Nights Watch, Part 2 (Original Post 07/07/14)

And here’s what you missed on tonight’s sweatin’ after dark, night walk.

I was approached by 3 slow moving zombies tonight. Turns out they were just 3 mildly intoxicated women also getting an evening walk in. They were so convincing though, that I almost turned around and started to briskly walk the opposite direction. I didn’t but, whilst in the midst of my internal debate over fight or flight, I made a wrong turn and promptly got lost in my small neighborhood. Thankfully my cell had full battery (surprising) and was glued to my hand (not surprising).

While navigating my way back to familiar roads, there was a rustle in the shrubs road side followed by a growl. Assuming a black bear had wandered into the burbs of Virginia Beach and I was about to die, I jumped, screamed and inadvertently threw my phone at it. Thankfully I heard the familiar sound of my Otter Box connecting with metal and not furry flesh. My “bear” turned out to be a neighbor’s AC unit coming to life. Also thankfully, my GPS was still lighting up my phone and telling me to turn left in a quarter of a mile repeatedly so, I was able to locate it in the shrubs easily. Embarrassingly, the home owner happened to be out side having a smoke when this bear attack occurred. Having heard my yelp and phone chucking he asked into the night if I was OK or needed help. This forced my hand to lie by saying I had just stumbled and was fine. If he knew my fib, he was gentleman enough to not laugh until I was out of ear shot.

As I rounded a familiar bend, a man in a pick up truck came to a stop next to me. I immediately assumed I was about to end up in a hole in some creeper’s basement being told to put the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again. The driver of the truck must have seen the look of fear on my face and readiness to bolt when in the nicest southern drawl said, “I’m sorry to scare ya ma’m but, could ya tell me how the hell ya get outta this dang neighborhood? I just gave a friend a ride home and he was in no state to give me directions and my cell is dead.” I quickly gave him directions to the nearest main drag which he was very grateful for and told me so. I, in turn, told him I was grateful that he had stopped to ask for directions and not to abduct me. That’s when things got awkward. He kindly ignored my stellar abduction comment, thanked me a final time then pulled away harmlessly.

And finally, I walked into the back of a parked SUV while looking up at the night sky. And no, I don’t want to discuss that matter.

Work to Live, Not Live to Work (Original Post 06/30/14)

I have come to a cross roads in my life. I am 1 year away to what is typically mid life in my genealogy. I am a little healthier than my predecessors so maybe more like 6 years but whatever, back to the cross roads.

In my early 20’s my thoughts and concerns lay solely with finding an enjoyable job that pulled a decent paycheck. Slowly that mindset moved towards just getting a decent paycheck as the reality of rent, insurance, car payments and the cost of life in general sunk in. I wanted nice things and to not be dead broke all the time. That’s how I ended up slipping into Project Management. It wasn’t creative and exciting like Design was. I didn’t get to have “visions” of how to create a space but, the next best thing I figured was getting to oversee bringing someone else’s vision to life. And the pay was almost double. Ultimately that’s what clinched the deal for me. Dolla bills. And for a while, I enjoyed it.

My first real job was busy and had certain levels of stress but I was young and eager to prove myself at a real job. I did well and quickly got a promotion. When my career started to feel stagnant, I changed it up and tried a different facet of my job and went into Strategic Planning. I liked that too but my employer was unpredictable and offered a sense of unease every Friday that no fat paycheck could over shadow. So after that extra stress and unrest, I took a step back, a small pay cut and took a job back in Project Management for commercial furniture dealership. It was about 6 months into that job that I realized, I shouldn’t have taken that pay cut. My stress was off the charts. But I chalked it up to a difficult account and customer that I worked on and muscled through until we had to move to the other side of the country for the sailor’s job. Once again I was happy to take another small step back and slightly larger pay cut for the sake of my sanity as well as eliminate any long gaps in unemployment.

Upon arrival back to EST it took me a whooping whole 6 weeks to realize any job in this field would never be low stress let alone stress free. Even if it’s just furniture installation. And then I had my moment of true clarity. I realized that back in 2002 when I declared my major that I had been delusional and made a rookie mistake. I choose a profession based on the illusion that you need to have a career that you like, that you think is fun and are passionate about. Which is true in a certain small respect but, the trick is knowing and understanding that no matter how much you love you career choice the day will come where you fucking hate it.

There will be a day if not multiple days were you would rather drive hot rusty nails under your finger nails with Rebecca Black’s “Friday” stuck on repeat in your headphones than go into your life depleting job. It happens. To everyone. And when that day comes, you need to be able to find something good behind what you do to get you through that fucking soul sucking bullshit. You need to feel good about what you are accomplishing. Feel that what your doing matters and makes a difference in the goal of bettering the world in some way. I look back on my jobs and the majority of them were inconsequential to the bettering of anyones world in a substantial way. Oh, let me elaborate for you.

I found ways for a bank to need less real-estate and save money by consolidating space in leased buildings. Yes, I saved a leech of a large global bank money. No feel goods looking back on that stint in the seventh circle of hell. I installed furniture for a huge online retail market. When I couldn’t get their fucking sofas with the special ordered fabric in before they occupied a building you would have thought I had told them that I was planning to shit in their Cheerios. Bitches please, the stupid fucking sofa in the cafe isn’t solving world hunger. It’s just a place for your hipster developers to park it while they drink coffee and look at their smart phones while thinking up new technology that we really don’t need but will pay big bucks for. No warm and fuzzes at all from that one. Nope. Not at all.

The closest I could get to feeling decent about my job was when I managed projects for a Health Care and Insurance Co-op. I over saw building of Medical buildings that helped sick and dying people. I installed updated equipment and renovated lobbies to make patients visits easier and more comfortable. At least, at the end of those stressful long days, I felt like I was actually accomplishing something for the greater good even if in a little way.

I am tired of looking at my job and wanting to scream at people that their desk chair that is arriving late is not the fucking end of the world. The old one you have is fine for another few weeks. That the cubicles you want built in your new office at a law firm being 2 weeks later than you wanted will not END YOUR FUCKING LIFE. It won’t even be the end your business. I am tired of every bullshit thing being the end of some jackhole’s world when in fact it is just a minor irritating interruption in the over all blip in the world that is their life. I am simply exhausted and I don’t think there is a vacation long enough that can cure this apathy that my jobs have planted in my brain and that festers in me. I need a change. I want a change. If I am going to come home at the end of a day exhausted and drained, I want to feel like I accomplished something other than kowtowing to a corporate head only to get raked over the coals for not doing it better and faster. If I am going to be be held to these standards I want my efforts to make a difference, truly. So, it’s time for a change because something has got to give and I refuse to let that something be my personal life or my sanity. If my work has to be part of my life, I choose it to be something more. Something better. Then again, anything will be better than this.

Green Under My Thumb (Original Post 06/25/14)

I got it in my head this evening that I was going to plant an herb garden in the front raise “flower” bed. I have never had a plant that I didn’t kill albeit unintentionally. But those were all in the house in small pots. Truthfully, I didn’t pay them enough attention. Small potted African Violets, spider plants and numerous small squares of cat grass. It doesn’ help that in the last 8 years I also had the cats munching on anything green brought in the house.

I am convinced that this time will be different though. This time, my herb garden is outside and conveniently located where I must walk by at least twice a day. I will research all the intricate ways that each plant needs to be cared for to help it grow. It will flourish and in a few to several weeks it will be bountiful and glorious and I can’t wait. I have already made plans on what glorious dishes I will be able to make and when they call for fresh tarragon sprigs or chopped fresh parsley I will simply be able to walk out my front door with small scissors and a bowl and snip what I need, fresh and delicious. And this bountiful herb garden will lead me to a love affair with successfully growing and consuming the fruits of my labors that come mid-summer, I will want to construct a small raised bed in my back yard to fill with fabulous root vegetables, squashes and peppers. I’ll love my little gardens so much that I will bite the bullet and create a small compost bin where I will toss my egg shells and food scraps to simmer and bake into a little tasty snack for my growing veggies. This is my hope.

Reality is that 75% of the damn seeds probably will never germinate, 10% of the ones that do won’t even make it to seedlings and the rest I am sure I’ll unintentionally kill. I’ll be disappointed and irritated and throw away the few little gardening tools that I bought with the sad seeds that are currently on death row awaiting planting this week.

Godspeed little seeds. Forgive me for the wrongs that I am surely about to commit against you that will lead to your untimely death.

Help Me I’m Poor (Original Post 06/25/14)

I’m just gonna throw this out there, I am the richest poor person I know. What does that mean you ask? Well let me tell you. I make good money. By all means I should be able to buy myself a nice car, save up enough for a nice downpayment on a cute starter home and still live comfortably paying that mortgage all by myself. I should be able to splurge and go to a 5 star restaurant on occasion or at the least buy myself a fancy cut of meat with which to pamper myself by cooking a culinary treat at home. I should have fine clothes and shoes that fit me nicely.

I should have all this. But, here’s the reality. I have a 2007 Prius that I had to finance for seven years. Yes, seven. Unlike a normal human that finances a compact car for say 4 or 5 years. Thankfully I love that car and it’s reliable even if it isn’t that cool or even nice. I rent a small ranch that I can barely afford even though I only pay half the rent and utilities with the Sailor footing the bill on the other half. My savings account doesn’t even hold a 1% downpayment let alone the recommended 20%. Frankly, I am lucky to hold a balance high enough to fulfill the minimum that my credit union requires to keep my accounts active. Tonights gourmet fixings include a box of Kraft dinner that is a little runny because I didn’t have enough butter so added more milk and an Oscar Mayer hotdog cut up and mixed in. Bon appetite motherfuckers. And clothes and shoes? Don’t make me laugh. I bought my current ballet flats for work from Target for $15 not including tax. I went on a $250 clothes shopping spree at Marshall’s when I filed for divorce. 3 days later I felt so guilty I returned $100 worth of the purchase. That was the last time I bought new clothes. Today I wore dress pants that I purchased from Old Navy in, wait for it, 2004 to wear for a studio presentation of some sort. And by studio I mean the 3rd year of fucking college. Yep, I still have and wear pants that are a decade old.

But yet I make a slightly above average salary for my age. What gives? 2 words: Student Loans. They are the soul sucking curse of my financial life. When I decided to put down the pitch fork that I was shoveling shit with at a horse farm making minimum wage as a horse groom and throw away the hot wax pot of my evening and weekend job as an esthetician and pick up the books to get an education, I was filled with the same song and dance that so many others were. “You’ll never make a decent wage without a 4 year degree”, “McDonalds isn’t even hiring people with out at least some college these days” blah blah fucking blah. I didn’t know it then but, that’s all bullshit.

But I fell for it. So I enrolled at a small rural branch of Kent State University and started taking all the fucking useless “Liberal Education Requirements” that you will never use again classes. Don’t get me wrong, I loved all those LER classes. History of Civ I and II were so interesting and I had a fantastic teacher that made it even better. I owned that class with a 112%. But, the point is that they had NOTHING to do with my career path which at that point was Zoologist. But, it was a requirement that each class was 3 credits for a total of 6 credits. Did I mention that I paid tuition and a fee per-credit. And those pre-requists took me 3.5 semesters to fulfill. That’s 3/8s of my college education that were just “because we said so” classes. 12 credits per semester, yeah, Kent made some bank on those classes. Now, I did change my major as I was drawing in on the close of all my LERs but, that didn’t add to my tenure surprisingly. My major changed to Interior Design. Because I liked spaces, color and furniture. Never once did I ask my counselor what type of job I would get and he, an English teacher by trade, didn’t offer up that info. He just directed me to the classes and the program requirements and sent me on my way to the main campus. Stellar.

That’s when the financial “aid” became important. This was the big time. Thousands of dollars a semester in tuition and credit hours. And that’s not including the books and supplies for my studio classes. Oh then there was my daily living; rent, gas, car insurance, food… Fuck my life. Oh and my parents? Dad was in early retirement due to getting laid off and my mom cleaned houses. Good old FAFSA thought they should be able to contribute about $24k a year. Yes, you read that right. My unemployed/retired father and my housekeeper mom could afford $24k a year. And me? I worked 2-3 jobs and averaged about $15k total a year before taxes. I made too much, even once I was no longer required to list my parents information, to get grants. Oh and speaking of listing my parents information on FAFSA, I had to until I was 24 years old. 24. I asked my financial advisor what if my parents disowned me or were MIA in my life. Her answer, well I guess you can’t file for finical aid then… Yes. Oh, you’re parents disappeared and disowned you? Fuck you student, stay uneducated. Thank you.

So I checked the box, “I am interested in loans” and resubmitted. That check mark was the second worst decision that I have ever made in my entire life. An example of this scale of bad decisions: Number 4 is when I dated a former coke dealer that was on house arrest living with his parents at the age of 30 so… that’s a tough number spot to nab on the list, let alone number 1 if you catch my drift. These federally funded loans can only be used to pay tuition of a full time student. And they didn’t even give me enough each semester to cover that. It covered about half. Two-thirds if I slipped under the full time status with 9 or 10 credit hours rather than the typical 12. 2 semesters of upper-division classes books and supplies set me back $8,000 dollars. Which I had to put on my credit card. Yes, you read that right. $8k give or take a hundred or 2. I was stupid and bought all the required books that first year which usually ran right around $1,000 a semester if you weren’t lucky enough to snag a used version. I never was. Sadly, my stupid classes’s books were revised so often that the used ones often became out dated in a year or 2. Then there were the “suggested books”. I waited to buy those until I realized they should have been on the required list as often as some of the teachers referenced them. The other $6k were studio supplies. No one told me how expensive paints, vellum, mechanical pencils and led, erasers, ink pens… (I am sure you get the point) end up being. I freaked. My credit card was almost maxed out. I had just paid it off shortly before from my need to use it to pay for medical care when I let a strep throat infection go untreated so long that my lungs developed an infection… yep, I had NO health insurance. But that’s another rant for another night.

So I started looking into scholarships seriously. I applied for hundreds in various dollar amounts, some for a couple hundred others for a couple thousand. I didn’t win a single one. I spent hours and hours researching what kinds of family heritage that I could exploit to try and get a few dollars to help not have to accept debt. Nothing paid off. I was willing to sign up for various clubs and groups if they were willing to help me financially. None were.

I got desperate not wanting to just stop and give up. So, I searched for private student loan lenders. Good old Chase Morgan offered them and ones that could be used for anything, like books and art supplies. And all I had to do was make $15k a year minimum or have a co-signer and prove I was enrolled in a viable College or University. So I applied. And they approved me for $30,000 a year. You read that correct. They wanted to give me $30k. So I asked for $15k. The check arrived in the mail within 5 business days. Accepting and depositing that check into my savings account was the number 1 worst decision I have ever made in my life. Another bad example of this scale of bad decisions just for perspective: I married a Bi-polar convicted felon thief that decided that getting a new girlfriend after 1 year into our 2 year marriage which I found out about on Facebook which led to our subsequent divorce ranks in at 3. Yeah, that only ranks as number fucking 3 after the student loan decisions.

I took 4 years worth of full time upper division courses. I applied was approved and accepted a private loan for $15K every year. After 6 years, 2 of which I attended summer semester part time as well as the normal Fall and Spring semesters full time, of federal loans for my tuition and then the additional private loans for all the ridiculously expensive supplies and books for the last 4 of those 6’s upper division courses I accumulated a hair past $100,000 worth of student loan debt. I had the equivalent of a mortgage for a 2 bedroom condo in the nicer burbs in Ohio in student loans. For a piece of paper. I graduated Magna cum Laude. I was fucking PROUD of that piece of paper.

By then, I was 26. I had moved back in with my parents and had been living in their unfinished basement for the last 3 years of college. For year after I graduated with my fancy piece of paper saying, “Christan is smart, hire her”, I worked for a small commercial furniture dealership making a record breaking $23,000 salary. They had to lay me off after 6 months. Then 2 months later asked if I would come back full time but temporarily for a large project. I supplemented my income waiting tables and slinging drinks at a local bar and grill at night and sending out resumes trying to get something better with more money and stability. For the first 6 months I focused on the greater Cleveland area. I got a whopping 1 interview with a display company that I wasn’t even remotely qualified for the job. So I broadened the regional resume outreach. After over a year, I still only had that one interview under my belt and I was applying anywhere in the country. I was finally interviewed and offered a job. In Seattle, WA. I had no choice but to take it and choose to move 2,700 miles from all my family and friends. The only other choice was to continue to live in my parents basement at 28 years old, working at my meager design job by day and slinging drinks by night, just scraping by making enough to cover my student loans, putting gas in my car, car insurance and the occasional meal out with friends to feel like a normal adult.

After almost a decade of experience I am making an above average salary. And I am the richest poor person I know. Because My student loans cost more than my rent every month. I should have stuck with shoveling shit and waxing bikini lines. I would been making less money but I would have twice as much at my disposal. And I would be ten times happier.

Nights Watch, Part 1 (Original Post 06/24/14)

Here are the observations and happenings from this evenings post nightfall walk:

1. Certain roads in my neighborhood don’t have street lights. After this evening I will remember which ones and avoid them after dark. My vivid imagination during the very dark stretches included but were not limited to rapists, murders, rabid raccoons, patient zero of the zombie apocalypse, children of the corn, and the general deranged. Yes, I live in the burbs less then a mile from a Naval base, what is your point?

2. A lightening bug flew directly into my forehead so hard it stung. I then proceeded to make up a short story (between all the tragic death scenarios envisioned from observance número uno of course) about that lightening bug escaping bug prison, being chased by a bounty hunter bat, narrowly escaping the death glass of the 4 wheeled Japanese monster by the name of Honda only to die a unceremonious death by flying into my forehead. I might turn that into a dark children’s book a la Tim Burton so don’t steal that shit.

And finally…

3. There was a young woman sitting on what I can only assume was her front porch obvious talking on the phone. The first time around the block all I heard was murmuring at a low tone. The second (or third, or tenth, shit who knows) time around she suddenly burst out with, “He’s not cute and funny! He’s ugly! And stupid! And his kids are ugly and you can’t marry him or you will be miserable with ugly kids!” As I walked, mouth agape, into the circle of light from the nearing street light, there was a quiet gasp, creak of a screen door and subsequent slam tel tale of a person making a hasty entrance. Listen girlfriend, I feel ya. We have all been there. Your friend thinks he’s the cat’s pajamas but really he’s a gross cat turd. Kudos to you for saying what we have all thought in some way or another of a friends choice of beau. Too bad you were in the shadows. I kinda want to be your friend, my fellow Doctor with a PhD in KIR.

10,000 Steps to Wine (Original Post 06/04/14)

Listen, I like food. And wine. And more food. I have had a love affair with food for about fifteen years. I love how it smells. I like all the textures. And don’t even get me started on all the fabulous fantastical tastes. Oh how I love the tastes! But as of late, this love affair has been a love hate relationship. The copious amounts of cheese, pasta, burgers and breaded chicken have waged a war on my body that I am slowly loosing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I look bad but, I feel like shit. I can’t sleep at night and am tired all day. I get winding walking up a flight or two of stairs. I feel soft and jello-y instead of strong and firm. I am too old to feel like Chet after Lisa changes him to a big pile of shit.

Problem is, I have no self control or motivation. If there are a box of cookies, they are going to their delicious deaths in my mouth. And not just the 4 cookies that are the recommended serving. I think not. A sleeve will disappear in the dark depths of my gullet. And I will feel guilty an hour later once they have expanded in my tummy and it screams uncle that it is over full. If I have some spare minutes to kill, they are spent on Pinterest pinning clothes I can’t afford, exercise routines that I will never actually do and recipes for kale that I will try and convince myself will make that god awful dirt tasting bark palatable instead of walking around the block or doing some sun slautations. Bottom line I am lazy.

So I asked for a gadget to hold me accountable for my birthday. And I got it. It’s called a Fitbit Flex. Its pretty simple. It’s a little computer fob that fits in a small rubber wristband that I only take off to clean it or charge it every 5 days or so. It counts my steps, logs my periods of activity and has a sweet app for my laptop and cell where I can log every extra physical activity other than just walking as well as everything I drink and eat so it can track calories in and calories out. When I set it up, it asked if I wanted to loose weight or maintain. Since I would love to loose a few pounds, it then asked me how rigorous program that I wanted to follow; easy, medium or hard. The harder option you pick, the larger the calorie deficit it would recommend therefore in theory leads to you losing weight faster. Pretty simple. Track your activity and food intake for accurate calories in vs calories out. Bonus, I can set it for sleep mode and it tracks how many hours I am asleep, when I get restless and how many times I am awake through out the night. Pretty nifty.

Let me tell you, this fucking thing is a rude awakening. The default goal is 10,000 steps a day, 30 minutes of active periods (total) and 5 miles traveled. I left it at the default not knowing where I naturally was falling on a daily basis anyway. I was sure it had to be close to that. After 2 days I realized that with my job I only walk about 4,000 steps a day on average. Oh and my diet, I am eating enough calories for 5 of me. No wonder I feel like shit. So now I find myself taking note of actual serving sizes and adhering to them. I will eat a healthy turkey sandwich that I make at home because logging a 800 calorie burrito from Taco Bell is too embarrassing even just to myself. I am avoiding stupid excess grazing on bullshit all day because logging it, it’s just too much work. And water! Oh man, 64 oz. a day will add to your steps walking to the damn toilet all the time. I am always taking the stairs going down, no matter what floor I am on. I take the stairs up at the end of the day, you know, when I don’t care that I become a sweaty mess because I am headed home. I purposely park as far away from any store I go to. When I go to Target or the grocery store, I make myself do a lap around the entire perimeter before starting my shopping. Even then, I usually come up short. I read somewhere that walking after a meal helps with digestion. Righty-o. So I walk after dinner. And I am tired at the end of the day that I actually fall asleep at a decent time. Just over the last 2 weeks I have noticed I sleep better. Not to mention my skin and hair feel and look better. This being healthy shit is AMAZING!

Occasionally the weather doesn’t cooperate and it is raining or so damn hot and humid that my evening walk isn’t an option. I mean, I live in Virginia now so that’s no surprise. Or, lets keep it real, Game of Thrones is on and I have to watch it. In those cases I have a little $60 stepper in the corner of my living room that I hop on to get my steps and active minutes. Bonus, I get to log an activity of “Climb stairs or Stair-master” which bumps the calories burned up a notch. And, that my friends, is how I found myself on a stair stepper, drinking a glass of wine & perusing Pinterest tonight sweating my tits off. I may or may not have almost fallen off the stepper a time or two but, whatever. I hit my daily goals.

Job Prospects (Original Post 05/19/2014)

Leading up to this new job that I started just a mere 2 weeks ago, I had brainstormed possible careers that I could be successful at should I choose to make a change.

1.Professional Pinterest Pinner. And I’m not talkin’ about repinning the same tired links, I bring unique new shit to the boards bitches.

2. Dog walker. I like animals far more than people so this could work. But I will only walk them in places where I don’t have to pick up their doodie with a bag covered hand. That’s just gross. So scratch that. Maybe a dog letter-outer. In your fenced in back yard.

3. Professional baby holder. I feel this would be best served as a hospital employee. You hand me a baby and I will hold the shit outta it. And then I’ll give it back.

4. Professional at Keepin’ It Real. Like a life coach, but more blunt. And vulgar. I might slip and call you names. I’d charge by the hour.

I am open to other suggestions. I do know what profession I should not pursue, cat haircuts. I dabbled in that once. That cat is dead now.

Just Another Day (Original Post 05/19/14)

Tomorrow is just another day like every other one that has come before. I will wake up a few too many minutes late and have to rush a bit. I will remember to breath in and out. I will go to work at a job that while not terrible, it’s not exactly fulfilling either. It’s not like I am saving lives and making the world a safer better place. I manage commercial furniture installations. Meh. But, I am good at it and it pays the bills. I will put in my 8+ hours then come back home like any other Tuesday. I will cook dinner that has a 50/50 chance of being delightful or gag-inducing. I will make a weak attempt at cleaning something or other around the house while dinner cooks. I will eat the dinner all the while pondering how there could be so many dirty dishes in the sink already after just one simple meal. I will watch some mundane TV show or overrated movie on one of the hundreds of channels to be found on the idiot box. I will multitask and pin pointless items on Pinterest that look great in writing but, when executed, turn out to be joke worthy big ol’ messes, read a style magazine and curse my lackluster wardrobe or knit a gift that was meant to be for last Christmas in the hopes of actually having the fortitude to finish by this Christmas. Then I will go to bed to start the process all over again and will continue to do so until Friday evening breaks from that monotony.

I need to remind myself this: Tomorrow is just another day. A day just like all the rest of the 12,418 days I have lived up to this day. It just happens to be the day that I took my first gasp of air that started the broken path of a crazy life. It is not a day to contemplate my mortality, reminisce on failures, shortcomings, expiration dates and disappointments. This date on the calendar is not a trigger to ruminate on what I don’t have, where I wanted to be and how life was supposed to be by now in general. There are 365 days in the year and I can spread these feelings of regret and longing out over the other 364 days to soften the proverbial blow. I don’t need to pack all these unsavory thoughts and memories into one depression filled day that was really meant for celebrating life.

So, it’s just another day. It will come and go. I will not feel any different, I refuse. I haven’t felt any different on tomorrow for the last 12 “tomorrows” and this year will be no exception. I hold no expectations of grandeur and pomp, I never have. Doing so would only lead to added disappointment and ruin any surprise, no matter how small, that could possibly peek through the typical daily grind. Tomorrow is just another day, 1 of 365 and I will survive it even if today feels like there is no way that I could possibly.

Happy fucking Birthday to me. Let the wine floweth over whilst I celebrate my survival of another year in the face of so many benign 1st world problems, for without which I would have nothing to complain about. Keepin’ it real since 1980.

The Negative Pull Up (Original Post 05/14/14)

They say that once you hit 30, shit changes with your body. Your metabolism slows, gravity starts to march across your softer parts stamping them looser and dimpled like a piece of fatty meat, beat with a tenderizing mallet and suddenly opening the pickle jar takes a bit more effort. Who ever the proverbial “they” are, they’re right dammit.

It couldn’t have been a sudden decline. It’s not like I went to bed a a hard body and woke up with grandma arms. But it did sneak up on me. First, my favorite jeans kept getting shrunk more and more in the wash. Just the waist band and thighs though. The length stayed true. Go figure. Then it was the arm openings on my short sleeved shirts. That obviously was the laundry too. And then it happened. I moved to a sunny beach and had to put a bathing suit on. Where the hell did that doughy white body come from? And how did my bathing suit shrink…. Oohhhh. Dirty fucking 30’s have struck.

So it’s time to wage war on this bodily decline. I refuse to feel bad about myself now that I have seen what can never be unseen. So for the last few weeks, I have been finding ways to get a little extra movement in my day. Taking the stairs, offering to mow the yard with the antiquated manual push mower and parking as far away from the store when I run errands. And I have added actual weight work outs to the mix. I have been picking up my small weights and occasionally one of the heavier ones of the sailors to work on my arms, doing the “Brazilian Butt Lift” moves that I pilfered off the internet, and various series of crunches and planks. But these are just little things. The bigger deal is, I have cut out most terrible but delicious items I normally consume. Instead I have traded them for vegetarian dishes made with fresh veggies and little to no carbs and a few fats as possible. If you know me, you know my soul is weeping for cheese. Preferably melted over a perfectly prepared medium burger. But I digress and frankly typing that made me hungry for no reason. The bottom line is, I have been feeling better. I don’t see much change yet but, I feel better and that’s something.

So that gets us to tonight. Tonight, the sailor has duty. This means I have the house to myself. So, while my vegan cruciferous and carrot casserole was cooking, I planned to sweat it out until the kitchen timer dinged time for din-din. As I gathered the few items I needed for the planned activities, I noticed the sailor’s doorway pull up bar. I had flashbacks to high school PE tests and only needing to accomplish one chin up from a dead hang. It wasn’t so hard. Could I do one now? Probably not, but I MIGHT just get half way. So I slapped that thing up and took grip. The moment I started to strain to budge my gelatenous self up I knew it was a mistake. But, it was the pop in the side of my neck though, that drove this fact home. Needless to say, at the moment I can not look left with anything other than my eyes nor can I tilt my chin down to my chest.

Aging sucks. I want a re-do on my 20’s so I can prepare for this downward spiral better.

Cooking and the Pitfalls of Being Bad at It (Original Post 11/12/13)

Let’s just say it, I suck at cooking. As a self proclaimed lover of all food, it pains me to admit it but, the truth hurts. I am a down right bad cook. My smoke detector likes to remind me of that almost every night. I ruined a pot boiling water once. True story. It still remains scorched to this day. A daily reminder hanging in my itty-bitty kitchen that you can in fact mess up boiling water. I have big aspirations of creating fluffy delightful omelets. Reality, burnt scrambled eggs with some cheese and veggies mixed in. Don’t get me started on flipping pancakes and that damn messy catastrophe. If you come to my house for breakfast, request a bowl of cereal. Trust me. It’s the one thing I have yet to jack up. YET being the operative word in that statement. The more simple the meal, the bigger the failure. Here’s the thing, I keep trying in the hopes I step up my game. I even get ambitious and try really fancy stuff that has weird flavor combinations and use terms like etouffee and chiffonade. Same basic results but, usually a bit more interesting. And interesting = hard to tell it’s not right. Which isn’t a loss nor a win. Almost like a tie. Or better yet, a forfeit.

I see the sailor cringe every time I offer to bring food to his friends’ and family gatherings. I am sure he hopes for a simple, “Oh, that’s not necessary,” or “Some sodas would be great,” to avoid having to apologize for the weird aftertaste of my cornbread leaves behind when I am not looking or in earshot.

Speaking of, bless the dirty sailor’s heart, he never says a peep. Not to me anyway. And he eats it, whatever “it” is. With a smile. Sometimes forces it down with a reassuring grin that, “It’s good, no really, it’s not bad”. Lumpy yet runny mashed potatoes and gelatinous salisbury steak get sucked down and appreciated. It warms the cockles of my heart that he risks Crone’s like side effects just to not offend me. I have given him an out by telling him to simply use the secret phase of, “I’ll just have cereal tonight,” but he has yet to invoke that get out of jail free card. And they say chivalry is dead.

Don’t get me wrong, I have some wins under my cooking belt. I make some killer baked beans. No, I don’t just heat up a can of pork n’ beans thank you very much. And I made Ree Drummond’s scalloped potatoes and NAILED IT once. But, they are made with a metric shit ton of butter, heavy cream and cheese so really, I was set up for that easy win. There are a few others that I proudly will provide a crowd of semi-stangers and am confident will be not only appetizing but, met with requests to bring it again. I guess with all my failures, I am hoping to find a few more “go to” recipes. Now, why I continue to massacre breakfast meals over and over, ya got me. I like breakfast and aspire to being able to make it myself I guess. Now excuse me while I go eat my raw yet burnt brick of french toast and crunchy scrambled eggs I made for dinner.