It's All Attitude, Darling

As the holidays wind down and the year draws to a close, I hear a lot of people saying they can't wait for 2011 to start. While I fully consider myself a big fan of this year ending, I think I've handled myself pretty well. I've been unemployed since April, broke since August, had my professional heart broken at least three times, had my car broke down on four separate occasions (including two punctured tires), suffered through the agonizing pain of a strained back, and watched helplessly as a mouse climbed up my bed while I was still in it. I could go on and name the countless other gut-wrenching moments of complete negativity, but I'd rather not, for a couple reasons. First, because while there have been some pretty horrendous episodes of "WTF, Universe" playing on the Dori's Life channel this year, there have been some pretty amazing moments as well. For instance, three very dear friends and one very special cousin announced (officially) their engagement, and while this doesn't directly impact my life in any way, it's still a truly wonderful thing to be able to celebrate a hugely monumental milestone is someone's life. Secondly, it's just not in my nature to be negative for an extended period of time. While I can say without hesitation that in the past I've succumbed to the monster of defeatist attitudes and negative outlooks, I choose to rise above. I'd much rather spend my time smiling and looking on the bright side than wallowing in the muck of despair and self-pity.

My mother has always said, "Act happy and you'll be happy." I have to say, it's one of my favorite mommy-quips, and she's got some real doozies. Dwelling on the negative only makes you feel like your world is caving in faster. This is not to say that I don't have my moments of freaking out and crying and panic-induced nausea, because oh golly do I ever. But what does freaking out get you? It doesn't get you the job. It doesn't pay your bills. It just makes you more tense than when you started. It might be a nice release, a good way to let off some frustration, but at some point, you have to put on your big-girl panties and deal with the mess. So I choose to be optimistic. I choose to smile and be happy for my friends when they get fantastic news on the same day I get bad news. I choose to joke and laugh at the completely insane things that happen. I may put up a morose and pity-inducing facebook status, but ten minutes later, I'm most likely laughing about the insanity that has taken up residence in my life. So while the universe has decided that maybe 2010 wasn't my year, I decided it was my year to be challenged to stay positive. A challenge to my spirit and tenacity; do I keep fighting and keep looking or do I give up and slink back into the shadows of failure. In the words of my all-too-brilliant Mommy, I act happy so that eventually, I'll actually be happy. And after a few hours of puttering around the house, after my morning dose of Monster-Craigslist-Idealist, I face the world with a genuine smile and a happy "hello."

Some other Mommy-isms to live by:
What other people think of you is none of your business.
Whatever's meant to be will be. (quite possibly the family mantra as every woman in my family has said this to me at one time or another)
Those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. (Yes, she quotes Dr. Seuss)
Sometimes you just need to cry.

Got an Issue? Here's a Tissue

While talking with my father about his love (and my hesitation) towards cruise control, I told him that I've read far too many reports detailing faulty cruise control malfunctions for me to let my car drive itself. I jokingly reasoned that I have trust issues. The sad thing is that it's not really that much of a joke.

With the upcoming release of Taylor Swift's new album, there's been so much press about the meaning behind her lyrics, which song is about the hermano Jonas, which one is about John Mayer (what the whaaaaat??), or Taylor Lautner, or any other number of rumored romances. It got me thinking that this chick has been pretty screwed over by guys (I'm sorry but breakup by text message is just plain painful), and yet she has no problem just jumping into another romantic entanglement. If my love of her music wasn't enough, her fearless (pun intended) attitude towards love is overwhelmingly impressive.

As with a good majority of my posts, the inspiration for this particular self-realization came from a random itunes song. MoZella (a wonderful little singer I highly encourage everyone to check out) sums up my current view towards relationships in her song "Light Years Away." It's about looking back on how screwed up you are at the immediate moment of a breakup, and how it changes you. Not that I was ever any good at relationships to begin with, the last serious one I had took it's toll. Each time we fought, I was told he was trying to change but it wasn't going to happen overnight. But I can only be expected to wait around for so long. And while it's easy to sit and play the blame game, I will own up to my part in our downfall. I gave up long before we broke up and just waited for him to screw up. Towards the end, I started to realize that all the promises we made to each other were not going to hold up and I wasn't going to get my happily ever after. That realization broke my heart.

I don't let people into my life easily. I don't just have a guard up, I have a whole army. There are few times in my dating career when I took the wall down, and each time, without fail, I've been burned. This was the explanation I gave when this particular boy expressed his interest in pursuing a relationship. History has taught me to keep that armor around my heart, and once again, I was proven right. I don't regret that this particular relationship is over, not by a long shot. I wish him well and I hope his life works out the way he wants it to. But it still hurts when you think about the fact that it's been two years since you even talked to the someone you thought was your forever.

I'm not normally one for airing such deep emotional issues in the public square, but I feel like without some sense of acknowledgement then I'll never really get over this hurdle. So let's just consider this me chipping away at the armor.

Music to Scan To

While my new business venture is still in the early testing stages, basically testing to see if there's any demand/need for it, I've been spending a LOT of time at my computer and as such, have grown tired of my standard, go-to playlists. Thankfully, itunes has come through with a rare genius-generated mix that I would actually classify as "genius."


Saturday by The Rocket Summer
Bad Day by Something Corporate
Shine by The Plain White T's
She Paints Me Blue by Something Corporate
Movie Stars and Super Models by The Rocket Summer
Big Apple Heartbreak by Yellowcard
Time Stands Still by All American Rejects
What is Love? by Nevershoutnever
California by Nevershoutnever
Breakdown by The Plain White T's
Whoa by Paramore
Everywhere by Yellowcard
Can't Stand It by Nevershoutnever
Six Feet Under The Stars by All Time Low
Hurricane by Something Corporate
Cigarette by Yellowcard
Never Let This Go by Paramore
Umbrella by All Time Low
Manic Monday by Relient K
Fireworks by The Plain White T's
She's My Baby by The Rocket Summer
Mean Thoughts and Cheap Shots by The Rocket Summer
The Astronaut by Something Corporate
Time To Break Up by All Time Low
Keeper by Yellowcard

I am an admitted downloading fiend (often I'll just download songs by an artist I like without actually listening to the songs themselves), and because of that there are tons of songs in my library that I have not listened to. It's a nice surprise when they pop up in a new mix and I actually like them. The catalyst of this blog is "Saturday" by The Rocket Summer, who I first fell in love with after hearing "Brat Pack," a tune that still resonates with this third generation townie. And I'm sorry but who doesn't love a good Bangles cover?

Why Don't I Write Like I Used To?

I used to write every day, usually at great length. I have volumes of journals, diaries, dream maps, and quotebooks lining my bookshelves. I remember my roommate freshman year gave me a new notebook for Christmas that year, to continue what I was calling my "manifesto." (Thank you for that, Mel, filled it and still have it). I used to finish a journal every month. It's now September and I'm still writing in a book I've had since last December. So why don't I write like I used to?

Gearing up for the Open House we had last weekend, hoping to find a new family to take on the joy of living in the Little Blue House, I was in charge of the primary cleaning. I really don't have that much stuff, and I really only use about a quarter of the entire house, so cleaning wasn't that hard. But it did give me a chance to go through drawers and shelves and throw out all the junk. As I was dusting off my bookcase, I came across a couple journals I kept senior year of college and the few months after. Please excuse the hubris, but some of my entries were just downright beautiful. The content isn't groundbreaking, but the way I described how I felt, I'm sorry but I'm a darn good writer.

Here's one that still stays with me and the sentiment really remains the same:

July 19, 2007
12:04pm
I remember the first time I fell in love. His name was music. We loved and we loved and we loved with a love that was more than love, it was melody. It was harmony. It was beautiful words making their way through my soul, caressing me tender with each note, my eyes closed in ecstasy, my toes curling, my breath shortening, my fingers reaching, grabbing for anything to keep me stable, my mind soaring, I was in heaven. We moved together in hot rhythmic beat, my body and his melody, intertwining so beautifully we were lost in each other. He was he and I was I and we were we in a way that was more than we; it was perfect. With each note I fell further under his blissful enchantment, and with each note, the more I wanted to fall, continue falling, and to stay fallen.

12:12pm
It's one of those quiet mood days that inspires the need for buttery popcorn and Joni Mitchell humming in the background, acting as the soundtrack to your life. The kind of day that makes you appreciate the beauty of oversized armchairs and old worn-in quilts. The kind of day that whispers "hot chocolate" and acoustic guitar serenades. I love those days. You ignore the impulse to turn on the lights, and instead, light a few candles and rest in their glowing flicker of romantic solace. I've been so wrapped up in hating my job - the unproductivity, the annoying office guy, the absurd commute, the pointless and meaningless tasks that seem to clone themselves in an attempt to give the feeling of hell - that I'd forgotten what a joy it is to just sit and write and enjoy the simplicity of a rainy day. They remind me of my childhood when my mom and aunts used to take us bowling or to a movie. I used to love rainy days almost as much as sunny beach days.

I never really gave much thought to how much music affected my mood. It's always been a big part of my life, dictating the feelings I couldn't articulate myself; the soundtrack to my life made from mix tapes and radio requests, countless hours spent sitting in dark closets, laying on the floor, absorbing melodies, wrapping myself in the lyrics like a baby unknowingly reaching for their favorite blanket in the middle of the night. It's amazing the comfort a familiar song can bring. They say that smells have the greatest memory inducers, which is true. You forget what people's faces looked like, and how their voices sound, but you remember perfume, or the smell of their famous blue-ribbon top secret chocolate chip cookies. But for me, and maybe it's because I'm convinced I have no sense of smell, but for me, music holds the most keys to unlocking memories. Peter, Paul, and Mary will always make me think of my mother. Farside begs for Jarrod's face and smile. Ashlee Simpson for Sam. Blackeyed Peas for Jenn. String Cheese Incident, Sublime, Dr. Demento, and Frou Frou for Kate. Matisyahu for Aaron. Oasis for Jon. Dylan for Tom. Modest Mouse for Pat. Steve Miller Band for Dad. Izzy's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" will forever bring tears to my eyes and make me say goodbye to Minga. Bing Crosby, Cole Porter, and Louis Armstrong remind me of Popi taking Nana by the hand and dancing around the kitchen on Christmas Eve. There's a million different people to a million different songs and a million different memories.

Happiness, Thy Name is Friendship

We spend most of our day focused on the stressors of work and family obligations. Ninety-eight percent of our time is spent complaining about our lack of sleep, caffeine deprivation, our rush-hour traffic stints, our empty refrigerators, and just about everything else that could possibly be wrong in our lives. I am by no means exempt from this barrage of negativity; at times, I'm leading the parade. But there comes a time when I just want to be happy.

Currently, there is more than enough to complain about in my life: unemployment, dwindling finances, increasing credit card bills, the extreme likelihood of having to move back to my parents' house, my love life (or lack thereof). Golly knows I've spent my time venting about my misery, but something about recent events is making me just plain joyous. The really interesting part of this influx of merriment is that the catalyst has absolutely nothing to do with me nor does it impact my life in any particular way.

Two weeks ago, one of my best friends got engaged. Being the uber-girl that I am, I giggled, squeeled, clapped, and kept repeating how exciting it was that she (finally) got engaged. Having gone to college with both of them, I've had the fortunate opportunity to bear witness to their relationship from the very beginning, and I love that it's being legally solidified for the rest of their lives. My friend said she was waiting a bit to begin planning because they just wanted to enjoy being engaged for a while, which I totally understand. This meant serious restraint on my part, refraining from collecting every bride magazine and article I could get my hands on, and barraging her with themes, colors, dresses, and cakes. But now that she's officially getting the wedding ball rolling, I've started to do a little research into what dresses would look good on her, what other brides have done (thank you theknot.com), simple money-saving tips, and just about anything wedding-related. That being said, I have to keep reminding myself not to overwhelm her because this is HER wedding. This should be fun for her, not work. I have a tendency to overstep sometimes, innocently of course, but it's something I'm trying to work on. But planning and exploring all this stuff is fun for me. Plus, it gives me something to do with my day other than leaf through job rejections and watch murder stories on the A&E. But again, it's about her, not me.

However, it got me thinking, while I would love nothing more than to be planning my own wedding to my dream-come-true-kind-of-guy, the excitement I know my friend is feeling is contagious. As a bystander, there's something almost magical about being able to watch your friend/pseudo-family member prepare for a celebration of her love with a very special person. Call me a romantic, but I love weddings. One thing I've told my friends and family is that they should in no way feel obligated to make me a bridesmaid or have me participate in the wedding just because we're related or we've known each other for an extended period of time. I just want to be invited. I just want to be there. And I want to reserve the right to cry because it's just so beautiful (you know I will, let's be real).

I get to be there when my friends stand up before their chosen gods or secular officiants and say, "This is my person. I love them and I choose to spend my life with them." There's just something very happy about being a witness to that kind of love and dedication. And I feel very lucky to say that the beautiful couple standing up in front of everyone are my friends.

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...