Day 26: Over the Hump, Buddy

"Spring is in the Shirt." I am still wearing my parka, but I'm already mentally in spring. I figure if I delude myself strongly enough, I can start to believe that, despite it being only January, green trees and flowers and tank tops are right around the corner. It's working so far. The thing I love about neutral-colored clothing is its practicality. Everything is interchangeable. It's smart, sophisticated, and virtually hassle-free. The thing I love about color is that you can do whatever the hell you want with it--play it up, play it down, mix contrasting colors, stay within one color scheme--depending on what mood you're in. Take this shirt. You could virtually accessorize with anything. Black flip flops? Fine. Sexy, bright yellow heels? Awesome. Brown, black, gold, silver, jeans, trousers, skirt, doesn't matter. Just pick something and go with it. Here, our motto is: the crazier the better.

The next episode on our list deals mildly with the concept of a "fuck buddy." "What's that?" you ask. It's an acquaintance you keep around just for on-call sex when you're feeling low. The installment also talks about each of our dating patterns--if and why we tend to date the same sort of people over and over again.

In an effort to keep her morale afloat, Carrie makes a bootie call. Miranda dates an angerholic (just made that up) and realizes that she gravitates toward pessimistic, crabby men. Charlotte tries to brake her pattern of first, waiting to be asked out by a seemingly ideal man, and second, on their first date, projecting onto him all her fantasies of the perfect husband. She decides to ask out random guys and keep it casual. All's fine, until one of her dates finds her kissing another of her dates on the same night. She decides to go back to her old approach. Samantha's neighbors invite her, via a note under her door, to join their nightly sex-a-thons. She's thrilled, until she realizes they're both over fifty and overweight.

The fuck buddy is kind of a sensitive subject for me, gotta admit. A relationship gal to the core--meaning the concept of sex without strings attached is beyond my comprehension--I feel almost angry that I never got to have this experience. People I know had fuck buddies. Why not me? After watching this episode, I actually found myself fuming a bit. Why couldn't I have had, at some point, a friend I could rely on for sex but no drama? Why did I always just get the drama?

Then it hit me. Everyone I've known who had this type of pal thought the person (out of bed) was a total freak. However, since the sex was so good (or so easy), the "freak" part wasn't important. The theory was simple. Who cares if a girl's obsessed with wolves and gummy bears if she gives good head? What's the big deal if a guy is a nymphomaniacal singer, who raps about sleeping with 97 women, if he'll come running over to make love to you at the drop of a backwards hat? The point was to look beyond the bad stuff and just see the sex. I realized that was my problem. It wasn't that I was opposed to the concept of a fuck buddy. I just couldn't handle the thought of kissing someone who disgusted me.

Today, I met a friend for a walk around the park. She has been trying to land me a job as a cashier at her workplace. After submitting my resume and application and hearing nothing back, I found out today that the position went to a recent high school grad with experience working at Trader Joe's. When my friend asked her boss why he didn't call me, he asked, "Would she really be okay being a cashier?" Hmm. I thought putting my cumulative GPA on a resume was a good thing. Apparently, it can also say something about your inability to be happy (and therefore reliable long term) in crap jobs.

As I parked my car to meet with this friend, I realized I was tired and cranky. I was also possibly seriously depressed. I felt like an empty shell, a fragment of the busy, vibrant person I was only five months ago. I had almost canceled, fearing the prospect of having nothing interesting to say about my life and therefore just appearing dull, but I figured getting out of the house was a good thing. It didn't matter what happened. Hopefully, she wouldn't judge. As we talked, my mood lightened. I asked her about the details of her upcoming wedding. She asked me about the job search. I felt alive in a way I hadn't for days, maybe weeks. Maybe it was talking to a woman, a person who felt and thought in similar ways as I. Perhaps it was talking to someone at all besides Hank, or just getting out of my head for an hour. Whatever it was, it felt good.

On the way back home, I thought about what had been happening to me in the past few months and realized that it had gotten pretty bad. I seemed to be succumbing further and further to the feeling of hopelessness I'd been trying to avoid since the day I graduated, no longer seeing possibilities, just obstacles. Not only was I drowning in a sea of indecision about what to do with my future, I couldn't even find something to fill my days. I felt cut-off from society and unable to access my usual resiliency and determination--to pick myself up and attack the job search as I used to attack midterm papers--that I now desperately needed. Instead, when I talked, there was a lackluster in my voice, like someone who was far away. In conversations, I found myself asking the same questions minutes apart from each other. Exhausted by my mental chatter and the quietness of the house, I often wished I could disappear and be someone else for a few days. At least it would be interesting.

I got to thinking about craziness. It would be so easy for any of us to go insane. Just lock us up for three months without access to the outside world. I almost think that's all it would take.

I didn't realize all of this until today, until I imagined myself through my friend's eyes. I hadn't realized that I'd been trying, in fact, to be invisible. I just knew I was distancing myself--from my family, from Hank, and even from this blog--about what I felt, worried that it was old news, that everyone was tired (including me) of hearing about my fruitless days. No wonder Hank and I had been fighting.

I know I have to continue looking for work. I realize that bills don't stop, because you're feeling depressed, and that jobs don't land on your doorstep. I also realize that, of course, I have things very good, and it could be much, much worse. It's so hard--and so essential--to remember that. I just have to keep pushing forward, even on the days I don't feel like it. And somehow, knowing that--that I don't have to be happy about being in the third month of job searching or not having money, that I don't have to make myself feel chipper--makes the prospect of looking at Craig's List more manageable and actually makes me in a much better mood. So, off I go. Wish me luck. I could use some.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 22: For the Love of Money

Hank titled this one, "Money Can Buy Happiness," after I told him how much this ensemble costs. Nothing here is cheap. In fact, the whole thing is probably close to $2000. I just couldn't resist. I love this dress. Could a LBD any sleeker, sexier, understated, comfortable, and versatile? Too bad it's $500. The cuff bracelet is also grand. Imagine the possibilities. It would look as good with jeans, boots, and a rocker tee as it does here. But the thing that makes me gaga about this outfit is the mix of brown and black. It really can be done, though I admit it can be done badly. Black/brown works here, because the purse and shoes still match (an old fashion maxim), making the brown seem purposeful. Also, the brown pieces have shimmer, pushing them toward gold. Since the jewelry is gold, it ties the brown in even more. Since black is the main piece and runs the length of the silhouette, it doesn't look like a color mistake. Plus, let's face it. You can wear any color with a LBD, and it will look right.

"Tell a man, 'I hate you,' and you'll have the best sex of your life. Tell a man, 'I love you,' and you'll probably never see him again." Samantha

Money is tough. Saying "I love you" can be equally as hard. Both are especially difficult when one person has it/says it and the other doesn't. Enter, today's episode.

Steve, a career bartender, and Miranda, an attorney, have a big income difference. It starts to cause problems. When Miranda asks Steve to go to a work function with her, she finds out that he doesn't own an appropriate suit for the occasion. She offers to buy him one. Big no-no. Steve freaks out, buys the suit, returns the suit, and breaks up with her, saying there will always be things that are out of his reach. Samantha dates a man who has a female Thai servant. The woman pretends not to know English in front of her "master," but secretly sabotages every gal he dates. After all, if he gets serious about another woman, she may be out of a job. Charlotte makes out with an egomaniacal movie star but breaks away just short of becoming a groupie. In an extremely awkward moment, Carrie tells Big she loves him for the first time. He doesn't say it back. A week goes by. They go to one of his high-society parties and fight the entire night. Assuming Big doesn't love her nor care about her feelings, Carrie ends up leaving without him and goes home with a guy friend, who she ends up kissing. Big wakes her up the next morning with a phone call in which he says, "I fucking love you, okay. Are we okay?" Carrie feels terrible, but relieved. She doesn't tell him about the kiss, justifying that "Everything before 'I love you' just doesn't count."

This subject of money and coupledom hits home with me right now. Since we're living only on Hank's meager med school loans and a small sum I made working over Christmas, we're money-stressed to the max. We both know it could be worse. Hey, we can still pay our rent and eat. But we're conscious about money every day, especially since I'm jobless. What's more, unemployment breeds a certain amount of money shame that follows me around all day and whispers in my ear, "You don't deserve anything until you start making more money. Right now, by buying this coffee, you're draining your resources and taking Hank down with you." And yet, I still make the odd purchase, which understandably infuriates Hank. I argue that it's money I earned over Christmas. I also figure that since I contribute my half to rent and groceries, who cares if I put $20 here and there on my credit card? He's not paying that back. I am. And I'm so much better than I used to be, yada yada.

But he doesn't see it that way. He doesn't care where the money comes from. It's our money, and I'm spending it on stupid shit like gold heels on sale at Aldo that we (debatably) don't need to survive. Then, he reminds me again that he hasn't bought anything for himself in the past few months. He hasn't skied or gone to a hard rock concert, even though I tell him to go. He says we can't afford it. He's right. I know this. I also know that it would take a near act of God for me not to spend any money during a month--even if all I buy is a damn $6 bracelet at Forever 21, which I did yesterday. I'd almost sacrifice one meal for that. Who knows, I may soon start having to do that.

This all brings up the issue of Whose Money Is It Anyway--especially when you're not married and, like me, have a lot of debt you accrued before you were even together. Every marriage guidance book (when I use to read that crap) says you should share all finances, regardless of who makes more. Merge your accounts. Merge your debts. It's the only way to be a truly united force. I tend to agree with this. But I'm not used to it. I'm used to making financial decisions on my own, even if those decisions are bad ones.

What's more, I come from a family where both partners make enough to justify personal expenditures, but they rarely ever agree on what to buy. To avoid confrontation, they just buy things without telling the other, causing a truckload of resentment. Dad gives a thousand dollars to the Republican Party. Mom buys her tenth garage-sale piece of furniture this year. They both secretly fume. So financial independence within a couple isn't necessarily healthier. In the end, your financial behavior can't help but affect your partner, and visa versa. You have to work together--for your sanity and your partner's.

So, realizing this, I made Hank a deal. Until I have a job and we then make a budget, I will not go to the mall. At all. Since the poor man naively didn't state anything about online shopping, I am taking the initiative to include it (a painful decision). It will be hard, but in the end, no matter how cute those shoes or how much I like a dress I saw in Glamour, I like Hank more.

As far as "I love you" goes, here's our story. When I first said it to Hank (and I did say it first), I was afraid for a second that he wouldn't say it back. I had wanted to wait until he said it first. I was trying to be cautious for once. But after a few weeks of dating, he wasn't saying it, and I couldn't wait to tell him. I knew it was early, but I couldn't help myself. I blurted it out. To my own relief, he said it back right away. He mentioned that he had only told one other girlfriend that in his entire life, and even then only under duress. He had always refrained from saying it, because he wanted it to be really special when he did. He always let the girl know his stance at the beginning of the relationship. I was shocked at this--I had said "I love you" to all of my boyfriends, mostly because I thought that's what couples did--but I admired him for it.

A few minutes after we said it, I worried I had made a mistake. I thought maybe he had spouted it off just to make me feel good. However, as the days went by, I saw his floodgates burst open. Every time I looked at my phone, there was an "I Love You" text. We never went a conversation without saying it. His friends even teased him for being so in love. I realized I really was getting all his saved-up love.

Nine months later, I still get those texts--nearly every morning. I know I'm a lucky woman. I think if you feel it, you say it. You have to in order to be true to yourself and life. Besides, who cares who says it first or more often? Even if no one ever said it, you would feel if it's there or if it isn't. The biggest part of love is active, not just a few words. But when the actions, the words, and the feelings are all there, man, that's hard to beat.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 14: Here's to Hope

A version of this outfit, which I'm calling "A Weekend Away," is pretty much what I wear everyday. I am a jeans girl. I love them. If I had twenty days to live, I'd spend them all in jeans. Actually, I have pretty much been doing just that, considering this is the fifth day IN A ROW that I have worn my Lucky skinny jeans. Eek. I think they're actually starting to smell. What can I say? The dryer in our apartment complex has been broken for a week, and they're my best (relatively) clean pair.

I'm all for seriousness, but for the last post, I think I actually got into some zen state where I was trying to connect to the breakup girl inside of me. I don't recommend doing that often. It's not a happy place. I was also (surprise) alone in the house and feeling a little broodish, so I'm going to try keep this one a bit lighter. It's always a tough thing to balance for me.

Episode two of season two centers around the following question: Are there some things that shouldn't be said in a relationship? After just witnessing a vicious fight between her friend, Sharon, and Sharon's husband, Carrie tells her to leave the bastard. Much to Carrie's surprise, Sharon follows the advice, only to crash on Carrie's couch and talk constantly about how the guy really has a sweet side. Carrie and the ladies decide on one thing a person should never say to a friend: "Leave your partner." If the friend leaves, she will be miserable and blame you. If she stays, she will know you disapprove and never want to talk to you again. Only Charlotte strays from the idea that some things should remain unspoken. She thinks honesty's the best policy, always. Good ol' Charlotte.

Hmmm....

Fine lines, folks. In the case of relationship advice for friends, if the friend's partner is abusive, I think you HAVE to say something. Otherwise, what the hell are friends for? But beyond that, Carrie, Miranda, and Samantha are probably right. People need to decide for themselves, and no one but the couple really knows what's going on in the relationship--and thus whether it needs to end. Lord knows, I've always had enough trouble deciding if my own relationships are worth staying in, much less other peoples'.

At the end of the episode, in an impulsive phone call, Carrie invites Big to her birthday party. He had sent her flowers (actually his secretary had sent them, perhaps by accident, we'll never really know) and she wanted to say thank you. Yeah, yeah, whatever, Carrie. Big hits the party...and stays...too long for the gals' liking. Carrie and Big then proceed to have an awkward walk from the restaurant, where little of importance is said. Carrie decides the one thing she can't tell him is that she still cares for him. So, they say goodbye, who knows for how long. On the cheery side, at least Carrie didn't end the night in tears.

Frustrating. This is where a part of me is a little tired of romantic comedies. Many of them, SATC included, have one dramatic element in common: a bunch of moments where both lovers want to say or do something but just don't--a situation the romantic viewer can't get enough of. I used to be a romantic, and I think I still am. So why do I have the urge to say, "Come on, people, aren't relationships hard enough without open communication? Maybe I just think honestly is romantic.

As a child, I was taught--not just by movies and books but by my parents as well--the conservative, stoic approach to relationships. The lesson (unspoken, of course)? Some things are better left unsaid. You don't have to tell your partner what you're thinking, and not everything has to be talked about--actually it's preferable if it isn't. Consequently, I have been living this theory most of my life. If the sex was subpar in a relationship, I said nothing. If I was upset, I tried to keep it in. Even if I was worried about whether the person was cheating on me or not, I just tried to not make a big deal about it. Then, as I slowly blossomed into the big-mouthed, opinionated gal I am today, I decided that keeping things in is a monumental waste of time. I mean, if I'm not going to tell my partner my inner life, who the hell am I going to tell? Then the flood gates opened.....

Now I think I may be bordering on 'too much information.' When Hank asks about an ex, I go into complete disclosure mode, like I'm overcompensating for all of the clamming up I've done. If he wants to know what I dreamed about, and it happened to involve a tall, dark, handsome stranger and passionate kissing, I tell him. After countless discussions about what it all means and feeling extremely guilty for days, I am starting to re-think the wisdom of this. I'm beginning to wonder if a little secrecy now and then ever really hurt anyone. I mean I could just say I don't remember. That's a pretty good conversation stopper. That would keep Hank from experiencing jealousy and me from enduring unnecessary questioning. But Hank says he wants to know, even now. What's a girl to do? So I tell him. Who knows if that's a good thing or not. Sometimes I can hear my mother's advice ("Just keep your mouth shut!") ringing in my ears....

In job news, I had a great interview the other day with a company I would really like to work for. It was for a stylist position centered around helping brides pick out their wedding dresses. The position would have involved fashion decisions AND blogging! Woo-hoo! I say "would have," because I didn't get it. But I refuse to get down about this. I am choosing to renew my belief in hope as a powerful tool of fortune. My Dad thinks I should just work construction. I am not joking. So here's to hope.

I'm keeping this post short (and yes, this is short), to compensate for my marathon one from the other day.

P.S. I got black booties in the mail yesterday (the evil Cyber Monday purchase) and am breaking them in. If it works (and the rim stops digging into my shin), I will keep them and fight whoever tries to rip them from my hands. Just a head's up.

Day 4: No Sex...

...and the City, I mean. We did watch one, but then we spent 3 hours discussing it and related topics. So now I'm kind of burnt out. Hank watches them all with me now, but just to save him face, I will hold forth that he hates every minute of it. It was the one about why married people hate singles and visa versa. Kinda lame. I think they should all just get along.

So I am in a better mood today. Why? I couldn't tell you. It certainly isn't because I found a job. Or even a job prospect. I think it may be that I received my copy of THE LUCKY SHOPPING MANUAL in the mail today. And maybe that I ordered pad thai and summer rolls with peanut sauce for dinner.

While scarfing my food and leafing through the guide on wise skirt buying, I started to feel that old familiar feeling crop up. Excitement. It has been a few days now. For the past week, I have devoted each day to a different career field and have spent my time applying for all the positions I qualify for. This translates to spending up to four hours sitting on a couch and barely moving more than one finger (to cut and paste resumes, etc). Fun. I mean FUN. I mean FUN!

My "excitement" these days has consisted of warming up my cold cups of decaf coffee and taking my dog out to poop. The only thing that saved me last week was Hank getting two days off from school due to excessive snow. Even though he was sick, we got to flirt at various times throughout the day and take some walks together. Actually they were like forced marches, with Hank saying, "You know, you're really not supposed to exercise when you're sick, because your cells are focussing on walking instead of beefing up your immune system" or something very close to that. But mostly he was studying, and I was pasting resumes.

Today was different. Maybe Friday always holds a special aura over us while we do mundane tasks. "I am washing dishes...but it's Friday," we think, our minds almost bursting at all the possibilities Friday holds. "I may be broke and jobless, but it's Friday," was today's version. To celebrate Friday, I took a long walk--a four-mile long walk, in fact, because Bela and I got lost and went a mile too far. It was a sunny, slushy day, and my bouncy feeling wasn't even ruined when a Jeep (purposely?) sped through the puddle right next to us spraying muddy crap everywhere. "People can sure be assholes, but it's Friday," I said aloud.

Basically I just said "Screw it" to the job search today. Some days I find it's necessary in order to retain sanity. Since Hank was back at school, I was extra lonely. After four weeks of sitting alone in the house talking to no one but my dog and my mother for eight-hours at a time, my mind starts to do funny things. Today, I actually thought mice had chewed through the wall, because I heard little scratching, tearing noises coming from above the piano. Then I realized that the mirror I put up with industrial strength velcro was just coming off--and was about to fall on the piano in fact--so I fixed that and resumed breathing.

I am trying to get a piece ready to send off for potential publication. I have little hope. But I feel like with certain things it really doesn't matter how much hope you have. You just have to have skill and give it a shot. Better to save the hope for things that are actually probable or don't depend on skill at all, like having a baby someday, which I hope to do.

I'm going to watch a movie. Because I can. So there. I may not have enough money to buy dog food tomorrow, but that is entirely beside the point.

Goodnight. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 3: Naked

It's been a few days since I wrote here. I have decided to keep this as more of a diary or journal, not a blog. It's too much pressure (and too depressing when you don't have any followers) to have blog.

The last episode of Sex and the City I watched was the third one--fitting since this is day three--and it had to do with "modelizers." Since I've never actually met one of these men, I don't know what they're like. It isn't a type of man I have ever dated. I've dated nice guys and rebels but not really the weird, fetish-driven guys.

But instead of talking about the show, I just want to talk about the day and life.

I woke up at 9:30. I am still looking for a job and under the impression that I'm going to have to start looking seriously in unconventional places. Like the grocery store. Hmm.

I did not get the bridal receptionist position. Neither of the two I interviewed for actually. I didn't even get asked to work at Starbucks. All of the sudden, they didn't have a position open at that store, but I should keep trying back every few weeks or so. I feel so disappointed in myself. And bored. And yet strangely unmotivated, which leads to more disappointment. That's the hardest part. At least when you have a job that sucks, you can complain about the job. I can only complain about myself. Because my job is finding a job, and every day I don't find one is one day where I haven't succeeded at work and--the worst part for me--have nothing to show for the entire day. I hate this. I had better job prospects in Peru. And it was fun work. I love teaching. It makes me feel like I'm doing something meaningful with my time, even if I don't always enjoy it or it takes a lot of energy...both of which are true.

I also like writing. I like getting thoughts down I didn't know I had until they're there on paper. I like just thinking and thinking and thinking. Or doing but stemming from thinking. Does that make any sense? So not making coffee. Or bagging groceries, or just answering phones. And I will very likely be doing one of these things very soon. Why am I so gloomy and defeatist?

I really don't understand how the people who end up living their passion do it. I don't understand what makes them different from me, but they seem very different from me. I always thought I was resourceful and proactive and smart and driven. These days, I just feel like a bum.

I'm reading Sylvia Plath's novel THE BELL JAR (I've mentioned this), and that's not helping. But I will say I had an interesting thing happen today while reading in the bathroom. For the first time, I actually felt myself disassociating from the main character. It was fine when she was becoming disillusioned with life, when she couldn't choose between different possible futures, when she was depressed. But today she tried to commit suicide. And as she drifts into deeper insanity, I just find myself reading about a character instead of my potential self. It's almost like the people in the book who put her into the asylum. Really, we are all so close to insanity, but we can't relate to it too much. Otherwise that makes us crazy too. And that makes us able to do the things crazy people do. And that's not cool. Maybe it's just self preservation. So I'm the enemy for her now. I wonder if she meant for that to happen to the reader. Probably not. She probably just needed a catharsis.

Getting tired. Now that I know nobody's reading this yet, I will just say that I'll be back. Like the Terminator. We all do the best we can.

Day 2: Take Your Life Seriously

This is the sign I have put up on the fridge.

I have figured out how to put this whole blog thing together. First, I will try to watch one episode of Sex and the City a day, and I will use this space to reflect on it and talk about fashion, obsession, and love. All while indulging one of my biggest obsessions! It's perfect! This gives focus to the writing but also keeps me from watching too many episodes in one day. The bonus is that while I'm in a new city with no friends (I think if I keep saying this it will hit home and make me more social), the show will tide me over with TV friends so I don't go insane. Don't judge, people.

So...94 episodes. Plus the movie (and by the time I'm done probably the sequel to the movie, which comes out in March or May I think). That should keep me busy for a while.

Since I'm already half-way through the first season (for the second time, of course), I will need to start over. I will start tomorrow or tonight. Procrastinating on day 2, not good.

In other news, I have a job interview today. Last week's was at Starbucks. The whole thing went fine right up until the guy who interviewed me (we'll call him Joe) asked me all chipper-like why I wanted to work at Starbucks. I told him I thought I would be good at it, and that I like coffee. Lame-oh. But the truth was that I was humiliated at the thought of working there. You see, part of the problem of higher education and graduating at the top of your class is that it instills in you a mighty strong ego and sense that you can do anything you want to. So why are you working at Starbucks? That is not why you took out $5,000 in student loans (and I consider myself lucky with only that much). That is not why you've been eating Cup of Noodles for 4 years or getting only 6 hours of sleep a night. No, it all should have amounted to much more. But it didn't. That's what I didn't tell Joe. Yep, you graduate with PRIDE. And pride's a bitch.

So, my interview is at the best bridal dress boutique in Denver. Miraculously, I got the interview the same way I got an interview at the best wedding cake shop in Seattle. Cold calling. It goes like this. I think of something that would be fun, a job where I wouldn't want to shoot myself after a day of doing it, and I call all the places in town that do that. First on my list was wedding dress shops.

I guess there's a special bond between me and the wedding industry. Weddings seem so special and beautiful. All that pent-up anxiety the bride experiences (pent-up, because you can't punch anyone, and you are supposed to be deliriously happy all of the time on account of the fact that you're getting married) culminates into a day where people are looking their best and changing their lives hopefully for the better. Or maybe I'm drawn to the wedding biz because of my own quite copious experience. I'm still trying to sell my unworn dress from last year. I've already half-planned two ceremonies and made monumental cakes for two of my friends' nuptials. Whatever the reason (and I'm not saying it's healthy), I'm nervous for this interview.

I don't know what I'm going to wear. Casual skirt and belted cardigan with boots or professional-looking sheath dress and scarf with heels? Curly hair or straight? I just got cute new fish-scalely tan flats yesterday from All Black. Maybe I'll wear those. I love that label. After two years of searching for the perfect black flats (not non-stop of course), I finally found All Black's version at endless.com. Quilted patterned, professional but fun, shiny goodness. So I ordered them in my usual size 9, and when they came I nearly had an orgasm taking them out of the box. I tried them on, and much to my dismay, they felt like a size 8. Damn. No problem, I thought, I'll just order a size up. But they were now completely sold out. Double damn. So I got on the waiting list. I knew I had to give the 9s up, but they were so perfectly shaped to my foot, so light to walk on, and so mesmerizing (albeit too small), I had a hard time laying them back in their box. But I did.

Gotta go shower. I just realized I didn't talk about love, but I will save that for my first Sex and the City review. Oh this will be fun! Hope you'll be back, I will.

Day 1: And Just Who the Heck Are YOU?

I am unemployed.

I am unemployed and sitting on my couch, in our new Denver apartment for about the 20th day in a row.

I feel about a joint away from the guys on Knocked Up or the main character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall when he starts enacting scenes from movies to entertain himself. I am starting this blog mainly to keep from becoming like Esther in Sylvia Plath's THE BELL JAR. Because I'm getting close.

Now, a bit about myself, just for reference. I am 27. I am in a relationship, and my significant other (what is the best term for this, really? I think there should just be one, and everyone should have to use it...like "novio/a" in Spanish, which means fiance but has nothing to do with being engaged) is in first-year med school, which makes me feel like an even bigger slacker. He spends his days studying to save the world. I sit on the couch and write into a potential void. We have a dog, Bela. He's a cute munchkinface of a Wheaten Terror. He keeps me sane these days, because often the only time I talk from 9-5 is to say, "Bela, no, drop it" in my serious voice.

I have two college degrees, both in equally unemployable fields--history and music. I got the first degree, because I couldn't decide on one (I had changed about 5 times), and I only had a year left before I was supposed to graduate. So I completed all of the required courses in two summers and an eyes-bloodshot-from-reading-so-much year. In some act of luck, I was elected by the history faculty as "History Graduate of the Year" from a pool of 5 graduates in the department with the highest GPAs out of 200 or so students. Even though it was true I had done well for myself, presenting papers at conferences and helping with grading as an undergrad, I wondered if I was there mostly by charm. After all, I received a C+ in Problems of Peace and Security, only because my professor pitied the fact that I forgot to answer one of the essays on the final and let me do some extra credit. That doesn't seem like HGY behavior. I spoke at graduation and cried through the whole thing, recounting all of my beautiful memories from various conferences, yada, yada. It was embarrassing.

But I really thought doors would open for me at that point. Let me rephrase that. I thought I would start opening doors at that point--that I would begin to see a direction for my life. That I would start to take my life seriously and see my potential when I really put my mind to something. It didn't happen.

I got the second degree in music two years later. I have always played the piano, and everyone--Mom, professors, Mom, friends, peers, Mom--thought I should get the degree, so I did. What else was I going to do? I have a good deal amount of talent for the instrument, and I am in love with music. I think that was their reasoning too. But it turns out that music jobs are hard to find. Go figure. And you have to be REALLY good. Or really convinced you are good. I am neither. I am good. So now I have two degrees, both of which I enjoyed pursuing. However, I can't say I'm too appreciative of the choices they've left me after graduation. I'm lost. But on the upside, I know what a harmonic progression is. I can tell you the tenants of Just War Theory and most of the major battles of World War Two. And I can analyze Chopin's first piano concerto. Jack of all trades....

I am from Montana. And yes they, surprisingly to some, have running water there. It is a beautiful, magical place. Maybe someday I will post a picture here for anyone at all to see. But let me attest to the fact that you can be gloomy and lost anywhere. That's why I don't dream of living in Cabo San Lucas. I know I would just be sitting on my couch THERE, watching my dog chase squirrels in his dreams, and writing this post, because I probably wouldn't have a job. Well, I could probably teach English, and likely I'd be sitting on the toilet much more than the couch, but those are neither here nor there.

Now, briefly, the title of my blog. I hate titles. I only come up with them at the last minute, because they are mandatory. I usually do so after I've written, because I'm so bad at them and I can spend 10 minutes thinking of a crappy one when I could otherwise be writing. I ask, "Who has the time?"

But this one seemed to incorporate the things I spend most of my day thinking about. And it is probably what will make it into my blog most of the time. And I think three words with a period after each looks cool. But I'm probably horribly wrong, since I suck at titles.

Fashion. I have a closet that takes up half of a room out of our 2-bedroom apartment. I have close to twenty coats at this point, and an equal proportion of scarves, shoes, blouses, boots, bags, hats, dresses, etc. I am probably not alone in this reality. Despite my expansive closet and attention to fashion detailing, I am under no illusion that I am the most fashionable girl walking down the street. I know how to put things together, but I am a bit predictable. Long tank? Check. Shorter tank to go over it? Check. Jeans? Check. Scarf and boots/flats? Check. Cute blazer? Hell yes. And a variation of that is pretty much what I wear every day. As you can imagine, my tanks take up an entire drawer. I have them in five different shades of green.

I told my boyfriend (is this a better term?) that if I ever go into extreme depression, just hand me a GLAMOUR magazine, and I'll perk right up. It is scary how true this is. I get strange, deep pleasure out of picking out outfits, having discussions about clothes, tearing out fashionable outfits from magazines for inspiration, and watching Sex and the City.

And that leads us nicely into the obsession part. I have a few of those. Sex and the City tops the list. As for the rest of them, you (and I) will learn about them in time. Now, I am not one of those women who thinks (or worse exclaims), "Oh, my girlfriends and I are SOOO like that show. My life is basically just like Sex and the City." I am jealous of those women. I don't really have girlfriends. Sad, I know. Well, I do, but they live all over the country--world, even--and I rarely see them or even talk to them enough for me to say something like "If you don't give him head, how do you expect him to give you head?" (Samantha). No, those conversations are once in a blue moon. I barely have them with my sisters. (We were brought up in a conservative Presbyterian family, after all.) No, I like Sex and the City precisely because it is NOT my life.

I didn't find out about the show until my first year of college at NYU, when I was a scared but precocious little freshman, 30 pounds overweight, with no friends and no boyfriend or lover to speak of. And it was obsession at first watch. It made me feel like I was part of something, that I was friends with those women, as sad as that sounds. That I, too, could be cool and talk like them at least in my imagination.

I haven't had a TV since I was little, so I had to rent the seasons at Blockbuster (since Netflix didn't exist). And I used to be really embarrassed by it. Here I was reading classic novel after intense classic novel, my nose always stuck in a book, only saying enormously serious things in class, getting a 4-point. And what did I watch in my spare time? The History Channel? BBC? The news? No. Sex and the City. While eating a gallon of ice cream.

You will hear lots more about Sex and the City, whether you like it or not, because my relationship with it has evolved into an almost healthy one. Almost. And I'll try to include thoughts about it in each blog. But moving on to love....

This is probably the third reason I love the show so much. (Remind me, what were the first and second? Oh yeah, fashion and friends. And I thought we were moving on....see! Obsession!) There is one episode where Charlotte says, "I have been dating since I was 14. I'm exhausted. Where is he?" And that sums up my entire life until about 7 months ago. At one point in high school, I actually said to my mom that I didn't think I was worth anything if I wasn't in a relationship. I have been engaged three times, two with bona fide rings and wedding dates. Only one with invitations sent out. And I have never been married. You figure it out.

Despite that history, I'm applying for jobs at wedding dress boutiques. A die-hard romantic, I cannot NOT talk about love and relationships. So I'm sure you'll be getting some of that. And that's the beginnings of my blog.

Well, here's to fall, the gloomiest season around, but also the most soulful. Hope you'll be back, I will.