Alright, I give.
Not even one week after my boyfriend and I broke things off, I'm actually missing him. After spending the past few days revisiting all the reasons he sucks, it's 9:15 and really cold outside and I miss him.
I'm not going to fool myself with delusions of undying love for this guy. I always knew I didn't really want to spend forever with him, but there were times when I started to contemplate the idea and it didn't seem so crazy. He would love me and protect me, and that's reassuring. The idea of having someone who will look out for you brings up the warm-and-fuzzy feelings that are, in turn, making my eyes tear up a little bit right now.
I will have to remind myself of all the reasons the ex-boyfriend is crazy later. Right now I think even though the relationship barely lasted 4 months, I can still mourn. It sucks to sleep alone.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Knocked Up
I feel like everyone in this world is preggers right now. I happily exclude myself from these statistics, but if you aren't (and don't want to get knocked up) I would stop reading now and make a conscious decision NOT to be my friend. It seems to be catching.
There is going to be a serious baby boom, beginning in May, I can feel it. My sister is due sometime during that month. I will be in Alaska already, so I consider it a good omen for little Gianna (who I will call GIGI). My first neice was born while I was in Alaska and I got to meet her when I came home the next month. It was a surprise visit and my little nugget of a neice was pretty cool. She still is. Gigi is going to be a great kid and I will be able to commisserate with her about what a giant pain in the ass big sisters can be (her mom is my big).
Other than that, not one, but three friends just came out of the closet about harboring a parasite (those with some tact and taste would say being pregnant). As a non-mother who has never been pregnant, I recognize it's perfectly natural to be pregnant. It is possibly the most natural thing ever, but if I have to support some little being off the nutrients I put into my body (and have to lay off the sauce) this thing is a parasite. It can stop being a parasite -- even during the pregancy-- once I have something human to associate with it, like a gender.
I am happy for my friends and family. Thrilled for most, in fact, but this is all tempered by ay n inward sigh of relief I breathe when I receive confirmation from my body that I am not pregnant.
I am 27 years old. I think I used to want to have babies by now, but now that I'm here, I have no desire. I broke up with the mercurial boyfriend on Monday and got my period on Tuesday. I was probably a little more thrilled than I usually am.
I would still love to have children one day. It's something I've always wanted to do, but I have now become comfortable with the idea of taking my 20s for myself, pursuing a career and developing interests (bolstered by my string of failed relationships and flings). So comfortable, in fact, that pregancy seems like it would be the worst thing in the world to happen to me.
It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that I have yet to meet a man who I would want to father my children. I think that's clutch. Maybe not for some people, but I just don't think I'm strong enough genetically, mentally of physically to make up for a real piece of shit baby daddy. I mess things up enough for myself, I can't go create another person to mess things up for.
Basically, the concept of being responsible for the creation of another human being for the rest of my life is a little too much for me right now.
There is going to be a serious baby boom, beginning in May, I can feel it. My sister is due sometime during that month. I will be in Alaska already, so I consider it a good omen for little Gianna (who I will call GIGI). My first neice was born while I was in Alaska and I got to meet her when I came home the next month. It was a surprise visit and my little nugget of a neice was pretty cool. She still is. Gigi is going to be a great kid and I will be able to commisserate with her about what a giant pain in the ass big sisters can be (her mom is my big).
Other than that, not one, but three friends just came out of the closet about harboring a parasite (those with some tact and taste would say being pregnant). As a non-mother who has never been pregnant, I recognize it's perfectly natural to be pregnant. It is possibly the most natural thing ever, but if I have to support some little being off the nutrients I put into my body (and have to lay off the sauce) this thing is a parasite. It can stop being a parasite -- even during the pregancy-- once I have something human to associate with it, like a gender.
I am happy for my friends and family. Thrilled for most, in fact, but this is all tempered by ay n inward sigh of relief I breathe when I receive confirmation from my body that I am not pregnant.
I am 27 years old. I think I used to want to have babies by now, but now that I'm here, I have no desire. I broke up with the mercurial boyfriend on Monday and got my period on Tuesday. I was probably a little more thrilled than I usually am.
I would still love to have children one day. It's something I've always wanted to do, but I have now become comfortable with the idea of taking my 20s for myself, pursuing a career and developing interests (bolstered by my string of failed relationships and flings). So comfortable, in fact, that pregancy seems like it would be the worst thing in the world to happen to me.
It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that I have yet to meet a man who I would want to father my children. I think that's clutch. Maybe not for some people, but I just don't think I'm strong enough genetically, mentally of physically to make up for a real piece of shit baby daddy. I mess things up enough for myself, I can't go create another person to mess things up for.
Basically, the concept of being responsible for the creation of another human being for the rest of my life is a little too much for me right now.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Singles
My boyfriend and I just broke up and it was awesome.
I met my EXboyfriend at a Keller Williams concert in September. He walked up to me and my friend, Lisa, who he already knew and asked us if was abrasive.
Well, being someone who has (wrongly) been accused of being abrasive herself, I took the bait and replied.
"Well, I just met you, but no," I said. "Of course you are not being abrasive, you were probably just being honest."
After he bought me my third tanqueray and tonic, I led him back to my house where I took advantage of him, and he the same of me.
Well, my one-night-stand held on for slightly more than 4 months, but it looks like I might just be free. I mean, I suppose I should be upset. I was for about 3 minutes and then I checked the lock on my door and removed the spare key from underneath our welcome mat.
I am free!
I met my EXboyfriend at a Keller Williams concert in September. He walked up to me and my friend, Lisa, who he already knew and asked us if was abrasive.
Well, being someone who has (wrongly) been accused of being abrasive herself, I took the bait and replied.
"Well, I just met you, but no," I said. "Of course you are not being abrasive, you were probably just being honest."
After he bought me my third tanqueray and tonic, I led him back to my house where I took advantage of him, and he the same of me.
Well, my one-night-stand held on for slightly more than 4 months, but it looks like I might just be free. I mean, I suppose I should be upset. I was for about 3 minutes and then I checked the lock on my door and removed the spare key from underneath our welcome mat.
I am free!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Candyman Can
When I was working at the newspaper, I was responsible for writing a section of the paper called 'Our Neighbors' which I filled the section with profiles of people within the community, with the operating premise that everyone has a story.
Often, we would profile people who did or do something extraordinary, but many times, this section became the place where my editor stuck pushy people who wanted to bully their way into the paper. As a result, I would be forced to meet with that person and figure out what was interesting about the jerk so readers would feel like there was a reason they were reading my story.
When I wasn't being bullied into providing free press for someone's bullshit hobby, the section was my favorite to write. Sometimes, I would write about people with 'dirty jobs,' like the septic guy who drove a truck that read 'We're #1 for your number 2.'
Other times, I would pick people for the section just because the art (photos) for the story would be colorful and timely, like in the spring and early summer when I profiled a blueberry farmer one week and later I wrote about the owner of a pick-your-own peach farm just as the trees were heavy and bowed with fresh peaches. I thought it gave me some fodder for introducing a little imagery into the profile.
Well, last year Easter came early and snuck right up on me. I didn't really have anyone lined up for 'Our Neighbors' as I was preparing for the issue of Easter week. I was actually pretty clueless about who would be my neighbor. I hadn't really gotten all that adjusted to the paper and wasn't really thinking in terms of great photos and introducing imagery verbally. I just wanted to figure out how I was going to fill 12 to 15 inches of space with info about someone. Anyone really. I had to write 8 to 10 articles that same length every week. There wasn't time to dilly-dally.
Taking a look at it numerically:
12 to 15 inches of newsprint
8 to 10 times weekly
3 sources/contacts per story
1 photo
30 words per inch
On a busy/productive week, I was talking to 30 sources.
Producing 150 inches of newshole, or 450 words,
Arranging and assigning 10 photos to one photographer.
Producing 10 newspaper articles that I would feel comfortable not only signing my name next to, but also my email address and work number, including extension.
And trying to tell a readable, interesting Feature story in every single one.
No wonder I quit to sling hash and make money again.
Well, with Easter sneaking up on me (there was always extra work to do leading up to a holiday) I asked my editor if she had any ideas for one of the two papers I wrote 'neighbors' for.
She jumped right in and said, "How 'bout a someone who makes their own candy? One of these candy shops on the boardwalk still has to make something themselves. Candy Corn? Fudge? It's for the Easter paper, so it will be timely."
"Good thinkin'," I said and walked to my desk, wondering how I was going to track these candy makers down in March when nothing gets up and running at the beach until at least the middle of April.
Well, they have phone numbers, I thought, figuring I would get started as soon as I left the office. I only got through on one number and I left a message because it was always safer to give a warm-up call and leave a message because some people still really freak out with journalists, despite all the fame-whores this country seems to be producing. I really had to step it up a few notches when I first got the job and almost had an anxiety attack after I realized how much time I would have to spend on the godforsaken, always-ringing phone.
Anyway, I left a message at a long-standing candy store whose owner had left contact information for prospective employees.
"Looking for summer work? Why not be a kid in a candy store and join the 'insert candy-store here' team for summer 2008? Call XXX-YYYY to apply"
So, I called XXX-YYYY and left a message to see if there was anyone who made the treats, in-house and promptly received a call back, even before I got to the next candy store to play investigator.
"Hi, is this the reporter trying to reach someone from Candyland?"
"Yes, this is Molly speaking. I was wondering, do you have a resident, um, candy-maker?"
"Well, no there isn't anyone, in-house, who makes candy. There actually isn't anyone in town who makes their own candy anymore, I just bought Candyland and nobody does it these days."
"What? No fudgemakers? Or Taffy-pullers? You mean not one of these shops makes their own candy? I mean, this is the beach, what about carmel corn" I said before realizing that even if there were still resident candy makers in town, they certainly weren't pulling taffy in 20 degree weather for the hoards of tourists outside.
After I realized I wasn't going to have anything to go with now that the Oompa-Loompas were taking the winter off, I realized I could still run with a story and instead of focusing on an actual candy maker, I would just write about the owner of the Candyland. He seemed to have a lot of stuff he was planning to do to expand the 70-year old Candyland he bought the previous summer.
"Well, I'm sorry to find no one in town makes their own candy. Wha? Ok, you get your fudge from New Jersey? Interesting," I said, without really caring. "Alright, well we can still work with this. You are open on some weekends, ok, I see. Well, how's Tuesday fit into your schedule?" I said and made arrangements to meet with the new owner of Candyland at the beginning of the following week.
When I met with the new owner on the following Tuesday, he was clearly excited to be getting some free press. As I made my way around the store, he pointed out he was voted Best Downstate Candy Store in a poll created by a statewide magazine. He made me a 'chocolate soda,' a concoction that adds even more fructose to sodas and gave me the phone numbers of some regular customers and business associates as further sources.
He showed me more than 40 varieties of fudge and chocolate candies. The gummi-bar, featuring a menagerie of gummi-animals, beyond the usual assortment of bears and worms. The store had a black-and-white checkered floor and some vintage-looking tables to sit down and have a pop at. After all, the store dated back to the days when teens would meet up for a pop at the end of a school day.
While we were chatting, the owner said he was a transplant, moving within the past 5 years after working in publishing. He said he had previously worked as a travel writer, which sparked my interest, and said he had even published a magazine in the area. I was interested until it became apparent that his magazine was geared more toward an alternative lifestyle. Basically, he was publishing a gay magazine.
While this might have raised alarm signals for many, the beach where Candyland is located is known for it's large population of homosexual and lesbian residents. Think Provincetown, Cape Cod, but less garrish and campy.
If I ever got my hands on one of the magazines, I think it was definitely something I wasn't very interested in, but not a red flag. I certainly didn't want to label myself a bigot and I only had so many inches of space to delve into the history of the shop, the new shop he was opening of the same name, the genesis of the candy that satisfies our cravings and rots our teeth.
I wrote the story and gave it a real willy wonka spin. I mean, really, a gummi bar? How could I not? When the story came out, the headline read "The Candyman Can' and I went on about my business for the next two weeks.
After eating mushrooms and having a particularly bad trip one Sunday, two weeks after the story came out, I awoke at 7:30 on Monday morning to the sound of my cell phone buzzing with a text message.
I read the text and almost swallowed my tongue when a family friend told me that a local radio personality said my name on air and was talking about one of my articles.
"Oh shit." was my immediate reaction. I went down to the only radio I had that worked, the one in my car, and I heard the host talking about the owner of Candyland. The radio host had bad blood with the man over business dealings in the past, but this did not change the issue at had: The owner of Candyland was a convicted pedophile from Missiouri and he bought the local candy store, his pedophilia charges from Missouti notwithstanding.
"Holy shit? What?" I thought, and then I could feel my insides tightening up.
Nevermind the host was an old muckraker and I was not up for holding a press conference at 8 a.m. on the morning talk radio circuit, I just wanted out of my life, like,immediately. All I wanted to do with the story was write a fun profile for Easter! Now, I felt like I wanted to burn it, except I was glad someone was talking about what was really up with this dude.
I started shaking a little when I thought about going to the newsroom. I hoped no one was listening and I believed I was the worst reporter in the world. Clearly, I believed, I was. How could I have been so naive. The publisher of a gay magazine owns a candy store in town? What do you do?
As it turns out, the Candyman was a kiddie-toucher who served time in Missouri and high-tailed it to the East Coast for a chance at a new life.
I wonder if it is known in the ranks of kiddie-touchers that they don't have to re-register as such when they move to Delaware (although I'm unsure of exactly how it really works).
I got hate mail. Real, live, no-return address, postmarked in New Jersey HATE MAIL.
On one hand, I felt I made it. On the other, I was miserable. How could I have been so negligent?
It wasn't until I followed up on one of the hate-emails I received that I could make some peace with it.
A woman emailed me, asking how I could have written such a kind story about such a villian. I wanted to shoot a response back to her telling her exactly where she could go and how she could get there, but then I saw she CC'ed the radio host, and virtually everyone else at that station.
No thank you, I've learned my lesson. I no longer eat mushrooms on Sundays. I realize what I put on paper lingers, even after my mood disappates.
I called her and asked her if she would have wondered who owned her local candy store if it weren't for my story? I asked her if it was really my job, as a reporter, to make sure this man could not be in contact with children, or maybe if it was her job, as a citizen, to mobilize and make changes in her community if she would like to see them.
That shut her up. Hopefully she's mobilizing right now, maybe to this tune:
Who can take a felony record?
Move a time or two?
Seperate the sorrow, and create a petting zoo?
The candyman can,
cause he mixes it with chocolate sodas, webkins, gummis and love,
and an adolescent for you too.
Often, we would profile people who did or do something extraordinary, but many times, this section became the place where my editor stuck pushy people who wanted to bully their way into the paper. As a result, I would be forced to meet with that person and figure out what was interesting about the jerk so readers would feel like there was a reason they were reading my story.
When I wasn't being bullied into providing free press for someone's bullshit hobby, the section was my favorite to write. Sometimes, I would write about people with 'dirty jobs,' like the septic guy who drove a truck that read 'We're #1 for your number 2.'
Other times, I would pick people for the section just because the art (photos) for the story would be colorful and timely, like in the spring and early summer when I profiled a blueberry farmer one week and later I wrote about the owner of a pick-your-own peach farm just as the trees were heavy and bowed with fresh peaches. I thought it gave me some fodder for introducing a little imagery into the profile.
Well, last year Easter came early and snuck right up on me. I didn't really have anyone lined up for 'Our Neighbors' as I was preparing for the issue of Easter week. I was actually pretty clueless about who would be my neighbor. I hadn't really gotten all that adjusted to the paper and wasn't really thinking in terms of great photos and introducing imagery verbally. I just wanted to figure out how I was going to fill 12 to 15 inches of space with info about someone. Anyone really. I had to write 8 to 10 articles that same length every week. There wasn't time to dilly-dally.
Taking a look at it numerically:
12 to 15 inches of newsprint
8 to 10 times weekly
3 sources/contacts per story
1 photo
30 words per inch
On a busy/productive week, I was talking to 30 sources.
Producing 150 inches of newshole, or 450 words,
Arranging and assigning 10 photos to one photographer.
Producing 10 newspaper articles that I would feel comfortable not only signing my name next to, but also my email address and work number, including extension.
And trying to tell a readable, interesting Feature story in every single one.
No wonder I quit to sling hash and make money again.
Well, with Easter sneaking up on me (there was always extra work to do leading up to a holiday) I asked my editor if she had any ideas for one of the two papers I wrote 'neighbors' for.
She jumped right in and said, "How 'bout a someone who makes their own candy? One of these candy shops on the boardwalk still has to make something themselves. Candy Corn? Fudge? It's for the Easter paper, so it will be timely."
"Good thinkin'," I said and walked to my desk, wondering how I was going to track these candy makers down in March when nothing gets up and running at the beach until at least the middle of April.
Well, they have phone numbers, I thought, figuring I would get started as soon as I left the office. I only got through on one number and I left a message because it was always safer to give a warm-up call and leave a message because some people still really freak out with journalists, despite all the fame-whores this country seems to be producing. I really had to step it up a few notches when I first got the job and almost had an anxiety attack after I realized how much time I would have to spend on the godforsaken, always-ringing phone.
Anyway, I left a message at a long-standing candy store whose owner had left contact information for prospective employees.
"Looking for summer work? Why not be a kid in a candy store and join the 'insert candy-store here' team for summer 2008? Call XXX-YYYY to apply"
So, I called XXX-YYYY and left a message to see if there was anyone who made the treats, in-house and promptly received a call back, even before I got to the next candy store to play investigator.
"Hi, is this the reporter trying to reach someone from Candyland?"
"Yes, this is Molly speaking. I was wondering, do you have a resident, um, candy-maker?"
"Well, no there isn't anyone, in-house, who makes candy. There actually isn't anyone in town who makes their own candy anymore, I just bought Candyland and nobody does it these days."
"What? No fudgemakers? Or Taffy-pullers? You mean not one of these shops makes their own candy? I mean, this is the beach, what about carmel corn" I said before realizing that even if there were still resident candy makers in town, they certainly weren't pulling taffy in 20 degree weather for the hoards of tourists outside.
After I realized I wasn't going to have anything to go with now that the Oompa-Loompas were taking the winter off, I realized I could still run with a story and instead of focusing on an actual candy maker, I would just write about the owner of the Candyland. He seemed to have a lot of stuff he was planning to do to expand the 70-year old Candyland he bought the previous summer.
"Well, I'm sorry to find no one in town makes their own candy. Wha? Ok, you get your fudge from New Jersey? Interesting," I said, without really caring. "Alright, well we can still work with this. You are open on some weekends, ok, I see. Well, how's Tuesday fit into your schedule?" I said and made arrangements to meet with the new owner of Candyland at the beginning of the following week.
When I met with the new owner on the following Tuesday, he was clearly excited to be getting some free press. As I made my way around the store, he pointed out he was voted Best Downstate Candy Store in a poll created by a statewide magazine. He made me a 'chocolate soda,' a concoction that adds even more fructose to sodas and gave me the phone numbers of some regular customers and business associates as further sources.
He showed me more than 40 varieties of fudge and chocolate candies. The gummi-bar, featuring a menagerie of gummi-animals, beyond the usual assortment of bears and worms. The store had a black-and-white checkered floor and some vintage-looking tables to sit down and have a pop at. After all, the store dated back to the days when teens would meet up for a pop at the end of a school day.
While we were chatting, the owner said he was a transplant, moving within the past 5 years after working in publishing. He said he had previously worked as a travel writer, which sparked my interest, and said he had even published a magazine in the area. I was interested until it became apparent that his magazine was geared more toward an alternative lifestyle. Basically, he was publishing a gay magazine.
While this might have raised alarm signals for many, the beach where Candyland is located is known for it's large population of homosexual and lesbian residents. Think Provincetown, Cape Cod, but less garrish and campy.
If I ever got my hands on one of the magazines, I think it was definitely something I wasn't very interested in, but not a red flag. I certainly didn't want to label myself a bigot and I only had so many inches of space to delve into the history of the shop, the new shop he was opening of the same name, the genesis of the candy that satisfies our cravings and rots our teeth.
I wrote the story and gave it a real willy wonka spin. I mean, really, a gummi bar? How could I not? When the story came out, the headline read "The Candyman Can' and I went on about my business for the next two weeks.
After eating mushrooms and having a particularly bad trip one Sunday, two weeks after the story came out, I awoke at 7:30 on Monday morning to the sound of my cell phone buzzing with a text message.
I read the text and almost swallowed my tongue when a family friend told me that a local radio personality said my name on air and was talking about one of my articles.
"Oh shit." was my immediate reaction. I went down to the only radio I had that worked, the one in my car, and I heard the host talking about the owner of Candyland. The radio host had bad blood with the man over business dealings in the past, but this did not change the issue at had: The owner of Candyland was a convicted pedophile from Missiouri and he bought the local candy store, his pedophilia charges from Missouti notwithstanding.
"Holy shit? What?" I thought, and then I could feel my insides tightening up.
Nevermind the host was an old muckraker and I was not up for holding a press conference at 8 a.m. on the morning talk radio circuit, I just wanted out of my life, like,immediately. All I wanted to do with the story was write a fun profile for Easter! Now, I felt like I wanted to burn it, except I was glad someone was talking about what was really up with this dude.
I started shaking a little when I thought about going to the newsroom. I hoped no one was listening and I believed I was the worst reporter in the world. Clearly, I believed, I was. How could I have been so naive. The publisher of a gay magazine owns a candy store in town? What do you do?
As it turns out, the Candyman was a kiddie-toucher who served time in Missouri and high-tailed it to the East Coast for a chance at a new life.
I wonder if it is known in the ranks of kiddie-touchers that they don't have to re-register as such when they move to Delaware (although I'm unsure of exactly how it really works).
I got hate mail. Real, live, no-return address, postmarked in New Jersey HATE MAIL.
On one hand, I felt I made it. On the other, I was miserable. How could I have been so negligent?
It wasn't until I followed up on one of the hate-emails I received that I could make some peace with it.
A woman emailed me, asking how I could have written such a kind story about such a villian. I wanted to shoot a response back to her telling her exactly where she could go and how she could get there, but then I saw she CC'ed the radio host, and virtually everyone else at that station.
No thank you, I've learned my lesson. I no longer eat mushrooms on Sundays. I realize what I put on paper lingers, even after my mood disappates.
I called her and asked her if she would have wondered who owned her local candy store if it weren't for my story? I asked her if it was really my job, as a reporter, to make sure this man could not be in contact with children, or maybe if it was her job, as a citizen, to mobilize and make changes in her community if she would like to see them.
That shut her up. Hopefully she's mobilizing right now, maybe to this tune:
Who can take a felony record?
Move a time or two?
Seperate the sorrow, and create a petting zoo?
The candyman can,
cause he mixes it with chocolate sodas, webkins, gummis and love,
and an adolescent for you too.
Friday, January 9, 2009
I love New York
It's been awhile since I've given the blog any love. What can I say? The holidays are great for filling up your time with food and family and booze until, if you are anything like me, you wake up sometime in January and decide it's time to clean up your life.
I don't know how successful I've been so far, but I've made some changes. Modifications, really.
I paid off my credit card at the end of December, just in time for me to open another one and charge more than $1200 for a computer. I had such great intentions with my $350 pseudo-budget. The good news is, my computer is awesome. I got a Sony Vaio and it was only 800, but then I had to get the people who know what they are doing to get it up and running. I also paid a lot of money so I could call a help number for the next 3 years or so-- and talk to someone whose first language is English. But did I mention my new computer rocks? And it's RED! It is Fierce! Rarely do I have such joy at my purchases.
So, out with the old debt and in with the new? I guess, but I also realized I haven't been paid anything for the cover stories I've been writing as a freelancer, so that's almost $400 bucks backed up. I hope to get out of this debt by the time I leave for Alaska. That would be great, but a stretch. Especially since I will also have to raise the funds to fly or drive up there. Now flying is actually seeming like the more cost-efficient option, but I'm still unsure.
As far as the Oregon Trail I like to imagine myself on, it's going to take some more bends before I make it out there for real. I got the idea of NYC back in my head and now I'm thinking I may just take my summer savings and come back to the East Coast.
New York City has always seemed to me like the biggest and greatest city we've got here in the US. I mean, if anything defines my idea of real and this is it. I've always been kind of intimidated and awed and scared and drawn to New Amsterdam.
I think taking up in NYC for a year or two following a new adventure in Alaska could be good. It could be very good.
I still want to make my way West, but if I don't do New York now, I'm afraid I never will.
I don't know how successful I've been so far, but I've made some changes. Modifications, really.
I paid off my credit card at the end of December, just in time for me to open another one and charge more than $1200 for a computer. I had such great intentions with my $350 pseudo-budget. The good news is, my computer is awesome. I got a Sony Vaio and it was only 800, but then I had to get the people who know what they are doing to get it up and running. I also paid a lot of money so I could call a help number for the next 3 years or so-- and talk to someone whose first language is English. But did I mention my new computer rocks? And it's RED! It is Fierce! Rarely do I have such joy at my purchases.
So, out with the old debt and in with the new? I guess, but I also realized I haven't been paid anything for the cover stories I've been writing as a freelancer, so that's almost $400 bucks backed up. I hope to get out of this debt by the time I leave for Alaska. That would be great, but a stretch. Especially since I will also have to raise the funds to fly or drive up there. Now flying is actually seeming like the more cost-efficient option, but I'm still unsure.
As far as the Oregon Trail I like to imagine myself on, it's going to take some more bends before I make it out there for real. I got the idea of NYC back in my head and now I'm thinking I may just take my summer savings and come back to the East Coast.
New York City has always seemed to me like the biggest and greatest city we've got here in the US. I mean, if anything defines my idea of real and this is it. I've always been kind of intimidated and awed and scared and drawn to New Amsterdam.
I think taking up in NYC for a year or two following a new adventure in Alaska could be good. It could be very good.
I still want to make my way West, but if I don't do New York now, I'm afraid I never will.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Virus Ambush!
So I've been absent from blogging (and the internet as whole) for a few days now. I got a virus off a bogus link on facebook. If any of you opened a link where I "sent" you where, 'you won't believe what you are doing in this video' (or something along those lines). Scan your computer now. Invest in a good antivirus if you don't already have one.
After two different system restores (costing roughly $450) in six years and maxing out the memory capacity at the end of last summer, I think my old 'pooter is staggering to its grave.
My laziness and abject poverty prevented me from investing in antivirus software at the last system reboot. The 'pooter people should have just put it back on, but they didn't. They also didn't put many of the programs I had previously back onto my hard drive. This is because Lu, the South Korean computer whiz from Friendly Computers (in Upstate Delaware, don't contact them) cleaned out my system after the first virus and put bootleg copies of all my programs back on.
I went to Alaska for the summer while everything on my computer was still pretty functional. When I returned and unpacked all my belongings out of storage, the virus had time to render my computer pretty much useless. While I was still at the newspaper (I am former reporter and still write freelance), I didn't so much care, but once the tides shifted and I felt as though I was going to need to leave that job, I started getting my computer fixed.
I'll spare you some of the particulars, but basically now it is 4 months after I left the paper and maxed the memory on my computer and it has gone to hell again.
I need a new computer. Soon. I am at my parent's house writing this blog on a Saturday night at 12:30. (Lets not even go there).
Here's my requirements for a new comp:
It must:
After two different system restores (costing roughly $450) in six years and maxing out the memory capacity at the end of last summer, I think my old 'pooter is staggering to its grave.
My laziness and abject poverty prevented me from investing in antivirus software at the last system reboot. The 'pooter people should have just put it back on, but they didn't. They also didn't put many of the programs I had previously back onto my hard drive. This is because Lu, the South Korean computer whiz from Friendly Computers (in Upstate Delaware, don't contact them) cleaned out my system after the first virus and put bootleg copies of all my programs back on.
I went to Alaska for the summer while everything on my computer was still pretty functional. When I returned and unpacked all my belongings out of storage, the virus had time to render my computer pretty much useless. While I was still at the newspaper (I am former reporter and still write freelance), I didn't so much care, but once the tides shifted and I felt as though I was going to need to leave that job, I started getting my computer fixed.
I'll spare you some of the particulars, but basically now it is 4 months after I left the paper and maxed the memory on my computer and it has gone to hell again.
I need a new computer. Soon. I am at my parent's house writing this blog on a Saturday night at 12:30. (Lets not even go there).
Here's my requirements for a new comp:
It must:
- Be A laptop
- Be compact, but not so small that my huge man hands won't be able to type with speed and accuracy.
- Be able to hold my music (for the 30 gb ipod I will be buying to replace my ancient, struggling mini.)
- Have a word processing program.
- Have internet capabilities.
- Have the memory to also store some photos.
I dont' think that's too much to ask. In fact, I think I can probably get said laptop for around $350, but I am not sure. These $350 computers, called netbooks, seem like just what I'm looking for, but I worry that I will just be asking too much of the memory if I expect it to handle photos, music, wordprocessing and internet (even though that shouldn't be too much to ask... AT ALL!)
Does anyone know any good little laptops? I worked on Macs for the first time when I was at the newspaper, but they are pretty pricey and I'm ballin' on a budget.
This is so dumb, but the computer virus thing has really gotten to me and when I realize that fact, I get even angrier about it all. It's just a stupid computer, for chrissakes, but I just started this blog and I really want to make regular posts. I think I can do something with it if I just follow through with it.
Do you want to know how dumb I really am about all of this? The other night, I actually got angry because I "couldn't" write. Not that I couldn't type, not that I didn't have the skills to convey thoughts in the format of the written word, not even that I didn't have a pen and a piece of paper.
I "couldn't" write because my computer won't get online now. I almost had a chance to fix this issue, but I just kept picking the wrong door and making the wrong moves and I dont' really have a means to fix it. Probably a $50 antivirus kit or somthing would work, but that is more money spent on bullshi. when I just want to save that money to get a new comp completely.
Not only do I want to get rid of my cumbersome, jurassic laptop, I want to get rid of a lot of my belongings. I'm tired of accumulating stuff. These belongings rarely make my life much easier. I don't need much and I'm absolutely sick of having to tote this crap from from place to place or put it in storage. Furnature that I can't even lift means I have to wrangle friends of boyfriends or my good ole dad to help me lug this shit up and down apartment stairs. I hate it.
Really, in my book, less is becoming more. A lot more.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Once again, the drink drinks me
First the man takes the drink, then the drink takes the drink then the drink takes the man.
But this woman loves the drink, sometimes more than the man.
I went to Arena's last night and blew some of the money I should be saving on booze, but after starting the evening with a wine tasting and snorting a little percocet (I know! I know! It's shameful, save me the lecture) my inhibitions were low and the liquor store was closed. I had to go to the bar!
Needless to say, the drink drank me.
But this woman loves the drink, sometimes more than the man.
I went to Arena's last night and blew some of the money I should be saving on booze, but after starting the evening with a wine tasting and snorting a little percocet (I know! I know! It's shameful, save me the lecture) my inhibitions were low and the liquor store was closed. I had to go to the bar!
Needless to say, the drink drank me.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Broken ovens and dry turkey
Happy belated Thanksgiving. My holiday was pretty lame, but Thanksgiving is always a pretty lame holiday.
This year, my mom "broke" the oven, just in time for the holidays so the fam went out to dinner at a place in the town where I'm from.
The buffet was lackluster but Thanksgiving food really isn't all that wonderful anyway and they covered the basics, so what could any of us expect?
My boyfriend came to dinner and my family liked him, but took the opportunity to ask me if having the boyfriend meant I changed my plans to go to Alaska this summer.
'Of course not' was my response, so they changed tactics and just told me they didn't want me to go.
I just don't think they understand that I really want to get out of this place. Like, a lot.
It's not that I'm running away from them, it's just that I'm trying to escape this state where everybody knows everybody and they all have two cents they are itching to give you (for future refence, skip the two cents and give me a dollar, would ya? Maybe then I'll listen).
I love my boyfriend and I love my family but this world is pretty big and this little peninsula is pretty small, as are the minds of many people who live here.
Am I asking for too much when I say I want to find a place to live that excites me? A place where all the open space is not being filled up with shabby construction? A place where the highest elevation is not a speed bump? A place where people talk about ideas, not just other people?
Now my future 'co-pilot' for this trip to Alaska is telling me her whole family doesn't want her to go either. I'll be honest, I'm a little intimadated when I think about driving there. Especially with just the two of us girls, but there's time to plan, or we could just fly there (and deal with not having a car for the whole summer). I really do want to drive though. Maybe if we got one more person to split the gas, it would be worth it?
I don't really know. If we got a guy to go with us, the families would probably feel better, but we would lose a lot of storage space in my Camry between the person and their luggage. I would feel more comfortable if a guy went, even though I hate actually putting that into writing because I grew up thinking girls can do anything guys can do. The thing is, men will always be stronger, even if they are dumber.
Alright, I'm tired of spending so much time on doubts. The trip will work out, somehow, even if it means I don't drive or I go solo. There's a lot of time to figure out the particulars.
This year, my mom "broke" the oven, just in time for the holidays so the fam went out to dinner at a place in the town where I'm from.
The buffet was lackluster but Thanksgiving food really isn't all that wonderful anyway and they covered the basics, so what could any of us expect?
My boyfriend came to dinner and my family liked him, but took the opportunity to ask me if having the boyfriend meant I changed my plans to go to Alaska this summer.
'Of course not' was my response, so they changed tactics and just told me they didn't want me to go.
I just don't think they understand that I really want to get out of this place. Like, a lot.
It's not that I'm running away from them, it's just that I'm trying to escape this state where everybody knows everybody and they all have two cents they are itching to give you (for future refence, skip the two cents and give me a dollar, would ya? Maybe then I'll listen).
I love my boyfriend and I love my family but this world is pretty big and this little peninsula is pretty small, as are the minds of many people who live here.
Am I asking for too much when I say I want to find a place to live that excites me? A place where all the open space is not being filled up with shabby construction? A place where the highest elevation is not a speed bump? A place where people talk about ideas, not just other people?
Now my future 'co-pilot' for this trip to Alaska is telling me her whole family doesn't want her to go either. I'll be honest, I'm a little intimadated when I think about driving there. Especially with just the two of us girls, but there's time to plan, or we could just fly there (and deal with not having a car for the whole summer). I really do want to drive though. Maybe if we got one more person to split the gas, it would be worth it?
I don't really know. If we got a guy to go with us, the families would probably feel better, but we would lose a lot of storage space in my Camry between the person and their luggage. I would feel more comfortable if a guy went, even though I hate actually putting that into writing because I grew up thinking girls can do anything guys can do. The thing is, men will always be stronger, even if they are dumber.
Alright, I'm tired of spending so much time on doubts. The trip will work out, somehow, even if it means I don't drive or I go solo. There's a lot of time to figure out the particulars.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Faber est suae quisque fortunae
- Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.
Now that I am putting everying into words - and I am publishing them - it makes me feel like this plan is becoming more concrete. Scribere est agere - To write is to act
Nevertheless, it makes me wonder, what will the next work be?
Sort of the 'and then? and then? and then?' of Dude, where's my car?
Yes, I really did just quote Dude, Where's my car?
That is the questionable judgement, which makes me doubt my move in the same breath as I applaud my ideas.
When did I start being so afraid of trusting myself?
At any rate, to stop this over-thinking thing, I think I need to challenge myself intellectually. Waiting tables and cranking out one story published (in print, not online) each month is not really pressing me to expand my knowledge base.
Even though I spend a ridiculous amount of time online, it is not really doing much but providing me a great opportunity to catch up on celebrity smut with Perez (and not have to shell out $5 for an US Weekly). I also spend a lot of time on myspace and facebook. Snooping on some people and saying hi to others.
I want to study Latin. Since I nixed the grad school thing because I just don't have that kind of money, I want to do something that will not only be interesting, but make me better at my career.
Does anyone know any good do-it-yourself latin resources? Rosetta stone is good for foreign, I guess,(Michael Phelps said so) but here's the diffictulty level: I have no (working) DVD player.
Aren't there some books? I need to stop watching so much crap tv too.
Now that I am putting everying into words - and I am publishing them - it makes me feel like this plan is becoming more concrete. Scribere est agere - To write is to act
Nevertheless, it makes me wonder, what will the next work be?
Sort of the 'and then? and then? and then?' of Dude, where's my car?
Yes, I really did just quote Dude, Where's my car?
That is the questionable judgement, which makes me doubt my move in the same breath as I applaud my ideas.
When did I start being so afraid of trusting myself?
At any rate, to stop this over-thinking thing, I think I need to challenge myself intellectually. Waiting tables and cranking out one story published (in print, not online) each month is not really pressing me to expand my knowledge base.
Even though I spend a ridiculous amount of time online, it is not really doing much but providing me a great opportunity to catch up on celebrity smut with Perez (and not have to shell out $5 for an US Weekly). I also spend a lot of time on myspace and facebook. Snooping on some people and saying hi to others.
I want to study Latin. Since I nixed the grad school thing because I just don't have that kind of money, I want to do something that will not only be interesting, but make me better at my career.
Does anyone know any good do-it-yourself latin resources? Rosetta stone is good for foreign, I guess,(Michael Phelps said so) but here's the diffictulty level: I have no (working) DVD player.
Aren't there some books? I need to stop watching so much crap tv too.
Monday, November 24, 2008
In the beginning
When I began to concoct my scheme to move West, it was really more of a scheme to make a move at all.
Last year I finally graduated college (after 7 years, two boyfriends, multiple moves and one brain injury) and decided I wanted to go travelling one more time before I gave in, grew up and got a job that gave me health care. I did all of the above but after the gig as a reporter stopped being fulfilling, I decided I just don't have the financial freedom to do a job for glory.
My thoughts on that paper experience: Thanks, but no thanks. I'm glad I got published so much, but the corporate atmosphere was not what I expected when I decided to become a writer.
Currently, I feel this career choice is making me into a great waitress, but hopefully this blog will be the start I need to become a greater travel writer and the author of books.
So now I'm returning to Alaska this spring (where I spent the summer working after I graduated college). It will be a road trip to end all road trips with my friend Samantha. Maybe my magnum opus travel story? To me, when I travel, it's the only time I feel comfortable with feeling uncomfortable- a feeling I run into a lot.
My previous travels took me to New Orleans and Western Europe after the opportunity presented itself, and I had nothing keeping me home.
With New Orleans, I was dealing with the death of a friend. This time, when my long-time internet boyfriend (virtually the only type of boyfriend I had in high school) told me I should come visit, I took him up on it. I've always been sort of fascinated with Louisiana and the bayou and the creole and cajun people and voodoo of that place. It's completely foreign and interesting.
I booked a ticket that night and three hours later I was on a flight from BWI to Louisiana. I had a hot 24 hours to spend in NOLA so I could make it down and back, (and show up only 45 minutes late for my dinner shift waiting tables, thank you very much). I didn't fall deeply in love with the guy, surely, but I did find another love during this expedition. Travel.
I followed New Orleans up with another trip two years later, but I went bigger. I paid off my new credit cards and saved an entire summer's worth of earnings to visit friends in Germany, with three thousand dollars and a one-way ticket.
I spent most of my time in Europe high out of my head. Bong hits of hash had a way of making me content with spending the day indoors. After living with my friend's family for a while, quitting my job, and watching money dwindle (they let me live rent-free, but hash was an expense and the polizei (sp?) was cracking down), I decided it was probably time for me to experience something beyond Ramstein, Germany on my own.
I cleared up my woes when I went to Amsterdam, where I knew I could get high and would check out a million museums.
When I stayed in Amsterdam, I visited coffee shops and daily. Nightly, it was the red light district (think hookers in windows with dildos on cell phones) the hostel bars, Leidseplein, bed of ars and red-light district (purely for entertainment, of course) each night.
During my time Europe I only visited Germany, France and Amsterdam. I visited Paris at my sister's request, (shortly before I surprised my parents when she returned home with me. I saw the Eiffel Tower in Paris (but didn't go up) and visited a couple Museums. Versailles and Jim Morrison's grave were all I wanted to do with Paris, and those were the trips I required of my visit. There is a lot more I'd like to see, with unlimited time and money, but the the catacombs are the only thing I wish I'd seen on that visit.
Paris is a stylish, artistic city, but it smells like shit.
While I was in Europe, it became apparant what I was to do with myself. I spent every day writing pages and pages in the first (and only) journal I ever filled up without becoming bored with the cover or format and picking a new "more inspirational" volume.
Upon my return, I had a the new focus of knowing what I wanted to pursue and thought surely I would go to the main campus of my college, go on to be a sorority sister, get married and pop out a few kids by the time I hit a quarter-century. Girls in pearls, guys in ties style.
Thankfully, none of it worked out quite the way I planned. I was too worldly and unimpressed with college life at 22. So, by not following my scheme, I got my 20's back to be as adventurous and adult as I want. I don't know if I should have tried harder to fulfill the first plan because here I sit, waiting for my next adventure but also wondering why I feel the need to keep running. At the same time, I made a promise to myself not to settle. So I go.
After my most recent adventure (to Alaska) I thought I would be able to go hard on the career track. Do a year at the paper for the experience. I made it 10 months.
Where I live, I could have kept toiling at my job at the newspaper and maybe I would have gotten into DC if that was who or what I decided to be. Problem is, I live at the beaches where those self-important DC collar poppers drink themselves into filth and vulgarity each weekend, all summer long. I don't want that and hate them for for being able to make laws they think I should follow.
Baltimore desn't bug me so bad, it's a little more blue-collar and real.
Same goes with Philadelphia, which is also a stone's throw. I hate the football team there but I love the Phillies! (It's about time somebody in that town didn't go limp when it counted. )
Nevertheless you can see I have a bit of disdain for some of my neighbors here on the East Coast. I certainly never planned to be in Delaware forever. Not even this long, really, but if you are still with me, you can already see not all my plans pan out the way I hope.
Going to Alaska opened up this world of the West for me. I'm not a fan of guns, but there is much more to the west than guns. It seems like the land, the earth itself talks out loud when I go west.
My current plan is to drive to Alaska this Spring, work there another summer, save some dough and head south to Oregon where I have some friends who recently relocated and love it. Even if I don't end up in Oregon, the idea of being on the Oregon Trail sort of communicates the promise of a life well lived to me. Actively living my life, instead of acting like it is just something that is happening to me.
I don't know how this will really work out, but I plan to record it from this point on, so at least something can come of it.
My name is Molly, welcome to my Oregon Trail.
Last year I finally graduated college (after 7 years, two boyfriends, multiple moves and one brain injury) and decided I wanted to go travelling one more time before I gave in, grew up and got a job that gave me health care. I did all of the above but after the gig as a reporter stopped being fulfilling, I decided I just don't have the financial freedom to do a job for glory.
My thoughts on that paper experience: Thanks, but no thanks. I'm glad I got published so much, but the corporate atmosphere was not what I expected when I decided to become a writer.
Currently, I feel this career choice is making me into a great waitress, but hopefully this blog will be the start I need to become a greater travel writer and the author of books.
So now I'm returning to Alaska this spring (where I spent the summer working after I graduated college). It will be a road trip to end all road trips with my friend Samantha. Maybe my magnum opus travel story? To me, when I travel, it's the only time I feel comfortable with feeling uncomfortable- a feeling I run into a lot.
My previous travels took me to New Orleans and Western Europe after the opportunity presented itself, and I had nothing keeping me home.
With New Orleans, I was dealing with the death of a friend. This time, when my long-time internet boyfriend (virtually the only type of boyfriend I had in high school) told me I should come visit, I took him up on it. I've always been sort of fascinated with Louisiana and the bayou and the creole and cajun people and voodoo of that place. It's completely foreign and interesting.
I booked a ticket that night and three hours later I was on a flight from BWI to Louisiana. I had a hot 24 hours to spend in NOLA so I could make it down and back, (and show up only 45 minutes late for my dinner shift waiting tables, thank you very much). I didn't fall deeply in love with the guy, surely, but I did find another love during this expedition. Travel.
I followed New Orleans up with another trip two years later, but I went bigger. I paid off my new credit cards and saved an entire summer's worth of earnings to visit friends in Germany, with three thousand dollars and a one-way ticket.
I spent most of my time in Europe high out of my head. Bong hits of hash had a way of making me content with spending the day indoors. After living with my friend's family for a while, quitting my job, and watching money dwindle (they let me live rent-free, but hash was an expense and the polizei (sp?) was cracking down), I decided it was probably time for me to experience something beyond Ramstein, Germany on my own.
I cleared up my woes when I went to Amsterdam, where I knew I could get high and would check out a million museums.
When I stayed in Amsterdam, I visited coffee shops and daily. Nightly, it was the red light district (think hookers in windows with dildos on cell phones) the hostel bars, Leidseplein, bed of ars and red-light district (purely for entertainment, of course) each night.
During my time Europe I only visited Germany, France and Amsterdam. I visited Paris at my sister's request, (shortly before I surprised my parents when she returned home with me. I saw the Eiffel Tower in Paris (but didn't go up) and visited a couple Museums. Versailles and Jim Morrison's grave were all I wanted to do with Paris, and those were the trips I required of my visit. There is a lot more I'd like to see, with unlimited time and money, but the the catacombs are the only thing I wish I'd seen on that visit.
Paris is a stylish, artistic city, but it smells like shit.
While I was in Europe, it became apparant what I was to do with myself. I spent every day writing pages and pages in the first (and only) journal I ever filled up without becoming bored with the cover or format and picking a new "more inspirational" volume.
Upon my return, I had a the new focus of knowing what I wanted to pursue and thought surely I would go to the main campus of my college, go on to be a sorority sister, get married and pop out a few kids by the time I hit a quarter-century. Girls in pearls, guys in ties style.
Thankfully, none of it worked out quite the way I planned. I was too worldly and unimpressed with college life at 22. So, by not following my scheme, I got my 20's back to be as adventurous and adult as I want. I don't know if I should have tried harder to fulfill the first plan because here I sit, waiting for my next adventure but also wondering why I feel the need to keep running. At the same time, I made a promise to myself not to settle. So I go.
After my most recent adventure (to Alaska) I thought I would be able to go hard on the career track. Do a year at the paper for the experience. I made it 10 months.
Where I live, I could have kept toiling at my job at the newspaper and maybe I would have gotten into DC if that was who or what I decided to be. Problem is, I live at the beaches where those self-important DC collar poppers drink themselves into filth and vulgarity each weekend, all summer long. I don't want that and hate them for for being able to make laws they think I should follow.
Baltimore desn't bug me so bad, it's a little more blue-collar and real.
Same goes with Philadelphia, which is also a stone's throw. I hate the football team there but I love the Phillies! (It's about time somebody in that town didn't go limp when it counted. )
Nevertheless you can see I have a bit of disdain for some of my neighbors here on the East Coast. I certainly never planned to be in Delaware forever. Not even this long, really, but if you are still with me, you can already see not all my plans pan out the way I hope.
Going to Alaska opened up this world of the West for me. I'm not a fan of guns, but there is much more to the west than guns. It seems like the land, the earth itself talks out loud when I go west.
My current plan is to drive to Alaska this Spring, work there another summer, save some dough and head south to Oregon where I have some friends who recently relocated and love it. Even if I don't end up in Oregon, the idea of being on the Oregon Trail sort of communicates the promise of a life well lived to me. Actively living my life, instead of acting like it is just something that is happening to me.
I don't know how this will really work out, but I plan to record it from this point on, so at least something can come of it.
My name is Molly, welcome to my Oregon Trail.
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