Just like every good graduate student, I'm [putting off] studying for my final exams. My major final is going to be for the class, "Economic Principles of Policy Analysis". Now, not to gloat or anything, but I achieved a perfect score on my mid-term. I'm aiming for something like that on my final.
I'm a smart cookie.
As much as I whine about doing my homework, once I get at it, I find it rather relaxing. See, in an introductory economics class, you draw a lot of straight lines. Sometimes, you get to draw curvy ones. On graph paper. I do mine by hand, although some of my over-achieving classmates do their homework with digital tools I have yet to discover. I tried Excel. Didn't work. Moved on.
I go through my homework questions one-by-one, and write my answers neatly on the paper. I draw a nice graph using a ruler and a pencil. If the line isn't perfectly straight, I erase it and draw a new one. If my cursive is anything less than calligraphy, I erase it and write it again. It's like a bizarre meditation ritual.
I was a weird kid, too.
No wonder economists love their jobs so much. Drawing lines is fun, especially when you convince yourself that those silly little lines can tell you everything you need to know about a whole country's well-being. But while I'm finding all this so relaxing, I'm thinking about how our real-world economy can't possibly be drawn with straight lines on graph paper. Right? Our real economy looks like long lines at the unemployment office, rich people riding around in private jets, and political leaders shutting down a whole government because they can't agree.
Our real economy looks like Detroit, Michigan, where abandoned buildings crumble into an infrastructure in disrepair. People are eager to rebuild their city after a national disaster of epic proportions. It's as if Hurricane Katrina forgot what she was doing and jumped off course.
Our real economy looks like the battered Gulf Coast, where it wasn't enough that Katrina took lives and homes, or that BP had to screw up the whole ocean. There are still families there waiting to get their homes back, and more still who never will.
Our real economy looks like Amazon.com, Target, WalMart, FuelPerks, CostCo, Fair Trade, Certified Organic, Exxon, BP, Marcellus Shale, mountain top removal, strip mining, clear-cutting, outsourcing, exporting, and everything else.
There is a term for "everything else" that they use in economics: 'externalities'. An externality is a cost or benefit derived from trade within a market that doesn't impact the people participating in that market.
In other words, an externality is something you get that you didn't ask for.
Sometimes, externalities can be beneficial. For example, NASA often makes new materials that we later use in other products. Because NASA developed the material for its own purposes, the fact that other companies benefit from it is a positive externality.
Environmental impacts, such as pollution, fall under the "negative externality" category. Companies don't have to pay the costs of cleaning up their pollution, and consumers don't have to pay a higher price for their product. So, if toxic chemicals were emitted into the air in order to produce the plastic baggies I use to preserve my lunch, neither I nor the company pays for that pollution.
Instead, the community pays for it in the form of higher health care costs. Environmental advocates have tried to tax polluters so that they begin to reduce pollution as part of their business plan. The problem with that is that it's hard to put a price on people's health. What would you charge a polluter who poisoned your drinking water with cancer-causing chemicals?
Yeah, I don't know, either. A lot, maybe?
All of this makes me think that we need a whole new way of measuring "progress". And it won't be with straight lines on graph paper. We need a whole new economic model. Not socialism. Not capitalism. Not any "ism" that exists today. Because those are old ideas.
I don't know what the solution is. I keep hoping CMU will offer a course on it. In the meantime, though, I've gotta' get back to my homework. I have an Economics final to ace.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Love Letter to UPS
Dear UPS,
5 of the 15 Pittsburgh apartments in which I have lived have been on the 2nd or 3rd floor with no working doorbell. Since no one wants to put up with my neuroses, I live alone. I've worked a 9-5 job most of my adult life, and have never owned a car. This situation - which isn't that uncommon - poses several problems with regard to UPS service.
In some cases, you allow my neighbor (any neighbor in my whole multi-unit apartment building) to sign for my item. This would be great if I had control over which items my neighbors can be trusted with and which items they cannot. My $60 computer desk? Okay. My $2,000 computer? NOT Okay. See how that works?
In other cases, you refuse to allow anyone but me to sign for my item. Assuming that I am gainfully employed, I'm never going to be home on a weekday to sign for my package. When I called you guys about this, I was told that I could pick up my item in person... at a location in a different zip code.
I could totally do that... if I owned a car. In fact, if I owned a car, I would have just bought my item at the store. The fact that I'm having my item shipped to an inner-city address where parking is a giant pain in the ass should tell you something.
And let's not kid ourselves. Even if I were home when you came by with my desk, I wouldn't know about it. I'm pretty sure your drivers don't even bother to try my broken doorbell. I've seen you assholes stand at the entrance of an apartment building and knock... as if someone is going to hear you.
I even took a day off of work once to receive a package. You know what? I waited all day long and nothing. Then I checked at the door, and sure enough there was another little yellow sticky-note flapping in the wind like a finger-waving child yelling, "neener, neener, neener!"
I even had a working doorbell once. Your driver rang it. I got downstairs, and he was gone. Like a 6th grader playing ding-dong-dash, that bastard was gone faster than I could get down three flights of stairs. Someone clearly neglected to tell him that he cannot just knock twice, stick a sticker on the door, and call it a "delivery attempt".
Some suggestions:
1. Um. Require your drivers to carry cell phones. Then, give me the option to have them call me. My pizza delivery guy knows that he has to call my cell if he wants to deliver my pizza. I know you bitches can do it, too.
2. Give me an open-ended "delivery instructions" field on your website. There, I would tell you the important things such as a.) my doorbell doesn't work b.) I won't be home this Friday and c.) call my cell to get me to come open the effing door.
3. Don't charge me to change the delivery date. Yeah, it's just $4.00. But it's a tad absurd to charge me for telling you when I'm most likely to be home. Do you really prefer that your drivers drive around all day to empty houses? Or does it make more fucking sense to let me tell you when I'll be home? WTF?
I'm glad you guys love logistics. Now, let's try common sense.
5 of the 15 Pittsburgh apartments in which I have lived have been on the 2nd or 3rd floor with no working doorbell. Since no one wants to put up with my neuroses, I live alone. I've worked a 9-5 job most of my adult life, and have never owned a car. This situation - which isn't that uncommon - poses several problems with regard to UPS service.
In some cases, you allow my neighbor (any neighbor in my whole multi-unit apartment building) to sign for my item. This would be great if I had control over which items my neighbors can be trusted with and which items they cannot. My $60 computer desk? Okay. My $2,000 computer? NOT Okay. See how that works?
In other cases, you refuse to allow anyone but me to sign for my item. Assuming that I am gainfully employed, I'm never going to be home on a weekday to sign for my package. When I called you guys about this, I was told that I could pick up my item in person... at a location in a different zip code.
I could totally do that... if I owned a car. In fact, if I owned a car, I would have just bought my item at the store. The fact that I'm having my item shipped to an inner-city address where parking is a giant pain in the ass should tell you something.
And let's not kid ourselves. Even if I were home when you came by with my desk, I wouldn't know about it. I'm pretty sure your drivers don't even bother to try my broken doorbell. I've seen you assholes stand at the entrance of an apartment building and knock... as if someone is going to hear you.
I even took a day off of work once to receive a package. You know what? I waited all day long and nothing. Then I checked at the door, and sure enough there was another little yellow sticky-note flapping in the wind like a finger-waving child yelling, "neener, neener, neener!"
I even had a working doorbell once. Your driver rang it. I got downstairs, and he was gone. Like a 6th grader playing ding-dong-dash, that bastard was gone faster than I could get down three flights of stairs. Someone clearly neglected to tell him that he cannot just knock twice, stick a sticker on the door, and call it a "delivery attempt".
Some suggestions:
1. Um. Require your drivers to carry cell phones. Then, give me the option to have them call me. My pizza delivery guy knows that he has to call my cell if he wants to deliver my pizza. I know you bitches can do it, too.
2. Give me an open-ended "delivery instructions" field on your website. There, I would tell you the important things such as a.) my doorbell doesn't work b.) I won't be home this Friday and c.) call my cell to get me to come open the effing door.
3. Don't charge me to change the delivery date. Yeah, it's just $4.00. But it's a tad absurd to charge me for telling you when I'm most likely to be home. Do you really prefer that your drivers drive around all day to empty houses? Or does it make more fucking sense to let me tell you when I'll be home? WTF?
I'm glad you guys love logistics. Now, let's try common sense.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Crazy Cat Lady
Every single (as in un-coupled) woman in the world has the same fear: that she will become the "crazy cat lady". We have all heard the story. Some of us torture ourselves with that "Hoarders" TV show. But who exactly is the crazy cat lady? How does the soul-consuming evolution of single life take us from young, hip, sexually-vibrant Women-with-a-capital-double-u to multiple-cat-owning, control-obsessed, dried up, wrinkled old wretches?
I wrote about cats in my last post, "Anything But Cats". You all hate me because I said I hate cats. Here's a secret: I don't actually hate cats. I have a problem. When I see cats, I am compelled to pet them. Rather than deal with my own self-destructive desire to squeeze the ever-lovin' stuffin's outta' yer poor kitty, I just tell you that I eat cats so that you'll lock yours in a closet. It's a maladjusted queer girl's passive-aggressive defense mechanism against severe allergy-induced asthma attacks. We all have our neuroses. This is (one of) mine. Get over it.
I digress. At the end of my post, I said that if a girl chooses her cat over me that she should go eff herself. Well, that's sort of what I said. Anyway.
Right on. Right? I mean, I should be worth every bit of the time and attention, love and devotion, nurturing and absent-minded petting that you lavish on your dumb cat. Beeatch! You're terrible to treat me like I'm less than your cat. I'm a human being! I should come first!
I know that there are single women out there who are silently telling their computer screens, "That's right, girl! You deserve better than that!"
But wait a minute. Let's just put ourselves in the cat-lovin' gal's shoes.
Cats, my friends, can be trusted. They'll stick with you as long as you're willing to sacrifice your house plants. They have to. You feed them. You know for a fact that your cat isn't going anywhere. Cats are incapable of lying to you. Yeah, maybe they're finicky and somewhat unpredictable. But if your cat wants to cuddle, it doesn't have an ulterior motive.
A new girlfriend, on the other hand, can lie to you straight through her crooked teeth. She could cheat on you with one of your mutual friends (happened to me). She could tell you she loves you so that you'll be easier to control (happened to me). You might even believe that she's single until her angry wife calls to let you know otherwise (happened to me). With the million-and-one ways a new girlfriend could screw you over, I can't say I blame women for wanting someone they know they can trust in life.
Makes me want a dog. Cause I'm a dog person.
But it's really sad that we trust our pets more than we trust the people around us, especially for Pittsburgh queers. We only have a tiny corner of this world, and we can't even trust each other enough to give us the half-hearted emotional support we get from a cat. That certainly tells you something about our "community".
So, while I may be angry that so many queer ladies in the world prioritize their animals over me, sometimes, I'm inclined to believe they're onto something. And that is exactly how I might find myself following in the footsteps of your neighborhood animal hoarder. Girls, we gotta let go of this shit. I'm just sayin'.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Anything but Cats
So, I've been thinking a lot about what I want in a girlfriend. I'm looking back at my [many] failed relationships at all the things that didn't work out for me. I've come up with a lot about what I DON'T want in my next girlfriend. I thought I'd share my top five:
1. Women who don't know what they want
This is a catch-all category that should fit every uncertain girl from the ubiquitous "bi-curious" married woman prowling craigslist to the girl who just got out of a relationship yesterday and is ready to fall in love again today. I mean, everyone faces a little uncertainty about what their future will look like. Without that uncertainty, life would be boring. But if you don't even know whether or not you want a girlfriend, please for the love of all things unholy go figure it out before you hop into my bed. Until then, assume that no one wants you. You're in the way of my real true love. Get out of the way.
2. Women who have never dated women before
Now, this is not your typical angry lesbian bi-hate here. I date bisexual women. In fact, I often prefer bisexual women and their characteristic open-mindedness. So long as she's had a serious woman-woman relationship in the past, I'm all for dating her. But I am so over training women how to date a woman. That's right. I said it. And I do mean sexually.
I also mean non-sexually. I'm tired of training women to deal with the stigma we face when we date other women. Guess what? Those kids you want to have? Now, they're gonna be twice as hard to have. You'll also have to realize that people treat you differently. Even if all your pals say they're "totally okay" with your new-found lesbian lover, they're going to have questions for you. I don't want to have to help you answer them. I also don't want to be paraded around in front of all your buddies as your real-life proof that you are indeed a queer.
And guess what else? You'll have to answer dumb questions from ignorant people when you introduce yourself as "Sally's other mommy". On top of all of that, there's coming out to your parents, coming out to your friends, dealing with the assholes in your family who will boycott your commitment ceremony, and worrying that your evil twin sister will take your house away from your illegal spouse if you die first... you ready for all that? Didn't think so. Get out of the way.
3. Bi-phobic lesbians
As you might gather from #2 above, there is something to be said for dating a bona-fide dyke. We have a lot in common. We're used to dealing with social stigma. We've [mostly] accepted that our lives aren't going to look like everyone else's. We tell it like it is. However, I won't date someone who slings around the same hate that we are too often victims of. I'm talking about those lesbians who hate men so much that they treat bisexual women as though they're guilty by association.
Usually bi-hate comes hand-in-hand with man-hate, and I'm not down with that, either. My dude-friends are the most awesome-tacular dude-friends you'll ever meet, and I won't have you meanies being mean to them. It's true that some men suck, but so do a lot of women. Like you. Get out of the way.
4. Women who aren't "out"
I know, I know. I should be all warm-hearted and nurturing because I'm a girl. I'm supposed to support my "sisters" as they come into their own and emerge from the darkness of "the closet" to face many of the same struggles I faced. I should be giving.
I'm not. I have given enough. I came out to my mother at an age too young to smoke. I lived in fear as a queer teen in the middle of nowhere. I had girls break my heart because they "weren't ready to be gay". I moved to Pittsburgh, shaved my head, put on my dyke-walk, came out at work, and coached many-a-lesbo through her very own coming out story. I put my LGBTQ volunteer work on my resume. I'm fucking out. Kay? I am not going back into the closet for you. Get out of the way.
5. Women who require cats
Okay, I'm really putting myself on the shallow end of the queer-lady dating pool now. But I have had two relationships go south partly due to my now-ex-girlfriends' compulsive need for cat-collecting. I used to tell myself that I can work around your need for cats. I can take expensive allergy medication like a daily communion and pretend my asthma inhaler doesn't make me twitch. I can tell you it's okay as long as you vacuum regularly, and allow you to believe that it's the fur and not the dander that matters.
Not anymore. Dude, you could shave your stupid cat and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. I'd still be allergic to it. Not to mention that it will inevitably love me. Cats have radar for people who hate them. Your effing cat will sleep on my face. I will pretend it's funny. And it is. If you're not me. If owning a cat is more important to you than a lasting relationship with a healthy and allergy-free girlfriend, then keep your dumb cats. Get out of the way.
What I DO Want:
Since I've pretty much narrowed down my dating pool to four people, all of whom are probably in relationships - with each other - I doubt I'll even find what I do want. But just in case she's still out there, what I want is really simple... and probably sappier than you'd expect. I just want to say "I love you" and mean it. I want to hear "I love you" and know that it's true.
I want a lasting relationship with a woman who values education and wants to be an active member of her community. I want a partner who is working for something bigger than just herself. I want someone who appreciates a little organized chaos, and doesn't mind it if I'm a bit of a mess sometimes. I want to stay in Pittsburgh together, get a house with [even a tiny] yard, and plant tomatoes. I'd like a gal who wouldn't mind maybe having a dog or a ferret or a hamster or a gerbil or a fish or a sugar glider or a chinchilla instead of a cat. If you can be happy with anything but a cat, I can be happy with you.
1. Women who don't know what they want
This is a catch-all category that should fit every uncertain girl from the ubiquitous "bi-curious" married woman prowling craigslist to the girl who just got out of a relationship yesterday and is ready to fall in love again today. I mean, everyone faces a little uncertainty about what their future will look like. Without that uncertainty, life would be boring. But if you don't even know whether or not you want a girlfriend, please for the love of all things unholy go figure it out before you hop into my bed. Until then, assume that no one wants you. You're in the way of my real true love. Get out of the way.
2. Women who have never dated women before
Now, this is not your typical angry lesbian bi-hate here. I date bisexual women. In fact, I often prefer bisexual women and their characteristic open-mindedness. So long as she's had a serious woman-woman relationship in the past, I'm all for dating her. But I am so over training women how to date a woman. That's right. I said it. And I do mean sexually.
I also mean non-sexually. I'm tired of training women to deal with the stigma we face when we date other women. Guess what? Those kids you want to have? Now, they're gonna be twice as hard to have. You'll also have to realize that people treat you differently. Even if all your pals say they're "totally okay" with your new-found lesbian lover, they're going to have questions for you. I don't want to have to help you answer them. I also don't want to be paraded around in front of all your buddies as your real-life proof that you are indeed a queer.
And guess what else? You'll have to answer dumb questions from ignorant people when you introduce yourself as "Sally's other mommy". On top of all of that, there's coming out to your parents, coming out to your friends, dealing with the assholes in your family who will boycott your commitment ceremony, and worrying that your evil twin sister will take your house away from your illegal spouse if you die first... you ready for all that? Didn't think so. Get out of the way.
3. Bi-phobic lesbians
As you might gather from #2 above, there is something to be said for dating a bona-fide dyke. We have a lot in common. We're used to dealing with social stigma. We've [mostly] accepted that our lives aren't going to look like everyone else's. We tell it like it is. However, I won't date someone who slings around the same hate that we are too often victims of. I'm talking about those lesbians who hate men so much that they treat bisexual women as though they're guilty by association.
Usually bi-hate comes hand-in-hand with man-hate, and I'm not down with that, either. My dude-friends are the most awesome-tacular dude-friends you'll ever meet, and I won't have you meanies being mean to them. It's true that some men suck, but so do a lot of women. Like you. Get out of the way.
4. Women who aren't "out"
I know, I know. I should be all warm-hearted and nurturing because I'm a girl. I'm supposed to support my "sisters" as they come into their own and emerge from the darkness of "the closet" to face many of the same struggles I faced. I should be giving.
I'm not. I have given enough. I came out to my mother at an age too young to smoke. I lived in fear as a queer teen in the middle of nowhere. I had girls break my heart because they "weren't ready to be gay". I moved to Pittsburgh, shaved my head, put on my dyke-walk, came out at work, and coached many-a-lesbo through her very own coming out story. I put my LGBTQ volunteer work on my resume. I'm fucking out. Kay? I am not going back into the closet for you. Get out of the way.
5. Women who require cats
Okay, I'm really putting myself on the shallow end of the queer-lady dating pool now. But I have had two relationships go south partly due to my now-ex-girlfriends' compulsive need for cat-collecting. I used to tell myself that I can work around your need for cats. I can take expensive allergy medication like a daily communion and pretend my asthma inhaler doesn't make me twitch. I can tell you it's okay as long as you vacuum regularly, and allow you to believe that it's the fur and not the dander that matters.
Not anymore. Dude, you could shave your stupid cat and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. I'd still be allergic to it. Not to mention that it will inevitably love me. Cats have radar for people who hate them. Your effing cat will sleep on my face. I will pretend it's funny. And it is. If you're not me. If owning a cat is more important to you than a lasting relationship with a healthy and allergy-free girlfriend, then keep your dumb cats. Get out of the way.
What I DO Want:
Since I've pretty much narrowed down my dating pool to four people, all of whom are probably in relationships - with each other - I doubt I'll even find what I do want. But just in case she's still out there, what I want is really simple... and probably sappier than you'd expect. I just want to say "I love you" and mean it. I want to hear "I love you" and know that it's true.
I want a lasting relationship with a woman who values education and wants to be an active member of her community. I want a partner who is working for something bigger than just herself. I want someone who appreciates a little organized chaos, and doesn't mind it if I'm a bit of a mess sometimes. I want to stay in Pittsburgh together, get a house with [even a tiny] yard, and plant tomatoes. I'd like a gal who wouldn't mind maybe having a dog or a ferret or a hamster or a gerbil or a fish or a sugar glider or a chinchilla instead of a cat. If you can be happy with anything but a cat, I can be happy with you.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
In with the old... please.
It's long past my bedtime on a very long night. Maybe it was the weather. Dreary overcast skies foretold all day of snow. I sat sipping tea on my sofa longing for things I don't have, and missing people I never see. Before you feel sorry for me, this was more constructive than your typical hollow sadness. This was more like a wistful memorial.
My therapist tells me that a piece of me has died.
Today, I spent the crawling hours putting her to rest.
I have gone through many changes, lately. I've quit my job, started some new ventures, and am about to start a new internship next week. I am also dealing with a recent break-up.
After the break-up, I bought an obscenely expensive ridiculously large desktop computer to fill the void. (Ladies and gentlemen, I am now the proud (single) owner of a brand new iMac.) I was reluctantly excited. I've been pseudo-happily screwing around with it all week. Instead of doing my homework, I've been tinkering with photos, experimenting with documents, and just generally fucking around. But today I was just too tired. I guess my exhausted brain just needed a break from all the change.
I went to my room where I've fired up my ancient laptop, which is graciously receiving its wireless internet signal from my iMac's built-in wireless router. Something about having this thing on again makes me feel like maybe sleep is possible; like maybe not everything has changed.
Thank God for that.
My therapist tells me that a piece of me has died.
Today, I spent the crawling hours putting her to rest.
I have gone through many changes, lately. I've quit my job, started some new ventures, and am about to start a new internship next week. I am also dealing with a recent break-up.
After the break-up, I bought an obscenely expensive ridiculously large desktop computer to fill the void. (Ladies and gentlemen, I am now the proud (single) owner of a brand new iMac.) I was reluctantly excited. I've been pseudo-happily screwing around with it all week. Instead of doing my homework, I've been tinkering with photos, experimenting with documents, and just generally fucking around. But today I was just too tired. I guess my exhausted brain just needed a break from all the change.
I went to my room where I've fired up my ancient laptop, which is graciously receiving its wireless internet signal from my iMac's built-in wireless router. Something about having this thing on again makes me feel like maybe sleep is possible; like maybe not everything has changed.
Thank God for that.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Doom
I find it poetic that I'm recovering just as Pittsburgh's infamous winter weather has given way to spring-like temperatures. I've been sick with something like the flu. Normal flus are either supremely bad or just a tad icky. This flu was something heinously in-between.
I wasn't completely incapacitated. I was just sick enough that it was impossible to finish anything. I couldn't even load my damned dishwasher. I tried drawing. I tried studying. I even tried sleeping. Unfortunately, I was just able-bodied enough that sleep was impossible. I wanted to do stuff, but I didn't have the energy for anything more complex than crappy cooking shows.
If I never see another episode of "Chopped", I'll die a happy woman.
Of course, I knew the world would not stop just because I was sick. I had errands to run. I struggled with the simplest stuff. Walking 5 minutes to a mailbox was enough to send me spiraling into another hour-long coughing fit after which I was forced hide under my blankets from an invisible cold front that only I could feel.
Needless to say, I completed only the life-or-death tasks on my to-do list.
This morning felt worse than any other. I was convinced I'd contracted Ebola. Not only would I miss all the cool stuff happening this weekend, but I'd have to die a lonely miserable death alone in my apartment. My rotting corpse would infect my poor unsuspecting neighbors. The first Ebola outbreak in Pittsburgh's history had started with me. This would be my legacy. God, this could even start a pandemic.
Of course, by noon, I was fine. By 2:30 in the afternoon, I was able to take myself out for a cup of coffee. Turns out, coffee is some sort of miracle cure. After my first cup of coffee in three days, I was ready to conquer the universe. I traipsed up and down the street in jeans and a suit jacket (because it was clean) feeling as big n' sassy as Queen Latifah. I came home and started cleaning.
You wouldn't have believed the state of my house. My garbage and recycling were both overflowing. Dirty clothes had crept into the furthest reaches of my tiny house. There was trash everywhere: ooze-trapping tissues, open DayQuil packages, spoons covered in gluey black NyQuil, and open pill bottles. My dishes were growing eyes. You would have thought you'd walked into the squalid den of a Vicks addict.
Even though I was still not at 100%, I was so happy to be free that I even mopped the kitchen floor. That's right, mom. I mop. Never in my life has a single load of laundry made me feel like such a super hero. And all just in time to enjoy the nice weather!
I don't know if you've ever had the feeling that you just clambered up from beneath 647 pounds of dirt and garbage to emerge into a bright happy sunlight. If you haven't, I highly recommend the flu. I'll even give you some dirty blankets to help you out.
I wasn't completely incapacitated. I was just sick enough that it was impossible to finish anything. I couldn't even load my damned dishwasher. I tried drawing. I tried studying. I even tried sleeping. Unfortunately, I was just able-bodied enough that sleep was impossible. I wanted to do stuff, but I didn't have the energy for anything more complex than crappy cooking shows.
If I never see another episode of "Chopped", I'll die a happy woman.
Of course, I knew the world would not stop just because I was sick. I had errands to run. I struggled with the simplest stuff. Walking 5 minutes to a mailbox was enough to send me spiraling into another hour-long coughing fit after which I was forced hide under my blankets from an invisible cold front that only I could feel.
Needless to say, I completed only the life-or-death tasks on my to-do list.
This morning felt worse than any other. I was convinced I'd contracted Ebola. Not only would I miss all the cool stuff happening this weekend, but I'd have to die a lonely miserable death alone in my apartment. My rotting corpse would infect my poor unsuspecting neighbors. The first Ebola outbreak in Pittsburgh's history had started with me. This would be my legacy. God, this could even start a pandemic.
Of course, by noon, I was fine. By 2:30 in the afternoon, I was able to take myself out for a cup of coffee. Turns out, coffee is some sort of miracle cure. After my first cup of coffee in three days, I was ready to conquer the universe. I traipsed up and down the street in jeans and a suit jacket (because it was clean) feeling as big n' sassy as Queen Latifah. I came home and started cleaning.
You wouldn't have believed the state of my house. My garbage and recycling were both overflowing. Dirty clothes had crept into the furthest reaches of my tiny house. There was trash everywhere: ooze-trapping tissues, open DayQuil packages, spoons covered in gluey black NyQuil, and open pill bottles. My dishes were growing eyes. You would have thought you'd walked into the squalid den of a Vicks addict.
Even though I was still not at 100%, I was so happy to be free that I even mopped the kitchen floor. That's right, mom. I mop. Never in my life has a single load of laundry made me feel like such a super hero. And all just in time to enjoy the nice weather!
I don't know if you've ever had the feeling that you just clambered up from beneath 647 pounds of dirt and garbage to emerge into a bright happy sunlight. If you haven't, I highly recommend the flu. I'll even give you some dirty blankets to help you out.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My New Job
I poured my heart and soul into a job for three years, only to be stifled by crappy leadership who wouldn't know innovation it it kicked them right in the ass. In the meantime, I gave up my volunteer work and my creative ventures to focus on my job. I started to feel that I had lost something that used to be important to me. So, I quit.
My new job: Me. That's right. I am my new job.
I am on a journey to find where passion and practicality meet. I don't know if I'm going to figure it out, but I would rather die than stop trying.
I'm going to keep writing about it for all of those out there who wish they could do the same. I'm not going to say it's easy. I am just going to say that the universe has a hell-of-a-lot more to offer than just a paycheck. It's sad to note that so many friends tell me they feel exactly the same way. I can't help but feel that a whole generation of innovators are going unheard. That pisses me off. Grr.
That's all, for now.
My new job: Me. That's right. I am my new job.
I am on a journey to find where passion and practicality meet. I don't know if I'm going to figure it out, but I would rather die than stop trying.
I'm going to keep writing about it for all of those out there who wish they could do the same. I'm not going to say it's easy. I am just going to say that the universe has a hell-of-a-lot more to offer than just a paycheck. It's sad to note that so many friends tell me they feel exactly the same way. I can't help but feel that a whole generation of innovators are going unheard. That pisses me off. Grr.
That's all, for now.
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