Happy in the Mitten

Since I’ve proven time and time again that I suck at consistency in general, I guess I will now deliver the first of my bi-yearly blog updates. I will say that as I go back and read through what I’ve written over the past two years I can see several patterns in my life. 1.) I am pretty damn funny. I can’t help but find the situations I’ve floundered in to be mostly hilarious. Even the earth-shattering moments like moving away from the ocean to co-habitate with my parents, or losing my job while I was living out of my car have provided a giggle or two in retrospect. And 2.) If history is any indication, I will probably continue to struggle to accomplish any goal I set for myself. Those 30 pounds I pledged to drop in 2009? Still hanging around on my ass. That half-marathon I was training for? Well, it’s hard to run when you’re smoking a pack a day and drinking vodka on a daily basis. And I guess that also answers the question about whether or not I’ve quit smoking. As for the MFA I was going to get in film… Well. I did say I was funny, didn’t I?

As much as I’ve always wanted to be, I’m just not one of those women who set goals and check them off everyday. I never finished that scarf I started around Christmas for my ex-boyfriend’s mom. I’ve only written about 10,000 words of that clusterfuck of a novel I started in November. I still can’t play more than three chords on the guitar I swore I would learn to play last year. And if I was real honest, I would tell you that I can’t even remember which chords they are.

But I guess I have accomplished some things that I really wanted to. So, per usual, I offer you a highly detailed list of my underachievements.

1.) I made some friends in Michigan.

I’ve been hanging around the Ann Arbor area now for about six months. In that time, my friend-o-sphere has exploded. I get texts and facebook messages and invitations for drinks and phone calls from people that love me. It’s a far cry from a time when I spent most of my days kicking back on the couch with my mother, drinking coffee, and debating Anthony DiNozzo’s character profile on NCIS. Not that I didn’t enjoy that time re-acquainting with my family. But at 27 years old, I should have a larger social circle than that. So I got one. But how? And where? Well, that brings me to my next development…

2.) I have acquired a ManFriend.

In December, I met a man in a bar. This has never actually been one of my goals, but it turns out he was wonderful. He was (and is) funny, and smart, and successful, and sweet, and talented in a multitude of ways. Since it just seems like overkill to refer to him as my Funny-Smart-Successful-Sweet-Talented ManFriend, I will call him Juan from here on out. Mostly because, even though he isn’t Latino, he’s great in bed and I am a sucker for the brown boys. Plus, I can’t tell you his real name anyway. He just knows too damn many people.

The point is, Juan and I really hit it off. I mean like really. He asked me on a date later that week, and then I basically moved in with him. It’s been an eye-opening experience. Almost movie-like. He introduced me to his fantastic circle of friends, and I haven’t spent a whole lot of time kibitzing about television with my mother much since then. (Which is a good thing for both of us, I assure you.) Minus a few familial squabbles about me co-habitating with a man and not contributing much to the upkeep of the homefront, it’s been really beneficial.

Juan has a lot of “projects” in the works. Projects that need a variety of my social media and internet skills. Even though I’m unemployed, it’s not like I haven’t been working on something everyday. Which sort of makes up for my lack of accomplished goals. For now anyway. In one respect, my life is half wrapped up with his both personally and with these “projects.” But, I feel confident that it’s only for the time being. And I have really enjoyed the things he’s brought into my life, including a freelance gig and some professional contacts. Which brings me to my third development.

3.) I’m getting paid to write!

Okay. Admittedly, it’s not much, and it’s barely two or three stories a week. But when Juan introduced me to a friend of his who runs a local online newspaper, and I wrote a couple pieces for them, I remembered how much I loved interviewing people and learning about their lives and weaving it into words. They let me loose on several unsuspecting school districts, and as of late, a couple arts and entertainment projects.

4.) I’m going to stay in Michigan. For now.

Between my budding career as a journalist/multi-media specialist/whatever the hell someone plops in front of me with the promise of a paycheck, and my newfound friends, and my Funny-Smart-Successful-Sweet-Talented ManFriend Juan (I thought I’d go with the long-hand for comedy’s sake), I am really happy here. In April, I brought my car back from California and cleared out my storage unit in San Diego (Another blog for another day… Perhaps in November?). I really am making a go at a life in Michigan, and it feels extremely good. I’m not sleeping on someone else’s couch or with my head in the trunk of a car. Every night, I curl up next to this beautiful, dark-haired man who makes me laugh and inspires me. I see my parents almost everyday. I’m writing and working on things… Even if I’m not getting a ton of money for it. I have a close girlfriend or two (which is clearly the real miracle). And I’ve learned and experienced things I never could have if I hadn’t come back.

I’m gushing. I know. It’s gross to hear people talk about how blissful they are. But I am just delighted to share that for once on a blog that too often overflows with fears of financial ruin and job dissatisfaction. So the finances haven’t fallen in place for me here yet. But for just this moment, fuck it, I’m happy.

Five Rules for Co-Habitating with Your Parents

When your egomaniacal boss lays you off, and you subsequently decide that it’s time for you to take the proverbial time-out, you may consider a number of serious lifestyle changes. For some, that may mean spending a couple days relaxing seaside, or taking the boat out for a spin while you regroup. For others, it might mean kicking back with a good book while you decide what new directions to take or what new dreams to pursue. For me, it meant hitting the road with my girlfriends for a couple weeks to camp, drinking excessive amounts of alcohol, escaping to an island in Panama to surf, and finally… moving back in with my parents in Michigan. Mostly because after all that traveling and drinking, I’d spent a significant amount of money…

So, I bought a plane ticket, parked my car in a friend’s driveway, and drank six beers in the airport before I moved 2,200 miles east of my favorite ocean.

I’ve only been back for a week, but I think I’ve really come to an understanding about how best to handle the post-collegiate move back to your parent’s house.

1.)   Don’t move back in with your parents.

If it can at all be avoided, you should not move back in with your parents. I moved here because I was living on a friend’s couch and found it exceedingly difficult to find time and quiet and motivation enough to write. Which is what I need to be doing. But if you can live on a friend’s couch and follow your dream, then do it… It’s a much better route. You’ll skip the conversation with your hyper-conservative parents about why you’re suddenly agnostic, or why you don’t want to drive a truck for FedEx. [By the way, according to my mother, "Because I went to college." is not an acceptable answer to that particular question.]

2.)   If you have to break rule #1, create your own space. Immediately.

My parents did me a massive favor. Since my little brother is off at college, they gave me his taj majol of a bedroom complete with an office in the front. My first apartment was smaller than this space. It’s got its own bathroom, a walk-in closet, a television nook, and this hideout that I am currently using to spread my word wealth. I know at some point, this space will keep me sane. Obviously, not everyone will have this sort of situation. But if my parents hadn’t made my brother give me his room, I would have probably converted the basement into my own writer’s lounge. Whatever you do, find a place to escape when you need to. Because you’ll definitely need to.

3.)   Find something to mark your days.

Unemployment is a weird beast. It’s strange how slow a week goes by when you’re writing content for other people, or developing online marketing strategies … or whatever your job may be. But when you find yourself without that 8-hour purpose everyday, the immediate temptation is to sleep in to 11, spend an entire afternoon watching NCIS with your mother, and close out your day by stalking your college boyfriend on facebook. And then the week is suddenly over and you’ve accomplished nothing on your bucket list. I’ve decided to make sure I walk everyday for at least an hour, blog, and compost my ideas for the novel that I’m allegedly working on. And, I’ve got a chart that helps me keep track of whether or not I’ve done these things everyday. Okay, so this is admittedly nerdy… But if I wasn’t paying attention, I would waste all my time here reading Tom Robbins or perusing the internet for ways to covertly destroy my previous employer.

4.)   Get a hobby.

In addition to my daily “requirements,” I also brought my guitar home with me. I never really got a chance to play it when I was in San Diego… and I believe it’s a great way for me to burn off some stress. Take up knitting. Join an adult soccer team. Volunteer for something… Whatever you do, don’t sit around, because if you do, you’ll instantly be recruited to paint the guest bedroom or re-seal the driveway. [I've been asked to do both of these things. Not a joke.]

5.)   Find some friends that are not your mom.

This is not a rule I’ve actually followed yet… Well, if you don’t count the betta fish that I bought at Meijer the other day. I know eventually I will want to grab a beer with a girlfriend or talk about the progress of my novel with someone who isn’t genetically required to love anything I create. However, this is not the kind of town where people in their 20s choose to live. This will probably take some serious effort on my part. I’m honestly not sure I’m up to the challenge.

Moving in With Your Parents Sucks Ass – Part 1

It’s official. A brilliant West Coast sun has finally set on my days as a wanderer. At this moment, I find myself locked in the freezing attic of my parents’ suburban Michigan home. I gave up my life on the road for … well, it’s frankly just a long-ass story. So start the flashback sequence because I’m incapable of doing anything with consistency. Including [especially] blogging.

Dateline:
April-ish
SAN DIEGO – As you may [or more likely may NOT] have read previously, due to some questionable financial moves with my credit cards, I found myself in about $5,000 worth of debt. [The word “found” is a strong one. In reality, I created and maintained that debt pretty solidly for the past four years or so.] Keep in mind, that five grand did not include a penny of the ass-numbing amount of money I owe on my school loans. I could have gotten a moderately sweet condo for what I paid for a Journalism degree from Miami University.

Smash cut to the day in June when I moved out of the comfortable, scenic apartment I’d shared with my cousin for the past year in Ocean Beach. Due to the debt I’d acquired, a fairly lax dress code at the office I was working in as an “SEO Specialist,” and an inspirational kill-your-debt book by Dave Ramsey that my Dad gave me, I decided that it would be both financially and creatively beneficial for me to move into my car.

Several hilarious interludes with law enforcement and a couple parking lot nudity incidents notwithstanding, living out of my tiny Ford Escort was pretty much the perfect situation. I was saving almost $800 a month and putting it on credit cards. I spent long nights at my favorite goth coffee shop writing and applying to jobs. I finished the video editing I’d been putting off for months. I experienced a newfound drive to spend quality time with friends I’d neglected. And after three months, I’d paid off one of my credit cards, made it through a major car breakdown financially unscathed, and actually felt like I was really living life again in a way that I hadn’t in a long time…

And then I got laid off.

Living out of your car is pretty easy when you have a standard 9-to-5 gig. You get up in the morning, remove your head from the trunk, climb into the front seat, and drive the three blocks to the gym to shower. [During this period in my life, I went to the gym to shower… And only to shower. It was a rare day when kick boxing, spinning, or the treadmill factored into my gym time. It was strictly a cheap shower facility for me.  A brief thank you is in order for LA Fitness. You made my homelessness possible. After all, it’s totally acceptable to be homeless. But it’s definitely frowned upon to look homeless, and even less kosher to smell homeless.] Being homeless was easy with the office job… By the time I got out of work, I’d head to a friend’s house to hang out, read a book in a parking lot, post up with my embarrassingly large computer in a coffee shop, or just spread a blanket on the sand and watch the sun descend into the ocean. The vagrant lifestyle suited me.

But when I got laid off [another blog for another day] it became especially difficult to survive on “The Streets.” There was no where for me to go when I removed my head from my trunk. No place to relax during the sweltering of the late Southern California summer. In retrospect, I probably should have put more effort into making my jobless life productive on the road, but that may just be the attic chill talking. I ended up crashing on the couch of a friend for a month, but this particular one-bedroom apartment wasn’t built to quarter three humans, two dogs, and my various sexual partners.

Long story short – because it’s getting to be the long version – I took my freedom from the office and my first unemployment check and did some traveling with a girlfriend from Holland. Another friend said she’d pay for accommodations for a week at a Panamanian surf camp if we’d pay our own airfare… And all that saving and paying off debt went out the window. I took all that additional space I’d made on my newly freed credit card and bought a ticket to Panama City.

Approximately $2,200 and 10,000 miles later, I’m home at my parents house in Saline, Michigan, living in the same room where I spent my senior year of high school brooding. And it wouldn’t be a proper blog entry if I didn’t have a new plan of action. [Because an MFA from film school is just not in the cards right now…]

I’m going to write a novel. And pay off that card again. Afterwards? Who knows. But I think at this point I’m looking at about four to five months of dealing with my borderline insane parents and temperatures that have a tendency to slip towards the ball-shrinking end of the spectrum.

There’s more. But there always is. And it’s 4 a.m. And I’m rusty at this writing thing…

Perhaps more consistency is in order? Stay tuned.

Paths In and Out of Mediocrity

Up until my 17th birthday or so, I was the consummate overachiever. There was nothing I couldn’t accomplish if you’d just asked. You want me to be the fastest runner? Done. Win a couple spelling bees? Sure. Get elected to class president, get straight As, chalk up a few art awards, captain the basketball team, claim student of the year, AND… Do it while actively skipping at least a third of my science classes to hang out with some of my buddies in the cafeteria? Hmm. Tougher… But not a problem. I really wish someone would have told me that being good at everything as a kid would ultimately turn me into a damaged adult, floundering in oblivion and constantly wondering if I have chosen the right paths. No one tells you that you don’t get to be the best at everything forever, and that if you don’t choose to be great at just ONE thing, you’ll be lost in a proverbial purgatory of unfulfillment for years. Up until my first major failure, I’d never had to choose between math and basketball or choir and writing or biology and art. I was good at all of it and truly found joy in just about everything except for golf – Which I sucked at from the get-go.

Mediocrity would have served me well. It would have prepared me for life by giving me one or two directions to look into, instead of letting me watch the figs wither and fall off the tree. In a fit of panic during my Sophomore year of college, I decided to go into journalism because it seemed to fit all the right pieces… Creative, yet serious, prestigious, yet still a woman of the people. I pictured myself flashing a press pass, embedding in a war zone with the troops, going undercover for investigations, accepting my Pulitzer….

In reality, I chose a profession that is a.) Nearly obsolete, b.) Pays literally 7 percent more than minimum wage, and c.) Any human over the age of 8 should technically be able to do [Hence, perhaps, points a and b]. During my first job as a military reporter, I lived in a one-room shack in a ghetto in the middle of nowhere, and I made somewhere around $1,000 a month covering one of the Army training bases in the desert. I will say this:  I did end up embedding with the troops. In the biblical sense.

When I really sit down and do the math, I am mortified at how much time and money I spent learning how to be a writer who doesn’t write. Actually, I do write. I spend about 8 hours a day writing. Unfortunately of the work I’ve done for the past two months, I would bet that only about 2 to 2 1/2 percent of my writing has been read by an actual human. I’ve flippantly tossed thousands of unread words into the internet void in search of great SEO gods, hoping they will meld my sentences into a creature straddling both art and search engine glory.

But the truth is that I just don’t care anymore. I’ve reached my saturation point with writing.

Earlier this year during my bout with unemployment [Sounds like a bad flu, doesn't it?], I decided to put together some goals. This blog, or more accurately, my more frequent posting pattern, is a byproduct of those goals taped to the back of my door.  It started out lofty: Run a half marathon, lose 35 pounds, join the Kiwanis Club, take a class… And just a few weeks in, one by one, things started to fall into place for each of my 20-some goals. I started training for the half marathon and was up to about 4 miles by the end of January. Free Dreamweaver and Photoshop classes came up at City College. I lost 10 pounds in the first two months. With the exception of my dry spell noted in the last entry, things just started to come together.

One of the things I wrote down, almost as a joke, was, “Choose a Dream.” Like it would just come to me…

But it did. The disaster at the television station interview last week combined with my blatant disdain for writing search engine optimization and the fact that newspaper journalism has a salary rate of “destitute” all came together to form a perfect plan:

I’m going to grad school. And I’m going to get an MFA in film and television. No more floundering in self-pity. No more shame spiral. Maybe a few more days of SEO. But an exit strategy is in hand.

Fighting the Dead-End Job Blues

I’ve had a lot of trouble lately staying motivated on my gigantic list of goals (I mean gigantic in terms of quantity – Lose 35 pounds, run a half marathon in August… blog twice a week… You get the idea.) Two weeks ago, I was running about 4 miles, hadn’t smoked in weeks, and had basically abandoned my tendency to binge drink. All that changed last week when I had a job interview for a crappy San-Diego based television network which shall remain nameless. When I didn’t get a callback and a former colleague of mine did… Well, I pretty much hurled myself into a couple of bottles of Two-buck Chuck, sat down to a cigarette sandwich, and spent the night blubbering to various friends who pretty much expect a good drunk dial every couple weeks anyways. Since then, I’ve allowed myself to repeat this behavior twice. I also haven’t run a damn mile since the day before that  interview. Seems bad.

The shitty part of this revolves around the fact that the network in question is probably one of the bottom rungs of programming that I could ask for. If I can’t get a job there, then I might as well settle in for a nice long ride of filling up the internet with words… And I mean words that search engines read, not humans. Today, while traveling between the break room and my desk with my eyelids at half-mast, I had this thought:

“Maybe this is just alright. How bad would it be if I spent the next 35 years of my life coasting through 9 hours a day on auto-pilot – I mean, as long as I get 48 hours at the end of every week to myself, how bad could it be?”

The thought was sadder than the trek back to my excel sheet full of keyword research terms. I remembered the constant stress of being a producer. How high and how low it could take you – How my stomach churned and my fingers twisted into knots in front of a camera. How long it took in Australia to do one stand-up. And how every time I watched myself on TV, the hyper-critical internal monologue fired up under it’s tiny little breath and whispered;

“Damn girl! You look old-ass-old for 26! The crow’s feet! The muffin-top! The series of speed bumps on your forehead…! And, wait… holy shit, is that a second ass?!”

It’s like Janice Dickinson is living in my head. Was it really worth all the personal stress and schizophrenic body-dysmorphia?

Plenty of people coast through life half asleep. Staying technically alive only requires that you occasionally shove food down your gullet and stay warm enough to support cell function. You don’t have to make a bunch of money, experience anything, or create something new. And frankly, not that many people end up doing something great anyways, so why deal with the heartache of failing and burning calories to do so? What’s so bad about bringing home a six pack and watching the Chargers and shooting out a kid or two maybe one day, and watching them turn into little automatrons like me? Hooked in. Matrix-style. Would it really be so bad?

I need to get out of this job. I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s sucking away my soul. The fact that I’m not sure means some of it is probably already gone.

Losing Sleep and Abandoning my Self-Respect in This Crappy Economy

So, my wise-ass attempt to deal with our dwindling economy has proven fruitless thus far. Despite the fact that I am now employed, the noise of the crazy alarmists in Arizona bellowing about the massive economic meltdown that is bound to occur in the next 90 to 120 days is enough to make me shiver a little bit. [These whack jobs are predicting door-to-door searches for food, hardcore martial law, and a New World Order. It sounds like a bad version of Dawn of the Dead.] Between that and the flashy, omnipresent Myspace advertisements for the The Institute for Human Continuity it seems I have at best like 3 years left on the planet… And they might be spent in a FEMA concentration camp near Tijuana. It really is enough to interrupt my sleep patterns and half-marathon training.

In other news, I am trying to find a second job to rip this whole credit card debt thing off my ass like so much crusty band-aid. My thought is that if I spend 14 hours a day working, one hour a day working out, and the other nine hours negotiating my homeless lifestyle, I should have this whole debt thing wrapped up by mid-August… Just in time for my half-marathon. I have applied for about 5 server jobs, including one at Phileas Foggs restaurant in Poway, where I would be required to wear some odd kilt-y school girl outfit. So far haven’t heard back from anyone, which is greatly disappointing, but not all that surprising.

But here’s my rant… Everytime I walk into a restaurant to fill out an application, it feels like I am being assessed in terms of how good I look and how much [or more accurately, how little] I weigh. Is this a America’s Next Top Model? Do I need to be Jessica Alba to write down an order and return with the foods of choice? Excuse my moment of vanity, but I am not a bad-looking chick, either. I also marvel at how much information these restaurants seem to want on their applications. Is it just me, or does it seem like it should not require a crew of extremely coordinated brain cells to distribute a bowl of clam chowder or pour some Jack Daniels on ice?

Perhaps the answer lies in really highlighting my cleavage.

Five Absurd Things I’m Doing to Save My Ass in This Economy

These days, what with the global economic riff-raff that seems to be roaming unchecked, people are starting to get a little creative with their money-saving tactics. I myself am no exception. [Hence the moving into my car, which at the time was mostly a joke yet is gaining feasibility by the minute.] Here are the top 5 most ridiculously tightwad things I’ve been caught doing lately:

1.) Searching for grocery coupons online.

Several months ago, my cousin told me about an Oprah special wherein some SuperMom had figured out how to save about 70 percent on her grocery bill just by searching for online coupons. By some mystical power, this hussy had loaded up her Vons card with special prices, hit the double-coupon jackpot, and in the end saved about $36 on a $57 grocery bill. After my online search, I’m here to tell you that’s just bullshit. There comes a point at which searching for coupons online becomes more time-consuming and boring than another hour at the office –with which you could just pay for your groceries upfront! Also. I am sick of getting grocery-related spam and I’m rather embarrassed at the time I’ve wasted. Plus, it was difficult to explain to my boyfriend why I was getting pop-ups for adult diapers, baby food, and Tyson’s chicken. “They don’t have a grocery filter!” I wailed…

I will say, I did have some luck finding recreational discount codes for events like the San Diego Boat Show, so if there’s something you want to DO… More power to you.

2.) Mooching

I have a few good friends. Unfortunately, almost all of them are just as broke-ass as I am.  But over the past several months of unemployment, I’ve turned down nothing. Whether if was dinner, or cheap-o movie night, or evenings lounging on their big, comfy couches, there  was not a thing I would say no to.  I can’t tell you how many times I hit my old roommate’s crib, smoked her cigarettes, and devoured all her peanuts and potato pearls.

3.) Showering and getting ready for work at the gym.

Since my dollar-days gym membership took effect, [the day I decided to start going to the gym every day so that my broke-ass math would accept it as a less-than-a-dollar-per-day expense] I’ve been going every morning. Not only have I lost about 8 pounds, but I’ve also been saving money on water and electricity because Monday through Friday I shower and style my hair at the gym. This might not seem like much, but I have a shit-ton of hair. The money I’m saving in blow-dryer electricity alone is probably enough to make that 5:30 a.m. wake up alarm worth it. Plus, let’s be honest… Somehow you feel like you’ve conquered so much more when you go to the gym BEFORE work.

4.) Driving like my grandmother.

Generally, I  find my foot cranked down on the accelerator urging my little Escort to a comfortable cruising speed of about 78 mpm. No mas. In fact, lately, I’ve been trying to keep my speed around 60. It feels dangerous to have raging Southern California traffic parting behind you,  flipping you the bird as they fly by at mach 4… but I was told I could get another 60 miles out of a tank of gas. [Who even knows if that's true.] To be honest,  I am still a tad uncomfortable with this money-saving method, mostly because I feel like I’m losing the race.

5.) Stealing toilet paper from work.

First of all, let me preface this by saying that I don’t want a bunch of self-righteous commentary about how this is so unethical and I could lose my job and all. Spare me. My office provides high-quality, cushy TP, and one day, when the budget was stretched to its maximum… I stuffed one wax-paper clad roll into my bag. It was indeed the proverbial slippery slope. Now it’s all industrial Charmin all the time, and I’m highly unapolagetic.

Putting a New Spin on Being Homeless

I’m thinking of moving into my car. Bear with me. This is not a joke. In fact, it’s right in step with the current running theme of my life, which is obsessing about money and ridding my life of roughly $7,000 worth of credit card debt. Let me break it down for you.

About two days ago, I started to think about the quality time I am spending in my very expensive Ocean Beach apartment. Yes, I love my view of the Pacific three-quarters of a mile away, as seen from 2-square feet of balcony. But when I did the broke-ass math that has led me to this place of broke-assy-ness, tossing out $687.50 in rent every month just doesn’t make sense. Chuck in another $115 in bills, and I’m headed for Homeless City, U.S.A.

Then, I started to think about the actual quality time I am spending in my apartment doing anything other than sleeping. Perhaps, I thought, even if the time I spend in my apartment is minimal, it was worth the expense of rent. But it turns out I’m paying for like 2 hours  of consciousness per day — Most of which is directed at ancient episodes of House and The Daily Show (if I can even stay conscious till then).

As truly devoted as I am to both Hugh Laurie and my mantasy, Jon Stewart, it did not escape my attention that both my dollars and my time are being disproportionately spent on them — Time and dollars I could be spending on… oh, I don’t know — Writing my novel, or working on my highly neglected blog, or buying REAL baby carrots, or just maybe, time with like… actual humans.  Not that I really know any…

Which brings me to the solution: Homelessness. Originally, I considered moving into a storage unit. However, that plan got a quick kibosh after I was told that exact scenario was attempted by Kramer in an episode of Seinfeld… With rather unsavory results.  Instead, I decided I will become the gypsy I was always meant to be, resting when I’m tired, waking with the sunrise, master of the road, with all the real earthly posessions I have nestled rather cheaply in a $70-per-month storage unit. As a moderately attractive 26-year-old chick with a vested interest in both contributing to society and personal hygiene, I think I could bring an element of sexiness to this vagrant lifestyle. Moving into your car may just be the next “en vogue” thing to do.  I don’t have to tell anyone that these are desperate economic times… Why not have an adventure while we’re eating canned beans and stale bread? Plus, it totally worked for Jewel’s career.

I realize there are some tiny speedbumps on my runaway train to financial freedom. First, let’s talk logistics.

Sleeping Space: Unfortunately, we’re not talking about an Econoline van with a foldout bed in the back. My ride is a Ford Escort Sport and sleeping will require me to pull down both back seats so that I’m half curled in the trunk. Today during my lunch hour, I actually tried this. Other than the awkward stare I got as I wiggled out of my trunk in a parking lot, the whole experience was rather nice. I even had a little room to roll. There was minimal room, however, for additional persons to snuggle in. Sorry Man-friend.

Maintaining my Cleanliness:  I enjoy the occasional shower as much as the next person. My cheapo  gym membership should  suffice for both workouts AND maintaining personal hygiene. Although I will be homeless, I will not be a dirty bum. There’s a DIFFERENCE.

Food: Any microwaveable food can be cooked at work. After 5:30 p.m. when they kick us out of the office, I’m on my own though, meaning canned or fast food. Tricky, but doable.

Internet Access, Communication, and Other General Concerns: I will be plugging in my cell phone and ipod at work,  and maybe getting a re-chargeable flashlight. I figure I’ll change out the clothes from my storage unit every couple days, and hit the laundromat once a week for clean duds.

Frankly, to me, it actually sounds not only doable, but easy.  Perhaps I am on to something. I can see an entire movement of people, taking to their cars full time, just for the sheer joy of a (very literal) cheap thrill.

Now, I just have to wait till the lease on my apartment is up… Which is just a hair over five months from now.

My Broke Ass

I’m broke.

No really. Broke-ass-broke.

So broke I bought a bundle of whole carrots instead of pre-peeled baby carrots in a bag. So broke I quit smoking altogether right out of the fucking blue. I didn’t change brands, I didn’t switch to cartons… I just went cold turkey one day when I ran out of cash. I’m so broke that last month I bought a veritable keg of off-brand coffee for a scant $5. Now, around 6:15 a.m. every day, I choke down several cups of a liquid that both tastes and resembles motor oil. I am, in fact, so broke, that I started using my gym membership every morning because I couldn’t justify paying for anything that cost more than a dollar a day. According to my broke-ass math, if I go to the gym every single day, that 25 bucks I spend every month is a sweet less-than-a-dollar-a-day deal. I’m so broke I’ve decided to start volunteering with a club to pass the time after work since there is no cash for beer or day trips or a few extra days at a hostel after a work trip. (And let’s be honest, that cushy travel job has been long gone for some time now.) My diet consists of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, any edible concoction I can mix up using a bag of potatoes and a half piece of chicken, andhomemade microwaved bean burritos (recently sans sour cream). Every time I go to a restaurant with a friend and start to salivate over artichokes and curly fries and fresh bread and French onion soup, I think about those little blips on my budget screen and how hard it was to make them add up to less than the number on my paycheck — and then I politely request a water.

When I stand in line at Panera drooling over the You-Pick-Two and knowing it cannot be, I would like to say I am thinking about how careless I have been with my money, with my credit cards, with my decision to attend a school I could never afford… With all the tiny choices that have brought my broke ass to that line at that moment…. I would like to say that I feel remorse, embarrassment, and even outright shame to be where I am …

But instead, I just feel sorry for myself. I am a mountain of drooling self-pity in that line at Panera, staring at the clear plastic tubs of raspberry bagels and jalapeno bread and sourdough baguettes. As hard as I try to fight it, for about three seconds after the cashier asks me what I want, a few tears of desperation pound at the back of my eyes and I have to bite my lip to make sure a renegade drop doesn’t make its way down my cheek.

I know how this sounds. I am reading it too, and I think we can both safely agree that I am an idiot.

It has taken me 26 years, $95,000, and a global economic crisis to figure out that I should a.) Quit smoking b.) Buy unprocessed, simple food c.) Exercise d.) Budget my money, and e.) Help people more broke-ass than me…

A turkey artichoke panini would taste so good with this epiphany.

Little Rock of Love… Or Not

I know I promised I’d be writing hilarity and finding meaning and stabilizing myself with an anchor… but the truth is, I suck at consistency. “Flakey” is the word, although I prefer “spontaneous.” So, I know I can promise all sorts of things like to write every week or when I’m on the road… but really — I’m not promising a damn thing. It just leads to disappointment. So after this, I’ll most likely see you in October for my biannual blog posting.

Little Rock ::: June 27-30 2008

Day 1: Little Rock was pretty much as I feared: a wet, hot, slightly smelly blanket draped over your head quietly suffocating you. It was about 90 degrees, and my hair was a brillo pad-like mass of frizz for the entire three days. Joe and I decided (after our obligatory work duties) to explore the countryside as well as the photo opportunities presented by the William Jefferson Clinton library. We also found some good beer and pizza at Gusano’s. (I feel this is important to mention since I’m on a personal mission to find a place in the world that can craft pizza as orgasmic as Earth ‘n’ Sea in Byron bay. If you’re ever on the east coast of Australia and jonesing for a pie — Get the Staffies at Earth ‘n’ Sea. My mouth is watering right now and I ate that pizza 4 months ago.)

Joe and I crashed relatively early. Since we are no longer fucking, I went to my hotel room, and he went to his. Begrudgingly. Which made me happy. 

(I know — there’s so much more to this story that you’ve missed since I haven’t written in eight months…)

Day 2: After a successful shoot, our client took us to the Whole Hog Cafe.  I’m not going to lie – I’m not a huge fan of barbeque. I would venture to guess it has something to do with the fact that I don’t eat beef or pork. (There’s a “no more than 2 legs” rule in place for edibility.) And frankly, I find barbequed chicken is A.) Not that exciting to begin with, and B.) Reminds me for some reason of the lunch menu being read over the loud speaker in elementary school. Just not that appetizing.

This barbeque though… One word: Heavenly. (Which saves me the embarassment of gushing about sauce-slathered meat.)

We also hit one of two piano bars to catch a quick buzz. I don’t think I’ve ever watched so much rodeo footage in one sitting. And by the way, is there a need for two piano bars in Little Rock? Is the demand for Elton John and Jimmy Buffett and Billy Joel so intense that it needs not just ONE piano bar, but two? Where do they find all the talent? I am still a little baffled by this…

When we left the bar, Joe and I played out one of those very movie-esque scenes where we pretended we were 5 and hit the playground in Riverside Park. It actually has this incredible system of underground tunnels for kids (or Joe and me) to crawl through. It’s a must-see for anyone who’s ever dreamed of being a gerbil.  Actually — It was pretty amazing. If we hadn’t quit having sex a week before this trip, it would have been mildly romantic. Dark night. Soft lights in the distance. Walking along the inky river. Hanging upside down on a rope jungle gym… Pretty classic Hepburn scene.

It seems like – at least for now - that our romantic entanglement has come to a legitimate halt, because even after an evening such as this, we both went our separate ways when we got back to the hotel. Sigh.

Overall, I would give Little Rock a thumbs up. Bad-hair-inducing weather aside, it’s a cute city, fwith a fun party atmosphere, excellent parks, and good eats. And it gets an extra point for being the stomping grounds of one of my favorite Democrats.