la la la

i know you all have much better things to do than watch horrible, craptacular shows like The Bachelor but i don't.

last season jen kicked all the bachelors to the curb in a move that was met with a sigh of relief: 'thank god this is totally over.' it was three months of watching a bland chicago trixie roll her eyes, push up her boobs and lead three men to the edge of her girl cliff before pushing all of them over it.

this season is even worse. meet charlie, the latest in a long line of newly plucked monobrows who want to find their soulmate on tv. perhaps it's a testament to his personality or to how desperate this show has become, but they've pretty much stripped this show of any pretense to Harlequin book-themed romance and turned it into a kiddie pool filled with mud and women who've clearly bought their breasts. gone are the fuzzily shot dates; to the wayside are evening gowns and princess fantasies. now it's all lap dances, body shots, accusations of slut-dom; the rose ceremony, that pageant of separating the wheat from the chaff, is nothing but a chance for the 'girls' to dish, slam other women and basically show how crazy they are. it's amazing what people will do for exposure. the only redeeming thing about this show is chris, as we wait for him to finally go postal and beg to be put out of his misery.

(and yeah. i am procrastinating getting dressed for an interview in one hour.)

the horns of my dilemma

so.
met today with the ceo and head of marketing of the y. they'd welcome me in their organization and it'd be a fantastic way to get my feet wet in the non profit world - programming, marketing/communication, development and administration. they're looking for someone to mentor and i'm looking for experience. the organization hits my sweet spot: women, racism, reproductive and economic issues. i'd be able to write.

but. the pay is SO low. it can't be ignored and, since it's non profit, can't be avoided. i'd be taking at least a 15k hit. 15k. not forever. there's no way i'd stay in this position for more than 2 years. but jeebus. 15k. that takes me back to grad school. no extras: books, music, travel, shopping, drinking. at least sex is free.

i have a couple of bites from the corporate world this week; i have to give the y my answer probably by friday. eeks.

and the beat goes on...

another story of pharmacists refusing to fill scrips for birth control.

via Bitch. Ph.D.

chicago had its first case of this a few weeks ago and the protest against it was organized by planned parenthood (i heart PP). this nonsense is spreading to the cities and we *must* do something. ignorance and a facile reading of the bible shouldn't be allowed to force a woman to have children she doesn't want.

i don't know what's been going on with blogger for the past two days but it's been annoying as hell. slow, slow, losing posts. grrr. ass.

anyway, quick update: today is my meeting with the ceo of the ywca. let's keep those fingers crossed. tomorrow an interview with a recruiter and then friday, jon stewart at rosemont.

in other news:
tax time is beginning to make my worry
hugh is still visiting but may be on his last legs
more pharmacists can't wrap their minds around science while they refuse to fill birth control prescriptions
last night i dreamed that i was having a flaming affair with chandler from friends. the hell--?
the sun is out and it's finally spring.

how cool is that?

phhfft.

"Operation Red Scare" Information Site

sigh. of course they're college republicans. of course.
are they even aware of the historical resonance of what they're doing?

dumbasses.

unemployment: day 1

i'm not going to start a lame countdown of what it feels like to be unemployed (not being used; idle; otiose.)

but i do want it noted that my hair is all over the place, my teeth are unbrushed, i skipped the gym, i'm sitting in bed and i'm still in my nightie. npr's soothing tones are coming from my bedroom radio. i've been reading about grant writing and non-profit fundraising and slowly planning the rest of the week. and i'm still in my nightie!

YAY!!

i'm wireless!!

just what i need: an excuse to be utterly mobile and otiose while unemployed. heh heh heh.

thoughts on the shiavo thing here.

it's churchgal.

pardon me!

Facts on Farts

fascinating. i'd call this perfect dinner party factoids.

[via my roomie, who is particularly fond of this topic.]

who says poetry is boring?

Chicago Tribune | Chicago poet seized as fugitive killer

suddenly filled with the need to read this guy's poetry.

finally hits home

Chicago Tribune | Protesters rip store over birth control

i thought it couldn't happen here - not in the big city - but apparently i was dead wrong. but at least there was immediate action over it.

today i cried

when i walked in the door, after a short cab ride home, i dropped my bag, mumbled hello to roomie, shuffled down the hall to my bedroom and took off my coat.

then i leaned against the wall and cried like i haven't since my mom died.

i'm so tired. so very very tired. i'm tired of putting other people's needs in front of my own. i'm tired of thinking about what's good for the ceo, the firm and the practice instead of what's good for me. i'm tired of planning someone else's day instead of my own. i'm tired of having nothing left for myself at the end of the day. i'm tired of watching my dusty To Do list get even dustier. i'm tired of the niggling thought that i will never make this plan of mine happen.

i'm tired especially of being the good girl, of doing the right thing for everyone else and it's patently clear it's not good for me. i'm tired of knowing that Hugh has come for a 3 month long visit because i've been stressed out my ass for the past 5 months. i'm particularly tired of the fact that a fucking job has made me cry while crammed into the corner of my very filthy bedroom - a bedroom that wouldn't be so filthy if i had some fucking time to clean it.

i'm tired that i can't think of the last time there wasn't this knot at the top of my shoulders, that my feet didn't hurt, that my back wasn't stiff, that i was truly indolent and relaxed. i'm tired that i can't remember the last time i was content and satisfied. i'm tired dammit.

and if this girl doesn't get a rest soon, her head just might pop like it did in 1992.

perfect ending to a perfect day (grr)

James Wolcott

depressing and heavy like a bare foot steeped in tar wolcott's post today matches my mood.

10 things i'm looking forward to once i'm unemployed

1. sleep
2. becoming a lady of the day.
3. hanging out with my roomie who is also between gigs (but who has a bigger severance)
4. blogging properly. i have tons of new links to add, maybe update the look a bit, maybe be less one off and more thoughtful. and stop writing about my period (which i'm finally going to have to give a proper name, now that it's become my companion.) Hugh. My period is now Hugh.
5. looking people in the eye again. you know when you're at work all the time you only look at the clock, your screen or the space just left of your boss' head?
6. the different ways i can stretch a cup of coffee and a croissant.
7. maybe a quick frolic in the middle of the day.
8. cleaning my room. really. it's unbearable. i need a flamethrower and a shovel.
9. uh...having no excuse not to work out.
10. oh, yeah. looking for more satisfying work. that one.

at last. sorta. kinda.

over the weekend, i started a list of things i'd look forward to once my job here was over.
well, i better finish that list, 'cause my replacement starts tomorrow.

there is relief; i've been so busy still being the good worker bee, i didn't dedicate a whole lot of time to networking and the new job search in the past three months or so, and now i'm going to have the mental space to get my shit together and be less inconsistent about it.

there is also fear. holy crap, what about bills? rent? shit.

relief: i finally get to relax.
fear: crap - how the hell am i going to survive?
relief: i get to write more.
fear: who cares about writing when rent is due?

you get the picture.

Bitch. Ph.D.: Argumentative women

Bitch. Ph.D.: Argumentative women

Dr. B is one of my favorite people; i read her every day, envy her her quick grasp of tough ideas and her sharp, biting, lucid way of taking down a dumbass.

so here's dr. B on argumentative women, a particularly dear topic to me, a dedicated contrarian. i'd write more about this (and about a formative experience i had in the 6th grade with my first petition) but alas, i have...work.

the bog dream

The land was brown and so was the sky. Trees pricked up like vanilla beans. I lived in a twig cabin by a bog. The bog was brown and wore a skin.

My husband, a boggy damp man, was away. He was away often and I liked him being away. On a hill I could see the Big House through my window. It was dark gray. I would sit in the window and look at the House that wasn’t brown. I was in the window of my twig house when the man with Knightley’s face, who lived in the big house, came down through the twiggy forest and stopped by my window. He invited me to the house and I climbed on the back of his horse and we rode to the (might as well say it) ‘castle’.

There, he walked me through all the rooms asking how I liked them, if I wanted to change anything. He introduced me to his zingy red-haired freckled sister. He walked me through his suite – the small dressing room, the unexpectedly small unmade blue canopied bed, the writing desk and chair, the rugby shirts and khaki shorts thrown over dressers and tables.

Then, holding my hand in the middle of his messy rooms, he asked me a question. I couldn’t hear his question but I saw his mouth move and I knew it was an important question. His milk-white forehead was a little bit furrowed. But I shook my head and pulled my hand out of his, even though being in those messy rooms made me feel lax and heavy, like a cat fed too much cream.

Instantly, I was back in the twig cabin by the bog. It was raining and in the distance (or from the sky – it was both views at once) the skin over the bog grew taut. The rain was so hard and black it made seeing hard, but I was unblinking in it, staring at the increasing bog. The bog began to look like a fat pudding.

I reached out of my window, across the flooding forest, and pricked the skin with my finger.Exploding and swelling the bog overran the forest floor. It was so fast, so black and thick, my damp boggy husband, who had been on the other side of the forest was overcome and he died. I watched from my window as the bog river flattened everything in its path. There was a certain satisfaction knowing I had exploded the bog. I wanted it to reach the castle and batter it down, but the hill was too high and the bog ineffectually swamped at its feet.

I heard a sound in the trees closest to my house and there was the man from the castle, his face changing from Knightley’s to a high-cheekboned Chinese face; it corresponded to his mood: Chinese for gentle, Knightley for stern. He smoked a pipe in the rain and wore tweeds. He wanted me out of the twig house and when I stepped outside, the rain stripped me of my clothes. I was naked. I turned to find another dress but Chinese Knightley, now stern, said he liked me this way and we walked next to the bog, on our way to the castle.

We climbed the hill, my body feeling free and wet; he was silent behind me still smoking the pipe. Inside the castle was quiet; no bustling sounds except the sound of the water dripping off my body onto the marbled floor. We climbed the stairs to his rooms again. He laid me down on his bed; he was naked, too. His face was in a constant slow flux, melting from Chinese to Knightley and back again until it was dizzying. The sheets were warm and dry. We just laid there on our sides, looking at each other.

Then his sister knocked and I panicked. I ran to the side bathroom door to hide and peeked through the round window while the two of them talked, his face turning back to stern Knightley. She laughed, hugged him and waved to me as if she knew I was there all the time. When she left he held an egg sandwich we shared in bed. Then we slept. We were so tired. It was quiet and we slept on the too small messy bed, listening to the spattering of the rain on the stone and the soft shhhing of his face changing.

(i had this dream about a year ago and wrote it down; i just found it today and thought i'd share it.)

never the twain shall meet

Guardian Unlimited | The Guardian | Don't do it, Camilla

back in grad school my friend Dr. A-- and i sat in a bar and mused aloud what it would be like if the two of us were married. since he was gay and i was not (if still a virgin) we knew there were some marital borders that wouldn't be crossed. in our conversations, the word separate was used a lot: separate bedrooms, separate entrances, separate groups of friends, separate social schedules - but all with the knowledge that you were with someone who totally understood what it was you wanted.

basically, a relationship with someone who wouldn't interfere too much.

my parents lived for a while in separate rooms; there was a whole year i remember my mom camping out on the living room couch. a friend's parents still have separate beds, like mary and dick in the dick van dyke show. all the men my dad counsels complain their wives don't touch them anymore. (which probably has more to do with something they did wrong than any social trend, i think.)

Dr. A is now 'married' to a great guy, has a thriving real estate side-business while a tenure-track prof at Private University, is raising a son and lives in a magnificent house overlooking Hollywood.
my friend J--, while notorious for being a fickle circuit boy back in the day (albeit a highly educated one), has finally found happiness with his T--; they share a condo in uptown and T-- is going to move to michigan if J-- is offered a position there.
M-- and D--, also gay, are sharing a house in DC and basically live like a married couple from the 50s, going to boring barbecues and wondering where the swingers are.

i, while not married, have a great roomie i spend most of my time with, am about to do something interesting with my life, and pretty much live as independently as i can.
most of my girlfriends are giving more thought to buying dogs and condos than finding a boyfriend/husband.

just sayin'.

job, what job?

so here is where things stand on the career front:

Global Human Resource Conglomerate took a pass on me. (shrug)
Co-worker is having lunch with the CEO of National Women's Organization today and their topic of conversation: Me!
Tomorrow I have a meeting with the SVP of Communications at Nationally Huge Bank.
At the end of the month I'm having dinner with two women who've left the corporate Skinner Box to start their own non-profits.

oh, and they're interviewing another someone tomorrow to replace me . let's hope it works out.

*hic*

ooh.
i shouldn't have had all those gin & tonics; i should have eaten something (i should have had lunch that day); i shouldn't have hung out with the band. i should have been a model of rectitude.

i should have forced myself to vomit as soon as i got home instead of vomiting at 3 in the morning over the side of my bed. (i'm glad my bedroom window is open, bathing my bedroom with cold).

and so now here i am at work, shivering, sick, nauseous, throat sore, shaky, bilious and shaggy.

how not to treat your customers in the blogosphere...

Thrashing Through Cyberspace: AOL Eavesdrops, Grants Itself Permission To Steal Your AIM Conversations

this is perfect. perfect. perfect.
in addition to stuffing our mailboxes with crap cds, now they want assert some weird ownership over user's content. follow the links.

via metafilter

the bitch is back

The New York Times > Opinion > Op-Ed Columnist: Dish It Out, Ladies

so the tired old meme about women just not being able to hack it in the rough and tumble world of ranting and talking out your ass hits the ny times op ed pages - and practically affirms every old stereotype about crazy women, hysterical woman, meek women and why women fail to 'dish' it.

excuse me, what women are these people talking about? every single woman i know loves to dish it - and has the scalps to prove it.

great white north

i'm in minnesota.

bloom off the rose

the sparkly relaxation i feel when i've romped has worn off unusually quickly to be replaced by prickly sensations of dread, stress, grr-frustration and general ovarial displeasure.

my period is back. what. the. hell.
it just went away last week! in fact, it seemed to disappear exactly when i was making plans to call B-- (previously known as WetNacho.) it was as if my uterus was squealing, 'hey, girls! we're about to have company! clean up!'

but now that company has eaten all the chips, said goodnight and called a cab, the girls feel it's all right to muck about the place again.

i'm not having it.

well, ok. i am. because if i try to not have it and go on the pill, the hormones will kill me and give me a stroke. (not in that particular order.)

The Revealer: My Radio, My God

The Revealer: My Radio, My God

this is an excellent piece from a christian woman who works for her local npr station (gasp! horrors!).

read it while i revise my resume for the umpteenth time and figure out how i can be less materialistic while trying to be a social do-gooder.

dry spell broken

oh my.
the relief, the lassitude, and the post-coital train ride home, my bra crumpled in my tumi bag.

wet nacho is no more.

spidey and jesus: good buds

heh.(05/02/02)

i'm brain dead, i tell you. brain dead.

modo...yawn

The New York Times > Opinion > Op-Ed Columnist: Frozen Mermaids, Scary Sirens

when women's autonomy is under serious threat we get her bland musing on plastic surgery and individuation. can we just get serious for a moment? huh? for one quick moment?

(erm, conversations about my bed and career are totally serious - good sleeping health and economic feasibility are good things.)

who can be surprised at the bland homogenized actresses around us? our culture has reached a point when difference (both at an ideological or physical level) needs to be erased so that our own puny identities can remain stable and strong. we are creating a cultural suburbia that will be harder and harder to escape. our celebrities morph into one another; our politicians slowly melt into indistinguishable parties; our citizens become more lumpish and silent.

tell us something we don't know, MoDo.

my career

so yesterday i had a fantastic second interview with Global Human Resource Consulting Co. it lasted 2 hours. i had wonderful conversations and even used my newfound vocabulary from harvard's 'Difficult Conversations' book. (yes, trust-bridge IS going to enter the corporate lexicon.) wearing my new glasses, sporting glossy curls and pants that didn't make my ass look like a squeezed tube of toothpaste (unlike today's ensemble), i was an advertisement for corporate project mgmt-hood.

then i told my boss about it.

today, i had a voicemail from her: "Ding, MM from Gargantuan Banking Conglomerate is going to contact you soon. She wants to talk to you about foundation work and non profit work and she also wants to set up a lunch meeting with you with So-and-So to talk about what you really really want to do. Do NOT fall back on the corporate stuff. You are TOO GOOD. Get me your resume. We are going to talk tomorrow."

this morning my boss stood in front of me and said: "Ding, in this city MM and So-and-So are the two hardest women to get in to see. They don't see anyone. They want to see you and they are opening their little black books for you. If you need my help all you have to do is ask. Just ask. Don't be afraid. You are going to be glorious. We just need to find you a place to be glorious in."

i'm SO not good about accepting help from people. especially white people. sorry, it's true. the power differential is hard to ignore. aargh.

more blather...

and ... since i just got a check from a 401k i totally forgot about, what should i do with it?

buy a really nice bed? (my futon is making my back hurt)
put it in a CD? (it's not that big of a check...)
pay off student loan? (yuck)
put half away and use other half to buy lovely adult bed, with linens?
open savings account?
roll it over?

be responsible adult OR spend it now on something like... a really great bed?

the clue kevin drum needs to get

New Words Bookstore Web Site, About--No Frames Version

i know. dead horse. beaten.
but if he really wanted to know where the girls are (gag) then all he has to do is go here.

ass.

blather

the new season of the amazing race rocks - and managed to get me to cry. wearing cut off shorts and flannels, these two hog lovers mangled the english language, the spanish language, needed subtitles, and slowly jogged their way across peru. but when big soft men with southern accents cry while describing their deep love and affection for one another, i have to get all teary, too.

in other tv news, jennifer (the blandest of all bachelorettes) took a road less traveled and decided that NEITHER of the bachelors would get her boring-ass hand in marriage.

and i'm still on the hunt for the perfect pair of trousers. (why can't i find a pair of pants cut exactly like my favorite pair of jeans soi can wear them to work?? why?? why does the clothing industry have to frustrate me?? why can't i find that nice pencil skirt that won't pull across my tummy?)

um, and i'm going to minneapolis next week.

envy me for the excitement i leave in my wake.

love is in the air

uh, not my air. BC's air.

this is what i love about parties - the sense that you're riding a razor thin line between social disaster and the best orgy in town. it's hard to maintain that delicate balance. thanks to my roomie's near-obssessive (love you!) drive to throw an annual oscar bash that rivals most gay parties i've been to, sunday night veered from the ecstatic (the best gay jello mold dedicated to superman i've ever seen) and the bizarre ('baby in the corner', dedicated to jerry orbach, mustered out of matzoh crackers.)

but, lo, there in the dark corner under the tea lights, lurve blossomed. my friend BC took one look at T-- (tall, gregarious, gorgeous T--) and lost his heart. i could see the vibes rippling off him like microwaves. and, to my surprise (not to mention the dismay of roomie) the vibes were received loud and clear. yes, BC has a voice that's pitched somewhere higher than jennifer tilly's but that's ok. love grows in all sorts of fallow ground.

when i said i hoped they went out, A-- mildly freaked out, but that's ok, too. you see, in our friendship circle we function very differently. A-- is the traffic cop, bringing red flags and danger signs to everyone's attention; i am the bystander, watching the accident from the curb thinking that the drivers were both adults and should have known better themselves. to A-- BC is a big red flag; to me, he's a mild diversion.

we're all adults, right?