hey pretty

File Under: Doldrums

Job hunting has got to be the most tedious and thankless cause ever to befall the affairs of your HP. Hitting up the on-line job listings, writing and re-writing cover letters, receiving constant and conflicting advice regarding resume formatting, applying for several positions a week only to be greeted in return by a deafening silence from the other end--its no good. No good at all.

Potential employers, listen up! I know you're busy. So busy in fact, that you're looking to hire somebody to take some work off your shoulders. That's where I, and my fellow competitors come into play. But you know what? This tendency you have of ignoring us really sucks. I'm sure that communicating with us losers, those of us unworthy of becoming employed by glorious you, is probably the very last thing you care to do. But consider our welfare for a second. Even deign to place yourself in our shoes. How would you like it, if after two months of active job seeking, all you had to show for your efforts was two interviews, a condescending phone call with a recruiter who completing slammed your resume, two really soul-sucking 2 hour+ writing tests, and absolutely no solid leads? Would the prospect of continuing on in your quest begin to strike you as just a wee bit futile?

Add to that some truly dull winter weather; limited funds; and the fact that I said something to D that in the moment sounded perfectly romantic and honest that I now wish I hadn't said, and today is turning into something of a drag.

blah, blah, blah. Just had to get that off my chest. You may now return to your fabulously high paying, rewarding career that I will in no way ever feel capable of identifying with.

Amazing Indeed

The season that just ended was my first real one of the Amazing Race. I had caught snippets of it in the past but never before had I devoted myself to an entire season. Therefore, I was pleased when three of my favorite teams made it to the finals. I would have liked any of the teams that ultimately made it across the finish line to have won, but of the ones that did, I was extremely happy that TK and Rachel prevailed.

Commentors on various on-line message boards are not agreeing with me, however. Apparently, because TK and Rachel appear to be "hippies" and may in fact "smoke pot", many people think they should not have won.

Say what you will about TK and Rachel, but if a couple of "pot-smoking hippies" can win 1 million dollars after racing around the world and completing a series of intellectually, physically and emotionally grueling tasks, while in the process of all that using strategy and charm to beat out a bunch of other teams all doing their best to beat them? Then perhaps being a pot-smoking hippie ain't all that bad after all.

Sure, hippies can be annoying. Some of them seem adverse to the concept of bathing, some listen to really god-awful music, and some just seem sort of tuned-out and oblivious. But apart from their outdoorsy, race-friendly attire and TK's dreads, the couple never struck me as particularly hippie. While they looked the part, I interpret their sartorial choices to be less of an attempt to portray a counter-cultural identity, and more a matter of practicality. Now, I'm not claiming that TK dreaded his hair just for the show, in fact he probably didn't. And chances are, that's how they dress in real life too. But when it comes down to it, all those clothes that look apropos for a camping trip or wilderness adventure (the sort of stuff that looks like it was bought at REI but that I can't really identify with because I have never once shopped at REI) seems like it would totally come in handy on the Amazing Race. And I bet dreads, which don't require regular shampooing and grooming, would be totally handy when your life consists of running around funky foreign cities and hopping on airplanes. The episodes of former seasons that I have caught for instance, have featured some ladies with extremely heavy and expert makeup applications, and I have never been able to understand how, when, or where they could have the opportunity to remain so well groomed.

Anyway. TK and Rachel, who were always kind and patient with one another, pleasant to their competitors, and who showed some remarkable problem-solving abilities were a fine pair. It's too bad that they had to be given such a shallow and convenient moniker, as I do not believe it truly reflected who they were. I am happy that they won.

I would have also been happy to see the grandpa-grandson team win, simply because they felt a little like underdogs to me. The fact that this scrappy duo, who were often trailing behind but rarely in the lead made it to the end at all, was a fitting, bitter-sweet ending. Yeah, the grandpa could be an ass, but his assitude felt very real to me. As I consider a 5 mile walk in 40 degree weather to be a gargantuan physical challenge worthy of quite a bit of praise, I can't imagine how it's possible to run around a foreign city while being taped by cameras and maintaining your cool. It's easy to criticize reality show characters for letting the real-ness of their personalities seep through on occasion, but you try putting yourself in their shoes and see how much graciousness you can maintain.

All that of course, does not seek to make excuses for the father half of the father/daughter team, who although they seemed like strong contenders for the win, only pulled off second place. The father, with his terrible criticisms of his daughter throughout most of the season can never be truly forgiven. Sure, he managed to tone it down towards the end, but my cynical heart doubts the extent of his reformation. I could have abided a win from them, as the daughter half reminded me of the prototypical, nice, over-achieving girl from High School USA. It's nice to see women like her succeed in life, but she doesn't need the Amazing Race to do so. She'll do fine on her own.

TK and Rachel's win was a nice ending to a nice, comfortable season. Thank god, it wasn't that awful bickering couple (see, they were so terrible I've blocked their names from my memory). It's always nice to see the reality show gods smile down upon an unconventional duo, rather than your prototypical attractive, bitchy, Caucasian couple.

In the comment sections tell me who you thought should have won TAR. And who you've ID'd to win Project Runway. And any other *positive* insights you have about today's reality tv show landscape.

Writing Groups in DC?

My, three posts in one day. Take *that* people who say I don't post enough.

Actually, I need your help again. I'm looking for a writing group. For long-form narrative non-fiction to be exact. In DC. A group where writer come together, exchange ideas about their craft, support one another, etc. Kind of like grad school only free. Does such a place exist? I've tried the Writers Center in Bethesda, which definitely was not free. Or really all that helpful beyond teaching me how to write pitch letters. I know about Washington Independent Writers, also not free. Kind of expensive, actually.

Any thoughts?

Last Call=No Call At All

D has been telling me about the wonder and excitement that is the Last Call sale at Neiman Marcus for months now. How you can find all sorts of beautiful, well-made clothing at bargain basement prices. I've been looking forward to it for months, even though I secretly suspected it would be comprised mainly of the cast-off unwanted goods that have been languishing in the store for months. Clothes that, to be honest, if they were any good, would have been snatched up ages ago.

But I allowed myself to be optimistic. I awoke early (well, early for me: 8:00), dressed, ate a sturdy breakfast and metroed  my way up to Friendship Heights to arrive at the store as it opened.

Did I find miles of gorgeous threads reduced to ridiculously low prices? Threads I had seen nowhere else, that were incredibly special and unique, ones worth dipping into my savings to invest in? Yes, it is true that as a jobless person, buying clothing probably shouldn't be a priority for me. But I figured that I've been very well behaved in the spending department, and that if something came along worth buying, it might constitute a nice little present to reward myself for being so well behaved in regards to handling my finances.

What did I find? Absolutely nothing special. Do I need a cocktail dress? Not really. Do I need a bunch of Diane Von Furstenburg dresses that were trendy four months ago, that I've seen in practically every other upscale boutique and store in the area? No, no, I do not.

That's what depresses me about the shopping in Washington, DC. I feel like if I'm going to shell out the bucks for good clothing, it should at least be as unique as it is beautiful. I've never enjoyed the prospect of dressing like everybody else. And while I appreciate the fact that shopping in this area has improved remarkably in the past 8 years that I've lived here, what constitutes high fashion here is the same stuff that seems to be sold everywhere. Leave it to stodgy old DC to enforce a cookie-cutter sense of style even in the price points above BR, Anthropologie and the Gap.

What I long for is an A.P.C or Agnes B store. Well-made, slightly funky clothing with an air of sophistication. Sleek, neutral ensembles with a bit of whimsy thrown in for good measure. Oh why oh why does everything available to the average consumer have to be made by the same brands (Theory, Diane Von Furst, Mark by Mark Jacobs)?

I suppose it's just as well. Tomorrow I will hit up some recycled clothing stores instead, perhaps in the hopes of finding something to reinvigorate my boring old wardrobe without causing me to drop major dough in order to look like just another girl in on the metro. Hey, even women without jobs deserve to look good.

The bright side: I did manage to walk the entire 4.5 miles home from Friendship Heights. Yes, it was mostly downhill, but it felt pretty spectacular.

In the comments section  tell me what  you feel is lacking in the DC shopping scene. While you do that I'll be painting my nails hot pink. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll be phone interviewing for yet another job I won't get and unpacking more of D's boxes.

Le Sigh...

Brad Renfro is no more...

In other news, I watched, natch, *attempted* to watch Grey Gardens last night. Couldn't get through it, with all of its blatant exploitation of crazy people. Simply too painful to watch. I wonder what it was about the social-political landscape of the mid-70s that provided the movie's backdrop that made it okay to make documentaries about tragically, disturbingly crazy former socialites? Some sort of Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onassis post-Camelot backlash? I intend to find out.

That Time We Crammed a 5 Bedroom House; 60 Pairs of Pants and 70 Pairs of Shoes Into a 2 Bedroom Apartment

"I can't believe you threw out my cough syrup with Codeine. There was at least enough left in there to catch a small buzz."

It is 1:30 Friday afternoon, the day of D's big move. Anticipation for this day has been building for weeks as boxes of forgotten dishes, clothes, personal files have slowly amassed around his house. Up until this point I had mostly managed to avoid the dreaded task of packing, opting instead to write witty, irreverent text for the items he was selling on Ebay. My luck had run out the day before however, when D placed a roll of packing tape in my hand and waved me off in the direction of his kitchen, where I had spent several hours painstakingly rolling his 5 million identical pieces of Crate and Barrel dish sets into large pieces of packing paper; rubber-banding his flatware and sticking it in his pot collection in order to save space, while all the while he interjected once every five minutes to tell me I was doing it wrong, which was not the case at all. I happen to be a great packer. Probably because it's a mainly visual sort of endeavor, and I rock at those. Like geometry, which, much to the surprise of my family, peers, and the math department of Amherst Regional High School, I happened to have aced long ago in the 10th grade.

It had gotten a bit ugly, actually. The packing, not the geometry. Have you ever seen what happens when a control freak and somebody extremely adverse to being bossed around join forces to cram the contents of a five bedroom house into a two bedroom apartment? You haven't, because I'm convinced now that most people don't live to report the results. Tension had mounted all day Thursday as D wined to me that we were behind schedule and that somehow it was all my fault. Never mind the fact that packing the contents of his closet, the home of 60 pairs of pants, 80 shirts and 50 pairs of shoes (not including the rack of vintage cowboy boots that resided in his bedroom) took forever to pack, which hadn't been a problem if he didn't insist on owning so much stuff.

I had remarked to him that perhaps 60 pairs of pants was a bit excessive. This was after I watched him catalog them by type into his own eccentric yet oddly logical categories of use: work pants; fancy work pants; fancy pants not for work; every day pants; lounging around the house pants; funky pants; Levis; jeans that aren't Levis. It all reminded me of a mad-cap sartorial version of those taxonomy systems we learned about in mid-level Anthropology classes in college. While fascinating as an intellectual exercise, 60 pairs of pants are not necessary for anyone, esp a man finally shaking off the trauma of his marriage (now dunzo) and attempting to start anew.

He asked me how many pants I own. I thought about it for a second or two.

"Well...Not including yoga pants I own three pairs of pants. If you include yoga pants, I own six. There are also the jeans I bought a couple of years ago after a sprained ankle caused me to lose mobility and I gained a bunch of weight. But I don't count those. For all practical purposes, I'd say six. Six pairs of pants. Which isn't enough by any means, but it's certainly not anywhere as excessive as yours."

He agreed that 60 was too many, but that now was not the time to involve ourselves in any sort of attempt to whittle down the collection. Now was the time to pack all that shit up. Which took a while, and prevented me from tackling the kitchen until late Thursday night while the rest of you were probably off sipping exotic drinks in exotic seeming bars, and having relations with the exotic strangers you met there. Much like I used to do.

I can't remember exactly when the yelling started, or who initiated it. Probably me. That's what happens when I start to feel under-appreciated and over-worked. I yell. It's a trait I've inherited from my mom. Only this wasn't your typical run of the mill this relationship is over and I never want to see you again after this yelling. It was more of a joint letting off of steam, with him bitching about the travails of moving and me calling him an asshole, a term I reserve for only the most frustrating of conditions. Call it my hipster-infused Yankee prudishness, but I'm rarely capable of dishing out an insult more cutting than "douchebag" or "twatwaffle". "Asshole" is the crown jewel of my insult collection, and I was using it with full force. I was also standing in the middle of his kitchen with my hands over my ears yelling "blah, blah, blah, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

Thank god the situation had turned towards the comical. To my knowledge, no real relationship in adult history has ever really ended with one of its members screaming like a three year old.

Which takes us to Friday afternoon. The movers had already begun loading the truck and I had managed to get D off my back by pointing out to him all that needed to be packed in other rooms, that his micromanagement of the kitchen had caused us to fall behind, and that we'd never finish if he didn't get cranking on turning his focus to his guitar and amplifier collection, which of course rivaled that of his pants and shoes. I'm not a musician, so I don't know if it's necessary to own 20 amplifiers, but even his friend S, who had come over to help move those items, seemed to think it was a bit much. And S is a musician too.

I had come to the point in my packing where it was time to tackle the drawers in his kitchen that never get opened, the ones where when I did open them, he peered over my shoulder and remarked that he didn't recognize any of their contents. Those are the sort of contents that tend to get discarded when it comes to be my turn to pack somebody else's stuff. If you don't know what it is, you clearly don't use it, thus you clearly don't need it, thus it gets tossed. See my logic? For the most part, D agreed. Except the cough syrup. Heaven forbid we get rid of a mostly empty bottle of cough syrup for which somebody could catch a small buzz. I agreed with his logic. I've never been one to turn down a harmless buzz, and however odd, unlikely, and downright inappropriate our relationship has seemed to others at various times, our mutual love of a good buzz has always united us. The syrup got packed.

Several hours later, the sun was setting over Dupont Circle and the movers had just started moving furniture and boxes into D's new apartment. Although we weren't even remotely finished, D's mood was decidedly upbeat. He had also clicked into "purge" mode and a whole new pile of items had been set aside to get rid of, more specifically to be taken to my place because I insisted that they were too nice to be sold or discarded and D couldn't deal with them anymore, so he just gave them to me.  Which included one particular item too large to be moved into the elevator of his new place. Which required me to cab to my place to meet the movers once they were finished with everything else, that is now eating up a huge amount of space in my living room. It's a huge hulking thing made of wood and devoid of any real purpose to me other than the fact that it was once sort of expensive and is now one of a small handful of nice pieces of furniture that I own. Owning it makes me feel grownup, although when I finally move from my group house, there is no way it could ever fit in any apartment I'm likely to afford. D says I should sell it and keep the money. I may just do so. It's worth at least as much as the nicest sofa at Crate and Barrel, or could be sold to buy a Japanese Tansu chest (my latest furniture obsession) or to add a piece to my art collection.

Time, as they say, will tell. In the meantime, it's now several days later and I write this from the dining room of D's new apartment. He's away on business and because I offered to unpack for him, he has given me his keys and total free reign of his new place. Yesterday I bought a pile of new books and a good bottle of wine, a Spanish white called Nora, that has been a favorite for months. I made a trip to my house to pick up some essentials, such as perishable food from my fridge, some clothes, and my laptop. I intend to hide out for the week, unpacking some boxes, reading some excellent long-form narrative non-fiction, applying for jobs and generally taking a little vacation within the city. D has texted several times to make sure I'm safe and happy. On Saturday he treated me to nice little meal in the neighborhood. All  tension between us now diffused. I never much took his mood during the move personally. Some people deal with stress by being obnoxious to others. I've been dealt a lot of these characters in my life and I know where they're coming from and not to take their words too literally. Also, because I happen to be one those people myself. I'd say that it's something I intend to work on, but I don't know if I can be held to such a statement. After spending all of 2007 constantly dwelling over my own flaws, I'm tending these days to give myself a reprieve on stuff like that.

After dinner we sat in his new living room enjoying the view over his neighborhood. He remarked on how much time I had spent staring out that view over the last two days and indeed how lovely it was. Then he asked me if I shouldn't be at a dive bar somewhere picking up random boys. I just climbed onto his lap and punched him in the arm as we both took in the night-scape around us. Of course I knew of other events taking place around the city that night, ones where invitations had been extended and ones where they had not. Of the one from a former FB who seems to miss me. For once, I was happy to not be forced to juggle conflicting social engagements. To just have a clean, well-lit space in which to crash for a bit.

Recommend A Word Processor For My Mac and...?

...win my undying love?

To be honest, I'm not sure why I ever bough this stupid computer. I'm not that keen on my keyboard (or the supplementary one I bought to ease the pain of typing on the built-in one) and it lacks programs that make it functional to my current life of applying for jobs and possibly perhaps launching my freelance career. But it sure it is purty and is ideal for digital imaging. And I've always been a sucker for Apple products (although I draw the line at iphones). Anyhoo.

The point of this post is to beg for your help, dear reader.

I need a word processor. I need a program that will help me redo my resume a million times a week, draft cover letters and queries, and write articles. In doing a bit of research I came across Nisus, which seems good but what do I know?

Any suggestions, bloglings? Whoever can recommend the best word processor for my silly old Mac gets an advanced, signed copy of my first published magazine or newspaper article. Well, first freelance. Something other than Builder Magazine or the hoards of other building trade pubs that my writing has already graced.

Taking suggestions...NOW!

Edited to add: I'm sure you're thinking the obvious here (as my commenter below was): Why don't you just buy Office or Word? My answer--because Word for Mac costs about $250 dollars, and while I do have a savings account, I am trying my best to not dig into it as much as possible. I'm a bit poor these days. Poor in the sense that while I do have unemployment checks coming my way, they create very tight means to live within. So I'd rather not spend over 150 dollars if I can at all help it.

And the midway I knew
Where the sky was so blue
With the memory of you is gone

I don't know about you, but NYE is an occasion that I've never quite been able to understand the festive motivations of. Sure, saying goodbye to an old year and ushering in the start of a new one I understand, but how can one truly do so when it doesn't really feel like a new year is upon them?

I don't have the best track record with NYE. Last year's was certainly the very worst one of my life, the details of which I have run through so many times in my mind that I don't ever feel it necessary to revisit them. Moreover, it's always struck me a rather useless holiday. As somebody who spent most of their 20's in one blurry, prolonged party, I have never been one to need an excuse to go out and revel. Heck, I've been known to use the advent of a boring old weekend as an excuse to break out the reserve bubbly. But even more to the point, my life has been in such a state of limbo and near constant examination over the past couple of months that notable dates on the calendar have taken on a different sort of meaning. As anyone who has lived through a transitional moment in their lives might know, standardly recognized signposts of progress sort of begin to lose their meaning.

47 and I discussed the phenomenon on NYE over Afghani food in my neighborhood. Around us were tables of customers engaged in your garden-variety observations to mark the occasion of the end of 2007. While we were in fine spirits and our food was delish, we both agreed that it didn't really feel like NYE, just a typical night of hitting up a favored neighborhood establishment and enjoying each others company. The effect of feeling so disconnected from the experiences of our fellow man lent us a definite feeling of being in some sort of odd bubble. Nothing about the evening felt at all final, mostly because we saw no immediate end to our respective situations. Rather than reveling, it was pretty much business as usual for us.

We were supposed to attend a party after dinner, but communication signals seemed to have crossed, and tired, the prospect of hanging out at my place with a bottle of fine Cognac seemed far more appealing than that of cabbing around town all night. From there it was basically our typical weekend night in--a little expensive alcohol and a lot of conversation. I played songs from my music collection that spoke to me of finality, even if they weren't really about that at all--a little Gillian Welch and some Aimee Mann for good measure. Eventually, we retired.

But a funny thing happened the next morning. Upon awakening, 47 proclaimed his need for a hearty breakfast containing a whole bunch of ingredients that I did not own. While at first I laughed him off, after a half an hour of listening to him wax on about eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes, tea, and fresh squeezed orange juice, I finally realized that the only way to shut him up would be to dress and go to the market which seemed beyond weird since I never leave the house on NYE (unless I'm just coming home from wherever I happened to have landed the night before of course). But since the night before didn't feel like NYE, why should I adhere to habits regarding a day I wasn't really observing this year. So I dressed, but for some reason I found myself determined to look cute, which I never do for grocery shopping, instead favoring over-sized flannel shirts and probably not brushing my hair.

The weather was beautiful on my walk up to Cleveland Park. I encountered dozens of my neighbors who although bedraggled and looking a little rougher than normal for DC standards, were smiling and walking hand-in-hand. Around me, people radiated light and contentment. Bundled in my styling new winter coat, straightened out hair, and what a former FWB used to call my Paris Hilton Shades, I realized that I felt pretty good, and dare I say it--different? It suddenly dawned on my that it totally was a new year. 2007, the year of near constant drama, life changes, dumb mistakes, restlessness and far too much self inquiry was most definitely over. 2008 was upon me.

It further dawned on me that people should be far more independently-minded and proactive when it comes to observing New Years. Don't use January 31 as the occasion to celebrate a new year if it doesn't feel like one. Do it when you're actually ready so you can really appreciate it--whether that be in February or May.

Later that day I helped 47 pack up some of his possessions for his big move to Ward 3 (as I had been doing since returning from Boston on the 28th) and I shared my theory with him, which he met with enthusiasm. Something within him had clicked as well and he was feeling a little more in touch with his 2008-ness. So we decided to celebrate the new year, an activity that makes far more sense on the actual first day of the new year than on the last day of the old one. But then again, I've always been something of a late bloomer.