I don't mind telling you, folks, that if this weren't happening to me... if this weren't something I was painfully experiencing on pretty much a daily basis, I wouldn't believe it. No, I really wouldn't. When I asked my roommate if she would have believed me, if I had tried to tell her the story of what she has seen unfolding, she agreed that she would have assumed I was telling tales. Unfortunately for me, I am not embellishing one iota of my dealings with the California EDD, The United States Postal Service and now... Washington Mutual Bank.
No, I'm not looking to be extremist or pathetically desiring of dramatic effect, so I am not suggesting that these institutions are in cahoots with one another. What I'm putting forth, here, is nothing like that. But what I am finding is that apathy and opportunism have gained an all-time low that many people are probably lucky enough to not have to notice. Yet, when you are in the position that I am in... bent over a barrel, so to speak... you have no choice but to deal with that cold incompetence and hope to heaven that someone is feeling like doing a little work that day and that is what has led me to the keyboard today.
Now that I seem to be getting my unemployment checks with some semblance of regularity, a new crux has arisen and it goes by the name of WAMU.
I opened an account with WAMU on December 10th, seeking refuge from the rampant bumbling that now curses my once efficient credit union. Take-overs can do that to any good business and it certainly has with Vista (now Partners). If they were not the loan holders for my car and a credit card I have no chance of paying off any time soon, I would already have closed my accounts with them. I had hoped that WAMU would be better. They have been exponentially worse.
It took them two months to get my ATM card and pin number to me. I finally had both as of last weekend and flushed with relief of standing in lengthy lines at the branch, I deposited my unemployment check on Monday night. Charges were about to go through and it never, ever occurred to me that a bank would be suspicious of my unemployment check.
I was wrong, so very wrong.
Washington Mutual put a 10 day hold on the funds. These funds were supposed to cover such necessities as rent, car insurance, etc.
When I called them to find out why they had put a hold on a government check, they said, "We can't get someone at the State of California to confirm that the check is good."
We're talking about 900 dollars. If the State of California doesn't have 900 bucks in the kitty, we are in DEEP SHIT, people!
If that weren't bad enough, the harpie that I managed to get on the line was hostile toward me when I didn't understand what she was telling me. I have never heard of government checks being held under such suspicion and scrutiny. I've never had trouble cashing such checks at liquor stores or seedy check cashing places, so of course it didn't dawn on me that WAMU would have issue. Again, I was mistaken.
I tried to explain to the beeeawtch that was yelling at me over the phone, that I genuinely didn't understand what was being told to me, and she literally began yelling over me. I asked for a supervisor, she said she was one. I asked for a manager. She asked for my callback number. That was two hours ago and I've not had one phone call since.
So I called back and got someone reasonably pleasant and helpful and she told me that when she called the California State Treasurer, they refused to confirm that the check was good or not. All he was at liberty to discuss was that there was no hold placed on the check at their end. That was not good enough for WAMU to release my money. She suggested I go down to the unemployment office and get a letter stating that the check is good.
Hahahahahah! Human interatction? Seriously?
I explained to her that this was not only impossible, but that even if I called to request such a letter, it would take at least until their ridiculous hold was over to get it, and by then my rent check, insurance, etc, would all be bounced and cost me at least 100 dollars. She said her hands were tied, so I asked for the Treasurer's phone number and called. I got some guy named Jeff.
Jeff didn't answer his phone but his voicemail said that if there was an emergency, to call another number he gave. I called that number. Nobody answered.
You have GOT to be kidding me, right?
So I called the EDD and went in the sneaky way. When I got a hold of an operator he exasperatedly transferred me to claims, where a woman of about 200 answered the phone and immediately put me on hold. Four minutes later, she came back and transferred me to an adjuster. Apparently, the adjuster is working on this situation now.
Am I hopeful? No. Not even remotely.
As always I am struck by the fact that this is happening to me, someone who desperately needs the flow of her money to stay fluid in order for her very survival to continue, but I don't really hear of these things happening to others. Not much, anyway. Is everyone being quiet? Are you all just hoping someone else will take care of it? What is going on here?!
All I know is that the more I try to follow the rules and stick within the lines, the more I am thwarted. But I'll keep going for now. There's not much else better to do. But I think I will start cashing my checks and stuffing the money in my mattress. Seriously. This is rigoddamneddiculous!
Friday, March 7, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
EDD v. Sunnybunny... guess who's winning!
So, in case you've been keeping score and hedging your bets in my direction, I have some rather glum sporting news for you. I don't seem to have much chance of winning when it comes to getting my unemployment benefits. Like... at all.
If you've been having trouble keeping up with this debacle, here's the tally:
Contract ended September 28, 2007 (EDD has it listed as 9/23)
Filed for unemployment benefits at approx Midnight on 9/28/07.
Following week letters arrive:
We cannot confim your identity, please send or fax the following documents
We must have a face to face meeting with you, please come to the office on October 11th at 10 AM.
The day of my appointment the following letter arrives:
We have recently discovered that we overpaid you the last week of your
previous claim (the first week I worked in my previous contract). Why did we do that? Explain yourself.
The documents you sent that we asked for, to confirm your identity, were unclear. Please resend them.
At my appointment, where I showed no less than three people my passport along with my live body and face, I learn that these people cannot confirm my identity to the EDD and then was urged to lie about not knowing PowerPoint in order to get training.
My first benefit claim form arrives on the same day.
I mail in my guess as to what may have happened to cause an overpayment the following day, not having recalled an overpayment (I assure you I'd have remembered!)or what I might have done to cause one since it had been eight months since I filled out the form in question.
I receive a letter the following week, instead of a check:
We have disqualified you based on the fact that we could not prove your
identity. Please call if you wish to reopen your claim.
I call and explain that I have not only faxed the documents three times, but sent clear, enlarged color copies of the documents they requested and that there should be no earthly reason why they wouldn't know I was me, particularly considering they didn't question my identity when asking for money back they think they overpaid me.
I luck out and get a kind agent on the phone who gives me her personal fax number. I fax it over, she walked it to her boss, and I was off and running.
November 14, 2007, I receive my first checks. Six weeks after I opened my claim.
I receive a tip from my apartment manager that management is cracking down on late rent, and as I had been living in my apartment for seven years, were particularly anxious to see me move out so they could raise the rent. Having been threatened with eviction the last time the EDD was bumbling my account, I have no choice but to move.
By this time, I have had to borrow over 1K from a kind friend who had just loaned me 1300 in order to go to baking school, and had to use all of it to keep afloat as the initial checks barely covered the late fees and overage charges I incurred (much less rent for two months) while waiting for them to figure out I am me.
November 28, I begin moving the four blocks to the shared condo I now reside in. I cannot afford a truck for the whole move, so I hire movers for the big stuff and move the rest in my car. Movers put a 300 dollar hold on my account for a 200 move. Monthly charges go through. Overage fees abound. I am exhausted and overwhelmed with the move and come home to my new place to find a letter from the EDD.
We believe you deliberately falsified your benefit claim form on the last week of your previous claim. We are docking you five weeks of benefits. You may appeal if you wish.
I finish moving on the 3rd (there's 150 off of my deposit that I would have gotten back), scramble to find the money to pay the move in deposit and formulate my appeal. By this time I am up to over 240 in overages alone.
Appeal is mailed on December 7 and faxed on the 10th.
Appeal court receives paperwork from EDD on December 27th.
Several potential temp positions are snatched out from under my due to the writer's strike. Suddenly everyone needs a secretary with a Bachelor's degree, preferably in Business or Literature.
January 5, 2008 finally arrives, signaling the end of the first week since November 26th, that I qualify for benefits. I send my benefit claim form in promptly on January 6th, as instructed. I am now borrowing from strangers, and vomiting Ramen in the middle of the night in stress.
January 11, 2008 Check information hotline says the check is in the mail. HOORAY!
January 28, 2008 After trying literally hundreds and hundreds of times to get someone on the phone, I finally go down to the EDD to see what the hold up is. Am turned away as there is no parking and the line to use the "Magic Red Phones" - that put you through to an agent quicker (but not immediately, you still have to do the hang up and redial over and over) is too long.
January 29, 2008 Back to the EDD to use the phone. Am told "stop check" form and next claim forms are in the mail that day (never to be received) and assured that if I can prove I will be evicted, that they will expedite my claim form.
January 31, 2008 I finally receive my January 11th $450 check, along with a good deal of mail I had been wondering about, including my appeal hearing date scheduled for the following Monday (see USPS v. Sunnybunny posts). Have to go back to magic phones to inform EDD that I have cashed the check (as instructed previously) and learn that there is absolutely no expediting process for claim forms. None, whatsoever. Impossible. Agent tries to help by sending the claim form that should be attached to the next check immediately, so I may catch up.
Same day I go to the USPS to have words over why I wasn't getting my mail. Abnormally apologetic for botching my life, they overnight my claim form for free. Next check for $900 (700 of which will go to rent) arrives on the following Tuesday. The form the helpful agent sent, arrives the next day.
February 11th, instead of a check, I receive a fresh claim form for the weeks I should have been paid for, stating that I had forgotten to fill out employer information. I get the "guilty" verdict from the appeals court the same day (which does not shock me as the judge had clearly made up his mind well before I had arrived). I fill it back out and send it in immediately.
February 15th I manage to get a hold of an agent who claims they had not received the replacement form but corrected what I sent based on my response and that the check would be in the mail on Saturday.
February 16th, called check information hotline at 6 AM. "Your last check was paid on February 2nd. Check information will be updated again on Wednesday, February 20th, 2008."
Naturally, there is no chance of getting a hold of a human right after a three day weekend. No chance in hell. But I try anyway. After doing some cash work for a friend, in hopes to stay afloat (and he skips out before paying me), a friend takes me to dinner. At the end I see that I have a text message from my roommate "You have mail from the EDD!"
I call and ask if it's a check, she doesn't know. I said, "It'll have some color on it, like it would BE a check." "oh no," she says. "It just looks plain white."
Not
Good
News
I get home a half an hour later to find... that's right... the SAME benefit claim form, for the two weeks ending FEBRUARY 2ND!
You marked yes and no for the same question. Please fill this out and send it in.
Imposible. This time I had a witness. I had my friend CB actually look at the form before I sent it (not having access to a copier).
Did you tally up how many checks I received in all that time? Were you paying close attention?
I wouldn't blame you if you didn't and just skipped to the end. As my roommate and I agreed, if we weren't seeing this unfold before our eyes, we would not believe such a story. Nobody could befall that much trauma, that much strife from one agency, could they?
Yes. Yes, they can and do. I'm lucky I still have a place to live and that is due to my friends. As always... you keep me sane when little else can.
If you've been having trouble keeping up with this debacle, here's the tally:
Contract ended September 28, 2007 (EDD has it listed as 9/23)
Filed for unemployment benefits at approx Midnight on 9/28/07.
Following week letters arrive:
We cannot confim your identity, please send or fax the following documents
We must have a face to face meeting with you, please come to the office on October 11th at 10 AM.
The day of my appointment the following letter arrives:
We have recently discovered that we overpaid you the last week of your
previous claim (the first week I worked in my previous contract). Why did we do that? Explain yourself.
The documents you sent that we asked for, to confirm your identity, were unclear. Please resend them.
At my appointment, where I showed no less than three people my passport along with my live body and face, I learn that these people cannot confirm my identity to the EDD and then was urged to lie about not knowing PowerPoint in order to get training.
My first benefit claim form arrives on the same day.
I mail in my guess as to what may have happened to cause an overpayment the following day, not having recalled an overpayment (I assure you I'd have remembered!)or what I might have done to cause one since it had been eight months since I filled out the form in question.
I receive a letter the following week, instead of a check:
We have disqualified you based on the fact that we could not prove your
identity. Please call if you wish to reopen your claim.
I call and explain that I have not only faxed the documents three times, but sent clear, enlarged color copies of the documents they requested and that there should be no earthly reason why they wouldn't know I was me, particularly considering they didn't question my identity when asking for money back they think they overpaid me.
I luck out and get a kind agent on the phone who gives me her personal fax number. I fax it over, she walked it to her boss, and I was off and running.
November 14, 2007, I receive my first checks. Six weeks after I opened my claim.
I receive a tip from my apartment manager that management is cracking down on late rent, and as I had been living in my apartment for seven years, were particularly anxious to see me move out so they could raise the rent. Having been threatened with eviction the last time the EDD was bumbling my account, I have no choice but to move.
By this time, I have had to borrow over 1K from a kind friend who had just loaned me 1300 in order to go to baking school, and had to use all of it to keep afloat as the initial checks barely covered the late fees and overage charges I incurred (much less rent for two months) while waiting for them to figure out I am me.
November 28, I begin moving the four blocks to the shared condo I now reside in. I cannot afford a truck for the whole move, so I hire movers for the big stuff and move the rest in my car. Movers put a 300 dollar hold on my account for a 200 move. Monthly charges go through. Overage fees abound. I am exhausted and overwhelmed with the move and come home to my new place to find a letter from the EDD.
We believe you deliberately falsified your benefit claim form on the last week of your previous claim. We are docking you five weeks of benefits. You may appeal if you wish.
I finish moving on the 3rd (there's 150 off of my deposit that I would have gotten back), scramble to find the money to pay the move in deposit and formulate my appeal. By this time I am up to over 240 in overages alone.
Appeal is mailed on December 7 and faxed on the 10th.
Appeal court receives paperwork from EDD on December 27th.
Several potential temp positions are snatched out from under my due to the writer's strike. Suddenly everyone needs a secretary with a Bachelor's degree, preferably in Business or Literature.
January 5, 2008 finally arrives, signaling the end of the first week since November 26th, that I qualify for benefits. I send my benefit claim form in promptly on January 6th, as instructed. I am now borrowing from strangers, and vomiting Ramen in the middle of the night in stress.
January 11, 2008 Check information hotline says the check is in the mail. HOORAY!
January 28, 2008 After trying literally hundreds and hundreds of times to get someone on the phone, I finally go down to the EDD to see what the hold up is. Am turned away as there is no parking and the line to use the "Magic Red Phones" - that put you through to an agent quicker (but not immediately, you still have to do the hang up and redial over and over) is too long.
January 29, 2008 Back to the EDD to use the phone. Am told "stop check" form and next claim forms are in the mail that day (never to be received) and assured that if I can prove I will be evicted, that they will expedite my claim form.
January 31, 2008 I finally receive my January 11th $450 check, along with a good deal of mail I had been wondering about, including my appeal hearing date scheduled for the following Monday (see USPS v. Sunnybunny posts). Have to go back to magic phones to inform EDD that I have cashed the check (as instructed previously) and learn that there is absolutely no expediting process for claim forms. None, whatsoever. Impossible. Agent tries to help by sending the claim form that should be attached to the next check immediately, so I may catch up.
Same day I go to the USPS to have words over why I wasn't getting my mail. Abnormally apologetic for botching my life, they overnight my claim form for free. Next check for $900 (700 of which will go to rent) arrives on the following Tuesday. The form the helpful agent sent, arrives the next day.
February 11th, instead of a check, I receive a fresh claim form for the weeks I should have been paid for, stating that I had forgotten to fill out employer information. I get the "guilty" verdict from the appeals court the same day (which does not shock me as the judge had clearly made up his mind well before I had arrived). I fill it back out and send it in immediately.
February 15th I manage to get a hold of an agent who claims they had not received the replacement form but corrected what I sent based on my response and that the check would be in the mail on Saturday.
February 16th, called check information hotline at 6 AM. "Your last check was paid on February 2nd. Check information will be updated again on Wednesday, February 20th, 2008."
Naturally, there is no chance of getting a hold of a human right after a three day weekend. No chance in hell. But I try anyway. After doing some cash work for a friend, in hopes to stay afloat (and he skips out before paying me), a friend takes me to dinner. At the end I see that I have a text message from my roommate "You have mail from the EDD!"
I call and ask if it's a check, she doesn't know. I said, "It'll have some color on it, like it would BE a check." "oh no," she says. "It just looks plain white."
Not
Good
News
I get home a half an hour later to find... that's right... the SAME benefit claim form, for the two weeks ending FEBRUARY 2ND!
You marked yes and no for the same question. Please fill this out and send it in.
Imposible. This time I had a witness. I had my friend CB actually look at the form before I sent it (not having access to a copier).
Did you tally up how many checks I received in all that time? Were you paying close attention?
I wouldn't blame you if you didn't and just skipped to the end. As my roommate and I agreed, if we weren't seeing this unfold before our eyes, we would not believe such a story. Nobody could befall that much trauma, that much strife from one agency, could they?
Yes. Yes, they can and do. I'm lucky I still have a place to live and that is due to my friends. As always... you keep me sane when little else can.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
The Importance of DIY
I recently wrote a blog about how I had never decorated my home because I had been afraid that I would have a man I wanted to be with came over, he would think my decor was so eccentric or eclectic that he'd run screaming from the place and thus I would be alone forever. Here's another thing that made me change my mind about that...
I recently spent a good deal of time in the home of a man whose ex-wife spent the last years of their marriage covering every available wall of their house with the most hideous atrocities against pleasant home design I have ever seen. She even went so far as to paint their bedroom (a place that should have been filled with passion, romance or at the very least relaxation) a color best described as Rancid Baby Caca. If that wasn't a passive hint that there was trouble in paradise, I don't know what would have been.
By doing things like insisting that he never wear red (pouting angrily when he did, insisting he had done so as a deliberate affront to her), driving away any friend that empowered him or disagreed with her, spoon feeding him his life and domineering the rest, she had basically decorated the man much the same way as she had their home. I don't know what bothers me more; that she was self-absorbed and grotesque enough to insist up on that being the case, or that he had let her do it. Whatever the case, both he and the house were tailored specifically to her eerily selfish taste, both were as far from seeming like a cohesive whole as one could imagine, both were teeming with potential and equally as completely unable to attempt change without someone else coming in to do the hard work. I can't even describe how frustrating that was to me.
Still, if I had gotten married when I wanted to, which was right out of high school, or even say... ten years ago, I would have innitially suffered the same fate. Maybe not entirely, but I would have stuck myself in a situation where my significant other may have gotten quite used to my bending to their every whim, tailoring myself to them like a living suit of support and love and service. I was well on my way with the man I was supposed to have been married to by now. Without my determination to grow and get better and change, I might well be splotched with emotional paint effects that made no sense, and caused people to gasp and recoil at the lost potential. I wouldn't relive a lot of what got me to this place, but I had to experience it all to get where I am and there is a depth of value to that I cannot fathom.
So don't doubt that The Universe sends us messages all the time. As with the three ghosts in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, I have been shown visions of my past, my present and my would be future. I too have woken from my slumber shouting, "There's still time! I can make it right!" One thing is for certain... anyone who comes at me with their can of Rancid Baby Caca paint, is in for a big suprise.
I recently spent a good deal of time in the home of a man whose ex-wife spent the last years of their marriage covering every available wall of their house with the most hideous atrocities against pleasant home design I have ever seen. She even went so far as to paint their bedroom (a place that should have been filled with passion, romance or at the very least relaxation) a color best described as Rancid Baby Caca. If that wasn't a passive hint that there was trouble in paradise, I don't know what would have been.
By doing things like insisting that he never wear red (pouting angrily when he did, insisting he had done so as a deliberate affront to her), driving away any friend that empowered him or disagreed with her, spoon feeding him his life and domineering the rest, she had basically decorated the man much the same way as she had their home. I don't know what bothers me more; that she was self-absorbed and grotesque enough to insist up on that being the case, or that he had let her do it. Whatever the case, both he and the house were tailored specifically to her eerily selfish taste, both were as far from seeming like a cohesive whole as one could imagine, both were teeming with potential and equally as completely unable to attempt change without someone else coming in to do the hard work. I can't even describe how frustrating that was to me.
Still, if I had gotten married when I wanted to, which was right out of high school, or even say... ten years ago, I would have innitially suffered the same fate. Maybe not entirely, but I would have stuck myself in a situation where my significant other may have gotten quite used to my bending to their every whim, tailoring myself to them like a living suit of support and love and service. I was well on my way with the man I was supposed to have been married to by now. Without my determination to grow and get better and change, I might well be splotched with emotional paint effects that made no sense, and caused people to gasp and recoil at the lost potential. I wouldn't relive a lot of what got me to this place, but I had to experience it all to get where I am and there is a depth of value to that I cannot fathom.
So don't doubt that The Universe sends us messages all the time. As with the three ghosts in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, I have been shown visions of my past, my present and my would be future. I too have woken from my slumber shouting, "There's still time! I can make it right!" One thing is for certain... anyone who comes at me with their can of Rancid Baby Caca paint, is in for a big suprise.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
On Red and Regret (a concordance with “Danger Amy”)
Having left my apartment of nearly seven-ish years, I look back and think about how much fun I could have had decorating the place and didn’t start until about a year ago. Now I find myself in a place where I am expected to have to vacate in about two years and wondering if I should go through the trouble of decking my walls with luscious ruby red paint only to have to change it back in such a short time. The answer is resoundingly YES! Here’s why.
Once upon a time I was a blank canvas. I was gessoed up and ready for bright splashes of vibrant colors and sweeping textures of all kinds. Instead of deciding what I wanted on that canvas, I allowed other would-be artists to dictate the artwork known as Gina (Gina, being a name that I not only hated on myself but never felt connected to, and therefore allowed a dear friend to rename me when I was 23 and had undergone the first wave of positive change in my life… Sunny will be legal this year).
As the years went on, the people around me kept editing my canvas. Some contributors insisted that what they saw never changed no matter how many edits had been made. Some continued to add and subtract elements they didn’t like in hopes of forming the ideal masterpiece. Others would stand back, in awe, and watch the constantly evolving work; sometimes feeling fearful of what it was becoming and occasionally envying the fact that it wasn’t tied to staying forever the same. For a while, I didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t believe I really knew who I was anyway. It was so much easier to let others create me because it was their acceptance, their approval I desired most and I believed that if I let them mold me into what they wanted I would have what I desired. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.
The same thing applied to my home (an extension of myself). I was afraid to pick out furniture, paint the walls, decorate in any strong fashion because I didn’t want to alienate a man who might want to have a relationship with me. Having grown up with people who believed largely as I did, or had suggested that I believe as they do out of some misguided idea of helping me find a mate, it had never occurred to me to really sit down and question that perception. Even when my ex-intended moved in with me, I was ready to let him lay a heavy hand on the decisions of how our home would look (which was asinine considering the most decorative item he owned was a figurine of Marilyn Monroe that he salvaged from a man's house who had committed suicide). All the while, somewhere underneath, I was thinking things like, “I want an Enchanted Tiki Room dining area!” or “I have always wanted a brothel / bordello bedroom” knowing full well that he would never agree to it. After I asked him to leave, I lost all interest in romance or decorating for a couple of tumultuous, busy, gut twisting years. Then a series of events took place that changed everything. And I mean… EVERYTHING.
During the gut twisting years, I met a man who once worked in special effects for film who had decorated his home in a way much like a Disney Imagineer would have. So much so, that many of the pieces were ones he had recreated in his garage workshop and he shared this home with his love (at the time). When I was getting a particularly healthy refund from the IRS, he took me to where he had gotten a good deal on his furniture (which was unique and yet still comfortable and homely). After sifting through no less than fifteen fabric books, I came upon a fabric that had a Moroccan look. My idea had been that I wanted a “Midnight at the Oasis” living room and it fit what was in my head perfectly. The main color is a deep, rich, dark red. When the furniture arrived, I remember my heart racing like crazy. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for days. I'd had no idea how good making that decision would feel.
At the same time, my then boss was unloading a lot of lovely fabrics, much of which were silk shantung that matches my furniture perfectly. It was as though I was being given a sign.
Not long after, I attended my first Bats Day at Disneyland. For those of you who do not know what Bats Day is, it’s sort of a gathering for all kinds of alternative types that the “normal” folks would call FREAKS. It was also the most comfortable and happy I’ve been at Disneyland in a long, long time. For once I was looking around and seeing people I understood and felt comfortable being around. More importantly, I was seeing them and their significant others and their families. That day, I finally began to realize that it didn’t matter what I looked like, how I dressed, what kind of furniture I had or art I chose. Anyone who truly loves me would either like the same things, or at least love me enough to live with it. When I finally disconnected from the hyper-judgemental, never accepting people in my life, it was the clearest that concept had ever been. Suddenly, I felt free to do whatever felt right, be whomever I choose, and live as I wish to live. Moreover, I finally let it sink in that to prohibit myself from doing something fun or fulfilling or creating an atmosphere where I feel comfortable and relaxed in order to appease the tastes of someone for the sake of their acceptance is just stupid and silly.
I have many regrets that I have let go of, some that come to me in dreams when I cannot stop them from haunting me, but more often than not I don’t allow them to run my life. But the single most burning regret I have, is that it took me this long to figure out how to live my life. To me, the best way to celebrate is with boldness, the richness, the power and sensuality that I believe is in me… and is represented by the color Red.
Once upon a time I was a blank canvas. I was gessoed up and ready for bright splashes of vibrant colors and sweeping textures of all kinds. Instead of deciding what I wanted on that canvas, I allowed other would-be artists to dictate the artwork known as Gina (Gina, being a name that I not only hated on myself but never felt connected to, and therefore allowed a dear friend to rename me when I was 23 and had undergone the first wave of positive change in my life… Sunny will be legal this year).
As the years went on, the people around me kept editing my canvas. Some contributors insisted that what they saw never changed no matter how many edits had been made. Some continued to add and subtract elements they didn’t like in hopes of forming the ideal masterpiece. Others would stand back, in awe, and watch the constantly evolving work; sometimes feeling fearful of what it was becoming and occasionally envying the fact that it wasn’t tied to staying forever the same. For a while, I didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t believe I really knew who I was anyway. It was so much easier to let others create me because it was their acceptance, their approval I desired most and I believed that if I let them mold me into what they wanted I would have what I desired. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.
The same thing applied to my home (an extension of myself). I was afraid to pick out furniture, paint the walls, decorate in any strong fashion because I didn’t want to alienate a man who might want to have a relationship with me. Having grown up with people who believed largely as I did, or had suggested that I believe as they do out of some misguided idea of helping me find a mate, it had never occurred to me to really sit down and question that perception. Even when my ex-intended moved in with me, I was ready to let him lay a heavy hand on the decisions of how our home would look (which was asinine considering the most decorative item he owned was a figurine of Marilyn Monroe that he salvaged from a man's house who had committed suicide). All the while, somewhere underneath, I was thinking things like, “I want an Enchanted Tiki Room dining area!” or “I have always wanted a brothel / bordello bedroom” knowing full well that he would never agree to it. After I asked him to leave, I lost all interest in romance or decorating for a couple of tumultuous, busy, gut twisting years. Then a series of events took place that changed everything. And I mean… EVERYTHING.
During the gut twisting years, I met a man who once worked in special effects for film who had decorated his home in a way much like a Disney Imagineer would have. So much so, that many of the pieces were ones he had recreated in his garage workshop and he shared this home with his love (at the time). When I was getting a particularly healthy refund from the IRS, he took me to where he had gotten a good deal on his furniture (which was unique and yet still comfortable and homely). After sifting through no less than fifteen fabric books, I came upon a fabric that had a Moroccan look. My idea had been that I wanted a “Midnight at the Oasis” living room and it fit what was in my head perfectly. The main color is a deep, rich, dark red. When the furniture arrived, I remember my heart racing like crazy. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for days. I'd had no idea how good making that decision would feel.
At the same time, my then boss was unloading a lot of lovely fabrics, much of which were silk shantung that matches my furniture perfectly. It was as though I was being given a sign.
Not long after, I attended my first Bats Day at Disneyland. For those of you who do not know what Bats Day is, it’s sort of a gathering for all kinds of alternative types that the “normal” folks would call FREAKS. It was also the most comfortable and happy I’ve been at Disneyland in a long, long time. For once I was looking around and seeing people I understood and felt comfortable being around. More importantly, I was seeing them and their significant others and their families. That day, I finally began to realize that it didn’t matter what I looked like, how I dressed, what kind of furniture I had or art I chose. Anyone who truly loves me would either like the same things, or at least love me enough to live with it. When I finally disconnected from the hyper-judgemental, never accepting people in my life, it was the clearest that concept had ever been. Suddenly, I felt free to do whatever felt right, be whomever I choose, and live as I wish to live. Moreover, I finally let it sink in that to prohibit myself from doing something fun or fulfilling or creating an atmosphere where I feel comfortable and relaxed in order to appease the tastes of someone for the sake of their acceptance is just stupid and silly.
I have many regrets that I have let go of, some that come to me in dreams when I cannot stop them from haunting me, but more often than not I don’t allow them to run my life. But the single most burning regret I have, is that it took me this long to figure out how to live my life. To me, the best way to celebrate is with boldness, the richness, the power and sensuality that I believe is in me… and is represented by the color Red.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Death of a Supposed Smack-talker.
Early this morning, I awoke to realize that I had not yet washed the dishes in the sink, and got up to make sure they were clean before my roommate arose at her usual 5 am. Like all things I intend to do, my chore was put off by swinging by my laptop to see if there was anything going on of interest. Strangely enough, there was.
Normally, I’m not in a big hurry to read blogs. But for some reason, when I got a notification in my Facebook that Kevin Smith* had updated his blog, I headed over to take a look. The post was about the suicide of a young girl named Megan Meier, an overweight, depressed teenager who once lived in St. Louis. I say “once lived” because events that took place between she and an imaginary boy named Josh Evans over MySpace became the impetus for Megan to hang herself by a belt in her bedroom closet. The worst part (as if that isn’t bad enough)… Josh never existed. He was the creation of the 48 year-old mother of a neighborhood friend who had been fishing for whether or not Megan was talking shit about her daughter.
I’ll get to my perspective on the tragedy of what happened to Megan at the hands of her so-called friend’s harpy mother in just a minute. But first, my thoughts about how I came upon this story.
What struck me about Smith’s post, aside from the disturbing content, was that it was an unusual experience for me to hear/read a man’s genuine perspective on something like this. That is not to say that men don’t have opinions on such matters; it’s just that more often than not when they do speak their mind about something this distressing it is rarely with any passion and usually said in a way that says, “I want to show you that I think this is awful and it bothers me, but I am not comfortable discussing such things so I am not going to leave my statement open-ended. Please call your female friends for further dialogue.” I have known some fairly sensitive males in my day that still wouldn’t want to talk about some 13 year old girl’s life with that way. Still, Kevin is, after all, a father and a writer so is more likely to discuss than others might be; but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some respect for having spoken his piece about something like this. Bravo Kevin.
Another thing that struck me is that Smith had a somewhat similar story to share, about how an ex-girlfriend's mother's involvement in their relationship became the motivation to basically harass him after the breakup. In her fight to regain him for her daughter (so it seems), this woman’s last ditch attempt to wear him down was to hand Kevin a note essentially ssuggesting that at the ripe, old age at 18 he admit that he would be a failure as a writer. Luckily in Kevin’s case, it didn't become his undoing and he used her words as further motivation to succeed (or at the very least saved her note as a reminder of how she was wrong). I can't speak for all of his fans, but I - for one - am really glad she didn't succeed in her ploy. I’d love to say I’d never heard something like that before, but I would be lying.
So now I find myself wondering what is burning most on my mind? Is it the question of the responsibility of adults when it comes to how they communicate with kids or even one another, particularly on the internet? I’ve had more adults misrepresent themselves to me online than I can count! Is it the overzealousness of a nearly fifty year-old woman and her sociopathic route to protecting her child (because I think we all know that when someone goes to that kind of sick length, it is more about their own pathos than that of their child)? Or is it the dangers of trying to find love on the internet, the perils of being an overweight teenage girl or my rant on how easily people – especially children - are “diagnosed” with depression these days and how I feel that to tell someone in that state that they are clinically so is basically condemning them to a life of excusing sullenness on their “condition”?
I’ll start here…
There are a million and one misconceptions I have uncovered in my life and there are bound to be at least that many more that I haven’t yet stumbled upon. One thing I know in the most intimate way is that just because a person is older, married, has children, a great job, a house or what-have-you, doesn’t mean they are a reasonable, rational human being. Sure, once upon a time the word “adult” denoted trustworthiness, wisdom, authority, responsibility. “If you are in trouble, find the nearest adult” was once a reasonable suggestion for a child who might become frightened. That is not to say it was always true and based on reason, but it was what a lot of people in my generation were raised to believe; that most adults were protective, wise and caring and the only ones to be scared of were the ones who wanted to get you into their car and give you candy. My mother was a perfect example of how wrong that assumption can be. Nobody on Earth has filled me with more lies, more misguided notions of the world and it’s workings than she did and it wasn’t out of some cruel design. She was mentally damaged, selfish and ignorant (among other things) and a like a lot of “adults” she believed that because she had all the trappings of authority, that she must be right. Then I was reminded of how many adults I had known in my childhood who had a profoundly negative influence on my life and it is clear that she wasn’t alone. (side note: I can remember watching a film in my grade school cafeteria/auditorium about how some man might want to lure me into his car with candy and how I was supposed to run away, and distinctly recall wondering if my mother had put the school up to it because she had me on diets from the time I was four).
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that a 48 year-old has no way of knowing what kind of damage she can do to a 13 year-old girl’s psyche. But I am going to tell you that to expect her to know the correct way to approach a child about her concerns for her daughter are dangerously flawed. To believe that is to assume that she has no ulterior motive, no deep-seated mental illness that this incident brought forth, and more importantly, that she is a mature enough, deep enough, well-rounded enough human being to have the tools to deal with something like this on the higher ground. How many people do you know that can do that? How many of them are someone you would trust to speak to your child about anything of importance (whether you have a child or not)? My God, adults have a hard enough time getting along with one another! I still have an adult out there who attempts to wage wars with me and slander me over the internet that I have not so much as sassed in over fifteen years. So how do we expect people, just because they are older, to know how to deal?
The thing is, this woman is not blameless because she is not a well developed, well-rounded human. She is responsible for the death of the girl. And I’ll tell you why…
She conversed with this Megan, a 13 year old, overweight girl looking for love. Megan was lovely, too; gorgeous eyes, sweet smile (braces or not). But of course, that wasn’t enough for some reason (be it social alienation, her mother, the media or whatever oppressive influence made her feel like she was not good enough). And this woman, this busybody mother, emailed back and forth with such a girl in MySpace. So she had to have had intimate details of how lonely, alienated, sad and desperate for romantic acceptance Megan must have been through that correspondence. There could be no doubt in her mind that she was going to devastate the girl when she turned on her, started calling her names and ultimately crushed her dreams of romance. Who doesn’t remember how much the loss of potential romantic connection makes you wish you were dead when you’re 13? Even so, she continued to torture this girl’s heart and soul. If that doesn’t imply sickness, honey I don’t know what does. She is guilty of torture, no matter what excuse she conjures in her defense. But murder? I can’t say.
See, I was tortured myself when I was younger. I was overweight, and not nearly as lovely (I was being informed regularly by my mother that I was a troll because I wasn’t skinny and popular, so much so that I believed it until I was well into my late 20s, and it showed on the outside). Boys played with my heart for fun, adults made hideous, hurtful comments and not one of them gave another thought as to the damage they might inflict. While I often wished for death, I was too strong or too scared to do it myself. I would find a reason to go on living. Even if it was something as trivial as knowing that I would get to go to Disneyland in two years, or foolishly believed my mother’s empty promises of braces for my teeth or a new bike. I refused to give up that easily. I refused to die. And so to that end, I imagine that Megan must have been far less driven than I was at her age to see how being a grown-up would be. She did, after all, choose how to resolve her pain. She chose death on her own.
Not everyone can suffer through the kind of agony she must have been feeling. I’m still shocked and pleasantly surprised that I did. And when I was well into my thirties a forty year-old friend said to me, “I’ve not heard half of the things that happened to you when you were a kid and I know that if I had been in your shoes, I wouldn’t have made it.” I was shocked and bewildered by that statement from a strong, independent woman. That was the first time I knew that not everyone had the same reserve of determination to go on. Now, I don’t expect it so easily in others. But I don’t know that many people who put enough thought into… well… anything, to know the effect they will have on another’s life and certainly not when it comes to their agenda. So I don’t believe for a moment that the over-zealous mother had any intention to see Megan die over her imagined smack-talking. If she wanted the girl dead, she would have killed her.
I feel for Megan’s parents. They must wonder if there is anything more they could have done, if they could have somehow foiled their neighbor’s plan or proved that Josh Evans was a hoax and saved their beautiful little girl. To my mind, there isn’t a whole lot they could have done. The mother seemed to have her eye on things and it still went out of control. But does the father wonder what he might have done? Maybe if fathers were more involved in their daughters’, they would be able to spare them the endless wondering of why boys do what they do. Maybe Megan’s father would have known that his daughter wasn’t actually talking to a boy at all. Who knows? But you have to admit… it wouldn’t have hurt. It’s nice to see at least one dad is paying attention.
*If you don’t know who Kevin Smith is, you have clearly been living in a cave and have never seen or heard of such cult classics as Clerks, Chasing Amy and Dogma. If you have, indeed, been cave dwelling for the past 15 or so years, go here to see out what he’s all about.
Normally, I’m not in a big hurry to read blogs. But for some reason, when I got a notification in my Facebook that Kevin Smith* had updated his blog, I headed over to take a look. The post was about the suicide of a young girl named Megan Meier, an overweight, depressed teenager who once lived in St. Louis. I say “once lived” because events that took place between she and an imaginary boy named Josh Evans over MySpace became the impetus for Megan to hang herself by a belt in her bedroom closet. The worst part (as if that isn’t bad enough)… Josh never existed. He was the creation of the 48 year-old mother of a neighborhood friend who had been fishing for whether or not Megan was talking shit about her daughter.
I’ll get to my perspective on the tragedy of what happened to Megan at the hands of her so-called friend’s harpy mother in just a minute. But first, my thoughts about how I came upon this story.
What struck me about Smith’s post, aside from the disturbing content, was that it was an unusual experience for me to hear/read a man’s genuine perspective on something like this. That is not to say that men don’t have opinions on such matters; it’s just that more often than not when they do speak their mind about something this distressing it is rarely with any passion and usually said in a way that says, “I want to show you that I think this is awful and it bothers me, but I am not comfortable discussing such things so I am not going to leave my statement open-ended. Please call your female friends for further dialogue.” I have known some fairly sensitive males in my day that still wouldn’t want to talk about some 13 year old girl’s life with that way. Still, Kevin is, after all, a father and a writer so is more likely to discuss than others might be; but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some respect for having spoken his piece about something like this. Bravo Kevin.
Another thing that struck me is that Smith had a somewhat similar story to share, about how an ex-girlfriend's mother's involvement in their relationship became the motivation to basically harass him after the breakup. In her fight to regain him for her daughter (so it seems), this woman’s last ditch attempt to wear him down was to hand Kevin a note essentially ssuggesting that at the ripe, old age at 18 he admit that he would be a failure as a writer. Luckily in Kevin’s case, it didn't become his undoing and he used her words as further motivation to succeed (or at the very least saved her note as a reminder of how she was wrong). I can't speak for all of his fans, but I - for one - am really glad she didn't succeed in her ploy. I’d love to say I’d never heard something like that before, but I would be lying.
So now I find myself wondering what is burning most on my mind? Is it the question of the responsibility of adults when it comes to how they communicate with kids or even one another, particularly on the internet? I’ve had more adults misrepresent themselves to me online than I can count! Is it the overzealousness of a nearly fifty year-old woman and her sociopathic route to protecting her child (because I think we all know that when someone goes to that kind of sick length, it is more about their own pathos than that of their child)? Or is it the dangers of trying to find love on the internet, the perils of being an overweight teenage girl or my rant on how easily people – especially children - are “diagnosed” with depression these days and how I feel that to tell someone in that state that they are clinically so is basically condemning them to a life of excusing sullenness on their “condition”?
I’ll start here…
There are a million and one misconceptions I have uncovered in my life and there are bound to be at least that many more that I haven’t yet stumbled upon. One thing I know in the most intimate way is that just because a person is older, married, has children, a great job, a house or what-have-you, doesn’t mean they are a reasonable, rational human being. Sure, once upon a time the word “adult” denoted trustworthiness, wisdom, authority, responsibility. “If you are in trouble, find the nearest adult” was once a reasonable suggestion for a child who might become frightened. That is not to say it was always true and based on reason, but it was what a lot of people in my generation were raised to believe; that most adults were protective, wise and caring and the only ones to be scared of were the ones who wanted to get you into their car and give you candy. My mother was a perfect example of how wrong that assumption can be. Nobody on Earth has filled me with more lies, more misguided notions of the world and it’s workings than she did and it wasn’t out of some cruel design. She was mentally damaged, selfish and ignorant (among other things) and a like a lot of “adults” she believed that because she had all the trappings of authority, that she must be right. Then I was reminded of how many adults I had known in my childhood who had a profoundly negative influence on my life and it is clear that she wasn’t alone. (side note: I can remember watching a film in my grade school cafeteria/auditorium about how some man might want to lure me into his car with candy and how I was supposed to run away, and distinctly recall wondering if my mother had put the school up to it because she had me on diets from the time I was four).
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that a 48 year-old has no way of knowing what kind of damage she can do to a 13 year-old girl’s psyche. But I am going to tell you that to expect her to know the correct way to approach a child about her concerns for her daughter are dangerously flawed. To believe that is to assume that she has no ulterior motive, no deep-seated mental illness that this incident brought forth, and more importantly, that she is a mature enough, deep enough, well-rounded enough human being to have the tools to deal with something like this on the higher ground. How many people do you know that can do that? How many of them are someone you would trust to speak to your child about anything of importance (whether you have a child or not)? My God, adults have a hard enough time getting along with one another! I still have an adult out there who attempts to wage wars with me and slander me over the internet that I have not so much as sassed in over fifteen years. So how do we expect people, just because they are older, to know how to deal?
The thing is, this woman is not blameless because she is not a well developed, well-rounded human. She is responsible for the death of the girl. And I’ll tell you why…
She conversed with this Megan, a 13 year old, overweight girl looking for love. Megan was lovely, too; gorgeous eyes, sweet smile (braces or not). But of course, that wasn’t enough for some reason (be it social alienation, her mother, the media or whatever oppressive influence made her feel like she was not good enough). And this woman, this busybody mother, emailed back and forth with such a girl in MySpace. So she had to have had intimate details of how lonely, alienated, sad and desperate for romantic acceptance Megan must have been through that correspondence. There could be no doubt in her mind that she was going to devastate the girl when she turned on her, started calling her names and ultimately crushed her dreams of romance. Who doesn’t remember how much the loss of potential romantic connection makes you wish you were dead when you’re 13? Even so, she continued to torture this girl’s heart and soul. If that doesn’t imply sickness, honey I don’t know what does. She is guilty of torture, no matter what excuse she conjures in her defense. But murder? I can’t say.
See, I was tortured myself when I was younger. I was overweight, and not nearly as lovely (I was being informed regularly by my mother that I was a troll because I wasn’t skinny and popular, so much so that I believed it until I was well into my late 20s, and it showed on the outside). Boys played with my heart for fun, adults made hideous, hurtful comments and not one of them gave another thought as to the damage they might inflict. While I often wished for death, I was too strong or too scared to do it myself. I would find a reason to go on living. Even if it was something as trivial as knowing that I would get to go to Disneyland in two years, or foolishly believed my mother’s empty promises of braces for my teeth or a new bike. I refused to give up that easily. I refused to die. And so to that end, I imagine that Megan must have been far less driven than I was at her age to see how being a grown-up would be. She did, after all, choose how to resolve her pain. She chose death on her own.
Not everyone can suffer through the kind of agony she must have been feeling. I’m still shocked and pleasantly surprised that I did. And when I was well into my thirties a forty year-old friend said to me, “I’ve not heard half of the things that happened to you when you were a kid and I know that if I had been in your shoes, I wouldn’t have made it.” I was shocked and bewildered by that statement from a strong, independent woman. That was the first time I knew that not everyone had the same reserve of determination to go on. Now, I don’t expect it so easily in others. But I don’t know that many people who put enough thought into… well… anything, to know the effect they will have on another’s life and certainly not when it comes to their agenda. So I don’t believe for a moment that the over-zealous mother had any intention to see Megan die over her imagined smack-talking. If she wanted the girl dead, she would have killed her.
I feel for Megan’s parents. They must wonder if there is anything more they could have done, if they could have somehow foiled their neighbor’s plan or proved that Josh Evans was a hoax and saved their beautiful little girl. To my mind, there isn’t a whole lot they could have done. The mother seemed to have her eye on things and it still went out of control. But does the father wonder what he might have done? Maybe if fathers were more involved in their daughters’, they would be able to spare them the endless wondering of why boys do what they do. Maybe Megan’s father would have known that his daughter wasn’t actually talking to a boy at all. Who knows? But you have to admit… it wouldn’t have hurt. It’s nice to see at least one dad is paying attention.
*If you don’t know who Kevin Smith is, you have clearly been living in a cave and have never seen or heard of such cult classics as Clerks, Chasing Amy and Dogma. If you have, indeed, been cave dwelling for the past 15 or so years, go here to see out what he’s all about.
Monday, November 26, 2007
It is the Season
So it's been a while. Since May, from what I can tell. And luckily I lost all my previous posts when trying to do a little blog tidying so it's basically back to ground zero. Let's start with what's on my mind today, shall we?
My title implies that perhaps it is the holidays burning in my noggin today, but nothing could be further from the truth. That which is taking up my thoughts of late is that my friends and I have reached that time of our lives when we are due for a shake up (or a shake down as Danny Elfman might suggest). All I know is, outrageous things are going to happen to us and there is no stopping that freight train no matter how we react.
Death is right at the top of the change list. I don't know if I'm a cold-hearted guttersnipe or have simply managed to rationalize death, but I feel prepared for the fact that both of my parents are at death's door. Certainly, I hadn't expected to be so detached from that process, but that is where I am. My family has never, ever been good at pulling together for anything. To have believed that death would have done so was, in retrospect, an entirely foolish outlook. Sadly, I am learning my family is not alone in this behavior.
Several of my friends have lost loved ones over the last year. Really, it's alarming when I think about it. It got to a point where every time I answered my phone, it was to receive news of a mother or father or in-laws or siblings that had died. Being the empath that I am, that started to take a huge toll on my heart. I love my friends so much. Knowing they are in pain causes me pain. That's how I roll. And I couldn't keep going that way, so I started to look at what was happening from another perspective.
Cold as this may sound (and I know it will), we are at that point in our lives when parents are starting to depart our lives. We are all, now, at a place where many of our career choices no longer fit who we are, or have changed so drastically in the scope of our chosen fields, that we find ourselves careening into the land of the obsolete. Many of us believed with all our imaginations that we would be living in a house we own, all married, all raising children, all firmly ensconced in a job from which (if we played our cards right) we would retire. But for many of us those paths haven't quite presented themselves. Some have a couple of those trappings of adulthood, some seem to be nowhere near. Some are happy with how things have turned out, some are not. Still, no matter how you slice it, many of us thirty and fortysomethings are being faced with a landslide of changes seemingly none of us were prepared for.
The job market, I think, has been even harder for most of us to face. I think of my best friend who has been at the same company for more of the span of our 22 year friendship than she hasn't and am astounded at her ability to roll with whatever adjustments have needed to be made in order to enjoy such longevity. While she tends to bemoan her princess-of-nice facade, and the requisite expectations of singular dimensionality, I suspect that niceness has bought her a free pass to not having to be out there figuring out what the hell to do next. That and, perhaps, a less than exaggerated sense of adventure, but who could really blame her? Security has it's benefits.
Many of my friends, these days, have Entertainment Industry related jobs or careers (and there is a BIG difference between the two). For those of us who had "jobs" we find ourselves finally relenting to being too old to be considered maliable and cheap by those in the hiring position. For those of us with "careers" we are faced with the ever mutating and dwindling options the industry has to offer these days. Try as we might to roll with those changes, there is a constant wave of fresh, eager kids who can and will take less money, no benefits, and have no problem being treated with practically no respect in order to get their foot in the door. Those of us who have been there, are less apt to take half-witted orders from kids ten years younger and do so with anything that passes for a genuine smile on our face. We know what we're doing and we know how to do it well and that makes us a liability, it makes us expensive and it makes us less marketable. If you're not in a position of power in this industry, or on the inside with someone who is, being a thirtysomething still at the bottom means you are most likely done. For those who are still going, still trying and still succeeding, you have my most fervent respect. For myself, I cannot rely on the willynilly industry any more. Time to start taking some action.
Home. That one bites a few of us hard. Practically every person I am close to rents. And they probably will for a good long time, if not forever. The idea of my somehow amassing 500K to move into a tiny condo with no lawn, no patio, no separation between me and my neighbor whatsoever, is mind-boggling. I have been envious of those who have been lucky enough to live in a house for any length of time (rented or not). For my part, I have finally given in to the expense of living alone and will be moving in with a friend to share a condo. The ceilings are so low I can literally reach up and touch them. My room is so tiny that I don't think I could fit a queen bed and a dresser even if i had both those things. My bathroom is big enough, but once my cat's litterbox and food is in there, it won't be. But I will be saving $500 a month, I will finally have a parking space, I will finally have a dishwasher and laundry in the unit. That is as close to being in more of a "home" arrangement than I've had in about 12 years. Still I'm so resistant to losing my privacy and autonomy, right now, that I should be packing instead of writing.
I guess my point is to say this... life may not have turned out to be what we thought it would, despite our best efforts to get what we wanted. But one thing is for certain, we are at the time of our lives when all of these changes, disappointments, questions, upheavals and even deaths are supposed to happen. We are right on course. And hopefully, once we pass this phase, we will find ourselves in a place where, at long last, we can rest for a change. We can stop struggling, have what we have and enjoy it. I'm working on that. How about you?
My title implies that perhaps it is the holidays burning in my noggin today, but nothing could be further from the truth. That which is taking up my thoughts of late is that my friends and I have reached that time of our lives when we are due for a shake up (or a shake down as Danny Elfman might suggest). All I know is, outrageous things are going to happen to us and there is no stopping that freight train no matter how we react.
Death is right at the top of the change list. I don't know if I'm a cold-hearted guttersnipe or have simply managed to rationalize death, but I feel prepared for the fact that both of my parents are at death's door. Certainly, I hadn't expected to be so detached from that process, but that is where I am. My family has never, ever been good at pulling together for anything. To have believed that death would have done so was, in retrospect, an entirely foolish outlook. Sadly, I am learning my family is not alone in this behavior.
Several of my friends have lost loved ones over the last year. Really, it's alarming when I think about it. It got to a point where every time I answered my phone, it was to receive news of a mother or father or in-laws or siblings that had died. Being the empath that I am, that started to take a huge toll on my heart. I love my friends so much. Knowing they are in pain causes me pain. That's how I roll. And I couldn't keep going that way, so I started to look at what was happening from another perspective.
Cold as this may sound (and I know it will), we are at that point in our lives when parents are starting to depart our lives. We are all, now, at a place where many of our career choices no longer fit who we are, or have changed so drastically in the scope of our chosen fields, that we find ourselves careening into the land of the obsolete. Many of us believed with all our imaginations that we would be living in a house we own, all married, all raising children, all firmly ensconced in a job from which (if we played our cards right) we would retire. But for many of us those paths haven't quite presented themselves. Some have a couple of those trappings of adulthood, some seem to be nowhere near. Some are happy with how things have turned out, some are not. Still, no matter how you slice it, many of us thirty and fortysomethings are being faced with a landslide of changes seemingly none of us were prepared for.
The job market, I think, has been even harder for most of us to face. I think of my best friend who has been at the same company for more of the span of our 22 year friendship than she hasn't and am astounded at her ability to roll with whatever adjustments have needed to be made in order to enjoy such longevity. While she tends to bemoan her princess-of-nice facade, and the requisite expectations of singular dimensionality, I suspect that niceness has bought her a free pass to not having to be out there figuring out what the hell to do next. That and, perhaps, a less than exaggerated sense of adventure, but who could really blame her? Security has it's benefits.
Many of my friends, these days, have Entertainment Industry related jobs or careers (and there is a BIG difference between the two). For those of us who had "jobs" we find ourselves finally relenting to being too old to be considered maliable and cheap by those in the hiring position. For those of us with "careers" we are faced with the ever mutating and dwindling options the industry has to offer these days. Try as we might to roll with those changes, there is a constant wave of fresh, eager kids who can and will take less money, no benefits, and have no problem being treated with practically no respect in order to get their foot in the door. Those of us who have been there, are less apt to take half-witted orders from kids ten years younger and do so with anything that passes for a genuine smile on our face. We know what we're doing and we know how to do it well and that makes us a liability, it makes us expensive and it makes us less marketable. If you're not in a position of power in this industry, or on the inside with someone who is, being a thirtysomething still at the bottom means you are most likely done. For those who are still going, still trying and still succeeding, you have my most fervent respect. For myself, I cannot rely on the willynilly industry any more. Time to start taking some action.
Home. That one bites a few of us hard. Practically every person I am close to rents. And they probably will for a good long time, if not forever. The idea of my somehow amassing 500K to move into a tiny condo with no lawn, no patio, no separation between me and my neighbor whatsoever, is mind-boggling. I have been envious of those who have been lucky enough to live in a house for any length of time (rented or not). For my part, I have finally given in to the expense of living alone and will be moving in with a friend to share a condo. The ceilings are so low I can literally reach up and touch them. My room is so tiny that I don't think I could fit a queen bed and a dresser even if i had both those things. My bathroom is big enough, but once my cat's litterbox and food is in there, it won't be. But I will be saving $500 a month, I will finally have a parking space, I will finally have a dishwasher and laundry in the unit. That is as close to being in more of a "home" arrangement than I've had in about 12 years. Still I'm so resistant to losing my privacy and autonomy, right now, that I should be packing instead of writing.
I guess my point is to say this... life may not have turned out to be what we thought it would, despite our best efforts to get what we wanted. But one thing is for certain, we are at the time of our lives when all of these changes, disappointments, questions, upheavals and even deaths are supposed to happen. We are right on course. And hopefully, once we pass this phase, we will find ourselves in a place where, at long last, we can rest for a change. We can stop struggling, have what we have and enjoy it. I'm working on that. How about you?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Oops!!!
I accidentally deleted my blog! I meant to delete my weight loss blog (for the sole reason that it was not doing what I had intended and therefore... decided to stop flogging the dead horse!).
Nonnoonoooo I haven't decided to give up losing weight, silly. Please. I like being able to walk!
So this will blog will go back to my epic articles. And other blogs will follow. Stay tuned.
Nonnoonoooo I haven't decided to give up losing weight, silly. Please. I like being able to walk!
So this will blog will go back to my epic articles. And other blogs will follow. Stay tuned.
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