A Call, Unreturned
When the phone rang at 10:23 last night, I didn’t think twice. I answered the unfamiliar number and heard the familiar *click* of a wrong number. I hung up, put down my cell phone and prepared for bed.
The alarm rang at 5:57. My cell phone went off at 6:03. The familiar double dose I need on my early mornings. I opted not to shower, ate my breakfast leisurely, and played around on the internet before getting ready to head to PT. I packed my bag for a morning out and about: Cell phone, iPod, book, keys, wallet… Wallet? Where’s my wallet.
I searched frantically but knew almost immediately what had happened: On my way home from metro, I stopped at the ATM to get cash. $40. I put my wallet back in my bag, not touching it again until I was 30′ from my apartment. I reached around to my bag to get my keys out and heard a *thump*. It felt like something fell out, but upon inspection I didn’t see anything. I walked on. Home. Apparently without my wallet.
I ran out the door to the bush where it fell out. Nothing. I ran back to my apartment, cursing the gods above (and God in particular) for giving me yet another obstacle. Putting up another roadblock. Punishing me for something.
For a moment, I contemplated that missed call. But what if it was a number I should have known? A friend I forgot to save in my phonebook? An ex with a new number?
I went to PT and was in tears lying on the table. A wreck of epic proportions. “Go right home and cancel everything,” she said. That would change my plans for the day, but she was right. I went home and looked to see if any money had moved in any of my accounts. It hadn’t. I opted to postpone the cancelation. In case… in case of a miracle.
After an hour of back and forth (Do I drive to MD to get a duplicate license or apply for a new one in VA? If I drive all the way to MD, I might miss my 2:00 interview, and what if they know I don’t live in MD anymore? If I go to VA to get a new license, will they know my car hasn’t been registered in state? And where will I get the money to pay for any of this?), I settled on getting a VA license. Same price. Closer. And probably more legal.
I got dressed for my interview and headed with documents in hand to the Mall, where apparently they stash the DMV around these parts. Found parking. Harassed by skin care hawker. Found DMV. Denied. “Do you have your driving record from Maryland?” Um. No? “Come back with driving record. NEEEEXT!”
Crestfallen, unable to take one more blow, I walked back to my car, harassed by the same fucking skin care hawker as 10 minutes prior.
When I got in my car, that phone call from the night before haunted me. Going against my own next rules, but hoping to avoid as much “awkward” as possible, I sent the mystery number the following text: “I missed a call from this # last night. Did you happen to find my wallet?” Send. Phone down. *RING RING RING*
“This is Jane.” — “Hello. I found your wallet.” — “I’m on my way.” I was in tears.
Her sister found my wallet while jogging last night. Had I not gone to VA. Had I not forgotten my driving record. Had I not been too lazy to cancel my credit cards… She had it.
I got to her apartment and went to offer her a reward. “I’d like to give you…”
“No no. Really. It’s ok. And there’s no money in there. I asked my sister and she said there was no money.”
So they took my cash. The $40 I had just taken out of the ATM. $6 in singles. Between 9:00 and 10:23 when that saint found my wallet, some lowlife stole $46 and then dropped my life, my wallet, on the ground for a saint to find and return.
And I couldn’t be happier.
Thank you, mystery jogger. Thank you.
It’s a shame
As an adult, it is rare that I come across new emotions — ones I’ve never experienced before. And yet, I sit here blindsided by a feeling that I’ve never had, so foreign that I had to be told what it was.
Shame.
My Aunt had inevitably heard about the loss of yet another job. Sure, in essence it was my decision to leave, but I feel as though I was backed into a corner, no where to run. No where to hide. No other options but to leave. When I saw her number pop onto my caller ID, I ignored it. I had nothing to say. I couldn’t stand to explain what happened. Not again. Not when I had a hard enough time figuring out for myself exactly what went so wrong so fast. She left a voicemail. It sat unheard for days. Finally, I got an email. “I tried every way to get a hold of you. Even Twitter. Let’s catch up. What’s going on?”
I saw she was online, so rather than launch into a long email, I shot her a message.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been in a bit of a crisis the last few days and I just didn’t know what to say to you,” was all I could come up with.
“It’s ok. I figured you were experiencing some shame and weren’t ready to talk.” She’s a therapist, but her words still took me aback.
Shame. What does that mean? That’s a shame. What a shame. Such a shame… But me? Ashamed?
But she was right. She was right that I was ashamed that something had gone so wrong and that I couldn’t make this job work. I was embarassed and ashamed. Unemployed. One long-shot job prospect. Rent due. Severance will only get me so far.
It wasn’t my fault. As a matter of fact, the CEO said flat out is was their fault. But fault doesn’t pay the bills. I should have stayed… “Itwouldhavebeenniceif I had stayed,” rather. Shoulds get me in trouble.
Having to tell my mom again for the 4th time that I had been let go. Having to face myself and my insecurities again. Having to look at myself in the mirror and admit defeat. Again. I am ashamed of myself for making a poor decision. I am ashamed that I can’t keep shit together. I am ashamed that I did this to myself. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and do my job. Injustices work themselves out. Everyone was on my side. And I jumped. I jumped into shark infested waters and now I am relying on the bouyancy of my spirit and my (what I hope are) skills to get me through.
What am I doing with my life? How will I ever be confident applying for a job again? How do people go to work day after day and hate it? How do they subvert their resentment and just… carry on? I have so much to learn, and with enough money to last about 2 months… not a lot of time to learn it.
#IranElection: It Could Happen to “US”
If I read in a history book that years ago a developing country’s electorate had been defrauded by the government to put a dictator/figurehead back in office, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d shake my head, shaming the backwards ways of the past, proud to say that we’ve come so far.
The details are staggering: An election held – a “democratic” election – where no judges were permitted to oversee the count. Where 40 million ballots were allegedly counted by hand, both candidates claiming victory well before the polls had closed.Where, when the people rally in opposition to what they see as unjust, the government intervenes, revoking press visas.
What’s happening in Iran is not happening in a different time, merely a different time zone. The suppression of a swelling voice of reason and democracy is a non-stop flight away. It’s safe to say that it’s not happening in a “there”. It’s happening here. In our lifetime. In our world. Our world of change. Our world of hope.
And what’s happening there could, and some say did, happen to us. And what did we do? We sent in the lawyers. What did they do? They took to the streets. They took to the “tubes”. They took to whatever medium would support their cries for help and justice and above all peace and democracy. They are standing up to a regime that their parents and their parents parents may not have had the strength to resist.
If it happened here… would you be willing to drop everything and take to the streets? To physically stand up for what you believe? I wonder. I talk so much about wanting what is just and right in the world. But what do I do? I sit and wait for someone to do something. People my age just across an all-too-small pond are taking their lives in their hands by standing up to a government they don’t believe in for the sake of themselves and future generations who don’t deserve to be oppressed in a world full of freedoms just out of their reach.
Be strong with Iran. Be strong for Iran. Be strong here in America so we can ensure that what happened there will never (again) happen here at home.
Women are Assholes, too
I watched I Heart Huckabees tonight. And now the hamster wheel in my head has slowed to a halt as the thoughts finally stop racing.
It was a bit of a mindfuck to say the least.
But the question that stayed with me was, “Do you believe in love?”
I was once questioned on my belief in God. “You don’t have to believe in God. He just exists.” Then I was questioned on my belief in gravity. “You don’t have to believe in gravity. You’re not floating away, are you?” Then I was questioned on my believe in love. “Of course you’ll fall in love. You’re just young.”
I’m not that young. I’m 27. And for 25.75 of those years I’ve been single, the 1.25 years that I could be considered not-single are a rough calculation of all the first dates, second dates, “few dates” guys that never panned out, and my one “long term relationship” that lasted 8 months.
So I’m talking to a friend tonight, and she, too says, “You’re young! Fuck around with men!”
But I’m not that kind of girl. Recently I’ve learned not to judge anyone who is that kind of girl, because really, it’s them, not me. But really, it’s not me.
Guys are assholes, 100%. They break us. They broke me. They broke the girl I was talking to.
We say, “If they’re assholes, why can’t we be assholes?” Here’s why: We are never assholes to the guys who are assholes to us. We’re assholes to the good guys. the ones who don’t deserve it. The ones who are easy targets — who take it.
And I’m far too self aware to be that girl.
I am not willing to kiss frogs while waiting for my prince. But then again, I may have kissed some princes and been too scared to open my eyes and see them for what they were. I have sabotaged every good thing that’s come my way. Fact.
So anyway, tonight, after watching the movie, that one question haunted me: Do I believe in love?
You’re a Beautiful Wreck: A love song from my exes
My exes are saints. I have often said how bad I feel for the men who have ever been brave/dumb enough to date me. To say I am damaged, to say I am a work in progress, to say I am perhaps more trouble than I’m worth… All fair. All true.
And while not every girl is lucky enough to have a song written about her, some may say I have had more than most: Crazy Bitch and Crazy as a Good Thing to name a few.
This morning, though, I came across a love song. A song that could have been written by any of my exes, and one that I couldn’t blame them for writing.
The song is called “Beautiful Wreck” by Shawn Mullins. And if you know me, or have dated me, you’ll understand why it’s kind of my anthem.
Beautiful Wreck
I’ve lost count of the times I given up on you
But you make such a beautiful wreck, you do
There’s a tavern on the corner called the Milky Way
And you look so at home there it makes me afraidAnd at the dark end of this bar
What a beautiful wreck you are
When you go too far, beautiful wreck you areLike all the plans that you had from seven years ago
Like all the promises you made I watched them come and go
You put your keys in the car but it wouldn’t drive
With your hands on the wheel, lookin’ barely aliveI’m still sitting here waiting on the passenger side
For you to make up your mindFor you to make up your mind
What a beautiful, such a beautiful, beautiful wreck you are
What a beautiful, such a beautiful, beautiful wreckI’ve lost count of the times I given up on you
But you make such a beautiful wreck, you do
Yeah, you make such a beautiful wreck, you do
You make such a beautiful wreck, you do
Country music does it again.
What’s your anthem?
Gays, the Military, and Marriage: The “Right” Have it “Wrong”
Average Jane: Do you know what I don’t understand about “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”? These gays want to go die. Why won’t the Christians let them? I mean, it seems like it would further their cause.
MagicJewball: Well, being married looks like it blows, and they won’t let them do that either.
Average Jane: Our priorities as a country are so screwed up.
*Sigh*
Fairfax? Celebrated.
You know you’re at a fair in the DC Metro area when pre-concert banter involves the inefficiences of the federal government.
As the Cultural Contributor noted, much like the MVA DMV, no matter how upscale the town, the most unsavory folk seem to make their way out of the holes they live in to indulge in the cultural phenomenon that is the County Fair. I am making a huge assumption that “Celebrate Fairfax!” was tantamount to a county fair. There were county-fair-like things such as a Carnies, CORNDOGS NACHOS FRENCH FRIES BEER, Libertarians, and a Camel.
And B-List Artists rockin’ the main stage!
This year was Blues Traveller on Friday, “Old Skool Rap All Stars” featuring Ton-Loc, Naught by Nature, and Sugar Hill Gang Saturday, and then today’s big name: “Phil Vassar” — in quotes as until I saw him come on stage, I questioned his existence. It’s rare that someone gets “super star” status and me never having heard of him. I give him credit for eluding my cultural purview for so long.
The toothless and tattooed filled the Midway. The tube-topped teens wandered through the tents, milking every minute of their parent-free weekend, preparing to unfurl their tightly rolled shorts before returning to their pastel pink rooms filled with stuffed animals and Jo-Bro posters. The sunburned backs of the proud and ignorant blossomed as the days went on.
In a word: Awesome.
I indulged in every moment of my small-town fair in a big-town county, with my best friend by my side. We could not be more different, but she has, through the years, opened my eyes to the wonders of the quirks of local life.
I may be a Maryland girl at heart, but this weekend I celebrated my new home… in Virginia.
Why I Hate the Biggest Loser
I have a feeling this post may be one of my more controversial. I’m prepared to lose the 10 loyal readers I have (Hi, guys!). But hopefully you’ll hear me out, and at least stick around long enough to read all the eviscerating comments that will surely follow.
I hate the Biggest Loser.
I nearly wrote that I hate what it stands for, but the truth is, I don’t. “Hey, America! Don’t be fat!” But more than “don’t be fat” it wants Americans — the world, really — to be healthy. To unite as a fit nation to battle the evils of, like, McDonalds or whatever.
Here’s the rub: I think it is failing in any number of ways.
- From what I understand, it is more of a custom for people to sit around, eat brownies and popcorn, and watch the Biggest Loser than it is for them to get up and start changing their lives.
- It creates a really false notion that you, too, can lose 100 lbs in 6 weeks. “All you need are these $150/hr personal trainers at your beck and call 7 days a week and a personal chef to take care of your culinary needs while you don’t work and have no familial responsibilities on ‘the ranch’. “
- In a way, this show is the same as a “miracle drug” that people think will solve all their problems. Losing the weight is just the start. Going home and facing a life that you left as a fat person and enter back into as a normal-sized person is not a walk in the park. It sucks. That is the true battle of a lifetime.
It is no secret that I lost a good bit of weight about 4 years ago. And I did it alone. Sure, I had a nutritionist, but I had no personal trainer and no chefs at my disposal. I had no support system cheering me on and no one to turn to when times got tough. I was broke from buying expensive healthy food, and exhausted and lonely from trying to fit my daily workout into my already hectic life. But I did it.
In NO WAY am I saying that I am better than the people that go on the Biggest Loser, but what I am saying is that there should be some kind of “Not The Biggest Loser, but Not So Bad Either” show that shows people who have lost weight on their own. I guess that’s why people buy magazines like Self or Fitness.
In NO WAY am I saying, either, that the show isn’t giving a good message to the American people, but much like when Extreme Makeover Home Edition was under scrutiny because while they gave these needy people new houses, they didn’t account for utilities and property tax expenses… The Biggest Loser doesn’t give the whole picture. For me, the hardest part of losing the weight is facing a nation of people who aren’t Big Losers. It’s having to live my life as a not-so-fat person who still looks in the mirror every day and sees the 200+ lb girl who started on this journey. It’s thinking about food every minute of every day, worrying that the meal I was invited out to at a really nice restaurant will derail my weekly diet. It’s having to learn to date at the age of 25. It’s adapting to life in a world that doesn’t judge you, when I’m constantly expecting to be judged. Or, even more, being judged on a completely new scale.
I waited a long time to post this, hoping a little bit that Google searches for “Biggest Loser” would die down so the crazies wouldn’t find me here in my corner of the bloggosphere. Weight is a hot topic for everyone I know. The only point I’d like to make *clears throat for big finale* is this:
Even if you’re not on the Biggest Loser, you can make any change you want in your life, including your body and your health. You don’t need the fancy cooks and state of the art equipment. You don’t need the wacky competition or the crazy challenges. You don’t need expensive trainers. You need a good support network right at home or online. You need patience because the weight won’t just fall off in a week or 6. You need love for yourself and for the process.
I’m prepared for the backlash. I’m prepared for the comments. I’ve never held back in the past when it comes to my opinions so here it is, for what it’s worth…
Elevator Confessional
The elevator ride from P2 to G takes moments, but it can feel like eternity when trapped in silence with one of my neighbors. My new apartment, selected particularly for the allegedly high number of young professionals/students, has turned out to be riddled with “adults” and young families, none of whom care to chat. None of whom seem to care too much for being “neighborly” at all.
Which is particularly why today’s ride caught me by surprise.
I pulled into my parking space, thrilled that the “compact” Jeep Wrangler hadn’t gotten home yet and I could open my “compact” Corolla’s door with ease. I looked around and saw no one, disappointed that another chance to meet a neighbor had come and gone. Then, he seemed to appear out of nowhere: Red Backpack Guy. He rides the elevator silently in the morning. He has a red backpack.
“What floor?” I ask as he follows into the waiting elevator.
“Three.”
The silence is deafening but familiar.
But then… “Good day today?” he asked, catching me completely off guard.
My mind went all “tv-dramatic-miniseries-near-death-experience-montage” on me, taking me on whirwind tour of my day: the near breakdown mid-morning, the doubts about my job and my life this afternoon, the list of things I made of things I need but can’t afford, the lunch alone in the park, the awkward run-in at Potbelly’s with a boy I never called…
“No, not really.” I could have lied, but why? The truth was, I had a crap day. I couldn’t come up with a lie, so I told the truth.
It was then his turn to be taken aback. “No? Why?” he asked.
I shrugged, unable to come up with a pithy way to sum up my not-so-awesome day, saved by the *ding* of the opening door.
“Just kinda ‘Tuesday’ huh?”
And that was it. “Yes, actually. It was just kind of ‘Tuesday’.”
