An imaginary conversation with Elizabeth Wurtzel...

I "get" difficult women. I know a lot of them. I've worked for some and am related to several. I am one. I appreciate the stick-to-her-guns fuck you mentality of not caring (at least, appearing not to care) about what people think about you/her/us.

I read Elizabeth Wurtzel's memoir, Prozac Nation, when it came out. I was in college. It spoke to me. I even saw the movie. It didn't speak to me. In the late 90s, I (still in college) read Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women. You probably heard me cheering about it at some point. I read her second memoir, this one on addiction, a few years ago. I don't remember a lot about it, but I know I identified on some level. I've never met Lizzie (but in my mind I call her Lizzie because I follow her on Twitter and that's what she calls herself and I think if we met in person she'd be cool about it), but in the past couple of years - since she's popped up again writing pieces for The Guardian and New York Magazine - I've been paying a little more attention. She seemed to drop off pop culture's radar for a bit, and I had the sense that she had gone through something similar to my own (hate to call it mid-life because I know I'll live past 80) crisis. A loss of voice. And these pieces, varied as they were, attempts to find her voice again. Kind of like I've been doing for a while now. Except a lot more public. And with comments. On the internet. It feels like an odd question to ask about someone who wrote a book in praise of difficult women, but I also wondered why all the hating on Lizzie?

She's a little bit older than I am, but I consider her a sort of contemporary. And when I read her most recent piece in The Atlantic, "I Refuse to be a Grownup," I promised myself I wouldn't read the comments. Then I read the comments, or the first 20 or so. I wished I knew her in real life so I could tell her that she's doing the right thing, this writing she's doing to get her voice back. And this is the most "back" I've seen her since the 90s.

If you know me personally, you probably know that I rehearse conversations in my head (and come on, you do too, right?). On my way home from work, during that cursed/blessed worst Austin traffic drive time, I had one with Lizzie. It went something like this:

Me: Hey, so good on you for the Atlantic piece. I hope you didn't read the comments.
Lizzie: (leaves her sunglasses on, which is fine because I am kind of the sophomore to her senior in this scenario) Nope.
Me: I mean, I don't know who has time...but the one from the "TL:DR what's the point?" guy...he didn't even read...
Lizzie: I don't read the comments. I don't care what people think.
Me: Hey, that's really great...so, you of you. There was that one "psychologist" who comment-diagnosed you with narcissistic personality disorder and that isn't even a thing anymore; it's not even in the latest DSM...
Lizzie: (icy silence)
Me: I wanted to tell you that I get it. I hate that you have to see criticism all over the freaking internet when you're just being honest, I mean who isn't a narcissist? What's wrong with not wanting to grow up? For those of us who choose not to get married, not to have kids, to remain emotionally...um, I want to say... immature? Why do people care so much?
Lizzie: I don't. So I wouldn't know.
Me: I wanted to say that I'm on your side. Write all the crazy. Just write. Let the haters hate and do it anyway, even if it's just for lines like "I wish people were judging each other a great deal more, and more carefully, but they are not. Knowing this, I have no trouble being myself. It works well. I will die screaming." BECAUSE ME TOO, LIZZIE, ME TOO.
Lizzie: Calm down. (exhales vapor from her e-cig)
Me: OK, so I'll let you go, but just one more...
Lizzie: No.
Me: DidyoutotallyfreakoutthatChristinaRicciplayedyouinthemoviebecauseherforeheadOMGherforehead...
Lizzie: No.

And that was it. She probably wouldn't like me in person. Nor should she. I wanted to tell her about that one time I was on Prozac because my best friend died when I was 23 but it didn't work and how my mom is a therapist and told me the worst thing with mental health issues is to "be in the system" so I always made sure I saw private shrinks, off insurance, sometimes under assumed names, and I think talk therapy is overrated and that most people think I'm younger than I really am too because I don't really have responsibilities, but I do have one cat and one dog just like she does but the cat has hated me for 14 years now and also sometimes I am ridiculous too. When people grossly underestimate my age, I assume it's not based on my appearance, but on my behavior. I don't behave like a person who has the weight of other people's problems on top of my own, rather, I behave like a person who thinks her problems are the only important ones. And, BAM!, right back to narcissism.

Hate her or don't. Hate me or don't. I have had worry. I have had grief. I have had despair. None of these things permanently damaged me. Not even a line on my forehead (yet, but totally fine when it does happen, because it will). So to the critics, to the commenters and trolls, to anyone who cannot follow her stream of consciousness while she reaches for the voice she might think she lost by detouring to law school and relationships and doing things other than writing - pay attention. You're not. She is. And she says it better than I:

"Nothing is more bracing than not being concerned about what other people think. I have no idea why anyone cares. Trust me: No one is looking. I know: I am looking. People are self-involved."

p.s. If you don't know who Elizabeth Wurtzel is or if you were in a coma in the 90s, here are all the Tumblr posts in the world tagged with her name. Enjoy.

Housekeeping? Housekeeping.

After waffling back and forth about whether or not to archive my old blog and start a new one (it felt like throwing away a lot of memories), stop blogging altogether (but I have sooo much material waiting to be loosed upon the world), or do "something" with my existing site to make it fun for me again (it felt so clunky forever and I had gotten in the habit of heading over to Twitter or Tumblr when I have something to say), I picked door number three.

This is my toe in, re-introduction, new beginning, the opening of the floodgates (I like that one the best). It's been three years since I've blogged on a regular basis, and I want to thank my friends Angie Mizzell, Aleigh Acerni, Doretha Walker and all of the blogs in my reader (so many) for inspiring me and inspiring me and inspiring me once more. I've been testing the waters for a long time and I'm ready to get my hair wet (and if you know me well, you understand that this is kind of a big deal because me getting my hair wet in a chlorinated kiddie pool is equal to most other people diving from a high cliff into the ocean).

If you're reading this post in a reader, you are probably confused. Click over to my blog and see the "something" I did with my site. I'd love your feedback, even if you just want to throw out the spirit fingers (Angie). And since the actual work on my part was choosing a designer, let me add that Carrie of CarrieLovesDesign.com is responsible for all of sexiness up in here.

So with renewed vigor and enthusiasm, let the navel-gazing commence! 

I'll take "things that need updating" for $500...

New health insurance that includes vision coverage = new glasses (to make me feel better about the fact that my vision changed for the first time in six years and I have to get new lenses and I'm probably like a month away from needing reading glasses which makes me feel like young me is trapped in a me that is aging and that makes me feel anxious). So I'm getting these cool-ass frames.


Super cute and I can't wait until they're done (and not just because I have daily eye strain). Blink blink.

So hearing is the next thing to go?

One of the nicest compliments I've ever received...

Wasn't when my 27-year-old stylist assumed "we were the same age" (and this was just last year).
Wasn't when my dermatologist told me I had "fabulous" skin (yes, he frequently used the word "fabulous" and said this during a full-body skin cancer check).
Wasn't when a good friend of many years sent me a birthday package addressed to "Kelly Love Johnson, Rock Star."
Wasn't when I got a "fan email" recently - two years after my book came out - from a lovely 25-year-old woman who told me that my book gave her the courage to ask her boss for a raise after 3 years on the job - and she got it.

I've been on a lot of job interviews in the past few months because I'm searching for the perfect day job (something I can be passionate about, challenged by, creatively stimulated, etc.). I'm interviewing the interviewer as much as they're interviewing me (because of all of the above, I wouldn't accept a job if I didn't think it would be my perfect day job). In one of these interviews, the woman conducting the interview told me she Googled me (good for her!) and found this blog. I don't hide my blog...it's actually on my LinkedIn profile...but I'm always a little nervous when someone I meet for the first time brings it up (as in "oh crap, have I dropped the f-bomb recently? Did I say I hate pork and her family owns a pig farm? Do I talk too much about watching TV? Does she think I'm totally neurotic?").

Anyhoochie, what she said (and I'm paraphrasing) is that she spent a good bit of time perusing my archives here, found them amusing, but what impressed her the most is that I (a) never trashed my then current day job and (b) when I talked about work, even in a funny way, I kept it professional. In other words, I walk the line. I'm honest, but not so honest I'd get Dooced. I was really flattered, but I had to be honest: I've never had a day job that didn't encourage me to be creative, be myself, and when I have been in situations (hello politics) that require me to keep my mouth shut, I'm smart enough to do it.

After our interview, I really started thinking about it. I've had bad days at work. I've written about them, but not in such a way that disparaged my employer (my bad days at work had everything to do with me and nothing to do with them anyway). I've had jobs go wrong, but I had the sense to make a graceful exit and not use this site to bitch about it. And other than cancer, death, and 3rd degree burns, everything is funny - EVENTUALLY. So yes, I've been in bad work situations. I've had to leave jobs with a broken heart. I've had bad bosses. I've found myself curled up on the living room rug in a fetal position, sobbing into my dog's fur. But I didn't write about it at the time. Because it wasn't funny at the time.

It is now. I talk to a friend and former co-worker occasionally about a shared boss's craziness (this is from YEARS ago so don't get all bajiggity thinking I'm referring to you) and we giggle our asses off. Would I write about those stories here? Probably not. Maybe at some point. I don't know. I've gone a little soft as I've gotten older and I no longer enjoy hurting people's feelings. But it's funny now. It wasn't funny when it was happening and I had to step out of the office, get in my car, make sure the windows were up, and scream my head off. The stories are too damn good to keep hidden away forever and ever, so I'm writing them down - as personal narrative that I may or may not include in my second book.

BACK to my point: I've been blogging here for more than 7 years and through 3 or 4 day jobs. And the fact that someone noticed that I can write, maintain a sense of humor, not whine about my job, and protect my then employer's privacy all at the same time was nice to hear. I didn't end up taking the job, but I took the compliment.

Resolutions...

For the past 10 years or so, I've always made a "mega list" of New Year's Resolutions. For example, in 2002, I made 102 micro-resolutions. In 2004, I made 104. I wasn't the only one...there's a whole community of people who break their resolutions down into categories and smaller, more manageable increments. I also created titles ("Get it Done in 2001") for each list, printed them out, and carried them with me in my day planner. I even highlighted each item as it was accomplished. Cleaning out some files (one of my resolutions) earlier this week in my desk, I came across 10 printed out lists from the past 10 years. Frankly, it just made me tired. If I stuck to the old pattern, this year, that means I would have to make 111 resolutions. Not going to happen.

I was thrilled to find these old lists, not just for entertainment value (in 2011, one of my resolutions was "don't leave the house without makeup." Another: "Watch less TV."), but also because I realized that they served a purpose, but it's one I no longer need. Every year, I included "read one book a week." Done. The wearing makeup thing? I now live in Austin. I go to the grocery store in my pajamas and often spend days without makeup. Another amusement: Every single list had "fall in love." I did that one year; it didn't quite work out. Also, I don't think that's the kind of thing you can put on a check list. The coolest thing is that some of the resolutions I thought were long shots actually happened: I published a book in 2008. I made a huge change in my life when I moved to Austin (just passed my one year anniversary here!). I got a literary agent and a publicist. I became my own publicist. I matured emotionally, have been able to let down some of those walls, and I tell people I love them all the time - whether they say it back or not. I finally read Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead (thanks to some prompting from Aleigh). And they did change my life, or at least the way I perceive things in my life.

For 2011, I've decided to keep my list in my head. Or maybe here. But there won't be 111. I want to live in the moment. I want to be happy (I am). I want to be more social (working on it). I want to find a day job that I love so much I'd do it for free. I want to lose 25 lbs. I want to finish my second book. I want to buy some plants. But since I live in Austin now, as a tribute, I'm going to go with the flow, add resolutions as they come up, and let the Universe point me in the right direction. Maybe this year, not having a printed, rigid list will be an asset. I'm calling my 2011 list "Subject to Change." Which reminds me: Add "stop trying to control every aspect of your life."

Freezer section trickery...

Because I don't like to cook and can't be bothered with it, I buy a lot of "skillet meals" in the freezer section of the grocery store. Most of them take less than 20 minutes to cook and involve dumping the contents of a bag into a large skillet. Hence the name, "skillet meals."

If one is going to nourish oneself in this manner, one should also read the directions carefully. I recently bought an orange chicken skillet meal, scanned the directions on the bag, and threw it into the cart. When I decided to make it for dinner last night, I discovered that everything could be cooked in-skillet - except for the rice, which came in a pouch, which had to be microwaved. Boil it, you say? The pouch had a warning label that said "for microwave use only: DO NOT BOIL." I threw the rest of the stuff into the skillet while my initial aggravation turned into fury that I wasn't going to be able to add what was probably the best jasmine rice in the world. I had to eat the chicken and vegetables with orange sauce. No rice. BECAUSE I DO NOT OWN A MICROWAVE.

A little history: We were one of the first families in our neighborhood to own a microwave, one of those massive metal Radaranges that took up as much space as the floor model Curtis Mathes television set in the den. It was the late seventies, I had three sisters, two dogs, a cat, two guinea pigs, and a soon-to-be divorced mother who had trouble dragging herself out of bed, much less cooking a meal. From 1979 to the early nineties, our home-cooked meals consisted of anything you could nuke the shit out of. It doesn't surprise me that I had a better relationship with Twinkies than with the limp stalks and rubbery greens that served as "vegetables" during my formative years.

As an adult, I have never owned a microwave. I hate them. I hate food cooked in them. The smell of Lean Cuisine makes me want to hork until the rice pilaf and herb roasted chicken I ate in 1993 comes up. If I had a microwave, it would only be an expensive water-boiler. I don't think it's a big deal, but some people think not owning a microwave is the equivalent of not owning a TOILET. Or that it means I am a hippie luddite (which I am not). Or that I'm crazy (which I am not). I've even had people visiting my house comment, "no microwave? That's crazy!"

First, I do reheat leftovers. I just use the OVEN. Microwaves turn leftover pizza into cardboard with cheese. Second, there hasn't been one instance in the past 10 years where I thought owning one would make my life easier.

Now, if I said I didn’t own a microwave because the government implants devices in them to track our eating habits and beam the information to satellites in outer space, or that microwave radiation causes tumors that make you thirst for human blood, that would be crazy.

However, if I plan to continue to eat "skillet meals," I might have to spring for a small one. That I would unplug and store in the closet under the stairs while not in use, lest it emit radiation while sitting on my kitchen counter.

Does that LOOK like a busy bee?

Let me preface this confession by saying I've had a stressful week. Not just work, but Miss Kitty has had UTI issues on and off for a month or so and I got results back Saturday morning that she has "feline lower urinary tract disease," so besides the $300 and something I've paid for bloodwork, urinalysis, antibiotics, etc. so far, I had to go back to the vet and pick up special food and another round of antibiotics, which ran me about $100. AND I have to bring her back to do it all over again in another couple of weeks. Not that I wouldn't pay any amount of money to keep Miss Kitty healthy; it's just bad timing.


So yesterday was Lulu's birthday and since she's torn apart her squeaky man twice (my mom has sewed it up once, but this last time she really shredded him), I decided to go back to PetSmart where we found squeaky man and get her a new one for her birthday. Let me also add that Lulu loves her squeaky man. She sleeps with it and has been looking for it every night since I put it away because she tore the stuffing out of it.

I had just left the vet's office and figured I'd pop in to PetSmart and return home with a new squeaky man. Not so easy. They didn't have any up front (where I found the other one 2 months ago). So I asked one of the women working up front if she could help me find it. We went to the toy aisle and I tried to describe it ("it looks like a cookie cutter and has no face, but it's made from fleece and squeaks...") and the nice lady kept holding up other toys (Lady: "is this it? It's fleece." Me: "That is a SHEEP, not a man.")

I was actually starting to get tearful (note: lack of sleep = tired and emotional) when I realized I had become Parker Posey from "Best in Show" when they lost the busy bee and she had to find another one. Video below - fast forward to the 2 min. mark if you want to know what my PetSmart meltdown looked like.



I spent another five minutes or so letting the PetSmart lady drag me up and down the toy aisle, showing me everything that wasn't a squeaky man before she told me I could probably order it on the web site. I meant to thank her, but instead I said, "if I wanted to order it online, I wouldn't have come to your store!" (or something equally bitchy and stupid).

I called my friend Charlie and told him what happened (he's usually the person I call when I need to do a crazy check). He said, "we must never speak of this again."

Then I went home and took a Xanax and a really long nap. With a day's perspective and some sleep, I feel a lot better, less crazy, and now I know I can order squeaky man on the web site.

UPDATE: My BFF, MK, who is also Lulu's Fairy Dogmother, brought Lulu a fleece covered stuffed squeaky bone-shaped toy that is close to the size of squeaky man last night and Lulu loves it.

Tell me something good...*

Despite the fact that I am actively pursuing positivity (i.e. not hanging out with people who bring me down, not listening to the little voice in my head that worries all the time, not reading sad books or listening to any of my numerous sad songs playlists), I just had to let some of the negativity loose. My top 10 list of things that piss me off:

1. People who keep sending me DC-based political job listings. I was communications director for one congressional campaign and, while I did a really good job for my candidate, I chose to work for the campaign because of the candidate and her positions, not because I had a dream to one day work for low wages in politics. I love you, but please stop with the DC job listing email forwards. I don't want to move to DC, especially not for 50K a year.

2. The chatty guy who works behind the counter at CVS who thinks it is appropriate to tell me I look tired, that I look that I've had a long day, etc. He's done it three times already. I work from home. Some days that means I don't wear makeup. I also have to walk my dog, which means I am often sweaty, covered in sunscreen, and wearing a ball cap to hide dirty hair. Also, I am over 30 and an insomniac, so I frequently suffer from puffy eye syndrome. None of this is CVS guy's business. And it doesn't make my day. Also? I never hear him say things like that to men. Don't comment on my appearance unless you think I look fantastic.

3. The former friend I haven't spoken to in five years sending me a friend request through Facebook (no note, just the friend request). There are better ways to get in touch after time has passed and this is not one of them. My email address has been the same since 1997. My cell number has been the same since 2000.

4. People who keep asking me to do shit for free, like they believe since I'm working from home I have all this time on my hands. I don't mind giving advice, volunteering, etc., but I do have a limit. And really my pet peeve here isn't doing something pro bono, it's the lack of reciprocity. I have literally reached out for help to people for whom I have bent over backwards for years for, and was left with my hand outstretched and not even a kind word. I could give you some fine examples, but would rather not name names. Instead, I will share my Note from the Universe that I received this morning:
"There will always be people in your life, Kelly Love, who hold you back, who cost you too much, and who fail to see all you've done for them. But, of course, they're just there to teach you that you do have time, that you'll always be rich, and that your own high standards are all that matter."

5. People who keep trying to engage me in conversation about things in celebrity gossip magazines. I do not care about those people with a bunch of kids, octo-mom or whatever her name is, anyone from The Hills, Housewives of Whatever, or reality television in general. I realize these are like crack to some people and that's just fine. I don't want to hear about them. The only reality shows I watch are on the Food Network , Animal Planet, and the Travel Channel. If that makes me a TV snob, so be it.

6. My douchebag neighbor who keeps parking his douchey boat and douchey truck on the side street of my house. It wouldn't be so bad if his douchey boat didn't LEAK GASOLINE INTO MY YARD. Also? I had four of my OTHER neighbors knock on my door to ask me if it was MY boat (seriously?!) because they were pissed about the gasoline smell. Someone called DHEC on him. It might have been me. If it wasn't me, I wish I'd thought of it.

7. Random neighbors (including douchey boat guy's girlfriend) stopping by to ask (a) if I have wi-fi and (b) if I will give them my password. One even offered me $20 a month to ride my wireless internet access. Wow - I pay $65 a month for internet access and you want to give me $20 a month to slow it down? No thanks and you have very large balls just for asking. My standard response is "I don't feel comfortable with that" (and then I raise an eyebrow to make my "and I don't care if you think I'm a bitch" face).

8. Some effed up show on the History Channel called "Life After People" I accidentally watched while flipping channels during a bout of insomnia. Dude, I am neurotic enough on my own. I ended up taking a Xanax at 3am just to be able to get back to sleep after watching just 10 minutes of this show. And I still can't get the images of feral dogs rummaging through cities out of my head.

9. People who respond to my listing on Roommates.com that are either complete freaks or arrange a time to meet and never show up or call me back. And the ones who are surprised that I'm actually "interviewing" potential roommates. Just trying to weed out the racists, homophobes, rednecks, and serial killers. I don't think that's too much to ask.

10. People who murder in the name of religion. I worry that Dr. Tiller's murder might indicate a return to some of the anti-choice violence we saw in the early and mid-90s. Also, it's been a long time since I've been to church, but I'm pretty sure "thou shalt not kill" is still included in the Ten Commandments. Some of the discourse and reporting about Tiller's murder scares me.

With all of this, let me add some positive things:
* My BFF and I came up with a great idea for a book that we're going to work on together - no details until I have a contract, but it's a good one.
* I noticed that one of my neighbors listens to books on CD when she's working in her yard, so I stopped by and gave her Tom Perrotta's Little Children on CD that I've had forever. She returned it the following week with some lovely chocolate pound cake.
* I have season 4 of Weeds on DVD.
* I'm as busy as I want to be.
* I have some really great friends who can make me laugh even when I am in a funk.

*Song by Rufus & Chaka Khan

Now it's your turn to help me on my quest for living a positive and balanced life. Tell me something good. Tell me that you love me. Tell me what you do love (even if it's celebrity gossip...I'll forgive you). Post a link to some good news. Tell me you're the one who called DHEC on my douchey neighbor. Tell me how great I look without makeup and with puffy eyes. Give me the name brand of sunscreen 60SPF or higher that won't make me look like I've rolled in Crisco. Just tell me.

Really just wanted...

...to stop looking at the same sad post from 10 days ago. I'm still working a lot (and will be through the election) and trying to decompress when I'm not. I actually went bowling Saturday night (this will only be funny if you know me well).

I tried to read last night because I've been anxious to start Haruki Murakami's latest, but couldn't concentrate long enough to get through a paragraph. So I plugged in the iPod and listened to new music downloads instead.

I'm not a huge Zach Braff fan (probably because Scrubs went on about a season too long), but I love his taste in music. I like the soundtrack from The Last Kiss more than I liked the movie (esp. Rufus Wainwright) and I just downloaded the soundtrack for season 2 from iTunes and it's dreamy: Old 97s, Rhett Miller, Joshua Radin, The Polyphonic Spree, Colin Hay...

Then I fell asleep during Law & Order. Did the same on Monday night 15 minutes before the end of Heroes (don't tell me what happened!).

Some backtalk from the mute sky...*

I'd like to call this "View From my Office Window on a Rainy Day," but instead I'll share stream of consciousness because I forgot my socks (how one does that...) but my feet are always cold anyway, it might be my shoes or that we were listening to "Stairway to Heaven" that makes me feel like I'm in the 7th grade, my outfit matches the sky but not my mood, my hair is still damp and smells like someone else's shampoo, I'm nostalgic for the days when it didn't matter on what pillow I laid my head because I always wanted things to be different, different, different and now I just want them same, same, same.

*From "Black Rook in Rainy Weather," Sylvia Plath.

I want to do a big, long post about how great my vacation was...

...but I'm eating a bag of little carrots for lunch and blind rage is preventing me from thinking about anything else.

Last night for dinner I wanted raw oysters, hot sauce and Saltine crackers. I ate hummus and baby spinach on sprouted wheat flatbread. After dinner, I wanted a piece of Boston cream pie. I ate half (half!) of an apple instead. I'm not even supposed to eat my daily breakfast of Kashi bar (140 calories, can I get a hell yeah) anymore. Why? Because Kashi bars do not grow on trees.

The government and stupid FDA and its f*cked up 1980s food pyramid ruined my life. When I was a kid, I survived solely on partially hydrogenated crap drenched in high fructose corn syrup (HFCS). Yes, I blame the FDA for my diabetes. Because if someone had told my mother that having Spaghetti-Os for dinner three nights a week is like eating poison, I'm (almost) positive that she wouldn't have opened a can. Or allowed us to eat fast food, ramen noodles, tomato soup (even the "healthy request" has HFCS), or Little Debbie anything.

Thanks for listening. I feel better now.

You take the good, you take the bad...

(now try to go through your day without the "Facts of Life" theme running through your head...)

The Good
* Joined a gym and have been going three times a week (in addition to weekly yoga).
* Bought new sneaks and workout clothes to go with gym membership.
* Got hair cut and colored (dark brown with cherry red underneath) as a reward for hitting the gym.
* Book proposal #2 coming together very nicely.
* Napping on rainy weekends is awesome.
* Cuddled up on the couch to watch Apocalypse Now Redux for the first time on Friday and it was stunning. And three hours long. For someone with my attention span, that's a high compliment. I already knew Coppola was a genius (I've memorized most of The Godfather I and II), but DAMN.

The Bad
* My a/c at home seems to be slowly tanking. Have to run it nonstop just to keep temp inside below 78 degrees (and I like it to be closer to 70 indoors).
* I had a flat tire this morning.
* The fix-a-flat I attempted to use to inflate said flat exploded all over me. I cleaned up as best as I could before driving car to Gerald's, but it soaked through my shirt and also got into my hair, so I reek of fix-a-flat (which smells a LOT like gasoline).
* My essay for the August issue is a piece of shit. I have to fix it immediately, but I am high on fix-a-flat fumes and consumed with scamming a ride back to Gerald's later today. And also worried about whether or not HVAC people will call me back. If they don't, I'm coming to live with you.
* Am I a bad feminist for not wanting to deal with all of this bullshit all by myself?

On being a fashion victim...

And by "victim," I mean victim - not aficionado, not fanatic, not devotee, and not really even enthusiast. Enthusiastic would not be one of the words I use to describe my relationship with fashion. My own personal style, in the past few years, has been mostly black - black skirts, black shirts with jeans, black tunics with jeans, black tanks with jeans. The lower rack in my closet looks like Denim Day at The Gap. The upper rack, like it belongs to a mortician's daughter. I had a brief flirtation with color when my hair was platinum blonde. But I think the bleach soaked through to my brain and made me do silly things, like wear all pink, so I could flip through photos later and wonder why that blonde girl is dressed like a box of Valentine's day candy hearts.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not all function and no form. I like a well-cut pair of jeans (so much, in fact, when I find a pair I like, I stock up). I will spend a lot of money on a shirt that fits well, looks good, and is comfortable. Other than that, I don't care who makes it when, where, and why. I do look for designer labels, but only because some of them are really well-made, not so I can answer "who are you wearing?" with "Prada" or "Marc Jacobs."

The victim part is my fault. I get set in my ways and want to be able to replace the black summer weight Liz Claiborne cardigan I bought two years ago that now has a hole in the sleeve with an identical cardigan, except Liz decided that she was going to focus on old lady golf clothing in pastels this year. I need a new pair of jeans, maybe two or three pair, because every pair of the EIGHT IDENTICAL Gap specials I own has some damage - paint, rip, wear, tear, bleach. I found out this morning that Gap no longer carries My Favorite Jean in My Size. I. Am. So. Vexed.

What to do? If you knew what it takes to find a good pair of wearable, comfortable, dependable jeans, you'd bring me a happy pill right now. As I mentioned in a previous post, I even gave a pair of boys' jeans a shot last week. They were OK, but just OK. The last time I set forth on this journey, it took me a year and eight months to find the right pair, wearing the XLs that I was four-to-six sizes too small for the whole while. Picture me: shuffling through malls and TJ Maxxes, through outlets and department stores, holding up the waistband of my baggy fatgirl pants with one hand and flipping through racks and racks of denim with the other. Not a pretty sight.

Thinking it might be time to change things (and by "things," I mean my wardrobe) up, I started reading some fashion blogs to see what might work for my new look. Will it be this? Or this? It won't be this because messy Boho has never been my thang. But maybe it could be my New Thang?

What I do like: The vintage-inspired pieces in Alvin Valley's Spring '07 collection. Especially this. And this.
I've always loved Diane Von Furstenberg , but I'm not sure I could pull this off. I would, however, try the bright tights-plus-tunic.
Then there's Graham & Spencer, Michael Kors, Betsey Johnson, and Nanette Lepore. If only they made dresses out of the same fabric as the t-shirts I sleep in. Stretchy. With drawstrings. And pockets.

Ideas are welcome, as long as they don't involved the words "fitted," "eighties-retro," "fluorescent," or "tube sock."

Time to grow up...

Ever since my landlady called me last week to tell me she's putting the house I rent on the market for just over a half a million dollars (she did offer me first dibs on buying the place), I've been stressing about buying a place of my own.

I have rented for most of my adult life, first because I wasn't sure if I'd stay in Charleston, then because my credit sucked too hard to buy, then because I didn't have any money, and now just because I don't want to deal with the stress of owning my own place. Everything about owning seems so haaaarrrd, from inspection to taxes to regime fees to insurance to how much it costs to fix a leaky roof. I have a huge place right now with a working fireplace; my rent is much less than a mortgage (at least the mortgages of the people I know), I don't have to pay taxes on the place, worry about my house payment skyrocketing because the loan people randomly decide to raise the interest rate, and I can pick up the phone and call someone else to pay for whatever's broken.

I am the first one to admit that I am mulishly resistant when it comes to issues of finance and investment. I don't open my 401K or bank statements. I don't balance my checkbook (I have overdraft protection and a vague method of keeping up with how much money I have by accessing my account online). I have a few minor dings on my credit report that I hope will just go away eventually (magically). I don't like to talk or think about money, period. And I'm defensive as hell whenever someone launches into the "why you have to buy a house RIGHT NOW" speech.

What I don't like to admit: Being single is hard. I like to think of myself as single by choice (as opposed to single and desperate). Most of the time, I'm really happy that I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to consider someone else. This weekend, for the first time in I-don't-know-how-many years, I actually wished I was half of a couple so I could have someone else help me deal with the Business of Me. Perhaps what I really need is a financial advisor, but what I was thinking is more along the lines of another person to worry about this stuff with me (not for me); and then there's the factor of having a second income.

The whole thing makes me feel weak. It also brings my self-esteem down a few notches in the Feminism category (because a truly independent woman would have all of this under control). I should be able to deal with all of this on my own, right? Shouldn't I be able to act like a grown up by now?

I expound at length regarding my lack of trunk junk...

I love my job. Where else would I have the opportunity to offer up 1,000 words on the shortcomings of my ass and get paid for it?

Read it here, or I can sum it up in a sentence: "My ass is defiant and its flatness more powerful than a $36 pair of silicone inserts."

I eat caution for breakfast…

A friend recently told me that I should stop putting warning labels on myself. He said I enter new relationships with clauses, footnotes, and sidebars full of messages that all seem to say, “Enter at your own risk.”

This is what I do now:
I am not easy to get along with. I am not a morning person. I have a quick temper. I sometimes say spiteful things to people I really care about. I do not suffer fools gladly. Sometimes I feel like I’m held together with filament and wax and all it takes is hearing Verve Pipe song on the radio and I’m guilt stricken sobbing with my head on the floor. I end relationships for no reason. A lot of people think I’m a bitch. I don’t want to change. In short: If this doesn’t work, you can’t say you didn’t know what you’re getting into. Be afraid.

What I should say:
I laugh a lot. I am smart. I am kind. I am generous to a fault. None of my friends think I’m a bitch. I’m fun and I like to stay up late. I make up words and catch phrases. I am open to new things. I move on easily. I have a poor short-term memory, therefore I seldom hold grudges. I do not own a dishwasher because I like to sing while washing dishes. I am quick. I don’t cry a lot. I am financially independent. In short: I’m a catch.

It’s all in the way we think about ourselves, isn’t it?

Worry makes a big shadow...

I wish I was one of those people who worried about giant things that are hard to wrap your mind around, like world peace and global warming and how much longer low rise pants are going to be in fashion so I'll never have to look at the ass cracks of total strangers again. But I'm not. My worries are random and irrational. Currently:

*My mother was sick for the third time in three months and I worry that she has cancer but is keeping it from me. Now I'm also worried that she'll get cancer because I just said that.

*Michael is going on a trip to Montana and I worry that he will fall into a crevasse.

*I worry that I've gotten so used to living alone I won't be able to live with anyone else ever again.

*I worry that I won't be able to find a date in time for my friend's wedding in April.

*I worry that someone has stolen my identity and is ruining my credit, even though I pulled my credit report two months ago.

*I worry that my biological clock will finally kick in...when I'm 40. I hope it doesn't, but I worry that it will.

*I worry that I will accidentally say what I am thinking out loud.

It's crazy-making, all of this anxiety over nothing. Like a dog with a bone, I can't help myself. I gnaw, then gnaw some more. I'm tired and cranky and peevish that I'm the only one who can give me a push when I need it, or celebrate when I'm finished, or be happy that I'm home when the day is done. And now I shall gnaw on that for a while.