New Home

 

 

So like a hermit crab to a new shell, I am moving on to tumblr. WordPress has started to smell too briny and lost its luster. That and, my more internet savvy friends have informed me that it’s incredibly lame that I am still using a wordpress format. Joke’s on them though, they have no idea how inconsequential it is to suggest that I become less lame in one respect. That’s like cleaning the bottom of an abandoned pool with a toothbrush.

Anyway. After much humming and hawing and a series of other exaggerated onomonopoeias, I have traded in this shell for another shinier one.

http://ba-roke.tumblr.com/  <—– TAKE THIS WITH YOU. DO NOT FORGET IT ON THE SINK. I NEED YOU STILL.

You may now switch your subscriptions, add your new bookmarks, become a new follower, share a new comment, contribute to a new thread, and change that horrible theme song that you wrote for me. Thank you for appreciating my evolution on wordpress. Ciao!

 

I Died of Boredom and All I Got Was This Lousy Tombstone

I’m in a good mood today. We all should know this by the fact that my playlist is comprised entirely of Elvis Presley; and not the sad, drug addled Elvis of the 1970′s but the good, old, bouncy stuff. Maybe I shouldn’t be in a good mood in light of recent events, but in fact, it’s those recent events that put that extra bounce in my step. I also want to thank you all for the heavily increased traffic on my blog (unprecedented!). Although, part of me (the part of me with a mouth) smirks a little to think that the traffic may be in large traced back to some surly ex co-workers. Well, enjoy guys. I’ll keep entertaining if you keep reading, regardless of your perspective on my writing. I promise not to bore you at least.

It’s tacky to take advantage of the popularity increase in my blog as a result of recent tumult so, I will skim over that and proceed with current events. (That’s so passe.)

THINGS ON MY LIST OF THINGS TO DO (<— not at all as redundant as this title)

- find somewhere to shove my writing (hopefully not under a rock)

- take advantage of Blick’s 50% off sale today

- clean out that weird rec room in the basement of the condo and take it over for painting purposes

- look into programs for teaching certificates

The teaching certificate. Yes, in Washington State a teaching certificate is required. I mean, private schools never require this but public schools do and I have interest in the public sector as it provides a more enticing package. I never followed this path in Philadelphia because I didn’t want to cry (at best) or get shot (at worst). Things are safer here.

We’ve talked about this. I like connecting with people. The part of my previous job that suggested that I “connected” with people was mildly inaccurate at best. That or maybe I just had no interest in “connecting” with a large portion of the people that required my assistance.

In Philadelphia I greatly enjoyed teaching. I also enjoyed smuggling packets of goldfish snacks and doodling on construction paper. I miss my illustration class and I really miss taking myself less seriously (which children have a knack for making you do.) Especially when they give you precious little nicknames like “Joseph A. Willems” “Caree-oline” “Coraline Jonesy” and my personal favorite “(heaving sigh) Ms. Roosevelt–do we really have to call you that it’s so fancy.”

I also like reigning supreme over a group of people that are at the tallest, 4.5 ft. There’s something invigorating about being the voice of authority. Even if it comes from doling out such seemingly trivial duties as who gets to take the bag of bouncy balls out to recess and who turns out the light in the classroom on the way to art class.

Kids are great and much more interesting than a lot of adults, I find. Fourth grade is my favorite. I’ve sited this to friends on many occassions. Fourth graders specifically teach ME something in that they still hold on the wild imagination and enthusiasm of early childhood while developing a more evolved sense of communication. The questions that are asked are insightful at best, and just plain hilarious at worst; but rarely are they uninspired. I suppose that’s my great desire as a human being right there–to ask real questions and to interest people with the answer, or at least the mode in which I asked the question. I look up to fourth graders, not literally. But you get it.

In light of recent events, I find myself asking a lot of questions. And, while this is really confusing and depressing at times, I’ve started to enjoy the act of probing my insecurities and curiosities. It’s okay to be curious. Not if you’re in a dark alley in Philly, but it’s okay to be curious intellectually. That’s what creates the pulp of my writing, my art, and pretty much any nugget of any conversation piece of mine.

You can talk about sports, you can talk about the weather, OR you can talk about the thing you found on the sidewalk on the way to the bus. Obviously, I find that third subject more interesting. Hence the connection with the fourth graders. Also, I’ve found really interesting things on sidewalks: vintage keys (where did that makeshift necklace go? I could have sold that to Urban Outfitters), boxes of old audio tapes, or maybe a crack in the sidewalk that looks like a mouse.

The important part is to veer away from boredom. I was dangerously close to the guardrail on this one, unfortunately. But my headlights are starting to refocus on the road again, and this smile on my face is a genuine smile because of the deus ex machina that was Thursday’s turn of events. Thank you higher power, thank you for scooping me up out of an unfortunate situation and re-establishing in my interest in a more palpable lifestyle. The tombstone that is my recent departure from the corporate world should be put up on the shelf like a trophy. Just in time for Christmas I am having a little bit of a Scrooge experience.

GOD BLESS US, EVERYONE!

I Guess I Have A Case Of The Mondays (Through Fridays)

We need to talk. My love of money has officially been trumped (yet again) by my love of not being humiliated on a daily basis. I can no longer accept the following currency:

- not saying hello to me in the morning until the fifth time you pass my desk

- asking me to print out three reams worth of documents- organize and staple them, arrange them in alphabetical order and have them on your desk in less than two hours.

- not letting me eat at my desk (I promise if you let me eat at my desk I’ll actually look more presentable. I’ll stop biting my nails and intermittently smelling my hands.)

- asking me to stop making “so many spreadsheets”

- sending me grammatically incorrect emails. i.e. “Can you please make a reservation for ______ and I?” (<—-you are college educated, right? they don’t pull bankers up off the street now do they?)

I can’t really elaborate because of the “highly confidential” information with which I busy myself each day of my increasingly less waking life. I’m not rolling my eyes or anything here. (Where are good emoticons when I need them?) But seriously? I m officially publicly complaining (hahahaha, wait let me finish) about making money. Proving that I can complain about anything.

OH but how quickly we forget! When I am broke, working two half-jobs I always think to myself, “I’d kill for a mindless desk job just so I can pay for art supplies at least” but once I have the desk job, I no longer have the desire to make artwork because I come home defeated from spending a day inside a cave that is decorated like some 1980′s horror movie. I swear to god there is a giant typewriter from decades ago behind me on a desk that looks like it has been vacant for years. I keep freaking out thinking it’s going to turn into the “talking asshole”.

Is it really that bad, Caroline? Is it really?

Well. No. If you consider “good” meaning – it’s time to make 150 name tags for the Retiree’s Luncheon. (Be sure that the names of the attendees aren’t “running into” the maniacal little nutcracker graphic I’ve asked you to place in the corner of each name tag in the spirit of the holidays!) Did you get that done? Good, here’s a bon bon. Oh wait– you can’t eat at your desk.

I guess you’ll have to wait until your allotted ten minute break. SUCKA. (<—- if only the fish bowl in which I work included people that talked like that. Then it’d at least be strange in a good way.)

“Did you get my Board Report finished? You trifling whore?” I mean. That’s sort of how I feel anyway when you make me edit and re-edit the same slide over and over again as you change your mind hourly on what it should be titled. I know what it should be titled. You should just ask me. I’ll supply a graphic too. It’s not going to be a nutcracker.

I was just thinking on Monday that I needed to relate to my audience in a new way, in a less self deprecating way. But then my boss ignored my request to come home for Christmas so that he can get the best work out of me for an upcoming event. Then, as rumor has it, he will be sure to let me down. (He had his assistant tell me, the other assistant, that he will respond to my request on Monday. A cute 10 days before I need to be home. Goodbye reasonably priced plane tickets!)

My backup plan? I’m inviting myself over to his joyous and intimate family Christmas party. Get your guest room ready, pal! I like firm pillows, not the nasty soft ones.

Ms. Lonely and The Toilet Bowl

For today’s post I have provided you a soundtrack.

I cannot take care of myself very well. I mean, no, my therapist would be livid to hear me make such a boldly self-degrading comment. I can take care of myself, but it’s not a pretty sight.

I really hadn’t thought too much about it until I spoke with my sister on skype today. In fact, I was pretty proud of myself. I haven’t burned anything down, I haven’t given myself food poisoning, and in fact, I haven’t even forgotten my access card for work! But, in one five minute conversation with my sister over skype, I realized all of the things that I do by myself that are very strictly personal decisions.

I get off of work at 5pm. So after I take the bus back home, I am in the apartment until bedtime. Now, also, it is November so I have no real gauge for the passage of time because it’s just eternally dark here in Seattle. It looks like it’s dusking by around 2:30pm. That’s probably just the rain clouds, but to someone with acute seasonal depression, it’s a pot-ay-toe po-ta-toe point.

So today I came back home, stopped off at the corner store where the guy behind the counter gives me a smarmy grin whenever I come up to him with my sad array of purchases. Let me say, it’s a corner store. I’m never going to buy a large gathering of cohesive dinner items. I’m never going to use it as my one stop shop. So whenever I go to the corner store, it’s to pick up odds and ends. And yes, in this way, my grocery order always looks pathetic. This time it was bobby pins, chapstick, some Emergen-C and a bag of carrots. Sue me.

Then, after that anticlimactic stump of a social interaction, I saunter back to my cave where I sit, and continue to sit on such days as these, for a breathtakingly long period of time. I’ve actually been wondering if it’s possible that ones legs can seize from lack of activity. I’m sure they can. I’ll worry about this as I crawl into my cocoon later.

Things on the lonely girl agenda. Not having juice. Looks like I’ll be using that Emergen-C not only for vitamins or whatever else is in it, but also for flavor.

Eating leftover pizza like it’s something plucked out of the land of milk and honey. Thank god for dominos. And I was perfectly happy to talk to the dominos delivery man as I was counting out his tip, as I hadn’t used my vocal chords the whole evening.

Realizing that I have left a container of expired mozzarella cheese balls on the counter and they were starting to smell. Dealing with this by stuffing them in the freezer, because, I can’t take the garbage out yet and I can’t bring myself to open up that tupperware container. I can’t. (This is usually an instance in which a higher power, or a more capable human being, would tell me to dispose of them properly. But come on! I have other things to tend to…)

Changing from work clothes into lounge clothes. When I know I won’t see anyone, I do this by simply replacing the bottom half of my outfit with sweatpants. The top half remains the same. So yes, when I greeted the delivery person, I was wearing a button down shirt, a cardigan, some dangly earrings, and…a pair of the most rumpled and discarded looking sweatpants you have ever seen.

Pretending to clean up. I’ll start on a dish in the kitchen and then get really disenchanted with the thought of scraping old food off of things. Then I’ll give up. and just…sort of…pour water over all of the dishes, add some soap and use the excuse that “I need to let them soak first” while I go finish my episode of mindless garbage.

Finally, the piece de resistance. I need the cat to cuddle with me in order to fall asleep. Sometimes he doesn’t want to cuddle with me. Do I care? No. The great thing about the cat is that he is much smaller than I am, and tends to give up more easily since he’s gained weight (isn’t that the way of the world?). So, I pick him up and bring him over to my lair and just push my hand down on his back until he is forced to lie down. Eventually he gets tired of the struggle and thus my sleeping companion is established.

Now that my sister and I are separated by nine hours, I usually talk to her at the end of this weird little routine, and she’s getting ready for a fresh new day at work. So, this allows me to see my life more objectively…and compare it to that of a very high functioning human being. She actually gets up in the morning and eats toast and drinks coffee! My breakfast is usually toothpaste. I deal with it later. Like, at lunch.

Another layer to add to this Mr. Lonely post, is the fact that I will not be spending Thanksgiving with my family for the first time ever. Neither will my sister. We have both griped about this to each other, and to Mom (the listener of all gripes).  But seriously, this is such a big deal because in recent years, our Thanksgivings had become somewhat epic. My family would always have a new and exciting group of guests at the table each year (although a few tried and trues always remained, and added to the party in their unique ways).

I will be sad to miss out on Thanksgiving on the east coast. I’ve already been stripped of silly, yet in retrospect, hilarious family Thanksgiving traditions like “The Toilet Bowl”, a family and friend football game that takes place on Thanksgiving at my Grandmother’s house. The winner would have their name written on a chamber pot and they had the pleasure of taking that chamber pot home as a trophy. What a holiday!!! I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But after my grandmother passed, the Toilet Bowl took a permanent hiatus. Oh Toilet Bowl. I remember when my Dad’s team won the toilet bowl. For a year after that, I would eat my cereal before school and stare at the chamber pot that my Dad proudly displayed on top of the kitchen cabinets. Right next to the nipple mugs and the green paper mache pig.

Take Away Message: To all you Mr. and Ms. Lonelys . . chin up. There will be plenty more “Toilet Bowls” in your future. I use the quotations because I’m making a grand metaphor here. The toilet bowl represents your holiday celebrations. And when I say you’ll have plenty more toilet bowls in your future, I’m not trying to sound foreboding. I’m not going to poison your Thanksgiving turkey (or tofurkey. whatever). I’m just wishing you well, and encouraging you to see the holiday spirit as it exists in its larger form! That’s what I’m trying to do.

Until next time, Happy Thanksgiving from Seattle.

Remembering The Birth Canal

I was in a unique situation as a seven year old. I was in the same unique situation in which several seven year olds find themselves. Your mom is pregnant.

What? With something else? Other than you? Hm.

I say this was a unique time because there will be no other time in my life where  I will be so close with a pregnant woman (other than myself). As a child you are privy to adult conversation because adults think one of two things: a.) you aren’t listening or b.) if they spell the words, you won’t know what they mean. Well, parents underestimate a child’s ability to multitask. Just because I was slamming my little sister over the head with a plastic teapot did not mean that I wasn’t somehow listening to what was said.

Well, maybe I wasn’t listening. But over those course of my mothers’ nine (grueling) months of pregnancy with my brother (whom I had chalked up to being totally mediocre for the first year or so of his life out of jealousy) I had picked up so many charming words. Well, the curse words yes. But thinking more about anatomical and physiological terminology for which I had absolutely no use.

1.) Birth Canal – I heard this word so often. Mom always talked about the birth canal. That’s the chute from which my brother was going to magically slip out one day.  Maybe in the grocery store, maybe at home during dinner. Dad said “any time now!” And really, this whole “birth canal” thing was something I wanted to see. It sounded like a ride at Chuck E. Cheese.

2.) Uterus – Didn’t care. Sounded like a planet. But now, I very much care about my uterus. It causes much distress after puberty. Thanks, uterus.

3.) Contractions – usually led to the curse words.

My mom had this book on pregnancy. It was a little red book, and I knew exactly where it was in our library because I would often refer to it. I would hear my mom on the phone, discussing things, or I’d see her trying to find ways to sit comfortably. This book was great for all of my basic child curiosities.

First of all, it was like a science book and porn all at once.

I would open up the book and the first image I would see is an extreme close up of the “crowning” portion of the delivery. Yes, the top of a baby’s head smashing its way violently through the “birth canal”. What a way to start a book! I mean, Fitzgerald should have taken some tips from this guy!

Then I would flip some more. I would watch the stages of pregnancy as shown through the profile of a naked woman. Everything gets bigger, and just when you think she’s about to pop, well…that’s when I’d assume the crowning begins.

Then I would flip some more. This was the part that was weird and I’d either stare at it in confusion, or flip quickly passed it out of embarrassment. This was the section on how to have sex with a pregnant woman. Apparently you need some pillows and an illustrated mustache.

Then, at the end of the book, we’d see the dilation process. The baby’s head coming all the way out of the…..whatever. I wish I could say it was terrifying, but as a seven year old, I was already thinking about things in such abstract terms that these images really just looked like bigger and smaller walnuts. Then suddenly a picture of a baby.

The life of an appendage of a pregnant woman is a strange one. (And we all are appendages when Mom is pregnant. Including Dad.) I felt apathetic towards to whole “you’re going to be a big sister!” element. I’d already been through that with Anna when I was two. I was over it. Each new birth dragged me further away from the spotlight and for an even longer period of time. It would take a lot of future rebellion to bring me back into that spotlight. Twelve hair colors and a nose ring later, I am still working on getting back there.

I suddenly took the backseat at home. I still got my dinner…although it was less exciting. Cut up hot dogs two nights in a row? What is this? A barn?

You suddenly sleep less. Because you’re nervous. But you’re a child, so you don’t get to understand that you’re nervous.

Then there are the “false alarms” that drag you to the hospital at 3am against your will, in your pilling nightgown where you’ll be forced to watch reruns of M*A*S*H in the waiting room while begging your dad for 60 cents for more M&Ms.

It was no wonder I had no friends. I was too busy crying in the bathroom because I thought everyone was being mean to me. But they weren’t. I was just sleep deprived and feeling uneasy. The way an employee who feels he’s teetering on the edge of employment at his job feels. Also my mom dressed me up like a fancy pirate. Oh the frilly blouses, the vests, and the khakis with the elastic waistbands. That requires a blog entry all it’s own.

So one day, after emerging from my bathroom sob session. I sat in the front row of second grade for language arts. We had a substitute. She was teaching us how to spell the days of the week and how to properly pronounce them.

“Now class, let’s go through the days of the week. Sun-dee, Mon-dee, Tues-dee, Wens-dee…”

I couldn’t believe this person. This was our substitute? All wrong. That’s not how you say any of those words, I thought. But, whatever, I’ll continue to listen. I’m in second grade, what else could I possibly have on my plate right now?

Then she started delving into grammar. Oh goodie.

“Can anyone tell me what a contraction is?” She over-enthusiastically smiles at the class with her very mid-west, not at all east coast, blonde curls.

I raise my hand. I know this one.

“My mom has them!” I said.

Then came the laughter. If you know me, or knew me at this age, I was very much against laughter. I did not like laughing. I assumed it was always at my expense (in this case it sort of was). I slammed my books down on the floor, and back to the bathroom I went. I waited there until recess. The teacher would periodically check up on me. But I was in there for the long haul.

My anxieties increased during the pregnancy. This bathroom stake-out became par for the course every morning. It escalated to the point where I would dump my backpack nonchalantly by the cubbies and just walk straight into the bathroom without so much as a hello to anyone. I was like a middle aged cubicle jockey swiping his access card  passed security, and with one motion, I  sauntered into my little workspace.

I became afraid of everything. I was scared that I was going to “blow away with the wind” like my grandmother had told me once. So I forced my teacher to bring out her jar of jellybeans when we went outside. That way I would have a point of reference. I would often look back to the jar of jellybeans to make sure that it hadn’t blown over in the wind. God forbid it ever fall over. This was my bastion of reality. Luckily I didn’t understand that whole center of gravity thing.

Eventually my brother was born. I got over my fear of flying away with the wind. I also got over my fear of choking on pepper. I’ll explain that one another time. With the help of the jellybean jar and the pregnancy cook book (which is pretty much what it looked it), I got through it. I’ve still have more than enough time between me and my hypothetical pregnancy. But whenever it does happen, I sure hope it’s a lot cooler than the way I remember it all going down when I was seven.

Cat Genie

I just purchased this.

I hope you enjoy the CGI cat as much as I do.

As though I needed a physical reminder of my steep decline into impending adulthood, here’s a cat toilet. Except it’s not a cat toilet. Those are cheaper. This is an expensive cat fecal matter dispenser/igloo.

It all started like this.

Late one night in mid July of 2010, I was at my friend Jordan’s house party. I was outside imbibing a variety of non-alcoholic beverages when I saw a little kitten behind their gate. I squealed, as girls who are imbibing non-alcoholic beverages are wont to do, and beckoned the kitten into their cement yard. The next day I awoke to a small animal pawing at my face. Nowhere in this montage did the thought cross my mind that I had made a life altering decision, and that this animal would most likely be around to witness my hypothetical marriage and the birth of at least one, if not all of my hypothetical children. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m not rushing into a life of domesticity. Cats live for a long time!)

The cat grew. The cat grew and grew and grew. With physical growth came the growth of his fecal matter and my waning desire to deal with it. So for about half a year I lived with a cat box in my bathroom, and learned to step around the cat litter upon exiting the shower, and learned to dust my feet off before climbing into bed at night.

Most people would reach a boiling point with the cat litter. Most people would.

I, however, allowed the situation to accumulate to mass proportions until I was litterally (<— wordplay!) stepping into mounds of used cat litter, sweeping it to the side of the bathroom with my feet, and continuing on with my day as though I wasn’t a totally disgusting human being.

It started affecting the overall feng-shui of my apartment. The litter spread, creating little colonies all over my apartment. I could expect, at any given moment, to find litter in the utility closet, all around the base of the toilet, in the cracks of the wood floor in my hallway, and eventually as western expansion increased, even near my kitchen island.

My cat would just look at me as though it was my fault that he had to use cat litter; that he would rather just defecate into my bare hands and just remove the middle man entirely.

While I was writing this I just checked out a few charming articles that link cat feces to schizophrenia.

Anyway, I moved to Seattle, and did not bring my cat (Kevin) with me for the first few months. I had an existence free of cat litter. Now Kevin has come back in my life and I realize that they way I was living before, although charmingly bohemian to me at the time, was gross and unacceptable. Maybe my decision has cemented my face in the cat-lady hall of fame. Maybe it has. I have no argument here. Happy Halloween.

The Monster Mash

Today’s title is brought to you by the hodge-podge of a post I just created. Also, it’s almost Halloween. Who cares?  I only mean that as facetiously as it sounds. 

But actually I saw an amazing exhibition at Seattle’s Experience Music Project (EMP) called Can’t Look Away: The Lure of Horror Film. This is my contribution to Halloween. I can’t make costumes, I am terrible at pretending to care about costumes, and I always just end up getting bloated from candy corn. But I will try my hand at a horror themed blog post. Enjoy

Horror films put into place a larger societal structure of good vs. evil, thus reinstating our ethical code as human beings, right? It was Guillermo del Toro’s (Pan’s Labyrinth) interview at the EMP exhibition about horror film that struck me. He described horror as a contradiction, things that are that shouldn’t be, or things that aren’t that should be.

The other night I went to a techno/rave show at a giant arena in south Seattle. Talk about things that are that shouldn’t be.

^ This is REAL^

Skrillex turned Seattle into a scene from the Jersey Shore, as lumpy looking pubescent girls in their friends’ push-up bras wandered aimlessly around the giant auditorium in boots that look like they’ve been shaved straight off a Yeti. My mom always said I wanted to grow up. That’s true. I wanted to grow boobs way before it was even remotely appropriate to want them. But, this just made me feel like an old grandma. I kept daydreaming about stuffing them all into giant itchy sweaters and sending them home.

How can I spend my time thinking about any worthwhile substantial life questions when fluffy tarts like these are  wandering around and blinding me with their flash photography every five seconds? I have learned new ways to panic.

Also I had to figure out what Kandi was on Wikipedia, and I think it looks stupid. Go back to the craft table at sleep away camp, your outfit looks like a sock I lost in the dryer three months ago.

Here’s a trailer for Profondo Rosso (Deep Red) by Dario Argento.

Here’s an awesome film about Vampires (Let The Right One In)

Those two clips have nothing on the photo of the blonde ravers when it comes to sending me into an adrenaline fueled fear spiral.

Here’s where my brain has gone with this:

I go to work. These people exist.

I go to sleep. These people exist.

I eat a cheeseburger. These people exist.

I consider applying for an MFA program. These people exist.

I go out and buy a new trashcan because some weird brown liquid seeped through the liner and into the actual receptacle. These people exist.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like a good dance party just like any healthy 20-something. And, dance parties of all denominations share one thing in common,  the chance to be a total wild card night. There are things you can do, and you’ll pretty much expect the end result. Let me take you on a tour of my chosen categories of playtime.

Bar: $$$ and then because of the $$$

Concert: Sweat. Band t-shirts. Nostalgia for concerts past. Knowing I’ll have to cut off that stupid wristband at the end of the night and scrub that entrance stamp off before work in the a.m. And, if you’re a girl, half of the excitement is wearing something cool to said concert.

Dinner Parties: I start out being classy. This one gets tricky. Especially if it’s BYOB and I’m bringing that last third of the vodka bottle that’s been sitting in my freezer in a sprite bottle. And suddenly we’re not sharing.

Night at Home: This is almost always an executive decision. I do not just “end up” staying in. It’s usually a calculated decision, and one that is impervious to naggers and sirens of all kinds. I have my movie of choice, soundtrack of choice, cat of choice, a blanket…these are all pros to the staying in option. But the food sucks unless I invite a friend over to cook for me.

Friend of a friends party: This is a very distant cousin of the dance party. Sometimes it can morph into one. In my past experiences it usually ends up in me losing my coat in a pile that has been haphazardly formed on someones bed, and not knowing how to flush their toilet because everyone in the god damn world has a different toilet handle for whatever reason.

Dance party: I’m going to dance. I usually weasel my way over the the music source and start trying to manipulate it. You never know where dance parties go because the music goes off on weird tangents as the alcohol intake increases, guests appear and disappear, sometimes the group that initiated said dance party is not even there at the denouement. Then it ends abruptly and we try to go somewhere else. This is when my night switches into a zombie crawl of sorts, where I lust after more things until eventually I’ve found my bed. (Hey, cool! I was looking for that!)

So, while I think that going to that Skrillex show might have been the single stupidest idea for someone like me to go to, I have to appreciate the fact that people were just partaking in a bigger, way more naked dance party than what I am used to. It was a monster mash. And someone had been working in the lab late one night….on all accounts here.

Sometimes life is sad and meaningless. Happy Halloween!

Moderation

I experienced a mental breakdown last night. While I know myself, and I know that I am an emotional person, I also know that emotional breakdowns are not my favorite Friday night past time. Like many women, I succumb to the overly stereotyped symptoms of our gender once a month. When I fall prey to my symptoms it’s not pretty. I have been diagnosed over the years, with a cute cocktail of anxiety and depression “disorders”. Having been medicated for years, I used to assume that the mood swings I experience once a month would fall under the umbrella of “crap my medication should fix”.  Oh no.

Now, I think a lot. Growing up in a variety of therapist rooms has provided me the unfortunate talent to over analyze every situation. (It’s like a sixth sense! And I want it to go away!) Basically turning my molehill of an existence into a mountain of indescribably horrible things.

So, last night I burst into tears on the walk home from work, seemingly at random. This terrified my male friend who naturally now looks like rapist because he’s walking alongside a completely frantic, sobbing young woman wearing a skirt and heels. (Sorry.) As the emotions welled up, a giant headache came on, and the list of anxiety-ridden possibilities to my erratic behavior filled and muddled my head:

-       Am I bi-polar?

-       Am I experiencing my quarter-life crisis alarmingly on time?

-       Was Seattle the right choice?

-       Do I hate my job?

-       Why don’t I have a huge group of friends yet (which leads to the next point my mind goes to which makes me even more hysterical at this point.)

-       I miss my friends, why did I leave them?

 

And then my favorite final bullet point, which always wraps up my anxiety-attacks neatly: Will I feel like this forever?

I woke up this morning, feeling chipper. I made breakfast, ate it (it was delicious) shoved myself out the door and here I am, at a coffee shop, and guess what I am doing? Analyzing! But at least I’m not sobbing anymore. Although this “good mood” does circle back around to that first bullet point that freaked me out…

To digress for a moment, there has been a lot going on. Between Steve Jobs dying, to the Occupy Wall Street movement bursting forth onto the scene like some maniacal Broadway star, this week has proved to be an intensely confusing week for many people. One can’t help but pick up the newspaper, watch the news, or (more likely) check their Facebook feed for updates and opinions on both of these matters. It seems people feel as strongly for their opinion of Steve Jobs as they do about the future of our country (a bone that I will pick later).

As of late, I had decided to consider myself a moderate, for the same reason that people choose to call themselves agnostics a lot of the times. I officially decided to admit my complete ignorance for political intricacies, and thus, much like a disclaimer before a horribly gory prime time drama series, if you’re going to listen to me, at least consider my words with that notion in mind.

But this week, I found it incredibly difficult to stick to my moderate “I refuse to get emotional about this” guns. I found myself obsessively researching the Occupy movement, and agreeing with them on many points, but getting angry over the fact that some of the protesters are not representing this movement with the mode of decorum it deserves in order to receive respect.

I started picking fights with friends, trying to convince them of my perspective, or rather, explaining to them why they are wrong. Now that’s not a very nice thing to do, is it? I thought, “Is this PMS? Or is something really striking a chord with me here?” Which reminds me, I should not go out and protest while I’m PMSing. Ever. Some poor gentleman will be walking home with a picket sign for a collar.

The week escalated for me. As I watched video after video of the movement, and tried to dig deeper into a variety of articles trying to express the arising theses, I started to agree with the point that: it’s okay that there is no major thesis yet. I mean come on…as though a group of people can walk out onto the streets with an already established speech, a well-outlined set of goals, a chosen enemy, a strategy, and a charismatic spokesperson. (Oh PS. whenever that HAS happened in the world, that’s always worked out really well, right?)

Basically, thoughts and strategies develop as the movement crystallizes. Much like my mood swings. It usually happens that I get really upset first, and cry, and blame my boyfriend or whatever, and yell about a bunch of incredibly futile “personal injustices”, and then, after a few hours and a face plant into my pillow, I realize that my anger and frustration has nothing to do with any of those things. Or maybe it does, but I come back able to verbalize myself without crying and drooling.

I am not selfish enough to blatantly compare my PMS to the Occupy Wall Street movement. Oh wait, yes I am. Did you just read all that smut? But actually, what I’m trying to establish here, is that I am a good person, and I do have plans for myself, and I do screw myself over sometimes, and my life is a series of learning experiences. How can we expect anything different of a movement consisting of tons of individuals going through a microscopic version of what our country is going through, on a daily basis?

I woke up this morning and realized that I had hit a boiling point last night when I left my ironic bank job for the weekend, only to find protestors in our lobby. I wanted to agree with them. I wanted to jump up and down and say, “Go you!” but my coworkers surrounded me and I didn’t know if I should share with them, my sympathy for the cause. So I just left, feeling incredibly demoralized and guilty. It’s taken me a very long time to find a stable job with a salary, and I had just started to feel proud of myself, when I realized that I am essentially working for exactly what I don’t support right now.  All day I pretend to be something I’m not, a conservative who likes math. As someone who is a fake moderate and more of a raging liberal (as I have come to abruptly realize) who values self expression over all, pretending to be someone else all week is draining, especially when you’re called out on it unceremoniously at the end of an exhausting five days.

I’m tired. They’re all tired. We’re all tired. A boiling point has been hit, and it’s really each individuals responsibility to search for a common thread in this seemingly broad movement, because I’ll bet there is one to be found for each person who ever feels tired, neglected, misinterpreted or abused. And for those of you saying, “Well, I never feel any of those things!” then you either need to stop pumping yourself with valium and get back in that therapists chair, or you need to get out of my sight because your perfect life is not fair and I frankly won’t fraternize with people that make me feel like a dirty, emotionally diseased troll.

Moderation. It’s ideal, but, where is the catharsis in that?

Transformers vs. Real Movies

An appreciation for film has rubbed off on me over the years. Like someone took a cheese grater to my film friends and allowed a certain amount of their admiration for motion pictures to sprinkle down on me like pretentious cheese.

I no longer have the ability to enjoy movies like Transformers 3. I tried the other night, I tried to put down my hipster shield and allow myself to dip into the peanut gallery for what I was hoping, at the very least, to be an entertaining waste of time.

Entertaining no. Waste of time? Completely. Transformers 3 did an excellent job of transforming some of our most beloved actors into suffering creatures, like the crabs boiling in Michael Bay’s pot. They never quite popped the lid off, and while I would have loved to take a mallet to those crabs and enjoyed the meat (wow she’s really stretching this metaphor, huh?), I was so disgusted that I had to walk away before they were even totally dead.

Frances McDormand, John Turturro, John Malkovich…it’s like they stole the entire cast of any given Coen Brothers film and tried desperately to offset the utter garbage that is Shia LaBoeuf’s face and whoever his girlfriend on stilts was this time.

Then there were the robots. And the gratuitous brain melting white noise that is Michael Bay’s explosion soundtrack.

You know what? Nevermind. This is like going to taco bell and wondering why there is a roach in your burrito.

I did see an excellent movie tonight though. Drive.  Originally, seeing as I am a female, I was pulled in by the fact that it’s Ryan Gosling’s chiseled features all up in my personal space for two hours.

But then the soundtrack.

And the cinematography.

It’s no surprise that Drive received wild applause at the Cannes Film Festival. Be warned, it’s gory. Drive plays off of a lot of noir elements, while incorporating a level of grace and beauty in the small moments and the nuances of,what I would consider visually, to be a first person narrative, without making it stark and obvious.

The fact that the film did not at all assume my lower I.Q. for being a lowly audience member pleased me. I would discuss this in greater detail, but right now I’m still basking in the glow of post-coitus movie viewing.

When it comes to giving a positive review, I try to keep it short but sweet. (Often times because I am still ruminating on it and my overly verbose nature would just ruin the visceral pleasure of daydreaming.) Which is in complete contrast to my run on sentences and caps lock infested tirades of negativity. (Ahem. Transformers, I was easy on you.)

Originally I was going to present you with some witty entry on my foray into employment, or how I predict my Halloween to play out (from my perspective, then from that of an innocent onlooker) but that’s for later. Right now I’ve been reduced to a slack-jawed drool machine thanks to Drive.

Go see it.

So….The Space Needle

Hey guys. Let me take this time to unceremoniously announce my new location in Seattle. I feel that, for me to officially adapt to a new environment, I must obsessively compare it to my previous environment with scrupulous, maddening detail. Thus, my inaugural west coast post (my POAST) will convene with two lists. Two lists of ten items. One pro Seattle. One pro Philadelphia. We’ll start with pro Seattle first, since I’m still getting acquainted and feel comforted by listing off the things I definitely like about it here.

Pro Seattle:

1.) It’s clean out here. In so much that the city isn’t littered with the ejaculate of the homeless or pigeon stool. I mean, each city has its own filthy little corner of despair, but Seattle keeps it contained and out of my daily path. Whereas Philadelphia tends to burst forth at the seams, not unlike a beautiful flower, except the product of this flower is garbage and curse words.

2.) Partaking in public transportation is a pleasure! The buses are clean, the people in the buses are clean AND friendly. If anything, they’re too quiet. But really, I don’t mind that. Everyone thanks the bus driver upon exiting the bus, unlike in Philadelphia where you just don’t get on the bus in the first place because you know that bus is scattered with unfamiliar fluids and driven by a crabby, obese afterthought of a human being with a death wish.

3.)Bricks? What bricks? Oh the relief of seeing some modern effing architecture! Those colonial red brick town homes can shove themselves right up their own non functioning chimneys.

4.) Closet space. It exists.

5.) People drive here. I am not a huge fan of cars, but Seattle is a sprawling metropolis consisting of a variety of boroughs that feel more like small towns that cuddle up next to each other. I like it. But unfortunately, unless you want to live on those nice, clean buses that I mentioned earlier, it’s a good thing to make friends with a car. Or someone that has one.

6.) For all of the kindness and loveliness that people have bestowed upon me here, the west coast doesn’t really play the sarcasm game. It’s understandable seeing as most people here travel along a lower frequency, and tend to not stress out as much. Native west coasters don’t really relish in the dry humor the way east coasters do. Unfortunately, as a native of the mid atlantic (the most embittered, hectic and rude portion of the U.S., and this is not up for debate) I have always thought of sarcasm like spicy mayo. It goes on everything. Absolutely everything. And sometimes it might taste weird, but, there it goes. Which leads me flawlessly to my next point.

7.) There’s a serious lack of unhealthy condiments here. People in Philadelphia may be really haggard, but at least they’re well fed. I’m missing my ambiguous white sauce (cousin of the aforementioned spicy mayo) that goes on everything in Philadelphia. Most often it goes on fries or burgers. P.O.P.E ,  Royal Tavern, Grace Tavern, y’all know what I’m talking about. You need to get Seattle on your disgusting gluttonous train towards Inevitably Aging Horribly Land.

8.) People are outdoorsy here. I actually hate this. I’m an indoor girl by nature and my indoor method of living suited me just fine in Philadelphia. I had my little dance parties at The Barbary, left an indent of my butt on most chairs at The Java Co., and when I was really excited about living in Philadelphia, I would stare longingly out my bathroom window (which overlooked a dead tree) and dream of being somewhere else. All things I could do inside!

9.) Seattle doesn’t have PAFA. That’s a damn shame.

10.) Probably one of the things I will miss least about Philadelphia is it’s constant homage to old balding men via awkward statues. Like the guy next to Love Park who looks like he’s either trying to hail a cab, or tell you that someone is about to barf on you. I remember once, when my delightfully cocaine addicted, prostitute supporting ex-roommate (of approximately five days) compared himself to Benjamin Franklin one night while snorting what I like to think of as “Lines of Liberty!” off an Ikea plate. It’s dangerous, DANGEROUS to grow up in a city where you’re constantly associating yourself with The Founding Forefathers to the point that you think that Ben Franklin also did coke off an Ikea plate. Hence the kite experiment.

Now, just when you thought I had slammed my own door HARD on my own ass, here’s a list of things Seattle doesn’t have that makes me miss Philadelphia (beyond the condiments).

1.) My friends. My darling wonderful eclectic group of friends. Philadelphia sure is a melting pot, and I met a lot of randoms over the few years I lived there. Most of them are no longer randoms, but best friends. I’ve got to hand it to you Philadelphia, you may have anger issues, but that’s because you’re like a giant Mom trying to get all of your kids (who are hanging out in the basement doing god knows what) to shut the hell up. You may not be perfect, but you bring us together, in the dank dirty basement that is your urban cityscape.

2.) It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. I loved knowing that I could be spotted in the background of that show at any given moment. Having a nervous breakdown or eating a bagel loaded with unhealthy accoutrements. Either way. Charlie Day is a glorious creature and I’d cuddle with any numerous pieces of sidewalk just to be closer to The King of Rats.

3.) Knowing that places like “Little Cambodia” and “Fishtown” are real neighborhoods in Philly and not nicknames for diseases.

4.) The sports teams are better.

Wait. Don’t tell anyone I ever said I cared about that. But secretly….

5.)  The street cred that living in Philadelphia automatically bestows upon you. I will be a soft little jellyfish of kindness and west coast do-goodery when I come back. And Philly, you’re the only sibling that’s allowed to slap me in the face for acting like “an ase-hole”. I can’t wait to get back on your streets and stop saying thank you to people.

6.) The yellow clock face on City Hall. I’ve always loved it. Reminds me of Batman.

7.) The Philadelphia Museum of Art. You’re great. Your Rocky Statue should probably just run down the hill and straight into oncoming traffic, though.

8.) The sun sometimes appears there. Not so much in Seattle. We have things called “sun spots” or “sun breaks” where locals will flip out over seeing a break in the clouds (not even the actual sun). Not even the actual sun, I said.

9.) The prevalence of stray cats. It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia mentions this in a few episodes; vis-a-vis Alley cats screaming outside of Frank and Charlie’s apartment. Well, stray cats abound in Philadelphia. It’s absolutely true and I miss them. I saved two of them. They have both continued on to grow into healthy, domesticated house cats. Although my mom says my cat is awkward, falls over a lot and smells weird. I think that’s pretty good for a cat that was living in an exhaust pipe for the first few months of life. If I’d had to grow up for the equivalent proportion of my life in an exhaust pipe like that cat, I guarantee you, I’d probably have more issues than smelling weird and being awkward. I mean. Those two things already happen and I grew up in a perfectly nurturing environment.

10.) Grid pattern. While it became increasingly maddening with each passing day to know that I was living in a trapped little square, surrounded by other little squares that are acknowledged either by numbers or names of trees, it was incredibly convenient. Now I actually have to try with directions. I am bad at directions. One time I put an Eggo in the CD player by mistake.

11.) I know. I passed ten. But I’ll miss being part of a city that has so many charming nicknames. Philthadelphia, Killadelphia, The City Of Brotherly Love (which is usually followed by a hearty laugh and a knee slap), Philly, and  Soufphilly (specifically).

So there you have it folks. My therapist always told me not to compare my relationships. But she never said anything about geographic locations.

I have revived my blog, yes. Now I must let you know, this blog is more for writing purposes now that I have my art blog. So, if you want an unobstructed view of my art, go to cargocollective.com/baroke

If you want to take the scenic route into my psyche, then stay here I guess. Or leave, if I made it sound so unappealing. Ase-hole.

Until next time.