Drastic Measures

So, if you hadn’t guessed from my lack of posting, there is a lack of SOMETHING in my life.

Last time I felt this way, I applied to law school. I decided in September, took the LSAT in October, applied in December and whoosh, now I’m in my third year!

The time before that I moved me and my ex from SF to LA (in a month). The time before that, I got this haircut:

Once, I got a tongue ring.

In any case, usually when I feel this way, I do something drastic to my body or locale. But now, I won’t do a tattoo, I can’t move.

So what do you do? What do normal people out there who don’t move or make permanent/semi-permanent (damn, it took a long time for that cut to grow out!) changes do when they need to transform their lives? Become buddhists? Take up golfing?

What do you do?

There’s No CRYING in BASEBALL

Yeah, and there is no crying at work, either. But me? I have done it. At EVERY JOB I HAVE EVER HAD. Truly. Usually to my boss. Usually because someone was being mean on the playground.

But can I tell you? I know, it is WRONG, and you can tell me how appalling it is and how women never get anywhere once they cry. But it has never held me back, I don’t think.

Today two women in my office, very nice women, were talking about how they never cried at work. And I was all perky-like, “Really? I always do!” And then I had to retract and say, well, oh I did, but I went into the bathroom, or took a walk or whatever. But the truth is, I have cried in my boss’ office in every job ever. There you go.

I think my saving grace is that I’m a hard worker. It’s one of the very few life skills I have. I can’t cook, remember to fill out an expense report or find a decent man, but I can work. And my bosses know this, and like this because it makes them look good. So they don’t mind if once a year I muffle a sob or two and wipe a tear away and my voice trembles because, well, shit, I didn’t do it in front of anyone else and man, doesn’t he look good this month because of the work I did.

And usually, they know it’s because I’m at the breaking point. They’ve overloaded me, and I’ve taken it like a tearful Man. So they can’t complain.

But today I cried to my LANDLORD. That poor man. After he lent me a giant fan. But I’ve been without A/C for two weeks now, in one of the worst national heat waves ever. Last night I slept on top of a sleeping bag on the floor next to my patio sliding doors. For reals, yo.

He tried to break the news to me gently:

Landlord: “Hey Jen. Have you been home yet and seen how the new fan is working?!”

Grumpy me at 7:00 p.m: “No. I’m just driving home from work.”

(too long pause, in which I realize life is not getting better any time soon)

Me: “So. What did the A/C guy say? Does G-d hate me or no?”

(really, that’s what I said. I’m REALLY GRUMPY.)

Landlord: “Well, I did get to talk to him today…. And well….. the soonest he’ll be able to get to you is next Wednesday…”

Me: “Noooooooo.”

(seriously, I really made that sound.)

Me: “Noooooooo.”

After that I don’t know what I said. It was a blubbery mess.

And I know, it was WRONG, and appalling, and it probably won’t get my A/C fixed any sooner.

But damn if I didn’t feel better after a good cry.

And that fan he lent me? It’s no A/C, and I’ll still be sleeping on a sleeping bag tonight in front of it, but that’s better than sleeping in front of my sliding glass door with nary a hint of a breeze.

Which makes me think why the HELL didn’t I buy myself a fan earlier? Because I refused to accept the fact I didn’t have A/C, that’s why.

Accepting my fate is still a life skill I haven’t developed. And so sometimes, I cry.

The Writing on the Wall

Dude, now I know why Miss Doxie sadly only posts her hilarious stories every couple weeks. Being a lawyer is HARD, man. And I’m not even a real one yet!

It’s 11 o’clock, and I just got home a few minutes ago. I worked both days last weekend. And yet for all this work? I have nothing interesting to tell you! And even if something interesting did happen, goodness knows I wouldn’t have anything interesting to WRITE about it. That would require thoughts beyond, “When can I go home and have a beer? Or eight?”

While I am whining, can I tell you my A/C is still out? This cuts seriously into my ability to skip showering and roll into work in my awful wool pants circa 1999, a button-down I’ve worn two times this week already and my hair in a ponytail.

One more: the bottom half of my left shin keeps going numb. Do you think I am dying? I’m pretty sure I am. I bet in heaven you don’t have to calculate total percentage ownership of shared dispositive stocks.

Meh.

Beer.

Hotness

My A/C is out. Just walking to my bathroom makes me sweat. It’s going to be 95 tomorrow. Should I be grateful I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn to get up and go do work for my school journal in the air-conditioned halls of UCLA when I’ve worked 60 hours this week? Should I be grateful I have to spend the day in air-conditioned splendor picking out a dress for tomorrow’s dinner at a Firm partner’s house? And for how heavenly AC’d her palatial estate is sure to be?

Maybe I should. OK, I’m going to MAKE myself be grateful.

Besides, how much does that thermometer look like a certain piece of male anatomy? For my ability to see that and laugh, through the haze of memos and Lexis-Nexis searches?

For that, YES, yes I am grateful.

That’s HOT.

One Fish, Blue Fish

So maybe tonight will be the night I write something honest, if kind of depressing, and not delete it in the morning. Usually I do. Delete.

It’s been one year since I’ve, ahem, had any manly anything in my life.

This is the longest I’ve been in, well, a long time. During the first long break, college, TWO YEARS, I had pretty much lost all hope. I was eating a lot of Tacqueria Vallarta burritos and watching movies from Flick Stop, the video store where Ursula and I worked. Which, truly (T**ty Slickers: The Search for Gold Curlys, LOVELY, oh, and don’t forget, John Wayne Bobbit Uncut), had practically the largest porn selection in Santa Cruz County, but that only served to place in stark relief the lack of lovin’ in my life.

Anyway. Then, as now, I had passed up one fish, two fish and red fish before finally I caught one. And he threw me back.

Then, as now, I couldn’t really figure out why I took so long to try to reel something in. What was I waiting for? I certainly didn’t choose the best time to tug on the line. A Flick Stop customer no less. Who, BTW, now lives in Santa Monica and works in a board shop on Main Street. I was on a hunt for flip-flops and saw him on a ladder getting a board down for someone and nearly lost it.

So. I wonder if I’ll land as poor a catch this time, whenever it is I get myself out on the water again. What am I waiting for? What if I’m just waiting and sending no-thank-you vibes out now just because I’m in the same, miserable state I was then? And I’m going to repeat my same, 19-year-old mistakes?

I hope not. I hope I’m holding out for something Real (reel!) and Good this time ’round.

And. More importantly, I hope that unlike last time, I don’t have another year to go.

That would make me one blue fish.

Starry Night

My neighbor has an oil replica of Starry Night on his wall.

Also, this post might sound snobby, even though the whole point is I’m not. A snob.

When I was younger, I reveled in Madonna, Michael Jackson, Boy Meets Girl even. I was Waiting for a Star to Fall.

Then teenagehood happened. And my 20s.

And I abhorred the mainstream.

If there was even a whiff of NYT Bestseller, I wouldn’t touch that book with a 10-foot pole. When I was reviewing Oprah’s Book Club recipients for an entertainment site in the late 90s (OMG, I just wrote “late 90s” like it was a decade in which I WAS OLD ENOUGH to be doing something substantial. Or at least something that SEEMED substantial in my 22-year-old mind.), they all started out in the dog house. Their artificial success smacked of failure to me.

I remember sitting in the parking lot during college, belting out the lyrics to “Glory Days” (then, no one I knew was patriotic, so listening to Bruce was like, the Anti-Cool), and thinking, “If only I could be one of those people. Those people who shop at The Baby Gap. And have babies. And live on a cul-de-sac for chrissakes. And not think about it. Just read ‘Like Water for Chocolate’ and that’s the closest they get to world travel.” One of those people whose glory days were in high school, when they were cute and blonde (no offense, Laurie, you lovely blonde!), and could just wink their young girl’s eye and the night was theirs.

I still have that thought now and again, I won’t lie, when I look around at people seeming to enjoy themselves when their primary extracurricular activities are the gym and shopping. It’s LA.

But for the most part, I’ve grown up.

Proof positive? The British version of The Office? I used to think it was the best. I was all like, “Yeah, dude, I watched that on the BBC? Like two seasons ago? Yeah.” But now? I am so into Pam and Jim. I don’t care it’s the watered down, less-controversial love-story version of the original. And you know what, high school D&D friends? I liked Terminator 2 better! I admit it! Even with the overblown special effects! I even liked the second Bridget Jones book! Better! (Not the movie, tho, even us pop-culture converts have our limits.)

Each year I get closer to cul-de-sac. And I don’t care any more. Because you know what you crave sometimes, in LA’s smog-hazed, celebrity-filled, car-choked streets?

A starry night.

Fulfilling My Civic Duty

There’s all sorts of duties I have to fulfill these days.

No lie, but in the last three weeks, I have had ONE NIGHT that I didn’t have plans. Firm events (mainly), concerts, parties, etc. The only reason I didn’t have plans that lone night in fact is that I skipped kickball.

I am exhausted. Also, my liver is pickled.

However, I am, surprisingly enough, loving my job even if I am continually two ticks away from a heart attack.

But today, today, I missed work. For JURY DUTY. Eek.

I was THIS CLOSE to being empaneled. Four jurors left in the pool, and I’m still sitting there, Juror #7, crapping my figurative pants over how I’ll be working every night after duty (duty, ha!) is over to meet all my deadlines and cursing the Los Angeles criminal court system, when suddenly, hail-be-to-something, the defense attorney excuses me.

TIP #1: When you are DESPERATE not to serve jury duty, but can’t say under oath you won’t be able to be an impartial juror and follow the law? Just stare at the defendant. Go ahead, stare. Get caught staring by the defense. Get caught staring at him with this ponderous expression on your face that screams, “I am wondering whether I am his next victim and what he looked like when he was committing those atrocities.”

TIP #2: When the 1-800-SRV-JURY message tells you “business casual?” This does not mean:
a) Tube tops
b) F**k-me heels paired with a nice mini and mesh top.
c) Oh, I give up. 97% of the outfits worn in the greater downtown area.

Anyway, I was glad to be excused from this one duty. I’ve got enough.

Too much.

Everything else has been neglected. My friends, my family. I only finally heard about my brother‘s honeymoon this evening.

And of course, this blog. And your blogs. I’m sorry.

But a blog-infused existence is on the horizon. Just four weeks left. Then I’ll be duty-free.