Busy, Busy Bee

My quest to expand my freelance publication base has hit a (minor?) setback. I won't be naming any names, but some assignments I've done for one employer have apparently been lacking in a certain je ne sais quoi (is that how you spell it?). So I'm on temporary hiatus until early next week, maybe. Which is kind of funny, because I'm not supposed to be writing anything for said publication until late next week.

It did make me a little sad, I'll admit. I felt as though I was being admonished, not necessarily harshly, but admonished nonetheless. Never a good feeling.

In the long run, though, I think it's a good thing. I was going to have to cut down on the amount of work I was submitting for this publication anyway in order to get my project done so I can freaking graduate in May and actually earn the degree I'm paying the government back for already.

So, that's my story. And I'm sticking to it.

The Drunk Girl At The Bar

Last night, D and I went to a CD-release show at a bar downtown. It was fun -- but bizarre for several different reasons. The band releasing the CD is called Can't Quite Get Right, and one of my brother's oldest friends is the lead singer and rhythm guitarist. So we've met everyone in the band (I think, it's hard to keep track of those musician types sometimes), and there were people there we wanted to see and catch up with.

We leave at right around nine and the first bizarre thing happens: It is dumping snow outside. It's not a blizzard; there's no real wind. It's just snowing, hard, with no warnings or indications. And most of it is melting, because yesterday was 60 degrees Fahrenheit and today it's 50, so it was just this really strange, freak thing in the middle of what has been an unseasonably warm and dry February in Colorado. We troop back inside to get coats and then re-leave the house. (Almost all the snow is already gone today, and it's 3:15 p.m. Freaky Colorado weather!)

The bar where this release was being held is called Owsley's Golden Road; it's owned by these brothers who also own several other hippie-themed bars in Denver. This is the only one I hadn't been to yet (and the newest one), so that was exciting. We got inside and started talking to people, doing the usual bar thing (I drank vodka and diet soda because they didn't have any wine -- boo! -- and D had an energy drink). Eventually the band we came to see gets onstage, and we're watching them, standing by this table, making each other laugh, and a girl who needs to get to the other side of the room brushes past me. It was a tight squeeze, and she said, "Excuse me," and I said, "You're fine." (As in "it's okay," not "you're hot.") And another girl sees and hears this and says, jokingly (and drunkly), "Don't excuse her! She did it on purpose!" Or something to that effect.

So I turn and look at the new girl, and we look at each other for a minute, and she looks really, really familiar. I thought at first it was one of my brother's friends, Emily, whom I just saw again for the first time in years recently when my brother brought her over to my house, because she looked a lot like Emily. She looks at me and says, "I know you. Where do I know you from?" And I said, "Uh ... you were over at my house a few days ago? Emily?" And she says, "No. But I know I know you." And I am also thinking she looks really familiar, even though she's not Emily. So I ask her if she knows anyone in the band. She says she does not. She asks me if I know a few random people who are there that night, but I don't know any of them. I'm starting to wonder if maybe both she (and I) are completely imagining that we know each other, and I was ready to shrug it off, but she was being really persistent. Finally she says, "I work for Chili's." I don't remember what store she was at, and I know she never worked at any of the stores I've worked at (at least not when I was working there), but I know this has to be it.

Then I've got it. I ask her if she had to go to the Serve Safe training about a month ago. Everyone who works behind the bar -- I think, in the cocktail area is included, too -- has to have one of these certifications. It's a four- or five-hour class that teaches you about the human response to alcohol, the variation in how different people metabolize it, how to recognize signs of drunkenness, how to handle a situation of intoxication, etc. First she says, "No." Then she says, "The alcohol thing? Yeah! You work at Chili's Conifer!"

"Not anymore."

And, as it turns out, the friend who brushed against me also works for Chili's. And, as everyone knows, Damon also works for Chili's. So the four of us stand around for a good fifteen minutes, talking about Chili's. Very random. As it turns out, the girl I knew from Serve Safe is pretty torn down -- slurring, repeating herself, that kind of thing. Ironic, isn't it? Her friend wasn't drinking, though, so she obviously had a ride home. (Although, as anyone who has taken the course will know, people with designated drivers are nevertheless not allowed to drink all they want.) She eventually says she's going to the bar and asks me if I want a drink, and I say no, I'd had a drink earlier and was fine. And she asks if "my friend" wants a drink, and I say no, he doesn't drink. She runs off to the bathroom and then the bar, and after a few minutes her friend asks where she went, and I tell her, and she says something along the lines of, "That's not good," and it was nice to meet us, and disappears.

We left shortly afterward because it was getting late and we have curfews. I just thought it was so totally random to run into two strangers who work for the same company we currently (or once) work(ed) for -- and for everyone to figure out the connection.

Been A Long Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely Time

What can I say -- except, sometimes, my brain checks out for a lil' bit, and takes with it my body and emotions.

I had my birthday last week, which was fine and fun (thanks for asking). I've been doing a bunch of writing and not getting paid enough for it, and not spending nearly enough time on my master's project.

To counterbalance this, I set my defense date today (assuming it's okay with the profs). April 8. 2 p.m. Eeep! I'm hoping that the fact that it's my eight-month wedding anniversary will prove a good-luck charm, because I'm really freaking scared. I don't get scared at much ... but defending a graduate project definitely scares me, to the extent that it's been keeping me up at night. No fun.

To my regular readers, I apologize profusely. (Even though I only know of three people who check this blog even somewhat regularly.) If it makes the sting hurt a little less, then please note that I haven't been reading my advice columns lately, either.

The job stuff has got me kinda down, but it's not even that. I feel paralyzed sometimes by the amount of things that I have lined up in my life, ready to target and shoot. I feel like I might not shoot all the things, and then they'll overwhelm me with their thing-ness.

Which is neither here nor there. I still have stuff to do, but I will (hopefully!) be joining a yoga studio very very soon, which will help fill up my time, which actually helps immensely. When I have days and days and hours and hours stretching in front of me, seemingly endless, with very little structure ... well, I kind of have trouble handling that and staying focused. So. No more.

And ... it's got a HOT yoga room. My favorite. Jillian Michaels is good; I'm just interested to see what her workouts can do when combined with some serious detoxifying.

Out!

Making the Best of a Bad Situation

There's been a cold going around, and I finally caught it. Boo!

But here is what I'm doing with my time: Chilling on the couch, updating my music library. I have literally enough music to listen to for 244 1/2 days straight and never hear the same song twice. And that's after I just went through and purged the albums that I never, ever listen to and probably never, ever will.

So now I'm coordinating the two music libraries in my separate laptops. This is pretty exciting, because the laptop that contains most of my music (the 244.5 days' worth) JUST got fixed; I haven't had access to the majority of my music library for months and months and months now. I was scared it might be gone forever, but it's all there and all good. Hells yeah.

Columnist vs. Columnist

First things first: One of my Decider blogs is up; here's a link. Feel free to comment if you feel so moved.

Second, I find this whole kerfuffle very interesting. This week, one of the advice columnists I read regularly (and, incidentally, one of my favorites; I don't think I've ever disagreed with her advice) wrote an open letter to another advice columnist. Here's the situation: Margo Howard is the daughter of Ann Landers (yes, THE Ann Landers). Amy Dickinson has apparently been making different appearances on television, and she's marketing herself as "the new Ann Landers." Howard is upset about this -- for good reason, I think; she states in the letter that Dickinson's bosses were warned once that using the particular phrase "the new Ann Landers" is close to copyright infringement, but for some reason, Dickinson et al. are ignoring that warning and continuing to blather on about it.

Howard's point is that if anyone is capable of being "the new Ann Landers," it's Howard -- but she doesn't think that anyone is capable. I can only imagine how she feels. I would be super pissed if someone went around labeling themselves "the new Paul Taufen" -- not that that's likely to happen. But for what it's worth, Margo, you have my back 100 percent.

SCARIEST THING EVER!!!

I know I just posted a blog a second ago, but this is what I stumbled across as soon as I wandered away, and it scared the bejesus out of me!

This Pretty Much Sums It Up

One of my Facebook friends posted this article on the state of journalism -- and, more importantly, how to save it -- today. I thought it was significant because I agreed with everything Walter Isaacson said. It's a Time article, so you know.

Enjoy!

Eternal Optimist?

Here is what I have to say about the recession:

Recession, schmecession.

When you turn on the television or go looking for news across the internets, it's all bad: This business closed, these people lost their jobs, this much money isn't being spent compared to last year. But the really big question -- to me, anyway -- is, who cares?

So money isn't being spent. We spend too much money on crap we don't need anyway. So a business closed. There are also businesses opening every day ... yes, opening ... and they are hiring people who lost their jobs. There are jobs out there, too! Maybe not the exact job you had, but a job nonetheless. Something you are qualified to do for money.

I just find it very interesting how we even define "recession." A lot of it hinges on whether the general populace believes that there is a recession. Right now, everyone believes that there is a recession, so everyone's hoarding their money and their possessions and thinking negative thoughts about Where It's All Going.

Chill out, people. Everything changes, even the economy. Nothing can continue growing indefinitely; it's against the laws of nature. I'll admit, sometimes I get caught up in Recession Panic. Recently, I was thinking about maybe quitting the volunteer work I do.

But then I woke up. I have a car that runs and money to buy gas to put in that car. I also sincerely believe that it is good for the heart, soul and mind to do something selfless every once in a while (in my case, twice or three times a month). I have clothes and a roof over my head and food to eat. (A little too much food.) I am healthy. The people to whom I deliver food are not healthy; many of them are dying. How can I begrudge them the handful of minutes it takes to bring them nourishing food?

In other words: Buck up, world. It's not that bad. It could always be worse. Money isn't everything.

Home Sweet Home

I have to say, I have more days where I enjoy unemployment than not. I'm currently freelancing with two different publications, hopefully soon to be three, and the amount of money I'll be able to pull in from the three of them is about what I was taking home from my salaried paycheck -- once you factor in that I'm no longer driving into the city and back every day, but also that I need to get some kind of health insurance sorted, which should more or less cancel each other out.

So basically, I'm getting paid nicely to write from the comfort of my home, and meanwhile, I can do yoga every morning and night, work out six days a week, keep the house clean and organized -- and work on my master's project. And once I'm finished with the project, I'll have the time to start looking for more publications that could use my freelancing skills.

Don't get me wrong -- I am still looking for a "real" job daily, and applying when I find one that seems like a good fit. And I do work every day writing for the two (hopefully soon to be three) publications; there's research and sometimes interviews involved, so it's not like it's free money. But it's all of what I enjoyed doing at my old job, minus the stuff I really hated doing (listings, ahem), and I'm actually making some money doing it. Pretty amazing. I feel very fortunate that I'm able to do that; it's giving me the luxury of finishing my project and taking my time selecting a job ... so that when I do find something new, it's something I'm excited about.

The Lengths to Which She Will Go

One of my cats is perfect -- never does anything wrong, except maybe getting over-offended occasionally when the dog tries to sniff her. The other one ... well, I love Tiva, don't get me wrong. She is entertainment wrapped in a five-pound package. But she is nuts. I never know what she's going to do next, which is (naturally) part of the entertainment value and helps make my life interesting. It's a good thing that her brand of insanity is a perfect match for my sense of humor.

Take the other day, for example, when we left the door to the sun room open (it's full of windows and faces south, so it gets really warm on sunny days). We heard a CRASH! and assumed it was the cat trying to get into food. (More on that later.) So Damon investigates, and she has somehow managed to completely upend the recycling bin upon herself, trapping her little kitty body underneath it. How (or, indeed, why), we will probably never know. It was hilarious.

I should explain something about this cat: She is itty-bitty. As in, people come over all the time and say, "Oh, cute kitten, how old is she?" (She will be nine this year, for the record.) Because we love our pets, we buy them premium pet food, and because Tiva is a little tiny thing, I leave food out for her 24/7. It's in an area where the dog can't get to it, and I make sure it is always full.

One weird food thing she does is eat the dog food, although I can understand why she might have wanted to try it once or twice. But every time we feed Marshall, if he doesn't come right over to his dish and eat, she will sit there and eat his food. Because she's so small, and because the large-breed kibble is so big, she has to bite each kibble into smaller pieces. It takes a long time for her to finish one. So it's not that I'm worried about her eating all his food. The weird part is that she isn't scared of Marshall at all -- he has to push her out of the way when he finally decides to eat. She hasn't hissed at him or swatted at him for trying to reach his own food bowl -- yet.

And this was the icing on the cake recently. We were running low on cat food, so I bought a fresh bag the other day. I keep my cat food in an airtight bin so it stays fresh. And my thought was to use what was left in the bin before opening the new bag and transferring it to the bin. Would have worked -- if my cat had not torn the bag open in two different places trying to get at the food inside.

The exact same food, if I might remind you, that is already out in a dish and waiting for her constantly in the same place every day of every week of every month of ... you get the picture.

You just have to laugh. I would give a lot to know what's going on in that kitty brain sometimes.

What To Say?

Today before my lounge server came in, I got a table with an older gentleman. We're talking literally old enough to be my father, at least. After I took his order, he said to me, "You know, you are an exceptionally pretty lady."

"Well, thank you," I said (lightly, I hope). "Actually, thank my parents. I didn't really have anything to do with it."

That is generally my standard response when someone says that to me. Because to me, it means pretty much nothing when a stranger tells me they like the way I look. It's so forward and impersonal. I feel differently when I catch someone looking at me -- to me, it's more suave and subtle, and I appreciate it more than a declaration. Even better is when someone laughs at something funny I just said. Really, laughing at my stupid jokes will get you a lot further with me than complimenting me on how I look.

And there was also the fact that this gentleman has no idea who I am. I'm calling him a gentleman because he called me a lady -- but frankly, I don't think the word "lady" describes me all that well. And I meant what I said about not having anything to do with it. I don't wear a bunch of makeup -- Bare Minerals for my skin, a little bit of shadow and mascara for my eyes. And I pluck my eyebrows and wash (and brush) my hair and my face regularly. But really, that's the extent of my self-maintenance. I really can't helped that he liked my parents' genes.

It's funny, too, because this is the first blog I've felt kind of uncomfortable writing. I think it makes me uncomfortable that certain people will judge me based on my looks and let me know that I passed. That's how I feel about it, anyway. Their words are not something that make me proud of myself.

Here's something stupid that does make me proud of myself: Last week at Chili's I made an awesome pun. It was terrible, of course -- it was a pun -- but that was part of its zingy charm. I was sitting in the office with one of the managers, another server and D, who was waiting for me to check out. The manager in question has been talking for some time about getting a puppy, and we were talking about names. She said she had always thought that Karma was a good name for a dog.

"You would be getting a female dog, though, right?" I asked. (I'm sure some of you can see this one coming.)

"I don't know, why? You think Karma isn't a male dog's name?"

"Well," I said, "everyone knows that Karma's a bitch."

If you laughed at that stupid joke, know that you just warmed my heart a little in a way that the old gentleman at Table 75 never could.