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Perhaps, if you are old enough to cause a semi-stir when you pose semi-nude for a famous photographer, it is officially time to pack it in as a tween idol. Unless of course, you're the children of Sally Mann, but as far as I know, they were never tween idols.
Yes, Miley. I am looking at you.
Note to Disney: Can I have an ETA on the timeline for rolling out the next new tween entertainment/marketing sensation?
My finger hurts. Since I don't have health insurance there's no way to get an actual diagnoses, so I will just go ahead and assume it's broken. I bought one of those splint thingies at CVS for 5 bucks, and it's doing its thing. I'm sure it will heal and life will go back to normal shortly.
Until then however, I can't help but feel a little battered and fragile. It has not gone un-noted that the finger in discussion is the fourth one on my left hand. The unadorned one. Now mangled and battered, further mocking my spintsterhood.
So, thinks I. Perhaps I should take the stairs rather than the elevator today. Using the elevator sucks up electricity and using the stairs will be good exercise.
30 seconds later I found myself sliding down the stairs on my ass, having needlessly tripped over my own two feet. Again.
Yup, thought I. I am falling down the stairs. I guess I should put my hand down to stop myself. Wait, why is the fourth finger on my left hand bent to a 60 degree angle? Woah, that's rather gross. Ew. MY FINGER. GOD DAMMIT, IT's dislocated. Ew, oh wait, it just popped back into place. Oh my GOD! My dislocated finger just POPPED back into place. Gnarly!
From here on out, I will be taking the elevator. Carbon footprints, be damned. Besides, this article in the New Yorker assures me that they're quite safe.
Three days into my new job I am wondering how I ever managed to be bored at my old one. I remember all those hours I idled procrastinating on work with 3-week deadlines, checking the gossip sites several times a day, updating my Facebook profile, strategically planning my next cigarette break.
Today I arrived at work at 9:00 a.m. sharp. I read Nexis and Google Mail alerts for an hour before today's assignments crashed down around me. Three press releases in one day, interspersed by a three hour long campaign and communications meeting. I ate lunch with one hand, while I typed with another, every now and then reminding myself to breath. Somewhere in there my boss came in and said we'd have to get together to evaluate another of our colleague's strengths and weaknesses so we could better assign her work.
We. Us. Assign work. Now there's a first.
This week I became a parent of sorts. I adopted three plants. My goal is not to allow them to befall the fate of those that have come before them--long, slow death brought on my neglect and malaise. I do not have the best track record as a plant mother.
As members of the succulent family, these plants are not expected to grow at a very fast rate, but like all parents, I swear that these have sprouted alarmingly since I brought them home on Wednesday.
It is my personal belief that all plants need names in order to thrive. More precisely, they need to be named after male rock heroes from the 1960's. Throughout my life I have mothered an Arlo and a Jerry; my roommate A has a plant that I named Keith Richards. He was whithered-up and practically dead before I named him, and now his heart-shaped leaves are gloriously large and glossy. Coincidence? I think not.
So today I am throwing around names. I suppose Mick, John, Paul, Ringo and George are rather obvious. So obvious that I will probably overlook them for their obviousness to dig a little deeper. Perhaps Denny or John in homage to the Mamas and the Papas, a band that I have been enjoying on repeat on my iPod all week thanks to the weather. Something about summer screams 60's California folk-pop to me.
Speaking of planted, earlier today, I literally had a Hey-Kids-Get-Off-My-Lawn experience. I left my house around 3:00 pm to enjoy my very last mid-afternoon gym excursion to find two skanked-out hos my neighbors from next door sunbathing on my lawn as if they lived here. One of them asked me if our house was an apartment or a house. I told her it was a house in my very best baffled old lady tone. I guess they were banking on it being an apartment and me thinking they also lived in the building? They promised to leave soon. I scowled and skulked off, not sure what about the situation bothered me other than the fact that it's simply wrong to camp out on another person's lawn without permission. I guess it was their sense of entitlement that bothered me the most.
I later related the story to A, mostly to confirm that it's not okay to sunbathe on a stranger's front lawn. She said it might be if you brought beers or wine with you to share with the home's occupants. Note to my neighbors from next door: Next time bring beers with you. I prefer Sierra Nevada, but anything a notch above Miller Light will do, as long as it's not darker than a Porter.
And on that note I am off to prettify for dinner.
In the comments section suggest some names for my new plants.
Yesterday I went to the mall. While I love clothes and the concept of fashion-as-art, I truly hate to shop. I am all about end product and not at all about process. When it comes to HP and shopping, the destination is so not the journey.
The destination is, or should be, a collection of items appropriate for work and play, affordable, beautiful, and unique. But I find that this is rarely the case, most likely for two reasons:
1.) I don't relish the idea of looking like everyone else, thus it's difficult to shop when certain trends dominate every store.
2.) I am shaped weirdly. I guess that many women think that their shape is freakish and strange and in dire need of fixing, and I am no exception to this sad trend. What's strange though, is if it weren't for the clothing industry, I would probably be pretty content with my figure. Not to brag or anything (actually dammit, I have spent most of my life feeling the need to apologize for my shape, so perhaps some bragging is overdue) I happen to be shaped like an hourglass. I have largish boobs, a small waist, a nice booty. In other words, I am stacked. Sure, I could use some toning up, but the basic foundation is there and pretty solid. Perhaps luscious, even.
Whenever I read those columns in women's magazines, ideas for "fixing" my body type are never addressed. That fact, combined with the overflow of images in the media of buxom beauties whose cups runneth over in a variety of ways, leads me to believe that I pretty much got it going on.
Unfortunately, this information has yet to reach the ears of the clothing manufacturers of America, Taiwan, China, and wherever else clothes are mass-produced these days. According to such manufacturers, my body is weird. I mean, it must be because no pants seem to be cut for it. Yesterday at several stores I tried on at least three different cuts of pants in three different sizes and still walked away with no new pants. I must have tried on twenty pairs. While I considered ordering up a size and getting several pairs tailored down, this idea seemed like a waste of money given how cheap and insubstantial most of the pants felt to begin with.
Eventually I abandoned the pursuit altogether, resigned to the suspicion that perhaps I am simply destined to live my life in dresses and skirts. Which when you think about it, sounds like a far healthier approach to shopping than letting an inanimate object dictate your self esteem.
Other things that happened on my jaunt to the mall:
-I was addressed as "ma'am" about two dozen times, which I hate and makes me feel like an old woman. I don't even look my age. I should not be addressed as "ma'am". Ever. I don't care if it's considered polite in some parts of the country. Where I'm from it translates to "old person." Even my 61 year old mother has a problem with it.
-I was accosted not once, but twice by a sales rep from a hair flat iron kiosk. Since yesterday was an awesome hair day, and my ringlets were tumbling over my shoulders in wonderfully lazy, totally unfrizzy curls, I considered both instances to be something of an insult. I can't understand what society has against the naturally curly. Sure, I've been known to flat iron from time-to-time, but I've also been known to meticulously apply curling lotion section-by -section, to hair that has been only finger combed in the shower under running water and then carefully blotted with a tee shirt (terry cloth towels create frizz) and air dried for exactly ten minutes before having any product added to it. Presentable curly hair is a science, and I have it down. Thus, when the mall rats emerged from their shadows brandishing their curl-killers I felt that the only correct reaction would be to shriek like a little girl and run for cover in the closest Banana Republic.
-My secret favorite eating establishment in the Pentagon City Mall was confirmed: Nordstrom's Cafe. Clean, quiet and never crowded, it boasts a pleasing menu of salads and sandwiches. Bring a book and munch on some passable fare. It blows that creepy, stinky food court out the water. Look into it.
Despite the inherent negativities of the mall, I did accomplish a small chunk of what I set out to do. These tasks were both difficult, and I am pleased to report that I emerged with colors flying.
1.) I bought two pairs of comfortable, relatively attractive shoes. Given my old lady feet, it's extremely hard for me to find shoes that feel good on my feet that aren't incredibly ugly. I have lived in Dansko clogs for ages, but they're not right for summer and they're really spectacularly ugly. So to find two pairs of reasonably priced shoes that don't hurt my eyes was a bit of a coup. I even showed tremendous disciple in not buying the black Cole Haan slip-ons that felt like butter on my feet. Next time, maybe.
2.) I found a bra that fits. You know how sometimes when you try on bras in the store they fit fine, and then once you get them home they morph into these bizarre beasts that totally do not fit at all, whatsoever and you wonder how on earth you convinced yourself that the garment was a good buy in the first place? Well, I am pretty sure that is not the case with this bad gal. Granted it's beige and pretty boring, but it seems to be the correct size and shape for me, which is way more important than frills and sex appeal at this point.
In typing that, I realize that caring more about undergarment fit than sexiness is a definite sign that I am getting old. Perhaps all those people with their ma'ams weren't so far off after all.
-Group house politics: There was a time, not so long ago when the vibe in my house was pretty chill. Sure, we all had our petty grievances but they were seldom aired, most of us preferring to choose our battles, I suppose. Not this week. This week was a total onslaught of annoying, nagging emails on an array of fascinating subjects ranging from dishes in the sink to toilet paper buying. Yawn. If I wanted to be bossed around by the people I co-habitate with, I'd jump in a time machine and go back to the days of living with my parents. Pass me the studio apartment listings, please.
-My feet: They hate warm weather, which causes them to swell up and get all throbby and sore. I seem to have been born with the feet of an 80 year old woman.
-D's cold: As much as I like playing nurse, I do not appreciate being kept up at all hours by strange noises emanating from a certain someone's respiratory tract. Please get better sweetheart, your sofa makes a lousy bed.
-Obvious suggestions to vexing issues: Yes, I know that the fact that my roommates are pissing me off indicates it's probably time for me to move on from these digs.
-My body: Now this I don't get. How is it that I have spent the last six months very diligently working out, eating well, curbing my alcohol consumption and doing yoga almost every day and I still feel like a pasty flabby mess in sundresses? Am I simply too accustomed to being covered up by warm woolly sweaters? All around the city I see women gloriously flaunting their bodies in flimsy summer wear, and all I want to do is hide in an over-sized burlap sack and drown my sorrows in a bowl of mac and cheese.
-This mood: Like you, I sure hope it passes.
Tell me, what are *you* tired of?
Four-hour-long interview place is matching my old salary. Moreover, they cover health insurance, unlike a certain stingy recent former employer that required me to pay $130 a month for the honor of participating in their crappy HMO.
While on a certain level, I will miss getting to sleep as late as I want, my mid-afternoon workouts at the gym and having the house to myself all day, I am rather relieved to have this whole unemployment nonsense over with. I can now return to a life spent not obsessing over my grocery expenditures and not hording quarters for the Metro.
I negotiated my salary like a true champ and have been pleased to learn that I had this skill, as I had never had to use it before. I also get to look forward to a bomb-ass commute of one Metro stop rather than the 500 million Metro stop one of my previous life as a Government contractor. No more suburban obscurity for this girl, HP is now a member of the urban workforce. Or will be as of April, 21.
In the meantime, I will be spending my rocking DC tax return on a Spring wardrobe and attempting to get my body back on to a normal sleep schedule.
Lessons learned:
It is completely possible to live on 1500 dollars a month, even in DC, although it's not particularly advisable.
A persistent, dedicated job search can result in good employment opportunities.
When an organization or company offers you a shitty salary, ask if they can do better. It never hurts to ask, and almost every org has a few extra bucks lying around in their coffers, all you gotta do is ask and ye shall receive.
The good news is: I was just offered the job with the four-hour long interview.
The bad news is: The salary is low. As in, lower than my "worst case scenario projections low." As in, lower than what I made at my last job by a couple grand.
Which makes for one big dilemma facing ye olde hey pretty on this ultra fine Tuesday afternoon evening.
The fact is, I am unemployed, the current job market sucks balls and there are few jobs out there that I am interested in. I am also really bored and growing very tired of eating peanut butter sandwiches. Oh, and there's a recession looming.
Added to that is the fact that I really like the job that was offered to me. It's a step up in regards to responsibility and the issues are great. And the title is the bomb. My resume, while already pretty banging, would sparkle like there's no tomorrow with this title at a nationally reputable non-profit organization.
I have worked at non-profits before and am well aware of the funding constrictions that they face. But on the other hand...a pay cut? Seriously?
It's not as if I'm asking to maintain some sort of lavish lifestyle. I live with four other people is a decrepit house with dirt cheap rent. I seldom go away on vacation. My clothes are okay but certainly not extravagant. I rarely take cabs anymore or rack up huge tabs at expensive bars or restaurants. My only real financial splurges are the occasional visits to the NARS counter at Nordstrom's and a $70 haircut once every five months.
I was raised in comfortable upper-middle class environment, but thanks to my parents and their "noble" leftist politics, have grown up to believe that the jobs worth taking involve standing up for good causes and that pricey wine is better appreciated when you can afford fewer bottles of it.
If my parents ever had any concerns that I would never understand the "true value of a dollar" they can rest assured that it has not been lost on me.
Every day I see my peers, people of similar intelligence, accomplishment and motivation making significantly more money that me. I see them buying homes, planning for the future and I can't help but feel a twinge of resentment. While I know that it's bad to compare the path of other people to your own, and that life happens differently for each of us, it still pisses me off.
I also know that there is more to life than earning a lot of money, but that platitude is normally uttered by people with six-figure salaries who hate their jobs, not people who earn a fraction of that and consider Whole Foods a special treat.
So, I have a couple of days to mull the situation over. And my potential boss has a couple of days to dig around in the organization's finances and come up with 4k more a year (yes, I am negotiating). Or even 2k a year. I'd take the job for even a slight pay cut.
In the meantime, I will be crunching numbers like mad, trying to decide what I am willing to live on, and how many organic baby carrots I am willing to live without.
In the comments section tell me if you ever took a pay cut for a new job and how that worked out for you.
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