Debbie Does Drivel

My Dad

My dad turns 65 later this month. I remember his 40th, 50th, and 60th birthdays in crystal detail, and still, I can't imagine him getting old.
When I say this, people ask me what kind of person he is, and I always get tongue-tied.
He defies characterization, yet he can be a breathing stereotype. He's the most contradictory man I've ever known.

Us kids swoon over him . We're always waiting to hear what he'll say next, because his sense of humor is legend.
He tells jokes with glee. Dirty jokes, offensive jokes, delightful jokes. His mind is a reservoir of wit. You can say a word -- any word -- and this prompts a related quip. We try it with everything. Horses. Water pipes. Cupcakes.

He's impatient. And impulsive. His vices, like his wit, are legend.
He crackles with energy. He can't sit still, unless he's watching sports, and even then, he punches the air and yells himself hoarse.

My dad is the life of the party, but when the party's over, he gets morose. As a kid, I often felt I couldn't keep his attention -- I wasn't entertaining enough. I still feel that way sometimes.

My dad's industry reputation precedes him. I imagine he thinks it's a lot to live up to.

His business kept him away from home a lot. But he was always there for us. If we had a problem, he'd hammer away at it until it was gone, or beat into the ground. I still know I can call him anytime, and if I need him, he'll drop everything to be by my side.

My dad is a buffoon. He blusters and bellows. He drives a Cadillac, wears a Stetson, smokes a cigar, and sings along to country music. He gets mad easily.
He goes to church every Sunday.

He exaggerates details. Sometimes he leaves things out.
Once, we dined at a restaurant with an adjacent piano bar. My dad seemed to know the place, so my mom asked if he'd been there before. He nodded no. After dinner, we wandered into the bar amidst calls of "Hey Kenny!" and "How ya doing, Ken?" and "Will you have the usual?" He didn't bat an eye.

My dad's lived large. He makes no apologies. In quiet times, he knows he should be sorry sometimes. He keeps it to himself. But you can see it in his face.

He's a breathing testament to the power of positive thinking. My dad has high cholesterol, soaring blood pressure, diabetes, and I'm quite sure -- an ulcer, but he won't let himself get sick. He's too stubborn.

My dad has every reason to be cynical. He's seen a lot in his life that might turn one to bitterness.
But he is the most trusting man you'll meet.
And he's taught us an important lesson, even if we don't live it as he does: see the good in everyone and always, always keep your heart open.

Most of the time though, he's a real pain in our ass.

I got laid off today.
I feel blue.
Not because I liked the job, no, no, but because I am a girl and I feel rejected.
Plus, I'm broke.
That'll do it, too.

Last night, a few hours after I got laid off, my sister set the dining room table with dinner. She picked some flowers to float in a bowl, and placed a beer at each of our places. Then, she found some mismatched candles to light, and called me to supper.
She toasted my job goodbye, and she and Kevin congratulated me.

Later, my brother called to offer his well-wishes. This was after my dad phoned to say "way to go!"

Friends -- some I've known and some not yet -- offered support and positive thoughts. Digital and telephonic messages reminded me how rich I am, despite the monetary concerns.

And I won't leave out Kev's part in all this. When I bawled in front of my computer, staring blankly at its empty, work-less screen, he took my hands in his and painted a scene for me where I was happy, pursuing my passions, and had regained my soul.

I haven't lost anything.

"The boundaries of our world shift under our feet and we tremble while waiting to see whether any new form will take the place of the lost boundary or whether we can create out of this chaos, some new order."
--Rollo May, The Courage to Create

Fans and Shit.
It's going to hit.
Soon, but not soon enough, a venting heard 'round the world will commence.
Tales told of mofos and fuck nuts.
Epic betrayals recounted, and rehashed.
Illiads of idiots.
And bridges burned.

Out, damn rot, out! Oh yes, the rumbles churn. The gut expands. But, what's this? The spewing spurned.
Just for now, my dear friends, just for now.

I'll get bitter again in a minute. But right now, I'm a little headachey.

As an update: I spent yesterday making notes about my new life plan. The notes filled 6 pages.
Also, went to library to research my new life plan(s).

I broke the plan into 1s, 2s, and 3s, as well as As, Bs, and Cs.
1a was a home-based web design business. Mainly simple sites for small, crackerjack businesses. I'll also throw some wedding websites in the mix.

2a was a home-based writing/editing business. I've done it for the Man for 11 years, perhaps I can do it on my own.

3a was to finish the first draft of my young adult supernatural thriller. And do some freelance writing. And sell it. And make it big in the city.

3b was to look for another job, where surely my soul will continue to seep, unless it's one of those fun ad agencyey places where they paint the walls different colors and everyone is young and hip but I already worked in a place like that and everyone was sexing up everyone else, even the married people, and it felt like I'd not only Hoovered out my soul but then also sold it to the devil.

After this fun life-mapping exercise, I turned the notebook page and titled the blank sheet,"What I'd Do if Money Weren't An Issue: Passion not Paycheck." One word came after: writing.

After my mind had caught up with my body here on Earth, I decided that I'd have to focus soon and really suss out how I'm going to make ends meet now.

Then, I did the next logical thing: imbibed four margaritas in quick succession. Of course, I did so downtown where a laid-off person might spend, say $100, on drinks and stuffed calamari. I'dve been able to write this off as networking, since I surely came in contact with many potential employers, but I guess they don't speak Slur in JobLand.

Now Kevin is needy! Now Kevin is needy!
Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha HA, Ha

I bounded out of bed this morning and rushed to my computer.
I quick like a bunny dashed off several resumes, filed for Unemployment insurance, and gathered my writing samples.
As Kevin lay in slumber, I singlehandedly networked my way across Greater San Diego.

An hour later, he blearily stumbled into the office, saying softly, "You didn't snuggle this morning."

True story.
Don't tell anyone.

Now's the Time to Try Anything

I responded to this:

Exciting Diversity & Hands-On Opportunities abound when you volunteer for local Public Access Programming! All shows are cable cast on your local San Diego channels. Meet the actual crew, talent and personalities who bring these shows to life each week. Projects range from interview programs to music performances and other diverse entertainment.

You may be assigned to any of dozens of different shows when you answer the crew call.

...and was told to report to the studio tomorrow night at 5PM!
So it's for no pay, but I've already daydreamed that I will be noticed by top dogs for my pluck and asked to be a script supervisor or documentary writer.
What? It could happen.
(says the little voice inside my head.)

It's been awhile since my house has done anything weird.
But it just did again.
I'm sitting in the office at the computer, contemplating my book's latest plot point.
I'm also trying to think of another word for "pointed," since one of my characters was in the process of doing so...
When, the door to the office slammed shut.
I mean SLAMMED. SHUT.
I thought it was Kevin screwing with me, but see, no one's home.
I jumped up to the door and heaved it open, which was hard, because it was sealed tight as a drum.
It's never, ever, ever done that before, even during high wind periods. The door tightly wedges against a poorly-placed dresser most of the time and is also a little warped, so doesn't shut all the way even on good days.
So, WHAT THE FUCK?

Last night must have been a harbinger. Kevin and I were both wakened by a rustling/clinking sound which catapulted us from sleep. Kev took a look around the house and couldn't find a thing. We checked on my sis, who was in a deep sleep, so nothing there. No. Explanation. For. The. Sound.

Is this some type of virtual training for my supernatural novel? Is some higher-force demanding I write what I know?
I'm creeped.

Now if the spooky windy force hurtles that vacuum cleaner out of the way -- the one currently holding the office door WIDE open -- I'll demand my book be a best-seller.

My acupuncturist once hooked his needles to a machine which delivered low-voltage electricity to my body in steady pulses.
At that time, only about 7 or 8 needles covered my body.
The way I'm feeling now, it's as if every square millimeter of my flesh is set with these needles, while the machine is set to high, and each electric impulse sparks flecks of white light into my skin.
After bypassing the epidermis, the sparks burrow through the subcutaneous fat layer, then the viscera, and settle in my blood, where my circulatory system moves it along through every organ, muscle, nerve.
I thrum and throb with nervous energy.
And it won't stop.

It's Been A Week

My obsessive personality at work:
I spent the last week waking early, logging into Monster, sending out the appropriate version (there are 10) of my resume, crafting interesting and dynamic cover letters, contacting friends to ask they keep their eyes open, making lists and schedules and phone calls.
I've prepared for interviews, wrote talking points, blowdryed my hair into presentable submission...
Jumped onto my computer over-regulary, checked e-mail minute-by-minute, gathered writing samples, faxed papers, filed paperwork.
And, now? I've burned myself out.
I know I do this! I have geneological precedence. There are pick-a-project-up-and-wring-it-dry-then-abandon-it-like-a-dishrag-left-to-harden-and-crust-on-the-linoleum molecular structures in my blood.
Yesterday, quite plainly, I felt I might lose my one-handed grip on sanity. Plus, it did not help that I was waiting in a post office line.
Do you know those jars of flourescent slime kids sometimes play with, throwing mucoidal giblets everywhere?
I felt like the jar represented my head, the slime, my thoughts. I could not keep a hold on the contents of my head. My thoughts were shape-shifters, ever-morphing, slobbing over the edge, and I couldn't get my fingers around them.
They defied outline, like I'd squeezed them silly, and they just slopped around, invertebrate and floppy.
Today, will be my day off.

Does Talking About it Make it Go Away?

I hate how resentment can rule me. Sometimes I caress it fondly, savoring the delicious righteous anger I feel. But then it gets over sweet and starts to rot, and I feel sick.
So, if I talk about it, perhaps I can spit it out once and for all.

I guess it's simple, all in all: my boss laid me off. However, this was after an assurance not two months ago, that I would not be the first to go, and that I had absolutely nothing to worry about. SO, when my lay-off happened so soon after this meeting, I was a little shell-shocked.
Back in June, I'd seen how slow it'd become in my department. I'd been reading the signs, and asked him for a meeting.
We shut the door, and I confessed I was insecure in my position. Business was slow, my web department was non-existent. I told him directly that if it were in the company's (and my) best interest to call it quits, please make me aware of that, and I'll prepare.
He laughed and told me I was a worrywart. He said that due to my versatility, I'd be most valuable to keep around since I could plug holes in the other departments. After all, I'd been there four years, and had taken up HTML/Web Design lessons so I could save the company from hiring an outside web developer who charged big money. That loyalty, plus the fact that I could write, edit graphics, create presentations, program databases, etc., counted for something with him.
He shared that if it got to the point where the company was no longer profitable, that he'd have a staff meeting and discuss temporary pay cuts, less hours, and so on.
He gave me a HUG, and told me to relax.
Later, he paid my office a visit, and re-stated the above, laughing again that I thought I'd had anything to worry about.

Then, last week, when he wasn't even in the office, he'd had my supervisor and friend lay me off. He wanted to give me two weeks severance.
That burns. My boss used to babble in staff meetings about how we were a big family, how he doesn't think of us as employees, how he hates the word "human resources," since it depersonalized the staff.
He'd say all this with a Mickey Mouse benevolent smile, and yes, we all knew it was bullshit (this man loves to think of himself as a good, Church-going, selfless person, when all he does is to the contrary), but I didn't know how far the hypocrisy would extend.
This was a boss who, if we were gathered by the water cooler on a Monday, catching up with our co-workers, would make this comment (always the same one): "Hey! One well-placed hand grenade and the whole company would be gone." Quickly scattering, we'd roll our eyes. He discouraged fratenizing, small breaks, and laughter. Because it really always came down to the money for him, and if we enjoyed ourselves, we obviously weren't making money. And yet, he talked about how close we all were, because it made him feel like a good boss.
If we'd have a group lunch, he'd talk solely about himself, his recent house remodeling, how great his second wife was, and how intelligent his son turned out to be. He'd occassionally throw in how he couldn't wait until the company did better so he could lease a car for himself and his wife. If any one of us began to talk about a subject other than him and his, his eyes would glaze and he'd act as if we weren't talking, then steer the topic back to him.

When his brother was laid off last year, my boss flew him in from the midwest to be a "resource allocations expert." Which meant he spent a couple days a month interviewing us and making notes. Then, they'd have lunch.
Nothing ever came of this, and our company spent thousands of dollars subsidizing the project.
To boot, we had profit-sharing, and we all watched with sinking hearts as the profits were skittered away by ego and vanity.

Speaking of profit-sharing, he'd do a lot of creative rearranging of invoices and client checks, so there would not be a big lump sum for dispersion in December.
Trust me, I know he was the owner, and has a vested interest in operating his company the best he knows how.
It's just that he did so duplicitously, orchestrating matters to his own best interest, and willfully screwing his employees.
Right to my end, I guess.
I understand when a business decision needs to be made. I comprehend why I needed to be laid off, since my department was no longer generating any business...I just don't gibe to the manner in which it was done.
Be a man and lay me off yourself, with brief nod to why our conversation of two months ago no longer applied.
That's all I asked: treat me like a team member and not like a human resource.
By the way, I've already dedicated my book to you:
"To XXXX, whose inhumanity reminded me what it was to be human."
But hey! What do you care? Now you can lease those cars.

...that helped a crumb-sized bit.

Let's Revisit the Source

In attempting to re-evaluate my entire life, I decided to take a look at the autobiography I wrote in the third grade.
Perhaps it will provide some guidance.

I'll skip to Chapter VI: When I Grow Up:
"I want to be a teacher and work for the travel agency, and be a writer. I'm going to live with my family till I get enough money to buy a house and buy a cat to live with me. I want to do a lot of things when I grow up."

I'm glad I was so explicit.

Well, let's go back then to Chapter III: Early Childhood:
"When I was two, I started pre-school. My school was called Merry Moppet. I lived in Belmont. My mother drove me to school every day I had a very nice babysitter, she would take me to the store and buy me ice cream. i used to go to school at 8:30 and come back at 5:30. I used to play a lot. One time I threw up. My mom's friend took me to her house because my mom wasn't home. I didn't have any brothers or sisters then because they weren't born. But I had some friends."

I see I mastered the art of suspense at an early age.
Well, that didn't help.
Maybe I'll go dance in my living room.
I'm not going to be explicit.

Interviewed with start-up software company this morning. I opened the door to the "office" and stumbled on three people working like dogs at computers in one square inch of space.
Then, a soft-spoken COO interviewed me outside the building on a bench where smokers congregate. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
At some point, an arrogant, know-it-all, reports-to-work-one-day-a-week marketing guy showed up and asked me all sorts of fucknut questions, that I am 100% USDA sure he did not have the answers to himself.
This job would be an internment in hell for me, I will not be taking it.
Update over.

Killer Mold

I've been sick all weekend. I've had a low-grade sore throat for a week, but Friday night it bloomed and I woke midnight to a scratchy intermittent cough, and a obtstacled right nostril. To boot, my left eye puffed shut and my face felt heavy as full-fat whipping cream.
I retired to the living room, where I found some relief, though when I made a foray back into the bedroom (where Kevin had stretched sideways, with arms and legs stretched in an "X Marks the Spot" pose,"...miss me much?), where I promptly stuffed back up.
So, I slept next to my sister in the guest room, where we fondly recalled days of yore when we'd shared a bedroom as kids. Not really, but I did completely usurp her sleeping space, and laid my arms and legs all over her like I used to do. I also pretended to put a booger on her, which used to provide a lot of sisterly entertainment for me as a child.
I did feel a little better in that room, but not much.
All day Saturday I felt thick as sap, stuffed, and scratchy. And really weak.
I left the house for awhile and noticed I felt better outside (maybe there is something to this Vitamin D thing?), but within minutes of returning home, I felt crappy.
My sister and Kevin also have a bit of congestion, malaise, and sinusitis, so I'm theorizing an attack of killer mold spores has been declared on our persons.
I dusted, vacuumed, and sprayed bleach on suspected mold areas, hoping to remove the allergens, and I'm feeling a little better, but not much.
What does one do about imaginary killer mold?
It's really putting a crimp in my job search. No one wants to hire an applicant with an immune system weakened by microbial bacteria. (Is microbial a word?)

My dream last night had me bashing some woman's head in, repeatedly with a baseball bat. However, it was a Nerf bat, not inclined to inflict any bodily damage, and I was very pissed off by this.

I know I've had a bit of difficulty lately controlling my anger against "The Man" (as in working for The Man), but who is The Woman?

Such is my life today:

1. Wake up. Do not shower. Pull on sweats and ratty tennis shoes.
2. Drive to McDonald's. Purchase a griddle cake breakfast sandwich.
3. Plan lunch.
4. Make a grilled cheese sandwich, eat fistfuls of Fritos straight out the bag.
5. Spray whip cream directly into mouth.
6. Do not change out of food-stain-riddled sweats.
7. Prepare dinner by pulling burger and fry combo out of greasy bag and placing on paper plate.
8. Retrieve calculator from "work-box" and add up calories consumed during day.
9. Call husband and start to cry inexplicably.
10. At husband's prodding, use calculator to determine days left until period.
11. Sheepishly hang up phone.
12. Give in to hormonal onslaught and brainstorm new Cold Stone Creamery ice cream combinations.

Just living la vida loca.

"PEOPLE LIKE Liz Catalan are not narcissists out to populate the world with their likeness. Their motivations of love and loss are a far cry from the bioengineering nightmares depicted in science fiction novels and movies."
(from msn.com)

It doesn't matter what the motivations are, the end result is what counts here. In my opinion, people who see cloning as the only way they can have a child are annoyingly short-sighted and selfish. In any of these interviews with families who want to clone and carry a human fetus, I never hear any mention of the long-term effects and the ramifications of such cloning. Not one speaks of how the clone may feel once he or she is old enough to know the truth, or what may happen down the road if birth defects aren't visible until childhood (though one woman did say they'd abort the developing fetus if it appeared abnormal...that's really motivated by love and longing, now isn't it? what if the child were born abnormal, would you kill him or her right then and there, you fucking moron?). Plus, all of these woman are saying they "don't want to" adopt or use a surrogate mother to provide them with children, they want their own. So they see cloning as the only option. I believe if you really wanted a child, you'd have a child anyway possible, and cloning is NOT the only way possible, you ignorant fools.

The way I see it, cloning completely screws with the natural process of things. God had an idea in mind when he created the human race. His plan is perfect (though we may question it often), we, as humans naturally fuck things up when we screw with the natural order of things precisely because we are human.
I may be an alarmist in general, but I see human cloning as the beginning of the end. We do not know, cannot know, the higher purpose and plan for ourselves and our world, but we are manipulating it in a way to serve our personal interests. We are making it altogether human, cutting out the divine. We are pompously and arrogantly assuming we know what's best when we tinker with genetic material, when we do not know the half of it. Yet, too many are willing to sacrifice our souls (for that's what it is) by pursuing genetic engineering. And it is narcissistic.

...now back to our regularly-scheduled drivel...

Hey You! Yeah, you, over there with the double dutch oven you're using as a cereal bowl.
Put it down, slowly, sllooowly. Don't wave your Vons card at me. I don't give a damn about two boxes of Cap'n Crunch for 5 bucks.
Bring it here. I said, bring it here!
What in the sweet Lord Almighty above's name is that?
For geez sakes. I say.
Well, dammit, bring that too.
How in the world did you manage to get the store's rotisserie chicken machine in here?
Are those, are those -- ?
OK. Slide the ice cream freezer case this way.
Now, how long have you been sittin' in this here Burger King?

The nice man who interviewed me yesterday told me that he didn't think the position was the best fit for me. He said my eyes lit up when I talked about writing for the magazine, then dulled when I talked about everything else.
He liked me well enough, sure, but I didn't quite belong in the high-tech, computer-centric job he was looking to fill.

I spent the rest of the day wondering where I do belong.

Oh, woe, oh woe is me.

The Gaks lived down the street from our two-story family home in Buffalo Grove, Illinois.
We'd just moved from San Francisco a few months before, and feeling friendless, I tried to get in with the Gaks, since they commanded control of our street. Problem was, Jenny and Danny Gak were bullies. Jenny sported a broad chest, stocky legs, and blunt pageboy haircut. Danny looked roughly the same.
I yearned, I prayed, I begged to be a part of their baseball-playing-in-the-street clan. They shunned me, and I took refuge in my neighbor across the street, Dawn.

Together, we made up songs on the piano, taped skits we later played for our unwitting parents ("wackadoo! wackadoo! wackadoo!" You had to be there), and solved mysteries using our bikes to wander from street to street, looking for anything peculiar which needed our Girl Detective attention.
In my garage, we concocted elaborate chemistry experiments, and in the backyard, planned summer skits. In one sketch, wearing blonde beehive wigs and pillows in our butts, we transformed ourselves into the Badump Sisters, who told risque jokes and bumped butts after each punchline, yelling "Badump!"

Sometimes our imaginations turned evil. In one ongoing charade, we'd get my sister to believe one of us had jumped out the second-story window (she'd be allowed to catch a brief glimpse of Dawn or me spread on the grass below, with legs askew and ketchup smeared randomly on body parts). Once led from the window and kept occupied for a short amount of time, she'd be taken to a closet, where the formerly dead sat, dressed in my mom's white negligee, chanting predictions in a monotone. My sister would be allowed to ask three questions she wanted answers to, and the "Oracle" would answer. We'd do this two, maybe three times a week, tops.

Once, Dawn and I discovered erotic comic books at a garage sale and bought the lot. For weeks, we'd transport the contraband between our homes in brown paper bags. Her mom caught on, busted us, and kept us separated for weeks. That was a bad time.

All in all, though, Dawn and I had grand times. There were some run-ins, sure, but most were with the Gaks, who didn't like us playing tennis in their street.

Since we lived close to a junior high, the school's grass field and asphalt parking lot were ours on the weekends. Once, after some heavy rain, a deep divet in the field became filled with water, and we took full advantage of the new swimming hole. Muddy and somehow populated with leeches, the pond was a nightmare. But in the end, we felt adventurous and exotic. Other times, we'd rollerskate in the enormous lot behind the building, stretching our arms to the sky, singing along to "Fame," warbling on our portable cassette player. We really did think we'd live forever.

Then, I went to high school, where my singular dream was to "be popular." Well, as you might imagine, my priorities got all twitter-paited, and going to the White Hen with Dawn for Cadbury Eggs didn't hold the same allure. My friends changed and I thought I got what I wanted.

I've been thinking ever since how wrong I was.

So, in memory of Dawn, I offer this snippet from one of our skits (sung in a country-western croon):
"I thought your name was Roger, now I see that it's Tim. I thought the light was shining, and now I see that it's dimmmmm. Why oh why did you leave me, we could have been such friends. The light is going off now, and I can tell it's the ennndddd"

You had to be there.

From The Pit of Self-Despair: A Dirge

My The Artist's Way (Julia Cameron) directs aspiring creatives to make dates with oneself to stimulate the creative flow. That way, observations gained from museum trips, gallery openings, and neighborhood walks feed the subconscious, trip the brain's light fantastic, and spur fresh, interesting images for your art.

Despite the fact that I've stagnated with my book (do the enemies try to take over the world? turn my protagonist's mother against her? just be evil in general? what's the point? what's the deux ex machina?), I've not taken Julia's advice. Instead, I sit, inside my darkening living room, watching back-to-back Story spin-offs on TLC (Wedding Story, Makeover Story, Baby Story, Dating Story), rooting out the biggest shortcake chunks in my bowl of ice cream, and alternating which foot I hang over the edge of the couch.

I was supposed to have an interview this morning, which I tirelessly prepared for yesterday afternoon, but as I stepped out of the shower, fresh from my affirmations, Kevin informed me the interview had been canceled.
So, in a robust "fuck it all, then" approach, I embraced laid-off-hood with juicy abandon. Indeed, I now shun anything productive, including finishing my novel.

The one, I say The One, productive thing I've done all day is create a new crockpot recipe, which now bubbles on my countertop.

I know me. This is going to get worse. Once I give myself to a state of mind, be it healthy or no, I hand myself over to it completely. I'm tired of trying so hard to find a job. I'm sick of getting my hopes up; cultivating self-disdain as I pander my resume to everyone I know. I need to experience this "I give up" attitude completely, sitting in its corners, smelling its dust, fingering every edge, as it drops to oblivion. I never know when it runs its course. It just does one day. But for now: hello from the abyss.

I operated a television camera last night. For a live TV show. Yes, it's true. It's also a fact that it was my first time (since college, where I did it once) that I'd operated such a camera. Being community access programming, however, the crew can't care as much that the volunteer who showed up knows nothing of cameras. They designate you Camera One anyway.
In my headset, I tried to follow commands like "two shot!," and "three shot, now slow pan to the right and close up on the guest, tilt up, camera one! up! up! now pan, pan, up on the mic, good -- one shot, now two shot again!" while ignoring the furious echo of my heartbeat resonating in the headphones.

Then, I came home and grilled my husband: "Are you proud of me that I volunteered for something like this? Do you think I'm noble and worthwhile? Don't you think it's cool that I just went, not knowing anybody, and threw myself into recording a live show? Am I neat?"
Questions which, completely obliterate the fact that I volunteered at all, because I was looking for alms from my husband, instead of just doing it, content with the knowledge that I gave of my time.

It's more that I'm insecure. I crave constant positive feedback from those close to me. Mainly my husband. I annoyingly prod him all the time to tell me how much he loves me. And I ask stuff like this: "Are you quite confident in the fact that I'm the most beautiful girl in the world?" and "Does your heart hurt when you're away from me?" and "How come you love me so much?"

It's best to keep small children and animals away from me, too. Since they're just a little helpless, I'm all over them, and they can't really get away on their own (which makes them a favorite of mine). I smother and kiss and love and hug and just google them to death (could truly result in snuggle death if concerned parents and pet owners did not eventually drag them away).

I'm aware that the above paragraphs have little to do with the fact that I operated a TV camera last night. Just so you know. Because I'm smart. You do think so, right?

The Best of the Best For Now

These fluctuate, but based on my mood this week, these are my top choices for music, film, and novel.

Best Song: Strange Fire by the Indigo Girls -- the Indigo Girls are one of my favorite songwriter/singers ever. Their lyrics are truly poetic, and their harmonies co-mingle in such a way that they seem to express through inflection, the layered dimensions of the soul. For example, Emily Saliers will sing her part gruff and urgent, as if to say, "I'm not going to take it anymore," and Amy Ray's voice lays on top, soft and yearning, saying, in counterpart, "But I'm scared."

Best Movie: Moonstruck -- No, it's not deep. But this movie perfectly expresses the manifestation of love in all its forms. Many truths exist within this film's dialogue. Its portrayal of love is mirrored in its portrait of an Italian family: loud, crazy, imperfect, but deep and abiding.

Best Book: The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand -- I read a lot. My eyes have known many books. I'm quite sure that one reason I'm blind as a bat was my childhood habit to read long after the lights went out, holding my book under the covers, squinting to discern words in the darkness. Though I will have a favorite book of the moment, the Fountainhead always remains my number one (the only constant on this list). Knowing a little about Ayn Rand, I imagine her heroes are like her: strong, unyielding, confident in who they are and not taking shit from anybody who might tell them they shouldn't do things a certain way because society says so.

I'm going to throw in a bonus best. This week's Sunday Stumpers asked "What's the weirdest compliment you've ever received?" and I'd like to contribute my best weirdest compliment I've ever received.

Best Weirdest Compliment I've Ever Received: "Those boots really accentuate your personature."

Just completed three writing assignments for a job at San Diego State.
Three! Three intense tests. And I haven't even had a personal face-to-face interview yet.
One, I can see. Maybe two, if they were easy. But these were three! Three in-depth articles, press releases, communications plans.
Why is it so hard to be a contributing member of society?
Damn the gainfully employed!

Think I'll Go This Route

Dear Fuck-Nutted Human Resources Professional:

I’m tired. I’ve tried and tried to come up with a cover letter that is concise, focused, kind of clever, not too formal, and altogether professional. But I think too much. And when I’m writing, I wonder, “Is this too stuffy? Too pseudo clever? Too casual? Too much?” Whatever it is, it always turns out I’m trying too hard.

I’m laying it out there for you. I just want to write -- let you know who I am, what I’ve done, what I can do -- without worrying obsessively about being proper. I am tired. Not physically, not professionally, but phonetically...wondering how to say things has me downright exhausted.

ANYWAY, this is me: an overthinker. And, I think it serves me well. Overthinkers pay abnormally high attention to detail -- a characteristic mentioned all the time in help wanted ads. Beyond being detail-oriented, I give good communication and obsess ceaselessly about deadlines -- real and imagined. My point is I meet them, too.

Perhaps it sounds like I’m neurotic. OK. (But in a completely healthy, and of course, insanely productive way.)

There’s much more...I have extensive, well-rounded experience in communications. I’ve seen the field from client, agency, and media perspectives. Rather than limit myself to any one position, I define myself by my skills and abilities -- and any job where I can continue to write, interact with the public, and creatively manage projects is one I’m interested in pursuing.

Well, I suppose that wraps it up for now. I’m glad I laid it on the line like this. And, if this letter ends up annoying you no end, I take heart in the fact that there are 132 “Debbie Andersons” in the San Diego phone book, and you’ll never know who I am. Unless you read my résumé.

Thanks for your time.

Status Check

Eyes: Gritty
Throat: Raspy
Hands: Knotty
Stomach: Rumbly
Brain: Cottony
Mood: Ping-Pongy
Word of the Day: Ambiguity

Quick Question:
If you knead a zit perched dangerously close to your backbone, does the resulting subcutaneous pus drain into your spinal fluid causing a sudden but severe case of bacterial meningitis?

Since I haven't been in write mode for a week or so, I'm just going to laundry list the things I've done today.
Because they're all very exciting.

1. Got blood drawn. The lab tech took three vials of blood. My blood looked milky and cloudy. I think there's something wrong with me. It looked like my lipids were floating on top of the blood. I need to lay off the oleo.

2. Had a pedicure and brow wax. You know, because I can afford it so well on my income. The truth is, I had to bribe myself. I needed to offer myself something in order to get me into the Lab for blood work. So, it was either that or the French toast combo at Coco's. And that felt kinda pathetic.

3. Wrote a poem to my dad. It was supposed to be sentimental, but ended up just making fun of my brother's ears. In a rhymey way.

4. Bought a frame, matting, and photo adhesive for a thing I'm giving my pop for his b-day.

5. Bought DVDs for same.

6. You're looking at it.

Sigh.