I have loving friends. Amazing loving friends.
And I love my sisters sooooooo much.
That being said, none of them are fuckin me.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Existential 911
Ok, kids. You need to brace yourselves. This is a rant.
I'm having a serious existential crisis here and need some feedback. This means, if you are a friend, and a lurker, or a lurker who is a friend, prop me up here, folks. Give me advice, counsel, or buy me a goddamn drink.
Cause crawling under the floorboards to die and stink the place up doesn't seem to be an option. Nor does coming back on Christmas Eve to rattle chains and say things like "I wear the chains I forged in life..."
I am flummoxed by my situation at work. Daily. Hourly. I know, I know, all the spiritual teachers say that I can use it as part of my practice. But goldurnit, I am just not there on the path to enlightenment yet. Sheesh. I can't even claim bodhisattva status (fyi, bodhisattvas are those who choose to remain in samsara until all sentient beings have achieved enlightenment). I have to admit something here - I have learned that it bothers me to know that not everyone likes me. I know, I'm supposed to be waaaayy beyond that. And I'm the most famous one to say, "Who gives a shit what other people think?" Well, I'm here to tell you, folks, when you catch someone giving you a look that is sooo full of loathing that it nails you to the floor, well, that just sucks. Yes, sometimes I feel like I have a scarlet brand on my forehead that says, "Yes, I have slept with other women's husbands/boyfriends." Just because I did a bad thing doesn't mean I'm a bad person. But, you know what, I guess I am just not everyone's cup of tea.
But more importantly, there's this other situation and it is so disturbing to me that I am completely stumped. It's called gender discrimination with a creepy undertone of sexual harassment, and I've talked to my boss about it. The company is aware of it, and FOUR OTHER WOMEN prior to me complained about it (before subsequently quitting), and still they don't do anything about it. Hey, Archer, you out there? Can you refer me to a good EEOC lawyer? 'Cause I don't understand why the company allowed the women to be driven out and these ASSHOLES still have jobs. What. The. Fuck. Any lawyers out there who want to comment? You know, Karmic Justice just isn't enough here. I mean, yes, I do believe that any man who sexually harasses women -- it bounces onto his female loved ones two times over. When an untoward comment was made to me once here (by someone now departed) I did shut him up by quietly asking him, "Do you have a daughter, Al?"
I am flummoxed by men... At what point did I become so distrustful and watchful and wary? I mean, for the luvva Mike, my heart could have its own sound effects (cue slamming door, bolt sliding, and drawbridge going up. Oh wait, then don't forget the sound of the General Lee peeling out at high speed.) When did I make all of these mofo RULES? "I will ask twice. If I ask twice and you say no, then I will never ask again." Granted, men have done some pretty terrible things to me, frequently with my permission. And hoooo boy, did my mother do a number on me. And you know what? My brothers are pretty mean people. My Dad is the most loveable man on the planet, but when it comes right down to it, he's feckless.
And you know what? Sometimes I get so fucking tired of always being so goddamned strong and independent and I-don't-need-anyone's-help-cause-I've-got-my-own-toolbox and I know how to change my own oil. Sometimes I wish to whoever that my mother had taught me all the things that other girls learned how to be, how to be outwardly weak and bat my eyes and make men want to buy me expensive stuff (why is it that no man in my life has ever wanted to buy me expensive stuff?) and take care of me like a little piece of girlfluff while all the time getting exactly what I want. Iron fist in velvet glove, steel magnolia, blah, blah blah. Sometimes I wish to god I didn't feel like I'm going through life all elbowy and poky-outy and prickly and snarky. Those little pieces of girlfluff, they can actually eat. me. alive. So I wish to god I could meet someone who looks at me and sees my elbows and poky-outy parts and doesn't think that is who I am but who actually sees the breakable inside that wants and needs all of the tenderheartedness and gentleness that he has to offer and that maybe, sometimes, I need to be set down on velvet and treated like a rare and special diamond.
I don't actually believe that is too much to ask.
You guys tell me.
Cause I'm freakin' exhausted.
I'm having a serious existential crisis here and need some feedback. This means, if you are a friend, and a lurker, or a lurker who is a friend, prop me up here, folks. Give me advice, counsel, or buy me a goddamn drink.
Cause crawling under the floorboards to die and stink the place up doesn't seem to be an option. Nor does coming back on Christmas Eve to rattle chains and say things like "I wear the chains I forged in life..."
I am flummoxed by my situation at work. Daily. Hourly. I know, I know, all the spiritual teachers say that I can use it as part of my practice. But goldurnit, I am just not there on the path to enlightenment yet. Sheesh. I can't even claim bodhisattva status (fyi, bodhisattvas are those who choose to remain in samsara until all sentient beings have achieved enlightenment). I have to admit something here - I have learned that it bothers me to know that not everyone likes me. I know, I'm supposed to be waaaayy beyond that. And I'm the most famous one to say, "Who gives a shit what other people think?" Well, I'm here to tell you, folks, when you catch someone giving you a look that is sooo full of loathing that it nails you to the floor, well, that just sucks. Yes, sometimes I feel like I have a scarlet brand on my forehead that says, "Yes, I have slept with other women's husbands/boyfriends." Just because I did a bad thing doesn't mean I'm a bad person. But, you know what, I guess I am just not everyone's cup of tea.
But more importantly, there's this other situation and it is so disturbing to me that I am completely stumped. It's called gender discrimination with a creepy undertone of sexual harassment, and I've talked to my boss about it. The company is aware of it, and FOUR OTHER WOMEN prior to me complained about it (before subsequently quitting), and still they don't do anything about it. Hey, Archer, you out there? Can you refer me to a good EEOC lawyer? 'Cause I don't understand why the company allowed the women to be driven out and these ASSHOLES still have jobs. What. The. Fuck. Any lawyers out there who want to comment? You know, Karmic Justice just isn't enough here. I mean, yes, I do believe that any man who sexually harasses women -- it bounces onto his female loved ones two times over. When an untoward comment was made to me once here (by someone now departed) I did shut him up by quietly asking him, "Do you have a daughter, Al?"
I am flummoxed by men... At what point did I become so distrustful and watchful and wary? I mean, for the luvva Mike, my heart could have its own sound effects (cue slamming door, bolt sliding, and drawbridge going up. Oh wait, then don't forget the sound of the General Lee peeling out at high speed.) When did I make all of these mofo RULES? "I will ask twice. If I ask twice and you say no, then I will never ask again." Granted, men have done some pretty terrible things to me, frequently with my permission. And hoooo boy, did my mother do a number on me. And you know what? My brothers are pretty mean people. My Dad is the most loveable man on the planet, but when it comes right down to it, he's feckless.
And you know what? Sometimes I get so fucking tired of always being so goddamned strong and independent and I-don't-need-anyone's-help-cause-I've-got-my-own-toolbox and I know how to change my own oil. Sometimes I wish to whoever that my mother had taught me all the things that other girls learned how to be, how to be outwardly weak and bat my eyes and make men want to buy me expensive stuff (why is it that no man in my life has ever wanted to buy me expensive stuff?) and take care of me like a little piece of girlfluff while all the time getting exactly what I want. Iron fist in velvet glove, steel magnolia, blah, blah blah. Sometimes I wish to god I didn't feel like I'm going through life all elbowy and poky-outy and prickly and snarky. Those little pieces of girlfluff, they can actually eat. me. alive. So I wish to god I could meet someone who looks at me and sees my elbows and poky-outy parts and doesn't think that is who I am but who actually sees the breakable inside that wants and needs all of the tenderheartedness and gentleness that he has to offer and that maybe, sometimes, I need to be set down on velvet and treated like a rare and special diamond.
I don't actually believe that is too much to ask.
You guys tell me.
Cause I'm freakin' exhausted.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Next Record
Spent some much-needed alone time with Will on Friday night. He and I haven't hung out together, just us, with no outside bullshit, in so long.
He played his new record for me and it is so beautiful. Now, without a doubt, I am biased, like a proud mommy, or at least the way a best friend should be, but listening to it down to the cellular level, it's just a really good record. Cohesive, thematic, and meticulously crafted. It's not one song with a lot of crap splattered around it, like most albums put out by the major labels these days.
And oh, my goodness, can the guy write a hook like nobody's business. Every song you hear, you think to yourself, "I know this song!" But wait, you don't, but you will, and then you find yourself hours later singing one of the choruses and wondering how you know it already.
I can't wait for it to come out, and I can't wait to be able to say, "I knew Will when..."
He played his new record for me and it is so beautiful. Now, without a doubt, I am biased, like a proud mommy, or at least the way a best friend should be, but listening to it down to the cellular level, it's just a really good record. Cohesive, thematic, and meticulously crafted. It's not one song with a lot of crap splattered around it, like most albums put out by the major labels these days.
And oh, my goodness, can the guy write a hook like nobody's business. Every song you hear, you think to yourself, "I know this song!" But wait, you don't, but you will, and then you find yourself hours later singing one of the choruses and wondering how you know it already.
I can't wait for it to come out, and I can't wait to be able to say, "I knew Will when..."
Friday, October 13, 2006
Just as I suspected, I think I might be kind of a hippie
Someone at work called me a "hippie," and I was delighted!
See, all these people know about me is -- oh, wait, that's right, they don't know ANYTHING about me, 'cause no one here bothered to ask me any questions about myself for the first four months I was here.
They do know that I worked in environmental printing before I came here, so I guess to most of the mamalukes who work here, I'm a certified tree-hugger. All most people have to hear are the words "recycled paper" and it conjures up images of patchouli-smelling, birkenstock-wearing, Burning-Man-going hippie girls doing a noodle dance to Grateful Dead or Phish jams.
But that's not me! I swear! Okay, I do wear a patchouli blend of essential oils. But you will never, ever find a pair of Birkenstocks anywhere near my closet. They're just... ugly. Comfortable doesn't have to mean serious ugly. Two words: Frye Boots. And I've never done enough psychedelics to want to go to Burning Man. It just didn't seem ... appealing.
(I know, I go on and on about my Frye boots like I want to marry them -- now that you mention it, my favorite old pair of Frye boots has lasted longer than just about any marriage I can think of... Hmmm. Would I rather have a great pair of favorite old boots or a marriage? I dunno, you can re-sole a great pair of boots, I have yet to see the marriage of anyone I know that can survive a hole in the sole or a broken heel.)
What no one here knows is that I came to New York and was a *gasp* Advertising Agency Whore. Suits, heels, briefcase, the works. I know, if you know me, you can't believe it. (Racer X, he would believe it, because that's when we met -- when I was Agency Wench.) It's okay, i got out when I realized that a whole lot of people in advertising thought that what they were doing was important. No, seriously, these people actually believe that what they do matters (roll eyes here).
In the meantime, there *is* something going on here, with someone I work with, but I'm not quite ready to talk about it. I don't know if I will at all. Suffice it to say I did get drunk with the hottest guy here, after which I dragged him off to my lair. We've been having a probably-unwise email flirtation during work hours, and all I want to do is drag him back to Brooklyn and have my way with him (in a non-drunken and not-meaningless way).
More will be revealed.
See, all these people know about me is -- oh, wait, that's right, they don't know ANYTHING about me, 'cause no one here bothered to ask me any questions about myself for the first four months I was here.
They do know that I worked in environmental printing before I came here, so I guess to most of the mamalukes who work here, I'm a certified tree-hugger. All most people have to hear are the words "recycled paper" and it conjures up images of patchouli-smelling, birkenstock-wearing, Burning-Man-going hippie girls doing a noodle dance to Grateful Dead or Phish jams.
But that's not me! I swear! Okay, I do wear a patchouli blend of essential oils. But you will never, ever find a pair of Birkenstocks anywhere near my closet. They're just... ugly. Comfortable doesn't have to mean serious ugly. Two words: Frye Boots. And I've never done enough psychedelics to want to go to Burning Man. It just didn't seem ... appealing.
(I know, I go on and on about my Frye boots like I want to marry them -- now that you mention it, my favorite old pair of Frye boots has lasted longer than just about any marriage I can think of... Hmmm. Would I rather have a great pair of favorite old boots or a marriage? I dunno, you can re-sole a great pair of boots, I have yet to see the marriage of anyone I know that can survive a hole in the sole or a broken heel.)
What no one here knows is that I came to New York and was a *gasp* Advertising Agency Whore. Suits, heels, briefcase, the works. I know, if you know me, you can't believe it. (Racer X, he would believe it, because that's when we met -- when I was Agency Wench.) It's okay, i got out when I realized that a whole lot of people in advertising thought that what they were doing was important. No, seriously, these people actually believe that what they do matters (roll eyes here).
In the meantime, there *is* something going on here, with someone I work with, but I'm not quite ready to talk about it. I don't know if I will at all. Suffice it to say I did get drunk with the hottest guy here, after which I dragged him off to my lair. We've been having a probably-unwise email flirtation during work hours, and all I want to do is drag him back to Brooklyn and have my way with him (in a non-drunken and not-meaningless way).
More will be revealed.
Well, That's Two Years of My Life I'll Never Get Back
All those words, words, words, words, words.
And to think, I could have just picked up Julia Fordham's lyrics to "The Comfort of Strangers," and well, frankly, it's my whole damn blog in a 4-minute song.
Sheeyit.
Here it is:
I'm jam packed full of movie clips and other junk
TV shows and videos and another whole bunch of stuff
It's like a snippet of a song that no longer belongs
And I'm looking to the comfort of strangers
It's noisy and disjointed in this tangled mess
I'm jarred and jangling on a raw and jagged edge
It's like a picture that has faded the colours have all blurred
And I'm drawn to the comfort of strangers.
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort of strangers
I'm fit to burst with CD tracks and stereo
Coupled with bad memories that just never seem to go
And you'd have think that I'd learnt that I always get burned
When I take refuge in the comfort of strangers
Still I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort of strangers
Oh lead me not into temptation
To fight these feelings of frustration
I want a stillness inside and a silence of mind
And to stop dreaming of the comfort of strangers
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort, I want to taste the comfort
Oh please give me the comfort of your arms
The comfort of strangers
The comfort of strangers
It's you, only you
The stranger I've been dreaming of
I close my eyes and I'm lying in your arms
Your arms, with you, with you
The stranger I've been dreaming of
I close my eyes
The comfort of strangers
The comfort of strangers
And to think, I could have just picked up Julia Fordham's lyrics to "The Comfort of Strangers," and well, frankly, it's my whole damn blog in a 4-minute song.
Sheeyit.
Here it is:
I'm jam packed full of movie clips and other junk
TV shows and videos and another whole bunch of stuff
It's like a snippet of a song that no longer belongs
And I'm looking to the comfort of strangers
It's noisy and disjointed in this tangled mess
I'm jarred and jangling on a raw and jagged edge
It's like a picture that has faded the colours have all blurred
And I'm drawn to the comfort of strangers.
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort of strangers
I'm fit to burst with CD tracks and stereo
Coupled with bad memories that just never seem to go
And you'd have think that I'd learnt that I always get burned
When I take refuge in the comfort of strangers
Still I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort of strangers
Oh lead me not into temptation
To fight these feelings of frustration
I want a stillness inside and a silence of mind
And to stop dreaming of the comfort of strangers
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
And I see myself lying in your arms
When I close my eyes at night
No complex conversation
Ooh to taste the comfort, I want to taste the comfort
Oh please give me the comfort of your arms
The comfort of strangers
The comfort of strangers
It's you, only you
The stranger I've been dreaming of
I close my eyes and I'm lying in your arms
Your arms, with you, with you
The stranger I've been dreaming of
I close my eyes
The comfort of strangers
The comfort of strangers