Dolce far niente

A quick check-in post to say that for my first week off from work I have done absolutely nothing productive the last five days. Absolutely freaking nothing. 

I can't say whether this feels good or bad...it just "is." Not to get all yoga-ey and spiritual (let's not pretend I'm one of those hardcore yoga chicks, though big shoutout to them; I envy their wholeness), but I guess I'm just finding my center again, my balance. In another life I'm convinced I was meant to write novels and make cheese and wine at a farmhouse in the South of France -- totally low stress occupation, especially when imbibing on the job -- and I need to find that now. My cheese and wine life. I want to just "be." Live in the moment. Dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. After the last seven months of stress, this week I've wanted to do absolutely nothing productive. It's my vacation and I'll do nothing if I want to. 

I hung out with my Nana this afternoon and of course the first thing she asks is "Have you heard from any jobs yet?" NO I haven't heard from any jobs yet, I wanted to bark at her, and I don't plan to since I haven't exactly been applying to many (read: I've applied to three freelance positions, total. And freelance doesn't constitute "real work" in her book). 

"No," I answered instead, politely. "It's only been less than a week since my last day at work. Jesus, lady. Give me a break," I wanted to say (clearly I am losing it). But I didn't because she's my Nana and she still owns a rusted old hammer from 1953 that she uses around her house to hang up art hooks and for her the world stopped spinning in the '80s when all her grandchildren were born and -- hello? -- she only recently got a cell phone that she still doesn't know how to check voicemails on. And using The Internets? Forget it. She currently uses my deceased grandpa's old boat-anchor of a computer monitor as a shelf to display her ceramic figurines.

Why would I take my frustration out on said sweet old lady who asks these questions not to frustrate me but because she actually thinks that's the way the world works? It did, after all, in her day. How could she know what I'm going through if I just came right out and said I need a serious break and a serious cocktail? Why can't people just leave me alone about my career plans and support what I want to do? I don't want a traditional job; I don't need a traditional job. The last six years of my life spent in myriad office positions weren't who I am, it was what I did. There's a difference. And I get that she (and when I say "she" I mean 75% of those I know) don't get that, but I'm so short-circuited from my last stint that I need to detox and recoup. And the last thing I need are people judging my choices and giving me their two-cents. I'll take their two-cents and raise them one whole dollar. Because at the end of the day I feel that I'M the one that's got it figured out. (Though I'm sure they probably think the same exact thing about themselves.) And therein lies the conflict.

Who's right?

Margarita, cha-cha-cha

So Thursday night D and I went out for margaritas and enchiladas with a good friend of mine, Drew, who'd just gotten back from being in Tonga over New Years.

I've known Drew since freshman year of college, when we both studied abroad in Florence for one semester and met on the plane en route to Italy. According to Drew I was super annoying at first because I "wouldn't stop talking." (Ha! Typical. I left a similar impression with D when we first met) After listening to me "talk about Britney Spears for the first hour on board," Drew says he remembers looking out the window somewhere over Idaho and thinking that it was going to be a loooong flight. But by the time we touched down in Milan for our connection to Tuscany, he'd come to find out I was hilarious and amazing. Which I am. We hung out in the streets of Florence and Rome for the rest of that semester, inseparable in a best friend kind of way. Later, back in the states, we ended up (coincidentally) living a block apart through college in Santa Barbara, and though we lost contact for a few years after graduation, I'm happy to report that we're back to hanging out more now, mostly because he lives part-time just down the freeway from me. 

I say part time because Drew's a little famous. Not like Brad Pitt-famous, but he was in a band that went gold (which actually surprised me since I think their music sucks) but I'm still proud of and inspired by him. He stuck with his band through college, when I used to watch them play at house parties, to now being all over VH1. It's a trip, to say the least.

But over margaritas on Thursday night, he wasn't so happy. Apparently there's a growing rift in his band that's reminiscent of what happened in Almost Famous -- you know, one or two key players ends up a drug addict, drags the entire band down with him and tries to cash in on all the royalties himself, etc. etc. It's the typical band-breakup story. To add salt to the wound it sounds like Drew's lawyer is in cahoots with the drug-addict-royalty-stealer and so we discussed for hours over margaritas and enchiladas about how D could properly represent Drew and get him what was rightfully his. (D's first potential client!)

I know nothing about law, so aside from the errant "yeah, that's right!" between my sips of margarita, I didn't have much to add to the conversation other than what Drew's already heard from me YEARS ago and what I echoed again at the dinner table: That Mr. Coke Head is a selfish asshat who never had Drew's best interests at heart -- even when he pretended to be his best friend. And really, who wants to hear, after all these years, that I was right and they were wrong? So after I reiterated my told-you-so's, I lost count of my 'ritas, till before I knew it I was home singing Prince songs in the shower. ...And I had to wake up at 6am for work on Friday. Ugh.

Basically, I looked like this the next morning at the office:

Not fun. I slithered in past reception and into my uncomfortable office chair, unwilling to start the day. Being the first one in I had the luxury of sitting at my desk with my face in my hands for a good 20 minutes, catching up on some semblance of sleep before my terribly annoying and uptight coworkers came in all prim and bunged up, like they always do. Ugh, whenever I see them I think of how Ferris Bueller describes Cameron: "Pardon my French, but Cameron is so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks you'd have a diamond." Obvi I'M not the one who needs a drink. 

When the FGC finally came in he remarked that for being hungover I looked fabulous, which I'll take (bless his rhinestone-studded heart), and the rest of Friday at work I read celebrity news online and looked for another job on Craigslist (on my smartphone, of course. Mama doesn't want to have that awkward conservation with her superiors if her web-browsing activity is actually tracked and they see she's getting paid to find a different employer). Come to think of it, they wouldn't fire me if that ever came to light...I've found that no matter what people do at my company they don't fire ANYONE. I'm starting to think one day en route to the coffee machine, I could blatantly slap one of my coworker's butts like I used to do with handsome men on the streets of Italy and I still wouldn't be fired. So strange. 

The point was Friday was a blur and I am SO THANKFUL this is a three-day weekend. I spent some time at the beach with D and got to hang out with my brother and his girlfriend for a while Saturday night, wherein my brother forced us to watch a marathon of MSNBC's "Lockdown: Raw" -- a prison reality show illustrating the violent dramas that play out between incarcerated men of all walks of life. Five minutes into the first episode I was hooked, although I seem to have more of an affinity for the "Lockdown: First Timers" episodes, where prison newbies are filmed during the first days of being in jail, and what happens to them when guys with neck tattooes and names like "Clyde" initiate these first-timers into "the life." Fascinating, to the say the least.

Also, in an effort to keep my new year's resolution strong, I've started a journal of what I'm thankful for every single day. I know, sounds totally cheesy, right? But it's actually a good reminder of what to be happy for, even if your day seems to have royally sucked overall. Every day I just list the date and a quick sentence or two of what I'm thankful for in this cute blank book a friend recently bought me:

Totes adorbs. D's happy I've thought of way to work on being more positive, but I told him that there was potential for this Project of Thanks to backfire, in that I could start writing things like "Today I'm thankful for how amazing I am -- everyone at the grocery store was acting like a sour-faced jerk" or "I'm thankful I was never an ugly baby, because I've seen my fair share of them today." But I'm not writing those kind of things...yet. For now they're positive reaffirmations that remind me not to be so cynical, which I have a tendency to be. I'm thinking maybe I'll even post my "thanks" once in a while on here...

Highs and lows, Nov. 21st edition

Highs:

Well, this should be a pretty obvious one for the week -- D passing the bar was euphoric for me , so as you can imagine he is practically over the moon. The bar website waited until 6pm ON THE DOT Friday evening to post the results (we checked a few minutes earlier and were told to return at 6). In the minutes leading up I stood in the kitchen, absentmindedly snacking on soy crackers to kill the tension that grew thicker with each tick of the little second hand on our French clock. I stared off into space, my back to D (who was on the computer) as I stuffed my face with crackers like a senile parrot and waited to hear some response from him to what he was seeing. Silence. Until....

I heard him stand up and walk into the kitchen behind me. 

"Oh crap," I thought. "This can't be good..." 

But as I turned around he had a giant smile on his face. 

"You're looking at a lawyer!" he said. I squealed, he picked me up in his arms and spun me around in the kitchen. It was very James Stewart and Donna Reed from "It's a Wonderful Life."

Later we went out to celebrate with friends at a nice restaurant and I think we went through three bottles of wine that night. Lots of celebrating, food, and spirits. Then Saturday afternoon there was more celebrating, when we went over to my grandmother's house and had a couple bottles of 20-year-old champagne and a bottle of wine with her and my uncle. By that evening I was nearly three sheets to the wind (I LOVE champagne, but I swear the bubbles go straight to my head) when we left to make our dinner reservation D had made earlier that day. Yes, more celebrating. The reservation was for a fancy Italian restaurant we've been wanting to try forever since it's ranked as a top restaurant in our region and the wait was definitely worth it because the food was so good. 

We started off with two appetizers: Smoked prosciutto and mussels "in bagna" (bathed) in garlic cream. Then for dinner D ordered roasted duck with spinach and brown sugar yams, while I got the linguini with scallops, olives, garlic and capers. Divine. Even better: We were seated at the last open table next to the main window, so we got to watch the rain outside over candlelight and wine. I could definitely get used to this. 

Low:

Today I had a minor freak out in Nordstroms. We went after lunch since I needed new bras, and the lingerie section was completely chaotic and in disarray. Not a big deal, I get it, but I was already a little irritated since I'm almost finished surfing a certain crimson wave and my patience is thin during this time of the month. For some reason the mess really bothered me. When I go to a higher-end department store I expect certain things like clean countertops at the register (as opposed to piles of bras and panties heaped up like in Sears) and, oh I don't know, good service. I waited for nearly 30 minutes for someone to do a bra fitting on me, and when it was finally my turn to get all nakey in front of the frenzied store woman, I swear she didn't even measure me right! 

"You're a 34D," she said, even though the cups were a little gigante. So she comes back with all 34Cs (hello? Didn't she just say I was a 34D??? And 34C was my size up until recently, but I've lost some weight in the last few months, hence the whole purpose of me coming in to buy a new arsenal of bras). And what does she give me? All the $80 Chantelle bras, even though I told her I was looking more in the $40 range. Big sigh. After she left I ducked out onto the floor and pulled a few of what I believed were more of my sizes and guess what? I'm actually a 32C!!! Thank god I didn't listen to that woman and her hurried sales pitches.

I've had bra fittings at Nordstroms before, but today was a first for me. After I left the fitting room I went over to the sales racks and was so stressed out I started crying (so stupid, I know but in my defense I get overly emotional when I pms). D was confused why I was crying, but he felt bad and asked if I wanted to go for a walk and come back. I shook my head no and he took the two bras I was holding then went through the rest of the bra rack, pulling out ones he thought I'd like, waiting for a head nod or a head shake from me. This is why I love him. Because even though I'm sure he'd rather be doing anything else on a Sunday besides shopping for lingerie in a crowded department store, he does it anyway, with patience and love.

One of the worst situations of all time

Okay, maybe it could be worse, but I'm currently sitting holed up in my bedroom while my husband and his lug-headed best friend are out in the living room, which they've somehow taken over, playing video games.  Call me crazy or selfish or whatever, but how how the hell did this happen? One minute my husband is telling me over lunch today that his best friend Doug is planning to pick us up from the metro stop after work to take us home since he'd "forgotten something." The next minute I find myself in hell.

What was it Doug had forgotten? A video game console. No biggie, I figured he'd pick it up, have a glass of wine perhaps, and leave. I mean, it is Tuesday night after all and Millionaire Matchmaker is premiering this evening. My plan for the night was to laze around in my negligee and laugh at all of Patti Stanger's bad jokes on Bravo while drinking Two-Buck Chuck out of the bottle. Instead I found myself sitting on the couch net to Doug, his sweaty hands clutching his gaming controller, his tongue sticking out of his half-open mouth in intense concentration, as he and my husband played something that sounded like we were sitting on the sidelines of a battle in Kuwait.

Three hours later? Same thing. I asked politely if we could do something else, but all I get are the token "Yeah, five more minutes" responses that lead nowhere. And what am I supposed to do? Blow up at husband for ruining my night and taking over out living room with Doug? He's check-mated me into submission by having company over like this, and he knows it. Sigh. In the meantime I've moved to the bedroom to get away from the obnoxious shooting sounds and I hope Doug goes home soon. Not that I don't like him, but I CAN'T STAND VIDEO GAMES! They are SUCH a waste of time! (And I know, it's not like anything on Bravo is that much more productive, but something about video games irritates the flip out of me!) 

Right about now I'd love to put on my trannie pumps and clomp all over my husband's stupid video game discs, cackling with glee each time my 4-inch heel punctures the glossy surfaces. But such things are better left to the imagination, I suppose.

Columbus Day: Important in 1492 and 2010

Though today was a federal holiday, I had to work. (Herein is where you pity me for being plagued by something that I admit is trite.) The fact that I had to work today saddened me last week, but that sadness turned to anger over the weekend, and finally culminated on the metro ride in today when -- though I looked half asleep, my lids heavy and my mouth agape during the early morning ride -- it transformed into full-fledged fury.

Everyone I knew had the goddamn day off. Why couldn't I? It was about time I had a three-day weekend and this would have been perfect. Especially since I could have stayed home with my husband reading books all day and eating bags of candy corn in my pajamas. 

Not that I feel entitled to having the day off, but it should be noted that I did ask my boss for it off early last week. Boss Man's answer? No. Why? Because BOSS MAN was taking it off. And this is after Boss Man had had one day off each week for the past month. I know, I get it, he's the boss man so he can do whatever the hell he wants, but the way he said no, without any flexibility, was abrasive. It's not like I was asking to be blessed by the Pope, I just wanted a simple day off. But stupid me. I failed to see that Boss Man always comes first here because he makes the schedule and that's just the way it is. Guess I'm supposed to get used to it?

My question is how does one ever get used to this? To me it's ridiculous that some person who holds some arbitrary title (and this applies to anyone out there, in any position) has the authority to tell you what you can and can't do with NINE HOURS of your day, five days a week. It's ludicrous and laugh-worthy when you break the issue down to its fundamental parts. There's something highly unsettling in the realization that someone, literally, owns your life. 

I know that everyone has a price, a sum of money where all dignity could be easily swept aside, but my salary -- though high -- is not even close to the level that would make me happily complacent with this circus. But this is what we (yes, I'm plural now) have to deal with while husband continues looking for work. 

So when Boss Man told me I couldn't have Monday off because HE was taking Monday off, I countered right away with wanting the following day (tomorrow) off. Which he had no answer for since who in their right mind would ask for a Tuesday of all days off to make up for a Monday? Me, that's who. Then he granted my wish to have tomorrow off, possibly because of the maniacal look in my eyes. 

Ask...and you shall receive?

TGI...F?

What I should be doing every weekend.

Normally I'd be elated about today being Friday. Instead I am drained, abrasive and particularly sorry about an episode I had at lunch earlier with my husband. Before going further I should preface this post with the fact that I'm prone to extreme pissiness (including uncalled-for outbursts toward loved ones) when I have no other outlet to vent my frustration. (It might be time to take up kickboxing again, or make like Regina George and join a competitive lacrosse team.)

Anyway I was supposed to meet up with my husband at 12:30 for our 1-hour lunch but got stuck in a God-awful meeting that went way over schedule and made me seriously think of gouging my eyeballs out with the nearest ballpoint pen to put myself out of my misery. After the meeting was (finally) over, I dashed out of the office and down the street, meeting up with my husband who'd already been waiting for 30 minutes. There went half our lunch break. Ugh.

So what did I do next? I yelled at him. Totally uncalled for, but I was so angry about the meeting, about the entire day, my entire decision in taking this job and making him give up his dream job just so I'd wind up complaining about mine daily. (None of this is an excuse, by the way, to lash out at poor, unsuspecting husband who just wanted to share a pastrami sandwich with his wife on a sunny afternoon.) But with me, when it rains it pours. A bad day or week or month can make me feel like my life is falling apart indefinitely. Today proved no different.

Husband, smiling on street corner: "Hi!"

Me, with a scowl: "Hey."

Husband: "I take it the meeting didn't --"

Me: "GOD, I don't want to talk about the meeting! I don't want to talk about work at all, okay?"

(Silence)

Me: "When are you going to start networking, huh? How do you expect to find a job just looking at job boards? Why don't you get your crap together and get started networking already."*

* - Saying this makes me SUCH a monster. I fully realize I have no right to even utter these words; it's my fault, after all, that he doesn't have a full-time job and is instead getting a three-month stipend while he works for a federal office. It was all for me. And now he's got nothing. No prospects, nothing. Just a wretched wife who makes disgusting accusations as though he didn't have the world, at one point, in the palm of his hand. Moral of the story: I should not have launched into the above tirade without counting to 10 and calming down.

Husband (starting to walk away, no more smile): "I can't believe you."

Me: "Where are you going?"

Husband: "Back to work. I don't want to have lunch with you if you're going to talk to me like that."

A few more words were exchanged, more me than him, and that's when he whipped around and with a hurt look on his face told me he understands I'm frustrated with how everything turned out, but that I can't keep taking it out on him or else someday soon I was going to "find myself alone." Ouch. Of course this comment not only stung but succeeded in antagonizing me and I was about -- about -- to blurt out the most TERRIBLE THING EVER...:

"Oh yeah? Well at least maybe then I'd find someone successful!"

So, so bad. LUCKILY I bit my tongue right before these words came out because I knew it was only the anger talking. It's a lie (I will always love him regardless of how successful he is) and it might make me feel better in the heat of the moment, but all it would do is succeed in hurting him deeply.

And maybe that's the problem. Maybe I want him to be as miserable as I am now, so I have someone to commiserate with. But that's ridiculous and such a waste of energy. Even with his job situation he manages to stay positive. I love him for that. Maybe I do just need an invigorating outlet to release all my pent-up frustration. Competitive racquetball anyone?

It's only Friday and I'm already dreading having to go in on Monday. Something is seriously wrong with this scenario.