f&*k it, i’ll wear the angry boots

pile of depressionthis is what my version of angry pseudo-depression looks like in the morning.

house is empty – all are off to their days of fruitful income and i’m here in the quiet of it all. still job hunting/begging. still mad at everything.

i’ve decided to pack up the laptop & headphones to go sit all emo-like in a coffee bar to do some ‘writing.’ basically, this gives me a reason to put actual day clothing on.

started out with the same pair of skinny (stretch) jeans. then, shoes – before shirt – not sure why, maybe i was trying to be unpredictable. it’s springish outside, & in maine, that means it could be fall or spring – it’s overcast, little humid, little breezy and about 50 degrees. i just got a pair of moccasins (they’re trendy & they aren’t slippers – shut up). it’s a good day for them & they pair well with the 7-day old jeans.

i’ve got one.

one shoe. the other one – the other one apparently became sucked into a black hole that transports my personal items to a planet where the inhabitants hate me. a place where my phone, keys, item-of-the-moment are taken from me & collected for these inhabitants to gather on saturday nights and enjoy hate-buttered popcorn and watch me search frantically, throw things and cry. these people, they’re life form is purely propelled by my misfortune.

back to the shoe. it’s gone. i’m now on my ass sitting in front of my closet, shirtless, jean-full and half-shoed. i. will. not. cry. oh no. no i won’t.

i. will. throw. shoes.

all of them. on hands and knees i begin to chuck each shoe behind me -the sound of the crashes behind me make me feel mad-happy. the cats have scattered and the dog is barking. it felt good. i actually found shoes i hadn’t seen in a while. that moccasin? still effing MIA.

angry bootsso. i took charge. i flipped the bird to the sky (to that planet of hate, screw you). i’m wearing the angry boots. chunky, buckle-y and emo-black. it’s okay really, i like where my outfit went from there, came together nicely.

it’s like angry-edgy, softened by my fake strand of pink pearls. i like to call my ensemble my ‘cloudy-day-coffee-bar-writer’s look.’

besides, the boots make a louder stomping sound when i mini-tantrum with each inbox refresh.

spring is finally here

how Luci does her first toes in the sand of the season.

Spring is here!

this is a toddlerism at its best: acting upon an exact emotion in the moment. it is these moments in raising a mini-human that i am taught a life lesson.

welcome spring, it’s been a long-ass winter.

on matters of hope and job hunting

IMG_7876i bought a trash can. i didn’t need a trash can, especially a pint sized one. admittedly, the floral print drew me in and the clearance $2.48 price tag sealed the deal. what i said to myself as i placed it next to my toddler in the buggy (yes, it’s a buggy, that’s what i call it) was the best part:

“I’m going to have an office for this to go in, that’s why I’m buying this…”

damn thing is still in my car – thought process there was/is:

“hey, I’ll have a job soon, no need to take that can in just to put it back in my car…hardy har har” BLEHK.

firstly, every job i’ve ever had provided a trash bin. second, why does the prospect of a job in my future justify my impulse buy? hope, i blame hope. hope is evil and is worse on my psyche than beating my own high score on Flappy Bird (hope and every Target store there is in this world).

i’m in this constant state of hope as i search for my next career move:

  • i hope a new job posting will show up if i a) type in a different combo of keywords or b) refresh the browser 14 times an hour
  • i hope my LinkedIn profile has been viewed 6 times instead of 5 in the last 30 days
  • i hope that new email is an interview request and not another Urban Outfitters coupon (lie – i just lied, i love Urban Outfitters coupons)
  • i hope the last place that told me they ‘went in a different direction’ suddenly got raided by the FBI and is now DOA
  • i hope that phone call coming in is the job offer instead of my mom calling to ask if we have bananas

Hope  – it’s a mofo. I’d much rather just think the worst. But, no I get that little shrill of excitement across my belly immediately followed by extreme disappointment that takes hours, sometimes days, (and several versions of chocolate) to come back from.

“Hey, at least you are getting call backs!”

“Hey, STFU.”

the married (living with your parents) life

we live with my parents, ya know, so we can someday own something we won’t ever own. we live, work, sleep, play (?) and parent in one room. this is what that looks like.

level up

level up

that time we got invited to a destination wedding

and pretended like we could actually go.

i’ve had several friends do the destination thing and i’m always the one defending their right to do it. we’re just still not at that place in our lives where we can drop $2k on a weekend in some beachy place. then I wonder, who the eff is in that place and how’d they get there? i can’t think about it for too long because i get all tantrummy about it.

life gets in the way of life and these are the things we have to say no to. doesn’t mean i can’t bitch about it here, however.

here’s my absof$%&inglutely dreamscape version of this post:

(complete with pinterest board)

imaginary destination wedding pack listI go beach shopping for maxi dresses, thong sandals and big hats. Hubs and I ship on out on a 9am flight – not too early, not too late – and feel adultish and accomplished. We purchase in-flight wifi and clink our mimosas as we watch Netflix. We are ready to take the full week and enjoy all the pre-wedding events as outlined by the couple’s wedding website.

Hot tub baby machine.

We fancy ourselves with tans, snorkel adventures and many fruity inhibitors that lead to conversations about that 2nd kid. We may even act on those conversations – it’s the beach, it’s a wedding, it’s love, love and more love – MAKE A BABY!

We drop a check with more than 1 zero in the newlywed’s bird cage box, sip champaign and dance our way into silly renewed couple-dom. We fall in love all over again, not to be interrupted by iPhone email or 5am wake up calls from our toddler.

Our flight back is a non-stop ride to our local airport –  no need for a bus or put-out family member making a 2-hour drive. We are bronzed, refreshed and have brought home with us multiple beach chotchkies for the whole fam. As we wait for our luggage, hubby rummages through his carry on and pulls out the beautiful necklace he secretly bought for me on our trip. We kiss, people watch and all is blissful.

BUT. we are actually broke, like, not cute still-in-your-20s-broke but, high-debt-to-income-ratio-broke, so this more our reaction to destination wedding invites:

Is it inappropriate to write ‘Can we Skype?’ on the RSVP card?

This is real life

So, I had this thing to attend. I got a written invitation in the mail – stamp and everything. No evite or Facebook event – a typed letter with my name asking me to RSVP (sans a way to RSVP but that’s not the point). I was pretty excited to see the invite – something about getting mail that isn’t a bill or something. I had fully intended on going – the event was on a Saturday night, not a prob because I don’t do anything on Saturday nights.

So, RSVPs are important. And I know this. Yet, I still waited around until the day before the event to RSVP. I knew the moment I got the invite I was going to go. I pretended like it got lost, that I saw it the day before and still wanted to attend. Why didn’t I just RSVP by the date? I don’t know. WTF. I made up some story about the envelope getting stuck in a magazine and was ‘it too late to RSVP??!!” (exact quote – extra punctuation and everything.

I don’t know why I do these types of things.

Maybe I’m channeling my inner calling of Hollywood lights. I’ve always dreamed of being an actress – I’m pretty damn good at it (or just good at, and enjoy too much, lying). ANYWHO. I went to this thing.

Community thing, trying to get resources together to encourage volunteering and giving back. Stuff I totally support, stand for, believe in but don’t have the focus to actually accomplish. It’s not so bad I tell myself, the invite said light h’orderves…so there will be wine. I have my mind set on cheap, at room temperature white wine. YES.

I put rollers in my hair. Why do I even have them? I don’t know. I have them and tonight I was putting them in. And I did and it sucked and I ended up turning on the curling iron anyways and my hair still looked exactly like it did when I started.  Whatever. The mini-human like what I did with my hair – she saw me in the curlers and liked what I had done with it. My husband humped the air and stated “it’s like when you had short hair, hot.” AWESOME.

SO. All dressed up for this community thing. Hair flat but awkwardly bent from curlers and an iron. Makeup thick from disguising day old oily skin and too-old-to-have zits. The heels made me feel politiciany – especially in the snow. Politicians don’t wear boots, they wear heels. A three strand, stacked pearl around my neck and I felt better. Off we go.

I get to the thing. I only know the host. Community thing is a city museum – so there’s art hanging up from the local schools…it’s…cute…or something.

“EAT! Won’t anyone eat?”

I’m motioned to a small table with cheese, crackers, hummus, soda and sparkling cider. NO WINE. Feeling the typical level of defeat, I surrendered to seltzer, hummus and red pepper. I pretended to care about the paintings on the wall, simultaneously being annoyed by the ages of the kids who did them. Oh, you painted a watercolor of a majestic moose eating in the new fallen snow and you’re seven? How pretentious. So, before it spilled over onto my expression I walked away from the paintings and stood to watch the crowd. There were no tables, so I was left balancing my Coach wristlet, cup of bubbly disappointment and my plate of limpy cucumbers and hummus. I hadn’t eaten, so I was ravenous, but delicate for the crowd.

And then.

I placed the plate on the top of the cup and took a bite of the tasteless hummus. The plate slid toward me and I caught it. ‘Zesty Veggie Hummus’ all down the front of my black blouse – all the zesty now mocking me. I didn’t skip a beat. Plate caught, napkin dipped in seltzer, dabbing and rubbing and carrying on. I handled it rather nicely, I wondered who saw. But was instantly overwhelmed with – THIS IS REAL LIFE, PEOPLE – bellowing between my ears. This is it. I drank warm seltzer and got schmootz all over my favorite fancy blouse (we’re talkin’ Macy’s fancy here).

Whatever. My little wristlet served as a shield to the smears on my shirt and I carried on. I didn’t eat anymore, so when I left I was still starving (mostly from embarrassment, it’s amazing what embarrassment will do to the appetite).

With wine on the brain, and incompetency smeared down the front of me, I stopped for a bottle of cheap white wine. And more cheese, pre-sliced because I was sneaking it up the stairs and couldn’t be bothered with working out a way to sneak up utensils, too. You know when age is creeping up on you when you sneak cheap ass Barefoot Pinot, pre-sliced white cheddar and reduced fat crackers in the house.