Can a Girl Be Too Responsible?

Lately, I haven't been sleeping well, at all.

I used to be able to sleep like a log, and sometimes I still do. But a lot of the time, I have a hard time getting to sleep, and an even harder time staying there. Too, my dreams are so vivid and intense and sometimes dangerous-feeling that they further keep me from sleeping soundly.

A lot of it has to do with anxieties over certain wildcards in my life, certain situations that are fine in the short term but untenable in the long term; situations that will require honest introspection, confrontation, and maybe causing someone pain. (Not fun.) And then, career anxieties keep me up too, although at the end of the day, "worry makes small things have a big shadow" and when you are a worrywart, slightly OCD, a tiny bit paranoid, and a neurotic perfectionist, everything seems big and fatal to a career.

Yesterday, I had a long overdue talk with one of my sisters; she provided me with an interesting perspective. She works to fund the things she likes to do outside of work. "I hate to work! If I could go on welfare, I would!" I got a chortle out of that, but her words did make me think a little. Right now, it feels as though I am working for the sake of the work I love...I love my work, and therefore take it home with me (at least in my head) every night. I am not focusing a lot on the more selfish rewards that come along with work--i.e., the money and the fun that can come along with having more of a discretionary income. Every spare cent I am socking away to pay for the move, get some nice stuff (television, anyone?) and still have a nest egg left over. So I am not really enjoying the rewards of my work, and I certainly don't do much outside of work. I guess that can make a girl lose sight of things, a little.
But what is saving money but delaying present gratification in anticipation of future reward?

That will be all good and well, so long as I do start to live a little more and reward myself when I move. At the very least, I should find some activities to fund!

Who Needs Chick-Lit When You Can Read My Blog?

In theory, I love chick-lit novels. It's a few rungs above bodice rippers on the Literature Ladder to Author's Heaven, sure, but reading them is fun, because hey, it makes me feel a little better that here I am at almost 28, not married, living in the slums of Sunnydale, not livin' large. If Bridget Jones is okay with it, then hey, I am too.

But I haven't read a lot of them in the past year, and last week, I figured out why. My life is enough of a chick-lit without having to read about it.

Crazy family? Check.

Job that keeps me jumping? Check.

Complicated love life? Checkcheckcheck.

Skanky apartment? Check.

Quirky friends with their own chick-lits going on? Check. Which segues nicely into the story that I am about to tell.

A friend of mine recently manifested a job down in San Diego, where she has wanted to live since moving to Southern California. Finally, it happened. Then she had to go and find herself some nice digs, and so it was thus that she spent last weekend flat-hunting in downtown San Diego. I accompanied her for moral support, amusement, and the interrogations to which I force leasing agents to submit. (I've moved about nine times since 2002; you get used to asking these questions. You know: What utilities are included? Are pets allowed? the usual.)

We find her a nice apartment: big enough, with a washer and dryer in the unit, parking included, lovely view. She signs the application, and we return to the Armpit Inland Empire. On the ride up, my friend calls her mom and excitedly begins describing her new place. Concerned mother does a little research on apartmentratings.com, and it was then that we learned that there's another question that I need to add to my interrogation, right between asking about the pet policy and how late the pool is open: Has anyone ever been murdered or met an untimely death in this apartment unit? Because it became apparent that someone had been murdered in that apartment building.

After a few minutes of all of us freaking out, I whip out my mad information mistress skills and start consulting actual, legitimate sources. Damned if I am going to buy Google Gossip. In this case, the Internets had a point: some poor guy was strangled in the apartment building a couple of years back. It was a hate crime, which makes it all the sadder. We also learned that it was on the same floor of the unit she had just applied for, but we could not determine whether or not it was her unit. Could she split her rent with Casper? I posited this question, which didn't go over well.

In the end, it all turned out okay. Poor Mr. Murder Victim wasn't killed in her apartment unit, at least, so we should not be expecting any spectral phenomenon soon. Damn! It would have made such great chicklit fodder.

In the meantime, I think I need to buy a ouija board for all future flat hunting missions. Of course, that would take the element of surprise away from things. What's your 20-something years without a few unexpected things that go bump in the night?

You've Been Warned

My sister told me about this site. She warned me about this site. It's Internet crack for females. But it's so wonderful!

My two first Polyvore creations:

Ladies, I pass this torch on to you.

Maybe This Is Why My Car Hates Me...

Observations from the 20-something life, part 1:

When you're beginning to worry that, because of all the junk in it, your vehicle will be mistaken for that of the homeless patron who hangs out at the library every day, you know it's time to clean out the car.

Oh yes, definitely time.

Songs of Leaving...

Seems like I've spent a goodly portion of the last several years saying goodbye and leave-taking. I think it's one of the hazards of pursuing a graduate degree and devoting a portion of your life to pursuing a career--the path requires you to move some, lose some, say some goodbyes, and hang out with people who are doing the same. So not only are you parting from people and places that you have grown to love--or at least accept--but often, you are left behind. People say good-bye to you, too.

And when I say you, I really mean me. And maybe you, too, but firstly, me.

I remember reading somewhere (was it in one of Peter Gethers' books?) that any sort of parting brings us pain, because it ultimately reminds us of death, of our own mortality. I used to think that was a bit of a stretch, quite a leap, but not really, not anymore. Goodbyes of any type are hard, really hard. And if you're certain red head with a contemplative, dysthymic streak, goodbyes are good reasons to get good and quiet and sad and thoughtful for a good few weeks.

It was just a conference. Sure, on one level, it was just a conference, but on another level, one that relates back to my own life, it was also the first time I had returned to a region that I continue to love, stupidly and persistently, long after the region stopped loving me. More and more, I see that my love of the Midwest has been and will always be an unrequitted love. I have never been able to explain it to anyone, why I've loved the Midwest, Indiana in particular, so much. I don't know that I will ever be able to explain it. I know that it goes back to my childhood, some sense of rhythm and stability and normalcy that I knew I lacked, and that I somehow got into my head that a life in Middle America could have provided me. And I never really, truly realized it until I moved there and fell in love with Michael and thought we were going to live on a leafy, tree-lined, suburban street for the rest of our days, and finally I would have that normal family, that rhythmic life, that stability and security that I had always dreamed of.

The real lesson, the real gift that I came away with was that there is no stability or security. Not now, not ever. Not with a job, or without, not with a husband and children, or without. There's no true safety, no lasting security. Only comforting but fleeting moments in which we feel secure and experience a stable life, but never true and lasting stability. This realization still doesn't stop me from wanting a home and husband and family, but at least maybe it will keep me from going completely stupid the next time I experience the belief that there's a ultimate happy-ever-after.

When the plane lifted off the frozen Minnesota ground this morning, I cried. There is a song of leaving in my heart, one that I have been carrying around for two years, but haven't been able to sing.

But I think the music is starting...

An A for effort. Take $600 and move back three spaces, to 1929.

Things have been pretty quiet here on the Western front the last couple of weeks. It says a lot that the majority of my social functions are conducted with people from work...yesterday my boss and I went to a Celtic Woman concert down in Palm Desert. We had a really good time! It wasn't as powerful as the Riverdance performance I went to a few years back, but it certainly was special. It didn't hurt that the celtic ladies were gorgeous, either! Afterwards, we scooted down to Palm Springs, parked, and began searching for a great place to eat. Fortunately, this is not difficult in the desert. We finally found the best restaurant ever, a tapas-inspired bistro called Azul. It was, dare I say, fabulous? Swanky decor, funky atmosphere, damned good artsy-fartsy food. An order of asparagus, lobster spring rolls, chicken potstickers, and banana spring rolls later, my boss and I were sated. Our inner cats were purring.

Also, I got my economic stimulus rebate! Sorry, Uncle Sam, it's stimulating my savings account right now. But no worries, the economy will be getting a Mel-sized stimulus when I move to the desert. And anyway, I don't think anyone, least of all the guv-ment, thinks these rebates are going to make a difference. I think the guv-ment just wants us little people to be appeased with the knowledge that the guv-ment tried.

But hey, $600 is fine and dandy by me.

ometimes, for no particular reason, a day is just crappy, and there's nothing you can do to salvage it.

I can't even really pinpoint what it was about this day that was no darned good--maybe just a variety of things. My Literary Lunch program, so heavily attended the past two months, totally bombed today; only four people showed up for it. One of my colleagues is facing a potentially life-threatening health situation. My cat likes to wipe her cat-butt on the carpet. My shoes are attractive but cheap, and by mid-afternoon, my feet were weeping for mercy. And perhaps the biggest thing--which is probably, to any rational person, the least insignificant and probably a sign that I am certifiably crazy--is that in my professional life, I have this perpetual, paranoid guilt and am always wondering if I have done something to upset a supervisor or colleague.

But, at the end of the day, I am nothing if not plucky, and I believe--I have to believe--that a positive attitude is everything. So I'm going to focus on the good things, however insignificant they seem. Balancing out this day of poo was a good haircut, a safe drive home from work, a cat who literally tries to hug me, a cold Corona in the fridge (now in my belly), the comforting feel of soft, cool yoga pants as I slip them on, and on my ride home, a beautiful view of a fireworks display that one of the local casinos put on. I actually laughed with delight at the grand finale.
And of course there is the knowledge that tomorrow is another day.