Category Archives: Blogology

It’s not you, it’s me

By nopasanada | Published: April 10, 2009

“Readjusting is a painful process, but most of us need it at one time or another.” ~Arthur Christopher

BensonI’ve quit one job only to return and grovel – hands and knees on gravel – for my job back. I’ve probably threatened to quit every single job I’ve had ever because my first inclination is to cut and run. I’ve only successfully quit once and that is why I am now living in Upstate New York searching for cars with 4WD because there’s no way in hell I plan on quitting again. The emotional stress that it causes and the fretting and worrying about burning bridges and the lag time between paychecks. It’s all enough for me to start buying benzodiazepines in bulk and talk to them lovingly as if they’re my only friends.

I’m not good with the quitting because it can seem so final even if it isn’t. Even if something bigger and better is out there I still feel the tugging in my heart and it hurts to swallow as if this one decision is the be all, end all of my entire life. I’m not quitting anything. Promise. And there is nothing worse than sweeping declarations that I am leaving and there’s nothing else left here for me along with some Scarlet O’Hara type performance. [puts hand to forehead and faints]While I am sure as shit not quitting I am taking a slight break to get my shit together.

Here comes some great convoluted story as to why and there really isn’t one. I was presented with an opportunity and I have been shit and getting it done. Instead of taking the bull by the horns I’ve been all lackadaisical about it. There are of course superfluous issues like a renewed focus and vision for the job that actually provides me with a 401(K), a sense of unease after saying something that hurt a very dear friend of mine and the fear that I will not be forgiven for it and also do you really need to hear more about that time I drank [insert hard liquor or wine of choice here] and did [insert blindingly stupid thing here]? No. Even I’ve tired of myself a bit and I’d like 30 solid days to regroup and rid myself of an incessant need to obsess about bullshit.

It comes at quite an interesting time because it’s so not you, it’s me. I know that it isn’t you, dear Internet after the outpouring of support and generosity that came forth from your fingertips for the lovely Spohrs. And that is what helped drive this decision for right here and now; life is too short to sit around and observe it so that I can craft a paragraph or two for later. Life is good for the actual living not the sitting around and thinking of such.

The other day my friend Alice told me that I was loved and I burst into tears. Not because I was thankful but because I’m not feeling it. Which has nothing to do with anyone else except for how I perceive my life and myself. And as of late I haven’t been enjoying my life, myself, or anything that I do. Which is a big fucking problem; for if you can’t find a reason for why people – especially your friends – should love you then what is the point?

I’ve been thinking too much and taking everything way too God damn seriously. Sometimes it’s good to step back, look around and say, “I’ve got it so fucking good”.

You’ll be the first ones to receive that missive just as soon as I get there.

****

I’ll still update with posts in other places because while I need to take time away from posting here I still need to get paid.

This week on BlogHer:

Urban Interns

While I can only base this on personal experience but I do think that internships and those first jobs – even the most inane that include ‘Xeroxing’ as a skill – are a solid foundation for a career. Living in DC for six years all of which were spent attempting to build some sort of career even if it meant enjoying hors d’oeuvres at fundraisers because they were free and free lukewarm calamari is way better than Ramen; presented me with options.

Recession Hair

The cost of my hair? 80$ every four to five months. This includes hair product and price gouging at CVS for bobby pins of various sizes. Other than that, I trim it myself and I don’t really think about it. Ultimately it has been the right choice for me and I’ve totally blocked out the three months when it was a horrible frizzy mess and I wore a headband every single day.

Also posted in The year on the edge | 7 Comments

The Rambler

By nopasanada | Published: February 5, 2009

“Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say.” ~Sharon O’Brien

I had to make a quick trip to Pentagon City to return two dresses to Nordstrom. If you ask why I went all the way to Pentagon City for this return it is because it’s far easier to hop on the metro on my (FREE) trip to DC to return something to Nordstrom than drive the four hours to the closest locale. Each time I am reminded that I live so far from what used to mean so much to me – I mean THE SHOES. Good God Almighty, THE SHOES – I hang my head down and pout. Which reminds me of a very bratty story that I must share that involves me crying on the street of Puerta del Sol because I hated Madrid with every fiber of my being because I couldn’t find shoes in my size and I begged my mother to let me come home. I stayed, but again to use the Lord’s name in vain: GOOD GOD.

Anyway, during today’s sojourn, I stopped in Sephora to purchase lip product. I returned back to my hotel later with one warm and fully functional hand and another hand with bluish-gray finger tips because the temperature in DC had dropped to Upstate NY on a good day levels. I hurriedly opened my new product and behold, IT HAD BEEN USED. It was clear lip product with a trace of lip gloss on it and smeared all over the top and again GOOD GOD, I may have thrown up a little. So I plan to trek my ass to Sephora when I get home and complain loudly about why they’re selling pre-used lip product. Because no one wants red berry stain on their brand new lip moisturizer.

I’m still flummoxed by the events of the last month and I know, I KNOW I should shake those feelings off with a little shimmy but I cannot. The Things are still swirling about but one of The Things needs to see the light of day because I’m still not over this my uncle calling me fat/my mother not defending me/him smirking and quoting some parable when I told him I was highly offended/him writing a comment on my blog about my reader’s lack of intelligence/why weight is such a highly sensitive issue/the fucking fantastic photo of him eating fried chicken with all of the above as a caption. But really, why is it OK for overweight men to loudly mock the way women look? Why is it OK for someone you are related to be purposefully hurtful and when you say, “Hey! That made me cry!” they respond with a guffaw and quote the Bible? I’m not seeing the OK with any of these things.

But wait! There’s more! I’m going to try something different with this site to hone in on what little writing ability I have. Trust me, if you’ve read any earlier entries you’re probably thinking that I’ve improved right the fuck up and deserve a gold medal AND a bong hit, but alas, there’s still more perfecting to do. My friend Jen says that I’m very efficient about things and I pondered this and realized that yes, I am and my efficiency is going to either work out for me in the end or I’ll end up a failure with shitty narrative skills. We shall see. That said, I have a bit of a crush on Plinky. I tested it in Beta and thought, “I don’t get it” and now I do. It’s full of prompts and a few of the prompts have brought back memories. Like the one that asked, “Describe the coolest thing you’ve seen in another country”. And I responded with the penis I saw on the ground in Pompeii, Italy depicting where the nearest brothel was located. Oh, the Italy stories, like trying to escape and being left to fend for myself in Rome and crying and being in love and the world’s greatest puffy coat jacket with removable sleeves and a fondness for gelato. A simple prompt gets the cauldron of memories to rumble and boil over. So there are stories. Lots of stories to tell and I’m all giddy with anticipation to tell you all about it.

Also posted in The District Of Columbia | 17 Comments

More Importantly*

By nopasanada | Published: December 14, 2008

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. ‘Pooh!’ he whispered. ‘Yes, Piglet?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.’”~A.A. Milne

I don’t have sisters. My father’s potent – I say potent because there are four of us – sperm could only produce men and well, me. I’m on my third sister in law and when I was younger I’d get excited and attached only to become woefully disappointed in the end. Now that I’m older it’s another woman for my brothers and another day of the week. They don’t receive some full on approval topped off with love and devotion. Call me cynical on the idea of marriage – which I am – but it’s no longer a big deal nor a beautiful thing.

It’s not that I’m a bitch it’s just I don’t want to put all of my eggs in one basket and I like white weddings with happy endings. Though I know that at least one of my brothers has found such, I remain skeptical. So my dream of a sister (seriously, I BEGGED) is for naught.

In San Francisco Leah and I were discussing babies as the conversation often turns to with so many of my Lovelies. Over the last three and a half years I’ve learned more about parenting and that deep, never-ending love for a child who pukes on you and it’s this beautiful, not necessarily reciprocal arrangement. At least not for a few months. But for now they give you a smile and it’s a heart melting, chill inducing thing that makes a female still say YES! I WOULD STILL LOVE TO HAVE BABIES WHO VOMIT ON MY FRESHLY CLEANED JEANS.

I love my friends’ children. And it isn’t bullshit or just because they will read this but because I love them because these women have become like family to me and their children are an extension of them so despite puke and random shoving and screaming “YOU MUST LEAVE” (I’m paraphrasing there), I love these children with a fierceness because I love their mothers.

Leah said that I’m like that little sister who has yet to have a baby. But if/when I do (God willing) I’ll be able to go back to them and say, “Oh my hell, this mother fucker is projectile vomiting/pooping up his back/screaming like a banshee/WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CANNOT DRINK?!?!?” and they will be understanding and say, “Yeah we know. Remember when you made fun of me? Well know it’s your turn, sucka”. And then they’ll laugh but be understanding and tell me that I’m fine and my kid won’t die and I’m normal. Period.

As I write, Leah is having her son and the waiting is killing me because I know that it’s going on. So this is a missive to them, my friends, The Lovelies: WAITING SUCKS. And knowing when you are in labor/going to have a baby is awful because I spend my afternoons/evenings pacing and drinking and waiting and nervously tapping and being really fucking annoying by texting you. But know that I do it out of love and caring and because my ovaries aren’t being used for anything productive but when I do finally give in and have offspring (God help us all) just know that I won’t make you suffer. Maybe.

*More Importantly because I still haven’t announced the Wii and Wii Fit winner but there is one and you will know by some time tonight.**

**Also there was some wine involved in this post (can you tell?) and tears because in the middle of writing I got a phone call from Leah and Simon and y’all need to see there brand new baby. So, so happy.

Also posted in Inebriated prose, Whoa feelings | 7 Comments

Oh baby, baby

By nopasanada | Published: September 19, 2008

“Every baby needs a lap. ” ~Henry Robin

So, I didn’t like babies. And I sure as hell didn’t want children. I’m sorry, I was unequivocally against having oft thankless, little people stuck to me and sucking every bit of energy and money from me thus leaving me little time to enjoy the finer things in life like Anthropologie and wine flights. One of my parents, the one with the xx chromosomes once upon a time felt the same way about children. She once told me that she used to see parents in the park with their children and think it was the most god awful thing. Then she had a child (moi) and realized that hey! These children? With their snotty noses and wet kisses and need to shove their half eaten bits of food into your mouth? They’re not so bad. So she went on and had another (Garrett) and lo has now made it through two and half decades without either of us going to prison or losing a limb. She deserves a medal or some flowers or something.

It always seemed that babies were so very needy. And their neediness would have to trump my neediness and when you’re in high school and college your needs come before everyone elses needs. It wasn’t like I had some plans to get pregnant right then and there at the age of 19 it’s just that I’m a planner and my plans did not include getting up at 3 AM to feed someone else because really? What kind of human being decides that eating at 3 AM would be a fantastic idea? You know what’s a good idea at 3 AM? SLEEPING. Try it. It will do wonders for your complexion and overall health and maturity. It will also prevent your parents from putting you up for adoption.

Noah Storch was four weeks old when I met him. His mother had deemed me acceptable to watch her precious newborn as determined by my love of Coach bags and a good petite syrah of which we had a mutual love. People who like expensive bags and wine are so totally not crazy. I swear. He was all bundled up in his stroller and I didn’t touch him that first day. I just peeked periodically at his tiny fists and face and then had a flashback to the first time I met one of my cousins. He was the exact age that Noah was, I was 10 and I didn’t understand that babies didn’t come equipped with strong neck muscles. I removed my hand from the back of his head and he went flying the hell back. And well, that ended my association with those under the age of eight months. And even then it was touch and go.

Newborns are kind of…how do I put this gently?…Boring. They’re boring. They sleep like 90% of the time and when they are awake they’re only interest is screaming in protest for having being born or because they are hungry. Then again, I’m a bitch when I’m starving and have spent the last four days complaining about my oh so difficult life so I can almost understand their angry. Newborns are also so tiny. It’s impossible for my mind to move past their relative size and generally gentle demeanor for they haven’t yet become cynical or suspicious. They like to be held and well, I was good at the holding. So on that first night with Noah we sat together and I held him. All evening I held him and rocked him and sniffed the top of his head. I held him in the bathroom while the faucet ran because he liked the sound of running water and fuck environmental conservation when there is squwaking involved.

The next morning Amy told me that he slept through the night and demanded to know what I did to get her kid to sleep an entire night. Was it drugs? Crushed up Ambien in his Similac? WHAT? I just held him. And that’s what I did for the first two months and every time I saw Noah thereafter. I held him. I would get to his house stressed out after a day of dealing with adults who I wanted to face plant in a pile of dung. I would be tired and cranky and I’d see this tiny face, the face of a person who would cry in protest or would poop on my freshly dry cleaned pants or would spit up on me. But then night would come and we would sit in the dark listening to music and I would just hold him.

And that’s what I love about newborns. They’re actually my favorite. As my friend, Charlie says, they’re ‘teeny tiny’ and gorgeous. They’re needy and they doth protest way too fucking much. They’ll puke on you with aplomb. They’re mercurial. They don’t know the difference between night and day and they could give two shits if you’re tired. But they’re fairly easy to please. They just like to be held and snuggled and hugged. It’s like all of their problems can be solved with a new diaper and a gentle coo as you hold them as close to you as possible. It’s precious and endearing to feel them fall asleep with their heads resting on the side of your neck. You smile while holding them and wish that all of their problems for the rest of their lives could be solved just as easily. But for now you close your eyes and sit there with them knowing that this? This is the easy part.

*This post is for Kristen and Rebecca and Amy and the Mo’ Babies Shower Extravaganza in honor of the impending arrival of their teeny tiny babies. Congratulations, ladies.

Also posted in On Happiness, Whoa feelings | 16 Comments

Survival of the fittest

By nopasanada | Published: September 12, 2008

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

You know those people who when you ask them how they’re doing, they reply fine all rapid fire like and succinct and then when you press for details because you are genuinely interested in knowing how this person’s life is going, everything is a one word answer? Those people who say “Fine. Oh, I’m fine. Everything is fine. Just fine” as if “fine” is the only word they know in the English language and to find a replacement would require a thesaurus. I am that person. The person who answers ‘fine’ to everything and then thinks that that is a perfectly adequate answer and nothing else should be inquired as to the state of my general well being. Obviously I am alive and breathing without an assistive device so clearly nothing can be that bad. Right? Right. But oh, oh, the way I can put on a front. I should have been a damn theater major with the way I can smile on the outside while feeling as if every ounce of happiness is being sucked from my insides with the force of a Dyson; well, it’s an art.

And the Oscar for Most Able to Look Happy on the Outside While Dying a Slow and Painful (and somewhat exaggerated) Soul Sucking Death on the Inside goes to…Heather Barmore.

My shoulders are starting to hurt due to the number of times I’ve given myself a congratulatory pat on the back for not sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth and threatening to bite people if they come near me with another asinine question. And that is the best way to describe how God-awful this summer has been. Then again, in the grand scheme of things and as I stated so eloquently before, I am still breathing and standing unassisted but still in the grand scheme of things known as my life and mental well being, I think this summer would go down as the one when I almost ended up in a straight jacket.

But of course, I was FINE! No really, just FINE! So fine in fact that on July 31st, I wrote something that will forever be saved in DRAFT and there it will stay until I have a teenager and my teenager throws herself on the floor in some crazy dramatic fashion because life isn’t fair and she has it so hard and OMFG I didn’t let her stay out until 2 AM. Then I will show my teenage daughter this DRAFT post and tell her that she can’t over drama me. Oh hell no, if she wants to see overdramatic hyperbole and prove herself worthy of throwing an excellent temper tantrum, then she needs to try a little harder. For her mother is wholly unimpressed.

I’ll give you a paraphrased excerpt. The part where I literally walked around a small coastal town feeling as if I was losing my mind while everything inside of me broke in two: “I’m wearing shades not because my future is bright but because I can’t walk around town in tears. I make calls and stifle each sob as I wander up and down the main street trying to find some sense of relief. I head to the Ferry to get a schedule and peer over the edge. There’s a railing on Beach Road but it’s almost waist high and the water isn’t nearly deep enough to incur the damage that I would really need at this point. So instead I hoist my bag back over my shoulder, wipe my eyes and head home.” Actually, I walked back home and drank Bacardi straight from the bottle and cried myself to sleep. Then I woke up had some clam strips and was suddenly right as rain.

The summer was all about taking several small things, having them crash together at the exact same time as if they all planned to converge based on wind speed and temperature to fuck with my brain and lo a tornado has dropped down in my cerebral cortex. All of the little things were only exacerbated by my already fragile mental state and then stick me on a plane all over the damn country and as you can imagine there were moments when I was about as a pleasurable as a colicky six month old with reflux who is teething and thinks that sleep is for pussies.

The other day I stepped out of my office and it was slightly chilly. Not freezing but a nice 73 degrees and cool enough for a ¾ sleeve jacket. It smelled like fall. Like right around the corner would be pumpkin spice lattes and pick your own apples and cowl neck sweaters. That was the night that I finally turned off the fan and decided that I wouldn’t be in need of it anymore. It wouldn’t be hot as hell anymore and the interminable hell that had been a personal slugfest through summer appeared to be over. At last. I’ve been looking forward to September for quite sometime. Perhaps because I would be adding colors like ‘eggplant’ and ‘plum’ to my wardrobe or because I knew that if I could make it to September without quitting my job or life, then I would be OK. And then it would be smooth sailing and my parents would high five in a few weeks on my 25th birthday for raising a child who made it a quarter century without going to prison on charges of Losing Her Shit.

Yesterday, I finally felt a bit more settled. As the remainder of the summer weight was lifted off of my shoulders and I felt my feet a little more firmly planted. Yes, I thought, I feel good now. When I got home a package had arrived from Suebob. In it was a note that I read first before tearing into what was in the bubble wrap. You see, during one of my jaunts through somewhere, I lost all of my favorite jewelry. Including my superhero necklace and my pearls. Yes, these were material things that can easily be replaced but my superhero necklace always made me feel better and my pearls went with everything. The note from Suebob was expressing her sadness for me when I lost my superhero necklace and that she saw that I had been wearing one in most of my BlogHer photos. She happened to have two and one of them wasn’t her style and so she sent it to me. She sent me a brand new superhero necklace. But! And there’s always a but, when I thanked her there was a caveat. The caveat being that it needed to be a Pay it Forward scenario. She made me thrilled beyond believe with her generosity and now I had to be a little kinder. A little less acerbic and less bite to my words. “Wag more, bark less” she said. Cease with my feelings of woe is me and life is too hard and I should just pack up and move somewhere else because I’m not cut out for anything. So I agreed. And now that the end of summer has arrived, for once I am not lying through my teeth when saying that I feel a little bit better than my previous self.

Farewell, summer. You were a Goddamn royal pain in the ass like nails on a chalkboard and metal hitting a filling and like being kicked in the groin repeatedly for sport. You will not be missed. Bring on the knee high boots and turtleneck sweaters.