Friday Free For All - Things I Love to Talk About A-Z

See, I'm not so cynical. Source

Today's Friday Free For All concept was stolen from Julie at one of my favorite blogs: Peanut Butter Fingers. I give you Things I Love to Talk About A-Z! Instead of just listing the simple things that make me happy, like Julie did, I am listing the that I should start writing more about, because it's best to work on things you love, yes? I've already got some great ideas swimming around in my head. I just need to make some time to start working on them. Also, it's Friday, and that means I can do something fun. Right now, lists are fun, so here you are!

Things I Love to Talk About A-Z

A - Anne Rice and Asparagus Soup - They tied.
B - Body Image
C - Crescent City and Cats. Also, Cassadega.
D - Duran Duran! Duran Duran! Duran Duran!
E - Elder Care
F - First Person Narrative
G - Gender Politics (There's a high concept for you)
H - History - Micro and Macro
I - Interconnection of Ideas in Music, Film, Art, and Literature (The Spider Web)
J - John, Elton
K - Kane, Citizen
L - Law, of the Copyright and Public Domain varieties.
M - Music and Motion Picture History
N - Normalcy, and How it Doesn't Exist, Not Really
O - Orson Welles
P - Pop Culture, Palatka, and Pensacola. Poetry - not so much.
Q - Queer Theory and My Theory on Why We Maybe Shouldn't Call it That
R - Robots. I love robots.
S - Speculative Fiction? Screenplays?
T - Time  Travel
U - Unity Mitford, Because She's Interesting
V - Volunteering and Violence
W - Wilde, Oscar
X - Xanatos Gambit
Y - Yoga
Z - Zen

So, yes. That should keep me busy for quite a while. In the meantime, I have some Uranium J updates for you!

Eins! Did you know that your local library probably has access to research databases and that you can search them from home? Me neither, until today! Now I have a shiny new library card and the ability to start working on some academic writing, if I am so inclined.

Zwei! I got my business cards! Pictures will be posted soon.

Drei! Deep training went well on Saturday and Sunday. I have been placed with my teaching partner, and I am all set to starting teaching with the program on the first Monday of October. I am so excited!

Vier! I'm gonna go see The Possession tonight. Oh yeah.

So, yeah, that's about it.

What are your favorite things to talk about? Do you have any updates you want to share? Comment! Comment! Comment!

Praise You Like I Should - Meandering

I don't say much about j^C on here, and I don't say enough nice things about him in general. So right now I would like to soapbox about one the the wonderful things about my husband: He lets me meander.

What the hell does that mean? you ask. To answer that I must first explain something about myself: I am a meanderer. Merriam-Webster defines the word thusly:

Meander: intransitive verb
1) to follow a winding or intricate course
2) to wander aimlessly or casually without urgent destination; ramble

This is me. I like to meander. I am a meanderer. Some people merely tolerate my meandering. Others indulge it. Then there are those who don't understand the concept of meandering. I don't care for spending time with these people. They rush me and herd me and which sends me into a spiral of anxiety and stress leaving me a frazzled mess for an indeterminable lenghth of time. "Why are we leaving? We just got here!" I think to myself. There are boxes of records in thrift stores that need to be examined at one by one, just in case there's a copy of Captain Fantastic and The Dirt Brown Cowboy or a first pressing of Some Girls. Why don't you all just let me look? What could be more important? The history's not going anywhere, the records might. This also applies to books, CDs, movies, and the little placards at the historical site because I am a woefully slow reader.

Banned. Just cuz the queened up Judy Garland. Source

Most often this happens on vacations. I can handle being annoying. I cannot handle being stressed out. I don't like  taking Xanax at this point. (I don't like taking any drugs at all, but that's another story for another time.) I am to the point now where I might start getting "lost" so I can spend my sweet time exploring what I think is the most interesting. I found some time ago that I would rather visit very small towns on vacation instead of the big tourist destinations for this very reason. In a small town, there's a finite amount of things to see and do, so taking my time and immersing myself will not be done at the expense of another attraction or activity. In a bigger place, you just cannot do that. If you want to get the most out of your visit, you rush around like a madman from place to place and thing to thing. Still, you never really see all of it. Not seeing it all stresses me out. I would rather explore a few things thoroughly than a lot of things superficially. It's supposed to be about pleasure and making memories, right? How am I supposed to remember so many things crammed into one day? My brain not work so good.

j^C, being the nice guy that he is, indulges me. We can spend an hour or two at the thrift store while on vacation. He will let me wander around the museum aimlessly reading all the things there are to read, looking at the art and exhibits until my little black heart is content. When I travel with him, I don't feel hurried, stressed, or otherwise put upon. It's really nice, and I am truly grateful for his patience with this matter as I know I will never have his understanding about it. This quirk of mine aggravates him just as much as it does everyone else, but since he knows that my meandering is important to me, he doesn't grouse. In return, I try to be mindful of time and I make sure we don't spend all day rummaging through boxes of moldy vinyl. While part of me wants to know what is in every single box, there are other things to explore, and maybe like the history, the records aren't going anywhere either.

Friday Free For All: Bringing Back the Naughties with Lists

I read somewhere recently that the first decade of the new millennium (2000-2009) are referred to as the "aughts". I love this, but I also find it a bit clunky. Nearly every term I've heard that refers to this time period is quite clunky in fact. But then I read that the British refer to the decade as the "noughties" and I love it. "Nought" is a term used non American English speaking countries for "zero", so it is both appropriate and fun to say. Being that I am an American and I must bastardize everything, I'm calling the decade after the 90s "The Naughties". Isn't that fun?

Why am I talking about this? Because it's Friday, and I can, for one - but also because I am feeling nostalgic for the halcyon days of blogging on LiveJournal when a list could be considered compelling content. I'm tired and I burned myself out last week with the videos and the writing. I want to post something meaningful, but I want it to be simple and elegant. I want to post a list, and so I shall. I give you,

Things I Suck At
(idea lifted from Amy Estes at Coffee & Sunshine)

Brevity
I can go on and on and on about any and everything. If you don't believe me, please refer to my very first VEDA video. Like my hero, Ernest P. Worrell, I never know when to quit.

Cleaning
I don't know why this is so hard for me, but it is. Something that would take a normal person twenty minutes to do will take me two hours. It is incredably vexing, but as I grow older, I am learning how to cope with my shortcomings. That's a kinder, gentler way to say that I am becoming complacent. I hope that the next house I live in is about half the size of the present one. I had a lot less problems with this issue when I was in college and confined to a finite amount of space. Bigger spaces just mean bigger messes. I would have much fewer problems if I lived in a box. I wonder if I can find one with a reasonable mortgage?

Confrontation
I recently told a close friend of mine that j^C and I are going to have to start having our arguments via email. My feeling is that I can think more clearly on paper and therefore have a well reasoned and logical argument. This is just a ruse though. The truth is I don't like confrontation and I will do nigh on anything to avoid it. I will roll over, cave, and become the milquetoast we all know me to be to avoid a fight. That's kind of sad, and something I should really work on.

Selling Things
I totally stole this one off of Amy's list, but it is so true for me that I couldn't leave it off. If I had to make my way in the world selling myself and/or my wares, I would starve. I feel like a great big jerk when I am trying to promote anything. I don't like people trying to sell me things, but since I hate confrontation, I'll cave pretty quickly to make them go away. Conversely, since I hate to be sold I don't like to sell. Of course, maybe the real aversion is to being turned down.

Staying on Task
That sounds like something a teacher would say, doesn't it? "J, you need to stay on task." Pfft. Please. I don't now that I would classify it as a weakness, but it's definitely a hindrance at times. My brain tends to go faster than my hands or my mouth. As such, I am usually involved in several things at once, all in various stages of completion. The problem with this is that things tend to linger on in a state of incompleteness. In these moments I wish I could do something from start to finish, but I'm just not wired that way. I think that's OK.

Alright kids, that was 5 things. Any more and I fear we will be descending into a Sneaky Hate Spiral. I began to wonder though, is there anything I wish I sucked at? Yes! I wish I sucked at cooking sometimes. I like doing it, but it can be a hassle. Also, if I sucked at cooking I wouldn't feel obligated to take culinary masterpieces of the baked goods variety to parties EVERY TIME. I could just go buy a frozen cake and be done with it. Alas, the burdens of being good at something. Poor me.

What do you suck at? Do you think it's bad that you suck at these things? Is there anything you wish you sucked at?

Nick Rhodes and I Have a Very Special Relationship

I don't want to talk to you about Duran Duran today. I really don't. There's been entirely too much celebrity worship cluttering things up around here, and I'd really like to get back to my story, your stories (should any of you ever choose to submit them) and the general glorification of the mundane. I can't do that though. Not yet. Why? Nick Rhodes, Simon Lebon, and John Taylor came to visit me last night, and since this happens maybe once a year (and that's a liberal estimate), I can't really not write about it.

I was all in the middle of this. Heaven. Source

I was at a this huge arena show, and somehow I was backstage. I had a press pass or something. At one point I was with the whole band, and it turned out that this was some kind of charity show benefiting single mothers. Simon was performing and giving out all sorts of things like he was Maury Povich and it was Christmas. Nick, John, and I wind up in the back of a limo, and I was so tired. Nick was tired too, as he was still recovering from his case of exhaustion, so he let me wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his chest. He laid his head against mine and we could have probably fallen asleep like that. I felt so calm and safe. It was nice.

I was between Nick and John. Nick's hair looked fabulous. This was definitely mid to late 90s Nick, my favorite.  When we all started "catching up" I moved my head to Nick's shoulder so I could look at John when he spoke. He looked as though he'd just stepped out of the Ordinary World video, all tailored suit and rock star hair.  I asked them how they were getting on with the new guitarist since Andy had left and whether they thought Warren might rejoin them at any point. I said I thought their best period was when Warren was with the group, although I am glad that Roger came back on board and have developed quite an appreciation for him. They said they weren't sure about Warren ever returning because he was still working with Missing Persons, but the new guy was very good. I agreed.

I told John that I had finally  gotten around to seeing A Diva's Christmas Carol and asked if he was planning on anymore acting in the future. He laughed, "You saw that abysmal movie?" and I nodded. "No, I don't think that I'll be acting again any time soon, as you are the only one who's given me a favorable review." I think I asked him about his book at that point. He and Nick then started telling Duran stories and I asked them if they would like to submit to First Person Narrative. I felt kind of strange asking them, but I thought they might like to help out an old friend. I remember Nick being much more chatty than he is in this narrative, but I don't remember much of what he had to say, most likely because I was swimming in the jade colored pools that are his eyes.

The hair cost him the Emmy. Source

And this is what I have dreams about, kids. I will say this, every time I've had a midnight rendezvous with Duran Duran, and Nick in particular, it has always been very pleasant. He is a very pleasant person to spend a dream with, and I suspect he's equally charming in person.Would that I could get an exclusive Duran story to put up here. I wonder what I can do with my unconditional love of Duran Duran though. What new angle, what new spin, what new story, can I tell about my boys? I have something in the works for NaNoWriMo, which I hope to share with you all starting in December.

You'd get lost too. Source

Meanwhile, now that I am awake, it occurs to me that I would be mortified to meet the boys in person, looking the way I look. I'm sure they wouldn't be mean or judgy, but I wouldn't want to be "that pudgy writer girl" anyway. These are men who've married and spawned supermodels. Gracious and kind as they are to their fans, I don't want to be just another overweight Duranie housewife, but that's exactly what I am. This could be the spiraling depression talking though. I've been binging a lot the past few days. Today alone, I ate an entire Red Baron pizza, and that was after having such a nice time behind my eyes with Nick and John. Imagine what I might have done if I'd had a nightmare. I am seriously thinking about going to a meeting. I told j^C that I've been having "dark thoughts" (make of that what you will) and he's called me 3 or 4 times today from work. My slow suicide isn't in a bottle or a rope or a gun though, it's going down my throat and coursing through my veins already.

That got pretty dark. I'm sorry. To conclude: I love Duran Duran, and Nick Rhodes always seems to enter my dreams when I need him most.

A Moral Compass I Am Not

Not a good look. Source

j^C and I started watching Breaking Bad last night. He had been wanting to watch it for over a year now, but somehow we always wound up engrossed in some other TV show. After finishing the third season of Slings and Arrows on Saturday night (an event that left me in a puddle of emotions at the foot of the bed) we decided to finally watch the show about cooking meth. If you haven't seen it, it's pretty intense right from the start. There was a point in the second episode where Walt's wife is catching on to the fact that he's up to something. Then, this conversation happened:

j^C: "What would you say if I told you that I was thinking of starting a meth lab?"
Me: "Don't get caught."
j^C: "Some moral compass you are."

Needless to say, j^C was appalled. I don't know why though. He's not going to be cooking meth anytime soon. If he was already considering recreational chemestry, I can but assume that his morals had already gone out the window. At that point there would be little I could say to change the matter. I just wouldn't want to go down with the ship. If you know what you are about to do is wrong, but you're still going to do it anyway remember - Don't. Get. Caught. Uranium J's golden rule = words to live by.

If your significant other were considering getting into the drug game, what would you say? Am I a degenerate with no scruples? What is your personal golden rule?

Disclaimer: I am in no way suggesting or promoting drug use, drug manufacturing, or general law breaking. If you are at all considering any of the preceding, I suggest you do a critical analysis of the film Scarface and then re-evaluate your position on the matter.

I Just Discovered Beth Ditto, and I am in Love

If I wore makeup, I could be this pretty. Source

Full disclosure: I am now an Amazon Affliliate, so if you want to purchase anything mentioned in the following post, there will be links at the end. This blog is the closest thing I have to a job, so if you want to shop, it'll help me. If not, that's cool too. Thanks for reading!

I want to thank Sarah Von Bargen of Yes and Yes! for turning me on to the band Gossip yesterday. I am in love with their sound and with their stunning lead singer Beth Ditto. Once again I find that I am "Johnny-Come-Lately" to something on the music scene, but that's alright. So I don't have my finger on the pulse of contemporary music anymore - that just means that when I find something new to me that I love I can have the new toy joy that all the longer.

I heard the song "Move in the Right Direction" first, on Yes and Yes!, and I was struck by this big, beautiful woman singer. Who was she? Where was she from? I assumed she was European, since the video was a compilation of Sarah's favorite songs from her current European vacation. Nay! Nay! The Gossip are home-grown Americans. Our lovely Beth Ditto is from Alabama as a matter of fact. Excited! Why these guys aren't a bigger thing stateside eludes me. Hopefully this little post will help a bit in solving that problem.

I also love grey kitties, FYI. Source

So, why am I enamored of Gossip and Beth Ditto? They are so flipping positive! It's feel good music on the level of Lady Gaga (who I think is the second coming, you will recall). Catchy tunes with a positive message sung by a lesbian singer who is clearly in love with her voluptuous figure? Yes please! Let's challenge the ideals of beauty! Let's sing about loving yourself and actually mean it! Let's say "down with body oppression"  "down with the gender binary"! (About that last bit, while Beth may be all glamorous woman, she was in a 9 year relationship with transgendered partner Freddie Fagula - so she's a girl who likes girls that look like boys who like girls who look like girls. I think.)

After looking up some information on Ms. Ditto, I discovered some pictures of her with the designer we all love to hate, Karl Lagerfeld. Now me, I love Karl Lagerfeld in a very standoffish kind of way. His cologne is amazing and his designs are nothing less than art. Sadly, despite losing a lot of weight to win the heart of some boy, Mr. Lagerfeld still carries a lot of fat angst which has caused him to say some pretty mean things, like that Adele is "a little too fat", for example. Adele, another big beautiful woman whom I love, had the grace not to care, but Beth Ditto did one better. She defended Adele in the media, called Lagerfeld out as a former fat person who still has issues, all while still appreciating his work and his talent. She even went on to say that he was a "wonderful man". That, ladies and gents, is what we call "class". Bravo, Beth Ditto. Bravo.

OK America, I'm available for covers too! Source

While I think it is fantabulous that Ms. Ditto is so comfortable in her own skin, I am not, and as such hope to some day fit into one of Karl Lagerfeld's stunning designs. I still think he can come off as a mean little man, but I've never met him and I prefer to judge not. There are people who can be over 200 pounds and remain active and healthy. I'm not one of them, and designer clothes are one of the things I am striving for on the horizon. In the meantime, I have the sexy tunes of Gossip to motivate me every forward as I  "Move in the Right Direction".

So, what do you think of my new musical find? Any thoughts on Karl Lagerfeld? What about the product links and my new affiliate-dom? Let me know in the comments, happy readers!

First Person Narrative #1 - Beer Girl by Shelley Lloyd

Shelley Lloyd 

On the weekends when my father climbed out of the bottle long enough to remember that he had a daughter living just a few hours away I would be packed up in the passenger seat of his bedraggled 1985 Chevy pick-up truck, with its faded yellow paint, rust holes, and a tailgate that brought to mind waves crashing onto the shore in the way it had become somehow deformed and stuck open. I’d ride into the wilds of Central Florida, bouncing around the cab, and clutching at the cracked dashboard with only the sound of the wind and the woosh of the tires on asphalt to entertain me between lectures. There was no radio. I wasn’t allowed to talk about my school, friends, new little brother, or my stepfather, because it was impolite to talk about things that he wasn’t a part of, so I sat in silence. I listened, to rants about how horrible my mother was, protestations of anger at this example of ignorance, or that, and the occasional lesson on Civil War battles and Southern history.

Sundays we packed up and completed the journey by venturing back into a semblance of civilization in Saint Johns County. But that was in the evening. Before I could go back to my mom, little brother, stepfather, kitty, and new puppy I had to get through the race and supper. The concept was easy, I was the Beer Girl.

My father’s bedroom was a tiny, gloomy room in the back of my grandmother’s house, next to the guest bathroom, and across from my granddad’s study. There was a daybed in the study, but Daddy told me that was for my twin cousins when they came to visit. Their mother had moved them back to Virginia before Grandma had set up the bed. Sandwiched between the bed and the wall in his room though was a faded blue plaid arm chair. The lever on the chair was heavy and wooden, making a dull thunk when you pulled on it. It was on this chair that I was meant to sit, in his lap, holding the popcorn while we watched the race. His beard would scratch my cheek when he bent down to grab his beer off of the floor, and the stench of burnt popcorn, Irish Spring and Old Spice, cheap beer and sweat threatened to choke me. The door was to be kept firmly closed. I don’t know if the windows in that back bedroom even worked. When the beer on the floor had been finished off it was my job to jump down and grab another.

Beers in the Meyers household were rotated in a very particular way. The first step meant going into Grandma’s garage. That’s where my nemesis lived. I’d creep through the door, leaping down the one step and scurrying to the fridge where there was two or more twelve packs of Bush waiting. When I snuck into the garage I never turned on the light, because it would wake IT, and so I’d ease the door to the fridge open as slowly as I could to replace the single beer in the fridge with one of the hot ones beside my feet. I managed to make the exchange and was moving on to step two (changing the beer in the freezer for the one in my hand) when a green feather fell on my little blonde head. I heard claws scratching at metal, seeking purchase on top of the fridge, and the furious beat of wings before it opened its mouth. “Petey, pretty bird. Aach! Petey, pretty bird.” I froze, not waiting to look up at the demonic being that had come to pester me once again, but being driven too as though I had no free will of my own. An oath I’d heard my stepfather mutter on more than one occasion tumbled from my lips as I backed away. Slowly. I was to the door when it opened, spilling light into the cavernous darkness. My grandmother looked more frightful than savior, with her imposing form filling up the doorway. As tall and dark as any Cherokee maiden in the stories my aunt had told me when she thought I was too young to remember, her black hair was pulled back in a slapdash fashion and her dark eyes flashed as she attempted to comfort both me and her demonic pet. I didn’t stick around though, I darted past her, fearful Petey would follow. My socks slipped on the linoleum flooring of the kitchen, and I thought my hand would fall off the beer it was clutching was so cold. I quickly switched it with the beer in the kitchen fridge and hightailed it back to my father’s room, where it was safer. There were no birds allowed in his room.  

***

Today's First Person Narrative comes from my good friend Shelley Lloyd who is currently pursuing her B.A. in Creative Writing at my former Alma Mater, the University of West Florida. Like me, she is a Southern girl who grew up in North Florida, with her roots in South  Carolina. The above piece was written for one of her writing classes, but it's especially meaningful to me because I remember her telling this very same story when I first met her eight years ago. Here at First Person Narrative, we are all about preserving the oral histories of everyday people by writing them down and bringing them to the masses. So here I am, a 21st century Bede, and Shelly is my very first Caedmon. I hope you all enjoyed this feature. I know I did!

If you have a story you would like to share, please contact me at joyce.ann.underwood@gmail.com. 

For more writing by Shelley Lloyd, check out her new blog at http://offtopicbut.blogspot.com/ or follow her on Twitter @wildeparadox!

Wherein Uranium J Was Killed by Noxious Gas

The CIA is currently reviewing my application.
I hope to work in  Lebanon. 

I have been making even more changes here at First Person Narrative. You might have noticed that I now have a Twitter account? I don't know what I think about it just yet, but I am pretty excited to be following Simon LeBon on there. Everybody is somebody's fangirl, right? Oh, if only Nick Rhodes had a Twitter as well, all would be right with the world. Peace would guide the planet and love would steer the stars. I've also changed my little blurb and my about page. I'm really trying to bring some focus to the content around here. Ironic, since today's topic has bugger-all to do with anything. Still, I thought it was funny, so here we are. It's still a first person narrative, is it not? (Now you see why I picked such a vague concept - I can justify writing about almost anything as long as it's and "I" story. Tricky, tricky.)

I have not written about it in quite some time, but Cody is still sickly. He's been having a terrible case of intestinal difficulties as of late, which includes some paint peeling gas. He was sitting under the desk today as I was working on some blog related things when I was hit with a cloud of stink. Methane gas, in large quantities, will in fact kill you. I think he's trying to do me in with his fumes. I don't know what I did to him, exactly, but he needs to take his stinky butt somewhere else. The Gator may be wiley, but at least she doesn't smell bad.

Today atrocities ran rampant in our household. Not only is the dog trying to gas us all out; That Sprout has been trying to forcibly penetrate us all - With her binkie. She's been double fisting them all day, and while she's sucking on one she's trying to cram another into j^C's mouth. When I came to intervene, I fell victim as well. Before long, she had us all sucking on binkies like we were a family of Adult Babies. Don't picture that, you'll never sleep again. Perhaps Cody's stink is a defense mechanism. She has yet to accost him or Molly-Gator. The smell dispensary is at face level for her so maybe she doesn't want to get too close.

j^C and I have decided that it may be time to call the Hague. Surely the gas attacks and the forced binkie consumption are crimes against humanity. The U.N. must have something to say about all of this. Or maybe we can bottle Cody's chemical weapon and sell it the military. Yeah. That's the ticket. The Sprout will have to stand trial though or she'll never learn that "No" means "No". I imagine a sentence of earlier bed times might rehabilitate her nicely.

Do you have any opinions on pushy toddlers or dog farts? Let me hear them! Also, what do you all think of the changes I've been making? Are you on Twitter? Who do you follow? What or who are you a fangirl of? Comment! I command you! 

At the Bottom of Everything

Note: This was written when I was about to start a master's program at Liberty University Online. I have since dropped out of the program, since I cannot in all good conscience get my piece of paper by lying. I have more scruples than that. Since dropping out, I feel a lot better. This is an example of how pretending to be something you aren't effects your delicate psyche. Or maybe that's just me. I've also been using Facebook for good instead of evil, and I feel a lot less isolated. So yeah, this came from a very dark place, but for now I've found the light. 

It should be no secret by this point that I think Lady Gaga is the second coming. She's beautiful, brilliant, talented, and she happens to be taking on all the causes that are near and dear to my heart. LGBT issues, bullying, HIV/AIDS - if she started a charity for the elderly she would essentially be me. Her songwriting trumps it all though, because I cannot think of another songwriter who has so eloquently tapped into what it's like to be a 20 something today. Catchy and dance-able, but also socially relevant and musically allusive to all the greats that came before her. The best thing about Gaga? She doesn't make apologies for who she is.

Me? I am a self-apologist. I have never been comfortable with being my own unique self, but to not do so is a lie that I'm not good enough to tell. I am who I am and I love what I love, but there's always this niggling desire to be accepted, to blend in, to be part of something. John Donne said that no man is an island - clearly he had no idea what the 21st Century had in store for the human race. While each man's death diminished him, it seems that each death now makes the remainder greater than it had been. He said he was involved with mankind - we are involved only in ourselves. We are reduced to a hundred million tiny plastic islands adrift alone in a sea of information devoid of any truth. We have access to more knowledge than any other time in history, and yet we bathe in complacent ignorance and stupidity. Real interpersonal connections are swiftly becoming a thing of the past. "Text me." "Facebook me." I have 3 friends who I talk to on the phone with any regularity, and one friend who I see in person from time to time. We are far flung - not a fault, merely a reality, and we work hard to bridge the distance with pen and paper, plastic and light.

I understand that this is the way of the world, and this is the hand that I've been dealt, but do you know how soul crushing it is to go days not talking to anyone except your pets and your child - all of whom have the same relative conversational skills? It is not fun, and I cannot be the only one to feel this way. We are all growing farther apart and more isolated. It is a social disease. Well, maybe an anti-social one.

This rant was not my intention when I began writing, but in the spirit of truth I'm not going to remove it, since truth was what I wanted to write about in the first place. I want to show you my teeth.

I have been trying to figure out who I am and what I want out of life for a really long time now. I have an unhealthy fixation on my time spent in school because it seems like at that time I knew who I was and what I wanted. When I went to college I came out so confused that I can't make heads or tails of my life anymore. I am not blaming college - I think this is what happens when you throw a fish from the bowl into the sea. It's huge and scary, and the salt water burns. All the time you were in the bowl you thought the sea was the answer, but all it did was leave you with more questions and longing for the comfort and safety of the bowl. High school was my fish bowl. I was awkward and out of place, but at least I was guaranteed social interaction five days a week with a small group of peers who liked me in spite of my eccentricities. All that time I thought the real world would be better. I would be in control of my life - I could finally lose weight, write, be happy, and figure out who I am. That's worked out so well for me.

I go days without seeing another grown up when j^C is out of town. I weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life. I write sporadically with no purpose and no end. I am unhappy, afraid, and alone. What's worse is that this is it. I have nothing to hope for. When you are in highschool, you have the promise of a better life after. What's my promise now? I'm starting graduate school on Monday which should hold the promise of a career and a life upon completion, but I don't feel very optimistic. I feel afraid. I am telling such colossal lies at this point and I am terrified of being caught. I wonder if the lies will be worth it in the end anyway, if I lose what I've got left of myself along the way? That's a very pessimistic view - who knows, maybe I'll find myself after all. Nothing from nothing is nothing, so maybe I haven't got all that much to lose to begin with. I have been reduced to nothing but numbers. I am the sum of my circumstances and surroundings.

I am 26 years old. I am 236 pounds. I am 1/3 of a family unit. I am 1/2 of a Xanax. I am nine numbers that do not even belong to me.

Things Are About to Get Deep

All day today, I will be at training for my writing fellowship with Deep, a local non profit. As such, I haven't got the time to finish the editorial piece I'm writing regarding Kristin Stewart. I tried, but I have more to say than my time will allow. So, here's a music video that makes me smile. See you all tomorrow!

Hope Is a Thing With Feathers

I would like to talk about an observation I have made as of late.

I don't like blatantly saying "I am an Army Wife". That's because I am still clinging so desperately to my own sense of identity in spite of that fact. Now, I'll bet if there are any Army Wives out there, now you're pissed. That's OK. If I were invested in this lifestyle, I might be mad too. I'm not though. I go to the FRG Meetings, I joined the Spouse's Club, and I am really trying to make this work for me, but the truth is, it doesn't. I feel like a square peg, and I don't like it. I don't really want to talk about that though, since even now I feel a crying jag coming on. I needed to "come out" again as an Army Wife in order to illustrate that I'm not pulling the following story out of my butt.

Clinging to the little hope I have left. In a tree.

In the before times, I could name you exactly 4 Multi Level Marketing (MLM) schemes. The first two were Avon and Mary Kay, which I was unaware were MLMs until this week. The other two were MonaVie and Tahitian Noni Juice, both some sort of magical, cure all, fruit juice. I think.

However, since moving to my new home outside of Ft. Stewart, GA, I've encountered people selling things (for other people, selling things for other people) that I never knew were things to begin with. They call it "direct marketing". The first one that came to my attention was Thirty-One. I went to a party with some people I had just met, and all I could think was "who buys this crap, and how does anyone make money this way?". The short answers are "no one" and "they don't". Then there was Visalus, which I bought, but declined selling. It is a good product, don't get me wrong, but I didn't use enough of it to make it worth my while. I can only drink so many shakes before I get burnt out - I don't care how good they taste.

Then I started noticing more and more of these "direct marketing" businesses; so many that I cannot begin to name them all. The more of them I encountered, the more I realized that the people involved were mostly women just like me: Stay at Home Army Wives. The unique trials and tribulations that we are subjected to make it very hard for any of us to get regular jobs, much less have careers. Why would someone want to hire me if I could up and move at the drop of a hat, and there's nothing they could do about it? That's why these things are so appealing to people in my situation. You can work from home AND take your business with you when you move! 

 Not to mention, The pitch usually goes something like this:

"Hey Guys! Do you want to be your own boss and finally have financial freedom? Of course you do! So, why not start selling (make-up, bags, sex toys, kitchen ware, nutritional supplements) with my company? You can make x% commission on each sale you make. Then, once you build your team of motivated sellers, you will also get y% of every sale each team member makes. Ins't that great? It's so easy too! I only work a hours a week and I have paid off my family's debt and we're about to take a two week vacation to the Barbados. Did I mention the car? That's right! When you make b in sales each month for z, we'll give you a car! Won't you please join my team that we might all attain financial freedom?"

(x = % comission on personal sales, y = % comission on team sales, a<10, b>$1000, z = months worked to earn a free car)

As you can see this is clearly a pyramid. A pyramid scheme, by any other name, is still a pyramid scheme. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that's what these are either. So, why are all these Army wives buying into it? After giving it much thought I have come to this conclusion:

Everyone needs to believe in something. 

This could not be more true for the typical Army wife. Our lives are fraught with uncertainty and we have zero control over large aspects of our lives. We could be forced to move at any time, our husbands could be injured or die at any time, and we're just supposed to "go with the flow". Most of us have no independent income and no sovreignty. If our husbands were to die, or worse, leave us, we would be in dire straights. I know this is something that I think about quite a bit - if I had to, how would I survive on my own?

With MLM, you are made to believe that you can achieve financial success. Even if you have to stay home with a house full of kids because your husband is some Private toiling away in the salt mines that is The Middle East, you can sell this product. They tell you "it sells itself". "You just have to talk to people about it." "We will give you your own website." Let's not forget my personal favorite "You can make as much money as you want by working as little as 5 hours a week!". These "companies" are basically shilling hope to those people who need it most. I'm not going to lie - even though I know  that these "business opportunities" are nothing more than pyramid schemes, I have given consideration to a few of them. I got bills. Expenses. I wouldn't mind a little extra scratch to be laying around at the end of the month. I could totally sell some makeup for a few extra Bennys here and there. It is, after all, "all about the Benjamins". Then I remember that I couldn't sell air to a drowning man and that's the end of that.

Some people seem to be making the MLM thing work. I wonder how many aren't though? How many women out there have tried one or more of these things and found themselves no better off or perhaps worse off than when they started? I want to believe in something too, but I fear the price for hope might be more than I can afford.

What do you think of MLM? Have you ever bought anything from a direct marketing company? Have you worked for one? Do you think these companies are predatory in seeking new recruits? Let me know in the comments!

Uranium J: Too Legit to Quit

Hammer Time.

What do you think of the new look around here? I kinda like it. Why the change? I bought some business cards with the blog info on it, and I thought it might be nice if they matched. When they arrive, I will be sure to post a picture.

Why did I feel it necessary to get me some business cards? Well, I thought I was going to go to The Escapist Expo in a few weeks, and I thought it would be nice to look like I was a professional. Since I ordered the cards, though, I decided that since j^C can't go with me that there's really no reason for me to go. It's all about gaming and I'm not a gamer. I'm just a geek by proxy. The only reason I wanted to go was because there were going to be writers there. The chance to possibly "network" with some successful authors is a chance not to be missed, right?

Wrong. After researching these people I see that while we are all writers, we are not all of the same ilk. I might read some fantasy fiction from time to time, but I'm not versed enough on the genre to be able to participate fully in the panels and Q&A sessions. While I would love to meet Yahtzee Croshaw and Jim Sterling, I can't bear the thought of coming away from the event and having them think I'm an idiot. Plus, I don't want to part with the sheckles for the trip. $30 for the 3 day pass is no big, but the hotel, the gas, the food, the "incidentals" - they add up. Instead, I'm going to save my money and spend a quiet, Sprout free weekend at home, working on my resume and my writing samples.

Now, "Why would you want to do that?", you ask. So glad you asked.

I've been doing a lot of "professional development" recently, after coming to terms with the fact that a traditional 9-5 job just isn't in the cards for me at this time. I'm trying to make the most of this situation, because it's really not a bad deal. I can fulfill my dream of being "A Writer"! There's just a couple of catches though: A) Writers write things other than their blogs and B) Writers have proof of their chops. You know what I have? One little article that was published on Offbeat Home. What I want is a staff writer position at Weird Tales Magazine.

You see my dilemma.

So, I'm setting out to make myself "marketable" as a writer. I've been working up my LinkedIn profile, trying to make friends with other bloggers, and rewriting my resume. These things pale in comparison to the daunting task of assembling a portfolio of writing samples though. I expect it to be a maddening, tedious, and incredibly fun adventure. I wonder if by the end, I will wish I had gone The Escapist Expo after all.