Rainy Pouring I'm Gonna Go Eat Worms

Bad things come in threes. Here's today's:

• My toilet is broken. Or at least it won't flush. Which is pretty much the same thing.
• My water filter dies. Stopped filtering, starting spraying.
• I got a parking ticket. I thought meters went 'till five. They went 'till six. I still have two quarters in my wallet.

Add to that the fact that I'm upset w/ Mr. Zips for a pretty petty and stupid reason. He can afford to orderChinese food every night and buy sweaters at Eddie Bauer but claims he can't afford to get me a Christmas present. Nice!***

Oh yea, and Peeps is whining non stop at the top of her kitty lungs because she thinks I still have turkey in the fridge and I'm holding out on her. I've shown her the empty fridge, but she still doesn't get it.

The good news is I have a second interview tomorrow. Always good to have offers in your back pocket.

*** Post Script -- Fair play to Mr. Zips. He totally came through on the thoughtful gifts. Makes me feel really bad about this post...

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of the things I realized while being "home" is that "home" isn't necessarily always yours. I mean, sure, I remember most of the roads and how to get there from here. But there's no one there I can call on a whim to meet for a drink or a cup of coffee. Even my best friend from years gone by won't return my calls. I may or may not be responsible for that -- I wasn't sober enough to remember.

It's all caused me to wonder what makes a house a home. There's a gas station on the road out of Northampton where they know I don't take meat on my Supreme Omelet morning sandwiches. In Greenfield I like the bookstore that has honest to goodness people that will talk to you about books you like, don't like, and/or might like. I know every twist, turn, and police trap on Rt. 12 in New Hampshire from Ashuelot to Keene.

Are these the things make neighborhoods home? Or are they blips on the radar screen? Is it home when your kitties are comfortable enough to stop having skin rashes? Or knowing that your neighbors have a dog they call by only "Puppy?" How many months or years do you have to be in a place to have it count?

This is a question I would like to find the answer to. Maybe not right here, in this Old Apartment. But maybe. But, I think I'm getting old because I am, indeed, looking to find a home.

Ah the holidays

I'm home for the holidays. That is to say, I'm back in NJ at my parents' house, staying in my old bedroom, living out of a suitcase because most of the drawers in my dresser have storage stuff in them.

And - warning - I am getting highly agitated by my family. More specifically, my mother. My mother who, despite the fact she swears I'm her best friend, has no idea who I am. Or what's important to me. She's spent the whole day preaching about how ridiculous TomKat's wedding was and those religious that don't let people make up their own minds and tell people what they should do and what they should believe in and what's right and what's wrong and ... Oh The Irony. If the Roman Catholics had a Rosie the Riveter it would be my mom. Reenie the Repenter. Or the Converter. Or something. And, me? Hi, Have we met? Card Carrying Pagan.

And then there's the fact that she's been complaining ad nauseum for two days about how much weight she's gained. And for dinner she had two pieces of pie and a carton of coffee ice cream. Let me repeat that - pie and ice cream.

It's like my friend who whines all the time about her money worries ..... And so she goes out and buys a REALLY expensive mattress. Because it's her bed, right, that's keeping her from sleeping. Not her insecurity/unsecurity. Right?

There's a lot of things that drive me nuts. (Try tho I do to espouse lovingkindness.) But one thing that really gets me road raging is when people bitch about their situation while actively working to encourage that exact situation.

It's like complaining about how you hate always being hung over while you're pouring your fifth vodka martini.

So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I should be concentrating on gratitude and not being a bitch. But, there you have it, folks. Now you know the real me. Unfortunately, my moods don't follow a calendar.

$42.81

I went to the store tonite -- I needed an avocado and some caffeine (I can't admit to my poison of choice). I also wanted to pick up some boxed/canned goods for the food drive at my office building.

I put the things I wanted in the front of the card -- the kiddie seat. I put the rest of the stuff in the main cart. There were so many cans - soups, veggies, and sauces. I finally stopped because I was worried how expensive it would be.

It cost me $42.81 in all. Rice, pasta, soup, beans - yes folks, even tuna fish from the veghead - enough food for weeks on end. And it cost $42.81. Made me feel really damn guilty about the $37 lunch Mr. Zips and I indulged in on Sunday. Not to mention the $75 I spent on my hair and eyebrows today.

It sounds Brady Bunch, but I do think this is what Thanksgiving is about. Forget the petty family squabbles, forget trying to hit the gym every day for fear of getting fat. Thank Heaven, God, Goddess, Universe, whatever...... that I don't need to rely on some corporate flunky to mitigate her middle class guilt by buying the food I'll eat for dinner.

Sometimes, it's very very good to be a middle-class corporate flunky.

My Hand Hurts

There are times when the worlds of life and work collide. And it is at those times you must realize what -- and who -- is important to you.

This weekend was not a banner weekend in my life. Got home from yoga and found three voicemails on the phone and the phone ringing. The tradeshow booth graphics hadn't arrived. Where were they? And while I didn't know where they were, nor was I responsible for getting them there, I went into the office, tracked the shipment and made mucho mucho phonecalls.

Years ago, the entire situation -- the botched event, the pissy account manager, the Sunday afternoon calls from the boss -- would have REALLY stressed me out. And, yes, I *DID* get a migraine and hit the wall with my fist, bruising my entire hand.

But I also turned off my phone and spent most of the day incommunicato in the mall with Mr. Zips. Pretending to be that White Trash couple and basically hamming it up for all to see. And, while I didn't get the curtains I was looking for, I realized that Mr. Zips is probably one of the most wonderful human beings to ever grace this planet.

We didn't write the entire day off and giggle it all away. But we did manage to mitigate the pain and stress with our love and our humor.

I might not be standing on a street corner with a sharp, expensive suit and the latest cutting edge technology keeping me posted of the most recent developments of the latest deal. But I have a partner in my life who makes me laugh, sends me electronic flowers, takes more pictures of my cats than I do, and - oh yea - is amazing in bed.

Life, my friends, is very, very good.

Roll Up the Pants

I work for a man (who we'll call Napolean) who loves to hear himself talk. Which is good because he sure as anything doesn't like to put anything in print. (Unless, of course, sarcastic, biting, inappropriate emails count.) And, when he talks, the BS starts a flowin.

And, honestly, I just do not know how to handle him. I'm not one of those people that puts on a poker face. I have *NO* internal gate to keep some thoughts in and let some thoughts out. So when he starts waxing eloquent, how, oh Universe, how?, do I let on that I think he's the biggest jackass in the world?

I guess it helps that just about everyone in the office thinks of him that way too.

How sad it must be to be the laughingstock of the entire company and suspect -- but not really know -- it.

Gee, I feel better already. Thank you, blogger.com

Stay the Course

Listening to President Bush's address upon the dismissal of Rumsfeld. Even in the midst of good news -- Dems taking over the House and likely/possibly the Senate and Rummy getting fired -- I am still filled with anger and, yes folks, hatred for this man.

Is this why I avoid listening -- really listening -- politics? It does not bring out the better aspects of myself. I get mean, and nasty, and small. And that's not a person I like.

I can't wait to listen to Rachel Maddow today. I REALLY can't wait to see The Daily Show.

BTW -- 22 minutes in and I've counted 7 Bushisms. Including "negotiating with himself..."

Perspectives

I went to a yoga workshop yesterday and it was absolutely amazing. They usually are. I'd never studied with this teacher before, but was expecting great things because people had registered from all over New England. You gotta think if people are gonna shell out $300 for a weekend of classes AND cough up for a hotel room, the teacher is worth it.

And, of course, it was.

The opening meditation focused on perspective. Did you know that there are 840 thousand yoga poses? So, basically, every single thing you do is a yoga pose. Strike a pose, there's nothing to it. And Shiva taught in the tantric scriptures that each and all yoga poses can be pathways to ultimate freedom. So, anything you do can be a door to truly being free.

It's all in how you look at it.

So, I'm feeling glorious. I'm feeling like, yeah, man, that's deep. Oooommmm. And I'm stretching and sweating and balancing and really working hard to reach that next stage of freedom.

And the teacher paused class to have a demonstration of a pose --Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana (Revolved extended hand to big toe pose (doesn't the Sanskrit sound nicer?)). I watched with envy the woman who was demonstrating. Not only did she have an absolutely ripped, tight body, but she effortlessly floated into the pose and held it, rock steady and sure. I wasn't sure which I resented more - her perfect body or her perfect practice.

And just then, the woman next to me leans over and, smiling, says, "Isn't it glorious to see people who can really do these poses. It gives me such hope. She's really so beautiful."

It's all in how you look at it.

I'd really like to beat myself up for even being jealous in the first place, but maybe it's better to see the whole exchange as a hands' on learning experience.

Right?

Road Rage

There used to appear bumper stickers that said:

Visualize Using Your Turn Signal

I maintain that the new generation of bumper stickers -- anti-war, anti-administraiton, anti-violence, anti-anti -- would be completely unnecessary if people remembered the mantra of that simple sticker of long ago.

Do you know how much kinder and gentler I'd be if people signalled before they cut me off? And, after all, peace begins with me.

Well, actually peace begins with pea, but you get the idea.

Fear Factor

My life is an episode of Fear Factor.

First the aforementioned Cooch Roach.

Then, today, out to lunch with our HR rep. I order the Veggie Wrap, no mayo, salad instead of fries.

I'm at least three quarters of the way through it when I realize that taste I couldn't quite place ... Is CHICKEN. Not just bland, anonymous McChicken flesh. Actual chicken breast and skin. Real chicken. Like the chicken I had IMMEDIATELY before turning vegetarian.

How is one supposed to handle that in front of one's HR rep?

I didn't flip out but I did get a little snippy. Especially when the server acted like, dude, it was really no big deal that there was chicken in my sandwich, I mean, really. Dude.

And, as if that wasn't enough, apparently my hypnotherapy worked last weekend. Because even though I was out with HR to discuss certain, uh, issues, I just kept seeing the positive in all situations. The lovingkindness, as it were. Damnit. Damn healthy balance and being in touch with the greater Universal energies. Dammit.

PS -- Is DAMN IT spelled with an MM or an MN?