the morning after christmas...view from my:

bedroom window

driveway

mailbox

am i losing you?

my sister says that if i continue on this course of "blog celibacy" i will lose my readers. is that what i am doing here? has my silence translated into a resentful sense of abandonment on your part? am i losing you?

don't go. i am not lost, and you are not lost, and there should be no feeling of "loss" here on theboomeranger.

you wanna know the truth? i'm happy.

i blow up my mattress once before i go to bed and then a second time at around 3:00 a.m. almost every morning and i'm honestly, actually, despite this, happy. i've been reading a sizable amount of material the past few weeks to try and get my voice back but i think that there's another culprit contributing to my silence: writing when you are happy is hard. seriously. having something to rant about has served as the ignition to my creative and literary engine. reflecting on something that is negative in my life--or at least, something i perceive as being negative in my life at a given time--helps me transform a blank space into, well... a blank space with a lot of words. all that groaning and frustration seems to dissolve into something i can swallow and digest. sorry for the visual, but what comes out at the other end ends up being enlightening.

what i have to learn now is how to be in a state of happiness and still be able to write thoughtfully because part of this treacherous journey through the decade we call our twenties does include laughs, fulfillment, and joy. whodathought!?

the man of the house and his new houseguest are taking turns hitting the bong as i brew some coffee and defrost the blueberries that will go with my yogurt and crushed pecan morning creation.

"you workin'?" he says nonchalantly, noticing my fingers typing away on the keyboard.

"well, no...not today." pause. "i write, so, i pretend like i am getting paid."

"sure, just because you aren't getting paid doesn't mean that you aren't working."

(so true)

"...and just because you are getting paid doesn't mean you are working!" i offer back as he walks towards his corner of the couch.

nothing like some wisdom on a sunday morning.

golden retriever

the parents of the kids i was babysitting for are back together. he had been cheating on her since she was six months pregnant and apparently she had had enough and left the house--and him--with her baby girl in tow. that was about two weeks ago. now they are back together, because he is again the man that she met and fell in love with. the phrase "cold turkey" was even used to express his loyalty and devotion...in quotations...in a text message...to me. yah, a real golden retriever that husband is. and now i am being asked for my schedule next week because life goes on and kids still need to be picked up from school, driven to karate, and fed dinner.

well, that's exactly what i intend to do myself: go on. move on.

i had something of theirs that i had to return. a bike. a little red cruiser with a basket. they had kindly lent it to me for a couple weeks. i just had to return that bike. so yesterday i rode over and locked it to a tree outside their house. then i ran, literally ran to the beach and sat there for a while with the sun on my face and the sand in my feet and music in my ears.

as of now, they do not know that i am moving on...that i can't imagine being in that house again and making conversation with him. there is already too much negative energy in this world...why the hell would i invite it into my life? i feel sorry for those kids, i really do. but i have to put myself first. when i have my own family, they will come first. but now? i come first. it just has to be that way.

words

showing up to work at 6:15 a.m. only to get off and then spend six hours in a toyota camry to surprise my family on thanksgiving was perhaps the most liberating and cool thing i have done thus far in my young adult life. showing up on someones doorstep unannounced is an incredible experience for both parties involved. not only did i successfully surprise my relatives but also a handful of friends who were all in town for the holiday and also our five-year high school reunion. a truly incredible weekend; yet i can't talk about it. not because i'm trying to censor what happened, but simply because i have lost my voice.

fear of sounding like i'm trying too hard

mentally over the whole blog format and searching for a new platform

wondering if i'm just wasting my time and energy, if anyone is benefitting from this

more motivated to focus on writing a book

pure laziness

it is most likely a combination of all of these things/reasons/excuses. call it what you want to call it. fact of the matter is that something is inhibiting the thoughts in my head from coming to life on the keyboard, and that is like a death sentence to a writer.

so, i have resolved to the following solution: if i can't write words, i will read them. lots of them. from glenn beck's common sense to katie crouch's girls in trucks, the stack of words is grinning at me from across the table. "pick me! pick me!" they are chanting. "i will help you get your voice back." i reason that reading the work of other writers will help me develop and fine-tune my own writing style and push me in the direction that i need to be going. if the winningest coach in college sports history, a couple of experts on late bloomers, or a girl with a dragon tattoo can't help me, i don't know what will.

oh yes, and thank you public library.

5-year high school reunion...here we go!

dear friends and family,

be thankful for spontaneity. or, more accurately, the thoughtful planning of doing something spontaneous. okay. that's totally a type A person thing to say. i try.

and also, i'm thinking about starting a twitter account. thoughts?

off to volleyball training

more later,

theboomeranger

upon meeting a writer last night my friend quickly interjected by saying, "she's a writer, too," and all i could do was throw her a "how could you?" glance, blush, and assure him that i wasn't.

"well, i write, but--"

"then you're a writer," he said. "admitting that you are a writer is like admitting that you are an alcoholic. you must believe yourself that you are and even practice saying it out loud."

i'm a writer. i'm a writer. i'm a writer...

starfish

i now live in an office.

perks?

i get to take the dog on a walk whenever i please. i'm re-united with the all-mighty microwave. one of my new roommates can apparently fashion a halter bra out of a regular bra, which should come in handy one of these days. someone in the house subscribes to people magazine, so there's my celebrity gossip. and the owner just installed HD cable boxes on every television in the house, so the remote might as well be harry potter's magic wand.

downsides?

i have to walk five steps to catch a reflection of myself. whoever it is that made coffee and left half a pot sitting there to die apparently doesn't honor the same brewing code that i am used to. i can't walk around in any of my promiscuous sleepwear. and, my personal favorite: i have to resemble a starfish in order to keep my body elevated off the floor at night. goodbye mattress, hello blown-up mess. on the first morning following my first nights sleep in the house i woke up with my ass on the floor. i felt like i was the lettuce, cheese, and pollo in a soft taco. what ended up saving me was the little switch i found beside the mattress that slowly pumps air back into it. even though i haven't been sleeping well this past week, at least this switch prevents me from turning into a starfish at night.

to summarize: i miss you, mattress on manhattan avenue. why did i leave you for an office a mile away? well, i had no choice in the matter. the owner of the home i have been renting has brought his entire family here for the holidays so i had to vacate temporarily. to my good fortune he arranged for me to stay at a friends place, hence the reason why i now live in the office of a three-bedroom home. sounds like a giant step back but hear this: rent-free. yah baby, best perk of them all.

millionnaire overdose

i never thought i would be sick and tired of bouncing from one millionaire's home to the next. how can the novelty of a personal servant tossing you volleyballs and bringing you popcorn while you're half-submerged in a grotto be wearing off? when it comes to this exclusive los angeles lifestyle, i'm still brand spanking new...so why do i feel like i've seen all there is to see?

bullocks, right? i'm an idiot. only an idiot would forgo spending a day grazing over a feast of catered food, laying on plush lounge chairs, and, of course, playing beach volleyball. only an idiot would pass up the opportunity to eat, drink, and be merry--all at a strangers' expense. yet that's exactly what i did this afternoon. no guys and gals frolicking around in bathing suits for me.

i just couldn't witness another interaction between the seventy year-old man with a forty year-old's face (hello botox) and an ass-less, lingerie-laden model (who i thought should fight for her right to full financial and emotional repercussions from a hair extension gone terribly bad). although i couldn't conceal the fact that i was curious as to what in the world was making her light up, i also couldn't keep myself from thinking, "this girl has a father. where is he?" now i'm not trying to dump on modeling as a career choice. i am simply baffled at how some girls can put themselves in such tasteless situations to further their careers. i know the kind of faces and curves that make it onto magazine covers, billboards, and into victoria's secret underwear, but these girls ain't it. they're more of the, "i feel like bending over beside this muscle car" type.

enough about the girls. it's not about the girls. it's actually more about the guys. where are their wives? you are clearly fast approaching or already adding prozac to your laundry-list of supplements...where are the leading ladies in your lives? that's what bothers me. i like to see moms and dads and happy monogamous relationships. a.k.a., i grew up watching disney movies. simba would never cheat on nala. this i know. what i don't know is where the families are on these friday/saturday/sunday fundays i've been having recently. it's just a different world. when i'm in it i can appreciate the plush towels and mimosas...but in between a volleyball game and a dip in the pool i think about the people i wish were there to enjoy it with me. i am reminded of what's really important in life and that i can indulge in this world for a day and walk off the property leaving that world behind. it's fun and interesting (and one of the models last night complained of being cold for a good ten minutes before finally putting on a bra (light bulb!) but i'm leaving it at that.

newborn on the beach

last night was just weird. pathetic-weird. the kind of night that, if we were keeping score, would undoubtedly leave me with negative five-hundred points. maybe a thousand.

it was one of those nights where my main plan fell through (apparently eat, love, pray doesn't come out for another month) and, with that, so did my dignity. i became one with the couch. it started out innocently enough...me watching the latest episode of modern family while munching on healthy things like grapes and raspberries. one would hope that after channel surfing and realizing that absolutely nothing good was on t.v. that person would take that as a sign to turn the tube off and do something...go for a walk, read one of the books i checked out at the library, write a letter, fold clothes...anything! but no. i was suddenly seized with the burning desire to consume chips. i left my apartment and walked a few blocks to a liquor store where, after a brief moment of being blindsided by the aggressive artificial light, remembered that they require a minimum credit card charge of ten dollars. so one bag of chips turned into two bags of chips and the new bazaar. dear god, i should sign up for a program that automatically freezes my accounts when the clock strikes nine on a weekday.

somewhere between finishing the first season of entourage and starting on a season of sex and the city i managed to finish an entire bag of cheddar-enhanced chips and about half a bag of tostitos. i was watching that episode where miranda gives up sex and ends up filling that void with chocolate. one night she decides to bake a cake and keeps going back for seconds, thirds, fourths, because she can't help but indulge herself. after grabbing another chunk of the cake that was now literally in the trash, she realizes that she has reached an all-time low and pours dishwashing liquid all over the remains to prevent her from further tarnishing her dignity. even though it is just her, alone in her apartment, she still cannot escape the shame that befalls on her. i peered at the remaining chips that i had wrapped up and tucked away out of view--but not out of mind--and suddenly felt akin to miranda. so i did something that i have never done before...

i went to my bathroom and retrieved some hair spray so that i could spoil the remains of my own little fat factory...only what oozed out of the container turned out to be some sort of mousse, so i had to grab a back-up weapon: spray-on sunscreen. those chips were protected like a newborn on the beach. and i haven't looked back.

livelihood

this is the second week in a row that i have been scheduled to work only one shift. it’s the closest feeling to being unemployed i've felt since june, when i was actually unemployed. “our labor costs are exceeding our store revenue,” says the bossman, “and i have to take care of the people who have been here for four, five years…it’s their livelihood.”

reality check: i don’t think that anyone who waits on tables is not doing it for their livelihood. yah…come to think of it, i just enjoy busting my balls in an unflattering cotton t-shirt and $11.99 velcro shoes. i have so many other opportunities to pay the bills, but i'd rather rely on tips instead. and here’s the kicker: the folks who have seniority over me have chosen to stay at this restaurant for nearly half a decade. now that's gotta be more frightening than anything i’m going to run into this halloween weekend.

naturally, my newly acquired work predicament has stirred up a little fear inside my little world, causing me to pick up more babysitting hours and hold on to those twenties a little bit tighter. but this isn't how i should view my situation, according to my polish influence. she’s been trying to tell me that my reduction in hours is just what the universe wants for me. my own self, she continues, is manifesting this outcome and i should be reading the signs: maybe this pinch of fear is just the motivational push i have been craving to pursue something else i’ve been wanting to pursue. like writing my book, perhaps?

universe. manifestation. you have to understand that these are two words that serve as the back bone to my polish influence’s understanding of the world. this is the same girl who taught me to be sensitive to the energy around me—in people, in places, even in food. the same girl who, before giving me her trucker hat that i had been eyeing, had me burn a bundle of sage in her VW bug to rid the hat of her energy so that it could accept mine.

you may be wigged out at this juncture, and i completely understand. i've never been one to invite the spiritual side of life into my life...minerals containing healing powers? my being a gemini actually meaning something? let's face it: burning incense was stepping over the line for me. my point is that my acceptance and knowledge of all things spiritual has come a long way, and all it has taken is exposure and listening. i don't buy into everything that my polish influence believes but i'm open to hearing her out. maybe i'm not just another waitress drone at the mercy of her general manager. maybe, deep down, i don't want to be scheduled to work as often and the reality i want is the reality i am creating...

i think she would be proud if she could hear me right now.

there are moments when i get slapped by the reality of living and working in tinsel town...

me: "hi, i really like that scarf you are wearing."

customer: "thank you. have you heard of the clothing brand michael stars?"

me: "yes, of course."

customer: "i'm michael."

great. nice to meet you, michael. if you need anything i'll just be standing right over there reading the newspaper everytime my manager retreats into the back room.

tip-tap, tip-tap

says the rain outside my apartment this morning.

she speaks so softly that i have to open my door and fixate on the hood of the nearest car to see if it's in fact really raining or--as i suspected--she has finished speaking and all i hear are last night's words dripping from the roof onto the ground and foliage beneath. well i was almost right. once i saw what was a steady, thick mist filling up my saturday morning i ducked back inside, headed straight to my cabinet, measured three scoops of blue bottle heaven, and let the coffeemaker finish the job.

i think i'll sit here a little while longer. it's so quiet--everyone in l.a. could be gone and i wouldn't even know it. just me, still a little frustrated with the way last night turned out. i had plans to go to a nearby comedy club and have drinks afterwards with a group but there was a ticket debacle (to no fault of my own) and i missed out on the show. i had dressed up from head to toe for this evening, but my dress and heals were reluctantly taken back home to witness what felt like an entire season of entourage and the consumption of almond butter straight outta the jar. i don't know why almond butter has become a "pity me" snack but i should probably find a replacement.

what are my plans after i peel myself off this cozy couch? the library. i think that's what the rain is telling me to do, or at least that is how i am interpreting her melancholy tone.

crush.problem.goal.

i have a crush. it should be noted that this is my very first crush since moving to los angeles and, in just one short week since its conception, i have managed to perform the whole “i’ve tried on everything in my closet and have nothing to wear” bid. along with that—like clockwork--my imagination ran. it ran so fucking fast that we were already a couple driving to napa valley vineyards to meet up with my sister and her boyfriend for wine tasting. and, as per usual, none of my fantasies came true…all i have to show for this past weekend is security footage of me eating awful pancakes at denny’s at 3 a.m.

i have a problem. you know the movie liar liar? well, i am jim carrey in that bathroom scene where he literally beats the shit out of himself. he figures that faking assault is the only way he can get out of returning to that courtroom and possibly losing his case. that’s me on the volleyball court—or in my bed thinking about getting on that volleyball court. though i’m not slamming my face beneath a toilet seat, i am verbally beating myself up whether it’s preceeding, during, or following a workout. this self-degrading behavior has been going on for a couple of months believe it or not, shredding my self-esteem and causing me to seriously question if beach volleyball is still my number one passion.

i have a goal. i can literally tell you how many people i have told my goal to: eight (nine if you want to count that stranger at the bar the other week). that’s because it's a lofty goal and as a result i struggle to allow the words to leave my lips. a BHAG, if you will. a whaaa? a BHAG: big hairy audacious goal. i actually came across this term while interviewing for a job at lululemon back in june. i was very pleased and intrigued to discover that goal setting played such a big part of the company’s culture. after pondering what i wanted to accomplish one, five, even ten years down the road, i had abandoned goal setting until my drive was re-ignited at the beginning of this month. now i have a slab of brown wrapping paper stuck to my closet door that reads: write and publish a book. and now i feel naked.

now this gets me in the october mood...

as told by the ONE person who responded to my inquiry (who would like to remain anonymous):

Dear facebook,

You have been the most relentless, tumultuous, and degrading relationship I have ever had. So many times I have tried to delete you, but your powers reel me back in time after time. I hate how you update me on random people I haven’t seen or talked to in four years. I hate how I care.

Not to mention, it’s creepy as fuck when you advertise cupcake shops near my house when I have never listed my address. It’s not only creepy, it’s rude…if you knew anything, I’m trying not to eat sweets.

And as for those status updates you provide me? Pu-lease. You think I’m impressed? Think again. I think those people are self-promoting fools who are obviously not as “busy” and “productive” as they claim to be since they are updating their facebook statuses every thirty minutes. Whatever happened to knocking someone for “tooting their own horn.” Apparently humility has gone right out the window along with proper grammar. “Your the best”…really, REALLY? I digress.

Facebook, if you weren’t my connection to the rest of the world and the leader in social networking, I would leave you and never look back. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you, like a wealthy, verbally abusive boyfriend I just can’t live without. Is this what “keeping in touch with friends” has come to? Can’t I just pick up a phone? No. I can’t. Because if I delete my profile I’ll miss out on all the link sharing, the gossiping, and the photo posting. I’ll have to actually make an effort to reach out to people I want to stay in touch with and let others go. And everyone wants to have lots of “friends,” right? Because that is what you, facebook, are all about, right? Surely you haven’t become a moneymaking scheme to use my personal information to sell me useless goods and services, right? Please get back to me. I seem to have forgotten your purpose.

Sincerely,
anonymous twentysomething

punk out

eleven. how did i allow that many days to come between my last post and this one? well, i can explain why i let a few days go by...because i was waiting on friends (like you) to reply to the message i had sent out regarding the can't-get-enough-of monster that is facebook and the latest article i posted under my boomeranger links. you see, i have pent-up emotion when it comes to people who feel it is their godsend to promote themselves via their facebook status, but to my disappointment, you people don't seem to care. this was the first time that i decided to send out a mass message inquiring for feedback before writing upon the subject. and what came of it? not one single, lousy response. maybe you didn't have two minutes to spare. maybe you really dislike sharing your feelings. or maybe you just didn't give a flying fuck. whatever the reason, at least i proved the diffusion of responsibility, a social phenomenon that you should've learned in your intro to psychology course. and now i'm too stubborn to share any of my mind-blowing thoughts concerning how your friends on facebook can make you feel like utter shit about your twenty-something existence. you punk out, i punk out.

at least for now.

but that only explains a few days. where have i been? a mansion in beverley hills. the public library. a movie theater. a beach house occupied by a grown man and his mother. all places i would like to expand upon but don't have the time to do so.

at least for now.

you can't make any decisions because you don't know what you want. and you don't know what you want because you don't know who you are. and you don't know who you are because you're allowed to be anyone you want. how messed up is that?

intrigued? then check out the latest article i posted just to the right over there under my shortlist. or, if you're a lazy bastard, just wait a few days for me to break it down into pieces that you can chew and swallow.

never lost, only transferred

i know that this next sentiment is going to sound like an echo, but today i really wanted to quit. quit my job, that is (not life). herein lies the irony: when we have no customers i am stressed because all i can think about is the money i am not making and the rent that is going to be harder to pay for this month; yet when we have customers i am stressed because i am running around with orders and bills and lemon wedges and dirty hands. dirty hands that should be washed (under hot water for fifteen seconds) much more frequently than they actually are (sorry to tell it like it is). rarely do we servers enter that “happy medium state” where the pace of the restaurant stays in sync with our own personal pace.

i could feel myself drowning deeper and deeper into that bad place…you know, that place where you return to your parking meter two minutes too late. but i couldn’t do shit about it because i had to work. work work work. so i released my anger the only way i could: by not saving the organic butter. you see, we have these little individually wrapped organic butters which we are not supposed to offer to customers unless they request them because they’re like a whopping thirty-three cents a piece or something like that. but i can respect that, which is why, on an average day, i don’t pimp out the butter and willfully salvage whatever packets are left on the table unused. but today? those fucking butters went down the trash abyss with the rest of the bread crusts and oatmeal and lemon wedges (don’t ask for extra fuckin’ lemon wedges if you aren’t going to use them).

woah, i think this entry has officially earned its “r” rating for profanity.

here’s the cool thing though: all the negative energy i was generating didn’t evaporate into thin air—it actually turned into positive energy for something else in my life: my writing. it fueled my desire to stop being complacent with my blog and turn the writing behind theboomeranger into something special (thanks to any of you who already consider theboomeranger special). what i have to do is pick one direction and run with it…run somewhere far, far away…where nobody can complain that the almond milk they use at home doesn’t make their green tea look this murky.

they take your money

sometimes you receive advice from the unlikeliest of places…

while shooting the shit with one of my good family friends (andy, we’ll call him), who also happens to be my older brother’s best friend, the conversation turned to volleyball. specifically, i shared with him how challenging the transition from playing on the east coast to playing on the west coast has been. the sheer talent here is just greater than anywhere else. the best of the best flock to southern california and, even though i knew this coming in, competing against the best is different than anticipating competing with the best. why? because they take your money. and sometimes your self-esteem…the heightened competition forces you to look deep within yourself and ask, “how bad do i really want it?” i was winning on one side of the country and here i am losing on the other. the flip-side, of course, is that you get better playing against better people—at least, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

anyhow, i was surprised by how easy it was for andy to relate to my situation, seeing as his love lies in cards. twenty-six and fresh from finishing his service in the army, andy flew to las vegas to play poker. he’s been an avid player for years, building upon his skills and gaining experience mostly through online gaming. after listening to my california woes, he told me that he went through a similar realization during his vegas trip. while on the east coast, he could play cards on yachts and clean house, but going to sin city was a whole different ball game. the best players from all over the world come to vegas to play high stakes poker, which i realized is just as intimidating to him as all the talented beach volleyball players are to me. different game, same concept. and in both, they take your money!

i’ve never considered myself the gambling type. sure, there was that one time in atlantic city when i didn’t return to the hotel until 5 a.m. from playing blackjack, but that was with someone else’s money. big difference. you know, i don’t think you need chips to be a gambler. our lives are like a string of poker games. we are dealt a hand and must place our bet with only the information that is right in front of us: our present. should i take this opportunity? should i go there to be with him? should i quit? forget about six months from now. forget about the cards that the other players are holding. you can only control the hand you’ve been dealt, and it takes knowing yourself--and a little leap of faith--to just make the best call that you can with the information that you have at any given moment in your life. it’s really that simple.

no one can tell you when to call and when to fold besides you. and that’s my lesson for the day.

somebody

mac.mac.dell.mac.fujitsu.mac.no idea.mac.

that's today's laptop lineup, as seen from my view on the first floor of the coffee bar in san francisco. there they all are...perched like birds on a streetlight wire. what are they working on? who's facebook album are they snooping through to avoid doing work? i can't help but wonder. what if each of them had a thought bubble over their heads that reveled what they did for a living. entrepreneur. gossip columnist. blogger who wishes they were getting paid for their writing. alright kids, what'll it be? would you rather walk on water, posses the gift of flight, or be able to see the thought bubbles over anyone's head? i guess your answer depends on a lot of things. like whether or not you genuinely enjoy getting up in the morning to go do whatever it is that you do to pay the rent. or whether or not you have a fear of heights.

"all my life i've wanted to be somebody, but i see now i should've been more specific."

found this quote (circa the famous playwright jane wagner) in the september issue of oprah magazine and it really made me stop and think. i want to be somebody, but the phrase be somebody is actually a very vague concept. that homeless person i saw riding his bike in manhattan beach--wearing the most amazing duct tape and cardboard helmet ever--is somebody. the chick eating her soup directly across from me is somebody. those alcatraz inmates from back in the day who were known worldwide for their vicious crimes were all somebody. so what exactly do we mean when we tell ourselves that we want to be somebody--to make something of ourselves? is the end result fame? fortune? a colony of followers? a house with a yard? a trophy of some sort? a corner office?

maybe our twenty-somethings is a great time to explore the word "somebody" and discover what it means to you--and you and you and you--personally. your idea may be entirely different from mine, thus making the paths we take in life different. i mean, if i imagine the kind of human being i want to be someday, won't that help me to make the right decisions today that lead me down the right path? maybe. after all, it's not a science.

obviously none of us have a crystal ball, but i think--i hope--that each of us has an idea of the kind of person we want to become, regardless of the line of work we end up choosing for ourselves. so before you tell yourself that you want to be somebody someday, figure out what that entails for you. otherwise, i know a great way to save on a bike helmet.

compass

flying lax to sfo, beats blaring in my bright purple headphones, and i almost feel like a rock star. i’d be taking a swig of beer right now if i hadn’t foolishly eaten those five slices of bread before i left. i just can’t resist the pure goodness that is bread—and now i am paying for the binge.

so why leave l.a. for the yay (area)? to see my sister. my 5’8’’ compass. i have faith that this trip is going to help clear the haze—haze, as in that cloudy, restless state of mind that makes you feel like it’s maybe time to get glasses (or screw on a new brain, whichever your insurance covers). i’m going to feel rejuvinated, re-focused…and wow, captain says we are on our initial descent. already!? i was just getting the party started. guess i’ll have to continue this train of thought atop the most comfortable mattress in the world: my sisters’.

…signing off…9:10 p.m…

…signing on…12:28 a.m…

it’s even more comfortable than i had imagined, if that’s even possible. blinds are being drawn as we speak (as if by some miracle the sun is going to bless the city of san francisco).

since it’s technically friday, i’ll say that today is a new day. i’m wishing for outlandishly good coffee, a satisfying yoga class, and sisterly bonding capable of fighting crime.

goodnight.

what's more nauseating: waitressing or babysitting?

in both, you put on a good face while being at someone's beck and call.

lucky for me, i get to live in the best of both worlds.

week one

this entry, "week one", is taken from a blog i stumbled upon called life without pants.

it's short, simple, and pure...just the kind of thoughts you want circling inside your pretty little head when you roll out of bed to start your day. i like.

24hours ago football fans everywhere were waking up to a sunrise that was that much more beautiful. We stepped out of bed, showered, threw on our favorite jersey, gathered with friends, and prepared to watch our favorite team step onto the field for the first time of the year.

Week one is a beautiful time for football fans and football players everywhere. Despite all of the off-season talk, despite who is ‘supposed’ to win and lose, every fan everywhere possesses one thing…Hope.

We’re hopeful that the pundits and critics are wrong, that this year is “our” year, that our team has the ability to surprise everyone and win it all.

It illustrates a greater point that goes beyond football, or sports in general.

Nothing matters until you actually get out there and play the game.

All the talk, all the doubt and questioning – it means absolutely nothing. The only thing that matters is how you perform.

Every day should be lived like week one of the season. Every day is the moment before you run out of the tunnel and take the field to play the game. With the mentality that you can succeed, regardless of the circumstances and adversity stacked against you.

It may fit into the category of ‘easier said than done’ but honestly, the easiest thing is to just go out there and, metaphorically speaking, ‘play the game’.

What’s ahead of you today? It’s week one, hopes are high, go get the “W”…

cruise

i gotta say...

not having a car can be a real blessing.

uhhh let me rephrase that:

not having a car--but having a bike--can be a real blessing.

if you hop on that seat and forget about that nagging concept we call "time", bikes are like an extension of your curious side. on foot, you are limited a great deal by how far your legs can take you. behind the wheel, you are prisoner to every traffic sign, every moving object, and you can forget about crossing that solid line. but on a bike? just right. that's right, goldilocks.

it is possibly the only time when i free myself from planning my next move in advance—a very difficult feat for a person who knows what they are having for breakfast the night before (i heart you calender). but there i was, turning left on poinsetta and then right on duncan. when you pedal through the hills of manhattan and hermosa beach you inevitably pass two things: block after block of breathtaking homes and, like flies to a flame, hispanic landscapers.

so take it from a carless los angelite like myself and hang up the keys. go find a bike and explore your city on foot. you may be surprised at what you discover.

shoe shopping

i hate hate hate my last post.

it was short. it was shallow. i can't imagine that anyone who unfortunately read it could take away anything meaningful from it, and i wish i could give you those thirty seconds of your life back.

it's what i would refer to as a cowardly post...a collection of sentences that contain feelings and thoughts with no attempt at finding a resolution.

so i should "cowboy up", as my good friend says. damnit, face the music!

alright, alright...i'm afraid to fail. are you happy?

social. i pass up invitations to hang out with people because i'm afraid that if i don't have a good time the evening would just be a failure and prevent future hangouts. physical. i can be very reluctant and nervous to play volleyball with certain individuals because if i don't perform than i'm that failure on the court. this has lead me to opt out of competing in recent tournaments on the basis that saving thirty dollars (and an afternoon) is better than the thought of losing. aspirational. i convince myself that i am "too tired" or not in "the right creative mood" to generate ideas relating to this blog and where i aspire to take it because if i pursue an idea that idea could ultimately fail.

(this pretty much makes me the last person on earth who should give a motivational speech right now, doesn't it? just checking.)

aside from the obvious pitfall, that being the inability to take an idea or goal and run with it, the fear of failure basically screws with your sense of motivation. for instance, am i no longer paying a coach for training sessions because they don't serve as much value to me in this point in time or because i don't want to under-perform? are my actions a result of my own fears or are they honest signs that i truly don't want to be pursuing something? my own p.i., as in polish influence--my new friend/older sister figure who just so happens to be polish like me--would say that we are afraid of our own greatness. so forget about failure, maybe it's our potential to be great that we are so afraid of...that i am so afraid of. how does that shoe fit? i'm not sure which i would rather walk in, but i'm guessing that either way i need to find me a new pair of shoes.

do any of these scream "i am limitless" or should i go with something with a little more heel?

coming back

september 9th, really?

the back-to-school shrines already disheveled and in ruins on market shelves.

the brisk afternoons where warm soup feels like the only thing that can bring the body back to life. or slowly bring it into hibernation mode, as is the case with my life right now.

why do i feel like being under my comforter is the safest place to be?

why do i insist on hiding from the world?

right now i'm sitting on my living room couch, with federer up two sets in his quarter-final match, and all i can think about is returning to this couch after i play volleyball for a few hours. i'm going to the beach to go play volleyball and all i can think about is coming back? this doesn't make sense.

i like people.

i like volleyball.

i'd chose to be outside rather than inside any day.

so why am i behaving like this?

i think i know why.

a is for apple, m is for

onday is mop day, says my manager to me.

get it? the "m" in "monday" matches the "m" in "mop". alliteration...so damn clever. genius, in fact. alliteration was literally the only poetic device that i had confidence identifying on english tests back when i was a sophomore in high school. since i am almost always scheduled to work the closing shifts, as well as work on mondays, i have come to dread the letter "m" for what it currently stands for in my life...

first all the chairs must be secured onto tabletops and the entire dining room has to be swept free of debris before the mopping can officially commence...pushing the rag-head device forwards and backwards, submerging it into the sanitizing solution which, after just one rinse, already looks soiled, and then finally squeezing the excess liquid from the tip of the broom to initiate the process again. and again. what's not to love?

to my surprise my work week had completely been altered to accommodate others' schedules, leaving me with a completely open monday. what do i do? begin planning, of course. "let's see...i'll wake up relatively early, bike to yoga, hit up whole foods for their $2 monday coffee and a pastry deal, kill a few hours reading and writing, then attend a second yoga class before heading back home." fast forward to 7:30 a.m. today and you have me locking the door to my apartment and releasing the kick stand. about forty minutes later and i'm in my yoga happy place, sipping on this surprisingly good vanilla-hazelnut tea and waiting for vinyasa flow to begin.

this is when i notice that the girl in front of me has one of those fancy water bottles where you can etch your personal goals directly onto the bottle. i become overwhelmed with curiosity. she begins to unwind in child's pose as i begin to inch my way forward until i'm at the tip of my mat, head and neck outstretched, in what could only be called the "nosy child" pose. but i still can't quite make out what she had written. damn her cursive penmanship and barely visible bright pink pen. i just HAD to know what her goals were. maybe we shared a similar one...maybe we were soulmates. having grown increasingly determined now, i slide into an advanced variation of nosy child until i can just begin to decipher her first goal: "meet chip--". that's all i got. meet chip? after reading the word "meet" i'm thinking the rest of the sentence would be "the man of my dreams", but the name "chip" put that possibility to a screeching halt. who the hell is chip and how many people actually know someone named chip? could she be meeting him for a drink? or to finalize the guest list to an upcoming charity event? i just couldn't fathom who this chip character was and what he could possibly want from my goal-setting yoga bff. she's too good for him. i can totally tell by the way she pulled her hair back into an effortless ponytail. frustrated and confused, i had to find out more...but the bottle was rotated in such a way that i could not read the rest of that sentence! though, by shifting my gaze downward, i could see the second goal she had written for herself: "run the los angeles marathon". there we go, that's more like it. now that i can understand. but why was i so satisfied after uncovering one of her personal goals? should i be focusing a little more on setting and reaching my own goals and a little less on those of strangers?

anyhow, i dodged a mopping bullet today by not being scheduled to work. but just for clarification: m is for muffin. there will be no more sunday nights spent in bed thinking, "shiiitt, monday is mop day" but rather "monday is muffin day!" i see many more monday mornings spent biking to yoga and indulging in a plump and fatty muffin in my future. and maybe, just maybe i'll find out more about chip.

raised by wolves

where did the california sunshine go? i think my parents took it with them to north carolina. isn't it crazy how you can be in the same room with people one night and by the following morning they are on the other side of the country? gets me every time. and speaking honestly, the week-long parents visit could've been condensed to five or even four days.

there were times when i wanted them out. when i wanted to have the couch and remote all to myself. when the disagreements about when and where to eat made me cranky and frustrated. during the five times a day my dad would comment (and moan) about los angeles parking and highway congestion. after getting that thirty-five dollar ticket, i thought he was going to shit a brick. but then again, there were more times when i wanted them in. like when we went to target and they bought me a knife (among other things, but i'm most proud of the knife). like during those three days i had to continually reassure myself that there was no way a spider could possess the strength to free itself from the captivity (red cup) i had bestowed onto him. funny part is that my parents were only gone for about a day during their visit but the spider remained underneath the red cup for three...guess people just aren't that phased by random cups next to toilets these days. the point i am trying to make is that despite the moments where i wanted mom and dad to just go, when they did go, i wanted them to stay. i could come up with some bullshit psychological explanation revolving around attachment theory and possibly my childhood but i think i'll spare you and myself from that...it is the weekend, after all.

truth is, now i have something noteworthy under my belt: the experience of having your mom and dad visit you in your home--at least, the place that you have made your home indefinitely. college is different. you make a commitment to be someplace for four years and that's that. some shifting of the roommates, some new decor, but all within the same zip code. post-college dwelling is a completely different ballgame. for most of us, it's the chapter in our lives where we have to put ourselves somewhere on the map...a roof over our head and some money in our pockets. and so when they come to visit us it is--for the first time--our city and our home that they are visiting. and during this groundbreaking trip it can really feel like the doctor is coming to your house for a personal check-up. are you eating? are you picking up after yourself? do you have friends? do you have clean sheets? what is a typical day like for you? this is just a small sample of the kinds of questions a parent must have circling in their heads when they visit the part of the world their child has chosen to leave them for for the first time in their adult life...until i have a kid myself i remain blind to how extensive the list of questions really is. now the kicker is that most of these questions are never actually asked out loud...they just kind of find a spot somewhere in between the tip of my parents tongue and the tip of my middle finger and marinate there for days. my dad opened my fridge and gave a half-laugh, half-gasp response to the dominance of "space" over actual "substance" present. my mom, post-shower, admitted to using a hand towel to dry herself off (yes, mom, i actually have bath towels. why the hell didn't you ask me!?). both mom and dad were, like, flabbergasted when i brewed a fresh pot of good coffee for them complete with to-go cups, cream, and sugar packets. and i SWEAR they were both proud to call me their daughter when i pointed out the extra rolls of toilet paper underneath the sink. was i raised by wolves?

all in all, our week together was well worth the occasional bickering and hassle that comes with sharing your limited personal space with your parents. and we shared quite a few laughs along the way. you don't realize that you don't have a can opener until you have a can that needs opening...same goes for a bottle of wine.

no pancakes for breakfast this morning, but i'm still with my parents and i have taken them to a local coffee shop in hermosa beach. dad is starting on his third sports section and mom has just shared with the table details of the traffic jam in china that has reached it's tenth day. los angeles:1, china: zero.

uh-oh, we've hit the hour-mark...meaning that mom has emerged from her seat and is now walking around the coffeehouse. dad and i know that this can only mean one thing: she is getting bored and restless and we'll probably be out of here within ten minutes. which also means that the entry i wanted to write will probably be cut short as wel-

cake for breakfast

"roll your oats" buttermilk pancakes packed with honey, cinnamon, and (duh) oats, with another stack of "eye opener" pancakes baked with espresso and chocolate chips is the kind of breakfast (at 2 p.m.) that you drive forty-five minutes for when your parents are in town.

but having the rents fly across the country to visit you at your place is not all buttery all the time...i'll explain later, time to hit the beach.

...my sister's response to "knock, knock"...

knock, knock

australian shiraz cabernet circa 2008, fresh batch of blackberries, chocolate chips...another romantic night with myself. it's written on the wall,

i need a boy.

and the only way that is going to happen for me is if i drop the excuses:

i have work in the morning.

i have to train tomorrow.

i don't have the money to spend on drinks.

there's only going to be douchebags out.

i don't want to lose my inhibitions and order french fries from the bar at 1 a.m. (like last time).

there's probably something good on t.v.

i don't want to feel "bleh" the next day.

or--my personal favorite--i really could use some alone time.

b-a-c-k the mother-fuckin truck up. "alone time?" this is the best excuse because i spend more than enough time starring in my own me, myself and i sitcom. it's sad when people can't enjoy their own company, but i take it a little too far.

so, in conclusion, i need to drop all the excuses and put myself out there because no one's going to be knockin' on my door. that would just be creepy.

fallen

9:45 a.m. 8.14.2010 this morning

my bundle of new york times says that it is sunday…honda under state scrutiny…a rare disorder, a rarer debate…who’s teaching our kids? hello, world, nice to see that not much has changed.

but in my little world, much has. on friday, the avp announced that the rest of the season is canceled and that they are uncertain about the tours future in the years to come. that news trickles all the way down the competitive ladder, from the top players in the world who take home sizeable earnings to the married moms who play just a few tournaments for kicks. and then there’s me, a young, inexperienced player acting like a sponge to all the talent and knowledge that surrounds this town.

but what am i supposed to think? the avp—the pinnacle of all aspiring, admiring beach volleyball players and enthusiasts—has fallen. i’m not going to sit here and say that the dream of stamping my footprint on that center court sand hasn’t been the driving force behind my move to california, but i’m also not going to say that i would consider myself a failure if that never happened for me. i would consider it a huge personal success if i advanced to just the second day of a professional tournament—not an easy feat. but now that the future of the sport is so cloudy, i can’t help but see my dreams fill up with clouds themselves. do i begin to alter my dreams and expectations? or have i already been doing this subconsciously? is it time to take myself out for a drink and seriously evaluate how i am going to handle the cards that have been dealt? luckily i have my family to lean on and help me to sort all of this out—they are visiting in just a few days.

for now, i’ll be perfectly at ease with my cup of coffee and "fresh from the pan" cinnamon banana pancake. like the sunday headlines, not much has changed.

so i guess three months is the time it takes for a girl like me, fresh face in the city of los angeles, to regularly practice yoga poses and send in their first headshot to a casting agency.

who have i become?

details later--there is an apron a mile away that is calling my name...

personal check? check.

today is a "dear diary" moment because i am licking the envelope containing my very first rent check. now listen, the rent money has been coming out of my pocket this whole time, but always in a screwy manner. i've been either withdrawing the cash from my bank account and handing over the payment like i just sold a couple ounces of weed, or my dad and i will do an elaborate dance with our funds where we end up with a check in his name. those days are in the past because i am a big girl now who has my own personal checks with my name on them. i still had to call my sister to confirm whether or not i had to sign the check, but other than that you wouldn't be able to tell my rookie check from that of a veteran...what with my eloquent cursive writing ending in the "0/100 cents" (thanks grandpa). very nice...i'm all grown up! well, i take that back. turns out i'm still powerless against a spider and look for daddy to save me. and so one more spider lives to see another day; however, i did find out that sitting on the toilet with both feet up is a good abdominal exercise.

"once mature and dry, disengages from the root and tumbles away in the wind"

because thesaurus.com doesn't turn anything up when i type in "orgasmic", ya'll are just going to have to deal with my analogy: today was an amazingly orgasmic sunday. it began as every day should: waking up to sunlight pouring through the window. still, i let myself stay in bed for another hour just because. then i journeyed two small flights of stairs for a breakfast date with the couple who live above me--coffee, fruit, and the kind of muffins where the "top" overflows the "muffin" (irresistible on your plate, not around a female's mid-section). i quickly learn that they are genuinely nice new yorkers...the conversation so enjoyable i almost ask what's for lunch. but i couldn't stay. i had already made plans for the remainder of my day, which revolved around attending a few classes at the yoga studio i am now a member of. so i hopped on my bike and hit the strand, pedaling amongst petite, lululemon loyal joggers, couples with their starbucks in one hand and leashes in the other, and fellow cyclists either decked out in spandex or toting their small children along for the ride. note: this is a unique sunday morning crowd. anyways, four miles later and i'm a proud owner of my own yoga mat--lime green!--and undergoing a challenging pilates workout. namaste and it's time for some grub, so i decide to treat myself to an over-priced but delicious baja fiesta salad at one of the eateries i have been wanting to try ever since i moved out here. after filling out a customer survey (for which my birthday is stated as being just two weeks from now...shut it, i'm not the only one playing this game), i practically skipped to whole foods where i proceeded to take a leisurely lap sampling various fruits and cheeses. and yes, i'm one of those people who holds no shame in assembling their own cheese-kabob.

and then i started thinking about how my day was so blatantly revolved around, well...me. everything was carefully thought out to please...muah, your highness. the exercise, the meal, the cheese sampling--even the new mad men episode i just finished watching--was all meant to make myself feel good, inside and out. soooo, maybe when all these people tell me that "you're so young" and "this is the time in your life to be doing what you're doing" what they are really saying is, "this is the only time in your life when you can be completely selfish and get away with it". i mean, am i right? no career to tie me down, no significant other to make "we" decisions with, no home to make payments on, no kids to place above everything else, no pets to care for, no car to maintain, no--wait a second, this list depicting my lack of obligations is starting to backfire...i'm suddenly acutely aware of my solitary existence...like i'm looking in the mirror and a tumbleweed is staring back at me.

here i go

goodbye manhattan, hello hermosa.

goodbye sardine can, hello space.

goodbye floor, hello mattress.

goodbye espn, hello anything i want to watch.

goodbye toilet with a pack of matches, hello just a toilet.

goodbye covered in a towel, hello naked.

goodbye tension, hello fresh air.

goodbye old friends, hello new friends.

goodbye last chapter in my life, hello new chapter.

aqlcb

alright, the paragraph that i posted yesterday is what we call an "acute quarter-life crisis breakdown". aqlcb. not the best acronym out there, but i challenge anyone to prove me wrong. you see, for us young adults between the ages of twenty and thirty, it is my understanding that 99% of us are stuck on this theme-park ride where "nothing really feels wrong yet nothing really feels right either". the worst part is that you have to go on the ride by yourself and thus constantly feel as if you are the only person being thrust left and right and upside-down. but in reality, you are not alone, for there are thousands upon thousands of young adults out there stuck on this same torturous ride. what happened while i was at starbucks yesterday was that i suddenly receded back to that feeling that i am alone and confused and without a seatbelt in this world. anything can trigger this acute breakdown; in my case, it was words like "square-footage" from a lady who i perceived to "have it all". she was planning her dream home, and i was getting ready to clean up after people's messes. that's how i simplified and compared my life with this complete stranger's life, triggering an army of "who am i?" and "what am i doing?" questions. that was my monday aqlcb.

and then i went to work waiting on tables and cleaning after people's messes. as business got slower, i had more time to get to know one of my co-workers (who also happens to be a beach volleyball player). by the time we had both clocked out, i discovered that she and i were more similar than i could have imagined. i told her i was without a car and she told me that she had been without a car for eight months when she first moved here. she's actually staying at a friends place right now (a.k.a. couch surfing) and living out of her car. and she, like me, doesn't have a career but rather works part-time jobs and continues to pursue her hobbies. my deflated and isolated self was being pumped with positivity and a sense of companionship--like when you go for a walk on the beach and notice all the footprints stamped into the sand from people who have already treaded the path that

you are just getting started on. truth is, this girl has struggled far more in her life than i have...doesn't see her sister often and lost her mother to cancer not five years ago. i had already looked up to her, but after hearing more of her life story, i think she has grown a few extra inches. though a strong, confident woman, even she is not immune to her battle scars that lead to moments of weakness. tears were shed when the pain from losing her mother had no place to go but resurface, and in that instant she only grew more strong in my eyes. i've spent the last five minutes typing and re-typing words to try and explain how this happens, but i can't.

so the next time i have an aqlcb (because please, that is inevitable), i'll let myself indulge in my moment of weakness but come out of it quicker than before because i know that i am not alone. correction, we are not alone.

i interrupt the babysitting tales to ask myself, "what am i doing with my life?" here i am at starbucks, sitting in between a lady peacefully reading a book on my right and a lady who is going over her house plans with either the builder or architect. man, she is talking about light fixtures. and kitchen sinks. she is building her own home. that is my ultimate dream in life. i saw my parents go through the painful but incredibly rewarding process, and i want that for myself someday...when i have a family to fill the house. far, far away from that picture is me, in manhattan beach, about to be left by three of my closest friends (well, we used to be the closest four-some out there, but things have changed). what the hell am i doing? i am a waitress. i am now a babysitter. i train, but i haven't competed in weeks and that feels like months. it feels horrible. i came here to play. to compete. not to have friendships grow weaker with every sunrise and self-doubt invade my daily thoughts. people come and they say, "oh, you're young! this is the time in your life to be doing this." do what? what is it that i am doing?

tiny tears

remember when i said to never go to work as a waiter/waitress hungover? well, that scenario has met its match: babysitting while hungover. brutal. on top of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and mac n cheese for dinner, i also managed to make the two kids i was watching cry. the first was because i said his drawing of an elephant looked more like a rat--totally my fault, but lesson learned that i have got to be more sensitive around these tikes. his exit from our drawing game was truly fascinating: hides his face, head to the table, takes refuge on a nearby couch while playing with apps on his itouch. remember the days when simply retreating to a corner would suffice a child's hurt ego? now let me paint for you the second tear-jerker: me and little girl literally playing tug-o-war with a frozen, chocolate-covered banana. i had already let her walk all over me with her consumption of the medium-sized frappuccino, a chocolate madeleine, and cocoa shavings (don't ask)...i was NOT going to let her eat that damn banana!

coffee bean is literally closing now...have to continue this tale tomorrow...

5'11'' pet project

alright, i guess more on that now since i just went to work and realized i showed up for the wrong shift. fucking miserable when this happens because not only does it throw off my entire day but now i know i won't be making money because the closing shift BLOWS. the last two hours turn into me scrubbing murphy's oil soap on some wooden surface and a fight against both boredom and the desire to eat anything and everything in sight, particularly bakery items. food that is free--or that you know is going to become trash--magically holds an unbearable appeal to the eyes and stomach. i hate that. i also hate how it would require me to jump through hoops before i could jump happily into a car and be on my way to what would surely be a mood-enhacing yoga class.

okay...controlling the rage now...maybe because i just expressed my rage to the friendly barista guy and he gave me an ice-blended vanilla latte on the house.

so i mentioned that i hung out with a 7th grader yesterday? that i did. we rode our bikes to hermosa where we shopped, ate, and lounged on the beach. then we headed back towards the manhattan pier where i watched her play volleyball for an hour and a half. it is all part of a new relationship that i have developed with her parents--specifically her father. they happen to live directly across the street from me, making their driveway the stage for which all the magic unfolded. he invented his first product at age nineteen and sold his million-dollar company by his twenty-ninth birthday. he only runs about ten businesses from home--no big deal, i run my own blog from home, which is basically the same thing. he talks a mile a minute and sometimes i struggle just to keep up with his southern californian, highly dense financial lexicon; but i feel so blessed that him and his wife have graciously welcomed me into their lives. i would call it the 5'11'' pet project starring me, the "abandoned, neglected, tormented, deprived of necessary food, water, exposed to heat for cold, or cruelly beaten" pet, and them, the couple who have taken it upon themselves to "help and protect" me. working on a television series as we speak.

yesterday, i hung out with a 7th grader. and i found myself a mentor.

details on all this and more later, cause someone's gotta go serve people their milk.

you have GOT to be joking

"on the verge of financial collapse, the AVP is once more hurriedly patching together deals with investors to keep the nation's top professional beach volleyball tour alive for this year...

...for a sport with so many inherent pluses, this news is discouraging for all who can only hope that once more the AVP will be revived."

umm, yeah...no shit.

for the entire article, click me.

two weeks notice

exactly two more weeks until the lease is up in this apartment and my head will be resting someplace else. i'm pretty sure that everyone i live with is viewing this time as a countdown...something you look forward to...like a 21st birthday, or a vacation, or like the elaborate countdowns i would make in college that outlined the last week of finals. i should've saved my freshman edition...that shit was ridiculous. and very sad, because i was basically counting down every second until i could leave campus and escape from everyone. that was a definite low point for me. it scares me to admit to myself that there are similarities between then and now.

just another chimp

wheels = power

and by "wheels" i mean having a car. i curse myself now because i should've known after going four years without a car in college that this situation was going to eventually weigh down on me. i am so sick of asking to borrow my roommates cars. i don't go to half the places i'd like to go either because there simply is no car for me to use at the time or i feel like i am putting someone else at an inconvenience just by asking. how i miss my little red focus.

i am beginning to grasp the immense freedom and ultimately power that the "key holders" of the house possess. freedom because that's exactly what you feel when you get behind the wheel, and power because, well, freedom is power people! i've been analyzing my own behavior and the results are sad.

i'll suppress my own emotions in order to secure a ride to the grocery store. i'll let events that really irritate me roll off my shoulders instead because how can i exchange unpleasantries with a roommate one second and then ask to borrow their car the next? doesn't work in theory and doesn't work in practice. it's the worst. thought about seeing a movie tonight (by myself, of course) but couldn't because one owner is out to dinner and the other is a person i can't even stomach to look at right now. if only i could speak completely freely about my living situation...if only you could see through my honest eyes...i should really call it "decomposing" situation rather than "living" because i don't feel like i am alive here. i feel like i am on guard, or on a battlefield, walking on the toes of my feet to avoid the grenades that lay hidden underneath the carpet.

it was in one of my latter college psychology courses that i studied how chimpanzees compete with one another to gain access to resources, may those be in the form of food. or territory. or sex. and you know what? it's the same for us humans. it's that simple. each day marks another attempt to secure the resources that we--and those who depend on us--need for survival, nourishment, and fulfillment. for some, that resource may be higher on the pyramid, like securing that reservation at the new swanky restaurant in town. for those who live a simpler life, that resource may just be being able to take a drive to accomplish something that fills us with joy...which takes me back to where i started: those who have access to resources hold the power, and vice versa.

and in this scenario, i'm without question the weakest, most sex-deprived chimp of the pack.

i gotta confess: yoga, as i saw it, was always on the same page as almond milk drinking, "love and peace" tattoo wearing kind of people. not for me. not something i would enjoy or benefit from. well well well, four days into a free and unlimited trial week at a yoga studio and i am changing my tune. my attitude has changed to accommodate my behavior (you win again, cognitive dissonance theory). namaste. down, dog!

too strong

i'm going to try very, very hard to never go to work hungover again. actually pulling yourself out of bed and doing anything the morning after a long night out is mentally and physically exhausting--unless, of course, the place you are going involves you and a beautiful pancake soaking up your alcohol. but my restaurant doesn't even serve pancakes, and all i wanted to do during my eight hour shift (yes, eight fucking hours. you'd think i'd have my own office) was shove a parfait spoon into my eye. and then quit. or be fired because i was blind and bloody, whichever came first.

it is a an extremely dangerous thing to go to work hungover when you are a waitress because every stressor is amplified. every request from a customer that much more annoying. and you end up consuming a lot of bread that you didn't need. on a normal day, i probably wouldn't have been so royally pissed off when the only thing between me and freedom was a broom which was already being used to sweep the entire kitchen. on a normal day, i most likely wouldn't have wanted to slap the co-worker who scolded how i executed possibly the most vital component of any successful enterprise: marrying the jams. if you're unfamiliar with restaurant jargon, "marrying" of anything--usually condiments---just means combining the contents of two (or more) less than full containers to make one full container. i know...heavy stuff.

but i haven't even told you the most dangerous part of being a hungover server: the urge to quit is too strong. too strong because you can't afford to quit and you need this job to survive. your head grows enormous with thoughts like, "i went to college for four years so i could clean up after people's messes?" stop it! STOP IT! you can't quit. everything will be better when you don't feel like a truck ran into your face. everything will be better tomorrow, you'll see...

in case you were wondering, that chick carrying the beverages is me.