Jeano, asshole.

Today I listened to Ben Stein on MPR, a recording from a speech he gave at Commonwealth in California. In the speech, he quoted Dr. Martin Luther King, referencing America, obviously from the 60s, but relevant today. I don't remember the quotation exactly, but it's something like our problem is that we're a neighborhood, but we're not a brotherhood.

I agree with this. I agree with this for a number of reasons. And the way Ben Stein talked about Dr. King--well, all of this made sense to me. Today was one of those days where I sat at my desk only to second guess myself, my motivations. My contributions to people being shit to each other instead of getting along. And the fact of the matter is--I like to think I'm a humanitarian, but am I, really? I like to think I put other people first, that I can understand life or ideas from their point of view and that this is always on my mind. But is it, really?

I mean, I say thank you to the bus driver everyday. Even when she drives really annoying and jerks the beast of a bus for seemingly no reason and I get really annoyed and I tell myself in my head that I won't thank her or wish her a good evening, I do. I feel rude if I don't. And rudeness is a pet peeve of mine. The biggest, I think. But am I rude? Am I mean? Am I crossing that line of when it's okay to put yourself first and be a little self-aware and just being a selfish asshole?

I say thank you to the bus driver, but I never slide over to the window seat when I'm on the bus because I don't want someone to sit next to me. I don't give homeless people money. I guess I'd say that I'd make sacrifices to help my fellow man and woman, but I don't know how big those sacrifices would be. I want awesome health care, but I get pretty annoyed when $200 comes out of my check for taxes. I mean, I deal with it. But I still want my money. And if I had my money, would I give it to people who deserve it or need it? Naw. I'd probably buy shoes. It's hard to be this honest with myself, but yeah. Pretty sure I'd buy clothes, or save for a new car, or go out to eat 4 times a week.

And this came up because of work. Because I was just thinking of how annoyed and angry and impatient I get at that desk all day, while everyone calls me to ask me questions about this data and can I check on this and do I know how to do this and this and why isn't this working. I don't know the answers to these questions. I try not to sigh or roll my eyes when the phone rings. But I do. And sometimes I make up nicknames for people or "think" things behind their backs. Sometimes the short fat woman walks by and I think there goes big fat Kelly even though I don't want to think that and it's mean. And all I do is eat at my desk all day anyway. Big Fat Jeano.

And then when the guy standing at the vending machine makes some stupid comment about a sign that's been there for 3 months as though it's the first time he's seen it, I laugh gently. Is this the right thing to do? Is it just dishonest, since in my head I'm thinking: what a douche? What if you can't stop yourself from being negative when you don't even want to be? What if you just think: that person has a really ugly face and you don't want to be the kind of person who thinks another person is ugly? How do you force yourself to be kind? What's wrong with me that I think like this, and is this why bad things happen to me sometimes? I'm not the good person I think I am? I just come home and watch TV and write rambling blogs instead of, say, volunteering my free time at a children's museum or working harder at my job? Why don't I put in nine hours a day or work through lunch to help people out? Why am I so selfish that I leave after exactly 8 hours of work and no later? (In fact, maybe earlier?)

Anyway. This is more crazy than I've led on. Because today after all of those phone calls and hating my job and being overall ungrateful for everything, I decided that I just wanted, most of all, to be left alone. I was too exhausted to be nice. I was too exhausted to be tolerant. I decided that wouldn't it be great if I could have a machine that kept people away from me? It could have all of these knives on it, and they could rotate, and then when people wanted to ask me questions, they'd just have to back off and leave me to do my own thing for awhile:

So whenever I was having one of these days, I'd just buckle the belt of the knife rotater. And instead of feeling guilty for hurting anyone on one of these stabby days, they could only blame themselves for walking into it.

Sometimes I hate when I can't turn my brain off.

...

Just heard this, which seems relevant: Lightbulb goes out, someone says: I'll get someone to fix it. Lightbulb goes out for the Catholic, she stands in the dark. Says: What did I do wrong?

I HATE THIS HOUSE & I HATE MY LIFE

Drip, drip, drip.

I'm sleeping on the couch tonight. I'm sleeping on the couch, because the kitchen sink is clogged. What, that doesn't make sense? Well, here on Chicago Avenue, nothing makes sense. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

The sink is clogged, the dishwasher flooded. I tried to clean, as mentioned in the pre-second-flood post tonight; I put the soap in the dishwasher and turned it on. Then, like the responsible adult I am, I paid my bills, talked to the Good Doctor, and called it a night. But when I went into the kitchen, there were soap bubbles all over the floor--smelly soap bubbles, so I threw some towels down and figured I'd deal tomorrow.

Went to bedroom. Noticed a tiny wet spot on the white rug outside bedroom, the rug that is there now because it got destroyed in the flood of November 2007. Wrote it off. It's late and time for bed.

Laid in bed, all cuddled up with Musicophilia.

Drip. Drip-drip. Drip.

There is water dripping on the pile of books, next to my bed. Also, the Fender is there, and it's wet. Again. The Fender seems to always be the first victim. I soak up the water--it's just a tiny bit. I go out to the laundry room.

Below where the dishwasher is upstairs: drip-drip-drip-drip-dripdripdripdripdripdripdripdripdrip!!!!!! Drip-drip-drip-you-suck-Jean-ha-ha-ha! This is what you get for cheating during Lent! You cheated! You were really hungry today and all you had was that candy from V day and you ate it! Sinner.

All of the water is falling behind the water heater. I can't get to it. This is the evil spot of the house, the black hole of this hell hole. This is where the water puddles, behind this water heater, and nobody can wipe it up, and because nobody can wipe it up, it seeps through the wall and into my room. This is what happened when the water heater broke. This is what appears to be happening now.

It sounds like it's raining in the house. It's not that much water, but the dripping. It's spring here. It's spring, and the creek is babbling and it's babbling in my fucking basement. And the icicles are melting and they're dripping and the water smells, like it always does. All old smelling.

I'm grateful that the water didn't drip onto my bed. I'm grateful that there isn't dirty dishwater plopping onto my mattress and onto my expensive, new, chocolate brown sheets. I'm grateful for that.

BUT I STILL DON'T THINK I CAN FUCKING DEAL WITH THIS I HATE MONDAYS AND OH MY GOSH ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME THAT THIS HAPPENED.

Damn, why don't you blog more.

It's time to blog. It's not going to be a great blog, but there's going to be a lot of heart in it. Really.

So where have I been the last couple of weeks? Hibernating, of course. My new philosophy on life is never apologize for a good nap. So I'm not apologizing.

Weekends. I know I've mentioned this before, but this "adult-life" thing I'm trying on really makes the weekends this little gems of bliss. Oh, weekends. Friday nights, I love you. Saturday afternoons? Yes, please. I want to throw a bunch of Saturday afternoons on my bed and roll around on top of them. I want to sniff the carbonated bubbles of Sunday mornings and feel them pop in my face.

I had a good weekend.

I didn't do much--just neglected cleaning the house like I said I would, like I'm doing right now. Instead maybe I'll experiment with how long I can live in my own filth until I develop hepatitis. Instead, I'll continue to ignore that huge student loan check that I thought I'd deferred. I was with Shannon, Lance, and his girl on Friday, Eating good pasta, playing Cranium. (Advice: don't put the clay in the microwave to see if it will de-crystalize. It smells like old people and piss when warm; no longer like lemonade powder.)

I spent the rest of the weekend with the good doctor. Sometimes on the weekends, I like to park myself in his mansion. We saw a movie and made dinner on Saturday night. My souffle wouldn't form peaks, but it still tasted amazing. I sliced my thumb open and the good doctor took his time to patch me up. Sunday was for sleeping in, toast and coffee, outside winter jogs on dirt paths. Imagine how happy we'd all be if all days were for sleeping in and paced jobs on dirt paths. Imagine.

Everyday I watch CSI and wait for winter to be over. Some days this week aren't going to be above ten degrees, but this weekend will warm. But next weekend is for doing the things I've been avoiding. I haven't allowed myself to get into the big job searches. I haven't applied to all of those adjunct positions. It is just now that I realize I should be doing these things; that I need to stop taking these breaks. I realize that there is not any reason that my job should be draining me, as it is not a draining job. Not in that sense that one would want a job to drain them, anyway. In the sense that it sucks life out of my head and leaves a vegetable sitting in my cube. A dry, nasty carrot that has lost all color and flavor.

Coming home and doing nothing doesn't help this. At least I've been doing a lot of reading. I'm even getting to the point where I don't loathe the bus as much as I used to. I read, relax, let myself be driven places.

Jeano, the hypocrite, on Ash Wednesday.

Well, I know that three blog posts ago I went on a rant about people who lost weight and gained it back; how it's annoying and stupid when they talk about it. But then this morning, as I was doing a helfty song and dance to force my gladiator thighs into my favorite pants, I've come to the realization that--I've gained a couple of pounds.

Shit. Who knows how many pounds, really. I just know they're in the middle, and I think in the thighs. And talking about it, and putting it out here in blog-world that I've pudged up just a bit, makes me motivated to get back to where I was. And then some. So, I went running yesterday, and I went running today, and it felt good. Maybe, I'll even go running tomorrow. And maybe, maybe, I'll stop eating like a fucking moron. It's just been winter, and generally hard, you know? You know.

Anyway, I'm giving up candy for Lent. For the above mentioned reasons, and just so I can do it, and just so I can have control over something in my life right now when there are so many things I fear I have no control over. That's 40 days, starting today, without candy. No chocolate, no fruity, sugary treats. Not even cheating on Sundays, which Ryan once convinced me we were allowed to do.

So if any of you assholes think it might be funny to send me candy in the mail, or to buy me treats and wave them in front of my face--I may eventually forgive you. But I don't think God will.

Writing Saturday=bust. Shit!

Because I've forgotten the cord to plug in my computer, because I've forgotten my headphones, because I got off to a late start, because the two women sitting across from me at Caribou screamed and screamed about their rich neighbor who supposedly digs through the trash--she has a 500,000 house! She's stinking rich. And you won't believe this...I saw her digging through the trash. And her son, well he got my son started on it!--that's why.

Also, because after the trashy-son-woman left, another woman came to take her place. A woman who was much louder and much more angry and who had a cell phone. This woman came to Caribou solely to call her credit card company and complain about their website. She did so for about 45 minutes. She asked to speak to three different people, and so I heard her story 3 different times: Excuse me. Excuse me. Can I talk? Can you let me finish? Your website does not reflect this policy. I made a payment yesterday. 12:00 evening tonight is SUNDAY. This is a business day. You're not listening to me. No. I cannot speak to you anymore. I need to speak with your manager. I need you to pull up your website and look at this with me--do you have a computer in front of you?--I need you to understand my situation and do something about it. I need to speak to someone who is not you right now.--Thank you! She sat with her ass on the end of her wooden cabin-like Caribou chair as though she was practicing her posture. She gestured wildly. She had huge lips. She kept glancing at me, expecting me to be annoyed. I refused to show annoyance in my face; instead I just looked at the papers in front of me. When she stopped looking at me, I kept one eye on the papers and one angry eye on her.

That is also why my big writing day has been a bust.

Today, though, was okay. It's January 26th, so when you don't freeze in a ditch somewhere or lose a limb in some sort of accident, you have to say it's okay.

I spent the morning crying in my bed, for some good reason I can't really think of anymore. It was then 12:30, so I lifted weights while listening to country music, and then I decided to take advantage of the above zero weather and go for a run. And I ran and ran to prove to myself that I had it in me; I ran down Chicago to Minnehaha Parkway, and I ran the Parkway along the creek until I got to the lake, and instead of just running the tiny swamp part of the lake, I ran the whole thing, past the couples holding each others' hands in one hand and a dog leash in the other, past the girls in their tight black running pants, past the slender men on bikes with slushy tires, the men who I wish would ask me out on dates. Ah, dates. I thought about my recent bouts with the dating website, the men who look at my profile and pass on, the men with tattoos and faint moustaches who send me emails without complete sentences. I hate the dating website; the interviews of, essentially, will-you-suit-me-for-the-rest-of-my-life over coffee, the emails filled with misdirected wit. I've just become so, very good at being alone. It's depressing isn't it! It is.

Last night, I looked at the other girls on the website, their clever profiles, their cute pictures, their descriptions of themselves as "fun-loving." Their blonde hair and sucked-in, sexy faces and self-taken photographs. I began to think the website was competitive. I futhered my destructive thinking of the philiosphy of this website, how easy it is to just pass on, to reject somebody. I'll pass, but thanks. How one sentence or picture makes you say, "no." How, if I met some of these men, if they really knew who I was, that I'd be such a different person. How they could think the same thing about me. How this seems to mess with fate, or ironically is. If we were all in a room together this would be such a different story. How things like religion or wanting-of-children just sits in front of you, in tiny sans sariff font. Most of my non-spoken correspondences, otherwise known as these "winks" end with me saying in my head fuck off, [insert retarded screen name here], I'm more attractive than you anyway. You're missing out, [stupid screen name]. My picture may not be very cute, but I'm totally hot in person. And then I cry for awhile and hate myself. I'm gonna go feel sorry for myself and listen to my Sinatra records and pretend that I have somebody who thinks about me when I'm not there.

Isn't love just the most important, ridciulous thing. It is. Fuck.

Although I didn't get the writing done I wanted today, I was able to accomplish part of my goal of reading over the literary magnificence of P's essay and RT's poems. How wonderful. I took my thin black pen, and I wrote in margins, and channeled MFA Jean. I wrote and wrote, made jokes, took very small words very seriously, and felt like a human being again. When I was done, I took the pages of essay and poem and paged through them three or four times, gloating in my comments. Not even in what they said, but just how they looked on the white spaces of the pages, all teacher-writingly and messy and exclamation point filled. ! The coffee was just dark enough to upset my stomach, and the cookie was hard, but I sat there with my fingers in my hair, my head resting in my palm, and I thought about smart things; I wondered about poetry and art and trends and failures and successess and why those were what they were.

That run I had today, that was a good run. It's been 5 hours since, and my thighs are still twitching. My muscles are saying what were you thinking, Jeano. You weren't quite ready for all of these miles yet. But they're wrong.

Today at work, we got free shirts.

It's because they're getting us "pumped up" for the integration of the new system. It's to thank us for all of our hard work. It's so when this organized mess goes live, and someone has a stroke trying to decide whether a transcript is "Req Ad" or "Reg Ad CCE" they can say look, dude. We warned you. We gave you a t-shirt. I also saw that you took two of the free cookies and it was one per person. Don't get pissed at us. Now, you're not getting any disability. Put your t-shirt on, wipe the cookie crumbs off your desk, and get back to work.

I'm not complaining. The t-shirts were long-sleeved. I love long-sleeved t-shirts. I don't care if there's a logo of the new program on this shirt that looks all business-y and lame. I love long t-shirts so much, you could put a picture of a swastika on the front, and I'd be like: so? It's comfortable! (Do I have to say I'm joking here? Who knows.) The sleeves go past my wrist and I can grip them in my palms! I'm gonna take my long-sleeved shirt and go sit by a campfire.

Also. There's a tag on the shirt that says the shirt was printed by "Rebuild Resources," a company that helps men and women who are struggling with with drug and alcohol addictions by giving them employment. That's awesome! That means that either my Uncle Al or most people who ride next to me on 5E printed my t-shirt.

Shirt and cookie day is my favorite day. Today at work, I was just a little less stabby.

What this shirt really got me thinking about, though (yes, I'm still on the shirt--nobody's forcing you to read this) is the computer system. I mean, here's me. This not even-yet-hired temp, who gets a free shirt. I don't know what the hell is going on around me. I just do what they tell me. (And it's not that I'm not smart; I just really don't care.)

But people have been working on converting the data from the old program to the new program for like two years. Two years they've been matching one program to the other. (Like, since it's higher ed, an appropriate metaphor would be like they've been doing Course Credit Evaluations for two years. For two years they've been deciding which "courses" (or data) can be transferred to the "new school" (or program).)

And you can see it in their eyes. This girl who did my training, who I'd been informed had drank a whole bottle of champagne to herself when they were officially done with this integration, looks like hell. Yesterday I sat next to her in a meeting, while she stuffed a Whopper in her face, looking like she wanted to cry. Saying, "I don't know" in a very sighing voice the whole time. And you know when someone hoovers a Whopper in a board room in front of strangers that they're reached the point of desparation.

My point here is that I've been thinking about what they've been doing for so long. I've decided--I could do that for two years. I could! As long as someone taught me, that could be my job. I decided there are many things that I could do; that with training, I am capable of doing.

My point here is: I don't want to. That's what this whole post-grad school thing has led me to decide. I could do that, but I don't want to. My happiness is pretty important to me, and things are really shitty right now, so I'm not going to do stuff I don't want to. With work, I don't have a choice. I'm saying if I did have a choice. I'm saying, right now, I'm not settling when I don't have to. I don't want to invest myself in a business-type job because I can.

For example. When I was just that age to stay home alone all summer, my mom would make a list of chores. She'd say, "can't you just vacuum today while I'm at work?" And since I was a bad, lazy daughter, I'd think, "yes I can, but I don't want to." Of course I can vacuum. But that doesn't sound very fun. I don't want to. What I want to do is call my friend Randi, hop on my bike, and ride down to Tom Thumb and buy 7 different kinds of Laffy Taffy with my allowance. What I want to do is watch Double Dare at 2:30 and Duck Tales at 3:00, until you come home, mom, and we discuss what you're making for dinner, and it had better be pizza burgers.

I think it is my ability to think about my happiness and mental stability that has made me a failure.

(Of course, there was the day when I was a "good" kid and did vacuum while she was gone, and I accidentally vacuumed up a black sock. That sock got stuck right up in that vacuum, and it started smoking and stinking like, well, a sock on fire--so I just put the vacuum on the patio in the cold until she came home and asked why is the vacuum cleaner outside? And it stayed there, ultimately, until my dad came home to finally de-sock it.)

And I'll have a chocolate shake, as long as we're here.

Yesterday Shannon and I risked the ever-so-cold to spend some quality shopping time at the Mall of America. While there, we stopped at Torrid, which is a "plus-sized" store that carries clothes from sizes 12 to like 28. Fat girls work there, and fat girls go there. Some of the clothes are very cute, others are very goth looking. Some of the clothes you pick up and definitely will buy if you can get a good deal, others you pick up to wonder why they decided to make a 4x-strapless-sequined-low-cut-crop-top-vinyl-cardigan.

It's a decent store if you can find the right thing, and they make the clothes bigger, so I think I could fit into some size 12s there and feel pretty good about myself. You're never the "fattest" girl in Torrid.

Because it's a store for fat girls, fat girls talk about their weight unabashedly. For example, the woman in line in front of us went off about how she'd lost 50 pounds and then gained 60 back. Why would you say this in a store like Torrid? Because you're ashamed to be there? And what about the girls working, the overweight girls who have to say, Wow, congrats on that weight loss! Who then look down at their over-sized bosoms in their low cut rock and roll t-shirts?

Is not the point of a store like Torrid (or Lane Bryant) to be proud of being fat? At least comfortable shopping, and not frustrated with never finding anything in your size. Not that I necessarily think anyone should be "proud" of being fat. If you're comfortable being fat, that's awesome. But you shouldn't be proud of it. You should be proud to be happy with yourself--and all of that other camp counselor shit I could go on and say right now, but won't.

I suppose one would feel comfortable talking about weight in Torrid, because there is a general understanding that fat girls have with each other. Of course, when you're in Torrid, being fat is what's on your mind. And being surrounded by fat girls, you can know that it's on their minds too. It was on my mind. It always is, how I look. That's just how it is. And I'm always buying some new pants, somewhere, so I have to think about it, you know.

Anyway, I was annoyed with this woman, because I couldn't really give two shits that she'd lost 50 pounds and gained it back. I didn't want to wait in line to hear her brag about being smaller and hoping to fit back into all of those clothes in her closet. Because talking about it that much (to strangers) is the first step to failing. Talking about it to other people, I think, is bad luck. Maybe if she'd still had the weight off. Maybe then she could talk. Otherwise, you're always speaking in the past, or in the future, and never about right now. You know that woman and her boyfriend went to Taco Bell after shopping at Torrid, and you know that because the food court is on the third floor, that they took the escalator up there. That's what one does after shopping at Torrid and talking about their former-but-gained-back-weight-loss. They go to Taco Bell, and they order bean and cheese burritos with nacho cheese for dipping, and they order a 32 ounce Code Red Mountain Dew, and they talk more and more how skinny they used to be. They're trying to convince themselves they'll get back there. Like, they went to Venice back in '87, for a short trip. Many of their sentences start When I was in Venice...and since the trip they've been saying--yeah, I can't wait to get back to Venice! I've been craving some Italian wine and those dark waters for so long! But they haven't booked a ticket, or called a travel agent. They haven't even started saving for the trip. They haven't even looked at pictures of Venice online.

Ladies. A little less conversation, a lot more action. Come on, now.

(I know! I've been there! I'm sort of there right now, because I just want to run, but I don't, but I talk about it all the time! ... It's so fucking cold.)

I'm ranting, and the point of this was supposed to be a punchline. Anyway. While this woman was in line going off about her-50-pounds-ago and Shannon and I were checking our watches and rolling our eyes behind her, the awkwardly-bodied girl working (very skinny legs, huge, um, fupa--is that what it's called? Darren?) told us an anecdote about how she'd once asked a customer if she'd wanted to get a Torrid punch card, to earn points for all of her purchases.

The customer responded: Oh, no. No thanks. I'm just passing through this Plus-size thing right now.

What? You're passing-through? This is your first stop on the way to Skinnytown, or Nobackfatville? You pulled over to use the restroom? This is a layover to your ultimate destination? And as long as you're here, you're just gonna have a cheeseburger and fries to hold you over until you get there?

Passing through. Stupid.