How Much Coffee Have You Had??

A direct quote from my mother around 7:30pm last night. I popped over to the folks' house for dinner and I swear I could not stop talking. It was like I'd had four cups of coffee in twenty minutes. I was that peppy. Now, anyone who knows me has a first-hand experience of my perkiness. I can't help it. I'm generally a perky person. But recently, it's started to overflow. Maybe it's the lack of daily human interaction, so any sort of face-to-face conversation is over-stimulating, but I'm beginning to feel it's my excitement taking over. The funny part was that I actually hadn't had any caffeine at all, and my parents said it reminded them of me as a little kid. My dad even jokingly stated they used to stand over my crib and repeat, "No pep. No pep."

Within the last week and a half, I've made the decision to go back to school and taken active steps to pursue that goal. I've started studying for the GRE's, which I'll be taking in October, I've requested copies of my transcript from MCLA, where I got my undergrad degree, and I've contacted three of my favorite professors for reference letters. As of yesterday, all three professors have confirmed they'll write my letters, I've finally gotten the hang of some of the math I've forgotten over the past eight years, and I've made the executive decision of where I want to go professionally. Suffice it to say, I'm feeling pretty good.

While the lack of income right now is somewhat disheartening, I'm finding the notion of returning to academia overpowers that negativity. Journalism was a valiant effort and a novel dream, but I can't avoid the fact that I really hate interviewing people about topics I couldn't care less about. And while my customer service skills are pretty rocking, I have no desire to continue my career in secretarial and administrative assistant arenas. I like writing. I enjoy writing. One thing I love even more, however, is proofreading other people's works and making necessary changes and corrections. I had the opportunity to actually edit a book headed to print when I worked for US Sailing. Nothing major, it was just a reprint of an old edition, but it was still my job to make sure everything translated into the newer fonts and formatting. It didn't, and the high I got from presenting my the errors to my supervisor and the sense of power I felt from being able to correct it was beyond amazing. This leads me to the decision to go into Publishing. After doing research (and watching "The Proposal"), most of the editors and higher-ups have advanced degrees in literature. Enter Rhode Island College's Masters in English program.

I'm fully aware that most of the major publishing houses are in New York, and while the idea of moving to NYC isn't exactly thrilling, the notion of pursuing something that excites me trumps that. My goal is to take the GREs in October, send in my application for admission by November and begin my pursuit for the Master's degree in the fall of 2011. It's game on, biznatches.

Queen of the Unfinished

A friend of mine has joined the bloggosphere in her quest for healthy living. She asked her friends and family for feedback and encouraged us to share our stories, and it got me thinking. She has always been one to take on a challenge and see it through to the end, even through hardship and frustration and the most unthinkable odds. She finishes. Which is why I know she can accomplish this monumental goal she has set for herself. And it made me wonder if I had the same conviction and determination that she does. Maybe it's the circumstances that enable my defeatist side to win out over my optimism, but after much reflection and self-evaluation, I'm sad to say that I don't.

From the time I was 4 years old until just after freshman year of high school, I played soccer. I loved it and I was good at it. Not great, and god knows it was not natural talent, but I could hold my own. During one game, a girl on the opposing team decided she could try to get the ball from me, missed the ball entirely and got my knee instead. It hurt. I recovered, but my knee still gives out now and then. The next season, when it came time for try-outs, I decided I was done. There was too much drama behind the scenes that took away the fun of the game. Girls would enlist their mothers to hound the coaches if they didn't start every game. If the school issued punishment for whatever reason, it extended to the soccer field as well. You break the rules, you miss a game. The girls would, again, employ their parents to find a way around these rules. It wasn't worth it to me to fight through all the bullshit just to play a game of soccer. So I stopped.

Once senior year rolled around, I went on the traditional college tour circuit. I saw campus after campus, but fell in love with one tiny college in the Berkshires, the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. I didn't apply to any other college. I didn't apply to any "safety schools" or schools that I would probably not be accepted to, I only applied to one. While I don't regret the choice that I made because that college introduced me to some of the best people I have ever met, gave me an opportunity to flourish on my own, not in my brother's shadow, I do wonder if I could have gotten into any other school. But I never tried. I stopped.

Looking back on this blog, there are at lease seven entries that only have a paragraph written, and I can't for the life of me figure out what point I was trying to make. With titles as vague as "Justification is Your Enemy," and "You're Leaving Me for an Ugly Girl," and even one without any title at all, I solidify my reign as the queen of the unfinished. I have at least four book ideas that I started and never finished. I have twenty different ideas for small businesses and have never followed up. I stopped.

I am just within reach of a job that actually means something to me. I went to school to write, not answer phones. It's right there. I just need one interview. Just one. Just the chance to show them that not only am I a good candidate, but I'm the best candidate. I'm the best person for this job. I want to be in this industry, I want to have a byline, and see my name on a masthead. I want to spend hours figuring out the right spacing for an article and adjust the layout until it's beyond perfect. Here's my opportunity to be as brave and confident as my friend. To take on something that will challenge me and push me to my limits. I just need the chance to show them (and myself) that I can do it.

Spinsterhood of the Traveling Pants

As June is unofficially deemed "Wedding Season," there borage of couples joining in wedded bliss seems overwhelming. Especially for us single folk. Not to take away any joy of those fortunate enough to find their "person," actually I hi-five those who have and will gladly take part in the merriment of their unions. But it does kind of make you look at your own life and think, "Why not me?" And being the over-dramatic darling that I am, I look towards a life of eternal spinsterhood. This, of course, led me to wonder about my fellow maids-without-men, and I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised at the plethora of extraordinary women in my company.

Queen Elizabeth I is quite possibly the very first sovereign people mention when listing the most influential rulers in history. She was crowned and assumed the throne at the age of 25, restored England to a thriving, prosperous, and powerful nation but still maintained her personal solitude. Despite her controversial marital status, she enjoyed her life. She made it common knowledge to Parliament and the Privy Council that she would listen to their concerns and heed their advice when it came to the state of England, but she was still going to live her life the way she saw fit.

Jane Austen is as prominent on summer reading lists as Shakespeare and Hemmingway. Although she only published six novels, a significantly parse showing in comparison with authors cited as often, she is still seen as one of the greatest authors of all time. When her niece wrote her for romantic advice, she replied with a simple and concise answer: if she didn't love him, she shouldn't marry him. Jane herself had one person that she truly cared for but due to family obligations and interference, the pair was separated. She accepted the proposal from one man, the son of a family friend but ended the engagement the next day, heeding her own advice. She lived her life, did what she loved, and never looked back.

Other lifelong singles worth mentioning are Emily Bronte, Sappho, Queen Christina of Sweden, Florence Nightingale, Rosa Luxemburg, Joan of Arc, Emily Dickinson, Louisa May Alcott, Helen Keller, Elizabeth Blackwell, Jane Goodaal, Diane Keaton, and Condoleeza Rise (political affiliation aside).

So if it is my destiny to remain the single maid, then I'll continue living my life, doing what I love, and I'll wear the Spinster badge with pride.

The Drunkard's Walk

There's a book called "The Drunkard's Walk" by Leonard Mlodinow, and it's all about randomness and how there's really no such thing as destiny or fate, that life is made up of coincidences. People create connections between one random event to another because they want there to be some sort of control, some sense of reason in a completely unreasonable world.

It's an interesting read, nothing earth-shattering, but he raises some pretty good points. One example of over-reaching Mlodinow gives showcases a recent lottery winner describing why he picked those specific numbers. The winner said he picked the number 7 because two other numbers, 5 and 3, played a significant role in his life and 5 +3 is 7. Anyone who's graduated beyond first grade math can tell you that 5 + 3 does not equal 7. Mlodinow states people are so desperate to find a cause for things that happen in their life that they go out of their way to find it. Another example is a person trying to find a pattern behind the flickering of a candle flame. There has to be a reason because randomness is just too chaotic for anyone to handle.

I recently sent my resume to the editor of Rhode Island Monthly, in hopes of gaining a spot on the coveted staff of their Brides publication. There was no ad for any open positions, I am simply reaching out to anything and everything that's even remotely editorial related. I think it's actually become tradition for me to send an email to the Editor-in-Chief of Rhode Island Monthly, asking if there are any openings on their masthead. She responded within a couple days, saying she appreciated the interest and while there were no current openings at Brides, she would keep my resume on file. A few days go by, I get rejected by another job without even an interview, and I make my daily visit to craigslist. But wait. What is this? An Editorial Assistant position? Full-time? AT RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY??? No. It's too good to be true. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe my stellar cover letter indicating unadulterated interest in their publications led the Editor to open a position just for me. Naturally, they have to advertise, to make it look legit, but surely they must be saving this job for me. I mean, it's too big of a coincidence not to be related.

Maybe this Leonard guy is wrong. Maybe things really do happen for a reason. I'm just saying...

Celibate in the Suburbs

In honor of the "Sex and the City" sequel and my seemingly endless relationship with unemployment, we re-enter the blogging world. I have officially been without a steady and reliable income for almost two months and I have to say, I'm not liking it. While the freedom of waking up whenever the spirit so moves me is absolutely delightful, the inability to budget in a night out with friends simply because I want to buy groceries for the next two weeks is depressing, to say the least. In all honesty, I could find a job within the week, but it would be exactly the same as the last job: completely draining and nowhere near where I want to be professionally. I left to find a career, not a job. But after the only three jobs that actually held any sort of promise rejected me without any semblance of professional courtesy, that feeling of empowerment that overwhelmed me when I gave my notice went out the door, sprinted down the street, and hopped a bus to the next state.

The last of my savings has just been mailed to the Navy Federal Bank to take care of June's rent. Thanks to my parents' generosity, a week of sanding, scraping, sweeping, and painting took care of my cable bill, groceries, and a much needed bottle of wine. Now we're at the moment when I decide if I give in and go for the job that will pay my bills but destroy my soul, or hold out for the career I've been waiting for. Decisions, decisions. While discussing my employment dilemma with my aunt/landlord, she suggested I take to the blogosphere. Carrie Bradshaw wrote her column based on her life and it got her a multi-book contract and freelance work with Vogue. Granted, Carrie lived in New York, had an active dating life, and wasn't afraid of spilling her friends' dirty little secrets. I live in Portsmouth, have zero luck when it comes to guys, and respect my friends enough not to share their private, albeit sometimes amusing, relationship issues. After relaying all this to said aunt/landlord, she paused in a moment of thought, then brightened up as inspiration seared through her, raised her hand in the air in triumph and declared, "You could write a book. Celibate in the Suburbs." I think it's clear why this woman is one of my favorite people in the world.

Citing the "Julie/Julia Project" and its subsequent movie deal, I choose to blog in fervent hope that someone, somewhere will find my musings somewhat interesting. Now if only I had a clever hitch to charge along my giddyup of a blog...

You CAN Go Home Again

We've all heard the old adage, "Home is where the heart is," and there have been few times when I've really felt the meaning behind the sentiment. It's been almost four years since I graduated from college. In the grand scheme of things, it's a mere blip on the screen, but it feels like a lifetime. While my priorities have definitely changed, and I'd like to think I've become ever-so-slightly more mature, one thing has remained exactly the same.

Every Thursday night in college, I knew something fun was going to happen. My best friends would come home after their classes ended and we'd get a jumpstart on our weekend celebrations. Countless memories were made and turned into stories that would later be retold with sporadic detail, occasionally accompanied with some rather unfortunate pictures. Nicknames with absurd and illogical origins were assigned, songs that would soon be labeled as 'retro' were belted out with unfounded passion. Any notions of fear of upcoming research papers or final exams were washed away and replaced with the feeling of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Over the past four years, that feeling has faded from constant to periodic. The excitement of the unknown has been replaced with tension and anxiety. But when I'm fortunate enough to find myself in the company of the two women who made my college experience everything it could have been, that feeling returns and lingers, as if no time has passed at all. Sitting around a table, eating pizza, exchanging stories about our lives, it feels like nothing has changed. Hanging out with them after such a long absence is like slipping back underneath the covers after running outside on a cold Saturday morning to get the newspaper. The pillows are arranged perfectly, no matter which way you toss or turn, you find a comfortable spot. The sheets are still warm, easing you back into a peaceful rest. You are exactly where you're supposed to be.

All the concerns I have about my life and my career have faded away like a hazy fog on an early summer morning. I consider myself lucky that I've found not just one, but two people who have the ability to wash away any fear and give me the confidence to face whatever challenge lay in front of me. Their presence in my life is like finding that favorite sweater you thought you'd lost. Hours pass like minutes, and before I know it, we're saying goodbye, making plans for the next reunion. And while time between our get-togethers varies, usually longer than any of us would like, I know we will find the time. But no matter how long we've been away, and no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other, saying hello is like going home again. And I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Lemming Moment #156

As another year comes to a close, most people find themselves in a state of reflection. What happened this year? Who did I meet? What did I do? How did I change? Am I any worse for the wear? This, of course, also leads to a a subsequent state of blind optimism. Next year is going to be different. Next year I'm going to work out more. Next year I'm going to eat healthier. Next year I'm going to do all the things I always said I would do last year but never did. Next year I'm going to make up for last year. All these questions and suppositions leave me wondering why I spent so much time thinking about me.

Why can't next year's questions be more about how I can affect change in someone else's life? How can I let the people in my life know how much they mean to me? How can I help Rhode Island's unemployed find work? In essence, how can I help? There are times when, yes, I'll own up to being selfish, but why does that have to be all the time?

I was reading an article about a program the Sheriff's department of some town in Ohio or Oregon offers around the holidays. If you are pulled over for speeding, or some other minor infraction, you can either pay the ticket or you can buy toys and food for those less fortunate. Those choosing to partake in the program, an incredible 80% of those ticketed, simply drop off the products at the Sheriff's station and tabula rasa. You get out of the fine and you help someone feed their family, help their kids have christmas just like everyone else.

Here in Rhode Island, you could adopt a family for the holidays. You only know their first names, their ages, and if they're a boy or a girl. They each make a list, like every other child does in the month of December, and you can give them the Christmas they never would have had otherwise. When they go back to school in January, and all the other kids are talking about the amazing toys "Santa" brought them, they can chime in with their goodies, too. I was proud to learn my mother had taken part in this program. She gave the two little girls everything on their list (and then a few gift cards, too), and the single mother a few gifts along with a Stop & Shop gift card, so they could have Christmas Dinner.

There are certain things that sound absolutely ridiculous when you say them out loud. "I wanted the red Snuggie, not the blue one!" "Jimmy got a bigger set of Leggos than me." "How come you only got me two Coach purses when I said I wanted three??" For the money your family spent on the extra presents, they could have given someone meals for a week.

Knowing all this, learning about the different programs that are already in place, the next step is figuring out how to help those programs succeed.

Cheers to a new year.

A Sex and the City Moment

Anyone who's seen the first movie knows the quote I'm about to reference. "Why is it we're willing to write our own vows, but not our own rules." Throughout that entire movie, that is the one moment that stood out to me. Yes, Charlotte crapping her pants was absolutely hysterical, watching Carrie rise from the ashes of a broken life was beautiful and heartwarming, seeing Miranda run to Steve on the bridge made me bawl my eyes out, and yes, I nearly peed my pants when Samantha threw sushi at Smith. But that one moment at the end, that made an impact on me.

Everyone has been through a breakup, everyone knows it sucks. My most recent experience has definitely been the hardest to get over. You spend enough time with someone, they grow to be a substantial part of your life. Then you get serious and talk about the future. You make plans, you talk about a home and a family, where you're going to spend the holidays. You save every movie stub, every letter, every token of devotion, so that thirty years from now, when your children are rifling through the attic and they stumble upon a nondescript little box, you can recap the story of your love.

Then the unthinkable happens. The fights become more frequent. It's never any one person's fault, it's simply a matter of life revealing that despite your most fervent desires, it just isn't meant to be. You cry, you vent, you get angry, you attempt to get over it. Then after some time, the epiphany comes. It simply wasn't meant to be. It's not a negative reflection on either person, neither of you fell worse for the ware, if anything, you grew from the experience. You come to appreciate all you learned from the relationship, and when people ask what happened, you reply with a simple, "It just didn't work out. They're a great person, and we're just exploring different paths."

The only remnants from the relationship are kept in a nondescript box that you were saving for your kids to rifle through. What now? Do you throw away all the movies you watched together? Toss your favorite sweater just because it's what you wore on your first date? Do you avoid going to the best coffee house within a twenty mile radius because it's where you two talked about kids for the first time?

No. You don't. You reclaim all your favorite things as your own. Take back the power from the broken relationship and realize that you had a life before him and you'll have a life after him. All your favorite things were there prior to him entering your world. Or as Carrie Bradshaw so eloquently said, why can't we make our own rules? And if Serendipity didn't love me enough, this article popped up on my Yahoo page, thus validating my belief in recapturing my world.

http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/breakup-recovery-101-five-rules-you-must-follow-520785/

High five, you are awesome.

Three Years Later: An Open Letter...

I never really understood the phrase, 'waking up on the wrong side of the bed,' because I figured, it's a bed, the limited spacial dimensions leave very little room for there actually to be a quote-unquote 'wrong side.' That being said, I woke up in a very weird mood today. I was fortunate enough not to have to work until noon, leaving me plenty of time to ignore an alarm and still wake up with time to meander about my kitchen, peruse breakfast options, watch two episodes of early "Saved By the Bell," and the beginning of "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2," and still have time to shower and get ready for work. Throughout all of this, something just felt, for lack of a better term, off.

Almost nine hours, three emergencies, countless lognotes, and god only knows how many 'Thank you for calling, this is Dori, how can I help you' responses later, I still felt off. It wasn't until I was driving home with my ipod on shuffle, randomly skipping through songs, hoping to find some sort of connection to the myriad of music choices when it finally hit me. Dispatch's "The General" came on and it all started to make sense.

It's been three years since he left and part of me acknowledges the loss, misses him, and learns from the mess he left. The other part of me is angry, still confused, wishing we were closer, wondering if we were that there might have been something I could have done. Nonetheless, I drive the fifteen minutes and how many seconds ride home, trying to keep it together enough to maintain control of the car, all the while hoping my eyeliner doesn't smudge and cause my eye to burn.

Despite my history, and despite the ability to understand how a person's thinking can get to the point of "it's better this way," I don't get it. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how alone you feel, there is always at least one person who will miss you. One person will be hugely and deeply impacted by your absence. And that one person has the unbearable task of feeling plagued that they didn't do more. Feeling like they're abandoning you when they move on with their lives. Feeling guilty that they have a life to move on in. You left. You made that choice. Three years later and we're still coping with that. Thirty years later and we'll still be coping with it.

Immediately following, there's the obvious outpouring of affection and sympathy, people desperate to find a connection to you to feel like they're a part of something greater than they're own meaningless worlds. Everyone who was ever even remotely near you recounts some story. "The Ho Trap," Dance Co., "The Pit," your brown jacket, your all too perfect smile. I remember pennies spelling out "I <3 U" outside my door. I remember creepy "Seven days..." phone calls after watching "The Ring" in the mezzanine in BT freshman year. I remember watching you play in the snow, running up a mountain the plows made in the back parking lot of Mark Hopkins, laughing like a little kid in a snowball fight. I remember trying so hard not to forget my lines when you were stage manager of Emily's senior director class presentation of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." I remember you, beautiful, delicious, sweetly mischievous you.

I know how it feels to think that nothing you do is right. I know how it feels to think that it would all be better if... I know how it feels. But I'm still here. I'm still fighting. No matter the pain, no matter the sadness, no matter how god awful it hurts, there is always a reason to keep fighting. What I will never understand is why you stopped, why you gave up. If you saw how many people came to your memorial... If you saw how many lives you really touched... If you could understand how much you truly meant..

Three years later and I'm still trying to understand.

What Dreams May Come

I don't think I've slept the entire night through without the aid of alcohol or Tylenol PM since I was about 16 or so. And with the advent of "Simply Sleep," Tylenol PM's counterpart but without the pain reliever acetaminophen (and subsequent potentially fatal liver damage), a complete night's rest seems actually within my grasp. However, as anyone who relies on sleep aids, even infrequently, will tell you, they come with some pretty bizarre dreams.

Most recently, there's been dreams of pregnancy (thank god it's just a dream), death, constantly being late, and of course, the occasional boring dream of just being at work doing my job. Naturally, my curiosity spiked when the first two topics seemed to be repeated more frequently than any other. There was a span of about a week where every night I dreamt I was pregnant or giving birth. The dream dictionaries I consulted all stated it meant my subconscious was fighting to bring something to the surface, an idea was bubbling and would soon come to fruition. In my eternal optimism, I thought that it meant that my subconscious had known all along what my heart so desperately wanted for my career, but alas, two months later, not a single pregnancy dream nor any clue as to employment ambition.

The second, and most obviously more disturbing topic, came with rather specific details that are a bit hard to erase from my memory. While others are desperately trying to hold onto every image, color, and memory from a dream as they slowly come into the waking world, I wish I could forget. In the most recent unconscious hallucination, I had just learned of a family member's death while staying at their house while other relatives were away on vacation. It fell upon me to tell those relatives that their child had died. The image of my aunt walking in the door with a smile on her face contrasting that of her falling to the floor and shaking after my delivering the news have yet to fade. Again, I consulted the dream dictionary, praying to whichever deity was en vogue at the moment, that I wasn't somehow becoming clairvoyant. According to this particular entry, when you dream about someone close to you dying, it means they possess something you envy, whether a job, a character trait, or whatever. They have something in their lives that you want in your own. Needless to say, reading the end of that passage left me thinking, "huh, how 'bout that."

How people come to the conclusions that one dream means something completely different than what you actually dreamt about is beyond any comprehension. For example, dreaming about spiders doing any number of specific actions means you're either going to be rewarded in some way, you feel like an outsider, or you're fighting with your mother. Somehow, it always comes back to your mother.

So what conclusion can we come to, given the two most prevalent dream ideologies in my current world? I'm jealous of my cousin and I'm about to figure out why. Or our relationship means nothing, she's dead to me, and I want a baby. Given my adamant feelings about the human gestation period, and physically pushing a life form from my loins, I'm going with option A.

But my cousin is pretty awesome, so it's kind of hard not want to be something like her.

I know, wicked sappy way to end it, right? It's my blog, deal with it.