this bird you cannot chaaaaannnnge

So, I'm sitting in San Francisco coffee this morning catching up on the three hundred emails I got between leaving work yesterday and waking up this morning. Three hundred emails from the job I do not get paid for, of course. If my volunteer hours had a dollar amount attached to them, I would be either a millionaire or philanthropist of the year.

Sometimes I wish I was more of a free spirit. Like the guy who is in the corner of the coffee shop who is playing the bongos and a thumb piano. Oh, wait, now he's jamming out on an African drum and a the kind of flute that wood nymphs play. When I woke up this morning thinking of the work I needed to squeeze in before lunch, this guy strolled his happy ass down the street to jam out. It is quite amusing to watch the responses of the aging hipsters here at the coffee shop on Dekalb Ave. Some, like me, peek up over their laptop monitors and smirk. I see one guy in his earth shoes that he can only wear on weekend tapping his fingers and nodding his head in the way he probably once did at a Phish concert back in the day.

I will never be free like a bird like this guy playing the rainforest music. I bet he probably hangs out in sweat lodges, too, and only buys organic at the co-op. I imagine that this is the kind of music Matthew McConaugheyplays on the beach. I guess I can understand the appeal of his lifestyle, but this bird you cannot change. Instead of relaxing me, it kindn of makes me want to take his peace pipe and throw it out in to the street.

Actual bongo guy not pictured above.

same as it ever was...a 2008 retrospective

It is time for another annual retrospective...
January...Did very little actual work at my boring, boring, boring job. Applied for about 80 jobs and realized I needed desperately to go back to school. Applied to grad school.
February...Turned 29. Had kind of an anticlimactic birthday...the countdown to 30 officially began. Went on a wonderful cruise with my mom.
March...Continued to do very little actual work at my boring, boring, boring job. Did a lot of work getting ready for New Orleans. Realized how much work I did for free. Broke up with Tony and was sad about that fact. Tried to get over it. Decided that perhaps painting my living room would make it better. It kind of did.
April...Went to New Orleans for the 10th anniversary of VDay and had an amazing, wonderful, soul stirring time. Kerry Washington came to my party in the French Quarter, rode in the car with Kerry and Rosario Dawson.
May...I'm not really sure what I did in May. Perhaps I recovered from April?
June...Got into grad school. Wasn't sure if I was ready to make the leap to start grad school and leave behind my illustrious life of working at my boring job and applying for jobs I wasn't getting. Spent the summer hanging out with my brother.
July...Got my pink slip from my boring, boring, boring job and wasn't quite sure what to do about that except, well, paint my kitchen, go to grad school and suck it up until then. Decided to let myself be more excited than scared about that. Miraculously got my new job, which wonder upon wonders, got to work full time until school started. Adopted the cutest doggie ever named Mrs. Robinson. Named her Ginger and then decided that was totally the wrong name. Named her Penny Lane and it was perfect. Let Penny keep her maiden name.
August...Got incredibly intoxicated and went skinny dipping in some random apartment complex pool and cursed out my friends for not driving me home after sleeping on a lounge chair until 6 AM. Decided that I was too old for such tomfoolery.
September...Started graduate school and began several months of all work, very little play for Nikki. Worked, worked, worked, slept, worked. Laura moved out, Katie moved in. Had Laura and Oscar separation anxiety.
October...Jeannie got married and I wore the apple bottom jeans and the boots with the fur for Halloween. Didn't have a Halloween party for the first time in a long time due to lack of time and funds, and didn't really miss it that much. Was much happier hanging out with everyone in Nashville.
November...Swimming Upstream premiered and it truly amazingly wonderful. Met Claire Huxtable and Whitley Gilbert. Eve Ensler told me she "woke up with your face burning in my heart." Got all A's in my classes and had a gigantic event for work. Finally got a break from all that school and work. Went to Tennessee for the first time in three years for Thanksgiving. Was really glad to not have to cook for several days straight.
December...Worked part time and did a whole lot of nothing the rest of the time. Went to see Madonna with Jill which was immensely bad ass. Watched a lot of movies and made a lot of Christmas cards. Enjoyed a very low key Christmas with the family.

the one where they all turn 30

My blogging is sparse these days, but honestly, it hasn't been all that eventful around these parts. Christmas this year was low key, just the nuclear family - Mom, Dad, and John - and lasagna. A few days before Christmas, John and I discovered Photo Booth on his Mac Book, and we had quite a bit of fun (as you can see) with our distorted Christmas photos. My mom had them printed on a photo Christmas card and sent them to the family. And now, we are on the eve of 2009. It's a quiet day at the office, and I'm counting down to 3:00 PM when I can leave. With the dawning of the new year, I will also begin counting down to my 30th birthday, which is February 15. I didn't think I would be one of those people who freaks out on their 30th birthday, but it has been looming ominously in the distance, creeping ever closer and the days tick by. It's just a number, and I realize that thirty isn't OLD, per say. But it is a milestone, and one of those birthdays I think that makes you ponder where you've been, where you are, where you would like to be, where you thought you would be at thirty...
I'm not sure where I thought I would be. I had a bit of a freak out after I graduated from college when the realities of life post meal plan set in. Instead of all of our benchmarks happening at the same intervals (drivers license at 16, high school graduation at 18, off to school, out into the world at 22) the timetables were all different for everyone. So I decided to throw mine out of the window. I have friends who have 3 year plans, 5 year plans, 10 year plans, but I have been more comfortable letting life unfold as it does, taking the next step when it feels natural, instead of saying I had to be a certain place at a certain time. This has worked pretty well for me, and it has alleviated a lot of my performance anxiety, if you will. So, why is it, as 30 inches closer, that I feel so unnerved?
I keep thinking about that episode of Friends when Rachel turns 30 and she realizes that she has less time than she thought she did. She wants to have a baby by 36, so that means she has to be pregnant by 34. She wants to be married three years before she has a baby, so she has to be married at 31, but she wants to be engaged for a year before she gets married....so she needs to be dating the person she wants to marry...right then. All of a sudden, before you know it, the time has just slipped by. I was talking to Eric about turning 30, as he is two years older than me, and he said he didn't really worry about 30 because he felt like it just meant he had ten more years until he was 40, and the clock just kind of reset. I think its different for women because of the childbearing thing. The hard, disturbing truth of the matter is that the eggs just aren't always fresh. So, at almost 30, we feel like 35, that magical age where your eggs are supposedly and suddenly going bad, is just around the corner. It's really bizarre. So, out of the blue, I'm bordering on spinsterdom.
Le sigh. It's all a bit much, and it's a bit dramatic of me, too, I realize. I'm not doing so bad for 29...almost 30. I'll have a masters degree by the end of the year, I directed a play with Jane Fonda in it. That's pretty good. But there's so much more I wish I had. I guess that's always the way it is, the grass is greener, there's still more to be done. And perhaps I should be glad that its not all over and done with, that I haven't checked it all off the list and am twiddling my thumbs with nothing left to do. I suppose it means that all of these things that I'm waiting for are still out there for me to find. 30 isn't the end of the road, of course. But for me, it feels like a clock that was never ticking, a timeline that never existed, has just been imposed on me out of the blue. Le sigh all over again.

you're frequently dazzling, edward cullen

Ok, I'm over denying it. My secret is out, and it wasn't a secret for long. I am completely obses....um...enthralled with the Twilight books. I blame Amanda. I have also decided, along with most every thirteen year old girl, that Edward Cullen is quite possibly the most perfect man alive. Um...dead. Undead? Anyways, he's super duper delish either way, and I don't care what anyone says. The books are fantabulous. I'm on a bit of a vacay and I have read the first two in the past week and a half. I went to see the movie within an hour of finishing the first book. Crazy? Perhaps. OK, so this vampire is seventeen, but who's counting? Here's the thing - he's the next Jordan Catalano, only less non-commital. He's mysterious, brooding, untouchable, dangerous, but he totally wants to love Bella more than he wants to drink her blood. It's simple, but it's a reciple for total teenage awesomeness. I might be in love with him. It might be illegal, whatev.

maverick, darn it

So, I'm watching the vice presidential debates, and among the other things that came to my mind, including the mispronunciation of the word "nuclear" and the over use of "darn it", was why the nickname "maverick" for McCain and Palin was so confusing to me. Why am I having such a hard time equating this term to this ticket? I hear "maverick" thrown around and I just don't know what that means. Well, I've decided what my problem is...it's because the only Maverick I know is Tom Cruise from the good old days, before we knew how crazy he is. Maybe that's the real equation.

Maverick: What's your problem, Kazanski?
Iceman: You're everyone's problem. That's because every time you go up in the air, you're unsafe. I don't like you because you're dangerous.
Maverick: That's right! Ice... man. I am dangerous.

Maybe we've all just lost that lovin' feelin'?

if i had some time to think i would...

Life has quickly become incredibly busy with work and school and interning that I have found that I have very little time to do anything but get to where I need to be, get as much done there as I can, go home, do as much studying as I can...sleep and show in between...repeat...the closest thing to socializing I have done is watching Project Runway and spending time with my little weiner dog, Penny. Thank God for Penny. I have piles of laundry, which drives me insane since I am a little obsessive with needing order in my environment, and my car is more of a giant purse than it normally is (my car is the exception to the rule). I'm happy being in school and happy for the most part with my job, but I am overwhelmed with everything, too. In my fantasy world where I have free time and free money to make things pretty, I would make my office area look like this...(I stole this photo from Mabel, who I stalk at least weekly.)

the parlor and happy hollow farm

Photo: The Happy Hollow Farm, Sweetwater, TN

The farm was just off the Oakland Road exit to Sweetwater on I-75. There really wasn't much off the exit, just farmland, the Dinner Bell Restaurant where no one ever orders anything but the buffet, and a fireworks store that someone tried to turn into an arcade for a while. The road wides around a bit past the exit, and there it was on the right with the little white sign that read, "Happy Hollow Farm." The farm seemed like its own tiny, perfect universe. The little barn, the silo, and the white farm house. The gently rolling field that was alive and rich green in the spring and summer, quiet brown straw in the winter. The way the foothills of the smokey mountains cradled all of it. I imagined life on the farm was full of simple beauty, and I peeked inside it every time I drove by. A few years ago, a "For Sale" sign was put up in front of the farm. Someone bulldozed it and turned it into an auto scrap yard.

Photo: The Parlor, Sweetwater, TN

The house in Sweetwater looked a gingerbread house, my mother said. It was a big, yellow Victorian built in the late 1800's with a wraparound porch, a porch swing, and a little balcony on the second floor. The house inspector warned my parents not to buy it, that there were too many things to fix, but my mother was in love with the house. I picked the bedroom right next to the little balcony where I could sit high above the street and watch everything. My parents planted crepe myrtles that grew into an archway over the walkway to the front porch. Just off the entryway with the antique crystal chandelier and screen door that always slammed shut was the parlor. It was a Norman Rockwell room, with an old gas fireplace with a big white mantle, pocket doors, and the window where the light streamed in so gently in the morning through the lace curtains. The gas fireplace never worked, of course. The pocket doors were off their tracks and never worked properly, and my father once had to hunt down a squirrel that moved into the wall behind them. But it was the room where you could curl up on the couch and read and forget the world. It was the Christmas room, the window seemed like it was put there for the sole purpose of framing a Christmas tree. It was always cold and drafty in the parlor, but we wrapped ourselved in blankets on Christmas morning and my brother and I fought over who had to sit on the cold floor and pass out presents.

I don't remember the last days in that house, with the boxes packed and the rooms empty. I had already moved away, but leaving that place was too hard, even though it was never close to how perfect it looked from the outside. My father and my brother lived in that house for almost two years after he was forced out of the church he pastored two blocks away. My mother moved to Atlanta to get a better job, my brother stayed to finish high school, and they waited there until the house sold. I imagine it must have been lonely in that big house. A retiree couple bought the house, and a few months later, they cut down the beautiful crepe myrtle archway, but left the stumps of the six trees all lined up on each side of the walkway, the front of the house bare.

I still go back sometimes, to visit friends from high school or to stop by on my way to see my brother at school. I take the Oakland road exit, and I drive by the yellow gingerbread house. I remember once that an old woman at church told me that someone birthed a stillborn child there many years ago. The house was its own story, the walls full of the laughter and tears of the people who have lived there. In some way, it will always be ours.

crocs = bad parenting

Apparently there is another reason other than the sheer fact that they are hideous that crocs should be banned. They are also bad for your health.

Crocs is being sued for $2 million over an accident where a child wearing the monstrous plastic ronald mcdonald duck feet was caught in the escalator at Atlanta Harstfield Jackson Airport. The child had several broken toes, the parents allege their son was "severely and permanently injured." I say sue the parents for severe and permanet psychological injury from making their child wear those shoes. Imagine the ridicule later in life. $2 million isn't enough. A broken toe will always heal.

Just say no to Crocs, people.

(On a side note, I have a totally abnormal fear of escalators. This story will probably only make that worse. )

you get a car, you get a car, you get a car!

I'm not giving away any cars, but Amanda and I were talking today about Oprah, and how she has super human powers. We were discussing the fact that she finished the Marine Corps marathon in 4 hours 29 minutes, an hour faster than Katie Holmes and Mario Lopez finished their marathons. I'm not knocking Oprah, but this just seems kind of weird to me. Amanda responded by confiding in me that when she was a kid, she thought Oprah's name was Okra. "Hey mom, Okra's on." And I decided if I were having a Favorite Things show, okra would probably one of the things I would give away to my audience. Probably from Cracker Barrell. Who knows? You might even get a biscuit with it too.

Nikki's Favorite Things, In No Particular Order:
Okra - fried, not pickled
Pabst Blue Ribbon on draft
Christian Louboutin shoes (not that I've ever owned a pair, I've only tried them on, but they were heavenly, and I covet them deeply in my heart)
Really big, fluffy white cotton towels
Diet coke
Papermate Liquid Expresso Pens, extra fine point (I have to be that specific)
The chicken finger dinner from the Gondolier in Sweetwater, TN (once I accidentally drove 2 hours out of way way to have it, true story)
The first season of The Real World - New York (before they just picked pretty people)
The second season of The Real World - Los Angeles ("It wasn't not funny!")
The third season of The Real World - San Francisco (snot rockets) - and after that, the real world wasn't that real
The iPod touch (I do not own one, but my mom does, and it is fantastic)
Leggings (I know I'm too old for them, and I don't care)
Guacamole from Tesoro in Decatur
Vanilla mint listerine
The Chi hair iron (probably one of the most expensive things I own, next to my computer)
Stacey and Clinton - if I could give them to myself I would

If you were on my episode of Nikki's Favorite Things, you would probably be pretty disappointed, I'm sure. It's not much. But small things make me happy.

rescue 911

I have an incredibly overactive imagination, but the dogs waking me up at 3 AM barking incessantly was very real. The burglars, murderers, and rapists I pictured lurking outside my house were probably not. But I as I checked each window and doorway, I had 9 and 1 dialed and my finger ready to make the emergency call. I was alone in the house, the dogs never bark unless someone is at the door, and at 20 and 13 pounds, they aren't even ankle biters. I live on a busy street with a lot of pedestrian traffic, on the ground floor, with windows low to the ground and easy to kick in. Although I know that in most cases, if someone really wants to break into your house, or hurt you, they will find a way to try, and that the odds of it happening are in my favor, I am also very aware that given where I live and that I am mostly by myself and unarmed, I feel particularly vulnerable.

Two nights later, when the dogs woke me up again just after midnight, I got up with my only weapon, my phone, in hand. My heart was pounding and as I began turning on all the lights, there was a loud crash that sounded like someone took a battering ram to the house. I immedietely dialed 911 and told the dispatcher that I thought someone tried or was trying to break into my house and told her about the crash. She asked if I saw anyone, and I told her I hadn't even left my bedroom and wasn't planning to do so by myself. She assured me that an officer was on his way. Less than two minutes later, not one, but two patrol cars and three Decatur police officers were at my house. This is typical of Decatur, even if you get pulled over, its never just by one cop. I don't think they have anything better to do. They were probably crossing their fingers that they were going to get some action at my house. As the officers went through not just our backyard but my neighbors, as well, I tried to call my upstairs neighbors, who I know were home and hadn't been asleep very long (unfortunately, I can hear pretty much everything they do upstairs). No answer. The officers finished their search, no one was to be found, no signs of forced entry. I thanked the officers, assured them I wasn't crazy, just scared, and they promised me they would keep an eye out. I realized I was probably now on their "potentially crazy" list. I went back inside, and feeling more secure, did my own search inside. I opened my roommate's door, and there I found the culprit. Her wall mounted shelves, heavy with books, had crashed to the ground.

I sat on my front porch in the sticky, now very quiet, summer night smoking a cigarette, my heart rate returning to normal, feeling a little embarassed, but also feeling alone and a little helpless. I didn't have anyone to talk to, no one to breathe a sigh of relief with. When I was awakened by the dogs and the burglar bookshelf, there was no one there to ease my mind as I pictured villains outside ready to do me harm, no one to have my back as I checked windows and doors and empty rooms, where I could have detected the burglar bookshelf without bringing in the cavalry. I always assumed that in an emergency, my neighbors are close, I know them well, certainly they would answer a call for help. It's true, I was safe, but what if I hadn't been attacked by furniture?

I am comforted that now I know that even though they probably have me on their list, I live in a place where I can use my phone as a weapon because the police get there so quickly. But even if it's not a 911 emergency (I can't say it without thinking of William Shatner), sometimes it's just nice to have someone around that wants to talk late at night. The dogs are nice, but they're not so good for conversation. Well...they can be, but then you become that girl. You know, the one on the crazy list.

carly gets married

My beautiful friend Carly got married last week, and here are a few pictures from her wedding. The wedding was in Marietta, waaay OTP (outside the perimeter). I went with my friend Sharon as my date, and we were both convinced that everyone thought we were lesbians from the big city. I dared Sharon to go ask one of the bridesmaids to dance. She said she hadn't had enough to drink yet. Alas, we both had to drive 40 minutes back into the city, so despite the beer and wine provided to take the edge off a room of strangers, there were only so many cocktails we could consume. That number was not enough to get us out on the dance floor with grandma, who had the smoothest moves of anyone, hands down.

and if you threw a party, invited everyone you knew

"...you would see the biggest gift would be for me, and the card attached would say..."

I have been working with a group of wonderful people on V-Day events and they presented an amazing gift to me and my partner in crime, Katie. It was a framed poem about how they are grateful for being a part of our journey, they called us their angels. It was written in beautiful script, and they all signed the back. I am always amazed when people go out of their way to show appreciation, especially in such a thoughtful way. It is relationships that give us life, it is too easy to forget to let people know that they are important to you. These people who thanked us are busy with their own lives, I know how much they are doing and working, so I was just speechless.

P.S. Speaking of the Golden Girls, I read an article about how the girls are the original Sex and the City....Blanche = Samantha, Sophia = Carrie, Rose = Charlotte, Dorothy = Miranda.

Estelle Getty recently passed away at age 84, here is an article about her life. A quote from the article I related to, "The Golden Girls culminated a long struggle for success during which Getty worked low-paying office jobs to help support her family while she tried to make it as a stage actress. 'I knew I could be seduced by success in another field, so I'd say, ''Don't promote me, please,'' she recalled." She worked for 40 years as an actress before she got her break.

confession

I think I have detoxed from celebrity gossip. I haven't read Perez Hilton, The Superficial, or Pink is the New Blog, I haven't purchased an US Weekly and haven't really more than skimmed People magazine in the grocery aisle, nor have I watched E! News or an entire True Hollywood Story in...weeks, probably over a month.

I don't know if La-Lohan and Samantha Ronson are still lesbians together. Does Britney still have custody of the kids? I haven't a clue. I think I heard something about her buying Sean Preston cigarettes? The only thing I know is that Brad and Angelina's baby pictures sold for $14 million dollars, and this when the economy is totally busted. This further supports the theory that George Bush and the entire Republican party are most likely responsible for the rise of celebrity worship in our country. Britney and Linsday are on the GOP payroll, just to make sure no one is paying attention to any real news.

Am I having withdrawl? Not really. Side effects? I have a hard time making small talk with people, I have no useless gossip to share. Shhh...don't tell anyone. It will be our secret.

***Disclaimer: I had to go to Perez Hilton to find this picture, so I've fallen off the wagon. Just a little bit. It didn't count. I feel like an alcoholic who thinks they can have a drink now and then socially. Regardless, I read that there was a shooting at Jermaine Dupri and Diddy's (Sean Combs, whatever) party here in Atlanta last week. Seriously? Did they pay the shooter to attend the party so it would seem more gangsta? (No one was injured in the shooting, so I feel justified in this totally tacky statement.) Oh, and if you're interested, Lindsay and Samantha Ronson are still totally hitting it. The end.

ebb, flow, squats and porn stars

I have been sitting here trying to figure out something clever to write about, but honestly, life has been pretty uneventful the past few weeks. It's always that way, isn't it, where you go from having all this chaos in life and then still waters? It isn't that things aren't happening, life still is moving forward, I just think that in contrast to all the upheaval from losing my job, spending a month unemployed and terrified I would end up in a cardboard box, starting a new job, and getting ready to go to school, the past month has been remarkably smooth.

Work is going well, despite the fact that the socialites I'm working with to plan our fall fundraiser are totally out of control. Like bridezillas, only their craziness isn't confined to a single event in their lives, they are actually like that all the time. But, dealing with them is pretty much what I'm paid to do, and I find that I think one of my spiritual gifts is being gracious and diplomatic when dealing with insane people. Professionally, anyways. Maybe in my next career I could be one of those people who talks people down from ledges. Although, I bet they're probably much more sane than the socialites.

Outside of work, I'm back at boot camp and cardio funk class after an extended hiatus. I was totally terrified of seeing Kym, my trainer, again after my "exercise vacation" because I envisioned her looking at me very disapprovingly and my guilt about not being there for the past few months increasing. But she had nothing but love and smiles and hugs for me, right before she kicked my ass with jump roping up hills, boxing, and doing this insane move where you jump up on a picnic table. Who does that?

I also bought skates and have been to roller derby workshops a couple of times. My skates are awesome, but perhaps too awesome for me, as I have a hard time looking cool on them. We've been learning "skills" like the pivot turn, the T-stop, and skating in "derby position", which was explained to us as skating in a squat position "like when you are going to the bathroom at the Star Bar or MJQ and you don't want to sit on the seat." My favorite skill was the falls, I was really good at falling. Yes, there is actually skill to falling on skates and not taking a skate up your nether regions or breaking an ankle. I accidentally fell onto my skate with my ass and I thought I might not be able to have children. There is a fall called the "porn star" in which you fall face forward on to your knees and forearms, sort of ass up, hence the name "porn star". Those derby girls. No one beat me up, I didn't get any 'bows to the face or anything, but I was exceedingly sore the next day, if I got my legs crossed, I couldn't physically uncross them myself.

I start school in six weeks, and I've got my class schedule, which is very exciting. I picture myself getting ready for school like I did in sixth grade, with my new packs of college ruled paper and my number two pencils all freshly sharpened and lined up in my pencil pouch. I cannot wait to start school. I got my class schedule, and I have classes from 11 AM - 7:30 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I'll work full days on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I assume my life outside school, work, and whatever events I can freelance will disappear as of September 16.

Life is good.

thoughts become things

The universe is change; our life is what our thoughts make it.

Marcus Arelius Antonius; 121-180 A.D.

lately i've been waking out of urgency

"Violent dreams, every night,
Lately I've been waking out of urgency
Something I said, something I did
Is bringing on this violent emergency
One black day in ghostly white
For just another sleepless night"
-Jump Little Children

I was a complete insomniac for a while. I couldn't get to sleep, and when I finally did, I would wake up every two or three hours. Sleep at 1:00. Awake at 3:00...4:00...5:30...now worried that I will actually fall asleep and miss my alarm...and finally decide to just get up. This was a total shock to me because I have always been the girl who can fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Get me somewhat comfortable and I will start to nod off. But for months I couldn't sleep. I went through a period with my doctor trying out different sleep aids and discovered Ambien. Sweet, sweet Ambien. You sleep the sleep of angels with Ambien - a friend described the first moments of waking up as feeling like everything is right with the world, like you are floating in a warm bath, like you're wrapped in a cloud. Sounds good, right? Unfortunately for these reasons, most people like Ambien too much and never want to stop taking it (understandably so), and because my sleep deprivation seemed to be more than temporary, I had to end that love affair. She put me on a different drug that is normally prescribed for people with migraines, but that makes you drowsy, and after a while my sleep returned to normal without any help at all.

It's been months, maybe a year, since I've had trouble sleeping, for the most part, until this week. I had a cold, or allergies, or the flu, or something this weekend, and spent most of Sunday on the couch watching bad TV. Laura brought me cold medecine, and I took some theraflu before bed. I slept fitfully in every sense of the word, tossing and turning, and when I finally fell asleep I had the most terrible dream. It was a dream so awful I haven't spoken a word of it to anyone, and I don't know if I will. It was violent and personal and entirely disturbing, so much so that I woke myself up crying. It was 5:00 AM. I got out of bed, washed my face, drank some water, tried to convince myself that it didn't really happen. But it was one of those dreams that is so vivid, you think it's real. I tried to go back to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, the dream replayed.

I am a believer that your dreams are an expression of what your brain is still chewing on. Sometimes the message is clear, and sometimes it seems like nothing you dream makes sense. I know this dream directly relates to some anger I am holding on to, and I know that there are a lot of things in my life that are transitional at the moment, so my anxiety levels are probably higher than I think they are. If I can take anything away from the dream other than fear, I think I should heed the message that I need to be cared for, and that probably needs to come from myself. Maybe that means slowing down, saying no, staying home, being intentional with my time and the things, people, and messages that feed me. Maybe I need to find a way to get some of the anger out.

The hard part is when you slow down and listen, and you don't necessarily like what you hear inside yourself. I like to believe that I am an island to myself, self-sufficient, without chinks in my armor. Of course, I am not. I am stronger than I thought myself to be, I've survived and endured situations that I didn't expect I would be able to. But, like everyone else, as much as I am strong, sometimes I'm flawed and weak, I get sad and angry, lonely and scared. That is just the human condition, it's the same road that we all walk. What I cannot figure out is why we so often pretend that we're the only ones there?

My challenge now is to pay attention to whatever it is that needs to be recognized so I can rest again. I've been afraid of sleeping because I don't want to have the same dreams again. All I can do is pay attention.

"One more day
I'm always taking the dive
All it takes is all I can give
All my waking hours just to see you live
Through this sleepless night"

make it work

Joy of all joys, Project Runway is on again. I have something to live for again. I watched the first episode at midnight last night, and honestly most of the kids didn't make much of an impression on me, except this one, Korto...she is my pick.

How do you make cherry tomatos sparkle like diamonds? I think this girl is magical.

the other

Today the executive director of the nonprofit I am now working for exclaimed from her office, "I can't believe I'm an 'other'!"

She's going to be interviewed on the Trinity Broadcast Network, a local Christian African-American broadcast channel.

The options for race on her interviewee form?
Black
Spanish
American Indian
Asian
OTHER

She continued to go on and on about how excited she was to finally be called an "other". Did I mention how pleased I am to actually enjoy the people I work with?

and you may ask yourself...where does that highway go?

"This morning I woke up, feelin brand new, I jumped up, feelin my highs and my lows, in my soul, and my goals, just to stop smoking and stop drinkin, but I been thinkin I got my reasons just to get by, just to get by..."

-Talib Kweli, Just to Get By

So, I've been gone for a while. No posts since...I don't know? Since I was a little obsessed with Sweet Valley High? Since I desired to be more like Jessica Wakefield?

Gentle readers, let me give you a bit of an update on the events of my life over the past six weeks or so...

Shortly after I spent the better part of a work day researching Sweet Valley, I was informed that I was no longer employed due to the fact that my position was not profitable. Was this a surprise? Not really. Did I loathe every moment of working there? Abso-fucking-lutely. There was nothing redeeming about that job except that I was paid and I had health insurance. Was I terrified, shell shocked, anxiety ridden? Without a doubt. I had spent 8 months prior to receiving my pink slip (which was not, in fact, pink) applying for jobs. I applied to at least 40 or 50 jobs, and had three interviews, two for the same job. I had also applied and been accepted to graduate school, but because I was almost as terrified of student loans and uprooting my life as I was of unemployment, I had let a deadline to pay my matriculation fee pass. To put it mildly, I felt fucked. Like I was Atreyu and the Nothing had chased me into the Swamp of Sadness.

Sometimes life kicks you in the ass, and that kick knocks you down and hurts like a bitch. And then you realize your fall has pushed you in a new direction. Yes, I spent a few days crying and drinking excessively. But once I found myself buying two twelve packs of Budweiser Select at the same time, "just in case", I had a reality check and moved on. I started sitting with myself, writing in my journal, checking in a few times each day, getting out of the house and going to coffee shops to send out my resume over and over again. And I paid my matriculation fee and enrolled in school. It was kind of weird, being out in the world in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, like when you left school early for a doctor's appointment or, if you were so inclined, skipped class.

The next hurdle was staying afloat financially and paying for my medication until I could find a job again. The trick was also that I needed full time work until September when school started, and then part time work after then, and both needed to pay enough for me to get by. My biggest challenge was to daily renew my trust that the Universe would always care for me, and that my dreams and visions were not given to me to be crushed. What I found in the in between time was not the Nothing. I was lifted out of sadness. It was rest, renewal, freedom, new life, exploration, faith, humility, and above all, grace. In the moments when I didn't know how I would make it through, what I needed would appear out of nowhere. Odd jobs or gifts here and there, a way out of no way.

Humbleness. This is one of the greatest things I had to learn. Accepting the kindness and generosity of friends and family when I needed it. I'm not very good at asking for help, but I had to. And one of the things I had to do was go to the Department of Labor and file for unemployment benefits. That was really a surreal experience, but it honestly wasn't that bad. And the next day I got a call from the job I really wanted, and they offered me the position. It was part time, which I didn't know how I would work out until classes started and my loans kicked in, but another miracle occured - they asked if I would work full time until then. I never had to draw unemployment. I have no idea how these things have all happened. I guess I don't have to.

For a while, everything seemed like shit pie. But everything has transformed. I'm not dragging myself out of bed every day to walk into a building I hate, to a job with people I can't relate to and nothing to do, where I loathe every moment. I don't cry on the way to my car after work, dreading returning the next day. I don't carry that burden anymore. I actually like getting up in the morning. I like the people I work with. Hell, I actually TALK to them. My gifts are finally being used. It is like the world just opened up. For that I am grateful.

"Look at the sky to survive, people try to get by, fightin force, slice of the pie, tryin to eat and be high. How you know you really alive if you don't reach for the sky? How your eyes keep on the prize...What you seek and you'll find..."

-Talib Kweli, Just to Get By

penny lane

I rescued a lovely little weiner dog a few weeks ago. The name she was given by the adoption agency was Mrs. Robinson, which was pretty cute, but its hard to say "Mrs. Robinson" every time you call her name. So, I named her Penny Lane. I suppose she's Mrs. Penny Lane Robinson? I could have given her my last name, or hypenated, but she's a woman of the world, and I'll let her keep her maiden name.

She's about six years old and 13 pounds, she's tiny and adorable. I like to say she's a survivor of sexual slavery. It's true, she was in a puppy mill and they think she had six or seven litters. They left her outside and she got heartworms. She's cured now, thankfully. They left her at Animal Control, and she was lucky to be picked up by a dashchund rescue. And then she found her way to me. When I met her, the first the I noticed was, well...her saggy boobs. She came by them honestly, she's suckled a lot of pups in her day. I keep convincing myself that they're not as saggy as they were when I got her, but I think I'm just used to them now. But she's still the prettiest little thing. And I can't judge her for her womanly shape. And I'll have saggy boobs one day, too.

She was pretty shy and scared when I got her, but she and I have really bonded, and she's way more outgoing these days. She is super spoiled and she's getting more bold in approaching people. She had an adjustment period and chewed up some of my stuff - my favorite pair of flip flops, my ipod charger. It was amazing how she picked the best stuff. It's like she has a sixth sense. I found one of my red high heels, which I love, in her crate yesterday. Luckily she hadn't done any damage yet. But despite her penchant for shoes, she's great. I gave her a bath for the first time last night and she was so well behaved. I never really understood dogs being "man's best friend", but I totally get it now. She's my girl. I don't know what I did without her.