Soft Pretzel Love

Mooooooving Along!!

2008-11-29T22:05:00.002-05:00

Okay peeps...

I've moved the blog. I think I've mentioned it before, but this time it's for real.

Several months ago I migrated all SoftPretzelLove postings to Word Press. I continued to post to both sites (which, sadly, was only like two or three times!!).

Well, now I'm not going to post here anymore, and will do everything at Word Press.

So, be sure to move your links to, and sign-up for e-mail notifications at:

http://softpretzellove.wordpress.com/

See you on the Word Press side!!! :-)

Deck the Halls, and Anyone Else Who Gets in Your Way

2008-11-29T19:05:00.000-05:00

Like tsunamis and pyrotechnics-related club fires, being trampled to death is generally not a fate you consider while lying awake at 4 a.m., your brain buzzing with all the horrors you manage to push back during the day with coffee, the computer, work, family and all the other things that make you forget that, like everyone else swarming across the globe, life can be gone in an instant.

But seriously, who on Long Island would ever consider being trampled to death a viable ending, especially when the great American pastime, shopping, is involved?

WalMart security guard Jdimytai Damour probably didn't. But I bet he's watching his family put him to rest up in heaven, or whatever afterlife he personally believed in. And I bet he's pissed.

I would be. After all, he was a lowly, underpaid temp, punching in for pennies an hour once the government's take is accounted for. He didn't even have the misfortune of being an actual WalMart employee. They probably hired him as a way to avoid paying benefits, or having yet another name on the HR roster who could sue.

And so, in the wee hours of Black Friday 2008, a crowd of more than 2,000 of his fellow Long Islanders wanted so badly to be able to buy cheap Chinese-made crap, they actually tore the doors off their hinges and killed him under their feet. The Seattle Times reports:

"Tension grew as the 5 a.m. opening neared. By 4:55, with no police officers in sight, the crowd of more than 2,000 had become a rabble, and could be held back no longer. Fists banged and shoulders pressed on the sliding-glass double doors, which bowed in with the weight of the assault."

Witnesses and the police said the doors shattered, and the shrieking mob surged through in a rush for holiday bargains. One worker, Jdimytai Damour, 34, of Queens, was thrown back onto the black linoleum tiles and trampled in the stampede that streamed over and around him."

Sadly, it makes sense. If you've spent any time around your fellow Americans, it's possible to understand how they could kill.

Scarier still is the fact that people feel little, if any, remorse at others' misfortune or pain.

According to the same Seattle Times piece:

Some shoppers who had seen the stampede said they were shocked. One, Kimberly Cribbs of Queens, said the crowd had acted like "savages." Shoppers' behavior was bad even as the store was being cleared, she recalled.

"When they were saying they had to leave, that an employee got killed, people were yelling, 'I've been on line since yesterday morning,' " Cribbs said. "They kept shopping."

Outbreaks weren't restricted to New York. At a Wal-Mart in Columbus, Ohio, Nikki Nicely, 19, jumped onto a man's back and pounded his shoulders when he tried to take a 40-inch Samsung flat-screen TV to which she had laid claim. "That's my TV!" Nicely, 19, shouted. "That's my TV!"

A police officer and security guard intervened, but not before Nicely took an elbow in the face. In the end, she was the one with the $798 television, marked down from $1,000. "That's right," she cried as her adversary walked away. "This here is my TV!"

Charisma Booker, also on the hunt for a TV, said she had been shopping at Wal-Mart every Black Friday for nearly a decade. "There are fewer people here this year, but they're more aggressive," she said. "I've never seen anybody fight like this. This is crazy."

At a Wal-Mart in Niles, Ill., a mother fought back tears when she discovered someone had taken her cart filled with toys.

It's everywhere. Turn your attention away for just a moment in the checkout line and someone is guaranteed to hop in front of you. Say something and you'll either get ignored or, more likely, cursed at, especially if there's a small child in the transgressor's cart seat, which really blows my mind.

Even worse is behavior behind the wheel. I have both been witness to, and a victim of, some of the most dangerous, poorly thought out and downright asinine vehicular activities in recent months.

Just last week H. merged into the left lane on the Blue Route, only to find a white coupe that was at least two car lengths behind – Pa. license plate No. DYJ 9585, for anyone interested – that apparently took offense at the fact that he had the gall to pull in front of them.

The car actually passed us on the left shoulder, pulled in front of us, slammed on the brakes, and began to swerve and slam on the brakes intermittently, until we finally exited the highway. It was a terrifying display of complete stupidity, especially considering the fact that we were travelling at least 60mph and traffic was heavy all around.

Not to mention there were several lives at stake – I could see the outline of at least three heads in the offending vehicle alone – and least of all my little puppy's, who was too small to be safely harnessed in the seat.

Even if H. had pulled out directly in front of them, there is absolutely no excuse short of complete mental retardation – and even that is putting the disabled down – for that sort of driving.

I nearly threw up from the experience, and H. almost had a coronary because, after three years with me, he knows he's not allowed to do what he would, under normal circumstances for him, do: follow the car until it stopped and then confront the driver, moron-to-man – the driver being the moron, of course – to deduce the reason for such foolish behavior, and why H. shouldn't put him in shock trauma because of it.*

So I'm not at all surprised that this particular group of Black Friday shoppers was so impatient to get in to snap up all the big discounts they resorted to murder.

We've been sold the idea of the American dream for so long it's morphed into something narcissistic and dangerous. The adage, "You can do anything" has been repeated so often it has been turned into a sadistic version of telephone, where the message has become distorted not into silly but sadistic, literally: you can do anything: cut people off, curse like a sailor, eat bulk food from the bins, steal a kid's bike off a porch, lie to your employer, commit insurance fraud, bilk the American people out of $300 billion, kill in the name of justice, do whatever it takes to get to the top of the list, head of the line, front of the pack or corner office.

Just look at the financial mess we're in, the perfect example of greed and entitlement run amok.

I'll be the first to tell you that not everyone can own a house. I'd love more than anything to own one, but I'm not willing to risk financial ruin by biting off more than I can chew. Nor should anyone think it's okay to lie, ever, for any reason, in order to sell one.

The poor security guard was probably trying to make as much money as he could, working whatever gig he could get, in order to make ends meet. Just like all of us in the recession Bush was certain he could ward off if he just denied it long enough.

Well, it didn't work, and lo-and-behold we're all up shit's creek without a paddle.

The irony is, as the pundits turn blue bemoaning the end of the fiscal world, and newscasters spew harrowing tales of honest folk going belly-up with the same intonations as the ghost stories we used to tell during sleepovers – the only thing missing is a flashlight under their chins – my life's just about the same.

Maybe even a little bit better, thanks to a summer spend toiling over thousands of pages of copy in a local company's annual clothing catalog. It's the same gig that allowed me to bail on the corporate hell I was dying in. And, thanks to their continued use of my skills, they've enabled me to avoid returning to that world again.

And so the crumbling global economy is little more than a blip on my radar. I was poor to begin with, and will probably continue to be as the recession marches on.

Despite my higher education, I've never managed to cash in on the earning potential that allegedly comes with multiple degrees hanging on the wall. I guess that's because said degrees were earned out of a genuine desire to learn, not earn. (Oh, insipid! Barf!)

Two of them are art degrees, the third is journalism. Not exactly booming businesses. But, I'm happy. And while I'll continue to clip coupons and live on things like (whole grain) bread and (organic) canned soup, I can't really share in the depression being felt by those who, until recently, pretty much had it all.

And since I'm, as usual, too poor to shop this time of year, I'll stay safe at home while I put my degrees to work and make all my presents.

Unless, that is, things really hit the fan and I've got no choice but to whore myself out to the temp agencies. In which case, I'll do my best to avoid the maniacal, retail-obsessed mobs who are so desperate to consume they'll willingly crush another human being beneath their feet in order to buy like they have every other year.

I suppose they figure if there's a mountain of gifts under the tree, they can pretend, at least for now, that it's still possible to buy their way to happiness.

They deserve everything they get, after all. Right?

*I neither condone violence, nor do I apologize for assuming the driver is a man. Auto insurance rates for young men are sky high for a reason, and while H. knows I'm not a fan of beating up other people, sometimes I think the world would be at least a more civil place if people were allowed to confront others rude behavior without the threat of jail or a lawsuit every time someone says boo.

Where is the Love?

2008-02-25T15:38:00.002-05:00

Fear not, friends. The pretzel may be twisted, but it has not folded.

Join us here for more silly Soft Pretzel-ness...

Slackadelphia

2007-08-15T12:33:00.001-04:00

Is it the warm, summer air... Oh, who am I kidding?

Is it the hot, humid, sticky air that makes your lungs feel like
they're filled with honey and skin slicker than the ocean surrounding
the Exxon Valez that is making me lazy?

Or could it be something else? A lack of willpower, lack of drive,
get-up-and-go winner takes all sort of deficit that's causing me to
stare, blindly, at my monitor while scanning craigslist for a coffee
shop job?

A-ha! Coffee shop job? Wait just a minute...

Methinks there is something larger at work, something intent upon
keeping me down in the dumps -- literally and figuratively, if you've
seen my house of late -- and sucking the energy from me like a
failure-minded vampire.

I have to wonder: has my self-esteem taken such a beating over the
last few years I'm happy to wile the hours away schlepping espressos
and counting the nickels plunking to the bottom of the tip jar?

Now, it's not that I won't necessarily go for the joe job. It would be
nice to have human interaction, and some extra cash in the pocket is
always a boon.

Plus, money has been more than tight these days, what with me being
the sole breadwinner in the fam and Mr. Spipster seemingly doing nada
to lighten the skint girl load. It's just that part of me thinks it's
unfair that I even have to.

Allow me to vent. Of late, things have been pretty dismal on the
interpersonal relations end when it comes to the two of us. It
basically consists of me screaming and him screaming back, assorted
household items going crashing into stationery objects, and increased
anger and hostility building on both sides.

Not exactly the most fun, my friends, and lately I've been unsure what
the best course of action may be.

In full disclosure of the stress-fraught circumstances, I was
(somewhat) okay with his unemployed status when he moved in. It was
the end of the season, and there's not much work for a construction
worker in the middle of a snowstorm.

But things have not gotten better, in fact they've only gotten worse,
while the Mr. insists that things are indeed on the up-and-up and I'm
just a pessimist for giving up when the going is just about to be
getting good.

Harumph.

How can I be sure that's not the truth? How could I possibly even
consider turning someone out who has devoted his time and energy to
taking care of myself and my (our) household. He cleans like a demon,
does laundry on a daily basis, and all the other manly tasks that my
less-burly girl muscles can't quite do.

Car stuff? He's on it. Heavy lifting? He's the man. But I can't help
but think that there's got to be more, especially when dragging myself
out of bed at 6 a.m. so I can hit the (temp) workplace and schlep home
the soy bacon is akin to walking across a football field of hot coals.

To be fair, the boy's got some serious health issues, from rheumatoid
arthritis stemming from too many hours of laying concrete in the hot
afternoon sun to other assorted ailments as a result of too-late
diagnosed Lyme disease. He is not well. He needs help. He has a hard
time getting around. He is in pain. I understand that, and it really
sucks.

Yet I look at those traveling on SEPTA to their workplaces with me in
the morning, and can't help but notice plenty who, with their own far
share of painful ailments and disabilities, make their way to to the
grind right next to me.

Is it too much to ask a person to do their very best to find a way to
contribute to the mounting bills so I don't have to spend every waking
hour slaving to make ends meet?

Obviously, the answer is no. But the boy has a way of making me feel
like the taskmaster and the world's biggest, meanest hardass all
wrapped up in one. I honestly don't know what to do at this point: the
ties are legally binding, so no matter what I choose we'll have to
figure it out together at some point.

But in the interim, I really just wish this would all go away. I've
got too much to worry about -- I've made the jump to being my own
boss, and unless I am determined to fail I've got to make it work.

But to make it work I've got to get to work, and when your brain is
sweating out your ears and your heart is torn in a thousand
directions, it's tough to get the gumption up to go ask a perfect
stranger for a shot at a gig. Especially if that intereferes with your
shift at the coffee shop....

Sigh.

How do I get myself into these situations?

Next time, I'll just bring home a kitten....

[editor's note: The Spipster is considering continuing this draft in
serial mode, via an extremely cheap subscription (pennies, my friends,
pennies!) in order to defray costs and possibly give her inspiration
in the form of income. Your thoughts?

Many of you have expressed a desire to see more of many of her sordid
tales. Would you be willing to pay for the opportunity to delve into
the world of someone so hopeless she's willing to turn to strangers to
help fuel her impassioned rantings? (Literally, people -- PECO ain't
cheap!)]

Lazy Days of Summer? Oh Shit!

2007-08-09T22:38:00.001-04:00

I don't actually know what happened to her.

I'd like to say I knew, that I saw her one day on the street, passed out with a brown bagged bottle at her fingertips. But alas, I do not know.

The way this life works she may be found somewhere else in the blogosphere, terrorizing another poor, delicate soul with her angry shriekings and bipolar demands for the unreasonable. But alas, I do not know what has happened to the Shrill.

But I do know that she is gone, no longer darkening CorpraCo's hallways. Whether it was her own doing, really, is unsure, but I can certainly speculate.

Shortly following my departure things, I'm guessing, went to hell. It's no secret, at least not to me, that I had a significant impact on everything that happened in, and was produced by, my former PR department. Once I was gone, I can imagine the slide was rapid and ugly.

Very, very ugly.

Moles have told me that after a few days the excuse, "but the Spipster used to do that" was forcibly verboten by order of the Shrill. Apparently she got sick and tired of learning that every single step in the process was overseen, like an evil grammarian overlord, by moi.

Muwahaahahahaha!

But I digress. I know she got sick and tired of hearing my name, and eventually I'm assuming the rest of the evil overlords did as well, and a little more than two weeks after I claimed my freedom she turned in her notice and claimed hers…

Just a little sooner than she expected, and a few short hours – rather than weeks – after giving her notice she Shrill was on her way out the door, doing her best to keep from getting knocked over as it hit her in the ass.

Sometimes there's nothing better than the pure, warm feeling of vindication, no matter how indirect it may be.

Unfortunately, I can only revel in the bliss of being right for so long, as the bills are still unpaid, and the moneyhags are clamoring for more.

What to do?

Oh wait, that's right. The plan is to be an uber go-getter and get my go out there to work the suits and wow them into giving me their business.

Except I haven't done that. Not even a little bit…

Shit.

But that's okay, right? Yeah, yeah that's okay. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's not like I'm not working,and not working freelance, either, because I am.

As a matter of fact I'm working almost 40 hours a week for some big clothing company putting together their annual ginormous catalog. It's mindless work no one expects anything from me but type-type-type, but it's liberating. At least for now.

For the budget albatross is clinging staunchly to my bent back, clawing at my hair and pooping on my shoulder. It ain't pretty.

Somehow I have to find it within myself to get my arse out into the world, in between the daily – albeit freelance –grind. I just seem to be having a hard time.

And having a crisis of confidence to boot.

I'm not normally like this. Friends will (probably) tell you that I'm an insanely motivated, downright driven, don't sleep inject the coffee chewing on sugar cubes kind of girl.

I was president of my freakin' graduate class, people!

Unfortunately, that inhuman drive seems to have escaped me lately.

Mr. Spipster told me the other night he doesn't think I have the drive to go out and get the proverbial brass ring. Okay, maybe not in those exact words. He's not really the lyrical type.

But it concerned me nonetheless because it's that's not me.

At least, it wasn't me. Isn't me. Never used to be me.

Is it me?

Oh gawd, is it???

Even if it turns out that in my old age I've turned into a soft, couch-sitting slacker, that option isn't currently open to me. Not really.

Not unless I want to crawl back to another CorpraCo to spend the rest of my life a la zombie, watching the clock until they put me in the cold, hard ground.

Or send me packing to the local homeless shelter because I'm madame breadwinner.

Christ… someone get me another glass of wine!

It's A Big World Out There

2007-07-29T00:52:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I really have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. Blame it on the A.D.H.D ., but I possess the maddening ability to make on-the-fly decisions without actually stopping to consider the real-world, long-term ramifications of the latest idea of my affection.

Granted, it's not like I'm careening, wild-eyed and hopped up on half a dozen lattes, into disastrous oblivion for inane plans like a Tasmanian Devil ass tattoo, or opening the door when the Mormons come to call.

But unfortunately, my penchant for throwing caution to the wind and myself out of the proverbial frying pan, slathered in butter, and into the fire, has landed me dead center into the kinds of situations that would make even the boldest of risk takers think they woulda' thought twice.

Because, alas, it is not that I possess the sort of devil-may-care j'oie de vivre that accompanies most life on the edge types as they venture boldly into odds-defying, oblivious Homer-like success.

I do not.

I simply do things cuz I want to.

And inevitably, time for the most part has proven that many of my ill- and mostly un-advised headlong moves into the unbeknownst have merely served to make what is, at times, a miserable slow slog of an existence that much harder.

And yet… on occasion… while the gapers gawk and wait with bated breath for me to crash and burn, I make a move that may actually turn out for the best.

Take my latest life-altering adventure.

For those of you following my mind numbing, so-called-career crash and burn in cubic'hell, you are well aware of the manic, torturous moods of Madame Shrill, my most recent keeper.

I will admit that the not-so business casual life I've been leading for the last two years is not what I imagined I'd be doing when I finally grew up. And while it was exciting to travel to many of the places in the world I never thought I'd get to, at least not on my starving-artist-in-waiting sub-poverty wages, I hated having to play the game.

Get up early, drag myself to the same grey, soulless hole of an office, toil the hours of my life away at slave wages so some fat cat who drives a luxury sedan can make himself look important in front of his fellow fat cats, while I waste my life away selling my creative soul so the corporation can further fill its coffers.

Y'know, the same old same old.

Add in the abuse at the hands of some power hungry, maniacal she beast who seems to take almost sick pleasure in berating those below her, and it suddenly seems like too much.

Much too much, in fact. And so I split.

Bailed. Walked. Grabbed my bag, and my stockpile of crackers and canned soups, and ventured out to earn my own goddamn fortune.

Oh, of course I know that the kind of cash that will make wiping my ass with dollar bills — and not having to immediately scrub them clean so I can put enough together to make bus fare — will take years to achieve. But deep down I've known for quite some time that if I were to use my superpowers for good instead of greedy evil, I could make enough to live on and have enough time and money left over to actually live, instead of simply managing to get through another day.

And so, three weeks into freelance freedom the worry wart that I am still has not managed to make even a peep in the name of uncertainty. Of course, I've traded the steady paycheck and security that's part and parcel of working for the man for a potential total loss, and the bills are, so far, struggling to get paid. But, for the first time in many years, my life is my own.

As far as the Shrill, I have to report that I am unsure where she's finding her security these days, for it seems that a few short weeks after I took my leave of her closed door torture chamber, she found herself walking through the same door, under slightly different circumstances…

To be continued…

help me! help me! the end is very effing nigh!

2007-06-03T23:39:00.000-04:00

So I bet you’ve wondering what happened.

Oh, it gets worse. It gets so much worse…

Since that fateful afternoon, when I narrowly escaped the slobbering jaws of managerial rage, I’ve had time to reflect upon the errors of my ways, thanks to three weeks’ reprieve from cubicle hell.

How did I come by my much needed break from the never ending grind of the corporate machine? By landing my sorry ass in E.R. at midnight later on that dreadful day.

For those of you not in the know, about four months ago I went under the surgeon’s knife in the hopes of obliterating daily pain caused by a chronic disease. I’d already damaged my liver thanks to daily cocktail of Aleve, Advil and chocolate, chased each night with Ativan to ensure I didn’t awake in a fit of anxiety brought on by the growing severity of my work/life situation.

But, my illness thrives in a chicken/egg type environment, and a hostile work environment brought back the symptoms, increasing my stress, and the pain, until I was pretty much back at square one.

Meditation helps, as does proper diet, exercise and a positive attitude. Unfortunately, the obsessive-compulsive mountains out of molehills worry wart I am has never been much of a match for the kill-or-be-killed mentality of the corporate world.

So after the Shrill sank her teeth into my battered and bruised psyche, I limped back to my DMV-issue cube to lick my wounds.

the end - is it near?
I’d known it was bad from the start. The chemistry was wrong; aggression crackled from her like lightning. And, as my roller derby habit can attest, I’m not one to back down when another woman tries to push me out of the way.

Unfortunately, this makes me a moron.

She’s the boss. I’m the bee. And at the end of the day, I’m still the only one responsible for paying my bills.

She’d laid it bare: she had nothing invested in me. I may have been working my ass off to fatten CorpraCo’s coffers for two years, but she had, in less than two weeks, determined I was a nothing more than a pimple on the surface of her fledgling empire. She was going to squeeze me out, no matter what.

And what she’d seen so far from me, in her opinion, was total shit. I was lacking in every area of my responsibilities, I’d shirked my duties, bowed out of what I was expected to deliver and spent my time doing absolutely nothing productive. In fact, she did not even know what I did on a daily basis.

My own boss did not even know what her sole employee did for her.

Great.

It was then and there that I knew I was on a collision course with certain doom. So I dove in, thinking that if I told her what I do it might dawn on her that, for the past six months, I was the department.

At work, I dealt with everyone. I fielded the calls, took on all tasks, took personal responsibility for everything that came across my desk. I was the go-to person, the one who could be counted on to make sure whatever needed to be done was done. It was killing me, but I took pride in knowing that all knew that any project that absolutely had to be taken care of, no matter what else might be on my plate, would somehow get done.

I rarely took lunch. I took work home with me. I checked my e-mail at all hours of the day, even when my body was still covered with stitches and I couldn’t get out of bed. I was always on.

And when my only coworker went out on medical leave and never came back, I took on her work as well, diving headlong into an area I was neither paid nor qualified to do, on paper, and gave it 110 percent.

I had no personal life.
My marriage was crashing violently on the rocks. I was tired, I was cranky, my skin was sallow, and I had great, ugly bags under my eyes. I was growing bitter about the fact that I was doing more than I was paid, after taxes, and paid less than $30,000 annually than that former coworker was to do.

In short, I was bending over and letting CorpraCo give it to me, and good. I’d made no bones about the fact that I needed support staff, more money, and a job title that reflected my actual workload. I was dying out there on my own, and in my good-girl fairy tale world I expected them to put their arms around my shoulders, give me a big hug and tell me everything would be all right.

Yeah right.

Oh sure, they’d thrown me a few bones: I’d received a “staff star” for performance above and beyond, which netted me… a picture frame. And there was a performance-based bonus … which after taxes paid for groceries and one dinner out for Mr. Spipster and myself.

Unfortunately, according to the Shrew, those accolades were isolated incidents, and did not actually reflect what she saw as the big picture, which was my total lack of integrity and refusal to do what I was hired to do.

So I caved, I gave in, I stressed and worried and wound up in pain, in tears, at midnight in the emergency room.

When I saw my surgeon the next day she reminded me the surgery might not work, and the stress and anxiety I’d allowed to invade every cell in my body brought me right back to our original meeting place.

So she gave me three weeks’ short term medical leave and instructed me to get a new job.

And so, one month later I landed, further down the spiral than I’ve ever been, gasping like a fish on land, wondering what the hell I am going to do.

Unable to get myself out of bed and into the job hunt I returned to CorpraCo last week, hoping for the best and vowing to push through until I could find a new gig.

“I’m a professional,” I told myself one week ago, “I am strong and capable and a hard worker and I always find a way to get through. I am no quitter. I am an adult and I can make this work.”

Unfortunately, the Shrill and Co. had other plans.

Shortly after the incident in the E.R...
I received an e-mail from HR informing me that the Shrill was given access to my e-mail account, to ensure no messages “fell through the cracks” in my absence. Last Wednesday an ally whispered that I’d better watch what I wrote, as the Shrill was still in it and looking for dirt.

Two weeks ago I received my professional association’s job listings, and was mildly shocked to find a position similar to my own posted at CorpraCo. When I checked with HR they denied everything, stating that hiring my gig out from under me would of course be wrong, and I shouldn’t worry, it was for something else. Yet I found myself having a hard time suspending the belief that a department comprised of three positions could support a secondary slot almost identical to my own.

And then, two days ago, I was called into the Shrill’s office: it was time for my quarterly review. In January, my annual review, I’d received stellar marks, with only a few places for improvement and acknowledgement that my work was always well done.

This time around all the news was bad, and the Shrill continued her barrage, slinging insult upon injury at me. In shock, I sat as I was cited for misconduct, poor performance and accused of outright workplace disruption during incidents I have zero recollection of.

And suddenly, I knew I was done for.
They had no reason to outright fire me, so this was the first step in ensuring that when they finally swung the hatchet they’d legally covered their backs.

So yeah, I’m low. I’m deeper down in black, ugly depression than I ever imagined I’d find myself. It’s all going to hell, my friends, and for once I am unsure of how I will claw my way back.

My car’s transmission is shot. I have no money. I am barely hanging on to a nightmare of a job. And unless I prostitute myself a.s.a.p. I am dangerously close to living life on the streets.

I’ve just been laying in bed, berating and hating myself for getting myself into this mess, and wondering how bad it’s gonna’ get before I find my way out.

Yesterday I decided I needed to get off my ass, because I haven’t even got the cash to get to work on the bus. Poring through my wardrobe I pulled out everything I thought might net me a few bucks in the secondhand shops. Then I rifled under the couch cushions, checked every pouch and pocket, culled together years worth of foreign cash and made my way downtown.

The end result? Adding insult to injury over the fact that making ends meet has meant giving up the little things, like the ability to own clothes that are not half a decade out of style, I managed to unload one skirt, for a grand net of $3.32.

At Commerce Bank I dumped every penny into the change counting machine, which printed me out a receipt for $4.02 with the message that I’d won a prize.

A prize! Was my luck finally going to turn?

The teller handed me my four dollars, then smiled as she handed me my prize: a bank. A fucking bank! Slipping it into my bag I bowed my head and tried not to cry.

And learning that nowhere in Philadelphia can I exchange pounds and euros in coins, I headed home to feel sorry for myself.

I poured a glass of wine, and couldn’t help but obsess over my sorry ass.
My short term disability check was lost somewhere in transit, and my rent check is now three days late. I’ve never been late on the rent, and am sure this will be grounds for eviction.

I imagine several large men named Vinnie and Vito banging down my door and carrying me and all my second-hand possessions down the stairs and dumping me, unceremoniously, on the sidewalk.

And the check I’m waiting on for a freelance job has also not materialized, and I have heard nada from the client. He’s missing, as is my money, and I have had zero luck getting hold of him.

I envision him sitting on some beach checking the e-mail generated from his kick ass website, sipping a frosty drink and laughing that he got top-notch web content for free.

My car is currently sitting in front of the house, dead. The transmission is shot, but even if I could get the thing into gear the battery is dead and the front tire is flat. The nosy neighbor next door who sits on his porch all day, being nosy, threatened to have it towed the other day, but before he can get to it the bank may, as the insurance is due as well.

I imagine running the neighbor over with the car, but cannot come up with a plan to get him to lay down behind it while I force it into neutral, as he is rather large, in addition to being a bit of a jerk.

Mr. Spipster is doing the best he can, but he suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, and without his medication can barely move some days. He too is looking for a job, but they are few and far between.

I find myself getting depressed over the fact that not only can we not afford a wedding ring, we couldn’t even spring for a real wedding. Instead, we stood, alone, in front of a plastic backdrop flanked by plastic flowers in the basement of some crumbling apartment building in Upper Darby.

My dream of running off to Vegas to get hitched by some second-rate actor dressed up like Elvis was never realized, and instead I wound up getting hitched like some knocked-up 16-year-old in a bad after school special. I didn’t even have anyone to throw my $6 grocery store bouquet to, and the waitress at the diner where we went to celebrate afterward didn’t even seem to appreciate them as her tip.

There is little food in the house, and even though I make all the bread and pasta from scratch that we eat, visions of myself wasting away from starvation start to… wait. No. That vision is actually kinda’ nice.

But eventually I will waste away to nothing, homeless, not even able to live in my car, as any day now I will have no job. Yet while I do, the thought of the abuse I must endure consumes me.

I begin to fantasize about telling the Shrill to go fuck herself.
I dream of walking out the door and never returning. Of having a “take this job and shove it” moment, something I have never done in all my years as a good, compliant worker bee. I think of what I would do, should it come to that.

I picture myself walking out the door, getting on that bus with change I’ve borrowed from my coworker, and never, ever coming back. The thought is liberating, it makes me smile. And not the frozen-on Ativan-induced tranquilized grimace I plaster on every day, but an actual smile.

I’ve spent far too much of my time in this dead-end situation. This is no way to live; this is just a slow, painful soul-sucking death. How many of us are just going through the motions without actually thinking about what we’re doing, until one day we wind up completely broke, moping around in bed all day wishing we were someone, somewhere or something else?

I’ve been miserable, and I’ve made everyone around me miserable. The Shrill might be the best thing that’s happened to me in ages.

But in the meantime, I’m having a hard time believing the universe is going to leave me be. I need salvation, I need some help, yet everywhere I look I see nothing.

I need to pay the rent. I need to buy a bus pass. I need some goddamned food!

And, in the long term, I need to build my business and never, ever find myself the helpless victim of another Shrill.

I need clients for what will someday be one of the best writing and editing companies on the face of the earth: me. Oh sure it seems pretentious, but I’m really that good.

And I need cash. Cold, hard cash.
And an interim gig, freelance or contract, at a company that won’t try to suck me dry.

I’ve read reports that the blogosphere is the next financial frontier. No one’s making money at it yet, but that’s not where I’m looking to get paid.

However, I’m in dire need, and won’t get to tell the tale of how the horrible Shrill was actually the best thing that ever happened in my professional life if I don’t get through these next few weeks.

Brother can you spare a dime? Or a dollar or two? I want so badly to keep the faith, that if I keep going I’ll come out better on the other end. But it’s tough to do when you can’t even buy a carton of milk.

So please donate to the OverEducatedBeggar, or contact me at overeducatedbeggar@yahoo.com to comment, call me names, give me encouragement or hire me for my word nerd ways.

Please.

Having no milk sucks…

Adventures in Managerial Animosity, Part I

2007-05-16T11:14:00.000-04:00

It probably sounds weird. In fact, it’s pretty much straight up sexism I’m talking 'bout here. Because either way, no matter which way you shake it, 99.9 percent of the time, I just can’t stand working for a female boss.

I know, I know! I can hear my fellow feminists, gasping in shock and shrieking that I am a traitor to my kind; Benedict Arnold to the estrogen army’s equality-focused grrl power cause.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not some uterus hating suit chaser, nor do I believe a woman’s “place” is anywhere – house, office, the freakin’ fields of Iraq, I don’t care. I only know what’s right for my life.

But what I do believe, without a doubt, is that from the time we’re old enough to tie our pink-trimmed, cartoon character bearing, sparkly, light up shoes, we’re well on the way to growing into fingernail-wielding, back stabbing, catty-with-a-capital-C bitches.

Granted, not everyone turns out that way. There are plenty of women out there who make the 9-5 grind the challenging-in-a-good-way, collaborative, worthwhile experience it should be.

But some chickies take the mean girl trajectory all. the. way.

Move that behavior from the playground to the boardroom and the opportunity is ripe for the cruelest of all to claw their way into the corner cubicle…

Now, the Tsumommy’s overbearning uber-matriarch may be a bit hard to handle without automatically reverting to door-slamming “I hate you” behavior. But this nurture-monger just wants to be loved. If you can somehow turn the tantrums to your favor, life in the cubicle jungle can get just a bit more bearable. Provided, of course, she remembers to take her estrogen.

Yet the Tsumommy’s menace is nothing compared to the unbridled spite of the Corporate Shrill. Thanks to CorporaCo’s latest bout of schizophrenic hiring, I have become the latest victim of one particularly pre-menopausal bitch.

And oh, this one follows the pattern. They always do.

The Shrill is usually late-30s through mid-40s, married at least once, if at all, has a child and has come to realize, bitterly, that this is it. And it sucks.

Maybe she’s divorced, or her husband is cheating, or she wishes he was just so he’d get his fat, lazy ass of the couch every once in a while. Her child is nothing spectacular, and is as popular as she was in school, which means not at all. So, living vicariously through her offspring, or even boasting about any achievements or awards, is not an option. She’s trapped in a long, gray stretch of existence that shows no glimpse of light at any end.

The solution to help ease the pain of her mindless, soulless, hollow existence? Take it out on those below her.

Mind you, it’s not like I’m some innocent Bambi, frolicking through the cube farm with nary an unhappy thought or cruel word. My time in CorporaCo. hell needed to be over a long time ago, and it’s my own damn fault I let it come to this.

I should have started looking for a new gig months ago, long before they unceremoniously fired my boss and sent my daily existence into a fucked up bitch smack of a tailspin. But no, lack of confidence combined with laziness and a scheduled surgery meant I hung around way past my expiration date, only to wind up an angry, unhealthy apprentice on the Shrill-ville downward spiral.

Thus, my existential angst and overblown sense of entitlement against the Shrill’s unbridled temper could only result in war. Unfortunately for me, the Shrill holds the cards and one overburdened worker bee is easily replaced with another, especially when the scab will be a newbie who has no choice but to follow the leader off the cliff.

And so, a week or so ago, I sat in the Shrill’s undecorated office, with the single-minded intention of trying to make nice with someone who has yet to fully comprehend CorporaCo’s apocalyptic state of affairs. I struggled to get across that I have done my best to hold the jumbled bits of the department together, even as my own life has slowly crumbled apart. If the two of us got on the same page we could probably, maybe even move things along.

It wasn’t easy. I didn’t think she had any inkling that at least a few times a day a missive is dropped into my lap from some source or other asking for yet another splinter of my time and feeble brain power to figure out … something. Without a master for so long I’d become a slave to all, and the schizophrenic nature of the gig was really getting to me. I needed a single source to assign me, a sole voice to shut out the chattering masses. I needed a fucking boss.

Instead I got the Terminator, guns blazing, nostrils flaring wider than her 1980s palazzo pants. She came out firing and I sat, stunned.

Not that the cubicle ranch wasn’t a stressful place to be, for all of us. And I probably deserved a talkin’ to for something. If I screw up I’ll take the fall. But this was something else.

This was animosity in overdrive.

And so I sat, face burning, as the laundry list of my alleged transgressions was hurled at me:

I’d been a horrible person from the moment she’d met me, and had gone out of my way to put down each and every fellow worker unlucky enough to sit within the vicinity of my cubicle of doom. The way she put it, like a serial killer I’d methodically made my way from victim to victim, and had apparently wrought such strife as to bring entire departments to tears and cause ailments ranging from spontaneous abortion to leprosy.

As for my work, every assignment I’d completed in her short tenure was deficient, mediocre, and simply not acceptable. She had zero confidence in my ability to do anything, ever. Period. In fact, I was blatantly lazy and had intentionally not completed an assignment for the CEO due to said purported laziness and my need to actually leave on time. Thanks to a shot transmission, yours truly (and Mr. Spipster as well, poor lad) is forced to rely on the fickle nature of the local public transit monopoly, which only deems travel to CorporaCo’s business “campus” necessary once or twice a day. Miss that bus and you’re schlepping your tired ass along the side of the road, dodging speeding SUVs and BMWs as they race to escape the rat race and make tee time.

I dared retort: the project was worked on until it was done, and the part not completed was a matter of pure miscommunication. She and the Tsumommy had attacked me via speakerphone and I’d misunderstood the missive.

I apologized…

She pounced.

“You are lying!” she shrieked, eyes bulging out of her head. I surreptitiously snuck a look behind me, making sure I knew exactly where the door handle was in the event I needed to make a hasty escape.

[...to be continued...]

Monday Morning

2006-11-27T18:44:00.000-05:00

Today we had the unique pleasure of participating in an all-day meeting. None of us knew why we were there, not even the Tsumommy. Never mind that she’d called the meeting.

I took half a Xanax. I’d learned from hard experience – accompanied by the occasional errant mid-meeting yoyo of drool – that a slow, steady buzz is preferable to losing control of one’s facilities in front of the coworkers.

I can’t say I’ve ever loved my job – a failing economy coupled with my wanderlust means I have no choice but to be okay with any gig that’s even mildly creative, pays the bills and doesn’t give me a bleeding ulcer.

And things were cool until the bloated bigwigs who’d hired the Tsumommy got so many complaints about her they were forced to notice. In classic bait-and-switch intimidation style they fired up the smoke machines and stepped away from admiring themselves in the mirrors of their Lexus and BMWs long enough to take out one of their own.

Unfortunately, the fall guy was my boss, and now the Tsumommy is my keeper.

Scorched Cubicle Campaign

2006-11-21T18:39:00.000-05:00

It is a scorched cubicle campaign. Herman Miller ergonomic chairs scattered across the great gray expanse, smoke wafting up from the stain proof fabric.

I’ve been working as a corporate shill for nearly two years and have witnessed the kind of business decisions that even The Office would take offense at. But “CorporaCo’s” latest antics have brought the paper-pushing circus to a new low.

I have no one to blame it on but the Tsumommy. She waddled into our sorry lives, and the department’s top job, a few months ago, knit discount rack suit clinging to every lump of sedentary flesh. So far she has left confusion and destruction in her wake.

She has little more than the perfunctory bachelor’s-level education, but somehow she’s been granted the decision-making key to the highest level in our cube-rat lives. And like the kind of meddling mother who will read her child’s diary with the justification that she’s the boss and therefore can do whatever she wants, she does just that. Anything and everything on or near any desk is hers to rifle through as she feels fit. Not even the Blackberry is sacred: dare use it in her presence and she’ll grab it out of your hands. God forbid you’re writing about her…

I thought I was selling my soul by taking the corporate job… I was wrong. It was merely marinating.

Back in the Blogger Saddle

2006-11-10T22:38:00.000-05:00

So I’ve done the unthinkable in this intravenous Internet force-fed world: I’ve quit MySpace.

It’s true. Deleted my profile, clicked the button and just walked away. And, surprise, it was easier than I thought.

Until the night sweats…

I’ll gladly admit that the main reason I bailed on the behemoth breast-fed on Murdoch’s corporate teat was twofold, and neither is terribly flattering.

First off, it was really taking over my life, pushing me to the point of constant obsessive paranoia, where the slightest decrease in friends sent me scurrying to my friends list to try and determine who the defector might be, wringing my hands wondering what I might have done to offend them.

The other, more insidious reason was the creeps.

Before I became a roller derby darling my profile suffered a steady onslaught of balding, middle-aged divorced men in acid washed jeans wanting to “talk”. Invariably they had a child, or six, and nearly all included photos that featured them proudly preening before a truck, motorcycle, or some variation of a gas-guzzling recreational vehicle.

With derby, however, the voyeurs became more interesting, and while it was flattering to find myself the object of desire of many a derby-loving dude, it quickly spiraled out of control, and I found myself perpetually on the receiving end of nonstop missives from lecherous paramours-in-waiting who seemed oblivious, or unconcerned, with the fact that I’m in a deeply committed relationship.

So, I simply walked away and headed back here, where I should have stayed from the get-go.

Granted, I’ll post a new profile on the WalMart of the Internet eventually, only this time I won’t be quite as forthcoming. That’s what I’m here for… be sure to check back. I’ll be here…

Friday Existential Angst

2006-09-01T22:33:00.000-04:00

So a nice, relaxing night at home just turned into absolute chaos, complete with nearly a dozen axe-wielding firefighters, poised, ready to hack into anything that could potentially face a hazard … any hazard at all.

It was a bit disturbing, to be honest.

But soothing, considering the fact that there were eardrum piercing alarms wailing throughout the entire building along with smoke billowing from downstairs.

And, half an hour later the culprit – an overfilled dryer hose – was disabled and all was well…

Except for my clothes.

Thankfully, mine were not the scorched ones laying smoldering in the dryer, but the ones spinning around in the washer, waiting to get warm.

And alas, the inside of my apartment is about to resemble the ghetto, complete with underwear hanging from every surface.

At least this time there was something to report. I passed the time outside with my neighbors on both sides of my brick and mortar slice of toast regaling them with tales of my last Philly 9-1-1 call, complete with hulking police goon promising to return to the scene of the alleged crime for "a poke."

Yeah, hard to forget the time Rachel and I convinced ourselves a scary criminal had infiltrated the (locked windows of) the Netherhouse. But, in West Philly, anything can happen, and as we stood, panicked, outside the door waiting for the cavalry, that reality literally hit close to home.

Or so we thought. As the nine officers combed every nook, cranny, closet and drawer of our massive 7-bedroom abode, the fact that I'd chosen a poker and Rachel, I think, a stick, to protect ourselves with dawned on us: were it the real deal, oh yeah, we'd be so dead.

And that's when big, bad Officer Creepy uttered his poker-derived innuendo. Nowhere was safe…

And so I moved, but the guilt still manages to dog me, makes me wonder if maybe I've gone old, or weak, or soft. I've lived in cities around the globe and here I am running away from a neighborhood where houses regularly run in the $300,000s because of a big lug and a scary noise.

Yet somehow things still don't feel quite "right", crispy undies notwithstanding. It's not the house, or the 'hood, or the whole kit and caboodle. Or is it? I am uncertain, unsure, unable to decide what's best.

So, for a autumn Friday I find myself asking: what next?

Newhouse: As Out of Touch as Ever

2006-08-28T15:27:00.000-04:00

I'm unsure how to feel about Syracuse University's S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications (full disclosure: my grad school alma mater) recent foray into the realm of media awards.

According to Dean David Rubin on MediaBistro.com, the school's newly created Mirror Awards will "highlight the best media coverage of media … The idea is to hold up a mirror to the media and honor it that way."

Hey, that's great. Coming from someone who is not, and financially cannot, make a living doing the very thing she begged, borrowed and practically stole to be able to do — journalism — thanks to the bullshit surrounding the biz, I'm all for it.

From media consolidation to rampant ethical violations run amok, there needs to be a mirror.

I'm just not sure Newhouse is the place to be handing out the accolades.

Or perhaps not Rubin, the man who gave the least compelling commencement speech I unfortunately was forced to witness.

Imagine if you will:

Students from one of the country's preeminent journalism schools were thrust, trial by fire'like, into the fray in the months following Sept. 11.

The reality of the job, and its inherent risks and responsibilities, became crystal clear that day, and every day for the rest of the semester. The reality of what happened, and the enormous task for those charged with putting it down for everyone to understand, sank in the second we watched the first tower go. None of us would ever be the same.

There was no escaping it, no getting back to life — we were in j-school, where current events are life. We saw the world, and the field we had yet to break into, change before our eyes. The future was tumultuous and uncertain, but we were there, learning to be a part of it.

With this as our educational backdrop, we sat in mid-2002 in the Carrier Dome clad in those ridiculous square hats, ready to take on the world.

So what words of infinite wisdom did Rubin choose to impart to us on that beautiful spring day?

None. His words were not for us but our parents, asking them not to be too upset about the thousands of dollars they'd shelled out for their progeny's education, because it's a good school with a good name and it will all work out in the end.

Really. No seriously. I'm not kidding…

Thousands of dollars, countless hours of lost sleep, two bouts of bronchitis, weeks of lectures, Kaplan's sadistic law class and Ward's meandering ethics class, several thousand cups of coffee and just as many AP Style Book quizzes later I found myself sitting, dumbstruck, wondering what fucking relevance this had to me. And then I realized: none.

With his eye on the checkbook and completely out of touch with the lives lived just under his carpeted office day in and day out, he — like media companies of today — pandered to the bottom line.

And Rube's at it again, proving just how outrageously out of touch he is with the very industry he gets paid to, purportedly, understand:

mediabistro.com : What types of media do you consume daily?

Rubin : The New York Times, in print, The Wall Street Journal, in print and online, Syracuse Post Standard, NPR's Morning Edition and All Things Considered. If I get home in time I'll watch the CBS evening news — I'm warming up for Katie. Then later I watch MSNBC's Keith Olbermann — he's the best writer in broadcasting, very, very entertaining.

mediabistro.com : What about blogs?

Rubin : No. People will send me things and point me to them, but I just don't have enough time.

mediabistro.com : So no RSS feeds for you?

Rubin : No.

Well goody then. At least I don't have to worry about sending the dean's office into a tizzy. And, uh, Katie fucking Couric? I can't wait to see her take on the hard news of the day. "Massacre in Darfur, he he, Israel and Hezbollah still killling, tee he!"

Unfortunately, his reading list sums it up: old dinosaur media equivalent of a bran muffin and black coffee.

Yes, it's important to keep up on what these pubs are doing and saying, but if you're not looking beyond the Gray Lady and NPRs of the world at this point in the game, even just a little, you've already been left behind.

So, I'd nominate myself for a Mirror Award if it included criticism of the media peon making machine.

Alas, I can only look in from the outside as I slave on the dark side to make ends meet and pay the student loans Rubin was trying so hard to convince the parents were so important, and playing under the old guard's nose via RSS feed.

How I'm Weird

2006-08-25T16:55:00.000-04:00

Okay, I've been tagged by Mags at You Forgot Poland!, so I'd better get on with it … I've been slacking enough already!

So, I'm supposed to, in five answers, list how I'm weird. Lordy, where do I begin?!

I know all the words to the Eagles song (fly, eagles, fly, on the road to victoreeeeeeeeee!!!... you get the idea…), but know next to nothing about football, despite the fact that I was a cheerleader for over a decade and the captain in high school, no less!
Even though I was a cheerleader in high school, I wear black every day. Not because I'm depressed, but because I'm messy, and drop things on myself – from coffee to candy – on a regular basis. Plus, I went to Catholic school, and have no fashion sense.
I must buy magazines from the back of the rack, and only if I'm convinced the pages haven't been ruffled by browsers.
I sleep with a pink stuffed pig named Gordy. I even take him camping. And on business trips. It's pathetic, I know…
I can cook elaborate cakes and pies and pastries, along with just about any dish I put my mind to, but I cannot boil an egg without blowing it up.

Near Death By Derby

2006-07-31T22:16:00.000-04:00

Death By Derby

I almost made it, folks, I almost got to hit the rink, hit my friends
and say yes, indeed, I am a roller derby queen. Unfortunately, the
fates have other plans for me and more than likely you'll find me
manning the ticket booth.

It's true.

Last Thursday, on what has become a routine flogging, trouncing and
ass-flashing head first dive to the floor, I managed to split my elbow
open to the bone.

Ew. I know.

Only I didn't know it when I did it, but an hour later, as I pulled my
elbow pad off and flashed my funny bone to the team, no one was
laughing. Immediate gasps, shrieks and calls of, "Oh mah gawd get some
stitches, girl!" filled the room.

Unfortunately, medical care more advanced than a splash of Betadine is
foreign to me, and as I crawled into bed a few hours later I had no
idea what kind of festering adventure would be awaiting me on the
other side of dawn.

By the time I'd finished throwing up the next morning as I stared,
bleary eyed, at the pink tinged surface of my elbow bone, I wasn't
sure what to do next.

Thanks to my mother's occupation as a nurse, I know how to clean and
bandage the mess with near-bizarre precision. Unfortunately, I've
always suspected my mother's career was a hindrance later in life as
it removed any sense of concern or urgency in relation to pain. Many
of my closest friends have found this out the hard way:

Moving into a stereotypically hilly apartment in San Francisco a few
years back, my friend Kelly smashed her hand while leaping,
maniacally, into my precariously balanced U-Haul van. Rushing out of
the apartment, mindful of the 3-hour window the rental place had given
us to move all my crap across town (SF may not be wide, but it makes
it up in hills), I stopped, looked at her limp, pale limb and asked,
as the tears of pain rolled down her face, "Can you move it?"

"Yes."

"You're fine. Let's go!"

If it can be moved it cannot be that bad, and therefore it's good
enough to go back outside and play, damnit, and leave me alone….

And with the move test as my litmus I slunk into the doctor's office
the next afternoon, where it became obvious that freedom of motion is
not the only way to gauge the severity of a wound.

Potential for amputation is.

And as I sat, shaking, wondering how on earth I'd ever floss my teeth
again with only one arm, I started to think of all the other things
going on in my life I'd been missing since roller derby took over my
life.

And I decided that the injury, while probably not fatal and likely
(hopefully – I have to go back tomorrow at 7:30 a.m.) not to result in
anything more than a nasty scar, was a sort of wake-up call to
remember that I've got a lot of great things in my life in addition to
my beloved fellow derby girls.

Like writing, drawing, and general art-making.

And my friends, and my family, and someone who falls somewhere, I'm
not sure where, in between.

Not to mention the job, no matter how square, and apartment, and, one
day maybe, a dog.

And, well, hey, most of all, let's all give a big round of applause
for: my arm.

As the drummer from Def Leppard can attest, two is better than one…

Somewhat Back From the Dead

2006-07-25T23:02:00.000-04:00

I’m going to have to start explaining away these long electronic absences, aren’t I? What’s believable? But then again, does anybody care?

I mean, I could have been whisked away to an exotic isle by some dashing prince or sultan or something, to lounge about on pillows while sipping mimosas fresh squeezed by virgin albinos.

Or injured in a horrible car crash that left me unable to remember anything but all my old phone numbers, and I’ve been spending the last month dialing them in the vain hope that someone will answer and have an inkling of who the hell I am…

But then again, I barely know who I am sometimes, so to expect a perfect stranger with themisfortune to have been passed down my old digits to clue me in to the answer to the existential crisis I suffer on a daily basis would be futile at best, a really shitty story at worst.

The truth, of course, is never as exciting as fiction, and with that I must admit that, in addition to being absurdly busy, I’ve been globe hopping and recuperating from the effects of living in one of the worst air quality regions around.

Thanks coal… you killed my grandpa, great-grandpa, and all their friends, and now you’re going after me…

I’ve got asthma, folks, it’s true – hence the forced rejection of the rock’n’roll lifestyle in favor of albuterol inhalers and moments of looking like a purple Chihuahua, all bug eyed and suffocate’y – and that ailment tends to result in at minimum two bronchial infections a year.

I got this most recent the week before I was supposed to go to Canada for work. By the time I got back, old men carting oxygen tanks for their emphysema were offering me hits.

Although, I did resist the urge to attempt to joke with customs.

“Are you carrying any plants, produce or live animals into the United States?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m an incubator for the Hanta Virus…. Kill me, please!”

Thing is, as much as we joke about it, Canadians ARE really super nice. It creeped me out. I was afraid to turn around because I was sure they’d be making faces at me…

But, I survived long enough to make it back on American soil and into my snuggly, Venus sleep trap bed.

Also went to the acupuncturist, which is always fun but even more so when you’re sick: walked out with my usual dazed and confused look, along with a back covered in perfectly symmetrical purple bruises and a chest littered with small metal dots.

Apparently the former is an ancient Asian tool used to draw toxins and bad stuff out of your body and into these glass suction cups. Thus, it’s called cupping. All I brought out was some suntan lotion from the 1970s and a few gnats I’d swallowed while running along Forbidden Drive a few weeks ago.

The latter are press balls, which I usually have scattered along my ears. They’re little metal balls placed strategically along pressure points, covered by a small square of Band Aid material. You’re supposed to press on them at regular intervals. They’re certainly a conversation starter.

“What the?”

“Oh these. Yeah, you haven’t heard?”

“No, what?”

“I’m beta testing a new government program to imbed personal data, ranging from blood type to credit rating, directly into the body. Less need for paperwork, saving trees, blah blah… Granted, the Wallet Makers Union Local 666 has been protesting since its launch, but I think the MIBs have pretty much disappeared most of them by now. Wanna’ press on them? Ooh, that feels gooood!”

Nooooo! Moe's!!!!!!!!!!

2006-06-30T00:08:00.000-04:00

Those of you who know me know of my deep-rooted, near daily obsession with burritos – specifically, Moe’s Southwest Grill. At least twice a week since a franchise opened near my work I’ve been hitting the flour-shelled salsa/bean/guacamole trinity of the food of the East Coast non-Mexican gods.

They know my name.

They know my burrito (tofu, black beans, no sour cream, fresh cilantro and chopped jalapenos).

And yes, I’d recently boycotted them for what seemed like an eternity after some numbskull left me standing there, burrito growing cold, while he failed to grasp the concept of how to multi-task through cheese and lettuce.

I swear I had nothing to do with it, but he got fired, and I’d recently returned to my Mexic-ish obsession.

Until today.

Venturing out at noon in nearly religious preparation for an evening of wiping the rink floor with my limbs, I made my way to … what was once … Moe’s.

“Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!” I wailed, throwing myself upon the locked doors.

No explanation was given for the sudden departure of my best fast food friend. It wasn’t lack of business – there was always a line. And I personally kept them in tortilla chips, I’ll bet.

Was it something worse? Something, dare I say, illegal? Illicit? Downright gross?!!?

Whatever the cause, this is a tragedy, people, a tragedy!

What do I do now? Do I stock my pantry with food and, shudder to think, cook? Do I overextend my already paltry budget and buy food out? And if I did, what could possibly compare?

But then, maybe it’s time that something gives.

Much as I love the stuff the fact of the matter is it’s bastardized East Coast faux fast food. And while the original, and best, burrito love of my life lives in the City by the Bay, I can’t help but find myself thinking that, even if the original, authentic article were offered to me it might be time for this old girl to take a chance on something entirely new.

I just have to hope I can somehow incorporate guacamole!

Q: Why Derby?

2006-06-21T16:26:00.000-04:00

A: Since I could walk, I've been hell on, and off, wheels.

At age 2 my mom enrolled me in tiny tots tumbling class. I promptly tumbled, all right: off the trampoline, beyond the reach of the safety barrier, and ass first onto the hard concrete floor. As the adults gasped, I immediately proceeded to get up and demand to do it again.

About that time I also got my first hand-me-down big wheels. The toy's low profile made it perfect for rolling under tables or taking some hapless adult out at the shins.

From there I graduated to full-fledged big kid bikes: banana seats, streamers, cards in the spokes. Growing up with a large extended family meant I always had some bike or other to scar myself with.

At age 4 I started ballet; at age 6 was cheerleading, and onward until I turned 18 and the gates of heaven opened up for me in the form of the dark cave in downtown Providence where bands played and I discovered: the mosh pit.

Bruises, contusions, concussions, boots marks, bite marks, and the occasional grope. I surfed the crowd at Pearl Jam, got sweated on by the Rollins Band, punched a skinhead at the Pumpkins – and immediately denied it – got into a fistfight at Fuel, and suffered many a tongue lashing from the enduringly uptight Ian MacKaye.

It makes sense, then, that my acrobatic and aggressive natures would collide.

For those of you not versed in the thoroughly modern game of roller derby, it’s a knock-down, drag out game that requires a lot of skill. You have to remain upright, on skates (a skill I have yet to perfect, or even comprehend) …

while keeping those around you from knocking you down;

while simultaneously trying to knock them down;

while looking behind you for your jammer and opposing jammer, who YOU are trying to help through the pack and knock the hell out of, respectively.

Confused yet?

In a nutshell, 10 women take the track — eight are blockers. They comprise the pack.

The two front skaters are called pivots — they control the speed and call the shots.

The last two skaters are jammers — they take off a few seconds after the pack starts to roll, and their job is to get through the pack.

Not so easy, and it’s not that simple.

They must avoid getting knocked down by each other as they zoom toward the pack; they must avoid getting knocked down by the rear blocker, whose whole job is to stop them from getting into the pack; they must avoid getting the crap beat out of them once they get in the pack.

And once they’re in the pack, they’re not allowed to hit back.

Yeah.

Their job is to score points — one point for each opposing team member passed, but, they don’t actually start to accrue points until they make their way through the pack… the second time.

That’s right: Get through the pack. Skate like hell. Go through again… Maybe.

Thing is, a lot of attention has been, and is being paid, to the fact that derby women have lots of tattoos and piercings and wear punk rock clothes and fishnets. But, that’s not the whole story, and that’s not the big story.

The truth is you’ve got women from 18 to I’m-not-telling who have jobs, husbands — or wives — kids, pets and outside lives. And we are all invested in one thing: beating the shit out of each other, and having a lot of fun while doing it.

Roller derby is no longer the post-'80s purple spandex Mad Max meets Madonna big-haired spectacle — the game is now all-girl and played — like skateboarding before the Boom Boom Huck Jam whore-down or skiing before the media tore Bode a new one — Just. For. Fun.

And I mean really, where else can someone my age get knocked down without suing someone, or worrying about breaking a hip?

Ethics? We don't need no stinkin' ethics!

2006-05-26T15:20:00.000-04:00

Well well well … shocking to think that a scandal of failed ethics could possibly rear its head on Capitol Hill, but alas, it seems another one of BushCo’s minions … er… appointees, is responsible for a little bit of backhanded fact-morphing.

I know… I know… bending the facts to suit the Bush administration’s version of the truth is par for the course, and the furor behind Karl Zinsmeister, who Bush just appointed domestic policy advisor, is pretty much in line with all the other slimy lying cheating scheming bullshit surrounding the administration.

In short, he didn’t like a story that was written about him two years ago, so he put it on his own website, but first changed a bunch of the quotes.

Thing is, this time it’s up close and personal, as the article Zinsmeister raped was written by dear ol’ Justin Park when he and I toiled at the Syracuse New Times. (He’s still toiling in the ‘cuse, I’m just toiling!)

So, now my drinking and bruise-making buddy is the talk of the journo town, and potentially on the verge of crucifixion.

Fortunately, if anyone can take it it’s Park. He had to put up with me for two years!

Read the original piece, and the mutant.

2006-05-25T17:02:00.000-04:00

Well, I fell on my technologically-challenged ass last weekend in Vegas.

Not only do I not possess a shiny, happy orgasmic iPod of all that is audibly holy, I could not find my digital camera when, ten minutes before I was supposed to leave, I decided to pack my bags.

So, I did what any aging art star who fondly remembers fondling Leicas and drooling over Hasselblads in the olden days would do: I dragged the crate labeled “cameras” from the closet — filled with such fun re-discoveries as an electrical-taped Holga, Polaroid Captiva, several Minolta 35mm’s and Keropi point-and-shoot — and loaded up an real, actual camera … with film, no less!

Granted, buying the film was probably as time-consuming and frustrating as finding the digital would have been — a few lonely rolls hung along the wall of the local CVS, nestled, dusty, between memory cards and reading glasses.

The good news is that there’s no effing shutter lag when doing photos the old school way. The bad news is that I’m still waiting to get them back ...

In the interim, I’ve composed an image that, I think, accurately reflects the photos you will, someday, see ...

For anyone who doubts roller girls can take a hit

2006-05-18T15:12:00.000-04:00

And this is after acupuncture, no less...

It came from the 'yunk

2006-05-10T10:24:00.000-04:00

Okay okay okay, I swear to god I have not been abducted by aliens or become a nun or fallen off a really big cliff, although all of those things are certainly possible at any point in my life…

I know. I know…

So, the big news is the She-Devils’ upcoming bout, next Sunday, May 21. Buy tickets now or I will personally hunt you down on my rollerskates (and fishnets) and hurl insults at you until you click on the goddamned paypal button to appease me.

At which point I will then rifle through your music collection (or simply steal your iPod), eat whatever junk food is in your fridge, steal your liquor and leave you alone, with your paypal confirmation number, shivering in the corner, feeling violated.

And you know you’ll enjoy it.

And really, either way, you’re gonna’ get beat up, so you might as well check out some serious roller derby (no pillow fights here, we use our fists).

‘course, I won’t be at this bout, I’ll be laying alongside a clear, blue body of water in the middle of the Nevada desert, with a drink in my hand, many more in my body, feeding the caution-to-the-wind desire for the sin of all Norse-girl sins: a suntan!

That’s right, Vegas. If you see a lobster hobbling through PHL sometime after next weekend, you’ll know it’s me. Kindly avoid touching me, and keep in mind I’ll probably be emanating heat from the burns, so if it’s warm outside, you have been warned….

As far as my extended electronic absence is concerned, I’ve got a few excuses, none of them all that good, but remember, people, I’m old and probably don’t care. The good news is the serial singleton one-bedroom is coming together nicely: I managed to move all 3,000 pounds of chick lit books, plastic plates, coffee mugs from around the world and random pieces of paper, art supplies, clothes and shoes I never wear, several bikes and way too many useless, outdated computers across town and up three flights of stairs.

I’m never moving again. They’ll have to hurl my cold, lifeless corpse down one of those mega-trash shoots they attach to buildings that lands in those mobile truck-sized dumpsters before I’ll lug this crap around again.

I remember the first time I set off on my own and packed my life into the back of my beat up… er… okay, shiny red fast turbocharged German sportscar… when I was 20 and drove until I hit the shiny blue ocean. Well, okay, it was Massachusetts — does that count?

Back then, if it didn’t fit into my car, it no longer belonged to me, or, actually, lay forgotten in the dark corners of my parents’ basement until last year, when they decided to sell their house. (Which, coincidentally, was called off shortly after I went through all my crap and managed to move most of it out… I still imagine the champagne toast after they pulled out the “for sale” sign and wondered what to do with all the newfound junk-storing space.)

Of course, we all have to move on, collect more things, more baggage in oh so many forms, and before you know if you’re still hauling your shit around in the back of a shiny red German car, only this time it’s done in a dozen loads because you’re too poor to afford movers, and too much of a useless hermit to make it to bars and get hit on by men with big arms and small brains who you can convince to move you that weekend thinking you’ll agree to have sex.

Either way, you’re bound to wind up sweaty and tired and vowing to never, ever do anything that horrible again…

Two weeks, people, two weeks...

2006-05-07T22:25:00.000-04:00

SADISTIC SWEETHEARTS TAKE ON FALLEN ANGELS
IN ROLLER DERBY GRUDGE MATCH
Girl-On-Girl Roller Derby Action Hits the Garden State
on Sunday, May 21!

There will be blood, bruises and Sweet Revenge at 7 p.m. on Sunday, May 21, when the Penn Jersey She-Devils’ Sadistic Sweethearts take on fellow PJSD team the Fallen Angels in a knock down, drag out—and guaranteed to be sold out—grudge match at Holiday Skating Center in Delanco, N.J.

The two teams went head-to-head in the league’s premiere bout on Sunday, March 26, at Holiday Skating Center, where they wowed a sold-out audience and raised money for the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). Three hundred more tickets have been added for this bout, and are also guaranteed to sell out. Tickets are $12 in advance, $15 at the door and $20 VIP.

To help the She-Devils become the most badass athletes Penn-Jersey has seen in over 30 years, 2004 Roller Derby Hall of Fame inductee Judy “the Polish Ace” Sowinski, and Arnold "Skip" Schoen signed on as coaches last year, setting PJSD apart as the only league coached by bona fide banked track roller derby stars. In addition to whipping the She-Devils into shape on wheels, both Judy and Skip skated for the Philadelphia Warriors in the 1970s, where they kicked quad-skate ass for a living.

Roller derby is a real, unscripted sport, and the She-Devils hone their skills twice a week at Cornwell’s Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. A third team will be formed this spring; unlike roller derby leagues of the past, modern roller derby leagues are comprised of at least two teams that skate against each other in addition to other area leagues. Skaters also take unique names, which are registered in a national database.

Additional bouts for the 2006 season are currently in the planning stages for rinks throughout New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, including a bout in Hershey, Pa., in June. In the meantime, each She-Devil is busy perfecting her game, with rookies joining on a regular basis as the sport becomes increasingly popular. There are nearly 80 flat track roller derby teams across the U.S., and counting!

About the She-Devils: The Penn Jersey She-Devils is the original Philadelphia region all-girl roller derby league. Founded in 2005 by Ken Sikes and Greg Spencer, PJSD is a skater-owned and -operated league, with over 40 skaters from both Pennsylvania and New Jersey, ranging in age from 20 to 45, who strap on quad roller skates and hit the rink every Monday and Thursday at Cornwell's Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. She-Devils’ occupations vary widely—the league includes body piercers, chefs, chemists, clowns, massage therapists retail owners, tattoo artists and teachers—but all She Devils are in it for one thing: to skate like hell.

My Own Little Corner of Manayunk

2006-04-23T22:32:00.000-04:00

I've finally stopped sleeping with ear plugs. Not initially. For the first few days it seemed almost foreign to sleep with the ability to hear anything and everything going on around me.

But now that it's been a full week of freedom I'd have to say it's pretty goddamn cool.

Oh, I had my doubts, the lingering fears and uncertainty: if a scary monster were going to attack me, is it better to remain oblivious until the very end, or hear every scale, scraping toenail and breath of fire as it moves ever closer?

Granted, the real reason I'd taken to earplugs wasn't so much scary monsters as annoying surroundings. And I have to say, since vacating my West Philly abode I do not miss the boomin' system. Not one bit. Not one beat. Nada…

And yes, it's true, I've moved into my own digs in the land Justin euphemistically refers to as Many Hunks, otherwise known as the land of bicycles and spandex. (Although, technically, I'm in a place called Wissahickon. Whatever… I see bicycles…)

To celebrate, I took mah baybee out for a spin last week to see what it's like to hit the open road straight from home, and not have to make my way through the 'hood first. An hour later, sucking air and bright lobster red, I realized I've got a lot of work to do—apparently skating's not all that in the land of fitness!

But it sure is fun to do and watch, and in the spirit of roller derby unity a few of us She-Devils made our way to Long Island last night for their opening bout, which was definitely much fun. Ranking high on the un-fun o'meter, however, would be Google directions and the asshole programmer who decided the easiest way from Philly to Long Island is through Man-effing-hattan!

Anyone who happened to be on 34^th yesterday as a little red VW crawled along, its driver heaping curses upon Google while shaking the steering wheel … well, I apologize. Hopefully there won't be any lasting scars…

2006-04-21T21:18:00.000-04:00

i have seriously just had the worst week ever....