To code or not to code?

Alright, I was trying to be all stealth with my blog and use code names etc., so that when I talk about these ridiculous things that happened to me, anyone else involved would not be embarrassed. However, now that all of my friends have started blogs and are reading mine, they already know who all these people are. It just seems to be complicating things to use stupid names. Right?

By the way, I think its extremely funny that the Blogger spell check does not recognize the word "blog."

The art of creating your very own drama

So Philly Boy has emailed me, twice, for the first time since December. And tomorrow I am seeing my therapist for the first time since the incident. Meanwhile I am still ridiculously bored and unemployed, even though in my head there is all of this drama. And I should be working on my thesis or sending out resumes, though all I seem to have been able to muster up the energy to do this week is clean out my closet and take the rejects to Goodwill. All of this being said, I am starting to feel like a ridiculous, narcissistic, drama queen that is as useless to others as she is to herself.

In response to my own ineffectiveness, I am writing myself a To-Do list, that I am posting on here, for which I want anyone reading this to hold me responsible. If I do not accomplish at least two of these tasks per week, for the next few weeks, I give you all free reign to berate me to the best of your abilities. I don’t know what that will do for either of us, but, hey, I’m trying….

Here we go:

1. Send out 5 resumes (can be done multiple times in one week, i.e. if I send out ten resumes, that counts as doing this task twice)
2. Organize file folders in boxes and closet. I still haven’t organized the folders I took from my last job 3 years ago and now I have more boxes from cleaning out this office. I doubt I need any of it, but I will never know if I don’t go through it.
3. Research and READ 5 pieces of source material for my thesis (again, can be done multiple times in one week. I have a bunch of things researched already, but they do me very little good if I don’t actually read them).
4. Figure out health insurance situation.
5. Cook myself a meal at least three times in one week. This is not as easy as it sounds, my cooking repertoire only goes about as far as the George Foreman will take me, so this also involves some ingenuity in the culinary department.
6. Research and apply for 3 scholarships. It would probably be good if I at least attempted to fund my education through something other then loans, especially considering my aforementioned hatred for Sallie Mae.
7. Go on at least one networking lunch for job or thesis purposes. I know too many people in the nonprofit world to not at least make some good use of my time.
8. VOLUNTEER! It’d be swell if I actually practiced what I preached with all my fabulous free time.

All right, let the madness begin. Classes start in 5 weeks and I should be able to accomplish something before my life becomes consumed with school again. I’ll update about my progress on these tasks, and if I forget to, remind me. Its 3:30pm now and I have to be able to accomplish at least one of these before Dr. No takes me out for a drink.

Back in the Saddle Again

Here I am, back in balmy Los Angeles. Not 10 hours off the plane and I went to my first job interview. I think it went fairly well and would be a departure from what I've been doing most recently. It would be a great transition into the new and different for me. Keep your fingers crossed.

Having spent the last two weeks literally just drinking, eating, and shopping, I'm having a little trouble readjusting to real life again. Especially since my flight was delayed 2 hours and I didn't even crawl into bed last night until 2am. Interesting flight though. I might have mentioned before that people I don't know have a tendency to tell me their life stories. It’s especially prevalent on long plane trips. It’s actually pretty cool. Complete strangers feel so comfortable with me that they pour their hearts out about anything and everything. Six months ago I sat on a plane from LAX to Chicago next to the West coast editor for US Weekly and he told me about his experiences with a brain tumor that changed his life. I've since read one of his books, They Don't Play Hockey in Heaven, which is extremely interesting and well written. I bought it, so if I ever get it back from Steven, anyone can borrow it. I absolutely recommend it if you like books a little off the beaten path. Check him out here: Ken Baker.

Last night was no exception to my “meeting strangers” pattern. I met a guy in the terminal that was having a horrible traveling experience. I let him borrow my cell phone and we became instant BFF. The flight was delayed, so we hung out at the gate and talked. He told me about his parents who are world renowned therapists and how he is following in their foot steps by practicing a type of therapy that sounds like a combination of physical therapy and psychology. He helps children with developmental disabilities or who have suffered severe trauma to regain the use of their senses. Some of it sounded like it bordered on quackery, but he was so damn charismatic that I truly believe he is doing some amazing work. He travels the world working with children with all types of ailments and he says he's seen extraordinarily positive results. (he has a website, but my google stalking tricks can’t seem to uncover it, so I’ll put the link up when I find it.)

When we finally boarded the plane, he told the guy with the seat next to me that he was my boyfriend and the man switched seats with him. We had a great flight. We drank and made fun of Ms. Congeniality 2, which we watched without sound because we didn't really want to watch the movie. And he told me more about his life. He's a day older then me. He was a happy accident (he's the youngest of three, his closest sibling being 12 years older then him). He's still working towards his doctorate and he's extremely well versed on international politics. Overall, a fabulous flight.

I was so downtrodden about coming back to Los Angeles after a nice two week break from reality, you know, being unemployed and all. But sitting next to this random guy that disclosed his life story to me just reminded me that job or no job, I'm still me. With all the quirkiness and craziness and randomness of it all. So that was good, I'm feeling quite refreshed about the whole situation.

And now it’s back in the saddle again, looking for a job and regaining my social life, albeit in a much less spendthrift way.

P.S. I have a few new links on the side bar. Funny blogs from fabulous friends.

Adding Insult to Injury

My life is beginning to resemble a really bad romantic comedy. Something that would star Ashley Judd or Kate Hudson or one of those cookie cutter cupie doll types. A 26-year-old woman loses her job (yeah, I got laid off) and heads home to the small suburbs of Chicago to refresh and renew. There's the hometown bar scenes, the heart to heart with parents, the brother with his quirky family, all rolled into some fabulous fun for an hour and a half. I mean really the only thing missing is the high school sweetheart that still can't get over our heroine. Since I didn't really have a high school sweetheart and was an even bigger fag hag in high school then I am now, I think I am shit out of luck in that regard. Basically that means that there will be copious amounts of drinking and shopping before I head back to LA on Sunday.

That being said, this has just not been my month. First the pre-break up, which on its own, is little more then an amusing story. Then there was the therapist debacle, which stung, but also can be written off as a forgettable offense. But now, I was laid off. Laid Off! By an organization that I was planning to leave anyway, but that has no business assuming they could do anything without me. I don't think I realized how ludicrously pathetic my life was getting until I started this blog. I am so not feeling sorry for myself. There is no doubt in my mind that things could be much much worse, but sometimes I really have to ask myself "What the fuck is going on?" Is there anything more pitiful then an overweight, unemployed nonprofit worker? And when you add in my lack of sex life, I'm really headed in the 400-lbs, cat-owning, librarian direction. No one wants that. I would be much happier with the martini-drinking metropolitan diva (a la Sex and the City type) that has a fabulous job and sleeps with twenty year olds. The only problem is that I didn't sleep with twenty year olds when I was twenty and I'm unemployed. That prospect doesn't look too promising.

So its back to the drawing board. Somewhere between the librarian and the diva, there has to be a happy medium. I'll let you know when I find it. But for now, more shopping (on my parents' dime, of course) and much more drinking...

Worst Customer Ever

I am THAT customer. The one that all customer service people hate. I will ask you tons of asinine questions which you will then have to repeat multiple times because, honestly, I'm not very bright sometimes. I will ask for your opinion on things, even if I have never met you before, simply because I assume if you work somewhere, you should be an expert. I will take hours to make a decision, even if I have come into your store knowing exactly what I want and then will probably still not buy anything. And if I don't get the service I expect, I will complain. I complain a lot.

I'll complain on the spot, like if the food I ordered isn't exactly what I want or if someone was mean to me, but mostly, I am a fan of the strongly worded letter. Its amazing to me what you can get if you take the time to sit down and compose a note. (You have to read Consumer Joe, it made me laugh until I hurt). I write letters for good things as well, like when the goddess at Progressive took care of me so well after my car got broken into, but in general, most of my letters tend to be critical, if not down right nasty.

Since the invention of the online customer service page, where all you have to do is send an email, I send emails probably once every two weeks or so. Most recently it was a rant about the empty Washington Mutual ATMs (which was accompanied by at least three phone calls, one of which ended with the flustered customer service attendant saying "Ma'am I would love to help you, but I can't remove the charges until you have actually finished the transaction." I called him from the Bank of America ATM machines).

But today, I have run into to something that I just don't know what to do about. After a less then satisfying trip to Burger King, I find myself with no where to send my strongly worded letter. They don't have an address on the website, nor can you send an email. I can't even find an 800 number if I wanted to read my letter to someone over the phone. It seems my only option would be to actually go into the restaurant again. And I just don't know if I care that much. I think I've gone to Burger King a total of three times in the past year, so it's not like I am a valued customer or anything. Honestly, I'm not naive enough to think they care about my letter. But most companies at least humor me. Even if they have trained monkeys responding in a back room somewhere, they give me an outlet to voice my frustrations. I'm just flabbergasted that Burger King isn't even putting on the facade of consideration for their customers' complaints. So now I am at an impasse. Do I get off my ass and go to the offending Burger King to complain, or do I just let it go and move on? Sadly enough, I really do have to think about this one.

And man, I really wish I hadn't started playing with their online interactive nutritional value chart. Damn that zesty dipping sauce!

Oh, and just because I know there are those that hate the likes of me, here are some seriously funny customer service blogs...
Worst Call
Call Center Purgatory
The Supervisor of Customer Service Hell

No Mas Tequila

In the spirit of the 4th of July, as our founding fathers envisioned it, I got smashed on tequila yesterday! Poor Dr. No passed out on the neighbor's lawn. Some dead alien thing was pulled out of the pool. And a 50-something friend's father tried to tongue me. I'm sure George Washington would have been proud.

Our story starts a long, long time ago (otherwise known as last summer) when I met a boy (who will from this point forth be referred to as Philly) that I really really liked. He was visiting his brother, PB, from Philidelphia and was in for the weekend. We hit it off automatically. One of those spark moments that you read about but rarely feel. We spent most of his trip together and when he came back a few months later, we did the same. And then it fizzled. I'd get an email here and there. He sent me a picture of himself at my favorite bar in Dublin (I used to live there and gave him a list of spots to hit when he was taking a trip out). But overall it was just a little fling that was never actually going to lead anywhere. Now, I don't usually consider myself an obsessive person. I have some tendencies, but normally, I'm fairly down to earth. But with this particular situation, I think I had it in my head that it was going to be so much more then it ever could have been. So I was a little bit devastated when the whole thing fell apart.

Flash forward to this past weekend. Lucky Bear and PB are planning a bbq at PB's uncle's house because PB's parents are in town. I adore PB but I felt weird about meeting his parents. It just felt odd to ingratiate myself with these people when it took me so long to get over my little infatuation with Philly. But everyone, including my mother, insisted there was no reason to feel like that. So I went, begrudgingly, with Dr. No in tow. When we got there, I immediately felt like I had been over reacting. Everyone was so nice. It was mostly Lucky Bear's co-workers, who I know and love. We swam, did a bunch of tequila shots, barbequed. All was moving along smashingly. Then the tequila started to kick in (and for everyone else, the pot they were smoking). Philly's Dad, Dr. No, and I were sitting at the bar. Dad starts asking all types of questions about my friendship with Dr. No. Then he starts insinuating that the only reason that I am best friends with a gay man is to mask my own homosexuality. He fully admits that he is bisexual therefore he thinks he has some expertise. He will not stop insisting that I am obviously a lesbian. Now I could have pulled out the "I slept with your son" card, but I really didn't want to get into it. Fortunately, Lucky Bear and PB had no problem pulling it out for me.

But he persisted. Especially once Dr. No became very intoxicated and I was taking care of him. Obviously my attention to the gay man was all about my own confused sexuality. I got so frustrated that I left the party at one point and called my mother, who gave me permission to politely tell him to fuck off. And then things got extremely uncomfortable. He would stare at me until I noticed and then lean over to who ever was next to him and say something sleazy about how gorgeous I am. Then came the touching. I couldn't turn around without him hugging me, or rubbing my back. It was like a bad TV movie (and I should know. I watch a lot of Lifetime). And then, more then once, he tried to kiss me. Now I was smashed, but these were no "aren't you sweet? you're my son's friend" kind of kisses. These were "if you weren't pushing me away, I'd tongue you right now" kind of kisses. It was at that point that I told Lucky Bear we needed to leave. Dr. No was still ridiculously drunk, but he had driven separately, so PB promised to take care of him. Lucky Bear and I walked to the car, Dad followed me and kissed my neck as he hugged me good bye. If I didn't adore PB so much, this was the point that I would have kneed Dad in the nuts.

I almost had a hissy fit in the car when we finally got out of there. Who does that? He's supposed to be a parental figure and he's hitting on a woman who he knows has slept with one of his sons, while his wife is passed out in the bedroom. Ew. That's all I can say. Ew! EW! EWWWWWW!!!!

Next time, I'm going with my first instinct. Stay home and watch Lifetime.

How do you break up with your therapist?

Yes, it’s true, I am another Los Angeles cliché. I go to therapy. Basically, I think its about the fact that I'm a yenta. I like to talk, I talk a lot, and sometimes its nice to have an unbiased opinion about whatever it is I feel like talking about.

But it might be time to cut my losses. I've been going to my therapist for over a year now. She's on odd one. Late 50s, wacky Jewish mother type, Berkeley lovechild. I've always known she was a little bit off, but mostly I've liked her. There have been moments when I've felt like she wasn't getting me. She also has a tendency to talk a little bit too much about her. I know more about her drug addicted 17-year-old then I really need to. Then today, there was an incident.

I see her every two weeks, so she had heard about PDG, but hadn't heard of the pre-break up phone call. I started to talk about the situation and how it upset me was because I felt like he was rejecting me based on my personality (which, as I have said, seems highly unlikely). She interrupts and starts asking me questions, the normal therapy banter. And then she says something that for the life of me I can not find any therapeutic value in. She asks me if I think PDG might have broken up with me because I am a "larger woman," her exact words. I'm not a skinny girl, but I ain't no Mama Cass either. I've always labored under the pretense that any guy who approaches me and dates me is attracted to me, at least in part, because of the way I look. Why exactly is my therapist trying to give me a complex? I know what I look like. I see what size my clothes are. And you know what? PDG knows what I look like. He knew when he met me at the party. He knew when we went out for drinks. He even knew when he called me for the second date. Where is the logic in suggesting that he then decided I was too fat?

More importantly, where is the logic in bringing that up to a patient who obviously already has some self confidence issues, but has worked through the weight thing enough to be okay with herself? I'm at a loss as to why this conversation even happened. What was I supposed to do with that? Even if that is why he stopped seeing me, what exactly can I do about that? I'm never going to know why exactly he broke it off. Unless I start instituting exit interviews for all my boyfriends, there are some things I'll never have definite answers for. Somehow, though, encouraging me to psychoanalyze a guy I barely know to find out if he's been socialized into thinking I am unattractive seems a little counter productive to the concept of therapy.

But how do you break up with your therapist? And is this one horrible session really reason enough to end a year long relationship that overall I have felt pretty good about? I'm not sure I can feel comfortable talking to her about relationships anymore because now I feel like she is assuming my weight is the reason for all my failures in dating. And then there is the horrendous task of finding a new therapist, or just giving up all together.

This is so frustrating. If I wanted to feel fat, I would have just called my grandmother. It would have been a lot cheaper.