It's Right On Time

And it's time for something completely different.

After days of musing about how lonely and sad it is to be me, I'm feeling lucky I am that I don't control the Universe. I don't know who does, but it's hard not to think sometimes that there must be some plan, because things seem to happen right on time.

I think about the seemingly small incident that started it all. The fight. Yes, I got in a screaming match with DBo's crazy, hick-ville, religious fanatic aunt. And missed dinner. And ended up Hola's Mexican Cantina for their last-call half-off fried cheese plate. And got deathly ill. And called in sick. And my boss doubted said sickness. And I, of course, responded with self-righteous indigence, and a sappy letter about trust. Which apparently is frowned upon in the corporate world.

One trip to HR later, and here we are. Fat Al's European Extravaganza couldn't have come at a better time.

No I didn't get fired, but I decided that I was not being treated like a "valuable member of the team" and I could do better. So, now I've got 3 months to find a new gig, or I am prepared to come back jobless, and do some restaurant/bar work till the right gig pays off.

The practical, "success-oriented" side of me is not happy about this. However, the "me" that is frequently over-shadowed by my overly practical in-laws and my own desire for money and social status is starting to be stoked. I'm working my networks, and in the last two weeks I've talked to an author I admire, a VP at a big digital company, and the Director of PR at a major social media company. I've had to network, I've had to be resourceful, I've been pressure-prompted, and frankly, I've been thrown into the sort of situation where anything is possible.

And it's coming right on time.

Scary Admission

It's an odd day when I see my high school friends on Facebook and wonder if I am missing out.

I just saw the page of my high school idol (one of the many.) My mom would never let me hang out with her because she was "trouble" but I absolutely adored her. She was wild, romantic, spontaneous, beautiful, skinny, had two sets of parents. She had a beautiful older sister, and could speak in a somewhat educated manner about things like smoking and sex.

I'm not sure what she did those first years outside of high school but now she lives in Folsom, has all the same friends from town, and is part of the 2-3 kids club. Like a lot of the other girls I knew growing up, her pictures and status updates are filled with afternoon naps, swimming, yoga pants, 10am walks, outings with other mommies, trips to Costco, dates with much loved husbands, etc. If photos tell the story, she spends her days in jeans and cute sundresses, her friends are life-long, and she really seems to enjoy family, her mother, and the few drunk party nights she has.

Sometimes I think it would be much simpler to live that way, as opposed to being me. My constant need for newness, complexity, competition, and status make it difficult to be happy with family-land. But it's a rare day that I don't feel restless. She seems so calm and complete. It makes me wonder if there is really something to the whole 'husband and babies' thing.

Of course the flip side is that once you go down that road, there is no going back. And maybe she just looks like she's having a blast because those are the pictures on Facebook. No one ever advertises the boredom, apathy, and stagnancy of it all. I just wish I knew - does she ever look at my profile and wish she could be back on her own?

The Unintentionally Creepy Dude

I spend a lot of time thinking about the unavoidable judgments that come along with boobs, blond hair, and an ass. I worry that if I don't constantly demonstrate intelligence or seem too casual I will garner zero respect. More often than I would like I worry about being disregarded or overlooked because of surface appearances.

I don't think this is simply paranoia. I've been engaged in a battle to overcome the dumb blond stereotype my entire life, and have realized that for men of a certain age, sexism is so irrevocably ingrained into their psyches that there is nothing I could do to overcome it. (Luckily most of those dudes have only about 20-30 years left.)

However, I was walking by a guy at our office today, and I realized there is a far worse stereotype than the dumb blond. The old creepy dude.


It's the dude with the nose hair and the unpredictable sweat glands. The dude with an awkward laugh who hasn't yet mastered eye contact. Maybe he's got too many pictures of his young nieces hanging up in his office. Somewhere between 30-60, he's single, and is just too weird to be passed off as your laughable "dirty old man" or lovable "office nerd."

And whenever you see that guy at the office, you can't help but cringe.

I would hate to live in fear that every comment or off-color joke I made would lead people to assume I was a pedophile, or that I had a sex dungeon in the basement.

I suppose there could be some logical discussion of what's worse - with the right connections and proper grooming the creepy dude can still have the corner office, but the dumb blond can get laid - but it doesn't matter. I would rather be anyone than the unintentionally creepy dude at my office.

A Boring Word Like Sad

Sad is a boring word. It doesn't do justice to the millions of complex feelings that underlie it. Like loss. Or acceptance. Or futility. But sometimes it's all just too much, and there is just no other way to describe how you feel - other than with a boring word like sad.