable version of a dish. For instance, this year my brother asked for crab. Crab cakes and warm lump crab meat with melted butter were present on our Christmas Eve table. Shrimp? This year they came deep friend, coconut coated, scampiied, and cold with cocktail sauce. Fried flounder and fried calamari also appeared among the spread. But there is one dish that trumps all the other concoctions and it is served first. Angel hair pasta with allege gravy. What is this allege gravy and how do you pronounce it, you ask? Phonetically: a-lee-j. What's in the name? Tomato sauce, some Italian spices, and anchovies.
Yes, anchovies. I know, exactly, the crinkled expression on your face as you re-read the word "anchovies." And yes, your vision is correct- those tiny, hairy, extremely potent, very fishy fish that make your eyes water if eaten alone (I do not recommend this). But, used in tomato sauce, they can be solely credited for the resulting coalescence of delicious sauce that my family and I look forward to once a year, all year long. And let me clear something up- the sauce isn't ridden with sunken chunks of revolting anchovy fish. Rather, the anchovies sort of melt into the tomato sauce, flavoring it in a less than powerful, salty type of way. Whatever though, it's awesome.
Our feast requires days of preparation and almost an entire 24 hour period of deep-frying. A deep-fried fog clouds our one-story ranch for about three hours prior to our meal. It is painful. Often, I need to take leave and stand outside, or open a window to breathe by. My eyes sting intensely. And though we devour this meal in about 30 minutes (if we take our time), it's totally worth it. It's not just about the food- it's the only 30 minutes of the year that the four of us sit down together at the same table without complaints. I would like to think that this is what everyone looks forward to, even more than my father's gourmet cooking.
But, I also do not want to kid myself. The food is fabulous and the drinks flow like water from the tap. This year, I promptly got drunk before the meal began, which made consuming an abundant amount of salty food all the more better (and me at the table all the more entertaining). The meal is also followed by my father's infamous Italian knot cookies (and this year, cheesecake!). In the morning we wake up to scrambled eggs, potatoes, coffee (and this year, giant cinnamon buns!) All day long we snack on leftovers and other holiday goodies, like candy. We start drinking early. Now it's time for some lasanga and ham.
Yeah, Christmas is definitely all about the food.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
That time I went to Ohio and supported a client's drug habit...
When I hear Ohio, I think yellow. Sometimes, bright orange.
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
I traveled to Ohio at the end of this week for a case. I was somewhat excited to meet the woman I was interviewing because she sounded like a cute, old lady on the phone, who would serve tea and cookies in her little apartment by her little Christmas tree and warm fireplace. I had hopeful prospects to schedule two more interviews on my trip, one with the adoptive stepfather and one with the crushed fiance. I arrived in Ohio in the early evening and rushed to complete the site visit shortly after I checked into my hotel. I re-scheduled the woman's interview for the following morning to leave myself a gap of time before my departing flight the next day, figuring I may be giving 2 more interviews.
I should have known this trip was going to be screwy when my flight had a layover in Philadelphia. It takes 14 minutes to fly from Baltimore to Philly- why the layover? Why not just go directly to Ohio? Oh, because not everyone on the plane is going to Ohio? Why the hell not?
The plane I was on for those 14 minutes was so small that all carry-on items had to be checked. I tried to think of myself as a wealthy traveler on a private jet, but this day dream lasted maybe 18 seconds- broken by the scene of one-seat rows, the fat man belching in front of me, the engaged 12 year old sitting across from me, and the resounding reminder that I could not order a $5.00 travel pack of almonds or an $8.00 cocktail because I was traveling on an Ohio per diem. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that such amenities were even an option on this particular flight.
Well, if this plane crashed, only about 16 unimportant people would die.
During my layover in Philly, I left messages for the stepfather and fiance. I was really pushing to interview the stepfather, as I figured he had helped raise the person I was researching and therefore had played a prominent role in her life, in who she was. I would later learn that he did all of the above and more-but would be thankful that he did not return my calls or respond to my letters. Let's just say he is a sick, fucked up individual who may be at the heart of blame for his stepdaughter's tragic demise. And it would not have been safe for me to be alone in a room with him.
Upon landing in Cleveland, I turned on my phone and was overjoyed to see I had a message from the fiance. He would have time for an interview either that evening or the following day! Perfect- I could get my rental car, check into my hotel, and do a site visit before dark. Then I could get dinner and relax in the luxury of my king-size hotel bed and watch TV and sleep peacefully knowing that I had two interviews tomorrow. Right? Wrong.
I called back the fiance and left a message. I got my cobalt (which was cool because I always liked the cobalt but I had never driven one) and made it to my hotel in 30 minutes. Excuse me- motel. MOTEL? Yes, I was being put up in a MOTEL behind DENNY's. Well, at least it was only one night.
The unfriendly, unhappy, rather large teenage girl with a really cheap highlight job pulled out a map and showed me how to drive to my room. Drive to my room? Oh, boy. As I drove, I noticed there were literally no cars in any of the parking spaces, except the parking space aside mine. I pulled up and parked next to the only other car in the lot- a pickup truck- and entered my room. I was relieved to find that it was not cock-roach infested nor were the sheets stained and hairy, but immediately noticed the audible, rhythmic creak of mattress springs resonating from the other side of the wall. Someone moaned. I had a site visit to make.
Driving to the site, I realized I was in the bad part of Lorain, OH, and became nervous. I locked my car doors- it was apparent I was white. I parked in a liquor store parking lot, took a deep breath, grabbed my camera, got out of my car, and quickly snapped a few shots. Thugs were looking my way and a few honked from their rides. Quickest site visit ever.
It was growing dark, I was growing increasingly tired and hungry, and the fiance still had not called back. I drove around and found a grocery store that looked safe (I saw a white person go in) and purchased a few snack items to have while I watched television and fell asleep in my motel room. I was settling into my bed and started thinking it would probably be a better idea for the fiance to come to a meeting room at my motel (if they had one) or for us to meet in a public place. I knew the fiance lived close by the site and was therefore one of the bad-part-of-towners; I was a young girl alone, without her pepper-spray.
Figuring I would not see him until daylight tomorrow anyway, I began to relax and snack and turned on the tube. Then my phone rang. It was him- he wanted to do the interview tonight- he had no mode of transportation- I was going to his place. I hoped I wouldn't die.
He had moved since the incident and was now living in a nicer part of town. He answered the door and he was white. Okay, relieved. (As I write, I'm beginning to think of myself as somewhat racist).
He showed me into a room where he had set up two chairs side by side, behind a coffee table covered in papers, news articles, and photographs. I began the interview, which I cannot go into for confidentiality purposes, and became calmed as I realized I was not going to be raped and murdered (which may have happened had I interviewed the stepfather). The fiance provided a lot of useful information and insight but kept harping on how depressed he was since his fiance "did this to him," how evil his fiance's mother is, and how he and his fiance were both ex-drug addicts. He reassured me that he no longer used drugs; he had been clean for years.
During the interview, I realized the apartment was covered in photographs of his fiance and the news articles were articles about her death. Did the apartment always look this way or did he set this up just for me, for sympathy points?
He knew I was interviewing the mother in the morning and warned me she would have terrible things to say about him. She would tell me he was to blame and he was addicted to cocaine. And that she was an evil liar.
As the interview wrapped up, he initiated small talk, asking unrelated questions. He wanted to know how I was finding my way around Ohio, if I knew where I could find myself something to eat, how I liked my hotel, and if I needed anything. I thought this was nice and that he was lonely, so I politely engaged in small talk. Then he asked for $20.
...
He showed me a paper he had received from a recent psychiatric hospitalization for depression. It listed three medications he needed to help him feel better. He told me he was afraid that if he didn't take them, he would turn out like his fiance. He needed $20 and had no one around to help him out.
Stunned, sympathetic, naive, and unable to ever say no to anyone, I gave him $20. He showed me the note his fiance left at the site.
I thanked him and hurried out, feeling $20 more broke and 20 times less wise. There was a good chance he fooled me into giving him money for coke.
Well, that was over and behind me. I couldn't take back my money. Plus, maybe he really was using it to buy anti-depressants to feel better. One thing was for sure either way, he was definitely using it to make himself feel better.
He called me about 9 PM that night, to tell me something else about the case. I wondered if he was high.
I met the mother the following morning, as planned. She was not a cute old lady- she was a recovering alcoholic and she was raw. Her bleached blond hair was tied up high in a pony tail, which she told me gave her a headache. Her apartment was freezing (there was no fireplace, though there was a Christmas tree) and she chain-smoked and cursed like a sailor during the interview, while her step-grandson ran around in his underwear. She bad-mouthed the fiance, like he had said she would, and gave me more reason to believe that I had indeed given him $20 to buy coke. I liked her. Raw=honest. Upon leaving though, she was surprised to learn that I was not from Ohio. She told me she could not tell I wasn't a regular Ohio hillbilly. I no longer liked her or Ohio.
I raced to the airport and caught an early flight and got the hell out of Ohio. The fiance called me three times and wanted to know what the mother had said about him. I said "nothing terrible." He said I was very professional and easy to talk to and thanked me for the money, which he had since used to purchase his pills. I told him I hoped he felt better and to take care.
What the fuck, Ohio?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Putting a plan into action (finally)
So, the plan all along was to post short pieces of fiction I had written in this blog. Writing short fiction is a definite passion of mine, but I can never seem to finish anything. This first piece I am posting is not, by any means, my favorite or anything I am particularly proud of. In fact, I think I could have written it much better. It is, however, the first piece I have finished in a very long time. I do not have a title for it and will probably edit it a myriad number of times if I ever decide to do anything with it.
I like this piece because I wrote it at two very different points in my life. I began it not knowing how things were going to turn out. Things turned out in a way that I was hoping they would not. Like the girl in the story, I was in denial. Knowing was just too painful. But now I know and I am relieved.
Anyway, here it is.
She got out of bed because she could not sleep. He had been sleeping for quite a while. She knew she would wake him but it would be brief, a momentary interruption from his dreams. She did not feel badly. He often fell asleep first and had exciting and interesting dreams that he would tell her about in the morning. She often lay in bed long minutes and hours listening to him snore and would not have much to talk about in the morning, over coffee.
It was not his snoring that kept her from sleeping on this particular night, however. His snoring had, on other nights, delayed her slip into unconsciousness. Tonight, the darkness of the room and the vacancy of her mind prevented her from sleep. This dark room reflected the blankness in her head. Such blankness echoed so loudly that his beastly snores composed a lullaby lost in the background.
Awkwardly, she maneuvered her body over his to escape her bed’s embrace. He rolled over, awoke, and asked, sleepily, where she was going. She told him she needed water and offered to bring him something. He said yes and was satisfied. She knew he would very soon be asleep and bringing him something would only entail waking him again. She never intended to give him anything (and often made empty promises). She had not even stood before he began to snore.
She found her way out of the dark room, fumbling around a misplaced desk chair and trudging through worn clothes. A stray hairclip broke into pieces beneath her bare foot and she quietly cursed in the darkness, the pieces of her life.
Stairs creaked as she skipped down them. She hated the sound of these stairs but right now she found relief in the way they broke the empty silence of the apartment. Strangely, she felt like she was doing something, even if it was just making a noise, causing a racket.
Akin to a robot, she sat down at the dining room table in her self-designated seat. She stared straight ahead into the living room, and clasped her hands together in something like polite prayer. She sat still then, akin now to a statue, and freed herself from the constraints of time. She was well aware that a sleepy eyed boy would not appear at the bottom of the creaky stairs, to look for her, concerned. He did not miss her to hold onto in the darkness. He used miss her when she would leave a room too long in the middle of the day. He used to be that into her. But things were not that way anymore.
She did not let herself think about this though. She kept her mind blank. Blank was now how she got through her days, but blank was keeping her awake tonight. Blank prevented her from feeling, from admitting, being less than happy. She guessed this was better. It was better than knowing things had changed and that there was no one to blame. Time had simply passed.
It wasn’t a matter of how much time had passed- she suddenly needed to lie down. Pulling herself up and sliding her chair in, she turned to face the stairs. Then she faced the couch. She stood in a trance, seduced by its offer to let her collapse in weakness and rest until beams of sunlight pierced through the slits of living room blinds. Her trance was broken by the subtle sounds of snores.
These sounds grew louder as she climbed the creaky stairs. She entered her room and saw him, lying on his side, facing away from her. His back was bare and so she went to him, to cover him, because really, she loved him. He turned over and faced her. He lifted up the covers and stretched his arms out to receive her. She slipped into bed and he pulled her close beneath the blanket. He had no idea. Her head fit beneath his chin, cradled in the sling of his neck. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and moments later, began to snore. She was lost again, under the covers, secure in his embrace. It was good enough for now.
She drifted into a dreamless sleep, then, and slept the rest of the night, the best she could.
I like this piece because I wrote it at two very different points in my life. I began it not knowing how things were going to turn out. Things turned out in a way that I was hoping they would not. Like the girl in the story, I was in denial. Knowing was just too painful. But now I know and I am relieved.
Anyway, here it is.
She got out of bed because she could not sleep. He had been sleeping for quite a while. She knew she would wake him but it would be brief, a momentary interruption from his dreams. She did not feel badly. He often fell asleep first and had exciting and interesting dreams that he would tell her about in the morning. She often lay in bed long minutes and hours listening to him snore and would not have much to talk about in the morning, over coffee.
It was not his snoring that kept her from sleeping on this particular night, however. His snoring had, on other nights, delayed her slip into unconsciousness. Tonight, the darkness of the room and the vacancy of her mind prevented her from sleep. This dark room reflected the blankness in her head. Such blankness echoed so loudly that his beastly snores composed a lullaby lost in the background.
Awkwardly, she maneuvered her body over his to escape her bed’s embrace. He rolled over, awoke, and asked, sleepily, where she was going. She told him she needed water and offered to bring him something. He said yes and was satisfied. She knew he would very soon be asleep and bringing him something would only entail waking him again. She never intended to give him anything (and often made empty promises). She had not even stood before he began to snore.
She found her way out of the dark room, fumbling around a misplaced desk chair and trudging through worn clothes. A stray hairclip broke into pieces beneath her bare foot and she quietly cursed in the darkness, the pieces of her life.
Stairs creaked as she skipped down them. She hated the sound of these stairs but right now she found relief in the way they broke the empty silence of the apartment. Strangely, she felt like she was doing something, even if it was just making a noise, causing a racket.
Akin to a robot, she sat down at the dining room table in her self-designated seat. She stared straight ahead into the living room, and clasped her hands together in something like polite prayer. She sat still then, akin now to a statue, and freed herself from the constraints of time. She was well aware that a sleepy eyed boy would not appear at the bottom of the creaky stairs, to look for her, concerned. He did not miss her to hold onto in the darkness. He used miss her when she would leave a room too long in the middle of the day. He used to be that into her. But things were not that way anymore.
She did not let herself think about this though. She kept her mind blank. Blank was now how she got through her days, but blank was keeping her awake tonight. Blank prevented her from feeling, from admitting, being less than happy. She guessed this was better. It was better than knowing things had changed and that there was no one to blame. Time had simply passed.
It wasn’t a matter of how much time had passed- she suddenly needed to lie down. Pulling herself up and sliding her chair in, she turned to face the stairs. Then she faced the couch. She stood in a trance, seduced by its offer to let her collapse in weakness and rest until beams of sunlight pierced through the slits of living room blinds. Her trance was broken by the subtle sounds of snores.
These sounds grew louder as she climbed the creaky stairs. She entered her room and saw him, lying on his side, facing away from her. His back was bare and so she went to him, to cover him, because really, she loved him. He turned over and faced her. He lifted up the covers and stretched his arms out to receive her. She slipped into bed and he pulled her close beneath the blanket. He had no idea. Her head fit beneath his chin, cradled in the sling of his neck. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and moments later, began to snore. She was lost again, under the covers, secure in his embrace. It was good enough for now.
She drifted into a dreamless sleep, then, and slept the rest of the night, the best she could.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
November: an artistically sad month
I have been dreading November for months. It had been looming in my future, a gloomy, orange shadow (when I hear November, I think orange). November was near enough to know my life would not be different when it came, but far away enough that knowing this depressed the hell out of me. I would still be here, working part-time with a less than desirable resume, having failed to seriously consider applying for graduate school. I would not have finished the book I have been reading since the summer and I would not have written any stories of my own. And I would be alone.
November is artistically sad- people sing about this. I know 20 emotional songs affirming the same thing: November is a fucking miserable month. The day gets shorter and the night gets longer. The weather gets cold and dead leaves fall like rain. Not to mention, it rains.
But today, November is exactly halfway over. Everything that I knew would be true in November is. Somehow, though, it doesn't make me too sad. I feel okay. I feel so okay that I cannot believe how quickly November is passing by.
November is artistically sad- people sing about this. I know 20 emotional songs affirming the same thing: November is a fucking miserable month. The day gets shorter and the night gets longer. The weather gets cold and dead leaves fall like rain. Not to mention, it rains.
But today, November is exactly halfway over. Everything that I knew would be true in November is. Somehow, though, it doesn't make me too sad. I feel okay. I feel so okay that I cannot believe how quickly November is passing by.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Under-qualified Traveler
Fresh out of undergraduate school, I was given a job that I am totally under qualified for. It involves travelling, pretty much, all over our (great) nation. It is an additional position to the research assistant position I already have for a federally funded research project. I have my B.A. in psychology. The project I am working on involves preventing suicide on railways across the county. That is right; I am striving to stop people from intentionally throwing themselves in front of trains.
Morbid? Depressing? Awkward to talk about? Yes, to say the least. When I was looking for housing, a tenant became suddenly disinterested as soon as I told him I worked in suicide prevention. His phone “died.” I didn’t even get into the whole train thing.
Don’t get me wrong, it is a rewarding job. And it sure does put things into perspective.
I am totally unqualified for the traveling position, however. And it’s not just in education, it is in life-experience. Until the end of high school, I had refused traveling because I was terrified of planes. I would only travel with the same couple of friends and would need to sit between them, to hold their hands. (I know, lame and pathetic. I try to give off a tough persona but when it comes to heights, I am a huge baby. Except for roller-coasters.) Since the end of September, I have been on at least 8 different planes. I have travelled to Minnesota, Kansas, and Arizona. I have survived each flight without having a panick attack. To tell the truth, lately, there is something comforting and relieving about lift-off and something morbidly depressing about landing. Maybe because I am less than happy with my life on the ground.
In each of the different states I have visited, I have also managed the task of getting myself from point A to B to C (and all points in between) using a rental car. Me. Driving. And not getting lost. If you know me well, you know this is quite a feat. I still get lost in my hometown and I lived there for 18 years. I once went north to go south, and didn’t realize it until I was nearly an hour out of my way. Yikes.
When I got hired for a job that involved being responsible for my own travel, everyone was shocked and slightly mortified. With my sense of direction, I am the last person to ever be qualified for such a position. I think, however, everyone has been more shocked (including myself) that I was and am able to handle such a position. I did not end up lost in Narnia in Kansas, Minnesota, or Arizona. (Well, it was a close call in Minnesota).
Currently, my travels have taken me to the West coast, to Arizona. Arizona is a strange place. I never knew a land where you could see cacti, palm trees, and mountains out of the car window, on the same drive. An obsession with with Mexican food seems to be an intrinsic part of the Arizona culture. The people I have encountered are nice, normal, (nothing unusual or too different than what I am used to). The drivers are impatient (normal). I saw someone walking through the airport carrying a cardboard box that said "live cactus" (unusual).
Now I find myself sitting in a bar in the Tucson Airport. I am eating wings and drinking beer. I feel buzzed and I know as soon as I stand up, I’m fucked. And, on the flight, I’m really going to need to pee. But, at least that is what I am most worried about.
Morbid? Depressing? Awkward to talk about? Yes, to say the least. When I was looking for housing, a tenant became suddenly disinterested as soon as I told him I worked in suicide prevention. His phone “died.” I didn’t even get into the whole train thing.
Don’t get me wrong, it is a rewarding job. And it sure does put things into perspective.
I am totally unqualified for the traveling position, however. And it’s not just in education, it is in life-experience. Until the end of high school, I had refused traveling because I was terrified of planes. I would only travel with the same couple of friends and would need to sit between them, to hold their hands. (I know, lame and pathetic. I try to give off a tough persona but when it comes to heights, I am a huge baby. Except for roller-coasters.) Since the end of September, I have been on at least 8 different planes. I have travelled to Minnesota, Kansas, and Arizona. I have survived each flight without having a panick attack. To tell the truth, lately, there is something comforting and relieving about lift-off and something morbidly depressing about landing. Maybe because I am less than happy with my life on the ground.
In each of the different states I have visited, I have also managed the task of getting myself from point A to B to C (and all points in between) using a rental car. Me. Driving. And not getting lost. If you know me well, you know this is quite a feat. I still get lost in my hometown and I lived there for 18 years. I once went north to go south, and didn’t realize it until I was nearly an hour out of my way. Yikes.
When I got hired for a job that involved being responsible for my own travel, everyone was shocked and slightly mortified. With my sense of direction, I am the last person to ever be qualified for such a position. I think, however, everyone has been more shocked (including myself) that I was and am able to handle such a position. I did not end up lost in Narnia in Kansas, Minnesota, or Arizona. (Well, it was a close call in Minnesota).
Currently, my travels have taken me to the West coast, to Arizona. Arizona is a strange place. I never knew a land where you could see cacti, palm trees, and mountains out of the car window, on the same drive. An obsession with with Mexican food seems to be an intrinsic part of the Arizona culture. The people I have encountered are nice, normal, (nothing unusual or too different than what I am used to). The drivers are impatient (normal). I saw someone walking through the airport carrying a cardboard box that said "live cactus" (unusual).
Now I find myself sitting in a bar in the Tucson Airport. I am eating wings and drinking beer. I feel buzzed and I know as soon as I stand up, I’m fucked. And, on the flight, I’m really going to need to pee. But, at least that is what I am most worried about.
Introduction: Edit
Upon reflection, my introduction was lengthy and just, too much.
I am always doing this; I am always giving too much of an explanation. In school, I was always the student getting points deducted for writing too much, for not staying within the maximum page limit. And for this, I would be called an overachiever by peers. I’ll admit, in many ways, I am an overachiever. But would an overachiever really want to get a 10 point deduction for writing 2 too many pages? I think not. And see, I’ve done it again. I have over-explained my compulsion to over- explain.
So, to correct/shorten my introduction (not delete, mind you, I never seem to permanently delete anything from my life and am finding that as I age, I may be developing a hoarding compulsion) here is my second blog entry, the way my first one should have been written. Short and to the point.
I am lost. I want to find my way, like Tom Petty in his song, “Square One.” This song inspired my blog and gives me the hope that I can find my way too, from square one. Listen to it.
The end.
I am always doing this; I am always giving too much of an explanation. In school, I was always the student getting points deducted for writing too much, for not staying within the maximum page limit. And for this, I would be called an overachiever by peers. I’ll admit, in many ways, I am an overachiever. But would an overachiever really want to get a 10 point deduction for writing 2 too many pages? I think not. And see, I’ve done it again. I have over-explained my compulsion to over- explain.
So, to correct/shorten my introduction (not delete, mind you, I never seem to permanently delete anything from my life and am finding that as I age, I may be developing a hoarding compulsion) here is my second blog entry, the way my first one should have been written. Short and to the point.
I am lost. I want to find my way, like Tom Petty in his song, “Square One.” This song inspired my blog and gives me the hope that I can find my way too, from square one. Listen to it.
The end.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Introduction
My blog is called "Square One" because that is exactly where I feel I am in my life, square one. A recent college grad, I am living in squalor, working at a job that's existence depends entirely upon unreliable funding. My relationship ended, abruptly, and many friends have gone their separate ways. I chose to remain in the city because I honestly believed I was doing the best thing for future I wanted. Three months after graduation, however, it turned out that it didn't really matter what I had wanted. My decision to stay for my job and my boyfriend did not ensure stable work hours or a successful relationship. I am left feeling helpless- powerless over my own life and my own future. I am questioning everything I thought I wanted (a relief, after years of questions and doubts). And nobody really understands. Not exactly. At the moment, I feel wholly "unwhole" and completely lost.
There is a Tom Petty song, featured in my favorite movie, (though it is not a favorite among many), "Elizabethtown." The song is called "Squre One." It is the inspiration for the idea behind my blog. In the song, Mr. Petty looks back on his life of trouble and fear. He had to endure all of the trouble and all of the fear in order to "get back here," to square one. Mr. Petty sings with a sense of relief and contentment, having finally arrived, after a "long time," at square one. His "slate is clear." Finally. But, I am not content or relieved to be at square one. I am not okay and my slate is not clear, I carry heavy baggage everywhere I go. And everywhere I go, I am lost.
Perhaps I needed to get lost to find anything real. Perhaps I needed things not to work out so that the right things could. And perhaps I need to work hard to be okay with all of my loss and the resulting, overwhelming, dissapointment I have experienced. "Yeah my way was hard to find, Can't sell youself a piece of mind."
This song brings me hope and new perspective. Maybe I am not so lost- maybe I am just at square one. Maybe my slate can one day be clear. It is not going to be easy, it is going to take "a world of trouble and world of fear... a long time..." When that day comes, I will sing along with Mr. Petty (though unbearably out of key), knowing that I have endured loss and managed to find my way. And the people and things that are important and meaningful in my life, will still be right here, with me.
There is a Tom Petty song, featured in my favorite movie, (though it is not a favorite among many), "Elizabethtown." The song is called "Squre One." It is the inspiration for the idea behind my blog. In the song, Mr. Petty looks back on his life of trouble and fear. He had to endure all of the trouble and all of the fear in order to "get back here," to square one. Mr. Petty sings with a sense of relief and contentment, having finally arrived, after a "long time," at square one. His "slate is clear." Finally. But, I am not content or relieved to be at square one. I am not okay and my slate is not clear, I carry heavy baggage everywhere I go. And everywhere I go, I am lost.
Perhaps I needed to get lost to find anything real. Perhaps I needed things not to work out so that the right things could. And perhaps I need to work hard to be okay with all of my loss and the resulting, overwhelming, dissapointment I have experienced. "Yeah my way was hard to find, Can't sell youself a piece of mind."
This song brings me hope and new perspective. Maybe I am not so lost- maybe I am just at square one. Maybe my slate can one day be clear. It is not going to be easy, it is going to take "a world of trouble and world of fear... a long time..." When that day comes, I will sing along with Mr. Petty (though unbearably out of key), knowing that I have endured loss and managed to find my way. And the people and things that are important and meaningful in my life, will still be right here, with me.
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